by Alison Pick
Pavel left shortly after seven to go down to the factory. None of the workers had telephones, he said; someone would have to be sent house to house to tell them to report for work. He opened the door to leave; the wind blew in and lifted the edge of his scarf out sideways, like a child’s drawing of a snowman. “I’m late,” he said. He looked over at Marta then and held her eye for a moment before closing the door. She had a sudden, forcible feeling she would never see him again.
The following afternoon Marta returned from the greengrocer and saw two pairs of men’s leather shoes in the hall. Two well-tailored overcoats. There was something else too, a kind of hush in the flat. It was the silence of nothing at all being said, a silence that had come to signify over the past months that the opposite was true, that things of great consequence were being said, only behind locked doors.
She went into the parlour and found Pepik beneath the oak table, holding Der Struwwelpeter. “I’m busy,” he said.
She crouched down and kissed his forehead. “What time is it, miláčku?”
“Tick tock,” he said.
He wrinkled his brow and pretended to be reading, but he was, she saw, holding the book upside down. She kissed him again and turned it right side up. He made a little humph and turned it upside down again.
Stubborn, like his father. She heard Pavel come into the dining room behind them.
The light bulb of happiness flicked on inside her. She stood to move towards him, then saw the man behind Pavel. Ernst. She backed up quickly to behind the wall, out of view. Crouched down and leaned her cheek against the cool plaster. She could hear her heart in her ears. What was Ernst doing here? He had obviously not yet succeeded in getting hold of all of Pavel’s assets; Marta surmised that Ernst knew there was more money hidden away. He would need to work quickly now that Prague had been taken. He was doubling his efforts.
Ernst had already visited the Steins’ flat, of course, the day he came to ask Marta where the Bauers had gone. But from her hiding place she could see he was letting Pavel give him the tour, show him around as though he’d never seen the place before.
He stood at the mantel and looked at the photo of tiny Eva Stein.
He picked up the heavy silver menorah as though for the first time. There must have been something in its weight he found compelling.
Pavel sat down on a dining room chair, crossed one leg over the other, and got out his pipe and his pouch of tobacco. “Now that we’re done our business,” he said, “are you on your way to the town square to salute Blaskowitz’s honour guard?”
Ernst was reaching for his own pipe. Marta saw lines in his hair where the comb had been pulled through. She shifted on her haunches; her leg was falling asleep, but if she stood, she knew, they would hear her.
“I suppose all the German soldiers will be required to stop and salute,” Pavel said. “And Blaskowitz’s proclamation—that the Germans are here not as conquerors but to create ‘conditions for the peaceful collaboration of the two peoples’! How inane! Does he think we’re completely blind?”
Marta recalled the most recent sad radio broadcast by President Hácha. He had defined independence as a short period in Czechoslovakia’s national history that had come to an end.
Ernst tapped down his tobacco; the two men sucked their pipes in silence, their cheeks moving in and out like codfish.
“There will be lots of Germans at the ceremony tomorrow,” Ernst said mildly.
“Because of von Neurath?”
Baron Konstantin von Neurath, even Marta knew, would be appointed the new leader of the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia.
Ernst nodded. “They’re sending in special trains from the Sudetenland to greet him.”
“They’re worried the new Reichsprotektor won’t be welcomed by us Czechs?” Pavel’s voice was gleeful. “There must be fewer Nazis in our midst than we think.”
Quite the contrary, Marta thought as she crouched behind the wall. Ernst kept quiet too, and she understood this was his strategy: let his silence be taken as agreement and he would not have to lie outright.
“And what about you?” Pavel asked his friend again. “The powers that be at the factory have sent you up with the schoolchildren to greet the former foreign minister?” He was trying to keep his voice light but he clearly wanted to know what, exactly, Ernst was doing in Prague.
Ernst had a leg crossed over his knee and was bobbing it slightly, like an old lady. “That’s right. I’m here to welcome the Reichsprotektor.”
It was obvious that Pavel wasn’t satisfied, but he could not press the matter any further. Ernst must have sensed his friend’s uncertainty though, because he said quickly, “Herrick needed someone to do damage control with our supplier in London, and it’s easier from Prague. At least, that’s what I told him.”
He winked at Pavel—Marta couldn’t see it but she felt the gesture inhabiting the moment of silence. “I wonder what Masaryk would think if he could see Hácha,” Ernst continued.
“They say he fainted and had to be revived by Hitler’s doctor. And I heard he was forced to enter Prague Castle by the servant’s entrance.”
Ernst turned his head sharply. “Hitler? The servant’s entrance?”
“Not Hitler!” Pavel said. “Hácha.”
Marta’s leg was almost completely numb. She willed herself to forget it, to focus instead on the talk in the next room. But when she shifted on her haunches, she found she could not feel the limb at all. There was no choice but to stand; otherwise she would fall over. She rose as quietly as she could and hobbled forward briefly; it was as though her leg was made of wood. She went to skirt the edge of the room and go up the stairs behind the men’s backs, but she was too awkward and unsteady on her feet, too noisy, and they both turned to look at her as she entered.
Ernst stood. He and Marta were frozen, two feet apart, their eyes locked.
Pavel cleared his throat and said, slightly puzzled, “Ernst, you must remember Marta, Pepik’s governess?”
“Yes,” Ernst said. “Of course I do. Hello again, Marta.”
He reached over to kiss the back of her hand. It was a gesture appropriate only for a lady—and therefore there was something mocking in it—but Marta had no choice but to submit. Ernst’s lips were dry and cold.
Marta thought: Judas and Jesus. A kiss of betrayal.
Her leg was on fire as the blood rushed back through it.
She and Ernst looked at each other again in a contest of wills. All at once it came to her: she would confess. She would tell Pavel everything—that Ernst was against him, that he was the one who had thwarted their escape. If she implicated herself, so be it—she could not bear to keep the secret for a single second longer. But the grandfather clock ticked loudly in her ear and no sound came from her mouth. She willed herself to speak—it was just a matter of getting started, she knew—but the truth was, she did not have the courage. And Ernst had guessed as much. There was a smirk on his face, subtle but undeniable.
If Ernst was outed, Marta would go down with him. And Marta, they both knew, had more to lose.
The moment passed; Ernst said he really should be going. He had business to attend to, he said, and looked over at Marta and winked.
The two men clapped each other on the back and Pavel thanked Ernst for his offer.
“Do let me know,” Ernst said casually, “if you’d like further protection for your investment in the manner we discussed.”
Pavel cleared his throat, noncommittal. “Did you hear the one about Hitler’s conversation with Chamberlain?”
Ernst said yes, he’d already heard it.
“Marta told me that one,” Pavel said, pleased to be able to credit her. And Ernst said lightly, “Did she? I’m not surprised. She’s a clever girl, isn’t she. Your Marta.”
On April 5 Baron Konstantin von Neurath, the new Reichsprotektor of Bohemia and Moravia, arrived in Prague. The powers that be had arranged for sausage vendors and old-fashioned minstrels; from do
wn on the street Marta could hear a big brass band pumping out “Das Lied der Deutschen” and the “Horst-Wessel-Lied,” the Nazi anthem. A national holiday had been proclaimed.
“Will we hang the swastika?” Marta asked Anneliese. All citizens had been ordered to do so, but Anneliese looked at her as though she were crazy. “Are you joking?” she asked. “We’ll pay the fine.”
When Marta leaned out the window into the bright spring morning she saw that the bulk of Czech householders obviously felt the same. Despite the supposed celebration, she could count only five flags along Vinohradská Street. The Nazi Party newspaper, the Völkischer Beobachter, had reported that all schools and associations would be sending delegations to greet the German diplomat, but the crowd looked thin along the sidewalks, and only a few people followed the brigade as it proceeded down to Václavské náměstí for the military parade. Marta saw a group of adolescent boys with Nazi armbands running alongside the procession, their mouths wide open, screaming their enthusiasm into the roar of the wind. But on the opposite side of the street a woman in a red kerchief couldn’t help but cry, tears streaming down her fat cheeks as she gave the Nazi salute.
Pavel was sitting behind the big oak desk in the study, sharpening pencils to exactly the same length and placing them, tips up, in a Bavarian beer mug. The sharpener made a sound like an automobile out of gear. Marta went into the room, willing herself to speak. She had lost her nerve on the day of Ernst’s visit but perhaps it wasn’t too late. Perhaps, if she at least revealed Ernst’s agenda now, further harm might be prevented. It was gnawing at her, knowing what she knew. It woke her in the middle of the night, her heart racing. The awful dreams of her father had returned. But now when her father turned to look at her, he wore Ernst’s face.
“Mr. Bauer,” she started, before she could second-guess herself, but Pavel interrupted.
“I’ve been suspended,” he said.
“Mr. Bauer?”
“Call me Pavel.”
Marta looked at him more closely then, and saw how he’d changed. It wasn’t just that he looked older—which he did—but also that he’d been worn down in some vague yet undeniable way. He was softer, more humble. He was afraid.
“One of von Neurath’s minions arrived at the factory,” he was saying, “to tell us that we must have a ninety-two percent Aryan workforce, and no Jews in management or upper-level ownership.” Pavel pulled a pencil from the sharpener’s blade and blew the graphite dust from the tip. “Of course there is no choice but to comply.”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Quite frankly,” he said, “I don’t understand why the factory has not been taken away completely.”
Marta was still standing on the opposite side of the room. From outside came the sound of someone shouting: a single high-pitched shriek, then silence. There was a second chair on the opposite side of Max’s desk; Pavel motioned with his chin for her to sit down. Now was her chance. She didn’t let herself stop to reconsider. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about,” she said.
Pavel touched the tip of his finger to a newly sharpened pencil lead and brought it away—a small black dent remained in the flesh. “Ninety-two percent,” he said. “But he seemed to pull the number from thin air.” He ran the back of his hand over the stubble on his cheek and then realized she’d spoken. “Sorry?” he said, looking up.
She finally had his attention. She opened her mouth, prepared to tell Pavel everything.
“Marta?” he said.
She closed her mouth again. He was eyeing her curiously now, but all at once she had changed her mind. What had she been thinking? She could no more reveal herself than she could shoot herself in the head. Pavel had been going over and over their failed attempt at escape, worrying it like a loose tooth. Who had betrayed them? He suspected Kurt Hofstader, Max’s first manager, the one who had lost his job to Pavel. But how had he known? Someone from the floor, one of the German workers? He and Anneliese had been so careful. Pavel had never once suggested anyone in their old town, and Marta knew it hadn’t crossed his mind that Ernst might have betrayed him—any more than it had crossed his mind that she might have. His implicit trust in her sharpened her regret. To confess would mean the end of her life, or at least the end of the life she wanted to live, the one at the centre of the Bauer family.
Pavel cleared his throat and Marta realized she had to say something. “It’s Pepik,” she said. “He hasn’t been himself. He’s so withdrawn. I’m terribly concerned about him.”
It was odd. As Marta spoke she realized that what she was saying was true. It wasn’t what she’d wanted to address with Pavel—at least, it wasn’t what she had thought she’d wanted to address—but another part of her, she realized, had been waiting all along for the chance to ask for advice about Pepik. She couldn’t stand her own incompetence with the boy lately, her inability to protect him. She pictured him closed up in his room, staring at his train, his face slack. “The occupation hasn’t been good for Pepik,” she started, and then chastised herself; it wasn’t as if the occupation were something that could be corrected for the sake of the child’s well-being. But the truth of what she was saying came over her again, and she forged ahead.
“Do you remember when we arrived, in January?” she asked Pavel. “And you mentioned the man who is sending the Jewish children out of the country?”
Pavel gave a little laugh.
“What’s funny?”
“You and I. We think alike.”
“Perhaps we should try to get Pepik on one of those trains.” Marta looked at Pavel. He had inserted another pencil into the sharpener. She corrected herself: “Perhaps you should try to put Pepik on one of those trains.”
Pavel turned the crank; there was the terrible grinding. “Yes,” he said, without looking up. “I think you’re right.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “You do?”
“On a Winton transport.” He raised his gaze then, evaluating her. He blew some pencil shavings off the pointed tip and placed it in the beer mug next to the others. “It’s already done,” he said finally. “I just heard from Winton’s secretary. Pepik is on the list. It’s not safe for him here.”
Marta blinked, taking this in. It seemed like too much of a coincidence. All the fighting with Anneliese, all Pavel’s resisting—was this all that had been required? For someone to ask him pleasantly?
For her to ask him?
But that was wishful thinking. Pavel had come up with the idea on his own.
She cleared her throat. It was real, then? It seemed impossible, suddenly, and she almost wished she’d never broached the subject. She told herself Pepik was too young to travel, but in truth she was also worried about what it would mean for her.
“When does the train leave, Mr. Bauer?”
“Call me Pavel!” he snapped. But he repented immediately. “I’m sorry, Marta, I didn’t mean to raise my voice. It’s just that it makes me feel so . . . old.” He tapped the side of the beer mug with his finger. “June 5. Soon.”
Marta nodded.
“So you think it’s the right thing to do?” he asked, suddenly uncertain.
She was still unused to having her opinion solicited and felt caught out, as if a roving white searchlight had zeroed in on her and revealed her to have an inner life after all. But she thought of Mr. Goldstein and the Kristallnacht beatings, and of little Pepik forced to sit in the back of the class in their old town. She thought of his big, bewildered eyes. What kind of person was she to be worrying so much about herself? She did want to protect Pepik. Above all else. “It’s the right thing,” she said confidently. And then: “Does Mrs. Bauer agree?”
Pavel nodded tersely and then changed the subject. He too couldn’t stand the thought of Pepik leaving. “Did you see the parade?”
Marta told him about the woman crying while giving the Nazi salute.
“Were they tears of joy?”
“Sadness.”
“Yes,” Pavel s
aid.
“But she could have stayed home!”
Pavel shrugged. “People are driven by things they don’t understand.”
“I suppose that’s true . . .”
“It’s true,” Pavel said. “Do you know your own motives? Why you act the way you do?”
Marta was silent.
“There’s something else I want to tell you,” Pavel said.
Spring arrived like a peddler selling flowers. The last of the snow melted and the lilacs came out, defiant. Tulips and daffodils were laid on various monuments, gracing first one side of the political spectrum and then the other. On Hitler’s fiftieth birthday the citizens of Prague mourned their lost sovereignty by laying lilies on the Jan Hus statue in Old Town Square, alongside a wreath emblazoned with the Czech motto: Pravda vítězí—truth shall prevail. And on the fifth of May several bouquets were laid on the monument to Woodrow Wilson outside the train station. The former U.S. president, Pavel told Marta, had helped to create Czechoslovakia after the Great War.
Now that Pavel was home all day he had become a tutor of sorts for Marta. He filled her in on bits of history and geography, on facts she was ashamed to think most children learned in their first years of school. He also told her about the new things he was learning about his religion: the famous rabbi Rashi, born of a pearl thrown into the Seine, and the symbolism of the long beards and sideburns like those of Mr. Goldstein. He told her about the bar mitzvah ritual—which she already knew—and that Pepik would have one even though he himself hadn’t. In exchange Marta shared the minutiae of her days, telling him about the zelná polévka she planned to cook the following evening, or a joke about von Neurath she’d heard from the boy who delivered the coal. It was hard to believe Pavel could be interested, but Marta saw it distracted him. “They give me pleasure,” he said. “Your details.”
