Lena had no idea who this woman was. Obviously wealthy, but it didn’t sound like Otto’s landlady, based on what he had written in earlier letters. Yet somehow Otto had procured this invitation. He was clearly very impressed with her. Just go back to the embassy and show them this letter, he wrote; she’s very rich, almost an aristocrat.
“Next!” The first clerk, not the man with the glasses, called her up to the counter.
“Please, I would wish to apply for a visitor visa,” Lena said, in what she hoped was perfect English. She presented her passport. “I have been invited to stay with Mrs. Courtney-Smithers, an old friend of my parents, and I want very much to see her.”
Lena handed the letter to the embassy clerk, trying to prevent her hands from shaking. The clerk glanced at the letter. “Where is the envelope this came in?” he asked.
“I think I threw it away.” She concentrated on saying the th sound, placing her tongue behind her top front teeth and blowing gently, as she’d learned in school.
“Pity. I’m sure it was a fine envelope. Tell me, Miss, er, Miss Kulkova: What is the good lady Mrs. Courtney-Smithers . . . What is her Christian name?”
“Her Christian name?” What does that mean? “Her first name. Son prénom.”
“I don’t know, sir.” Lena said. She knew enough not to suggest William; that must be her husband’s name. “My parents always referred to her as Mrs. Courtney-Smithers. It would have been not respectful for me to address her as anything else.”
“How did your parents make this lady’s acquaintance, may I ask?” He stared at her with piercing blue eyes. Lena was determined not to lower her gaze.
“Through my father’s business. She and her husband came to Prague; I believe he was in the same line of business as my father,” Lena said. “Carbon paper,” she babbled on. “My mother and aunt showed Mrs. Courtney-Smithers all over Prague. She loved it.”
The piercing stare again. Lena was sure liar must have been emblazoned on her forehead.
She remembered the 1,000 francs in her pocket. “I have money. I mean, I’m sure Mrs. Courtney-Smithers will be very generous, but I can pay my own way.”
“I see. Well, Miss Koulkava”—butchering her name—“I’m afraid we are not issuing any visitor visas at the moment. We would only be able to issue a temporary visa for you to enter if you could prove you were in transit to another nation, such as the United States or Australia.”
He looked again at the letter, before handing it back to Lena with a thin smile. “You will have to wait until the war is over before admiring the daffodils in England.” He looked over her head and shouted, “Next!”
It took a moment for her to realize she had been dismissed. She stood with her mouth hanging open, as if waiting for the next question, until she felt the shoulder of the man with the mustache pressing against her, taking his place at the counter.
She walked back through the Jardin des Tuileries. She knew there would be little shelter from the wind along its wide, exposed paths, but she welcomed the open space to gather her thoughts. The statues stood serene, immutable, capable of withstanding the fiercest of storms.
She stopped at one of her favorites: three strong women, tall and proud, two facing forward, the other back, their fingertips gently touching, independent from each other yet interconnected. Soft and graceful and resilient.
Nearby, in the shelter of a tall hedge, Lena saw a bench, grimy and damp. She perched on the edge to take the weight off her feet, ease her heels out of her shoes. So she could not get a visa. Otto was right: I should have left with him last year. Before the war started. Now she had no idea when she would see him again.
She swallowed to fight back tears. She had to remain strong. Like these women of stone. Her left heel was bleeding now. Taking her handkerchief from her pocket, she folded it to create an improvised padding and squeezed her feet back into place. She had to go home and lie down for a while, get out of her wretched shoes.
As she entered her building and closed the front door behind her, blocking out the noise and bustle of the rue Cassette, she heard her name. It was Mme. Verbié, beckoning Lena into her inner sanctuary. This was unprecedented. Normally, the concierge conducted business firmly planted in the doorway, allowing only glimpses of the interior, with its rose-patterned wallpaper and cluttered counter. She liked to stand at her station, spreading the latest gossip about who was cheating on his wife, or which shopkeeper was charging exorbitant prices. But now Lena was being invited to enter and find a seat, while Mme. Verbié searched through one of the cabinets.
“I have something I want to give you, but you have to keep quiet about it now. Don’t you go telling no one, especially not that young man I’ve seen your friend walking out with. I don’t trust his sort.”
She rummaged through piles of junk on the shelf while Lena tried to imagine what on earth would emerge from this search.
“I can’t get one for everyone, bien sûr. But you’re a decent young lady, and I don’t like to see you go without. Ah, here it is.”
She dropped into Lena’s lap a heavy gray object: a gas mask. The government had issued these free to all French citizens three months earlier, but foreigners had been instructed to purchase their own. Lena couldn’t afford one. Now, she looked down at the gaping eye sockets and the hideous, cylinder-shaped chin covering, which formed a grotesque grimace staring back at her.
She turned it over to inspect the head straps and felt a wave of nausea as the smell of the rubber filled her nostrils. She recognized the gift as a truly generous gesture, but she was afraid she might throw up right there on the carpet.
“Merci beaucoup, madame,” she managed to mutter as she made her escape.
She was still shaking when she reached the fifth floor. The apartment was cold and empty. Kicking off her shoes, she threw the mask on the floor, collapsed on the bed, and curled onto her side, pulling the eiderdown around her back. The prospect of bombs and poison gas was suddenly real, imminent, and petrifying. How was she ever going to face such a threat alone?
She looked up and saw the watercolor on the wall. This time, her eyes focused on the eagle making his escape over the trees.
CHAPTER 2
PRAGUE, MARCH 1938
Lena waved from the steps of the Hus memorial as Eva emerged from the crowded corner of Celetná Street. She was easy to spot in her distinctive green coat with the sable collar and padded shoulders, a holdover from better times.
“Any luck?” Lena asked, as they hugged in the cold evening air.
Eva shook her head. “More than thirty girls applied. I didn’t even get an interview.”
“You’ll find something.” Lena tried to sound encouraging. But Eva had been looking for six weeks, and Lena’s own job was as tenuous as a slippery eel. Another girl from the office had been let go the previous week. “We’ll have fun tonight at Café Slavia,” she said, linking her arm through Eva’s.
“I think I’ll stay home.”
“Come with me, please. I want to go to the meeting, but I’m afraid Father won’t let me. He’s been in a terrible mood all week.” The wind picked up as they approached the river. “My best chance is if he thinks I’m going out for a drink with you.”
“Why are you so keen to go tonight?” Eva asked. “What’s happening?”
“A volunteer from the International Brigade has just returned from Spain. He was wounded in the fighting at Teruel. He’s going to give an update from the front lines.”
“Doesn’t look good, from what I’ve seen.”
“But that’s just it,” Lena said. “We have to hear what’s really happening. You can’t trust what you read in the newspapers.”
It had been two years now since the start of the war in Spain. Lena had been in her last year of school; three boys from Lena’s class had left to join the fight. She was so caught up in the excitement it had been hard to focus on the matura, her final examinations.
“The Republican side will rebound,” s
he said. “It has to.”
They passed the queue waiting for the soup kitchen on Lilová Street. A woman with sunken black eyes pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders; the men stooped, shuffled forward past the boarded-up shop fronts.
“I had coffee with Peter this morning,” Eva said. “Have you heard about the German political refugee who’s just arrived from Vienna? He was high up in the Party in Berlin, apparently.”
“Yes, I heard. He’ll be there tonight, I’m sure. You’d better come see him yourself. They say he’s a great speaker.”
Eva laughed, tossing her auburn hair off her face. She always looked so pretty, with her high cheekbones, her perfect little nose, and the tiny mole on her upper lip—her “beauty spot,” as she liked to call it. “I suppose you’re going to tell me he’s handsome, too.”
“I’m sure he is!” Lena said, with a laugh.
“All right. Sold.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven thirty.” They had reached the Charles Bridge. Lena paused to take in the view of the Vltava and the castle soaring high on the hill. She never tired of this vista. The branches of the chestnut trees stood stark and bare, no sign yet of their spring foliage. “Have you met Peter’s new girlfriend?”
“I know her. Lotti Schurova,” Eva said in a sneering tone. “It won’t last.”
“Why not?”
“She came with us last summer on that day trip to Cerné Lake. I told you about that. We got caught in a huge thunderstorm. Lotti became hysterical. I bet she’s even too nervous to ride on the back of Peter’s motorcycle.”
“She’s not, though. They rode out to Terezín last Sunday. He showed her the barracks where he did his military service.”
“She’s not his type,” Eva insisted.
Lena poked her in the ribs. “You’re jealous.” Eva had been Peter’s girlfriend for several months last year, but then she had grown tired of him. Peter probably seemed more interesting again now that he had someone else.
“I’m not. Peter and I are just good friends.”
“If you say so.” Lena laughed again. “Just promise me you’ll come to the meeting.”
Lena opened the door to her family’s second-floor apartment and heard the piano in the front room: Sasha at her lesson, the notes of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik flowing easily from her little fingers. At eight, she was already far better than Lena had ever been. Lena crept down the hall to avoid another interrogation from Frau Grünbaum on why she was no longer playing.
Máma was in the kitchen, supervising Adele in the final stages of dinner preparation. Her parents complained they could no longer afford a maid, but Adele was still employed for all the cooking. Lena didn’t criticize; it kept Adele in work, after all, and she was supporting her elderly mother.
“Hello, dear,” Máma said. “How are you? How is Eva? Her mother told me she had an interview at a bookshop in Nové Město.”
“She didn’t get the job.”
“Poor Eva.” She waved a hand in Adele’s direction. “Not too many Brussels sprouts, Adele; you know Ernst and Sasha won’t eat them.” She pulled Lena with her into the dining room. “Everything all right at your work, dear?”
“Fine.” Her job was boring—typing all day in the office of a textile trader. But she didn’t whine to her parents. She had taken the position over their objections and relished the modicum of independence it gave her.
Father was in the dining room, tuning the wireless, waiting for the evening news. Máma continued, “Your father says the Olšakovský place is closing next month. Wherever will those people find work?”
“Lena doesn’t have to worry,” Father said. “After all, she was offered a job working for me, but . . .” He spread his arms and left the but hanging in the air, a familiar gesture, irritating with its silent, implied criticism. “Thanks to your father’s foresight and good planning, we are doing so much better than most. And carbon paper,” he declared, “is very secure. The world is always going to need carbon paper.”
The sound of Sasha’s footsteps in the hall gave Lena the excuse to ignore this remark. Her sister ran toward her. Lena caressed the crown of her head, envying Sasha’s pretty blond curls, so different from her own thin, straight hair, an indeterminate shade of brown. Máma ushered Frau Grünbaum to the front door while Sasha told Lena about her day at school.
“I have to write a report on O Dvanacti Mesickach!” she said.
Lena laughed. “That should be easy.” It was one of Sasha’s favorites; Lena had read it to her many times.
The front door of the apartment opened again and closed with a thud. Lena’s brother, Ernst, threw his knapsack into the dining room, aiming for the chaise longue in the corner, but he missed and it crashed to the floor.
“Pick that up, young man,” Father said, adjusting the wireless. He held up his hand to demand silence. “Shh. The news is coming on.”
Lena helped her mother set the table. The broadcast was dominated by the latest developments in Austria. Chancellor Schuschnigg had called for a referendum on unification with Germany.
“Surely, Jakob, the Austrians won’t vote for that, will they?” Máma asked over dinner. “To join the Third Reich?”
There was a new hint of fear in her voice. For years, Lena had watched her parents’ stunned disbelief as the much-admired, sophisticated neighbor to the north had succumbed to the Führer. The land of Goethe, Beethoven, and Schiller? It was unthinkable. Hitler couldn’t last. Six months had been the consensus. But the months had stretched to years, and the anti-Semitic decrees in Germany could not be ignored. Not that her family had ever identified as Jewish. They were patriotic Czechs. They rarely attended synagogue. They had a Christmas tree every year.
Now, Father shook his head. “Normally, I wouldn’t think so. The Austrians value their independence as much as we Czechs do. It’s all the fault of the Reds, you know.” He raised his voice and waved his knife in the air, not quite pointing at Lena, but there could be no mistaking his intended target. “It’s their troublemaking that has led to this. Strikes and riots. No wonder people crave law and order.”
Not this argument again. As if the Left were responsible for the rise of the Nazis—so absurd. The socialists and communists were mounting the only effective opposition, while the conservative and social democratic parties hedged their bets, seeing the fascists as a bulwark against communism. But Lena would not take the bait. A full-blown fight would lead to her being forbidden to leave for the evening.
“Are you in a hurry, Ernst?” Máma asked with a smile, as he shoveled a mound of mashed potatoes into his mouth.
“I’m going to the Sokol,” Ernst mumbled. “Gymnastics.”
“What about your homework?”
“I did it this afternoon, Máma.”
Ernst went out every evening, and not always to the Sokol, as he claimed. Last week, Lena had come upon him down by the river, smoking with friends. His movements were never subjected to the kind of scrutiny reserved for hers, even though he was four years younger.
“I’m going out with Eva,” she said now, to piggyback on his announcement.
“Where?” Father said.
“Just out for a beer.” She knew better than to tell the truth. He knew the reputation of the Café Slavia. “Eva needs cheering up.”
“That’s nice of you, dear,” Máma said.
Father said, “You’d better be home by eleven.”
“Tomorrow night,” Máma announced, “I want us to observe Shabbat at dinner.”
What? Where did this idea come from? But Lena didn’t want to discuss that now; she had to leave.
The café was crowded, a buzz of excitement in the air. Lena and Eva elbowed their way through to the bar to order two pilsners. Peter waved them over to the table in the corner where he sat with Lotti. He kissed Lena and Eva on each cheek.
“Isn’t the meeting going to start?” Eva said. She remained standing while Lena scooted next to Lotti on the bench.
“Si
t down,” Peter said. “They’re always late. Finish your beer with us.”
He was a few years older, in his midtwenties, with a prematurely receding hairline and short stature, not good-looking in the conventional sense but possessing a boundless energy, a disarming smile, and no shortage of female admirers.
Lena smiled at Lotti, who smiled back, blushing. Lena vaguely remembered her from the Realgymnasium, but Lotti had been in the year below her, so they’d had little direct contact. She sat with her hands in her lap, picking at a fingernail, glancing over at Eva and then Peter and back at Eva again.
“We met that German expatriate everyone’s talking about,” Lotti said. “He’s very interesting. Otto something. What’s his name, Peter?”
“Otto Eisenberg. He’s supposed to be here.”
“It does seem to be all anyone can talk about,” Eva said.
“He was in Vienna until two weeks ago.” Lotti turned to Lena. “He doesn’t think Schuschnigg’s last-minute efforts are going to appease Hitler.”
Lotti’s not as shy as she first appears, Lena thought. She could see why Peter was attracted to her. She had smooth skin, sparkling hazel eyes, and a charming dimple on each cheek when she smiled.
“There he is,” Peter said.
A huddle of young men moved toward them through the crowd. Very much at the center of this group stood a tall, scrawny young man, with a shock of unruly dark hair and a coarsely shaven chin. He wore a rumpled tweed jacket and a wool scarf and carried a large notebook and a stack of pamphlets. His companions jostled for position at his sides, engaging him in discussion as they walked. A blond youth with very bad acne almost bumped into a waiter carrying a tray of empty glasses.
“But surely you agree that the socialist revolution has to occur first, in order to establish the correct conditions for the defeat of fascism,” Lena heard the boy say.
When It's Over Page 2
