Herr Weber said something excitedly and moved toward the ladder to the hayloft. Captain Meier remained below.
Bill leaped into the air, grabbed the rafter and yanked his body up. Slowly Herr Weber ascended the ladder, and Bill lay flat just as the other man’s helmet appeared in the hayloft. Bill pressed his face to the timber beam, saw the streams of light from Herr Weber’s torch playing around the space. His heart was banging so loud, he thought Herr Weber would be able to hear it.
Herr Weber stuck his bayonet a few times into the pile of straw where they’d been lying. Bill looked over and could see the skirt of Izzy’s greatcoat hanging below the rafter she was lying on. He felt sure Herr Weber would spot it, so he prepared to let himself down to distract attention from Izzy. But the beam of the torch swept around the hayloft one more time, and Herr Weber called down, “Nein, nicht hier,” to Captain Meier, swung his bayonet back over his shoulder, and felt for the first rung of the ladder with his foot.
There was another conversation in the barn below, before Herr Weber called in English once more. “If you are here, Bombardier King, please know this was your last chance. Now we must report you as missing, and soon the SS will find you with their dog patrols. Then we can’t help you. And, Izabela, if you are here, think of all you are throwing away. You are such a good student. I could still help you to be a translator or go to university.”
The two soldiers waited, listening, for several minutes before they agreed, “Nein, nicht hier,” and left the barn. A few more moments passed before Bill heard the distinctive limping gait of Captain Meier as he came back alone and said something in German. Something, apparently, to Izzy. Her name was all Bill understood. He held his breath and waited, thinking perhaps she ought to go with them now, but she didn’t move. Then Captain Meier left, the doors clanged shut and a heavy wooden beam was slid down from outside, shutting Bill and Izzy in the barn. Bill thought they’d die of thirst in here in just a few days if the SS didn’t find them first.
They heard Captain Meier and Herr Weber banging on the farmhouse door and an old-sounding woman speaking to them.
Bill raised his head and looked at Izzy across the gloomy barn. He signaled to her to tuck her coat under her legs. They might still come back. He pressed his face to the rafter. “Be calm, be calm,” he told himself. “Listen now.”
It seemed the soldiers had gone into the house. “Wait,” Bill told himself. “Wait and be calm.”
Eventually they came back into the yard, and there was further discussion before the doors of their armored car banged. Bill listened as it drove away into the night. He and Izzy waited in silence.
After about twenty minutes, footsteps quietly crossed the yard. Someone was struggling to lift the locking beam. Bill heard it swish down and bang slightly as it came to rest.
In the barn beneath them, two elderly voices were whispering in Czech. The people scuffled about like rats and then pulled the door closed behind them, but they didn’t lock it.
The dim light in the barn faded more as the day ended. Bill and Izzy waited a long time. A long, long time. They didn’t speak. Bill’s leg developed pins and needles from being too long in one position. They waited until it was completely dark outside.
Finally, Bill whispered, “I think it must be safe now,” and swung himself down from the rafter. But even as he said it, he was thinking, Izzy will never be safe again, and it’s all my fault.
He moved under the beam where Izzy was hiding. “Izzy, are you all right? Let yourself down. I’ll catch you.”
She lowered herself into his arms.
“What did the captain say?” he asked. “How did they find us?”
“He promise mother he find us and bring back. He knows all farms, and is try all barns. He must say you missing. But not say girl with you. He tell same story about me go to aunt.”
They both fell silent, and Bill wondered why Captain Meier would want to help them. Surely it was a risk for him, and for Herr Weber. Perhaps they had both developed a soft spot for Izzy; he could understand that. Or maybe Captain Meier loved her mother. Or perhaps, perhaps they were simply good men, a teacher and a farmer, caught up in horrors beyond their imagining and trying to do what little they could to make it right, by rescuing one foolish girl.
“You should have gone with them,” Bill said.
She wrapped her arms around him. “I’ll never leave you.”
He kissed her forehead, and they held on to each other like two frightened children. This felt like the only place of safety now, flimsy as a tent in an avalanche.
Ten
On our tenth night of walking, everything was quiet and still, apart from the light crunch of our boots on the stony country road. The sliver of moon disappeared behind a cloud, and we slowed our pace, barely able to make out the way ahead. The road and the hedges were dark as soot, and I couldn’t see where one ended and the other began. The ground was uneven, with tufty hummocks of grass running down the middle of the road, and I put out each foot tentatively, in case I twisted my ankle in a pothole or tumbled into a ditch. I gripped Bill’s hand to keep myself from falling and I reminded myself, if we could hardly see the road, nobody could see us either. That was a small comfort.
Out of the darkness, the sidewalls of houses reared up on each side of the road.
“Here we go,” said Bill, “a nice hayloft maybe to snuggle down in,” and I knew desire leaped in both of us at the thought. A blush warmed my throat and face, and I was glad he couldn’t see me and make fun of it.
But as we got close, we realized this was the start of a village street. We hesitated and then crept forward. The front doors opened directly onto the road, and as we passed each one, I tensed myself in case it flew open and we were discovered. My pulse beat as loud as rain on a barn roof.
Bill adjusted his stride in time with mine so we only made one set of footsteps, which echoed slightly off the buildings. He squeezed my hand tightly, and I wondered if he was afraid too. We walked on up the street, ready to turn and run at any moment back into the enveloping dark.
At first I tried to tell myself that the place was just a hamlet—somewhere whose name I’d forgotten—that might offer the possibility of food and shelter, a disused henhouse or garage where we could hide. I imagined a pie left to cool on a windowsill and forgotten at bedtime, apples stored in a shed. But as we walked on, it became obvious that this place was larger than a village.
A cat’s tail flicked, and my stomach lurched. Figures seemed to lurk in the deep shadows of every doorway, and I strained my eyes in the hope that one of them would be my father or my brother or one of their band of partisans sent to gather me up, to hide us. I pleaded with him silently, Find me, Daddy, tatinku. Please find me now. But as we passed each house, the imaginary figures dissolved into deeper blackness, and hope faded that they’d ever find us. I told myself I was a fool. How had I expected my father to know where we were and carry us to safety? Had I just been trying to prove to him that he ought to have taken me with him? Did I think I could show him I was as brave as Jan?
We held hands and crept on—an odd-looking couple if anyone had been able to see us. Bill in ill-fitting farmworkers’ clothes, me decked out like a boy, both of us fat with layers of woolens, as the nights were chilly already and wearing them seemed the easiest way to carry them; both of us with my homemade oilcloth kit bags and a blanket strung across our backs. No more than a couple of tramps.
The town gathered around us, cutting off our lines of escape. I feared I must have led us into Prostějov, though I didn’t know how, because I was sure it was farther to the north. The houses became grander, and the roads widened. We passed a small park. I thought for a moment we might hide in the bushes there, and then realized how quickly dogs and children would sniff us out in the morning. Beyond the park, tall public buildings began, banks and offices where cleaners and clerks would soon arrive to work
. We came across a stretch of the old city wall and a stone guard tower with a pointed roof like a witch’s hat, and I knew we were going the wrong way.
“This old town. Center town,” I whispered, pulling at Bill’s sleeve.
I sensed rather than saw Bill shake his head and run his hand up through his hair, making it stand in blond spikes. He lowered his voice so I could barely catch his reply. “No, I’m sure we’re circling the town to the south. Soon we’ll be out in open country again. This way.”
I felt a lick of exasperation. “No. Wrong way.”
“Look, so far we’ve done everything your way. It’s my turn.”
“But wrong turn,” I insisted.
“I thought you promised to obey,” he joked, but irritation twisted in me.
“Not obey stupid idea,” I snapped.
“And whose stupid idea was all of this?” he replied with a wave of his arm, taking in our wedding and our escape. “Running away, with you dressed as a boy? Being rescued by your dad? Stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”
I was stung, but I swallowed my anger and forced myself into silence. I didn’t want to argue with him ever again after the last time. I had to learn to keep my temper. I struggled with myself until I managed to say, “OK. Your way. Crazy man.”
He set off again, and I followed him, treading softly in case the guard tower housed Nazi soldiers. Ducking left, we found ourselves on a long road of terraced houses facing the old wall. We crept around the tower and along in the shadow of the wall, listening for any movement—boots on the floor, voices in the dark. When we were clear of the tower, I tried to lighten his mood, whispering, “What stupidest thing ever done, after this?”
It was a game we played as we walked through the nights: What’s your earliest memory? What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done? He whispered, “Going onto the shed roof to get a ball because Flora told me to. Fell off and chipped me front tooth and broke my wrist. It still hurts in the cold. Should’ve learned not to do what girls tell me.”
I gave him a play punch. Flora again. Well, I’d shown Flora, because now he was all mine, and she couldn’t ever have him back. He didn’t ask me about my stupidest thing, but held his finger to his lips and paused, looking down the deserted street; then we crept forward slowly.
That was when we heard the dogs. Only one bark at first, carrying in the quiet of the night. We clutched each other’s hands and stood still for a moment.
“Just a pet,” murmured Bill. “Barking at shadders.”
Then another bark. And another. Not muffled by the walls of a building, but out in the night, like us, out in the streets.
Instinctively we moved away from the sound of the dogs, and the buildings glowered at us, closing in. My heart was drumming, and my breath came fast. Without deciding to, we were walking quicker, no longer toward something, but away. The dogs were barking, closer, the sound echoing off the buildings—perhaps two dogs, perhaps three. We turned to see whether they were in sight, but the darkness was too absolute. We were acutely aware of the noise of our boots on the cobbled road, unable to muffle our footsteps at this faster pace.
And then there were shouts behind us, the voices of men excited to have something to do in the boredom of the night watch, egging on the dogs, eager for the hunt. And whichever way we turned, the dogs and the men grew closer and our boots clanged more loudly.
“At home, I had a dog,” panted Bill. “Rusty.”
Of course we had dogs too, but they were farm dogs, working dogs—their teeth bared as they cornered a rat in the barn. I glanced up at the sky, the strip of it between the buildings, and tried to shut out the image of the dogs tearing apart a rat. Their saliva. The blood. One star disappeared behind a cloud, and its dim light went out.
Prostějov had become a town of sounds: our breath, the pounding of our own blood in our ears, the clatter of our boots on the road, the dogs barking, men running and calling, closer, closer. Perhaps we could have stopped, knocked on a door and begged for help, but we didn’t. We just kept going, faster and faster, running, Bill dragging me with him. I was breathless to keep up, my kit bag banging awkwardly against my legs.
At last there was an opening in the terrace, an archway leading to a narrow arcade lined with dark shops. Toward the end of the alley was an even darker place that looked like another turning, but it was only a wide doorway, up two steps, set back and hidden until we drew level with it.
Now the dogs were almost on us, and Bill pulled me up into the doorway, threw his arms around me, squeezed me very hard and whispered, “I’m so sorry,” into my hair. Then he pushed me away from him so we wouldn’t be found touching.
A doorway was a hopeless hiding place, and the sound of the tracker dogs was deafening in the alleyway. They found us easily, barking, growling and snapping at our feet in triumph. Three big Alsatian dogs longing to tear us apart like wolves, but trained to wait for the men who came behind, shouting in excitement. I shut my eyes and waited for the dogs’ teeth, hoped it would be over quickly.
Everything seemed to happen at once: the dogs, the men, a searchlight in my face. I raised my arm to cover my eyes, could see nothing beyond the lights, but heard the men close, their panting breath, the loudness of their voices. My teeth were chattering, and I had to clamp my mouth shut.
The voices behind the light became one disembodied shout in German from the senior officer. “Hands up! Against the wall!”
We stumbled down the two steps. Bill went to one side of the doorway, and I to the other. I raised my arms above my head and leaned my face against the wall to stop myself from falling, feeling the roughness of the brick against my cheek. Behind the wall I sensed the people who lived there scurrying like mice, listening with excitement and maybe—who knows?—with pity. I bit my lips, determined not to sob, not to let it end this way.
Then there were hands on me, banging on the thick wadding of my clothes, searching for a weapon and finding none. In Bill’s pocket they found my dad’s wire cutters and trowel, and sent them clattering onto the cobbles. The men picked up our kit bags and slung them over their shoulders. I was stupidly glad to be wearing the jumper my mother had knitted. At least that stayed with me, for now. They spun me round and the searchlight was blinding.
The light swept down from my face as they discussed what to do with us. Still blinded, I was pulled and pushed onto the street, a gun barrel urging me to walk, stumbling forward as if into an abyss.
Gradually my eyes adjusted to the dark again, though a round purple glow persisted where the searchlight was etched onto my retina. The dark cobbled street swam back into view, the blacked-out buildings, just as they were before, as if the whole world hadn’t changed forever. The barrel of a rifle poked my back through the layers of clothes. Bill was walking beside me, a soldier close behind him with a rifle. Ahead were the one in charge and two dog handlers. Each of them had a torch lighting his shiny boots. Behind, I could hear the snuffling of the third dog. My faltering footsteps became more steady as my eyesight returned, and I focused on the torchlight. I could make out clouds of steam from the breathing men and panting dogs in front of me. My stomach twisted in terror, but I marched, because there was nothing else to do, concentrating on my feet, left, right, left, right, saying it to myself in English, “Left, right, be strong. Left, right, be strong . . .”
We took a winding route down arcades and alleys, until one alley opened through a stone archway onto a large square surrounded by grand buildings, hotels or mansions perhaps. On the far side was the town hall draped with Nazi flags and banners. Its domed and colonnaded clock tower was silhouetted against the sky. As we got closer, the clock told us it was six a.m., almost day. Armored cars and trucks marked with swastikas were parked outside in the square. Two sentries stood on guard beside imposing glazed and gilded doors. The sentries greeted our party with a salute and a “Heil Hitler.”
&
nbsp; One door opened briefly, and we were pushed inside, hurriedly, so as not to let light and warmth escape. It was bright in the hall compared with the darkness outside, and I raised my hand to shade my eyes. A gun barrel knocked it down, and I almost cried out. I fixed my hands to my sides, formed fists of my fingers, concentrated on the pulsing pain where the steel had hit my hand. Curious eyes looked at us from more sentries and a sergeant at a desk, but nobody pointed a finger and asked if I was a woman.
We were in a long hallway with a high ceiling. Once, not so long ago, but in a different world, the town hall receptionist would have sat here, an older woman with iron gray hair and sensible lace-up shoes. The hallway was lit by huge bulbs that hung from four massive mahogany columns, casting a cavernous glow. To the left were steps leading to the doors of the Prostějov magistrate’s court. At the other end of the hall were more high glass doors with windows above, showing the first lightening of the sky, too late for us.
The soldier who cornered us explained the details in German, exaggerating a little about the length of the chase and the difficulty of the capture, and how we had resisted arrest. I thought how strange it was that Bill understood so little of this. Now it seemed we were really two parts of one whole. I could hear and understand everything, but only he could speak.
The soldiers had assumed we were both escaping prisoners, but if I was to say one word, make one noise, they’d know at once that I was a girl. Was I a girl still? A woman or, should I say, a wife? I thought of the proverb Mluviti stříbro, mlčeti zlato. Speaking is silver, silence is gold. From now on, I must be a woman of gold.
The man at the desk cocked his thumb, and we climbed two flights of ornately decorated stairs. On the third floor the landing opened out to a waiting area with a red-and-yellow-checkered tiled floor, like a chessboard. I thought what very small pawns we were in this game. A tired-looking sergeant with orange hair sat at a desk and indicated for us to stand in front of him. A boyish private with a rifle slouched to one side.
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