Far to Go - By Alison Pick Page 0,37

why it happened? Because of his religion.”

But Pavel took his wife’s words not as dissent but as agreement. “Yes,” he said. “Exactly! We’re lucky, Liesel. There’s still time for our son to grow up knowing the worth of his people. With a fierce sense—” He was smiling now, wryly, aware of the irony of the timing. “With a fierce sense of Jewish identity!” He put his hands on his wife’s shoulders, shaking his head. “Who would have thought,” he said.

Marta was frozen in her chair, her mind racing, as though she, not Anneliese, was going to have to answer for the baptism. And wasn’t she equally responsible? Hadn’t she gone along with it willingly? She could have resisted, could have stood up for what she knew Pavel felt. Part of her wanted to leave the room, to find something that needed washing or mending and escape the consequence of her actions. Another part, though, longed to be held accountable. Something of great magnitude had happened, something she’d been involved in, and the feeling of importance was hard for her to deny. Although, of course, she’d have to defer to Mrs. Bauer.

Marta looked up at Anneliese; she was holding a knuckle on her right hand between the thumb and index finger of her left. “Pavel,” she said.

“My darling?”

“I should tell you.”

“You should tell me what?”

Marta thought for a moment that Anneliese was about to confess. But she only paused and looked up from her hands.

“I should tell you that I love you,” she said.

Pavel hatched a new plan. He would negotiate with the government—with the Czech government, in Prague—to be sent on a goodwill mission to South America. He would go as a sort of ambassador for the Czech textile manufacturers, to try to persuade the business community there that Czechoslovakia, even in its reduced form, would continue to be a reliable trading partner.

Anneliese agreed with Pavel’s new idea but wasn’t sure how they’d pull it off. “Who are you, to represent the whole Czech textile community?” she asked one evening as she and Pavel relaxed in the parlour. Marta was ironing quietly in the corner. She could see a copy of the new Henry Miller book, Tropic of Capricorn, and a Czech-English dictionary open in Anneliese’s lap. “I’m playing devil’s advocate,” Anneliese clarified.

“That’s a racy book,” Pavel said.

“And do you like my reading glasses?” She batted her eyelashes at her husband from behind the thick frames. Marta knew that Anneliese would wear them only in the privacy of their own home.

“Okay,” Anneliese said, “let’s figure this out.” She clapped her hands together like a schoolteacher. “How can we convince them that you’re the one to represent the industry if your factory has been occupied by Heinlein?”

“My reputation precedes me,” Pavel said. “Perhaps I am the man for the job precisely because the factory has been occupied.”

“How so?” Anneliese asked.

Pavel paused, and Marta could tell he was grasping, that he couldn’t make it make sense. “Now that Hácha has been elected . . .” he said, referring to Beneš’s replacement.

“Hácha will be of no help,” Anneliese said. “He’s a Catholic with no political background. A lawyer. A translator.” She snapped her Czech-English dictionary closed in disgust. “I have faith in you though, miláčku,” she said to her husband. “I know you’ll think of something.”

Pavel had pulled his grandfather’s Star of David out of his pocket. He touched it now, as if it might help.

There was a knock at the door, three short raps. Marta set her iron down; it let out a hiss, a steam engine departing. She went into the front hall and undid the deadbolt. Ernst was standing there, two inches from her face. Her hands rose of their own accord to smooth down her hair.

“Hello, Mr. Anselm,” she said.

Ernst mouthed something Marta could not make out. She looked over her shoulder to make sure nobody was watching, and leaned in to better hear him.

“Tonight,” he whispered. Then: “May I give you my coat?” he said loudly.

“Certainly.”

Marta reached out for the boiled wool cloak and summoned her courage. She shook her head. No, not tonight.

Ernst raised his eyebrows, not angry so much as concerned. He took a step in towards her. “Marta,” he whispered, “what’s wrong?”

The Bauers were still in the next room, Pavel saying English words and Anneliese repeating them back to him. Marta shrugged, her arms crossed over her chest. She bit her bottom lip, afraid that if she spoke she’d start to cry.

“Has something happened?” Ernst