Far to Go - By Alison Pick Page 0,38

whispered. It was as though he’d forgotten the other night entirely, how rough he’d been with her, how cruel. His gaze was soft, genuinely worried, and part of her wanted to relax, to lean her head against his torso and have him stroke her back like a child. But she touched her upper arm and felt the bruised skin, the place where he’d gripped her so tightly. She remembered Mr. Goldstein, the terrible tumble of his body to the street. “Pavel trusts you,” she whispered back.

A flush rose to Ernst’s face. “And what does that have to do with you and me?” His voice hardened and she felt suddenly young, afraid of standing up to him and losing everything. Who else did she have?

Pepik, she told herself. She had Pepik—and he depended on her. It could have been him, Pavel had said.

Ernst looked over Marta’s shoulder at the doorway beyond. They only had another second or two before the Bauers would wonder about her absence. He lifted his hand in the air. Marta had a sudden, unmistakeable feeling that he was about to strike her—her father’s memory evoked yet again—and she flinched, her arms lifting automatically to shield herself from the blow. But Ernst only laid his palm against her cheek. “Don’t be silly, darling,” he whispered. “I’ll see you tonight.”

He’d never called her darling before, but she braced herself against the endearment. She thought again of old Mr. Goldstein, the way the boys had dragged him by his earlobe, and how helpless he’d looked in the light from the flames. His death had clarified things. She could no longer deny what Ernst stood for. Not to others. Not to herself.

“It’s settled,” he said.

But she shook her head: No.

“I’ll hang your coat behind the door,” she said. And she turned on her heel before she could lose her nerve, and left him standing in the hallway without her.

The following morning Anneliese’s brother-in-law Max showed up at the house. He was a barrel-chested man with a moustache and white hair, and Marta had always liked him. He didn’t ignore her as some of the Bauers’ other friends did, treating her like she was just another piece of furniture that happened to have legs and a face; instead he asked after her, remembering little details like the needlepoint she’d been working on when he’d last seen her several months ago. Maybe this difference in attitude came from not taking his good fortune for granted; he’d met Anneliese’s sister Alžběta late in life, Marta knew, at a charity ball given for the volunteer firemen of his father’s factory. His life with her and their two young daughters were gifts he would never stop being grateful for.

“I’ve fired Kurt Hofstader,” Max said now, coming into the front hall. He smiled at Marta as he passed her his hat.

“Your foreman?” Pavel asked.

Max paused. “Thank you, Marta.” He looked to Pavel: “Yes, please. Half a glass.”

“It’s a vintage ’29.”

“Not foreman. Plant manager.”

“A Nazi?”

“You know I wouldn’t let politics get in the way of business.” Max lowered his voice. “But I think he was informing.”

Anneliese came into the room. “Informing about what?” she said darkly, from the corner of her mouth, pretending to be Sam Spade. She laughed at her poor imitation and threw her arms around her brother-in-law. “Hello, Max!”

Marta made her way into the small sewing room off the parlour. Several pairs of Pepik’s stockings needed mending; things had been so chaotic lately that she’d let them pile up. From the other room came the sounds of a cork being pulled and of liquid being poured. Chairs squeaked across the floorboards. Marta licked the tip of her thread—it had split a little—and squinted, guiding it through the eye of the needle. She had to make several attempts; the light wasn’t good, she thought, or perhaps her eyes were getting weaker. She heard the click of Pavel’s steel Adler—he was jotting something down on a pad of legal paper. Then Max said, “I was wondering if you’d come and replace him.”

Marta paused, the threaded needle pressed between her lips. Max wanted Pavel to replace his plant manager? Did he mean they should go to Prague? She shifted her chair so she could see around the door frame and into the parlour.

Pavel cleared his throat; there was a long silence before he asked the same question. “In Prague?”

Max laughed. “You make it sound like the moon.”

Pavel cleared his throat again. “I’m flattered you’d ask,” he said. He