Far to Go - By Alison Pick Page 0,41

her to wonder what Sophie had really been doing in the house. What exactly she had come back to retrieve.

Anneliese heard a rumour.

Or perhaps, she said, it was the truth. There was a young British stockbroker who was helping Czech children leave the country. On trains referred to as Kindertransports. “What do you say?” she asked her husband. “Could we consider sending Pepik?” On December 2 the Führer had spoken on the radio, announcing his intent to take Prague. But Pavel was firm. He had a job in Prague, and he wanted his son with him. Hitler or no Hitler, he said.

The departure for the capital was delayed, though, by a last-minute call from Herrick, the German in charge at Pavel’s factory. Pavel was summoned; he had no choice under Nazi rule but to go down and answer the man’s questions. When he returned home, Pavel said he could guess, based on the machinery that had been removed and on the industrial-size grey metal tubes stacked in the foyer, that the place was being converted into a munitions factory. Perhaps to supply the Skoda works. They had wanted to ask him about the bookkeeping, which was a complex system he had started in order to accommodate the jute cartel. His presence was required over the course of several days. The sixth of December, Saint Nicholas Day, found the Bauers eating their last supper in the house before their move.

They were in the middle of the varenyky, Marta’s first attempt at dumplings stuffed with beef and herbs—they had turned out rather poorly, she thought—when the doorbell rang. Pavel put down his silver cutlery. He cleared his throat and said, “Pepik, why don’t you get that?”

Pepik looked to Marta for confirmation. She nodded to show he should go.

He went into the hall and they could hear him struggling with the heavy handle. Pavel and Anneliese were looking at each other, little smiles of anticipation on their faces.

“Do you need some help?” Marta called. But the door was pushed in from the outside and Pepik gave a little squeal.

“Who is it?” Anneliese called out innocently.

A booming voice: “It’s Saint Nicholas!”

Pepik leapt into the dining room. He made a face like Henry in the comic book his great-uncle had sent from America: mouth wide open, hands on his cheeks but no sound. Then he stuck his head back out into the hall to make sure Saint Nick had not disappeared.

There was more rustling and Pavel Bauer shouted, “No need to take your boots off! Just come around here so we can get a good look at you.”

It was Ernst Anselm who came around the corner. He was dressed in a bishop’s tall hat, a fake beard, and his wife Hella’s foxtail fur coat. Marta flushed and averted her eyes. She was having trouble catching her breath, her heart was beating so fast. She braced herself, waiting for him to address her, but he only said to everyone, “I’ve brought the Devil with me.” There was a slur in his voice—he’d been drinking. He looked around the table at each of them in turn and then tugged on a chain. Sure enough, a little man in a red suit came around the corner.

“See? The Devil.” Anneliese pointed to show Pepik.

Pavel threw his head back and hooted. “Look at you both!” he said. “A regular Pat and Patachon.”

“What a clever comparison,” Saint Nicholas said.

Pavel raised an eyebrow at his friend.

“You’re lucky I showed up,” Ernst said. “I mean, you’re lucky Saint Nick came.”

“But Saint Nick, you come every year. Why should this year be different?” Pavel was cheerful for the benefit of his son, but Marta could see he was confused by Ernst’s comment.

“Saint Nicholas,” Anneliese said, “would you like a drink?”

“He seems to have had enough to—” Pavel started, but the Devil interrupted. “Yes, he surely would.” He leaned back on his heels.

Marta recognized the Devil but she wasn’t sure from where.

Saint Nicholas tried to elbow Pavel, but missed and stumbled before regaining his balance. “Mr. Bauer, I’ll trade the drink for your Parker investment,” he said. Then he looked at Marta; his face registered surprise, as though he was just now remembering their last conversation, when she’d left him standing in the hall. He opened his mouth to speak. “And who do we—” he started, but Pavel grasped his shoulder. “Don’t you have some business to attend to?”

Ernst belched quietly into the back of his hand. “Ah, yes,” he agreed sagely. “I have some