Far to Go - By Alison Pick Page 0,43

Nicholas repeated.

It was a terrible present in light of what had happened. Pavel had given his son his own grandfather’s prayer shawl. The tallit was nestled between two pieces of ivory tissue paper. Pepik unfolded it and held it in his hands, out from his body as though it was an offering. The adults looked at each other; nobody knew what to do.

Pepik too had clearly been expecting a new caboose, or a toy helmet with the insignia of the Masaryk government. A tallit was inappropriate for a boy his age. But he seemed to understand instinctually the symbolic weight of the gift. He unfolded his great-grandfather’s prayer shawl and draped it over his shoulders. The edges hung down, the tzitziot touching the floor.

“I don’t know if—” the Devil started, but Ernst jerked his chain to silence him.

Pepik looked up at the adults, one by one, defiant.

This is who I am, his look said.

The Bauer family left for Prague the following morning. The automobile was loaded up to the roof with trunks, boxes, Pepik’s Botanisierbuchse and butterfly net. The old town fell behind them like discarded skin.

There was stony silence in the front seat. Pavel’s jaw was clenched tight and his eyes glued to the windshield. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. As they pulled out into the lane that ran around the perimeter of the town square, Marta saw that there was a rally going on, a pack of Hitlerjugend crowded together wearing armbands and lace-up boots. There were maybe forty of them. A man in front of the crowd yelled something into a megaphone. The crowd responded, shouting “Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!” and shaking their fists in the air.

She had a flash of Mr. Goldstein lying dead on the cobblestones.

“Goodbye, old town,” Pepik said morosely.

Anneliese was dealing with her husband’s rage about the baptism by pretending he wasn’t there. She chatted brightly to Pepik and Marta about where they were headed. “Wait until you see Václavské náměstí. And all the spires, and Charles Bridge with the statues of the saints all along it.” She looked over her shoulder at her son in the back seat. “In the summer we can go on a steamboat and go to Kampě Island and have an ice cream and go swimming in the river! Wouldn’t you like that?”

“I forgot my pennywhistle,” Pepik said, forlorn.

But his mother persisted. “As soon as we’ve arrived we’ll go and see the astronomical clock. Every hour a trapdoor opens and Christ marches out with his Apostles. The skeleton of death tolls his bell as the hour turns.”

Pavel said wryly, “As though we need to be reminded.”

But Marta suspected he was relieved to be going as well, to be fleeing the German-occupied territory. Part of him too, even if he would not admit it, was afraid of what was happening all around them, a part of him that was eager to retreat into the fantasy of a picnic on the island with cold chicken wings and lemonade, and Hitler just a bad dream.

They had circumnavigated the area and were now pulling out onto the cobbled road. Marta turned back for one last look at her home. The crowd of Jugend looked larger from this angle, filling half of the town square. Boys, mostly, in thin winter jackets, Nazi insignia sewn onto their sleeves. They chanted along with the man at the megaphone. Marta saw one girl, a girl with frizzy hair: it took her a minute to realize it was Sophie. Her curls were tied back from her face and her mouth was wide open, screaming. There was a thin boy pushed up next to her. Marta knew him too.

It was Ernst Anselm’s nephew. Armin? Irwin?

The last thing Marta saw, her last memory of the old town, was Sophie holding the Devil’s hand.

Part Two

Prague

19 January 1939

Dear Pavel and Anneliese,

I am sorry to have been out of contact for so long. All is well. Business continues apace.

I trust you enjoy your books as usual. The one before The Castle is excellent.

Please give my love to Alžběta if you see her. And to the little girls.

Best regards,

Max

(FILE UNDER: Stein, Max. Died Auschwitz, 1943)

I’VE LIVED A LONG TIME.

“May I ask your age?” you said when we first met.

“You may not!” I smiled, feigning offence. It was the kind of teasing that usually passes between people who have known each other all their lives. Which I felt, in a particular way, I had.

I’d been looking for you for years, Joseph.