Far to Go - By Alison Pick Page 0,45

the weight of her tiny body like a warm loaf of bread. It was the last time she saw her sister. Or either of her parents, for that matter.

Another story: a boy whose parents left it too late. The Kindertransport was already full. The waiting list was three times the train’s capacity, but Winton’s secretary took a liking to the boy. Something about the way his ears stuck out, or how his knobby knees were wider than his thighs. He was just six years old and does not remember his father’s words, but he can still describe his happiness when the secretary moved his son to the top of the list. Perhaps a bribe was exchanged, but that’s not what the man remembers. He remembers seeing his father cry tears of relief; he might die—did die—but his only son would get out.

For several years—many years—I was able to lose myself in the vastness of these stories, the stories of losses and searches and discoveries. They allowed me to forget the person I was looking for. The child from the letter I carried with me. When I finally sought you out, I was surprised by how easy it was. I knew your last name: I looked you up in the phone book.

There you were, in my city. It was simple.

I gazed out the window while the telephone rang, trying to ignore the fact that I could hear my own heart. A single tennis shoe, tied by its laces, hung from the neighbour’s clothesline. I heard your voice on the answering machine and was confused by the muddled accent. I stood still, blinking rapidly, taking deep breaths. Finally I realized the machine was recording my silence. I forced myself to speak before it was too late: I gave you my name and a bit about my research. Then stumbled over my telephone number and had to repeat it several times. I must have sounded like a blubbering old idiot. Which, I suppose, I was.

When I hung up the phone, I did not step away from it. It was clear to me all at once that you probably wouldn’t call back. Why would you? I should have said something different.

But what should I have said?

The truth, I told myself.

Which is? I answered back.

Which is the most crucial piece of the puzzle.

I nodded. And all at once every bit of me agreed: I should have told you what only I knew. That I’m the sibling you never knew existed.

Chapter Four

THERE WAS A CRIB AT MAX AND Alžběta’s that belonged to their little daughter Eva. Anneliese could not stand to look at it. Marta knew what she was thinking: how old would her own baby girl be now, had she lived? Marta tried to picture what she would look like. Dark curls, like Anneliese, or the slightly paler brown of her father? A kind child, or petulant? There was a phantom in the family, growing taller all the time, but never quite catching up to her brother, Pepik, to the world of living flesh and blood.

The Bauers unpacked their belongings. They waited to hear from Max, but there was no news. Maybe he was still en route to meet Alžběta and their daughters, or maybe he had other reasons to make himself scarce. Either way, the apartment was empty, and they moved into it like actors onto an empty set. Pepik chose the room that had been his Uncle Max’s when he was a boy: it had a bunk bed and a stag’s head mounted on the wall. Marta had a whole suite of rooms to herself—cook’s, butler’s, chauffeur’s. It was much more space than she was used to, but she tried to act nonchalant, wandering the large urban flat as though she belonged there. At night you could see from the front window of the parlour all the way down to the heart of Praha, the streetlamps lit and glittering like debutantes coming out for a ball.

“There’s the opera house,” Anneliese pointed out the first night, her cheeks pink with excitement. And beyond it was the castle itself, lit up, like the largest jewel in a crown.

“Hitler’s new house,” Pavel said flatly. He didn’t look his wife in the eye, still angry.

“I prefer the Belvedere,” Anneliese said.

“I heard someone call the castle ‘Hitler’s new house’ today,” Pavel persisted. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Over my dead body,” he said. But his voice sounded hollow to Marta. The new flat elevated Anneliese, but