Far to Go - By Alison Pick Page 0,49

went out the door.

Marta put Pepik to bed. There was a small fuss when he wanted to stay up until midnight, but she remained firm, and by the time she tucked him in he was so exhausted he fell asleep without even a story. She went into the kitchen and cleaned up the dishes, and then she listened to the president’s New Year’s address on the radio. It was easy to tell by Hácha’s voice that he was dreadfully sad. Despite everything that had happened, he said—despite the terrible events of the year—the people of Czechoslovakia still stood on their own land. But would they still be able to say so this time next year?

Marta made herself a cup of linden tea and sat down beside the Christmas tree, thinking about Father Wilhelm. Arrested, Pavel had said. For giving out baptismal certificates. She could picture the priest as though he stood before her, the bald patch in the shape of a kippah, the bony fingers interlaced as though in prayer. He’d been so kind to them, she thought, offering to help not only little Pepik but his mother as well. How many others were out there for whom he’d done the same?

Would the authorities now come looking for Pepik? It was certainly possible; an illegal baptism was sure to have repercussions. She shivered, wondering what exactly they might be. She lifted her cup to her lips, but the tea had cooled and the leaves tasted musty, too sweet. People, she knew, were just disappearing these days; it wasn’t unheard of for someone to be present one evening and gone by the break of the new day. Taken. But could it happen to a child? To Pepik?

And where was Max? He’d promised to be in touch.

Marta pushed her teacup aside. A sick feeling rose in her stomach: too much carp and vánočka. She glanced down at Pepik’s train where it wound between the legs of the table. Pepik had incorporated some of the lanterns from the Christmas tree into the scene; they stood in for lampposts in the little nameless town where his clothespin civilians went about their lives. One of the lead soldiers had fallen on its back and was staring up at her. Its mouth frozen open. It looked as if it were shouting something. As if it were trying to give a warning.

Max’s letter did not arrive until March. Pavel held it close to his face and read it aloud to his wife: “I trust you enjoy your books as usual. The one before The Castle is excellent.”

“Whatever does he mean?” Anneliese asked. “He’s talking about books? Now?”

“It was posted six weeks ago, in January.”

“Was it?”

“He seems to be writing in code.”

“The Castle. By Kafka?”

“That must be the one.”

“And what comes before it . . . Amerika.”

“That was after.”

“The Trial,” Anneliese said.

“The Trial. What’s the plot?”

She looked up at the ceiling, trying to remember. “The narrator is arrested for a crime that isn’t named.”

“For no crime.”

“Exactly.”

“I think we know what’s happened to Max.”

Anneliese was thrown into a panic. “What should we do?”

Marta was in a corner of the room, dusting the buffet. She saw Pavel spread his hands out in front of him: Don’t ask me.

The Bauers were sitting at opposite ends of the heavy Victorian sofa; the wall of mirrors doubled them. Everything the Bauers did in the new flat was copied by their doppelgangers: When the Bauers ate, their twins did the same. When they spoke, when they argued, so did the twins. It was as if someone had thought to make a copy of each of them in case something should happen to the originals.

“We should at least tell Alžběta,” Anneliese said to Pavel.

“But how can we tell her if we don’t know where she is?”

Anneliese reached for her Chanel purse and lit a cigarette.

“We could call Ernst,” Pavel said, “to ask what he thinks.”

Marta lowered her eyes, intent on her feather duster, but Anneliese was at the phone immediately, her cigarette left smoking in the ashtray. She spoke into the black horn in the middle of the wooden box on the wall and then covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “The operator says there’s a line through Frankfurt,” she said to Pavel.

“Our calls don’t go through Frankfurt. Doesn’t she know that?”

Anneliese put the earpiece back in its cradle and went over to the small fire in the hearth. She picked up the bellows and pumped vigorously.

“I had lunch with Mathilde.” She turned around to