Far to Go - By Alison Pick Page 0,60

had to go away on business,” she heard herself saying.

“Did he.” Ernst stayed in his place. “And let me guess . . . He had to take the wife and child with him?”

It was unnerving to hear him refer to Anneliese and Pepik in those generic terms—wife and child. She brought her thumb to her mouth and tore away the hangnail with her teeth.

He raised his eyebrows at Marta. “Well?” Still she didn’t answer.

Ernst pulled a mahogany chair out from the table; it squeaked across her newly washed floorboards. He sat down and folded his hands in front of him and leaned across the table, looking at her intently. “Marta,” he said, “listen to me.”

He waited.

She was listening.

“I’m sorry for what happened between us. For how I behaved.” He paused again, as though he’d rehearsed this speech and was trying to remember his lines. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “But Prague is about to be occupied. It won’t be like in the old town. Hitler is going to take it all now. Everything.” He gestured around him to include the flat, the city, the whole country.

Marta glared at him. Did he think she was stupid?

“I know that in the past I have said some unkind things about the Bauers,” he said. “But I need to speak with Pavel now. It’s about . . . the factory. It’s very important. I need to contact him—for his own good.”

Ernst was lying; that much was clear. Either he’d forgotten how frank he’d been with her in the past, or he really did underestimate her intelligence. She was a means to an end, nothing more. She thought of telling Ernst that he too was a bad liar, but she was afraid that if she opened her mouth she would begin to cry.

“They gave you up,” he said softly.

She closed her eyes, the truth overwhelming her. She’d been keeping busy cleaning, avoiding it, but she couldn’t deny now that Ernst was right. There was no way around it. She’d been abandoned.

“Where have they gone?” he asked. “To England?”

She could feel the tears rising. She held up a finger to show Ernst she needed a moment.

“Take your time.”

The grandfather clock doled out its ticking.

“To Wales?” Ernst suggested gently.

Marta shook her head and closed her eyes again. They were gone. But where? She thought back to Pavel’s conversation over coffee with his foreman, Hans.

You’re needed to go on a flax-buying mission.

I see. To Paris?

No, not to Paris. To Zürich.

They’d been speaking so loudly, like two deaf old generals. Marta remembered how odd it had seemed at the time, and realized all at once that they’d wanted her to hear. That she had been the intended audience for their little performance.

Pavel had been trying to confuse her.

“You know where they’ve gone,” Ernst said.

She nodded yes. Her jaw was clenched shut. After everything they’d shared—the years of her employment, that beautiful kiss—what did Pavel take her for? Something that could be forsaken along with the silverware and linens? He should have known better, she thought. She’d been taken advantage of too many times already. She would not be made the fool, not again, not this time.

She thought back again to the words Hans had spoken: No, not to Paris.

Marta closed her eyes and rubbed them with the back of her hands. She looked up at Ernst. “They’re on the train to Paris,” she said.

Part Three

Occupation

12 March 1939

My dear Max,

I am writing from Paris. Anneliese and Pavel were due to meet me yesterday. They never arrived. No wire, nothing. I don’t know what to do.

If only you were here to advise me.

Where are you, my darling? It has been more than two months since your last correspondence. I am sick with worry and can neither eat nor sleep.

Shall I mail the envelope now? I’m afraid that our time is drawing short, that if we don’t follow through on this option the window will close altogether. My instinct tells me to act.

Still, I will await your instructions.

The day is almost done; you are here next to me in your silver frame, your smile beaming in my direction. How I wish I could kiss you! Thinking about you gives me courage. I have said it before, and I don’t want you to think me overly sentimental, but it is simply true. I could not live without you.

Your Al

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

I WAITED A LONG TIME FOR YOU TO SHOW UP.

Every time the restaurant door opened and the little bell above