Hitler’s doctor. And I heard he was forced to enter Prague Castle by the servant’s entrance.”
Ernst turned his head sharply. “Hitler? The servant’s entrance?”
“Not Hitler!” Pavel said. “Hácha.”
Marta’s leg was almost completely numb. She willed herself to forget it, to focus instead on the talk in the next room. But when she shifted on her haunches, she found she could not feel the limb at all. There was no choice but to stand; otherwise she would fall over. She rose as quietly as she could and hobbled forward briefly; it was as though her leg was made of wood. She went to skirt the edge of the room and go up the stairs behind the men’s backs, but she was too awkward and unsteady on her feet, too noisy, and they both turned to look at her as she entered.
Ernst stood. He and Marta were frozen, two feet apart, their eyes locked.
Pavel cleared his throat and said, slightly puzzled, “Ernst, you must remember Marta, Pepik’s governess?”
“Yes,” Ernst said. “Of course I do. Hello again, Marta.”
He reached over to kiss the back of her hand. It was a gesture appropriate only for a lady—and therefore there was something mocking in it—but Marta had no choice but to submit. Ernst’s lips were dry and cold.
Marta thought: Judas and Jesus. A kiss of betrayal.
Her leg was on fire as the blood rushed back through it.
She and Ernst looked at each other again in a contest of wills. All at once it came to her: she would confess. She would tell Pavel everything—that Ernst was against him, that he was the one who had thwarted their escape. If she implicated herself, so be it—she could not bear to keep the secret for a single second longer. But the grandfather clock ticked loudly in her ear and no sound came from her mouth. She willed herself to speak—it was just a matter of getting started, she knew—but the truth was, she did not have the courage. And Ernst had guessed as much. There was a smirk on his face, subtle but undeniable.
If Ernst was outed, Marta would go down with him. And Marta, they both knew, had more to lose.
The moment passed; Ernst said he really should be going. He had business to attend to, he said, and looked over at Marta and winked.
The two men clapped each other on the back and Pavel thanked Ernst for his offer.
“Do let me know,” Ernst said casually, “if you’d like further protection for your investment in the manner we discussed.”
Pavel cleared his throat, noncommittal. “Did you hear the one about Hitler’s conversation with Chamberlain?”
Ernst said yes, he’d already heard it.
“Marta told me that one,” Pavel said, pleased to be able to credit her. And Ernst said lightly, “Did she? I’m not surprised. She’s a clever girl, isn’t she. Your Marta.”
On April 5 Baron Konstantin von Neurath, the new Reichsprotektor of Bohemia and Moravia, arrived in Prague. The powers that be had arranged for sausage vendors and old-fashioned minstrels; from down on the street Marta could hear a big brass band pumping out “Das Lied der Deutschen” and the “Horst-Wessel-Lied,” the Nazi anthem. A national holiday had been proclaimed.
“Will we hang the swastika?” Marta asked Anneliese. All citizens had been ordered to do so, but Anneliese looked at her as though she were crazy. “Are you joking?” she asked. “We’ll pay the fine.”
When Marta leaned out the window into the bright spring morning she saw that the bulk of Czech householders obviously felt the same. Despite the supposed celebration, she could count only five flags along Vinohradská Street. The Nazi Party newspaper, the Völkischer Beobachter, had reported that all schools and associations would be sending delegations to greet the German diplomat, but the crowd looked thin along the sidewalks, and only a few people followed the brigade as it proceeded down to Václavské náměstí for the military parade. Marta saw a group of adolescent boys with Nazi armbands running alongside the procession, their mouths wide open, screaming their enthusiasm into the roar of the wind. But on the opposite side of the street a woman in a red kerchief couldn’t help but cry, tears streaming down her fat cheeks as she gave the Nazi salute.
Pavel was sitting behind the big oak desk in the study, sharpening pencils to exactly the same length and placing them, tips up, in a Bavarian beer mug. The sharpener made a sound like an automobile out of gear. Marta went into the room,