about where she would go. About the fate that was sure to befall her.
Anneliese was barely ever home. Only once that month did she and Pavel go out together, to the National Theatre. They returned to the flat after curfew, cheeks flushed pink with the cold. The Prague Symphony’s rendition of Bedřich Smetana’s patriotic suite, “Má Vlast,” had been followed by a standing ovation, Pavel said, that lasted a full quarter of an hour. His eyes shone as he told Marta about the tears in the audience, the cheers and whistles from the otherwise refined European elite. The applause stopped only when the conductor actually kissed the score and held it above his head, like an Olympic athlete with a medal.
Anneliese, who had been rifling through her purse for her cigarettes, said, “It was amazing, really. To be part of that crowd, to stand up together for one thing.” She stamped her high-heeled boots to get rid of the snow.
“An army of symphony-goers,” Pavel agreed.
“An illusion, of course,” Anneliese said. “That we all stand together.”
“How so?” Pavel helped his wife off with her fur coat and passed it to Marta to hang in the wardrobe.
“The fellow in the street afterwards, for just one example.”
“He was only a little Nazi urchin.”
“And the Meyers won’t speak to us.”
“Do you think I need to be reminded?”
The telephone rang, a shrill brrrring that echoed through the flat. Pavel crossed the parlour in his snowy galoshes, leaving a line of puddles behind him.
“Yes,” he said. “Speaking.” His face was uncertain. He waited, then said, “He’s been on the list for a month.”
Marta pressed her face into the cold, smooth fur of Anneliese’s coat and inhaled deeply: the smell of snowy winter woods and, beneath it, perfume and cigarettes. She hung the coat up and turned the little key in the wardrobe door.
“We received the letter last week,” Pavel was saying into the phone. He waited again, listening, and then said loudly, “No, I assure you he is Jewish. As are both his mother and I.”
Marta turned and saw Pavel take the Star of David from his pocket and grip it tightly in his palm. There was another long pause before he said, “Yes, that’s correct. But it was just a precaution. My wife thought it might help.”
He held the horn to his ear and glared at Anneliese.
“No, no,” he said again. “I assure you—” Whoever was on the other end interrupted, talking at length. Pavel’s face was pinched with the effort to hold his tongue, to hear the other speaker out. “He’s Jewish,” he said, when it was finally his turn. “If you require documentation I will certainly be able . . . He’s—” But the other party had hung up; there was a long silence before Pavel too put down the receiver. His cheeks were bright red. “Well done,” he said, without meeting his wife’s eye.
Anneliese didn’t answer.
“You wanted to protect him? Look what your protection has done. Now he can’t get out of the country at all.”
Anneliese covered her mouth and spoke into her palm, as though trying to muffle her own words. “Who was it? The secretary?”
“Yes, the secretary. And you can guess what he said.”
She lowered her head to her hands. “Perhaps if we speak to Winton directly?”
“No,” Pavel said. “He made it very clear. The decision was Winton’s, in fact. Because, you see, there are so many Jewish children desperate to get out that it simply doesn’t make sense to send those with a Christian baptismal certificate.”
He paused. “Does it?”
“Oh Pavel, I’m so . . .” Anneliese shook her head and massaged her scalp with her fingers. “Hitler has started killing the Jews. Killing Jewish children. I heard it but I didn’t . . .” She blinked, and a single tear rolled down her left cheek. “He can’t go? Really?”
“No.”
“Can’t we—”
“I told you. It’s done.”
“It’s done?”
“It’s over,” Pavel said.
Brno, 10 June 1939
Dear Mr. Nicholas Winton,
I am addressing you as the mother of Helga Bruckner, who was supposed to be on your children’s transport last week, June 3. We received your secretary’s correspondence, and understand, of course, that it was necessary to remove Helga from your list due to unforeseen circumstances. I can only imagine the logistical details you are coping with and am well aware that there are only so many spots for a much larger number of deserving children.
I would like to tell you at this time, however, that our Helga was born with a withered leg. I apologize