Far to Go - By Alison Pick Page 0,8

and her mistress. Like runners in a three-legged race. If one went down the other would go down with her.

The next afternoon, Marta held Pepik’s small hand on the way to the train station. They passed Mr. Goldstein crossing the square, a piece of fringed material draped over his arm. “Shana tova,” he said to Pepik.

Pepik kicked at the toe of one shoe with the heel of the other. “Fine-thank-you-and-how-are-you?”

Mr. Goldstein laughed. “Have a good year,” he translated. “Remember I told you? About Rosh Hashanah?”

Marta held Pepik against her leg, her fingers combing through his curls. “I was just thinking about it yesterday,” she said.

“So my teaching has not been for nothing!” There were crinkles in the corners of Mr. Goldstein’s eyes. “And what about you, the little lamed vovnik?” He looked down at Pepik, but no answer was forthcoming.

Marta prompted her charge. “Do you remember, miláčku? About the Jewish New Year?” Of course he wouldn’t remember—the Bauers’ home was completely secular—but what was the harm? Marta had always liked the old tailor, and he was so kind to Pepik.

“The minute hand is longer,” Pepik declared solemnly, confirming her hypothesis that he had no idea what they were talking about. “Would you like a chocolate?” He held out his precious bag.

“How kind of you. But no, thank you. I have to get back.”

“Are you working?” Marta asked politely. Wasn’t work forbidden on the holiday?

Mr. Goldstein shook his head. “Not working. Praying.” And he held up his arm with the length of material—which she now saw was a prayer shawl—folded over it. He rolled his eyes, pretending to bend under the weight of the holiday’s rigorous requirements, but Marta knew how devoted he truly was.

She laughed. “Happy praying!” She squinted, trying to recall the correct salutation. “Shana tova?”

“To you too,” he smiled. He looked down at the boy. “Shana tova, Pepik.”

Pepik reached up to twist the tip of the tailor’s long beard. This was a joke that they shared. Mr. Goldstein’s beard held the cone shape as he hurried across the town square.

The train station’s platform was crammed with soldiers and housewives and young girls pushing prams and crying. A man with mutton chop sideburns wore a ribbon on his jacket, gold and black, the colours of the old Austro-Hungarian Empire. Marta held Pepik’s little shoulders, guided him around two women in wide-brimmed hats. She heard one of them say, “It makes sense to create one big country out of two German-speaking ones.”

“You mean Germany and Austria?”

“I mean Germany and the Sudetenland!”

Through the crowd she thought she saw the back of Ernst’s head. She checked herself; lately she saw the back of Ernst’s head everywhere. And what would he be doing here at the station?

Still, she craned her neck. She couldn’t help it.

Pepik was tugging at her dress. He wanted to be carried. “You’re a big boy,” she said, absently. “You’ve started school now.” She stood on tiptoe. The man with the mutton-chops moved and she got a clear view of Ernst’s profile, the pocked cheeks and high forehead—it was him after all.

“School is over,” Pepik said, triumphant. He was pleased with his reasoning.

Marta scanned the platform, looking for Ernst’s wife, but didn’t see her anywhere. He must be alone. She lifted a hand to the side of her face, trying to get Ernst’s attention, but discreetly.

“School is over,” Pepik repeated.

“It’s not over. It will start again soon. The soldiers are just using it as a base.” Her eyes were on Ernst, willing him to meet her gaze.

“Will they learn to tell time?”

Marta finally looked down at Pepik, a rush of affection rising through her. “Yes,” she said gravely. “Just like you.”

That was all he’d needed, she saw, a little bit of attention. He was emboldened. He ran across the platform with his bag of chocolate cherries clutched in his hand, shouting something at a blond boy he must have recognized from his class.

Marta watched him disappear into a wall of bodies. She turned back; Ernst was moving purposefully towards her. She hastily smoothed down her curls with the palms of her hands. When he was a few metres away, he motioned with his head towards a nook beside the ticket counter.

She ducked into the small space behind him.

They didn’t speak. The desire to lie together was palpable, a carpet of heat laid out beneath them. “Tonight?” Marta said, before she could stop herself. It was wrong, what they were doing; she should be able to extricate herself. But part of