and stillness of the cemetery, each
giving their love to the other for the last time. But Julia was
never certain that the treasured moment was Anna’s time to enter
history. Within two weeks after she left Prague and arrived in
England, the British were rushing to mobilize what forces they
could gather to wrestle with the German monster when the time came,
which everyone knew would be soon. In the outskirts of London, all
the streets around the temporary refugee camp where Julia boarded
were cluttered with army trucks loaded with thousands of British
soldiers, readying to depart for France. The exhilarating madness
that always accompanies the rush to war before the killing and
dying begins covered the city like a spreading plague. Julia
provided no exception. Swept along by the mounting excitement, she
would leave every night after bedding the young refugee children
under her care and rush hurriedly to a nearby pub. There,
struggling with her poor English, she would keep company with small
groups of unnamed soldiers, listening the best she could to their
history, laughing with them, but most of all reminding them of all
that was still good in the world.
In time’s passing, many emotional and
conscious human acts are blended with a mixture of good and evil.
In one moment, all the goodness of humanity may flicker brightly
then quickly dim when doused by its own polluted waters. So it was
with Julia one terrible night when her own sense of right and wrong
would be scarred. Leaving the pub late for the dark walk home
alone, she reached the narrow path leading to her dormitory.
Running alongside a wide green where children laughed and played
unafraid each passing day, the winding path took her through a
magical tunnel fashioned by rows of young common oak trees on each
side, their long, fingered branches entwined like thousands of
loving hands clinging to each other. The gang rape came swift and
brutal from the shadows lurching forward from behind the trees.
Torn and bleeding and violated, Julia lay face down naked in the
dewy grass, hidden from every passing eye except God’s. Her rape by
a drunken group of Her Majesty’s soldiers came not because of who
she was, but because she happened to be there—an existential moment
when a wrong seemed the right thing to do.
Hours later the cold wetness of a
passing shower gradually revived Julia’s senses, and she made her
way back to the dormitory, collapsing on the tiny cot in her room.
Too hurt to cry, she stared blindly into the darkness hiding
everything around her, including the terrible shame she felt. In
the morning she would tell only Eva Stransky, her new friend, about
the night’s horrors.
From Bratislava, Eva had little in
common with Julia except that they were both Jews; but they had
become quick friends on the refugee train, sharing many stories
about families and lovers during the long hours crossing Germany to
Rotterdam. When Julia’s story of Erich and her deep love for him
was told, Eva said nothing but only smiled and nodded. No judgments
would ever pass between the two, even after Julia gave birth to
Anna some nine months later. When the time came to complete Anna’s
birth certificate, it was Eva who insisted to the government
authorities that Anna’s father was a Jew hiding somewhere from the
Germans in Prague now that the war had started. His name was Eli
Kahn, Eva continued with her resolute lie, a young silversmith from
Brno. Julia had sat silent, not with embarrassment at the flow of
fanciful tales from Eva, but rather in awe at such boldness in
protecting Anna’s honor. On paper at least, she would not be born a
bastard, open to society’s silent judgments and hidden smirks. And
so, Julia became the fictitious Mrs. Kahn, married by a fictitious
Rabbi Thien, with Eva as a fictitious witness the day before she
left Prague behind, much too late to have her visa
corrected.
Months later Julia sat looking
wishfully through one of the two windows in the
giving their love to the other for the last time. But Julia was
never certain that the treasured moment was Anna’s time to enter
history. Within two weeks after she left Prague and arrived in
England, the British were rushing to mobilize what forces they
could gather to wrestle with the German monster when the time came,
which everyone knew would be soon. In the outskirts of London, all
the streets around the temporary refugee camp where Julia boarded
were cluttered with army trucks loaded with thousands of British
soldiers, readying to depart for France. The exhilarating madness
that always accompanies the rush to war before the killing and
dying begins covered the city like a spreading plague. Julia
provided no exception. Swept along by the mounting excitement, she
would leave every night after bedding the young refugee children
under her care and rush hurriedly to a nearby pub. There,
struggling with her poor English, she would keep company with small
groups of unnamed soldiers, listening the best she could to their
history, laughing with them, but most of all reminding them of all
that was still good in the world.
In time’s passing, many emotional and
conscious human acts are blended with a mixture of good and evil.
In one moment, all the goodness of humanity may flicker brightly
then quickly dim when doused by its own polluted waters. So it was
with Julia one terrible night when her own sense of right and wrong
would be scarred. Leaving the pub late for the dark walk home
alone, she reached the narrow path leading to her dormitory.
Running alongside a wide green where children laughed and played
unafraid each passing day, the winding path took her through a
magical tunnel fashioned by rows of young common oak trees on each
side, their long, fingered branches entwined like thousands of
loving hands clinging to each other. The gang rape came swift and
brutal from the shadows lurching forward from behind the trees.
Torn and bleeding and violated, Julia lay face down naked in the
dewy grass, hidden from every passing eye except God’s. Her rape by
a drunken group of Her Majesty’s soldiers came not because of who
she was, but because she happened to be there—an existential moment
when a wrong seemed the right thing to do.
Hours later the cold wetness of a
passing shower gradually revived Julia’s senses, and she made her
way back to the dormitory, collapsing on the tiny cot in her room.
Too hurt to cry, she stared blindly into the darkness hiding
everything around her, including the terrible shame she felt. In
the morning she would tell only Eva Stransky, her new friend, about
the night’s horrors.
From Bratislava, Eva had little in
common with Julia except that they were both Jews; but they had
become quick friends on the refugee train, sharing many stories
about families and lovers during the long hours crossing Germany to
Rotterdam. When Julia’s story of Erich and her deep love for him
was told, Eva said nothing but only smiled and nodded. No judgments
would ever pass between the two, even after Julia gave birth to
Anna some nine months later. When the time came to complete Anna’s
birth certificate, it was Eva who insisted to the government
authorities that Anna’s father was a Jew hiding somewhere from the
Germans in Prague now that the war had started. His name was Eli
Kahn, Eva continued with her resolute lie, a young silversmith from
Brno. Julia had sat silent, not with embarrassment at the flow of
fanciful tales from Eva, but rather in awe at such boldness in
protecting Anna’s honor. On paper at least, she would not be born a
bastard, open to society’s silent judgments and hidden smirks. And
so, Julia became the fictitious Mrs. Kahn, married by a fictitious
Rabbi Thien, with Eva as a fictitious witness the day before she
left Prague behind, much too late to have her visa
corrected.
Months later Julia sat looking
wishfully through one of the two windows in the
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