make sure her husband was gone. Then she called to Pepik, “Come here and put your sweater on.” He was big enough to do this himself—it had taken Marta some weeks to teach him how—but Anneliese didn’t have the patience. She guided his arms briskly into the little sleeves. The zipper nicked his chin: “Ouch!” Pepik said.
“I’m sorry,
miláčku
.”
But Anneliese didn’t seem sorry—she seemed distracted, preoccupied, her eyes moving repeatedly towards the window. Marta wondered why she was putting Pepik in a sweater at all when the afternoon was so warm, the sun shining. It had continued to be a striking fall, the colours more vivid than she remembered from previous years: the dazzling golds, and the red leaves like so many bloodied hands.
“Where are you off to?”
“I told you, you’re coming with us.”
Marta knew better than to ask any more questions.
They went down into the street, the three of them, Pepik sullen but his mother determined. She led them out through the gate and along the path by the river, towards the edge of town. She was wearing an Elsa Schiaparelli tailored suit, with big shoulder pads like Marlene Dietrich’s. Large dark glasses shielded her eyes, as if she were a movie star trying to conceal her identity.
They walked for several minutes in silence, passing the milkman’s cart, the containers on the back of the wagon empty.
“Can I pat the horsies?” Pepik asked.
But Anneliese ignored her son, hurrying them past Sanger and Sons, where a Victrola was displayed prominently in the window, and Mr. Goldstein’s shop, which had a CLOSED sign on the door. Even Marta had to work to keep up. Down a cobblestone alley they went and across the footbridge over the river. Pavel’s factory loomed in the distance, like something from an earlier life. Marta thought perhaps they were taking Pepik to feed the ducks, but Anneliese stopped in front of the Catholic church. It dawned on Marta all at once what was happening: Anneliese was taking action despite Pavel’s wishes to the contrary.
The church was the largest structure in town, grey stone with a cone-shaped spire that reminded her of the tip of Mr. Goldstein’s beard. Anneliese led them up the side staircase and into the dimly lit nave. It was cold inside, and they squinted around, trying to get a feel for the layout of the room. The priest who stepped out of the darkness must have been waiting for them; he appeared before them like a ghost.
“I’m sorry. Did I scare you?” He was a thin man with a long face and drooping eyelids. “Father Wilhelm.”
He extended his hand, but it was a small town: everyone knew who everyone else was.
When the priest turned around Marta saw that he had a bald patch on the back of his head the exact size and shape of a yarmulke.
Marta had been in this church only once before, but she remembered the heavy oak pews, the stained glass windows showing the Stations of the Cross. The priest ushered the three of them through a side door into a much smaller and more functional room. There was a leather-covered desk with an ink-pot on top of it. In the corner a statue of the Virgin Mary with her eyes rolled up towards heaven.
Marta crossed herself instinctively, like someone flinching before a raised fist.
Now that they could all see each other clearly, Father Wilhelm addressed Pepik directly. “
Hallo, mein Kind.
” Pepik’s face was buried in Marta’s pinafore. Anneliese moved forward. “Pepik, come here,” she said, firmly. “Say hello to Father Wilhelm.”
Pepik stepped forward and extended his hand. “I didn’t touch the horses,” he said.
The priest smiled and took Pepik’s hand in his own. He was wearing a gold ring, Marta saw, with a cross on it. “Let’s begin.”
The priest’s Czech was rusty as an old knife—he kept switching tenses—but when Anneliese said, in German, “
Denken Sie dass das sonderbar ist
?” Father Wilhelm only shrugged and answered, “The Lord
“I’m sorry,
miláčku
.”
But Anneliese didn’t seem sorry—she seemed distracted, preoccupied, her eyes moving repeatedly towards the window. Marta wondered why she was putting Pepik in a sweater at all when the afternoon was so warm, the sun shining. It had continued to be a striking fall, the colours more vivid than she remembered from previous years: the dazzling golds, and the red leaves like so many bloodied hands.
“Where are you off to?”
“I told you, you’re coming with us.”
Marta knew better than to ask any more questions.
They went down into the street, the three of them, Pepik sullen but his mother determined. She led them out through the gate and along the path by the river, towards the edge of town. She was wearing an Elsa Schiaparelli tailored suit, with big shoulder pads like Marlene Dietrich’s. Large dark glasses shielded her eyes, as if she were a movie star trying to conceal her identity.
They walked for several minutes in silence, passing the milkman’s cart, the containers on the back of the wagon empty.
“Can I pat the horsies?” Pepik asked.
But Anneliese ignored her son, hurrying them past Sanger and Sons, where a Victrola was displayed prominently in the window, and Mr. Goldstein’s shop, which had a CLOSED sign on the door. Even Marta had to work to keep up. Down a cobblestone alley they went and across the footbridge over the river. Pavel’s factory loomed in the distance, like something from an earlier life. Marta thought perhaps they were taking Pepik to feed the ducks, but Anneliese stopped in front of the Catholic church. It dawned on Marta all at once what was happening: Anneliese was taking action despite Pavel’s wishes to the contrary.
The church was the largest structure in town, grey stone with a cone-shaped spire that reminded her of the tip of Mr. Goldstein’s beard. Anneliese led them up the side staircase and into the dimly lit nave. It was cold inside, and they squinted around, trying to get a feel for the layout of the room. The priest who stepped out of the darkness must have been waiting for them; he appeared before them like a ghost.
“I’m sorry. Did I scare you?” He was a thin man with a long face and drooping eyelids. “Father Wilhelm.”
He extended his hand, but it was a small town: everyone knew who everyone else was.
When the priest turned around Marta saw that he had a bald patch on the back of his head the exact size and shape of a yarmulke.
Marta had been in this church only once before, but she remembered the heavy oak pews, the stained glass windows showing the Stations of the Cross. The priest ushered the three of them through a side door into a much smaller and more functional room. There was a leather-covered desk with an ink-pot on top of it. In the corner a statue of the Virgin Mary with her eyes rolled up towards heaven.
Marta crossed herself instinctively, like someone flinching before a raised fist.
Now that they could all see each other clearly, Father Wilhelm addressed Pepik directly. “
Hallo, mein Kind.
” Pepik’s face was buried in Marta’s pinafore. Anneliese moved forward. “Pepik, come here,” she said, firmly. “Say hello to Father Wilhelm.”
Pepik stepped forward and extended his hand. “I didn’t touch the horses,” he said.
The priest smiled and took Pepik’s hand in his own. He was wearing a gold ring, Marta saw, with a cross on it. “Let’s begin.”
The priest’s Czech was rusty as an old knife—he kept switching tenses—but when Anneliese said, in German, “
Denken Sie dass das sonderbar ist
?” Father Wilhelm only shrugged and answered, “The Lord
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