out.”
But things might not work out. We may never leave. Someone may figure out what we’re up to.
At that point, would they send soldiers or only police? Would we hear sirens?
If only I were old enough to take charge, even in a small way. “How about letting me drive, Tati?”
“
You?
But you’ve never . . .”
“I want to try. This is as good a time as any.”
“But the boat . . .” he protests. Yet, at the spot where we stopped for lunch, Tati pulls off the road. He gets out, gesturing for me to switch places with him. The motor is still running.
I’ve sat behind the wheel of a car before, but never with the engine turned on. I don’t know what to do with my arms and legs.
“Push in the clutch, and move the gearshift forward and toward you,” Tati instructs.
I do as he says, and the Fiat lurches.
“Take it easy.”
I move the car onto the road, into the golden late afternoon. We’re almost the only travelers headed for Trencin. This may be the last time we’ll drive into town from Bratislava. The last time I’ll see these canvas-backed trucks trudging along the farm roads, the row of neat white houses, the cows grazing against the factory smokestacks.
But these thoughts are mere whispers. Mostly I’m focused on gripping the hard plastic steering wheel with the ridges that fit my fingers. I’m gauging the pressure of my foot on the pedal, focused on not hitting that donkey cart with its load of vegetables. As I take the curve just right, our boat rattling behind, a delicious feeling of power surges through me. I’m bringing home
The Fancy Free
for all of us. If only we could snatch up Mami and Bela, if only I could drive us all the way to America . . .
On our final morning in the campground, Tati and I will go early to the store to buy extra gas. Mami will pack a normal picnic — nothing extra to arouse suspicion. We won’t tell blabbermouth Bela a thing. The sky will be clear, the olive-green horizon of Italy beckoning like a promise.
On the outskirts of Trencin, Tati takes the wheel again, saying, “Nice work, son. You’re a good driver.” Just then, we pass a police motorcycle parked by the side of the road.
As we go by, the motorcycle roars into action. The siren sounds:
Wawawa!
Swearing, Tati pulls over, bringing the boat to a bumpy halt.
I clutch the armrest.
The officer comes to the window, the pistol on his waist at eye level. Reaching out a meaty hand, he asks to see Tati’s driver’s license. Studying the license, he asks, “Where did you get such a new boat, Mr. Chrobak?”
“It’s
Doctor.
Dr. Chrobak.”
“Doctor, then. Please answer my question, Doctor.”
“I bought it in Bratislava. The bill of sale is right here.” Tati opens the glove compartment and pulls out the tan paper.
After the policeman looks at the paper, he disappears, going back to the boat. Out the side window, I see him kick the trailer tires. Once he sees the name, we’ll be done for.
Finally, the officer returns to the window. He hands back Tati’s license and the bill of sale. “All seems to be in order, Mr. Chrobak. You are free to go.”
Tati eases back onto the road, muttering, “Close call.”
“What could he have done?” I hold my thumb on my wrist, feeling the thud of pulse.
“Depends on how tight the net is.”
“They’ve cast a net?” My pulse beats harder.
“Only time will tell,” Tati says slowly.
I think of Mr. Holub talking to the walkie-talkie men. That’s the net. That’s how it’s cast.
I think again of my future in the dark cave. My headlamp may go out. Smothering on darkness, I’ll have no batteries. I’ll have to scramble to find the way. Scramble and fall. I’ll batter my way with the pickax.
Tati drives to the parking lot, where he lines the boat up next to a pole. “Stay here,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”
I get out and lean against the Fiat. In the dusky light, I make out Danika headed toward me. This is the first time we’ve
But things might not work out. We may never leave. Someone may figure out what we’re up to.
At that point, would they send soldiers or only police? Would we hear sirens?
If only I were old enough to take charge, even in a small way. “How about letting me drive, Tati?”
“
You?
But you’ve never . . .”
“I want to try. This is as good a time as any.”
“But the boat . . .” he protests. Yet, at the spot where we stopped for lunch, Tati pulls off the road. He gets out, gesturing for me to switch places with him. The motor is still running.
I’ve sat behind the wheel of a car before, but never with the engine turned on. I don’t know what to do with my arms and legs.
“Push in the clutch, and move the gearshift forward and toward you,” Tati instructs.
I do as he says, and the Fiat lurches.
“Take it easy.”
I move the car onto the road, into the golden late afternoon. We’re almost the only travelers headed for Trencin. This may be the last time we’ll drive into town from Bratislava. The last time I’ll see these canvas-backed trucks trudging along the farm roads, the row of neat white houses, the cows grazing against the factory smokestacks.
But these thoughts are mere whispers. Mostly I’m focused on gripping the hard plastic steering wheel with the ridges that fit my fingers. I’m gauging the pressure of my foot on the pedal, focused on not hitting that donkey cart with its load of vegetables. As I take the curve just right, our boat rattling behind, a delicious feeling of power surges through me. I’m bringing home
The Fancy Free
for all of us. If only we could snatch up Mami and Bela, if only I could drive us all the way to America . . .
On our final morning in the campground, Tati and I will go early to the store to buy extra gas. Mami will pack a normal picnic — nothing extra to arouse suspicion. We won’t tell blabbermouth Bela a thing. The sky will be clear, the olive-green horizon of Italy beckoning like a promise.
On the outskirts of Trencin, Tati takes the wheel again, saying, “Nice work, son. You’re a good driver.” Just then, we pass a police motorcycle parked by the side of the road.
As we go by, the motorcycle roars into action. The siren sounds:
Wawawa!
Swearing, Tati pulls over, bringing the boat to a bumpy halt.
I clutch the armrest.
The officer comes to the window, the pistol on his waist at eye level. Reaching out a meaty hand, he asks to see Tati’s driver’s license. Studying the license, he asks, “Where did you get such a new boat, Mr. Chrobak?”
“It’s
Doctor.
Dr. Chrobak.”
“Doctor, then. Please answer my question, Doctor.”
“I bought it in Bratislava. The bill of sale is right here.” Tati opens the glove compartment and pulls out the tan paper.
After the policeman looks at the paper, he disappears, going back to the boat. Out the side window, I see him kick the trailer tires. Once he sees the name, we’ll be done for.
Finally, the officer returns to the window. He hands back Tati’s license and the bill of sale. “All seems to be in order, Mr. Chrobak. You are free to go.”
Tati eases back onto the road, muttering, “Close call.”
“What could he have done?” I hold my thumb on my wrist, feeling the thud of pulse.
“Depends on how tight the net is.”
“They’ve cast a net?” My pulse beats harder.
“Only time will tell,” Tati says slowly.
I think of Mr. Holub talking to the walkie-talkie men. That’s the net. That’s how it’s cast.
I think again of my future in the dark cave. My headlamp may go out. Smothering on darkness, I’ll have no batteries. I’ll have to scramble to find the way. Scramble and fall. I’ll batter my way with the pickax.
Tati drives to the parking lot, where he lines the boat up next to a pole. “Stay here,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”
I get out and lean against the Fiat. In the dusky light, I make out Danika headed toward me. This is the first time we’ve
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