Restitution by Kathy Kacer

hovìzí with opekané brambory – beef with roasted potatoes – for the main course. Dessert was the best surprise –, dumplings with blueberries hidden inside mounds of delicately chewy dough. With restrictions on shopping for Jews, it was difficult to know how she had managed to acquire all of these delicacies. Leila must certainly have helped.
    There were other guests for dinner that evening: Mr. and Mrs. Zelenka, the couple that owned the flat that Karl and his family were renting. They also wanted entry visas to Canada, and hoped that Mr. Harwood would be willing to help.
    â€œYou have a lovely home here,” Mr. Harwood said, finally pushing away from the table and leaning back in his chair.
    â€œWe are very comfortable,” said Marie. “And lucky, thanks to the Zelenkas. But I wish you could see what we left behind, Mr. Harwood. Our books, music, furniture, artwork.” She went on to describe the four large paintings. “They were really quite special. I think I miss those most of all.”
    â€œI love the arts, too,”” said Mr. Harwood. “My family owned a music store in Winnipeg, where I grew up.”
    â€œMy son, Karl, has been studying English,” said Marie. “I hope he gets to use it in your country.”
    Karl and Hana watched and listened from their spot at one end of the dining room table. They had been told to dress for the evening. Karl wore his best suit, while Hana had on a silk dress in the softest shade of green. It set off her curly red hair and vibrant eyes, but she was quiet. The presence of these guests reminded her of those days in Rakovník when the house had been overrun with unfamiliar faces. The preceding couple of months in Prague had been a welcome opportunity to have her family to herself, notwithstanding the circumstances under which they were there. Karl was glued to the conversation, anxious to hear word of when the family might be leaving and when he would be reunited with his father.
    â€œThe country doesn’t want us here anymore – that is becoming abundantly clear. But they’re making it impossible for us to leave.” Mr. Zelenka was speaking and his face was red as he gestured in the air angrily with his knife, hardly noticing the bits of food and gravy that flew in all directions.
    â€œPerhaps things are not as bad as some would suggest.” This statement came from Mrs. Zelenka, a thin woman dwarfed in size and personality by her outspoken husband. “My parents will never leave, no matter what, and I’m still not sure I can leave them behind. They believe that because they are elderly, no one will bother them. ‘What would Hitler want with old Jews?’ my father often asks.” She smiled and others at the table joined her.
    â€œWe will all have to leave eventually. That’s what I think,” continued Mr. Zelenka. “Hitler’s right-hand man, Eichmann, is here in Prague right now, trying to push all of us out. He’s even established a branch of the Zentralstelle für Jüdische Auswanderung . They say that if you sign up with this Central Office for Jewish Emigration you’ll receive an exit visa. Simple as that! But is it?”
    â€œIf Jewish families register with this organization, doesn’t it mean that they have to transfer all of their capital and property into the hands of the Nazis?” Karl asked from his spot at the table, no longer able to resist contributing to the conversation. “That makes it impossible for most families to leave.”
    â€œExactly my point!” Mr. Zelenka’s head bobbed emphatically. “They want us out, but then they create all kinds of obstacles to our leaving. Some are suggesting that this branch of the SS is merely a front. Jews register to leave and once they come forward, they are arrested and never heard from again.”
    Marie recounted the story of how the lawyer had swindled her out of a