Breath of Bones, page 4
Kateřina’s mouth dropped open at his words. He’s protecting me. The weight of Evka’s words now bore down on her. She resisted the urge to rush forward and embrace her father. He was right. She would become a prime target if the Germans misconstrued anything she said. And if their anger reached a boiling point, the entire newspaper could be shut down.
“But now that we’re aware,” she said, her voice trembling with passion, “what can we do about it? How can we speak for those who have no voice? For the women—the children—forced to leave their homes and—”
“Nothing,” he said. “There is nothing we can do but wait.”
“What do you mean wait?”
“Kdo jinému jámu kopá, sám do ní padá.” He spoke the proverb slowly, emphasizing each syllable.
He who digs a hole for someone will fall in it himself.
Her father returned to his chair behind the desk. The chair automatically adjusted to his form as he sat. Then, with one smooth motion, it slid his body forward. He placed his fist on the desk, and Kateřina noted its trembling.
“Every night, I toss and turn, hating myself for allowing you to have this job, wishing you’d go back to writing folk legends and novels.” He glanced up from under his bushy eyebrows. She saw a glimmer of humor in his gaze for the first time. Warmth flooded her chest, and her wrinkled brow released. Kateřina pressed her lips together, and they lifted softly. Her story may lie in shreds, but the invisible thread that tied her heart to her father’s mended with his one tender look.
“I suppose you’re speaking of my novel about the alchemists and magicians during the reign of Emperor Rudolf II?”
He sighed and rubbed his brow. “Magic Castle was the title, if I remember correctly.”
“Yes, and if only a king ruled from Hradčany Hill now.”
“If only I could believe that devotees of the stars and cultivators of the spagyric arts were no longer in play in Prague . . .” As if controlled by his mind, his chair turned. It slid toward the window to give her father a view of the city.
Kateřina almost laughed, thinking of her childish tales, but the haunted expression on her father’s face urged her to hold it in.
“Alchemy was a thing of the past, wasn’t it?” Her words lifted in a tentative question. “To create precious metals out of basic materials. Or bring to life that which has no breath—it’s impossible. Science has taken us in a different direction.” She strode to the window, standing next to him.
“Many believed Paracelsus was a fool when he thought that chemicals could poison or heal the body,” her father answered. “But today, we consider him the father of toxicology and a pioneer in the medical revolution. Paracelsus’s religious beliefs heavily influenced his approach to science. He believed science and religion were inseparable and scientific discoveries were direct messages from God. Thus, he believed it was humanity’s divine duty to uncover and understand His messages.”
Kateřina settled herself on the windowsill, blocking part of her father’s view. Finally, after minutes passed, he took his eyes off the city and met her gaze.
“Father, you’re no longer talking about the poison gas, are you?”
“No, I wrote something myself under your name. It’s already been submitted. It’s benign. It’ll keep you safe.”
Ten minutes ago, that statement would have made her angry, but something in her father’s gaze told her that story was the least of his concerns. And it should be the least of her concerns, too.
“So what is it then? What’s going on?” She kept her voice low, hoping not to break his odd trance. From the dark circles under his eyes and the curious words coming from his mouth, it was clear sleepless nights were catching up with him.
“Sometimes the truest story isn’t what we see happening, but the unseen directing the players.” He swallowed loudly and stroked his chin. “There is a story to pursue on Hradčany Hill. It might come to you soon enough.” Her father thumped his open palm over his heart. “But I want you to see with your heart, Kateřina, not just your mind.”
“A story on Hradčany Hill? The Germans control Prague Castle now. How—”
The ringing of the telephone interrupted Kateřina’s words. It rang once, then twice, but her father continued to stare out the window.
“Do you want me to answer it?”
He gave the slightest nod, wincing.
Kateřina hurried to the desk. She lifted the receiver and placed it to her ear. “Hello?”
“Kateřina? This is Sturmbannführer Langer—Hilbert—calling from Prague Castle.”
Prague Castle on Hradčany Hill. Goosebumps rose on her arms. She watched her father, who stared out the window, focusing on the castle beyond. How did he know?
“We reviewed your story of last night’s events. You did a fine job. Thank you for offering such high praise for our efforts.”
“You read my story, and you approve?” she said aloud for her father’s benefit.
Father already submitted my story even before I arrived today. Kateřina didn’t know whether to be angry or thankful.
“We not only approve of you, we commend you. The Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich wishes for you to interview him.” The German-accented voice was as soft and clear as if he spoke directly into her ear.
“He wants me to interview him? The Obergruppenführer?” Her heart leaped to her throat. The thrill at the prospect of meeting Reinhard Heydrich disappeared as quickly as a gust of wind, replaced by a strange sense of unease.
Father had said there was a story to pursue on Hradčany Hill. But what? What is he getting me into?
“Yes, is that a problem?”
“No, it’s not a problem at all. And Sturmbannführer Langer, I mean, Hilbert,” she cooed, “what will this be about?”
“You will interview the Obergruppenführer concerning his Nacht und Nebel, Night and Fog Decree, and his role as Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia. Can you come in two days at noon?”
Kateřina glanced at her watch. “Yes, I will be there.”
“Very well. An escort will await you at the front gate upon your arrival.” The words were curt and efficient, and then the man hung up without a goodbye.
She stood with the phone in her hand, uncertain how her father knew that call was to come—and that she’d be the one to answer it. Or did he? Had it been a coincidence? A tingle ran down the back of her neck.
Her father rose from reporter to editor in chief at a young age because he knew what to focus on, where to send his reporters, and what stories needed to be front and center. Twenty years into the job, his luck hadn’t seemed to run out . . . unless it was more than luck.
As Kateřina gathered her wits to face the second most powerful man in the Nazi regime, she would take her father’s advice. She had to see with her heart and not only with her eyes. The question was, what would she see?
Josef carried a small stack of boards through the secret doorway into their hidden workroom. He moved to the back wall and set them on the floor. He stretched his aching back and shoulders, then pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his eyes. They burned, and he blinked rapidly. Then he pressed the handkerchief against them, refusing to sit. If he sat, he’d be asleep in minutes. He’d made a promise to Hermina two days before, and he had to see it through. He would not let her and her children be swept away like all the others. Building a secret room to hide them wasn’t the answer, but at least it would buy him more time.
“Almost done,” he muttered, eyeing the back wall.
As expected, her husband had already been rounded up, and Sturmtruppen could be at her door any day now, returning for the rest of them.
As promised, he’d reached out to his contacts. He’d received the same reply from all of them. There was no place to hide families, especially children. A frightened child could cry out. He’d heard too many stories of families being arrested after Jewish children were discovered among them. Still, Josef had no choice.
What would my father do? he’d asked himself. His father would hide Hermina and her children in whatever space he could find. Thankfully, as had become the standard practice, his grandfather Samuel had left for a few days. Josef did not know where he went, but Grandfather was working on something. Josef noted it by the calluses on his hands. Smelled it in the chemicals of Grandfather’s clothes. Then there was something else: clumps of clay from Grandfather’s boots at the doorway. If Josef were to guess, it was clay from the banks of the Vltava River. But why would he be at the river?
To protect and to shield, a plan took its birth, with whispered prayers and clay of earth.
Josef considered the words he had written as a schoolboy. Before the age of eight, stories shared around their home about a clay protector crafted by their great ancestor had been as true to him as the cobblestone under his feet. It was only after the taunting of other children that he’d discovered the creature was a myth. If only such a protector were true.
Returning his handkerchief to his pocket, Josef studied his work. Since the room was deeper than wide, the false wall hid the secret room perfectly. After taking down shelving, he’d almost had enough to make a wall that ran from floor to ceiling, but not quite. And that’s when Josef decided to find whatever boards he had inside the house.
Seeing his task almost finished, Josef worked with these last boards to assemble a secret door that would slide in and out of place. He waited to secure the last of the panels with nails when the spider tank’s clacking and the roar of motorbikes on patrol met his ears.
At least they’re good for something.
He’d just finished the last nail when the other secret door, between the clock shop and the hidden workspace, slid open with a soft grind.
Josef spun, dropping his hammer and barely missing his toe. Only once he recognized his grandfather’s face did he release his breath.
Grandfather paused inside the room. “Expecting someone else?”
Josef retrieved his hammer. “I don’t know. Maybe. We can’t hope our secret workroom will remain hidden forever.”
Grandfather perched his fists on his hips and eyed the new back wall. Josef’s heart fell at how his grandfather’s clothes now hung on him. “At least I know what happened to the pantry.”
“It’s not like we had anything in it anyway. Or the cellar, for that matter.” Josef shrugged. “I’m not sure how we’ll continue to stretch the last of our food supplies.”
“God promises only enough for the day, does He not?” Grandfather didn’t wait for Josef to reply. Instead, he hurried forward and studied Josef’s work. “Yes, this is good. Once you move the metal shelving back against this wall, it will not appear any different from the other walls.”
“That is the point.” Josef motioned toward their secret door hidden behind the grandfather clock. “If anyone discovers this room—”
“They will not find Hermina and the children.” His grandfather finished his sentence. “Once this is finished, you will hide them well.”
Josef’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“Nothing happens in Josefov without the knowledge of others.” Grandfather ran a hand down his cheek. “I was told of Hermina’s visit, not once but twice. Did you promise her protection?”
“I promised her I’d figure something out. And I have.”
“Yes, and then we must consider how we will feed this family.”
Josef tilted his chin and locked his gaze on his grandfather’s eyes. “Will not God provide for them too? Enough for each day?”
Grandfather nodded once. His eyes wandered to the wall, but from the odd gaze, Josef knew his mind was lost in another place. “A chamber crafted, hidden from sight,” he finally mumbled. “A space of hope, where fear should subside.”
“What is that?” Josef searched his mind, trying to remember if it was something he’d heard before, but nothing came to memory.
“Oh, I was thinking how our occupiers do not know the lengths we’ll go to win, do they?”
“We are not winning, Grandfather. Not when I hear the clicks of the spider tank’s feet on cobblestone, moving up and down the streets of Josefov day and night.”
“You are wrong. Each life we protect from those monsters is a win. All around this city and into the countryside, we have sanctuaries, havens, and secret spaces.” Grandfather jutted out his chin. “For every moment of solace, grace, and hope we produce for another—at the risk of our own lives—we win again. The room is small but a place of trust,” he finished, more to himself than Josef.
“If only we could truly fight.” Josef thought of his weapon. He hadn’t touched it in days.
“You want to fight, do you?” Grandfather puffed up his chest and crossed his arms. “Well, good. This is the very reason I came for you.”
Josef brushed back his disheveled hair, and with his grandfather’s words, new energy surged through him.
“A meeting has been called tonight. My presence will be required, and it would be best if you also came.”
“A meeting?” Josef asked.
“When we have nowhere to turn, we’ve turned to each other.” Grandfather tilted his head as if recounting each person in attendance. “We’ve often been gathering as of late.”
“Often? Why haven’t I been invited?”
“The subjects we discuss are quite difficult. There is much we don’t know, and . . . well, you’re being invited now.”
Josef nodded, too weary to press the question. He was twenty now and still treated like a child. His father respected his input and ideas. But Father is not around.
June 1939. News had arrived that Schutzstaffel Adolf Eichmann had come to Prague, ordering Jews to register, sell their property, and surrender their investments. When they heard the news, Father—Adam Loew—Josef, and Grandfather had returned from visiting Mother’s grave. Mother had died of cancer a year before, and their only consolation was that she didn’t have to witness the Germans selling or carting away all their beautiful possessions.
When the first Jews were transported to the Terezín ghetto five months later, Father was the first to volunteer, saying, How can we send our friends and neighbors without a Loew to protect them? It wasn’t a question. A question expects an answer. They all knew it was their family’s duty. If not his father, then Grandfather or Josef would have to go.
Since then, a few notes from his father had arrived, sent on official Terezín postcards. The censored postcards had to be written in block letters and couldn’t exceed thirty words. And when the most recent postcard came, Josef doubted he’d ever hear from his father again.
MONTHS OF MISSING. I AM HEALTHY STILL. I WILL GO TO THE EAST. DO YOUR BEST TO CARE, AS I KNOW YOU WILL. KEEP HEART SOFT. WITH LOVE UNENDING.
FATHER.
Emotion tightened Josef’s throat. He reset the metal shelf against the new false wall, filling it with dusty boxes, bins, and tools. Then, without another word, Grandfather led the way out of the workshop and into the street.
Josef forced thoughts of his father out of his mind. He couldn’t think of his father behind barbed wire walls if he wanted to stay focused and alert. He couldn’t let his mind wander. If it did, he’d soon be the one writing postcards to those left behind. Or worse, sent away “to the east.”
Rádek Ježek pulled his coat tight and strode toward the Charles Bridge. In a world of gears and steam, where machines tended to draw one’s attention, the ancient bridge held an enchantment Rádek could not deny. For centuries this city had been a place for artists to gift the world with beauty and alchemists to turn worthless elements into something valuable. But today was the day for neither. He’d use his art and his skill to claim a private victory and, in doing so, secure the triumph of a very public war.
As Rádek neared the Gothic Old Town Bridge Tower, he eyed one of the guardians of the gate that flanked the bridge. Carved numbers decorated its arched surface: 135797531, a sequence of ascending and descending odd numbers. According to the royal astronomers, construction of the bridge commenced at the suitable, lucky time of 5:31 on 9 July 1357. When complete, the bridge measured 9.5 meters wide and 13 meters high and sat on 15 pillars.
Three stories tall, this stone tower had stood the test of time for centuries, spanning the waters of the Vltava. Each stone set with precision, as a coded message for anyone wise enough to see it as more than a relic of time.
Standing tall from the tower, the statues of Charles IV, St. Vitus, and King Wenceslas IV stood on the first floor. Beside the guarding Bohemian Lion, the Czech patrons St. Sigismund and St. Adalbert perched transfixed on the higher ground.
As Rádek passed under the tower and onto the bridge, a German jeep rolled by, fitted with armor plating, large wheels, and a gun mounted on the back—a contrast between the two worlds. The old world, in which people believed religious figures could help them. The new world, in which prayers went unanswered.
In this time of German occupation, destruction and chaos ruled the city. Long gone was the peace the statues of the saints lining the bridge suggested. Not that Rádek had any sense of peace. It disappeared years ago when the one Rádek loved most had been lost to him.
Long and sleek, an oblong tank followed the jeep and reflected the stone statues on its mirrored surface. Shades of the city in spring transformed the tank’s polished plating to blues of the sky, grays of the stone, reds of the tiled roofs, and greens of the trees at the river’s edge.
Unlike the spider tanks that crawled, the Czechs called these rolling tanks syčící švábi. Hissing cockroaches. They rumbled past with serpentine pistons pounding and gears whirring. With cannons primed above the rolling treads, smoke and steam poured out from behind the tank.
Rádek counted as he walked, numbers spinning in his mind. Sixteen arches, two tall towers, thirty statues. The bridge was finished in 1402—even numbers representing completion.
