The Diplomat's Wife(61)



We pick up speed and the houses disappear, the narrow road giving way to a smoothly paved highway. “The roads are really well kept,” I remark.

Renata nods. “One of the few benefits of our neighbors.” I know that she is talking about the Soviets. “Czech industry is critical to their economy, so they keep the roads in top condition. The railways, too. Of course the West is doing the same in Germany. Marshall Plan and all that. If only the two would meet up somehow.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The West is building. The Soviets are building. But not together. Take the border, for example. The roads are a mess for that twenty-kilometer stretch on either side of the border because neither side wants to build anything that might help the other. Same with the trains. The Soviets build track at a different gauge width than the rest of the world. If you wanted to take a train east from Prague, you have to change trains at the border.”

“I see.” I wonder if she has forgotten her own admonition not to speak openly, or if what she is saying is such common knowledge she does not care who hears us.

Outside, the landscape begins to change, the forests and fields giving way to industrial warehouses and factories. Smokestacks belch black smoke into the sky. Behind the factories, the hills have been sheared of trees and grass. Strip mining, I realize sadly. Once pristine, the coal-rich land is being pillaged. The pollution from the factories must be awful. I lean my head back, suddenly tired. Then I close my eyes, allowing the motion of the car to lull me into a gentle half sleep.

“Look.” Renata touches my arm, jarring me awake. She points out the front window of the car. In the distance, I see the tops of buildings, interspersed with spires and church steeples. “We’re nearing Prague.” I blink several times. How long was I asleep? The road climbs to the top of a hill. Below, the panorama of the city spreads out like a postcard, an endless sea of red roofs. A wide, curving river divides the city into two halves. “Hradcany Castle,” Renata says, pointing to a massive, turreted structure that sits atop a hill on the far bank. It reminds me of Wawel Castle in Kraków, only larger. “And below it sits the Mala Strana, or Little Quarter. That’s where the embassy is located.” The car begins to descend the hill, into the narrow, winding streets. The buildings are painted blues and pinks and yellows, their brightness muted by a coating of soot. “And on this side, we have the Old City. You’ll be staying here, at the Excelsior. It is quite close to the Old Town Square.”

“Lovely,” I say, playing along with the charade. “I will have to be sure to see it.” In truth, I doubt I will have time to visit many of the sights. Speed, Simon told me the night before I left, is critical. I need to persuade Marek to introduce me to Marcelitis and get the cipher before the Soviets have any idea that I am here.

As we stop at a traffic light, I notice an ornate building with Hebrew writing on it. “A synagogue?”

Renata nods. “We are just on the edge of Josefov, which is the Jewish quarter. Or was,” she corrects herself. “Prague used to have an enormous Jewish community before the war. But of the survivors, only those who had nowhere to go came back. The others went to Israel or Western Europe or America.”

Like me. “You can hardly blame them for leaving.” I can hear the defensiveness in my own voice.

“Of course,” Renata replies quickly. “I only meant that it’s a shame for the city to have lost such a vibrant part of its population.” I study the synagogue. The structure seems to have survived the war intact, but it is in a state of complete disrepair, the stained-glass windows cracked, the front steps crumbling. In my mind I see the tiny synagogue in our village. Is there anyone left to pray in it now? “The synagogues survived mostly but they’re little more than shells,” Renata adds. She drops her voice. “The communists want to create a Jewish museum, but it’s really a Soviet propaganda piece.”

Behind the synagogue I can see a massive Jewish cemetery, crowded with tombstones that seem to be standing on top of one another. Thousands of Jews, I think. Hundreds of years of history. And these are the ones who were lucky enough to die before the war. I study the cracked headstones, tall grass growing between them. Are there no Jews left in Prague to care for the cemetery, or are they too afraid to come here? To Jews, keeping up a cemetery is a moral obligation, a way to pay tribute to the ancestors that came before. I remember my own father walking faithfully to the cemetery each week, even in the worst of weather, to visit his parents’ grave and say Kaddish. Even during the war, there were stories of Jews in Kraków sneaking into the cemeteries at night under penalty of death to care for the gravesites that had not been completely destroyed by the Nazis, defiantly leaving a few pebbles on the headstones to show that they were there. My heart aches at the thought of my own parents, denied a proper Jewish burial by the Nazis.

“Here we are,” Renata announces a few minutes later as the car pulls up in front of a hotel. We climb out of the car. “The porter will take your bag,” she says as I start toward the trunk. I follow her inside to the desk, hanging back as she speaks to the clerk in Czech. The lobby is large and, I can tell, was once grand. But the red carpet is faded and worn through in places, and several lights are broken or missing from the chandelier that hangs overhead. The air smells of overcooked dill.

A minute later, Renata turns from the counter and hands me a key. “Well, I’m sure you’re tired, so have a good night’s sleep.” I look at her, puzzled. Then she pulls me close to kiss my cheek as she had done at the airport. “Go upstairs and drop off your bag. Wait ten minutes. At the end of the hallway you’ll find a second stairwell. Take it and it will lead to the back alley. I’ll see you there.” She releases me and strides across the lobby with a jaunty wave.

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