The Diplomat's Wife(67)

I scan the far side of the square, spotting an open alleyway. Quickly, I make my way toward it, expecting a policeman to grab me at any time. When I reach the shelter of the alley, I begin to run, crossing blindly through the backstreets, feeling for the Old Town Square. My lungs burn. At last, I reach the square. Slowing, I look up at the Astronomical Clock as I cross, thinking sadly of Hans.

But there is no time to linger. The chaos of the broken demonstration has begun to spill over here, too. Protesters, their eyes watering from the tear gas, dart across the square alone or in groups of two or three. One man clutches a bloody wound on his temple. In the distance, police sirens wail, as if to remind the protesters that the crackdown is not over. I make my way hurriedly from the square.

A few minutes later, I reach the block where the hotel is located. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a shop window. My cheeks are flushed from running and my curls have sprung free from the knot. I should go upstairs and freshen up. I look at the clock above the hotel entrance. It is eleven, one hour until my meeting with Marek, and I have no idea how long it will take to reach the park. There is no time. I walk quickly to the bus stop at the corner.

A few minutes later the C bus arrives and I board. It is empty except for a few schoolchildren clustered in the rear. I drop into a seat a few rows behind the driver, then look out the window. As we wind our way through the Old Town, I think about the ruthlessness with which the police tore apart the demonstrators. A shiver runs through me. I had known that the Soviet-dominated communist regimes were oppressive, silencing ideas that were contrary to their own. But I had not imagined that they would actually open fire on their own people. They are no better than the Nazis. I grasp my bag more tightly. Suddenly my mission seems more urgent than ever.

The bus turns away from the Old Town, stopping every few minutes as it follows the river south. At the next stop, the schoolchildren get off the bus and two women board, talking rapidly in Czech about the price of potatoes. One carries a basket only half full with groceries, the other a small pail of coal. The road grows bumpier, the buildings farther-spaced as we make our way from the city center to the sprawling outskirts of Prague. The houses here are smaller, more dilapidated. The bus stops again and the women get off, trudging slowly down a dirt road. An underfed cow stares forlornly out over a fence.

I look around the now-empty bus as it begins to move again. “Riegrovy Park,” the driver calls a few minutes later, as though speaking to a large group. I walk to the front of the bus as it slows, looking at the driver out of the corner of my eye. Does he wonder what I am doing here? But he does not look up as I step off the bus. The door closes behind me and the bus drives away.

I pause, surveying the park. Flat fields stretch endlessly in all directions, the grass dead and brown. Several hundred meters off to the right sits a thatch of bare trees. I spot a stone fountain beneath them. Drawing my coat more closely around me, I walk toward the fountain. Closer, I can see that it is made up of several statues of small children, their hands reaching upward toward the heavens. Dead leaves lay in drifts in the dry marble basin below. I look around. The park is deserted, except for a cluster of crows, picking at the ground beneath the trees. Where is Marek? He looked so nervous last night. Part of me wonders if he is going to come at all.

It is early, I tell myself, walking toward the trees. The crows watch me with disinterest, not moving. On the far side of the trees, there is a children’s playground with swings and a metal slide. Two boys play on the swings. A few meters away from them, on the edge of the playground closest to me, a woman stands by a bench, watching them.

I hesitate, studying the woman’s back. I do not want to risk drawing attention to myself, but perhaps she has seen Marek. I walk toward her. “Excuse me,” I say softly, but she does not seem to hear me over the wind. I move closer. Suddenly, I freeze, a lump forming in my throat. There is something familiar about the honey-blond color of the woman’s hair, the way it hangs in a loose knot against her neck. An image flashes through my mind of Emma’s hair, bouncing as she ran from the railway bridge. It cannot possibly be. I reach out, touch the woman’s shoulder gently. “Excuse me,” I repeat, louder this time.

The woman jumps, then turns slowly. As I inhale the familiar almond scent, I know there can be no mistake. There, standing before me, is Emma.





CHAPTER 18




“Hello, Marta,” she says calmly, gazing at me in her familiar unblinking way. I stare back, too stunned to move or speak. My mind races. Emma? It does not seem possible. She steps forward to kiss me on each cheek, as though we have simply run into each other on the ghetto street. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Emma?” I reach out and touch her sleeve, checking if she is really here.

“It’s me.” She takes my fingers and squeezes them.

“I—I don’t understand.” I cannot stop staring at her. “What are you doing here?”

“Why don’t we sit?” Emma walks to the bench. I follow numbly and sit down beside her. “I know you must be surprised to see me,” she continues. “I live here now, in Prague. I help, with the political work, I mean. Like you and I did in Kraków.”

So she and Jacob made it out of Poland and over the mountains, after all. If Emma is here, where is Jacob? “But I was supposed to meet—”

“Marek asked me to come meet you. I was glad to do it, of course,” she adds. “When Marek told me that you were here, that you were alive, I was overjoyed. It was too risky for Marek to come himself. He thought he was being followed. But he knew that no one would suspect two women with children in a playground. Those are my boys, by the way.” Emma gestures toward the swings. “You remember Lukasz, of course.” I nod. Lukasz was not technically Emma’s—he was the rabbi’s son whom Emma and Krysia had hidden after his father was arrested and mother killed by the Nazis. “And that—” she points to the younger child, who looks to be about six “—is Jake.”