Chapter 14

14

He swung open the door and halted, legs astride, filling the doorway as he surveyed the shop, his face impassive. A cold draught blew in. The three customers looked up, and Jana, sorting books in the children's area, followed their gaze. She froze.

Heydrich.

Heydrich, here in her bookshop. Heydrich, dressed in a black, leather trench coat, a pistol holster clipped to the belt at his waist. Taller and even more imperious on the threshold of her small bookshop. Incongruous outside the castle and stepping into her realm. Her heart raced and she fought to get her thoughts in order. Why was he here? Was she under arrest? She should greet him, move towards him, pay respect. But her legs would not move.

His cool eyes found hers. He waited.

Jana blinked and awoke from her daze. She walked towards him as he took a large stride into the shop, closing the door firmly behind him .

‘Good day, Herr Reichsprotektor ,' she said, with all the politeness she could muster. Did he hear the tremble in her voice?

He stared down at her, his face closely shaven. A waft of his sharp cologne mingled with a slight smell of cigarette smoke drifting around her. His presence filled the shop, sucked the oxygen from the air, replacing it instead with choking, dangerous power.

‘Good afternoon, Fr?ulein Hajek. As you must know, I'm a cultural man, and decided to pay your bookshop a visit.'

She hadn't mentioned a bookshop, but he'd obviously read her file and decided to check her out. But, in God's name, why? She was a lowly member of the cleaning staff. Of absolutely no importance. Unless…

He drew off his black gloves in exaggerated slowness, one finger after the other, and slapped the gloves in his right hand. He had unusually long hands; his nails were clipped and clean.

‘You may show me around.'

She looked through the shop window. Heydrich's black Mercedes-Benz convertible was parked outside; the chauffer, an enormous man, had climbed out and was surveying the street. He too had a pistol strapped to his waist. She saw no other security, which was typical of Heydrich. The man was so arrogant and self-assured that he often moved around Prague freely; the man from the castle, surveying his subjects that had bent to his will. He had tamed the Czechs and was king of his domain. She could taste the acid coating her tongue.

Jana turned. ‘Shall we start with our classics section?' She gestured to that part of the shop, her arm outstretched.

The customers now dared to move and within moments, they had scurried out the door.

This was the first time she had been so close to the Butcher of Prague. His affected, refined air so at odds with the barbarian acts he ordained. He too was more than capable of committing cold-blooded murder himself. She'd heard the story from Pavel of how, earlier in the war as Heydrich was on the eastern front, a soldier had hesitated in harming a young Jewish girl – of around eight years old. Heydrich had drawn his pistol and shot her in the face. At point-blank range. When the officer had vomited on the ground at Heydrich's feet, he'd looked at the man with disgust.

Her skin turned to ice at the thought.

‘I enjoy autobiographies of the great composers. Beethoven or Handel, for example.'

‘I have both. I'd be happy to show?—'

‘I'm sure you are aware my father was a composer. Bruno Heydrich.' He lifted his chin and gave a self-satisfied sniff.

She wasn't aware. As she struggled to find a suitable response, he continued to talk, running narrow eyes around the bookshop. ‘There will be a concert in May, at the Wallenstein Palace. My father's piano concerto will be featured.'

‘How wonderful.'

‘Indeed.' Heydrich fixed his gaze back on Jana, his steel-blue eyes boring into her. She had the dreadful sensation that he could see exactly who she was; that he was testing her, baiting her. Any moment, the Gestapo would burst into her little bookshop, pumping her body with bullets, spraying her blood over the books. Or worse, drag her to their headquarters where unspeakable things would happen in the basement.

Heydrich turned his attention to the opposite wall where Papa's marionettes were displayed.

‘Ah, the quaint tradition of Czech puppetry. Selling books and puppets is an interesting combination.' He raised an eyebrow at her, compelling her to explain.

‘My father is a puppeteer. He crafts the figures himself. '

Heydrich made no comment as he stepped closer to peer at the figure. This one was of a peasant girl in traditional dress. Jana swallowed.

‘How curious the Czech people are,' he said, thoughtfully. Then he shot her a look, his eyes steel-hard. ‘Remove the doll,' he shouted, flinging his arm out. Jana jumped at the sudden outburst.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘And tell your father to craft some German puppets. I want a Hansel and Gretel in Lederhosen and a Dirndl for my children.'

Jana nodded. ‘I'll tell him, sir.'

‘Now, I must get to my next meeting,' he said, checking his wristwatch. ‘I'll return maybe another time.' He nodded towards the bookshelves.

Then in a few strides of his black, polished boots, he was back out the door. Jana watched him wave an arm at his chauffer and climb into the driving seat himself. The chauffer jogged round to the passenger seat and had hardly closed the door when Heydrich revved up the engine and accelerated down the street.

Jana's heart pulsed in her throat. Feeling faint, she collapsed in the armchair. What had that been all about? He hadn't stayed to look at any books. Why on earth would he show interest in her modest bookshop? There were far grander ones in Prague more suitable for the custom of the Protektor of Bohemia. The answer was obvious: either he was curious and checking her out, or he suspected her already. Both scenarios were terrifying.

Jana was still mopping the shop floor when a figure appeared at the locked front door. As she always opened at ten o'clock, half an hour after she got back from the castle, she was surprised at the early customer.

Squinting against the early-morning sun, she realised it was Pavel, whom she hadn't seen for a couple of weeks. Her heart sank and her reaction saddened her. In the past, her spirits had always lifted at seeing her friend, and now her impulsive behaviour had completely altered their relationship. She must now be honest with Pavel and put things straight.

Standing the mop in the bucket, she took the keys from her apron pocket and unlocked the door.

Pavel's smile made her feel uneasy; there was more than friendship in his expression. She invited him in and he sidestepped the wet floor.

‘Sorry I'm early, but I wanted to see you before my shift starts.' He studied her face. ‘I miss you.'

‘Pavel, I must tell you something.'

He tipped his head to one side.

‘I'm so very sorry that I misled you about my feelings for you. Our kiss was a mistake. My mistake. I love you very much, but like the brother I never had. I wondered if our friendship could bloom into romance, but I realise now that's not the right way for us.'

He stared at her, not saying anything, the light in his eyes gone.

‘I'm sorry,' she repeated.

‘Is there someone else?' he murmured.

Andrej's tender lips filled her thoughts, his gentle fingers on her face. She tingled at the memory of him.

‘There's no one else.'

Relief flickered across his face.

‘You just need time to adjust to the change in our feelings. We can take things slowly?— '

‘But my feelings haven't changed. I thought that maybe?—'

Pavel reached for her shoulders, his face urgent.

‘There is something special between us, more than friendship. You can't deny it.'

‘Don't. Pavel, please let's not spoil our friendship. Let's go back to how we were.'

His arms dropped and he shook his head. ‘It's too late for that. All or nothing, Jana.' His voice had turned hard, not like Pavel at all. ‘You think you can play with my feelings: want me one moment than reject me the next.'

She was astounded at his reaction. What to her had been an exploratory kiss had obviously meant much more to him. Guilt flushed her cheeks.

‘Pavel, I didn't mean to hurt you. Please let us stay the good friends we were.'

‘Like I said: all or nothing. You better think about it carefully.'

He turned and left, his bitter tone ringing in her ears.

Jana locked the shop for the day and breathed in the fresh, evening air. Her father was having dinner with a friend so she would take the opportunity to get some exercise – a walk around the city, maybe treat herself to something to eat from a street vendor.

The street lamps were dimmer than usual; shortages in electricity had increased as the war lingered on. In the gloom, the city took on a bleak beauty, its statues and intricate carvings on the building's fa?ades whispering the horrors and triumphs of history.

She crossed Old Town Square just as the astronomical clock in the town hall tower began to strike. There were always people who stopped, often parents with children, and looked upwards; two doors above the colourful clockface would open and the mechanical figures, twelve apostles and a skeleton, would begin their parade. Jana thought of the hundreds of times her mother had pointed out each figure and told a story until she had learnt them off by heart. And she would one day recount the same stories to her children.

But as she watched the figure of the skeleton tip the hourglass, she had a strange sensation of being watched.

She turned to look around her but only saw faces tipped up to the clock, or people scurrying past without giving her a second glance. She was fantasising, ancient tales creeping under her skin. Giving herself a shake, she carried on and passed through the Gothic stone arch that led to Charles Bridge. She paused a moment to take in the view of the Vltava River and Prague Castle opposite. Again, she had an uneasy feeling, the skin prickling at the back of her neck. Frowning, she walked onto the bridge.

People bustled past, eager to get errands done before curfew, or stood in conversation whilst looking out on the river. Jana walked down the avenue of statues lit by lanterns and halted at the statue of St Wenceslas. Leaning against the low, stone wall, she gazed out at the inky-black water splashed with patches of lamplight. She let out a sigh at the sight of the Vltava River. The Nazis had renamed it the Moldau; well, they could call it what they liked. In her heart, it would always be the Vltava, and no one, not even the Nazis, could take that from her.

There was movement beside her.

Breaths in the cold air.

‘Don't turn.' The voice was taut. Familiar .

Despite the command, she flicked her eyes to the side and back to the water.

Andrej Kovar. Her stomach did a small flip.

‘Have you been following me?' she said under her breath.

‘Sorry. Yes. It's not safe to come to the bookshop any more.'

Not safe? For her or for him?

She wrinkled her brows as he continued to speak.

‘Bring the letter for Lenka to Tyn Church at midday tomorrow. The left aisle, row seven.'

‘Will you be there?' she whispered.

There was no reply. She repeated her question and unable to resist, she glanced to the side.

He was gone.

She swirled around, looking up and down the bridge. Sudden darkness dropped. All around her, the lamps were out. There were cries of surprise and annoyance: another power cut.

She saw the shadows of people shuffling around her. A few stars overhead gave a minimal glow. People had no torches with them; what was the point when no batteries were available? She moved slowly back along the bridge amongst the grumbling crowd, through the arch and across the square. Massive, dark buildings loomed around every corner but she was not afraid of the city she knew so well.

However, when she turned alone down a narrow alley, tall, unlit buildings pressing in on her, cold sweat dampened under her arms. Her brief encounter with Andrej and his warning that it wasn't safe to meet at the bookshop had her unnerved. It wasn't buildings and ghosts that scared her. It was the Nazis. The Gestapo.

She hastened her step and the toe of her boot caught on the kerb. She flew forwards and hit the ground hard, her forehead bouncing on the narrow pavement .

Dazed, she remained motionless for a few moments. Her right wrist hurt, but her gloves had protected her hands from severe grazing. She eased herself to sitting. Something warm trickled down her face and, removing her glove, she dabbed at the blood. The cold of the ground was seeping rapidly through her long coat; she must get up. The sky had clouded over and she was in complete darkness. The noise of the city had faded as people sought their homes.

Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears.

A scraping sound. She stiffened. Then chided herself; it was probably a mouse. But mice didn't scrape, they scuttled. She jumped to her feet, winced at a stab of pain in her knee, and sped off blindly in the direction of home. She visualised the execution wall, the sound of bullets ripping through the air. She was sure she was being followed; any second, her back would explode and her life would flip off like the lanterns along Charles Bridge.

Another of Heydrich's victims.

Her hand shook so violently that it took several attempts to get the key in the lock, before she fell through the front door of her home.

Papa greeted her, a candle in hand. He narrowed his eyes as she removed her hat, noticing the smear of blood on her face. She was fine, she assured him as she hung her coat on the coat stand; she had merely stumbled in the blackout.

But as they ate their cold supper in the semi-darkness, she felt badly shaken; not from the fall, but from the fear that had overcome her: the feeling of being followed by the police or Gestapo.

As the lights were still out when she went to change for bed, she lit a candle and placed it on her night table. She removed her high-necked pullover and threw it on the bed. From habit, her fingers reached for her locket. She froze. It wasn't there. Her hands tapped wildly at her chest, searching for the feel of cool metal. She spun to the mirror on the wood-panelled wardrobe and was horrified. In the flicker of the candlelight, she saw the naked place where it normally hung.

Her stomach clenched as she tried to remember if she had worn the locket under or over her clothes. Frantic, she searched her pullover inside and out. Nothing. Had the chain on Mama's locket become undone and fallen to the street as she'd stumbled? She must fetch a torch and search outside. Papa would ask what she was up to. My God , she couldn't tell him she had lost the most precious thing in their world. Wearing the locket meant Mama was always with her, but now she was gone.

She heard the water begin to run in the bathroom and the sounds of her father preparing for bed. It was already curfew but she would be quick. There was a pocket torch under the sink in the kitchen; they seldom used it to save the battery, which was the last one they had. She yanked her pullover back on, fetched the torch and her coat, and crept out the door.

Outside, she swept the small circle of light along the ground, back to the spot where she had fallen. She knelt down on the trodden snow and ran her bare hands over the ground, trying to swallow down her despair. Dirty footprints and small scattered stones were all she saw. And a few drops of her own blood. Mama's locket wasn't there. She'd lost her most cherished possession. Papa's too. He had entrusted her with Mama's locket, something that encapsulated his love for her, that held so many poignant memories.

She didn't know how long she'd spent scrabbling on the ground, but eventually the torch dimmed, the battery fading, and she was forced to return home .

Her father, dressed in pyjamas, was waiting for her, his face anxious in the flame of the candle he held.

‘Thank goodness! I was out of my mind with worry! Why were you out past curfew?'

‘Sorry, Papa.' Now she would have to tell him.

As she sought the right words, her heart breaking, the hall light blinked on and a blast of music came from the radio in the living room. The electricity was back. Averting her father's gaze, she bowed her head to compose herself. It was then she saw something glinting on the floor next to her father's neatly positioned shoes under the coat stand.

She let out a cry of relief and scooped up the beloved locket, gazing at it as if it were a butterfly resting on the palm on her hand.

Tears filled her eyes as she embraced her father, clutching the locket tight. They sat together at the kitchen table. She recognised that glazed look in Papa's eyes: the one when her likeness to Mama overcame him, when her auburn hair and green eyes swept him away in memories. She reached across the table and squeezed his hand, feeling the rough skin on his craftsman's fingers. His voice cracked as he began the story of how he'd met her mother in spring on the banks of the Vltava River… She'd heard the story a thousand times, but it still brought a lump to her throat.

His eyes fixed on the gold locket that hung again around her neck.

‘She loved reading of course, always had a book nearby. She read even while she cooked, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon in one hand, her book in the other,' he said, his face soft with reminiscence. ‘I bought her the locket for our tenth anniversary. I went to goldsmith, Herr Katz, just off Wenceslas Square. He was a kind, family man with a good reputation. "Tell me about your wife," he said, before designing the book locket.'

She listened patiently as he recounted the memories yet again, as he told of her mother's delight at the gift, and how she'd lifted her long, auburn hair to allow him to fasten the necklace around her pale neck.

‘I know, Papa,' she said softly and lay her hand on the locket, so much more than just a piece of jewellery at her neck.

They fell silent then, both thinking the same, she knew. The Nazis had taken Herr Katz's shop and his home, and in return, Herr Katz had taken his life.