Chapter 15

15

The following morning, Jana entered Old Town Square at a quarter to twelve, walked past the astronomical clock and paused to take in the view. The Gothic Tyn church dominated the old town, its spiked turrets, spires and twin towers shooting towards the sky. Jana had always thought the building looked more like a castle from a fairy tale than a church – sometimes macabre, sometimes enchanted, but always magnificent. Emotion welled up inside her. The church was an ancient symbol of Prague and it saddened her to see the grey-green uniforms of the Wehrmacht in evidence around it.

The entrance of the church lay behind a line of elegant mansion houses. She passed through the archway that led to the church courtyard and the main door. Once inside, her eyes ran over the beautiful and ornate interior. There was a scattering of people amongst the pews, some with heads bowed in prayer, others still and contemplative in the silence. Each one of them, thought Jana, had had their lives upturned by the occupation.

Treading softly, she made her way to the far left and walked along the rows. She limped slightly from her fall yesterday, her knee grazed and swollen. That morning, she'd woken up to a purple bruise on her forehead and had tried to conceal it with face powder. Now, she tipped forwards the brim of her brown, felt hat, hiding her face.

Stopping at the seventh row, she shot a glance along the long, wooden bench. She didn't recognise anyone and sat on the seat by the aisle. Was this the right place to sit? Maybe she should move one place along, leaving the end seat free. She did so.

Her heart fluttering with expectation, she clasped her bag close to her, the letter for Lenka tucked inside.

As the church bells announced midday, Jana held her breath.

Nothing happened.

People walked to the altar. Some turned away. A priest appeared with a candle.

It was freezing in the church, and the chill seeped through the soles of her shoes and up her legs. She pressed her knees together to stop them shaking.

Footsteps on the stone floor.

The creak of the wooden pew beside her. The swish of a coat against hers.

From under the brim of her hat, she cast a sideways look and saw Andrej's handsome profile: his high cheekbone and firm jaw, a muscle pulsing. She turned her gaze to her lap, and bowed her head, her heart beating too loud in the silence of the church.

He slid a bible along the pew rack in front of her, tapping the book pointedly with his forefinger. She nodded to herself, removed her gloves and pressed the catch on her bag. It made a loud click. Her hands froze. Nobody is watching , she told herself, and prised the bag open. With a quick, deft motion, she slipped Lenka's letter from her bag to inside the bible which she gave a casual shove back in Andrej's direction. Then she rested her hands on the pew.

Andrej reached for the bible, shuffled briefly with his coat, and was still again. He put his hand on the pew beside him, his little finger grazing hers. It was a murmur of a touch but it sent a shiver through her body. She thought of the feel of his lips when he'd kissed her in the bookshop. A kiss that was hardly a kiss. More a promise of a kiss.

His finger curled around hers. He squeezed softly. It was the tiniest action but it made her gasp. The gesture held so much; he was on her side, here to help, he cared. He sat close, their bodies not touching, just their little fingers entwined. And then he withdrew his hand and he was standing up. She wanted to pull on his elbow, make him stay a moment longer, tell him about her fear last night in the blackout, but she merely stared at the altar. The pew creaked and shifted and then he was gone, leaving just chilled air behind him.

She tipped her head up to the cavernous ceiling. The sun had come out and shafts of light shone through the stained-glass windows, making the array of golden artefacts glow. Was God here and listening? She prayed for Lenka. Then for Michal. Then for the broken woman at the execution wall. There were so many to pray for that the task overwhelmed her and tears blurred her vision.

Steeling herself against a feeling of helplessness, she rose from the pew. She must stay resolute; despair would not help anyone. She must believe that every action of humanity, no matter how small, would make a difference to the world.

Early next morning as she hurried to the castle, a figure emerged from a doorway and stepped into her path. Jana started. The woman in front of her wore a fringed shawl draped over her head and shoulders, her hands clutching the ends tightly. A pale, strained face peered out at her.

‘Sorry to startle you,' said the woman.

Jana recognized her; it was the woman with cracked lips who'd been sweeping snow outside Michal's house: the woman who'd told her Michal's aunt and cousins had been taken too. Jana had explained she was a friend of Michal and that she ran a bookshop, but the woman hadn't been interested in conversation and had turned back to her broom.

The woman looked around nervously. ‘My name is Lillian. We met briefly when you were searching for Michal.'

‘I remember,' said Jana.

‘Please, I need your help.' Lillian clasped Jana's arm. As she did so, the shawl slipped aside, revealing the yellow star on her coat sleeve. She was taking a risk being outside the Jewish Quarter whilst concealing the star; the Nazis considered that a serious offence.

Jana cast a cautious glance up and down the street. Two older men were approaching.

Jana guided Lillian to the side of the pavement and in a loud, chatty voice complained about the long winter and food shortages. Lillian drew her shawl tightly around her and nodded her agreement at Jana's protests.

When the men had passed, Lillian continued. ‘We'll be next. I know it. My children… please help them, like you helped Michal.'

Jana jolted. Lillian knew? No, she might suspect.

‘I don't know if I can help. I…' Her voice trailed off .

‘I'm a widow with two daughters, aged ten and four years old. If you know of someone, some way to help them escape. My eldest, Yveta, nearly made it out of Prague four years ago. There was a British man, a Mr. Winton, organising transport to get the children to England and Yveta was on the list. But on the morning the train was due to leave, the German tanks arrived and took over the city…' Her voice broke and her shoulders sank.

Jana's heart squeezed. What could she do? Borrow a car again? Pull the same trick? But that would involve Pavel once more and putting him in danger a second time. She didn't want to use his affection for her; it wasn't fair. But who else could she ask for help?

As she looked into Lillian's desperate eyes, she found herself saying, ‘I'll do what I can. I'll make enquiries.'

Lillian's face softened with gratitude and Jana became scared of the enormity of the task. Not of the risk to her own safety, but at the risk of failing this mother.

Both of them looked around as the door of the alchemist shop opposite opened. A thin man in a white coat appeared with a shovel in hand. He nodded his head in greeting before he dug into the overnight snow that had landed on his doorstep.

‘I'd better head back,' said Lillian. ‘You'll contact me?'

‘Yes, yes, I will,' Jana replied, with all the reassurance she could muster, eager to ease the woman's pain.

Jana watched Lillian hurry away, head tucked to her chest. She turned the corner and was gone. Jana had to wait a few moments to compose her thoughts before carrying on up the street.

At the castle, Jana regarded the staff with intrigue, wondering who else might be working for the resistance. Obviously, her small contribution was only part of a bigger scheme to keep a watch on the Nazi headquarters: the movements of the SS chiefs, their visitors, anything at all. There was the broad-shouldered groundsman who Jana passed each day as he shovelled snow from the drive that swept up to Salm Palace, the electrician who knelt beside his tool box unscrewing plug sockets and repairing wires, and the carpenter who was repairing wood panelling on the ground floor. Not to mention anyone from the team of maids, cooks and delivery boys. They all had one thing in common; they were Czech.

Lillian's plea was on Jana's mind as, on her hands and knees, she scrubbed at a non-existent carpet stain a few feet from Heydrich's office.

Her manageress, Miss Jezek, strode up to her and frowned. ‘What's the problem here?' she asked.

‘A nasty stain, probably coffee.'

As Miss Jezek squinted down at the carpet, Jana sploshed more soapy suds onto the offending area and leaned over, obscuring the woman's view.

‘Don't worry, Miss Jezek. I'll get it clean.'

‘Very well,' she said tartly, ‘I shall check back shortly.' Her thin hand scribbled on her clipboard and she bustled away.

Raised voices emanated from behind Heydrich's closed door. Jana had seen him enter his office with three SS aids for an early-morning meeting. She'd made a mental note of his arrival: twenty to eight. Now Heydrich was clearly upset about something.

‘…am I surrounded by a bunch of incompetent fools?' he yelled.

There was a murmur of voices as a response but Jana could not make out what was being said. Heydrich's retort was furious, his high-pitched voice screaming, ‘…I don't give a damn if these vermin fought with us in the Great War; they're all traitors. And don't whine to me about popular public figures, writers, artists…'

He was ranting now, his angry diatribe disturbingly similar to Hitler's speeches. Jana sat back on her haunches, listening.

‘…damn public opinion!' She could hear the pound of his fist on the desk. ‘Then tell them what they want to hear: that the rats are going to a holiday camp. We'll put on a show of our humanity and in the meantime, I want a least a thousand per train load…'

A soldier appeared at the end of the corridor for a routine check. Jana avoided eye contact and leaned forward, diligently scrubbing the carpet.

Heydrich's rage continued behind the door. ‘…it's results I want to see, numbers. Now, get out of here!'

Muted voices were followed by footsteps. Heydrich's office door opened and three pale-faced SS men exited. One had to step around her as he walked.

‘Get out the way, woman,' he barked, venting his anger.

The soldier on guard frowned at her.

‘Finish up there, now.' Narrowing his eyes, he studied her face beneath the headscarf that hid her hair. She stiffened. It was the soldier with pockmarked cheeks that had come to the bookshop and ordered a copy of Hitler's book, Mein Kampf . His name, Private Brandt, came back to her now; for some reason, he'd not returned to collect the book.

Her own flippant tone from that conversation also returned to her mind.

‘I know you.' He took a stride closer.

An SS officer appeared and Brandt snapped to attention. As they exchanged a few words, Jana quickly gathered her cleaning materials and bucket.

As she scuttled away, she could hear the strains of a violin drift out from Heydrich's office. Tendrils of ice pierced through her; how perverse that such a beautiful melody should be played by such an evil man: the Butcher of Prague.