Restitution (13 page)

He took a deep breath and sank heavily onto the small bunk. He removed his jacket, laying it carefully at the foot of the bed, and took off his shoes. Then he lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, realizing suddenly how weary he was. Anxiety did that to you; it sapped you of energy and drained you of the wisdom you needed to stay sharp. And Karl needed his faculties for this journey.

He could barely wrap his head around the knowledge that he was leaving his home country, perhaps never to see it again. But he didn't want to think about that. Czechoslovakia had let his family down, had failed to protect them when they needed that protection most. Karl had tried to tell himself that he had little regret in leaving. But that wasn't entirely true. The sense of betrayal and the anger at being forced from his home threatened to overwhelm him. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, trying to block the images of Rakovník, his house, and the familiar life of his childhood there. The attendant had said that he would do his best to make sure that Karl was not disturbed. Would his best be good enough, Karl wondered. With luck, he would wake to find himself in Paris. If not… who knew what his fate would be? The train pulled out of Prague station. Karl fell asleep to its rocking. He awoke with a start. Where was he? What time was it? Karl stretched his cramped legs as cloudy images slowly began to coalesce. He felt the rocking motion beneath him, remembering that he was on a train en route to Paris. How long had he been sleeping?

A sliver of light slipped through the crack in the curtains at his feet, dancing playfully on his blankets. Karl sat up and cautiously pulled the curtain to one side. Swinging his legs over the side of the bunk, he stood up, balancing himself in the swaying train, and glanced out the window, trying to determine where he was. It was dawn and the sun was rising above a cloudless blue-gray sky. The train was traveling at a high speed and the countryside rushed by in a blur. In the distance, there were small houses and colorful fields picturesquely dotting the panorama. Here and there, Karl could make out small lines of traveling automobiles, trailing clouds of dust from the country roads. This landscape could easily be Czechoslovakia, Karl thought, but it was daylight, so surely he must have left his country behind hours ago.

Karl stretched his neck, eager to see a road sign, a marker – anything that might indicate where he was. A signpost suddenly appeared, speeding by the window too quickly for Karl to see. But shortly thereafter, another one rolled by announcing the name of the town in the distance. It was an unmistakably French name. With relief, Karl let out his breath and realized that he had been holding it for some time. The train had left Czechoslovakia. They were in France. If they had stopped at the border, he had not noticed it. He had slept through the night and no one had disturbed him. The bribe had worked.

There was a soft knock at his compartment door. It startled him in the wake of his momentary relief. Karl straightened his shirt and ran his fingers through his hair. “Come in,” he said, as the steward entered his room carrying a tray with steaming coffee and a small croissant with jam.

He set the tray on a ledge and tipped his hat to Karl. “I trust you slept well, sir?” he asked.

Karl nodded. “Better than I thought I would.”

The attendant smiled. “I promised that you wouldn't be disturbed. I think you'll be needing these.” He held out Karl's passport and other documents.

Karl accepted the papers. “Thank you…for your help.”

“We'll be arriving in Paris shortly, sir.” The attendant bowed once more, then turned and left.

An hour later, the train pulled into the Paris station and wheezed to a final stop. Karl grabbed his suitcase, checked to make sure he had his documents, and descended joyfully from the train into his father's waiting arms. Victor enclosed him in a big bear hug. “Thank God you're safe!” his father cried, unwilling to release his son.

Karl returned the embrace before stepping back to look at his father, startled at his appearance. Victor had aged dramatically in the four months since they had last seen one another. He was barely forty, yet he looked much older. Karl could see the signs of the stress and fear under which his father had been living in the deeply etched lines around his dull eyes, his graying and thinning hair, his stooped shoulders, and the slight tremor in his hands. Karl tried hard not to stare, but he was shaken by how worn his father looked.

If Victor noticed that Karl was taken aback by his appearance, he did not show it. He clasped his son's face in his hands. “I didn't know if I'd ever see you again.” His voice caught in his throat. “Come,” he said, pulling Karl by the arm. “I must call your mother immediately and tell her that the papers are good. She'll be anxious to hear that you've arrived safely.”

A few days later, a jubilant Marie and Hana arrived in Paris to a joyful reunion with Karl and Victor. Their journey had not been without its drama, which Marie recounted when the family was settled safely into the small Hotel la Boétie where Victor was staying.

Two days after receiving the good news that Karl had arrived in Paris, Marie and Hana went to the Wilson train station in Prague to catch the overnight express train. Marie sought out and found the same steward who had attended to Karl on his journey. She spoke quietly to him while Hana looked on, and then handed over her travel documents and another substantial sum. The attendant happily accepted the cash and led mother and daughter to a private sleeping compartment on the train.

“I took care of the young man and I'll do my best to take care of the two of you,” he said before tipping his hat, closing the curtains to their compartment, and withdrawing.

Marie felt confident that all would be well. “I knew that you had gotten through easily, Karl, so I couldn't imagine that I would have any trouble. Besides, who would want to bother a woman like me traveling with my daughter? I was looking forward to waking up in France.” She and Hana began to settle into their small room and prepare for sleep when suddenly the attendant reappeared with Marie's documents in his hands.

He hesitated at the doorway of their compartment and looked terribly worried. Marie couldn't imagine what had happened. “Is there a problem?” she asked.

The man nodded, looked over at Hana and then back at Marie. “The passport is fine,” he began. “Your daughter is listed here as your dependant.” As Marie already knew, Hana did not require a passport. At only thirteen years of age, she could be listed on her mother's papers. Marie waited impatiently. “It's the Gestapo exit certificate,” the attendant finally continued. “There's no mention of a daughter here. It could cause problems at the border….” His voice trailed off, leaving the rest to their imaginations.

Karl was stunned as he sat listening to his mother tell this story. This was just the sort of tight spot that he himself had dreaded might happen on his journey here. But true to form, Marie was undaunted by the predicament. She had faced innumerable obstacles in the past year and had surmounted them all. This one would not stop her.

Without blinking an eye, Marie reached into her handbag and pulled out a fountain pen. Then she reached for the Gestapo document and with the stunned attendant looking on, she wrote the words, “
und Tochter
” – and daughter – next to her own name on the papers. “And then I handed the document back to him and said, ‘I trust that will do.'”

The attendant stared down at the papers. Marie's handwriting was in blue ink. The rest of the certificate was written in black. The blue letters stood out, unmistakably distinct from the rest of the document. It was like waving a flag above their heads and telling the enemy to come and get them! “I asked if there was another problem and the attendant didn't answer. I kept my voice even and firm and I didn't flinch. I wouldn't let him see that I was the slightest bit worried about this.” Moments passed while Marie and Hana waited to see what the attendant would do. Finally the man, nodded, bowed slightly, and walked out of the compartment, leaving Marie and Hana alone.

“I have to admit, I didn't sleep much on the train,” Marie concluded. “I was overjoyed to see the French countryside early this morning. And now, we are here!” She grabbed each member of her family in a fierce hug, her face exploding into the broadest smile Karl had seen in months. The family had been reunited. They had left so much behind in the country that had forced them out. But for the time being, none of that mattered. They were safe, they were free, and they were together.

A day after arriving in Paris, Marie and Victor received word that the Gestapo had come looking for Marie at the villa in Prague. Leila was taken into custody, threatened, and harshly interrogated about the whereabouts of the Jewish woman who had lived there. Leila had feigned ignorance and appealed to the Gestapo as an ethnic German from the recently acquired Sudetenland. She managed to convince the officials that she did not know what had become of Marie and she was released with only a verbal warning.

CHAPTER TEN

Toronto, February 23, 1990

THE GALLERY WAS FULL of people by the time Theo entered. It was the opening of a new exhibit – a collection of paintings by an emerging Canadian artist who, like Theo, had also originally come from Czechoslovakia. This young man's roots were much more humble than Theo's, his journey out from under the Communist thumb much more complicated. He was a skilled and multifaceted artist, crafting whimsical and mythical creatures that emerged on the canvas amidst thunderous storms and whirlpools of light. Theo had been drawn to his work and had been eager to coordinate this launch at the gallery. This was the part of his job that Theo enjoyed most, discovering the work of emerging artists and introducing them to a public eager to buy.

True, it was somewhat burdensome that this opening was taking place just a few weeks before his trip to Prague. Coordinating that excursion meant that there was already a lot on his plate. But his upcoming trip couldn't interfere with the work he had here in Toronto. Theo's eyes traveled the room. There was the artist in one corner, pacing with the proud but anxious look of an expectant father. Theo knew he would have to go talk to him, calm him down, and remind him about how good his paintings really were. But first he needed to work the crowd.

Fresh-faced young waiters wearing starched white shirts and pressed dark pants were serving wine from silver trays. Theo grabbed a glass and made his way through the gallery, stopping to welcome people he knew and introducing himself to the new faces. He was particularly interested in greeting those with an air of wealth – entrepreneurs and businessmen – the regulars who had come not only to look, but also to buy. He worked the crowd like a celebrity moving through his adoring fans. He shook hands warmly with men in dark suits, and kissed the cheeks of women in furs.

A group of people had gathered in front of a large canvas in which a fierce-looking helmeted head emerged from the top of a jeweled metallic shell. “I don't really understand it,” an attractive woman was saying as she gazed at the painting. “It just looks menacing to me.” She was younger than most of the other women in the room, and dressed in a tight skirt that exposed her endlessly long legs.

Theo moved to stand beside her. The scent of an expensive cologne drifted up toward him. “Allow me to explain,” he said, leaning in to lightly touch her arm. He began to talk about the artist's upbringing in Czechoslovakia under a harsh Communist regime, briefly describing the politics of the country and the tyranny under which its population lived and worked. He maneuvered the woman directly in front of the canvas, pointing out the deep reds, peacock blues, and emerald greens that emerged from a dark and shadowy background. “Many of this artist's paintings reflect his personal journey from oppression to freedom, from suffering to joy. He is purging himself of fear – a catharsis of sorts – and moving toward renewal.” While he spoke his arm moved to rest ever so slightly on the small of her back.

The woman smiled, leaning her body into his. “Thank you,” she said. “How do you know so much about this?”

“Allow me to introduce myself. Theo Král. I'm the coordinator of the gallery. It's a pleasure to have you here. I'm always delighted to welcome a new face, particularly one as lovely as yours.”

“I'll tell my father about the painting,” she said, pointing to a balding gentleman on the other side of the gallery. “He's the one who comes to buy. I usually just come to look.” She scanned Theo's face suggestively.

They spoke for a few minutes more and then Theo moved on, wondering briefly if she was available and whether or not he should pursue her. He had certainly had plenty of women over the years. Back in Czechoslovakia, his personal life had been one of the few areas where no one could interfere. For him women were not about politics or philosophy. They were simply about pleasure, like the art he acquired. He knew what to look for and what attracted him – and, when he saw one he liked, possessing her could become an all-encompassing enterprise.

He would come back to this one later, he promised himself. But for now, he needed to be host for the evening, to divide his time fairly among all of his guests, and to not let his fascination with this woman get the better of him. She had talked about the painting being menacing and she had been correct. There was something sinister and mysterious about these works that had also attracted Theo, touching a darker side of him, a side that only a few close to him knew about, and fewer still understood.

Theo had been drawn for years to an exploration of the occult – what he often referred to as the hidden and deeper truth about life that existed beneath the surface. He often wondered about the spirit that guided his life and the lives of all human beings. Was it a benign God that breathed life into the world and provided meaning, or did the spirit live in a world inhabited by demons? And how did these two forces exist in Theo himself? These were the questions that preoccupied his thinking. On the one hand, he was a dreamer, living life with an infectious, light-hearted carelessness, making friends with ease, maneuvering himself into the focal point of any situation, commanding attention with his charm and charisma. He made people happy. On the other hand, his zest for life teetered on the reckless. While he made friends easily, he lost them just as quickly. He used people for what he had to gain from them. It was as if he possessed an alter ego, a secondary though equally powerful personality. Theo was both charmer and conniver, entertainer and manipulator.