Soldier Doll (12 page)

They exchanged a glance. Her father sighed. “We are,
Miláček
.” His voice was quiet. “We're being deported tomorrow. People are saying they want to empty Terezín for the Red Cross visit. So that it won't seem so overcrowded.”

Eva stared at him blankly. She felt her mother's arms encircle her. “I want to go with you.” Eva was crying now. “Can't I come? They want fewer people here. I'll go too.”

“No!” Her mother's voice was high-pitched. Her parents exchanged another glance, this one filled with horror. Her father, too, was shaking his head vigorously. “Eva.” His tone was sharp now. He took her by the shoulders and gave her a small shake. “There are worse places than Terezín. Much worse—you know that. The Americans are coming. You just have to be strong until they get here.” He sounded just like Franz.

Eva wrestled free of his grip. “I am tired of hearing about the stupid Americans!” She stamped her foot on the freshly planted grass. “I have no one else! Even Ilona has her brother and her cousin! I have no one!”

Eva burst into tears. Her mother did, too. Her father's face went white and his eyes clouded over. He bit his lower lip and put his head in his hands.

“Eva,” he said again, straightening. “
Miláček
, where we're going—they say no one comes back. Do you understand me?” Eva hiccupped: she understood and cried harder.

“What will I do by myself?” Her voice shook. “I can't do it, Mama.” She fell into her mother's arms again.

“Eva.” Her mother's voice was soft and firm. “You are so brave. Your father and I believe in you. When the war is over, you must get yourself to America. I have a cousin there, in New York. Can you remember that?” Eva nodded, sniffling. Her mother went on, making Eva repeat the name several times, until she was satisfied Eva had committed it to memory.

“You will be safe.” She touched Eva's face. “I know it. You will be safe.” She pulled her daughter in close and they stood that way for a long time.

. . .

It was Ilona who found her, wandering aimlessly. “Eva,” she said. “Where have you been? I've been looking for you everywhere.”

Eva looked at her, her face empty: a void of expression. “My parents,” she managed. “They are…on the list.” She couldn't bear to say deported; it felt too final.

Ilona's face softened, and she put an arm around Eva. “I know,” she said. “I know how bad it feels. But the war is going to be over soon, and you'll all find each other, and—”

Eva cut her off and pulled away. “Do you honestly believe that, Ilona? Are you an idiot?” She was shouting now. “We're never going to see our parents again, either of us. Haven't you heard the rumors? They say that—”

This time, it was Ilona who cut Eva off. She grabbed her arm.

“I am
not
an idiot, Eva.” Her blue eyes were hard, their usual cheeriness gone. Her cheeks flushed, and her mouth twisted in anger. “I know all the rumors. I've heard about the camps, just like you. And you're right, I will probably never see my parents again.” She took a deep breath. “I know you think I'm silly. But I try to stay positive because that's the attitude you have to have if you're going to survive.” She drew her shoulders back. “That's what my Papa told me when I saw him last. And I'm going to survive, Eva.” Ilona sounded fierce now. “I'm going to get out of this disgusting place, and I'm going to get to America, and I'm going to be a nurse and get married and have four children!” She glared at Eva, as if daring her friend to challenge her. Then Ilona started to cry, her strength dissolving. “I'm on the list, Eva.” She gave a single, shaking sob.

Ilona—on the list?
Eva felt dizzy. The ground swayed beneath her feet. “Ilona,” she managed. “Ilona.” Her cheeks felt hot with shame. She felt the tears coming again, warm and salty. Not Ilona, surely. Not beautiful Ilona, with her curly, golden hair and her porcelain skin.

Ilona straightened. “Don't cry for me, Eva.” She had stopped crying and sounded calm. “I'm going to survive. I know it.”

“I'm so sorry. For what I said. I'm so sorry.” Eva cried harder.

Ilona reached for Eva's hand and squeezed it. “You don't have to apologize,” she said. She gave her friend a little smile. “Promise me you'll try to get some candy. The princess, Eva. Try for the princess. For me.”

. . .

Eva watched her parents leave the next day. The guards were everywhere, yelling and grabbing people by their shirt collars, hauling them forcibly into cattle cars as people cried and clutched at loved ones. They begged not to be sent. Eva watched as one guard, laughing, tore a sobbing toddler from her parents' arms and tossed her carelessly into a car like a sack of flour. Eva gagged and turned to her parents, filled not only with grief now, but bitterness and bile. She noticed that her mother's hair, once a rich chestnut that tumbled down her back, was now steel gray and cropped short. Her father, the famous professor, stooped instead of standing tall, and most of his hair was now completely gone. Both were painfully thin. Eva hugged them tightly, trying to hold on to them in her mind: not only the look of them, but the softness of her mother's hands, the stubble on her father's cheek when she kissed him. Eva stayed, frozen in one spot, until the last car of the train was no longer visible. She clutched the soldier doll, safe in her pocket, for support, tracing her nails along its outline, scraping against its paint.

When the train was finally and truly gone, she slowly turned away, whispering the Jewish prayer for safe travel, the
Tefilat Ha'derech
: “
Yehi ratson mil'fanecha, Adonai eloheinu veilohei avotei-nu. Shetolicheinu l'shalom.” “May it be Your will, Eternal One, our God and the God of our ancestors, that You lead us toward peace, emplace our footsteps toward peace
.
”

Eva walked away from the station. As she got closer to the barracks, she remembered Ilona wouldn't be there and found she couldn't go on, not just yet. She sat down on a large rock and touched her own plain brown hair, straight and dirty and unremarkable. Why Ilona, with her beautiful golden curls, and not her? It didn't seem fair.

Eva had said her final good-bye to Ilona that morning. Resolute and stoic, Ilona had walked away with Emil and Alex, telling Eva she'd see her in America. She hadn't cried again. With Eva's help, she had pinned back her beautiful hair. “I don't want them to cut it,” Ilona had confessed the night before. “I heard they make the girls cut their hair. Maybe if it's pinned, they won't notice it.”

The hours passed, and Eva remained seated, still, on her rock. It was Adam who found her, staring into the distance at nothing.

“Eva?” His voice was uncertain.

She looked up briefly. “Adam.”

“You should come to rehearsal.”

Eva gave a short laugh. “What for? You were right, you know. It's all nonsense.
Pitomost
.”

“I wasn't. I was wrong.” He kicked a rock as he spoke; they both watched as it rolled away in the dust.

“You weren't. They took Ilona, you know.”

“I know.” He sat down next to her. “My sister, too. She's only five.”

Eva felt her eyes fill with tears.
Five years old.
“I'm sorry, Adam.”

“Me too.” He was hunched forward, his head in his hands. Eva watched as he clutched at his hair: he winced as the wiry black strands came loose. He examined them before tossing them into the wind.

They sat quietly for a moment.

“Krása, he was right, though.” Adam spoke up again. He let go of his hair and folded and unfolded his hands in his lap. “I see that now.”

“How? They took your sister.” Eva's voice was hard.

“Exactly. I'm all that's left of our family.” Adam sounded tired, but his voice rang with a quiet resolve. He sat up straighter. “Who will tell Miriam's story? Or my parents', or Ilona's?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Eva sounded bitter. She turned away from Adam and stared at a newly planted fir tree. She felt a fresh wave of resentment at its bright green needles.

“It has to do with hope, I think. If we sing, we have hope, still. And if we have hope, we might survive.” He put out his hand. “Come with me now.”

Eva went to rehearsal. And when the Red Cross came, she sang. She sang as she had never sung before, for her parents, for Adam's sister, for Ilona. She sang in a voice that was loud and clear and true. And she waited, and she hoped. But the Red Cross came and then went. The grass died, and the chocolates disappeared, and the prince and princess crumbled to dust. And the lists went up again.

Chapter 8

Toronto, Canada

2007

“Come in, guys.” Dr. McLeod is waiting for them when they arrive. They're a few minutes late; finding parking proved to be a challenge today. Usually easy-going and even-tempered, her father becomes Mr. Hyde when driving or parking the car. As she hid in her seat while he swore and railed against other drivers, Elizabeth resolved to make a case for public transportation in the future.

Elizabeth studies Dr. McLeod. She seems cheerful enough—she's smiling, anyway.

Elizabeth and her father exchange a glance.
A good sign?
Elizabeth wonders. Dr. McLeod waves them in, directing them to the table. “I was just on the phone with a colleague overseas,” she says. She's wearing a long denim tunic with purple embroidery today and a pair of orange ballet flats. “About your find, actually.” She sits down and motions for them to do the same. As she settles into her chair, Elizabeth notes that the pile of journals that toppled over like dominoes last week is still in a heap on the floor. There are also several textbooks strewn around under the table. She tries not to hit any with her chair as she pulls it in closer to Dr. McLeod's desk.

“So.” Dr. McLeod looks at them. She crosses and uncrosses her fingers, then crosses them again. She grins mischievously. “How's everyone doing?”

Elizabeth and John look at each other again.

“Okay, thanks,” says Elizabeth cautiously. At the same time, John blurts out, “Is it the real thing?”

“Dad!” says Elizabeth, scandalized.

Dr. McLeod laughs. She winks at Elizabeth. “Is he always like this?”

“Worse, usually.” Elizabeth rolls her eyes and gives her dad a playful punch on the arm.

“I'm sorry.” John looks abashed. He pauses. “But—is it?”

Dr. McLeod smiles. She reaches for a red folder and shuffles some papers. “I can't say for certain, of course. No one can, except perhaps Merriweather, if she's still alive. But in my professional opinion—I would say there is a strong possibility. Probability, even.”

John exhales. “Is that as close to ‘yes' as we're going to get?” he asks.

Dr. McLeod nods. “I can't say for certain, right? But put it this way: that's as good an answer as you could have hoped for.”

John looks triumphant. He reaches over and squeezes Elizabeth's hand. “Quite a birthday present, huh, Liz? Who knew?”

Elizabeth grins. She can't wait to tell Evan. She'd let him know the night before on Facebook that they were coming to see Dr. McLeod today. He'd told her to text him right away when she found out. “Boris and I need to know immediately,” he'd messaged back, and she'd laughed.

Dr. McLeod reaches for a pair of purple glasses and opens the folder. “The lab results all match up,” she says. “I'll spare you the boring details, but in terms of the wood and stuff, it's all what you would expect for a wooden toy from the southwestern part of England. And it's definitely early twentieth century.”

John bangs the table in excitement. “I knew it. I knew it was real! I had a feeling.”

Elizabeth pats her father on the arm and exchanges an amused glance with Dr. McLeod. Neither of them mentions the
Titanic
incident or the number of times John's “had a feeling” about something from a garage sale.

“Just a second there, John,” says Dr. McLeod kindly. She pushes her glasses back up on her nose; they have slid halfway down it from laughing. “I do think there is a good chance it might be. But there are a few oddities I wish I could explain. They don't threaten the authenticity, really; I just wish I understood what they meant.”

“Such as?” John sits up a little straighter. “The uniform color thing you mentioned last time?”

“Exactly,” says Dr. McLeod. She's shuffling through some papers now, looking for something. “Another thing that came up was that the boots appear to have been repainted more recently—maybe fifty years ago.” She picks up the doll and holds it out so they can see. “I did an analysis, and from what we can tell, that paint was made from organic materials. One of the compounds identified is native to Asia.”

They all stare at the boots. “What does that mean?” asks Elizabeth tentatively.

Dr. McLeod looks at her. “It means that our little soldier doll somehow made its way from England, to Germany, to somewhere in Asia, and then—at some point—to Canada.” She sits back and lets the others absorb this information.

“Asia!” says Elizabeth, floored. She pauses. “Couldn't it just be that the paint was manufactured there?”

“Good question,” says Dr. McLeod approvingly. “But I don't think so. From what we can tell, it's not a commercially prepared paint. It's made from plant materials. In Asia, that kind of paint is usually used for traditional silk screening art.”

Elizabeth has no idea what that is, but makes a mental note to Google it later and nods, avoiding eye contact in case someone should ask her thoughts on silk screening. She notices a firefighter calendar hanging on the wall, one of those ones where the firemen aren't wearing any shirts. She fights a sudden urge to laugh.

“I wonder how it got here.” Elizabeth's dad is thinking aloud, talking to himself. He reaches for a paper clip and taps it against the table absently.

“Me too,” says Dr. McLeod. “Unfortunately, science can only take us so far. I have been thinking, though. If you publicize the find, people may come forward. People who were in possession of the doll.” Curious, she looks at them. “What is your plan? Can I ask?”

Elizabeth and her father exchange a glance. A plan is not something they've discussed.

Elizabeth clears her throat. “I kind of want to give it back to her. To Margaret Merriweather. It's hers; she lost it.”

Her dad looks surprised. “I didn't know that was your plan,” he says.

Elizabeth shrugs. “It doesn't feel right to sell it or whatever,” she says. “Not since she's still alive, you know?”

“Is she alive, then?” asks Dr. McLeod. She looks amazed. “I just assumed she had passed. She must be ancient.”

“She is,” says Elizabeth.

“Well, the women of that generation were a hardy lot,” says Dr. McLeod.

Her father gives her another look of surprise. “I didn't realize you'd looked into this, Liz.”

“Yeah.” She reddens. “Is that okay? I know it was your birthday present, Dad. I'll find you something else. Maybe a nice butter dish?” she smiles slyly.

“Funny.” He grins. “It's very admirable of you, Liz.”

She shrugs again, embarrassed. “I'm going to e-mail her publisher.”

Her father picks up the soldier doll. He gives it a piercing stare, as if willing it to share its secrets.

Dr. McLeod nods at them as she takes off her purple glasses and swaps them for a green pair stuck underneath a sheaf of file folders. “It's been through at least two European wars and then to Asia,” she says. “How the heck did it get here? That's what I'd most like to know.”