The Stolen Child(84)

broken ankle, binding it up with Luchóg’s jacket, and they covered her with fallen leaves and lay next to

her all night to share the warmth from their bodies. Smaolach wandered off and returned much later with

a gourd filled with water. We sat and stared at the fire, brushing the caked dirt from our hair and

clothing, waiting for the sun to rise. In those quiet hours, we mourned the dead. Ragno and Zanzara were

as gone as Kivi and Blomma and Igel.

In place of the prior morning's brilliant glow, a gentle rain crawled in and settled. Only the

occasional whistle from a lonesome bird marked the passing time. Around midday, a fierce yell of pain

punctuated the stillness. Chavisory awoke to her ordeal and cursed the rock, the mine, Béka, and us all.

We could not silence her anguished cries until Speck took her hand and willed her through steadfastness

to be quiet. The rest of us looked away from her, stealing glances at one another's faces, masks of

weariness and sorrow. We were now seven. I had to count twice to believe it.

• C H A P T E R 2 7 •

Tess didn't need to be talked into sneaking across the border, and the very idea of transgression

sent an erotic jolt into our honeymoon. The closer we got to Czechoslovakia, the livelier the sex became.

On the day we mapped our secret passage to the other side, she kept me in bed until mid-morning. Her

desires fed my own curiosity about my hidden heritage. I needed to know where I had come from, who

I had been. Every step along the way brought the sensation of returning home. The landscape looked

fa-miliar and dreamlike, as if the trees, lakes, and hills lay embedded, but long dormant, in my senses.

The architecture of stone and exposed timber was exactly as I had pictured, and at inns and cafes, the

people we met bore famil-ial traces in their sturdy bodies, fine chiseled features, clear blue eyes, and

sweeping blonde hair. Their faces enticed me deeper into Bohemia. We de-cided to cross into the

forbidden land at the village of Hohenberg, which sat on the German line.

Since it was first dedicated in 1222, the castle at the center of town had been destroyed and rebuilt

several times, most recently after World War II. On a sunny Saturday, Tess and I had the place to

ourselves except for a young German family with small children who followed us from building to

building. They caught up to us outside, near the uneven white walls that ran along the city's rear border, a

fortress against attack from the forest and the Eger River beyond.

"Pardon me," the mother said to Tess in English, "you are American, right? Would you a

photograph take? Of my family, on my camera?"

I blanched at being so easily recognizable as Americans. Tess smiled at me, took off her

backpack, and laid it on the ground. The family of six ar-ranged themselves at the base of one of the

original parapets. The children looked as if they could have been my brothers and sisters, and as they

posed, the notion that I once was part of such a family lingered and then receded into ether. Tess took a

few steps backward to squeeze them all into the frame, and the small children cried out, "Vorsicht, der

Igel! Der Igel!" The boy, no more than five, ran straight at Tess with a mad expression in his blue eyes.

He stopped at her feet, reached between her ankles to a small flower bed, and carefully scooped up

something in his small hands.

"What do you have there?" Tess bent to meet his face.

He held out his hands and a hedgehog crawled out from his fingers. Everybody laughed at the

minor drama of Tess nearly stepping on the prickly thing, but I could barely light a smoke due to the

shakes. Igel. I had not heard that name in almost twenty years. All of them had names, not quite

forgotten. I reached out to touch Tess to help put them out of mind.

After the family left, we followed the map to hiking trails behind the castle. Along one path, we

came across a miniature cave, and in front, signs of an encampment, what looked to me like an

abandoned ring. I led us away quickly, heading east and downhill through the black woods. Our trail

spilled out to a two-lane road devoid of traffic. Around the bend, a sign saying EGER STEG pointed to

a dirt road to the right, and we came upon mild rapids across a narrow river, no more than a wide but

shallow stream. On the opposite bank lay the Czechoslovakian woods, and in the hills behind, Cheb.

Not another soul was in sight, and perhaps because of the river or the rocks, no barbed-wire fence

protected the border. Tess held my hand and we crossed.

The rocks above the waterline provided safe footing, but we had to watch our step. When we

reached the Czech side, a thrill, sharp as a razor, went through me. We'd made it. Home, or as close to

it as possible. At that instant, I was ready to convert—or revert—and lay claim to my identity. Tess and