The Stolen Child(85)

I had disguised ourselves as best we could that morning, affecting a Euro-pean indifference to our hair

and clothing, but I worried that others might see through the ruse. In hindsight, I should not have worried

so, for 1968 was the year of the Prague Spring, that open window when Dubcek tried to bring

"socialism with a human face" to the benighted Czechs and Slovaks. The Russian tanks would not roll in

until August.

Tess loved the danger of our trespass and skulked along the leafy floor like an escaped prisoner. I

tried to keep up with her, hold her hand, and assume an air of silent cunning. After a mile or so on our

hike, an intermittent sprinkle fell through the green leaves, and then a shower began in earnest. The

raindrops hit the canopy above and dripped down with a steady beat, but underneath that rhythm, an

irregular sound of footsteps became audible. It was too dark to make out any figures, but I heard them

marching through the brush, circling around, following us. I grabbed her arm and pushed on faster.

"Henry, do you hear that?" Tess s eyes darted about, and she turned her head from side to side.

They kept on coming, and we began to run. She took one last look over her shoulder and screamed.

Catching me by the elbow, Tess stopped our progress and wheeled me around to face our tormentors.

They looked forlorn in the falling rain. Three cows, two brindles and one white, stared back at us,

indifferently chewing their cuds.

Soaked, we fled the wet forest and found the road. We must have been a pitiable sight, for a

farmer's truck stopped, and the driver indicated with his meaty thumb that we could hitch a ride in the

back. Tess shouted "Cheb?" to him through the rain, and when he nodded, we got in and rode atop a

mountain of potatoes for a half-hour all the way to the quaint Czech village. I kept my eyes on the

receding woods, the winding road, sure that we were being followed.

Like flowers in a spring garden, the houses and stores were painted in pale pastels, the old

buildings in white and yellow, taupe and verdigris. While many parts of Cheb seemed ageless, the

buildings and landmarks struck no chords in my memory. A black sedan with a red glass siren sat

parked at a crazy angle before the town hall. To avoid the police, we walked in the opposite direction,

hoping to find someone who could understand our fractured Ger-man. We shied away from the pink

Hotel Hvezda, spooked by a severe police-man outside who stared at us for a full thirty seconds.

Across the square, past the sculpture of the Savage Man, sat a ramshackle hotel near the Ohøe e River.

I had hoped and expected the landmarks to trigger memories of Gustav Ungerland, but nothing was

familiar. My vaulted expectations, conjured along the journey, proved too high a hope. It was as if I had

never been there before, or as if childhood in Bohemia had never existed.

Inside a dark and smoky bar, we bribed the manager with American dol-lars to let us dine on

sausages and boiled potatoes, and a dank half-bottle of East German wine. After our meal, we were led

up a crooked staircase to a tiny room with no more than a bed and a basin. I locked the door, and Tess

and I lay on our backs in our jackets and boots on the threadbare covers, too tense, tired, and excited

to move. Darkness slowly stole the light, and the silence was broken only by the sounds of our breathing

and wild, racing hearts.

"What are we doing here?" she finally asked.

I sat up and began undressing. In my former life, I could have seen her in the dark as clearly as

break of day, but now I relied on imagination. "Isn't it a kick? This town was once part of Germany, and

before that of Bohemia?"

She took off her boots, slipped out of her jacket. I slid under the woolen blankets and coarse

sheets as she undressed. Shivering and naked, Tess moved in close, rubbing a cold foot against my leg.

"I'm scared. Suppose the secret police come knocking on the door?"

"Don't worry, baby," I told her in my best James Bond. "I've got a li-cense to kill." I rolled over on

top of her, and we did our best to live for the danger.

Waking late the next morning, we hurried over to the grand old Church of St. Nicholas, arriving late

for a Mass in Czech and Latin. Nearest the altar sat a few elderly women, rosaries draped in their folded

hands, and sprinkled here, small families sat in clumps, dazed and wary as sheep. At the entranceway,

two men in dark suits may have been watching us. I tried to sing along with the hymns, but I could only

fake the words. While I did not understand the service, its rites and rituals mirrored those long-ago

Masses with my mother—icons above candles, rich vestments of the priests and pristine altar boys, the

rhythm of standing, kneeling, sitting, a consecration heralded by the hells. Although I knew by then it was