The Stolen Child(86)

just a romantic folly, I could picture my former self done up in Sunday clothes beside her on the pew

with my reluctant, sighing father and the twins squirming in their skirts. What struck me most of all was

the organ music from the loft above, cascading like a river over rocks.

As the parishioners exited, they stopped to share a few words among themselves and to greet the

wizened priest standing in the bright sunshine beyond the door. A blonde girl turned to her nearly

identical sister and pointed to us, whispered in his ear, and then they ran hand in hand from the church.

Tess and I lingered, taking in the elaborate statues of Mary and St. Nicholas flanking the entrance, and

we were the final pair to leave the build-ing. When Tess held out her hand to the priest, she found herself

captured in his grasp and drawn closer.

"Thank you for coming," he said, then turned to me, a strange look in his eyes, as if he knew my

history. "And God bless you, my son."

Tess broke into a beatific grin. "Your English is perfect. How did you know we are Americans?"

He held her hand the whole time. "I was five years in New Orleans at the St. Louis Cathedral back

when I was first ordained. Father Karel Hlinka. You're here for the festival?"

"What festival?" Tess brightened at the prospect.

" Pražké Jaro. The Prague Spring International Music Festival."

"Oh, no. We knew nothing about that." She leaned in and said in a low, confidential voice, "We

snuck across the border."

Hlinka laughed, taking her remark as a joke, and she swiftly changed the subject, asking him about

his American experience and the cafe life of New Orleans. As they chatted and laughed, I went outside,

stood in a corner to light a cigarette, and considered the blue smoke curling to the sky. The two blonde

sisters had circled back, this time leading a group of other children gathered from the streets. Like a

string of birds on a telephone wire, they stood just beyond the gates, a dozen heads peeking over the

low wall. I could hear them babbling in Czech, a phrase that sounded like podvržené dítì popping up

like the leitmotif of their chattering song. With a glance at my wife, who was holding Father Hlinka in rapt

attention, I started to walk over to the children, who scattered like pigeons when I came too close. They

flew in again when I showed them my back, and ran off, laughing and screaming, when I turned around.

When I stepped outside the gate, I found one girl cowering behind the wall. We spoke in German, and I

told her not to be afraid.

"Why is everyone running away and laughing?"

"She told us there was a devil in the church."

"But I am not a devil .. .just an American."

"She said you are from the woods. A fairy."

Beyond the town's streets, the old forest bristled with life. "There are no such things as fairies."

The girl stood up and faced me, hands on her hips. "I don't believe you," she said, and turned to

race off to her companions. I stood there watching her go, my mind twisted in knots, worried that I had

made a mistake. But we had come too far for me to be frightened by mere children or the threat of the

police. In a way, they were no different from other people. Suspicion was a sec-ond skin for me, and I

felt perfectly capable of hiding the facts from everyone.

Tess bounded through the gates and found me on the sidewalk. "How would you like a private

tour, baby?"

Father Hlinka was at her side. "Frau Day tells me that you are a musician, a composer. You must

try out the pipe organ here. Best in Cheb."

In the loft high above the church, I sat at the keyboard, the empty pews stretching out before me,

the gilt altar, the enormous crucifix, and played like a man possessed. To work the fool pedals and get

the right tone from the massive organ, I had to rock and throw my weight against the machine, but once I

figured out its complexities of stops and bellows and was in the flow of the music, it became a kind of

dance. I performed a simple piece from the Berceuse by Louis Vierne, and for the first time in years felt

myself again. While I was playing, I became a thing apart, not aware of anyone or anything else but the

music, which infused me like hot ice and fell over me like wondrous strange snow. Father Hlinka and

Tess sat in the gallery with me, watching my hands move, my head bob, and listened to the music.

When she tired of the violent sound, Tess kissed my cheek and wandered down the staircase to

look over the rest of the church. Alone with the priest, I quickly broached the reason for my visit to

Cheb. I told him of my research into family history and how the librarian back in Frankfurt had advised

me to check the church records, for there was little hope of getting access to the central government