Lost and Found in Prague (6 page)

“You’re reopening the case?” Reznik asked. Detective Reznik had joined the force at the same time as Dal. They’d gone through the academy together. He was movie-star handsome, with thick, dark hair and five o’clock shadow, and could have been cast as a cinema detective who always got his man as well as the girl. In reality he was lazy, often taking credit for the efforts of others. He hadn’t celebrated when Dal was named chief.

“You want us off Zajic?” Reznik asked. “Work the Kula case?”

“Not officially,” Dal replied as he scanned the table of officers. He didn’t want the press getting hold of this and he was sure his officers understood. Old Branislov Cerný once told Dal that before the republic, nothing got out to the press. The government
was
the press. A cop could do his job. “Nowadays it’s the damn reporters who seem to think they’re going to solve all the crimes,” Cerný had said. Dal knew of several instances, one in particular, when they had set up a sting—then in came the reporters and blew the whole damn thing.

He had little use for snoopy reporters.

Just like the city of Prague, the Church of Our Lady Victorious, Kostel Panny Marie Vítezné, had experienced many incarnations. Originally built between 1611 and 1613 and dedicated to the Holy Trinity as a Lutheran church, the Catholic emperor gifted it to the Carmelites after the defeat of the Protestants in the Battle of White Mountain in 1620. It was rededicated to Our Lady of Victory. The Carmelites were forced to flee in 1784 when their monastery was closed by Emperor Joseph II. The administration of the church was turned over to the Maltese Order. More than two hundred years later, in 1993, the Carmelites were allowed to return and reclaim the church.

A broad stone staircase led up to the structure of pale ocher stone, a Baroque facade topped with onion domes and spires. With its architectural swirls and curves, recessed carvings and medallions, it had the look of a multilayered, decorated cake, though compared to many European churches it was relatively small. Perhaps it would have gone unnoticed, without visitors other than a handful of devout members of the Czech congregation, had it not been the home of one of the most famous religious icons of the world. The Holy Infant of Prague.

The statue had come to Prague as a gift from a Spanish princess. In Córdoba on the eve of her marriage to Lord Vratislav of Pernštejn in 1556, Princess Maria was presented the little statue by her mother, Dona Isabella Manrique de Lara y Mendoza. The princess would soon travel with her new husband to his home in Bohemia, and her mother wished to send her off with a personal protector in the form of the Infant King.

Later, Maria passed the statue on to her own daughter, the beautiful princess Polyxena, when she married a Czech nobleman. After two marriages, twice widowed, in 1628 Polyxena presented the Little King to the Barefoot Carmelite community in Prague. In 1631 Prague was invaded by the Saxons. The conquerors, according to the traditional story, discarded the Infant. Several years later a young priest, recently returned to the city, found the statue, hands missing, in a pile of rubbish. One day while in prayer, Father Cyril heard the Infant speak. “Have pity on me and I will have pity on you,” the Infant said. “Give me my hands and I will give you peace. The more you honor me, the more I will bless you.”

Father Cyril prayed for funds to repair the statue. Miraculously, benefactors appeared. The statue was restored and many blessings were bestowed upon the monastery and the people of Prague. These blessings, as well as miracles, were said to continue to this day.

As Dana climbed the steps, she was well aware of these facts, this history. The myths. She had read the books and pamphlets Caroline had sent her before the trip, the guidebooks purchased in anticipation of her visit. She had come to regard churches in general as historical, architectural monuments rather than houses of prayer. She had forgotten how to pray. She had given up on prayer.

She entered. Gilt on the high altar, the six side altars, and an ornate pulpit sparkled, giving the impression everything had been dipped in gold. A grand assortment of carved angels and saints, paintings, sculptures, and spiraled columns adorned each altar. Carved stone communion rails, several with decorative iron gates, separated the altars from the aisles. An abundance of Easter lilies festooned the entire church, bringing to Dana’s mind the expression
gilding the lily
.

No sign of Caroline, or any other nuns, though Dana was a good thirty minutes early. She glanced around, locating the votive candles in the back of the church, and then she sat in a pew. A few people milled about in addition to those gathered around the main altar, where a Mass was being celebrated. Dana knew this was not the official 9:00
A.M
. Czech Mass listed in the brochures, but guessed masses were offered throughout the day for visiting pilgrims. Two women chatted quietly behind her. Dana scanned the right side of the church, her eyes finally resting on the middle altar. A glass box stood above the golden tabernacle, so high it was difficult to see what was inside, though she knew it was the Infant. The brightness of the lights in the church, as well as the natural light coming from skylights in the vaulted ceiling, created a glare on the glass. Dana pulled her book from her bag and flipped to the page with a photo of the little statue. Not really an infant, the child appeared much older, a young boy with cherubic face, pale complexion, and blond curls. Though Dana herself had enticed Caroline on that first visit to Prague by suggesting they could see the world-famous figure, they’d become swept up in events enveloping the city and did not step foot inside the church. Dana had never seen the Infant of Prague.

Book in hand, she rose, walked, and knelt at the communion rail before the altar where she could get a better view. Protected under glass, the Infant’s features were difficult to make out, though she assumed they were the same as those pictured in her book. She glanced from photograph to authentic Infant. The Infant of Prague, approximately forty-seven centimeters tall, was described as being constructed of carved wood, covered with a thin coat of wax molded into a simple white tunic. His wardrobe consisted of over one hundred garments, donated by royalty as well as wealthy patrons. The Carmelite nuns of the Malá Strana were honored with the duty of dressing the Infant.

The little figure in the box wore a white gown made of what appeared to be silk brocade with ornate gold trim. A jeweled crown perched on his head. In his left hand, he held a small orb—surely the world. His right hand rose in a gesture with two fingers pressed together, offering a blessing. Dana noticed, along the walls on either side of the Infant’s altar, plaques with words and names and dates, though they were at such a distance that she could not make them out. They were said to be gifts, accompanied, she guessed, by monetary offerings from those who had been blessed. With miracles? she wondered. She had once prayed for a miracle, though she had never believed in miracles. In desperation, she had prayed. Suddenly and unexpectedly she felt a twitch in her eye, a rush of heat across her face. She was about to cry, something she seldom did. But these were not tears of sadness. They were tears of anger. She turned and returned to the pew and sat, attempting to rid herself of these emotions, to create a void, a blank to dismiss these feelings. She remained sitting, breathing heavily.

Mass finished, the tourists gathered around the altar with the priest. All shifted and settled into a group pose with picture-ready smiles. Various members took turns snapping away with their cameras. Several held replicas of the Infant King to be captured in their photographs.

Dana glanced at her watch. A mere five minutes had passed. Time creeping. She shouldn’t have come so early. Twenty-five minutes to go—if Caroline appeared on time. Dana thumbed through her book, trying to read, to concentrate. She needed to get out of this place. This church, where the faithful came to pray for miracles, to pray to an Infant who was said to be God. Suddenly she sensed someone standing beside her.

She turned and faced the priest who’d just said Mass.

“Welcome to the Church of Our Lady Victorious,” he said in a soft voice in perfect English, though Dana could hear the traces of an accent. Italian? He was a handsome man, with silver hair, a lovely smile, and warm, kind eyes. “What brings you here today?”

Dana felt a prick of nerves move like an itchy insect across her arm. Had he noticed her approach the Infant’s altar? Had he sensed her discomfort?

What
was
she doing here?
Meeting her cousin, possibly a clandestine meeting with a nun who should be sequestered in mourning.

“When I was a child in my school,” she began, her voice cracking, “we had this little statue in the classroom, the Infant of Prague.”

“Yes, yes,” he replied with an inviting smile. “I hear that from many, particularly the Americans. Keep him always close to your heart, and he will bring you many blessings.”

Again her eyes darted around the church, resting once more on the Infant King. The priest stood as though waiting for something. Dana wondered if such a virtuous person could see right through to the darkness of her soul. She felt near tears again, her face burning, a compression in her chest.

“May I include special intentions in my prayers?” he asked, his words, the texture of his voice touching her in a strange, unexpected way.

She knew what he was asking. She shook her head.

He waited, saying no more.

Several moments passed. The silence seemed to shout,
I know there is something. Please let me help you.
Finally he said, “Bless you, my daughter.” He did not touch her, but she felt the lightest weight press down upon her, as if he had placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. The priest stood another long moment, and then he turned and walked away.

Dana sat for one minute, two, five. Minutes that seemed to stretch on and on, as she attempted to push her mind into blankness. She needed to get up and move around, yet she felt a heaviness within, as if her own body would not release her.

Finally, she rose and made her way to the front of the church and around to the right. She climbed the stairs toward the museum. Along the spiral staircase, large photographs of the Holy Infant hung, pictures showing a variety of robes and garments presented over the centuries, some from royalty, others from religious groups and devotees. Robes and gowns and jeweled crowns and winding steps.

Upstairs in the museum she found more little robes displayed under glass on headless, limbless forms, along with an explanation of where each gift had come from, what particular colors were used for the various liturgical seasons. Nuns dressing the Infant projected on a screen, accompanied by soft music. To protect the statue the sisters enclosed it from the waist down in a metal cone. Dana watched in silence for several minutes, wondering if Sister Agnes would appear in the film, but she did not.

Winding back down the stairs, Dana found the gift shop with books, statues, rosaries, postcards, and religious paraphernalia. She continued on to another room behind the altar, through the sacristy, where she gazed into a glass case filled with little statues, replicas of the original Infant of Prague in a variety of sizes and attire, some plastic, others porcelain. Another display presented pamphlets and literature describing the African mission the church supported. She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes. She should return just in case Caroline arrived early.

Back in the church, the tourists from the Mass had left, though the priest stood conversing in whispers with two other visitors. Surely this was the prior, Father Giuseppe, whom Caroline had written about in her letters, describing him as a gifted linguist, able to say Mass in a dozen languages. According to Caroline the man was a saint. Maybe he was—he had the voice and demeanor of a saint.

Dana sat and waited, but Caroline did not appear. She walked to the back of the church and positioned herself in a pew, glancing around, searching the area near the votive candles. It was five past eleven. The minutes crept as Dana’s eyes flickered from her watch to the votive candles. She waited five more minutes, ten minutes. Caroline wasn’t going to show. She was about to leave when she saw, coming through the sacristy door, genuflecting before the high altar, then making her way along the side aisle on the right, small cardboard box held in front of her in both hands, head dipped in reflection, a tall woman dressed in the black and brown of the Carmelites. With the veil and wimple framing and shadowing her face, it was difficult to make out her features.

The woman stopped at the three altars along the side of the church, genuflecting at each. Dana felt herself overcome with a sense of excitement as she studied the figure gliding toward the back of the church, eyes now fixed on something at a great distance. Dana could see now—it was Caroline. She looked older, fleshier, her face a little plumper. Still beautiful. Pale blue eyes, dark, perfectly formed brows. And yet a sadness enveloped her, and Dana realized her fine features were touched with grief that, in turn, touched Dana. This was a woman in mourning.

Dana genuflected and sat in a pew near the votive stand. Caroline continued, eyes downcast once more, making her way to the little stand holding the candles. She glanced up, no acknowledgment other than a slight tilt of the head. Dana smiled.

Placing the box on the floor, she pulled a key from a voluminous fold of her habit, opened the offering box, removed the coins, extracted a small velvet purse from another pocket, and quietly emptied the coins into the little pouch. She began removing spent candles, replacing them with new ones lifted from small corrugated slots in the box.

Dana stood and stepped closer, fishing around in her own bag for coins. Caroline turned and her taut, white face suddenly but slowly tipped up, the slightest smile lifting her lips.

“Can I give you a hug?” Dana whispered, feeling foolish. This was her cousin, her childhood best friend. Why should she even ask?

With a quick movement of her head, Caroline indicated no.

Dana reached out and touched Caroline’s hand.

“I need your help.” Caroline spoke softly as she slowly withdrew her hand. Quickly her eyes rose up to the altar. The priest, the kind, sweet priest, stood with one remaining tourist, the two conversing in hushed tones.

“Something terrible, here at the church,” Caroline whispered. “Our oldest nun, Sister Claire . . .” She stopped, her eyes darting to and then quickly away from Dana. “I need your help to . . .” She gazed up toward the altar of the Infant as her voice faded. “I can’t do it myself. Someone must find . . .”

Caroline’s hand trembled as she placed a fresh candle in the cup holder. She glanced back and forth from candles to the high altar, where the priest and tourist now stood just outside the communion rail, heads bowed as if in prayer. Dana dropped the coins into the votive box. Metal on metal as they hit the bottom of the now empty container reverberated through the small church. The priest looked back, seemed to find nothing amiss, and then continued his praying.