Mrs. Tuesday's Departure: A Historical Novel of World War Two (7 page)

“You,” she hissed. “You tricked my mother!”

“No,” Jozef said.

“There were supposed to be five tickets.”

I held out my arm to interrupt her. “Mila, you don’t understand.”

“Your mother knew there were only two tickets,” he said.

“No!” Mila ran forward her knife thrust toward Jozef. “No! You are lying!”

He grabbed her wrist, pulling her into his chest. She screamed as he twisted the knife from her hand and it clattered to the ground. Throwing Mila to one side, Jozef stooped to pick up the knife. Mila thrust her foot in front of his hand and kicked the knife over to me. Jozef lunged across the floor as I knelt for the weapon. Mila jumped onto his back just as he grabbed the knife. I watched in horror as they rolled away from me, Mila’s fist pounding against him. With a jerk, he threw her onto her back. He pinned Mila’s arms beneath his knees and put the knife to her throat.

“NO!”

Jozef pressed th
e
knife
into Mila’s flesh. “Drop the saber and hand me the bag.”

“Don’t Nana,” Mila’s voice was hoarse. “He’ll kill us both.”

The memory of Deszo and Max fencing flashed before me. I heard Deszo’s voice laughing as he parried Max’s thrust, “You Russian fool! Technique always wins over brute strength.”

I lifted the saber as if to hand it to him, then swiveling the blade I brought it down slashing into his arm. The edge of the saber was too dull to tear his clothing but the force of the blow knocked the knife from his hand and he cried out in pain, rolling off Mila holding his arm.

Again, they scrambled for the knife.

“Enough!” I screamed. “Stop this madness.”

Mila reached the knife first and rolled onto her back. She scuttled across the floor using her legs like a crab. She stopped with her back propped up against the bookcase, holding the knife in both her hands, she gasped, and “You bastard, I’ll kill you.”

“You don’t have the strength,” Jozef laughed.

I stepped between the two. “I said, enough. No one wins here.”

Jozef leaned back on his arms, panting, as he regarded me from the floor. In an instant, I realized we no longer faced any harm from him. There was something in his eyes, caution, but not aggression. He fancied himself a businessman, not a crook. He was as desperate as we were, but for different reasons. Where we saw danger, he saw the opportunity to make a profit. Max once told me that when you understood a man’s motive, you knew how to deal with him.

“We still need to find a way to safety,” I said. “At least for Mila.”

He looked at Mila and smiled sadly. “The Nazis are here,” he said looking over his shoulder as if expecting to see them enter the room at their mention. My eyes followed expecting the same. “If they don’t get you, our own Arrow Cross soldiers will.”

I shuddered recalling the force of their brutality. I was no longer sure which enemy was worse, the Germans or our own countrymen. “You could get us more tickets,” I said. “At least one.”

“There are no more trains out.”

“Is there any other way you can help us?” I bargained. “I have money.”

He got to his feet, dusting off his pants; he leaned over and grasped the sack. “So do I.”

I moved close
r
and tapped his back with the saber. “You won’t leave with that.”

“What will you do?” he scoffed.

“We don’t need to replay our fight.” I measured the saber in my hand.

His eyes again went to Mila. She straightened, holding the knife against her side, regarding him. Her hair had come loose from its braid and lay in loose ringlets across her shoulders. Her face, reddened from the exertion of the fight, made her look as if she were wearing rouge and lipstick. I imagined that Jozef was gradually recognizing her beauty.

“I can help you in other ways,” he offered.

“How,” I asked.

He shook his head and chuckled, “I need money.”

“You’ve got money, from the tickets!” Mila said.

He lifted the bag onto his shoulder. “That money won’t last long, prices are rising.”

“You said you could help us, how?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I know of safe houses where they are hiding Jews.”

I’d heard similar rumors, but had no idea of whether they were true. I’d also heard of Jews promised safety, never heard from again. “How?”

“I do business with them,” he smiled. “For a price, I get them supplies, documents, things.”

Mila scoffed “And we should trust you?”

“You have no choice.” He smiled his dark eyes startling in their cunning and, I realized, their magnetism. “You trusted me to get the tickets.”

“And you cheated us!”

“Not me,” he said, and then his smile faded. “The two who got on that train cheated you.”

“Put down the bag, and let’s talk.” I motioned him to the chair where I sat last night. “I’ll make coffee.”

Jozef regarded me for a long moment and then Mila. He started to say something and then stopped. He shrugged, sighed, carried the bag of my belongings to my chair, and sat down. “I’m hungry.”

Mila snapped, “We’re not going to share what little food we have with you!”

“I’ll find something,” I said.

Mila followed me across the room and seethed, “Nana, this boy was trying to rob us, and now you offer him coffee?”

“He may be able to help us,” I said. “That he was trying to steal from us is not surprising. I’m only glad he didn’t kill us first.”

“I don’t trust him,” she said.

“Neither do I,” I replied. “But that has nothing to do with his ability to help us.”

Turning from Mila, I carried a cup of coffee across the room to our guest.

Inside, the Churc
h
was nearly as dark as the evening outside. There were few people in attendance, perhaps five, old women like herself, coats on against the cold, backs bent under osteoporosis, little silver heads craning upwards toward the crucifix like turtles craning from their shells. Mrs. Tuesday walked up the aisle to the fourth pew on the right, nodding as she passed familiar faces. She made a shallow genuflection, crossed herself, and scuttled sideways into the pew. Her arthritic knees no longer permitted her to kneel, so she perched on the edge of the wooden bench, and held her rosary in her hands as she said her prayers. Even after all these years, gazing at the image of Christ on the Cross could still move her to tears. Yes, she knew He was no longer there, had died, was buried, and then rose again on the third day. It was a familiar line she recited at every Mass. But the miracle of the Resurrection wasn’t the source of her awe; it was the love Jesus shared in his willingness to go to the cross in the first place.

She watched Father Menendez hobble to the altar and she slid back on the pew and tucked her rosary into her pocket. The depth of that love brought her to Christ as a young girl and kept her enthralled for the rest of her life.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” Father Menendez said as he crossed himself. He was nearly as old as she was, but there were too few priests these days to allow him to retire.

“Amen,” answered Mrs. Tuesday and the rest of the old women.

When Mass was completed, Mrs. Tuesday walked over to the statue of the Virgin Mary and looked into the eyes of the benevolent Mother. She stuffed a dollar into the box and then lighted two candles as she did every day. “For those who sacrificed so we could live,” she whispered. She thought of the unopened package at home, the phone calls that had preceded it, the plane reservations she’d made, hoping to hurry its arrival. After all these years of wondering, the answers were in that envelope, yet she had not had the courage to open it. She hesitated and then reached into her purse and stuffed another dollar into the coin box. Her hand shook as she guided the wooden skewer with another flame to a new candle. “For my daughter.”

I woke t
o
someone pounding on the front door. I scrambled out of bed and found Mila standing in the hallway, staring at the door.

“Should I answer it?” she whispered.

“No, go to my room and close the door.” I pushed her down the hall and hurried to the front door. “Who is it?”

“It’s David, from the University.”

“What do you want?” I asked through the closed door.

“It’s about your sister.”

“She no longer works there,” I said my heart pounding.

“I know, but she’s there now,” he yelled back.

“She can’t be
,
she’s here,” I yelled. “Anna! Anna come here!”

There was no response to my call.

I hurried down the hall to her room. Opening her door, I found the room empty; the bed covers tossed aside and her closet door open. The robe and pajamas I’d seen her in last night lay in a jumbled pile on the floor.

My heart filled with panic. I fled down the hall opening and slamming doors, looking in the bathroom, my study, the dining room, and the kitchen, calling her name. There was no answer.

I went to my room and found Mila pacing like a caged animal. “Have you seen Anna this morning?”

Her eyes were wide with fright. “I’ve only been up for a little while. Her door was closed so I thought she was still sleeping.”

I ran to the front door and flung it open. “Where’s my sister?”

The young student standing before me flinched and then straightening up looked confused. “But I thought you were, I mean, I...”

“We’re twins,” I replied recognizing his confusion. “Now where is she?”

“Oh,” he recovered and then explained. “She’s at the University.”

“What’s she doing there?”

He shrugged, his cheeks flushed in embarrassment. “Giving a lecture.”

“That’s not possible!” I said. “Who are you? And who sent you on this terrible practical joke?”

He squared his shoulders and his cheeks blushed crimson again. “It’s not a joke!” he cried. “I was one of her students before she left. I’m a poet!”

“Are you sure she was there?” I asked. “This morning?”

“She’s not here is she?” he snapped. “Look we don’t have time. She refuses to understand that she’s no longer a professor. She’s giving a lecture, they’re afraid of what she’ll say. The dean sent me to get you. Before the police arrive.”

“Oh my God,” I gasped. “Wait a moment while I change.” I rushed to my room and explained the situation to Mila.

She got up and hurried to the door. “I’m coming with you.”

“You can’t,” I said, grabbing for the dress I’d discarded last night. “It’s too dangerous.”

“You’ll need my help!”

“Mila, I’ve told everyone that you left with your mother, you can’t be seen.”

“But I can’t stay here.”

“For now you must.” I sat on the edge of the bed and struggled into my stockings and shoes. “I don’t have time to argue.”

I got up and met Mila at the door. Embracing her I whispered in her ear, “Please, I know it’s hard, but please, stay here.”

She didn’t respond but met my gaze with sad, frustrated eyes that reminded me that she was still a young girl.

I met David at the front door and we hurried down the stairs together and out into the street.

The long hal
l
of the university’s tiled floor echoed the clatter of our heels. We ran by classrooms that had emptied to follow the crowd down the hall. Although the location of her former classroom was familiar to me, the throng of students and professors outside the doorway was a surer indication that we’d reached our destination.

I could not see Anna over the heads of the students who stood in front of me. I could hear her voice, but her words were indistinct. Pushing my way through the crowd, I stopped at the doorway and stared. Standing at the front of the room behind her podium, was my sister. Thankfully, she’d exchanged her ball gown for an old green tweed suit she frequently wore to lectures. Her wild blond hair was neatly pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck. Her face was pale, but radiant.

Her composure astonished me. Her shoulders were back, her head held high, commanding her audience. Gone was the wild, lost look in her eyes. Before me stood a woman, I’d rarely seen in the past year. In shock, I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The students sat in rapt attention. The room was silent, except for her voice. I watched in awe as she paced behind the table, her hands clasped behind her back, warming to her subject.

“War seems to be the way of the world. In history books we read of military campaigns lead by men with maps, armies marked by pushpins, their progress shown by arrows drawn in ink. These Generals plan their assault safely tucked in bunkers of reinforced concrete. Who are we to them? We are nameless, faceless ants.”