Silver Wattle (9 page)

Some time later, Hilda, Aunt Josephine’s maid who had come to stay with us too, informed us that there was a letter from Australia. Uncle Ota had sent us a pressed flower stem inside a sheet of tissue paper. Klara held it up and we admired the plant’s silvery-green leaves and its balls of golden flowers. A fragrance similar to lilacs lingered in the paper. The envelope also contained a coloured drawing of the plant—silver wattle—by Ranjana. The accompanying letter from Uncle Ota asked that the flower be placed on Mother’s grave.
Although I had not seen Marta for nearly twenty years, I remember the vibrant young woman who was so devoted to her family
, Uncle Ota wrote. Then, on a separate page, he had written:

A shiver ran down my spine. They were lines from the poem ‘May’ that followed those I had read in the remains of Mother’s letter to Uncle Ota.

‘It is ironic that he should quote Karel Hynek Macha,’ Aunt Josephine told me when Klara was out of earshot.

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Because the poet is thought to have died of appendicitis, but mystery still surrounds his death.’

The months passed, but our pain did not. Klara worked on her pieces with paní Milotova with an even greater intensity than before. Because she was sensitive, we kept Doctor Soucek’s claim from her. As a result, her grief followed a more even path than Aunt Josephine or I managed. I fell apart one afternoon when I found a hairbrush with Mother’s blonde strands still intertwined in the bristles. Aunt Josephine did the same when she was rummaging through the sewing box and discovered a pin cushion she had made for Mother when they were young. The only clue to Klara’s inner anguish came when she practised on her own. If she could not learn a piece by her third attempt, her playing descended into a tumble of chords, as though she was shrieking out her pain through her instrument. Yet, on the surface, she remained as calm as always.

Milosh visited us on Christmas Eve. Aunt Josephine seated him in a chair opposite the sofa where she sat with Klara and myself. She would not leave him alone with us. Aunt Josephine and I were in two minds about my stepfather. If we never saw him again, we would not be sorry; on the other hand, we needed to watch him and see if we could find any clues as to whether he had played a role in Mother’s death. For his part, Milosh may have been keeping up an appearance of caring about us to maintain propriety and divert any suspicion. More chillingly, he could have been trying to stay close enough so he could kill us.

Milosh had brought presents: a wide-brimmed tea hat for Aunt Josephine, which I knew she would think too showy; a crystal lamb for Klara, which was ironic considering Milosh had no love for animals; and a gold necklace with a diamond pendant for me. I held up the chain and the diamond sparkled in the lamplight.

‘I bought it for your mother…for our anniversary,’ said Milosh. ‘You are so much like her. I hope that its beauty flatters your own.’

My gaze drifted to the extra setting at the table. It was a Czech tradition to make a place for the recently departed, who we believed to be with us in spirit. I turned back to Milosh but could not tell if the glimmer in his eye was a tear or a glint from the fire’s light.

We ate dinner in silence. The cook was away, so Hilda had prepared cabbage soup with potato salad and vanochka. Normally the soup was delicious, but with the tension in the air it tasted bitter. Aunt Josephine did not lift her eyes from her bowl and Milosh clenched his spoon so tightly that each time he moved it to his lips the action looked mechanical.

At last it was time for Milosh to leave. Despite our efforts to be hospitable, he had sensed that he was unwelcome. I watched him walk down the snow-covered street and remembered a proverb my father was fond of reciting: ‘Keep your friends close, but your enemies even closer.’

Not long into the new year, we received a letter from Uncle Ota and Ranjana.

To my dear ladies,

I cannot tell you the joy the arrival of our boy has brought us. Ranjana was at her job at a stocking factory when this little one decided to arrive a few weeks early. Despite this, his lungs are strong and his fingers have a grip like a monkey’s. He has my nose and chin, but I am happy to announce that he has his mother’s eyes. He is the most delicious colour—like a caramel toffee. Because he was born in Australia, we have decided to give him a distinguished English-sounding name: Thomas James. I have also changed my surname to ‘Rose’ as ‘Ruzicka’ is proving too difficult for anyone here to pronounce…

Perhaps Uncle Ota had not told us that he and Ranjana were expecting a child because of the news of Mother’s death, but after receiving the letter Aunt Josephine set us to work knitting booties and jackets for our new cousin.

‘It’s warm in Australia,’ Klara tried to explain.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Aunt Josephine. ‘They don’t have much money and we must do what we can to help them.’

On the days Klara went to school, I walked her there. In the afternoons she used to walk back with a group of friends, but since Mother’s death I met her at the school door and accompanied her home myself.

If she did not have a music lesson after school, Klara and I visited patisseries and sweet shops on our way home. It was on one of these visits that I noticed the man.

Klara and I were in paní Jezhkova’s patisserie eyeing the vanilla rolls, poppyseed kolache and cream puffs displayed on silver trays. We settled on linzer biscuits with marmalade centres and vanilla rolls dusted with icing sugar. Paní Jezhkova was no more than four foot tall and had to stand on tiptoes to see over the counter to take our order. She had the inquisitive eyes and well-rounded body of the animal from which her name derived; when she moved around the display, picking up the rolls and biscuits, I could imagine a hedgehog snuffling around a rosebush. Paní Jezhkova made the best nut cake in Prague and, as we were expecting paní Milotova to visit later in the afternoon, we bought one.

Paní Jezhkova turned her back to place the cake in a box. I heard the tinkle of the bell as the door opened and another customer entered, bringing a breath of chilly street air with them. The newcomer hesitated before approaching the counter to stand beside us. I turned to see a man about Milosh’s age. He was tall, thin and dark in the face. His clothes were not the finest quality but they fitted him well. His hair was combed and his face was shaven but there was something about him that seemed out of place in paní Jezhkova’s glistening mahogany and brass shop. I could not imagine someone with such a dour expression sinking his teeth into strawberry creams or sucking on vanilla buttons.

Paní Jezhkova handed me the cake box and our sweets wrapped in paper and wished us good day before greeting the man, who was staring at us with his pale eyes. I grabbed Klara’s hand and hurried her out the door, but as soon as we were on the pavement I could not resist the temptation to look over my shoulder. Through the window I saw that paní Jezhkova was trying to attract the man’s attention but he had his back to her and was watching us. On another occasion, I might have thought he was simply curious. But the man’s half-smile sent a shiver down my spine.

‘Come on,’ I said to Klara, who was already munching on a biscuit. ‘We have to hurry home.’

After that encounter, Aunt Josephine or Hilda accompanied us everywhere. But one day, when Hilda had come down with a cold and Aunt Josephine was suffering a severe migraine, our aunt reluctantly agreed to let Klara and me go to a piano recital in the Old Town on our own. The pianist was a famous one from Hungary and Klara did not want to miss the performance.

‘You walk across the bridge in view of the crowds and directly to the hall without dawdling or getting sidetracked,’ she told me. ‘Under no circumstances must you or Klara be alone.’

Spring was awakening and the day was breezy. Klara and I held on to our hats as we passed the fishermen and pottery pedlars on our way across the Charles Bridge.

‘Let’s put our hands on Saint John,’ said Klara.

Before I had a chance to stop her, she rushed towards the bronze statue and became caught up in a group of school-children and their teacher.

‘Legend has it that Saint John of Nepomuk was trussed up in armour and thrown off the bridge at the order of King Wenceslas after he refused to reveal the Queen’s confessions,’ the teacher announced to her students. ‘It is said that if you rub the statue, then one day you will return to Prague.’

‘But we live in Prague,’ I muttered to myself. ‘And we are already late.’

I walked towards Klara, but before I reached her a man stepped behind her. He turned to the side and I recognised his face: the man from the patisserie. My heart leapt to my throat.

I bounded towards Klara and yanked her by the hand.

‘Why?’ she protested, tugging against me.

The man turned towards us. I dragged Klara away and broke into a run, still holding her hand. I was grateful she did not resist me this time for she had seen the man too and had sensed something was wrong.

We dodged the cars and the people walking their dogs and the nannies pushing prams on the bridge. We were only a short distance from the tower to the Old Town but Klara began to wheeze. She stumbled and I stopped to catch her. We were two young girls who had run with all our might. I was sure we had lost the man amongst the traffic, but to my horror he was almost upon us. Aunt Josephine had told us to stay with the crowds but no one seemed to think anything of two girls being chased by a man. I saw a youth sketching pictures, but we would not have time to reach him and explain our situation before our pursuer caught up with us.

There was a fruit and vegetable market near the tower and I told Klara that we must run there. She took my hand again and we weaved between the tables and boxes of cabbages and horseradish. On the other side of the market I saw an inn. The cellar doors were open and a man was loading beer kegs onto a cart. He was not looking so I pushed Klara into the cellar and followed after her. We squeezed ourselves behind some full kegs, the coldness of the metal like ice burning our chests and cheeks. After a few moments I saw the legs and boots of the man who had followed us. They stopped outside the cellar door. My breath caught in my throat. I felt like a rabbit with a fox sniffing outside its burrow. The man bent down and peered inside. From the way he was squinting I realised that it was too dark in the cellar for him to see us.

‘Looking for something, sir?’ I heard the cartman ask our pursuer.

‘Yes, I think my dog ran inside your cellar. Do you have a light?’

The sound of the man’s voice chilled me. I had been expecting a rough dialect of the street. But he spoke Czech like an aristocrat. He could have been someone Mother would have invited to afternoon tea.

‘I didn’t see a dog run in there,’ replied the cartman. ‘And I’ve been standing out here the whole time.’

‘Oh?’

I hoped our pursuer would accept the cartman’s word and move away, but he stayed put.

‘I did see two young girls running past though,’ said the cartman. ‘Are they looking for the dog as well?’

‘Why yes,’ said the man. ‘They are my nieces. You saw them?’

My breath caught in my throat. I pulled Klara closer.

‘Yes,’ answered the cartman. ‘They nearly knocked me over. They ran down that way, back towards the river.’

‘Thank you,’ said our pursuer.

I waited a few seconds after the man’s legs disappeared from sight, then told Klara to hurry out with me lest the cartman close the cellar doors on us. But before we could move the cartman poked his head into the cellar and called, ‘Now, you rascals. I don’t know what you stole from that gentleman but I don’t care. Run home now.’

Klara and I climbed out of our hiding place and made our way through the kegs to the door.

‘Go on! Go!’ said the cartman. ‘And don’t do it again!’

He did not need to tell us a second time. I grabbed Klara’s hand and we ran with all our strength towards the bridge and the safety of home.

When we reached our house, having missed the recital, I realised that Klara would need an explanation. I had never lied to my younger sister and I did not intend to start. But how could I explain to her our suspicions about Milosh? She was eleven years old and had struggled valiantly with her grief over Mother. What would it do to her mind if I told her we suspected Mother had been murdered and that our lives were now in danger too?

‘It’s not “lying” to protect a child’s innocence,’ Aunt Josephine told me while Klara was washing her hands and face. ‘You must simply tell her that you are two wealthy young women in a town filled with thieves, and that you recognised the man from a picture in the newspaper of an infamous thief known for robbing children.’

The fact that Klara believed my explanation with as much trust as she had taken my hand when we fled across the bridge earlier that day did not settle my mind. I lay next to her that night trying not to imagine what ‘the assassin’ intended to do with us once he caught us. I remembered his well-spoken voice and shivered. Then I thought about Doctor Hoffmann, who I was now convinced had killed Mother. Milosh had the knack of finding gentlemen to do his dirty work. Did he know something about these men that other people did not?

The weather at the beginning of spring was unpredictable and even though the day had been breezy it had also been warm. Then, after dark, the temperature reverted to winter and snow fell. At first it was light and dusted the roofs and statues with a fine powder. But then gusts of wind started to rattle our doors and windows and the snow fell more heavily.

The lights flickered then went out. Aunt Josephine lit a lamp and we read together in the parlour for a few hours before the room grew cold and Aunt Josephine suggested that we go to bed.

Frip scratched at the door and stared at Aunt Josephine who rubbed her eyes and yawned.