The Stolen Child (24 page)

Instead of the church documents I had expected, I saw music. Score after score of music for the organ, and not just common hymns, but symphonic masterworks that gave life and presence to the instrument—a raft of Handel, Mahler’s
Resurrection
, Liszt’s
Battle of the Huns
, the
Fantasie Symphonique
by François-Joseph Fétis, and a pair of organ-only solos by Guilmant. There were pieces by Gigout, Langlais, Chaynes, and Poulenc’s
Concerto for Organ, Strings, and Timpani
. Record albums of Aaron Copland’s
First Symphony
, Barber’s
Toccata Festiva
, Rheinberger, Franck, and a baker’s dozen of Bach. I was stunned and inspired. To simply listen to it all—not to mention trying my hand at the grand keyboard—would take months or even years, and we had but a few hours. I wanted to stuff my pockets with loot, fill my head with song.

“My only vice and passion,” Hlinka said to me. “Enjoy. We are not so different, you and I. Strange creatures with rare loves. Only you, my friend, you can play, and I can but listen.”

I played all day for Father Hlinka, who inspected old parish ledgers of baptisms, weddings, and funerals. I dazzled him with incandescence and extravagance, leaning into the extra octave of bass, and hammered out the mad finale from Joseph Jongen’s
Symphonie Concertante
. A change came over me at that keyboard, and I began to hear compositions of my own in the interludes. The music stirred memories that existed beyond the town, and on that glorious afternoon I experimented with variations and was so carried away that I forgot about Father Hlinka until he returned empty-handed at five o’clock. Frustrated by his own failure to find any records of the Ungerlands, he called his peers at St. Wenceslas, and they got in touch with the archivists of the abandoned St. Bartholomew and St. Klara churches to help scour through the records.

I was running out of time. Despite the relative freedom, we were still in danger of being asked for our papers, and we had no visa for Czechoslovakia. Tess had complained over breakfast that the police were spying on her when she visited the Black Tower, following her at the art center on the Ružový kopeček. Schoolchildren pointed at her on the streets. I saw them, too, running in the shadows, hiding in dark corners. On Wednesday morning, she groused about spending so much of our honeymoon alone.

“Just one more day,” I pleaded. “There’s nothing quite like the sound in that church.”

“Okay, but I’m staying in today. Wouldn’t you rather go back to bed?”

When I arrived at the loft late that afternoon, I was surprised to find the priest waiting for me at the pipe organ. “You must let me tell your wife.” He grinned. “We have found him. Or at least I think this must be her grandfather. The dates are somewhat off, but how many Gustav Ungerlands can there be?”

He handed me a grainy photocopy of the passenger list from the German ship
Albert
, departing 20 May 1851 from Bremen to Baltimore, Maryland. The names and ages were written in a fine hand:

“Won’t she be delighted? What a fine wedding gift.”

I could not begin to answer his questions. The names evoked a rush of memory. Josef, my brother—
Wo in der Welt bist du?
Anna, the one who died in the crossing, the absent child who broke my mother’s heart. My mother, Clara. My father, Abram, the musician. Names to go along with my dreams.

“I know you said he was here in 1859, but sometimes the past is a mystery. But I think 1851 is right for Herr Ungerland, not 1859,” said Father Hlinka. “History fades over time.”

For a moment, the six came alive. Of course I did not remember Eger or Cheb. I was a baby, not yet one year old, when we came to America. There was a house, a parlor, a piano. I was taken from there and not from this place.

“No records in the churches, but I thought we should try emigration archives, no? Won’t Mrs. Day be thrilled? I cannot wait to see her face.”

I folded the paper and stuck it in my pocket. “Of course, Father, yes, you should be the one to tell her. We should celebrate         .         .         .         tonight if you like.”

The pleasure of his smile almost made me regret lying to him, and I was equally heartbroken to leave the magnificent organ behind. But I hurried from St. Nicholas’s, the history in my pocket against my heart. When I found Tess, I made up a story about the police sniffing around the church for two Americans, and we slipped away, retracing our steps to the border.

When we reached the forest near the river crossing, I was shocked to see a young boy, perhaps as old as seven, standing by himself beside a large tree. He did not take notice of us, but remained quite still, as if hiding from someone. I could only imagine what might be in pursuit, and part of me wanted to rescue him. We were nearly upon him before he flinched, and putting a finger to his lips, the child begged us to be quiet.

“Do you speak German?” Tess whispered in that language.

“Yes, quiet please. They are after me.”

I looked from tree to tree, anticipating a rush of changelings.

“Who is after you?”

“Versteckspiel,”
he hissed, and hearing him, a young girl burst from the green background to chase and tag him on the shoulder. When the other children emerged from their hideaways, I realized they were playing a simple game of hide-and-seek. But as I looked from boy to girl, from face to face, I could not help but remember how easily they could alter their appearance. Tess thought them cute and wanted to linger awhile, but I hurried her onward. At the river, I hopped from stone to stone, fording the water as quickly as I could. Tess was taking her time, frustrated and annoyed that I had not waited for her.

“Henry, Henry, what are you running from?”

“Hurry, Tess. They’re after us.”

She labored to jump to the next rock. “Who?”

“Them,” I said, and went back to pull her from the other side.

A
fter our honeymoon trip, life rapidly grew too complicated to continue my research on the Ungerlands or to find another pipe organ. We had one last busy semester of school, and as graduation drew near, our conversations turned to new possibilities. Tess lay in the bathtub, tendrils of steam curling up from the hot water. I leaned on the edge of the hamper, ostensibly reading a draft of a new score, but actually for the sheer pleasure of watching her soak.

“Henry, I’ve good news. The job with the county looks like it will come through.”

“That’s great,” I said, and turned the page and hummed a few bars. “What is it, exactly, that you’ll be doing?”

“Casework at first. People come in with their troubles, I take them down, and then we make all the right referrals.”

“Well. I have an interview at that new middle school.” I put down the composition and stared at her half-submerged naked form. “They’re looking for a band director and music teacher for seventh and eighth grades. It’s a pretty good gig and will leave me time to compose.”

“Things are working out for us, baby.”

She was right, and that was the moment I decided. My life was coming together. Against all odds and despite the interruption caused by my father’s death, I would finish school, and a new career was about to start. A beautiful young woman lounged in my bathtub.

“What are you smiling about, Henry?”

I started unbuttoning my shirt. “Move over, Tess, I’ve got something to whisper in your ear.”

•                    CHAPTER 28                    •

         
T
he most merciless thing in the world is love. When love flees, all that remains is memory to compensate. Our friends were either going or gone, their ghosts the best our poor minds could conjure to fill love’s absence. I am haunted to this day by all those who are missing. Losing Kivi, Blomma, Ragno, and Zanzara proved heartbreaking for Speck, too. She went about her tasks grim and determined, as if by staying busy she could keep phantoms at bay.

After the disaster in the mine, we deposed Béka with his consent, and the diminished clan elected Smaolach our new leader. We lived above ground for the first time in years, bound to one small clearing in the forest by Chavisory’s immobility. The impulse to go back home ate at us all. Five years had passed since we had left our camp, and we thought it might be safe to return. The last time anyone had seen our former home, the grounds had been denuded, but surely new growth had begun—where black ash had been, saplings should be inching up amid the wildflowers and fresh grass. Just as nature reclaims its ruins, the people, too, would have forgotten about that boy lost in the river and the two faeries found in the market. They’d want life to remain as they thought it had been.

With it safe to travel again, Luchóg, Smaolach, and I set out, leaving the other three behind at our makeshift camp to watch over Chavisory. Although the wind blew cold that day, our spirits quickened at the prospect of seeing our old haunts again. We raced like deer along the trails, laughing as one passed the other. The old camp shimmered in our imaginations as a promise of bright redemption.

Climbing the western ridge, I heard distant laughter. We slowed our pace, and as we reached the lip, the sounds below piqued our curiosity. The valley came into view through the broken veil of tree limbs and branches. Rows of houses and open lawns snaked and curled along ribbons of neat roadways. On the exact spot where our camp had been, five new houses faced an open circle. Another six sat on either side of a wide road cut through the trees. Branching off from that trail, more streets and houses flowed down the sloping hill to the main road into town.

“Be it ever so humble,” Luchóg said.

I looked far ahead and saw bustling activity. From the back of a station wagon, a woman unloaded packages tied up with bows. Two boys tossed a football. A yellow car, shaped like a bug, chugged up a winding road. We could hear a radio talking about the Army-Navy game, and a man muttering curses as he nailed a string of lights beneath the eaves of his roof. Mesmerized by all I saw, I failed to notice as day gave way to night. Lights went on in the homes, as if on sudden signal.

“Shall we see who lives on the ring?” Luchóg asked.

We crept down to the circle of asphalt. Two of the homes appeared empty. The other three showed signs of life: cars in the driveways, lamplit figures crossing behind the windows as if rushing off on vital tasks. Glancing in each window, we saw the same story unfolding. A woman in a kitchen stirred something in a pot. Another lifted a huge bird from the oven, while in an adjoining room a man stared at minuscule figures playing games in a glowing box, his face flushed in excitement or anger. His next-door neighbor slept in an easy chair, oblivious to the noise and flickering images.

“He looks familiar,” I whispered.

Covered to his toes in blue terrycloth, a young child sat in a small cage in the corner of the room. He played distractedly with brightly colored plastic toys. For a moment, I thought the sleeping man resembled my father, but I could not understand how he could have another son. A woman walked from one room into the other, and her long blonde hair trailed behind like a tail. She scrunched up her mouth into a bow before bending down and whispering something to the man, a name perhaps, and he looked startled and slightly embarrassed to be caught sleeping. When his eyes popped open, he looked even more like my father, but she was definitely not my mother. She flashed a crooked smile and lifted her baby over the bars, and the child cooed and laughed and threw his arms around his mother’s neck. I had heard that sound before. The man switched off the console, but before joining the others, he came to the window, cleared a circle with his two hands against the damp panes, and peered out into the darkness. I do not think he saw us, but I surely had seen him before.

We circled back into the woods and waited until the moon was high in the night sky and most of the lights popped off goodnight. The houses in the ring were dark and quiet.

“I don’t like this,” I said, my breath visible in the violet light.

“You worry your own life away like a kitten worries a string,” Smaolach said.

He barked, and we followed him down to the cul-de-sac. Smaolach chose a house with no car in the driveway, where we were not likely to encounter any humans. Careful not to wake anyone, we slipped inside easily through the unlocked front door. A neat row of shoes stood off to the side of the foyer, and Luchóg immediately tried on pairs until he found a fit. Their boy would be dismayed in the morning. The kitchen lay in sight of the foyer, through a smallish dining room. Each of us loaded a rucksack with canned fruits and vegetables, flour, salt, and sugar. Luchóg jammed fistfuls of tea bags into his trouser pockets and on the way out copped a package of cigarettes and a box of matches from the sideboard. In and out in minutes, disturbing no one.

The second house—where the baby in blue lived—proved stubborn. All of the doors and downstairs windows were locked, so we had to shimmy under the crawlspace and into a closetlike room that sheltered a maze of plumbing. By following the pipes, we eventually made our way into the interior of the house, ending up in the cellar. To make ourselves quieter, we took off our shoes and tied them around our necks before sneaking up the steps and slowly opening the door to the kitchen. The room smelled of remembered bread.

While Smaolach and Luchóg raided the pantry, I tiptoed through the rooms to locate the front door and an easy exit. On the walls of the living room hung a gallery of photographic portraits that read mainly as uninteresting shadows, but as I passed by one, illuminated by a white shaft of moonlight, I froze. Two figures, a young mother and her infant child, lifted to her shoulder to face the camera. The baby looked like every other baby, round and smooth as a button. The mother did not stare directly into the lens but watched her son from the corners of her eyes. Her hairstyle and clothing suggested another era, and she, with her beguiling smile and hopeful gaze, appeared hardly more than a child with a child. She lifted her chin, as if preparing to burst out laughing with joy at the babe in arms. The photograph triggered a rush of chemicals to my brain. Dizzy and disoriented, I knew, but could not place, their faces. There were other photographs—a long white dress standing next to a shadow, a man in a peaked cap—but I kept coming back to the mother and child, put my fingers on the glass, traced the contours of those figures. I wanted to remember. Foolishly, I went to the wall and turned on the lamp.

Someone gasped in the kitchen just as the pictures on the wall jumped into clarity. Two older people with severe eyeglasses. A fat baby. But I could see clearly the photograph that had so entranced me, and beside it another which disturbed me more. There was a boy, eyes skyward, looking up in expectation of something unseen. He could not have been more than seven at the time the picture was taken, and had the snapshot not been in black and white, I would have sooner recognized his face. For it was mine, and me, in a jacket and cap, eyes awaiting—what? a snowfall, a tossed football, a V of geese, hands from above? What a strange thing to happen to a little boy, to end up on the wall of this unfamiliar house. The man and woman in the wedding picture offered no clues. It was my father with a different bride.

“Aniday, what are you doing?” Luchóg hissed. “Hush those lights.”

A mattress creaked overhead as someone got out of bed. I snapped off the lights and scrammed. The floorboards moaned. A woman’s voice muttered in a high, impatient tone.

“All right,” the man replied. “I’ll go check, but I didn’t hear a thing.” He headed for the upper stairway, took the steps slowly one by one. We tried the back door out of the kitchen but could not figure out the lock.

“The damned thing won’t budge,” Smaolach said.

The approaching figure reached the bottom landing, switched on the light. He went into the living room, which I had departed seconds earlier. Luchóg fussed with a rotating bar and unlocked the deadbolt with a soft click. We froze at the sound.

“Hey, who’s there?” the man said from the other room. He padded our way in his bare feet.

“Fuck all,” said Smaolach, and he turned the knob and pushed. The door opened six inches but hung fast by a small metal chain above our heads. “Let’s go,” he said, and we changed to squeeze through the gap one by one, scattering sugar and flour behind us. I am sure he saw the last of us, for the man called out “Hey” again, but we were gone, racing across the frosty lawn. The floodlight popped on like a flashbulb, but we had passed its circle of illumination. From the top of the ridge, we watched all his rooms light up in sequence, till the windows glowed like rows of jack-o’-lanterns. A dog began to yowl madly in the middle of the village, and we took that as a sign to retreat home. The ground chilled our bare feet, but, exhilarated as imps, we escaped with our treasures, laughing under the cold stars.

At the top of the ridgeline, Luchóg stopped to smoke one of his purloined cigarettes, and I looked back one last time at the ordered village where our home used to be. This is the place where it had all happened—a reach for wild honey high in a tree, a stretch of roadway where the car struck a deer, a clearing where I first opened my eyes and saw eleven dark children. But someone had erased all that, like a word or a line, and in that space wrote another sentence. The neighborhood of houses appeared to have existed in this space for ages. It made one doubt one’s own story.

“That man back there,” I said, “the sleeping one. He reminded me of someone.”

“They all look alike to me,” Luchóg said.

“Someone I know. Or knew.”

“Could it be your long-lost brother?”

“I haven’t one.”

“Perhaps a man who wrote a book you read in the library?”

“I do not know what they look like.”

“Perhaps the man who wrote that book you carry from place to place?”

“No, not McInnes. I do not know McInnes.”

“A man from a magazine? A photograph in the newspaper?”

“Someone I knew.”

“Could it be the fireman? The man you saw at the creek?” He puffed on his cigarette and blew smoke like an old steam engine.

“I thought it might be my father, but that can’t be right. There was that strange woman and her child in the blue suit.”

“What year is it, little treasure?” Luchóg asked.

It could have been 1972, although in truth, I was no longer sure.

“By now, you must be a young man near the end of thirty years. And how old was the man in the picture window?”

“I’d guess about the same.”

“And how old would his father be?”

“Twice that,” I said, and smiled like an idiot.

“Your father would be an old man by now, almost as old as I am.”

I sat down on the cold ground. So much time had passed since I had last seen my parents; their real age was a revealed mystery.

Luchóg sat down beside me. “After awhile, everyone forgets. I cannot paint you a picture of my dear youth. The old memories are not real—just figures in a fairytale. My mammy could walk right up to me this very minute and say, ‘Sonny-boy,’ and I would have to say, ‘Sorry, I don’t know you, lady.’ My father may as well be a myth. So, you see, in a way, you have no father or mother, or if you did, you wouldn’t know them any longer, nor they you, more’s the pity.”

“But the fellow falling asleep in the armchair? If I try hard, I can recall my father’s face.”

“Might as well be anyone. Or no one at all.”

“And the baby?”

“They’re all one to me. A bother with no teeth but all the time hungry. Can’t walk, can’t talk, can’t share a smoke. You can have them. Some say a changeling’s best bet is a baby—there’s less to learn—but that’s moving backward across time. You should be going forward. And heaven help us if we ever had a baby to look after for a whole century.”

“I do not want to steal any child. I just wonder whose baby that is. What happened to my father? Where is my mother?”

T
o make it through the cold season, we nicked ten blankets and a half-dozen children’s coats from the Salvation Army store, and we ate small meals, subsisting mainly on weak teas brewed from bark and twigs. In the dull light of January and February, we often did not stir at all, but sat alone or in clumps of two or three, dripping wet or stone cold, waiting for the sun and the resumption of our lives. Chavisory grew stronger by and by, and when the wild onions and first daffodils appeared, she could take a few steps with bracing assistance. Each day, Speck pushed her one painful pace forward. When she was well enough for us to move, we fled that miserable dungheap of memories. Despite the risks, we found a more suitable hidden home near water, a mile or so north of the new houses. On windy nights, the noises from the families carried as far as our new camp, and while not as secluded, it afforded us adequate protection. As we dug in that first day, restlessness swept over me. Smaolach sat down beside me and draped an arm across my shoulders. The sun was falling from the sky.