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  He noticed her, and reacted quickly, but then he looked through her, as if she were transparent. It was as if she’d momentarily exited his awareness, and been replaced with something insubstantial yet infinitely more powerful. He stared with blank eyes, his voice a slurred whisper and his fists clenched as he spoke in Czech. “Goddamn you. Goddamn you! Preserving life. What kind of life did you preserve, Papa? And for whom? You? Me? Who?”

  Vanesa asked him what he meant, but he didn’t respond. He just put his head down on the table, muttering “goddamn you” over and over, hands still clutching the leather-bound diary with the yellowing pages, which he’d slammed closed when she came in. It was a book she’d seen twice in her life: once that night, and only again a decade later when it was given to her after Michael’s death, some six months prior to her arrival in Prague.

  From the Diary of Michael Neuman, Prague, January 1943

  We are limited only by that which we can’t imagine. That’s what Moe said when I told him that driving a tractor and taking care of farm animals was a funny job for a Jew. I asked him whether I could become an American soldier like him, if I just imagined it. He laughed and said in his funny American-accented Czech, which was always mixed with a little German, that he hoped by the time I was old enough, there’d be no need for the resistance.

  His full name is Mojzis Jehlicka, and he was born in America. I came down to see him through the air duct, the one with the symbol in the grillwork. He liked to chat, said it helped pass the time while he was waiting to “ship out.” His father, Petr, left the town of Most in the Sudetenland in 1920. Petr was always swimming against the tide, Moe said. If tens of thousands of expatriate Czechs were flocking from the US to newly-founded Czechoslovakia, his father would have been, without fail, the only one leaving.

  Petr carried his small valise up the gangplank on the docks of Bremen, having no idea what was to come. He just needed to leave Most, to leave his father’s tailor shop, to take matters into his own hands. He had no idea he would, that very evening, meet his future wife, Darina, in the third-class dining room. He had no idea they would be married only weeks after landing at Ellis Island, or that he’d shortly thereafter find himself traveling via train across vast Midwestern cornfields to stay with her cousins in South Bend, Indiana. And he certainly could not have guessed that only a year later, in the rickety white house on his and Darina’s 40-acre farm just outside Wakarusa, Indiana, which was actually owned for the most part by the South Bend branch of Keybank, Moe would be born.

  The name Wakarusa, Moe said, means “knee deep in mud” in some native American language. That’s just how Moe grew up, he joked—knee deep in Indiana mud.

  I said that at least in Indiana, there were no black leather boots clomping on cobblestones, like here—only black rubber boots sloshing in the mud.

  He laughed and said that I had a point.

  Moe never knew he was a Jew until after he was drafted into the US army in 1941. He was twenty-two years old, living in Chicago and working as a clerk at a meatpacking plant. The envelope from the US Selective Service Board came with the Order to Report for Induction inside, and he showed up on the appointed day for his physical. On the registration card, he checked White in the Race column, and Native Born in the Nationality column, and that was that. After basic training, he came home to Wakarusa for Christmas, being scheduled to ship out for Europe early in January.

  Sitting by the radio, he and his father were listening to news of anti-Semitism in Germany—rumors of mass killings, roundups, deportations. Suddenly, his father began to cry. “And that was it,” Moe said. “I was Jewish. They’d never told me, all that time. It just wasn’t a part of their new American identity.”

  On Moe’s farm, they raised cows and chickens, and even had a horse—a brown one with a white mark in the shape of a star on its forehead. In Indiana, Moe said, the sky never ends like it does here.

  I tried to imagine a sky that just keeps going, out past the walls, over the barbed wire of the blockades, arching endlessly into the distance, but it’s hard from in here.

  In 1926, in the middle of winter and the middle of a snowstorm, Moe’s younger brother Samuel was born. Moe still remembers his mother’s screams, which he heard even from the barn, where his father told him to stay once he’d finished taking care of the midwife’s horse, rubbing him down, hanging the rough wool blanket over his steaming back, feeding him a warm bran mash. They called him Sammy—the brother, not the horse.

  Moe said I remind him of Sammy at my age, because I ask lots of questions, but usually don’t wait for the answer to one question before I ask the next.

  There wasn’t much to the town of Wakarusa, built at the crossroads of Indiana State Road 40 and County Road 3, but the fact that the houses in town were so close—neighbors right next door, not two miles down the road—made it seem like a bustling city to Moe. Every day, as the grimy yellow school bus pulled into town, Moe would sit on his knees on the wooden bench seats and watch the houses go by with his nose pressed to the steamy glass of the sliding window. He’d watch the shops as the bus passed through the only intersection in town with enough traffic to warrant a stoplight, and think of how someday he’d see a city with real buildings.

  The very same bus would take him, and later Sammy, too, down the gravel road on the long drive to the white farmhouse. Living so far from town, Moe and Sammy were instant playmates despite their age difference. It was a default arrangement, not one of choice, because Petr and Darina were far too occupied with running the farm to mind a little boy. That was a brother’s job, they said. That was how it needed to be.

  Some days, they would meet after school with Albert, who was Moe’s age and lived on the neighboring farm. Albert would get off the yellow school bus with them, one stop early, and walk home whistling across the west field just as the sun was kissing it good evening with long orange lips. Over time they became a threesome—Moe and Albert, with Sammy tagging along. Sometimes they welcomed Sammy, but mostly they just put up with him. Occasionally, they were cruel in the intuitive, crushing way that only older brothers seem to know.

  Albert Eberhardt spoke German better than Moe and Sammy. His last name meant “strong as a boar,” but Moe always thought of it as “strong as a bear,” since Albert was the most bearish boy Moe ever met. He was taller by a head than Moe, rounder by two feet, and had shocks of brown hair that seemed to have been glued to the top of his egg-shaped head. His parents had come from Germany less than five years before, and still hoped to return one day, “when things got better.” That’s why they spoke German at home, unlike Moe’s mother and father, who insisted on communicating, even among themselves in the presence of the children, in clumsy English.

  For a time, Moe, Albert and Sammy did everything together. They played hide-and-seek in the stalls and haylofts of the big red barn. They swam in the mud-bottomed pond—which was said to have leeches, although Moe never found any. They shot at squirrels and crows with homemade slingshots. They even rode the horse. And in the winter they’d go ice skating on the pond.

  The pond was as big as half an American football field. A thick layer of green algae clung to its edges by the end of summer, and thick clouds of mosquitoes rose from it, so that even the horse wouldn’t go near it. By mid-winter, the pond would freeze over, and once the snow had been cleared off with manure shovels, the surface was as smooth as glass. Skating on it was like flying. The frigid wind would bite at their cheeks, but could not disturb the warmth of their deep inner joy.

  It was a crisp sunny Saturday, an early winter day when the air was so cold that Moe and Sammy’s scarves turned white with frost from their breath, and they couldn’t feel the tips of their fingers or ears after five minutes outside. Moe’s father and mother were off in town, buying supplies, when Albert came by, dangling his skates over his shoulder and walking carefully as the tips of the blades poked him in the side with each step.

  Petr had warned Moe and Sammy never to ska
te on the pond unless he personally checked the ice first.

  “But it’s a perfect skating day! What are you guys scared of?” Albert jeered when they refused to skate. The fog of his breath made him look like a locomotive pulling out of a railway station.

  Moe and Sammy stood on the front porch, leaning against the peeling white porch columns. They were deeply bundled in solid color winter coats, polka-dotted mittens they’d received from some cousins, and striped knit hats, Sammy’s with a pompom on top.

  “I told you. We’re not allowed to skate,” Sammy insisted, “unless our dad checks the ice first.”

  “I’ll check the ice,” Albert said. “I’m almost twelve, and I’m very responsible. That’s what my Ma says. I can do it. Come on!”

  Moe didn’t say anything. He knew what his father had said, but he thought that Albert was right, and that they were old enough to check the ice themselves. He couldn’t say this out loud, though, in case Sammy told Dad later, so it was left to Sammy to decide. If he agreed not to tell, they could skate.

  Sammy thought about the offer. His face screwed up in concentration as he considered the pros and cons, the costs and the benefits. Finally, he nodded enthusiastically. He wanted to skate. If somebody else could give permission, he was all for it.

  Albert and Moe checked the ice carefully, prodding it with sticks at the pond’s edge, and deliberating at length while Sammy waited on the porch. Finally, they turned to Sammy and nodded.

  The older boys were fooling around in the center of the pond when they noticed that Sammy wasn’t there. At first, they just figured he’d gone up to the house to pee, and continued playing. After twenty minutes, they finally got curious enough to take off their skates and check in the house.

  Sammy wasn’t there.

  They called his name with increasing urgency, and Moe went to check in the barn.

  Albert went back around the side of the house, towards the pond. That’s when he saw the hole in the ice at the far end of the pond, and the back side of a blue parka hood bobbing gently in the center of the hole.

  When they pulled him out, Sammy’s face was bluish-white, the color of an old blueberry pie stain on a white shirt. His eyes were open and questioning, as if he couldn’t quite figure out what had happened.

  Moe told his father and mother that Sammy must have wandered down to the pond to skate without permission, while they were playing in the house. Yes, he was supposed to watch him. Yes, it was a brother’s job. No, it wasn’t too much to ask. Yes, he was so, so, so sorry. Yes, he knew they would never forgive him. And yes, he would go to his room.

  The house fell silent after Sammy’s death. Jobs were done, chores completed, meals eaten and dishes washed, but all in silence. Unable to successfully conceal the accusation in their eyes, Moe’s parents looked away.

  So did Moe.

  About a week after Sammy’s funeral, Moe and Albert met behind the barn after school one snowy afternoon.

  As soon as they were out of earshot of the house, Moe opened the floodgates. “How could you tell us that the ice was safe?” he screamed, moving towards Albert until their faces almost touched. “We believed you. It’s all your fault! You fucking Kraut, you killed Sammy! You killed my brother!”

  Albert pushed Moe away. “I didn’t hear you arguing with me. You wanted to skate! You could have stopped the whole thing. And besides….” Albert pushed Moe again and raised his fists, ready to strike. “You should have been watching your brother. It’s your fault!”

  Moe swung out blindly, missing Albert and falling to the ground, and sobbed. He stayed that way for a long time.

  Finally, Albert turned to walk away. After he’d walked a few steps, he turned back and said simply, “Moe, I’m sorry… for Sammy. I liked him, too. He was a good kid. I’m… I’m sorry for Sammy.”

  Moe looked up, surprised, his tears frozen in winding tracks on his cheeks. His friend was trying to take a share of his guilt, trying to lighten the burden that he knew even then would weigh him down for the rest of his life. He nodded thanks to Albert, snuffled, and managed to croak, “For Sammy.”

  Albert turned to leave, and never came back.

  Moe didn’t see Albert after that, except at school, from afar. After a while, he didn’t see Albert around at all. Kids said that he’d left. His family had sold their farm and moved back to Germany.

  The sky was cloudy and as black as a midnight forest the night Moe dropped into the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia, the Reichsprotektorat, as the Germans now call this country, as if changing the name might somehow change how much they are despised. He was part of a small reconnaissance team, all Czech and German speakers. Their mission was top secret, and they needed to make contact with the Czech underground.

  There was no hope for Moe to see where he was going to land, or even what was below him. As he floated down, trying to brace for the crunching impact but not knowing when it would come, a low-level gust of wind grabbed him. He was helpless in its grasp as it carried him farther and farther away from the silhouettes of his comrades’ parachutes, which quickly dissolved into the inky sky.

  Alone and without a radio, he had just his rifle, a map to the rendezvous, and his wits.

  He managed to see the ground rising up to meet him just seconds before he landed hard in a plowed field. He rolled, and was immediately on his feet, weapon at the ready as he gathered the parachute into a puffy pile. He hid the chute in some bushes at the edge of the field, and checked his gear. He took a bearing on the stars, which were visible since the wind that had hijacked him had also blown away the cloud cover. He consulted his map, checked his compass, and set off across the field, ducking low to avoid being seen in profile against the stars.

  The landscape around him lay completely silent, with no sign of life, animal or human, insect or bird. It was as if life had deserted that section of the world, except for Moe. He crept on, passing through a clump of trees, crossing a creek on slippery stepping stones, carefully going over a barbed-wire fence. He was tense; something was not right, but he had to get to the rendezvous—the mission depended on it, the very outcome of the war might depend on it, and his comrades were counting on him. He couldn’t let them down.

  After several hours, just as the sky in the East was turning to gray, he spotted the spire that marked the meeting point, in the cemetery next to the church. He crept to edge of the cemetery, now on his belly, each muscle under control as he inched forward like a snake stalking a mouse, his every movement calculated to avoid detection. As he raised himself above the rough stone wall, he saw several profiles in silhouette, all with the distinctive Allied helmet shape. He crept closer, over the wall, and then gravestone by gravestone until he was just behind the men. None of the other soldiers moved. They had not seen him. He couldn’t see their faces, and he didn’t like that, but he needed to make contact. There was no other way.

  Slowly, he stood up.

  The three German soldiers, who hadn’t heard him coming, scrambled up so fast that the unstrapped Allied helmets fell from their heads to the ground. It was a trap!

  Moe flopped to the ground, stomach first. He tasted dirt even as he cocked the carbine, just like he’d practiced a million times in basic training. He had cover behind the gravestones, and the Germans hadn’t seen where he went. With his first shot, he took out one that came into his sights. He rolled gently to the next row of headstones and, upon hearing a crunch nearby, unstrapped the trench knife from his calf. As the German walked by him, he tripped him, pounced on him, and slit his throat, feeling the man’s warm blood running over his fingers as he did so.

  Only one German remained, and Moe had to get him before he alerted any other forces nearby. He heard a footstep, the snapping of a twig. The man moved toward the cemetery gate, several rows away from Moe. There was no time to lose, but Moe didn’t have a clear shot. He engaged the carbine’s safety and wiped his knife on his pants leg. It was better to handle this quietly, in any case, so as not to
attract any other Germans.

  The Nazi never saw him coming, but unlike the second soldier, this one put up a fight. Moe’s carbine went flying as they struggled, his hand over the soldier’s mouth to prevent him from yelling. The soldier went for his gun, but Moe knocked that away. Moe got the Nazi into a full nelson hold, but the soldier worked an arm free from his grip and went for his knife. Moe flipped him over before he could reach the knife, his own knife coming up to the German’s throat, ready for the kill.

  As the dawn turned orange, and the first rays of the new day fell on the graveyard, Moe looked down into the face of the German whose throat he was about to cut and….

  Albert’s eyes stared back at him.

  Albert’s mouth dropped open in mute shock as he recognized his old friend. “For Sammy!” he gasped, trying to move back away from Moe’s now-hesitant hold. “For Sammy! For the love of God,” he pleaded in a whisper.

  Moe lowered the knife, and they stared at each other silently, as if carrying on a whole conversation with their eyes only. Moe nodded his head, and Albert got up to leave. He turned and looked back at Moe, and repeated “For Sammy!” one last time.

  Albert left the cemetery, and Moe, behind, calling out in German as he ran. “An American paratrooper! After him, he’s gone west! Follow me!”

  Moe got up and headed off to the east.

  After many other adventures, which he hasn’t told me about yet, he ended up here with us in Prague.

  Wisconsin, 1982

  The first time I kissed Vanesa Neuman was in the summer of 1982, and she tasted of peanut butter. It was the kiss of youth, hesitant at first—sheepish and smiling, stomach quivering like after a long drink of cold water in August heat—then increasingly eager, exploratory, and sensual. Finally, we surrendered to it with the breathless capacity for abandon that so inevitably dissipates with age.