Storyteller Page 6

  Tomík had gotten quicker over the years. The moment Marikya’s attention was distracted, he’d be out the door and halfway across the field; running in his spastic mannequin way, laughing his stupid laugh and perpetually throwing his heart and hands toward heaven and his clothes to the ground. Often one of the neighbors would poke her head in the door. “He’s off again, Marikya.” That said it all. Whatever she was doing would have to be left undone until she found him and brought him home. One time it had taken her four hours. Once in the woods, Tomík didn’t stay in one place long and, she was convinced, wouldn’t be found until he wanted to be found.

  No one else ever volunteered to help. Provincial wisdom held that Tomík was Marikya’s punishment for having gotten vow-making and consummation in the wrong order. Ignored was the fact that the same could be said of most of the brides in the village. It was Marikya God had found out and her He chose to punish. One did not interfere with God’s handiwork; to do so might invite Divine retribution. Marikya believed this, too.

  She looked at her watch. Two hours and ten minutes. She sat down on a fallen tree trunk. Had this not been an ancient exercise she might have cried. But it was part of the cadence of her existence. Some people live the well-ordered life of a waltz or march, but hers was more like the American jazz she’d heard on the wireless: all improvisation. She’d had half a cigarette that morning. She took the other half from the breast pocket of her shirt, straightened it out carefully, and lit it, exhaling a cloud of blue smoke that rose above the gray miasma of mist, like a ghost rising from the grave, and, as she watched, became nothing. She pinched a shred of tobacco from the tip of her tongue and flicked it away.

  Once again the deep silence was gently concussed by Tomík’s laughter. It wafted around her like peace and belonging. She smiled. Tomík was stupid and useless. He would never do any of the things that everyone else did. He would never marry or have children (heaven forbid!). He would never be aware of who she was, or all she did for him, and he would always be a nuisance. But no one else in the village would ever know joy as Tomichya knew it. Perhaps it was a joy so deep it could only be appreciated by those without the sense to realize it was unattainable. Marikya may never know that joy herself; most of the time she found Tomík’s drifty-eyed hollow-headedness both annoying and frustrating. But there were times that just to be in its presence gave her hope that somewhere there existed a fountain that dispensed such happiness.

  Once, on a cold, gray day in November, she’d found him standing on a log, in the rain, with a sheet wrapped around him. (She never found out where he’d gotten the sheet, and didn’t inquire). He was posing in imitation of the statue of a Roman orator he’d seen in a picture book. His right hand clasped the impromptu toga closed at the waist, his left was raised eloquently in the air, its fingers frozen in mute testimony to Great Thoughts that would never come. His right foot was flat on the ground, the other, perfectly mimicking the statue, was positioned somewhat behind, with the heel raised. His feet were bare.

  He was engaged in philosophical discourse with nature at large; even Tomík knew you didn’t assume such a grand posture for nothing. The torrent of sounds that poured from his mouth had no meaning, but their tone was expressive and impassioned. For five or six minutes he was unaware of Marikya, so involved was he in the intellectual burden he was attempting to impart. His sky blue eyes—those pale, disconnected little windows that floated aimlessly about their sockets as if trying to peek into another dimension—were ignited by the light of a wisdom that didn’t exist; the light of perfect unknowing.

  On the way home that day, as she was trying to dress him and walk at the same time, he declared he didn’t want to be a doctor—as if the likelihood were inevitable—he wanted to be a pizza man.

  “We’ll see what we can do to keep you out of medical school,” Marikya said solemnly. “It won’t be easy.” Then she’d burst out laughing.

  Tomík sensed he was the cause of her laughter and it made no difference if she was laughing with him or at him. She was laughing. It was a rare and wonderful sound. “Pizza man,” he repeated, pretending to toss dough in the air.

  She was reminded that he’d seen such a display from a street vendor the day she’d made the mistake of taking him to Brno on market day. A disaster. That had been before the war. She was amazed how his brain, like fallow earth under a slow-moving plow, would turn up the oddest bric-a-brac from his personal history. Things of which he’d seemed completely unaware at the time.

  She took a final drag on the cigarette and ground it out in the moss. “Tomík! Potatoes, Tomík! And sausage!”

  Somewhere nearby, Tomík began to sing. That meant he was ready to come home. Marikya stood up, folded the clothes in the crook of her arm and began walking toward the music. She found him, dancing circles in a pool of water last night’s rain had left behind, ankle-deep in happiness. A sock rippled in the water beside him. She watched his face for a moment, and it struck her—as Trinka, one of the village women, had unkindly observed long ago—how like a clown’s face it was; eyes wide to admit the wonders of the world that he was always seeing for the first time, his brows arched in perpetual expectation of surprise. Now, as always when his eyes lit upon her long enough to register some primitive recognition, his smile broadened in delight, as if it was he who had found her.

  Marikya removed her shoes and socks and, wading into the icy pool, began to dress him as he danced, which made her his partner. He sang and laughed and spun in circles while she wrestled him into his undershirt and shirt, all the while gently nudging him toward dry ground where she could tackle the more demanding task of getting his pants on.

  Tomík lapsed into contemplation as she completed her chore. “Pizza man.” Poor Tomichya. He hadn’t even the sense to know how miserable he was.

  It was a long trek back, during which Tomík hummed and engaged in his favorite fascination, which was to put his index fingers as close as possible to his mother’s eyes without touching her lashes. Since they were walking and the ground was uneven, she got poked often. When he’d wrung all possible delight from that exercise, he would twist his curly, rust-colored hair around his fingers. As they emerged from the forest at the top of the field overlooking the village, there was no indication that, in the two and a half hours it had taken her to recover Tomík, the world had changed.

  Nobody greeted them. There was no one to point fingers or make catcalls. No children jeered or mocked them in the customary parade to their door. The village was silent. The single paved road that lead through town was empty. Marikya’s first horrified thought was that the Germans had come and taken everyone away. But chickens still scratched their meager living at the roadside. Goats were still in their pens and the villagers’ few prized cows watched with vague, detached interested from the pasture as they walked by. The Germans wouldn’t have let them be.

  The feeling grew on her that something supernatural had happened. The memory leapt to mind of a wild-eyed missionary who had once proclaimed loudly in the village square that humanity had reached the end of days. That Christ was about return, catch His people up into the sky in glorious raptures of ecstasy and take them off to heaven. The preacher’s assertions, delivered with passionate conviction, had disquieted her Catholic sensibilities and she was pleased when the priest and a few of the town’s elders ran the fanatic out of town. But what if that’s what had happened? What if she and Tomík were the only one’s left to face Perdition? In that event, mustn’t the priest have been left behind as well? Surely he wouldn’t have been caught up in such a Protestant exercise. He’d be excommunicated.

  Marikya struggled inwardly. She was a modern woman. She knew people who had electricity in their homes and indoor plumbing. She had been to Brno and seen the city lights, the streetcars and movie theaters. She’d listened to the wireless in Vera’s shop and even used a sewing machine. These facts and experiences militated against the supernatural, and she summoned them now to provide a rational expla
nation. Surely in a world filled with such man-made wonders there was nothing that couldn’t be logically explained. Nevertheless, her feet—peasant’s feet—betrayed her, guiding her toward the church for an answer.

  Still some yards away from that imposing edifice of whitewashed limestone, she heard voices that, though muffled by ancient oaken doors, were unmistakably raised in argument. Something terrible had happened. Instantly, without reason, she feared for Yan.

  Her heart raced as she took the steps in pairs, leaving Tomík to dawdle in the dust, no more confused than usual. Inside the church, she found the entire town gathered. Pressing into the crowd, she saw the priest, Father Hajl*, in his pulpit, trying to bestow calm upon a situation that seemed threatening to get out of hand. Abandoned by his customary quiet authority, he was gesturing wildly, his forehead beaded with sweat. His surplice was askew. The very air bristled with antagonism.

  “There can be no question of turning him in,” the priest said. “Did you think the war would pass us by forever?”

  “Why not?” said Vladya, the blacksmith. He was in the vanguard of peasants encircling the pulpit and was apparently their spokesman. “Why should we upset things now?” Several people voiced their agreement. “So long as we leave the war alone, it leaves us alone. So far, so good, eh? If we turn him in to the Germans, they will be grateful. They will continue not to bother us!”

  Vera was near the door. Marikya squeezed toward her. “Who are they talking about?”

  “Marikya. Where have you been? I knocked on your door.”

  “Tomík was in the woods.”

  Vera accepted this without further explanation. “Ah. Well, you’ve missed it.” Clearly she was not hesitant to share the latest news. “An English paratrooper landed in Postik’s pig yard. He had been shot and the Germans are looking for him.”

  “And they’re talking about turning him over to the Germans? He’d be killed!”

  “That’s their concern, not ours,” Vera replied stoically. “I agree with Vladya. Keeping our heads low has got us this far. If the Germans come here looking for him and they find we’ve been hiding him . . . well, you’ve heard what they do to villages that aid the Allies.”

  “That may be,” Marikya whispered sharply. “But to turn him over!”

  “Will earn us goodwill,” Trinka interrupted. A porcine-eyed, sharp-tongued farm woman, Trinka hung about villagers’ ears like a cloud of mosquitoes, whispering gossip and fanning the embers of malice. “That’s the only way Tessa Hora will survive the war.”

  ‘At what cost?’ Marikya wondered. “Is it worth it to trade this Englishman’s blood for our safety? Would we be able to live with that?”

  “I could!” said Trinka, punctuating the claim with a caustic laugh. “Living is just what we’re talking about. Besides, what are the English to us?”

  “They are trying to defeat the Germans,” Marikya argued. She turned to Vera. “You’ve heard on the wireless how they—”

  “To save their own necks!” Vera retorted. “Well, that’s all we’re doing.”

  “But Father Hajl is saying we should not turn him in!”

  “Father Hajl is trying to show how spiritual he is,” Trinka said. “This is no time for spirituality. We must be practical.”

  “Where is he now, this Englishman?”

  “Soiling Anneke Postik’s good linens, I imagine.”

  “If he’s wounded, we should take care of him,” Marikya protested.

  “And if the Germans were to find out?”

  “How could they? Who would tell? The Germans don’t care about Tessa Hora. How would they know?”

  “They find out these things,” said Vera knowingly.

  “That’s right,” Trinka nodded. “Then what about our families? What about our children?” Trinka was instantly reminded of Tomichya. “Even Tomík.”

  “Tomík! I’ve left him outside!” Instantly, Marikya began pressing her way back through the crowd.

  The other women exchanged a look as if to say “best place for him.”

  In the brief interval the debate had heated considerably. Marikya had never heard a villager raise a voice to the priest and now there was a chorus of angry protest against him. The shock struck thunderously at the core of her being. As she neared the door, Kozytz, a local farm boy and one of Tomík’s most persistent tormentors—ever anxious to be the bearer of bad tidings—burst into the church. He was out of breath and his hair was pasted to his forehead in sweaty clumps. “They’re coming!” he cried at the top of his lungs. “The Germans are coming for the Englishman!”

  Marikya pushed through the door as a sudden, anxious silence descended on the sanctuary.

  “There is no time now!” she heard Vladya challenge as she emerged onto the steps. “We must go get him. If we take him to them before they get here, they won’t burn the town!

  Frantic, fearful cries joined in agreement and all eyes stretched upward to the priest. “People! Listen to yourselves. Has nothing come of all you have learned in this church? We are to care for those who can’t help themselves!”

  “What about us?” Trinka yelled from the back. “Who will care for us when the German tanks level our houses!?”

  “What are your houses worth if they are built on the innocent blood of those who have come to defend us?” said Father Hajl. “Who will defend your souls against that burden?”

  The great door closed behind her and Marikya heard no more. Tomík was sitting on the bottom step, comforting himself with a long, meaningless monologue, which he would interrupt with sudden chortles of laughter. As she pulled him to his feet, her head spun with a hundred unformed thoughts and images. All of the courses of action that occurred to her arrived stillborn. She knew only that she had to do something. Quickly.

  “Come on, Tomík. We’ve got to go.” Her heart clogged her throat as she dragged him along the street. She pulled up sharply when she realized that, in her tumult of emotions, she was headed home. What could she do there? Nothing.

  Postik’s house was down a small dirt side street toward the edge of town. They’d passed it only minutes before. Responding to impulse, she bent her footsteps in that direction.

  The house was still and dark. “Hello?” she said, opening the creaky wooden door. “Emika?” She couldn’t remember having seen Emika’s face in the crowd at church.

  “Hellooo!” Tomík bellowed cheerily, poking his head over her shoulder, like a misshapen appendage.

  “Shh, Tomík! Quiet!”

  “Quiet!” echoed Tomík enthusiastically. “Shh!” He put a crooked finger to his lips and grinned stupidly.

  The response was not in Czech. She knew it was the Englishman, calling from the bedroom. As she crossed the kitchen and opened the door, she ransacked her brain for the few words of English that she knew. The lyrics of Chattanooga Choo-Choo seemed wildly inappropriate. Besides, she only knew them phonetically.

  “Hello?” she ventured, peering cautiously around the door. The soldier was sitting on a three-legged stool, staring out the window. Blood soaked a hastily contrived sling that supported his arm.

  “Hello,” the soldier repeated. His expression betrayed the fact that he was in a great deal of pain, but his eyes were bright and hopeful. Marikya decided that hope was important. She would tell him nothing of what was happening at the church.

  “English?” she said, redundantly. She had to open the conversation somewhere.

  He nodded.

  “Speak Czech?” she asked hopefully.

  “Afraid not,” said the Englishman. “Parlez vous francais?”

  Her French was only slightly better than her English, but between them they were able to jury-rig a rudimentary language sufficient to communicate the basics.

  “You walk?”

  “If you mean did I walk here,” said the Englishman with a rye smile. “No. I flew.”

  She didn’t understand.

  “Yes. I can walk. It’s my shoulder.” He cast an eye at his band
age. “Not good, I’m afraid. Could’ve been worse, of course.”

  She gathered that he was ambulatory.

  “Come now,” she said, gesturing toward the door, which was filled with Tomík who had taken an interest in the proceedings, at least to the extent that he was peeling paint from the lintel.

  “Come? With you?” said the soldier. Sensing the anxiety in her voice, he got up, wincing as he moved, and took the hand she held out to him. “Where are we going?”

  “Germans come,” she said. She couldn’t think of the English word for quickly. “Vite. Vite! You run away!”

  Already she had pulled him to the front door. Tomík, lagging behind, was nonetheless curious enough to follow of his own volition.

  “Where to?” the soldier said. “I don’t know the area. I’d probably head straight for the Krauts.”

  She got the gist of his dilemma. Where could he run that even the Germans couldn’t find him? She hesitated by the garden fence just long enough to be struck by a bolt of inspiration.

  “Go with Tomík!” She placed her hand on Tomík’s shoulder.

  “Tomík?” the soldier replied. “Him? He’s . . . he’s . . .” It was obvious what Tomík was. Also what he wasn’t, namely the sort of person into whose hands one would readily place his life.

  Marikya wanted to explain about Tomík, but she hadn’t the words or the time. Already she could hear the clank and thunder of tanks in the distance and, much nearer, a cacophony of angry voices. Tomík was the soldier’s only hope.

  But could Tomík be made to understand? She caught him with a glance as he was about to put his fingers to the soldier’s eyes. She slapped down his hands. “No, Tomík. No eyes.”

  Tomík curled the offending fingers in his hair.

  “Tomík,” Marikya cried in rising desperation. “Go to the woods!” She pointed to the forest at the top of the field. “Take the Englishman to the woods!”

  “To the woods,” Tomík mimed with sublime incomprehension.