sandwiches while enjoying the sun and fresh air. Elsa would sometimes bring little samples of cream and perfume from her father’s apothecary. Everything was packaged in little glass vials that were elegantly labeled.
“Try this,” Elsa said to me. “It’s rose oil.
“It’s my favorite,” she said as she moved my hair behind my ear and dabbed a little of it on my neck.
“Oh, that’s such a nice smell,” Věruška agreed. “How come you never tell us about your crushes, Lenka?” She poked me. “Elsa and I blabber on and you never mention a single boy!”
“What if I’m afraid you’ll disapprove?”
“Never!” She let out a little squeal. “Tell us!”
I laughed. “I’m not sure you’d be able to keep a secret, Věruška,” I teased.
She giggled and reached for the little vial of rose oil from Elsa’s hand.
“I don’t need for you to tell me,” she said as she applied some oil behind her own ears. “I already know.”
“Who?” Elsa was now in on the excitement. “Who is it?”
“It’s Freddy Kline, of course!” Věruška said between giggles.
Freddy Kline was a very short classmate of ours. He was sweet and kind, but I suspected he didn’t have any interest in girls whatsoever.
I laughed.
“Věruška, you’ve found me out.”
Those afternoons of laughter would soon fade. My own father’s business began suffering as I entered that second year at the Academy. By the winter of 1938, his clients stopped placing new orders. Only one was honest enough to tell him it was because he was nervous to be associated with a Jew. Lucie was the only Gentile we knew who remained loyal to us. She continued to visit with the baby, a round cherub who now walked and made little noises, and brought a much-needed vitality to our otherwise concerned household.
The contrast of Lucie’s baby on my mother’s lap revealed how she had begun to age. The strain of Father’s failing business and the unspoken fear of rising anti-Semitism had begun to wear on her face. As if visited by an etcher’s point, her face was now feathered with thin lines that made her appear sadder, and perhaps more fragile, than before.
I hold the image of my mother with Lucie’s baby, Eliška, on her lap, like a postcard from a long-ago holiday. I have the sensation that I was once in the parlor in our apartment on Smetanovo nábřeži, a tuft of red upholstery beneath me and a cup of tea resting between cupped hands. Here I am, a daughter looking at her mother aging before her eyes. I see my nanny’s child with her life stretched before her, in dark contrast to my mother’s. I have never actually painted this image, even though I think of it often. Like poetry that is recited but never written down, more powerful because it is held solely in the mind.
I continued to throw myself into my studies during that second year at the Academy. While Věruška toted her sketchpad to the Café Artistes every afternoon, and sat seductively among the brooding intelligentsia, I walked back to our family’s apartment to work on my homework assignments and keep an eye on my parents.
I knew that Marta’s presence would have been enough, but I was increasingly worried about them. My own life had not changed yet. I was still attending school, and socializing occasionally when I felt like it. But the financial burden of supporting his family under deteriorating conditions was weighing on Papa. Like rain running down a gutter, his concern trickled down on all of us.
They had already let the maid go, and Mother’s visits to the seamstress, Gizela, had ceased. Mother had taken to doing her own cooking, too. Papa was trying to sell off most of his inventory in an effort to downsize and raise money. There were whispers about perhaps trying to emigrate to Palestine, but how could they start anew in a country where they had no family, and no knowledge of the language or culture?
I lay in bed every night with my eyes shut and my ears
“Try this,” Elsa said to me. “It’s rose oil.
“It’s my favorite,” she said as she moved my hair behind my ear and dabbed a little of it on my neck.
“Oh, that’s such a nice smell,” Věruška agreed. “How come you never tell us about your crushes, Lenka?” She poked me. “Elsa and I blabber on and you never mention a single boy!”
“What if I’m afraid you’ll disapprove?”
“Never!” She let out a little squeal. “Tell us!”
I laughed. “I’m not sure you’d be able to keep a secret, Věruška,” I teased.
She giggled and reached for the little vial of rose oil from Elsa’s hand.
“I don’t need for you to tell me,” she said as she applied some oil behind her own ears. “I already know.”
“Who?” Elsa was now in on the excitement. “Who is it?”
“It’s Freddy Kline, of course!” Věruška said between giggles.
Freddy Kline was a very short classmate of ours. He was sweet and kind, but I suspected he didn’t have any interest in girls whatsoever.
I laughed.
“Věruška, you’ve found me out.”
Those afternoons of laughter would soon fade. My own father’s business began suffering as I entered that second year at the Academy. By the winter of 1938, his clients stopped placing new orders. Only one was honest enough to tell him it was because he was nervous to be associated with a Jew. Lucie was the only Gentile we knew who remained loyal to us. She continued to visit with the baby, a round cherub who now walked and made little noises, and brought a much-needed vitality to our otherwise concerned household.
The contrast of Lucie’s baby on my mother’s lap revealed how she had begun to age. The strain of Father’s failing business and the unspoken fear of rising anti-Semitism had begun to wear on her face. As if visited by an etcher’s point, her face was now feathered with thin lines that made her appear sadder, and perhaps more fragile, than before.
I hold the image of my mother with Lucie’s baby, Eliška, on her lap, like a postcard from a long-ago holiday. I have the sensation that I was once in the parlor in our apartment on Smetanovo nábřeži, a tuft of red upholstery beneath me and a cup of tea resting between cupped hands. Here I am, a daughter looking at her mother aging before her eyes. I see my nanny’s child with her life stretched before her, in dark contrast to my mother’s. I have never actually painted this image, even though I think of it often. Like poetry that is recited but never written down, more powerful because it is held solely in the mind.
I continued to throw myself into my studies during that second year at the Academy. While Věruška toted her sketchpad to the Café Artistes every afternoon, and sat seductively among the brooding intelligentsia, I walked back to our family’s apartment to work on my homework assignments and keep an eye on my parents.
I knew that Marta’s presence would have been enough, but I was increasingly worried about them. My own life had not changed yet. I was still attending school, and socializing occasionally when I felt like it. But the financial burden of supporting his family under deteriorating conditions was weighing on Papa. Like rain running down a gutter, his concern trickled down on all of us.
They had already let the maid go, and Mother’s visits to the seamstress, Gizela, had ceased. Mother had taken to doing her own cooking, too. Papa was trying to sell off most of his inventory in an effort to downsize and raise money. There were whispers about perhaps trying to emigrate to Palestine, but how could they start anew in a country where they had no family, and no knowledge of the language or culture?
I lay in bed every night with my eyes shut and my ears
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