“Oh, no. We knew nothing about that.” She leaned in and said in a low, confidential voice, “We snuck across the border.”
Hlinka laughed, taking her remark as a joke, and she swiftly changed the subject, asking him about his American experience and the café life of New Orleans. As they chatted and laughed, I went outside, stood in a corner to light a cigarette, and considered the blue smoke curling to the sky. The two blonde sisters had circled back, this time leading a group of other children gathered from the streets. Like a string of birds on a telephone wire, they stood just beyond the gates, a dozen heads peeking over the low wall. I could hear them babbling in Czech, a phrase that sounded like podvr?ené dítě popping up like the leitmotif of their chattering song. With a glance at my wife, who was holding Father Hlinka in rapt attention, I started to walk over to the children, who scattered like pigeons when I came too close. They flew in again when I showed them my back, and ran off, laughing and screaming, when I turned around. When I stepped outside the gate, I found one girl cowering behind the wall. We spoke in German, and I told her not to be afraid.
“Why is everyone running away and laughing?”
“She told us there was a devil in the church.”
“But I am not a devil . . . just an American.”
“She said you are from the woods. A fairy.”
Beyond the town’s streets, the old forest bristled with life. “There are no such things as fairies.”
The girl stood up and faced me, hands on her hips. “I don’t believe you,” she said, and turned to race off to her companions. I stood there watching her go, my mind twisted in knots, worried that I had made a mistake. But we had come too far for me to be frightened by mere children or the threat of the police. In a way, they were no different from other people. Suspicion was a second skin for me, and I felt perfectly capable of hiding the facts from everyone.
Tess bounded through the gates and found me on the sidewalk. “How would you like a private tour, baby?”
Father Hlinka was at her side. “Frau Day tells me that you are a musician, a composer. You must try out the pipe organ here. Best in Cheb.”
In the loft high above the church, I sat at the keyboard, the empty pews stretching out before me, the gilt altar, the enormous crucifix, and played like a man possessed. To work the foot pedals and get the right tone from the massive organ, I had to rock and throw my weight against the machine, but once I figured out its complexities of stops and bellows and was in the flow of the music, it became a kind of dance. I performed a simple piece from the Berceuse by Louis Vierne, and for the first time in years felt myself again. While I was playing, I became a thing apart, not aware of anyone or anything else but the music, which infused me like hot ice and fell over me like wondrous strange snow. Father Hlinka and Tess sat in the gallery with me, watching my hands move, my head bob, and listened to the music.
When she tired of the violent sound, Tess kissed my cheek and wandered down the staircase to look over the rest of the church. Alone with the priest, I quickly broached the reason for my visit to Cheb. I told him of my research into family history and how the librarian back in Frankfurt had advised me to check the church records, for there was little hope of getting access to the central government archives.
“It’s a surprise for her,” I said. “I want to trace Tess’s family tree, and the missing link is her grandfather, Gustav Ungerland. If I could just find his birthday or any information about him, I will make up a family history for her.”
“That sounds like a wonderful thing to do. Come back tomorrow. I’ll dig through the archives, and you can play the music for me.”
“But you can’t tell my wife.”
He winked, and we were co-conspirators.