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CHAPTER 1

Prague, early fall 1943

Anna Zadoková clutched her violin to her chest. Her sheet music fluttered to the floor as she peered from behind the lace curtain to the street below.

"Well, child, don't just stand there. Tell me what you see."

Anna might laugh at her grandmother's impatience if a black Mercedes emblazoned with a swastika didn't sit parked in front of their apartment building. Instead, she sucked in her breath and turned toward her. "Nazis."

"Here?" Babicka didn't open her half-closed eyes, but grabbed the carved arm of her chair tighter until her gnarled knuckles whitened.

"Yes, here. Of all places." Anna couldn't corral the wild beating of her heart. "But we won't be here for long." She turned her attention to the commotion on the road. "What are we going to do? Máma and Táta told me to keep you safe."

A young, lean officer stepped from the car, unfolding himself to his full height. My, he towered over the others. He blew out smoke from his cigarette. A shock of blond hair peeked out from under his hat, visible to her even at this distance. He couldn't be more than twenty-five. Handsome? Maybe under different circumstances.

But she couldn't forget what the Nazis had done to her family. She might never see Máma and Táta again because of them. Ne, his outward appearance may be pleasing, but darkness and ugliness pervaded his heart and soul.

Just like his countryman Reinhard Heydrich, the Butcher of Prague. The man who deported and killed an untold number of Jews. Friends from the conservatory. Neighbors. Her only cousin.

The man barked at his driver and pointed in the direction of their flat. Anna grasped her bow hard. He was moving into this building? She forced herself to relax her fingers lest she snap the bow in two. There were no empty apartments.

Anna's knees turned to mush, and she leaned against the window sill to keep from crumpling to the ground. There might not be a vacant flat now, but there would be one in a matter of minutes. Would he arrest the young family below them, or Anna and Babicka? Or both?

She turned from the window, unable to watch any more of the unfolding scene. "He. ..." Her voice squeaked, and she swallowed to clear it. "He is coming here. We have to be ready to leave. I'll pack a bag for you and bring your coat."

Babicka bit her lip. "Thank you, child."

Anna's heart skipped in her chest, unable to find a steady rhythm. "Babicka. ..." And then she dove into her grandmother's arms, trembling like a child in a thunderstorm.

"Hush, now, hush." Babicka's words flowed over her, gentle as a spring rain. "The Lord protected us before. He will again."

"I don't see how. I just don't see how. What about Máma and Táta?"

"They're safe in the palm of His hand."

If she could stop time and remain in Babicka's embrace forever, finding balm for the ache in her chest. But soon, the soldiers would burst through the door and arrest them. They had to prepare. She stood, taking a moment to steady her wobbling knees and straighten her pleated, navy blue skirt. Not that it mattered. Not that it mattered one bit.

She moved to the back bedroom she shared with Babicka and pulled the well-worn tan suitcase from under the large feather bed. She stuffed the small case with all their warmest clothes and sweaters. From the bathroom, she grabbed Babicka's heart medicine and a bottle of vitamin tablets.

Where was Babicka's Bible? She would want it. Need it. It wasn't on the small, round bedside table. Perhaps in the kitchen where she had read it earlier this morning. But though Anna searched high and low and snatched the last of their houskový knedlík, bread dumplings, brought by a friend from their church, she didn't locate her grandmother's most treasured possession.

She returned to the bedroom and stood by her dresser, tracing the painted rose trailing down the Bohemian glass jug her parents gave her on her sixteenth birthday. Had that been only seven years ago? Of all the treasures begging to be stuffed in the suitcase, this was the one calling the loudest. But it might break during the journey. She left it alone.

Before her melancholy grew, she turned away and shut the door. The old parquet floors squeaked under her feet as she returned to the living room. Much to her relief, Babicka sat in her chair, her Bible open in her lap.

They were Christians, yet the Nazis arrested and persecuted them for their ethnic heritage. For the blood which flowed in their veins, no choice of theirs. What had they ever done to the Germans to deserve this treatment?

"We're ready to go, Babicka." Anna draped her grandmother's scratchy, gray wool coat over a chair and placed her grandfather's on top of it. A fall chill hung in the air, winter biting at its heels. Two coats would keep Babicka warmer than one. Anna brought her own long, brown coat from the large walnut wardrobe, the yellow star sewn onto it proclaiming their identity to the world.

They sat beside each other on the rose-sprigged, Victorian-style sofa, the soft ticking of the Bavarian cuckoo clock on the wall the only sound in the room. Anna clasped her grandmother's cool, fragile hand. What would life have been like in America? They should have gone.

Babicka bowed her head, closed her eyes, and moved her lips without uttering a sound.

Then, from downstairs, shouts and screams rang out.

* * *

Horst Engel studied the Baroque-style brown stone building adorned with ornate triangular pediments above each window and carved wreaths beneath each one. A large, engraved swag accented the arched main entrance. But even his attempts at an architectural analysis of his new home weren't enough to shut his ears to the screams of the small child ripped from his mother's arms.

Horst couldn't turn away.

The little boy's face reddened. Fat tears raced down his dimpled cheeks. The mother, a conspicuous yellow star on her coat, lunged for her son. His fellow officers rewarded her instinct with a gun butt to her head.

He averted his gaze at the sight of blood gushing from her temple. That wasn't necessary. None of this was. Vater said this assignment was better than fighting in a trench somewhere, but Horst had a difficult time understanding how that might be. Nevertheless, his father, an influential man in the Nazi party, had paid for this commission for his son.

This was not what his life was supposed to look like. Not any of it. And it wasn't because he was afraid to fight or even to die. For a right and just cause, he would give his life without hesitation. That's what a good officer did. But not like this. Scenes like this churned his stomach. Reminded him of his past. Brought on the nightmares.

He crossed his arms over his midsection and leaned against the black car, the metal warm on his cheek.

"Are you ill, sir?"

Horst startled at the voice of his young driver and snapped to attention. It would not do for him to be caught slouching. "Nein. Just fatigued."

"I'll tell them to hurry removing this Jewish family. It might take some time to clean their filth, though."

"Don't." Horst turned to the soldier whose name he couldn't remember at the moment. "Give them what time they need."

"Very good, sir. We want all to be in readiness for you."

The man misunderstood, but Horst didn't correct him.

A soldier, armed with a rifle, led the father from the home, his shoulders slumped, a muscle jumping in his cheek, his hands clenched. Horst gritted his teeth.

Something fluttered in an upstairs window. A lace curtain parted for a moment, a flash of time. The slightest glimpse of a young woman with dark brown hair and pale skin. Like an apparition, she vanished. Who was she?

He returned his attention to the family his soldiers led away. The guards shoved the father, a bright yellow star on his coat, inside the canvas-covered truck. He drew his wife and child to him, tears coursing down the woman's battered and bloodied face.

Horst swallowed hard.

The truck revved its engine and screeched away down the narrow street.

He couldn't take it anymore. Squaring his shoulders, he strode to the building and entered the first-floor flat.

For many years, Vater drummed into him how vile and filthy the Jews were. But not these. A large bow window brightened the cheerful living space, a bright red rug on the floor, a well-worn green sofa along one wall. Only his mother kept house this well, this clean. The lady of the home must have worked very hard.

He moved toward the couch. If he could put his feet up —

He tripped. A tin train engine sat on the floor in the middle of the room, one a child pulled with a string. He'd had one similar when he was young, fascinated by locomotives.

Horst picked it up and turned it around in his hands. Much of the black paint had peeled off. It had been loved. Treasured. Perhaps by more than one generation. He searched the flat for a bedroom and stashed the toy into the deep recesses of the wardrobe, behind several dresses.

The woman's flowery scent reached him and he slammed the door shut. His heart raced.

Boots sounded on the scarred wood floors. He once again donned his Nazi officer persona and went to meet his compatriots.

"Are the accommodations to your liking, sir?"

The boy's name eluded him. "Ja, danke. That will be all for now."

The house fell silent, and that was fine with him. His head pounded. Oh, to be home in his room with the smell of his mother's cooking and the scent of edelweiss filling the air.

He sat in the old, overstuffed chair in the corner of the living room and sank into its depths. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the warmth of Mutti's potato soup in his middle.

His stomach growled. What had they left him to eat in this place? He wandered to the kitchen. Neat and spotless, just like the other rooms. The cabinets, however, produced little for dinner. He discovered a tin of ersatz coffee and put the pot on the stove to brew.

As he waited for the water to boil, a strange sound floated around him. Beautiful. Haunting.

Mozart, if he was correct. He listened a moment more. Yes, Violin Concerto Number Three.

And played to perfection, the technique impeccable. His mother loved music and often dragged him to symphony concerts. When he was a teenager, it had been against his will. First he was soothed, then he learned, then he appreciated. Now, reached out to recapture those days.

He needed that beauty.

* * *

Anna allowed the last note of the concerto to float on the air and die away. She closed her eyes and held her breath for a moment, letting the quiet wash over her.

For that instant, and that instant only, she was free. The world was a good and happy place.

Yes, it was risky to play when the Nazis declared it illegal for Jews to have instruments. But she kept her violin's voice quiet. Right now, the music calmed her.

A knock on the door brought her crashing to earth like a flaming fighter plane. Her breath whooshed from her lungs.

These days, anyone might be on the other side. Did she get careless, lost in the music when she played? Did the Nazi downstairs hear her?

She glanced at Babicka, sleeping in the chair, mouth wide open. Beside her sat the run-down brown suitcase, the leather handle worn, the fabric frayed at the edges. Would it even survive the trip to the camp?

Was this the time they waited for? Anticipated? Dreaded?

She wiped her hands on her deep blue skirt, sucked in a deep breath, and opened the door.

The officer from the street.

She locked her knees to keep them from failing her.

He strode into the flat, his eyes icy blue. In one sweep, he assessed the room. And them. He removed his peaked cap, an eagle on the crown, and tousled his dark-blond hair. He nodded at her. "Hauptmann Horst Engel. And you are?"

As she released the air from her lungs, she prayed the words would not squeak out of her throat. She never expected the Nazi deporting them to introduce himself. She answered in German, a language she and many Prague Jews were fluent in. "Anna Zadoková. And my grandmother, Jana Doubeková."

Babicka stirred and opened her eyes, startling for a moment.

He nodded in Babicka's direction, then returned his attention to Anna. "You played that music?"

She stepped back, grasping at a wobbly side table for support. He'd heard. How could she have been that reckless? What should she say? Denying it would only bring on his ire. Acknowledging it would, at the least, add their names to the deportation notices.

After a few moments of silence, Hauptmann Engel cleared his throat. "Bring your violin and come with me."

She again glanced at the suitcases, packed, ready to go. And what about Babicka? If only her voice worked. "Sir?" The word squeezed out between her tense vocal chords.

He turned toward her, his eyes the color of steel. "Ja?"

"My grandmother? And our suitcases?"

"The grandmother may come. The suitcases? You won't need those where you are going."

Anna draped Babicka's coat over her shoulders. The Nazi from downstairs may not allow them to take their valises to the camp, but she refused to let her grandmother freeze to death, no matter what the cost might be to herself. The cries of the family from the downstairs flat rang in her ears, though they were likely on a train by now, racing toward their awful destiny.

She grabbed her violin as he'd commanded and gave one last, long gaze at their suitcases. She itched to pull her grandmother's heart medicine and vitamin tablets from them. Perhaps they would help Babicka survive. For a little time, if nothing else.

As they followed Hauptmann Engel into the hall, she peered back into the little apartment they'd called home for the past three years, ever since the Nazis confiscated their large, comfortable flat in the Christian section of town. That one had had four bedrooms, a modern kitchen, a large, formal dining room with a crystal chandelier, even a spacious music room with Máma's grand piano. The housekeeper had maintained it all in spotless fashion.

Then the Germans had forced her family into this tiny place on the edge of the Jewish Quarter — all except David, her older brother, who had moved into a flat with his intellectual friends, much to her parents' consternation.

Still, they'd made it a home, and it showed. The zig-zag parquet floors shone, the windows in the living room's bay gleamed, and the pillows on the well-worn flowered couch sat fluffed. The pungent tang of cabbage and vinegar hung in the air. The officers billeted here would think the family left for an outing and would return at the end of the day.

Anna tamped down the rising tide of tears. Over the past years, she had cried enough. At least she had her violin. In her head, even now, rang the notes of Mozart's concerto. It quieted her heart.

Babicka held onto Anna and grasped the hand-smoothed banister, her steps slow and halting. She hadn't descended the stairs in months. These days, even Anna rarely did.

What would their friend, Paní Buraneková, say when she came on her usual Saturday to bring them food they could no longer buy for themselves? Would Hauptmann Engel lay in wait for her, ready to arrest her for assisting Jews? Anna forced herself to step forward. She shivered.

When they reached the first-floor landing, the soldier didn't usher them through the entryway. Instead, he opened the door to the Schniz's flat and motioned for them to enter.

Ne, it was his apartment now.

On trembling legs, she led Babicka through the door and into a place laid out much the same as theirs. She removed her shoes, as did her grandmother. Before, when the Schniz's lived here, she had visited them, had sat on the parquet floor in the living room and played with the little boy.

She dug her fingernails into her palms. Maybe the pain from the action would cover the pain in her heart.

"Welcome." Hauptmann Engel opened the drapes on the bow window, inviting in the light and giving a view of the quiet, narrow street. He pointed to a spot in the bow. "Is this a good place for you to play? Do you have enough light? Didn't you bring any music?"

Anna controlled the smile that wanted to break out on her face at his fussing. "Ja, this is fine. I don't need any music. It is all in my head." Though she'd just had the music before her, the hours upon hours she practiced fused the notes into her brain. She would never forget. No matter what the Nazis did to her.

She sat Babicka on the green couch, took her violin from its case, and stood beside the window. Her fingers trembled. Would she even be able to play a single note with him sitting beside her grandmother, staring at her? Placing her in the window for all of Prague to see that she broke the law?

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Excerpted from "The Melody of the Soul"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Liz Tolsma.
Excerpted by permission of Gilead Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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