The Wooden King. Thomas Maxwell McConnell

Viktor.” She held out a clutching fist. “You know they’re going to cut rations again.”

      “They’re always going to cut rations.”

      “And so we could always use the money.” Her eyes scowled. “And yet you won’t give lessons.”

      “No, I am not giving German lessons. If that is what he truly wants.”

      “And what about what your family wants? What about Aleks? Your salary means less every month.”

      He frowned at the ragged tassels of the rug, tried to toe one into place.

      “I will find something.”

      “Something besides the library? Besides sitting at the dining table staring out the window?”

      “Yes, Alena. Something besides that.”

      “Something with money in it. Something more than chess and the radio.” She forced out all the breath she had. “When?”

      “Soon.”

      “I don’t believe it.”

      She went into the kitchen. He looked at the man’s name again and balled it in his fist and left it in his pocket. Miroslav looked up from the newspaper in the sitting room.

      “How was the library?”

      “Quiet as the Capuchins in their crypt. That economist was there, Kovar, with Dolezal.”

      “He used to be a socialist, Kovar. I hear now he’s a national socialist. Everybody’s giving in. The longer it goes on the easier it becomes. Did you hear that Göring came to Prague yesterday and took our president to dinner? When they put the menu before him Hacha said, ‘Now where do I sign?’”

      The old man chuckled and Trn smiled.

      “At least we can still laugh.”

      “As long as we’ve got that, Viktor, we’ve got something. What was Dolezal saying?”

      “Dolezal wasn’t speaking today.”

      “Just as well for you. I never liked Dolezal. Every time he came into the office to complain he would stroke that fat mustache and sit with his fat knees spread wide as if he had to accommodate titanic balls.”

      “Perhaps he does.”

      Miroslav frowned like a carp.

      “I doubt it.”

      “Did you see this man who came?”

      “No. I didn’t.”

      “I wish you had.”

      “You think he’s not what he says he is.”

      “Perhaps, but let’s not say that. If he is more than that he seems only to be watching for now.”

      “Now that the whip hand is Heydrich’s who knows where the crop will fall. All those dozens they’ve shot just to cow us since he came to the castle. The Reichsprotektor and his protection.”

      Trn nodded again and Miroslav handed him a newspaper.

      “Nothing there you’ll want to read. Looks like the Russians are truly kaput.”

      Vienna was playing Mozart. Miroslav slumped in his chair, trumpets and drums ebbing gently over his snores. Aleks considered the figurines on their shelf, brought one to Trn on the couch.

      “What happened to her?”

      “I’m afraid,” Trn whispered, “an accident befell her long ago.”

      In his hand Aleks twisted the girl in her pink dress, examined the rough ceramic wound on her hand.

      “You couldn’t fix her?”

      “No, I couldn’t.”

      “What was here?”

      “I believe a little butterfly. Pink like her dress. Let’s put it back so we won’t have another mishap. It’s Mama’s.”

      “It’s already broken.”

      “Let’s not make it worse,” Trn whispered. Trumpets and drums. So Mozart was happy the day his heart brought his hand to these notes. As an ordinary man might hum on a sunny morning. Then the door rushed open.

      “Dita doesn’t feel well,” Alena said, “and needs something from the shop. I’m going for her.”

      “I didn’t hear her call. Do you want me to go?”

      “It’s female things.”

      “Oh.”

      “Please put all that away if you’re done with it,” she said, waving a hand at the board and scattered pieces.

      Aleks said, “Daddy was showing me the Czech variation of the Slav defense.”

      “That must be the one where you lie on the floor while the others walk over you. I’ll be back.”

      The door closed and the orchestra paused and then another movement began. Aleks put back the figurine and took down a squat pillar of wood browned at points with the oils of human hands. It filled his small palm. “This one is for chess.” He looked up. “Is it all right?”

      “Yes. This one’s sturdier.”

      “A man in England gave it to you.”

      “That’s right. A man in Oxford. A very nice man named Hugh Peterborough.”

      “Why did the man give it to you?”

      “As a remembrance, so I would recall the times when we played chess together.”

      “Does it work?”

      “Do I remember? Yes, I remember vividly. He had thirty-two pieces like this one. He and his friends carved them during the war so they could play when there was time.”

      “The last war.”

      “That’s right.”

      Trn noticed Miroslav’s open eyes. The old man reached for his pipe.

      “Why I wonder do we never hear Liszt anymore? He’s Hungarian and they’re strong with the Axis.”

      “They play him sometimes. But you’re right. You don’t hear him so much. They’re using a theme from Liszt in the fanfare for news from Russia. Next time there’s an announcement you’ll hear it.”

      “As soon as Leningrad falls, I suppose.” Miroslav rang the bowl of the pipe against the rim of the ashtray.

      Trn said, “You might think because Liszt worked with gypsy tunes they’d exclude him altogether. Since anything having to do with them is verboten now.”

      Miroslav nodded at the ceiling, spoke to it with a flourish of his pipe.

      “Now we have the unending Deutsche. Beethoven, Sturm und Drang, Bruckner und Brahms. Both Strausses so the Wehrmacht can waltz across Europe from Finisterre to the Urals. All this patriotism, measure after measure of martial parading. It’s all only organized farting.”

      Aleks laughed behind his fist.

      “Every bar a thundering prelude so they can splutter on about the Almighty this and Providence that. God is there no end of Wagner? How much can one man write? He would be the Führer’s favorite.”

      “They can hardly talk about Christ,” Trn said, “since Christ was a Jew.”

      Miroslav nodded, packing his pipe.

      “Did you hear about Heydrich attending his first concert at the Rudolfinum? It seems our Reichsprotektor refused to enter the building if Mendelssohn’s bust was still in place on the roof so two soldiers were detailed to bring it down.