“Would she mind?”

“It’s better this way,” his father said, not answering.

“Sometimes the way she looks at me,” Nick said, “I think I remind her of you.” A small offering, to soften the no.

But his father wanted to move on. “No. Just the eyes.” He was looking at Nick now. “So tall.”

“We’re the same height.”

His father smiled. “Well, you used to be smaller. And now. You still bite your nails.” Involuntarily Nick moved his hands on the wheel, turning in his fingers. “Always something going on inside.”

You were going on inside, Nick wanted to shout. Instead, he said, “Do you have children? You and Anna.”

“No, there’s only you. We’re not so young.” He paused. “She’s nervous, you know, about you.”

“Why?”

His father shrugged. “She thinks you’ll change things.” He took out another cigarette. “But what is there to change?”

“Are you supposed to smoke those things? With your heart?”

“No, of course not. I’m not supposed to do anything. No excitement. If you listened to them, you’d be so careful you’d go without knowing the difference.”

“Is it bad for you? My being here?” A new thought.

“Very bad,” he said, teasing gently. “It’s the best thing in the world.”

The houses–smaller now, with patches of garden–were thinning out, and they could see the country ahead.

“Is this right?” Nick said.

“Yes, keep going. I want to show you something.”

“Are you going to tell me what?”

“It’s not a mystery,” he said, making it one. “Everything in its time.”

Nick glanced at him. There was an agenda, everything planned. And what was at the end? The Wallenstein, the switch of cars, the country. Step by step. Even their conversation now seemed to him a kind of testing, his father leading him further into his life, where nothing was open. Secrecy became a habit. He saw now that his father wanted to be sure of him somehow, and he felt unexpectedly wounded. Wasn’t it enough that he had come?

In the woods there were still blossoms on the trees, not the lush flowering of Virginia but a thin sprinkling of white, a Bohemian lace.

“Remember the dogwood,” his father said, seeing them too. “On 2nd Street? I wonder, is it still there?”

“Magnolia. I don’t know. The neighborhood’s changed.”

“But not the trees,” his father said, not hearing the shift in Nick’s tone.

“I’ve never been back. We sold it. Right after.”

“Ah. What became of Nora? Do you see her?”

“Just Christmas cards. She’s still there somewhere. Arlington, I think.”

“I always wondered, was she working for the FBI?” his father said easily. “Old Edgar had a real fondness for housekeepers.”

The words, like a trigger, exploded something in Nick. This was crazy, yet another descent through the rabbit hole. Even Nora. Who cares? It’s not important. He felt things fall away until there was nothing but the gulf of all the years between them. Why were they talking about this? The realtor view from Holečkova. Two bathrooms. Moscow in the snow. Surreal, all of it. They gave me a medal. Talk to me.

“I loved that house,” his father said dreamily.

It snapped again. Everything in its time. Now. He felt his breath shortening and gripped the wheel, bringing the car to a stop on the side of the road, his foot on the brake. He heard the motor, his own breathing, sensed his father turning in alarm.

“Why did you do it?” he said, his voice wavering, staring straight ahead, pulling the words out of himself, not enough breath for a wail. “Why did you leave me?”

Then there was no sound at all, a suspension even of air.

“I didn’t leave you,” his father said finally, in a whisper. “I left myself.” A distress real enough to touch. Nick knew it was true and knew that if he reached out for it they would lose the moment, put everything aside in some evasive forgetting.

“No,” he said, still looking at the wheel. “Me. You left me. Why did you?”

His father said nothing. Nick kept his eyes ahead, afraid to look. What could there be on his face but loss?

“I want to explain—” his father said weakly, then stopped.

“Why did you ask me here? What do you want from me?”

At this his father stirred, flustered. “If we could wait,” he said hoarsely. “The right time. So I can explain.”

“Now,” Nick said angrily, finally turning to him. “Tell me now. What do you want?”

His father met his eyes, the nervous fluttering gone, giving in. “I want to go home.”

Nick started driving, too stunned to do anything else. “Please, let me explain in my own way,” his father had said, and then, when he didn’t, Nick didn’t know how to press. The outburst had unnerved them both–they were afraid of each other now–so that driving seemed a form of apology. Don’t worry, I won’t do that again. It was safer to concentrate on the road.

“You know that’s impossible,” Nick said. But it had been impossible for him to come, and he had driven right in. A two-lane road, through the wire.

His father said nothing, determined to follow his own timetable, and Nick went back to the road, the ragged asphalt and lacy trees. Had he actually worked out the logistics? Nick’s imagination couldn’t take it in. Passports and border crossings and newsmen at the end, like the men in hats. No. Not that. It was a kind of metaphor, a way of talking, one of his father’s riddles.

“Turn up here.”

Nick saw the sign. “Terezín?”

“In German, Theresienstadt.”

“The model camp. Where they took the Red Cross.”

His father nodded. That’s right. The model camp. In the museum, by the Jewish cemetery in Prague, they have the children’s drawings. They are–well, you’ll see them.“

They parked outside an old fortress, the walls of a castle town.

“Why are we doing this?” Nick said. “I don’t want a history lesson. I want to talk to you.”

“This is what we’re talking about. I want to start at the beginning. So you’ll understand.”

There were no other cars, and when a guard appeared, grumbling in Czech, Nick thought it must be closed, but his father flashed some card in his wallet and the guard, straightening himself, nodded a salute and passed them through.

The air was utterly still, not even moved by birds, and it carried the crunch of their shoes on the dirt. All the buildings were not just empty but abandoned, like a western ghost town whose mine had played out. There had been no attempt to turn it into a museum park, no flower beds or lawns, as if the ground itself had resisted any signs of new life. Just the graveyard stillness. The buildings, some of them old, pieces of architecture, had been left to rot, exhausted by their own terrible history. It was not the kind of concentration camp Nick had seen in a thousand photographs–the railway tracks to the smokestacks, the long barracks, wrought iron twisted into messages–but there was no mistaking the stillness. They had left their dread behind, and it still hung in the air, as real as blood.

“People have the idea that it wasn’t so bad here,” his father said, taking them farther into the compound. “You know–the orchestra, the children’s drawings. Like summer camp. But sixty thousand died here. The rest they sent to Auschwitz, the other camps. Everybody died. You see the bunks.” He gestured toward an open door, where Nick could see bunk beds stacked to the ceiling. “Nine in a bunk. Sometimes more. You can imagine. Typhus. Dysentery. Well, you can’t imagine. Nobody can. People think that because there were no ovens–but over sixty thousand. Here, not shipped out. They didn’t need gas chambers. They just shot them, one by one. Or the gallows. Not very efficient but maybe more satisfying. They could watch.”

Nick followed him down the dusty street, saying nothing. This happened in my lifetime, he thought.