A Death in Vienna

side of the border in Mikulov. Or Navot, Oded, and Zalman, watching helplessly from the Opel.
    “Where are you traveling to this evening?”
    “Prague,” she said.
    “Why are you going to Prague?”
    She shot him a look—None of your business.Then she said, “I’m going to see my boyfriend.”
    “Boyfriend,” he repeated. “What does your boyfriend do in Prague?”
    “He teaches Italian,”Gabriel had said.
    She answered the question.
    “Where does he teach?”
    “At the Prague Institute of Language Studies,”Gabriel had said.
    Again, she answered as Gabriel had instructed.
    “And how long has he been a teacher at the Prague Institute of Language Studies?”
    “Three years.”
    “And do you see him often?”
    “Once a month, sometimes twice.”
    The second officer had climbed inside the van. An image of Radek flashed through her mind, eyes closed, oxygen mask over his face.Don’t wake, she thought. Don’t stir. Don’t make a sound. Do the decent thing, for once in your wretched life.
    “And when did you enter Austria?”
    “I’ve told you that already.”
    “Tell me again, please.”
    “Earlier today.”
    “What time?”
    “I don’t remember the time.”
    “Was it the morning? Was it the afternoon?”
    “Afternoon.”
    “Early afternoon? Late afternoon?”
    “Early.”
    “So it was still light?”
    She hesitated; he pressed her. “Yes? It was still light?”
    She nodded. From inside the van came the sound of cabinet doors being opened. She forced herself to look directly into the eyes of her questioner. His face, obscured by the harsh flashlight, began to take on the appearance of Erich Radek—not the pathetic version of Radek that lay unconscious in the back of the van, but the Radek who pulled a child named Irene Frankel from the ranks of the Birkenau death march in 1945 and led her into a Polish forest for one final moment of torment.
    “Say the words, Jew! You were transferred to the east. You had plenty of food and proper medical care. The gas chambers and the crematoria are Bolshevik-Jewish lies.”
    I can be as strong as you, Irene,she thought. I can get through this. For you.
    “Did you stop anywhere in Austria?”
    “No.”
    “You didn’t take the opportunity to visit Vienna?”
    “I’ve been to Vienna,” she said. “I don’t like it.”
    He spent a moment examining her face.
    “You are Italian, yes?”
    “You have my passport in your hand.”
    “I’m not referring to your passport. I’m talking about your ethnicity. Your blood. Are you of Italian descent, or are you an immigrant, from, say, the Middle East or North Africa?”
    “I’m Italian,” she assured him.
    The second officer climbed out of the Volkswagen and shook his head. Her interrogator handed over the passport. “I’m sorry for the delay,” he said. “Have a pleasant journey.”
    Chiara climbed behind the wheel of the Volkswagen, slipped the van into gear, and eased over the border. The tears came, tears of relief, tears of anger. At first she tried to stop them, but it was no use. The road blurred, the taillights turned to red streamers, and still they came.
    “For you, Irene,” she said aloud. “I did it for you.”
    THE MIKULOV TRAINstation lies below the old town, where the hillside meets the plain. There is a single platform that endures a near-constant assault of wind pouring down out of the Carpathian Mountains, and a melancholy gravel car park that tends to pond over when it rains. Near the ticket office is a graffiti-scarred bus shelter, and it was there, pressed against the leeward side, where Gabriel waited, hands plunged into the pockets of his oilskin jacket.
    He looked up as the van turned into the car park and crunched over the gravel. He waited until it came to a stop before stepping from the bus shelter into the rain. Chiara reached across and opened the door to him. When the overhead light came on, he could see her face was wet.
    “Are you all right?”
    “I’m fine.”
    “Do you want me to drive?”
    “No, I can do it.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Just get in, Gabriel. I can’t stand being alone with him.”
    He climbed in and closed the door. Chiara turned around and headed back to the highway. A moment later, they were racing north, into the Carpathians.
    IT TOOK A HALF-HOURto reach Brno, another hour to get to Ostrava. Twice Gabriel opened the doors of the compartment to check on Radek. It was nearly eight o’clock when they reached the Polish border. No