Prologue
February 11, 1964
It was a freezing morning in early February, and Maria Moravec had nothing but a blanket around her shoulders. There was nothing for her to grab onto in the back of the train car but boxes, since her mother was grasping onto the stabilization rail so hard her fingers had begun to turn white and Ludmila was just below her. They were a silly bunch, her father crouched in the corner, her mother in every shawl she’d ever owned, and she and her sister barely moving, frozen from the cold.
It had been three weeks since they left Czechoslovakia, and while Maria wasn’t nearly old enough to realize that, she still understood that it had been too long since the warm feeling of a bowl of bramboracka in her little hands, or since she’d slept somewhere other than a cold train floor. This, at least, was better than the week in the grain buckets. She could still feel the wheat in her clothes, poking and pinching as she moved, but at least she’d eaten something other than dust since she’d been able to get out.
The men on the train must have known they were there. Maria wasn’t a quiet child, not like Ludmila had always been, and her father had never struck her quite so hard as when she whispered to her sister just a little too loudly. And now there was food, bread and water, and there was no way Tata could have gotten that all on his own. He was smart, sure, but not like that.
It was a miracle Mama and her knees hadn’t gone out, as they were hurting more every day. Nobody told Maria, but she knew. Just like she knew this ride had to end soon.
She could hear the yelling of newsboys, the sounds of boats on the big river Mama had told her about. She couldn’t stand to stay still with all the excitement, so she bent down to hug Lula, twisting herself under the crate. Her sister was silent, as always, but took her hand as the doors to their new world opened.
“Out!” she heard, and felt Tata pull her behind him. “Out, you fucking Soviet rats! Ruinin’ my grain.”
Tata yanked on her arm, and they were running, Mama behind them as she clutched her stomach. Maria couldn’t wait for the new baby. She’d never known a baby before. But she knew she wouldn’t know this one either if they didn’t keep moving.
“Tata, get Mama. I’ll help Lula.”
She didn’t think he would listen to her, small and frail and just four years old. But at eleven, and sixteen, and forty-five, she would remember the way that he turned and ran, scooping up his wife like this was their wedding day, a most joyous occasion instead of a run for their freedom.
It was near a mile to the house, but Maria was so glad to be moving that she cared little for the distance. House may have been too strong a word for the flat in the East End, with one room and no running water. But here, Maria thought, they were safe. No Russians to take Tata. School for me and Lula. And food, so much food she could barely believe it, fruit and pastas and dumplings like she’d never seen.
Tata had their papers on the digging room table for the police man who had followed us. He leered at Mary and Lula as they sat silently in the corner. She began to whisper the rosary under her breath.
“Zdrávas Maria,
milosti plná,
Pán s tebou.”
Just as she thought she was about to burst, the officer nodded and left. The papers had worked. They were free.
But things had to change, Tata explained. They would need to learn English, to eat their food, to wear their clothes. And no more Moravec. They would stand out too much, you see. Tata said their new name was to be Macdonald, a good English name. And she would be Mary, and Ludmila would be Louise. It was so the English people accepted them, Mama said. So that nobody would ask them if they should be there. Since nobody ever asked Maria what she wanted, she didn’t point out that a nickname would do the same trick.
And that night, Louise and Mary Macdonald, good English children, drifted off to sleep, cold with the knowledge that even as far from home as they were, they were still in danger.