The Choice

Committee, the American charity that supports Rothschild. I go out in
the city with Marianne, the documents from Prague tucked into my
purse the way Magda used to hide away sweets—part temptation, part
succor. What does it mean that we are the one Czech family allowed
to immigrate? Who will go if we decline? No one? e Israel plan is a
good one. It is the best we could do with what we had. But now
there’s an opportunity that didn’t exist when we committed to the
plan. Now we’ve been offered a new possibility, one that doesn’t
involve living in tents in a war zone.
I can’t stop myself. Without Béla’s permission, without his
knowledge, I ask for directions to the U.S. consulate, I walk there with
Marianne in my arms. I will at least satisfy the possibility that the
papers are a mistake or a hoax.
“Congratulations,” the officer says when I show him the
documents, “you can go as soon as your visas are processed.” He gives
me the paperwork for our visa applications.
“How much will it cost?”
“Nothing, ma’am. You’re refugees. You sail courtesy of your new
country.”
I feel dizzy. It’s the good kind of dizzy, the way I felt the night
before when the train le Bratislava with my family still intact. I take
the applications back to our room at Rothschild, I show them to Klara
and Csicsi, I study the questions, looking for the catch. It doesn’t take
long to ĕnd one: Have you ever had tuberculosis (TB)? Béla has. He
hasn’t had symptoms since 1945, but it doesn’t matter how healthy he
is now. You have to submit X-rays with the application. ere are
scars in his lungs. e damage is evident. And TB is never cured; like
trauma, it could flare at any time.
Israel, then. Tomorrow.
Klara watches me put the applications under the mattress.
“Remember when I was ten and I got accepted to Juilliard?” she says.