The Fourth Estate Read online

  For some time his mother had been unable to hide from the rest of her family the fact that Lubji had become her favorite—even though she suspected that he was responsible for the disappearance of her precious brooch—and she had watched with pride as he grew into a tall, handsome youth. But she remained adamant that despite his success as a trader, from which she acknowledged the whole family had benefited, he was still destined to be a rabbi. She might have wasted her life, but she was determined that Lubji wouldn’t waste his.

  For the past six years Lubji had spent each morning being tutored by her uncle in the house on the hill. He was released at midday so that he could return to the market, where he had recently purchased his own stall. A few weeks after his bar mitzvah the old rabbi had handed Lubji’s mother the letter informing him that Lubji had been awarded a scholarship to the academy in Ostrava. It was the happiest day of Zelta’s life. She knew her son was clever, perhaps exceptional, but she also realized that such an offer could only have been secured by her uncle’s reputation.

  When Lubji was first told the news of his scholarship, he tried not to show his dismay. Although he was only allowed to go to the market in the afternoon, he was already making enough money to have provided every member of the family with a pair of shoes and two meals a day. He wanted to explain to his mother that there was no point in being a rabbi if all you really wanted to do was to build a shop on the vacant plot next to Mr. Lekski’s.

  Mr. Lekski shut the shop and took the day off to drive the young scholar to the academy, and on the long journey to Ostrava he told him that he hoped he would take over his shop once he had completed his studies. Lubji wanted to return home immediately, and it was only after considerable persuasion that he picked up his little leather bag—the last barter he had made the previous day—and passed under the massive stone archway that led to the academy. If Mr. Lekski hadn’t added that he wouldn’t consider taking Lubji on unless he completed his five years at the academy, he would have jumped back into the car.

  It wasn’t long before Lubji discovered that there were no other children at the academy who had come from such a humble background as himself. Several of his classmates made it clear, directly or indirectly, that he was not the sort of person they had expected to mix with. As the weeks passed, he also discovered that the skills he had picked up as a market trader were of little use in such an establishment—though even the most prejudiced could not deny that he had a natural flair for languages. And certainly long hours, little sleep, and rigorous discipline held no fears for the boy from Douski.

  At the end of his first year at Ostrava, Lubji finished in the upper half of his class in most subjects. He was top in mathematics and third in Hungarian, which was now his second language. But even the principal of the academy could not fail to notice that the gifted child had few friends, and had become something of a loner. He was relieved at least that no one bullied the young ruffian—the only boy who ever tried had ended up in the sanatorium.

  When Lubji returned to Douski, he was surprised to find how small the town was, just how impoverished his family were, and how much they had grown to depend on him.

  Every morning after his father had left for the fields, Lubji would walk up the hill to the rabbi’s house and continue his studies. The old scholar marveled at the boy’s command of languages, and admitted that he was no longer able to keep up with him in mathematics. In the afternoons Lubji returned to the market, and on a good day he could bring home enough supplies to feed the entire family.

  He tried to teach his brothers how to trade, so that they could run the stall in the mornings and while he was away. He quickly concluded it was a hopeless task, and wished his mother would allow him to stay at home and build up a business they could all benefit from. But Zelta showed no interest in what he got up to at the market, and only questioned him about his studies. She read his report cards again and again, and by the end of the holiday must have known them off by heart. It made Lubji even more determined that when he presented her with his next year’s reports, they would please her even more.

  When his six-week break came to an end, Lubji reluctantly packed his little leather bag and was driven back to Ostrava by Mr. Lekski. “The offer to join me is still open,” he reminded the young man, “but not until you’ve completed your studies.”

  During Lubji’s second year at the academy the name of Adolf Hitler came up in conversation almost as often as that of Moses. Jews were fleeing across the border every day reporting the horrors taking place in Germany, and Lubji could only wonder what the Führer might have planned next. He read every newspaper he could lay his hands on, in whatever language and however out of date.

  “Hitler Looks East” read a headline on page one of The Ostrava. When Lubji turned to page seven to read the rest of the story he found it was missing, but that didn’t stop him wondering how long it would be before the Führer’s tanks rolled into Czechoslovakia. He was certain of one thing: Hitler’s master race wouldn’t include the likes of him.

  Later that morning he expressed these fears to his history master, but he seemed incapable of stretching his mind beyond Hannibal, and the question of whether he would make it across the Alps. Lubji closed his old history book and, without considering the consequences, marched out of the classroom and down the corridor toward the principal’s private quarters. He stopped in front of a door he had never entered, hesitated for a moment and then knocked boldly.

  “Come,” said a voice.

  Lubji opened the door slowly and entered the principal’s study. The godly man was garbed in full academic robes of red and gray, and a black skullcap rested on top of his long black ringlets. He looked up from his desk. “I presume this is something of vital importance, Hoch?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Lubji confidently. Then he lost his nerve.

  “Well?” prompted the principal, after some time had elapsed.

  “We must be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice,” Lubji finally blurted out. “We have to assume that it will not be long before Hitler…”

  The old man smiled up at the fifteen-year-old boy and waved a dismissive hand. “Hitler has told us a hundred times that he has no interest in occupying any other territory,” he said, as if he were correcting a minor error Lubji had made in a history exam.

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you, sir,” Lubji said, realizing that however well he presented his case, he wasn’t going to persuade such an unworldly man.

  But as the weeks passed, first his tutor, then his housemaster, and finally the principal, had to admit that history was being written before their eyes.

  It was on a warm September evening that the principal, carrying out his rounds, began to alert the pupils that they should gather together their possessions, as they would be leaving at dawn the following day. He was not surprised to find Lubji’s room already empty.

  A few minutes after midnight, a division of German tanks crossed the border and advanced unchallenged toward Ostrava. The soldiers ransacked the academy even before the breakfast bell had rung, and dragged all the students out into waiting lorries. There was only one pupil who wasn’t present to answer the final roll-call. Lubji Hoch had left the previous night. After cramming all his possessions into the little leather case, he had joined the stream of refugees heading toward the Hungarian border. He prayed that his mother had read not only the papers, but Hitler’s mind, and would somehow have escaped with the rest of the family. He had recently heard rumors about the Germans rounding up Jews and placing them in internment camps. He tried not to think of what might happen to his family if they were captured.

  When Lubji slipped out of the academy gates that night he didn’t stop to watch the local people rushing from house to house searching for their relatives, while others loaded their possessions onto horse-drawn carts that would surely be overtaken by the slowest armed vehicle. This was not a night to spend fussing about personal possessions: you can’t shoot a possession, Lubji wanted to t