Max in the House of Spies: Chapters 1–6

With a blast of its foghorn, the ship had pushed out into the North Sea, bound for England.

But after a trauma—something really awful that happens to you—your brain often makes you fall asleep right away. Maybe to help you process the trauma. Or maybe because your brain is scared of more traumas, and figures you won’t have to experience them if you’re asleep.

Crouching there was a tiny man with a bulbous nose, thinning hair, twinkling eyes, and a sour smile.

Stein sounded more like a vaudeville comedian.

He eyed both of these tiny men warily, his gaze flitting between them.

He dreamed of his parents sitting on the threadbare sofa in their living room, listening to the radio Max had built for them, the way they always did after Max’s father got home from work: Papa’s eyes closed behind his wire-rimmed spectacles, his head resting against the cushions; Mama twisting her long hazelnut hair up away from her neck and smiling proudly at Max, who was on the rug leaning against their knees.

The children around Max were peering out of portholes, gazing at the industrial coastline of shipyards and cargo docks.

Now, Max was smart enough to know that Stein and Berg couldn’t really be on his shoulders. They were figments of his imagination. Products of the terrible trauma of being separated from his parents and his homeland.

But when he tried to follow the train group, a young woman with a clipboard hustled over and steered him toward the waiting families.

She said, “Mr. Montagu, I presume?”

“I have never been to England,” said Berg.
“Me neither,” replied Stein.
“It looks as barren and worthless as Germany,” said Berg.

Stein furrowed his thick little brows. “You’re going to test whether we’re really here? How?”

Would he have to reassess his mental stability?

But the acceleration was not the cause of the sudden lurch in his stomach.

It was a stately brick town house on a street of stately brick town houses, just around the corner from Kensington Palace—which was where the royal family stayed when they wanted to be in the stylish part of London.

At the moment, Max stood in the luxurious foyer of 28 Kensington Court, on carpet as thick as his mattress in Berlin, surrounded by the curious faces of the Montagu family, peering at him with a mix of apprehension, anxiety, and hope.

At the moment, Max stood in the luxurious foyer of 28 Kensington Court, on carpet as thick as his mattress in Berlin, surrounded by the curious faces of the Montagu family, peering at him with a mix of apprehension, anxiety, and hope.

Max mustered up a sentence in his shaky English: “It is good to meet you, Mrs. Montagu.”

He explained that he didn’t live at 28 Kensington Court, but he’d come over because he was very keen to meet Max.

Instead of Ewen’s battleship face, Ivor’s was like a full moon, with two smaller full moons (his glasses) over his eyes, and black hair tousled atop his head like an ocean on a windy night.

Because Uncle Ewen was already leading Max into a gilded parlor, to a very large gift, wrapped in yellow-striped paper that nearly matched the walls.

Ewen was explaining how he’d been in touch with the refugee group that got Max out of Germany through his official capacity working for the British government, and how he’d learned that Max liked radios.

Max was momentarily frozen by this fraternal disagreement—until he noticed Uncle Ewen turn his back to Mr. Montagu and roll his eyes.

Max turned the knob and a fuzzy broadcast in French buzzed through the speakers, coming all the way from Strasbourg, in eastern France.
Max turned the knob a bit more, and waited.
Static.

On the stations broadcasting nearby, the sound was impeccable. Round and warm and loud as you please.

The table was laid with fine silver and ornate china and cups that seemed to be made not of glass, but of crystal.

And when the challah was passed around, a shiny braided loaf much longer and more perfect than anything Max’s mother had ever baked, Max didn’t even take any.

Finally, David had to pass the challah over him to Anthony, as the Montagus stared at this sullen, ungrateful child who had plopped himself down in the middle of their lives.

Ruefully, he said, “I imagine that could be rather a long time, too.”

Instead, as the Montagus awkwardly tried to resume their conversations, tried to ignore the little refugee sitting at their table, tried to forget the policies of the government they had elected, that refused to let adult Jews enter England, Max picked up his napkin and casually placed it over the knife that lay to the right of his dinner plate.

When Mrs. Henshaw, the housekeeper, slid a filet of sole onto his dish, Max put his napkin onto his lap, like everyone else.

Ivor had gained the attention of the other adults, telling a story about an eccentric Russian he had met at a coffee shop.

A short while later, as Mrs. Henshaw was clearing the plates and Uncle Ewen was explaining that Hitler and Stalin were practically allies now—that one had prisons called “concentration camps” and the other prisons called “gulags” and they were both terrible places to die—Max leaned toward Mrs. Montagu and asked, “May I go to my room, please?”

Max gingerly removed the case of polished wood and mesh.

The voice emanating from the wireless set belonged to the newsman Hans Fritzsche.

Whenever his teacher in school blamed the “Jewish conspiracy” for anything, Max would always wonder which Jews were part of this conspiracy.

It was rare that a Nazi ever explained which Jews were supposedly to blame for ruining Germany’s economy, which Jews had tried to subjugate Germany like some destitute colony, which Jews were bringing the whole world to the edge of war...but when they did, it was always the rich Jews of England.

It was rare that a Nazi ever explained which Jews were supposedly to blame for ruining Germany’s economy, which Jews had tried to subjugate Germany like some destitute colony, which Jews were bringing the whole world to the edge of war...but when they did, it was always the rich Jews of England.

Goebbels was Minister for Public Enlightenment and Propaganda. He was always on the radio, shouting into the microphone.

Tonight, his speech was particularly terrifying: “I will remind you what our Supreme Leader Adolf Hitler has so wisely said: if there is another war in Europe, it will not lead to the destruction of Germany, but to the annihilation of the Jewish race in Europe!”