Read The Doctor Dines in Prague for Free Online

flour and sugar and made stirring motions with his hand, indicating she should find him a bowl and spoon.
    Marie quickly produced both, and a measuring cup as well. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. A night’s sleep in her own bed had done wonders for her. She had told Fenimore that she had slept
in the oven on a pile of towels every night, because she had been afraid the man with the gun would come back.
    He carefully measured two cups of flour, one cup of sugar, and one and a half cups of water into the bowl. While Marie stirred this concoction, he searched for a skillet. He found one, but nothing to grease it with. How would he keep the pancakes from sticking? He solved this by making one giant pancake and sliding the spatula under it every few seconds. When it was done on one side—to Marie’s delight—he flipped it in the air. When it was brown on both sides, Fenimore cut the pancake, serving each of them half. Marie took a bite and made a face. Fenimore also grimaced. He grabbed the jar of crystallized honey from the cabinet and spread a gob on each half. A far cry from maple syrup, but “beggars can’t be choosers,” as his grandmother used to say. Fenimore could only manage to eat two-thirds of his. Marie ate all of hers. She still must have been starving.
    Once the dishes were done (all two of them), it was only nine o’clock. Three long days stretched before him until it was time to take Marie to the airport. How would he get through them, knowing that he should be searching for his cousins? Perhaps he could use the time to get more information from Marie. Maybe she knew more than she knew she knew. If that made sense. There were so many questions: What did the men look like? What were they wearing? How did they come? Why hadn’t she asked the super for help? Why did she think the walls had ears? And, most important, why would anyone want to kidnap her parents?
    He decided to find out. But, because of the language barrier, it would not be easy. He would have to be inventive; turn it into a game. Armed with a pad, pen, and the thick Czech-English dictionary, he began his gentle interrogation. Laboriously, Fenimore looked up words and wrote them down, trying to compose his questions. After watching him struggle for a few minutes, Marie ran into her room and came back with a big, brightly colored picture book. Oh, no, thought Fenimore, she’s bored already and wants me to read to her. He recognized the style of the pictures right away. They were
by a famous American illustrator—Richard Scarry. He had often read Scarry’s books to his niece and nephew in Philadelphia. But this book was different. It wasn’t just a picture book—it was a pictionary. The book was divided into sections with subtitles such as “Food,” “Clothing,” “Transportation,” “Body Parts,” et cetera. Under each heading were pictures of the appropriate objects. But, most importantly, under each object was listed its name—not in one, but in four languages: German, French, English, and Czech! Fenimore grabbed the book and let out a whoop. If Mr. Scarry had walked in at that moment, Fenimore would have hugged him.
    Pointing to a picture of a loaf of bread, he read the foreign names under it to Marie, careful to use the proper accent for each: “ Das Brot … le pain … bread … chleb .”
    Marie disappeared into her room again. This time she came back carrying Jiri. She didn’t want the bear to miss all the fun. During his questioning, Fenimore included the bear. After asking Marie a question, he would turn to Jiri and whisper in his ear. Then he would lift Jiri up to his own ear, so the bear could whisper something into it. After listening for a minute, Fenimore would raise his eyebrows, gasp, and look horrified. Marie would double over with laughter.
    Slowly the game wore on, interrupted only for meals, when Fenimore gritted