The Thin Wall: A POW/MIA Truth Novel

by R. Cyril West

  “The next few weeks will be the most crucial,” Dal went on. “We must keep the American prisoner-of-war behind closed doors and out of public view. We cannot allow the police an opportunity to catch wind of him. In the wrong hands, Sergeant Johnston could give testimony of what happened during the last eighteen months. He could point out the faces of his captors, and possibly remember names. If somehow he could escape and make his way back to the West. I shudder to think . . .”

  “The American will be guarded with vigilance, both night and day,” Gurko insisted. “I have been stern with our men──in particular with the muscular Private Mazur. I promised him voluptuous women and vodka for the American’s security over the coming weeks.”

  “And Private Potapov?”

  “He is very disciplined.”

  “What about Horbachsky?”

  “He is lazy. But I will keep my eye on him.”

  “Excellent. I am depending on your management skills. I will have many distractions in the coming weeks. I do not have time to supervise the Ukrainians.”

  “I assure you, comrade colonel. It’s impossible for anything to go wrong. Most of all, impossible for the prisoner to escape.”

  Dal leaned back in his seat. He was tired of talking, yet unable to sleep. He looked out the window. The road to Bohemia snaked along the Vah River, through the fertile lowland until it rose into the Bohemian-Moravian heights, where it reached a plateau. Along the way, they passed through successive checkpoints and around Russian tanks with identifying white stripes on their armor. They drove in the rain, in darkness. Silence was good company for the better part of the night.

  The long drive gave him time to think. What had he gotten himself into? How would this end? He was overcome by sudden shame. He had betrayed the Soviet Union. The Kremlin had ordered him to take Sergeant Johnston into the Moravian Forest and execute him. Bury the Marine in an unmarked grave far from the nearest public road, his chief had said. However a splinter group in the Lubyanka had recruited him with an alternate plan, a plan to make money──foolproof, they insisted. Just do as we say.

  “When this is done,” Dal said, “we will be rewarded handsomely for our part in smuggling the American to East Germany.”

  “I’m looking forward to the big payoff.”

  “And what will you do with your share of the money?”

  “I will get drunk and spend it on the prettiest hookers in Moscow.”

  Dal reached for his filterless Belomorkanal cigarettes. The Russian smokes were brawny, the strongest available in Eastern Europe. He caught a glimpse of his comrade’s tired eyes in the headlights of an oncoming car. Like him, the man was committed to this mission, which ultimately would send the POW to Cuba──a prized trophy for Castro.

  A few moments passed, and he wondered: why did you get involved in this mess? Why not just kill the American as instructed?

  For financial gains, he reminded himself. For the betterment of his family. It was worth the risk. Foolproof, remember?

  Ayna had fond memories of the boarded-up cinema house. It was where she had gone on her first date, had her first kiss, saw her first tearjerker, and taken Jiri to countless children’s films. Sadly, the theatre had not shown a film for several years; not since the manager went to jail for tax evasion. Another good reason, she believed, for moving to Prague. She was looking at a faded movie poster, the war film Diamonds of the Night, when a roar of jets in the sky made her skin crawl.

  “Those are MiG-21s,” Jiri said, pointing at the airplanes. “The supersonic Mikoyan-Gurevich.”

  “Mikoyan who?” Ayna asked.

  “Gurevich.”

  “Russian?”

  “Yes. And fast as lightning.”

  Her thirteen-year-old son’s knowledge of the Soviet Air Force was disturbing. He should be focused on mathematics, not war. “Where did you learn about the Russian airplanes?”

  “I’ve seen photographs in the magazines at school.”

  Ayna shielded her eyes from the morning sun and searched for the aircraft. Three long white vapor lines stretched across the heavens. But where were the MiGs? Perhaps they were too fast for her eyes. Or flying too high. Or had some magical shield that made them invisible. The planes flew over the valley twice a day, climbing to incredible heights like rockets launched toward the moon. The jeweler had mentioned it was how the sky might look during a nuclear war, except with dozens more contrails and missiles instead of jets soaring in the atmosphere. It was a creepy and horrifying conversation. Russians. Americans. Missiles. Warheads. The fear of nuclear war was always on her mind.

  “There’s too much violence in the world,” Ayna said. “People are cruel and vicious──especially the Russians.”

  “Didn’t the Russians liberate us from the Nazis? That’s what they say at school.”

  “Maybe so. But that’s beside the point.”

  She felt her heart sink. Jiri was growing fast these days, two inches since Christmas. His questions to her questions, and his misinformed opinions about many topics, drove her nuts. There were times during Jiri’s formative years when she wished she’d had a husband. The boy needed a father figure. Especially now. Against her protest, he had shaved his head and was spending more and more time playing football on the streets. To make matters worse, he was chumming with the older boys who smoked cigarettes and ditched school.

  She grabbed his arm and hurried him past several women dressed in head scarves and dirty work boots. They threw her a stern look of disapproval, an unspoken remark, You’re a terrible influence on the sons in the village. Many of the sons these women alluded to──some were married men──had attempted to get her in bed, and failed. In retaliation, they spread rumors that she was promiscuous and had slept with the entire presidium. Obvious lies, she thought, squeezing Jiri’s hand. Lies that somehow survived to this day. Ironically, it was their daughters who were sleeping around, going to nearby towns and getting drunk with the local boys . . . and having abortions. Not her.

  She and Jiri passed a row of houses, the town hall, a flower shop, and the bakery. The café, where the night revelers had drunk themselves into oblivion, had a boarded-up window, though was open for business.

  They turned a corner. They passed a jewelry shop, and then what used to be the village toy store, but was now an empty space seeking a renter. At the street level, there was an inescapable gloom in Mersk. Many of the buildings were vacant, reminders of harsh times that began a decade ago. To compensate for the doldrums, Mayor Zdenek Seifert had instituted a policy of painting the storefronts. He had also insisted that shopkeepers maintain flower baskets on street corners. This created a façade that times were improving. He even went so far as to make arrangements for oompah bands to play in the square on Friday nights, although few young people showed up.

  While Ayna loathed her backwoods community, calling it feudal and unenlightened, it broke her heart seeing families struggle to pay the bills. Most of the citizens meant well, regardless of their pessimistic outlook on life. They deserved some sort of happiness. If nothing else, she wanted Jiri to live a joyful life, to get an education, to attend the university. But what kind of future was there for anyone in Mersk? Not much.

  People, many of them her former school mates, had left town in recent years. The desperate ones. Jumping on buses. Hitching rides. Whatever it took to get away. Many fled in search for work at the coal mines in Moravia. The Ministry of Labour had made promises to them, better pay, better housing, and better vodka. But mining, she cautioned Jiri, was a terrible way of life. Now and then a former citizen would come home, often very ill and with a cough, having lost body weight, and, importantly, a zest for life. Then some never came home at all. She had overheard the mayor and several Party members mention an ore called uranium, though never asked why it was dangerous to humans. She believed men were better served by staying in the army, not picking rocks in a dark cave. Sure, the pay was good, but the risks were too high. No family had ever gained any s
ubstantial wealth or status by committing to the mining industry.

  Ayna stopped at the ice cream parlor door and said, “Tell me . . . what are your teachers saying about the Soviet occupation.”

  “Nothing much . . .”

  “They must say something?”

  “Well, to start with, they don’t call it an occupation.”

  “Oh? What do they call it?”

  “A ‘liberation,’” he said. “The teachers say our good politicians invited the Soviet and Warsaw Pact armies here to help fight the bad politicians.” Jiri frowned, insecure. “Mama, why are you asking so many questions?”

  “I’m your mother. I must know whether or not your teachers are telling you the truth.”

  Jiri grew silent, staring at his feet. Then, as though admitting a secret, he blurted, “Okay, well, since you asked, don’t be mad, but it’s Mr. Janus. He says the foreign soldiers are actually very ‘friendly.’”

  “Friendly? Mr. Janus said this?” Ayna raised her voice. “And you believe him?”

  “Sort of.”

  His name was seldom mentioned, because it always invoked Ayna’s rage. Nevertheless she remembered Mr. Janus well. He had been her schoolteacher, too. No one knew more about Karl Marx than Mr. Janus. After school, he liked to discuss politics with the drunks at the tavern, where he pried into people’s personal lives, asking questions about family and friends──secretly keeping track of the citizens who were anti-communists. Aside from teaching, he worked at the Party Secretariat office in Pilsen.

  Ayna ranted, “I hate him. I hate your teacher Mr. Janus. Do you know this? He’s a bad man.”

  “I know. I know. You’ve told me . . .”

  “He’s a despicable schoolteacher. And a vile human being.”

  “Why do you hate him so much?”

  She looked at Jiri and sighed. His question struck at the core of her misery. Years ago, during the dreadful days of high school, the worst days of her life, Ota Janus had given her poor marks in government studies. Not because she sympathized with Trotsky over Stalin, rather because she showed little interest in Marxism or the class struggle. Ayna was more enchanted by the melodies of Mozart and Dvorak than uniting with the world’s workers. It must have been the hundredth time he had inquired about her hatred for Mr. Janus. But what could she possibly say to make him understand? She loathed the schoolteacher for more than his pro-Moscow propaganda or the bad grades he doled out to those who were unsupportive of Karl Marx’s principles. There was something else. Something she refused to discuss──especially with her son. She could never tell him the truth about Mr. Janus. Never.

  Trouble. Already. Dal had made a phone call to the desk in Prague, to a group monitoring Zdenek Seifert, only to receive bad news: the mayor was stuck in the city. A student rally and traffic jams were keeping him hunkered down at the university. For things to play out as planned, Dal needed him in Mersk with his fellow citizens. He considered his options and decided to stay at a quaint roadside hotel for a few days until the politician could return home and address the concerns of his electorate.

  First, he ordered the handful of frightened hotel guests to vacate the premises, then he barricaded the entrance to the parking lot with the BTR armored personnel carrier. This allowed the team to carry on with the mission in complete seclusion──guarding the POW.

  “It has been a long road,” Dal said, speaking to Sergeant Johnston, who sat in a wooden chair, secured by leg irons and handcuffs. “However I know there is more fight in you. I can see it in your eyes. Take note, I do not intend to harm you like your previous captors did. I am a decent man. If you cooperate, and do not attempt to escape, life will turn out much better for you.”

  Johnston maintained his code of silence, glaring at the soldiers in the room.

  Dal offered him a glass of water before leaving him alone. Already the burn marks on his skin were healing. And he seemed more alert. He directed his men to work in shifts, keeping an eye on Johnston, monitoring the parking lot for intruders, driving to the nearest town to get provisions. The days passed. Then three days at the hotel felt like a month. Exhausted from living in close quarters with men who smelled like pigs, and tired of the local food, he was more than happy to leave the hotel and be on the highway again.

  They left the hotel on a sunny morning and drove in scant traffic. Dal kept his head buried in the pages of Tolstoy’s short masterpiece The Death of Ivan Ilyich, the only book he had packed prior to leaving Moscow. After an hour and a half of reading, he closed the novella and motioned with his hand for Gurko to pull the truck over to the side of the road.

  “What is it?” the sergeant asked, pressing his foot on the brakes.

  “Are we close to Mersk?”

  “Yes. The village is just down the road.”

  “Excellent. There has been a slight change of plans.” The armored personnel carrier, its gun turret pointing toward the mountain peaks, stopped in a whirl of smoke behind them, the engine roaring.

  “What do you mean change of plans?” Gurko spoke above the clamor. “We’re already behind schedule.”

  “At this point, the schedule is insignificant.” Dal grabbed a camera from his bag, then motioned with his eyes toward the BTR. “I am more concerned about the health of the POW. It gets hot inside the troop compartment. Make sure the American has plenty of water. We do not want him to have a heat stroke.”

  “Of course, comrade. The American is our million dollar man.” Gurko wore a blank face. “So──what are you up to?”

  “Reading Tolstoy has me thinking about life and death. When it is all said and done, what do we leave behind? Accomplishments? Awards? A place in the history books? What is it worth when a man is not recognized for simply being a decent, compassionate human being? Mmm. People often live for themselves. We are selfish this way.”

  “Oh?”

  “I need time to reflect. You and the Ukrainians . . . come join me in an hour. In Mersk.”

  “You will enter the village alone?”

  “Yes. Much like a tourist exploring a strange country for the first time.” Dal put the camera strap around his neck. “See, moments ago, I had an epiphany. I realized we must not startle these people with our military might. No doubt they already live in fear of us. In the end, politics aside, we are brothers.”

  Gurko’s forehead wrinkled. “But we planned to strike quickly.”

  “Yes, comrade.” Dal nodded his head. “Even so, this change of direction will test the team’s ability to improvise. If the men cannot improvise, this mission will end in failure.”

  Dal left his weapon in the truck and walked toward a narrow bridge. He did not expect Gurko to understand the rationale behind his thinking. He wanted to assess small town life in the Bohemian Forest as a solitary man. Entering the community alone and without weapons would soften the blow and give the citizens fair warning before the military vehicles stormed the streets. In the way the great Tolstoy had written about kindness and sympathy, Dal wanted to show some humility and not startle the locals. Then, because it was his orders to do so, he would seize their town.

  He crossed over the bridge and walked past large haystacks, a water well, and a derelict Cistercian monastery. He snapped photographs of plants and flowers. He was thinking of his wife’s love of nature and botany. She would enjoy it here in the countryside. This was her kind of place.

  For show, he wore his khaki officer uniform trimmed in royal blue and adorned with service medals, including his Gold Star identifying him as a Hero of the Soviet Union.

  The Church of Nepomuk was founded as a chapel in 1735, before reconstruction began eighty-two years later to expand the nave. It held four hundred people and was divided by a wide center aisle. Elevated above the streets by a series of steps, the white building had a gabled roof and a bell tower with skylight windows. According to the librarian, the tower was the tallest manmade structure for miles, completed in 1914, just days before the Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassin
ated.

  Ayna was not much of a history buff, but she remembered the construction dates of the buildings in town: the town hall, 1751; the bakery building, 1789; her home, 1848; the marionette theatre, 1890; the hardware store, 1910; and the grocery store, 1922.

  At 12:10 p.m., she entered the square and sat cross-legged on the cobble with her diary. Of all the historic buildings in town, the church was the pride and grace of Mersk. There was a time, maybe ten, fifteen years ago, when couples came here from as far away as Brno to have their weddings. They flooded the streets with their passion and their romance, and with their flashing cameras and their bright smiles. Happier times, she recalled. But it was long before the economy collapsed. Before the inn closed. Before many of the town’s restaurants shut down. And before many of Ayna’s neighbors, who for better or worse, had left for the mines. These days, very few people visited Mersk. Most travelers simply passed through the town without stopping, on their way to Black Lake in Šumava.

  She grabbed a pencil from her purse. It was four days into the occupation and she had decided to take a lunch break from her job at the marionette theatre. For some relaxation, but mostly to get her mind off the Soviet Army, she wanted to sketch the church’s stone bell tower, home to a single bell molded by a prominent master in Pasov, Germany.

  She put the lead tip to the blank page of her diary and drew several diagonal lines. In minutes, the tower began to take shape. She added the windows, the bell, and the tiled roof with its bulbous cupola and iron cross. “Absolutely. Positively. Wonderful,” she whispered, pausing to reflect on her work. It actually resembled a giant caterpillar. She added eyes and a headband to the caterpillar-like tower, with a flower poking from behind an ear. Finally, she drew a woman straddling the caterpillar’s back and wrote the words MY GREAT ESCAPE FROM MERSK in block print. It was nothing less than a work of genius, she decided with a grin. A magnum opus.