The Thin Wall: A POW/MIA Truth Novel
Page 5
Walking over and squatting beside her, Sascha said, “What the heck is that?”
Ayna gazed up from the diary. “A caterpillar. Can’t you tell?” She showed him the drawing.
“It looks more like the bell tower.”
“Silly me. I forgot you have no imagination.”
“That’s why you love me.”
“I don’t love you,” Ayna said.
“You will. Someday. When we get married.”
“Oh, stop.”
“It’s true.”
“Don’t make me gag.”
Shrugging away the banter, he handed her a sheet of anticommunist statements, printed at an underground shop in a nearby town. No one was more upset over the invasion than Sascha. “This explains everything that has happened since the communists took over in 1948. It all starts with censorship. They have rewritten our history books.”
“That’s nothing new.”
“No. But the Americans liberated Western Bohemia from Nazi oppression,” he added. “Not communist factory workers like Mr. Janus always claimed.”
“You’ve seen more proof?”
“Film footage. At the university. It shows American soldiers in Bohemia. A monument has even been erected in Pilzen in honor of America’s General Patton.”
“My mother never mentions the Americans. She won’t talk about the war. You know, because of what happened to my father.”
These political conversations with Sascha were typically one-sided. He spoke and as usual she pretended to listen. There was nothing more boring than discussing politics, though she had a strong sense of what was good for the people, and, in what was most often the case, what was bad for them. She longed for the lifestyle in cities such as Paris and London, where people were free to live their lives as they wish, without the communists watching them. She had very little in common with Sascha, except for sharing a passion for classical music. He was among the most talented violinists in Bohemia. Like Peter, he was also anti-authority. Unlike Peter, she felt no physical attraction to him.
“Much of the history we learned as children isn’t entirely accurate,” Sascha said. “It’s more of a stretching of the truth, and in some instances, flat-out lies. I have learned a lot at the university this past year. Especially concerning the atrocities.” He explained how in the 1950s the Russians had carted away hundreds of Czechs to Siberia, men accused of false crimes and forced to make confessions after having their genitals electrocuted.
She was numb to his description of abductions and human torture. Few things shocked her these days.
Just then, a pre-World War II Škoda Rapid with rusted fenders and several dents pulled into a parking space. The driver, who was blasting rock music from an 8-track stereo, beat a set of drumsticks against the dashboard. In the back seat, a couple of girls drank vodka and called Sascha’s name.
Ayna closed the diary. “You’d better go.”
“There’s a roadblock on the road leading to Ceske Budejovice,” Sascha said. “We’re going there to protest. Come with us.”
“Can’t. Have to keep an eye on Jiri.”
The girls whistled anxiously, telling him to hurry. “Keep your chin up. Everything will turn out okay. Jiri is safe. Nothing bad will happen to him.”
“What if the Russians come here?”
Sascha shrugged. “Why would they?”
“They’re looking for people who have spoken out against the communists.”
“I’m not worried,” he insisted. “The days of arresting people over differing opinions are behind us. Things have changed for the better. Besides the president is in negotiations to restore the peace and secure the drawback of troops from our soil.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Remember what Mayor Seifert said? ‘Our government,’ he said, ‘won’t allow them’ to take away our new freedoms. We have free speech now. We have fought hard for this.”
Yesterday, like so many clinging to hope in the village, Ayna had stood beside Sascha to listen to the mayor speak at the town hall. She left thinking he sounded more like a politician up for reelection than someone concerned about their safety. She did not really trust the mayor. When he was young, he had been a member of the secret police. That was all she needed to know about his heart, who he was deep down inside. “I don’t care what the mayor says. From what I can tell, the Russians have no plans to leave our country.”
Sascha walked backwards toward the car. “Even if the soldiers do come here, what can they do? The days of throwing people into prison because of our opposing views are over.”
“Goodbye then,” she said, getting to her feet and brushing the dust off her dress. She was naive to how the government functioned, but was certain Sascha was wrong when it came to the Russians. Something told her the Russians could do anything they wanted. She watched him get into the car. Sascha was the most outspoken citizen in the community. If they came for anyone, they would come for him . . .
They were aware of his arrival.
Dal heard their church bell clanging long before he reached Mersk. Someone had sent out a warning. Now he entered the village with the sound of panicked voices buzzing in his ear, “Russians. Russians. Russians.”
Several cars sped down the road, leaving the village in a hurry, and he wondered, why must you go? I am here to protect your best interests.
He took a photograph of the bell tower rising above the rooftops. Lovely, he thought. Bohemian churches were exquisite this time of year, especially with the trees in full summer foliage.
On the narrow cobbled street leading into town, where houses clustered wall to wall, a woman with a baby stroller retreated into a doorway. “Good day,” he said, before she rudely closed the door in his face. He felt toxic just then. Here and there, people fled the wet cobble for the safety of their stucco homes. Windows shut. Shutters closed. Doors locked. When he reached the village square, shopkeepers had already dead-bolted the doors and posted CLOSED signs in the windows.
Only a group of teenage boys playing football remained on the street. A tall kid attempted to score a goal between two trash cans, but kicked the ball too hard. The ball struck the fender of a parked car, ricocheted against a motorcycle, rolled down the street, and came to an abrupt stop against Dal’s black boot. I wonder, he mused playfully, who among you is the most courageous? Who will retrieve the football from beneath my foot? After the boys huddled for a brief conversation, the shortest broke free and approached him.
“Hello,” Dal said. His Czech was good. “I have been watching your game. You are an excellent football player.”
“The best player in the village,” the boy said. His eyes were fixed on the hat’s KGB Sword and Shield emblem. “I can score from fifteen yards.”
“Fifteen?”
“Easy.”
“I’m impressed. You must have a name?”
“My name is Jiri.”
“Such a good name.”
“Son of Ayna Sahhat.”
“Well, Jiri, ‘son of Ayna Sahhat,’ while others hide from me, you stand here unafraid. You are the brave one.” Dal’s smile was calming. “I am a colonel in the Soviet KGB. More importantly, I am a huge football fan.”
“Really?”
“I played for the army,” Dal said. “Once, amid a zealous cheer, and with time running off the clock, I scored from midfield to win a game. Best of all, it was against the navy.”
“Wow, that’s good.”
“I was heroically carried off the field on the shoulders of my teammates to the chant of Gri-gor-i . . . Gri-gor-i . . . Gri-gor-i . . .”
Maybe it was the ease of conversation, or how respectfully Dal spoke, but something gave Jiri a false sense of encouragement. When he went for the ball beneath his boot, Dal, with a flash of athleticism, lifted the football with his toe and dribbled it several times in the air. “See here,” he said. “I have maintained my skills. I can still play.” The boy’s eyes widened. Dal caught the ball and h
anded it to him with a fatherly pat on the shoulder. “Go. Return to your comrades. Report to them what has happened. Say to them, ‘Grigori Dal is your friend.’ As proof, I will purchase uniforms for every player who wants to share in this special friendship. We will start our own football team and play against the kids from across the river.”
“We don’t like those boys,” Jiri said with venom. “They’re German.”
“All the more motivation to defeat them.”
“Can we wear red and white? Those are the colors of Bohemia.”
“You can wear golden jerseys if it’s your heart’s desire.”
He watched the boy leave to share the good news with his comrades. Dal had made a positive first impression. A seasoned political administrator, he understood how winning the hearts of women and children was the key to any civic triumph. He had spent the breadth of his KGB career in the Balkans as a political advisor and mastermind of civil obedience to many pro-Moscow communist leaders. Now he was embarking upon one of the greatest assignments of his career as the political administrator of South Bohemia.
He straightened his collar. He had looked forward to a post like this for many years. It was, in some ways, the brightest jewel in a crown of achievements stretching back to the 1940s when he first enlisted to fight in the Great Patriotic War. Nevertheless, even with the accolades, a dark cloud loomed over him, over every step he made that day and no doubt in the days to come. Treason, he thought. He had been ordered to put a bullet into the back of the American POW’s head. Simple, clearly understood orders. A bullet. Yet several days into the operation, Sergeant Johnston was still breathing──and there were no plans to kill him.
At precisely 3:13 p.m., he heard the roar of military vehicles and stepped aside. His soldiers were right on time. He threw a friendly farewell salute to the boys and climbed into the GAZ truck when it stopped next to him. With its Red Star on the doors, the truck spoke of Soviet strength and dominance.
“These Czechs love their football,” Gurko said, observing the young players. “They’re proud of their national team.”
The armored personnel carrier rumbled behind them, reeking of gas and exhaust fumes. The boys were impressed by the armor, pointing and jumping with excitement.
Dal asked, “Were you a decent football player, comrade?”
“I chose not to participate in team sports.”
“What, no sports?”
“I was a hunter.”
“Ah, well, in any event, we will need uniforms for the young football players. Red and white.”
“Consider it done.”
“The local boys are brave. We need their friendship.”
“Of course, comrade.”
Dal looked into the clear sky. He appreciated the warm sun and how it felt on his face. The Bohemian rain had been relentless in the days leading up to their arrival, so the change in weather from cloudy to clear skies felt like an omen of good things to come.
“Some of the most important music in the history of civilization has poured from the souls of these Bohemians,” Dal said. “Antonin Dvorak. Leos Janacek. Bedrich Smetana.”
“I don’t listen to music.”
“How tragic.”
“It’s true.”
“Oh? Where is your heart? Where is your emotion, comrade?”
“Emotion?” Gurko considered the question and shrugged.
Dal grunted. “Anyway, I am afraid we might have underestimated the people of this town.” He knew the hostile eyes of at least a hundred adults were peeking between their curtains, watching every step he made. “Mersk is a remote community. Its isolation will help conceal the POW while we move forward with our day-to-day administrative duties. All the same, I sense this village is a cesspool of young and deviant behavior. Artists. Intellectuals. Musicians. I understand how their creative minds work. If they are anything like the famous composer and national hero Bedrich Smetana, they could be trouble.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Smetana was a master composer. He fought against all odds to become one of the foremost composers of the last century. He was highly motivated and driven to succeed. Unfortunately he was stricken with syphilis and became deaf. Still he continued to compose. It’s true. Má vlast was written after his deafness had developed.”
Gurko yawned. “I mean no disrespect, but I’m not following you. Music? What does that have to do with anything?”
“Comrade, if these people are half the man of the great Czech Bedrich Smetana, they will not easily be governed. They could pose a serious problem for us, especially over the coming weeks when we must hide the American from public view.”
“Trust me,” Gurko said. “I am an old army sergeant. If they are unruly, I will smash them. Just like smashing bugs.”
After the bell stopped ringing, a squat oddball with thinning blond hair and almond-shaped eyes appeared from within the church. The toller, Dal assumed. The man, who seemed to be about fifty-years-old, paused on the steps and had a good look at them before hobbling away.
Dal turned to Gurko and spoke over the rumbling BTR-60. “You secretly visited Mersk twice in the weeks leading up to the invasion, scouting the inhabitants, identifying potential problems, and noting deviant personalities. In your advanced report, you failed to mention a word about this unusual citizen.”
“He’s only an imbecile. The village idiot.”
“Hmm.”
“Perfectly harmless.”
“Perhaps.”
“Coincidently, his name is also Bedrich.”
Dal supposed it was a minor oversight, for retarded men were typically peaceful men, uninterested in stirring up trouble. He thumped the sergeant playfully on the shoulder, and said, “Let’s go find the mayor. And then later, we will celebrate our day of triumph by drinking vodka.”
AYNA SAW Bedrich cover his head with both hands when the Soviet truck and troop carrier buzzed by on either side of him. The roar of heavy armor sent him twisting to the pavement. She unlocked the deadbolt and raced from the marionette theatre to help.
“Lousy Russians,” she said, thankful Bedrich was okay. “They’re heartless, cruel, wicked people.”
She was proud of Bedrich for ringing the church bell. The warning had given people time to lock their doors and hide. On the other hand, she was saddened that, at twenty-three-years-old, he was ignorant to the real danger they were in.
She walked him back to the theatre, straightening his shirt along the way. Her boss, Emil Kepler, a pot-bellied man with a curled mustache, was waiting. He offered Bedrich a cup of water.
Just then, the phone rang. Emil answered. Ayna sensed something was wrong by his frown. After a brief conversation, he hung up the phone and turned to her with unblinking eyes.
“What is it?” she asked.
“My wife says Jiri isn’t at school today.”
“What?”
“She saw him playing football in the square.”
“Football? Is she positive?”
“Yes. And then a few minutes ago, he approached one of the Russian soldiers──a big man with several medals on his uniform. Probably the boss.”
Ayna could not believe it. She dashed out the door and found Jiri a short block away, in a long alley that ran to the street. He was with the older boys again, smoking cigarettes and kicking a football against the wall of the barbershop. Ditching school? She would put him on restriction this time. She would make him stay in his bedroom for a week. She pinched his ear and rushed him back to the theatre.
“Why are you ditching school?” she asked, closing and locking the door. “The principal will punish you.”
“They closed the school for the day. And told us to go home.”
“Closed it?”
“Something about Russians in town.”
“Then you should’ve gone home.”
“I was going to──eventually.”
“Mrs. Kepler said you were talking to the Russians? Is this true?”
“Do you ever use your brain? I told you. Never talk to strangers.”
“But the ball,” he argued.
“You were being stupid.”
“The colonel is a football player. He’s going to get us uni─”
“Oh, stop this nonsense.” Her voice quivered. “Haven’t I taught you to recognize danger?”
TUCKED AWAY in the woods, the three-story villa reminded Dal of the Imperial Estates on the outskirts of St. Petersburg. The impressive home, with its arched windows and domed cupolas, was a short walking distance from town, located beyond an overgrown field, a creek, and a stone bridge.
The Soviet vehicles passed through an open wrought-iron gate and stopped in the crescent-shaped drive, beneath the shadow of a flapping Czechoslovak Socialist Republic flag. Dal gazed at the ivy crawling along a red brick wall. It reminded him of the ivy on his own house. Home, he thought, feeling a pang of homesickness. Since December he had spent a mere eight days with his family and was feeling even more isolated from them with the scent of autumn in the wind. He sighed, regretting recent decisions to fish with his comrades in the Georgian SSR, and to visit his mistress in Gori, when he should have gone home to spend time with his wife and children.
He left the truck and lit a cigarette. With its lush gardens and placid ponds, the villa had a reputation for being a favorite summer retreat among the nomenklatura. It was also the working residence of Mayor Zdenek Seifert, whose popular voice in the effort to humanize socialism was in question these days.
Dal walked toward the entrance, opened the door and stepped inside the villa. A heavy middle-aged man in round spectacles sat behind a long carriage typewriter. He had a double chin and greasy, thinning hair.
“Ota Janus,” the man said with a pleasant tone. “Welcome to Mersk.” His hair wrapped from his left ear to his right without the slightest crack of scalp showing.
“Dobryj dyen,” Dal said, squeezing the cigarette between his finger and thumb.