The Thin Wall: A POW/MIA Truth Novel

by R. Cyril West

  Dal grinned proudly. He had performed in Moscow on several occasions, for Stalin, for Khrushchev, for Brezhnev. “The stage enhances the senses,” he said. “It makes a man more aware of his surroundings. As actors, we look at other faces and attempt to find something we can mimic, like a subtle expression or quirky way of speaking. As such, I detected something peculiar with that farmer.”

  “Oh?”

  “He appeared a little polished for my taste.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “I keep remembering our conversation. Something about him was inauthentic. It has left me feeling suspicious. Maybe he was lying about troops stealing his food.”

  “Acting?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wouldn’t have noticed,” Gurko admitted.

  “More than once I caught his eyes searching the villa windows while we discussed the supposed injustice imposed on him.”

  “Snooping?”

  “It’s possible.” Dal scratched his neck, one of many mosquito bites causing his skin to itch. “My instinct tells me this has the makings of State Security probing into our affairs.”

  “Maybe they sent someone to monitor us?”

  “It would not surprise me. Therefore, I want more information on this farmer from Ceske Krumlov.”

  “I will look into it, comrade.”

  “We cannot take any chances.”

  “And if I discover he is a government agent?”

  “Use your best judgment. Take advantage of the fact that blood will spill during these initial weeks of occupation. A roadside death here and there will not alarm the police. As long as we are holding the American prisoner-of-war in secrecy, we cannot afford to have eyes watching us.” Dal took another drag of his cigarette. “Even if you are marginally convinced, you will know what to do.”

  “It will look like an accident.”

  Roadblocks aside, the drive in the midday traffic was mostly relaxing. Already he sensed the leaves were changing color. He loved the onset of autumn.

  Milan rolled down the window and let in some air. He knew all about this part of the country. During the Middle Ages the people referred to Bohemia and the surrounding woods as “The Forest.” The land, once home to kings and noble armies, in prosperous times and in war, encompassed most of their known world──essentially the edge of the universe. Even today the majestic mounds of woods rolled together from hilltop to hilltop like the deep green swells of an ancient ocean, endless it seemed to him, and when covered in snow made for the perfect holiday postcard.

  He braked for traffic, a cement truck and several cars. On the radio, a DJ caught his ear, “Soviet oppressors, you have failed to bring us to our knees.” The man ended his angry outburst by playing a bootlegged recording of the song Revolution by the outlawed British pop group, The Beatles.

  Milan listened to a few more songs, all of them favorites of young people, and, as could be expected, frowned upon by the Party. They were followed by the DJ’s courageous rants mocking Brezhnev’s unibrow and taunting the KGB to find the secret broadcasting transmitter hidden inside his home. It was comical, depressing, hardhitting. Most of all, it lifted Milan’s spirits knowing his countrymen refused to lie down.

  Driving along the river, he passed an old mill with a water wheel, and a herder with his flock of goats. There was a boy leading a cow by a rope who looked over his shoulder and smiled. Again he spotted the green Ural truck parked in a muddy pullout. The farmer climbed from the cab as Milan waved to him. Sweet Jesus, who did that man remind him of?

  Milan grabbed a newspaper and spread it across the steering wheel.

  . . . on the other hand there was Prague.

  . . . proud, bloody Prague.

  The headlines shot off the page: hundreds of people had gathered at the National Museum to face down the Soviet troops. Students, standing arm in arm, had formed human blockades, and some of them were hurling Molotov cocktails at tanks. The violence rocking the streets of the capital had not diminished one bit. The people were still protesting in swarms, fighting tooth and nail for their sovereignty.

  Milan was turning the page when he took a curve too fast and felt the car sliding off the pavement. Just then he saw a woman walking in the way. He stomped on the brakes and cut the wheel sharply. Books, journals, and pencils hurled forward against the dashboard. The Škoda spun full circle in the grass, before coming to a stop. When he looked through the windshield, he saw her lying on the road, next to a cello case.

  Oh my god, he thought. I’ve killed her . . .

  DAL EXAMINED the mosquito bites on the POW’s arms. “A trick I learned in Sri Lanka is to use your fingernail to press several times into the center of the bite, making a star shaped pattern. This helps alleviate the itching.”

  Johnston scratched the bite marks instead of pressing.

  “Always uncooperative,” Gurko said. “We say ‘stand,’ he sits. We say ‘run,’ he walks. You say ‘press,’ and he scratches. What is his problem?”

  “What makes Americans irritating is their cocky attitude. Always wanting things done their way. It’s also what makes them so formidable on the battlefield.”

  “They’re nothing but arrogant imperialists.”

  “The American soldier is strong this way. Just look at their General Patton. You must appreciate how this translates down the ranks, no?”

  “I’ve never met a damn Yankee I liked.”

  Sergeant Johnston was in leg irons. His ankle skin was cut and bruised from repeated attempts to escape.

  “Interestingly,” Dal said to Johnston, “from what I understand, male mosquitoes don’t bite people, the females do. They need human blood to develop fertile eggs.”

  “It’s a lost cause,” Gurko injected. “You’re wasting your breath. No sense in attempting conversation.”

  Dal helped the POW to a sitting position on the bed and offered him a cup of water, which he drank. He felt a sense of attachment to the prisoner. “I respect his silence,” he said in Russian. “As a soldier, I admire how he has been a complete pain in the ass. When the time comes and he wants to talk, I will be available with listening ears. With answers.”

  “Except for his typical ‘fuck you’ and ‘go to hell,’ he is as mute as that damn village idiot.”

  “Let him curse. His insubordination is proof he gets stronger by the day.”

  “Yes, comrade.”

  “You know, the Vietnamese treated him like an animal. They almost starved him to death on a diet of fish guts and roaches. Remember, when it is all said and done, we are Russians. We are civilized.”

  Leaving the room, Dal said to Gurko, “In eighteen days, agents friendly to our cause will smuggle the POW Johnston into East Germany. From there, a plane waits to fly him to Cuba. We will soon wash our hands of this mess. Until then, feed him lamb and dumplings, whatever it takes to fill his belly. He must be strong for the long trip to Havana. We promised Castro a healthy American prisoner-of-war for his belated birthday gift. Not a man who will simply keel over and die on the tarmac.”

  “Yes, comrade.”

  Dal rubbed his temples. “This damn headache will not go away.” He felt nauseated most of the time, like suffering from a constant state of car sickness.

  “The mosquito bite on your neck looks infected.”

  “It stings like hell.”

  “Maybe it’s responsible for the headaches.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Maybe you should go to the hospital. Just in case.”

  “It’s nothing to be concerned with,” Dal said defensively.

  “Except that it could cause you to─”

  “Enough. It’s often the little things that destroy men.” Dal spoke over a grimace. “It’s true. I have seen a soldier in shock express no pain after having his arm blown off by a grenade. I have seen a soldier with bullet holes in his chest look me in the eye and say ‘comrade, send me to the front, the fight is not done.’ Yet some men whine about ingrown toenails.”<
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  “Everyone has a pain threshold.”

  “In fact, Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo had much to do with his pain. Hemorrhoids.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “His hemorrhoids kept him from mounting his horse to survey the battlefield.”

  “You’re making this up. Another one of your farfetched stories.”

  “No. I am telling you the truth, comrade. His ass gave him a world of hurt that day. In the end, his inability to manage pain doomed him.” Dal tensed as another jolt spiked behind his eyes. “It will take more than a pesky insect to take me down.”

  “I’M SORRY,” Milan said, kneeling at her side. “I wasn’t paying attention to the road.”

  She sat on the pavement with her black summer dress pulled to her scratched knees. She looked confused and her skin was chalky.

  “Everything happened so fast,” she said.

  “My stupid driving.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Do you feel any pain?”

  “No. Just lightheaded.”

  “I can help.”

  She pushed the hair away from her face. She noticed his leather satchel. “You’re a doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “How fortunate.”

  “My name is Milan.”

  “Nice to meet you, Milan.”

  Her magnetic eyes sucked him in. He had never seen anyone so naturally pretty. A gypsy girl? he wanted to ask but didn’t. All these thoughts came to him in a flash. He was flirting. He felt ashamed. What had they taught him in medical school? The patient first? Snapping back to medicine, he said, “Here, let me have a look.”

  “I’m fine,” she insisted. “Just some ugly scratches.”

  “Most likely─”

  “I jumped out of the way in the nick of time. However if you insist on making a fuss.”

  “We can’t take this lightly.”

  She smiled. “I do like the attention.”

  Milan opened the satchel, grabbed a bottle of peroxide and disinfected the cuts. “We’re lucky this is the extent of your injuries,” he said, wrapping gauze around a knee.

  She took a breath, which seemed to give her strength. “It looks worse than it feels.”

  Milan helped her stand. “Regardless, I hope this won’t affect your cello playing.”

  “I play with my fingers, not my knees.”

  “You have a good sense of humor about this accident.”

  “Well, a little scrape on my knee pales in comparison to how I feel about the occupation troops. And the people they’ve hurt.”

  “Yes, damn them.” Milan’s mind flashed back to the hospital, to the bloodied citizens jammed into the emergency room, people in pain, lives destroyed.

  “Anyway, I’m okay.”

  “At the very least, let me drive you home. Where are you headed?”

  She was fidgeting with her hair, the way girls do when they are nervous. “Just down the road.”

  “Mersk?”

  “Yes.”

  “I happen to be going that way myself.”

  “Oh?”

  “Why not let me take you?”

  “I suspect I’m much safer walking, don’t you?”

  “Good point.”

  “Besides I need the exercise.”

  He picked up the cello case. The handle was cracked. “Oops. Sorry.”

  “Not a problem. It’s an old shell. Made cheaply.”

  “I’m sure it has sentimental value.” He helped her with the shoulder strap. “Do you live in Mersk?”

  “All my life.”

  “How wonderful.”

  “Such a bore, really.”

  “Well, a friend of mine has a music shop in Liben. I’ll get you a replacement case.”

  “I better go,” she said, the case resting against her hip, a hand on the strap.

  Milan stood in the middle of the road while she walked away. “I mean it,” he called after her. “I’ll get you that case. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Goodbye,” she said.

  “By the way, what’s your name?”

  AYNA WALKED with her head down and stayed clear of the road. The cool breeze seemed to have shifted a little, blowing in her face. When his car passed, she glanced through her hair, happy he had slowed to give her a second look. She felt compelled to shout her name but it was too late.

  She adjusted the strap on her shoulder and pressed on. She never minded lugging the heavy cello around town or on the country roads. By now, she was used to it. As for protecting her instrument, the cracked wooden case was of little value these days; it was actually a seventy-year-old relic from Budapest, purchased at a secondhand store. The handle had been broken for many years. Indeed, it was in need of a ceremonious burial.

  She stopped for a roar of cars. Someone called her name, followed by a cruel remark, “Witch!” Ayna was unable to make out the rest of their words, though could care less. She was still thinking about the doctor. Something about him. A moment. That instant when her heart had fluttered. And his voice, I hope this won’t affect your cello playing. She felt slightly ashamed for misleading him about the cracked handle.

  After another car passed, Ayna realized Milan must be the new doctor in town. What had Josef called him? Husak the war hero. Lucky them. The village could use a hero right now.

  STANDING WITH a colorful arrangement of marigolds and violets, Dal rang the doorbell and waited for a response. He wore civilian clothes and a thick coat of aftershave that hung like a wool jacket. It was 3:00 p.m. Earlier, while sitting at the café and chatting with the waiter, he had watched Ayna leave with her cello, on her way to music lessons on the outskirts of town.

  “Good afternoon,” he said when Ayna’s mother opened the door. “You must be the divine Nadezda Sahhat, no?”

  She was surprised. “Why do you ask?”

  Dal politely removed his hat and introduced himself as the new district administrator. “I have heard nothing but good things about the Sahhat family, including the proud husband you lost during the war.” When he called the man a “hero” for standing up to the Nazis, she put a hand to her mouth, her eyes glistening with tears. He had suspected mentioning the husband would evoke emotion; the flowers, handpicked in the fields east of the river, were meant to cement their budding friendship. “Please accept this lovely bouquet as a gesture of peace and goodwill between our nations.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said. Townspeople had gathered on the street. “Flowers. For me?”

  Dal drew parallels between this encounter and a vagrant character he once portrayed in the theatre, a wily man who posed as a member of the nobility so he could have access to a wealthy family’s home to rob them. Unlike that character, he was not after money today; rather, he wanted to gain the trust of the Sahhat family, which would ultimately lead to Ayna’s hand.

  “Flowers,” he confirmed, placing the arrangement in her arms. “For a beautiful lady on this warm and sunny day.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “The flowers are even kinder. They leave their fragrance in the hand that bestows them.”

  “Oh?”

  “An ancient Chinese proverb.”

  “Lovely.”

  “In the Orient, I am told marigolds are the opium of a woman’s heart.” His mouth made a thin smile. He had a manner that seemed genuine and sincere.

  “This feels wrong.” Nadezda’s voice began to tremble. “I can’t accept these flowers. What would the people say?”

  “I understand how you must feel.” He looked into her taut face, the deep wrinkles around her mouth reminders of an unspoken sadness, of loneliness. “However from what I have been told, you are a pillar of this community. You, of all people, deserve these beautiful flowers.”

  Nadezda smelled the marigolds and the violets, then exhaled, a sign her walls were coming down. She had lived many years in solitude, without the company of a man. Dal knew this. He knew she could be vulnerable to his advances. If he
could just keep the door open a little longer, he would reel her in, just like a fish falling for bait. He placed his palm on the door and budged it open another inch.

  “It’s been many years,” she confessed, “since a man gave me flowers.”

  “They accentuate your lovely brown eyes.”

  Nadezda flushed with embarrassment. “So kind of you. I had no idea. I mean, don’t take offense, but you’re a Russian.”

  “Ah, when it comes to love, we Muscovites invented romance, not the Italians or the French.”

  Like an Indonesian Shadow Puppet, she seemed controlled by his unseen hands, by an irresistible desire to be cherished. He was skilled at propping up people’s emotions this way. Knowing she had spent years in solitude without the company of a man, that her future was bleak, he turned on the charm.

  “Come in,” Nadezda said, somewhat hypnotically. “You’re so kind. These flowers. What can I say?” By then, the wary onlookers were gathered in force. Someone whistled as she closed the door.

  Dal took a step, a smile stretching across his face. “In the words of the great Tolstoy, ‘Nothing can make our lives, or the lives of other people, more beautiful than perpetual kindness.’”

  “I agree,” she said. “Make yourself at home. I’ll put the kettle on the stove.” With her back to him, she picked up her purse from a nearby credenza, fished out a tube of lipstick and quickly applied a few strokes.

  Dal walked into the modestly furnished living room. There was a tattered sofa, a rocking chair, and a china cabinet with a missing door. “I’m fighting for this town,” he said. An oil painting of her dead husband hung shoulder-high above a small television, tinfoil wrapped around the antennae. The Turkic man’s strong jaw and thick chevron mustache spoke of a hunter, his eyes watching him no matter where he stood in the room.

  “Fighting for us? That’s good.” Nadezda disappeared around a corner and stepped into the kitchen.

  “I remain optimistic for the future. You must not fret our presence. I may be Russian, but I’m a small town boy, not unlike you people in Mersk. It’s true. I was raised by humble parents on a farm south of Stalingrad, in Kumsky.”

  “Never heard of Kumsky. Sounds nice.”