The Thin Wall: A POW/MIA Truth Novel

by R. Cyril West

  Suspecting he was next on the hit list, Milan flashed to the phone number Frank had given him. Was help a phone call away? If so, could he escape to Austria with Ayna and her son? As he pulled into a parking space near the clinic, Oflan approached the car and knocked frantically on the window.

  “Ayna,” he bellowed. “Ayna was arrested, but released this morning . . .”

  Milan shifted the car into gear and drove around the square to Ayna’s house. Hearing Oflan’s departing words, “The colonel is a raving lunatic,” he pushed his foot against the gas pedal. Damn him. If the KGB tyrant had laid a finger on her, Milan was thinking, he would break the man’s neck.

  He parked. Nadezda grabbed his arm when he burst into the home without knocking. “I can’t handle this anymore,” she said. “I’m a good mother. I did my best. Why me?”

  “Where is she?”

  “I tried warning her. ‘Don’t push the Russians,’ I said. But she wouldn’t listen.”

  “Get hold of yourself,” Milan said. “Tell me where she is.”

  “In her bedroom.”

  Rushing up the stairs, then into the room, he reached for Ayna’s hand. “Are you okay? What happened?”

  She was standoffish and cold, calling him “Dr. Husak” and avoiding eye contact. Standing near the dresser, she explained how Dal had become jealous of their relationship and blamed her for the graffiti on the tank. “To top it off, while you were away yesterday, he arrested me because I had a Beatles album in my record collection. Can you believe that? An album.”

  “I’ve had all I can take. I am going to do something.”

  “Don’t be foolish.”

  “Someone must. There’s no end in sight.”

  “You can’t stop him.”

  “He must be stopped.”

  “He’s a madman. There’s no telling what he’ll do. It’s not worth it.”

  “I can handle myself.”

  “I want the fighting to end,” she pleaded. “Especially where it concerns me. I’m a mother.”

  Milan was livid. “What he did to you. What he’s doing to this community. It’s wrong.”

  “Yes, but Jiri─”

  “This harassment can’t persist.”

  “Promise me. Promise you won’t do anything.”

  He felt the blood rush to his face. He went to the open window and looked down on the street. Children were playing near the tank. A man sold flowers from a corner. The street musician had a small audience. It was like a kind of game between them, turning the cheek the other way. He recognized that Ayna had joined the masses, the groupthink that rallied behind the unspoken joys of submission, a way of life that did not fully concede to surrender, but had a white flag poking out of its rear pocket. Was her decision voluntary? Or was she simply wanting to protect her son? He sighed. It was pointless for him to carry on like the standard-bearer. If Ayna did not care, why should he? “Okay,” he said with tight lips, realizing he was just as guilty as any of them for allowing the Russians to have their way. “Promise. If that is what you want, I promise.”

  He went downstairs to the kitchen and returned with a pot of hot tea. He was cooling off. Following him up the stairs this time, Nadezda was concerned the recital might be canceled, and pressed for answers. “The recital. Will she play this morning?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If she doesn’t play, the townspeople will snub her for good.”

  Milan held up his hand and asked to be alone with Ayna. He entered the bedroom and closed the door. More than ten minutes passed as she sat quietly on the bed. He remembered how content she had been on the picnic, talking nonstop with joy about her cello. Milan missed that cheerful girl. Given what had happened the previous night, could he blame her for being so downcast?

  “Do you want to talk?” he asked.

  Ayna cradled herself. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “I do care for you.”

  “I suppose you do.”

  “It’s true.”

  Milan fell into madness, trying to make her laugh with jokes about Mozart’s five-thumbed dog, and other absurd stories. He mentioned the opera house in Prague and talked about how amazing it would be to vacation at a hotel near the park. “And take in a concert,” he added. Like a fool, he pressed on, admitting his deepest feelings for her, trying to win back the love he felt slipping away from her blackened heart.

  “From the very beginning,” she finally said, “we were doomed. I shouldn’t have led you on. I should’ve known better . . .”

  What was she saying? Fallen out of love──that was what Ayna finally concluded. Because of a curse. “My ex-boyfriends died under bizarre circumstances,” she went on, sitting on the mattress with her head down, struggling with the dark memories. “Victims of an unexplained curse.”

  Milan was unwilling to believe she had lost all feelings for him in a matter of hours, nor that she was cursed. Three dead boyfriends? Three violent deaths? Ridiculous, he thought. “Your boyfriends mysteriously dying in freak accidents is a coincidence. You can’t possibly believe you had something to do with their deaths.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “You’re trying to make sense of things. Some things can’t be explained.”

  “But─ ”

  “You’re no different. You’re just like everyone else in Mersk.”

  “C’mon, stop this nonsense.”

  “That’s why Jiri and I need to leave this awful village and never return. We need a fresh start.”

  Milan sighed. It was a winless situation for a man to find himself in. She was right; he was attempting to pick apart her story. And why not? Curses? The people had wrongly put that medieval way of thinking into her head by repeating it over the years. If only he could switch a lever and make things better, shed some optimism into her world. If only he could do this before the dregs of misery destroyed her as it had destroyed him for the last twenty-four years.

  He poured Ayna a cup of tea. She took it, deliberately looking away from him, toward the window. “I’ve been insensitive,” he admitted. “I apologize. I want to know about this curse. I want to know everything about you. I think you’re beautiful. I deeply care for you.”

  “The premonitions,” she began, her voice somber. “They came to me in my dreams.”

  “Tell me . . .”

  Ayna held her cup of tea with both hands. “The first occurred many years ago, just after Jiri was born. It was Daniel. I saw him submerged beneath the water. He was tangled in the pondweed and attempting to free himself and swim toward the surface. Instead he just thrashed violently like a fish stuck in a net. When he reached for my hand, his only way out of the water, I was unwilling to take it.”

  “So he drowned in your dream. Yet somehow you feel responsible?”

  “Three days later Daniel was with a girl. He was cheating on me again. He had been drinking all night. He went to the ponds near the mill. He went under and never came up.”

  Milan placed a hand on her shoulder and felt her body slacken. “I know there’s more. Your second boyfriend. Dominik, was it?”

  “He trained horses for the communists,” she explained. “So it wasn’t surprising when I dreamed of horses, hundreds of them, running across a grassy field. And there was Dominik, poor Dominik, so helpless, crucified on the ground with his hands and feet bound to wooden stakes. The ropes could easily have been untied, except I made no effort to free him.”

  “Trampled in real life?”

  “Kicked in the head by a horse.”

  “Jesus.”

  “This was when people first pointed their fingers at my Muslim grandfathers, labeling it an Azeri curse.”

  “They needed an explanation for the deaths. That’s what ignorant people do.”

  Ayna had a sip of tea. “I went to see Father Sudek in prison. Like you, he insisted I wasn’t to blame for the deaths. We held hands and prayed. That seemed to help. I began
to feel much better. Eventually, I met Peter. We were good for each other. In fact, it was the happiest I had ever been. Even the stupid whispers of ‘Muslim’ and ‘cursed’ no longer seemed to matter. You see, Peter meant everything to me. When he asked me to marry him, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. We were planning a move to Prague where life would be exciting and wonderful. Unfortunately, just as things were returning to normal, when I managed to tuck away the guilt for Daniel and Dominik, it happened again with Peter’s car accident.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, kissing her on the head. “I appreciate how you’ve opened up, telling me about your past. However I would be lying if I said I believed in superstitions. You can’t scare me away like this.”

  “I’m not trying to scare you.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  “I knew you’d be a skeptic.”

  Milan was obliged to leave it at that. If anything, he blamed himself for her situation. The colonel had been harassing Ayna for weeks. Leaving her alone in the village was a mistake. He knew that. He wiped the stress from his face with both hands. He could not stay any longer. He might regret saying something. He grabbed his satchel and took a step for the door when a photo taped to the dresser mirror caught his eye: a picture of a young man holding a violin. He leaned into the color snapshot. There was something peculiar about the guy. Not the violin or his quirky smile──the red hair.

  “Who is this man?” he asked.

  “That’s Sascha. My best friend. Or I should say, used to be my best friend. He’s dead.”

  “Sascha Boyd? The young man who was shot by the Russians?” Milan had overheard people talking about the shooting in the square, but had never asked anyone for details. From what he understood, the man had provoked the Russians into a fight. He had assumed the police were looking into it.

  “Yes. The colonel’s henchmen murdered him in cold blood,” she added bitterly.

  “Cold blood? I heard he assaulted one of the soldiers. That the shooting was in self-defense.”

  “You heard wrong.”

  “Sorry.”

  Milan went white-faced when she explained how the soldiers had taken his body to the villa and shaved his head so that he looked like a soldier. Now everything was starting to make sense. He had fallen into the colonel’s trap. Duped. All along, Milan had believed the body found in the parlor belonged to the American prisoner-of-war, when it was actually Sascha Boyd. That meant . . . oh, dear god . . . Gunnery Sergeant Russell Johnston must still be alive!

  Ayna was saying, “Milan──I haven’t told you about the fourth premonition.”

  “You said there were three.”

  “I lied.”

  “I haven’t the time for this,” he stammered. He was feeling accountable for the Marine’s situation. Had he only acted upon Frank’s request to help. Had he simply taken a moment to investigate.

  She said, “It’s you.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You. You’re the fourth premonition.”

  “You’re giving me a headache.”

  “This morning,” she went on, “while I slept, I saw you standing on a bridge, in the middle of nowhere, yet somehow I sensed it was not very far from here.”

  “Enough. Stop talking about this asinine curse.”

  Her eyes were fixed on him, hard like stone. “Your hands were covered in blood. And there was a vulture soaring overhead.”

  Milan became paralyzed by the tone of her voice, by the way her words consumed the room, speaking without kindness or empathy. “So how will it be?” he said defensively. “Death by a pecking bird, is it?”

  “It was a bullet,” Ayna said. “A bullet.”

  Fifth Act: Rage

  GOLIATH’S ARMS

  Hatred is the coward’s revenge for being intimidated.

  GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

  Without saying goodbye to Ayna or her mother, Milan left the bedroom and ran toward the clinic.

  The streets were nearly deserted. Someone with an open window was listening to a speech on the radio. It was the address from the First Secretary of the newly formed Central Committee. “It’s fraud,” a man inside the home shouted. “Don’t listen to him. The committee is a puppet of the regime in Moscow.”

  Milan pulled out his keys and unlocked the door to the clinic. He was haunted by a heavy voice──your demons will destroy you.

  He was a mess.

  Who was he kidding? Any relationship with Ayna would be met with self-destruction, with the shrill crying of children in his ears, and now, if he walked away from Sergeant Johnston, endless recriminations for abandoning a brother.

  Perhaps this was the real curse.

  Even as he had spoken to her moments ago and expressed his love, he felt the sharp pangs of despair in his gut. You can’t bring back those children. They’re dead. But you can save the American’s life.

  This was his salvation.

  His final salvation; he was sure of it.

  Milan stepped into the clinic and pulled the blinds. Looking back, it seemed obvious to him that the dead body in the parlor belonged to Sascha Boyd. Dal would have been more careful to hide the POW, plus Sascha wore street clothes and his fingernails were manicured ──signs of a meticulous civilian.

  How could he have been so clueless?

  He walked to his office located in the back of the building and sat at a desk. He stared blankly at a black telephone. He recalled Zdenek Seifert’s implausible story about the secret passageway beneath the villa. Could he break in? If the tunnel led to the bedroom where they were keeping Johnston, and he was careful, with some luck, it was possible to rescue the Marine. He pulled the wallet from his pocket and found the phone number Frank had given him──his ticket to freedom──and dialed the number.

  After the first ring, someone picked up the phone and he heard a garble of voices. Milan was impatient. “Hello? Hello?”

  “Who is this?” The man had an Austrian accent.

  “Milan Husak.”

  “I see . . .”

  “I was told to call this number.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “And I’m coming over.”

  There was a pause. “When?”

  “Today.”

  With the possibility of lines being tapped, the Austrian got right to the point, instructing him to go to the frontier crossing without luggage or personal belongings. “A gentleman smoking a pipe will be waiting in a Renault with broken tailights. Look for the car two streets from the Border Guard office.”

  “Black Škoda. Got it.”

  “Five o’clock sharp,” the Austrian added.

  Milan decided against mentioning that Johnston was alive. What was the point? He had to rescue him first. If the day ended in disaster, the last thing he wanted was more scandal in Mersk. He owed the people that much for remaining strong in the face of a madman and his henchmen. He would simply show up with the Marine and trusted Frank’s group to take custody, no questions asked.

  Milan realized the line was dead and hung up the telephone.

  He walked several blocks up the street and purchased flowers from a floral shop. People were talking electrically, “Good thing they released Ayna,” and “Today is the recital,” and “You going, doc?” Milan avoided conversation, left the shop and found Father Sudek inside the church library, a musty-smelling room that was ten degrees cooler than any building in town.

  The priest was listening to Dvorak’s Symphonic Poem. “Dr. Husak,” he said with surprise, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Milan placed the flowers on a desk next to the record player and lifted the needle. “Oh, it’s much worse than a ghost, Father. Do you have a moment?” Like making a confession, Milan told him the truth about his life, of his humble beginnings in Chicago, and then spilled his guts about the war years, and the tragic deaths of the Roma orphans, naming all twelve of them. “So you see,” he said. “I have always been an imposter, a citizen of the United States. My
name is Mickey Husak. And I’m a complete fraud. Not a Czech war hero.”

  “Is this a practical joke?” the priest asked, approaching him.

  “No. I’ve been living a lie.”

  Father Sudek laid a consoling hand on Milan’s shoulder. “CIA. Spies. Unbelievable.”

  Milan complicated the story by explaining how a United States Marine was imprisoned at the villa. “It’s strange. He has red hair, as did Sascha. Is it a coincidence? I’m not so sure. And don’t you think it’s odd how they carted Sascha’s body away and shaved his head.”

  “Strange, indeed.”

  “They’re up to something. Can’t quite put my finger on it. But something.”

  Father Sudek accepted his admission of post-war intrigue without showing a wrinkle of disappointment. He reassured Milan that he was a hero──no matter what his intentions had been.

  “So,” the priest asked. “What will you do?”

  “Take matters into my own hands.”

  “Oh? How?”

  “By rescuing the American.”

  When Milan mentioned the secret passageway, Father Sudek nodded his head and confirmed the tunnel led to a shaft, ultimately to a bedroom closet on the third floor. “The church helped pay for its expensive construction,” the priest added. “Nevertheless, you can’t just enter the tunnel, somehow find this man, and then lead him safely to Austria. It’s impossible. Have you lost your mind?”

  “I’m sure I have.”

  “There are Russians everywhere. On the ground. In the air. I don’t see how this idea makes any sense.”

  It was good to hear Father Sudek validate Zdenek Seifert’s claims of the passageway’s construction, because even as he spoke, Milan remained skeptical of its existence. “I know it sounds crazy,” he admitted. “But I must do something. Even after all these years away from America, as soldiers, we’re brothers.”

  “I understand the bond between military men. You’re a good man for wanting to help a comrade in need. It’s just . . . have you considered the villa is heavily guarded?”