Canceled Czech

by Lawrence Block

  I nodded.

  “And then his foot, his poor foot. It was a birth defect, not a genetic trouble at all, but some fool of an administrator determined that Papa ought to be sterilized for the good of the race. It makes me sick to think of it. Fortunately he managed to perform an important personal favor for a Party official and the orders for his sterilization were destroyed.” She lowered her eyes again. “He was frightened when I was born. I was born during the last months of the war, though he did not know then that it was that close to ending. He did not believe Germany could be beaten. He did not realize that the Jews would manage to stab us in the back just as they did in 1918, and that we would be beaten by their betrayal. And he was desperately afraid that I might…that I might resemble him. That I might be very short, and dark, and perhaps even lame—”

  “I’d guess he has nothing to worry about.”

  “No.” She smiled and brightened the room. “It is fortunate, isn’t it? That I turned out as I did?”

  “Very fortunate.”

  “He feels I am living proof of his pure Aryan heritage. He says that he is of a special class of German, like Goebbels. A short German who grew dark. But pure Aryan nevertheless.”

  “It is the obvious answer.”

  “I’m glad you understand.”

  Later I sat in the living room with Neumann. Greta was upstairs. “One favor I have to ask of you,” he said.

  “Ask it.”

  “You must be very careful of Greta.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He turned aside, sucked pensively on his colorful teeth. “This Kotacek, what do we know of him? He works for the Reich, true. But he is a Slovak, also true. And blood will tell.”

  “You are concerned that he—”

  “Yes.” His eyes probed mine. “She is only a child, Tanner. Only a child. And you know what old men are like when lush young girls are near. A good German has strength of character, he is able to resist temptation. But this Kotacek. Now I would say nothing against him, you understand. I do not know the man. Still…”

  “Of course.”

  “You will make sure that no harm comes to her?”

  “Yes.”

  And a few minutes later, when Greta joined us, he went over what he had learned in the streets. “The trial will begin in four days. That gives you time if you act swiftly. Janos Kotacek is being held in Hradecy Castle. Do you know it?”

  “No.”

  “An old castle of the days of the Bohemian nobility. When our forces marched into Prague, the castle became Hradecy Prison. Czech saboteurs were interned there, along with racial undesirables awaiting shipment to the Fatherland.” Neumann paled slightly, then regained his coloring. “After the war the Communist government converted the structure into a castle once again. They thought it might serve as a tourist attraction. It is an inspiring building on the riverbank, with big towers and gables and the like. Would you like to see such a building?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Would you travel thousands of miles to Prague just for the pleasure of examining such a building?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Neither did anyone else. And, as this government remained in power, it discovered it had more need for a prison than a dubious tourist attraction. So the castle was converted a third time, made once again into a prison. From what I have heard, Kotacek is being held in one of the high towers. There is a guard at his door, and there are guards throughout the prison.”

  “I see.”

  “It may be difficult for you, but you will have Greta’s help. And of course a pair of Germans can outwit a clutch of stupid Czech guards. Besides, you will have two or three days to do it.”

  “Can we get help in Prague?”

  “Help? I don’t understand.”

  “From other loyal Party members.”

  He shook his head. “I know many such men in Prague. But I know none I could trust absolutely.”

  “But the two of us against a fortress—”

  “I am sure you can manage it.”

  I thought for a moment. I closed my eyes and pictured the two of us, Greta and I, tripping blithely up the prison, she bumping her fine body against me every step of the way, while the Czech guards showed us on our way, up to Kotacek’s tower cell and down again.

  I said, “Perhaps it might be worth the risk if we could just enlist half a dozen men.”

  “The risk is too great. I could not permit it.”

  “If you picked the men you were most sure of. Or if you let me sound them out myself—”

  He was shaking his head. Then, with great reluctance, he said, “Perhaps I can tell you something that will show you just how great the risk is. You can see this house, that it is a nice home? And that we live comfortably, Greta and I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you thought to wonder what it is that I do for a living?”

  “It’s not my business.”

  “Of course it is your business.”

  Greta said, “Papa—”

  “No, it is right that Herr Tanner should know. I do not work. I am paid by the filthy Communist government to inform them of the activities of the Bund. Of course I tell them nothing important. I fill their ears for them, I give them trivia and withhold more valuable information. But now do you begin to understand? Even I am a spy for them, even Kurt Neumann, and I am the only man in Czechoslovakia you can trust!”

  We left our planning Operation Kotacek about then. Greta brought cold beer and we knocked off a few bottles each and discussed the divine mission of the German people. The mood grew mellow. Neumann broke out a bottle of slivovitz, assuring me that they didn’t make as good a plum brandy in Germany as they did in Prague. He poured healthy slugs for each of us and we put a good dent in the bottle. Greta kicked off her shoes and sat down at the piano, and she played the “Horst Wessel Lied” and some other old-time favorites.

  I entered into the spirit of things and sang most of the score of Weill and Brecht’s Die Dreigroschenoper. They had never heard it before. I explained that the Fuehrer had had a museum set up in one room of which The Threepenny Opera was played twenty-four hours a day, day in and day out.

  “No wonder it sounds so good to me,” Greta said. “It must have been his favorite music.”

  I left that one alone. I hadn’t bothered to explain that the music was played at what Hitler had called the Museum of Decadent Culture. That particular room was very popular for a time; it was supposed to be the only place in Nazi Germany where you could hear anything but Wagner.

  “The melodies are so fresh, so alive!”

  “And the words have a harsh German bite to them. Good Berlin realism. Not polluted by Jewish Communism.”

  I decided that Brecht in particular would be enchanted by the scene. And through it all, through the beer and the singing and most of the bottle of slivovitz, Greta flirted more and more openly. She brushed against me when she went for more beer. She leaned far forward to refill my glass and to assure me in the process that there was nothing beneath her blouse but Greta. She’s a Nazi, I told myself for the thousandth time, and it did about as much good as the cold shower.

  The night was threatening to last forever. Finally Neumann glanced at his watch, hauled himself to his feet, and announced that it was time for bed. “Herr Tanner must be tired,” he said. “And tomorrow will be a busy day for us all.”

  I wished them both a good night and went upstairs.

  I used to tell people the whole thing, about not sleeping, the wound in Korea, the effect it has had on my life, the medical opinions I’ve received, everything. I learned before very long that this was a mistake. All I ever accomplished was the dubious pleasure of having the same conversation five or six times a day, with no particularly interesting variations. Will it shorten your life? Yes, probably, but let’s talk about something else, shall we? What do you do with all your time? Read, write letters, work, play baseball, learn languages, dally with girls. Do
n’t you get tired? Of course I do, you idiot. Did you ever think of going on television, something like To Tell the Truth or I’ve Got a Secret? No. Never.

  So I didn’t bother adding the interesting fact of permanent insomnia to the Neumann storehouse of interesting facts about Evan Michael Tanner. Instead I went upstairs to my room, closed the door, and stretched out on the bed to finish Czechoslovakia: A Nation in Name Alone. I couldn’t keep my mind on what I was reading but I went through the book anyway and finished it in about half an hour. It was the usual sort of diatribe, but I came out of it with three or four good points for my speech to the Bund.

  I closed the book, got out of my clothes, turned down the bed, flicked off the light, and stretched out on my back. My eyes were tired and my leg had begun to bother me again. I closed my eyes to concentrate on empty black space and saw nothing but Greta, eyes half-lidded, body bare, mouth delicately obscene. I tried blinking the image away. There are several good Yoga techniques for blanking the mind, and I tried all of them, and none of them worked.

  So I went through the various muscle groups, relaxing them in turn, and I was not particularly astonished to find that there was one particular muscle group which stubbornly refused to relax, an island of unrelieved tension in a sea of tranquility.

  Until finally the doorknob turned and the door eased soundlessly open and she entered my room. I could not see her in the darkness but I knew it was her. The smell of her filled the room.

  I didn’t move. She padded softly across the room and stood for some silent moments by the side of the bed.

  “Evan? Are you asleep?”

  I did not say anything.

  “I couldn’t sleep, Evan. I tried, but I just couldn’t. Are you asleep, Evan? I think I know a way to wake you—”

  She lifted the bed sheet, drew it down. Her hand, soft, cool, trailed down over my chest.

  “Oh!” she said, delighted. “You’re not asleep at all, are you? You were only pretending!”

  And she rolled her fine Aryan body on top of me.

  I touched her and kissed her. She panted and squirmed and giggled. I thought of the cold shower I had taken earlier; I might as well have tried to put out a forest fire with a cup of water. She’s a Nazi, an inner voice cried, albeit weakly. Politics make strange bedfellows, a stronger voice retorted. And that particular dialogue ended, and another wordless dialogue took over.

  She had switched on the bedside lamp. I was lying back with my head pillowed on the sweet warmth of her thighs. Her golden hair hung down free, framing her breasts and brushing my face. Her hands, which had raced so trippingly over the keyboard to play the “Horst Wessel Lied,” now raced just as trippingly over me.

  “It’s asleep now,” she said.

  “I’m not asleep.”

  “Not you. It.”

  “Oh.”

  “It was awake when I came in, and I have put it to sleep. Will it sleep for very long?”

  “Not at this rate.”

  “Good. You know, I expected it the minute I saw you. That’s why I was so excited.”

  “Expected what?”

  “That you were Jewish.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” she said. She giggled. “I won’t tell anyone, Evan. Because then I would have to tell Papa how it is that I know, and he would be very angry. He would whip me. Here, and here, and—”

  “Yes, I know. I’m not Jewish.”

  “But of course you are.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “But”—her fingers moved—“this is the proof, is it not? Jews are fixed this way and Germans are not. A rabbi does it, no? I always wondered what he did with it afterward.”

  “In America,” I said, “that particular—uh—operation is performed on almost everyone. In the hospital. By a doctor.”

  “You are joking with me.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “You are telling the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this is done to everyone in America?”

  “Almost everyone, nowadays.”

  “By a doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do they have to use a Jewish doctor?”

  “Any doctor can do it. Greta—”

  “And you’re really not Jewish?”

  “Really. Greta—”

  “Oh.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No, I guess not. But I was certain that you were a Jew. I thought so from the beginning, and then when you told me your name—Evan—I thought it was like Ivan and that you were a Russian Jew. Why are you laughing?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And then now, after we did it, I was sure of it. I never enjoy it that much except with Jews.”

  “You…”

  She shrugged. “My father would kill me.”

  “He probably would.”

  “I knew he would. I share his feelings on race completely, Evan. You must believe that I do. But in the dark, and lying down, it is a different matter. I don’t know why. It just happens that way.”

  None of this is really happening, I told myself reasonably. I suffered a concussion when I leaped from the train, and I have been dreaming all of this. The girl and her father do not exist. None of this exists. It is all a dream, caused by a devastating blow on the head. In time it will all pass away.

  “Evan? Do you think I am terrible?”

  “No.”

  “I can’t help myself, really. And I don’t think they should be exterminated. I think that is a bad idea, extermination. What is the point of it?”

  “The purity of the race—”

  “Ah, but I have an answer for that!” Her eyes lit up. “Not extermination but sterilization. Do you see? And then a girl like myself could have Jewish lovers whenever she wanted and be very very happy all of the time and never have to worry about becoming pregnant. The race would not be polluted with Jewish blood, and yet I could have my pleasure, and…You are laughing at me, Evan.”

  “I’m laughing at everything.”

  “You will not tell my father?”

  “Of course not.”

  She changed position, stretched out beside me. “You’re very nice,” she said. She kissed me, and her soft hand resumed its dalliance. “I think it is a marvelous idea, that everyone should have this operation. It must have been a Jewish trick, but I think nevertheless that it is a good practice. So naked it is, and so defenseless.”

  “Unprotected.”

  “Yes.”

  “But dangerous when cornered.”

  “Ahh!”

  “Do you realize what would happen if your father were here?”

  “Oh, but he’s sleeping. He will not—”

  “But if he did.”

  “Oh—”

  “He would whip you.”

  “He would, yes, he would.”

  “He would whip you here—”

  “Yes.”

  “—and here—”

  “Yes, oh, yes—”

  “And even here—”

  “Ahhhh—”

  Chapter 6

  When she finally left I went through the deep relaxation ritual again, this time with considerably more success. After twenty minutes of it I got dressed and went downstairs. I found a handful of books that looked interesting, including one in Czech; I could speak the language well enough but hadn’t read it intensively in some time, and wanted to brush up on it before we went to Prague.

  There was an old atlas, too, and I carted it upstairs with the rest. Assuming that we managed to liberate Kotacek, we still had the problem of getting him out of the country and back to Lisbon. The short way would take us through either Germany or Austria, through the Iron Curtain and into the sunshine. That was the fastest way, but the more I thought about it the less I liked it. Those were the borders the Czechs would guard at once. They would seal them up tight, and slipping Kotacek through would be just slightly more difficult than threading a needle wit
h a camel.

  Even if we took advantage of the element of surprise and rushed past the German border, we wouldn’t be ahead of the game by any means. He’d be as hot in East Germany as in Czechoslovakia, and, as a war criminal, wouldn’t exactly get a hero’s welcome in West Germany either. And I didn’t even want to think about the problem of getting him across the West Germany border. Or, God forbid, of chucking him over the Berlin Wall.

  The plan, then, would be to work our weary way south and east. There were little pockets of Slovak autonomists who would hide us in the first dark days after the rescue. South of Slovakia, in Hungary, there were political extremists of various persuasions upon whom I could call in an emergency. Most of them would cheerfully slit Kotacek’s throat if they knew who he was, but I could coach him to play whatever part the circumstances demanded.

  From Hungary we could go to Yugoslavia, in many ways my favorite country. I was sure I could establish an underground railroad that would carry us all the way to the Greek border with a minimum of effort. And Greece was no particular problem. There were Macedonians in the northern hills, anarchists and such around Athens, even a Stuart legitimist on the island of Corfu.

  From Athens, a plane to Lisbon. And in Lisbon I could work some devious miracle, get access to Kotacek’s records, and abandon him to his past and future sins.

  It was comforting to plan the escape route. In outline form, it appeared easier than I expected it to be in actual practice. Moreover, by concentrating on the escape I could postpone thinking about the rescue itself. Janos Kotacek was in a castle tower in Prague, and my Nazi nymphomaniac would be my sole assistant in getting him out, and the less I thought about that, the better I felt.

  I opened the atlas, hoping to trace a tentative exit route on the map. I located a double-page map of Europe and looked for Pisek, and then for Prague, and then stopped, and squinted in puzzlement, because there was no Czechoslovakia on the silly map. There was just one big Germany, spreading from France to Russia, and…

  Of course. The damned atlas had been printed in Frankfurt, in 1941. And Europe had looked rather different at that date, especially when sighted from that particular point of view.