by Pavel Kohout
Morava left his pistol and holster and proceeded to the steps. His footprints remained in the fine plaster dust just like in snow. He was the first to crawl over the office-furniture stockade. The maneuver required both hands, but he was not afraid.
"At least," he said to himself in a low voice, "I'll be with you sooner, my love."
When they finally ran up and showered him with praise for his amazing courage, he experienced a remarkable feeling. I did it!
It made him even happier that this time he hadn't had to hide his deed; quite the opposite:
I CAN DO IT IN PUBLIC!
He was terribly sorry that she could not have seen it herself, but he was sure that she knew, if she hadn't in fact been leading him.
Even the boy with wire-rim glasses who hurried over from the garbage can couldn't spoil his mood.
"Sirs," he said in a trembling voice, "he's alive."
In their ensuing silence they heard a weak moan from outside.
"Let him enjoy it, then!" he answered the kid. "Like we enjoyed living with them for six years. Or do you feel sorry for him?"
"Stomach wounds are extremely painful.... You see, I'm studying to be a doctor, and—"
Before he could think of a way to regain his new admirers, a well-muscled man in overalls grinned at the kid.
"Then finish school and cure him! Or finish him off, once you have something to do it with. Personally, I wouldn't waste my ammunition on him. So what next?" The overalls turned to the group. "The evening's still young!"
And he felt everyone's eyes resting on him. They looked up to him the way he had once looked up to Sergeant Kralik, he realized proudly.
I'm the best one here!
It was time to consolidate his leadership.
According to the technician, the entrance by the garbage cans was thinly guarded because the Germans thought it only led down to the archives. But from there, he assured them, you could get upstairs to the broadcasting rooms where the calls for help were coming from.
He took one grenade along with the soldier's submachine gun, which naturally fell to him; the other grenade he gave to the man in overalls, who, he learned, had also been in the army. Both rifle owners followed them into the basement; after them came a couple of empty-handed men hoping to find some weapons as they went.
The hallway turned two corners and then brought them to a narrow staircase leading upward. They walked so slowly and quietly that they heard the steps and German voices approaching from above before the soldiers found them. Was it just a coincidence that once again he and his men were ideally positioned for an ambush? The archive was overflowing with old tape recordings, and its hallways were lined with narrow shelving housing columns of round metal cases; here, just behind them, was an alcove they all fit into.
Rypl, his sergeant reminded him, in concrete your bullet will likely hit you on the rebound; a blade's your best bet.... After all, it was Kralik who'd instructed him in the use of knives when they'd visited his brother's slaughterhouse....
Today, however, he had another idea, his own. He motioned to his supporter to put his weapon down and, turning to the others, mimed grabbing someone by the throat.
There were two Germans, evidently convinced that the basement was still clear: Their submachine guns hung over their shoulders as they headed for the stairs to have a smoke. They had no chance against the half dozen or so men who suddenly fell on them. In a couple of seconds they felt their backs slam down on their gun barrels and gasped to find at least three Czechs kneeling over each of them.
He was crazy, he shuddered in retrospect, to jump on them practically empty-handed with a bunch of strange men; it could have backfired badly. And yet here they lay, rank-and-file SS storm troopers, both wide-eyed rookies.
Yes, Mother, today is my day!
"What should we do with them?" he asked the one who had taken his side; now the man showed his hands, large as shovels.
"Tie 'em up and guard 'em," the tram driver said. "There are rules about prisoners, aren't there?"
He knew them from even his own short war and momentarily considered using two of the straps girdling him—but would he definitely get them back? And after what happened to the poor runt who'd had to return them.... One thing was certain: They couldn't drag the Germans with them, nor could they leave them here with inexperienced guards. So he made his decision.
"Where's the toilet?" he said, turning to the man from the radio.
"We passed it as we came in."
He left his regiment by the steps, guarded by two newly acquired submachine guns, and nodded to his new ally. The Germans went in front of them, hands crossed high on their backs, the way Kralik had taught him. The best way to stiffen them up, Rypl, as every schoolteacher knows! The archive toilets were hidden in a small side hall. Beyond the urinal was a stall with a toilet bowl; the yellowed door ended about a foot from the ceiling. It was perfect for his next idea.
"Hinein!" He pointed the gun muzzle at them. "Both of you, inside!"
They squeezed into the narrow space; the second one chuckled uneasily. He slammed the door behind them and asked his guide, "Is there anything to wedge the handle with?"
The man reached into a corner and grabbed a broom standing in a bucket with a rag. Deftly he propped it between the stall door and the wall. Did he already know? He looked so eager!
He nodded for him to go out into the hallway first, and eyeballed the size of the gap above the stall door. Then he pulled the pin from the grenade, silently counted to three, and hurled it into the stall. He heard a double scream, but he had already slammed the washroom door and pressed himself against the side wall.
The explosion jammed the door shut. Too bad. He would have liked to look. An admiring smile crossed his companion's face, and he made a further discovery.
I HAVE A FRIEND!
On the corner of Bredovska Street, which was guarded by two light storm-trooper tanks, Buback was assaulted by the pungent stench he had smelled during each post-Normandy retreat. In the courtyard, a huge pyre was burning; files with documents from various departments were heaped on it. Why, he wondered for the first time: Why burn the only proof that even in these infamous walls they had proceeded strictly according to regulation? Except that was the problem.
The German nation was not the only one ever to place its own interests above the legal norms of the civilized world. However, it seemed likely to be the first one condemned for applying its laws strictly and thoroughly, because ius germanicum, which allowed the death penalty for a critical word or a hook-shaped nose, had now thrown the greater part of a civilized continent back into the Dark Ages.
It had always consoled him that the paragraphs he enforced defended the time-honored values for which mankind created laws, even if they were part of that greater German legal code. He had been practically the only officer at all his previous postings who had not needed to cover his tracks. But was that enough to let him shrug off responsibility for what the burners were trying to hide?
What was his own part in his nation's guilt? Could the two be separated? And more importantly: Could Germany's guilt be redeemed? He kept trying to do just that, even though the Third Reich could still avoid total defeat, leaving ius germanicum the law of the victors. The newly announced German doctrine seemed to count on this possibility, at least in Kroloff s version. It took his breath away.
According to absolutely reliable sources, British prime minister Churchill and the new American president Truman were convinced that Stalin intended to establish Communist regimes in all the territories occupied by the Red Army, thus building a bridgehead that would let him quickly conquer the rest of Europe. The new German leadership planned to distance itself from the excesses of some SS units, which it would apparently disband, the skull head explained enthusiastically—as if the Gestapo would go scot-free! They would then offer the Anglo-Americans a partial capitulation and an assurance that Germany would carry on the battle against the Bolsheviks.
Impossible, Buback marveled; they were sending him to Grete! Given the circumstances, he quickly reconciled himself to the change in plans. Anyway, he soon found out Meckerle was momentarily absent, and Buback could learn far more in the field than the gossip and fairy tales he'd heard here.
"How will we get there?" he probed. "As far as I can tell, we only hold the city center."
"Armored transports will come for the authorized representatives," Kroloff announced. "The Czechs only have light weapons."
Among which is a Panzerfaust, Buback nearly said aloud. He would have to rely on Grete's cross.
They waited almost three hours for the escort vehicles. The column commander seemed on the verge of shooting himself as he described how they had wandered around and around in some suburb, because the Czechs had repositioned all the road signage, even swapping the street signs around; the Nazis' perfect maps were useless. Finally a German woman, a native of Prague, had saved them when she saw the convoy for the third time and had the courage to run out of her house, climb up to the cabin of his vehicle and guide them here.
On the way to Pankrac, Buback saw that what had been primitive barriers at noon were being continually, diligently, and painstakingly strengthened. However, the flotsam and jetsam from workshops, construction sites, and houses were no match for caterpillar vehicles. All along the route the Czechs fled into nearby buildings; the convoy met no opposition.
In crossing the deep gash called the Nusle Valley, Buback was reminded of how the city's topography would aid in its defense. Still, he knew the force that was preparing to strike, and could imagine the desolation it would leave in its wake. As they rose toward Pankrac, a rare panorama opened for a moment before them: to the left the towers of Vysehrad, to the right the cupolas of Karlov, and beyond the river the distant Hradcany Castle, which seemed to hang in the air.
How odd: Although he had lived most of his life in Dresden, and its destruction had filled him with deep sadness, he accepted it as a higher form of justice, one gruesomely foreshadowed in the deaths of Hilde and Heidi. Now he felt sure: This war Germany had begun was immoral. It had bathed Europe in tears and blood, and his nation would be punished for it with the crudest defeat in history—tragic, yet logical! Prague had been brutally violated six years ago; was it really possible she would be reduced to ruins now, when freedom and renewed dignity were just around the corner?
How strange it was! He had spent his early childhood in Prague, and had only a couple of fleeting, not to mention banal, memories of his life here; how could he feel more connected to this place than to the city where he had studied, worked, and loved, a city he had known far better? But he knew the answer: Something in the unconscious of the young child Erwin Buback had stirred his mind and heart and tied him inexplicably to this place. For years that "something" had been submerged beneath a flood of other sensations, but it did not disappear. It was still there, as strong as ever, and awoke again as soon as he returned: the language of his birth mother, forever his native tongue.
This did not quite make him a Czech, but he could not call himself a pure German either. So he was simply a native of Prague, heir to two and more cultures which for centuries had lived side by side, separate but not hostile. He must have had more of Prague in him than he realized, since both his Czech and German sides hoped with equal fervor that the splendid scene before him would be preserved for future generations.
So then, he was not a traitor, absolutely not. He was a redeemer of betrayal, destined by his heritage to help bring this destruction and murder to an end, so that Czechs and Germans in his native city could someday meet on the same sidewalk and greet each other with a tip of the hat.
Only the Praguers gave Brunat's reinforcements trouble on the way over. Encouraged by the radio defenders' example, they suddenly filled Wenceslas Square; the Germans lost interest in shooting, and seemed glad of the chance to withdraw to Bredovska Street with their skins intact. When the police finally got through, they reached the building by climbing across rooftops, and after a short battle drove the SS from the sixth to the fourth floor. The Germans attempted to break through past Morava to the main hall, but they did not succeed. The soldiers on the first floor were now hemmed in by Czech irregulars on the surrounding streets, and Director Thurmer was forced to open negotiations.
Thurmer was a shadow of the man who two hours earlier had shouted at them, pistol in hand; he clearly saw the situation (or, at the very least, his own personal case) as hopeless. He did not even mention retreating with weapons; instead he requested, or more accurately begged, for an escort to accompany the German employees and soldiers to the main train station, which was still occupied by the Wehrmacht. The commander of the SS forces in the hall agreed to the arrangement as well. Brunat took over command but did not release Morava.
"Once they leave the building, have it searched thoroughly, so they don't leave a Trojan horse in here—they'll certainly try to get the radio back by any means possible and we don't want to be stabbed from behind. And Morava: Get some systems in place right from the start. I know our countrymen: Soon thousands of radio station warriors will be demanding a reward for their services. Round up all the paper pushers and have them record everyone who s been here since twelve-thirty. And be sure to get a list of the dead; they'll start looking for them shortly. Then off to Beran; he needs you."
While two hours earlier everyone stuck at the radio had desperately wished to be as far as possible from that steel-and-concrete trap, now almost no one would leave the building. Despite the near-certainty that the Germans would be back, the Czechs were now eager and impatient; their long-awaited victory could come here, today.
Onlookers gawked at the battle sites, and the diligent cleared away the debris blocking passages. For safety's sake, the heroic announcers moved into a hurriedly equipped studio in an air-raid shelter. Doctors descended on the building, examining the lightly wounded on the spot, and sending the severely wounded off to various hospitals. The fallen were carried down to the courtyard.
This was where Morava stationed what seemed like the more reliable civilians, instructing them to secure the victims' personal belongings before the scavengers arrived. They did not believe anyone would take advantage of this historic moment, but promised him they would work in pairs, recording every detail.
A wild burst of fire in front of the building almost sent him scrambling outside, but it ended as quickly as it had begun; soon he learned that someone had tried to start a massacre of the departing Germans. Civilians kept bringing down more dead Czechs as they found them in various corners of the ravaged building, and he tried to wrap up all the tasks Brunat had set him as fast as he could, so that he could get back to Beran and then to his mission.
An hour later Morava was sure there were no Germans hiding in the building, and the snipers on the surrounding blocks had been taken care of. He returned to the courtyard. The fallen lay on thick curtains from the large music studio; at their feet were bundles made from canteen napkins, which held the contents of their pockets. Where possible, the personal effects of the deceased had been put back into the bags or briefcases they had been carrying when they were struck down. Morava promised to send a replacement over as soon as possible, took copies of the list, and went to report to Brunat.
On his way there, a woman in a beret, which look
ed odd against her gray pigtails, addressed him timidly. "Excuse me, officer ... my son ran over here at noon to help and hasn't come back; do you know if anything's happened to him ... ?"
When he unfolded the papers he realized he could not give her a definite answer. He should have assigned someone to get a list of the wounded; now their relatives would have to wander from hospital to hospital. He could have kicked himself, but he hoped that at least he could rule out the worst for her.
"What's his name?"
"Richter. Rudolf Richter."
He looked but could not find the name.
"If it's any comfort, I have a list of the dead and ..."
He fell silent, staring at the name he had found in place of the woman's son.
"Rypl Antonin, b. 27 May 1900 in Brno, res. Plzeh."
Jitka! Could he have gotten off that easily?
The horror in the woman's eyes shook him out of his trance, and he quickly showed her that her son's name was not on the list. Then he hurried back to the courtyard. The dead man was number thirty-five and a bloody towel covered his head. Accustomed as he was to gruesome sights, he still shuddered when he lifted it. Only the back of the man's head remained; the front had been almost entirely shorn off.
