by Pavel Kohout
The skull head was dubiousness incarnate, but as Buback's subordinate, he had to accept the decision. His superior had them fetch the headquarters' map of the district, which had the outposts marked. As he had assumed, the furthest was at the edge of Kavci Hory, not far from the little house. Once there, he nodded to his escort and to the sentries sheltering themselves against the beginning rain, turned up his overcoat collar, and set off into the darkness.
He shoved his work papers into his right sock, on the inside of the ankle and then into his shoe; the pass from Beran he hid in his left one. Just in case, he took the safety off his pistol. Swiftly he strode down the empty streets with their low houses. He stopped next door to check he was truly alone, and only then approached the house and pressed the bell as she'd requested: three short rings and a long one. He was caught off guard when the door opened immediately; swiftly he reached for his gun, but then he smelled her perfume, felt her hands pulling him inside, and heard her whispering voice.
At his request, she locked the door in the dark, but she did not let go of him. Before he could speak again, she pulled rather than led him up to the attic, telling him what she had been through. For hours she hadn't been able to sleep, but neither could she wake up: Agitation followed exhaustion and then exhaustion overcame agitation again until she fell into a strange trance in which she could not move, but her visions seemed absolutely real. As if in a fever, she saw her whole life and finally her death, because suddenly she had become Jitka Modra, who had so trustingly exchanged fates with her.
"Suddenly I was the one who was fatally wounded here, but I wasn't dead—you just couldn't see it, and I was there as you put me in the coffin and you didn't notice as I tried desperately to give you a sign, and then the lid slammed down and they banged the nails in and they picked me up and lowered me in and finally I managed to scream, just as the soil drummed down on the lid, so I made one last effort—I gathered all my strength and swung upright so forcefully the lid flew open and I tried to stand up in a hail of dirt, but I was too late, you see, it took away my breath and consciousness, and suddenly it's all over, but my head hurts and I'm standing at the door and you're ringing.... Where have you been so long, love?"
When he found out she had not eaten at all, he wanted to fetch her something from the stores in the cellar, but she went with him and would not let go of him, as if drawing energy from his touch, holding him by the hand even as he sliced the rock-hard bread and opened military tins of sausage and cheese. On the way upstairs his foot hit an empty gin bottle he had found in the judge's bathroom as they fled. He realized she had drunk it while waiting for him and then fallen asleep by the front door.
He forced her to eat and meanwhile decided to stay until morning; it would be easier and safer to get to the center during daylight anyway. When he undressed and lay down next to her, he felt for the first time that she was not interested in him as a man; she clung to him as if she were freezing and only animal warmth could save her.
He began to stroke her, slowly and lightly, with just the balls of his fingers, along her back, her shoulders, and as she gave in and opened herself to him, he moved along her elbows, thighs, feet, not missing a single spot on her body. He had never done this before, but he could feel how deeply it touched her, how her fear and agitation abated, how she gradually calmed down and her confidence returned.
"Ah, my sweetheart," she sighed, "this is even better than making love...."
Then she took his hand and as shots rang out here and there in the distance, she suddenly took up her story again, like in the old days that now seemed so idyllic to him.
After Rome, where they finally reconciled thanks to the mysterious Sicilian, a nasty surprise awaited them in Berlin. Martin's former father-in-law, a high-placed Nazi, arranged their assignment to a theater touring the East Prussian frontlines. Although this was a part of the Reich, it was, under the circumstances, an extremely inhospitable place; the specter of another Russian offensive hung over them constantly. The state of the German troops they performed for was ample evidence of what the Bolsheviks were like. These were no tanned sportsmen like in Italy, treating the war with the Anglo-Americans as a gentlemen's competition even after their recent defeats. The East Prussian soldiers, in spite of their youth, reminded them more of old men. There was no thought of volleyball or soccer, and neither did they laugh at the famous comedian in their troupe; at camp they mostly slept or stared lifelessly off into space.
For Martin, the environment and sterile, pseudo-artistic programs reeked of degradation and humiliation. It all depressed him so deeply that one day he wrote to Berlin for their Jester. Martin had never been one for dogs, Grete said, looking back through the twilight into another time, but this one had caught his fancy. An infatuated fan had given Jester to him one opening night, apparently in the hope it would open the door to Martin's private life for her. Grete was already ensconced there, but he kept the dog anyway. Jester was a delightful little mongrel—they found unmistakable features of at least five breeds in him—but he had inherited their best qualities, beginning with a rare good nature. He would draw his masters out of arguments—and Buback would just have to believe her—by laughing; yes, he would stretch his lips back just like a human until his teeth shone through, and grin and hoot with laughter. Who could resist him?
When Martin switched to doing tours and Grete was allowed to join him, his older sister was happy to take Jester home. Then they truly began to miss him. On each swing through Berlin they spent much of their time petting him; it was during their estrangement and Jester was the one thing that connected them. Her unused tenderness for Martin flowed through Jester, Grete said, as did his for her, or at least so he claimed later.
By the time they reached Koningsberg they no longer needed this service from him. The two of them were at the top of the world, their own personal Himalayas, as Grete called them (and here Buback finally felt that prick of jealousy again, reminding him of his humanity in that inhuman night), but she and Martin thought the sweet little animal would bring joy into the rest of their gloomy wartime existence. The single bright spot in the Prussian assignment was a spacious apartment in the house of a German teacher, who had worshipped Martin's films for years and still could not believe his luck in having the actor under his own roof.
That hot summer before the first evacuation—Buback felt her shudder inwardly again, but this time her storytelling calmed her—the post office and rail lines were still running, despite the air raids. They called Martin's sister, and had her send Jester in a small box with air holes, which they would pick up directly at the station. A vigorous dog who had been walked and fed should easily manage a seven-hour trip. His sister cried as she read off the train number to them.
The two of them were looking forward eagerly to his arrival; the little dog had become a sort of talisman for them, presaging their wild, crude world's return to its original state of innocence. Their disappointment and fear was all the greater when they did not find the package as advised in the baggage car. They were on their way to the station agent so he could telegraph back down the line when Grete— on a hunch!—stopped at another wagon where they were unloading huge wheeled iceboxes carrying meat, butter, and eggs for the army. With the guards' permission she went inside and immediately her eye lit on a small package with her address. In a trance, she carried it out and gave it to a pale Martin. Their fingers turned numb with cold. To this day she could see him holding the small bundle horizontally in both hands as he slowly tipped it: inside a dead weight slid back and forth.
They walked home silently, she said, shocked by this senseless, icy death. The creature who was supposed to bring them help had turned into a symbol of their own ruin. Neither of them had the courage to do the most natural thing: walk out past the town limits and bury the corpse. Bereft of reason, they brought the little coffin into their room and placed it on the table. The apartment was an oven in the afternoon sun, but they did not even open the window
for a cross draft; instead, they sat broken-hearted at the table, helpless against this paralysis. It was like in the fairy tale, Grete said, where they all turned to stone until a miracle happened; she was sure that even three hours later they would never find the strength to get up and leave for the tour.
And then the miracle happened! They heard something like a hiccup from inside the box. Neither of them moved. When the sound came a second time, Grete saw Martin holding his breath to hear better; he looked as if he might suffocate, but now the wooden box trembled lightly and then shook with a blow, as if the object inside were scrabbling to get out. Martin let out a hiss; he flew into the front hall and returned from the kitchen with a wood axe. He pried sharply up; the lid instantly gave way and out flew a furry ball.
She had never seen anything like it, Grete marveled in this foreign house in an enemy city, as joyfully as if she were reliving this resurrection. Jester, restored from near-freezing by the room's intense heat, tore around the room like a crazy dog, across and back, up and down, flying over the furniture with huge leaps, running a third of the way up the wall before falling back to earth in a somersault, only to defy gravity again on the other side of the room.
"It was like an explosion of life. We just sat there, holding each others' hands awkwardly and watching his return from the dead: ten, twenty, maybe thirty minutes went by, and he ran, jumped, barked, pulled and gnawed at us; he couldn't get enough of this life, and we couldn't get over his boundless, unfreezable desire to live, which infected even us, consumed as we were by our ongoing destruction."
Grete smiled.
"It lasted until..."
Grete burst into tears.
It was grief, sudden and wild, and Buback realized that since he did not know its source, he could not console her with soothing platitudes. He just took her firmly in his arms, as if trying to prevent her from splitting wide open, and listened helplessly to her howls. As the sound weakened, his heart grew lighter; fortunately, even boundless despair eventually reaches the limits of our body and soul, and slowly blunts itself against them.
He said nothing, but began almost imperceptibly to rock her like a child. The sobs trailed off, her tense muscles loosened and slowly she relaxed. After a while she began to speak almost normally, as if beginning one of her many stories.
"The first retreat went fairly smoothly; the troupe set up camp and we went to walk Jester. We'd been on a horse-drawn cart all day; gas had to be saved for the army. A fire beyond the birch wood drew us over. It radiated a kind of serenity, and we completely forgot that border areas were strictly off-limits all over the Reich. Then we saw a strange group of soldiers, probably deserters, but it was too late. We tried to say hello and quickly turn around. But one of them had already picked Jester up and was playing with him. The dog gave him a smile, which made the rest of them laugh. And we laughed too; suddenly we weren't as anxious. Then the soldier said in bad German that he'd be good for soup. Martin nervously passed this off as a bad joke, but the man wouldn't let go of the dog; he held him in his left hand by the scruff of his neck. Martin tried to pull him away. And with his right hand the man pulled out a pistol and shot Martin through the temple. I saw his brain spatter. Then he threw Jester into the cauldron alive. The splash of boiling water scalded my face. I kicked off my boots and fled into the darkness, but went the wrong way. They chased me, but didn't catch me. I don't know how I survived that night. In the morning I left the forest. I found the remains of the campfire, but nothing else, not even a bone. Somehow I found my way to the road. Our camp was already gone. A military car stopped for me. It was carrying war correspondents; they had a lot of cognac. I drank and drank and told them jolly stories about the theater all the way to Berlin; it was like a dream. They roared with laughter. One of them fell in love with me and arranged to have me sent to Prague. And that's all I know. Now I have to sleep, love. But don't let go ...!"
She fell asleep instantly and he held her, motionless; from time to time his lips touched the fiery scar on her neck, as if it could heal her burned soul.
The staircase confirmed that he was deadly tired. Today it had no end, as if they were adding on floor after floor. At last he dragged himself wretchedly up the final flight. Suddenly he was on his guard. What was it? A sharp line of light beneath the door of his room. He was sure he'd turned it off. Most of the dormitory's residents were single policemen; none of them would enter his room. So who, then? Him, he realized! He must have been nearby when Morava had asked about him at the radio station, and had followed him back to Bartolomejska. But how had he gotten the address? And most important: what now? Go back for reinforcements? And if the killer got away in the meantime? Then Morava remembered the pistol he'd fired that time in the car, almost killing Beran in the process. He pulled it out and carefully removed the safety catch. If he were right and Jitka's murderer was waiting for him, he would shoot once and only once, to kill. Wait.... did he really want to do that? Hadn't he taught his recruits what Beran had taught him and generations before him? Never let yourself believe you're the law; in all cases, gentlemen, you are its servants, and only it is sovereign! Behind the door, however lurked something only superficially human: it was pure Evil, and it mocked heaven by masquerading as a person in the presence of its victims. Could Beran's principles apply to it as well? No, he decided, if it were waiting there, he would kill it. His only responsibility was to do his best, despite his inexperience, to kill it straight off, so that it would not suffer the way its victims had. He inched the key into the lock bit by bit, so as not to make the slightest noise. With his finger on the trigger he slammed the door open and immediately dropped his gun hand to his side, horrified. His mother sat at a freshly-laid table, smiling back at him, her hands folded peacefully in her lap. Now her smile froze. Child, you frightened me, why all the hullabaloo? Mommy!—he unobtrusively hid the gun, which she fortunately hadn't noticed—what are you doing ... ? Well, didn't you tell me to come if the war got too close? But, he stammered the Russians are already there ...! Yes, they came sooner than expected. So how did you get past the front... ? I don't know how, child, the main thing is I'm here; aren't you happy? Of course, mother, but... who opened the door for you? Who else, she laughed, you silly boy; your Jitka, of course!
Now he knew he was in the grip of a dream, but this deceptive condition was much nicer than full consciousness, which was gradually gaining a foothold. He tried to prolong the fantasy. Lying motionless, his eyes closed, he imagined the unrealized meeting of his life's two loves. He could see his mother's face and movements from his March visit: he called up images of Jitka from her last days and had a wonderful few moments when both of them were alive in his memory as if they'd known each other forever. For the first time since Jitka's death her memory did not tear at his soul. And if his mother was alive, as he felt with every fiber of his being, then he had at least one fixed star in his universe.
At that he remembered the horrible beginning of his dream and the beloved faces faded as quickly as a rainbow. He was back in the bloodstained present. But how could he catch Rypl now, when overnight the killer had switched from widows to Germans and wrapped himself in the mantle of a patriot?
Morava could think of nothing else, even on the trip back from the radio to Bartolomejska yesterday. He had been there within a few minutes, since the city center was suddenly empty, as if everyone was celebrating at the station. However, by the time he reached the office, the revolutionaries had stopped broadcasting. A German turbine aircraft flying close above the roof had attacked the building in a daring raid; the torpedo plunged down precisely into the entrance hall, which Morava had just left. The explosion took many lives and disrupted telephone lines and broadcasting. Despite the chaos, the Czechs were working mightily to repair the transmitters and set up replacements, and Beran chased Morava straight back to prevent Brunat from broadcasting one particular proclamation, which he said could cause a split in the Czech National Council.
He had only r
ecognized the white lion by his voice; a turban of bandages covered his mane. A piece of shrapnel had taken off a portion of Brunat's ear before ramming into a concrete column. The man who had been talking to the commander in the hall was killed on the spot. Brunat read Beran's paper, muttered something about pricks, and disappeared.
When he returned to Number Four, Beran finally called him to his old office for a report. He welcomed Morava in, saying he wanted a short break from all this soldiering. It was amazing how quickly his jovial old boss—despite a uniform he swam in like a scarecrow—had truly become a commander. Morava glossed quickly over his noon mission; it was old news. He described in detail how he had found Antonin Rypl's trail, and put forth his request.
"Sir, this isn't a personal vendetta, even if it could be seen that way...." They could both feel the emptiness of Jitka's abandoned desk through the open door behind them. "I'm concerned about the purity of our revolution; it was supposed to put an end to this sort of barbarity. According to witnesses, he's killed almost ten people since noon today: three sadistically and all of them without provocation, because they'd already surrendered. Anyone who says they were just Germans and brushes it off is making a terrible mistake. He keeps on murdering because he can get away with it. For some people he's a hero, and apparently he's found a few thugs with similar tendencies. And what if they become a murder squad? What'll they do once they run out of Germans? Turn on their fellow countrymen? Start on the collaborators, real and imagined? And who after that? Sir, we have plenty of men who are better than I am at messengering, interpreting, and capturing radio stations, but right now I'm probably the only one who can catch him. It's a point of honor for the police; he's a self-appointed executioner and we can't let him go free when peace comes."
