by Pavel Kohout
On the way over Morava had thought it strange he was fighting so hard for one witness while Rypl was conducting public executions. Or does murder stop being murder, legally, when the victim belongs to a stronger nation that forces its law on others through violence? And what does it mean when a new police force starts to form within the old one? Would the garage manager Tetera dare say he served the law better than Beran did? He persisted in his gloomy thoughts as they crossed a dozen or so barricades. Finally they were at the house where earlier he had come looking for Karel Malina, the Beroun depot employee.
"Take something we can pry with," he suggested to Litera.
He headed straight for the neighbor's bell. A bony man opened the door.
"Come in. Eliska's been expecting you."
She greeted the policemen. Her cheeks burned with repentance.
"Why didn't you tell us the truth?" Morava scolded her, although he was mainly angry at himself.
"You didn't have uniforms—"
"I showed you my documents!"
"But there was a German with you—"
"From the criminal police. He's helping us."
"How was I to know?"
"I told you clearly we were looking for a murderer."
Her husband had been studying Morava. Now he made a decision.
"Tell them. They don't look like provocateurs. And it's out in the open now anyway. What if something happened to Malina?"
"Karel..." She swallowed and corrected herself. "Mr. Malina came on Tuesday to tell me he was hiding a parachutist..."
No! Morava despaired; he'd been here—just one door away.
"... and that he'd be going away to meet the man's contacts, so he might be detained. He took his keys back; I had to swear not even to tell my husband."
"But you did tell him," he reproached them both.
"Only yesterday. I thought it was taking too long, and by now it seemed a bit strange ..."
"Have you heard anything from next door?"
"No. But a cop could have a peek, couldn't he?"
"Not legally," he said, chafing at the impotence of old-fashioned laws. "We have to have authorization for forced entry. I don't know where I would get it in this situation, so I'll take responsibility for it myself. But I need both of you as witnesses for the opening, search, and closure of the apartment."
The engineer agreed for both of them. When Litera tried to pry the door open with a tire iron, the man brought a whole box of tools from his apartment and wedged a massive chisel in himself. At the second hammer blow the lock gave way. A stench hit them as if they'd opened a sewer.
It never ends, Morava thought, his heart sinking. Dumbly he exchanged a knowing glance with Litera, who no longer hid the pistol in his hand, and suggested to the woman, "Better stay here, ma'am. I'm afraid it won't be pleasant."
"Run along home, Eliska," her husband ordered.
Now the import of it hit her, but she could not obey. Collapsing against the staircase wall, she clutched her throat with her hands.
Piles of trash lay in the kitchen; an unmade bed and an open wardrobe greeted them in the bedroom. Morava pressed down on the last door handle, his hand wrapped—out of habit—in a handkerchief.
In the bathtub, on a checked blanket smeared with feces, lay a small man, dead less than twenty-four hours.
Jan Morava immediately remembered another body lying beneath a cover of soil and once again felt the touch of pure despair.
He was the first to wake up, thanks to his bladder. They had left the German woman overnight to "rest in peace," as the bald and toothless Lojza jokingly put it. There were plenty of other guest bedrooms in the extensive apartment, but his wariness had led him to choose a maid's chamber instead, where he could sleep alone and lock the door.
It was raining. Not hard, but persistently; in the misty morning the scrawny courtyard trees evoked the inhospitable mood of a chill winter's end. Here and there a pop resounded, as if someone nearby had smashed an inflated paper bag; it didn't sound at all like distant gunfire. The noises were so few and far between that suddenly he felt worried: maybe it was all over. That would be a shame!
Yesterday, he was sure, had been a milestone in his life just like the day he punished that floozy in Brno. With one difference: back then he had failed miserably, thanks to his own incompetence, and withdrawn into his shell for years; it took him from February until the black April day when they nearly caught him to crawl painfully out again. Still, since the uprising began yesterday he'd done better than he'd ever dreamed, and now he was awash in self-confidence, just like that rookie on the Brno shooting range years ago.
Most of all, he felt great. Although he had devotedly followed her orders, he had always been prone to treacherous attacks of lethargy. Now he knew their source: society's hypocritical morality had forced him to hide. It called righteous purges a crime and had him pursued like a beast, hoping to wreak its sorry retribution on his neck. The same society, however, had now declared open season on its occupiers, and he was its tool of punishment.
I AM THE NATION!
On the way to the bathroom he gave the others a military wake-up call; before he could shower, he found them blinking sleepily in the kitchen. Real coffee (which they'd found here, of course) revived them, and Lojza remembered the German in the bedroom.
"Anyone like seconds?" he asked.
The boy turned red as he shook his head; clearly he was afraid of any further humiliation.
" 'Snot really my thing," the stoker admitted. "I have to feel a woman all around me."
"Well, I'll just jump on 'er for a second and then we're off," the bald man said. "Sure you don't want any, Ludva?"
This time he was ready.
"Actually I do," he said, "but once you're done, and my own way. Let me know."
When Lojza reported a short while later that he'd had his fun and was looking forward to the show, even the others could not hide their curiosity. The night had not been kind to the German; she certainly hadn't slept and the uncomfortable position had exhausted her perhaps even more than the men's lust. When all of them entered the room again, she did not even open her eyes.
"I know," Ladislav guessed. "You'll do her dressed, so you won't get dirty."
He grimaced ironically at the stoker.
"Look at me!" he ordered her in German, the way he had done to the baroness in February, and to the rest in Czech thereafter.
So she listened, and he once again saw in her eyes animal fear splintering into humble resignation, as if he were her only hope.
Suddenly he was hungry to show them all of it. In the theater where he'd worked, he had never understood how a grown man could take satisfaction in performing, but now it was exactly what he longed for. Of course it was primarily the boy he wanted to see it, Pepik might be his first apprentice.
Watch out!
A red light flashed in his brain. Was he really out of danger? Someone might recognize him and try to make him into a run-of-the-mill murderer. With one witness still at large (whom he couldn't forget), could he afford to hang three more around his neck, including an adolescent?
I'm no fool!
After all, he could show them another way, similar, but a bit more ambiguous. He'd just neutralize that perfidious dove, where her depraved soul would try to hide!
He checked that her mouth was still well gagged, and placed the point of the knife beneath the nipple of her breast.
"This is how I do it," he said.
He began to press, gently but insistently. The sharp blade broke the skin, leaving only a red line. Her body tensed as far as the straps permitted; the sound that emerged from under the gag was more like a long brass tone with a mute.
Yes, now he was really aroused, truly aroused like a man who determines life and death, but his hand remained firm, pressing evenly on the haft even while the woman struggled ever more fiercely. Her eyes seemed to flow over, but so did those of the men, he noticed with satisfaction. No one breathed a
word; motionless, they followed the slow plunge of steel into her breast.
Then, finally, his sense of touch told him the tip of the knife had reached her heart. Normally he stopped here to come back to it after he had finished the rest. He paused now as well, but only to release his fist for a moment and show them the blade stuck firmly in her flesh. The German had meanwhile closed her eyes; she was trying to escape, to flee from him in spirit.
The other three men were pale. He could not risk it; their wonder might turn into disgust. He grasped the handle again with his fingers and guided it in as deep as it would go. The body immediately slackened. He ripped out the knife, and to his surprise, there was not a drop of blood on the blade.
"What the ...," Lojza whispered.
That was all anyone said.
As he undid the straps to wrap them back around his waist, all of them solicitously helped him, one at each corner of the bed. Then it was he who used the stoker's joke:
"Well, the morning's still young!"
To dispel the shock, he had them count up their money. When he'd left the runt's yesterday for the radio station, he'd completely forgotten he was broke. Events had taken the other three unawares as well; the older two had a couple of crowns, the boy not a coin to his name. They searched the apartment, but the Germans had cleverly removed their marks and jewels to a safer place in the Reich. In the woman's purse they found a handful of crumpled Protectorate crowns; it would have to do for the time being.
"So what," he reassured them. "The harvest's just starting; we'll do our reaping somewhere else."
As they were putting on their guns in the entrance hall, the bell rang. His throat caught, but immediately he realized the advantage was on their side. He nodded to Ladislav and Lojza to stand with him opposite the front door, and to the youngest to go open it. The boy showed his cleverness; as soon as he had done so he dropped lightning-fast to the ground to give them clear aim.
The two men in front of them, one in a police uniform, the other in civilian clothes adorned with a helmet and bayonet, were suitably horrified.
With the reaction of his comrades to the bedroom scene, he felt confirmed as their leader.
"What do you want," he asked sharply.
The civilian could not stop shaking, but the uniformed man was not as green and quickly found his tongue.
"We're securing German apartments. And what are you looking for here?"
"Nothing. Quite the opposite. My friend had to pay back a debt." He turned to Lojza, who bared his gap-toothed jaw.
"So you're the council for the protection of Krauts," the bald man spat.
"We have no interest in protecting them," the policeman retorted. "Our job is to secure property and deliver the Germans with any necessary belongings to Girls' High School, where they will be concentrated for the meantime."
"Best this lady can hope for is concentration in a mass grave." Lojza laughed.
The man remained businesslike.
"I am required to uphold certain directives. The Red Cross will take charge of German civilians in Prague, according to international—"
"Where was your Red Cross when those pigs kicked out my teeth," Lojza shot back angrily.
"The newly resurrected Czechoslovak Republic will be a country of law. Private reprisals have no place here," the policeman insisted.
He knew the other three were waiting to see what he would say or do, and it made his blood boil to hear these platitudes again.
"This lady knew she was guilty. She committed suicide."
"How?" The pest would not be satisfied.
Should i demonstrate on them?
He suppressed the temptation. There might be more of them hiding here; only the struggle against the krauts could give him and his men a sacred mission, and he did not want to lose it.
Now the boy answered.
"She impaled herself on my knife," he announced. "The fucking whore tried to seduce me, and I showed it to her, like this, told her to get dressed, and suddenly she ran at me like a crazy woman. A second later it was all over."
"Where's the knife?"
"I was so scared I threw it out the window. It's somewhere in the vegetable patch."
"Are you making fun of me?"
"No." Now he cut the kid off. "And if necessary he'll have three witnesses right away."
The uniformed man could see he was on the losing side, but wanted to save face. He addressed the boy.
"Your papers."
"At home," Pepik said. "How could I know some Czech cop would want to see those fucking German papers?"
"If mine will be enough," he offered on a whim, "here."
The others gaped while he enjoyed watching the fool copy down Ludvik Roubinek's address. When the policeman wanted more names, though, he put an end to the comedy.
"One witness is enough for a Hitler whore; no one could care less about her. Enjoy playing Samaritans and detectives; we're going to join the fight."
The adventure had an unexpectedly pleasant finale. A large Mercedes stood in front of the house; it had Berlin plates, but Czechoslovak flaglets adorned its windows. A handsome mustached man in an Afrikakorps cap with a tricolor pinned to it was slumped behind the wheel.
Our struggle demands transportation!
He did not bother checking with the others.
"You're waiting for your colleagues."
"Yeah...." The driver perked up.
"You're to take us there first."
"Where ... ?" He seemed doubtful.
"To Girls' High, of course. But we'll stop on the way for a stool pigeon."
Interestingly enough, none of his men so much as opened their mouths. He could sense why: Before they'd felt respect for him, but that German lady had infected them with her fear. He was quite satisfied with this development.
The chauffeur shrugged and started the engine.
"Whatever you want. Where to?"
"Can we get through to the Vltava?"
"For now."
Not much had changed in Prague overnight. The war was only an occasional distant drumbeat, and the ants were still diligently hauling paving stones to raise the barricades. There were more guns and unshaven men trying for a fighter's look.
He too was sprouting stubble; it had been stupid of him to shave at the runt's house when he could have had a new face to go with his new name. So, onward! From the front seat he laid out the plan. They were after a caretaker who'd betrayed a Resistance contact man and a parachutist to the Gestapo. He intended to get more information out of the caretaker, but must not be recognized beforehand. The other three would pick the man up and blindfold him. Than they'd all take him down to the rafting yard and he'd put the pressure on him. If the traitor confessed, they'd take him up to Girls' High with the other Germans, where he belonged.
"And if not?" Lojza wondered.
He threw the bald man's line back at him.
"His bad luck."
Their target played dead for a few minutes. Just as they had decided there was no sense in ringing again, there was a flutter of dirty curtains as the old man tried to check inconspicuously who wanted him. The boy climbed up on the stoker's back and rapped on the high first-floor window. The caretaker's nerves failed him, and he went to let them in.
Shortly thereafter they led him out blindfolded; a woman passerby took it as she was supposed to and spat distastefully. As they crammed into the backseat with him, a foul stench filled the car. The confused driver crossed the intersection as ordered and turned down the ramp to the river's edge.
"Where are you taking me, sir?" the caretaker asked fearfully.
"Just a bit further," the stoker reassured him.
He observed the two streaks dribbling from under the kitchen towel that covered the man's eyes, and began to have doubts: Was he truly dangerous? The wretch had only seen him for a couple of seconds three months ago. He was a man, and a Czech.
He would give him a chance!
He ordered the driver to
stop just short of the bridge's arch, and had the other three take the caretaker out. The booming echo of their steps frightened the man even more.
"What do you want from me?"
