Republic Of Whores

by Josef Skvorecky

  ALSO BY JOSEF ŠKVORECKÝ:

  The Cowards

  Miss Silver’s Past

  The Swell Season

  Talkin’ Moscow Blues

  The Bass Saxophone

  VINTAGE BOOKS CANADA EDITION, 1995

  Copyright © 1971 Josef Škvorecký

  Copyright © in the English Translation 1993 Paul Wilson

  All rights reserved under International and Pan American Copyright Conventions. Published in Canada in 1995 by Vintage Books Canada, a division of Random House of Canada. First published in Canada in hardcover in 1993 by Alfred A. Knopf Canada, Toronto. Distributed by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Originally published in Czech in 1971 as Tankový Prapor by 68 Publishers Limited, Toronto.

  Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Skvorecky, Josef, 1924-

  [Tankový prapor. English] The republic of whores

  Translation of: Tankový prapor.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-36418-0

  I. Title. II. Title: Tankový prapor. English

  PS8537.K86T313 1995 C891.8′63 C94–932117–6

  PR9199.3.S527T813 1995

  BEER BARREL POLKA (ROLL OUT THE BARREL) by Lew Brown, Wladimir A. Timm, Jaromir Vejvoda and Vasek Zeman “SKODA LASKY” Copyright © MCMXXXIV Shapiro, Bernstein & Co., Inc. New York. Copyright Renewed. Copyright © MCMXXXIX Shapiro, Bernstein & Co., Inc. Copyright Renewed. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured. Used By Permission.

  v3.1

  To Jarmila and Vladimír Emmer and to Na’da and Jan Michal, who hid this in times of peril, and to reserve NCOs P.L. Dorůžka and Stanislav Mareš, who were there.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  An Attack on a Hastily Constructed Enemy Defence System

  The Fučík Badge Tests

  A Night in the Guardhouse

  The Army Creativity Contest

  The Autumn Inspection of Political and Combat Readiness

  A Mass Cultural Farewell to Arms

  1

  AN ATTACK ON A HASTILY CONSTRUCTED ENEMY DEFENCE SYSTEM

  At twenty-three forty-seven, exactly eighteen minutes later than called for in the operational orders, Captain Václav Matka — commander of the Seventh Tank Battalion of the Eighth Tank Division — checked the disposition of his armour at the point from which the attack was to be launched. He then stood for about five minutes beside the tank commanded by Sergeant Krajta, to watch the digging-in. The moon, half hidden beneath the autumn clouds, poured down its spectral light upon five soldiers who were hacking away at the petrified ground with dull pickaxes. Looming in the background, its steel proboscis raised to the luminescent sky, the tank seemed to be gazing dreamily up the valley to the slopes of Old Roundtop, a hillside scored with the tracks of countless assaults.

  At last the captain and his aide, bundled up in greatcoats, turned away and headed into the scattered trees and the night mists beyond the tank. Under his coat the captain wore a spotless pair of coveralls, still wrinkled from long storage in the commissariat. As he strode through the ghostly September night towards his staff car, he felt none of the poetry of this strange midnight moment and this strange situation. He was thinking, instead, what a fool he had been two years earlier when he’d left his cushy job as a political personnel officer at the state insurance agency. He’d got himself into some vague trouble, and the offer of a special ten-month training course with the armoured division, with a guaranteed commission at the end of it and a promise of rapid advancement, had looked good. At the time, he had not been aware of these night-time manoeuvres that took place week after week, weather notwithstanding, nor had he known of the many other discomforts.

  When he came to the road, he shone his flashlight on the order sheet. “2330 — 0400: crews to position, dig in, and camouflage armoured vehicles. 0430: preparations for the attack. 0450: artillery ready. Start time: 0500.” This meant he could sleep until four-thirty. He should, of course, go from crew to crew to check their progress. But screw that. He switched his flashlight off and walked into a stand of shrubbery where the camouflaged staff vehicle was parked. Stretching to plant his foot on the Tatra’s high running-board, he turned to his aide, who was also the battalion’s educational officer.

  “Hospodin,” he said, “take a stroll and see if you can put a little wind up these lazy assholes. I’m going to hit the sack. I haven’t had a decent sleep all week. There was that cultural conference on Monday, Tuesday the Party meeting lasted till three in the goddamn morning and then I was on duty, and Wednesday was officer-training day. Wake me up at four, Hospodin.”

  “Yes, sir, Comrade Captain,” Lieutenant Hospodin said mockingly, cracking his heels together. When the door had slammed shut behind the captain, the lieutenant walked around to the cab and opened that door. The driver was snoring behind the wheel. Hospodin shook him awake.

  “What’s up?” the driver grumbled sleepily.

  “Look,” said the lieutenant, “I want you to give a hand to Tank Commander Smiřický. They’ve only got four men. And wake me up at a quarter to four.”

  “Fucking hell!” the driver muttered, then clambered down out of the car. He was still a rookie, a first-year wonder in basic training, and a muffled obscenity was all the resistance he could muster. Outside, the cold air made him shudder. Meanwhile the lieutenant scrambled up into the driver’s compartment and slammed the door behind him. A blanket appeared in the window as he wrapped himself up.

  Private Holený shoved his hands in his pockets and trudged off, teeth chattering, in a northerly direction, towards a clump of shrubs that looked like stage props for an amateur theatre production. The distant clatter and ring of shovels and pickaxes on the hard earth carried to him on the silent night air. As Holený walked quickly through some tall grass, he could feel the dew soaking through the thin cloth of his summer trousers. His mood grew fouler.

  The political division’s staff car seemed to be floating at anchor in a cluster of bushes. Just as Holený walked past it, someone turned on a flashlight. He could see the silhouettes of two officer’s caps against the illumination. Then the car door opened, the running-board creaked, and the caps disappeared inside.

  “The sons of bitches!” thought Holený, and trotted on.

  When he reached the spot where, according to the plan of disposition, Tank Commander Smiřický’s crew should have been digging in a medium tank, all he could see in the darkness was what looked like a thicket. Then, without warning, a motor coughed and rumbled into life. The thicket began to move. It was a tank: Holený could now see its cannon at high elevation. The vehicle lurched forward and, suddenly blending with the foggy grey monotone of the grassy plain around it, disappeared from his sight. The motor fell silent.

  Fascinated, Holený trotted over for a closer look at this magical phenomenon. Yes, the big iron beast was in there, all right, nestled hull down in a beautifully made pit. On each side of the pit there were neat mounds of earth, and the cannon was resting at regulation elevation over a model breastwork. Holený felt a deep respect for a crew that, despite being short a man (the front machine-gunner was in sick bay with a case of the clap), and in less time than the regs allowed, could dig such an enormous hole.

  He walked over to the tank commander, who was just climbing down from the turret. When he spoke, Holený’s tone was half friendly, half respectful, as one would expect from a subaltern. But it wasn’t Holený’s sense of duty that made him speak this way; it was honest admiration.

  “Comrade Tank Commander, Lieutenant Hospodin sent me here to lend you a hand with the digging-in, bu
t I see —”

  “That khaki-haired little bag of shit!” came a voice from the driver’s cockpit. A stocky man in greasy coveralls with corporal’s chevrons on the chest emerged from the hatch and stepped out onto a mound of earth. “Does he think we’ll turn ourselves ass-inside-out just because he says so? He can stick that where the sun don’t shine, the brainless little cocksucker.” Then the corporal turned to the tank commander and said, somewhat more politely, “So what do you think, Dannyboy? Didn’t I tell you? The perfect pit. I knew that sweet little thing was here. I know this place like my own shit. I’ve taken this fucking hill at least five hundred times.”

  Sergeant-Major Smiřický — commander of the second tank of the first platoon of the First Squadron — looked around. “This is great, Andělín. I just hope they don’t twig.”

  “The hell they will, man. And if they do, who gives a shit? Let the rookies work their asses off — not the boys of April.” Corporal Andělín Střevlíček was serving an extra six months because in an attempt to ingratiate himself with Stalin, the commander-in-chief, General Čepička, had prolonged the military service of all soldiers drafted in 1950 to approach (though not equal) the great Soviet model. “I’m hitting the hay,” announced the hapless warrior, and he started to walk off.

  “Wait a minute,” the tank commander called after him. “We’ve still got to do the camouflaging. Let’s get it over with.”

  “Why can’t Juraj and Holený do it? Hospodin sent him to help, didn’t he?”

  “Fuck the camouflage,” came a voice from inside the tank. It was the gun loader, Juraj Bamza.

  “Don’t be a pain in the ass, Juraj,” said the corporal. “Just do the goddamn camouflage, okay?”

  “Will you get off my fucking back?”

  “Come on, Juraj, don’t be a cunt. You wouldn’t want to leave the job to poor old Střevlíček, would you?” pleaded the corporal.

  “Why don’t we all just collectively shit on it?” proposed the loader.

  “Juraj,” said the tank commander, “we’ve got to put some stuff on it, so they’ll stay off our backs.”

  The loader’s response was monosyllabic: “Shit!”

  A different voice — a hollower-sounding one — came from inside the turret. “Would you just clear the hell out of here, Juraj? Don’t piss me off. Move!” This was the gunner, Sergeant Žloudek.

  “Why don’t you take a flying eff?” retorted the loader. A hollow crunching sound came from inside the turret, like the sound of iron striking a tin pot.

  “Ow! Let me go! Keep your fucking hands to yourself, cunt!”

  “Dumb rookie,” said the voice inside the turret. “Are you going to camouflage the fucker or not?”

  “All right, all right.”

  Bamza quickly jumped down from the turret.

  “Okay, boys,” said the tank commander. “Go get some grass and a couple of branches. Just toss some on the turret and scatter a bit on the breastwork up front.”

  Holený looked around and the loader followed him, muttering to himself. Střevlíček climbed onto the motor casing, spread his coat out, lay down, and wrapped the coat around him. A pleasant warmth rose through the louvers. The driver farted and promptly fell asleep.

  Tank Commander Danny Smiřický began his tour of inspection. He was a timid and therefore conscientious man, and standing orders made him answerable for the tank and its crew. Yet the driver and the gunner, who should have been carrying out a technical inspection of the tank, were asleep, and the tank wasn’t even camouflaged yet. If one of the brass — a captain or a political officer — found out that they hadn’t actually dug the pit themselves, but had simply driven the tank into an old one hidden with brush, there’d be an awful fuss — and they’d have to dig a new one, with the officers looking on. True, Střevlíček insisted that all the officers had long since turned in and were sound asleep. But the tank commander was one of those people who believe that wherever there’s ointment, there’s a fly.

  He walked a short way off to look for branches. In a nearby thicket he broke off two large limbs, and hauled them back. Juraj Bamza was already standing on the turret, scattering handfuls of grass around him. Holený was sticking delicate little sprigs behind the handgrips on the side of the turret, and into the louvers. Danny leaned both his branches against the front armour-plating of the turret. He was cold. He looked at his watch. If he bedded down now, he could get about three hours’ sleep. Great! But he should post a watch, he knew, and they should all take turns — about half an hour each. He knew, too, that he had no way of compelling Střevlíček and Žloudek, who were both in for the extra months, to do anything so pointless. He decided to hand the duty over to the two new recruits. I’m their commander, he thought. I have a right to rest after the digging-in is complete. It’s their duty to obey my orders. So I’ll give them an order and go to sleep. If they don’t keep a proper watch, if they go to sleep too, that’s their problem. If someone catches them at it, I’m off the hook.

  “Hey, Juraj,” he said. “You and Holený here are going to take turns.”

  “Take turns at what?”

  “Sentry duty. An hour and a half each.”

  “Screw you.”

  “Don’t be an asshole. I’m out of here in a couple of months, and in the meantime I don’t plan to get in any shit,” said the tank commander severely. He climbed onto the turret and slipped inside through the driver’s hatch. I gave them the order, he said to himself. I handled the situation precisely according to regulations, in a military fashion, following the example set by the battalion commander.

  He lowered himself carefully through the hatchway and sat down on the driver’s seat. Behind him, on the ammunition boxes, Sergeant Žloudek was sound asleep and snoring. Danny felt for the safety lock on the hatch, disengaged it, then closed the hatch in battle position. But he opened the observation slits so that he could see anyone coming. He took Střevlíček’s padded helmet from the seat next to him and put it on his head as a substitute pillow, and snuggled up against the hand-grenade holders and the ventilation tubes.

  A star shone brightly through an observation slit and the tank smelled of diesel fuel and oil. Outside he could hear the faint blows of pickaxes; the other crews were still at work. He put his hands under his armpits to warm them and peered out at the star. As he began to doze off, it crossed his mind that he should have his picture taken soon in Okrouhlice. Perhaps Lizetka would like a photo of him wearing his leather tank helmet. She’d probably think it was a hoot. But he’d have to hurry because — he heard the loader’s voice coming from the turret: “That’s enough, dickhead!” and then he heard the man’s ironshod boots clanging over the armour-plating. The engine louvers rattled. They’re settling down to sleep now, thought Danny, half asleep himself. But I’ve given them their orders. He felt an unpleasant lump in the small of his back, where his pistol had slipped. He pulled it around to his stomach. If there was a war they’d get no sleep at all, they’d be too busy shitting their pants. Military statisticians had allotted tank crews a life expectancy of four minutes in battle. He had no trouble imagining that kind of fear. But perhaps there wouldn’t be a war.

  Then again there probably would, he thought, but as he drifted into sleep he was thinking about how he would soon be returning to civilian life, and about what it would be like. Would the maddening Lizetka continue to spurn his advances? He’d been in love with her, or rather yearned terribly to fuck her, for close to three years. But either she was serious about her Catholic prejudices against marital infidelity, or she was made of ice-cream. The latter was much more probably the case than the former. But a man never knew the extent of female bitchiness. Maybe Lizetka wasn’t made of ice-cream at all, but simply had the mind of a police torturer. Maybe she was a sadist, as most women were — at least, most of the ones he knew. Maybe the devil knew.…

  It was one o’clock when the tank commander fell asleep. By that time, Captain Matka, stretched out on his comfo
rtable bunk in his staff vehicle, had long since surrendered to slumber. According to operational orders, he should now be inspecting the dug-in tanks. The educational officer for the Seventh Tank Battalion, Lieutenant Hospodin, was also asleep in the cab of the Tatra (“Provide political instruction to the tank crews on the role of proper camouflage in the struggle for peace”). After a heavy supper, the politruk, First Lieutenant Růžička, was tossing and turning on his bunk in the staff vehicle, dreaming heavy dreams (“Inspect the quality of political awareness among the tanks’ crews”), and First Lieutenant Pinkas, the chief of the battalion’s staff (“Ensure that the crew commanders have familiarized themselves with the battle situation and that the crews have been properly briefed on firing instructions”) was trying to calm his nerves with doses of sleeping pills while driving thoughts of his wife, Janinka, out of his mind; she was asleep alone in their flat, but what if she was neither alone nor asleep?

  Beneath a stretched-out tarpaulin in another Tatra, three squadron commanders were just as soundly asleep (“Check on the activities of all ten tank crews”). Only the fourth officer, Lieutenant Hezký of the First Tank Squadron, was diligently carrying out the duties assigned to him. Moreover — to the dismay of the privates under him — he was helping Sergeant Vytáhlý’s crew dig a miserable excuse for a tank pit, since the crew consisted of only two men. (The rest were in the guardhouse.) Captain Matka was always taking advantage of the lieutenant’s eagerness to please, but at the moment the only high-ranking officer to observe his good work was the Lord Himself — whose existence the army command officially denied.

  Towards two o’clock in the morning, the last blows of the pickaxes and shovels fell silent. Weariness had overcome even Lieutenant Hezký’s zeal. One by one the tank motors burst briefly into life, and the tanks crawled forward into the shallow depressions that were meant to be pits, and settled in like broody hens.