So Göring and Ribbentrop have to convince Hácha that it’s too late to turn back. This leads to a farcical scene where, according to witnesses, the two Nazi ministers literally chase Hácha around the table, repeatedly putting the pen back in his hand and ordering him to sign the bloody thing. At the same time, Göring yells continuously: if Hácha continues to refuse, half of Prague will be destroyed within two hours by the German air force… and that’s just for starters! Hundreds of bombers are waiting for the order to take off, and they will receive that order at 6:00 a.m. if the surrender is not signed.
At this crucial moment, Hácha goes dizzy and faints. Now it’s the two Nazis who are terrified, standing there over his inert body. He absolutely must be revived: if he dies, Hitler will be accused of murdering him in his own office. Thankfully, there is an expert injecter in the house: Dr. Morell, who will later inject Hitler with amphetamines several times a day until his death—a medical regime that probably had some link with the Führer’s growing dementia. So Morell suddenly appears and sticks a syringe into Hácha, who wakes up. A telephone is shoved into his hand. Given the urgency of the situation, the paperwork can wait. Ribbentrop has taken care to install a special direct line to Prague. Gathering what is left of his strength, Hácha informs the Czech cabinet in Prague of what is happening in Berlin, and advises them to surrender. He is given another injection and taken back to see the Führer, who presents him once again with that wretched document. It is nearly four a.m. Hácha signs. “I have sacrificed the state in order to save the nation,” he believes. The imbecile. It’s as if Chamberlain’s stupidity was contagious…
81
Berlin, March 15, 1939:
At their request, the Führer received today in Berlin Dr. Hácha, the president of Czechoslovakia [the Germans, it seems, still hadn’t officially ratified Slovakia’s independence, even though it was they themselves who’d orchestrated it], and Dr. Chvalkovsky, the foreign minister of Czechoslovakia, in the presence of Mr. von Ribbentrop, the foreign minister. During this meeting, there was a very frank discussion of the serious situation created by events of recent weeks in Czechoslovakian territory.
Both parties said they were convinced that all efforts must be made to maintain calm, order, and peace in this region of central Europe. The president of the Czechoslovakian state said that, in order to attain this objective and to create a definitive peace, he had put the destiny of the Czech people and country in the hands of the Führer of the German Reich. The Führer acknowledged this declaration and expressed his intention of placing the Czech people under the protection of the German Reich and of guaranteeing the autonomous development of their ethnic life.
82
Hitler is jubilant. He kisses all his secretaries and tells them: “My children, this is the most beautiful day of my life! My name will go down in history. I will be considered the greatest German who ever lived!”
To celebrate, he decides to go to Prague.
83
The most beautiful city in the world is disfigured by outbreaks of violence. The local Germans are spoiling for a fight. Protesters march along Václavské náměstí, the wide avenue overshadowed by the imposing Museum of Natural History. They are trying to spark a riot, but the Czech police have been told not to intervene. Acts of violence, pillage, and vandalism perpetrated by Germans awaiting the arrival of their Nazi brothers are war cries that find no echo in the silence of the capital.
Night swoops upon the city. An icy wind sweeps the streets. Only a handful of adolescent hotheads hang around to yell insults at the police on guard duty outside the Deutsches Haus. Beneath the Astronomical Clock in the Old Town Square, the little skeleton pulls its cord as it has done every hour for centuries. The bells toll midnight. The creaking of the wooden shutters is heard, but tonight, I bet no one bothers to watch the little figures march around the tower. They quickly go back inside: perhaps they will be safe there. I imagine clouds of crows flying around the sinister watchtowers of the dark Týn Church. Under the Charles Bridge flows the Vltava. Under the Charles Bridge flows the Moldau. The peaceful river that crosses Prague has two names—one Czech, the other German. It is one too many.
The Czechs toss and turn in their beds. They hope that if they make more concessions, the Germans will be merciful—but what concessions have they not already made? They hope President Hácha’s servility will move the Germans to pity. Their will to resist was broken at Munich by the betrayal of the French and the British. Now they have only their passivity to protect them from the Nazis’ bellicosity. What is left of Czechoslovakia has no greater aim than to be a small and peaceful nation. But the gangrene that infected the country in the time of Premysl Ottokar II has spread—and the amputation of the Sudetenland didn’t change anything. Before dawn, the radio broadcasts the terms of the agreement concluded between Hitler and Hácha. It is annexation, pure and simple. The news explodes like a bombshell in every Czech home. Day has still not risen when the streets begin to buzz with this rumor, and gradually the noise turns from a murmur to a clamor. People leave their houses. Some carry small suitcases: they will go to the doors of the embassies to ask for asylum and protection, which will generally be refused. The first suicides are reported.
At 9:00 a.m., the first German tank enters the city.
84
Actually I don’t know if it was a tank that first entered Prague. The most advanced troops seem largely to have driven motorbikes with sidecars.
So: at 9:00 a.m., German soldiers on motorbikes enter the Czech capital. Here they discover local Germans welcoming them as liberators, which makes them relax a little after several days of high tension. But they also see Czechs shaking their fists, shouting hostile slogans, and singing their national anthem, which is more worrying.
A dense crowd has gathered on Václavské náměstí, the Czech equivalent of the Champs-Élysées, and in the city’s main thoroughfares Wehrmacht trucks are soon blocked by the vast numbers of people. The German troops don’t know where they stand.
But this is far from an insurrection. Acts of resistance are limited to throwing snowballs at the invaders.
The main strategic objectives are achieved without a shot being fired: control of the airport and of the War Ministry. Above all the Germans control Hradčany—the castle perched high on its hill, the seat of power. Before 10:00 a.m., artillery batteries are ranged on the battlements, aimed at the city below.
The only real problems are logistical: the most difficult test faced by German vehicles is the blizzard, and here and there we find broken-down trucks, tanks immobilized by mechanical troubles. The Germans also have problems finding their way in Prague’s maze of streets: we see them asking directions from Czech policemen, who answer obligingly—out of Pavlovian respect for the uniform, I suppose. Nerudova, the beautiful street decorated with banners that leads up to the castle, is blocked by a lost armored car. While the driver gets out to ask the way from a delegation of Italian diplomats, the soldier remains alone on his gun turret, his finger tensed on the machine-gun trigger, watched by the silent, gawking crowd that surrounds him. But nothing happens. The general in command of the German vanguard has nothing worse to complain about than acts of minor sabotage: a few slashed tires.
Hitler can prepare for a peaceful visit. Before the end of day, the city is “secured.” Troops on horseback move calmly along the banks of the Vltava. A curfew is decreed, forbidding Czechs to go outside after 8:00 p.m. The doors of hotels and official buildings are patrolled by German guards carrying long rifles with bayonets. Prague has fallen without a fight. The cobblestones of the city are stained with dirty snow. This is the beginning of a long, dark winter for the Czechs.
85
Passing the endless, serpentine line of soldiers marching along the icy road, a convoy of Mercedes cars makes its way laboriously toward Prague. All the most eminent members of Hitler’s clique are here: Göring, Ribbentrop, Bormann. And in the Führer’s own car, next to Himmler, sits Heydrich.<
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What goes through his mind when, after this long journey, they finally arrive at their destination? Is he struck by the mazelike beauty of the city of a hundred towers? Or is he too busy savoring the importance of his position? Does he grow irritated when the convoy gets lost in the city conquered by the Führer that very morning? Or is there, in his calculating brain, the first glimmer of an idea that his career will one day take him back to the former Czech capital?
Today, the future Hangman of Prague, whom the Czechs also nicknamed “the Butcher,” sees for the first time the Bohemian city of kings: the streets are deserted because of the curfew; the tire tracks of the German army are visible in the mud and snow on the roads; an impressive calm reigns. The windows on the high street reveal expensive glassware boutiques and delicatessens; in the heart of the Old Town stands the Opera House, where Mozart created Don Giovanni; the cars drive on the left, as in Britain. For the first time, Heydrich sees the snaking road that leads to the castle, gloriously isolated on its hill, and the beautiful and disturbing statues that decorate the main entrance, guarded by the SS.
The convoy enters what was until yesterday the presidential palace. A swastika flag flies over the castle, signaling the presence of its new masters. When Hácha returns from Berlin—his train still hasn’t arrived, having been conveniently delayed in Germany—he will use the servants’ entrance. I suppose he will feel the full ironic weight of the situation, having been so thrilled by the presidential welcome he received in Berlin. The president is now nothing but a puppet, and they’re making sure he knows it.
Hitler and his followers settle into their rooms in the castle. The Führer climbs the stairs to the first floor. There is a famous photo of him, hands leaning on the sill of an open window, contemplating the city below. He looks pleased with himself. Afterward he goes back downstairs and enjoys a candlelit dinner in one of the dining rooms. Heydrich can’t help noticing that the Führer eats a slice of ham and drinks a Pilsner Urquell, the most famous Czech beer—Hitler, who is a teetotaler and vegetarian. He keeps saying that Czechoslovakia has ceased to exist, and no doubt he wishes to mark the historic importance of this day—March 15, 1939—by departing from his usual eating habits.
86
The next day, Hitler makes this proclamation:
For a thousand years, the provinces of Bohemia and Moravia have been part of the German people’s living space. Czechoslovakia has shown its inability to survive, and today it is reduced to a state of complete dissolution. The German Reich cannot tolerate continual difficulties in this region. So, out of self-preservation, the German Reich is now determined to intervene. We will take decisive measures in order to establish the basis of a rational order in central Europe. Over a thousand years of its history, the Reich has proved—with the greatness and qualities of the German people—that it alone is qualified to undertake this task.
In early afternoon, Hitler leaves Prague. He will never set foot in the country again. Heydrich goes with him, but he will be back.
87
“For a thousand years, the provinces of Bohemia and Moravia have been part of the German people’s living space.”
It’s true that in the tenth century—that is, a thousand years earlier—Václav I, the famous Saint Wenceslaus, swore allegiance to the no-less-famous Henry I, the Fowler, at a time when Bohemia was not yet a kingdom, and when the king of Saxony was not yet head of the Holy Roman Empire. However, Václav was able to keep his sovereignty, and it wasn’t until three centuries later that German settlers came to Bohemia on a large scale—and even then, their arrival was peaceful.
So it’s true that the Czech and German countries have always been closely linked. It’s also true that Bohemia has been almost continuously part of the German sphere of influence. But it seems to me utterly wrong to talk about German Lebensraum with regard to Bohemia.
It was also Henry the Fowler—Nazi icon, idol of Himmler—who began the Drang nach Osten, the drive toward the east, which Hitler would claim as his inspiration in order to legitimize his desire to invade the Soviet Union. But Henry the Fowler never sought to invade or colonize Bohemia. He contented himself with an annual tribute. Even after this, there has never, as far as I know, been any German colonization forcibly imposed on Bohemia. The flow of German settlers in the fourteenth century was a response to the Czech sovereign’s demand for specialized labor. Finally, no one had ever before considered ridding Bohemia and Moravia of their Czech inhabitants. So it’s safe to say that the Nazis, once more, are political innovators. And Heydrich, of course, is in the thick of it.
88
How can you tell the main character of a story? By the number of pages devoted to him? I hope it’s a little more complicated than that.
Whenever I talk about the book I’m writing, I say, “My book on Heydrich.” But Heydrich is not supposed to be the main character. Through all the years that I carried this story around with me in my head, I never thought of giving it any other title than Operation Anthropoid (and if that’s not the title you see on the cover, you will know that I gave in to the demands of my publisher, who didn’t like it: too SF, too Robert Ludlum, apparently). You see, Heydrich is the target, not the protagonist. Everything I’ve written about him is by way of background. Though it must be admitted that in literary terms Heydrich is a wonderful character. It’s as if a Dr. Frankenstein novelist had mixed up the greatest monsters of literature to create a new and terrifying creature. Except that Heydrich is not a paper monster.
I’m all too aware that my two heroes are late making their entrance. But perhaps it’s no bad thing if they have to wait. Perhaps it will give them more substance. Perhaps the mark they’ve made in history and on my memory might imprint itself even more profoundly in these pages. Perhaps this long wait in the antechamber of my brain will restore some of their reality, and not just vulgar plausibility. Perhaps, perhaps… but nothing could be less sure! I’m not scared of Heydrich anymore. It’s those two who intimidate me.
And yet I can see them. Or let’s say that I am beginning to discern them.
89
On the borders of eastern Slovakia is a city I know well—Košice. This is where I did my military service: I was the sublieutenant responsible for teaching French to the Slovakian air force’s young future officers. Košice is also the town where Aurélia—the beautiful Slovak woman with whom I had a passionate five-year relationship, nearly ten years ago now—was born. And incidentally, it is, of all the world’s cities I’ve ever visited, the one with the highest concentration of pretty girls. And when I say pretty, I mean exceptionally beautiful.
I don’t see any reason why this should have been any different in 1939. The pretty girls stroll eternally on Hlavná ulica—the long main street that is the heart of the town, lined by gorgeous pastel-colored Baroque houses, with a magnificent Gothic cathedral at its center. Except that, in 1939, you also see German soldiers, who greet the pretty girls discreetly as they pass. Slovakia has indeed gained its independence—the prize for its betrayal of Prague—but it is an independence surveyed by the friendly, searching eyes of Germany.
Jozef Gabčík sees all of this, walking up the grand main street: the pretty girls and the German soldiers. He’s been thinking it over for several months now.
Two years ago he left Košice to work in a chemical factory in Žilina. He has come back today to meet up with his friends from the 14th Infantry regiment, in which he served for three years. Spring is late and the stubborn snow whispers under his boots.
The cafés in Košice rarely open onto the street. Normally, you have to go under a porch, then either up or down a staircase, in order to reach a well-heated room. Gabčík meets his former comrades in such a café that very evening. Reunited over pints of Zlatý Bažant (a Slovak beer whose name means “Golden Pheasant’), everyone is very happy. But Gabčík hasn’t come just to make a social visit. He wants to know where the Slovak army is, and its position with regard to Tiso, the collaborator.
“The army hasn’t protested: neither the officers nor the troops. It’s a new Slovak army, so they’ve got to obey the new Slovak government. That’s understandable, isn’t it?”
“We’ve wanted independence for years, so who cares how we get it! Tough shit for the Czechs! If they’d treated us better, maybe we wouldn’t be in this situation now! You know as well as I do that the Czechs always got the best jobs. In the government, the army, everywhere! It was a scandal!”
“Anyway, we had no choice: if Tiso hadn’t said yes to Hitler, we’d have been flattened like they were. And yeah, I know it’s a bit like being occupied, but in the end we’ve still got more autonomy than we had with the Czechs.”
“In Prague, you know, German is now the official language! They’re closing all the Czech universities. They’re censoring all Czech culture. They’ve even shot at students! Is that what you want? Believe me, this was the best solution…”
“It was the only solution, Jozef!”
“Why should we have fought when it was Hácha himself who told us to surrender? All we were doing was obeying orders.”
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