In Russian, yar means “gully.” Babi Yar, or “Grandmother’s Gully,” was a huge natural ravine just outside Kiev. Today, all that’s left is a grassed-over depression, not very deep, at the center of which is an impressive, Socialist-style sculpture commemorating those who died there. But when I went, the taxi driver showed me the place where Babi Yar had been. He took me to a kind of wooded gorge where, he explained through a young Ukrainian woman who acted as my translator, the bodies had been thrown. Then we went back to the taxi and he dropped me off at the memorial, nearly a mile away.
Between 1941 and 1943, the Nazis made of Grandmother’s Gully what is probably the largest mass grave in the history of humanity. As the commemorative plaque makes clear—in three languages (Ukrainian, Russian, and Hebrew)—more than 100,000 people perished here, victims of fascism.
More than a third of them were executed in less than forty-eight hours.
That morning in September 1941, the Jews of Kiev turned up in the thousands to the meeting point where they’d been summoned, carrying their personal effects. They were resigned to being deported. Little did they suspect the kind of exit the Germans had in mind for them.
They realized too late—some on their arrival, others not until they reached the ditch’s edge. The process was quick: the Jews gave up their suitcases, their valuable objects, and their identity papers, which were torn up in front of them. Then they had to walk between two lines of SS guards who beat them with truncheons and clubs. If a Jew fell, they let the dogs loose on him. Either that or he was trampled underfoot by the panic-stricken crowd. At the end of this infernal corridor, emerging into a hazy landscape, the stunned Jews were ordered to undress completely, then conducted naked to the lip of a gigantic ditch. There, even the most obtuse or the most optimistic must have abandoned all hope. They screamed with terror: at the bottom of the ditch was a pile of corpses.
But the story of these men, women, and children does not end above this chasm. Because, with a very German concern for efficiency, the SS—before shooting them—first made them descend to the bottom of the ditch, where a “crammer” was waiting for them. The job of this “crammer” was similar to that of an usher at a theater. He led each Jew to a pile of bodies and, having found a suitable place, made him or her lie facedown, naked and alive, on top of naked corpses. Then another guard, walking on the dead bodies, put a bullet in the back of the neck. A remarkable customization of mass killing. On October 2, 1941, the officer in charge of the Einsatzgruppe at Babi Yar wrote in his report: “Sonderkommando 4a, in collaboration with group staff and two commandos of Police Regiment South, executed 33,771 Jews in Kiev on September 29 and 30, 1941.”
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I’ve just learned of an extraordinary story that took place in Kiev during the war. It happened in 1942 and none of the main characters of Operation Anthropoid is involved, so theoretically it has no place in my novel. But one of the great advantages of the genre is the almost unlimited freedom it gives the author.
In the summer of 1942, Ukraine is governed by the Nazis with characteristic brutality. However, they wish to organize soccer matches between the various occupied and satellite countries of the East. Now, it happens that one team soon distinguishes itself with a series of victories over Romanian and Hungarian opponents: FC Start, a team hastily assembled from the bones of the defunct Dynamo Kiev, which has been banned since the beginning of the occupation but whose ex-players are reassembled for these matches.
Rumors of the team’s success reach the Germans, who decide to organize a match in Kiev between the local side and the Luftwaffe’s team. The Ukrainian players are told they must make a Nazi salute when the teams line up.
The day of the match, the stadium is full to bursting. The two teams come out on the pitch, and the German players lift their arms and shout “Heil Hitler!” The Ukrainian players also lift their arms, no doubt a disappointment to the crowd, who see the match as an opportunity to show some symbolic resistance. But instead of shouting “Heil Hitler!,” they close their fists, bang them against their chests, and yell: “Long live physical culture!” This slogan, with its Soviet connotations, sends the crowd wild.
The match has hardly begun when one of the Ukrainian strikers has his leg broken by a German player. At the time there were no substitutes, so FC Start have to play on with only ten men. Thanks to their numerical superiority, the Germans open the score. Things are going badly. But the Kiev players refuse to give up, and they equalize to loud cheers. When they score a second goal, the supporters explode with joy.
At halftime, General Eberhardt, the superintendent of Kiev, goes to see the Ukrainian players in their changing room and tells them: “Bravo, you’ve played an excellent game and we’ve enjoyed it. But now, in the second half, you must lose. You really must! The Luftwaffe team has never lost before, certainly not in any of the occupied territories. This is an order! If you do not lose, you will be executed.”
The players listen in silence. Back on the pitch, after a brief moment of uncertainty, and without discussing it, they make their decision: they will play to win. They score a goal, then another, and end up winning 5–1. The Ukrainian fans go crazy. The German supporters mutter angrily. Shots are fired in the air. But none of the players is worried yet, because the Germans believe they can avenge the insult on the pitch.
Three days later, a return match is organized, and promoted by a poster campaign. The Germans send urgently for reinforcements: some professional footballers come from Berlin to strengthen their team.
The second match kicks off. The stadium is full to bursting again, but this time it’s patrolled by SS troops. Officially, they are there to maintain order. As before, the Germans score first. But the Ukrainians never lose faith, and they win the match 5–3. At the final whistle, the Ukrainian supporters are ecstatic but the players look pale. The pitch is invaded, and in the confusion three Ukrainian players disappear: they will survive the war. The rest of the team is arrested and four of them are sent immediately to Babi Yar, where they are executed. On his knees at the edge of the ditch, Nikolai Trusevich—the captain and goalkeeper—manages to yell, before getting a bullet in the back of the neck: “Communist sport will never die!” The other players are murdered one by one. Today, there is a monument to them in front of Dynamo’s stadium.
There are an unbelievable number of different versions of this legendary “death match.” Some say there was actually a third game, won by the Ukrainians—with a score of 8–0—and that it was only after this that the players were arrested and killed. But the version I’ve recounted seems the most credible to me, and in any case all the versions share the same broad outline. I’m worried that there are some errors in what I’ve written: since this subject has no direct link with Heydrich, I haven’t had time to investigate more deeply. But I didn’t want to write about Kiev without mentioning this incredible story.
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The SD reports are piling up on Hitler’s desk, denouncing the scandalous leniency of the Protectorate’s government. Acts of sabotage; a still-active Resistance; seditious conversations overheard in public; an expanding black market; an 18 percent fall in production; the Czech prime minister’s relations with London… according to Heydrich’s men, the situation is explosive. With the opening of the Russian front, the productivity of Czech industry—one of the best in Europe—is now becoming crucial for the Reich. The Škoda factories must work flat out to support the war effort.
Despite being paranoid, Hitler is not a complete fool. He must know that Heydrich has a vested interest—coveting, as he does, Neurath’s position as Protector of Bohemia and Moravia—in discrediting the old baron by making things look as black as possible. At the same time, Hitler loathes weakness. He isn’t too keen on barons either, for that matter. The latest news is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. A call to boycott the occupation newspapers, made by Beneš and his clique in London, has been taken up to a remarkable extent by the local population for a whole we
ek now. In itself, this isn’t a big deal, but it shows how much influence the Czech government-in-exile still exerts. And what it says about the local population’s overall state of mind is not very comforting for the occupying forces. When you bear in mind Hitler’s sworn hatred of Beneš, you can guess at how angry this must make him.
Hitler knows that Heydrich is a rising star ready to do anything to further his own ambitions. This doesn’t shock him, though, and for a good reason. Couldn’t the same thing have been said about Hitler himself? Hitler respects Heydrich because he combines fierceness with efficiency. If you add to this his loyalty toward the Führer, you get the three elements that make the perfect Nazi. And that’s without even mentioning his pure Aryan appearance. Try as Himmler might to be “faithful Heinrich,” he can’t compete with this blueprint. So it’s likely that Hitler admires Heydrich. Along with Stalin, that would make him one of the few living people to have had this honor. What’s more, Hitler seems not to have been afraid of Heydrich—surprising, for a paranoiac like him. Perhaps he wanted to stoke the fires of competition between Heydrich and Himmler? Perhaps he believed, as he confided to his Reichsführer, that the dossier on Heydrich’s supposed Jewishness was a guarantee of his devotion? Or perhaps the Blond Beast was such a perfect incarnation of the ideal Nazi that Hitler couldn’t imagine him capable of betrayal?
In any case, he must have called Bormann to organize an emergency meeting in his Rastenburg HQ. Summoned immediately: Himmler, Heydrich, Neurath, and his assistant Frank, the Sudeten bookseller.
Frank is the first to arrive. He’s about fifty and has a deeply wrinkled mafioso’s face. Over lunch with Hitler, he paints a picture of the Protectorate that confirms the SD reports in every detail. Himmler and Heydrich arrive next. Heydrich makes a brilliant speech in which he outlines the problems and proposes solutions. Hitler is impressed. Neurath, delayed by bad weather, gets there the next day—but by then his fate is already sealed. Hitler uses the same tactics as when he wishes to strip a general of his command: enforced sick leave. The position of Protector is now up for grabs.
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On September 27, 1941, the Czech press agency, controlled by the Germans, sends out the following press release:
The Protector of the Reich of Bohemia and Moravia, Reich minister and honorable citizen Herr Konstantin von Neurath, has decided that it was his duty to ask the Führer for prolonged leave due to reasons of health. Given that the present war situation means the Protector must work full-time, Herr von Neurath has asked the Führer to temporarily relieve him of his duties, and to name a replacement for the whole length of his absence. In view of the circumstances, the Führer could not refuse this request, and he has named Obergruppenführer and police general Heydrich as Protector of Bohemia and Moravia for the entire duration of Reichsminister von Neurath’s illness.
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In order to occupy such a prestigious post, Heydrich is promoted to Obergruppenführer, the second-highest rank in the SS hierarchy—subordinate only to Himmler’s title of Reichsführer. The only rank that surpasses that is Oberstgruppenführer, and in September 1941 nobody has reached that level yet. (There will be only four Oberstgruppenführers by the end of the war.)
So Heydrich savors this decisive step in his irresistible if somewhat meandering rise. He phones his wife, who is not very taken by the idea of moving to Prague. (She claims to have said to him: “Oh, if only you’d become a postman!” But she is so conceited and complacent that it is hard to imagine her ever having such a regret.) Heydrich replies: “Try to understand what this means to me. It’ll be a change from doing all the dirty work! Finally, I will be something more than the Reich’s dustbin!” The Reich’s dustbin: so that’s how he defined his duties as head of the Gestapo and the SD. Duties, by the way, that he would continue to fulfill with the same efficiency as before.
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Heydrich arrives in Prague the day that his appointment is announced to the Czech people. His airplane, a three-engined Junkers 52, lands at Ruzyne Airport around noon.
He goes to the Esplanade Hotel, one of the most beautiful in town, but he obviously doesn’t spend long there, because that same evening Himmler is able to read his colleague’s report, sent by teleprinter:
At 15:10, ex–prime minister Eliáš was arrested, as arranged.
At 18:00, also as arranged, the arrest of ex-minister Havelka took place.
At 19:00, Czech radio announced my appointment by the Führer.
Eliáš and Havelka are being interrogated now. For diplomatic reasons, I must convene a special assembly in order to bring Eliáš to justice before a popular tribunal.
Eliáš and Havelka are the two most important members of the Czech government that is collaborating with the Germans under Hácha’s presidency. They have nonetheless maintained regular contact with Beneš in London—a fact known to Heydrich’s spies. This is why they are immediately condemned to death. Although, after thinking about it, Heydrich decides not to execute the sentence straightaway. It is, of course, only a temporary reprieve.
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The next morning, at eleven o’clock, Heydrich’s investiture takes place in Hradčany Castle, or Hradchine, as the Germans call it. The vile Karl Hermann Frank—the Sudeten bookseller turned SS general and secretary of state—greets Heydrich amid great pomp in the castle courtyard. An orchestra, summoned for the occasion, plays the Nazi hymn “Horst Wessel Lied.” Then Heydrich inspects the troops while a second banner is hoisted next to the swastika that flies above the castle and the town: a black flag embossed with two runic Ss, signaling that another rung has been climbed on the ladder of terror. From now on, Bohemia and Moravia are, almost officially, the first SS state.
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That same day, two great leaders of the Czech Resistance are executed: General Josef Bilý and Major General Hugo Vojta. They were found guilty of fomenting an armed uprising. Before his death, General Bilý shouts: “Long live the Czechoslovak Republic! Now shoot me, you dogs!” These two men—yes, two more—do not really have a role to play in my story. But I felt it would be disrespectful not to even mention their names.
Along with Bilý and Vojta, nineteen former Czech army officers are killed, four of them generals. The crackdown begins in the days that follow. A state of emergency is declared throughout the country. All gatherings, indoors or out, are forbidden in accordance with martial law. The courts now have only two options, whatever the charges: acquittal or death. Czechs are sentenced to death for distributing pamphlets, selling goods on the black market, or simply listening to foreign radio stations. Each new law is announced by a red poster in two languages, and soon the town’s walls are filled with them. The Czechs learn quickly who their new master is.
And the Jews, of course, learn even more quickly. On September 29, Heydrich closes all the synagogues and announces the arrest of any Czechs who, in protest against the recent law forcing Jews to wear a yellow star, decide to sport them in sympathy. In France, a year later, there will be similar shows of solidarity, and anyone imprudent enough to take part will be deported “with their Jewish friends.” In the Protectorate, however, all of this is only a prelude.
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On October 2, 1941, at Czernin Palace—now the Savoy Hotel—situated at the end of the castle’s enclosure, Heydrich sets out his political creed as interim Protector of Bohemia and Moravia. Standing with his hands on a wooden pulpit, his iron cross hanging over his heart, his wedding ring visible on his left hand, he addresses the leaders of the occupation forces. He wishes to educate his compatriots:
“For tactical reasons relating to the war, we should not provoke the Czechs into action, nor push them to the point where revolt seems their only option.”
This is the first aspect of his policy. There are only two: the carrot and the stick. The stick comes next, although the dialectical balance between the two is uncertain:
“The Reich will not be mocked, and the Reich is master in its own house. This means that no Ger
man should let a Czech get away with anything, in the same way that no Jew should be allowed to get away with anything in the Reich. No German should say that a Czech is a decent person. If someone says that, we should expel them. If we don’t form a united front against Czechness, the Czech will find a way to cheat us.”
After that, Heydrich—who is unaccustomed to making public speeches, and is certainly no Cicero—moves to the illustratio:
“No German can allow himself to be seen smashed in public. Let’s be frank about this: we can get drunk, and we can relax—nobody has anything against that—but we must do it within four walls or in the officers’ mess. The Czech must see that the German holds himself straight, in both military and civil life. He must see that we are the master, the lord, from head to toe.”
After this odd example, the speech becomes more specific—and more threatening.
“I want to make the citizens of this country understand, without any ambiguity and with an unshakable firmness, that they are part of the Reich—and, as such, owe their allegiance to the Reich. This is an absolute priority dictated by the imperatives of war. I want to be certain that each Czech worker gives his all to help the German war effort. To be clear, this means that the Czech worker will be provided for according to how well he works.”
Having dealt with the social and economic aspects, the new interim Protector now moves on to the racial question. He can, after all, justifiably claim to be one of the Reich’s first specialists on this subject:
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