HHhH

by Laurent Binet

  The Tatra reaches the hospital. Heydrich is yellow; he can barely stand up. He is taken immediately to the operating room, where they remove his jacket. Bare-chested, he scornfully eyes the female nurse, who runs out without asking him to take off the rest of his clothes. He sits alone on the operating table. I’d love to know how long this solitary wait lasts. Eventually a man in a black raincoat arrives. He sees Heydrich and his eyes widen. After looking quickly around the room, he leaves to make an urgent telephone call: “No, it’s not a false alarm! Send an SS squadron over here immediately. Yes, Heydrich! I repeat: the Reichsprotektor is here, and he’s injured. No, I don’t know. Schnell!” Then the first doctor arrives—a Czech. He is as white as a sheet but immediately begins to examine the wound, using swabs and a pair of tweezers. The wound is three inches long and contains many fragments and bits of dirt. Heydrich doesn’t flinch while it’s cleaned. A second doctor, a German, bursts in. He asks what’s happening, then he sees Heydrich. Instantly he clicks his heels and shouts: “Heil!” They return to examining the wound. There is no damage to the kidney, nor to the spinal column, and the preliminary diagnosis is encouraging. They put Heydrich in a wheelchair and take him to the X-ray department. The corridors are full of SS guards. Security measures are being taken: all exterior windows are painted white to protect them from snipers, and machine gunners are posted on the roof. And, of course, they get rid of any patients who are in the way. Making a visible effort to retain his dignity, Heydrich gets out of the wheelchair and stands in front of the X-ray machine. The X-rays reveal further injuries: one rib is broken, the diaphragm is perforated, and the thoracic cage is damaged. They discover something lodged in the spleen—a fragment of shrapnel or a piece of the car’s bodywork. The German doctor leans close to his patient:

  “Herr Protektor, we’re going to have to operate…”

  Heydrich, white-faced, shakes his head.

  “I want a surgeon sent from Berlin!”

  “But your condition requires… would require immediate intervention.”

  Heydrich thinks about it. He realizes his life is at risk, and that time is not on his side, so he agrees instead to summon the best specialist working at the German clinic in Prague. He is taken back to the operating room. Karl Hermann Frank and the first members of the Czech government are beginning to arrive. The little local hospital is busier than it’s ever been, or ever will be again.

  Kubiš keeps looking over his shoulder but he is not being followed. He’s done it. But what exactly? He hasn’t killed Heydrich, who seemed perfectly fine when he left him, spraying bullets at Gabčík. Nor has he helped Gabčík, who looked in serious difficulty, with his jammed Sten. As for putting himself out of danger, he is well aware that this is only a provisional escape. The manhunt will begin any minute, and they won’t have much trouble describing who they’re looking for: a man on a bike with an injured face. He could hardly be any more conspicuous. Once again he is faced with a dilemma: the bicycle allows him to escape more quickly but it also makes him easier to find. Kubiš decides to dump it. He thinks while he’s riding. Bypass the curve in Holešovice Street, and leave the bike outside the Bata shoe shop in the old Libeň district. It would have been better to move to a different district, but each passing second outside increases the likelihood of him being arrested. That’s why he decides to seek refuge with his nearest contact—the Novak family. Inside the workers’ apartment building, he climbs the stairs four at a time. A female neighbor calls out: “Are you looking for someone?” He clumsily hides his face.

  “Mrs. Novak.”

  “She’s not here just now, but she should be back soon.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Kubiš knows that good Mrs. Novak never locks her door, precisely in case he or one of his friends turns up. He enters the apartment and throws himself on the sofa. It’s the first respite he’s had on this very long and very testing morning.

  The hospital on Bulovka now looks like a cross between the Reich Chancellery, Hitler’s bunker, and the Gestapo headquarters. Shock SS troops are posted around, inside, above, and beneath the building; enough of them to take on a Soviet tank division. Everyone waits for the surgeon. Karl Frank chain-smokes cigarettes as if he’s about to become a father. In fact, he’s brooding: he ought to inform Hitler.

  The town is in pandemonium: uniformed men run in all directions. There is a great deal of agitation to very little purpose. Had Gabčík and Kubiš wanted to leave the city by taking the train from Wilson Station (although it’s no longer called that) during the first two hours after the attack, they could have done so without any difficulties.

  Having got off to a bad start, Gabčík now has fewer problems. He has to get hold of a raincoat—because the description of him broadcast by the Germans will doubtless mention that he doesn’t have one, having dropped his next to the Mercedes—but on the other hand he has no injuries at all, visible or otherwise. He runs until he reaches the Žižkov district, where he stops to catch his breath and calm down. He buys a bouquet of violets and calls at the apartment of Professor Zelenka, a member of the Jindra Resistance group. He hands the bouquet of violets to Mrs. Zelenka, borrows a raincoat, then leaves. Either that or he borrows the coat from the Svatoš family, who have already lent him their briefcase—which he also dropped at the scene of the crime. But the Svatošes live farther away, near Wenceslaus Square. At this point in the narrative the witness accounts are unclear, and I’m a bit lost. Somehow he ends up at the Fafeks’ place, where a nice hot bath is waiting for him, along with his young fiancée, Libena. What they do, what they say, I have no idea. But Libena knew all about the assassination attempt. She must have been very happy to see him alive again.

  Kubiš washes his face, and Mrs. Novak applies tincture of iodine to his wounds. The neighbor, a good sort, lends Kubiš one of her husband’s shirts so he can change—a white shirt with blue stripes. His disguise is completed with a railway worker’s uniform, borrowed from Mr. Novak. Dressed like this, his swollen face will attract less attention: everyone knows that workers are far more likely to have accidents than gentlemen in suits. But one problem remains: someone has to pick up the bicycle he left outside the Bata shoe shop. It’s too close to the curve in Holešovice Street—the police will soon find it. Happily, young Jindriska bursts in at that very moment: the Novaks’ youngest daughter is hungry after a day at school—people eat lunch early in Czechoslovakia—so, while preparing her meal, her mother gives her an errand: “A man I know has left his bicycle in front of the Bata shop. Go and get it, will you, and bring it back to the yard? And if someone asks you who it belongs to, don’t say anything. He had an accident, and it might make things difficult for him…” As the young girl dashes off, her mother shouts: “And don’t try to use it—you don’t know how! And watch out for cars!”

  Fifteen minutes later, she returns with the bike. A lady questioned her, but she did what she was told and didn’t reply at all. Mission accomplished. Kubiš can leave now, his mind at ease. Well, when I say “at ease”… obviously I mean as at ease as anyone could be when they know they’re fated to become one of the two most wanted men in the Reich within hours or even minutes.

  As for Valčík, his predicament is not quite so delicate, as his participation in the attack has not yet been clearly established. But still, limping around Prague during a state of emergency with a bullet wound in his leg is probably not the best way to secure an untroubled future. So he finds refuge with a friend and colleague of Alois Moravec—another railway worker; another Resistance fighter who has helped the parachutists; another husband of a woman utterly devoted to fighting the German occupation. It’s this man’s wife who lets Valčík in. He’s very pale. She knows him well, having often looked after him and hidden him, but she calls him Mirek because she doesn’t know his real name. With the whole city buzzing with rumors, the first thing she asks him is: “Mirek, have you heard? There’s been an attack on Heydrich.” Valčík lifts his head: “Is he dead?” N
ot yet, she says, and Valčík lowers his head again. But she can’t stop herself asking the burning question: “Were you in on it?” Valčík manages to smile: “You’re kidding! I’m much too softhearted for that kind of thing.” Knowing from experience that this man is made of sterner stuff, she realizes he is lying. And in fact Valčík does so only as a reflex; he doesn’t really expect her to believe him. She has no idea he’s limping, but asks him if he needs anything. “A very strong coffee, please.” Valčík also asks if she might go into town to find out what people are saying. Then he’s going to take a bath, because his legs hurt. The woman and her husband assume he must have walked too far. It’s not until the next morning, when they discover bloodstains on his sheets, that they understand he’s been injured.

  Around noon, the surgeon arrives at the hospital. The operation begins straightaway.

  At a quarter past twelve, Frank bites the bullet and rings Hitler. As expected, the Führer is not happy. The worst bit is when Frank has to admit that Heydrich drove around town in an unarmored Mercedes convertible without bodyguards. At the other end of the line, Hitler screams, just for a change. The contents of the Führer’s ravings can be divided into two parts: first, that pack of dogs that they call the Czech people are going to pay dearly for this. Second: How could Heydrich, the best of them all, a man of such importance for the good of the Reich—the whole Reich, you understand—how could he be cretinous enough to be guilty of such self-neglect? Yes, guilty! It’s very simple. They must immediately:

  1. Shoot ten thousand Czechs.

  2. Offer one million Reichsmarks as a reward for any information leading to the criminals’ arrests.

  Hitler has always been fond of figures. And, where possible, nice round figures.

  In the afternoon, Gabčík—accompanied by Libena, because a couple always looks less suspicious than a man on his own—goes out to buy a Tyrolean hat. It’s a little green hat with a pheasant feather. He does this to look more German. And this hasty disguise works better than he could have hoped: a uniformed SS guard calls him over and asks for a light. Ceremoniously, Gabčík takes out his lighter and touches it to the German’s cigarette.

  I’m going to light one too. I feel a bit like a graphomanic depressive, roaming around Prague. I think I’ll take a pause here.

  But only a short pause. We have to get through this Wednesday.

  The man in charge of the inquest is Commissioner Pannwitz: the black-coated man glimpsed earlier in the hospital, sent by the Gestapo to find out the news. Judging by the clues left at the crime scene—a Sten, a bag containing an English-made antitank bomb—there is nothing very mysterious about the origin of the attack: London. Pannwitz makes his report to Frank, who calls Hitler back. The internal Resistance is not responsible. Frank advises against mass reprisals because they would suggest that the local population was largely opposed to the Germans. Executing individuals suspected of the crime, or of complicity—and their families, for good measure—would seem the best way of putting the event back in its true perspective: an individual action, organized abroad. Above all, they must not let the public form the unpleasant impression that the attack is an expression of national revolt. Surprisingly, Hitler seems more or less convinced by this argument in favor of moderation. The mass reprisals are put on hold for the time being. However, as soon as he puts the phone down, Hitler starts ranting at Himmler. So that’s how it is, eh? The Czechs don’t like Heydrich? Well, we’ll find them someone worse! At this point, obviously, he needs some time to reflect, because finding someone worse than Heydrich is no easy task. Hitler and Himmler rack their brains. There are a few high-ranking Waffen-SS leaders who might be suitable for organizing a good slaughter, but they’re on the Eastern Front—and in the spring of 1942 they’ve got their hands full. In the end, they fall back on Kurt Dalüge because he happens to be in Prague already, for medical reasons. Ironically, Dalüge—the chief of the Reich’s regular police, and just promoted to Oberstgruppenführer—is one of Heydrich’s direct rivals, although he has nothing like the same stature. Heydrich refers to him only as “the moron.” If the Blond Beast regains consciousness, he is not going to be pleased. As soon as he’s back on his feet, they must think about promoting him.

  He regains consciousness. The operation has gone well. The German surgeon is quietly optimistic. It’s true that they had to remove the spleen, but there are no apparent complications. The only slightly surprising discovery was some tufts of hair, which were inside the wound and all over his body. It took the doctors a while to figure out where they came from: the Mercedes’s leather seats, ripped open by the explosion, were stuffed with horsehair. In the X-ray department, they were worried that there might be small fragments of metal lodged in some vital organs. But there’s nothing, and the German elite in Prague can begin to breathe again. Lina, who wasn’t told about the attack until three p.m., is at his bedside. Still groggy, he speaks to her in a weak voice: “Take care of our children.” Right now, he doesn’t seem very sure about his future.

  Aunt Moravec is ecstatic. She bursts into the concierge’s apartment and asks: “Have you heard about Heydrich?” Yes, they’ve heard: it’s all they’re talking about on the radio. But they have also broadcast the serial number of the second bicycle, abandoned at the scene of the crime. Her bicycle. They forgot to scratch it out. Her happy mood is instantly extinguished and replaced by bitter reproach. Ashen-faced, she curses the men for their negligence. But she still firmly intends to help them. Aunt Moravec is a woman of action and now is not the time for self-pity. She doesn’t know where they are; she must find them. Indefatigable, she leaves.

  All over town, they are plastering the bilingual red posters to the walls—the posters they use whenever they need to proclaim something to the local population. There are many such posters, but this one will undoubtedly remain the highlight of the collection. It says:

  1. IN PRAGUE ON MAY 27, 1942, THERE WAS AN ATTACK ON THE INTERIM REICHSPROTEKTOR, SS OBERGRUPPENFÜHRER HEYDRICH.

  For information leading to the arrest of the perpetrators, there will be a reward of ten million crowns. Whoever shelters these criminals, or helps them, or who, having any knowledge of them, does not denounce them, will be shot, along with his entire family.

  2. A state of emergency has been declared in the Oberlandrat region of Prague. The state of emergency will be proclaimed by the reading of this declaration on the radio. The following measures have been decided:

  1. All civilians, without exception, are forbidden to go out on the streets between 9:00 p.m. on May 27 and 6:00 a.m. on May 28;

  2. All bars and restaurants, all cinemas, theaters, and other places of entertainment are to be closed, and all traffic on public highways stopped during these hours;

  3. Whoever, in contradiction of this order, is found on the street between these hours will be shot if they do not stop at the first command;

  4. Further measures are anticipated and, if necessary, will be announced on the radio.

  At 4:30 p.m. this declaration is read out on German radio. From 5:00, Czech radio begins to broadcast it every thirty minutes; from 7:40, every ten minutes; and from 8:20 until 9:00, every five minutes. I suppose anyone who lived through this day in Prague—if they are still alive—would be able to recite the entire text by heart. At 9:30 the state of emergency is extended throughout the Protectorate. Meanwhile, Himmler has called Frank to confirm Hitler’s new orders: the hundred most important people imprisoned as hostages since Heydrich’s arrival the previous October are to be executed.

  In the hospital, they are emptying the cupboards of all the morphine they can find for the relief of their most important patient.

  That evening, an insane raid is organized. The city is invaded by 4,500 men from the SS, the SD, the NSKK, the Gestapo, the Kripo, and other Schupos, plus three Wehrmacht battalions. Add to this the Czech police, who must help them, and there are more than 20,000 men taking part in the operation. All access routes are cut off, all main r
oads blocked, streets closed, buildings searched, people checked. Everywhere I look, I see armed men jumping from uncovered trucks, running in columns from one building to the next, filling stairwells with the pounding of boots and the clanking of steel, hammering on doors, shouting orders in German, dragging people from their beds, turning their apartments upside down, pushing them about and barking at them. The SS in particular seem to have completely lost control: they pace up and down the streets like angry madmen, shooting at lighted windows or open windows, expecting at any moment to be the victims of snipers waiting in ambush. This is not a state of emergency—it’s a state of war. The police operation plunges the entire city into indescribable chaos. That night 36,000 apartments are visited—for a meager yield, compared with the means deployed. They arrest 541 people—of whom three or four are tramps, one a prostitute, one a juvenile delinquent, and one a Resistance leader with no link whatsoever to Anthropoid—and immediately release 430 of them. And they do not find a single trace of the parachutists. What’s worse, this is only the beginning. Gabčík, Kubiš, Valčík, and their friends must have had a strange night. I wonder if any of them managed to sleep? I would be very surprised. As for me… I’m sleeping very badly these days.