HHhH

by Laurent Binet

  223

  On the hospital’s second floor, emptied of all but one of its patients, Heydrich is lying in bed. He is weak, his senses are numbed, his body aching, but he’s conscious. The door opens, and the guard lets his wife, Lina, into the room. He tries to smile at her—he’s happy she’s here. She, too, is relieved to see her husband alive, albeit very pale and bedridden. Yesterday, when she saw him just after his operation, all white and unconscious, she thought he was dead. Even after waking up, he looked barely any better. She didn’t believe the doctors’ reassuring words. And if the parachutists had trouble sleeping, Lina’s night wasn’t very pleasant either.

  This morning she brings him hot soup in a thermos flask. Yesterday: victim of an assassination attempt. Today: already convalescent. The Blond Beast has thick skin. He’ll be fine, as always.

  224

  Mrs. Moravec goes to fetch Valčík. Her husband, the kindhearted railway worker, does not want to let Valčík leave in his current state. He gives him a book to read on the tram, so he can hide his face: Thirty Years of Journalism by H. W. Steed. Valčík thanks him. After he’s gone, the railwayman’s wife tidies his room and, stripping his bed, finds blood on the sheets. I don’t know how serious his injury was, but I do know that all doctors in the Protectorate were legally obliged to tell the police about any bullet wounds, under pain of death.

  225

  A crisis meeting is taking place behind the black walls of Peček Palace, Commissioner Pannwitz summing up: after studying the clues gathered at the crime scene, his initial conclusion is that the attack was planned in London and executed by two parachutists. Frank agrees. But Dalüge, named as interim Protector the day before, believes the attack points to an organized national uprising. As a preventive measure, he orders that lots of people be shot and every policeman in the region rounded up to reinforce the city’s police presence. Frank looks like he’s going to throw up. All the evidence suggests that this attack was organized by Beneš, and even if that were not true… politically, he couldn’t care less if the internal Resistance is implicated or not. “We must not let people believe that there is a national revolt! We have to say that this was an individual action.” On top of that, if they pursue a campaign of mass arrests and executions, they risk disturbing the country’s industrial production. “Need I remind you of the vital importance of Czech industry for the German war effort, Herr Oberstgruppenführer?” (Why have I made up this phrase? Probably because he actually said it.) Frank, the second-in-command, thought his hour had come. Instead of which, they promoted this Dalüge, who has no experience as a statesman, knows nothing of the Protectorate’s business, and can barely even locate Prague on a map. Frank doesn’t object to a show of force: it costs nothing to unleash terror in the streets, and he knows it. But he remembers the political lessons learned from his master: no stick without a carrot. The previous night’s hysterical raid exemplified the uselessness of such actions. What they need is a well-organized and well-funded campaign of denouncements. That would produce better results.

  Frank leaves the meeting. He’s wasted enough time with Dalüge. A plane is waiting to take him to Berlin, where he has a meeting with Hitler. He hopes that the Führer’s political genius will not be overpowered by one of his famous rages. In the plane, Frank carefully plans his presentation of the measures he will recommend. Given yesterday’s phone conversation, it’s in his interests to be convincing. In order not to look like a wimp, he suggests invading the city with tanks and regiments, and cutting off a few heads. But, once again, there must be no mass reprisals. Rather, he would advise that Hácha and his government be leaned on: threatened with the loss of the Protectorate’s autonomy, and with German control of all Czech organizations. Plus all the usual methods of intimidation: blackmail, harassment, et cetera. But all of this, for now, in the form of an ultimatum. The ideal solution would be for the Czechs themselves to deliver the parachutists into their hands.

  Pannwitz’s concerns are different. His area of expertise is not politics but investigation. He is collaborating with two brilliant detectives sent by Berlin, both of whom are still stunned by the chaos of “catastrophic proportions” that they found here on arrival. They say nothing about this to Dalüge, but to Pannwitz they complain that they needed an escort just to reach their hotel safely. As for the behavior of those rabid SS dogs, their judgment is damning: “They’re completely mad. They won’t even be able to find their way out of the insane maze they’re creating, never mind find the assassins.” They must proceed more methodically. In less than twenty-four hours, the three detectives have already obtained some important results. Thanks to the witness accounts they’ve collected, they are now in a position to reconstruct exactly how the attack unfolded, and they have a description—albeit rather vague (those bloody witnesses can never agree on what they saw!)—of the two terrorists. But there are no leads on the men’s whereabouts. So they’re searching. Not in the streets, though, like the SS imbeciles: they are going through the Gestapo files with a fine-tooth comb.

  And they find that old photo taken from the corpse of brave Captain Morávek—the last of the Three Kings, killed in a tramway shoot-out two months earlier. In this photo, the handsome Valčík looks inexplicably bloated. But it’s him, all the same. The policemen have no clues at all linking this man to the attack. They could easily pass on to the next file, but they decide to investigate this photograph just on the off chance. If this were a detective novel, we’d call it a hunch.

  226

  A young female Czech liaison officer called Hanka rings the Moravecs’ doorbell. They show her through to the kitchen. And there, sitting in an armchair, she finds Valčík, whom she knows from his days as a waiter in Pardubice, her hometown. As affable as ever, he smiles at her and apologizes for not being able to stand up: he’s twisted his ankle.

  It’s Hanka’s job to send Valčík’s report to the Bartos group in Pardubice, so that they can inform London via the Libuse transmitter. Valčík asks the young woman not to mention his injury. As the leader of Silver A, Captain Bartos is still officially his head of mission. But Bartos has never approved of the assassination attempt. Somehow Valčík managed to transfer himself from Silver A to Anthropoid. Given what’s happened, he doesn’t believe he owes an explanation to anyone apart from his two friends, Gabčík and Kubiš (he hopes they’re safe); to Beneš himself (if need be); and, perhaps, to God (Valčík is a believer).

  The young woman rushes to the station. But before boarding her train, she stops dead before a new red poster. Immediately she phones the Moravecs: “You should come here and see—there’s something interesting.” There is the photo of Valčík, and beneath: 100,000 crowns reward. There follows a fairly inaccurate description of the parachutist—and that’s another piece of luck to add to the fact that the picture doesn’t look much like him. His surname is mentioned, but his first name and date of birth are both wrong (they’ve made him five years younger). A little note at the end reminds you of the true nature of wanted posters: “The reward will be given with the greatest discretion.”

  227

  But that poster isn’t the best bit.

  Bata built his empire before the war. Starting as a small shoemaker in the town of Zlín, he developed an immense business with shops all over the world, and above all in Czechoslovakia. Fleeing the German occupation, he emigrated to the United States. But even during the boss’s exile, the shops remained open. At the bottom of Wenceslaus Avenue, number 6, is a gigantic Bata boutique. In the shop window this morning the usual display of shoes has been replaced by an assortment of other objects. A bicycle, two leather bags, and—displayed on a mannequin—a raincoat and a beret. All these exhibits were found at the crime scene. They are accompanied by an appeal for witnesses. Passersby who stop before the shop window can read:

  With regard to the reward of ten million crowns for information leading to the arrest of the perpetrators, which is to be paid in full, the following questions must be as
ked:

  1. Who can provide information on the criminals?

  2. Who saw them at the scene of the crime?

  3. To whom do these objects belong? Above all, whose is the ladies’ bicycle, the coat, the beret, and the bag?

  Whoever is able to provide this information and who fails to do so voluntarily will be shot with his family in accordance with the notice of May 27 declaring the state of emergency.

  Be assured that all information received will be dealt with in the strictest confidence.

  Furthermore, from May 28, 1942, all owners of houses, apartments, hotels, etc., in the Protectorate must declare to the police all persons staying with them who have not already been reported. Failure to do so will be punishable by death.

  SS-Obergruppenführer

  Chief of Police

  Office of the Reichsprotektor

  of Bohemia and Moravia

  K. H. Frank

  228

  The Czech government-in-exile declares the assassination attempt on the monster Heydrich an act of vengeance, a rejection of the Nazi yoke, and a symbol of hope for all the oppressed peoples of Europe. The shots fired by the Czech patriots are a show of solidarity sent to the Allies and of faith in the final victory which will ring out all over the world. Already, new Czech victims are being killed by German firing squads. But this latest fit of Nazi fury will once again be broken by the unbending resistance of the Czech people, and will succeed only in reinforcing their will and determination.

  The Czech government-in-exile encourages the population to hide these unknown heroes and threatens punishment for anyone who betrays them.

  229

  In his Zurich postbox, Colonel Moravec receives a telegram sent by agent A54: “Wunderbar—Karl.” Paul Thümmel (alias A54, alias René, alias Karl) has never met Gabčík and Kubiš, and took no direct part in the attack’s preparations. But with this single word he echoes the joy felt on hearing the news by everyone, all over the world, fighting against Nazism.

  230

  The concierge’s doorbell rings. It’s Ata, the young Moravec son, come to fetch Valčík. The concierge doesn’t want Valčík to leave. He could live in the attic, he says, on the fifth floor: nobody would look for him up there. Here, Valčík plays cards and listens to the BBC and eats the delicious cakes made by the concierge’s wife, which he says are as good as his mother’s. The first evening, he had to hide in the cellar because there was a Gestapo agent in the building. But he feels very safe, staying with these people. So why not stay? the concierge insists. Valčík explains that he’s been given orders, that he’s a soldier, that he is bound to obey, and that he must rejoin his comrades. The concierge shouldn’t worry: a safe haven has been found for them. Only, it’s very cold. They’ll need blankets and warm clothes. Valčík picks up his coat, puts on a pair of green glasses, and follows Ata, who is taking him to the new hiding place. But by accident he leaves behind the book lent to him by his previous host. The owner’s name is written inside. The fact that he forgets this book will save the owner’s life.

  231

  Capitulation and servility are the lifeblood of Pétainism, and old President Hácha—every bit as senile as his French counterpart—is a master in the art. To show his goodwill, he decides, in the name of the puppet government he leads, to double the reward. So Gabčík’s and Kubiš’s heads are now valued at ten million crowns each.

  232

  The two men at the church door are not here to attend Mass. The Orthodox church of St. Charles Borromeo (today renamed the Saints Cyril and Methodius Cathedral) is an immense building, and one side of it faces Resslova Street—that sloping street which runs from Charles Square down to the river, right in the heart of Prague. One of the men is Professor Zelenka, alias “Uncle Hajsky” of the Jindra organization. He is met at the door by Father Petrek, an Orthodox priest. Zelenka has brought a friend with him. This is the seventh friend he’s brought to the church. It’s Gabčík. They take him through a trapdoor to the church crypt. There, amid stone recesses that used to hold dead bodies, he is reunited with his friends: Kubiš and Valčík, but also Lieutenant Opalka and three other parachutists, Bublik, Svarc, and Hruby. One by one, Zelenka has brought them all here. Because, while the Gestapo is still tirelessly searching all the city’s apartments, no one has yet thought to look in the churches. Only one parachutist is missing: they’ve had no news of Karel Čurda at all. Nobody knows where he is, whether he’s hiding or he’s been arrested, or even if he’s still alive.

  Gabčík’s arrival causes a sensation in the crypt. His comrades rush to hug him. He recognizes Valčík, his hair dyed brown, sporting a thin brown mustache, and Kubiš, whose eye is swollen and whose face still bears the scars of the explosion. These two are clearly the most demonstrative in their joy at seeing him again. Gabčík’s feelings are torn: he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Naturally he is very happy to see his friends, all of them pretty much safe and sound. But he’s so sorry for the way things turned out. He’s barely been reunited with them before he begins his bitter litany of excuses and self-reproach. They will soon become accustomed to this. He curses the bloody Sten, which jammed just when he had Heydrich at his mercy. It’s all my fault, he says. I had him there in front of me, he was a dead man. And then this piece-of-shit Sten… ah, it’s too stupid. But he’s injured—you got him, Jan? Seriously injured? You think? Lads, I am so sorry. It’s all my fault. I should have finished him off with the Colt. But there were bullets flying everywhere, and I ran, with that giant hot on my heels… Gabčík hates himself, and nothing his friends say can console him. It doesn’t matter, Jozef. What you did is huge, don’t you realize? The Hangman himself! You injured him! Heydrich is injured, that’s true, he saw him fall, but apparently he’s recovering in hospital. A month from now, he’ll be back at work—perhaps even earlier. It’s true what they say: those bastards are bulletproof. Anyway, the Nazis have always had the luck of the devil when it comes to surviving assassination attempts. (I think of Hitler in 1939, who had to give his annual speech at the famous Munich beer hall between 8:00 and 10:00 p.m., but who left the building at 9:07 to catch his train—and the bomb went off at 9:30, killing eight people.) But Anthropoid is a pitiful failure—there you go, that’s what he thinks—and it’s all his fault. Jan did nothing wrong. He threw the grenade. Sure, it missed the car, but he was the one who injured Heydrich. Thank God Jan was there! They didn’t fulfill their mission, but thanks to him at least they hit the target. Now the Germans know that Prague isn’t Berlin, and that they can’t treat this place like home. But frightening the Germans was not the objective of Anthropoid. Perhaps they were too ambitious after all: no Nazi as high-ranking as Heydrich has ever been shot. But no, what am I saying? If it wasn’t for the stupid, stinking Sten, he’d be dead, that pig… The Sten, the Sten!… It’s a piece of shit, I’m telling you.

  233

  Heydrich’s condition has suddenly and inexplicably deteriorated. He’s in the grip of a powerful fever. Himmler has rushed to his bedside. Heydrich’s tall body lies weakly under a thin white sheet drenched with sweat. The two men philosophize about life and death. Heydrich quotes a line from his father’s opera: “The world is just a barrel organ, which the Lord God turns Himself. We all have to dance to the tune that is already on the drum.”

  Himmler asks the doctors for explanations. The patient seemed to be recovering well until he was laid low by a sudden infection. Perhaps the bomb contained poison or the horsehairs from the Mercedes’s seats got into his spleen. There are various theories, but nobody knows which one is correct. But if, as they believe, this is the beginning of septicemia, the infection is going to spread very quickly and he will be dead within forty-eight hours. To save Heydrich, they would need something that is not to be found anywhere in the vast territory of the Reich: penicillin. And the British aren’t about to give them any.

  234

  On June 3, the Libuse radio receives the following message, for the attention of
Anthropoid:

  From the president. I am very happy that you have been able to keep in contact. I thank you most sincerely, and take note of your absolute determination, and that of your friends. This shows me that the whole nation is united. I can assure you that this will bear fruit. The events in Prague had a huge impact here and have done a great deal for international recognition of the Czech Resistance.

  But Beneš doesn’t know that the best is yet to come. And the worst.

  235

  Anna Maruscakova, a young and pretty factory worker, called in sick today. So when the afternoon post arrived and the factory boss found a letter addressed to her, he opened and read it without a second thought. The letter was from a young man, and this is what it said:

  Dear Ania,

  Sorry for taking so long to write to you, but I hope you will understand, because you know I have many worries. What I wanted to do—I’ve done it. On the fatal day, I slept in Cabarna. I’m fine. I’ll come to see you this week, and afterward we will never see each other again.