It felt like yesterday that Jan saw him for the first time, his intended target. He saw it all again, playing in front of his eyes. Heydrich – tall, even sitting next to his driver, his face shielded with the shadow of his cap’s visor; only the mouth moved into a polite smile when he motions the driver to stop completely to allow an elderly couple to cross the street in front of the Mercedes. They bow their gratitude; the Protector nods with a languid grace and turns away. Jan clenches a gun, concealed in his pocket – Heydrich is hardly four steps away from him; it’s impossible to miss from such a short distance. And then, as though sensing Jan’s intense stare, Heydrich turns his head and looks him squarely in the eyes, his smile slowly transforming into an arrogant smirk as he shifts his gaze from Jan’s hand in his pocket back to his eyes, wide with fear. Go ahead, boy. Shoot. Paralyzed with unthinkable terror, Jan swallows hard, moves his lips into a wary smile and, despising himself and his weakness, raises his arm in the Nazi salute. Heydrich doesn’t move, only looks down with a barely perceptible air of disappointment and soon turns away entirely as the driver picks up speed.
Jan never told Jozef about having a gun on him that day. He never told him that he didn’t have the guts to pull the trigger. And now, sitting alone in his room, he wondered if he would be able to pull himself together and carry out the mission or hide behind Jozef’s back like a coward – again.
Chapter 1
Rastenburg. Wolfsschanze – Wolf’s Lair – Hitler’s Headquarters, September 1941
The phone conversation, which started out so well, rapidly deteriorated and soon came to a rather abrupt culmination when Reinhard Heydrich slammed down the phone. By some inhuman willpower, he forced himself to contain the fit of rage that was ready to bubble over and spill onto an unsuspecting adjutant. Judging by the latter’s frightened look, the idea of being alone in the room together with the infuriated chief of the RSHA, was utterly beyond his desire. Reinhard took a deep calming breath and passed his hand over his blond hair, forcing his emotions under control.
And to think of it, just a few minutes ago he’d walked into this communications room with such a radiant smile on his face, in such a delighted mood, his spirits soaring so marvelously high, and she managed to ruin it all even though she was almost a thousand kilometers away. The scientists declared that the human body possessed over seven trillion nerves, and curiously enough Reinhard found that his “better half,” Lina, managed to get on every single one of them. He had just been appointed as the new Reich Protector in Bohemia-Moravia, but even such a remarkable event she managed to twist into something negative, infuriated by the fact that she and the children would have to stay in Berlin at least for a few months until he got settled in Prague. Lina was the first person whom he chose to share the news with and what did he get in response? More accusations of him being “a lousy, ever-absent father” and more screams about her being “the poor neglected wife.” It was always about her. The whole world had to stop and cater to Lina von Osten.
I loved her at some point, Reinhard remarked to himself with a sort of cynical curiosity. Now, he was secretly relieved to be rid of her and her nagging, for a few months at least.
“Would you like me to get you some coffee perhaps, Herr Obergruppenführer?” The adjutant’s meek voice produced the desired effect; Reinhard even graced the young man with a smile.
“That would be nice. Thank you.”
The adjutant saluted sharply and vanished from the room with commendable efficiency, leaving Reinhard alone with his thoughts.
To hell with her. He finally got what he was after – a ministerial post with direct access to the Führer himself, even Reichsführer Himmler no longer standing between the two. No, he was still grateful to Heinrich for everything he’d done for him. But the truth, which he would never openly admit to anyone, was that the roles between the mentor and his protégé had reversed quite a long time ago, and now it was Reinhard, who was the driving force behind the RSHA and the SD. Perhaps, first in the Protectorate and then – who knows? Reinhard’s blue eyes gleamed with a hunger that had never ceased to burn inside, propelling him further, higher, consuming everything that stood in his path to becoming what he had always craved; the power to be reckoned with, the power that can decide who is to live and who is to die, the power of God himself.
“My life has to be like this,” he proclaimed to his little brother Heinz one sultry August afternoon in the bedroom they shared, tracing his finger from the lowest point near the bed towards the ceiling until he couldn’t reach any further.
“And then?” Heinz cocked his head to one side, his soft blond curls soaked with silver moonlight pouring through the open window.
Reinhard didn’t know what came after “then,” and so, he receded slowly, muttered something with a shade of quiet accusation, climbed out from the constraints of the sheets and padded barefoot to the window to search for answers in the star-dusted sky. He was only twelve, but he already knew that he would do anything he possibly could to become the strongest, smartest, most feared man in the whole world and then she would never hurt him again. Their mother took some sort of sadistic pleasure in disciplining her sons at the slightest of provocation, with a thick wooden rod across their backs; a year later, the defiant thirteen-year-old Reinhard would tell her off for the first time, sneering with a crooked disdain at her, ugly and panting from her efforts to make him wince at least once. He had long lost his ability to feel the force of her blows, encouraging her instead to add more to the other side – for an even count. She stopped beating him soon after. She started fearing that cold, mocking gaze of his and that inability to feel pain which he had seemed to turn off in himself permanently. Both physical and emotional – for the even count.
Yes, to hell with Lina, and to hell with his mother; he wouldn’t let either ruin his mood. He was the Reich Protector now, with only the Führer above him and he was only thirty-seven years old. His star was shining as brightly as it possibly could and he proved it to his younger self that he indeed made his life follow the trajectory he’d traced before his younger brother that night, who was watching him with the reverence only younger siblings can.
‘And then?’ Heinz’s small voice sounded far too real in his head and Reinhard even shook it to get rid of the unwelcome illusion.
The adjutant walked in with a silver tray, smiling gingerly at his superior.
“I didn’t have a chance to congratulate you properly, Herr Obergruppenführer. Please, allow me to express my utmost happiness with your newest appointment. The Führer couldn’t have chosen a better candidate for the post than you.”
“Thank you,” Reinhard murmured and then added in a strangely hollow voice, “what happens to the meteors at the end of their existence?”
The young man paused in his tracks, seemingly puzzled by the unexpected question. “They burn off and turn into cosmic ash, I suppose. But not before they devastate everything in their way.”
Reinhard nodded, a faint glow warming his sharp, pale cheeks.
Prague, October 1941
* * *
Reinhard Heydrich rose from his seat at the sight of his new deputy, who had frozen to attention at the door. When an obligatory exchange of salutes was out of the way, Karl Frank hurried over to the imposing desk and gave the proffered hand a firm shake, his eyes searching his superior’s nevertheless, as though craving encouragement.
He was shorter than Reinhard; much older, with deep-set brown eyes and harsh lines along his ragged face – a complete opposite of the man now standing across from him. Both appraised each other subtly; Frank – with some greedy fascination and fierce jealousy, Heydrich – with the condescending graciousness of someone with the upper hand. Reinhard suspected that the Secretary of State and chief of police Frank had been very much hoping to get promoted after the Führer decided to remove the “soft” Konstantin von Neurath from the position of acting Protector, but apparently, the Führer had a different view on the matter. The new P
rotector Heydrich didn’t need any hard feelings between himself and his deputy and therefore applied his all to act as his most charming self, which wasn’t easy, to begin with, so Frank had better appreciate the effort.
Reinhard wasn’t a particularly charming man. Ambitious, yes. Hardworking, to the point of obsessiveness; demanding of others but even more so of himself; a perfectionist, who strived to be the best in everything that he applied himself to, be it fencing, music, or managing the Secret Police with an iron fist. His subordinates feared and respected him. His superior, Reichsführer Himmler, nearly worshiped him. Even the Führer himself looked at him with barely concealed admiration. He was a perfect Aryan, an image, from which all of the future generations of Germans would be rubbed off – tall, blond, and ruthless.
“How do you find your new headquarters?” Karl Frank sat in the offered chair and immediately placed a black folder on top of Heydrich’s desk.
“Believe it or not, I barely notice the difference between Berlin and Prague,” Reinhard confessed with a soft chuckle, already leafing through Frank’s fresh report. “All I see for sixteen hours a day – sometimes eighteen or even twenty – is the four walls, my desk, and papers on it. And desks, walls, and papers are all the same everywhere.”
“I suppose,” Frank conceded, mirroring his superior’s grin.
Heydrich was wonderfully arrogant, Frank noted; and it came to him quite naturally so! That wonderful arrogance of his lay lightly around him as though a part of a bored monarch’s attire. It seemed inconceivable to Frank that, preoccupied with the matters of the state’s security, Heydrich didn’t notice the fine wainscoting of the room which he currently occupied; the intricate designs on its silky panels; the finest oak, polished to glimmering perfection; the plasterwork adorning high ceilings which belonged in a museum, no less. He noticed everything, all right; he just chose not to acknowledge the fascinating, dazzling beauty of the Czech architecture, preferring the typical, neo-German austerity to it, no doubt.
“The castle is quite remarkable though,” Reinhard admitted in passing, scanning the paper with a sharp gaze and marking something on the borders with his pen. Frank straightened a bit in his seat, subtly trying to make out if the notes were positive or negative. “Lina and the children will love it, once they move here. I, unfortunately, only sleep there so I won’t have many opportunities to enjoy its beauty, but I still appreciate your offering it to me.”
“It was absolutely my pleasure, Herr Protector.” Frank dutifully inclined his graying head.
He didn’t particularly enjoy bowing to this new master, but he found himself drawn to the new Protector despite his recent resentment. Von Neurath was a weak old man; Heydrich was still very young and sharp like a whip. Frank had already executed over ninety people on his orders, and Heydrich had barely spent three days in Prague as the new Protector. Such fervor, in Frank’s eyes, was worth if not admiration, then the recognition, that’s for sure. Besides, Heydrich didn’t appear to be as such a bad fellow, as many had warned Frank. Look at him, sitting there, smiling, making jokes even. Not a bad fellow at all.
“I like what you suggested here.” Heydrich startled Frank, slamming the folder shut with a sudden harsh snap and placing his hand on top of it. He had a musician’s hands, graceful and white, with long, neatly manicured fingers. Frank quickly took his hands off the desk as though embarrassed by his square fingers and black hair covering the backs of his palms. “But I’m not particularly fond of your methods.”
One of the long fingers was now tapping on top of the eagle, engraved in the black leather.
“I apologize, Herr Protector,” Frank rushed to lower his head in submission once again, “if my methods appear a bit too harsh; I only assumed that you would prefer swift measures and so I took the liberty of—”
“Too harsh?” Heydrich’s voice lifted in surprise before yielding to a short chuckle. “No, by all means, you misunderstood me. I was actually saying that, on the contrary, you are a bit too lenient with the Czechs. If we want to eventually fully Germanize this country, we need to weed out all the alien elements, starting with culture and ending with people carrying the said culture.”
“I understand, Herr Protector.” Frank hurriedly nodded.
“I want you to entirely eliminate all the non-German elements in the Protectorate’s everyday life. No more Czech ethnic music on the radios, in the concert halls, or in the streets. No more national costumes; no former national holidays or celebrations. You seem concerned all of a sudden. What is it?”
“With all due respect, Herr Protector. The people will riot, I’m afraid, if we take it all from them at once, in such a manner.”
“But we’ll give them free Saturdays instead. Two-day weekends instead of just Sundays off and a lot of new popular German music. German movies. German fashion that will come with German stores. Raise their wages to raise their spirits. Give them some German beer and introduce them to the new German holidays they will love to celebrate. Offer the workers in the factories double rations if they over-complete their quotas. Give them free shoes. Give them unemployment insurance. Raise their pensions. Shall I continue or will you think of something yourself?”
“I will think of something, Herr Protector. I’ll prepare a new report for you for tomorrow if you’ll allow me.”
“Please, do.” Heydrich was silent for a moment. Finally, he moved the folder back to Frank, his hand still lingering on its top. “Prague is a beautiful city, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed, Herr Protector.”
“I don’t want to turn it into the capital of the Gestapo terror. I want them to respect me, not hate me. I just want them to understand that I’ll be their friend as long as they’re mine. As long as they do as I tell them, they will live just as well as people in Germany do. I merely want obedience and discipline, that’s all. It’s not too much to ask, is it?” He slightly tilted his head to one side.
“Of course, not, Herr Protector.”
“I didn’t think so. Good. Get to work then, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Just one more question, if you’ll allow, Herr Protector.”
“Yes?”
“What about the Jews?”
“You still have Jews left?” Heydrich arched his brow, his expression a mixture of disdain and amusement, before inquiring in a sardonic tone, “was von Neurath working here at all?”
Frank shrugged his shoulders sheepishly in apparent embarrassment for his former superior.
“What of them, your Jews?” Heydrich smiled in a most kind-hearted way and returned to his papers before commenting quietly, “the Führer had selected Prague, Berlin, and Vienna to be the first three major cities to be rendered ‘Jew-free.’ If that isn’t too clear of an instruction, then I’ll spell it out in simple terms; get rid of them.”
“Jawohl, Herr Obergruppenführer. It is perfectly clear now.”
“How is the situation with the resistance?”
“It’s a process, of course, but it has much improved since your arrival, Herr Protector.” Frank inclined his head to one side with a subservient smile.
Of course, it had. City walls were now plastered with countless red posters, from which the names of the condemned communists and other “hostile Czech elements” were spilling onto the streets of Prague, along with their blood in the prison courtyards. Heydrich was more than explicit on their account as well, issuing an order, according to which “hostile Czechs and Poles, as well as communists and other scumbags, must be transferred to a concentration camp for longer periods of time.” Now, he appeared to have decided that it would have been easier to just shoot them all. Or hang them, so as not to waste any bullets on the said “scumbags.”
“Good, good. When do you think we’ll be rid of the last of them?”
“In a few months, I would think, Herr Protector.”
“By summer?”
“Jawohl, Herr Protector.”
“Splendid. I won’t hold you any long
er then. You have a lot of work to do. Heil Hitler.”
Chapter 2
Camusdarach in Inverness-shire – SOE sabotage training camp. Great Britain, October 1941
Jan lay on his back, staring into the faded turquoise of the autumn sky with a doomed expression creasing his forehead. The ground pleasantly cooled his body, which felt as though it was on fire after such a marathon. Every single one of his muscles screamed out in pain; lungs, expanding to their maximum with every breath, greedily gulped frigid October air, laced with a salty breeze blowing its relief from the sea. He was training with such stubborn dedication for this test, daily and nightly, when no one would see, creeping into the gym and driving himself into complete exhaustion just to prove to himself – and, what’s more important, to his friend Jozef – that he could not only ace that test but outdo him, Jozef, who seemed to always excel at everything. Jan was supposed to be better prepared, after all. A former military man. Taller, stronger, sturdier. And yet it wasn’t him but Jozef who once again passed the obstacle course with flying colors. Jan saw his personnel report, too:
Jozef Gabčík – a smart and well-disciplined soldier. Thoroughly reliable and very keen, with plenty of common sense. During the training, he showed himself to be talented, clever and cheerful, even in the most difficult situations. Open, warm-hearted, enterprising and resourceful.
The Darkest Hour Page 29
