The Darkest Hour

by Roberta Kagan

  The blonde and the Czech helped him into the back of the van, where he lay on his stomach, one hand still clutching the gun on top of the briefcase that the blonde brought along. In the crook of his other arm, he carefully hid his face, twisted with pain and bitter disbelief. That was not how this was all supposed to end. He was much too young, much too strong, much too powerful to die now, killed by some fucking Czechs, in the back of a shoe polish delivery van. As the van finally started making its way towards the hospital, Reinhard bit into his sleeve, fighting the dizziness off. He wouldn’t die if he stayed alert. He wouldn’t die. He wouldn’t let them win.

  In the hospital, there were more wide-eyed Czechs. Reinhard lost count of the number of times he asked for a German doctor to be sent in – they didn’t understand him. A young nurse took him to the operating room, helped him onto the table, removed his bloodied jacket, shirt, paused briefly staring at his half-undressed frame for a few seconds, muttered something in her incomprehensible language and ran off, leaving Reinhard to his devices.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” He cursed out the nurse and her modesty; the damned bitch must have gone to fetch a male doctor to help him remove the rest of his clothes. At the rate this was going, he would die before they took pains to at least bandage him.

  Much to his relief, two doctors appeared, at last, one of them German. Reinhard breathed through the pain as they examined his wound, his teeth clenched so tightly that he could hear them grind when yet another painful jab of pincers probed his torn flesh. The German explained that they needed to do an X-Ray. Reinhard scornfully refused the help and stood before the machine even though he was half-expecting his body to collapse any second now. Out of some inhuman willpower, he made it this far, still conscious, still standing before the damned machine, with a broken rib, perforated diaphragm, his thoracic cage damaged, and a piece of shrapnel lodged in his spleen. The German doctor was already saying something about an urgent operation; Reinhard shook his head, ghostly-white and stubborn as ever, demanding the best surgeon from Berlin to be flown in.

  “The time is crucial, Herr Protector,” the doctor insisted.

  Reinhard saw his face swim in front of his eyes. Fuck, so it was.

  “Will I die if you don’t operate?”

  “It is a possibility.”

  “Can you at least summon the best specialist you have in Prague?”

  “Of course, Herr Protector.”

  Reinhard allowed him to take him back to the operating room, and only there he closed his eyes.

  The SS guard opened the door, letting Frank in. Reinhard forced himself to raise his head from the pillow, searched his subordinate’s face for any clues. Frank smiled brightly and gave him his usual crisp salute. Only the stench of his cigarettes betrayed his state he so thoroughly tried to conceal. He must have been chain-smoking again, trying to calm his nerves.

  Reinhard made an effort to part his lips. “Is it me or the Führer?”

  “I beg your pardon, Herr Obergruppenführer?” Frank tilted his head to one side.

  “You were smoking so much… because of me or the Führer? You informed him, didn’t you?”

  Only a little over an hour had passed since the operation. Reinhard was still a bit dazed, but at least they provided him with enough morphine to numb the pain.

  “I did, Herr Gruppenführer.” Frank lowered his eyes.

  “Let me guess; he threw one of his rage fits, didn’t he?” A sneer twisted Reinhard’s mouth.

  Frank concealed a quiet chortle. “He ordered to fly the best doctors for you from Berlin. They’ll make sure that the local ones did a good job.”

  “What else?”

  “He demands to shoot ten thousand Czechs in retribution.”

  “Typical.” Reinhard closed his eyes, leaning back into the pillow. “And what about me?”

  Frank fumbled with something in his pocket, thoroughly escaping his superior’s gaze.

  “You can tell me. It’s all right.”

  “He said, it was an idiotic thing that you did, driving in that open car like that. He said, that how could a man of your importance be so cretinous enough to be guilty of such self-neglect and something else to that effect. I apologize; those were his exact words.”

  Reinhard appeared to be amused, much to Frank’s surprise. Or relief, if he were completely honest with himself.

  “What of those two? Did you catch them yet?”

  “I took the liberty of summoning the forces of the SS, the SD, the NSKK, the Gestapo, the Kripo, and three Wehrmacht battalions, in addition to the local police forces, which were already at our disposal. Overall, more than twenty thousand men are taking part in the operation. All the roads are blocked. The city is virtually sealed. We’ll find them, Herr Protector. You can rely on me.”

  Reinhard nodded. Frank was his best man. He would get those two from under the pits of hell if needed. Reinhard could sleep soundly.

  Chapter 8

  The Church of St. Charles Borromeo. Prague, May 1942

  Jan leaped to his feet once the connection brought the man down the steep steps leading to the crypt in which they had been hiding. He was the last one, whom the parachutists were missing from their small company – Jan’s best friend, Jozef Gabčík. They hadn’t seen each other since that fateful morning; neither had they any news of each other’s whereabouts. Jan stayed with Anna that sleepless night after the assassination; the night, spent in hushed whispers, interlaced fingers, and heart-wrenching what-ifs. He ran first thing in the morning, as soon as the curfew was no longer in effect.

  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 – Jan still remembered how his hands trembled when he heard the same message being repeated on the radio every ten minutes. Jan ran on May 28 at 7:30, armed with what was left of their British ammunition and a sheer hope that he would make it to the church, to which the concierge – a resistance member and one of their connections – took him. The sympathetic priest showed him down to the crypt, concealed beneath the altar. The Gestapo were dangerously close on their heels.

  “They usually don’t search churches,” the priest reassured him with a warm, fatherly smile. “So, you and your friends will stay put here until everything calms down.”

  “There’s no way to take you out of the city; not now anyway,” the concierge added, passing Jan his canvas backpack, the metal clinking of the SOE goods in it soothing the latter’s shattered nerves. “All the roads and railroads are closed. Forests are being tightly monitored. Dogs everywhere. Better not risk it. So, you sit tight and I’ll try and fetch the rest of your comrades. No need for any of you to risk being discovered by those leather coats. They’re out for blood if I do say so myself. Arrest people without any rhyme and reason.”

  “Any news of Jozef?”

  “Not yet.” He squeezed Jan’s shoulder. “But don’t fret. I’ll find him.”

  He did; only Jozef wouldn’t stop blaming himself for the failure and apologizing to everyone, who would listen and to Jan in particular.

  “He was right there, in front of me! I could see the markings on his jacket, that’s how close he was! If only that piece-of-trash Sten didn’t jam…”

  At those words, which he repeated with the obstinacy of a broken record, Jozef would drop his head into his hands and shake it, bitter disappointment creasing his features.

  “It’s not your fault,” Jan would console him gently.

  “Of course it is. I failed you, and I failed the mission.” Jozef’s head would shoot up, his eyes staring brightly with fire burning in them. “But you! You’re the one who the true hero is! How timely you threw that bomb! And you injured him!”

  “What good is it? It was a scratch, and he didn’t seem to even notice it.” Jan would purse his mouth into a thin, resolute line.

  “You did what no man thought possible. You injured him, Jan. You showed them that he’s not some fearsome creature that
is impossible to kill but a man made of flesh and bones just like us, mere mortals. And even if he’ll be back to work, in a couple of weeks, people will keep thinking about it and who knows? Maybe planning; and maybe, acting. Inspired by you, Jan. You did a wonderful thing there, my friend. A truly wonderful, historical thing; you just don’t realize it yet.”

  It stormed that night. A cold moon floated through the ominous clouds, full of charged energy. The lightning split the skies in two, waking the men in the crypt with its silver, dazzling light. Jan couldn’t sleep. He stared out of the small barred window, positioned at the very ceiling, into the violent night, his mind just as turbulent and disturbed as the downpours, drenching the uniformed men outside as though wishing to drown them all, once and for all. They stood, silent and wary; their soaking wet uniforms weighing them down, as the news started to spread with the first morning hours, dawning on them with its petrifying brutality. The old prophecy turned out to be true. The usurper, who had wrongfully placed St. Wenceslas’ crown on his head, did die – precisely nine months after doing so. Some of them, perhaps, indeed believed that. Some, perhaps, shrugged it off, proclaimed flatly that Czech doctors were at fault and crushed a finished cigarette under their iron-lined heel.

  “Septicemia, I heard.”

  “No, the bomb parts were poisoned; I learned from a reliable source but don’t repeat this.”

  Heydrich did die, and the mission was a success, but Jozef was right; Jan didn’t realize it.

  No, Jan didn’t realize anything, except for the fact that the crypt was pressing him down with its oppressing stone as the blurred days slipped by, bright blue and restless; that the barking of police dogs wouldn’t let him sleep at night; and that, despite The Hangman being dead, some village had been just entirely wiped out in retaliation because someone decided that its population was somehow complicit in the assassination.

  “Lidice,” one of their fellow parachutists muttered and shook his head with an expression of a desolate finality. “I told you that the whole assassination was a rotten idea. So many people dead, for nothing.”

  Jan cried quietly in the corner. Jozef chain-smoked next to him. “Don’t listen to him. It wasn’t for nothing.”

  “But for what, Jozef?” Jan sobbed. “For what? Someone else will be appointed to his position and the terror will continue. And those innocent people! Their blood is on our hands, don’t you see?”

  “You killed him, Jan,” Jozef only repeated as though in a trance, a smile transfixed on his unshaven face. “You’re a hero. Your name will go down in history.”

  “At what price?” Jan whispered with intense gravity and hid his wet face in his arms, folded over his lap.

  Even Anna who brought them parcels with food every other day didn’t seem to distract him from his brooding. Even her words about the Germans, announcing an amnesty to anyone, who would come forward with information regarding the assassins within five days, didn’t seem to raise Jan’s spirits.

  “They announced it two days ago. It appears that they have no more leads to the investigation and this is their last chance. They hope that someone will come forward but no one will; I just know it!” Anna beamed her beautiful smile at the parachutists. “Three more days and this all will end, and we’ll find a way to get you out of the country.”

  A hopeful murmur passed through the crypt.

  Anna’s hand found Jan’s. “I’ll go with you if you want. You said it yourself that couples attract less attention.”

  Jan kissed her fingers one by one and nodded, even though fresh tears still shone in his eyes.

  “Libena will come tomorrow with food.” Anna turned to Jozef before leaving. “We’re taking turns, so it’s not too conspicuous. For now, she asked to give you this.” A pack of cigarettes found its way into Jozef’s grateful hands. “She said, you probably smoked all of yours already.”

  “She knows me too well.” Jozef chuckled, fondling the gift in his hands, embarrassed but positively beaming.

  “Three more days,” Anna promised.

  But something went wrong.

  Jan could never get used to sleeping down in the crypt. It felt as though it was suffocating him – a stone-lined tomb where, by an ironic twist of fate, living people now spent their nights instead of dead saints. Despite his comrades’ reservations, every evening he made it up the stairs, through the hidden entrance behind the altar and onto the second floor of the church. He slept right there, near the balustrade, with his jacket as his pillow and his submachine gun resting by his side – just in case. Jozef also started coming up, together with him; bored or restless without the man who had become like a brother to him in the course of the past few months, but he invariably followed Jan wherever the latter went.

  That night, it was them two who heard someone knocking on the church’s door. It was them, who saw the SS Stormtroopers hit Father Petrek across the face and force him inside. It was them, who immediately opened fire, showering the unwelcome guests with torrents of lead. It was them, who alerted their comrades in the crypt that their game was up.

  Clearly not expecting such a violent greeting, the Germans quickly disappeared behind the doors, dragging their injured to the safety of the street.

  “There must be hundreds of them outside,” mumbled Father Petrek, stunned from the blow but otherwise unharmed, as soon as the two parachutists rushed downstairs to check on him.

  Jan exchanged glances with Jozef. So, it begins then.

  “Watch the entrance,” Jozef immediately assumed the commanding role and ran to the altar, shouting to the men inside the crypt to come up and bring all of the ammunition they had.

  In less than five minutes, a silence had befallen the church once again. All seven Czechs waited in their assigned positions; three on the balustrade, another two – on the round staircase; Jan and Jozef – behind the altar, their machine guns trained on the entrance. Let them come in. We’ll show them such hospitability, they will curse the day they were born.

  The Germans on the other side of the front door seemed to be pondering their next step. The Czechs patiently waited, their fingers resting on the triggers. They had enough ammunition to last them for hours and they knew well enough to spend it wisely, to shoot rapidly, aiming to kill as many as they could, until the last bullet was spent.

  At that point, they all knew that they would die here, but the same resolution burned in every man’s eyes; to take as many Germans with him, as was humanly possible.

  The door creaked open. The men’s grips tightened on their weapons, eyes staring steadily. The SS Stormtroopers opened fire prior to pouring inside – twenty or thirty of them, no less – and Jan grinned crookedly at such a stupid strategy. Almost half of them were gunned down from above within seconds; the second half gathered their wits and pulled out, slamming the door shut after themselves. This time, they didn’t even bother with their injured who now littered the floor, moaning in pain.

  Valčík finished them off one by one from the top of the balustrade. No need for any SS hero to collect his submachine gun and fire at one of the Czechs, with his last breath.

  Minutes dragged, taunting and straining everyone’s nerves. What an interminable wait; what insufferable silence! Jozef licked his lips next to Jan. The poor devil must have been craving Libena’s cigarettes, Jan thought with a sad smile.

  The SS commander (or at least Jan assumed it was him) was shouting something at his men outside – the scenario which had repeated itself quite a few times in the course of the next couple of hours. The SS commander shouted, his troops poured in, died in tens, and took cover without as much as injuring any of the Czechs.

  The dawn started to break. The Germans got quiet once again. The Czechs checked their cartridges – enough to take on at least the same amount as they already had. The Germans seemed to be rethinking their strategy.

  “Give yourselves up!” A familiar young voice sounded from behind the tightly shot door, riddled with bullet holes. “You will
be treated as prisoners of war like we were. The German command guarantees it…”

  Jozef’s eyes shone with anger. Fucking bastards! Using the boy like that…

  “Was it Ata?” Jan whispered, hoping so desperately to be mistaken.

  “Yes.”

  “So, the Moravec family is arrested then?”

  “Judging by the fact that it’s him speaking, the parents are both dead,” Jozef’s voice came out deadly dull.

  Jan swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. First Lidice, now this? More blood on their hands and this time it was much more painful, much more personal, much closer to home… If the family hadn’t taken them in, they would still have been alive. An ordinary family, who merely couldn’t stand and watch their country go down the drain – dead, because of them.

  Jan suddenly wished for all of this to be over, for he wasn’t sure that he would be able to live with this guilt for the rest of his life. What are you waiting for? Come in; finish us all. I am so ready to go…

  The SS troops obliged, but this time they were smarter; they started hurling grenades inside and, covered by the acrid smoke, snaked their way along the pews and threw a few to the balustrade before Jan and Jozef could gun them down.

  Once again, the silence. Jozef called out to his comrades on top; only two voices out of five responded. The metal clinking of the hobnailed boots was nearing again. They were getting bolder, more confident. Jan was shooting without stopping, but he could already see the tops of their steel helmets creeping up, stepping over their dead comrades on top of the balustrade, no doubt, congratulating themselves on their first success.

  Rapid fire from the opposite side quickly put an end to their celebratory mood. Their green-gray clad bodies joined the ghastly carpet of their comrades, already lining the marble floor of the church.

  “Take cover!” Valčík shouted from the top. “We’ll hold them as long as we can.”