The Thin Wall: A POW/MIA Truth Novel

by R. Cyril West

  Janus went on to say a good deal more, informing Dal that he was not a member of the mayor’s staff, rather was a schoolteacher and longtime comrade to Zdenek Seifert. “I’m only lending a helping hand due to the unexpected strife in the country. With the school sending the pupils home for the day, I simply stopped by the villa to chat and offer my assistance.”

  Dal had a long drag on his cigarette. Like many elitist, Zdenek Seifert had many luxuries, the largest residence in the area, expensive furniture, and even a vacation home in the north country. While most of the people lived meagerly, the mayor enjoyed a life of opulence.

  Near a bookshelf, a lanky man appeared very frightened, and stuttered when introducing himself as “Pavel Bilak, the ma-ma-mayor’s chauffeur.”

  Dal turned away from Pavel. “Listen closely,” he said. “The villa has officially been sequestered by the Soviet Union.” Janus was reading the eviction paperwork. “It will be my personal residence and office during the coming months. From here, I will oversee the political affairs of the villages from Frymburk to Kaplice. If anyone in the district has a grievance to make, it may be conducted by appointment. I will post the procedures. In the coming days, spread word of this to the people. Undoubtedly, they will have questions.”

  The local Communist Party met at the villa twice a month, rather than at the town hall. With voter fraud firmly in place, the mayor’s decade long rule over the people had come to resemble an oligarchy. It was not unlike the mayors who had preceded him. The people voted, but the Party decided who would represent them, regardless of the official vote count. With a phone call, all future gatherings would come to a halt. As well, the town hall would be locked.

  Janus spoke calmly. “I don’t have the authority to surrender the villa to you. I’m a schoolteacher by profession. Not a member of the mayor’s staff.”

  “Your position in the community is inconsequential,” Dal said. “You can either surrender the villa peacefully or force me to take aggressive measures to secure the place.” He brandished his Makarov while Potapov circled around the desk with his rifle.

  “I assure you,” Janus insisted, “I’m in good standing with the Party.”

  Dal recognized the teacher’s name from prior mission briefings. According to records, Ota Janus was an astute scholar of Marx. He had taught the children well over the years, being instrumental in the Youth Union and serving on the textbook advisory council. He secretly reported to the district committee, exposing those in the community who spoke out against the Communist Party.

  “I have heard of you,” Dal said. “You should have tenure at the university during this stage of your career, not teaching social studies to peasant children in the country.”

  “I have always considered the early years most important to one’s education,” Janus said. “Perhaps nowhere is teaching more vital than in the countryside, where the words of Karl Marx are often misinterpreted. Besides, higher education is not what it once was.”

  “That is the truth,” Dal agreed. “There are many agents of imperialism walking the halls of the university. Many befuddled comrades. Which brings me full circle back to the mayor. He has sided with politicians who wish to stamp this so-called ‘human face’ on socialism. It has become messy business.”

  “Mayor Seifert is confused with the direction of the struggle,” Janus said. “It’s an honest mistake, influenced by the politics of Prague. Anyway, I am loyal to Moscow. On behalf of the mayor, and the village, I will sign the paperwork to acknowledge that you have sequestered the villa. In the meantime, how can I help you, comrade?”

  “Simple . . .” Dal aimed the pistol at Pavel. “You can start by telling me where I might find Zdenek Seifert.”

  Before Janus opened his mouth, Mayor Zdenek Seifert appeared at the stairwell balcony overlooking the foyer. He was a stout man, fiftyish, and wore a thick mustache. He said, “Please. There is no need for guns inside my residence.”

  Dal gave the mayor a swift once-over. “Arrest this criminal.”

  Zdenek Seifert’s jaw dropped. “Criminal? On what charges?”

  Dal pulled the KGB arrest warrant from a pocket, flashing it in the air while Potapov rushed the L-shaped stairs.

  “On conspiracy charges,” Dal said, “stemming from your crimes against the Party.”

  “Rubbish,” Zdenek Seifert retorted. “Utter rubbish. I’m a communist.”

  The lean and muscled Potapov put the mayor in handcuffs and escorted him down the stairs.

  “But you are no longer a communist in good standing. There is a difference. If only you had listened more astutely to your comrade, Ota Janus, perhaps this arrest would have been unnecessary.”

  “Insanity,” the mayor barked.

  “By orders of President Ludvík Svoboda, I have authority to seize control of the village and begin the restitution of socialist order.”

  “Svoboda? No. That’s a lie.”

  Dal leaned menacingly into the mayor’s face. “You should have thought twice before signing the Two Thousand Words memorandum.”

  The Two Thousand Words was a controversial document written by an intellectual and progressive member of the Czech Communist Party. The manifesto urged swift social democratization and freedom of expression, demanding the resignation of people who had misused their power. It had circulated amongst the Czech elite since June, gathering the signatures of scientists, farmers, artists, and intellectuals. Because it suggested methods of violence as a possible means to bring about change, the KGB interpreted the document as an attack on the communists in Moscow.

  The mayor said, “The document favors the working class. It speaks of socialist humanitarianism.”

  “Humanitarianism? Bah. It is nothing but a regrettable political interlude.”

  “I would sign it again.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Without hesitation.”

  “Then you are more misguided than I had previously thought.”

  “I merely desire my God-given freedom.”

  Dal shook his head. These Christian communists were a farce. To him, Marx and Christ went together like Stalin and Trotsky. He told Janus and Pavel to go home and spread word that the mayor had penned his name to a document of anarchy. As well, he had been kicked out of the Communist Party. Then turning to Potapov, he said, “Take Zdenek Seifert upstairs and lock him in a room. He is under house arrest. There will be no visitors. Not even his wife.”

  At 7:05 p.m., St. Nepomuk was bustling with townsfolk.

  Ayna led Jiri into the church and sat with her mother in a pew behind Emil and Josef. She was in a state of disbelief over the invasion──the fighting in Prague, the fighting in Pilsen, fighting everywhere. Now came news the mayor had been arrested. Why him? Wasn’t he one of them, a hardened communist?

  “Who will they arrest next?” Sascha shouted. “Joseph? Oflan? I tell you: none of us are safe. We must stand up to the invaders before it’s too late.”

  Father Sudek had called for an emergency meeting to address the unexpected arrival of Colonel Dal and his four soldiers, whom he referred to as “henchmen.”

  “What will they do to Zdenek Seifert,” Irena asked. “Shoot him?”

  “They won’t harm our mayor,” Father Sudek said. “I assure you. His arrest is a simple misunderstanding. I will talk to the KGB colonel about releasing him. He must be a sensible man.”

  Father Sudek spoke for an hour, appealing for calm and insisting that self-control was still their best weapon against the invaders.

  The people nodded their heads.

  No one wanted violence.

  During normal Sunday services, the pews were typically filled by citizens over fifty-years-old, the townspeople who were unafraid of the regime or the Communist Party’s stance against religion. Tonight the pews were jammed with people of all ages. Noticing this, Ayna felt encouraged. She kept her arm over Jiri and reminded him that everything was going to turn out okay. “If Father Sudek is correct,” she said, “the
n the soldiers are only passing through town. Soon, they will release the mayor and go away.”

  She looked over her shoulder. The mayor’s wife was sitting in a nearby pew. Ayna did not know the woman very well, mostly because the Seiferts typically socialized with well-to-do citizens in the big cities, not the small town people in Mersk. Like most politicians in the country, they lived a privileged life. While their special status was annoying, and she refused to look the mayor in the eyes, Mrs. Seifert had a kind face and she admired her sense of fashion, especially her taste for expensive shoes.

  The next morning Ayna returned to the church with her cello and a renewed love for the string quartet. With protesting and gunfire making headlines on the big city streets, music meant more to her now than ever. She was determined to keep the Russians from squashing her passion for the musical arts. They could have their machine guns, she would keep her cello.

  Four stands and chairs had been arranged in a semicircle next to an upright piano near the altar. Taking a seat, she overheard the members of the quartet arguing about Colonel Dal and the soldiers at the villa. Instead of preparing to rehearse for Smetana’s String Quartet No. 1 in E Minor, the two irate violinists──Sascha Boyd and Tad Kriz──were insisting that the priest take a harsh stance against the aggressors.

  “One man standing up to these wolves will lead to another man joining,” Sascha said. “Mersk might have a small population, but other towns will come to our aid.” His violin case was locked and the morning’s sheet music was stuck behind a book that criticized the government’s land seizure policies.

  Father Sudek sat patiently at the piano. “Are you proposing we raise an army, Sascha? That we fight with our pitchforks?”

  “Why not? Mine is sharpened.”

  “And what do you imagine this army of farmers would be capable of doing, eh? Flatten the tires of their armored cars?”

  Tad slashed his bow in the air. “Better to fight these invaders with a pitchfork than to stand on the sidelines like cowards.” He had a wisp of a scraggly beard, his sideburns speckled.

  “For love of country,” Sascha declared. “For Czechoslovakia. For Bohemia.”

  “Love of country?” The priest wore a look of disbelief. “Bah. What are the progressive thinkers teaching you at the university these days?”

  “They talk about life without the Moscow communists, the good ol’ days. Is that such a bad thing? We want socialism, not chains.”

  Father Sudek mumbled a little at this, in a reluctant and vaguely shocked sort of way. A self-proclaimed pacifist, he had quietly stood for Czech independence from the Austro-Hungarian Empire, had helped organize a network of safe houses during Hitler’s occupation, and openly detested the communists. Yet even with these efforts to combat his enemies, he was set against drawing blood. He never endorsed violence as a means to an end. “Socialism, communism,” he whispered. “Politics, always the dreadful politics. We are God’s children.”

  Ayna was empathetic. The priest had spent eight years in prison after the communists took over and dispersed the churches, eventually closing St. Nepomuk in 1953. During that time, he was denied a Bible and forced to recite Marx at gunpoint before two-hundred students──men who were political prisoners themselves. After Mayor Seifert secured his release from prison several years ago, he took a job as a bookkeeper at a farm, where he secretly held onto the dream of recovering his parish. On New Year’s Day 1966, as the government’s stance on religion began to soften, he led a peaceful revolt against the local Communist Party and took back his church. Zdenek Seifert, who regretted the atrocious life he had lived as a younger man serving in the secret police, had undergone a religious experience during the priest’s incarceration and publically urged him on.

  “We sacrifice our egos for the sake of the quartet,” Sascha said. “What about for our freedom? Shouldn’t it be worth that same sacrifice?”

  Father Sudek scratched his head. “It’s complicated. I just don’t know.”

  “We discussed this at the secret town council meeting last night at the tavern. Many are prepared to die if this is what it takes to preserve our names and the good names of our fathers.”

  “Young man,” Father Sudek said. “Less than twenty-four hours have passed since the Russians entered our village. We should give it time. As I have said all along, it’s possible they will leave in a matter of days. Either way, we must think about this decision before we do something rash. Before we have regrets.”

  “I have no regrets,” Sascha declared. “I say we stand together and fight these invaders.”

  Ayna had heard enough. “What’s wrong with us? Are we a quartet or a presidium?” She straddled her cello. “In a few weeks, a prominent judge will sit in this very church and listen to us play. If he likes what he hears, we will be invited to participate in the national Smetana festival in Prague.”

  “Yes, we know this,” Sascha said impatiently.

  “Good. When you think of the Russians, when you get angry at what they have done to our country, remember Zdenek Seifert. He was to be the guest of honor at this recital. We must honor him, even in absentia. This is how I intend to fight back.”

  Father Sudek rose from the piano. “The mayor was a student of Smetana. He, of all people, would approve of moving forward with the recital as planned.”

  “But Smetana was a patriot,” Sascha jeered. “He would never have sat back and done nothing about the invaders.”

  Oflan Jakubek, a chubby sixty-four-year-old violist in steel spectacles, wanted nothing more from life than to play his viola and recite poetry to his wife. He winked at Ayna before taking a sip from a silver flask. Like the priest, he had seen much war and violence in his day.

  After a few minutes, they stopped squabbling and began to rehearse. But their timing was off. Sascha and Tad were pushing too heavily into their bows, unable to set aside their hatred for the Russians or their frustration with Father Sudek. She ignored their selfish behavior by focusing on her finger spacing. It seemed to ease her mind. An hour and a half later, the session ended with an uncomfortable silence. After the priest left, the men put away their instruments and exited the church.

  Ayna shut her cello case. Bickering, not music, thrummed in her head: fight the Russians, don’t fight the Russians.

  She heaved a sigh, before walking home with her head to the sidewalk, feeling regretful. Why did she even bother? Playing in the quartet came at a price──spending less time with Jiri. There were moments when she felt guilty over the endless hours of rehearsal, for abandoning him.

  She fought through the frustration.

  If anything, the recital was too important to be hijacked by politics, especially with all the chaos in the cities.

  That night Ayna prepared dinner, but ate very little. Her spirits were down. Worrying about Jiri’s safety made her feel lethargic. She wanted to go to bed, bury herself in the sheets and close her eyes. Instead she made hot chocolate, and then somehow mustered the strength to play dominoes with him in his bedroom.

  “Your turn,” she said, staring at a row of dominoes.

  They sat on the floor, sipping their drinks and listening to music by the popular rock band Olympic. She ignored the clothes hanging from the open drawers, his muddy shoes near the bed and the awful smells. She would make him clean his room in the morning. Tonight she wanted things to be cheerful──even if it meant pretending to be happy.

  Jiri was talking about his football team. “We’re going to play the German boys from across the river,” he said, organizing his domino pieces. “And whoop them good.”

  She was painting her toenails, not paying much attention while he boasted about his team. Before long she had lost three games and was yawning. “I’m through,” she finally said, hugging him. “You win again. Good night. And remember, no matter what, I love you.”

  The next day, a crowd comprised predominately of men and teenage boys gathered outside the doors of St. Nepomuk, and spilled into the square
. Some were reading the handwritten notice Gurko had posted the previous night:

  IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT TODAY

  YOU MUST ATTEND OR FACE ARREST

  “They’re angered by our presence,” Gurko said, driving the GAZ truck with the top down. Potapov was in the back with an AK.

  Riding shotgun, Dal asked, “Was that bit about ‘or face arrest’ really necessary?”

  “I just wanted to get my point across.”

  Dal grunted. “Ah, well, we should expect nothing less than anger from a people crushed by the fist of defeat.” With a sense of amusement, he pointed to a bedsheet strung from the nearby cinema house. On it, someone had painted the words RUSSIANS GO HOME. An infuriated Ota Janus was pushing away several protestors as he ripped the sheet from the wall.

  The schoolteacher’s effort to defend the liberation pleased Dal. It reminded him of the battlefield heroics in Stalingrad, where in the thick of gunfire, brave soldiers had died attempting to fly Soviet colors on the streets. Later he would invite Janus to dinner and pick his brain on Marxist theory, gaining fresh insight into the struggle and learning more about the Státní bezpečnost──Czechoslovakia’s plainclothes secret police, an organization that had a reputation for implementing a policy of terror against opponents of the regime.

  Gurko said, “Other than Comrade Janus, the Czechs in this town don’t see us as their liberators.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me . . .” Dal scanned the faces in the crowd, some brave, some scared. A group of men standing near the row houses extended their middle fingers and mouthed, go to hell!

  “I’m sure they plan to bitch,” Gurko went on, “not listen.”

  “No need to fret,” Dal insisted. “The mob is like a young Cabernet Sauvignon. Once uncorked, you cannot consume it right away. Mmm. You must allow it adequate time to breathe. I am not planning to reason with these people. Liberators or occupiers? It does not matter. These people need time to process what has happened. The key, comrade, is to remain patient and allow them sufficient room to vent.”