“Ah, these people live in the Dark Ages. First the doctor brings his bag of medicine to Mersk. Now this farmer cannot barter with our troops.”
“What should I tell him?”
Dal grunted. “I will hear his side of the story. After all, it’s my role as an administrator to listen to their complaints.”
He went outside and stood on the porch. He was understaffed at the villa, thus incapable of meeting the community’s petty and often excessive needs. He needed a civilian clerk, someone to whom he could delegate civic matters to. His soldiers were trained in security, not administration. They lacked social skills and the ability to do more than one thing at a time. This had been his concern all along. Even so, faced with concealing the American prisoner-of-war, he decided to minimize the team──the fewer eyes the better.
Dal left the porch and approached the farmer, who removed his hunter’s hat and placed it on the hood of the truck.
“Do we have a problem?” Dal asked.
“Yes,” the farmer replied. “Your army. The troops are out of control.”
ZDENEK SEIFERT was dressed in gray trousers and a matching jacket. He had splashed on aftershave and polished his shoes, ready for work but unable to leave the room. He greeted Milan with a firm handshake after Mazur closed and locked the door.
“They can’t do this to you,” Milan said. The television cord had been cut and the telephone line ripped from the wall, leaving the mayor without communication to the outside world. “This house arrest stinks to high heaven.”
“I’m okay. Really.”
“It’s hardly legal.”
They sat on the sofa near the stone fireplace.
“Oh, I saw this damn thing coming,” Zdenek Seifert said. “First that neo-Stalinist Bratislava Declaration, then in May, those military exercises along our border by the Warsaw armies. I knew the Soviets wouldn’t tolerate our recent reforms.”
“I’ve been busy. It took me by surprise.”
“The whole country has been busy──including the damn presidium.”
“I figured if Marshal Tito could break away from Soviet claws, why not us?”
“Let’s be realistic. We wanted the impossible. And for the last seven months we had it──our freedom. Now it’s gone.”
“Moscow can’t keep us in chains.”
“Try telling Brezhnev that.”
“Well, when it ends, like it did for Hitler and Stalin, the world will be reminded of the Nuremberg trials.”
“You think?”
“Yes. Because they’re protesting this occupation, you see. Everywhere. Even in America.”
“America?”
“The world is watching.”
“I hope so. I really hope so.”
“And while we work for a resolution to this crisis, I’ll do my best to keep Colonel Dal and his cronies from mistreating you.”
“Fact is, my situation means little in the big picture. Even with Soviet troops occupying our country, today is a day to celebrate. Thanks to you, Mersk is finally getting a clinic.”
They had met in the previous weeks and spoken several times by phone to discuss the clinic. The mayor was the chair of the local health care committee and the clinic’s biggest advocate. He had personally taken charge of overseeing the renovations. During this time, Milan had grown attached to his raspy voice and childlike laughter, which had gone into hibernation since his arrest. “They won’t even grant visitation rights with my wife,” Zdenek Seifert complained. “What harm could there be in letting a man speak to his wife? I feel lost without her.”
“I understand.” Milan gave him an unmarked bottle of vitamins. “I’ve fooled the colonel into believing that you are in poor health. Diabetes.”
“Oh?”
“Pretend these vitamin pills are for your condition.”
“Diabetes, you say?”
“Yes. And make sure they see you take them.”
“But why?”
“Pretending to have diabetes means I can visit you multiple times a week.”
“Ah, you’re a clever man.”
“I’m only looking out for a fellow countryman. You’ll be freed soon.”
“Not if the colonel has his way. He’s a Stalinist. He has it in for me. And for my progressive brothers.”
“Don’t fret. Things will work out for you.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“What do you mean?”
“They plan to send me to Siberia.”
Milan opened his medical bag and grabbed the sphygmomanometer. He wrapped the cuff around the mayor’s upper arm and gave a few pumps. “Siberia? Aren’t you jumping to conclusions?”
“No.” The tone of Zdenek Seifert’s voice was serious. “The ticket is already stamped. I published several op-eds in the newspapers this spring. Each exposed the various weaknesses of the Communist Manifesto, in particular how the elimination of capital and competition has given birth to a stagnant society.”
“You’re not alone. Hundreds of other intellectuals have spoken out across the country.”
“It’s a pecking order. And I am at the top of the list.”
Milan agreed with his principles on competition and admitted his love for a free market system, which raised the mayor’s eyebrows. Milan opposed socialism, yet confessing this to Zdenek Seifert might break the important bond they had established. While the mayor was not a hardened communist, he embraced a system whereby most ownership of manufacturing and property was at the discretion of the government. His ideas of competition had little to do with capitalism. He simply wanted to return the most basic elements of power and decision making to the people, calling for, among other things, the decentralization of government-managed farms. The mayor confessed his progressive political agenda with a mix of pride and regret. When he was done speaking, Milan realized deportation was a real possibility but kept quiet.
Milan paused to reflect. He had lived his adult life detesting the communists and how they had made the people dependent upon government. The 1948 coup had paved the way for the poor housing conditions, the destruction of the economy, and the decay of the health care system. There had been a time not long ago when Czechoslovakia had had the most ambitious hospitals in Europe, when innovation led the way at the institutes in Prague. While the protection of health was guaranteed by the constitution, he felt little to be proud of these days. Shame, really. Stripping away incentive for profit had destroyed the quality of health care in the country.
“And then there is this question of the army,” the mayor said. “To fight or not to fight?”
“The people have mixed feelings. When it’s all said and done, no Czech wants slaughter.”
“True. All the same, I’d like to plant my fist on the face of his Excellency, the Soviet ambassador. Have you met him?”
“No. Can’t say I have.”
“Lucky you. He’s a two-faced mongrel. You wouldn’t like him.”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t.” Milan put the medical instrument in his bag. He had completed the physical examination. “I’ll see you soon. Keep your spirits up. We outnumber these jerks.”
As he turned away, the mayor grabbed him by the arm. “Before you leave, I must tell you something . . .”
“Yes, what is it?”
“They’re holding someone. Down the hall. In another room.”
“Oh?”
“I overheard the soldiers interrogating him last night.”
“Another prisoner?”
“So it seems. The walls are thick. I couldn’t understand what they were saying. Could you find out who he is? I feel responsible.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Milan stood to go. “Don’t forget, no more mints. You’re supposed to have diabetes, remember?”
Milan knocked on the door and asked to be let out. Privates Mazur and Horbachsky, who smelled like they had not showered in weeks, threw a combined scowl before suggesting he had been in the room for five minutes too long. After the d
oor banged shut, and Mazur locked it, Milan took a step and unintentionally bumped shoulders with Horbachsky.
“Ease off,” Milan said, refusing to be drawn in.
Horbachsky gripped Milan’s arm, and said, “Time to go. Don’t give me any trouble.”
Milan made a dismissive sound. “Whatever.”
Horbachsky released his grip, and then nudged him down the hallway with a rifle. Milan stumbled forward. He had seen better days, been with better company. After another shove, he turned to the soldier and said, “Push me again . . . you’ll regret it, punk.”
The Ukrainian eased up with his rifle. They proceeded down the stairs. Milan was serious. He would have punched him. He had met all three privates that morning, Mazur, Horbachsky, and Potapov. As well, he had been ordered to show his identification to the stocky Sergeant Gurko. Now his patience was wearing thin. Having witnessed the wounded people in the hospital, he was on the verge of snapping. Near the reception desk, he saw a large portrait of Leonid Brezhnev hanging on the wall and a Soviet flag folded on a shelf, signs the Russians were staying put.
“The boss wants to speak with you,” Horbachsky said sternly, pointing to the door. “Report to him this minute.”
“Yeah. Yeah. I hear you.”
“And don’t delay . . .” The Ukrainian hurried into a restroom, apparently in a rush to urinate.
Milan had a weird feeling about these soldiers. Holding the mayor in a bedroom rather than at a military guardhouse went against protocol. Making it worse, Colonel Dal’s annoyed response to the clinic was troublesome. If his duty was to administer the social and political affairs of the region, then opening a clinic should have been met with enthusiasm. If for no other reason, it would give a boost to public morale, which was currently in the dumps.
He glanced through the windows on either side of the entrance door. Dal was in the driveway, speaking to someone who looked like the farmer he had seen earlier on the road. Milan sensed the colonel was berating the man and felt an unpleasant sinking sensation in his stomach. He reached for the door handle, then stopped. He smelled something. The bitter smell of dead flesh? Instead of stepping outside, he turned abruptly and walked to an adjacent door, which was ajar. He pushed open the door and entered the parlor. Just curious. But not expecting to find a corpse in the middle of the room. It lay across a conference table, bathed within a shaft of light from the garden window.
What was a dead man doing here?
DAL HAD MADE a rash decision. Stepping outside to speak with the farmer was a mistake, a stupid one. What should have taken a minute or two had turned into a half-hour long conversation. Now he cursed himself for leaving the foyer unguarded. He returned to the villa and caught the doctor examining Sascha’s body in the parlor.
“The smell,” Milan said. “I couldn’t help myself. Tell me. What happened to this poor man?”
“We had an unfortunate incident,” Dal lied, clearing his throat. “A shooting.” He began his made up version of the story, not wanting to reveal the truth, that Potapov had shot a civilian named Sascha Boyd. “This dead man on the table was one of my best soldiers. Yesterday, he was killed in a roadside ambush by hooligans.”
“Butchered is more like it.”
Dal pulled the sheet over Sascha’s face. He knew the doctor would likely hear about the confrontation between him and Sascha, and the resulting death. Word traveled fast on the street. But with Sascha’s shaved head and rigor mortis having its way, it would be difficult to question the body’s real identity. Had he simply told him the truth, that he and his soldiers had killed an innocent civilian, it would have resulted in a much longer conversation, which he was trying to avoid. Dal could bribe the local police to look the other way, but Milan was from out of town, and if he learned the truth, that a resident had been murdered, he might take the news to the ministry. This could jeopardize the mission. To be safe, he would distract Milan, require that he attend a meeting with him at the villa during Sascha’s funeral, thus preventing him from possibly learning more about the shooting.
“These are unstable hours,” Dal said. “Full of lawlessness and mayhem. Take your mayor, for example. He knew it was dangerous to speak out against the regime. Yet his voice was among the loudest.”
“Our government has passed reforms. Stalinism is dead. We have free speech now.”
“Alas,” Dal said, “free speech is the root of societal decay. Among other ills, it stifles productivity.”
“Stifles? That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“You disagree?”
“To me, free speech spurns creativity.”
“Hmm.” Dal raised an eyebrow. “Creativity is often misguided and spawns anarchy. It’s true. Think of liberal intellectuals mingling in the coffee shops of Prague, huddled together to discuss philosophy, overanalyzing the words of Marx, as liberals often do, translating them to take on new meaning. This is where the spark of anarchism ignites. In part, it helps explain how your progressive public servants have gone astray.”
“Like I said, I’m not political.”
“For now, let’s agree to disagree.” Milan was watching him with distaste. “All things considered, I take it Zdenek Seifert’s living conditions meet with your approval? He has been allowed sufficient comfort.”
“I suppose. It could be worse.”
“He gets out twice a day to stroll in the garden. He has his record collection. And his favorite books. I have even afforded him a good bottle of cognac.”
Milan said, “What about visitation rights with his wife?”
“Coming. In due time.”
“Good.”
“You, as a Czechoslovakian, are witness that he is being treated with respect. Perhaps you will report this to the people?”
“If the opportunity presents itself. Sure.”
“Wonderful.”
“Which reminds me. Are you holding another prisoner?”
“Prisoner? I’m not sure I understand the question.”
“Someone besides the mayor. Here at the villa.”
Dal felt his stomach drop. “Why do you ask?”
“Zdenek Seifert overheard an interrogation last night.”
Interrogation? Dal had simply asked the POW a few questions about his time in the Czech prison system, who he had met there and what they had discussed. The American’s answers were the same, name, rank, serial number.
“Yes, in fact, we are holding a civilian prisoner. He is in a room down the hall from the mayor.” Dal’s mind added to the fabricated story with little effort, pretending that Sergeant Johnston was a civilian. “We suspect he was part of the roadside ambush that killed the soldier you see lying on this table.” It was just like creating fictional characters in a play, Dal thought. Easy to get away with. Especially since he would never allow Milan or Zdenek Seifert the opportunity to meet the American prisoner-of-war. If Dal said he was holding a civilian, not a POW, if he said the body on the table was that of a Soviet soldier, not Sascha, then Milan and the mayor had no choice but to believe him.
“I ask,” Milan said, “because I serve everyone in town, Czech, Russian, and Ukrainian. Should you or any of your men require─”
“Thank you, doctor.” Dal extended an arm toward the door. “It’s time for you to leave. Good day.”
HOW DOES this happen? One day Czechs are minding their own business, the next day, warmongering Russians are on the streets with automatic rifles, bossing people around at gunpoint and tossing them into jail. Goddamn Brezhnev and his henchmen. Milan was furious and wanted to punch something.
He walked to his car without saying another word, somehow keeping himself together. He was going to butt heads with the KGB colonel. Dal was an unsympathetic man──a conservative Party hardliner as Zdenek Seifert had warned. Milan planned to file a report with the ministry that afternoon, letting his bosses know of possible trouble to come.
His agitation intensified when he approached the Škoda and discovered the Czech
flag no longer hung from the flagpole. The flag had been flapping in the wind when he arrived a little over an hour ago; someone had since taken it down. He began to reconsider the idea of a quick Soviet withdraw. How long did they really plan to stay, months, years? He reached for the car’s door handle. Then froze. Someone had fingered his name in dust on the window. Or was it the name Mickey?
His heart skipped.
Who wrote this?
Milan turned to the guard at the gate. Him? He glanced over his shoulder to where Dal stood poised in the doorway, smoking a cigarette. Him?
He erased the word with his shirtsleeve, pitched his satchel on the seat and climbed in behind the wheel.
“You’re imagining things,” Milan told himself, driving over a stone bridge that led into town. The writing in dust had probably been there for several days and it read Milan. Not Mickey.
No one could possibly know what the name Mickey meant to Milan. That was years ago.
Or could someone?
Did someone?
DAL DECIDED to make an example of Horbachsky and had him tied to the flagpole and whipped for his insubordination. “Next time you leave a visitor unguarded,” he roared, “you will be shot between the eyes.” The dimwitted Ukrainian was a last minute addition to the team and had not been properly vetted. Like a bomb capable of premature detonation, Horbachsky was always a potential detriment to the operation.
Gurko applied the lashing with a satisfying grin, whipping the soldier’s back multiple times with a frayed army belt.
Dal watched, his face cold, deadpan. When the punishment ended, the sergeant doused vodka over Horbachsky’s bloody lacerations and curled his lip.
“No more,” Horbachsky shouted painfully. “I promise to pay attention.” His cry for mercy swept over the villa walls and flitted through the surrounding forest like a swarm of bats.
“Mercy? No, too late for that,” Dal said. He instructed Gurko to leave the undisciplined private tied to the flagpole for the remainder of the day, before storming inside the villa.
They had problems now. Fucking problems. Allowing the doctor a view of Sascha’s body was a serious blunder. Did Milan believe his contrived story? That the body in the parlor was a Soviet soldier? He felt a pang of doubt. The mayor’s eavesdropping was likewise troublesome. Dal had originally planned to send Zdenek Seifert to Prague within a day or two, but complications had surfaced, the military police sending notice that they would not arrive to collect him until, at the earliest, the following week. From this point forward, the doctor and the mayor would conduct their medical examinations in the garden. Dr. Husak would never set foot inside the villa again.
The Thin Wall: A POW/MIA Truth Novel Page 9