The Thin Wall: A POW/MIA Truth Novel

by R. Cyril West

  Night fell.

  Dal went to the library to be alone, to think. Aside from the day’s comedy of errors, the mission had been successful: recovering Devil Dog, apprehending the prisoner-of-war, carrying out Sascha Boyd’s murder. Even with all this behind him, he felt anxious about hiding the POW and needed to relax. Typically a good book calmed his nerves.

  He poured a tall vodka and went to the bookshelf. He found a book by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, a Russian writer of human psychology and politics who had influenced German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche. He sat at the desk and read for an hour, but his mind obsessed on the doctor’s gruesome discovery of Sascha Boyd’s body, so he closed the book and stared at the ceiling. He realized, too, that he had not sufficiently worked out Horbachsky’s role on the team. He needed to address the problem. His brain went over a plan, finding errors and fixing them. Horbachsky would be assigned to the gate on a permanent basis──entrusted with simple tasks like signing-in visitors. Under no circumstances was he to guard the POW.

  Feeling better, he slid out the desk drawer and poked at the pencils, paperclips, and coins in a wooden tray. He found a brass key in an envelope located beneath the tray. Would it unlock the file cabinet near the window, the only cabinet he had yet to open?

  He stood from the desk and gave it a try.

  The lock snapped open. He pulled out the steel drawer. Oh dear Lenin, he thought with a sobering grin. Since October 1938, he discovered all at once, when the German occupation began, the mayors had kept detailed records of the happenings in town. Here, as though spoon-fed to him, was the pulse of the citizenry, historical notes organized in files by family name, starting with Adamec and ending with Zitnik.

  Dal began to snoop, one manila folder after another, his heart beating hard. There were documents claiming land ownership, notes on public fights, letters concerning adulterous affairs, and snippets of other scandalous rumors. Most importantly, he had found a list of those who had joined the Communist Party.

  He grabbed a stack of folders──the names of the people he had recently met──and returned to the desk. What motivated them? How had they conducted their lives? Who among the villagers had the courage to oppose Dal’s authority?

  He smoked, prying deeper into their secrets. Only a loyal handful were real communists, most had joined the Party due to social pressure, but only after approval by various committees and one's past was closely scrutinized. In this tightly knit community, the farmers held the real balance of power, siding with Father Sudek on the most important issues of the day. It was an alignment which often influenced the mayor’s governing decisions. Adding to their strength, only a few citizens had reported on each other, conforming to the way things often worked in the rural towns. Townspeople stood together, protecting the centuries-old ties that bound relationships, good and bad. They bitched in their church. They argued at the town hall. They went to the mayor when a dispute was beyond reconciliation. But their discontent was rarely heard in Prague. It was not an eye-opening discovery, though important to note.

  He drank the vodka and picked up another file. This one addressed the farmers’ constant battle to produce more crops. Whether Stalingrad or Mersk, farmhands were always at war with the elements, drought, fungi, insects. He glossed over these pages with causal interest. The names of people arrested in the 1950s for illegal food hoarding shot up a red flag and he noted their identities on a pad of paper.

  Next he read about a feud between neighbors and a conflict over the historical rights to a dairy farm, which resulted in a stabbing and a divorce.

  And there was Pavel’s brother, an outspoken member of the Writer’s Union.

  And the violist Oflan Jakubek, who had killed a man in a drunk driving accident.

  He had a drink and felt the alcohol burn his throat. The thickest file, he soon discovered, was devoted to the cursed Ayna Sahhat, and the violent deaths of her three lovers. The men had lost their lives by a drowning, a head trauma, and a car accident. He leaned forward into the light of the desk lamp and turned a page. The curse she supposedly put on these men fascinated him. It spoke of sacrilege, of a centuries-old jinx, and of her Muslim grandfathers in Baku.

  “Unfathomable,” he whispered. “I must get to know you. Dear. Sweet. Ayna.”

  He examined the haunting black and white photos of the girl, his hand hovering over the glass of vodka. There was a sense of darkness to her face, of catastrophe.

  Dal wondered, could she put a curse on him?

  At midnight he mashed his cigarette in a porcelain ashtray on the desk, on the face of Charles IV, King of Bohemia and Holy Roman Emperor.

  Sascha Boyd’s body lay in an open casket, dressed in a white suit with his Stradivarius across his chest. Ayna refused to believe he was dead. For the last few weeks, the Smetana Festival had been the hot topic of conversation. Our quartet is good enough to earn the approval of the judge, Sascha had told her repeatedly. He will like our quartet and invite us to Prague. She heard his mother sniffing in a nearby pew and wanted to give the woman a hug. The family had come in from the farms for the funeral. Later, in the cemetery, she would speak with them in private, say her condolences, and remind them what a hero Sascha had been for standing up to the Russians.

  “It was murder,” Ayna shouted to the mourners. She was too angry for tears. “You witnessed it. Sascha was provoked into a fight.”

  “Sit,” Evzen said. He was nearing ninety, hunched over his cane. “We’re here to honor the departed, not hold court.”

  “I do honor him,” she insisted.

  “Have you no respect for Sascha?” Irena asked. She was a teacher turned librarian, an acquaintance of Ota Janus and former president of the local women’s communist league. She had never approved of Ayna or the Sahhat family.

  “Respect?” Ayna said. “I was Sascha’s closest friend.”

  Because the Russians had shaved his head for no apparent reason, she offered it as proof of their barbarism and disrespect for the dead. No one understood her point of view. They wanted the trouble to end with Sascha’s unfortunate death──no more questions. Appeasement, she thought irritably. She knew Irena had sent chocolates to the villa. Evzen, who was grinding on his dentures, had gone so far as to stand on the street and wave to the invaders that morning.

  Catching her breath, Ayna scanned the congregation for a strong face. But only faces of fear and dread stared back. Even the strapping Josef Novak, arm wrestling champion of the village for the last eleven years, appeared timid.

  How had they come to this?

  In the aftermath of the shooting, the people of Mersk had raised a white flag, embracing a riding-out-the-storm mentality. They fought back by tactics of name calling and tearing down road signs. Passive resistance. This was the extent of their discontent. Ayna had heard their warnings for days: don’t approach the soldiers on the street, don’t look them in the eye, don’t challenge the colonel’s authority.

  “A few nights ago, many of you groveled outside my bedroom window,” she said, her hands in fists. The more they insisted she sit, the louder she spoke. “You cried out, ‘long live Czechoslovakia.’ Then what happened? A single Russian bullet sent you running with your tails between your legs.”

  Their silence was an admission of guilt. Most of them hung their heads like ostriches poking their heads into the sand. For once didn’t they want to pluck someone’s eyes out? Isn’t that what their brothers and sisters were doing in the cities? When Jiri asked why the people were so angry, Ayna snapped at him, “Stop interrupting.” And she regretted saying this even as the words left her mouth. Deep inside, she was hurt by their accusations that she was cursed, that she was an outcast, that she was a Muslim, but she did not expect him to understand.

  Father Sudek stood at the pulpit. “Fighting fire with fire is never the solution to a problem. The Soviet Army is equipped with machine guns. They have plenty of ammunition. Don’t give them an excuse to pull the trigger. It will end with unnecessary blood
shed if we don’t cooperate.”

  “You are correct, Father,” Evzen said. “Cooperation is peace. Look what happened to Sascha.”

  “They will eventually go home,” the priest went on.

  “They always do,” Oflan agreed.

  Ayna looked across the aisle at Tad──the once proud and vigilant violinist──surprisingly defeated by Sascha’s murder. It appeared he, too, had thrown his convictions into the river. “And you?” she asked. “Was your friend’s death an act of self-defense?”

  “It’s complicated,” Tad said. His son and daughter clutched to his arms, cementing his body to the pew. “What would my children do without me?”

  Ayna huffed with frustration.

  Why did Sascha’s death move her to resist the Russians, while it sent every other villager back into their ancient hiding holes?

  Josef rose from his pew and bowed his head to the priest. “Father, we hear of resistance in Prague, in Pilzen, and in Liberec. Fourteen million Czechs are outraged. It’s true, Sascha was too aggressive in the way he confronted the Russians. You are certainly right to oppose fighting fire with fire. Yet I wonder, isn’t it possible for us to make some sort of a stand without raising a fist?”

  Ayna said, “Words will get us nowhere, Josef.”

  The townspeople booed and hissed.

  Verushka, a skeletal old woman in a headscarf, who had recently celebrated her 70th wedding anniversary to Evzen, leapt to her feet, shook a finger at Ayna, and said, “Who do you think you are?”

  “Fools.” Josef glared at the congregation. “Let the young woman speak.”

  Verushka spoke over him, “We used to burn girls like Ayna at the stake. Azerbaijani. Gypsy. Muslim.”

  Nadezda Sahhat stood with tight lips. “My daughter isn’t a Muslim,” she said, looking directly at Verushka.

  “Your daughter bears the curse of her Muslim grandfathers.” Verushka pointed her finger. “She has the Azeri blood. Those people pray to Mohammed.”

  Ayna restrained her frustrated mother by the arm. “Ignore them. It’s not worth it.”

  But Nadezda would not back down, and said, “Have you forgotten? Ayna was baptized in this church. Leave her be.”

  Father Sudek raised his hand to hush the parish. “I have been assured by the Bishop that this occupation will be short-lived.”

  “Short-lived?” Josef blurted. “Really? What is acceptable to us these days? The army never left the barracks. Not a single bullet was fired at the Russians. How is this defending the homeland?”

  “Didn’t we previously discuss this?” Father Sudek said. “How to avoid a slaughter?”

  Josef raised his voice. “Yes. But now comes word that even Polish soldiers are sleeping in Prague.”

  “You are half Polish,” someone reminded the baker. “Maybe three-quarters Polish, for all we know.”

  The people were becoming bellicose, hateful, and racist.

  Ayna placed her hands over her ears.

  “The Russians will shoot you, Josef.” Evzen threw a fist in the air. “If you make them mad, maybe they will come after me and Verushka, too.”

  “Ayna speaks the truth,” Josef pleaded. “We’ve struggled for years to have these freedoms. I have been to Prague many times. I have seen firsthand how we have torn free from Soviet grasp. What of free speech?”

  “My good friend,” Father Sudek said. “We have known each other for many, many years. Again, I must remind you, fighting would result in more foolish bloodshed. Let the fallen body of Sascha serve as witness.”

  “Father, if you tell me to do nothing, if you tell me to be peaceful, if you say to me, ‘Josef, today we are allowed to be angry, but we won’t fight because it isn’t worth dying for,’ if this is what you tell me, Father, then, I will obey.” The baker hesitated before taking a seat.

  Father Sudek nodded. “This is what I tell you.”

  Ayna leaned into her mother, putting an arm over the sobbing woman’s shoulders. She heard Emil whisper, “I’m sorry.”

  With tempers eased, Father Sudek held up a hand. “We must pray for Sascha. And for Zdenek Seifert’s release. Tonight I will send a letter to the Bishop seeking advice. Until then, we should remain calm. Let us honor the fallen and read from David.”

  BEDRICH STOOD in the square with a dustpan and broom. What was it they had called him, a heathen? He had no idea what that word meant, but guessed it had something to do with the fact that he no longer attended church services, wedding ceremonies, or funerals. He had also stopped handing out prayer sheets at the door on Sundays and refused for some months to be an usher. After years of sporadic attendance, which included several stints as an altar boy, Father Sudek patted him on the back one day, and said, “You are an adventurous soul. You have a difficult time sitting still at church. Don’t worry, the Lord will find you. You are the easiest of all the citizens to spot. You have a very large heart.”

  It was true. Bedrich was adventurous. He often spent nights alone at the derelict monastery, or walking in the countryside with the Holstein cows, or prowling on the rooftops. Once, in a nearby village, he had even pretended to be part of a construction work crew so he could sneak atop a roof with his Romanian Army binoculars to spy on a girl sunbathing in the nude. He loved girls, especially naked girls.

  He gripped the broom handle and cast his eyes on the cobblestones. While the organist played, and the people remembered Sascha’s life, he began to sweep the gutters and pick up cigarette butts and other trash near the fountain. He had already scooped a handful of rubbish into the dustpan when a screeching sound jolted through his ears. He shook his head, thinking the noise was buried inside his brain, the same way pond water got stuck in his ears when he swam. After another awful screech, he looked over his shoulder and spotted an iron monster, a creature with a red star painted on its skin, something the people called a tank.

  NOW WHAT? Ayna thought, shifting in the pew as Father Sudek spoke about the upcoming recital and informed the people that he would not invite the Russians to attend. Alarmed by the clanging bell, she lurched to her feet, took Jiri by the hand and whisked him toward the doors. Voices trailed after her steps, “Where is the cursed Azeri going?” and “What right does she have to disrupt the funeral?” and “Muslim.”

  Father Sudek raised his voice in an effort to maintain calm over the mourners. “Sascha’s light did not burn for very long,” he was saying, “but his light was among the brightest we have ever seen.” The people turned their heads and watched Ayna trample off. Josef stood and proceeded down the aisle, chased by Emil, and Oflan, and Pavel. The priest finally surrendered, hurrying into an exasperated “amen.”

  Her heart racing, Ayna pushed open the church doors only to find a Soviet tank abandoned on the street. Its long gun barrel was pointed at the steeple. She could scream in frustration. A tank in Mersk? She closed her eyes. Maybe when she opened them she would discover these awful days of occupation had been a nightmare.

  “Now they’ve done it,” the banker said, speaking over her shoulder.

  The mourners shuffled down the steps and surrounded the iron beast with curiosity.

  The street musician was playing the somber Blue Street Waltz on his accordion. Predictably out of key, she detected. He needed a good lesson or two. She had told him this many, many times. He was lazy and had acquired a decade’s worth of bad habits. It was why he played on the street by himself and not in a band.

  By the time Father Sudek joined the crowd, the bell had stopped ringing and the people were turning to him for answers.

  “Short-lived?” Ayna asked, thunder grumbling on the horizon. “Is that what you said?”

  “There must be a logical explanation,” Father Sudek replied.

  “Nothing is logical about any of this.”

  Oflan whispered, “It’s clearly a sign of the beast.”

  “Clearly,” Emil agreed.

  “Russians,” Josef spat on the ground.

  Some boys had climbed onto
the pear-shaped turret and were hanging from the cannon, caught up in a moment of fascination. Evzen attempted to chase them down.

  Father Sudek stood in anguish. “How could they park a tank in front of my church?”

  Josef snorted, and said, “You might better ask, ‘why have they pointed its gun at the steeple?’ They closed the doors once. Who’s to say they won’t close them again?”

  A few minutes later it started to drizzle. Josef snapped open his umbrella, keeping the priest’s head dry. The parishioners, chased by the musician, scurried inside the church.

  Emil said, “Do you really think they would close the doors again?”

  Father Sudek’s lips tightened.

  Oflan took a sip from his flask. “As the good Father has said all along, this isn’t our war. It’s Prague’s war. The progressives brought this disaster upon the people by throwing reforms too quickly into the face of the Kremlin.”

  “Regardless of who’s at fault,” Josef said, “this morning I witnessed Evzen waving to the soldiers. What’s next, eh? Playing a game of Taroky on Friday night? Someone needs to have a talk with him.”

  Enough, Ayna thought. Enough of their idle grumblings. These were the men she respected most. Unfortunately they were more interested in playing the blame game than doing anything to address the problem. She shook her head. Their wheels were spinning in mud. If not for the fact that she was so upset, she would have laughed at their grumblings, how they stood in the shadows while the Soviets gained a foothold over their lives with each passing day. She pulled the shawl over her head and walked away.