The Thin Wall: A POW/MIA Truth Novel

by R. Cyril West

  Father Sudek noticed her leaving, and asked, “Where are you going?”

  “To do a man’s work,” she said without looking back.

  “Man’s work?”

  “Yes. Someone must.”

  “But Ayna?”

  Walking down the wet street, she brushed past Bedrich just as he attempted to give her the blossom of a crushed iris from his pocket. “Not now,” she huffed. “Not now.”

  The walk gave her time to think. The colonel’s speech about standing together and cooperating for the common good was bogus. What had he claimed? That the Russians were there to “protect” them? What message of solidarity was he sending by parking a tank in front of the church? Considering they were at a funeral for a man he was responsible for killing, it was nothing less than a slap to the face.

  Then again, what did she expect?

  She had, Ayna realized, been waiting to confront Dal ever since his soldier shot Sascha at the square. Did the colonel think he could get away with coldblooded murder? Now a tank? She tucked her chin and walked straight to the villa without stopping.

  Horbachsky saw her coming and opened the gate with a twisted grin. “Hey sexy woman,” he said. “Want to fool around?”

  She stuck the palm of her hand against his chest and thumped him. “I demand to speak with your boss. If you don’t take me to him this second, I will kick you in the balls.”

  Ayna marched into Dal’s office and came to a standstill in front of his desk, rain drumming against the roof. She was drenched. Water dripped from her clothes and pooled on the floor. “I’m here,” she said, “to make a grievance.”

  Dal looked up from a stack of paperwork and sniggered. “Aren’t you aware? We have procedures in place for making grievances.”

  “I don’t care about your procedures,” she snapped. “I have something to say.”

  Dal leaned back in his desk chair. “Go on. What is it?”

  “The tank. You. Your soldiers. Everything.”

  Dal’s face showed no compassion, rather an arrogance that suggested he had more important things to do than listen to her complain. Worse, his cold mannerisms, the way he rolled his eyes and how he twirled a pencil between his fingers, reminded her of Ota Janus.

  “First you murder Sascha . . .” She squeezed the wet shawl in her hand. “Now this awful tank while we mourn his death. It’s an insult.”

  “Insult? Please. You are being a bit melodramatic, don’t you think? It’s only a tank. A T-62 to be exact, designed by the OKB-520 design bureau some years ago. The tank is actually a remarkable creature. Light. Mobile. Its outer shell resembles the T-55.” She glared at him while he scratched the mosquito bite on his neck. “Anyway, the timing is a matter of coincidence. If it bothers you so much, why not turn the other way? The rest of your clan has been cooperative thus far. I applaud them for meeting me halfway on the road to peace.” He leaned forward in the squeaking seat and swatted a mosquito with a flyswatter.

  “You have pointed the gun barrel toward our church,” she said. “As though prepared to blow a hole through the steeple. Wasn’t killing Sascha enough?”

  “I appreciate your concern for the community. You have moxie, young lady. It’s more than I can say for most people I have met in recent days. But listen, may I ask you a question? Why are Bohemian mosquitoes so damn big, eh? I have not seen insects this size since I was in Sri Lanka.” He slapped his neck, and then rolled the bloody mosquito guts between his fingers. “They seem to leave you alone. Why is that?”

  His nonchalant attitude irritated Ayna. When he attempted to speak, she roared over him. “Have you not heard a single word I’ve said?”

  “I know you are upset with what happened to your good friend.” Dal reached for a pack of cigarettes in his jacket. “So you know, I have reprimanded the soldier who pulled the trigger. He will be investigated. If found guilty of wrongful death, he will do time in a military prison. Of course, this is of little consequence to you, no? I understand Sascha Boyd was dear to your heart.”

  He was attempting to divert the conversation. “I want you to move the tank,” she persisted. “That’s all.”

  “Move the tank?” Dal inhaled a breath of smoke and let it slip through his nostrils. “Move the tank? You think it’s that simple?”

  “. . . it’s all I ask.”

  He pushed himself up from the desk and circled Ayna like a hawk. “You are different than the rest of the women in town. Why is that?”

  She smelled his awful tobacco breath. “I’ve come here to discuss the tank, nothing else.”

  “When I look at you, I see Paris, New York, Rome. Not fifteenth century. Not peasant.” He breathed onto her neck. “Pretty smells. Western jeans. A cosmopolitan outlook on life. How is it you are so different from the rest of the citizens?”

  “. . . the tank.”

  Dal placed the dirty flyswatter on her shoulder and traced it across her neck, leaving a smear of insect blood. Ayna closed her eyes, mortified. If she had any concern for her life, she should run.

  “Tell me. This curse you put on men. Does it date back to the time when you were sexually assaulted as a young girl?”

  This struck a painful chord. “That’s none of your business.”

  “They could not protect you from that in your church, could they?”

  “The tank,” she reminded him.

  “They call you l’enfant terrible of Bohemia.” Dal turned on his heels and went to retrieve a folder from a stack on the desk. He stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray. “It says so in your citizen documentation. It recalls the incident right here, and I quote from Mayor Astrom──mayor of Mersk during much of the 1950s──who writes, ‘Ayna Sahhat is a promiscuous young girl. At fifteen, the Azeri child brings much disgrace and humiliation to the village. Neither Nadezda Sahhat nor Father Sudek can control her immoral liaisons with older men. As proof, on the morning of September 29, 1954, she accompanied Ota Janus to the ponds, where the charitable teacher intended to expand her knowledge of the indigenous wildlife in the area. On this particular day, the couple engaged in consensual sexual relations. A later investigation by the police revealed that she did not resist Janus, rather had teased him, inviting his hand to touch her breasts.’” Dal put down the file. “Though you claim rape. Why is that?”

  Ayna looked resignedly at the floor beneath her feet. “I don’t want to discuss this.”

  “I’m not saying you’re a whore. I am simply reading what it says in the public records. Do I need to read the section titled ‘who is Jiri’s real father? Ota Janus or Daniel Herd?’”

  “No.”

  “But you were pregnant shortly thereafter?”

  “My boyfriend was Jiri’s father.”

  Dal pulled another cigarette from the pack on the desk, struck a match, and then returned his attention to Ayna. “I have heard of this curse of death you put on men. It’s intriguing to say the least.”

  “. . . again, the tank.”

  He moved to stand face-to-face with her, caressing her cheek with his hand. Like making a wrong turn into a bad neighborhood, she recognized the mistake of coming here and wanted to leave, except her feet remained nailed to the floor.

  “I could lower the cannon,” he said. “Or even move the tank.”

  “That would be a step in the right direction.”

  “But it would come at a price.” He placed his hand on her waist, his fingers tracing along her curves.

  She began to tremble and stepped away from him. “Don’t ever touch me again,” she said, the words stuck in her throat. “Or . . .”

  He was not the least bit interested in moving the tank, or even listening to her speak. He had an agenda. There was a plan in his head, as there must be a Soviet master plan to rule the country, and he would not stray from it. The people of Mersk would come here in droves during the next few weeks and months and maybe even years to complain, as they often did with the mayor, seeking ways to fulfill themselves. And he would preten
d to listen by giving them just enough scraps of attention to please them or make them feel like he had somehow made a difference in their lives, all the while tightening the noose around their necks.

  “Or what?” he asked.

  Ayna tried finding the words. Something to put him in his place. Anything. Even a few simple words, like leave us be. Instead, her mouth tightened, followed by a heaving, anguished breath, before she stormed out from the room.

  DAL HAD NARROWED the list of troublemakers to a few men: the most likely to oppose him were the priest and the baker. Dr. Husak, who had left the villa only minutes before Ayna arrived, was also a man to keep an eye on. But Ayna? He had never considered the skinny Azeri woman a threat . . . until now.

  He stood at the library window, hands tightly clenched behind him, and gazed down on the driveway. Ayna had already walked to the gate and was waiting for Horbachsky to open it. Her premeditated actions were alarming. She understood the risk of confronting him, nonetheless she had found the courage to speak her mind. He was aware of the red flags waving inside his head. She was the type of person who would be difficult to control with fear and with other tricks he had harnessed over the years to subdue the masses. He needed time to think about his next moves. Had he sent her away with a strong sense of authority? He suspected the answer was no. She was young, headstrong.

  He lit a cigarette and watched her proceed in the direction of the stone bridge, toward the steeple and the village further down the road. Bedrich was there, too. Hobbling behind her, his bum leg struggling to keep pace. They made an odd pair, he thought. The Beauty and the Beast. The imbecile’s affection for Ayna puzzled him. The fool. Then again, could he blame the village idiot for having sexual fantasies? For trying? He blew smoke. No. He could not. Even imbeciles must crave women now and then. Even imbeciles.

  At 8:40 p.m., Dal retrieved a file labeled Sahhat. For the next hour, he sat at the library desk with his cigarettes and read about the deadly events near the end of the war, which began on Christmas day 1944.

  Here is Father Sudek standing before his congregation. Faces worn down from years of war and hardship are staring back at him. When will it end? When will we be free again? The question is on everyone’s mind.

  Jesus, he reminds them. Jesus is the only one who can give us unshakable peace during Hitler’s unholy reign of terror.

  Just then an unfamiliar Roma woman enters the church. She is about thirty, dressed in rags and work boots. She places a loaf of bread on the floor, makes a sign of the cross, and then turns and rushes outside.

  Something doesn’t add up.

  Wait, where are you going? Father Sudek asks, chasing after her. He senses something. Sadness? Regret? Shame?

  Already the parishioners are gossiping in the pews.

  Dal flipped the page . . .

  Come back, Father Sudek is shouting to the woman. We must talk. But she is gone. She has vanished in a blanket of falling snow, into the nothingness that has become war-torn Czechoslovakia. He turns and discovers a bassinet on the steps. Did she leave it on purpose? He has a sick feeling. He picks up the wicker cradle and carries it inside the nave.

  Who was the woman? someone asks. Why did she leave a bassinet?

  The bassinet is covered by a wool blanket. Father Sudek kneels in the center aisle and has a peek beneath it. Just as he feared. A baby. An abandoned baby. The odd-looking newborn is smiling back at him. He unbundles the baby boy and holds him above his head for all to see. On this Christmas day, he says, a child has been delivered to us. The choir has sung Bedrich Smetana’s, “Ma hvezda,” so the priest names him Bedrich.

  The people are overjoyed.

  They weep.

  In the days that follow, rumors ripple across the village: Bedrich’s mother is an outcast Roma, a member of the gypsy population, and his father is the hated Deputy Reich Protector, a man solely responsible for the deaths of dozens.

  By then the weeping has stopped.

  By then there is fear.

  Dal poured himself a drink. A Roma. A Nazi. Were Bedrich’s parents a match made in hell? Like reading one of Chekov’s masterful short stories, he turned the page with excitement, longing for answers. There was more, much more . . .

  Days of nonstop searching follow. Where is the mother? Why did she abandon her baby? Is it really the Deputy Reich Protector’s son? Finally the violinist Alasgar Sahhat tracks the mother down at a vegetable farm by the lake. She is a house slave serving the German officers at a nearby garrison. It’s the lowliest of jobs. She carries the shame with her. In her eyes. In her heart. In the way she hangs her head. It’s the kind of disgraceful job no one wants. But a task one must carry out to avoid punishment or death.

  I had a secret affair with the Protector, she admits. My husband is gone. Fighting in the war. Or maybe he is in a concentration camp. I don’t know. But I was lonely. And very frightened. Then the German entered my life.

  I see, Alasgar says. Tell me more.

  At first, he was nice to me. He gave me gifts. Perfume. Jewelry. Best of all, a job in the kitchen. It was more than I deserved for being a Roma. More than I could’ve hoped for. You see, it would not be proper for him to be seen with a Gypsy, so we kept it hushed.

  But the baby. Why give him away?

  Because, she says, a mystic has warned the Protector of his own doom. That he will die a horrible death by shellfire if he doesn’t find and slay his deformed son. She cries. She has been beaten in recent days. A bruise on her face has left the impression of a hand slap. I don’t love my baby, she moans. Not like a mother should love her own child, but I don’t want him to die either. The Protector came here. I broke. Mersk, I told him. Go to Mersk.

  Coldhearted, he thought. Although it made sense. Really, it did. She was simply trying to protect her baby.

  Then it’s Spring. 1945. A Friday. The Deputy Reich Protector arrives to the village with a squad of soldiers. Don’t deny a father his own flesh and blood, he warns. We are in this fight against the evil Allies together. If you bring the baby to me, I will reward the entire village with a feast. German. Czech. We are like bloodbrothers. Come now. Let’s put this little misunderstanding to rest. Let’s feast.

  But they don’t listen to him. The people have already fallen in love with Bedrich. He has become their shining star during hours of darkness and despair. They are aware of the prophecy. That the Nazi plans to slaughter his son. So they pass him from farm to farm, house to house, keeping him from the German soldiers. For strength, they congregate in the church and pray that the Protector will eventually go away.

  Trouble. If they rebelled once, they could rebel again. Dal noted his concerns on a pad of paper. Since 1944, many of the influential townspeople had grown old and died. Nevertheless, many of the resilient citizens, like Josef, Emil, and Oflan were still living.

  Instead of moving on, the irate Protector returns the following week. Where is my baby? he asks furiously. He orders his soldiers to ransack the village. And the nearby farms. And arrest random bystanders. He no longer speaks of a feast, rather instructs his soldiers to beat several men. Still, he doesn’t find Bedrich.

  The next morning, the Nazi orders the citizens to assemble at the square. His soldiers are holding the townspeople at gunpoint while he paces back and forth. The lies, he bellows. The lies must end.

  The villagers lower their heads and pretend ignorance, fearing the punishment to come. How ruthless could he be? Would he kill someone? Then suddenly the Nazi grabs Father Sudek by the neck and thrusts a Lugar into his temple.

  One last time──the baby?

  Alasgar is standing next to Nadezda and their four-year-old daughter, Ayna. He kisses Ayna, then places her in Nadezda’s waiting arms. Cover her eyes, he says. Don’t let her see this.

  He steps from the crowd and approaches the irate German officer. I found your baby, he claims. It’s true. But I gave the deformed child to gypsies passing through the village. Now the gypsies are gone, traveling like gypsies do
.

  Dal took a deep breath and leaned back in the chair, thinking of how fearless Ayna had been today. Her father’s courage lived in her blood. As a clock struck, he mashed the stub of his cigarette in the dirty Charles IV ashtray and returned his eyes to the final page of the document.

  Gypsies? The Protector shakes his head in disbelief. More lies. You have made a serious mistake by attempting to deceive me, he says. He shoots Father Sudek in the leg, then grabs Alasgar by the hair and drags him to the fountain.

  Where is my baby?

  Nadezda turns away, shielding Ayna from the violence.

  The Protector gives the defiant Alasgar six times to confess, shouting, no gypsies, no gypsies, no gypsies, no gypsies, no gypsies, no gypsies. He thrusts Alasgar’s face into the water, holding it longer with each shout, until the sixth time, when bubbles swarm the water’s surface and he lets go of the lifeless body.

  A week later, the fighting erupts north of the lake. The two-day artillery barrage forces the citizens of Mersk to evacuate. When it’s done, and sightings of the Americans begin to spread, the Protector never again returns to their village.

  . . . the people assume the mystic’s prophecy has come true. That the tyrant was killed in battle.

  Dal closed the file. A dangerous shadow loomed over Mersk. Not only Ayna’s resistance, but that damn farmer who claimed the Soviets had done him wrong. He called for Gurko. “I want him checked out,” he told the sergeant, standing at attention in front of the desk. “There are holes in his story.”

  “You doubt his produce was confiscated by our troops?”

  “I’m not sure what I believe.”

  “What then?”

  “A hunch.”

  “Do you care to elaborate?”

  “Let me explain something . . .” Dal blew hot cigarette smoke through his nostrils. “As you know, I am well studied in the performing arts, both in literature and on the stage. Had it not been for my calling to Mother Russia, I would have been at the forefront of the Moscow theatre.”

  “You are considered a fine actor,” Gurko said. “The most respected actor to have served in the Soviet Armed Forces.”