The Thin Wall: A POW/MIA Truth Novel

by R. Cyril West

  The home smelled damp, the result of a leak in a corner of the ceiling where the plaster had peeled away. He knew the buildings in the hills took a beating from the rain and the snow. Like most structures, they were full of charm from the street view, but inside, in the attics, behind the walls, there was much maintenance to be done; many of the buildings, he suspected, were simply rotting away due to the economic downturn of recent years that prevented people from making needed repairs. He felt nauseated and tugged on his collar to get fresh air. Though the mosquito bite on his neck no longer bled, it had a bluish discoloration and he feared it was fungus-infected.

  “Your government has made some poor decisions,” he said. “Comrades Dubček and Svoboda are disillusioned public servants. They do not have your well-being or the best interests of the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic in mind.”

  “I don’t read the newspapers,” she admitted.

  “Yes, of course,” he concurred. According to records at the villa, she was illiterate. Nearly half of Mersk was ignorant, having no formal education beyond grade school. In the last hundred years, a handful at most had studied at the university. “Can’t say I blame you for avoiding the newspapers. Except for Pravda and Rude Pravo, they are mostly sprinkled with lies.”

  “So I hear.”

  Dal took a moment to examine his cut lip in a mirror near a window, the result of the scuffle with the anarchist Sascha Boyd. He wore the wound like a medal of honor, proof of his unwavering commitment to Mother Russia. “I am thinking of the unfortunate incident the other day. The young man . . . Sascha.”

  “The boy had an ego the size of Siberia.” The kettle gave out a sharp whistle. “He should’ve known better than to spit in your face. Shame. These kids today have no self-control.”

  There were many photographs in the room, mostly of her husband and Jiri. But of Ayna? His eyes searched, eventually finding a black and white photo of her on a shelf near a vase with plastic flowers. He picked up the photo of Ayna straddling her cello. Lovely. He glanced over a shoulder toward the stairs and began to wonder what the young woman’s bedroom looked like, what her sheets smelled like.

  “Ayna has your beautiful eyes.” Dal set aside the frame. “Deep, like an ocean of mystery.”

  With this flattery, Nadezda appeared from the kitchen with a teapot and tray of ginger cookies. She deposited the items on the table and took a seat. “My eyes, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate the compliment. Were you offended by how she confronted you at the villa?”

  “No. Though I admit, her fire caught me off guard.”

  “Don’t take it personally. Like Sascha, she is young and thinks she has all the answers to the world’s problems.”

  “I might have been a bit harsh.”

  “An apology isn’t necessary.”

  “She asked that I move the tank,” he said, joining her at the table.

  “Oh?”

  “It was bold of her. I was impressed by her courage. In fact, I have sent a request to Prague. I requested permission to withdraw the tank. Is she home?” He knew Ayna was gone for a few hours. “I would like to inform her of this exciting development.”

  “She’s at her cello lessons. I’ll share the good news when she returns.”

  “I would appreciate that.”

  They sipped the spicy tea without speaking. The silence was awkward, although necessary. She needed time to come down from the emotional high and accept the reality that she was sitting at the table with a Russian, a man who had given her flowers.

  “My husband . . .” The words died when they passed through her lips.

  Dal shook a cigarette from a package. He lit it while looking at his hostess with compassion. “I know. The village journal describes his horrible drowning at the hands of the Nazis.” He blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “I was moved by what I read, how he heroically stood up to the Deputy Reich Protector to save the imbecile’s life. How could the Germans be so cruel, eh? How could they drown a decent man in cold blood?”

  “It’s painful to remember that day.”

  “I understand.”

  “He was a warrior . . .” There was a vacant expression on her worn face, and her eyes had a faraway look in them. “That’s how those people are in the East. The men aren’t afraid to stand up for their beliefs, even if it means sacrificing their lives.”

  “I am familiar with their impressive warrior mentality.”

  “Don’t misunderstand me, he was also gentle and made me feel like a woman.”

  Dal suspected it had been years since she last opened her heart to the memories, instead choosing to shut the door on that chapter of her life, suppressing the pain, maybe even harboring some guilt for the drowning. He wondered if his wife loved him this way. If Grigori Dal died today, would his Olga think fondly of him in the years to come?

  “Your husband Alasgar was an accomplished violinist, no?” Dal pushed the conversation toward reverence.

  “The most talented violinist in Bohemia,” she said. “He charmed me with Pachelbel, with Ravel, and with his Dvorak. I could listen to him play for hours.”

  “Did he play in the symphony?”

  “In Baku.”

  “Wonderful.”

  She was simple, so typically country. Her reflections of a lost love had a numbing effect on him. He leaned back in the chair and sipped his tea. The sweet aroma reminded him of the lazy tea lounges of East Java, where he often vacationed with his family. While she spoke, his attention began to drift and he recalled a Kenyan economist he had befriended some years ago at a hotel in Bali. The man, who was married to a white woman from America, had offered to take him on safari. The couple had had a baby together──born in Nairobi──and schooled by the mullahs of Jakarta. Though older, Nadezda reminded him of the man’s wife. Maybe it was the interracial aspect of the marriage, that their children were the offspring of Muslims. Something.

  “I haven’t spoken of my dear husband for many years,” Nadezda said, sipping her tea without looking at him.

  “Oh, I suppose you must have longed for companionship. I admire how you have lived your life devoted to a single love. I am truly humbled by your presence.”

  “How is it you know me so well?”

  “We are simply sharing this moment in the way people often reflect and search for meaning in life.”

  Nadezda thanked him for being a good listener. When he asked about Ayna’s sadness for having never known her father, she explained, “It’s been difficult. As you know, a father’s love can’t be replaced. Worse, I confess, I’ve been a disciplinarian. I’m hard on her at times. When I see her face . . . I see his face . . . and I’m reminded of the pain.” She heaved a deep breath. “I know, I know, it’s not fair.”

  “You are blessed with family, your daughter, your grandson. There is much to look forward to in the coming years.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Nadezda . . . you must question why I am here?”

  “It has crossed my mind.”

  He took a long drag on his cigarette. “If the truth be known, I’m afraid for things to come,” he said. “At some point, once socialist order has been restored in South Bohemia, I will move to an office in Ceske Budejovice. After I am gone, different soldiers will come here. This has me concerned.”

  “Different?”

  “The East Germans.” It was a lie. He knew much of the German Army had already pulled back to their borders.

  Nadezda snapped, “We don’t like the Germans, colonel. They’ve left a bad taste in our mouths. To this day, many mourn the deaths of their loved ones at the hands of the Nazis. If you must send someone, why not send the Bulgarians?”

  “Like the decision to move the tank from your church, it’s not in my power to control what happens or when. You see, I am a little man following the orders of a much bigger machine. However as long as I oversee the affairs of these hills and river valley, I will look out for
the workers of Mersk, in particular the good people like you.” Dal blew smoke through his nostrils. “Your beautiful daughter, well, to be honest with you, she will attract the eye of many lusting officers.”

  “The Germans are pigs.”

  “They are fierce aggressors. Responsible for two world wars.”

  “And savages,” Nadezda added.

  She was right. Savages. Though it was not necessarily a negative way to describe the proud German people. They came from strength, he recognized, not weakness. “I can protect this home. I can keep the soldiers away from your front door. Away from your daughter.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Ah, maybe this was a bad idea.” Dal mashed his cigarette in the ashtray. “My apologies. I have crossed the line.”

  She placed her hand on his hand. “What’s on your mind?”

  Dal faked a sigh. “Nadezda, I confess. I am quite taken with your daughter. In particular with her courage to confront me. Unfortunately, courage alone cannot save her from the possible danger to come.”

  “Danger?”

  “From the Germans.” His friendly face masked his lust for Ayna.

  “Oh, what are you getting at?”

  “With your blessing, I would like to take your daughter on a picnic. I want to explain things . . . explain how I can help your family during these dangerous times. Help Jiri.”

  While Nadezda stirred sugar into her teacup, he listened to the roar of the armored troop carrier’s engine on the street and knew his soldiers had dropped cardboard boxes in the square. Inside the boxes were red and white football uniforms, the colors of Bohemia, just what her grandson had requested. Dal waited for her to respond, all the while imagining the boys tearing jubilantly through the boxes.

  “Other than protecting Bedrich from the Nazis, we have always been a cooperative family,” she said. “Even when the communists closed our church, we did nothing to stop them. What is good for the peace is good for the Sahhat family.”

  “Then it is simply a matter of siding with those who mean you well. The savage Germans might not be so, well, they might not be so sensitive as I am.”

  THE SQUARE was a bustling marketplace by the time Ayna walked back to the village. Farmers, about twenty of them from the cooperative, sold their eggs, cheese, fruits and vegetables from flatbed trucks. Heaped out on the cobblestones were green watermelons and bags of rice. She stepped among a bleating of sheep and goats, careful of the cello, and purchased some berries from a friendly farmer who had been her father’s fishing buddy.

  It seemed strange not working today, or yesterday, or the day before that. She had taken time off to prepare for the recital. Emil had insisted she have a few days to herself. It would do some good. Of course, she jumped on the offer to rehearse and not sell tickets at the theatre or control one of the marionettes during a show. Emil was one of the few people who supported her farfetched dream to play in the Prague Symphony Orchestra. He even paid for the cello lessons.

  Ayna crossed the street and started for the library. She had a book on hold, The Life of Richard Wagner. She had ordered the biography a month ago from the library in Pilsen and could not wait to get her hands on it. She stopped at the town hall, noticing the doors were locked with heavy chains. Why did Colonel Dal do this? A sign in bold letters read: NO MEETINGS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. She glowered. What would the Russians close next? The library? She found a watering can and watered a flower basket hanging from a nearby streetlamp. Against the backdrop of war, the beautiful petals, yellows, purples, pinks, were a reminder of happier times. With all the violence in the country, and the sudden discovery of these chains, their pleasant smells were a welcome gift to her senses.

  But happier times? Could she actually pinpoint a time when she had been happy? With Peter, of course. Yes, Peter. And, Jiri made her happy, but that was different.

  She walked in the middle of the narrow street, beneath the clear sky. The sadness she had felt in recent weeks, the slowing of her heart and the depression that came with it, had grown less in recent days. Then it dawned on her, something to be happy for: the Soviet MiGs had been silent for the last 24 hours.

  “How is the quartet?” a middle-aged woman asked. She was hanging laundry over a balcony. “I hear you have found a replacement for Sascha’s violin.”

  “Yes. A high school student. She’s brilliant.”

  “Sascha would approve.”

  “I know.”

  “Keep practicing. You know what they say. Practice makes perfect.”

  “It does, Mrs. Nemec,” Ayna replied. “All things considered, we are more than ready for the judge.”

  “Tell your mother we must have tea. And celebrate.”

  “I will.”

  From a block away, she heard the street musician pushing on his accordion, then something else──boys shouting? She gripped the shoulder strap and pressed on. At the hardware store, she turned into an alley and found Bedrich on his knees, wearing a dunce cap on his head. With horror, she saw Jiri and his friends pointing their fingers and laughing at him.

  “Jiri,” she yelled, “what do you think you’re doing?” She took him by the arm and led him to the halfwit. The rest of the boys trampled off.

  “Sorry,” Jiri said.

  She shot her son a disgusted look. “That’s no excuse.”

  “I won’t do it again.”

  She tore the dunce cap from Bedrich’s head and threw it in the street. “You’re safe,” she informed Bedrich. “The boys are gone.”

  She made Jiri say sorry three times.

  Bedrich gave a crooked smile. If he had the sense to stand up for himself and punch someone in the nose, it would likely put an end to the perpetual harassment. But even as Jiri apologized for being a bully, Bedrich seemed more concerned for the safety of a white mouse inside the cage he was holding. When he hobbled away, she noticed the boys had taped a piece of paper to his back──RETARD.

  “If you tease him again, I’ll . . .”

  Like a lobster, she pinched Jiri’s ear and led him briskly down the street, past women who commented “he deserves a spanking” and “hooligan.”

  She turned at the bank building, and then crossed the street by the clinic, circling back to her home. Her frustration intensified when she arrived at the front door and saw the people huddled next to the Soviet truck. She knew right away something was wrong. How many had gathered, ten? Fifteen?

  “What’s going on here?” she asked, wanting them to go away.

  “Your mother is fraternizing with the enemy,” Verushka said, nose turned up. “I saw the whole thing. She accepted a bouquet of flowers from him.”

  “We would expect nothing less from your family,” someone added.

  “Leave,” Ayna demanded, letting go of Jiri’s ear. He held a jersey, number 9. “Mind your own business.”

  Throwing a palm to silence their insults, she burst inside the home and set aside the cello.

  An irate Evzen shouted, “Collaborators,” as she closed the door and sighed. Collaborators? The accusation was simply untrue.

  She shut her eyes and counted to five, the way she did when she stubbed her toe or slammed a window on her finger. She leaned, put all her weight against the door and tried to ignore Verushka and company who were still breathing the hateful fires of yesteryear.

  “What’s wrong?” Jiri asked.

  “Nothing.” No time to explain.

  She came alive with the sound of the colonel’s voice. Why was he in her home? Had he come to make an arrest? Her heart was like a war drum, beating, beating, beating, calling her to battle.

  “Go to the bakery,” she told Jiri. “Find Josef. Stay with him until I come get you. And don’t talk to any soldiers along the way.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Be careful,” she said. “And remember my instructions. Don’t talk to them. Ever.” She pushed him out the door, past the hecklers, though not past the life-long reminders that she did not belong in Mersk.


  Turning her attention upstairs, Ayna heard her mother say something about the marionettes. And Dal replied, “Lovely.”

  Now the irritation hit hard.

  She placed a hand on the banister. Were they actually in her bedroom?

  She took a deep breath and pulled herself together. As she climbed the stairs, her mind relived that awful moment at the villa, when he groped at her waist and breathed onto her neck. She thought about his arrogance, his smug confidence. The colonel was accustomed to getting what, and who, he wanted. She should have slapped him in the face.

  At the top of the stairs, she smelled his blue cheese scented aftershave and quickly walked to her bedroom.

  “You’re home early,” Nadezda said with surprise, as if caught red-handed.

  “My lesson was canceled.” Her mother had gone without makeup since the town’s Christmas party. So why the lipstick today? She must be flirting with the KGB mongrel. Ayna felt disgusted. Her mother had done more than raise a white flag, she had courted the enemy──perhaps collaboration was a possibility.

  “Too bad it was canceled.”

  “Why are you in my bedroom? It’s off-limits to you.”

  “I was just showing the colonel around our home.”

  Dal breathed cigarette smoke over the pages of her diary. “Hello,” he said, closing the cover.

  “And why are you reading my diary?” Ayna snatched the book from his hands. She was more angry than embarrassed by what he might have read.

  Dal examined her from head to toe, pausing on the bandage wrapped around her knee. “You are an impressive writer. Your inner voice is reminiscent of the poetic Marina Tsvetaeva.”

  “And you would be a literary critic?” Ayna heard the cynicism in her voice, a good mimic of her mother’s. One of the few genes she had passed along.

  “Accept it as a compliment.” He pointed to her record collection, an album by The Beatles. “On the other hand, you have peculiar taste in music for a classically trained cellist.”

  “First of all, I’m not classically trained. I’m self-taught. I appreciate all types of music: classical, folk, pop, rock. I like to keep an open mind.”

  “Well, I am out of touch with this western fad called rock & roll. The politburo frowns upon its existence. Between the loud drums and the obnoxious electric guitars, it hurts one’s head.” The colonel thought he was being funny, maybe even charming. “Personally, I have always preferred the breathtaking cannons of Tchaikovsky’s War of 1812.”