The Thin Wall: A POW/MIA Truth Novel

by R. Cyril West

  The fountain in Mersk had been a gift from the German town of Heidelberg in 1875, sculpted in memory of Elizabeth of Bohemia, nicknamed the Queen of Hearts. Before the plumbing broke, it was considered the most beautiful and possibly the most photographed fountain in the hills. However with the sluggish economy, repairs were deemed a low priority and over the years its surface became eroded with black weather stains and its pool turned green with muck water. Dal knew the moment he first set eyes on her embracing arms and angel wings that she would make the perfect place to conduct the book burning, his little surprise for the community.

  It had started at six o’clock in the morning, when people were startled in their sleep by neighbors pounding on doors──wake up, wake up, the colonel wants to speak to us. Whispers of Stalinism began to rush up and down the street. What was the colonel up to? Was someone about to be arrested?

  By 7:45 a.m., Dal was ready to speak. He was in full military dress with medals adorning his uniform. He sported sunglasses and stood tall in the back of the GAZ truck. Like directing a play of inept actors and stagehands, he spoke dramatically through a megaphone, ordering the villagers to assemble in the square. “This is mandatory,” he ranted. “All must comply. Workers. Mothers. Old. Young. Even the crippled must find a way to the square, be it limping, crawling, scooting, what have you. There can be no exceptions.” They were lethargic in the way helplessness brings, trickling from their homes with their heads hung, their shoulders slumped, unwilling to make eye contact. Within the hour, he was preaching about the ills of Western materialism, demanding that every citizen collect items banned by the Communist Party and bring them to the fountain. “We will conduct a search,” he warned. “House to house. If we find unapproved materials hidden inside your homes, you will be punished.”

  By 9:00 a.m., a massive fire fueled by rock & roll records, pop culture magazines and controversial books burned inside the fountain. A long line of people had gathered with their cherished property. Anything that spoke out against communism or stoked the minds of youth with absurd Western ideas like free speech and individualism was slated for burning. While the people stepped forward one by one and pitched their items into the blaze, Dal recounted the failings of the free market system and reminded each person of the class struggle, commending those who resisted least. He understood their complaints and how they felt about having their books destroyed. Even he would privately admit that the Party had gone overboard with its official list of banned authors. Many of the writers were up-and-coming. They were the fresh voices of Czech liberalism, the so-called “flowers” of the Prague Spring. Ota Janus, knowing who these voices were, had, at the last minute, added even more names to the list.

  Josef stood near the inferno, holding two novels defiantly in the air: Kundera’s groundbreaking novel, The Joke, a satirical account of totalitarianism; and Skvorecky’s sleepy novel, The Cowards, a sarcastic story that undermined socialism. “Kundera. Skvorecky,” he was saying. “These are important writers of our times.”

  “Are they so important,” Gurko asked, “that you would die for them?”

  The days had been full of apprehension and everyone wore the scars of dread, perhaps none more than the irate baker. “These books are like good friends,” Josef said. “The stories speak to us──to our souls.”

  “Friends?” Gurko examined him in a sort of mesmerizing craze. “What are you saying, old fool? Do you have conversations with your books? Do you drink beer with your books?”

  “It’s not what I meant.”

  “Ah, you Czechs romanticize everything.”

  “But our books─”

  “Your books are full of lies.” Gurko bullied Josef with a thump to the chest. “No wonder you have always been a conquered people. Your literature must be destroyed. There is no way around it. Skvorecky was banned years ago. I could throw you in jail.”

  “Banned? I didn’t know these books were outlawed. What possibly─”

  “Don’t ask questions, fool.”

  The altercation intrigued Dal. Of all the citizens, the baker had shown the most resistance to the book burning. He let the argument run its course, listening to the enraged man defend his novels as being inspiring, thought-provoking, and often humorous.

  “It’s insanity to burn books because they represent an opposing view of one’s beliefs,” Josef said, saliva spitting from his lips. On arm size alone, he seemed capable of pummeling Gurko.

  “Not insanity,” Gurko said. “Law.”

  After more squabbling, Oflan, who had been standing next to Josef, touched the baker on the shoulder. “Remember what I always say about picking and choosing your battles wisely? This, my good friend, is that time.”

  “Yes, dear brother.” Josef huffed. “But have you ever found a battle worth fighting? No. It’s always ‘that time’ with you. Always.”

  “Let’s go to the tavern,” Oflan said. “I’ll buy you a Budvar. No matter how much they scrutinize our new writers, we still have Kafka.”

  Dal took the books from Josef’s hands and tossed them to the fire. “It’s simple, nitwits,” he said loudly. “Throw your illegal paraphernalia into the fire and walk on. Now, who is next?” He waited for Emil to approach with his progressive leaning marionette plays, one of them titled, The Last Communist.

  Shortly after burning Emil’s literature, Dal began to walk among the crowd, his shoulders broad and strong. He eavesdropped. There were conversations happening in the square: a group of women gossiped over the mayor’s house arrest; the barber and several men from a nearby town exchanged news of the riots in Prague; and young people talked about Sascha Boyd’s death. A mixture of ranting and conformity droned in his ears, though it was nothing to be concerned with. In fact he was feeling satisfied with the way his soldiers had conducted themselves that morning when Tad stumbled into the crowd with his violin case.

  “Your war crimes have been documented,” Tad shouted.

  “Piss off,” Gurko said.

  Several bystanders, including the baker, attempted to calm Tad, until he broke away and confronted the sergeant. “What will the Writer’s Union say? Your book burning reeks of Nazism.”

  The temperature was pushing ninety degrees and the heat was cruel and unforgiving. Gurko lost his patience and without warning punched Tad in the face.

  Tad dropped to a knee, his nose gushing with blood.

  “War crimes?” Gurko yelled. “You fools are misled.”

  Josef placed a comforting hand on Tad’s back. “How could you?” he asked Gurko. “Have you no respect for humanity?”

  Villagers began to break from the line and younger Czechs loitering around the shops ventured closer, anticipating a fight.

  Dal had no intention of spilling blood on the street, so decided to intervene. “This is the wish of your government,” he lied, speaking eagerly into his megaphone. “I have no axe to grind with you. I am merely following orders.”

  Josef helped Tad to his feet. “Bullies. Why hit a man for voicing his opinion?”

  “Be wise . . . if you have any Western propaganda, including novels, Italian Fashion magazines or any rock & roll records such as Elvis Presley or The Beatles”──Dal waved a sheet of paper──“and if you are in possession of anything on the list of banned materials, it must be brought to the square.”

  Dal instructed Potapov, who had been keeping people in an orderly line with his rifle, to enter the church, to proceed to the custodial room where Bedrich lived, and confiscate the French pornographic magazine. It was no longer needed as a tool to purchase loyalty.

  In the ensuing hour, after Tad walked home a demoralized man, and Josef and Oflan went to the tavern for beer, while the books burned, the smell of fiery ink and paper smoke smothering the streets, everything remained orderly and oddly at peace.

  Dal lit a cigarette and glanced toward the church. Father Sudek was sitting on the steps with his head buried in his hands. He had witnessed the book burning without saying a word. His
behavior was a sort of unspoken consent. The priest, whether he realized it or not, supported Soviet policies by maintaining his silence. And perhaps it was for good reason: he had come too far in recent years and wanted to maintain control of his parish. In all likelihood he feared losing his church again. Still, many questionable books filled his library shelves──books written in opposition to atheism, to censorship, to land seizure policies. For the time being, Dal considered the historic church library off limits to further search and seizure tactics.

  He smoked, standing in approval of his decisions. While the book burning had brought many of them to tears, it had been for their own good. He understood his role as a defender of Marxism-Leninism principles. The citizens of Mersk were mostly uneducated farmers and shopkeepers. They lacked an understanding of real communism. They were oblivious to how the printed word could plant the seeds of anarchy in their vacuous minds. Many of their prized novels were full of anti-Moscow metaphors and cleverly written prose disguised to hide the underlying themes that spoke out against communism. True, for the most part they were naive to the divisive message spewed by the country’s intellectual authors; after all, as Josef had astutely pointed out, they read mostly for entertainment, to escape the doldrums, not to learn fresh ideas. But a seed was a seed. Whether they realized it or not, the seditious words of the country’s liberal writers had been planted somewhere in their cerebrum and were just waiting to blossom. Socialism with a human face? Where did it stop? He had simply intervened to save them from themselves.

  Watching the downcast priest for a moment longer, he sensed the holy man was fighting with his inner demons; a lonely man invaded by a sense of guilt, perhaps contemplating a life of regret. The priest clung to the old system, the wait-it-out approach that reeked of selfishness and quiet defeat. Dal decided to remove him from his list of troublemakers. So long as Father Sudek’s fight remained internal, the strength to lead his people in any meaningful revolt was unfeasible.

  Next he mentally checked the baker off the list. And why not? Any man whose voice could be silenced for the price of a beer was not an anarchist worth his time.

  This left only one troublemaker and she was watching from her second floor window.

  “People of Mersk . . .” He spoke into the megaphone, glaring at Ayna who stood thinly veiled behind the bedroom curtains. “You are a decent people. If anything, your role in the struggle has been misdirected by your public servants. You are victims. Pure and simple. Yet some of you resist. Some of you are making it difficult for your brothers and sisters to coexist with Moscow. I warn you. Resisting the will of Brezhnev, who has the unconditional backing of your leaders in Prague, will get you nowhere. Do not make others in the community pay for your blatant disregard of the law.”

  “Comrade, we have burned their books.” Gurko tugged on his arm. “Mission accomplished, no?”

  Dal shrugged off the sergeant, glaring back at Ayna’s window. She was gone. “The Azeri is pushing me,” he said irately to Gurko. “And I do not like being pushed.”

  “I understand, but the POW. We have lost focus and──”

  “Truth is, I had not anticipated a fight from the woman. She is trouble like her father. Mmm. I need a plan. I need something to once and for all squash this lingering voice of dissent.”

  The music shop was in Liben, a poor district of Prague located across a stone bridge, famous for being the birthplace of the operatic contralto Ernestine Schumann-Heink, born in 1861. The old brick building, known for its catalog of rare sheet music, was wedged between a floral boutique and a crowded Chinese restaurant.

  Milan parked next to a Soviet military motorcycle. He opened the car door and intentionally struck the side of the bike, almost knocking it over. He was seething: the abductions from Vietnam, the medical experiments, Dal’s lies. Standing in front of the restaurant while two Soviet soldiers walked by, he forced out a deep breath. Even knowing what he knew, what could he do about it? The government would throw him in jail if he spoke out against the war crimes. As he reached for the shop’s door handle, a poster in the window caught his attention:

  WE ARE IN A STATE OF CRISIS. UNITE!

  He stepped inside the shop and closed the door. The place stank of musty paper. A girl wearing horned-rimmed glasses was flipping through a bin of sheet music. Across the store, a young man with long hair and a mustache strummed an acoustic guitar.

  Milan proceeded toward the back of the long building, past the brass band instruments, until he reached the cellos.

  “Milan . . .” He heard a voice and looked over his shoulder. It was Philip Jagr, standing behind a glass counter. “How are you, my dear friend?” The overweight shop owner, gray with a single bushy eyebrow, wore a baggy tweed jacket with black trousers.

  “Good to see you,” Milan said. “I was in the neighborhood. I’ve been meaning to stop by. What’s new with you, old man?”

  “Another grandchild has fallen my way.”

  “More grandkids? How many does that make?”

  “I’ve lost track. Ten I think.”

  “Well, congratulations. Whatever the number is.”

  Philip pulled a pipe from his mouth and circled around the counter. Instead of shaking hands, they embraced and patted each other warmly on the back. It had been nearly three years since their last visit. Too many years, Milan insisted. And yet they picked up where they last left off, reminiscing about old soldier buddies and endless drinking binges. It was as though months, not years, filled the gap between their visits.

  “What are you doing here?” Philip asked.

  “Music.” Milan tapped his fingers on the counter. “I’m listening to Mozart these days.”

  “Mozart?”

  “And others. Dvorak . . .”

  “But you despise the classics.”

  “Not ‘despise.’ It’s more that I prefer Count Basie and Duke Ellington. Lately, I’ve taken to quartet music.”

  Philip poured coffee into a stained porcelain cup. “You look stressed. What is it?”

  “Nothing . . .”

  “The invasion?”

  “No.”

  “Work, eh?”

  “No.”

  “Finances?”

  “No.”

  “Ah, this is beginning to make sense. You’ve met a woman, haven’t you?”

  “C’mon, don’t start with me.”

  “What then?”

  “I’m taking cello lessons.”

  “Cello lessons?” Philip shook his head. “We fought the damn Germans together. Who knows you better than I? You would sooner hit your thumb with a hammer than learn to play the cello. Tell me, what’s her name?”

  Milan sighed. There was no use lying to his buddy. “Okay, if you must know, it’s a woman,” he confessed. “And she happens to be an exceptional cellist.” While Milan had never heard her play the instrument, he insisted Ayna was a genius. “And like many musicians living in the countryside, she longs to meet her counterparts in Prague.” He had learned this last bit of information from Emil, who had stopped by the clinic with his niece for immunization shots, and then informed him about the upcoming recital and Ayna’s talent for the cello.

  When Philip learned she was thin, and not plump the way he preferred his women, and after further prodding discovered her breasts were smallish and not jugular, he cast his doubts upon Milan’s love affair. “You shouldn’t make such a rash commitment,” Philip said. “The woman’s thinness is an obvious sign she can neither cook nor likes to eat. Both are deal breakers in my book.”

  After marveling over the glorious size of his wife’s breasts for several minutes, during which Philip compared them to everything from ripe melons to barrels of Budvar, Milan held up his hand, and said, “I don’t need your commentary. It’s actually very disturbing. You’re a sick man, Philip.”

  “Bah.”

  “I only want a cello case. And something exceptional.”

  “Oh, you must be hard-up for this woman.” Philip
disappeared inside a room behind the counter. From the open door, he went on, “Honestly, I am happy for you. Small breasts or big breasts. What do I know, eh? Love is love. It’s a good thing.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

  “Best of all, this is your lucky day, because I so happen to have a wonderful cello case from Hamburg. It has a plush rose lining that would melt any woman’s heart. Somewhat expensive, I admit. But for you . . . for a dear friend . . . I will offer you a ten percent discount.”

  “I had hoped for fifty percent.”

  Milan made sure none of the shoppers were within earshot, then with a subdued voice, he said, “So guess who I spoke to?”

  “I have no idea. Comrade Dubček?”

  “Try again . . .”

  “Comrade Novotny?”

  “You’ll never guess. Not in a million years.”

  “I haven’t any idea. But does your lady need strings? Y’know, the A string is easily over tightened. A cellist should always be prepared.”

  “Frank Stevens,” Milan said bluntly. “And yes, throw in the strings.”

  Philip returned, gripping the handle of a black cello case and a pack of strings. “I misunderstood. I swear you just mentioned the name of the devil.”

  “Can you believe it?”

  “You’ve gone mad.”

  “There’s trouble in Bohemia, Philip. Trouble like you can’t imagine.”

  “What have you done?”

  “Me? Nothing. But Frank asked for my help.”

  “Goodness gracious. What’s that sneaky bastard doing back in Czechoslovakia?”

  “The KGB have kidnapped . . .” Milan sighed. “Ah, forget it. The details aren’t important to you.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “I told him ‘no.’ I’m not in the game anymore.”

  “Good. Then you’re a smart man. You had me concerned.” Philip slapped the pack on the palm of Milan’s hand.

  “I’m surprised by your reaction. If anyone─”

  “Those days of espionage are behind me.” Philip spread his hands to praise his music shop. “I have all this to consider. Not to mention my wife. My children. My grandchildren. And you? You’re a good doctor with a decent life. Do you want to throw it away on a decade’s old promise to serve a country that left you in the cold?”