The Thin Wall: A POW/MIA Truth Novel

by R. Cyril West

  Before shoving Ayna into the back of the truck, Potapov handed him an album: Revolver, by The Beatles.

  “The other day,” Dal went on, “I demanded that all banned materials, including Western music, be brought to the public square for burning.” Dal brandished the illegal album toward Father Sudek. “It was a simple request, no? Something even a peasant could understand. However Miss Sahhat seems to have her own criteria of what should be on that list. Or perhaps she is illiterate like her mother?”

  Josef threw up his hands. “A rock & roll album?”

  “What harm could there possibly be in music?” Father Sudek asked. It was the first time he had raised his voice at the Russians.

  “Go. Have a look at our sacred fountain,” Josef said. “You will see Elizabeth of Bohemia’s wings are stained with black residue from the Kremlin’s list of banned books.”

  “You people . . .” Dal paused to give emphasis to his words. “You ungrateful people. You have backed me against a wall. You leave me with no choice but to defend myself these days. Is this Bohemian hospitality at its best?” He turned to the priest. “If not Ayna, perhaps the guilty party will finally confess to his act of vandalism, eh?”

  “I have spoken to everyone,” Father Sudek said. “We didn’t paint the swastika on your tank.”

  Dal ignored the comment, his eyes scanning the crowd until he saw Bedrich standing between the butcher and Irena. There was something both soothing and dangerous about the deformed little man. He seemed perfectly harmless, yet was the only person Dal was incapable of reading. Exactly what went on inside the imbecile’s head? Next, he noticed something curious: Bedrich was holding a mouse. He climbed from the truck to investigate, pushing his way past the bodies of onlookers. “What’s the story,” he asked, “with this rodent?”

  “It’s his pet mouse,” Verushka said. “He found it inside the church.”

  “A pet mouse?” Dal’s forehead wrinkled.

  “It’s limp,” Emil said. “Bedrich is nursing the mouse back to good health. One day it will crawl like other mice and be free again.”

  “He loves the mouse with his whole heart,” Irena said.

  Dal noticed how they seemed to shout their support more for the imbecile’s mouse than for Ayna. This was very, very strange. He waited for some moments longer to let their rumblings reach a point of near anarchy for Bedrich and his pet, before snatching the white rodent from his hand.

  “Love?” Dal glared broodingly at the blank-faced Bedrich. “What do you know about love?”

  “He is mute,” Oflan reminded the colonel. “Not a single word his entire life.”

  “He may be dumber than a box of rocks,” someone said. “However Bedrich does love.”

  “And he is respectful of all living things,” Emil added.

  Despite their insistence that he return the animal, Dal kept the creature in his hand. “This friendly mouse is your pet?” he asked Bedrich. The halfwit motioned with his hands to plead for the mouse’s safe return. “And you truly do love this mouse? As Irena has claimed?”

  “With his whole heart,” Irena emphasized.

  Making an awkward political reference that was clearly meant as a joke, a joke which drew no laughs except from Horbachsky, Dal said, “I hope this rodent is a good socialist.”

  “Please don’t harm the creature,” Father Sudek said. “I beg you for compassion. Bedrich has so few things in life to call his own.”

  Dal watched the mouse hobble across the palm of his hand. “Cute little bugger,” he admitted.

  “It’s harmless.” Emil smiled. “One of God’s creatures . . .”

  “Speaking of which, I had a puppy when I was a child.” Dal spoke in a friendly tone, as though in the tavern drinking beer and remembering good times with old army comrades. He reveled in the limelight, winking at the enraged Josef, who wanted no part in the dialogue and promptly turned away. Like a captured audience, almost everyone was glued to the colonel’s words, wondering what he would say next. “It was a Wolf-hound named Anna Karenina. For those of you who are illiterate, Anna Karenina is a character in a novel by the great Leo Tolstoy, which tells the tragic story of a married socialite and her affair with the affluent Count Vronsky. My Anna . . . Anna the dog that is . . . was a smart little bitch. In secondary school, I trained her to hunt pheasant. Someday I will tell you all about what farm life was like on the Volga, and, of course, about Anna.”

  Verushka said, “Then you’re an animal lover?”

  Dal wiped the sweat from his brow. “Guilty,” he said irritably. “I do admit to having a place in my heart for dogs. And why not? They are man’s best friend, no? But this rodent. You do realize it spreads disease?” The tone of his voice was no longer friendly. “It’s filthy like the Kurdish of the eastern Taurus mountains. Mmm . . . They are despicable people who wipe their asses with their bare hands. Did you know this?” There were blank faces. “As administrator of Mersk, I cannot allow your imbecile to jeopardize the public health by keeping a pet mouse. I apologize for this point of view, as I know it’s unpopular, but it’s the law . . .” Dal crushed the mouse in his hand, much like someone might crush a piece of paper before pitching it into a wastebasket. Then he dropped the bloody carcass into the palm of Bedrich’s hand. “And the law is the law.”

  People gasped. Some wept.

  Evzen, Verushka, and a few others quietly left the mob, going home, perhaps fearing more violence to come.

  “Have you people never heard of the Dark Ages? The Bubonic Plague?” Dal froze with the palms of his hands turned up, his shoulders slightly shrugged. “What sort of garbage do they teach you in your history books? A thousand years ago half of your Bohemian brothers died because of rodents. Now you keep one as a pet?”

  There was silence, except for a stray cough and Ayna grunting, trying to break free from Potapov.

  Dal saw a tear trapped in the corner of Bedrich’s eye, and raised a curious eyebrow. The glistening tear, much like fresh morning dew, reminded him of the inevitability of things to come. The village idiot was holding on to precious hope when all hope had been lost. “Your mouse is not coming back to life,” he said calmly. “Take heed, from death sprouts new beginnings. A fresh start. Look to the future, young man. Be bold.”

  “Poor Bedrich,” Irena said.

  Dal gazed across the square to Ota Janus, who offered a subtle nod of approval.

  And that was it.

  The crowd broke apart.

  People went home.

  Dal climbed into the truck and drove back to the villa. Behind him, Ayna squirmed, trying to escape from Potapov’s locked arms.

  Later, Dal received word that Zdenek Seifert had been flown to Moscow along with a handful of other political opponents of the regime. He took a moment to scribble a note to his superior, reminding him about the mayor’s poor health, and also verifying details concerning the Devil Dog operation. In five days, the documents and the POW would be transferred to fellow Soviet agents. Still, he was anxious. The rendezvous with the East Germans had been pushed back multiple times and he wanted to avoid further delays. He needed to put this operation behind him and move on with his administrative duties in South Bohemia. Each passing day felt like an unnecessary risk.

  He went outside and watched Horbachsky lead the POW in his daily calisthenics. They were in a sun-filled grassy place between a flower garden and the wall. The American, who wore a smirk, was faking exhaustion, pissing and moaning about having been pushed too hard to exercise, then doing his push-ups with his knees on the ground. “Comrade Whore-beef-sky, you’re killing me,” Johnston groaned mockingly. “What’s your problem, eh? Don’t you know? This goes against the rules of the Geneva Convention.” He did his jumping jacks with little effort, sticking his middle finger up at the Ukrainian when the soldier turned his back. It was disrespectful, though somewhat humorous, Dal thought, hiding his laughter. He eventually told Potapov to take over and returned to the library.

  Buried awa
y on the top shelf, Dal found a Russian translation of Homer’s epic poem, The Iliad. He blew dust off the cover and sat at the desk. This was one of his favorite works of literature. The story reminded him of the true heroics of war, where soldiers in battle dress entered combat in chariots and launched javelins and skirmished with sword and shield. He had always believed this was the way wars were meant to be fought; not with bombs, artillery strikes, or from the air, rather hand to hand, side by side, with brothers. He was romanticizing about the ten-year siege of the city of Troy, the most famous battle of ancient history, when a ruckus coming from outside the window distracted him. He went to the window and had a look. An angry mob had gathered at the gate to protest Ayna’s internment. The locals, nearly one hundred strong, were waving Czech flags and homemade banners.

  At once, his mind swept back to Budapest, 1956, to the brazen protests and desperate voices of indignant students who marched in solidarity with striking Polish workers. The KGB had moved quickly to silence the bold Hungarian dissidents; likewise, he would soon quiet these unruly Czechs, although they were proving to be more unyielding than he had initially given them credit for.

  He grabbed his KGB hat, stuffed a packet of cigarettes into his pocket, and with a tremendous sense of authority, stepped outside the villa and proceeded calmly toward the gate.

  He encountered Josef and several townspeople standing rigid with spade shovels and pitchforks. He noticed the boys, among them Jiri, buried in the throng of angry anarchists, yelling at the top of their lungs. Amused, he listened for a few moments to the collective cries of “Free Ayna” and “Russians are criminals” and “No Gulag in Czechoslovakia.” It was all so oddly beautiful, like the sweeping Mikhail Glinka, or better yet, the powerful Peter Tchaikovsky. If only he had a cassette recorder, he would love to record the chaos and replay the tape later when things settled down, for it was the type of pandemonium that motivated him, the unsung rewards that only a political officer could truly appreciate.

  He stood strong, holding his ground. All this ranting against the Soviet Union did little to persuade him; he was in control of their lives, more importantly their futures. The situation, Dal would note in his official daily report, was nettlesome. They had witnessed one of their fellow citizens killed, a tank parked in front of their church, and a book burning. He had been both methodical and iron-handed. If necessary, as was most often the case in these types of local uprisings, there was more punishment to come.

  He pulled a cigarette from a pack and eyed the crowd. What did they expect? That he would surrender? He peered at Father Sudek and Nadezda who stood in the front row. Everything he had read about these people, dating back to the 1800s when Napoleon used their church as a hospital for amputees, right up to Hitler’s occupation, and Stalin’s modernization, pointed towards weakness; they had the blood of their poor fathers, the blood of tired farmhands. And yet he failed to remember the last time when such an insufficiently organized community had been so pesky. Remarkable, really.

  He lit the cigarette and blew the smoke through his nostrils. Downplaying the obvious, he asked, “What is this uproar about?”

  “We have a grievance,” Father Sudek said.

  “Oh? Tell me.”

  “Concerning Ayna.”

  Dal recognized the stage was set for an important afternoon showdown. The people had rallied for the young woman’s wellbeing; now their voices needed a platform. This was the final wave of hysteria. This was the moment their bubble burst and they went home feeling defeated, yet somehow exonerated for putting up an honorable fight. Such was the life of a movement. He had seen many good-intentioned causes rise and fall during his career. This cause was no different.

  “It is unfortunate,” Dal said, “but I do not take grievances before noon.” He reminded them to read the sign posted at the gate, which detailed Soviet procedures for making complaints.

  “We aren’t happy with what has transpired in recent weeks,” the priest went on. “Especially since you soldiers arrived.”

  “Oh?” Dal said numbly. “Unhappy are we?”

  Father Sudek elaborated, “It’s inhumane to keep the innocent Ayna from her family. She isn’t your vandal. I swear by it.”

  “There will be no audience right now,” Dal insisted, “concerning Ayna.”

  “But the girl─”

  “Furthermore, the girl is not taking visitors.”

  Dal pointed down the road to the stone bridge and told them to leave the premises or face arrest. Despite the priest’s futile attempt to persuade him to release Ayna, or to speak with her, his face was firm, and he leaned menacingly into anyone who questioned his decision. When they grumbled about the Smetana recital and how much it meant to Ayna, he shunned their enthusiasm for the arts and challenged them to focus on their work, in particular those who were farmhands and laborers. He had gone over the productivity charts with the district leaders and seen firsthand that production was crumbling; the system was surviving mostly due to government subsidies. While he shared their passion for classical music, he also recognized their priorities were skewed. The time for musical gatherings was not today or tomorrow, he reminded himself. It was a privilege that needed to be earned, the result of good laboring by the workers, for the workers.

  Josef stepped forward and said, “We stand united for her release.”

  “United?” Dal pointed his finger at the crowd of onlookers. He noticed a fair representation of women standing in the mob. “Is this true? Are you united against the Soviet Union?” When no one supported the baker’s claims, Dal returned his attention to him. “Paper tigers,” he said with a grin and heard the people grumble.

  Father Sudek said, “Ayna has been looking forward to this musical event for nearly a year.” The lines of tension had gathered around his mouth. “Without her participation tomorrow morning, well, I’m afraid there can be no recital.”

  “Oh, you people are sick in the head,” Dal said, stepping close to the gate. “How can you think of the recital right now? Ayna is facing serious criminal charges, and you people speak to me of a recital? Are you really so selfish?”

  The priest gripped the wrought-iron bars, his expression contorted with blame. For once, Father Sudek looked his age, even older. As long as he remained their leader, the fledgling anarchists would stand behind him, regardless of his inability to draw blood. Dal sensed it was only a matter of time before they crawled to him and begged for his forgiveness, accepting that the military invasion, his presence in Mersk, everything that had occurred to this point, was about their liberation from corrupt ideas.

  “We celebrate and honor Smetana,” Father Sudek said.

  “You celebrate your own vanity,” Dal snapped.

  “Colonel──I want my daughter to come home.” Nadezda took Jiri in her arms. “Once you admired her strength. You wanted to protect my family from the Germans.”

  “And your point would be?”

  “She will be of no future annoyance to you or to your soldiers. You have my word.”

  “Perhaps you should have come to this obvious conclusion many days ago, when I first extended my hand of brotherly kindness to your family.” While speaking, Dal unbuttoned his collar and picked at the adhesive bandage covering the infected mosquito bite. He was feeling a headache coming on. “If I choose to return the young woman in time for your recital, it will be out of my utmost respect for the master Czech composer Bedrich Smetana──not to be confused with your silly imbecile of the same name.”

  Bedrich was standing on a boulder near the road, spying over everyone’s head with his army binoculars.

  “It would be a kind gesture,” Father Sudek responded. “Such a sentiment would go a long way in forming solidarity with us.”

  Turning to Horbachsky, Dal said, “Give them ten minutes to disperse. If they continue with this senseless protest, arrest them all.”

  “My daughter . . .” Nadezda wept. “Please, you must let her come home.”

  The p
riest stuck to the bars, unwilling to back down. Dal found his protest to be too little too late, and recited eagerly from The Iliad, “Hateful to me,” he began with a dramatic tone, “as the gates of Hades is that man who hides one thing in his heart and speaks another.” He brushed past Horbachsky and lumbered toward the villa.

  “Colonel Dal,” the priest yelled. “We demand you release the girl!”

  Evening had arrived without further protests. It was six o’clock, the hour for the piano works of Petrovich Mussorgsky and a tall vodka. And Dal, who often listened to Pictures at an Exhibition when he drank, was feeling buzzed. He sat in the library and danced without moving his feet, penciling in the day’s events in his log; he had crushed yet another uprising.

  He poured the vodka with a trembling hand and shot the liquor like medicine in order to ease the painful headaches and the throbbing behind his eyes. Dear Lenin, what had that damn mosquito done to him? Even his gums were bleeding. A good Russian doctor was in order. It was delusional to think otherwise. But as he had explained to Gurko, he would tolerate the pain for another week, tough it out like an old soldier. He had no other choice.

  At 8:00 p.m., Dal entered the POW’s room with a briefcase under his arm. He stood beside the bed, next to a chamber-pot and a boarded-up window. He took a moment to examine the prisoner. The sleeping man was locked in his leg irons and wore Soviet fatigues and a white t-shirt.

  “I feel for you,” he said. “Caught up in the politics, you, a soldier, should understand that this is the way the East-West game is played. Some men are kings, some men are rooks, and some men are pawns. Expendable.”

  Johnston opened his eyes with a jolt and scooted against the headboard. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “What now?”

  “Relax, comrade. I’m not here to interrogate you.” Dal caught a whiff of underarm perspiration, which flared his nostrils. The uniform needed a good washing──as did Johnston. “The time for questioning has long passed. Name. Rank. Serial number. Your generals back in the states would be proud of how stubborn you have been these last few weeks. I respect your sealed lips. What is it you Americans say? ‘Loose lips sink ships?’”