The Thin Wall: A POW/MIA Truth Novel

by R. Cyril West

  “Yes. But I have the element of surprise working for me.”

  “You against five armed soldiers? No. Bad idea.”

  “Four armed soldiers,” Milan corrected him.

  “How do you figure?”

  “The colonel will be attending your recital this morning.”

  “True.”

  “That leaves four men at the villa.”

  “A valid point. Even so, you against four armed soldiers is equally suicidal.”

  “I’m willing to take that chance.”

  The bewildered priest rubbed the back of his neck. “Say you somehow pull this rescue off and reach the border, what then? Returning to the United States and starting a new life won’t be easy.”

  “My plan is to deliver the American to agents at the frontier crossing. They’ll get him safely into Austria. I’m confident of this. But so you know, I’m not fleeing the country.” Milan had told the Austrians he was “coming over.” In reality, he had no intention of leaving without Ayna. “In all the insanity of these last few weeks, I’ve somehow managed to get involved with a woman.”

  “I noticed,” Father Sudek said, wearing a hint of a smile. “You and Ayna make a fine couple. It’s been years since I’ve seen her this happy.”

  “She’ll be let down when I don’t show up for the recital today.”

  “You make a valid point.”

  “I don’t want to ruin her concentration.”

  “Don’t worry. She’ll be fine. The quartet is ready. Ayna is mentally prepared.”

  “Just in case, will you give her the flowers? Tell her I’ve been called to Prague. For an emergency meeting.”

  “You’re getting me involved with your lies.” Father Sudek cleared his throat and walked to the bookshelves. Milan followed. “People turn to me for the truth, doctor. Not lies.”

  “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “So you know . . . I’d like nothing more than to see the Russians fail.” The priest stood on a short ladder and reached for a wooden box on a shelf. The box was wedged between a row of woodworking books and his Encyclopedias of Christian Faith. A subtle, devious expression crossed his face as he carried the dusty box to his desk and unlocked the tiny padlock. “Here, have a look at this incredible thing . . .”

  Inside the box was an automatic pistol, a Steyr-Hahn, manufactured by Waffenfabrik Steyr in 1911. The Austrian weapon was wrapped in purple velvet with a ribbon and silver cross tied to its trigger.

  “It’s beautiful,” Milan said.

  “I dislike guns and weapons. It’s just . . . this historic pistol is special.”

  “How special?”

  “Decades ago,” the priest went on, “after the Great War, the pistol rested on a conference table in Paris. It was during a round of heated negotiations shortly before we proclaimed our independence. The Steyr-Hahn represents our ability to stand on our own. A friend smuggled it out of France.”

  “Some secret you have, Father.”

  Father Sudek placed the gun in Milan’s hands. “It was cleaned and fresh ammo purchased two years ago so it could be fired on the 50th anniversary of the Armistice.”

  Milan examined the pistol. The Steyr-Hahn had a reputation for dependability and felt snug in his hands. He grabbed the stripper clip from the box and loaded eight bullets.

  “I promise you,” Milan said, “when this is done, no more lies.”

  He inserted the clip into the gun, shoved another clip into his pocket, and then headed for the door.

  He drove to the stone bridge and parked on the side of the road. From the trunk of the Škoda, he grabbed a can of motor oil, an empty wine bottle and a hose he had stolen from Oflan’s garden. He sliced a short length from the hose and quickly siphoned gasoline from the fuel tank, filling the bottle halfway. Memories of making Molotovs, and blowing up tank treads, and destroying German outposts, rushed back to him. He poured motor oil into the bottle, jammed a stopper on top and put the homemade bomb in his backpack along with the gun.

  After scrambling down the embankment, Milan footed through the creek and dashed toward the drainage tunnel beneath the bridge. When asked for details, the mayor had told him to follow the tunnel to the T. Then turn right and walk three-hundred-and-forty-eight paces, he had said. There is a wooden hatch in the tunnel’s ceiling. The secret way in, the secret way out.

  He gave himself an hour to rescue the Marine. But would Sergeant Johnston even be in the room?

  Milan trudged on.

  The tunnel smelled like urine and excrement. It was crawling with rats living in the heaps of garbage and debris that had built up over the years.

  Hunched over, he sloshed through the ankle-deep water, using the flashlight to find his way in the cold blackness. Left and right the walls were elaborately covered with graffiti, Christian symbols, anti-Hitler obscenities, and love messages dating back to 1848 when Czechs convened the first Slavic Congress.

  With every step the temperature dropped and his adrenaline surged. Milan pressed on until he came to the T and counted the paces to the exact location where his flashlight illuminated the wooden hatchway.

  He grabbed the handle and pushed up. But there was trouble: the damn thing was locked.

  “WE’RE DOOMED,” Tad said. “And with a capital D. Why? Because the judge looks like an arrogant bastard. He won’t like us.”

  “Schell?” she asked.

  “The illustrious judge Eric von Schell. The schmuck who will decide if we are worthy of a ticket to play at the national festival in Prague.”

  The white-bearded judge wore a 1930s-era suit with matching shoes. Sitting in the front row, he leaned into an ebony walking cane and glanced impatiently at his watch.

  “Oh, concentrate, silly.” Ayna waved her bow. “Mr. Schell is a genius. From Leipzig. He can hear another pianist play a complicated piece and duplicate it exactly from memory, without ever having heard or played it before.”

  “Ah, yet another German genius.”

  “How many geniuses do you know?”

  “None.”

  “She makes a valid point,” Oflan said. “Never question the wisdom of a genius.”

  “End of discussion,” Ayna said. “You should be concerned with your solo. We’re betting everything on your moment in the spotlight. Are you ready for this?”

  “For goodness sake, why do you ask?” he said defensively

  “Because Mr. Schell is notorious for walking out on lazy violinists.”

  “Lazy? You think I─”

  “You’re not focused,” she said. “That’s when you get into trouble with your violin.”

  With Sascha’s death, Tad’s beaten face, rum on Oflan’s breath, and a teenager joining them without much rehearsal, the string quartet was a lame horse destined to be put out of its misery. Who were they kidding? Were they really among the country’s elite, especially with the talented Sascha gone?

  Truth was, Ayna had low expectations for the recital. She would surrender everything just to have a word with Milan and thank him for the pretty flowers. Using the curse to push him away was the exact sort of medieval thinking she despised most about living in Mersk. She would apologize once he returned from his meeting at the hospital, talk to him. They could work through this bump in the road.

  Within minutes the final stragglers had found a seat or were standing against the stone walls. It was, by far, the hottest day of the year. Several people were fanning their faces with the recital’s paper program and some of them had unbuttoned their shirts. While everyone waited patiently for the music to commence, the muggy nave had become a ripe mixture of loathsome perfumes and rancid body odors.

  Ayna was glad she had chosen to wear clogs and a summer dress, rather than pants. She felt much cooler this way. She smiled at the flowers beside her music stand and took a breath. This was it, she thought. Months of rehearsal had come down to the next sixty minutes.

  The voices hushed when Father Sudek entered the nave. He was dres
sed in a plain black cassock with white tabs on the collar. After lighting a candle, he joined the musicians in their semicircle.

  Ayna placed her bow on the cello strings.

  “Today” Father Sudek said, “the good people of St. Nepomuk welcome judge Eric von Schell to our humble church.” After dedicating a moment of silence to the memory of Sascha, the priest pushed the baton into their semicircle, and Ayna launched into Smetana’s Second String Quartet in E Minor.

  SOME DAYS AGO, Dal had confiscated a yellow Škoda sedan from a car lot in Pisek. At the time, he made his intentions clear to Gurko, that he preferred to drive a civilian car rather than the more threatening GAZ military truck with its Red Star insignia on the door. “The deployment of our military in the cities across Czechoslovakia has been a raging success,” he said, strapping on a boot holster and inserting the loaded Makarov pistol. “From Satrava in the East to Pilsen in the West, the Czech people have been beaten down by the mighty hand of Brezhnev. Even here, in Mersk. Now, with the fighting all but over, I must shed my soldierly persona and become more visible as a political figure──someone these people can trust.”

  “The upper hand is finally ours,” Gurko said.

  “Mmm. We have destroyed the village in order to save it.”

  “It was only a matter of time.”

  “Yet the good work of Marx and Lenin has only begun. We have important administrative work to carry out, comrade. I must find the mayor’s replacement by December.”

  Dal had a secret. He was pushing for Ota Janus to replace the mayor. The teacher’s pro-Moscow attitude and scholarly knowledge of socialism would please the presidium; additionally, Janus had proved his loyalty by tagging the tank with the swastika.

  As he climbed into the automobile, an army courier arrived to deliver a message. Without opening the sealed KGB envelope, Dal folded it in half, stuck it inside his shirt pocket, then instructed Gurko to open the gate. “Cancel my appointments for the remainder of the day. Tell visitors that today is a day to celebrate Smetana. On colonel’s orders.”

  “Yes, Comrade colonel.”

  Socializing with the people would go a long way in rebuilding their shaky relationship. Dal shared their passion for Smetana and planned to use it as a bridge to common ground. Together they would support Marxism-Leninism. Together they would work hard for the common good. Together they would redeem Czechoslovakia.

  . . . so off he went

  . . . driving into town.

  He was whistling Smetana’s Fanfares for Richard III when he sped past the doctor’s Škoda parked near the bridge. And thought nothing of it.

  At the church, Dal avoided a drove of pigs and parked erratically on the street.

  Before opening the door, he straightened his wrinkled pant leg, and then grabbed a pack of cigarettes and his sunglasses from the glove compartment. He climbed from the vehicle and stood on the cobblestones, careful of dung near his car. The stinky mess reminded him of a third world country, of a wretched place like Tashkent. He struck a match and lit a cigarette. There was little sophistication here in the countryside. He made a mental note to ban all livestock from the streets, including the animals at the weekly farmer’s market. He would impose hefty fines on those who broke the law. He would also reopen the cinema house, thus ensuring precious art returned to their lives. Pro-Moscow films, of course.

  He blew smoke and watched Bedrich kneel on the cobble to pet the pigs. He had no regrets for having destroyed the little man’s mouse. The killing had been carried out in the name of public health. He threw an unreturned hand of hello to Bedrich, before rushing up the steps to the church. He greeted Irena with a smile, and said, “Good day.”

  “I’m sorry, colonel.” Irena blocked the doors. “The recital has already begun. I’ve been instructed to turn away stragglers.”

  He heard the sound of muffled strings.

  “This is an important event. Your priest is smart to eliminate distractions.”

  “Then you understand?”

  “Of course.”

  He had no intention of barging in, which was the impulsive thing to do. While Dal enjoyed Smetana as much as anyone, he was mostly feeling a need to listen to Ayna play her cello. He had overheard someone mention that she was a rare talent. What had they said, Not quite a prodigy, but close? He had to verify this for himself.

  “You don’t look well,” Irena said. “What is wrong? Flu?”

  “I’m feeling a little under the weather. That’s all. Nothing to keep me away from today’s recital.”

  “You should get some rest . . .”

  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead. His headache was finally gone, thanks to a cocktail of aspirin and vodka taken every four hours. Even so, the last thing he wanted was medical advice from the bookwormish Irena.

  “As the librarian and keeper of knowledge,” Dal began insincerely, “I have always considered you the smartest person in town.”

  She brightened. “How kind of you.”

  “However I sense this judge might be impressed by a Soviet war hero like me in attendance. What do you think?”

  “Yes. Now that you mention it. Nonetheless─”

  “I happen to be a proud member of the Rimsky-Korsakov Society. Our organization is famous throughout Eastern Europe. It’s an exclusive group, comprised mostly of maestros, distinguished Muscovites and important men such as myself. The judge undoubtedly has heard of us.”

  “I should think so.”

  “Seems to me, my honorable presence might provide enough leverage for your string quartet to get that invitation to play at the festival. Especially should I inform the maestro how my society admires your talented musicians.”

  “You would do that for us?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose you have a point,” she agreed. “Influence is important in high-society circles. It’s not what you know. It’s who you know.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you will put in a good word?”

  “I will put in many good words. An entire stanza of good will.”

  Irena handed him a program and slowly opened the door. Even with tender steps, his intrusion was noticed right away. First Oflan’s viola waning, then the music dying off. He had not expected them to stop playing. Rather than show his embarrassment, he embraced the awkward moment. “Good day,” he said, throwing Jiri a wink. “I heard music. Smetana?”

  Ayna seemed to scowl before turning away.

  Beaten down, yes, with the entire village beaten down, Dal could sense he was on the edge of victory. It was akin to that pivotal moment in a chess match when one eliminates his opponent’s rooks and takes the queen. Total control of the end game.

  “Find a seat,” someone said loudly.

  Dal rolled his hand arrogantly in the air. “Pardon my interruption. Do play on . . .”

  He sat next to Pavel, but without recognizing the chauffeur with his newly grown and perfectly groomed Lenin beard. They had not spoken since Zdenek Seifert’s arrest, even though the man had made repeated requests for a meeting to discuss, he had assumed, the circumstances surrounding the mayor’s confinement. Pavel promptly rose with his paper program and stood against a wall. A few men and women huffed and joined his silent protest, leaving the colonel seated alone in the pew. As citizens shuffled uneasily here and there, Dal suffered a spell of nausea and groaned until it went away.

  Then raising his baton, the priest, who had waited patiently for the colonel to find a seat, brought the quartet back into a beautiful melody.

  THE TUNNEL was nearly pitch-black. The only light came from the flashlight propped between cracks in the stones. Milan had no idea how long he had been slamming a waterlogged tree branch against the locked hatchway. Ten, fifteen minutes?

  He crouched to get better leverage. Veins, swollen from the exertion, snaked above his eyes. He was close to breaking in. He could do this. He walloped furiously for another five minutes, each blow
harder than the last. He had made a lot of noise, probably too much noise, but kept at it. After another thump the hinges began to split from the wood and he tightened his grip and pounded again. Furiously now. Pounding until he broke apart the hatch.

  He dropped the tree branch in the water and placed the backpack through the opening above his head, onto a floor. His face was dripping with sewer water. He reached up and pulled himself into a dark shaft. As he moved, an unpleasant feeling came over him, like he was climbing into hell or crossing the River Styx. The priest had warned him, hadn’t he? There are Russians everywhere.

  He pointed the flashlight and explored the unfinished space. It was approximately the size of a bathroom, with bricks and exposed wooden beams, electrical wires, and plumbing pipes.

  He kept moving.

  A ladder led to another hatch located in the twenty-foot high ceiling.

  Milan slipped the backpack over his shoulder and grabbed the first rung. He started up, climbing the wobbly ladder with a mixture of faith and anxiety. When he reached the last rung, he pushed against the hatch and pulled himself into a narrow crawl space. There was the smell of urine and body odor. Was he smelling himself after that splash in the cold sewer? Or someone else?

  He clicked off the flashlight and crawled toward a crack of light and the sound of . . . what was it . . . Ukrainian pop music? He moved into a closet, slipped quietly through a row of coats, some dress shoes, and edged up to a set of double doors. One of the doors was ajar. He peeked into the room and saw a man sitting on the floor. It was Sergeant Johnston. The shirtless Marine sat by the unmade bed, near a boarded up window. His Don’t Tread on Me tattoo caught Milan’s eye right away. Milan watched him shuffle a deck of cards, then deal a row on the shag carpet. He had a clear path to the man. It was simply a matter of grabbing him and slipping back into the tunnel.

  . . . he took a moment to analyze the surroundings.

  There were two soldiers on the other side of the closed bedroom door. They were talking over the music in the hallway. He recognized Mazur’s husky voice. But the other? Sounded like Horbachsky.