by Joseph Kanon
Not what he’d expected. “Stop.”
“You blame me.”
“I don’t blame you.” But why did you lie?
“It never would have happened.”
“Stop it, Molly. Somebody killed him, not you. This isn’t helping anything.” He put his napkin on the table. “Come on, we’re both tired. Let’s go up.” Play everything through.
“Sorry,” she said, stung by his tone. “This is just making it worse, isn’t it?”
And upstairs it was no better. They got into bed, an acting kiss, then turned away from each other, lying on their sides. He looked at the light on the ceiling, thinking of the other night, the tram bells outside, drowning in her. Now he was alert but absolutely still, as if he were afraid moving would wake her, even though he knew the reason he could not sleep was that she was awake too.
They took a taxi to the funeral address, a street out past the station, near the outskirts of town. The room, a kind of chapel with pews, was plain and functional, stripped down to a lectern, a Czech flag, one vase of flowers, and the wooden coffin on a platform in front. An undertaker in a black suit hovered near the door, an anxious maitre d‘ waiting for the room to fill, but after a few early arrivals no one came, and finally he had to start.
Anna sat in front, with Anna Masaryk behind her, like two squat matrioshka dolls. Zimmerman, in a suit, sat near the back, his curious eyes darting frankly around the room. There were four people Nick did not know, scattered off to the side, and Frantisek, sober now, who went to the lectern to speak. No one else. Where were the others? Would there have been more people in Moscow, old friends? Or was this the extent of his father’s life, a pared-down circle and a son?
He and Molly sat across from Anna, and he kept his eyes fixed on the closed coffin. The eulogy was in Czech, so he had no idea what was being said. Probably the usual empty phrases, as comfortless as medals. In Moscow they would have mentioned the Order of Lenin, but not here. No socialist heroes, not since the invasion. His father had, somehow, become nobody at all.
The loneliness of the room was oppressive, and Nick shifted in his seat, causing a creak. Were they watching him? He had seen it in their faces, that he had a new role to play now, the cause of his father’s despair, the unbearable reminder of everything he’d lost. His fault. And for a moment he gave in to it, became what they wanted. What if none of it was true, the whole story a pretense his father could no longer keep up? No Silver. No plan. Just a story whose plot had run out. Easier for everybody. What had he actually seen in the flat but the disorder of a final night? Then Molly squirmed beside him and he was alert again. He turned. People were nodding at the speech, their heads down. Only Zimmerman was looking at him, his eyes bright, interested. Who knew it hadn’t been suicide, only that people wanted it to be.
The Czech went on, Frantisek dropping to a guttural rumble, then chopping the air with his hand, making some point. Anna was crying quietly. A hurried funeral, her decision. Did she think it was Nick’s fault too? Or had she discovered that his father was going to leave, even helped him? Out of the way, visiting relatives. But she must have been with him that afternoon, when something had happened. Nick looked at the wooden box, his mind freed by the droning language to sift through the last few days. Everything that had happened. Except for Molly, sitting next to him, pale, who couldn’t be explained.
The words ended abruptly, and Frantisek sat down next to Anna and patted her hand. No one moved. Nick waited for music, some formal signal, but there was just the quiet. The undertaker and a helper came forward, said something in Czech, and pushed a button. Behind the platform, doors opened in the wall, and Nick saw that the coffin was on a kind of ramp, maneuvered now by the two men so that it began sliding toward what must be the crematorium, shuddering a little until the angle took it and it fell away, like a ship being launched into the water. Then the doors closed and his father was gone.
The room emptied quickly, a few polite condolences to Anna, then a shuffling toward the door. No one talked to Nick.
“I’m sorry, Anna,” he said when the others had gone.
“Thank you for coming,” she said formally. Then, softly, “He would have wanted that.”
He felt his insides lurch. “I wish I had known him better.”
“I think you knew him better than anyone,” she said sadly. “You knew what he was like before.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again, at a loss. “Can we take you home?”
“No, no. I have to stay here. For the arrangements. Goodbye,” she said to Molly, holding out her hand. “He liked you.”
“Oh,” Molly said, struck. She reached over and embraced Anna, surprising her. “Is there anything-”
“No,” she said stiffly. “It’s all arranged. Goodbye.”
Nick looked at her, not knowing what else to do. His stepmother, a stranger. But she was already turning away from him, back to her life.
“Anna? Would you tell me something? What did he do that last day, before the concert?”
She looked up at him. “He took a nap.”
“You were with him? I mean, did he see anybody?”
“No,” she said, sterner now. “He took a nap. He was thinking. He would do that, lie on the sofa thinking and then fall asleep.”
“He didn’t go out?”
“No, I told you. Leave me alone now.” She looked up, her eyes fierce. “Leave Prague.” Then she turned her back to him and walked over to the undertaker.
Outside, the street was empty except for the Skoda, parked in front where he would see it.
“Maybe they’ll give us a ride,” Nick said.
“Don’t,” Molly said, nervous. “It’s not funny. There’s a tram stop down there at the next street.”
They walked to the corner.
“Mr Warren.” A voice from a car window, rolled down.
“Miss Masaryk,” he said, surprised.
“You remember. Good. Please, come to lunch.” She handed him an address.
“That’s very kind of you, but-”
“No, it’s not kind. I want to talk to you. Alone.” She glanced at Molly. “Excuse me.”
“Why?”
“About your father. It’s important. You’ll come?”
“When?”
“An hour. Don’t ring the bell, it’s broken. The top floor. There’s a good view,” she said irrelevantly, then rolled up the window and started the car.
“Who was that?”
“A friend of his,” he said, not wanting to give her a name. “She probably wants to talk old times.”
“It didn’t sound that way.”
“I won’t be long.”
“Let me know if-”
“If what?”
“You’re going to be late. I’ll be worried.”
A narrow street in the Old Town, near the river. The downstairs bell in fact was broken, the panel taped over, and the lobby itself, heavy stone cool as a monastery, was in disrepair. A pail sat in one corner to catch drips, and the broad stairs were worn down by the years, crumbling near the edges. When he began to climb, he could hear the echo of his steps in the stairwell.
She opened the door immediately, as if she had been listening for him, and motioned him in.
“Good, good, I was afraid you would miss it. The door, it’s confusing. Come in. Some coffee? Maybe a brandy.”
Nick shook his head, looking around. The room followed the curve of the eaves, vaulting near the windows, dipping lower toward the back. There were books everywhere, stacked to the ceiling on their sides, too many for shelves. Yellowing cream French spines, shinier English jackets. What wall space had escaped the stacks was crammed with picture frames, next to each other, a collage of old photographs and prints. The dining table near the window, already laid with open-faced sandwiches and pickles, was set for three. A pack of Marlboros had been placed in the center like an extra course.
He looked at the third plate, but she misinterpreted, following his eyes
farther, to the window.
“Yes, come and see. It’s why I stay. My little nest. It’s too small, but the view makes up for that.”
A romantic view, the Charles Bridge and the hill rising behind it to Hradcany Castle, spires everywhere.
“I saw the tanks from here. A friend telephoned, so early. Who calls at such an hour? Go to your window, he said, the Russians are here. And there they were, coming over the bridge. I was standing right here all morning, watching them. The bridge was shaking. I thought, if one of the statues comes down. Bastards.” She waved her hand dismissively.
“Is someone else coming?” Nick asked.
“Yes.” He heard a kettle whistle. “Sit, sit. I’ll make the coffee.” Fluttering, not wanting to talk.
“How did you know my father?”
“Through Anna. We were at school. Of course, that’s a long time ago. But she came back, so I met him. He used to come here to talk about books, many times.” She stopped. “I’m so sorry for you.” Then, obviously relieved, she heard the knock. “Ah, he’s here.”
Nick stood waiting as she opened the door. Zimmerman, still in his mourning suit. They exchanged greetings in Czech, a social kiss.
“Mr Warren, you don’t mind? Anna was so kind to arrange. It’s easier to talk here.”
“I’ve told you everything I know.”
He held up his hand. “You misunderstand. It’s not the interrogation. I want to talk to you in a different way. No questions. Well, perhaps one.”
“Sit, sit,” Anna said, busying herself with the coffee, settling them in.
Nick sat down slowly, feeling ambushed. There was an awkward silence while Anna poured, neither of them saying anything. Zimmerman took one of the Marlboros.
“What question?” Nick said.
Zimmerman nodded to Anna, who went over to a stack of books and brought back an envelope.
“Your father asked Anna to hold this for him. He was going to collect it yesterday morning.”
“I’m always up early,” Anna said, as if that explained it.
“I took the liberty of opening it. Under the circumstances. Miss Masaryk, of course, had no idea what it was.”
“Then why did she tell you about it?” Nick said, looking at her.
“She was concerned when she heard the news of his death. She thought it might be important. You understand, we are very old friends.”
“It’s Karl who started the investigation into Uncle Jan’s death,” she explained. “It’s he who was helping Frantisek’s brother with the manuscript. You can trust him.”
Nick opened the envelope and drew out a Russian passport: his father’s picture, Cyrillic type.
“Your father was not Jewish.” Zimmerman pointed to the Cyrillic letters. “Not called Pechorvsky, either. But that is his picture, yes? Can you think why he would need such a thing? A Russian Jew’s passport?”
“No.” But Nick’s heart was racing. All of it was true. His father’s papers for the train-not at the flat, but ready. Everything just as he had said.
“That page is an exit visa,” Zimmerman said.
“But it’s not his.”
“No. Pechorvsky’s. Who died of kidney failure.” He picked up the passport, running his finger along the edge of the picture, the raised seal. “Not the best, but it would pass. The visa’s good for two more weeks.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I think you do.”
“Well, I don’t. Was that your question?”
“No.” He slipped the passport back into the envelope. “Mr Warren, a man with someone else’s exit visa can only mean one thing. He was planning to leave. Perhaps by train,” he said, looking away, casual. “But not, I think, to Israel, like poor Comrade Pechorvsky. My question is, why?”
“Why? Everybody wants to leave.”
“Not everybody. A man with the Order of Lenin, who betrayed his country-would such a man be welcome in the West? What made him think they would want him back?”
“I don’t know,” Nick said, hammering each word in.
“No? But it’s a question, don’t you agree?”
“He’s dead. The question is who killed him. Why don’t you ask that?”
“Because I know who killed him, Mr Warren.”
Nick stared at him, almost afraid to go on. “Who?” he said quietly.
“That is, I know who must have killed him. It’s not difficult. What interests me is why.”
“Who?” Nick said again.
“So direct, Mr Warren. Sometimes an answer is indirect. Please listen. More coffee, Anna?”
Nick sat silently.
“Of course, every case is different,” Zimmerman said. “It’s the similarities that intrigue.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Please. I said I had only one question. But I also have a story. That is why I wanted to see you. Will you listen to it? It will interest you, I promise. You are familiar with our history, I saw that at the station. ”The housemaid’s solution.“ How much do you know about the Masaryk case?”
“Hardly anything. Look-”
“Then listen carefully. I know a great deal about it, almost everything. It’s as Anna says. Last year, under Dubcek, there was an investigation, so we would know, once and for all. It’s a national obsession, that case, our great mystery. Does it matter, after so many years? A little-you’ll forgive me-like your President Kennedy. To know exactly what happened. So with Jan Masaryk.”
“Everybody knows the Russians did it.”
“But to know, Mr Warren, to prove it. It’s not easy. So many people have died-the night watchman, the doctor who signed the death certificate. Some natural, some not so natural. Just last year, a bodyguard who talked to me was shot on the highway. By thieves?”
“Karl himself was in danger,” Anna said, touching Nick’s arm, a conspirator. “He was threatened. They don’t want the truth to come out, even now.”
“But we learn things. So, the case. Nineteen forty-eight. The Communists are in. Masaryk is still in the cabinet, but not one of them. To the whole world he represents the old republic, his father’s country. And every day in the cabinet, a new compromise. The death-how do you say it? — the death of a thousand bites. The Russians are taking over. So perhaps he feels despair. A way to end it all, the housemaid’s solution. But there is also the possibility that he was planning to leave.”
He looked at Nick. “An embarrassment for the Communists. Maybe even a government in exile, like during the war. His mistress had already gone-an American. So for them the jump was a convenient death. A public funeral. The end of the republic. But was he murdered? From the beginning there were inconsistencies. A more complicated case, let me say, than your own. The position of the body in the courtyard. A very wide jump. Violence in his room-even in the bathroom. Bottles broken, bedpillows on the floor. Even in the tub. Why, for sleeping? The window there had a high sill-not convenient. Scrapes. And his pajamas were soiled.”
He looked again at Nick. “So many inconsistencies. A car was heard pulling away in the night. Was someone there? We’ll never know. You see, Mr Warren, the mistake I made was thinking that a criminal investigation would tell us everything. But this was a political crime. We can reconstruct the evidence-what must have happened. But what I want to know is, was he planning to leave?”
Nick looked at him, quiet.
“You can’t ignore the passport,” Anna said.
“What must have happened?” Nick said.
Zimmerman rolled his cigarette against the ashtray, methodically tapping the ash. “Masaryk had had a full day. A meeting with Benes, the President, his father’s old friend. Very depressing, I’ve no doubt. Benes may have told Masaryk he was going to resign. But that would work either way, as the last straw or an incentive to go. Either way. He had a meeting the next day with a Polish delegation, a speech to write. So he goes to bed early to work on the speech. He frequently did that, worked in bed. A bottle of beer and a s
andwich. These details we know. The servants retired. Very heavy sleepers, unfortunately. Of course, the Czernin Palace is a large building and their quarters were not close. No one heard the lift being used. The guard at the front door reported no visitors. There is a side door for deliveries, unguarded. This much we know as fact.”
“Go on,” Nick said. Had they used the elevator at Holeckova? He thought of the milky light through the glass brick on the landing, enough to see by, even at dawn.
“Masaryk was a big man. There must have been two, perhaps more, a team. The side door, the stairs. Quiet. Perhaps they were surprised to find him still up, working so late. There must have been fighting. The room is knocked about, papers all over. In the bathroom, more smashes. They must have been angry at his resistance. But he’s fighting for his life and he’s strong. He must have knocked against the medicine chest, causing the bottles to fall on the floor. Then he is pushed, or falls, into the bathtub. And there someone must have held him down with a pillow over his face. He must have kicked, trying to get out, while they held him down. Until he stopped kicking.” Zimmerman looked up from the ashtray, his voice dropping, almost husky now. “Of course, he was a vigorous man. Had he been older, it would have been easier. Not such a struggle.”
Nick turned away, sick.
“Then they must have pulled him out-he would have been heavy-and dragged him over to the window, perhaps stepping on the bottles, kicking them out of the way. A high sill, the men grunting, propping him up. From the angle of the fall, they must have pushed him out back first. That was the first inconsistency. No one jumps backward. In its own way it’s a brave thing, suicide. His fingers scrape the sill as they push him out. It’s possible that the scraping happened earlier-that they tried to force him out the window and he resisted, holding on while he kicked them away. Then the same fight. No matter. He went out. That is the criminal evidence. That is what must have happened.”
For a moment, no one spoke. “How do you know it was a pillow?” Nick said quietly.
“There were no signs of strangulation. Were there marks on your father’s neck?” Zimmerman said, no longer pretending to be in the past.