by Pavel Kohout
"Amen...." a pale Litera breathed.
The remaining student was about to faint. His arms began to fall.
"Keep them up!" Morava hissed at him.
The ease of that killing was a warning: These Germans were past caring. Then the shooter approached, looked at their hands and asked with what almost seemed like concern, "Does it hurt?"
Morava expected further savagery, but instead heard a piece of almost friendly advice.
"Put them behind your head, then!"
He remembered his dream. Even this death machine looked like a person and could probably act like one as well. How could he recognize him—or any of them—if they managed to escape, put aside their uniforms and become what they had been before? He had spent three months tracking a single murderer, trying to bring him to justice. But what about the thousands upon thousands like him? They murdered people as anonymously as this man here had, and at a moment's notice they could turn into upstanding teachers, shopkeepers and workers. How could anyone possibly prosecute the senseless death of the handsome, blond, blue-eyed boy? Was it moral to let them withdraw in peace? Were the Communists right this time, and not Beran?
He was still thinking about it when the SS assigned six older men and women to their group and led them away, leaving the dead boy and the police car behind.
Before they reached the top of the rise, they grew by a few more handfuls of Czechs and a heavily armed escort.
There were several dozen of them in the web by the time they reached the rows of modern houses ringing the Pankrac plateau. Across the valley, a stupendous view of the castle opened before them, but their attention was riveted on the drama they had been sucked into. Another SS company was driving younger men and women, some with children, from their houses.
The young Totaleinsatz refugee, still in shock from his friend's death, kept stumbling. Morava and Litera were practically carrying him.
"We're hostages, aren't we?" The boy's voice trembled.
The arrival of a staff car seemed promising; the lower officers saluted at attention and the remaining men stopped to look. But the pair who got out stripped Morava instantly of all hope. The tall SS officer with a pock-scarred face and the civilian with a skull-like shaven head were remarkably good personifications of a regime which, in its death throes, was baring its true nature again.
"Report," the pock-marked man requested in a half-whisper.
Despite this all the subcommanders heard him and rushed over to announce crisply that they were already finished. Except for one.
"I'm not done yet, major. They managed to lock themselves in the air-raid shelter. The building used to be a bank; it has steel doors."
"Are all of them down there?"
"One didn't make it."
"Bring him here."
They instantly hauled a middle-aged man forward; although it was afternoon, he was dressed in a bathrobe and slippers. Asked how many people were down below, he counted nervously in passable German until he arrived at six men, ten women, and eight children.
"Is your family there too?"
"Yes, a boy and a girl... my wife and mother-in-law..."
"Draw me the shelter!"
Shakily he drew a simple rectangle and a staircase with several turns on the back of some sort of receipt the officer found in his breast pocket.
"Where does the air come from?"
"There's a vent from the ground floor ..." He drew it. "The garbage cans cover it."
"Will they hear you if you call down to them?"
"Probably."
"So do it!"
"What should I..."
"That I'll give them precisely three minutes to open up, otherwise I'll have you shot."
A hot flush appeared on the Czech's face, reminding Morava of the Klasterec priest, but the man gathered enough courage to ask a further question.
"And what will you do with them ... with all of us then?"
With a gesture of his head he took in the whole street, full of exiles.
"Your people down in Nusle have blocked our way through the city. You'll walk in front of my soldiers as a human shield."
"But I can't tell... I can't just ask them ..."
The scarface pulled a large pistol out of its holster.
"Go!"
My God, how can You let... Morava cut himself short: after all, that's exactly why he'd given up on Him last week. His heart ached for the unfortunate man, who had no choice. And it always works, every time; despite the faith, love, morality, and honor we acquire so painfully in our lifelong struggle for self-betterment, in moments of crisis what triumphs is a blind instinct for self-preservation. In that respect we humans are worse than animals, who defend their pack until torn to bits.
The man's gaze wandered to the Czech police uniforms. At that moment, Morava's stiff arms behind his neck stopped hurting him; he was glad that even in this garb he was treated no differently from the other hostages. However, the man suddenly smiled sadly right at him.
"If you survive, tell them that I loved them."
"In German!" boomed the major.
"You have no right!" the man retorted in that language. "We're civilians. You'll be punish ..."
A shot ended the sentence.
The scarface stuffed his gun back and handed the sketch to his unsuccessful subordinate.
"Somewhere here is the opening. Throw a couple of sticks of dynamite in, and if they don't open up, a few grenades. Everyone else, on the double!"
With shouts and shoves, small groups of men, women, pensioners, and children were put together and the cordon of soldiers tried to goad them onward, but soon it was clear that many could not keep up the pace. At the nearest square the Germans weeded out the old and the very young. Morava helplessly watched parents' heartrending attempts to protect their children; some took them in their arms or on their shoulders, while others shooed them beyond the line of guards, calling out the addresses of relatives or friends.
The new groups trotted a few hundred yards further to the court building. At the crown of the street, which sank down into the Nusle valley in a long curve, tractors were shoving the last incinerated tram wagon from the German-captured barricade over to the edge of the carriageway; it was a rear car, and the pock-marked SS officer climbed up on its middle platform with the bareheaded civilian.
"An interpreter!"
The Czechs' experiences so far quashed any impulse they may have had to step out of the crowd that had become their last refuge.
On the second call, Morava volunteered. The officer indicated he was to join them on the tram, and nodded to his guide.
"Your fellow citizens have lost all reason," the skull roared at the throng. "They have blocked the path of hundreds of thousands of German soldiers who are defending Europe against Bolshevism. Since they did not let us pass, you will have to convince them; it is our right and your responsibility! Translate!"
Morava deliberately translated in the third person, making it clear he was not one of them.
"Anyone who insists you are civilians is lying. A handful of bandits have made all of you rebels, meaning you are not subject to protection. If we bleed needlessly, then so will the Czechs. Once your people cease their resistance, we will once again treat you as ordinary citizens under international law. That is all. Translate!"
When he had finished, he asked the commander, "May I add something?"
"No!"
"It would be in your interest for these people not to panic. I wanted to tell them an assault might not be necessary, because Colonel Meckerle is negotiating with the Czech National Council."
Both Germans were visibly shocked, each in his own way.
"How do you know that?" the SS man asked.
"How do you know him?" the civilian inquired.
"I told your men when we were detained that we are both"—he pointed to Litera—"members of the local criminal police working in close cooperation with your officers. This morning I was present at a meeting bet
ween my superior and a Gestapo representative; they're looking for a way to prevent further fighting. It's not in your interest to cause more pointless losses of life!"
They conducted the conversation on the tramcar platform, tensely followed by hundreds of Czech and German eyes. The major was evidently wavering.
"I'm also a confidante of Lieutenant General Meckerle," the civilian said, emphasizing the title. "Who was this envoy?"
"Chief Inspector Buback," Morava said and immediately realized he had made an error.
"Didn't I tell you?" The shaven head crowed triumphantly. "The Lieutenant General would never have entrusted a traitor—a deserter!— with such a task. Buback's authority has automatically devolved to me, and therefore my orders are still valid: clear a route!"
If Morava had briefly thought he could convince the SS man, the German's eyes soon disabused him of the notion. They clearly had only one goal: to get as far as possible from the scene of their crimes. The man turned to his officers.
"Get moving."
In a few moments the attacking tanks' motors roared to life. The hundred-strong Czech crowd was shoved into the wide, sloping street. One last gesture of false nobility awaited the policemen.
"I'll treat you as negotiators," the major announced. "You'll be returned to where you were detained."
Morava saw in his mind that ordinary man who had sacrificed himself for his family. Futile or not, his deed was a challenge. He glanced at Litera and saw agreement in his eyes.
"We'll go with them," he said. "Maybe a solution will be found ... so long as you don't order them to fire prematurely."
"It all depends on your side," the officer retorted, and motioned genteelly to them to climb down first from the tram platform, as if he were waving them through a cafe door.
The tanks rode close behind them. Morava and Litera had to run again to catch up to the Czechs, who were now spread across the width of the street. Behind them were SS men with guns at their sides. The soldiers and Czechs were surprised to see two police uniforms pushing their way through them to get up front. The two of them did not speak the whole way down; talking was beside the point.
Why am I doing this, Morava mused: Jitka, my beloved, am I looking for the quickest route to you? Or do I want to give life without you some other meaning? But why am I dragging poor Litera with me? He shuddered; Litera dotes on his family as much as they do on him! Too late now....
The scene was all the more unbelievable for taking place in broad daylight in a metropolis virtually unscarred by war. Two rows of lifeless, locked-up apartment buildings formed a channel, and a multitude of people who, a short while earlier, had been living quite ordinary lives in similar houses now filed along it toward an inescapable fate. Tanks rumbled behind their backs, their treads scraping along the cobblestones and tram tracks.
The front row reached the place where the sloping avenue turned right. A barricade about three hundred yards distant appeared around the bend. Tramcars placed end-to-end formed a sizable barrier just as they had uphill; here, however, they were reinforced by a high, impassable mound of cobblestones. Above them flew the Czechoslovak flag.
The Czechs stopped. Surprisingly, the soldiers made no immediate attempt to drive them forward. Gradually even the din of the tank treads subsided. In this place full of men and machines silence reigned, broken only by a strange sound Morava had never heard before. Then he realized he was breathing loudly to calm the wild beating of his heart. The unfamiliar sound was the agitated crowd's collective breath.
It had started to rain, but no one noticed.
The barricade too was silent. But they have to shoot; they have to risk it! Strange, Morava thought, now I have time to face the fact that in a few moments my life will be over, but I'm still not afraid. Did my sense of self-preservation—all my feelings, for that matter—irretrievably disappear when you did, Jifka? Or is it merely resignation, a consequence of realizing that once God is lost life itself has no meaning, since it can end so capriciously and stupidly time after time? A voice broke into his thoughts.
"Shouldn't we scatter? It'll open up the Germans and our side could shoot."
It was a very young girl to his right asking.
Why didn't I think of that, he wondered; she's right!
Before he could answer, fighting broke out from a completely different direction than they had expected; a wild cannonade and machine-gun bursts rang out behind their backs, somewhere up on the hill they had just left. Everyone, captives and captors, turned that way. They saw a tangle of sparks striking the treads of the rapidly turning tanks, and then confusion in the German ranks. The SS men left the hostages to their own devices and scurried behind the metal colossi.
"The Americans!" someone cheered.
Vlasov's men, Morava thought; thanks, Mr. Beran!
Many apparently had the same idea as the girl; suddenly they scattered toward the barricade, dragging the rest with them.
Immediately the barricade began to shoot past the fleeing hostages, but the Germans aimed their retaliatory fire right at their own prisoners.
Panic broke out. Some of the hostages flung themselves on the ground, others kept fleeing toward safety. Screams nearly drowned out the fire. The girl tripped on a body, lost her balance, and fell. Morava went back for her and picked her up. Suddenly he saw red. He blinked in vain. Then his forehead began to burn sharply. He reached up to it and felt a sticky liquid. Instantly strong hands pulled him forward and from somewhere he heard Litera.
"Come on, Jan, just a little bit further!"
He came to on wet sand originally covered by paving stones. The girl was binding his head.
"You sure got lucky, Mr. Policeman. Skin of your teeth!"
The distant battle still raged; here men and women were waging a noisy argument in its place.
His forehead burned agonizingly and his head would not stop humming, but at least he could see. He tried to look over his shoulder.
A familiar face leaped out from a small group of armed men arguing with an indignant crowd. He could not believe his eyes.
"Mr. Litera ..." He looked around for him. "Josef... !"
"Lie down," the girl insisted. "You've lost a lot of blood. Your colleague is hunting up a car."
He strained his eyes.
It was him.
Rypl!
Then the image dissolved again like a phantasm.
The pretty boy behind the wheel of the Mercedes looked glassily toward the bridge; his chalk-white cheeks made the violet bruise under his right eye all the more noticeable.
"I hear he doesn't like us anymore," Lojza explained. "Should we give him to Pepik too?"
The driver's mustache trembled noiselessly like a guinea pig.
"Or what should we do with him, boss?"
The title warmed him.
Did you hear that, Mother?
"Any of you know how to drive?" he asked his men.
They shook their heads in unison. He repeated Lojza's phrase.
"His bad luck, then. He'll have to put up with us until we get a replacement. Pepik!" He handed the boy the pistol he had confiscated on the hill from that stupid cop in civvies. "The next one's yours as well. Forward!"
Then he looked at the bridge and was unpleasantly surprised.
"Where's ... ?"
"I sent him over the edge," his boy crowed proudly. "He's gone for a swim!"
Over by the towpath's stone wall, the caretaker's body bobbed and floated close under the black tower, just above the weir. With this slow movement the past closed behind him.
NOW NO ONE CAN PROVE ME GUILTY!
Meanwhile the rain and the distant gunfire intensified. He decided to follow the battle's voice. However, false echoes plagued Prague's hills and valleys, and they were no closer to the uprising when they reached the last barricade in the Nusle valley. Here they were leery of turning up toward Pankrac, which was supposedly swarming with Germans, and he was just about to turn around when the messengers b
rought two pieces of news.
The first brought murmurs of horror: the SS were driving whole blocks of residents uphill as human shields. They were trying to break through to the city center, and that meant going through Nusle. The second seemed too wonderful to be true, but because enough telephones were fortunately working, several randomly dialed extensions in the suburbs immediately confirmed it.