by Jirí Weil
‘A field,’ Pokorny announced. ‘Just a field and a village in the distance. It’s impossible to guess where we actually are. Meadows,’ he continued as the train made its way through the countryside, ‘a pond with willows, plains, mountains in the distance.’
He spoke as if he were broadcasting news, slowly and distinctly. But people weren’t satisfied.
‘Are we in Germany?’ one of them asked.
‘No,’ answered Pokorny without turning, continuing to peer through the crack, ‘fields and meadows and ponds like these are found only in Bohemia.’
They were disappointed. They had been travelling so long and they still hadn’t arrived at the fortress town. They wouldn’t be able to endure it, they would choke on the bad air, they would die of thirst. Yet their train must be going somewhere! Perhaps they were just going around and around, perhaps their captors were waiting for them to suffocate.
‘Nothing,’ continued Pokorny, ‘just fields, meadows, gardens and villages.’
Suddenly he cried out. ‘A transmitter,’ and he jumped away from the crack. He thought he had heard a voice in the adjacent carriage.
A transmitter. There were only two in Bohemia. One was on the way to the fortress town. Yes, everything was going to be all right, they were going in the right direction. Another little snippet of hope had appeared. Soon they’d be in the fortress town and their suffering would end. Someone would take care of them there and give them something to drink.
They rejoiced in a steel structure standing in the middle of a field. Earlier they had hated everything that served those others. They weren’t allowed to have radios at home, but they had to listen to the loudspeakers attached to street lamps broadcasting news of victories, boat sinkings, executions. The news was always followed by the same raucous patriotic songs. Lately the loudspeakers had been talking about the savage hordes and the strength of the Reich, and the patriotic songs were even noisier – clearly they were trying to dispel fear. People avoided those particular lamp-posts, but they couldn’t help hearing the ear-piercing voices.
The transmitter was a good sign. They weren’t in a foreign country yet. They were still home.
The train continued its journey the whole day. They should have been in the fortress town long ago. Pokorny didn’t dare look out. Their supplies of food were running low, but they weren’t hungry. They just wanted to drink. They didn’t speak; even the children were quiet.
When at last the train stopped during the night, they sensed they were in a foreign country. The door of the carriage opened abruptly, the blue light of a torch gleamed, an SS man handed them a canteen of water. A drop like that was to suffice for them all! They gave a little drink to the children, and the others were barely able to wet their lips. Their thirst was even more terrible after that. Their carriage and that of the SS men were once again uncoupled. They were standing far from a station. Even when Pokorny looked through the crack he could only see outlines of freight cars. But he had travelled about the world often before the war and he had a way of figuring out the names of towns almost by smell.
‘Dresden,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it’s Dresden.’
Now they knew they were in a foreign country. They might have hoped they were being sent to a work camp, but none of them besides Pokorny was capable of heavy labour. So they were probably being taken to the East. Now they were overcome with terror, though they were exhausted and weak with thirst.
During the whole journey, day and night, Rabinovich kept silent, repeating prayers to himself, though they would be of no avail to him as a blasphemer. He paid no attention to the talk of the others, he didn’t even take in his sons’ cries or his wife’s moans. He sat on his bench as if he were already dead, as if they had put a shroud over him and were preparing his coffin.
But he gave a start when he heard the word ‘Dresden’. He was the only one in the carriage who knew what the word ‘East’ really meant. Hadn’t the head of the Central Bureau often spoken about people going up the chimney in smoke those times he was in a good mood, those times he used to pat him on the back and say, ‘Good boy,’ as if he were a dog?
They were going to their deaths, it was clear, even he, even his family. Nobody could save them any longer. Everything had been planned and figured out long before. How the head of the Central Bureau must be laughing now! That’s why he had been so kind to him the last time he had met him. All the others sitting in this car, and he as well, had made a pact with the devil, and now the devil had come for their lives. Only one of them, that thirteenth one the troopers had brought in in chains, only he had nothing in common with the devil; he was fighting against him, in fact. That man was one of the legendary thirty-six Just Men and he would share their fate with them. It was good that a Just Man would be in their midst. He would speak for them at the hour of their death.
TWENTY-ONE
THE COUNTRY INSULTINGLY called the Protectorate was a small country with small joys and pleasures. Because people had to go on living, because they were closed in on all sides, restricted, conscripted, arrested and killed according to the whims of their conquerors, people looked for small comforts.
Trips by bike or train to nearby places replaced travel abroad. Rides on little sightseeing boats evoked memories of ocean liners.
The steamboat had been rented by one of the ministries, and Jan Krulis worked for the Historic Preservation Department under its jurisdiction. He was able to meet his contact inconspicuously on the boat. Nobody noticed their casual conversation in the midst of the din, the commotion and the blaring music.
They set sail early in the morning; the city was just waking up. They shoved off from a little wooden bridge. The river was quiet, meandering around the islands, splashing at the weirs, playing over the boating pools as if the invaders with fifes and drums and horsetails didn’t exist. It laughed, it was timeless, and it had a woman’s name. People tamed it with floodgates, locks, weirs and bridges. It changed its face a thousand times.
The boat crossed the river to drift towards the first lock, at the end of which rose a statue of a lovely slender young girl. She was meant to represent the river surrounded by its tributaries. It was a portrait of the river in her youth, twisting through meadows, wandering past high cliffs and deep woods, mirroring castles as she flowed, filling and turning mill wheels. Statues made by foreign hands stood on the stone bridge that spanned her, unfriendly ones, put there by previous invaders. From below they seemed even more grotesque, more convoluted. Then she encountered other statues at the newer bridges, statues that spoke of hope, statues celebrating the end of bondage. They sported wings, as if they wanted to fly for victory’s sake. On yet another bridge stood several substantial statues with solid limbs that seemed to be growing out of the ground, firmly rooted in pedestals one at each end of the bridge.
Divided into two parts, the city looked out at the river from old palaces and from new houses decorated with little turrets and bay windows, from warehouses, tenement houses and little cottages that had once been part of a village. At a narrow inlet the boat touched the green banks of a big park. Now it was just about to leave the city.
The people on the boat felt happy and contented. Life in the bureaus they worked for was grey, full of fear and anxiety. Although the bureaus had proud names, they were typing pools, do-nothing offices. The new masters seemed to keep them there out of whim. On the boat, people could float through the city and they didn’t have to listen to commands in a foreign language. Everything seemed the same as it had ever been – the smoke from bad coal rising from the chimney, the regular vibrations of the engines, the waves radiating to the shore and then beating against the banks, the roofed bow for those who liked shade and benches at the stern for those who preferred sun. The boat’s slow passage was calming; when the engines were turned off in the locks, the music sounded even louder. The countryside they passed was familiar to everyone; one man on board could actually name every little hill and identify practically every cottage
.
During their break, as the musicians rested with half litres of weak and bitter beer, volunteers went around selling raffle tickets. The raffle was a big deal – one could win a toothbrush, a wooden doll or a metal ashtray.
Krulis’s contact had bad news. The organisation had been exposed, its cover blown. People connected to it, even remotely, had to be warned quickly. The two spoke together quietly. Nobody heard them, thanks to an amateur singer who was singing ‘Crinoline’ as they spoke. She was obliged to repeat the refrain of that popular song several times, and then to sing an encore, another well-known song: ‘Cricket the Musician’. Neither ‘Crinoline’ nor ‘Cricket’ had anything to do with the life people were leading, but these songs were still better than the raucous patriotic songs accompanying the news broadcasts from the Leader’s headquarters.
Krulis’s companion wanted to get off inconspicuously at the first stop – the game park and castle – to try to make arrangements and save whomever he could as quickly as possible.
Everyone disembarked, glad to be able to walk around a bit and look at the castle. Krulis took out a piece of bread and skim cheese and lay down in the grass. The castle didn’t interest him. He knew it from the old days.
Barges loaded with goods sailed down the river, heading for the Reich. Every few minutes sirens went off, but they were harmless, familiar sirens; their sound didn’t alarm anybody. Everything was peaceful and friendly; it was as if the river and its surroundings knew nothing about the war. People in the park were laughing, exchanging funny stories, singing. It was a perfectly ordinary outing. Yet a heavy shadow loomed over the people’s merriment. They had created that carefree world as a defence.
They were defending themselves against death, each in his own way. The invaders rejoiced in death. They celebrated it in their patriotic songs. It was their best friend. But those who had fallen under their rule wanted to live.
Jan Krulis looked out at the countryside. Meadows and fields stretched into the distance. Smoke rose from cottage chimneys. The river, flowing gently and peacefully, belonged to this countryside. It hadn’t yet joined the larger river that would rush through ravines to a foreign land. It still carried the water of its own tributaries with women’s names, filled with goodness and kindness.
As he lay there above the river, he reflected on his fate. He knew that one of these days death would find him, too. It would come to him in the guise of men wearing trench coats and green tufted hats. Then the countryside would dim and take on the darkness of a bunker. It would die, but just for him. Its hills and mountains, its fields and meadows, its forests and rivers would live on. Let them burn it to the ground, let them ravish its fields and transform its meadows into swamps. Grass would still grow out of the ashes, the earth would absorb the water, and people would plough its fields once again. They could never conquer it.
Adela and Greta. Once he had made the decision to fight, he shouldn’t have taken on that responsibility. What would happen to Adela and Greta when they arrested him? They couldn’t stay too long at the Javureks’, and even if they could, who would bring them food? He’d already made another arrangement, and had told the Javureks about the contact, but now that the organisation’s cover was blown, the contact was blown as well. Who knows, he might have been followed in recent days. If he had been, then of course they would know about the Javureks.
People were returning to the boat and Krulis went back with them. He’d stay on the boat until they reached the vineyard town stop and then he’d decide. His friend had recommended that he slip away from the day trippers there, get on a train and return to Prague. It would be easy to do – many people who weren’t interested in the raffle and didn’t want to waste too much time on the long voyage home would surely be doing the same thing. He wasn’t connected with any group and nobody would notice his absence.
But did it make sense to go back by train? If they were after him, he might gain a few hours that way before they arrested him. But he still had to return to his apartment to try to destroy any evidence they might find. He could hope that they weren’t on to him yet and weren’t waiting for him at his apartment. Then he could quickly try to change his name and address. He decided to go back by boat. It might actually be less dangerous, because at railway stations there were often searches for travellers who were smuggling provisions. But who would bother with trippers returning to the city?
They landed at the shore and climbed a steep path all the way up to the castle, surrounded by gardens and parks.
They had ordered a modest lunch for their group at the castle restaurant – they could pay with their food coupons. They would even be allowed wine, but of course only two glasses. But when they arrived at the restaurant they were sorry they hadn’t chosen some ordinary restaurant in town. There in the glassed-in terrace offering views of the river and the whole countryside were they: the whole terrace was theirs. They ate and drank, ordering vintage wines and rare foods, for no rules applied to them and they had as many coupons as they wanted. They sat there all worked up with alcohol, some in uniforms and others in plain clothes. Surely they hadn’t come by boat or train but in their own cars. Among them was a single Czech, but he spoke German. The trippers recognised him. He was a well-known comedian who sang scurrilous songs on the radio about Jews who were moving out, who were not allowed to ride the buses: about columnists who’d crow when the Reich was victorious but who would crawl on their knees afterwards. They must have taken him along as a clown, the after-dinner entertainment. Meanwhile, he sang their rowdy and sentimental songs along with them, making sure that his voice rang out, that it wasn’t lost in the drunken din.
The waiters quickly led the trippers to a special dining room off to the side. The distinguished guests mustn’t be disturbed, the subhumans had no right to stare at them. From the room assigned to them they could see neither the river nor the city; their windows looked out on a courtyard. They could hear the cries of the revellers out on the terrace only faintly. The waiters passed out watery soup, meat rissoles with old potatoes and, for dessert, a pudding made without milk. That was their lunch – they didn’t need too many coupons for it.
After lunch Krulis sat down on a bench overlooking the river. After a short while, an older man sat down next to him, obviously wanting to talk. Finally he took the plunge.
‘Are you from Prague?’ he asked.
He didn’t wait for an answer, but continued: ‘This used to be a nice town, a rich one. The local people hardly knew what to do with their money. And now we’re just a hop and a skip from the border. So that means they can get here from that Reich of theirs very easily, and get to the capital too. They booze here and stuff their faces and we’re supposed to look at them. Well, it’s probably the same in Prague, but it’s not so obvious there, right?’
Krulis was silent. He could no longer look peacefully at the countryside. And maybe this was the shadow following him. No, the man didn’t look the type. He just felt like talking and nobody could overhear from here.
‘Aren’t you afraid?’ Krulis asked him.
‘Oh, I know people, I just have to take one look. I’m a dowser, you see. I’ve discovered all the wells around here. The thing about water, you know, is you have to be truthful to find it. Water knows only the truth. That’s what a person learns from water. In some places the water is very deep, because it’s hiding from human deceitfulness. Water is clean and people make it dirty. This river used to be clean, and look what they’ve done to it. Water doesn’t want to rise to the surface and be among people. I have to come with the rod and persuade it. People in this part of the country need water a lot. Everything grows here. I tell it the truth, that it is time for it to come out and be helpful, even though it means getting dirty, because people need to eat. The water listens to what I tell it, and it comes out. But now my conscience is bothering me, because I’ve also looked for it in the part of the country that now belongs to the Reich. So thanks to me the water has to help those thiev
es. But water knows the truth and one of these days it’ll show them.’
‘Thank you,’ Krulis said in parting. ‘You are so right about the water. I’ve got to go now.’
‘Good luck. We’ll get them, everything will turn out well. They’re already on the run, and they’ll have to get out of here, too.’
The trippers returned to the boat in groups. Krulis won a pair of cuff links in the raffle.
They sailed against the current for quite a while. Dusk was falling quietly. People dozed off and lovers embraced. Finally the boat landed. The trippers got off carefully and crossed the little bridge to the shore. They were happy to be home, happy to have enjoyed a nice day. It was already dark, and only the river glistened. But when Krulis got off, the light of blue torches suddenly glared in his eyes.
Two men in trench coats stepped up, one in front of him and one behind him. Their guns were obviously drawn although Krulis couldn’t see them.
‘Come with us,’ they barked in a foreign language.
There had certainly been a spy on the boat.
TWENTY-TWO
IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT someone banged loudly at the Javureks’ door. You could hear the sound all through the building. People came running out of apartments in their night clothes. But the Javureks didn’t open their door. First they quickly took care of Adela and Greta. They roused the sleepy little girls out of bed, rushed them into the cubbyhole, threw their things in after them, and then placed the cupboard in front of the cubby entrance. In the midst of the din created by the night visitors, nobody could hear what was going on in the apartment.