A slender young woman appeared in the doorway of the cell. She was wearing a tight green sweatsuit and regulation slippers, and looked like a star basketball player. She tossed back her pretty head and stuck out her tongue at Bamza. At that moment, Sandor Nagy’s stentorian voice roared out: “Ah — ten — SHUN!”
The two rows of men snapped to attention, sucked in their stomachs, and saluted with the utmost rigidity. Career Sergeant Marie Babinčáková — known as Mitzi — made a face and stuck out her tongue at Sandor Nagy. Whether it was because of her terrific sex appeal, or because of the sex starvation prevalent in the camp, the crotches of most men bulged conspicuously. Sergeant Babinčáková made another face, pointed to the rigidly saluting hands, and said:
“Use your palms elsewhere, gentlemen.”
Then she spun around and vanished into the toilets.
The detainees burst out laughing. “Yo, Maria!” Sandor said. “She got a mouth on her like a shark.”
“Now, gentlemen, time to hit the sack.” Bamza was hoarsely trying to re-establish his authority. “Lights out!” Chatting cheerfully among themselves, the detainees began to straggle back to their cells. Soon the plank beds could be heard creaking, and the voices gradually fell silent.
The tank commander pushed himself away from the doorway and began his rounds. He walked through the open grille and looked into the first cell on his left. It was a large room with a long wooden bench around the perimeter on which twenty detainees tried to arrange their bodies in the most comfortable positions possible. The bench squeaked and complained and the room was filled with the fusty smell of carrion and human bodies. He walked on. Besides the large cell — which was for those who’d been given night detention — there was a row of cells with two beds each, for those doing hard time. At the end of the corridor were several isolation cells. Meanwhile Bamza was locking the doors on the other side of the corridor. Danny walked back to the grille, waited until Bamza had locked all the cells, and took the keys from him.
“I’m going to cork off,” said Bamza. “Don’t wake me up before two-fifteen.”
“Don’t worry,” said Danny. Bamza disappeared into the escorts’ room and the tank commander leaned against the grille. He sighed, thinking — though it was pointless to do so — about his wretched luck. Now, when his stint was almost up, this other stint, far more pleasant, was just beginning. Even so, he knew that next morning he’d do everything in his power to get to Prague on Sunday to see Lizetka. This was because Jana had announced that First Lieutenant Pinkas would be spending the weekend — his third this year — with his family. I’m a real whore, he thought. These two women are whores too, each in her own way, but whores all the same. We’re all whores — a republic of whores, he thought, turning and looking back down the grey, bare corridor at the rectangle of the main entrance into the prison, and the figure of Lieutenant Malina silhouetted against the starry sky and the swaying trees.
Sergeant Mitzi Babinčáková emerged from the latrines and walked down the corridor towards him in her green sweatsuit. He made room for her to pass, then followed her back to her cell. Just outside the door, she turned around.
“Are you going to lock me in, Comrade Tank Commander?”
“It’s orders, comrade.”
“But I don’t like being locked up.”
“I don’t like having to lock you up, either. But” — he made an apologetic face — “I’ve only got a couple of weeks to go, you know how it is.”
“Sure,” and she cast him a look of regret. “So I guess I won’t see you, then. Good-night.” And she slammed the cell door in his face. He turned and walked back to the command room, where a light was burning. Malina was sitting there already, and stared at the tank commander with his forget-me-not eyes.
“Did you lock everything up?”
“Yeah,” said Danny, sitting down at the table. Scattered along its length were three unwashed mess tins with scraps of supper left in them, two tin cups of coffee, half a loaf of rye bread, a chunk of salami that someone had bitten into, and three slices of dirty bacon. Amid this debris were two books —one called Brave Churgali, bearing the stamp of the base library, and the other Graham Greene’s Stamboul Train, a considerably dog-eared volume the tank commander had borrowed specially for night duty from Private First Class Dr. Mlejnek, who was a strait-laced Catholic.
Danny pulled a crumpled letter from a pocket on the leg of his coveralls and smoothed it out on the table in front of him.
“It’ll be okay tonight,” said Malina absently. “Kámen’s on duty rounds, and I figure he’ll just fuck the dog as usual.”
“That’s for sure,” the tank commander agreed. “We’ll have a quiet night.”
“That’s what I think,” said the lieutenant. He raised a tin cup of coffee, took a drink, set it back on the table, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Well then,” he said genially, “I guess I’ll — take a walk. Know what I mean?”
“Good,” said Danny. The lieutenant’s blue eyes looked into his, seeking a sign that he’d understood.
“If — ah — if Kámen does happen to show up,” the mild-mannered officer went on, “tell him I’ve gone to check on the guards, okay? He doesn’t give a shit anyway.”
“Good,” the tank commander said again. “I’ll tell him.”
“Well.” The lieutenant stared blankly at the floor. Then he looked at Danny once more. “So — I’m off, then.”
“Fine. Go right ahead.”
“Right.” The lieutenant got to his feet, stretched, and stood there indecisively, apparently examining the walls. “So, I’m on my way,” he said, and he took a step towards the door, then stopped again. What are you waiting for, Danny said to himself. She’s been for a piss and she’s ready and waiting for you. Malina coughed, and suddenly Danny realized what the lieutenant’s irresolution was all about, and felt ashamed for causing the discreet philanderer embarrassment.
“I’m sorry, Comrade Lieutenant!” He jumped to his feet, rushed out into the corridor, walked quickly to the grille, and unlocked it. He could hear the lieutenant’s heavy footsteps behind him. They walked to the cell, and Danny unlocked it and peered in. Nothing moved. The lieutenant slipped inside.
“Right,” he said from the darkness. “Lock me in and come for me when it’s time to change the guard. If anyone shows up, I’ve gone out to check on the sentries.”
“Good,” said Danny. “Enjoy yourselves.”
“Thanks, comrade,” came a female voice from the darkness.
The tank commander peered into the cell briefly, then locked the door and went back to the command room. He sat down at the table and looked at the letter spread out on it. It was from his cousin Alena, an actress who had made a name for herself not long ago playing a sweet young shock worker in a play called Goat Droppings, and later in a film with the same title. She was supposed to be finding Danny a job in Prague.
Dear cousin,
I’ve arranged everything. You can start work the minute you get out. I’m looking forward to seeing you, and what you look like in uniform. You never once came to visit us in all those years in the army. You didn’t even come to the theatre. Maybe our place is too far from Radlice, and a soldier has only so much time, doesn’t he? My husband, and Comrade Robert Neumann, send their greetings.
When you come to Prague, show your face at the theatre, at least.
Your cousin,
Alena
The bitch, he thought. How did she smoke out all that gossip? But I suppose Prague’s a village and it’s impossible to keep a secret. He recalled the warm, twinkling stars above Radlice Hill, and then the warm, twinkling stars over the shooting range, and to his inner fancy the sweetly melancholy face of Janinka appeared, and was replaced by the basilisk eyes of the girl called Lizetka. Just suppose, he thought, and the very idea sent cold chills through him, suppose someone smokes this romance out too? Pinkas would shoot me. Or he’d divorce her and I’d have to marry her. Not one of th
ose nice bourgeoise girls, but Janinka. She’d no longer be forbidden fruit. There’d no longer be the excitement of expecting an angry, battle-seasoned husband with his own service revolver to return at any moment. Perhaps Janinka wouldn’t be the same without her avenger in the wings, lurching over well-travelled military roads in an armoured car while the fawning little tank commander and his wife … oh, damn! Who could say? He folded the letter, placed a reassuring hand on the pistol in his holster, and fell into a reverie again.
Outside, in front of the guardhouse, the slow, even steps of the sentry’s ironshod boots clacked on the pavement of the courtyard. The prison air was alive with the silent music of human respiration. Everyone’s asleep, the tank commander reflected, and they’re dreaming of cars, motorcycles, girls, journeys home, journeys into the world. Right about now Lieutenant Malina must be shooting microscopic carriers of pink-faced, blue-eyed little Malinas into a rubber lodged deep inside Sergeant Babinčáková, if he’s even that careful. The iron First Lieutenant Pinkas must be preparing to carry out his marital duties for the first time in a long while. Captain Matka’s probably expected to do something similar, but he’s no doubt asleep by now. Janinka’s lying in bed and looking at the stars above the shooting range and thinking of me. At least, I hope she’s thinking of me. Lizetka will be lying with one of her lovers, allowing him lascivious touches but no more — and as far as I’m concerned she can go to.… He yawned and stretched. His belt was too tight so he took it off and put it on the table, along with his revolver. His waking thoughts began to mingle with the confused events of dreams. His head nodded. He fended off sleep for a while, forcing his eyes to stay open, but at last he too succumbed, to tedium, exhaustion, and dissatisfaction.
He came awake with a sudden start, thinking he’d heard the sentry outside whistle. The sound seemed to penetrate his body, and he wasn’t sure whether he’d actually heard it or was still dreaming. He quickly stood up, reached for his revolver, and tried to buckle it on, but his hands were clumsy from sleep and wouldn’t obey him. And so he was standing by the table, his feet slightly apart, his face looking down at his stomach, where he was trying in vain to hook the end of his belt to the buckle with the lion, when the door flew open to reveal the Pygmy Devil.
Danny snapped to attention, his left hand holding the belt against his stomach while his right hand flew to his temple in a salute. Too late, he realized that he had left his cap on the table, so he lowered his arm and looked steadily into the Pygmy Devil’s eyes. Like an indignant god, Major Borovička planted his legs, in their tiny riding-pants, apart, put his hands on his hips, and, as always, filled his expression with the most concentrated mix of threat and hatred he could muster.
“Comrade Major,” the tank commander chanted, his left hand still holding his belt, “during my watch in the guardhouse there has been nothing special to report. Number of detainees: forty-two. All accounted for, and taking their nightly rest. Prisoner escort, Tank Commander Smiřický reporting.”
He finished speaking and stood at attention. The major looked up and drilled him with a penetrating glance, but said nothing. In the silence that followed, Danny could hear Bamza crawling out of his bunk next door.
“Comrade Tank Commander,” the Pygmy Devil began, “what are the duties of a prisoner escort?”
Danny couldn’t recall what they were — he couldn’t recall ever having read about a prisoner escort’s duties — so he said only what was obvious. “The prisoner escort is responsible for order in the prison. He opens and locks the cells, he ensures that the prisoners are properly escorted to and from work, he carries out head counts, he ensures that prisoners do not smoke or possess items that might be used to inflict injuries, he ensures that —”
“May a prisoner escort take off his weapon while on duty?” the major interrupted coldly.
“He may not.”
“Have you behaved accordingly?”
“I have not,” Danny admitted.
“How is that possible?” asked the major.
Danny was silent.
“How is that possible, Comrade Tank Commander?”
There was no answer, because there was no excuse for not observing standing orders. Why try to invent extenuating circumstances when they wouldn’t extenuate anything? The hell with it. Into the fire. “I did it out of carelessness and neglect,” Danny said firmly.
This confession took some of the wind out of the Pygmy Devil’s sails. His cheeks puffed out and a nerve in his temple twitched. “Well then,” he said after a long pause. “At least you’re admitting it. But this carelessness, this neglect, this ignorance of the orders, does not excuse you. Where is your assistant?”
“He’s asleep.”
“Wake him up.”
Danny turned around, managing to buckle his belt as he did so. He opened the door, revealing Bamza, who was standing by the bed with a dumb look on his face.
“Comrade Private, come here,” he ordered. Bamza moved forward, came through the door, stood in front of the major, and said in a crude, obscenely hoarse voice, “Assistant prisoner escort, Private Bamza.”
The Pygmy Devil looked him up and down. Then he said nastily, “How many detainees do you have?”
Bamza hesitated, frowned, then blurted, “Forty-five.”
“Show me the report,” ordered the major. While he was studying the paper, Danny wondered what to do about Malina. He was afraid. After all, this would mean time in the clink — and extra time in the army. Oddly enough, the latter thought suddenly made him less afraid. It would also mean prolonging his affair with Janinka. That girl is having a good influence on me, he thought. She’s making me brave. Maybe I’ll marry her after all. If Pinkas doesn’t shoot me first. He looked calmly at the Pygmy Devil, who was carefully preparing to fly into a rage.
“According to this report,” he said icily, “you have exactly forty-one detainees, Comrade Tank Commander. How is that possible?”
“That’s the correct number, Comrade Major.”
“Then how is it possible that you said forty-two?”
“I was wrong, Comrade Major.”
“How is that possible?”
“I forgot what the exact count was.”
“How is that possible?”
The major’s circular litany angered the tank commander. “I carelessly neglected to read the report,” he shot back. If he says, “How is that possible?” one more time.…
But the major turned to Bamza instead. “You said forty-five. How is that possible?”
Bamza scowled.
“How is that possible?”
“I thought that’s how many there are.”
“How is that possible?”
“I have a lousy memory. I can’t remember nothing,” growled Bamza, and his scowl was almost as intense as the major’s. Borovička’s universal question didn’t apply to this. The orders didn’t say that a private was compelled not to be an idiot. This was the final refuge of all soldiers — except for the few unlucky ones with university degrees, who couldn’t hide behind stupidity.
The Pygmy Devil snorted, then turned back to the tank commander and asked the question he’d been expecting: “And where is the duty officer?”
Now there was trouble. Danny replied as Malina had instructed him, but there was faint hope the Pygmy Devil would swallow it. “He’s out checking on the guards, Comrade Major.”
“Very well, then,” said Borovička. “Show me the guardhouse.”
The tank commander took the ring of keys, stepped out into the corridor, and walked towards the grille. The murky light was on, as regulations required, and the sentry’s footsteps in the yard sounded crisper and more watchful than they usually did. Things are pretty much as they should be, Danny said to himself. Except for one cell. Perhaps he’ll get tired of the inspection before he gets to that one. He unlocked the grille, which creaked as he opened it, and the little major trotted into the prison.
“Show me the men with one-night deten
tions.”
The tank commander obediently unlocked the cell door and turned on the light. In the large room, the prisoners lay jammed up together on the benches beside each other. The bright light woke some of the delinquents, and voices were raised saying, “What the fuck!” and “Turn off the fucking light!” but they fell silent again. Then a frightened soldier realized what was going on, jumped to his feet, and yelled, “Atten — SHUN!”
A handful of detainees half-raised themselves on their elbows to see what was going on. The older and more experienced ones pretended to be asleep. Perhaps the Pygmy Devil had originally had no intention of waking them up, but such an obvious lack of respect angered him. He ordered Danny to give the order to fall in and then he carried out a thorough inspection, with disastrous results. Six of the detainees were found possessing cigarettes, five of them had pocket knives, one of them had a crucifix hidden in an eyeglasses case. The Pygmy Devil also confiscated a mickey of rum, several condoms, and four live rounds of pistol ammunition. He ordered a precise record made of everything they found. Danny felt as though he were writing out his own death warrant.
They went into two more large cells, and two cells for prisoners on longer detention. An inspection of these areas revealed further packets of illicit cigarettes, a notebook filled with verse of a rather salacious and anti-military nature, four pulp novels, and a piece of salami weighing about a kilo, all of which would be entered in the record against the prisoner escort. But the greatest disaster was yet to come. Now they stood in front of the isolation cell where the career sergeant was imprisoned.
“Who’s in this one?”
“Sergeant Babinčáková. Fifteen days’ detention.”
“Hmm,” said the Pygmy Devil. For a moment it seemed that discretion would triumph over natural curiosity. Unfortunately, Lieutenant Malina was ignorant of what was going on, and suddenly his deep male groans emerged from the cell. The Pygmy Devil flushed a deep red. “Open the door,” he hissed.
Danny stepped up to the door and began fumbling noisily through the ring of keys. He took his time.
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