Republic Of Whores

by Josef Skvorecky

  At this point Sergeant Krajta spat to one side and announced that it was generally known that Tank Commander Maňas had carried on zöophilia in the stable with the regimental mule — and just then a hospital orderly called Beránek stood up and opened the door leading to the infirmary, where Maňas was recovering from shock and from his wounds. When he saw Maňas, Beránek shouted into that warm, wonderful night — just the kind the hapless tank commander had described — “Hey, we’ve just been reading how you fucked a T-34.”

  * * *

  Despite this and other misfortunes, the Seventh Tank Battalion and its commanders finally made it through to the review parade before the Commander-in-Chief of the Armoured and Mechanized Army. Exemplary Tankist medals were to be distributed and, as a grand finale, the title of Master Tank Driver was to be awarded to Sergeant Očko of this notorious battalion. That decorative bandage was to salve the scarred soul of Captain Matka, to heal the wounds inflicted by having men so ignorant that they got lost behind enemy lines with a whole squadron of tanks, or didn’t know which direction Prague was, or could name only a handful of the thirty-seven incumbent government ministers during a political readiness exam.

  Captain Matka invited Očko to his office so that, with the assistance of Růžička and Hospodin, he could help the sergeant prepare himself morally and ideologically for the great honour. He guessed that such preparation would be especially appropriate in Očko’s case, for the driver had a habit of peppering his language with expletives that had no place in the vocabulary of the new socialist soldier. Later, Sergeant Očko — who was sometimes called “Fuckinočko” — gave a laconic report of that two-hour session in the captain’s study.

  “Fuck me, man,” he said, unwinding his smelly puttees, “they shouted at me for two fuckin’ hours, the pigs, and they told me I should be fuckin’ proud of the fuckin’ honour and stuff like that, man, and when I asked them how about some fuckin’ leave, you know what the fuckers said? They fuckin’ said I should fuckin’ wait till I’m fuckin’ back in civvies, man. I mean, fuck that.”

  * * *

  The glorious day finally arrived. The entire division assembled in dress uniform on the football field for inspection. It felt like a real autumn day; a cold wind was blowing, the flags were flapping on the roof of the reviewing stand, and the men of the Seventh Tank Battalion stood in immaculate new white underwear that had been issued that morning, and had been inspected and found spotless by a group of generals. At almost the last moment, Captain Matka was afflicted by what he hoped was the final disaster during this inspection: one of the battalion’s political agitators, Sergeant Mácha, was found to have immoral tattoos on his body, and in a notebook kept by Private Mengele the committee found a sketch of an unfinished trip around the world, indicated by a thick double line against the background of the two hemispheres. The double line was divided into seven hundred and thirty little squares, each representing a day of army service. Most of them were already filled in with red ink. The sketch clearly had an international significance, because the Russian general understood what it meant without being told, and Major Borovička sentenced Mengele to ten nights’ detention in the guardhouse on the spot.

  But these additional lapses by his subordinates no longer had the power to shake the already shaken Captain Matka. He stood tall and erect at the head of his officer corps, the grey clouds overhead reflected in the polish of his riding boots. Birds circled beneath the clouds, flocking together for the trip south, and beneath them the chairman of the examination committee delivered a grand speech. Proudly he affirmed the splendid achievements of the proud Seventh Tank Battalion, for in the overall evaluation it had been given the proud mark of three, which meant good. But we must not conceal from ourselves, he went on, the fact that alongside these proud achievements we must also think about the prou — that is, the considerable shortcomings yet to be rectified. And while he had spoken only vaguely about the successes, he now began to enumerate an almost endless list of very specific faults.

  When the general had exhausted his supply of critical remarks, the division commander stepped onto the platform and declared that military service was a rugged experience, just as the Soviet tanks themselves were rugged, and that soldiers had to be rugged too, and that tank soldiers had to be the most rugged of all. The flock of birds circling under the grey clouds was still trying to decide whether to quit this charming autumn land while General Helebrant expressed the conviction that, should a war occur, military service would be even more rugged than it was now, yet today his soldiers had shown that the tough fist of our People’s Democratic Army would come crashing down on the enemy and — under the leadership of the supreme commander, General Dr. Alexej Čepička — bring him to his knees. Overcome with military emotion, he declared that he would be satisfied if the soldiers of the tank corps could always overcome all the obstacles of civilian life with a brave tank-corps “Hurrah!” on their lips.

  How they could do this in practice was something no one could imagine at that moment. But, following the Soviet model, the troops shouted out their “Hurrah!” on the parade ground, at least, and the general took over and moved on to the climax of the program, the decoration of Sergeant Očko.

  From the tannoy came the order “Troops — atten — SHUN!” The division became still and heard the general’s thunderous voice — “Sergeant Očko!” — coming over the loudspeakers like the sound of a trumpet heralding Judgement Day, and then, in contrast to this roll of electronic thunder, the thin, unamplified voice of Sergeant Očko, “Here!” and finally the Jovian order to approach.

  Sergeant Očko set off on his triumphant pilgrimage across the parade ground, marching in a somewhat non-regulation step. He mounted the reviewing stand and presented himself to the general in a rather slap-dash manner. The general removed the gilded medal from its case and pinned it on Očko’s chest. As he did so, his godlike voice boomed out over the tannoy: “Comrade Sergeant, by the powers invested in me by the Minister of National Defence, General Doctor Alexej Čepička, I name you Master Tank Driver.”

  This was followed by a gurgling sound in the tannoy which was presumably supposed to be the regulation response “I serve the people!” and which could only have been pronounced by Sergeant Očko himself. At this point the general, who was a rare bird — an officer with experience at the front — forgot himself. Moved, perhaps, by the wind-bitten rural face before him, and recalling other such faces which in times of war had surrounded him in the tanks — faces so unlike the faces surrounding him now at the ministry — he made an unfortunate miscalculation. Sergeant Očko’s red, bearlike hands suggested to him that his mastery of the art of tank-driving was real, not just theoretical, like so many of the skills he had witnessed during the few days of inspection, and the emotional war veteran asked kindly, “Well now, Comrade Sergeant, how did you learn to drive a tank so well?”

  His words were carried clearly over the tannoy, and were immediately followed by the no less clear voice of Sergeant Očko: “No fuckin’ sweat, Comrade General. Like, in civilian life I drive a fuckin’ cat.”

  Behind them, in the ranks of the officers, the legs of the CO of the Seventh Tank Battalion, Captain Václav Matka, gave out under him, and his political officer had to hold him up.

  And the flock of birds in the sky finally made up their minds, fell into formation without an order being given, and started the journey south, to more hospitable climes still ruled by the class enemy.

  * * *

  The Defence of the People, the army daily, began running editorials aimed at political officers, with headlines like “Towards the Correct Evaluation of the Work of Political Workers” or “Towards Political and Moral Assistance to Soldiers and NCOs Leaving Active Service” or even “Towards Making Farmers Out of Reservists”. Inside this popular paper, articles appeared in which soldiers of the Nth unit sang the praises of two wonderful years spent in the good, manly camaraderie of the People’s Democratic Army so that loved
ones could sleep peacefully at home. There was even something by a young greenhorn who couldn’t possibly have joined up yet, because it was too early in the year to draft recruits, but who was already trying to gain favour by reassuring those going back to civilian life that he would take up their weapons so that they could go on building socialism in peace. Soldiers and NCOs of various divisions bade tearful farewells to their rifles, tanks, cannon, mortars, engineering instruments, and poison gases, in articles so brimming with heartfelt emotion that Private First Class Dr. Mlejnek was moved to submit — under the pseudonym Pravomil Poslušný — a piece called “Towards Extending Our Beloved Service to the Motherland”, arguing for a return to the seven-year compulsory military service that had prevailed under Maria Theresa. The article wasn’t printed, but the soldier actually bearing that unlikely name was summoned by the military secret police and later, on his return to civilian life, sent to prison for seven years for insulting the people’s democratic system.

  Obliging soldiers — those who, to the very last moments of that happiest period of their lives, had remained afraid of the political officers — decorated the clubrooms and bulletin boards for the last time with slogans urging the fresh new defenders of the peace to walk in the footsteps of the famous Nth Battalion, to emulate the great traditions of such-and-such a unit. Official photographs of exemplary tankists, looking unusually bellicose in their tank helmets, were displayed to inspire new recruits with the appropriate feistiness. Although it was never said, it was assumed that most of the recruits had girlfriends in civilian life, and thus one of the most effective ways of encouraging military zeal was to promise the recruits photographs of themselves wearing tank helmets, which they could then autograph and mail to their loved ones. Unfortunately, no zeal was necessary to have one’s picture taken in a helmet, for the local photographer would rent a helmet to members of any unit whatever, for a price. When Lieutenant Hospodin eventually discovered this little sideline, the photographer was given ten years in prison for sabotaging the psychological readiness of the men.

  As far as Danny could remember, The Defence of the People had never been read so closely — at least, not in the circle of intellectual NCOs — as it was now. An employee of the Office for the Advancement of Labour arrived in camp and held a big meeting and variety show in the auditorium to encourage soldiers to sign up for work in the mines or in heavy industry. If the event was well attended, it wasn’t because the men were drawn by the promise of fresh opportunities to build socialism, but because they were tired of hiding all day from officers who wanted, in the little time remaining, to exploit their unpaid labour in improving various facilities, both on the base and in their private homes. This was work which the soldiers refused to do, both out of laziness and on principle (the greenhorns would be here in a few days anyway); they preferred to wander through the woods on the edge of camp, hiding from the officers’ search parties in shell and grenade craters on the shooting range, eating salami stolen from the mess, and using the gigantic straw-stacks near the infantry training ground for short-arm practice with Sergeant Babinčáková, her two colleagues, and a girl from the Youth Union whom Private Semerák had smuggled into camp in the back of a milk truck.

  But even such evasions and diversions soon became tiring, and the soldiers turned up in large numbers for the recruiting campaign. It was a beautiful afternoon, and fresh air wafted through the windows, promising repose. Some of the men fell asleep right away, others listened to a long introductory speech by the divisional political officer, Major Sádlo. Then an employee of the Office for the Advancement of Labour used attractive statistics to sketch out the advantages of mining and steel production as a means of building socialism. The program concluded with a poem read by Sergeant Bivoj Balík, from his new collection. Those who hadn’t already fallen asleep now arranged themselves more comfortably in their chairs and, in the hopes that it might induce refreshing slumber, listened to his opening lines:

  Today, we say goodbye with thanks

  To guns and puttees, mines and tanks;

  At the threshold of work our women stand

  And place red roses in our hand.

  Two years we’ve lived here, like real brothers

  We swear we won’t forget each other.

  Our steely tenderness of you’s a part

  We’ll carry you with us in our heart

  And swear

  The poet took a deep breath to give the oath its proper emphasis and pathos, but at that very moment, through the open window, the distant sounds of a song drifted into the room. At first, neither the melody nor the words were discernible.

  that if we’re called to stand

  continued the sergeant,

  We’ll give our lives for our dear land.

  All of us here are prepared to fight

  To show the enemy our might!

  Just as the poet made this assertion, the words of the song, carried on the evening breeze, became audible:

  Roll out the barrel,

  We’ll have a barrel of fun.…

  Those in the audience who were drifting off to sleep were suddenly aroused as the drunken voices sang on:

  Roll out the barrel,

  We’ve got the blues on the run.…

  A hum of excitement went through the hall and here and there voices joined quietly in the melody, while the unknown minnesingers outside continued with great verve:

  Zing boom ta-ra-rel.…

  As long as we live, our wrath will guard

  This holy oath within our heart!

  cried Sergeant Balík, and the voices from outside commented:

  Ring out a song of good cheer.…

  Prepared to live that happy life! The sergeant tried to outshout the singers, but his voice was drowned out in the crescendo —

  Now’s the time to rooooll the barrel

  — as the hall joined in, softly at first, and then in an increasingly loud voice:

  For the gang’s — ALL — HERE!

  With this song on their lips the men rushed out of the hall, and in the next quarter of an hour they filled all five pubs in the neighbouring village to capacity.

  * * *

  By about eleven o’clock that evening, the blood alcohol of almost everyone in those five pubs had gone well past the level officially permitted by the army’s chief health officer. The squad of sentries at the gate, who sent every conspicuously noisy or unusually quiet soldier under escort to the infirmary for a blood test, had good hunting. The military police who tried to restore order in the Jan Žižka Inn fared less well. They were insulted by a foul-mouthed corporal who boasted, “You shithead gumshoes, you better roll your fat asses out of here or I’ll kick them so hard you’ll be eating shit for a week,” and when they tried to apprehend him, the crowd pushed them out of the pub and threw them down the steps into a muddy ditch.

  With true tank-corps grit, they cleaned the mud off themselves and went back to work in the Angel Pub, where they apprehended Sergeant Kobliha for illicit trade with civilians. He had sold his Exemplary Tankist medal for fifty crowns to a civilian who later turned out to be the district secretary of the Czechoslovak Union of Youth, and then spent the money on a bottle of alcohol called Devil’s Brew.

  At the next pub, The Magistrate’s Arms, a first-year recruit in a fit of despair over the long year of civic duty still ahead of him went temporarily mad and attacked Lance-Corporal Lakatoš, who had ridiculed his misery and called him a one-year wonder and a dumb turkey. The clash climaxed in a knife fight, and only the pubkeeper’s intervention prevented bloodshed.

  But the bacchanalia reached its ideological nadir in the back room of an inn called The Hedgehog and Apple, occupied for the most part by NCOs of an intellectual bent. At eleven-thirty, a hollow plaster bust of an important statesman made the rounds. It was inverted and filled with wine, then drained to the singing of a song that sounded very much like a funeral march:

  The whole world knows it, and every grunt and ch
url: Kobylec is the asshole of the world.

  They emptied the bust at precisely a quarter to twelve. Then, having painted a pair of spectacles on its face, the non-coms put it back in its place and marched briskly, in an optimistic mood, back to the gates and crossed into the camp seconds before their passes expired.

  * * *

  That night, the guardhouse couldn’t handle the crush of soldiers who had managed to get themselves “accommodation with a blanket”, or what the regulations called “off-duty detention”. Danny, who was once again on duty as a prisoner escort, had to push the exhilarated offenders not only into common cells, but into practically every available space.

  Then he sat down in the escorts’ room, where Private Bamza was once again snoring on the couch and the ironshod footsteps of the guard could be heard from out in the courtyard. He opened a drawer in the table, pulled out a thick notebook, and began to read with great interest.