Not yet.
I feel the wind that whips the faces of the two Germans in the car. Yes, the chauffeur is driving that fast—I know this: a thousand witnesses have attested to it, I have no doubts at all on that score. The Mercedes speeds past, and the most precious part of my imagining follows silently in its slipstream. The air rushes past, the engine drones, the passenger keeps telling his giant chauffeur, “Schneller! Schneller!” Faster, faster, he shouts, but he doesn’t know that time has already started to slow down. Soon, the course of the world will freeze at a bend in the road. The earth will stop moving at exactly the same time as the Mercedes.
But not yet. It is still too early. Not everything is in place yet. Not everything has been said. I would like to be able to delay this moment forever, I think, even as my whole being stretches out longingly toward it.
The Slovak, the Moravian, and the Bohemian Czech are also waiting, and I would pay dearly to feel what they felt then. But I am too corrupted by literature. “Yet have I something in me dangerous,” says Hamlet, at a similar moment. I hope I can be forgiven. I hope they can forgive me. I am doing all of this for them. I had to start up the black Mercedes—that wasn’t easy. I had to put everything in place, take care of the preparations. I had to spin the web of this adventure, erect the gallows of the Resistance, cover death’s hideous iron fist in the sumptuous velvet glove of the struggle. Scorning modesty, I had to join forces with men so great that I am a mere insect in comparison.
I had to cheat sometimes, to betray my literary principles—because what I believe is insignificant next to what is being played out now. What will be played out in a few minutes. Here. Now. On this curve in Holešovice Street in Prague, where—later, much later—they will build some kind of access road. Because cities change faster, alas, than men’s memories.
But that doesn’t really matter. A black Mercedes is sliding along the road like a snake—from now on, that’s the only thing that matters. I have never felt so close to my story.
Prague.
I feel metal rubbing against leather. And that anxiety rising inside the three men, and the calmness they display. This is not the manly self-confidence of those who know they are going to die. Even though our heroes are prepared for death, the possibility of escaping alive has never been dismissed. And this makes their psychological tension even more unbearable. I don’t know what incredible power over their nerves they must possess in order to remain in control. I make a quick inventory of all the times in my life when I’ve had to show sangfroid. What a joke! On each occasion, the stakes were tiny: a broken leg, a night at work, a rejection. There you go, that’s pretty much all I’ve ever risked in the course of my pathetic existence. How could I convey even the tiniest idea of what those three men lived through?
But it’s too late for this kind of mood. After all, I, too, have responsibilities and I must face up to them. I have to stay in the slipstream of the Mercedes. Listen to the sounds of life on this May morning. Feel the wind of history as it begins, gently, to blow. Watch as all the actors in this drama—from the dawn of time in the twelfth century, up until the present and Natacha—file past in my mind. And then retain only five names: Heydrich, Klein, Valčík, Kubiš, and Gabčík.
In the narrowing flow of this story, those five are about to reach the waterfall.
207
It’s the afternoon of May 26, 1942. Heydrich is about to attend the opening concert of Prague’s weeklong music festival, featuring music composed by his father. A few hours before the first notes are played, he holds a press conference for the Protectorate’s journalists:
“I am obliged to observe that incivilities, or what one might call indelicacies, if not examples of outright rudeness, particularly toward Germans, are once again on the rise. You are well aware, gentlemen, that I am generous and that I encourage all plans for reform. But you also know that, however patient I may be, I will not hesitate to strike with the most extreme harshness if I get the feeling that people consider the Reich to be weak, and if they mistake the goodness of my heart for weakness.”
I am a child. This speech is interesting on more than one level. It shows Heydrich at the height of his powers, utterly self-assured, expressing himself like the enlightened despot he imagines himself to be—the viceroy proud of his governance, the master firm but fair, as if the title of Protector were printed upon his conscience; as if Heydrich really considered himself a “protector.” Proud of his sharp political sense, Heydrich wields the carrot and the stick in all his speeches. It is typical of totalitarian rhetoric that Heydrich the Hangman, Heydrich the Butcher, should ingenuously tell us how generous and progressive he is, wielding his irony as knowingly and insolently as the wiliest of tyrants. But it is none of this that stands out for me in this speech. What stands out is his use of the term “incivilities.”
208
On the evening of May 26, Libena goes to see Gabčík, her fiancé. But he has gone out to calm his nerves because he can no longer stand the prevarications of those Resistance members who fear the consequences of the assassination attempt. So it’s Kubiš who lets her in. She’s brought cigarettes. After a brief hesitation, she gives them to Kubiš. “But, Jeniček [this is the affectionate diminutive of Jan, which means that she knows his real name], you mustn’t smoke them all!” And the young girl leaves, not knowing whether she will ever see her fiancé again.
209
I think all men for whom life is not an endless series of misfortunes are bound to experience, at least once, a moment they consider, rightly or wrongly, to be the apotheosis of their existence. For Heydrich, this moment has arrived. And by one of those delicious ironies that forge our destinies, it occurs the day before his assassination.
When Heydrich enters the chapel of Wallenstein Palace, all the guests rise. Ceremonious but smiling, his eyes lifted, he walks on the red carpet that leads him to his place in the front row. His wife, Lina, accompanies him. She is pregnant and radiant, wearing a dark dress. Everyone’s eyes turn their way and all the men in uniform make the Nazi salute as they pass. Heydrich is overcome by the majesty of the place—I can read it in his eyes. He proudly contemplates the altar, surmounted by sumptuous bas-reliefs, and the space below it where the musicians will soon take their seats.
This evening he remembers (if he’d ever forgotten) that music is his life. Music has been with him since his birth. It has never left him. Within Heydrich, the artist has always fought against the man of action. His career has been decided by the course of the world. But music always lives inside him—it will be there until his death.
Each guest holds the evening’s program. Here, he can read the bad prose that the interim Protector has seen fit to compose as an introduction:
Music is the creative language of those who are artists and music lovers, the means of expressing their interior life. In difficult times, it brings relief to he who listens, and in times of greatness and fighting, it encourages him. But music is, above all, the great expression of the German race’s cultural productivity. In this sense, the festival of music in Prague is a contribution to the excellence of the present, conceived as the foundation of a vigorous musical life in this region at the heart of the Reich for years to come.
Heydrich does not write as well as he plays the violin, but he doesn’t care about that—because music is the true language of artistic souls.
The program is exceptional. He has brought over the greatest musicians to play the greatest Germanic music. Beethoven, Handel, even Mozart … and probably, for once, no Wagner. (I can’t be certain, because I haven’t been able to get hold of the complete program.) But it is when he hears the first notes of Bruno Heydrich’s Concerto for Piano in C Minor—played by former pupils of the Halle Conservatory, accompanied by a famous virtuoso pianist flown in expressly—that Heydrich, letting the music flow through him like a stream of well-being, experiences his feeling of apotheosis. I would be curious to hear this work. When Heydrich applauds at the end, I can rea
d on his face the arrogant daydream of all great, self-centered megalomaniacs. Heydrich tastes his personal triumph through the posthumous triumph of his father. But triumph and apotheosis are not exactly the same thing.
210
Gabčík is back. Neither he nor Kubiš smokes in the apartment, because they don’t want to put out the family they’re staying with—and also because they don’t want to arouse the neighbors’ suspicions.
Through the window, the silhouette of the castle stands out against the night. Kubiš, lost in contemplation of its imposing mass, thinks aloud: “I wonder what it will be like there, this time tomorrow…” His hostess, Mrs. Ogounova, asks: “What is supposed to happen?” Gabčík is the one who replies: “Nothing, Mrs. Ogounova.”
211
The morning of May 27, Gabčík and Kubiš get ready to leave earlier than usual. The Ogoun family’s young son is doing last-minute revision because today is the day of his final exam and he’s nervous. Kubiš tells him: “Be calm, Luboš. You’ll pass it. You have to pass it. And tonight, we’ll all celebrate your success together…”
212
As usual, Heydrich eats his breakfast while reading the day’s newspapers, delivered to him from Prague every morning at dawn. At nine o’clock his black (or dark green) Mercedes arrives, driven by his chauffeur—a giant SS guard, about six feet five inches tall, called Klein. But this morning, Heydrich makes him wait. He plays with his children (I have trouble imagining Heydrich playing with his children) and goes for a walk with his wife in the immense gardens that surround their house. Lina probably has to keep him up-to-date on the work that’s being done. The plan is to cut down the ash trees and replace them with fruit trees. At least, that’s what Ivanov says in his historical account of the assassination. I wonder if he made it up? According to him, the Heydrichs’ youngest child, Silke, told her father that someone called Herbert had taught her how to load a revolver. Silke is three years old. But I suppose nothing, in such troubled times, should surprise me.
213
It is May 27: the anniversary of Joseph Roth’s death. He died three years before in Paris, of alcoholism and sorrow. Roth was a fierce and prophetic observer of the Nazi regime during its early years. In 1934, he wrote: “What swarmings of people in this world, an hour before its end!”
Two men board a tram. Thinking it might be their last journey, they watch avidly as the streets of Prague rush past the window. Then again, they might have chosen to see nothing, to think about nothing, gathering their concentration by blocking out the outside world … but I doubt it. They’ve been on the alert for so long it’s become second nature. Boarding the tram, they automatically check out the appearances of all the other male passengers: who gets on and off, who stands in front of each door. They can tell instantly who’s speaking German, even at the other end of the carriage. They note the vehicle in front of the tram, and the one behind it, and how far away they are. They spot the Wehrmacht motorbike and sidecar as they overtake on the right; they glance at the patrol going back up the pavement; they note the two men in leather raincoats standing guard outside the building opposite … okay, I’ll stop there. Gabčík is also wearing a raincoat, but although the sun is shining it’s still cool enough for him not to attract unwanted attention. Or perhaps he’s carrying it on his arm? He and Kubiš have dressed smartly for the big day, and each grips a heavy briefcase.
They get off somewhere in Žižkov, the district named after the legendary Jan Žižka, the greatest and most ferocious Hussite general—the one-eyed man who for fourteen years resisted the armies of the Germanic Holy Roman Empire; the Taborite leader who brought down the wrath of heaven on all Bohemia’s enemies. They go to the house of a contact to pick up two bicycles. One of the bikes belongs to Aunt Moravec. On Holešovice Street, they stop to greet another lady of the Resistance—another surrogate mother who sheltered them and made them cakes: a Mrs. Khodlova, whom they wish to thank. You haven’t come to say goodbye, have you? No, not at all, we’ll come to see you soon—perhaps even today. Will you be at home? Yes, of course, please come …
When they finally get there, Valčík is already waiting for them. There is perhaps a fourth parachutist—Lieutenant Opalka from Out Distance, come to give them a hand—but his role has never been clarified, nor has his presence even been verified. So I’ll stick to what I know.
It is not yet nine o’clock. After a brief discussion, the three men go to their posts.
214
It is nearly ten o’clock and Heydrich still hasn’t left for work. That evening, he must fly to Berlin for a meeting with Hitler. Perhaps he is taking particular care to prepare for it? Ever the meticulous bureaucrat, he is probably checking the documents in his briefcase one last time. In any case, it’s already ten o’clock when Heydrich takes his place in the front seat of the Mercedes. Klein starts the engine, the gates open, and the guards, right arms outstretched, salute the Protector as he passes. Then the Mercedes convertible accelerates up the road.
215
While Heydrich’s Mercedes snakes along the thread of its knotted destiny, while the three parachutists keep an anxious lookout, all their senses alert, on that deadly bend of the road, I reread the story of Jan Žižka, told by George Sand in a little-known book called Jean Zizka. And once more I become distracted. I see the fierce general sitting enthroned on his mountain: blind, his skull shaved, his braided Asterix-style mustaches drooping onto his chest like creepers. At the foot of his improvised fortress, ready to attack, is Sigismond’s imperial army. Battles, massacres, sieges, and spoils of war pass before my eyes. Žižka was the king’s chamberlain in Prague. It’s said that he entered the war against the Catholic Church out of hatred for priests—because a priest had raped his sister. This is the era of the first famous defenestrations in Prague. No one knows yet that this small fire in Bohemia will blaze up into more than a century of terrible religious wars, and that from the ashes of Jan Hus will rise Protestantism. I learn that the word “pistol” comes from the Czech píštala. I learn that it was Žižka, with his battalions of heavily armed chariots, who practically invented tank warfare. Apparently, Žižka found the man who raped his sister and punished him terribly. Apparently, too, Žižka was one of the greatest war leaders in history, because he never suffered defeat. I am spreading myself too thinly. Everything I read takes me farther and farther away from the curve in Holešovice Street. And then I stumble on this phrase of George Sand’s: “Poor workers or sick people, you must always struggle against those who tell you: ‘Work hard to live badly.’” That isn’t an invitation to digress—it’s a demand! But I am concentrated on my objective now. I will no longer let myself be distracted. A black Mercedes glides along the road—I can see it.
216
Heydrich is late. It is already ten o’clock. Rush hour is over, and Gabčík and Kubiš’s presence on the pavement is becoming more conspicuous. In 1942, anywhere in Europe, two men standing alone for a long time in the same place quickly attract suspicion.
I am sure they are sure that the game is up. Each passing minute increases the risk that they will be spotted by a patrol and arrested. But still they wait. The Mercedes should have been here more than an hour ago. According to the carpenter’s records, Heydrich has never arrived at the castle after ten o’clock. Everything says he is not coming. He could have changed his route, or gone straight to the airport. Perhaps he’s already taken off, never to return.
Kubiš is leaning against a lamppost, on the inside of the curve. Gabčík, on the other side of the crossroads, pretends to wait for a tram. He must have seen a good dozen pass already and he’s no longer counting. The flood of Czech workers gradually abates. The two men are more and more exposed. Little by little the hum of the city fades and the calm that descends on the curve in the road is like an ironic echo of their disastrous mission. Heydrich is never late. He’s not coming.
But obviously I wouldn’t have written this whole book if Heydrich wasn’t coming.
&nbs
p; At half past ten, the two men are struck by lightning—or rather by the light of the sun reflected, from the hill above them, by the little mirror that Valčík has taken from his pocket. It’s the signal. He is coming. At last! In a few seconds he’ll be there. Gabčík runs across the road and positions himself at the exit of the curve, hidden by it until the last moment. Unlike Kubiš, who is farther forward (unless he’s behind Gabčík, as some reconstructions claim, but that seems less likely to me), he can’t see that the Mercedes outlined against the horizon is not followed by a second car. I bet he hasn’t even given it a thought. At this moment, one single idea takes all the space in his fevered brain: shoot the target. But then, from behind, he hears the unmistakable noise of a tram approaching.
Suddenly the Mercedes appears. As expected, it brakes. But as they had feared, a tram filled with civilians is going to pass it at the worst possible moment: at the exact instant when the car reaches the part of the street where Gabčík waits. Oh well … tough shit. They have evaluated the risk of killing innocent civilians, and they have decided to take it. Gabčík and Kubiš are less scrupulous than Camus’ Just Assassins,* but that’s because they are real people, both greater and more flawed than any fictional character.
217
You are strong, you are powerful, you are pleased with yourself. You have killed people and you are going to kill many, many more. Everything you do succeeds. Nothing can resist you. In the space of barely ten years you have become “the most dangerous man in the Third Reich.” Nobody makes fun of you anymore. They don’t call you the Goat now—they call you the Blond Beast. You have undeniably moved up the hierarchy of animal species. Everyone is afraid of you, even your boss—a bespectacled little hamster, albeit a dangerous one.
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