Silesian Station (2008) jr-2

by David Downing

  After about fifteen minutes a trickle of prospective passengers began descending the steps, a few minutes more and another grimy locomotive puffed wearily into the station. At Masaryk Station he treated himself to a bratwurst before walking back out. He was still sweating, but so was everyone else; the street was like a steambath.

  A cold beer, he thought, just as the right tram ground to a halt at the station stop. Ten minutes later he was sitting in the riverside beer garden, at the same table he'd occupied the day before. The sky was hazier, and dark clouds gathered above the Castle as he worked his way through two bottles of Pilsen. He and Paul had stood gazing at an El Greco storm in the Metropolitan Museum of Art only a few weeks earlier, and here was nature's version.

  The first fork of lightning seemed to plunge into the castle, as if some resident Nazi wizard was draining power from the cosmos. A few seconds later the thunder cracked and rolled, and the sky lurched further into gloom. For several minutes Russell and the rest of the beer garden's customers watched the storm draw nearer, until a wall of rain swept across the Vltava, driving them all indoors. Already half-soaked, Russell worked his way round to the tower at the eastern end of the Charles Bridge and stood in the archway watching the storm crackle and flash its way over. As the sky lightened in the west, the thunder faded to a distant growl, and a faint rainbow glimmered above Strelecky Island. The rain slowed and stopped, and soon the sun came out, lighting the terracotta roofs and copper green spires of the Little Quarter.

  He headed back towards his hotel, stopping en route at the large book shop he had noticed the previous day. It took some time - and some linguistic assistance from the proprietor - before he found a book that suited his purpose.

  Back at the Europa he took off his wet clothes and stretched out on the bed. The trip to Vysoeany had been a disaster, but he could hardly blame Blazek or the Americans for the quality of their intelligence - if they'd had an up-to-date picture of what was happening in Prague his own visit would have been unnecessary. It was just one of those things. He didn't think he'd been in any real danger, but he wouldn't want to go through those few seconds again. 'Beaten to death by Czech patriots' was not what he wanted on his tombstone.

  He spent the afternoon drifting in and out of a pleasant snooze, then lay in a nicely tepid bath for another half an hour. One out of three wouldn't be bad, provided Bejbl turned up at their rendezvous later that evening.

  Soon after seven he walked down to reception, where his Kafka-loving friend was just coming off-shift. 'Can you recommend a restaurant?' Russell asked. 'Preferably one without Germans.'

  The man could. A small restaurant, not expensive but wonderful food, only ten minutes away. It was on his way home if Russell needed a guide...

  They crossed Wenceslas Square and walked down Lepanska Street, passing the Gestapo-favoured Alcron Hotel. Russell asked the man about the occupation, and received as Kafkaesque an answer as he could have hoped for. The next war would be all about bombing from the air, the man said. The lucky cities would be those which surrendered promptly, because there'd be no point in bombing them. And Prague had shown remarkable foresight in getting itself occupied before the war even began.

  He might be right, Russell thought. He was certainly right about the restaurant, a snug little family affair with six tables indoors and another four filling a small foliage-screened yard. The service was friendly, the food delicious, the Germans nowhere to be seen. His meal finished, Russell sat with a small glass of juniper-flavoured Borovieka, wondering what Effi was doing that evening.

  He emerged from the restaurant soon after nine. The streets were wholly in shadow, the last rays of the sun gilding the highest chimneys. The sky was still blue when he crossed Na Poikopi and entered the Old Town, but the yellow streetlights had already been switched on in the narrow streets and alleys. A Gestapo car was parked on the cobbles of the Old Town Square when he arrived, but drove off soon afterwards, its painted swastika a lurid splash in the half-light.

  There were more people around than Russell expected, some sitting in the outdoor cafes, others orbiting the square like deck-circling passengers on a cruise ship. He took a seat facing the huge and wonderfully-named Church Of Our Lady Before Tyn, and settled down to wait for Bejbl. A few stars were becoming visible in the rapidly darkening sky.

  The ten o'clock appearance of the Town Hall clock disciples had just ended when Bejbl emerged from the alley beside the church. There was no hesitation about him. He strode out into the open, scanning the square until he caught sight of Russell, then walked straight towards him, lighting a cigarette as he did so.

  'Let's go,' he said after shaking hands. 'This way.'

  Bejbl led them around the front of the Town Hall and into the alley opposite. A couple of turns took them past a small church and outdoor cafe and into a longer, yellow-lit passage, empty of business or people. Light and sound seeped out of the upstairs windows, but there were few windows on the ground floor, only heavy-looking doors.

  The words 'rat' and 'trap' sprung to mind.

  Bejbl veered right into another alley, and this time there was life ahead, a car going by, the sound of someone laughing.

  'Here,' Bejbl said, stopping outside a nondescript-looking double door. He glanced back up the alley and rapped softly on the wood. A few seconds later the left hand door swung open. 'In,' Bejbl said, giving Russell a helpful shove.

  He found himself in a small courtyard, facing a man of considerable size. 'I am Tomas Hornak,' the man said, offering a rough hand for a brief shake. He was wearing workingman's overalls and a large cloth cap, which seemed to be losing the struggle to contain his shock of dark wiry hair. Deep-set eyes shone in a chubby face.

  'I am John Fullagar,' Russell said, taking in his surroundings. The courtyard contained several sets of iron tables and chairs, and a number of plants in large tubs. Two strings of multi-coloured lights supplied what meagre illumination there was. There were two other doors.

  'Please, the seats are dry. You will drink something? A beer? Something stronger?'

  'A beer would be nice,' Russell said. He chose a seat and sat down.

  Hornak said something to Bejbl in Czech, and the smaller man disappeared through one of the other doors, spilling cafe light and noise as he did so. 'I have reserved the garden for us,' Hornak said, spreading his arms to indicate that all this was theirs.

  It felt like the bottom of a well, Russell thought, as he looked up through the coloured lights at the small circle of sky.

  'So how is Gregor?' Hornak asked, settling his bulk onto another chair.

  'Doing well, I believe. I've never actually met the man. I'm just here to pass on his messages.'

  'And he wants to help his old comrades?'

  'His American friends want to help,' Russell clarified. 'Your English is excellent,' he added, wondering where he'd learnt it.

  'I had some good English friends,' Hornak said non-committally, just as Bejbl returned with two bottles of beer and a second glass. He put them down on the table and went back into the cafe.

  'And why do Gregor's American friends want to help us?' Hornak asked.

  'Because there's a war coming, and they want all the allies they can get.'

  Hornak smiled at that. 'Well, you have come to the right people.'

  'I hope so. You know who I represent. Who exactly are you speaking for?'

  'We are the only organized group...'

  'Who is "we"?'

  Hornak gave it some thought. 'The Left,' he said eventually. 'Social democrats like Bejbl. And Gregor Blazek, come to that. Communists as well. Even a few Liberals of the old school. We are all together this time.'

  'How organized are you?'

  'How worthy of support, you mean. You will not find anything better in Prague - we have been preparing since the betrayal at Munich.'

  'Have you lost many to the Gestapo?'

  'Some. Like I said, we are organized. There are several hundred of us in the city, but nobody
knows more names than he has to. Sometimes we have to cut off a limb to save the tree, but another always grows.'

  The classic cell structure, Russell thought. He had fallen among comrades.

  'So how does the American Government mean to help us?' Hornak asked.

  'What is it you need?'

  'At the moment, nothing. For now we just try to annoy them. Let their tyres down, cut their telephone wires. Anything more will be suicide - we know this. But when the real war begins, well, we shall see. I think the Germans will be very successful - the Poles won't last more than a few weeks.' He laughed. 'Which will serve them right, yes, for joining all the other jackals and stealing a part of our country from us. But the Germans - the more successful they are, the harder their task will become. Because each battle will cost them soldiers, and each conquered country will need a garrison, and they will get weaker, not stronger. And that is when we shall start fighting them, and when we will need help from outside - the explosives and the guns.'

  'America will provide these things.'

  'Yes? But how will they get these things to us? We are already surrounded by enemies.'

  'Air-drops, I suppose, once radio communications have been established. I'm not here to set anything up - I'm just here to make contact, find out what you need, and how you can be reached in the future. We need a dead letter drop, an address and false name to write to. You understand the book code?'

  'I think so, but tell me.'

  'Both parties have the same edition of the same book,' Russell began, with the distinct impression that he was teaching Stalin's grandmother to suck eggs. 'Words are picked out by numbers. So 2278 would be either page 2, line 27, word 8 or page 22, line 7, word 8 - whichever makes more sense of the message. You understand?'

  'It seems simple. Have you chosen a book?'

  'The Good Soldier Schweik, fourth edition in Czech. That's the current edition. I bought one in the big bookshop on Na Poikopi this afternoon - they had several copies. You must buy one, and I'll send mine back to Washington.'

  'All right.'

  'Now all we need is a name and address.'

  Hornak thought about it for a moment. 'Here is good,' he said at last. 'The Skorepka Cafe. Milan Nemecek.'

  Russell could see no risk in writing it down for memorising later.

  'Is there anything else?' Hornak asked.

  'I don't think so,' Russell said, returning the pencil stub to his shirt pocket and rising to his feet. He doubted whether anything would come of this meeting, but a possibility had been created. Which had to be worth something.

  This marginal sense of achievement lasted about ten seconds. As the two men shook hands, both recognized the swelling sound of vehicles. Hornak stood there, still holding Russell's hand, as the cafe door burst open, revealing Bejbl's silhouette. 'Gestapo,' he hissed, and slammed it shut.

  'This way,' Hornak said urgently, reaching for the third door. It opened into an unlit corridor, which led to another small courtyard, another set of double doors. Hornak opened one of these, put his head round the corner, and gestured Russell to follow him out. They were in a long, curving alley lit by yellow lamps. Hornak headed right, away from the shouts and running motors. 'Quietly,' he told Russell, settling into a brisk walk. They had only gone a few metres when two shots rang out, followed by a single shriek and more shouting. Both men jerked round, but the alley behind them was empty. As they walked on, a little quicker than before, the lighted windows above them winked out in sequence, like letters in a neon sign.

  They were no more than ten metres from the end of the alley when a voice from behind them screamed, 'Halt!' Two German soldiers were jogging down the alley towards them. They were about sixty metres away, Russell reckoned. And their rifles weren't raised.

  'Run,' Hornak said, taking off with an alacrity that belied his size.

  Russell hesitated for a split second, and took off after him, sprinting through the narrow archway at the end of the alley. No shots followed.

  Hornak was ahead of him, barrelling down a long and depressingly straight alley. Feet pounding on the cobbles, Russell's brain still had time to do the mathematics - the Germans would have around thirty metres to kill them in. Four seconds maybe. Oh God.

  He strained every muscle to go faster, petrified that he might trip on an uneven cobblestone. The street seemed to end in a solid wall, or was that an archway in the corner? Hornak was still plunging onwards, his boots crashing down on the cobblestones. The urge to turn and look back was almost unbearable.

  It was an archway. Twenty metres, ten, and a window in front of him shattered, the sound of the shot reverberating down the alley a millisecond later. As he swerved under the arch, two more bullets thudded into a wooden doorway. The bastards had missed him!

  He was running past the church and cafe he'd noticed on his walk with Bejbl. The last few cafe customers had been brought to their feet by the shots, and were now standing by their tables, like sculptures of uncertainty.

  Another archway brought them to an intersection. As they raced across it Russell could hear the sound of other running feet. From more than one direction.

  The alley opposite was the narrowest yet, curving this way and that under the dim yellow lamps. The spires silhouetted against the starfield belonged to Our Lady Of Tyn, Russell realized - they were heading towards the Old Town Square.

  Another turn, another thirty metres, and they were running across it. Russell half-expected to see the Gestapo car from earlier parked mid-Square, but the only occupants were Czechs turned to stone by his and Hornak's dramatic appearance. As his feet rapped across the cobblestones, Russell saw them drag themselves into action, moving towards the nearest exits with increasing purpose.

  Hornak was heading for the left hand side of the church, and the alley from which Bejbl had emerged two hours earlier. They reached it without shouts or shots, and Russell risked a swift look back. The pursuit was nowhere to be seen - had they shaken it off in those last few alleys before the square?

  Hornak was turning into another alley and slowing to a jog. He was breathing heavily, Russell realized, but there was a grim smile of satisfaction on his face.

  One more alley and he slowed to a walk. Russell gratefully followed suit, feeling the stitch in his side. His own breathing was more laboured than Hornak's, and his heart was racing. He promised himself he would use the car less often when he got back to Berlin. If he got back to Berlin.

  'Now we must look like innocent people,' Hornak ordered.

  A succession of empty streets brought them within sight of a much larger thoroughfare. Two people walked across the opening, a man and a woman arm in arm. Ordinary life, Russell thought, but the relief was short-lived. The sound of an approaching vehicle had both men scurrying for the shelter of a shadowed doorway, and they watched as a car drove slowly past on the main road, its side-painted swastika gleaming in the yellow light.

  It was cruising alone, and had vanished by the time they reached the wider street. Russell followed Hornak across, wondering, for the first time, where they were headed.

  'Not far now,' the Czech replied.

  A few minutes more and the familiar canopy of Masaryk Station appeared in front of them.

  'I know where I am now,' Russell said. 'I can get back to the hotel from here.'

  'No, please,' Hornak said. 'We must find out what happened. My office is just a short way. Please.'

  Looking back, Russell found it hard to believe how meekly he bowed to the Czech's insistence. The only reasons he ever came up with were simple curiosity and good manners, neither of which, in retrospect, seemed worth risking his life for.

  They turned left into the long yard adjoining the station. A couple of inlaid sidings ran the length of the yard, and a short rake of tarpaulin-covered wagons were stabled beside one of the small cranes. A line of parked lorries stood between them and a row of darkened offices and storehouses.

  It suddenly occurred to Russell why Hornak had insisted
on his presence. 'We must find out what happened,' he had said. Someone had tipped off the Germans about their meeting. And as far as Hornak was concerned, he was a prime suspect.

  His heart lurched a beat or two. Turning and running seemed ridiculous, but so did happily walking into peril.

  'This is it,' Hornak said, as they reached what was almost the last door in the row. The Czech pushed it open, and invited his companion in. It was all very friendly, but Russell had the distinct impression that refusal was never an option.

  Hornak shut the door behind them and closed the shutters before turning on a desk lamp. Filing cabinets filled the spaces between three desks; railway diagrams and a Picture Post gallery of Greta Garbo pictures adorned the walls. 'We shall wait here. It won't be long.' He walked across to the sink, ran some water into a tin kettle, and placed it on an electric ring. 'Tea will be good,' he added, as if to himself. 'We have had a shock, I think.'

  Russell watched Hornak scoop tea into a pot, rinse out a couple of enamel mugs and check that there was still some sugar in its tin. 'Where did you meet your English friends?' he asked.

  Hornak hesitated a few moments before answering. 'In Spain,' he said eventually.

  'The International Brigade?'

  'Yes. Almost two years. I came back in '38 to fight the Germans, but the British and French sold us out. In Spain too, come to that.' He moved the kettle slightly on the electric hob. 'You sound more English than American,' he added, with only the slightest hint of accusation.

  'My father was English. My mother's American.' The temptation was there, but Russell resisted telling his life story. This didn't seem the time to start explaining his residence in Hitler's Germany.

  The kettle was boiling. Hornak poured water into the pot and stirred it with a large spoon. A stained piece of cloth provided a strainer, and after adding two huge heaps of sugar to each mug he carried one across to Russell.

  'So how did you come to do this work?' Hornak asked, leaning back against a desk and carefully sipping at the scalding tea.

  'I'm a journalist. We get asked to help. Times like these, it's hard to say no.'