So far, so good – the static line had done its job, the chute opened almost as soon as he had cleared the plane and Kubiš was falling at a manageable rate of knots. Now he realised he would soon have a new problem to contend with. Despite the pristine layer of snow, a moon shrouded in cloud hindered his visibility, and he could barely make out the ground below. He found he had to trust his instincts as well as his eyes if he was to land right. As it was, the terrain still rushed up to meet him far too quickly and he had to squeeze his legs together hard and bend his knees as he landed.
The impact sent a shockwave up through his knees, jarring his spine. His body careered forward and he let out an involuntary gasp as he fell face first into the icy ground. Powdery snow shot into his eyes and the wind was knocked from him. Kubiš lay still for a moment as pain ebbed through his body and he struggled to regain the breath that had been forced from it. At first he was not sure how badly he had been hurt but gradually the soreness began to subside and, to his intense relief, he realised there was no lasting damage.
Kubiš stayed on his stomach, letting his eyes and ears adjust to his new surroundings. There were no barking dogs, cocked rifles or shrieked German commands and that was a fine start to the operation as far as he was concerned. The only sound was the occasional stirring of leaves from trees that marked the perimeter of the field he had landed in. He placed his hands on the ground to push himself to his feet and told himself this was Czech soil he was touching. Kubiš was home.
He tugged at the strings of his parachute and slowly dragged the canopy towards him. By now his vision had adjusted to the night and he could, with the help of the reflective snow, make out much of the area around him. Worryingly there was no sign of Gabčík.
Gradually Kubiš climbed to his feet, wincing a little at the bruising on his ribs, then set off instinctively towards the next field.
Kubiš heard his friend before he saw him. The voice was unmistakeable and the cursing entirely in character but unwise now if they were to avoid discovery. Kubiš had grown weary of wandering the fields looking for Gabčík so it was almost a relief to hear the man, even if he was putting their security at risk with his volatile temperament.
As Kubiš grew closer he realised his friend was in some distress. The first image Jan had of Gabčík on home soil was of a man desperately trying to half walk, half stumble across the frozen ground. No sooner had he witnessed this peculiar spectacle than Gabčík crashed to the snow with a wretched moan. Kubiš ran towards him.
‘Josef, it’s me, it’s okay.’
His prone comrade’s face tightened into a grimace as he rolled on the ground. This did not look good.
‘What’s happened?’
‘This mission is cursed,’ hissed Gabčík.
‘What is it, Josef?’
‘I have broken my ankle,’ came the desperate, anguished reply.
It took Kubiš half an hour to find a spot sufficiently isolated to bury the parachutes, in snow deep enough to ensure they would remain undiscovered following the first light thaw. He then set about a recce of the nearby terrain, and was disturbed to discover they appeared to have landed literally miles from anywhere. Small wonder there were no Germans – there was nothing here at all – not even a village.
Eventually he chanced upon the edge of an ancient quarry and a series of caves created from blasting; as good a spot as any for them to hide up in while contemplating a solution to this crisis. He returned to collect Gabčík, who was seated at the edge of the field, propped up against a drystone wall. Gabčík wrapped an arm round his comrade’s shoulders and the two men hobbled to the cave. Their progress was ludicrously slow and each step was punctuated by little gasps of agony and yet more muffled curses from the injured man. Kubiš was aware of his friend’s normally high pain threshold and his alarm began to grow. Was the mission over before it had even started? How would he ever get Gabčík to Prague now? He did not even know the way to the capital.
By the time he had returned to the landing spot for a second time, collected both sacks of equipment and heaved them back to the cave, one on each shoulder, the sky was lightening above him and Jan began to feel complete physical exhaustion. At least the caves were isolated, hidden and dry. Too drained to fret over their circumstances further both men slept lightly against their packs for a couple of hours in the darkest recesses of the cave.
Kubiš drew the commando knife from his belt, its blade greased black to eliminate shine. He held it low by his hip – out of sight but close enough to be used in haste if need be. He noticed Gabčík had instinctively reached for a pistol.
They both watched intently as the mysterious figure shuffled towards their hiding place; an indistinct silhouette with an imposing bulk and awkward gait. Jan half expected the man to scratch his belly and yawn. Instead he took both of them by surprise, advancing right into the mouth of the cave then speaking clearly and without fear.
‘This is no hotel. This is my farm. Who are you and what is your business here?’
Kubiš started slightly, astonished the farmer could see them in the relative darkness of the cave. It was as if he had read Kubiš’ mind. ‘I know you are in there, you left a trail of footsteps in the snow. What do you want here?’
Gabčík turned on a torch and shone it into a face deeply lined from years of working outdoors in all weathers. The farmer raised his hand against its beam.
‘Are you a patriot?’ Gabčík challenged him.
The farmer screwed up his eyes against the light.
‘I am a loyal Czech.’
He moved closer.
‘Stay there,’ said Gabčík with authority and the man halted immediately.
‘You are on the run from the Germans?’ he asked, his tone gentler this time. ‘I am not going to hand you in, if that’s what you think.’
Receiving no immediate answer the farmer advanced once more. He was more tentative this time and Gabčík permitted him to continue until they could make out his features more clearly. He possessed a small, slightly bulbous nose that hung disjointedly above a tight, mirthless mouth and his stomach pushed forward impatiently ahead of his chest, like a sprinter trying to win a race at the tape. As his eyes grew accustomed to the light he caught a glimpse of the equipment that lay haphazardly on the ground around them and immediately understood.
‘Parachutists,’ he muttered to himself in satisfaction. ‘I knew I heard a plane last night. You are a little light on numbers for an invasion force.’ He let out something between a laugh and a snort at this. ‘So what are you then? Spies? Resistance fighters?’
This time Kubiš answered. ‘Our mission is secret. We cannot tell you why we are here. My comrade has an injured ankle from the drop and we wish to rest here for a while until he is well enough to travel. Now, where exactly are we?’
‘The nearest village is Nehvizdy. It’s lucky you landed here, and not the next farm along. That old wolf would sell you to the Nazis as soon as he set eyes on you. What is your destination?’
The two men exchanged glances before Kubiš reluctantly confirmed. ‘Prague.’
The farmer whistled, telling them all they needed to know about the proximity of their drop zone. He thought for a moment before eventually deciding. ‘Wait here then. I can get a message to a friend. He knows some people. They are still active against the Germans, if you understand me. They could move the equipment and your friend to the capital.’
‘You’ll forgive me if I say we have no way of knowing you won’t immediately turn us in,’ countered Gabčík.
‘And you’ll forgive me for saying you could just as easily be German spies trying to tempt me into helping you, so you can have me shot then give my farm away to some collaborator.’
Kubiš answered. ‘We could but it would be a hell of a lot of trouble to go to, wouldn’t it?’
The farmer nodded, hawked up a sizeable dollop of spit, looke
d them both in the eye then spat it expertly onto the ground.
‘Fuck Adolf Hitler!’ he exclaimed with relish. ‘There, does that make you feel better? Now do you want me to contact the resistance for you or not?’
‘What do you think?’ asked Kubiš.
‘I don’t know – we were distinctly told not to go that way.’
‘And we were also told to think for ourselves once we landed. How else are we going to get you out of here in this state?’
The farmer stepped closer still and, when he interrupted them, he spoke in a dry, sardonic tone.
‘You are twenty miles from your destination, with heavy equipment you cannot possibly carry alone. You are dressed like renegades and have three good legs between you. What choice do you have?’
And both men realised he was right.
Sergeant Karel Čurda was entirely alone – his mission abandoned and all thoughts of a glorious return to his homeland exposed as fantasy. The day before he was forced to spend the night in a barn.
Now he stood among the trees, blowing air onto his frozen hands, nervously watching the large stone house at the far end of the village that lay in the valley below. Čurda looked for signs of life that should not be there; men in grey uniforms, unusual visitors, black marketeers perhaps, who would surely sell him as easily as a consignment of razor blades or booze, and found none, save for a slow trail of black smoke which rose lazily from the chimney.
He was bitterly cold and longed for hot food and coffee by a warm fire. The terror of the previous forty eight hours was still strong in Čurda, however, and it prevented him from knocking on the door even though it promised sanctuary. Ladislav, the man who had sheltered them when their mission went awry, had assured him the blacksmith in the next village was no friend of the Germans, that if anything went wrong he could get Čurda and his friends safely to Prague, where they could lose themselves in the city’s anonymous bustle. But what did Ladislav know? He was dead already.
Čurda’s three-man team, Out Distance, had parachuted in twelve days before Gabčík and Kubiš. They hoped to plant a beacon that would lead the RAF right over the Skoda plant, so it could have the hell bombed out of it one winter’s night and the armaments production there would cease. It was meant to be so simple but from the outset everything had gone disastrously wrong.
First their officer, Lieutenant Opálka, injured himself right at the start landing on rocky ground. He was incapable of leaving the scene unaided, so Čurda and his good friend Kolařík had hidden the beacon then helped their officer to the nearest village, knocking on the first door they reached. How dangerously naive they had been Čurda realised now.
Old Ladislav, no member of the resistance himself, had gingerly pulled back the door and peered at them through frightened eyes. At first he was shocked by the three apparitions on his doorstep but managed to compose himself long enough to usher them in.
The next day an inquisitive farmer discovered the beacon and the disloyal fellow immediately reported the fact to the Germans. Ladislav hid Kolařík and Čurda in his loft while he arranged to get the luckless Lieutenant Opálka out of the village – an injured man being far more conspicuous than able-bodied guests, who might be explained away as visiting family members.
All was well at first and Čurda, lulled by the next few days of inactivity, decided to venture out and stretch his legs with a walk in the hills. Kolařík declined such a dangerous diversion but waved his friend off with a warning that he at least be careful.
When Čurda returned that evening, he stopped dead at the sight that greeted him. As soon as he made out the unmistakeable shape of the armoured car outside Ladislav’s house, he stepped straight back out of sight and flattened himself against the stone wall of the nearest building. German soldiers milled around the vehicle and their officers sat in a staff car parked close by. There was a body on the pavement and, even though Čurda could not see it clearly in the darkness, he realised it could only be Ladislav; shot through the head on his own doorstep and left there as a warning to others against harbouring the resistance.
Čurda watched as Kolařík was manhandled out through the doorway. They would not have taken long to find him if they already knew he was inside, thought Čurda. So they had been betrayed, but by whom he would never know. Kolařík struggled but it was hopeless and he was quickly bundled into the staff car and driven away. Terrified, Čurda slid back into the shadows, grateful of the darkness, which cloaked him. He had almost walked into the Gestapo and that could never be allowed to happen again.
Truth be told, he was no less petrified of capture now than he had been then but Čurda realised he could not hope to stay out in the open much longer. The cold was beginning to be all he could think about and tonight there would not even be the minimal shelter of the barn. How long before his comrade cracked under prolonged torture and revealed the existence of other parachutists? Čurda had to keep moving and clearly could not do this on his own steam any more. The blacksmith was surely his only chance of salvation. Čurda took a deep breath then started out down the hill towards the house and its welcoming fire.
16
‘Slavs cannot be educated as one educates a Germanic people.
One must either break them or humble them constantly’
Propaganda Minister, Joseph Goebbels, February 1942
It was three days before Kubiš finally met Zelenka; a period during which he was subjected to the careful scrutiny of a steady stream of intermediaries, each one more suspicious than the last. While the limping Gabčík was separately transported to Prague with their equipment, hidden in the back of a lorry, Jan stood before his understandably cautious new associates in the Jindra resistance network.
He answered their questions as best he could but there was one point he remained adamant on, as he was shuffled between safe houses on the outskirts of Prague, onwards and upwards until he began to meet men who held positions of some influence in the resistance; he would never reveal the true purpose of his mission.
There were some among the Jindra volunteers who were disconcerted by this and others who felt it proved his authenticity for, if Kubiš really was a turncoat, it would surely be easier to buy their trust with some fabricated tale. The second group won the argument, so he eventually found himself face to face with Jan Zelenka, in a dark corner of a side street coffee house. Here was the man who could help Gabčík and Kubiš become entirely integrated into the occupied capital. His journey of acceptance was almost complete.
Zelenka was a slight, nondescript looking individual with hair shorn almost to the scalp. Kubiš guessed he was an educated man, judging by the softness of his hand when he shook Jan’s in greeting.
‘I am sorry it has taken so long before we could meet. I hope you understand the reason. The Germans are becoming adept at sending traitors among us. Czechs who feel more loyalty to Berlin than Beneš.’
‘I understand, but I will not tell you my mission. I have made that repeatedly clear.’
‘So you have and it is not necessary. We believe you are who you claim to be. If we did not you would be dead by now,’ and he smiled disarmingly. ‘I am in a position to offer you the assistance you need, whatever your mission.’
‘Thank you,’ said Kubiš with some feeling and his thoughts immediately turned to Gabčík. ‘Where is my friend?’
‘In another safe house, with a family I know – a strictly temporary arrangement while I finalise places for you both to stay on a more permanent basis. I organise a number of our friends here who help to move people round the city. In my former life I was a teacher, now I run around Prague playing at spies. However, it is a game none of us can afford to lose. Don’t worry – Josef will be fine. I am told the ankle is not broken and will heel in time. You will see him again this evening when I take you both to see Hlinka.’
Hlinka the forger was an earnest looking little man with t
iny, wire-framed glasses, perched on the end of a nose too small for the rest of his face. His body was equally out of proportion, with small podgy arms that barely reached his midriff, but his hands were deft and quick.
Gabčík wondered if he had always been a forger. Was he a criminal before the war whose skills were now a prized tool of the resistance, or had he been a law-abiding clerk somewhere, in a bank perhaps, before discovering a talent for this kind of work? It mattered little to Josef, who instinctively knew he was dealing with a professional. When Hlinka peered down through his eyeglasses at the papers Gabčík had given him, he was like a dentist scrutinising a row of teeth for imperfections.
Of course, they looked realistic enough to Gabčík but then he had never actually seen the genuine articles. By the time the Nazis had issued papers to the reluctant citizens of Prague he was a soldier clambering over French fields attempting to repel the Wehrmacht.
First, Hlinka examined the identity card, a red bordered, double page document, which opened out into two halves; one side of which contained a photographic likeness of Josef. It was intended to look as if it had been taken at the Černín Palace and not Porchester Gate. At the top of the opposite page the words Deutsches Reich Protektorat Böhmen und Mähren were written, opposite their equivalent words in Czech. The information vorname – zurname – both equally false, were then added below. They had given him little yellow ration coupons for meat, dairy products, clothes, everything he could possibly need, including soap and coal. There was even a photographic pass, which permitted him to take the city’s trams.
‘It’s as well you came here,’ Hlinka announced matter-of-factly. ‘Try and use these in Prague and you will be arrested before the day is over.’
He showed the fake identity cards to Zelenka, while Gabčík and Kubiš, reunited for the first time since leaving the cave, exchanged disconcerted glances.
‘The watermark is all wrong, the inks are not close enough to the ones our German friends are currently using and the paper is of an inferior quality,’ he shrugged. ‘I could go on.’
Hunting the Hangman Page 10