Hunting the Hangman

by Howard Linskey

  No, he would be just fine on his own. He would keep his head down, stay apart from the meddling fools in the resistance and remain firmly out of harm’s way.

  36

  ‘Prague is paralysed. Silent with awe’

  Propaganda Minister, Joseph Goebbels

  After two weeks of house-to-house searches, mass arrests, wide scale use of torture and hundreds of executions it was a simple task to catalogue the number of significant leads. There were none.

  The pressure on Karl Frank and Pannwitz to deliver something, anything, was growing by the hour. Both knew they had nothing positive to report back to Berlin.

  ‘How can two assassins disappear in the middle of a city when they are being hunted by twenty thousand men?’ asked an increasingly exasperated Frank.

  ‘There is one tactic we have yet to attempt,’ offered Pannwitz.

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘An amnesty.’

  ‘An amnesty?’ Frank was clearly unimpressed.

  ‘I think it could be worth a try. I’m not suggesting we go soft on the untermensch. Far from it, let’s continue the terror tactics, highlight the folly of resistance by all means but show them there is an alternative. Increase the reward and offer this amnesty; a few days to encourage people to come forward.’

  ‘We are already encouraging people to come forward.’

  ‘There may be those who know something but are scared to come to us because they are too close to the assassins or the resistance. We must get those people to trust us. Let the word go out into the city that we understand and can possibly overlook a spirit of resistance but assassination goes too far. Tell the population anyone who comes forward with information leading to the arrests of Heydrich’s killers will be granted an amnesty for himself and his entire family, no matter what acts he may have been associated with before. Promise them protection along with the cushion of a substantial reward.’

  Frank appeared perplexed at the very notion. ‘Well, I tell you honestly, I don’t think it will work, but in the absence of any other masterful plan, I will permit you to try.’

  ‘Thank you, Brigadeführer.’

  ‘But only for five days. If no one comes forward by then, we return to more traditional methods.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘I think you are wasting your time, though.’

  ‘I am not so sure. The people of Prague are terrified. Give them a choice of fear and hope, and let them decide.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, Pannwitz. Whatever you do, you have to find them and quickly.’ And he showed his exasperation by exhaling audibly. ‘Damn it, they can’t just simply vanish. Where in God’s name are they hiding?’

  The Czech Orthodox Church of St Cyril and St Methodius occupies the corner of Na Zderaze Street. The large white stone building, with its distinctive external courtyard, strong metal gates and carved stone icons lies just yards from the banks of the River Vltava in the very heart of Prague. Here, Father Vladimír Petřek once again received the faithful, reflecting ruefully that there had been a marked increase in the number of worshippers of late. Petřek could take no credit for the inflated size of the congregation, for this was not about his powers of oratory and had everything to do with the terror inflicted by the Nazis. It was rumoured the Germans would use their firing squads to literally decimate the city, executing one in every ten citizens of the capital; a punitive act not used since the days of Ancient Rome. Like all rumours no one could accurately trace its origins but it passed among the population with an alarming rapidity, spreading quicker than any virus.

  Some came to the church to pray for the souls of loved ones who had been put to death, others to plead with their God that they and their families might be spared the next round of arrests.

  ‘What must I do, Father, to keep my family from harm? Tell me how to protect them, please.’

  Many clutched copies of newspapers containing a reference to a family member, friend or lover amid the endless lists of the newly executed, printed daily and with a seeming relish by the Nazi controlled publications.

  Petřek could offer little to the recently bereaved beyond the inadequate comfort of his presence and the Lord’s good word. A handsome man with a full head of dark hair, a moustache and beard, he would meet the mourners at the door of his church, for Petřek had learned they would often break down as they entered its sacred confines and he would have to support them to a pew. As these unfortunates knelt in prayer on the cold stone flagstones, they could hardly have imagined Heydrich’s assassins were hiding beneath them.

  Underneath the public section of the church lay a disused crypt that was once a final resting place for its priests. The bodies had long since been removed and the crypt now provided shelter for a small group of fugitive parachutists, including the two most wanted men in the Third Reich; Jan Kubiš and Josef Gabčík.

  The seven men currently occupying the crypt were still very much alive and determined to remain so. Gabčík, Valčík and Kubiš had been joined in the catacombs first by Lieutenant Opálka, then Jaroslav Švarc from the mission codenamed TIN. Their assassination team was forced to abandon its attempt on a Czech collaborator because of the heightened security of the Nazi terror.

  ‘You made it too hot for me out there, that’s for sure,’ Opálka told Gabčík and Kubiš.

  The little band of fugitives was completed when Sergeants Bublík and Hrubý, from a sabotage squad codenamed Bioscope, also sought the sanctuary of the church.

  It was Zelenka who had approached Father Petřek, through an intermediary, requesting a temporary safe haven for the men. Petřek was eager to assist the struggle against the Nazis, a force he considered to be as near to pure evil as any he had ever encountered.

  ‘Heydrich is engaged in the Devil’s work. The men who attacked him are the new crusaders. However, I am bound by duty to seek permission from Bishop Gorazd.’

  If Petřek was worried about his Bishop’s view on the moral complexities of sheltering unashamed assassins, he need not have been. Gorazd proved resolute.

  ‘The greater sin is on the head of the Nazis. Any act designed to combat their evil tyranny is therefore a justified one.’

  That same night, one by one, the parachutists were transported into the delivering hand of the church.

  Since that day it had fallen on Petřek to feed the men and be their sole contact with the outside world. At first the two assassins had been desolate. Their mission was believed a failure with Heydrich seemingly on the way to recovery. Gabčík, in particular, repeatedly blamed himself for the jamming of the Sten.

  ‘Of course it is my fault. It was my weapon, I should have checked it.’

  ‘Josef, you checked it a thousand times. What was it the British called the Sten, after those shops?’ he asked before finally remembering. ‘The “Woolworth’s Special” because it is so cheap!’ but Gabčík was inconsolable.

  Kubiš had arrived at the church with face wounds that were thankfully far from serious. Zelenka arranged for a doctor to dress them before he entered the crypt. Now he merely sported light scarring on his cheek and forehead, caused by tiny fragments of shrapnel and his skin carried the discolouring associated with blast burns.

  ‘I look like I fell asleep too close to the fire,’ he conceded.

  Even in this relatively uninjured condition, however, he could not hope to last on the streets of Prague for more than minutes with the Nazis on such a heightened state of alert. The temporary role envisaged for their haven was already beginning to seem woefully optimistic.

  The crypt was a dark L shape, no bigger than twenty yards in length, with a honeycomb of niches on both sides where the ancient corpses had once been stored. The men slept in these niches trying to forget that the bodies of Father Petřek’s forerunners had formerly occupied them.

  During the day they sat on the red brick floor, w
hich was always partly covered with their equipment that had been steadily smuggled in by the resistance. Among the weapons and bedrolls were items of outdoor clothing that doubled as blankets during the night. Some of the men had taken pictures of loved ones from their wallets and placed them in positions of relative prominence, close to candles or in little nooks in the brickwork, where they could be seen and provide some small comfort through the long hours of isolation.

  The air was musty through lack of oxygen – the only breeze coming from a small grille above the men’s heads that faced out into the street. It was positioned in the smallest section of the L shape, which they avoided to prevent even the slightest possibility of detection.

  If the prospect of weeks or even months underground initially depressed the men, all of their spirits were immeasurably lifted when Petřek brought them the news of Heydrich’s death.

  ‘We did it, Josef. We did it.’ Kubiš was elated, bunching his fists and waving them in front of his face, while the other men came forward exuberantly to pat them on the back or embrace them, offering heartfelt congratulations amid cries of well done and good job.

  ‘No, you did it, Jan, with your bomb,’ said Gabčík.

  ‘We are a team,’ replied Kubiš sharply as Hrubý enthusiastically pumped his hand in congratulation. ‘We have always been a team and it was the team that finished Heydrich. Would you have claimed all of the credit for yourself if the Sten had not misfired and none of the grenades was needed? Of course not. We planned this mission together, we carried it out together and it was a success. Now shut up and take some of the credit.’

  Gabčík smiled for the first time since the attack.

  Valčík beamed at them both. ‘Enjoy the moment. Not many believed two soldiers could take down an SS General. I bet Hitler shat himself when he heard the news.’ And he laughed, ‘You did it, boys.’

  ‘And you played your part,’ nodded a joyful Kubiš, determined to share the credit. ‘This is a great moment for our nation.’

  Even Gabčík had to concede it now. ‘We struck back, Jan, and we hurt them, hurt them hard.’

  Opálka came towards Josef then and, for the first time in the crypt, reestablished the previously irrelevant protocol of rank. The lieutenant came to attention and saluted the NCO crisply.

  ‘Well done, Sergeant Gabčík, well done,’ he said proudly.

  Gabčík returned the salute, ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Opálka repeated the act for Kubiš while Gabčík enjoyed the moment. He could now look his President in the eye. His mission was accomplished.

  37

  ‘Unfortunately this earth is not a fairy-land, but a struggle for life, perfectly natural and therefore extremely harsh’

  Martin Bormann

  Petřek waited for his congregation to disperse before locking the church doors from within and descending into the crypt to visit his charges. For the parachutists inside, his delivery of food and news was the highlight of their long and restless day.

  To gain access to the crypt Petřek used a trapdoor by the altar before carefully descending a dozen stone steps to the catacombs. That afternoon, as always, he called out to the men below to reassure them he was not the Gestapo. He was careful not to make too much noise in case his voice carried to the streets outside. An arthritic knee and the weight of the provisions he had brought to sustain the men through another day of seclusion restricted his movement and he puffed a little as he took the steps one at a time. Valčík met him at the bottom to assist with the burden of the bags, taking them from him while the priest’s eyes adjusted to the minimal light provided by a few carefully positioned candles.

  Petřek sat down among the men and they leaned forward expectantly to hear the latest news of the Nazi terror. Petřek had bright intense eyes that a parishioner had once memorably described as dangerous looking and the fugitives had come to regard him as a man lacking neither courage nor strength. Today, though, he was reluctant to meet their gazes for he had, that very morning, received word on Lidice. How could he begin to explain what had happened there?

  Petřek had given the men his word that he would pass on all news from the outside world, no matter how terrible, and so he regretfully commenced his story, sparing them no detail. When he had finished the grim tale, Lieutenant Opálka looked at him disbelievingly.

  ‘A whole village? You are sure?’ he asked as if the priest must surely have been mistaken.

  ‘It seems so,’ confirmed Petřek and he instinctively muttered a short prayer for the lost souls of Lidice.

  ‘Because of us?’ asked a desolate Kubiš.

  ‘No, not because of you,’ Petřek assured him, ‘do not blame yourselves for Lidice when that unspeakable crime sits on the shoulders of others. The Nazis kill men and women in our country every day. They were doing this before you arrived and they will continue to do it whether you fight them or not. What is important is that you struck back. The Nazis may carry out these atrocities in the name of their dead general but they do such things for only one reason. They believe that might is right and all that matters is strength and power but this cannot be a sustainable philosophy. Not when good men like you refuse to accept your fate and continue to stand against them.’

  ‘I hope you are right, Father Petřek, I do,’ said Kubiš, ‘but right now I cannot think of anything worth the lives of so many people,’ and he picked up his bedroll and walked away from their little huddle, unable to disguise his grief.

  Despite the risk, Petřek spent another hour in the crypt reasoning with the men for, if he could help them in no other way, he was determined to at least absolve them from the guilt of Lidice.

  Čurda took to drink the way a baby takes to its mother’s milk; naturally, unquestioningly and without conscious thought. The shots of Slivovitz, taken with the regularity of a doctor’s prescription, were now a necessary requirement to get him from one end of the day to the next. Without them the fear became unbearable, for Čurda was quickly approaching his breaking point, as he moved around the city, lodging with relatives, who were the only people left he could trust. Every day there were more arrests, a new wave of executions and the endless repetitious threats; anyone involved in the plot to kill Heydrich would die, but not before he had seen his entire family killed in front of his eyes.

  This was not a war in the way Čurda, as a soldier, understood one. There were no rules of engagement and your mother was just as likely to take a bullet as you were. It was the end of the world and all reason, goodness, decency and mercy had been driven out forever. He was living in the dark ages where the only important thing left was survival, the sole worthwhile notion to prevail, to rise each morning and continue to breathe until nightfall when there would be a few short hours of disturbed and fitful rest before the process began all over again the next morning.

  He preferred to drink standing up, tucked into a corner of a bar or leaning low against the wooden counter top, exempting himself from the well-meaning interference of strangers, as he repeatedly raised his glass. Čurda would spend hours in this manner, contemplating the bitterness of his fate, steadily beginning to hate the men who had sent him back here with useless forged papers and foolish notions of resistance, while resentfully spending their subsistence money on shot after shot of spirits.

  Usually his drinking was quiet and contemplative as he tried to work out a solution to his problems. Čurda just wanted to get away from here but how and, even if he could break free from the resistance and leave Prague, where would he go and what would he live off? The search for solutions to these practical problems was postponed that night by the shocking news that reached him shortly before he sought refuge in the bar. One of Čurda’s relatives told him about Lidice and he knew then that all possibility of salvation was lost.

  News of Lidice’s fate soon filtered through to the capital. The Nazis wanted to ensure the population learned what would hap
pen to anyone who helped the resistance. It seemed to Čurda that there was simply no way to defeat a terror such as this one. The regime held no respect for anyone and was as content to murder women and children as men to achieve its ends. Rumours were sweeping Prague. It was said the Germans would murder everyone in the capital if that was what it took to get someone to hand over Heydrich’s killers. How could Čurda continue to hide in the city if they were going to slaughter everybody?

  Čurda slumped against the bar, his whole body shaking in terror. He looked like an exhausted prizefighter who has been expertly punched in the stomach. He seized a near full glass tightly in his hand and wolfed down the entire contents in a single burning swallow.

  How could anyone survive in the face of such absolutism, such awesome, cruel and unforgiving power? It took Čurda’s breath from him and what remained of his resistance.

  The very next morning he stood before the huge black banners with their white SS flashes that flanked the entrance to Gestapo Headquarters at the Petscheck Palace. Like everyone in Prague he knew of the five day amnesty. Despite the terror in his heart, Čurda walked unsteadily up the marble steps, reported to the first Nazi he saw and told the man he had important information relating to the killing of General Heydrich.

  38

  ‘The trumpet blows its shrill and final blast!

  Prepared for war and battle here we stand.

  Soon Hitler’s banners will wave unchecked at last,

  The end of German slavery in our land!’

  The Horst Wessel Song –

  official marching song of the Nazi party

  ‘Just remember this will all eventually end. The Nazis won’t keep looking for us forever. They will have to stop eventually,’ said Hrubý.

  ‘Yes, sure, perhaps by next Christmas,’ replied Valčík grimly. ‘Then maybe we can leave here.’