With Anthropoid, Beneš is attempting a great coup to impress these two European giants. London has given logistical backing and collaborated closely. But Beneš has to be careful not to offend the Russians’ pride: that’s why he has decided to inform Moscow of the launch of the operation. So the pressure is now at its height: Churchill and Stalin are waiting. The future of Czechoslovakia is in their hands; best not disappoint them. Above all, if it’s the Red Army that liberates his country, Beneš wants Stalin to regard him as a credible representative—all the more so given his fears of the Czech Communists’ influence.
Beneš is probably thinking about all this when his secretary comes to warn him:
“Mr. President, Colonel Moravec is here with two young men. He says he’s got an appointment, but there’s nothing in today’s schedule about it.”
“Let them in.”
Gabčík and Kubiš have been brought by taxi through the streets of London without any idea where they were going, and now they are received by the president himself. On his desk, the first thing they notice is a little tin replica of a Spitfire. They salute and stand to attention. Beneš wanted to meet them before their departure but didn’t want to leave any official record of their visit—because to govern is also to take precautions. The two men stand before him. While he talks to them of their mission’s historic importance, he observes them carefully. He’s struck by how young they look—Kubiš especially, although he’s only one year younger than Gabčík—and by the touching simplicity of their determination. For several minutes, he forgets all the geopolitical considerations. He no longer thinks of Britain and the USSR, nor of Munich, or Masaryk, or the Communists, or the Germans. He hardly even thinks of Heydrich. He is completely absorbed in the contemplation of these two soldiers, these two boys whom he knows—whatever the outcome of their mission—haven’t got a chance in hell of getting out alive.
I don’t know what his last words to them are. “Good luck,” or “God keep you,” or “The free world is counting on you,” or “You carry in your hands the honor of Czechoslovakia”… something like that, probably. According to Moravec, the president has tears in his eyes when Gabčík and Kubiš leave his office. Perhaps he has a premonition of the terrible future. The impassive little Spitfire keeps its nose in the air.
141
Since joining her husband in Prague, Lina Heydrich is in heaven. She writes in her autobiography: “I am a princess and I live in a fairy-tale land.”
How come?
First, because Prague really is a fairy-tale city. Not for nothing did Walt Disney take his inspiration for the queen’s castle in Sleeping Beauty from Týn Church.
Next, because in Prague she really is the queen. Overnight her husband has become almost a head of state. In this fairy-tale land, he is Hitler’s viceroy and his wife shares all the honors of his rank. As the Protector’s spouse, Lina enjoys an esteem that her parents—the von Ostens—never dreamed of, for her or for themselves. How long ago it seems that her father wanted to break off her engagement because Reinhard had been kicked out of the navy. Now, thanks to him, Lina’s life is an endless series of receptions, inaugurations, and official events where everyone shows her the greatest deference. I see her in a photo taken at a concert at the Rudolfinum to celebrate the anniversary of Mozart’s birth. Dolled up in a white evening dress, weighed down with rings, bracelets, and earrings, surrounded by men in smoking jackets all currying favor with her husband, who stands by her side… smiling, relaxed, and sure of herself, she stands with one hand resting chastely on top of the other and with a look of ecstatic happiness on her face.
But it’s not only Prague. From now on, her husband’s position allows her to mix with the Reich’s high society. Himmler is a long-standing friend, but she also knows the Goebbelses and the Speers, and she’s even had the supreme honor of meeting the Führer, who, seeing her on her husband’s arm, remarked: “What a handsome couple!” Oh yes, she’s part of the upper crust now. And Hitler pays her compliments!
And she has her own castle: a palace confiscated from a Jew, twelve miles north of Prague, surrounded by a vast estate. Wildly enthusiastic, she gets to work on doing it up. She is the lady of the manor but, like the queen in Sleeping Beauty, she is also a nasty piece of work. She treats her staff harshly, and insults everyone when she’s in a bad mood—and when she’s in a good mood, she doesn’t speak to anyone. In order to perform the enormous amount of work required for her princely home, she makes use of the abundant manpower supplied by the concentration camps. She doesn’t treat these workers any better than the camps do. She supervises the renovation work dressed as a horsewoman, a riding crop in her hand. Hers is a reign of terror, sadism, and eroticism.
Apart from all that, she looks after her three children and congratulates herself on how affectionate Reinhard is with them. He particularly adores the youngest one, Silke. So much so that he impregnates his wife for the fourth time. Long gone are the days when she would sleep with Schellenberg, his right-hand man. Long gone the days when he was never home. Here in Prague, her husband returns almost every evening. He makes love to her, goes horse riding, and plays with the children.
142
Gabčík and Kubiš are going home in a Halifax bomber. But before that there are certain formalities to be taken care of. From behind his desk, a British NCO asks them to undress. No matter where in the Czech countryside they land, it’s not a good idea to look like British parachutists. They take off their uniforms. “Completely,” adds the NCO as they stand there in their underwear. Used to discipline, the two men obey. So they’re stark naked when a choice of clothing is spread out before them. Without losing any of his very British, very military dryness, the NCO makes his pitch like a sales assistant at Harrods, proudly presenting his products: “Suits made in Czechoslovakia. Shirts made in Czechoslovakia. Underwear made in Czechoslovakia. Shoes made in Czechoslovakia. Please check your size. Ties made in Czechoslovakia. Choose a color. Cigarettes made in Czechoslovakia. Several brands available. Matches made in… Toothpaste made in…”
Once they’re dressed, the two men are given false papers with all the necessary stamps.
Now they are ready. Colonel Moravec waits for them next to the Halifax, whose engines are already running. There are five other parachutists in the plane with them, but they are going to different places on different missions. Moravec shakes Kubiš’s hand and wishes him good luck. But when he turns toward Gabčík, the little Slovak asks if they can have a quick word in private. Moravec cringes inwardly. He fears a last-minute withdrawal and suddenly regrets what he said to the two boys when he first chose them that they shouldn’t hesitate to tell him frankly if they didn’t feel up to the task. He’d even added that there was nothing shameful in changing your mind. He still believes this, but standing next to the waiting airplane is not the ideal time to hear it. He’d have to get Kubiš off the plane and delay the departure while he found a replacement for Gabčík. The mission would be postponed till God knows when. Gabčík begins with a few carefully phrased words that don’t bode well: “Colonel, I’m very embarrassed to ask this…” But what comes next allays his boss’s fears: “I’ve left an unpaid bill for ten pounds at our restaurant. Could you possibly pay it for me?” Moravec is so relieved that he says in his memoirs he could do nothing more than nod. Gabčík shakes his hand. “You can count on us, Colonel. We’ll fulfill our mission exactly as ordered.” Those were his last words before disappearing into the cabin.
143
The two men wrote down their final wishes just before they took off, and I have these magnificent, hastily scribbled documents in front of me now. Covered in inkstains and crossings-out, they are almost identical. Both are dated December 28, 1941; both are divided in two parts; both have a few extra lines added to them, written diagonally across the page. Gabčík and Kubiš ask that their families be looked after in the event of their deaths. To that end, each gives an address—in Slovakia, in Moravia. Both men are orphans,
and neither has a wife or child. But I know Gabčík has sisters, and Kubiš brothers. Both ask that their English girlfriends be informed if they die. Lorna Ellison is named in Gabčík’s will, and Edna Ellison in Kubiš’s. The two men had grown as close as brothers, so they went out with sisters. A photo of Lorna has reached us, slipped inside Gabčík’s military records—a young woman with dark curly hair. He will never see her again.
144
I have no evidence that Gabčík and Kubiš’s clothes were provided by the British SOE (Special Operations Executive). In fact, it’s more likely that this was dealt with by Moravec’s Czech services. So there’s no reason why the NCO who looks after them should be British. Oh, what a pain…
145
The general kommissar of Byelorussia, based in Minsk, complains about the actions of Heydrich’s Einsatzgruppen. He deplores the fact that the systematic extermination of the Jews is depriving him of much-needed manpower. He also protests to Heydrich about decorated Jewish war veterans being deported to his ghetto in Minsk. He submits a list of Jews to be freed while denouncing the Einsatzgruppen’s indiscriminate killings. This is the reply he receives:
You will agree with me that, in the third year of the war, there are more important tasks for the war effort—both for the police and the security services—than running around trying to look after the needs of the Jews, wasting time drawing up lists, and distracting all my colleagues from more urgent business. If I ordered an inquiry into the people on your list, it would only be to prove—once and for all, and in writing—that such attacks are baseless. I regret still having to provide this kind of justification, six and a half years after the decree of the Nuremberg racial laws.
Well, you can’t accuse him of not being clear.
146
That night, at an altitude of two thousand feet, the huge Halifax aircraft roared out of the sky above the winter countryside of Czechoslovakia. The four airscrews churned through the drifts of low broken cloud, flailing them back against the wet black flanks of the machine, and in the cold fuselage Jan Kubis and Josef Gabchik stared down at their homeland through the open, coffin-shaped exit hatch cut in the floor.
This is the opening paragraph of Alan Burgess’s novel Seven Men at Daybreak, written in 1960. And from those first lines, I know that he hasn’t written the book I want to write. I don’t know how much of their homeland Gabčík and Kubiš could see at an altitude of more than two thousand feet in that black December night. As for the image of the coffin, I’d prefer to avoid such obvious metaphors.
Automatically they checked the release boxes and static lines of their parachute harnesses. Within minutes they were to plunge down through that darkness to the earth below, knowing that they were the first parachutists to come back to Czechoslovakia, and knowing also that their mission was as unique and hazardous as any that had yet been conceived.
I know everything it’s possible to know about this flight. I know what Gabčík and Kubiš had in their backpacks: a pocketknife, a pistol with two magazines and twelve cartridges, a cyanide pill, a piece of chocolate, meat-extract tablets, razor blades, a fake ID card, and some Czech currency. I know they were wearing civilian clothes made in Czechoslovakia. I know that, following orders, they didn’t say anything to their fellow parachutists during the flight apart from “Hello” and “Good Luck.” I know that their fellow parachutists suspected they were being sent to kill Heydrich. I know that it was Gabčík who most impressed the air dispatcher during the voyage. I know that they had to quickly make their wills before takeoff. I know the names of each member of the two other teams who accompanied them, along with their respective missions. And I also know each man’s fake identity. Gabčík and Kubiš, for example, were called Zdenek Vyskocil and Ota Navratil, and according to their false papers they were, respectively, a locksmith and a laborer. I know pretty much everything that can be known about this flight and I refuse to write a sentence like: “Automatically they checked the release boxes and static lines of their parachute harnesses.” Even if, without a doubt, they did exactly that.
“The taller of the two, Jan Kubiš, was twenty-seven years old and nearly six foot tall. He had blond hair and deep-set grey eyes that watched the world steadily…” et cetera. I’ll stop there. It’s a shame that Burgess wasted his time with clichés like this, because his book is undeniably well researched. I found two glaring errors—concerning Heydrich’s wife, whom he called Inga rather than Lina, and the color of his Mercedes, which he insists is dark green rather than black. I also spotted two dubious stories that I suspect Burgess of having invented, including a dark tale of swastikas branded on buttocks with a hot iron. But in other respects I learned a great deal about Gabčík and Kubiš’s life in Prague during the months before the assassination. It must be said that Burgess had an advantage over me: only twenty years after the events, he was able to talk to living witnesses. Yes, a few of them did survive.
147
So, to cut a long story short, they jumped.
148
According to Eduard Husson, a reputable academic who is writing a biography of Heydrich, everything went wrong right from the beginning.
Gabčík and Kubiš are dropped a long way from the target area. They should have landed near Pilsen but actually end up a few miles from Prague. Now, you may say: well, that’s where the operation will take place, so in a way they’ve actually gained time. But such thinking just goes to show how little you know about secret operations. Their contacts in the Resistance are waiting for them in Pilsen. They don’t have an address in Prague. The people in Pilsen are supposed to make the introductions for them. So they are close to Prague, where they need to get to, but only after they’ve passed through Pilsen. They feel the absurdity of this roundabout journey every bit as much as you do, but they know it’s necessary all the same.
They feel it once they know where they are, but at this precise moment they don’t have the faintest idea. They land in a graveyard. They don’t know where to hide the parachutes, and Gabčík is limping badly because he’s fractured a toe landing on his native soil. They walk blindly and leave tracks. They bury the parachutes quickly under a snowdrift. The sun, they know, will soon rise: they are dangerously exposed and must find somewhere to hide.
They find a rocky shelter in a quarry. Protected from the snow and the cold but not from the Gestapo, they know they can’t stay here—but they don’t know where else to go. Strangers in their own land, lost, injured, and undoubtedly already the subject of a search—the Germans couldn’t have failed to hear the plane’s engines—the two men decide to wait. What else can they do? They consult the map, but it’s hard to imagine what they’re hoping for. To pinpoint the location of this tiny quarry? Their mission, hardly even begun, is already under threat of being aborted. Or, if we assume that they will never be discovered (which is a ridiculous supposition), of never getting started at all.
Anyway, they are discovered.
It’s a gamekeeper who finds them, early that morning. He heard the plane in the night, he found the parachutes in the graveyard, he followed their tracks in the snow. Now he enters the quarry. And, coughing, says to them: “Hello, lads!”
According to Eduard Husson, everything went wrong from the beginning, but they also had some good luck. The gamekeeper is a decent man. He knows he’s risking his life by doing so, but he’s going to help them.
149
This gamekeeper is the first link in a long chain of Resistance fighters who will lead our two heroes to Prague, and to the Moravecs’ apartment.
The Moravec family consists of the father, the mother, and the youngest son, Ata. The eldest son is in England, flying a Spitfire. They are namesakes of Colonel Moravec, but not blood relations. Like him, however, they are resisting the German occupation.
HHhH Page 16