Finally I told them I was leaving. They argued with me and tried to talk me into changing my mind, but soon realized that I would not stay. In the end, Milena fixed a large bag of food and other useful little things and extorted my promise to come back if I could not find another place to hide. But I knew this was a promise I would never keep.
Darkness had fallen over the city, and I was driven by only one thought: I had to find a place to sleep, I must not spend the night on the street. But there was no place to go. Then I remembered the Machs, a kind older couple who had known me since I was a child. They worked as superintendents in one of those new apartment houses in Strasnice where the apartments were like small cages. I knew I could not hide there, but I hoped they might help me find other shelter.
Mrs. Machova welcomed me with tears of joy, but then the shock overwhelmed her. She kept wandering around her apartment gathering things and then dropping them again in her confusion. She did not want to let me go but could not let me stay. At last she sat down at the kitchen table, covered her face with her hands, and broke down sobbing.
It was getting very late, and I got up to leave. At that moment, Mr. Mach, a shy, reticent man who up until this point had watched the two of us silently from his armchair, shouted, “Sit down you silly girl, damn it! We won’t let you go. Now listen to me...” Then he explained that one of his tenants was away, and that his apartment would be empty until the next day. I could sleep there if I sneaked out very early the next morning.
The whole house was asleep when I ran up the darkened staircase, slipped through a strange doorway, and curled up on a strange couch in a strange apartment, as alert as a stray cat.
Long before another day dawned, I was outside again in the cold, my footsteps the only sound in the streets. I had only one hope left: Zdena, the last of my prewar friends. It took me a long time to work up the courage to ring her doorbell. Her mother opened the door, chubby and smiling, holding in her arms a little boy just a few months old. She looked at me, aghast, and her face paled. She lifted the baby up and held him towards me like a cross against the Antichrist, and hissed, “For God’s sake, go away! Can’t you see? This child! For the sake of the child, go! Please! Go!”
I ran down the stairs. Damn! Damn it all! No more of this. No more pleading. No more begging for help. This is the end. I want to survive but at this price life is too expensive. If things continued this way, there would be no people left in my world. I would lose what even the camps and the war had not taken away from me.
I set out toward the city limits, to where the streets ended, and walked out into the fields. The smell of wet earth reminded me that only two days earlier we had been running, tripping on the frozen lumps of soil, telling ourselves, “On all fours, if we have to, but we’ll make it home...” The sky was clear and high above and I could feel that winter was almost over. In two or three months spring would arrive. Then all the colors would change and maybe even the war would end. But for me it would be too late.
My escape into life had just not worked out. It had failed for reasons other than those that I had feared, but, in the end, that did not matter much because any kind of failure meant death. Still, it had been a magnificent attempt, even if it had failed, even though it would be harder to die now.
Just then I looked up and saw I was walking toward a small church. A refuge, at least for a short while! Surely there were no raids here. I went in and sank into a carved pew. There were very few people there, mostly women. I closed my eyes. Only a long time later did I feel something running down my cheeks. I felt no particular pain, no fear, no regret. I was just endlessly tired and distant from myself. I could not think or wish for anything and I just repeated to myself over and over again: life... life.
I was dimly aware of the priest delivering his sermon for a long while before I managed to listen. He was talking about the women who watched Christ suffer on the cross, who pitied him but did nothing to alleviate his pain. He then spoke of effective compassion, of helping one’s fellow man. I wondered what would happen if I walked up to him after mass and said: Here’s your opportunity to put your teachings to work. Help me. Let me sleep here in your little church for a few nights. As soon as I feel better, I’ll be on my way. I thought about it from every possible angle but, in the end, rejected the idea. If my own friends had not been able to help me, what could I expect from a stranger? He might denounce me to the authorities right away. His sermon did not mean a thing. All those people who had chased me out into the street had voiced the same sentiments at one time or another and all had tried to persuade others of their duty to help friends in need.
I did not want to leave the church but, finally, there was no other way. A luminous dusk was descending over Prague. The day was beautiful, even now that it was dying. I wandered slowly through the city toward the Old Town. The river was not frozen and I thought that would be the best way to end it all. Of course the problem was I could swim like a fish. I would also have to take precautions against a last-minute rescue. Somewhere under a bridge I would pick up a few heavy rocks, put them in Milena’s bag, and tie it to my neck with the belt of my coat.
Having worked out these technical details, I did not want to think about them anymore. But somehow I could think of nothing else, and it was not a pleasant stroll. My head was spinning. The skin of my whole body was smarting. I was feverish and the sores on my feet felt inflamed. The streets were full of people, and every once in a while I thought I caught a suspicious stare.
I got to a bridge and leaned over. Below me the river Vltava was flowing dark and cold, whispering to itself. The distance from the bridge to the water seemed enormous. So this was where my journey ended. This was the freedom no one could imagine – the freedom of a bird, the freedom of the wind, a freedom without people. A freedom without exit, lonely and as terrifying as the river below. I took off my gloves and put my hands on the cold stone of the bridge.
At that moment, two uniforms appeared on either side of me, pressed against me, and a harsh German dialect hit my ears. I stiffened with horror. So they had gotten me after all! At the very last moment. No! They would not get me alive! Jump! Right now! I tore myself away with all my remaining strength and one of the men laughed. Only then did I take a good look at them. They were not SS men, just ordinary soldiers. I stammered something incoherent and stumbled away. They did not try to hold me back. Even out of earshot, for a long time I could still hear their laughter, louder and louder. My head became an echo, a thundering bell. Spots of light flickered before my eyes, my heart refused to return to its usual place. I am really at the end of my rope, I thought. I cannot go on. So let the end come... any end...
But it was too early. People were still strolling along the river, and it was not yet dark enough to return to the bridge. I dragged myself wherever my legs took me. The sidewalks seemed to heave with my every step. Streets, people, shadows, voices throbbing in my ears, streets, shadows. Only when I arrived in front of the apartment building where Ruda lived did I realize where I was.
I walked up and down in front of the house for a while. I had decided that I would not try to see anyone else. Ruda would not be home anyway. He might not even live here anymore. Some Germans might have requisitioned his apartment. It was dangerous and hopeless. Still, I wanted to do something: to walk, to think, to see, to postpone death for just a little bit longer. To have someone talk to me. To feel for one more moment that I still belonged to humanity.
I walked across the lobby and began to stagger up the stairs, clutching the railing. Ruda’s name was still on the door. A thin thread of light showed through the peephole. To hell with caution, I thought. Everything is over anyway. I rang the bell. The door flew open as if someone had been waiting for me behind it, and Marta, pale, her black hair dishevelled, grabbed my hand and quickly pulled me into the apartment.
“Where have you been all this time? Where did you go? Why didn’t you come here right after you left our house? I’ve been waiting f
or you and worrying like crazy!” Marta whispered and yelled and sobbed all at once. “Yesterday, right away – well, not right away, but as soon as I could – I ran here to see Ruda. I was sure this would be your next stop. Ruda’s the only one of us worth anything. And you didn’t know he’s never in Prague these days, did you? It was a miracle that I found him here. He wasn’t home for almost a year, and yesterday he was back for just one day. He promised to wait for you till morning, and when I came back today he gave me the keys and said you should stay here, that he’d take care of you. Since then I’ve been sitting here waiting. I could never forgive myself if anything had happened to you. Where were you?”
“I’ll tell you some day,” I said. “Right now I can’t.”
I was holding onto the door to keep myself from collapse. “What about Vlada?”
“You saw. He lied to me all these months. It was all make-believe. And yet I could have managed to forgive him if at least he had understood that you were giving him the chance to do something decent for once in his miserable life. But let’s forget him for the moment. He’s not the problem. You are. Stay here and wait. Be careful. The neighbors can hear every step...”
Marta’s face seemed to be getting bigger. Her voice was booming. The whole room was turning around me. I saw the apartment door close, heard the key turn in the lock and then drop with a clink through the mail slot – probably to fool the neighbors. By that time, I was already falling face down on the couch, feeling as though my body was breaking into a thousand pieces. The tension that had been holding me together suddenly relaxed. My stomach started to heave. Tremors ran down my spine and the walls around me threw back every heartbeat like an echo.
A few days went by, perhaps a week or two.
Gradually, the fever subsided. My head no longer ached and I could walk again. I found some food in the kitchen and I began to feel stronger. Then, one morning, someone dropped a letter through the mail slot. I brought it to the table by the sofa and let it sit there. I had to relish the feeling that someone knew I existed, that someone had thought of me and had taken the trouble to write me, had even brought the letter over by hand. When I opened it, I found a note printed in block letters:
COME AT SIX TO THE PARK BY THE CHURCH. I WILL BE WEARING A BROWN COAT, GREY HAT AND CARRYING A BLACK BRIEFCASE IN MY RIGHT HAND. SAY: I THINK WE HAVE MET SOMEWHERE BEFORE.
I spent the whole afternoon getting ready for my first walk. I was still weak with fever, but I had had some sleep and rest and the prospect of going out to meet someone made me feel alive.
The evening was wet and gloomy, and patches of snow were melting in the drizzle. I saw him from a distance, standing at the corner of the park: a thin man in a worn overcoat, briefcase in hand. I walked slowly toward him, hesitant. He looked me over carefully and then smiled.
“You need not say anything,” he said. “Ruda sent me. Stop being afraid. We’ll help you. Everything will be all right.”
The whisper of the rain stopped and it began to snow. In the curve of the park path, behind a commotion of snowflakes, I could see the figure of a man. He walked like a machine, his steps sharp on the ground. I could tell it was an SS man even before I could make out the outline of his uniform. I gripped my companion’s arm. The SS man came closer, jerked his head in our direction, returned it with another jerk, and passed by. I looked up at the man beside me and felt the snowflakes melt on my face. He smiled again and squeezed my hand.
We walked out of the park and into the streets. People passed by, snuggling into their coats, hurrying home to warm stoves and to doors they would shut behind them. We turned the corner onto a sharply sloped street that I had never walked before. In the dark and through all the snow, I could not see where it ended. We walked fast, in silence.
The war ended the way a passage through a tunnel ends. From far away you could see the light ahead, a gleam that kept growing, and its brilliance seemed ever more dazzling to you huddled there in the dark the longer it took to reach it. But when at last the train burst out into the glorious sunshine, all you saw was a wasteland full of weeds and stones, and a heap of garbage.
The last weeks of my underground existence seemed endless. I was so lonely that I spent most of my time listening to the radio, just to hear a human voice. But, since the broadcasts were made up of lies about the victorious advance of the German armies and other vicious Nazi propaganda, what those voices were saying was far from human. My only solace were the fairy tales broadcast for children. I used to fall asleep wishing that the next day the broadcast would be one long fairy tale and that the voices on the radio would speak only in the language of children, elves, and enchanted animals.
One evening, my friends from the Resistance brought in a wounded Russian partisan debilitated by fever. They put him down on the bed and left me alone with him and the icon which he took from his knapsack and hung on the wall. I nursed him for two days, shared my few stale crackers with him, and prayed that he would not die. When they took him away on the third night, I felt even lonelier than before.
Once or twice I was transferred to another hiding place because staying too long in the same spot meant almost certain discovery. In early April, I moved into my last secret residence, an empty apartment in the posh suburb of Dejvice. The weather was unusually warm; spring was surging into the city before its time. The sunshine lit up the pale, impassive face of Prague and, almost overnight, restored its natural splendor.
I could no longer remain behind locked doors and closed windows. Every day I ventured out and strolled for hours under the greening trees, through streets which seemed to stir with my own impatience and craving for a return to life. This, of course, was very foolish. Had I been caught by the Gestapo and tortured, I might have jeopardized the lives of all the people who had helped me and endangered Ruda’s whole group of partisans.
At night I listened to the BBC, which transmitted news and information in Czech as well as coded messages for the Resistance groups. The penalty for owning a short-wave radio set was death. Hundreds of people had been shot on the spot for this crime, but thousands more kept listening to these broadcasts from London and then spreading the news.
One night at the beginning of May I heard the code name of Ruda’s group on the BBC broadcast and guessed that the few words which followed were a signal for the final decisive action. The next night Ruda himself arrived, covered up to his ears in mud, and pulled out the weapons that lay concealed behind a false partition in a huge closet.
“Next time I come back,” he said, “the war will be over.”
Then, on the fifth day of May, the regular broadcast on Radio Prague was suddenly interrupted by the crackling sound of gunshots and a new voice, a very human voice, shouted, “Come help us everyone! We are fighting the Germans!” and called upon the whole population of Prague to rise up and liberate the city. I rushed to the window and saw men, some of them with rifle in hand, already running down the street.
People started digging in their basements, under the compost heaps of their gardens, in the middle of flower beds. They slashed mattresses and their grandmothers’ sofas; they ripped out floorboards. Secret vaults in factories and warehouses, even coffins in some cemeteries were opened, and the weapons that had been hidden there for years were taken out and hurriedly distributed. Barricades sprang up in the streets with miraculous speed. The freedom fighters pinned on tricolors – the time-honored badges of liberty – and the final act of the war, the first and last battle for Prague, began.
I ran out of the house toward a major avenue and joined a group of young people on ea barricade, but it soon became clear that I was not likely to distinguish myself in armed combat. It did not matter. I felt there had been too much death and killing in my life already, so I turned to the only place where I could be of some use, to the makeshift Red Cross center that had been set up in a basement cinema, where the Resistance headquarters for the suburb of Dejvice was also situated. There I ran into a set of people very di
fferent from the brave, determined crowd in the street.
The headquarters was staffed mostly by affluent-looking gentlemen, former officers of the Czechoslovak Army which had been disbanded in 1939. Now, at the last minute, they seemed eager to establish for themselves a record of resistance against the Germans. It was obvious that they knew very little about the strategy of street fighting. They sat for hours around a table, comfortably discussing the theory and tactics of warfare while their commanding officer, a colonel who had only the vaguest conception of the situation outside, kept issuing pointless orders to the eighteen-year-olds whose fathers and brothers had been murdered by the Germans and who now fought and died on the barricades.
In the first-aid center, nearly all the volunteer nurses were well-dressed suburban housewives, who devoted the greater part of their energy to effusive displays of patriotism and to flirtations with the doctors and officers, leaving all the hard work to the few professional Red Cross nurses.
There was one important service the underground center provided: it was a depository and distribution post for weapons, ammunition, medical supplies, and provisions that were smuggled in from outside. Often an old, half-starved pensioner would sneak through the streets under fire to bring us a loaf of bread saved from his meager ration, a crumpled packet of cigarettes, a bottle of prewar rum. Later, many of these precious gifts disappeared into the large shopping bags that our volunteer nurses had providently brought along.
Under a Cruel Star Page 4