Fires in the Dark

by Louise Doughty

  ‘Are you sure no one will come in?’ Yenko asked.

  ‘Highly unlikely,’ Ctibor replied. ‘We had more visitors when I had Antonin, my old manager. We were partners. We used to do a bit of real business when he was around, as opposed to filing. He got put away just before Christmas and it’s been downhill ever since. I haven’t quite got around to hiring anyone else yet. Trusted him, you see. We had an understanding. Paper aeroplanes.’

  ‘What did he do? I mean, why did they put him away?’

  ‘He was in a bar one day, after work, and was telling the barman about how we’d had a visit from a couple of black hats from the Petschek Palace, asking if we knew you could make bombs out of jam. They wanted copies of all the purchase orders. Antonin told the barman it just went to show how stupid Germans were if they thought you could blow up a railway line with a litre jar of blackcurrant conserve. There was a guy at the end of the bar listening.’ Ctibor shook his head. ‘Poor old Antonin, a year and a half for endangering the good name of the German people by untrue or grossly misrepresented assertions. Got off lightly in my opinion, silly sod. The barman got four months just for nodding in reply.’

  Yenko sat down on a stool. So the Germans were putting Czechs away just for laughing at them. So it isn’t just Us, he thought. Mostly Us, maybe, Us and the Jews, but a few of Them as well. Out of respect to Ctibor, he tried not to feel pleased.

  Ctibor turned away and started piling ledgers and box-files on to a desk. Yenko shoved his hands deep into his pockets and wandered through the office door into the empty shop. The long wooden counter was covered in a thick layer of grey dust. He ran a finger idly along it, grimacing with distaste. Now he was less afraid he allowed himself the luxury of disappointment. Ctibor would shelter him, for the time being, but how would he lay his hands on the resources to get back to Moravia? He had thought he was coming to Prague to befriend a rich man. He wouldn’t have undertaken such a risky journey just for shelter. He had to use this opportunity, somehow – but it was too early to work out how. He sighed. This would have to do, for now. He still felt numb. He needed a rest from being frightened, from having to use his initiative. Once Ctibor had found him some identity papers, then he would have to think of what to do next.

  He took a step towards the window with its few sad old bottles, peering through them carefully at the empty cobbled street. The buildings were misted by the layer of grime across the glass. No one was around. Out there, in the open, there were people who just went about their business – walking to work, jumping on a tram and off again. There were people who had supper with their families, and went to concerts in the park at weekends, and raised umbrellas when it rained. There was the whole, huge, turning world. He tried to tell himself that in that world there were also soldiers somewhere, men with dirty faces and guns, hiding in holes. Russians freezing to death. Sailors drowning. It was hard to credit. He felt like the only person on earth who was in danger.

  ‘Funny, you know.’ Yenko turned at the sound of Ctibor’s voice. He had come to the office door, silently, and was leaning against the frame, watching him. He had a cloth in his hands. He looked down at it as he wiped his fingers. ‘I was just trying to clean up a bit in there. It’s funny, you know. For years I begged your father to come and work for me. It was a standing joke between us. But I meant it seriously, and he knew I meant it. I had no one else, you see. No sons, no brothers. And you Gypsies, your tribes and your great big families. I always envied you.’ He was wiping each finger in turn. ‘And now, here you are, after all this time.’ He turned back into the office, shaking his head in wonder.

  CHAPTER 25

  It was April. The air was light but cold. Ctibor told him that down by the river there was a lilac tree in full bloom. Yenko struggled to remember lilac blossom. He still had no identity papers. Lilac blossom, and rivers – these things were abstract as angels.

  His world consisted of Ctibor’s rooms, the stairwell, courtyard and the dark brown wooden office with the dirty window where he spent his days moving bits of paper from one file to the next. When Ctibor went out, he sat with his elbows on the desk and his hands covering his face, sunk in gloom. Ctibor had sold the silver photo frames for him, given him the proceeds and promised that the man who had bought them would come to see him soon, but the days passed without progress. It was difficult, Ctibor said.

  To stop himself from going crazy, Yenko read the newspapers and magazines that Ctibor bought, and practised his German. It didn’t seem as though it would be over by the summer, after all. What were the Russians playing at? Surely after Stalingrad they should have just stormed westward? Where were they? In March, Národní Politika reported vicious Allied attacks on defenceless unarmed civilians in Berlin. Many women and children had been killed, the reports said. One of the targets had been a new maternity hospital in the centre of the city. Ctibor said that meant the British were giving back as good as they were getting, for once. Maybe they would land in France soon. If the Russians were going to be so slow about it, maybe the British or the Americans would get to Prague first.

  There was never any mention of the camp Yenko had been in. Sometimes, he wondered if he had really been there at all. He would lift his head from the newspaper and pick things up from Ctibor’s desk, like a fountain pen, stroking the smooth, tortoiseshell surface and wondering. What is happening? Right now, as I sit here holding this pen, looking into the brown swirls of its surface and thinking how well it is crafted, what is happening to them? He thought of his mother as he had last seen her, climbing the snowy step into the infirmary hut, the door banging shut behind her, the soundless shower of icicles. Dalé. Stay strong for me. Stay alive. Then he would put the pen down, closing his mind against the thoughts.

  Other stories in the newspapers made him shake his head in disbelief, like the one about a little Indian man who was starving himself in order to hurt the British. Apparently, the British were hated so much in India that people thought it was a good idea not to eat.

  The news only took up the first one or two pages. The rest was supposed to be more cheering stuff. Yenko was up-to-date on the latest women’s fashions, and the ice-hockey results. When he couldn’t be bothered to read, he looked at the pictures; line sketches of ladies in extravagant hats, curved like falling chimneys; photographs of smiling SS men dancing to traditional Moravian folk tunes, of Hitler receiving King Boris of Bulgaria.

  The world turned.

  *

  One lunchtime, as they were preparing to leave the shop, Ctibor said, ‘I need you to stay down here for a bit, while I go out. Maybe you could, I don’t know, sweep up or something …’

  Yenko looked at him. Ctibor raised his bushy eyebrows up and down, twice in quick succession. His eyes were twinkling. ‘I have to go to the Spotted Pig. Hopefully, I am meeting a man who may be able to help us. I’m planning on persuading him to come back here to meet you …’

  At last.

  ‘Why don’t I wait upstairs?’ asked Yenko.

  Ctibor wrinkled his nose. ‘My friend, Mr Blažek, has a certain reputation for being, how shall I put it, not entirely above board. I don’t think it’s a good idea for him to bump into Mrs Talichová. Wait here. I won’t be long. I’ll lock you in.’

  Yenko knew that Ctibor would be long, and he was. He was asleep with his arms resting on the counter-top when he heard the key rattle in the shop’s front door. He raised his head sleepily as the two men entered the office and saw they had been drinking. Ctibor’s face had the carefully composed look that Yenko had come to recognise over the last few weeks, the look of a man who believes intently in his own sobriety.

  Blažek was short and stocky, in his thirties, balding, dressed smartly but without ostentation. He looked like a man with expensive tastes who thought it wise not to advertise them. His brown eyes stared back at Yenko in frank appraisal.

  Ctibor raised both arms to display two large brown bottles. ‘We haven’t forgotten you, Jan!’ he declared happily, placin
g undue emphasis on Jan. Of course, he and Yenko had not discussed how much Blažek was to be told.

  ‘My good friend Blažek, this is my nephew Jan. Jan, meet another Jan. Jan Blažek, a businessman of extraordinary capacities! Without him, I would never have any paper to put in my unread files.’

  Blažek leaned over the counter to shake Yenko’s hand. Ctibor pulled over another two tall stools, then fetched three glasses from a nearby shelf. They were all silent while he poured the beer, then they toasted each other’s health.

  Yenko took a solitary sip and put the beer down quickly. He saw Blažek observing him.

  Ctibor said, ‘Well!’ with an air of great satisfaction, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Jan, I have explained our problem to Mr Blažek here and he seems to think he can help. Jan …’ he nodded to Blažek.

  Blažek drained his glass and allowed Ctibor to refill it before saying quietly, ‘I understand you need new identity papers.’

  Yenko nodded.

  Blažek returned the nod. ‘Let me explain a few of the difficulties involved …’

  Yenko sighed inwardly. This was a bargaining chip as old as the hills. Before offering someone what they wanted, you gave them a great long story about how difficult it was to obtain, to soften them up for the price. Cut the wind-up, he wanted to say to Blažek, and give me a figure. You are dealing with a Rom.

  ‘Official channels are out of the question,’ Blažek began, ‘as I’m sure you know. Far too many questions for anyone with something to hide. For instance, you have to give them a family tree going back to your grandparents which proves you’re not a Gypsy or a Jew.’ He paused and glanced at both of them before continuing. ‘Back in ’41 you could have tried the Underground but since Heydrich it’s been hopelessly compromised. Half the Communist Resistance are Gestapo double agents. I used to do some of my deals with Resistance people but I wouldn’t touch them with a long broom handle now.’

  Ctibor belched, then said, ‘Oops!’ and put his hand over his mouth.

  Blažek continued. ‘The only realistic method is to get hold of an existing card and adapt it. As you can imagine …’

  ‘I have one,’ said Yenko bluntly, and was rewarded by the look of surprise on both men’s faces.

  Blažek recovered quickly. ‘Well there are still a lot of hurdles. We need to get a photo of you, that’s not difficult, we can do it ourselves, then we need to find a man with a friendly printing press. I know someone. He’s good but his price is high.’

  ‘Ah …’ said Ctibor. ‘I think the time has come for me to relieve myself. Getting down to business always makes me nervous.’ He clambered down from his stool and went into the small cubicle at the back of the shop. There came the distinct sounds of him unzipping his fly, and the heavy spatter of urine against the porcelain.

  ‘Anything else to drink back there?’ Blažek called over the sounds.

  There was a pause, then Ctibor shouted back, ‘I might have just the thing …’ A series of ostentatious hangings and clumpings commenced as Ctibor began opening cupboard doors and closing them again.

  Yenko became aware that Blažek was staring at him. He glanced at him, then dropped his gaze. Blažek’s stare was not friendly.

  Blažek leaned over the counter so that his face was close to Yenko’s and he could lower his voice. ‘You could at least pretend to drink the beer, son,’ he said. ‘If you’re going to go out in the big wide world you’ve got to act like the rest of us.’

  Yenko lifted his glass, discomforted, and took a sip.

  Blažek sat back on his stool, but after a moment leaned forward again, ‘Listen. I’ve nothing against you personally, you know. You’ve been having a hard time. But I like Ctibor. He’s an old fool but he’s been good to me. I don’t like seeing him taken advantage of.’

  Yenko looked at Blažek and said, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come on, don’t play innocent with me.’

  It occurred to Yenko what the problem was. Blažek thought he was Jewish. He wasn’t sure whether it would be better or worse if Blažek knew the truth.

  ‘Have a good look at the newspapers some time,’ Blažek said, taking a paper packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lighting one, ‘the lists of people who get taken out to the stadium and shot? Whole families, eight people with the same name. Mostly, it’s for harbouring people like you. I daresay there were plenty of places you could’ve gone but you went to Ctibor because you knew he didn’t have a family. More likely to help you out, wasn’t he? But what about everyone else in his block? How long before someone on the floor below decides he can earn a few extra crowns by reporting the new pair of feet upstairs?’

  I need this man, Yenko thought. I need him to respect me, if not like me. He’s my only chance. ‘What do you think I should do?’ he said, in a calm, low voice.

  ‘Get on your own feet and sort yourself out with your own place as quickly as possible. Don’t help Ctibor commit suicide.’

  Yenko steeled himself and lifted his beer, taking a large gulp. It was disgusting. He would never get used to it. ‘For that I need help.’

  Blažek grimaced. ‘I can help. If you are prepared to take risks. I’ll be honest with you, I don’t like taking risks myself. But someone like you doesn’t have much to lose.’

  Yenko stayed silent.

  ‘I need a runner,’ Blažek continued, ‘someone to take stuff from place to place for me. If you are caught you get taken to the Petschek Palace and they pull your fingernails out. But you don’t know anything about me so you can’t tell them anything, which makes you interesting to me. In return, I sort out your papers.’

  ‘And pay me,’ Yenko said, reaching out and helping himself to one of Blažek’s cigarettes. He picked up Blažek’s lighter from where it sat on the counter top. He had watched other men do this often enough. All it took was confidence.

  Blažek watched impassively while Yenko lit the cigarette, inhaled without coughing, and blew the smoke out again as swiftly as dignity would allow. Eventually, he smiled again, and this time the smile contained a little mirth. ‘You’re a fast learner, boy. That’s good.’

  ‘Got you, you beauty!’ Ctibor’s triumphant shout came from the cubicle. He returned, flourishing another bottle. ‘The real stuff this time!’

  Blažek smiled and reached for his empty glass. Yenko knew that he would leave soon, now that business was concluded. He would be left to deal with Ctibor.

  *

  Blažek departed half an hour later, having drunk one small glass of the colourless engine fuel that Ctibor had poured for them. They had supposedly been making small talk but Blažek had revealed nothing about himself; where he lived, his family, his business. Yenko couldn’t talk about himself either, which left only Ctibor, who fortunately seemed happy to talk for all three of them.

  After Blažek had gone, Yenko rose hopefully. ‘We’d better get back upstairs,’ he said. ‘It’s getting late.’ There had been no mention of what they were going to eat that evening.

  Ctibor was too drunk to care about food. ‘Jan’s a good man,’ he mumbled, pouring himself another glass and spilling the colourless liquid on the counter top. ‘Some don’t like his kind but the world wouldn’t keep turning without them. We’re all doing it, more or less. If a girl wants a pair of stockings she has to get her hands dirty. You can’t even get hold of an inner tube for your bicycle these days. People like Blažek, well, they’re sticking two fingers up at the Germans in their own way and what if they do make a bit on the side? Good luck to them!’

  ‘Come on, really, we should …’ said Yenko, taking Ctibor by the elbow and easing him off the tall stool, whereupon the strength of gravity surprised them both and Ctibor plummeted sideways. Yenko grabbed at him and hauled him upright, wrenching his back. He gasped in irritation.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake …’ said Ctibor, pushing him away and reaching out for the bottle.

  Outside the shop, Yenko snapped, ‘Give me the keys.’ Ctibor
fumbled for a while, until Yenko’s patience broke and he pushed Ctibor back against the wall and commenced the distasteful business of searching his pockets.

  ‘German bastards …’ Ctibor was mumbling, eyes half closed. ‘A man can’t even go to a tavern when he wants. Has to go to bed early like a child. I don’t want to go home yet. Why can’t I walk the streets in my own city?’ He levered himself away from the wall and lunged forward. Yenko grabbed him and pushed him back up against the wall. He pinned him there with one hand and found the keys with the other. ‘Don’t move!’ he hissed viciously while he locked the shop.

  As they crossed the courtyard, Ctibor began raising his voice. ‘They all betrayed us, František.’ Yenko unlocked the door and pushed Ctibor in and up the stairs. Ctibor paused after a few steps to bend double and beat at his chest. ‘We are the very heart. Us, here, right here, slap bang in the middle. The beating heart! Cut out the heart, and what do you have left? Take a look at Jan Hus, next time you’re passing. Big guy, covered in swastikas at the moment. Can’t miss him. They abandoned us.’ Yenko pushed him up the stairs.