The Cowards

by Josef Skvorecky

  ‘It was.’

  As we came up to the entrance of the surgery pavilion, a hospital attendant ran out. The white robes of the Franciscan nuns glimmered in the doorway. I got out and jumped heavily to the ground. I could practically feel everybody watching me. The tall figure of Dr Preisner, his glasses shining, loomed up over the nuns. He came over.

  ‘How many do you have?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know, Doctor, but we have quite a few,’ I said. Stretcher-bearers hurried out to the truck. Some of them were still wearing street clothes.

  ‘Careful,’ shouted Dr Preisner. ‘Take them to the hall in front of the operating room.’ Then he went back into the hospital and the men set down their stretchers and I stood in the doorway next to the nurses watching them unload the wounded. The nurses eyed me and my weapon with awe. The first two stretcher-bearers trotted into the hospital. One of them was Mr Starec who taught at the high school and whose son was a doctor at the hospital. Then the second stretcher went by. I noticed they were just unloading my Englishman.

  ‘I’ll go in with this one,’ I said. ‘He’s English – doesn’t speak any Czech.’

  The bearers glanced up at me, then carried the Englishman in on their stretcher and I followed them down a dim, rubber-carpeted corridor. It was quiet in there. People in pyjamas and hospital bathrobes stood at all the doors, looking out. As I walked along, I realized everybody was looking at me and that I was tracking mud all over the clean floor. Nuns hurried on ahead of us. We turned a corner and stopped. Three stretchers had been set down on the floor next to the wall and through an open door at the end of the hall came a wedge of light. The stretcher-bearers set the Englishman down. Dr Capek appeared in the doorway, his rubber-gloved hands held out in front of him, his surgeon’s gown spattered with blood.

  ‘All right, next,’ he said, and Mr Starec and another guy lifted their patient and carried him inside. The other guy was Jirka Hubalek whose father was chief of the internal medicine department. We shoved our stretcher up closer to the door. Jirka came out of the operating room, picked up the empty stretcher and some rags that had been left lying on it, and came towards me.

  ‘Hi,’ I said to him in a low voice. He didn’t seem to recognize me. He was just walking along staring ahead of him, as blank as a sleepwalker, but looking worried. Then he recognized me.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘You helping out?’ I said.

  Jirka nodded. Then he suddenly just took hold of my arm and led me aside and said, ‘I’ve got something I want to show you.’

  ‘What?’

  Jirka leaned the stretcher up against the wall and hunted through the rags he’d picked up. They were all that were left of a pair of Russian army pants. There were splotches of blood on the pants.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Look at what that Russian was carrying around in his pockets.’ He held out his hand, then opened it in mournful silence. There lay two wrist watches and a silver pencil.

  ‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘Well, so what?’

  ‘Well, so it’s true,’ said Jirka sombrely.

  ‘So what’s true?’

  ‘Just that.’

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘About the watches.’

  ‘Well, sure. I can see they’re watches, but what of it?’

  ‘Well, so that proves that what they said in the newspapers is true after all, that’s what.’

  ‘You mean about the Russians stealing?’

  ‘Stealing – and for instance in Moravia they’re already confiscating private property.’

  ‘Crap,’ I said.

  ‘And this? These things?’

  ‘Nothing to get all steamed up about, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Well, and just think what’s going to happen when they’re here. You thought about that?’

  ‘Oh, Jirka, don’t be crazy.’

  ‘Crazy? I’m not crazy. I’d rather be out of here when they all march in, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, but what’d you expect? They’re soldiers, aren’t they? After what they have to go through day after day, you think they’re going to worry about some dumb bug-eyed civilian losing a wrist watch? That’s the spoils of war, right? You think English soldiers don’t steal? Or the Americans maybe?’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Anyway, he probably took it from an SS man in the first place. They’re coming straight in from Germany now. And who the hell knows? Maybe that SS man killed the Russian’s wife somewhere in Russia a year or two ago.’

  ‘Not very likely. The Russian I found these things on can’t be more than eighteen.’

  ‘Well, some other Russian’s wife, then. It’s all the same thing.’

  Jirka shook his head. ‘I still don’t like it,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, for Chrissake, don’t make such a big tragedy out of a couple of stupid little watches!’ I said. What made me even madder was that I realized I didn’t know what was going to happen either. Still, this whole thing was ridiculous. Idiotic. Wrist watches! As though everything that had already happened and was still going to happen had anything to do with a stinking little wrist watch.

  ‘So some Kraut’s going to have to look up at a church clock instead of at his wrist, for Chrissake, so what?’ I said. ‘Worse things can happen to a person.’

  Jirka stuck the watches back into the Russian’s pants pocket. ‘I’m still not so sure. So long.’

  ‘So long,’ I said, and without another word Jirka started off down the dimly-lit corridor. They were carrying somebody out through the door on a stretcher and you could see Dr Preisner in a white cap, the front of his gown dotted with bloodstains. Two more casualties were taken into the operating room. The Englishman was shoved right up next to the door. A nurse hurried out and knelt beside the stretcher.

  ‘Now, where does it hurt you?’ she asked him.

  The Englishman shook his head.

  ‘He’s English,’ I said. The nurse glanced up at me; she looked scared. I shifted my machine gun around to my back.

  ‘I’ll translate for you,’ I said. She nodded with a little smile and I asked him in English where it hurt.

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t move my arms,’ he said hoarsely.

  ‘He can’t move his arms,’ I said.

  ‘I see,’ said the nurse. ‘Can you help me undress him?’

  ‘Certainly,’ I said. The nurse lifted the Englishman and, while I held him up, deftly stripped off his jacket, then unbuttoned and took off his shirt revealing his broad chest. A tin tag dangling from a chain around his neck lay half hidden in the hair on his chest. Under each shoulder was a small bloody hole.

  ‘There. You see?’ said the nurse.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, and bent over the Englishman. ‘Probably from a submachine gun. One right after the other.’

  ‘Next,’ called Dr Capek. The two bearers lifted the Englishman’s stretcher and carried him into the operating room. I went in after them. Dr Capek looked me up and down – an unfriendly look.

  ‘You can’t …’ he said.

  ‘I’m an interpreter,’ I broke in, ‘in case you need to ask him anything.’

  ‘I speak Russian,’ said Dr Capek.

  ‘He’s English.’

  ‘English?’ Dr Capek raised his eyebrows. ‘All right, come on,’ he said, and turned, and when he turned I noticed that the buttons on the back of his operating gown were buttoned up wrong. There were two operating tables with bright lamps hanging down over them. Dr Preisner was working at one; a nurse stood over at the patient’s head, letting something drip on to the mask tied over the man’s face. Dr Preisner was amputating the man’s hand at the wrist. The instrument nurse stood on the other side of the operating table silently handing him the instruments. I looked back at the empty table. The bearers set the stretcher down and two nuns lifted the Englishman up on the operating table. Dr Capek leaned over him.

  ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Just under the shoulder bone. Both shots. Sit him up.’

  The nur
ses propped him up. There were two identical holes in the Englishman’s back, one on each side.

  ‘Let’s take a look at this,’ said Dr Capek, and held out his hand. The nurse gave him some sort of instrument through which the doctor closely scanned the Englishman’s chest. It must have been some sort of manual X-ray or something. First he looked at one side, then the other. Then he set the X-ray down and said, ‘He’s lucky. They’re both clean wounds.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ I said. Dr Capek looked at me and waited. ‘Is there anything else I can do, Doctor?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘Well, good-bye,’ I said, and left the operating room and plodded down the hall where the patients, silent and stunned, stared at me from the doors of their rooms. I walked out onto the damp pavement of the driveway in front of the hospital and there the western horizon spread out before me its brilliant colours and small puffball clouds. The sun was already setting; the air was cool and fresh after the rain. I took a deep breath. From far off came the tough stutter of a machine gun. I pricked up my ears. From somewhere beyond town came the faint rumble of a tank. Then there was the clear blast of a cannon. Then another. A pair of machine guns started chattering simultaneously. Quite a racket for a spring evening like this, even though it came from pretty far off. Guns boomed again.

  I looked out across the town, then turned into the street the Port Arthur’s on. It was quiet and the street was dim and unlit, but the sound of gunfire around the frontier went on. Another machine gun started hammering away. There were pauses and then it would start up again and each time it sounded louder. I started to run. The wind felt cool against my face and I felt strong and dangerous. I sprinted past the Port Arthur and down towards the brewery with only the noise of gunfire and my own footsteps to keep me company. Above the woods, off to the east, the sky had already darkened; the tops of the tall oaks and lindens swayed in the glow of the setting sun. A couple of people were running down the path to the brewery. I looked across the bridge towards the station and could see dark figures running in opposite directions. Shots flashed and cracked around the station. I turned and set off again for the brewery. I held my submachine gun in both hands and, jogging along, heard the whiz of more bullets. When I got to the gate I slowed down. Inside, in the yard, it was a sea of confusion. Crowds of men and guys my age, some with guns, some without, were milling around and I saw a couple of guys making their way up and over the fence out back by the woods. On the driveway, a little man in uniform was trying to line up a bewildered corps of young riflemen. The chestnut trees blocked the sun; the brewery yard lay in shadow. Major Weiss, capless and wearing a civilian topcoat, raced by. Suddenly somebody shouted from the gate, ‘The SS! They’re heading for the brewery!’ Confusion turned to chaos. Rifles and grenades, tossed aside, lay all over the place. I went over to the main building without really knowing what to do next. Men burst out of the door and started piling into a car parked by the steps. I recognized Mr Kaldoun, Mr Krocan, and Mr Jungwirth. The car started off with a jerk and honked its way through the milling crowd. I figured I’d go through the warehouse, hide in the bushes along the river bank, and wait until it all blew over. Tanks couldn’t cross the bridge anyway. It wouldn’t hold them. I hurried along, keeping close to the wall. The savage bursts of gunfire from town were getting closer and closer. I jumped and dodged between little piles of abandoned weapons. Amazing how many guns we’d already captured from the Germans. Then all of a sudden I saw somebody inching out through a small low window next to the sidewalk just ahead of me. Already more than half-way out, supporting the front of his body on the flat of his hands, he was handwalking forward trying to get his legs and feet out. I stopped. A smudged figure sprawled on the sidewalk, picked itself up, and turned to face me. It had on one of those little caps like Masaryk used to wear. It was Prema. Prema! His cap was cocked over a coal-dusted face and his white eyeballs shone through the black. Prema! I felt a wild rush of joy. Just the guy I’d been looking for. Things would really start happening now.

  ‘Prema!’ I shouted.

  ‘Danny! What’s going on? Where’re the Germans?’

  ‘They’re supposed to be coming this way.’ I still couldn’t get over how glad I was to see him again. ‘How’d you get out of there anyway?’

  ‘I’ve been filing away like mad for three days. Come on, let’s get moving.’

  ‘Wait! Where are we going?’

  ‘My place. Let’s move!’

  ‘What’re we gonna do there?’

  ‘I’ve got a machine gun all ready to go.’

  ‘A machine gun?’

  ‘Yeah. Come on, let’s move!’ Prema pulled my arm. Machine guns rattled from the bridge.

  ‘Wait! The Germans are out on the streets!’

  Prema stopped. ‘Christ! That submachine gun’s the only thing you got?’

  I looked around. ‘There’re guns lying all over the place,’ I said. Prema ran out onto the driveway, grabbed a rifle, hunted around for something else like his life depended on it, stooped, and stuck whatever it was in his pocket.

  ‘Come on!’ I yelled. ‘Let’s go round the back way.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Under the bridge.’

  We ran over to the warehouse. You could still hear shots coming from over in front of the brewery. The warehouse was dark; we ran straight through and out the back door to the slope down to the river bank. We forced our way through the wet shrubbery at the top of the slope. Shots rang out to our left. Prema ran ahead, plunged down the slope with big long strides and I slid down after him. By the river bank, we looked up from its reflection in the water to the bridge itself, arching against the pale sky. Along the railing you could see the running silhouettes of people wearing hats and caps. Only a few carried rifles. A tank roared along a street on the other side of the bridge. We crouched there under the bushes, water dripping on us from the branches, the dark river murmuring along a few feet below. A machine gun chattered in a series of short bursts above the roar of the tank. The figures on the bridge dropped out of sight. On the opposite bank, a couple of shadows headed down towards the river and off towards the edge of town.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I said to Prema.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. The roaring of the motor stopped. In the silence you could hear the crunch of hobnailed boots up on the bridge. Prema rose and pulled something out of his pocket. It was a hand grenade. He pulled the pin. Up on the bridge the black silhouettes of German soldiers stood out very sharp and clear, the noise of their boots resounding above the river. Prema stretched his arm way back, then pitched the grenade. Then he threw himself down on the ground beside me. I pushed my face in the wet earth. There was a big blast and chunks of metal came down, tearing leaves off the trees. Prema jumped up.

  ‘Run!’ he yelled. Then I was up and running too, along the river bank under the bridge. I saw that a piece of the railing had been blown out of the middle of the bridge and was bobbing in the water now and the air was dusty and full of smoke. We ran along under the bridge. Prema stumbled. Suddenly an SS man loomed up from behind the bridge pillar. He was right in front of me, wearing a camouflaged poncho. For a fraction of a second I looked at his wet helmet, the ammunition belt slung across his chest, and then I pulled back on the trigger. Flames leapt from the muzzle and I felt something jerk up sharply in my hands. The SS man leaned slightly forward and then fell hard and we went by him without even stopping. He lay there, wet, big, strong, in full camouflage, his helmet shoved back, his eyes wide open, and his blond hair, wet from the rain and sweat, stuck to his forehead. We ran on and didn’t look back. Along the bank of the river, which reflected the brilliant colours of the western sky, we hurried away from the bridge. A machine gun barked behind us but I didn’t hear the bullets coming by. We scrambled up the slope to the path at the top and ran on to the first weir. There we stopped and looked back. A light cloud of smoke was still lifting from the middle of the bridge; at the town end of th
e bridge stood a tank. Its flaring machine gun was firing off into the woods somewhere. Nobody seemed to be running after us. Then a couple of helmeted figures jumped back on to the tank. It backed up and turned.

  ‘Step on it! Let’s move!’ said Prema. We turned and loped on down along the river bank, the western sky looking more fantastic than ever. The tank growled somewhere behind us and we ran on a little farther, then left the path and got down by the river again. Behind the weir the river was hardly more than a creek. Prema jumped into the water, I went in after him, and we waded over to the other side. After we’d clambered up the slope on this side, we took off across a vacant lot towards the courthouse. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Above the city, the castle glittered in the rays of the setting sun, its windows a smouldering gold. Below the castle, the lilacs glimmered like lanterns. We tramped along the foot bridge over the stream, past the place where women used to do their washing, then turned into Skocdopole’s warehouse. The corrugated-metal overhead door was shut. Prema took a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ I asked.

  ‘We’re going to take the machine gun up to Sugarloaf Hill and wait for ’em there.’

  ‘You think they’ll head over that way?’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Prema pushed up the rumbling overhead door.

  We went in. It was dark inside. Prema switched on the dim bulb in the ceiling.

  ‘Come on. Give me a hand with this thing,’ he said, slapping a crate that stood in a corner. ‘We’ll just tip this thing off.’

  We tipped the crate forward and let it down. My eyes popped. On little steel wheels stood a heavy, well-polished machine gun. The fat cooling sleeve around the barrel glistened and its funnel-shaped muzzle looked deadly.

  ‘Where’d you ever get hold of that?’ I asked in amazement.

  ‘I had it down in the cellar. Ever since the mobilization.’

  ‘But where’d you get it in the first place?’

  ‘Robert got it when he was still around. Come on, let’s push it out.’ Robert was Prema’s cousin, the one who’d left the country. We leaned against the gun and pushed it out in front of the warehouse. It was awfully heavy. There was nobody around out there.