“Čurda is an unreliable drunk!” Jan protested immediately. “Don’t you remember how he once blurted out that he admired Hitler back on the base in Britain? Was it not you, who made a report on him to the Colonel?”
“And Colonel spoke to him and found no threat in his actions. Čurda does love his drink, but he’s an alright man. He’s been working with the rest of the group here in Prague for a few months now. They say, he’s a likable fellow and does a good job.”
“I said, no. Why are we even talking about it? I said I’d do it and I will. Or is it you? Do you doubt me, is that what it is? You think I won’t have the guts to go through with this?”
Jozef shook his head with a sad smile. “Of course, not. I know that you will die along with me if needed. I just… don’t want you to.”
Jan’s eyes stared with a question in them.
“You love life much more than I do. You love your Anna and you don’t want for it all to end so abruptly. And I don’t want this for you. That’s the only reason why I offered—”
“Jozef, I’ll do it.” Jan caught his hand and gave it a reassuring pressure. “We came here together and we’ll leave together. You’re right; I don’t want to die. But I would never abandon you. I’m ready.”
“You sure?”
“I’ve never been so certain in my life.”
Jan smiled at Jozef in spite of himself. He had almost persuaded himself that he was speaking the truth.
The following day dawned hazy and pale-pink. They decided to act fast, escort or no escort and to hell with the consequences. They went out with Anna and Libena the night before and danced with them, desperately trying not to think that those could quite possibly be the last few hours they shared together. They drank, but very little. They savored every bite of their dinner with the hunger of condemned men. They parted their ways, heading in two different directions; Jozef with Libena on his arm, and Jan – with Anna. The night was so full of life, so full of promise, and they almost forgot about death hovering over their heads. That day, Reinhard Heydrich went to the opera, Libena mentioned in passing during the dinner. Everyone fell silent.
In the morning, having whispered his goodbyes to Anna, Jan sat on his bed for a very long time, his fingers grasping at its edge. He washed his face, moving like an automaton. Shaved. Brushed his hair. Got dressed. Made sure that the jacket allowed enough space for the ammunition.
Yet, Jan’s hands trembled as he was wrapping the highly sensitive bomb, provided by the SOE, into a piece of cloth. Under his long, chestnut bangs, the young Czech’s forehead shone with a film of sweat, viscous and transparent – like his fear. His blue eyes, usually so bright and smiling, so wonderfully alert with intelligence, now stared without seeing into space, his nostrils flaring as his heart was beating with savage force against his ribcage. The room appeared suddenly devoid of air.
Jozef assured him yesterday when they had just returned from the appointed place, that he – Jozef – would be the one to carry out the assassination. Jan was there more for moral support – a so-called plan B in case plan A didn’t succeed for reasons which Jan didn’t even wish to consider.
But he had nothing to worry about, Jozef patted his cheek in a reassuring manner, pulled him close, by the neck, with his rough fingers, and pressed his forehead into Jan’s, the usual optimistic grin in place. Jozef had never had to use a plan B before.
Jan passed a hand over his forehead with beads of moisture on it, shamefully removing all visible traces of his hesitation and blew his cheeks out, praying to all the Gods that Jozef was right.
Urgent knocking on the door made him nearly jump in his place. It was only Jozef.
“Ready?”
Jan nodded, demonstrating the bomb.
Jozef opened his long raincoat and produced a Sten submachine gun, disassembled in two smaller parts to fit along the side of his arm. The third man, Valčík, their lookout fellow who was supposed to give them a signal once he spotted the car, was shifting his weight anxiously from one foot to another behind Jozef’s back. The Moravec family – a husband who never asked any unnecessary questions, a wife who cooked the best dinners in Prague and whom the Czechs affectionately called “aunt,” and their young son Ata who openly admired the two mysterious guests who hid guns in their pockets – they all waited in the hallway, big-eyed and solemn.
They shook hands with the husband; hugged the wife warmly; tousled Ata’s hair.
“Don’t worry.” The boy gave Jozef a toothy grin. “I remember what you said about the crate.”
The parents exchanged confused glances, but Jan smiled sadly, recalling what his comrade told Ata just a few days ago. “See that crate, where your mother keeps her apples? The Germans can beat it until it starts speaking. But you, you must not say a word when they ask you anything at all. You understand? Not a single word.”
Jozef squeezed the boy’s shoulder tightly before rushing out of the door. No time for goodbyes today. No time for tears or useless sentiments. The man, whom they were about to kill, was a formidable foe and they couldn’t afford a mistake. And so, they picked up their heavy suitcases, left the apartment and walked toward the tram stop without a single look back.
The ride was tense, interminable. Jozef stood rigidly near the door, his arm long and immobile on his right side, concealing the deadly weapon. Jan’s eyes peered greedily into the streets flashing behind the glass, imprinting them into his memory. Not too many German patrols today, good. Not too hot today either, so Jozef’s raincoat shouldn’t attract any unwanted attention.
Jan glanced at his comrade again. The latter seemed to be deep in his brooding. Was he thinking about Heydrich? Jan wondered. Jan sure was.
Jan could picture him in all his vividness having his breakfast while leafing through a newspaper, or a report perhaps. The butler did say that he was obsessed with his work, didn’t he? So, perhaps he was reading some report right now and his wife was reproaching him for not paying attention to what she was saying about the garden. Perhaps he nodded absentmindedly, muttered something to get her off his back and only put down the papers (or the newspaper?) when his little daughter Silke distracted him with some mischief. She was Heydrich’s favorite child – again, according to the butler – and Heydrich never reprimanded her for anything, which was not the case with Silke’s two brothers. She was allowed to run into his study when he was busy talking to a subordinate, climb onto his lap and demand her kiss. Perhaps, she was sitting on her father’s lap right now, hugging him by the neck and asking him if he would take her for a ride on his horse that evening after he came back from work.
Jan shook his head in a vain attempt to clear it. The strangest thing was, how much he had learned about his target, to the point where he started seeing him as a human and not… someone who’s not. Anthropoid.
“He loves his daughter and plays his violin so beautifully that it makes tears spring to one’s eyes,” the butler told him.
Jan wished he didn’t. Jan didn’t want to see the human in him, didn’t want to kill the human. He wanted to kill the monster, The Hangman, and less than anything, did he wish to imagine him hugging his little daughter, now.
“Are you coming?” Jozef’s voice woke him up from his daydreaming.
His comrade chuckled at Jan’s confused look and motioned his head towards the stop. The tram slowed down and they got off.
“Talk to me, Jozef.”
“About what?”
“About anything. I want to talk. I don’t want to think.”
“All right. Have you heard the legend about St. Wenceslas’ crown which is kept together with the Keys of the City, in St. Vitus Cathedral?”
“No.”
“The legend says that whoever wrongfully places the crown on his head will die within a year, along with his eldest son.”
“And?”
Jozef’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “And they say, Heydrich couldn’t resist the temptation and tried it on the day President Hácha pr
esented to him the keys to the city, when Heydrich was first appointed as the Reich Protector.”
“Who says that?”
“People. No one knows for sure, but it makes a nice story, doesn’t it?”
Jan grinned, following his friend into the darkness of the house’s hallway. “Do you suppose it’s true?”
Jozef paused before the door and shrugged with the same smile before knocking. “I suppose, we’ll soon find out.”
They picked up their bicycles from their connection and set off on their way past Gothic cathedrals; past German patrols with their hobnailed boots clinking on the cobbles; past storefronts advertising a pure Aryan business with the words Čisté árijské obchod and cafés with signs in both German and Czech; past a crude graffiti on a wall: ‘Židi ven’ – ‘Jews, get out’ – inevitably approaching their destination – Holešovice Street. Valčík was already there; they exchanged handshakes, quiet remarks, and headed their separate ways – as it had been agreed. It was today, or never. That evening, Heydrich was supposed to fly out to Berlin, perhaps to never return to his little Czech Kingdom, of which he spoke with such fondness and disdain, all at the same time.
Jan watched Jozef stroll toward the tram stop and take his seat on the bench, his right arm, with the raincoat wrapped around it, resting casually on his lap. Jan watched Valčík head toward the hill, from which he would signal them with the help of a small mirror, alerting them to the approaching car. Jan watched the hustle and bustle of the city around them, feeling strangely detached from its grotesque reality as the clock, which had just struck nine on top of the tower, was writing history where the fates of the four men were so closely intertwined. Any minute now.
But minutes passed and the signal didn’t come. Half past nine now and Jan caught Jozef’s nervous shifting in the bench. A sickening feeling of a déjà-vu started overwhelming Jan, reminding him of the day when they waited for the black Mercedes to appear on the road at the same exact spot. That day, Heydrich was also uncharacteristically late. That day, Jan saw him for the first time. That day, he had a chance to kill him and he couldn’t force himself to.
Jan started counting pigeons in front of him, just not to think, just not to go mad from all this tension that was straining his nerves to the point of nearly breaking. Then he began counting V’s, adorning the walls, passing trams, posters and even the ground, drawn with a small child’s hand and purposely not removed by a diligent German one. The Germans stole the symbol from the Czech Resistance like they stole the country itself from the Czechs, and appropriated the proud symbol like they appropriated its factories and people.
Quarter to ten. The street was nearly empty now, only two very suspicious men loitering there without any seemingly good purpose. It only took one “conscientious citizen” to point them out to the nearest patrol and they were as good as dead. Jan’s grip on the cloth that cradled the bomb inside his pocket tightened against his will.
The clock struck ten. He wasn’t coming.
Jan threw a desperate glare at Jozef, but his comrade stubbornly refused to meet it. He continued to expect Heydrich with a sort of humiliating and obstinate sense of hope, like an abandoned lover who refuses to admit the painful truth of being stood up for a date. Jozef stared at the top of the hill with such intensity in his gaze as though appealing to everything that was holy and watching over his country, not to disappoint him.
He wasn’t coming. Perhaps, he had decided not to go to work at all today and go straight to the airfield, where his plane was waiting for him. Perhaps, he was already on his way to Berlin and they were so very late…
And then, a blinding light caused Jan to raise his hand and shield himself from it. Jozef sprung to his feet, invigorated, anxious, alert, and ready. The signal came and along with it – a sickening mixture of adrenaline, fear, and hope, which made Jan painfully aware of his wildly beating heart.
Jan moved closer to the road as well; cursed at the sight of a tram which was rolling unhurriedly their way, its bell chiming at the worst possible moment. The car would appear any second now and it would block it, and then—
Jan bit his lip as the black, polished body of the car slowly crawled around the bend. Held his breath as Jozef walked across the rails, extracted the Sten submachine gun from under his raincoat and directed it straight at the two men, sitting in it.
The driver hit the brakes.
Nothing happened.
His breath coming out in hectic gasps, Jan stared, his eyes wide open in horror, as Jozef hit the Sten, aimed it again and again but no shots followed. How many times did Jan hear his fellow SOE agents curse the damned thing that was good for nothing and either shot on the slightest of provocations or jammed at the worst possible of moments and refused to shoot at all!
And Heydrich was already rising to his feet, getting his gun out with a deadly determination on his face and aiming it at Jozef’s terrified face.
The bomb! Some invisible voice shouted inside Jan’s head. His fingers curled around it pulled it out of his pocket as both Heydrich and the driver was busy shooting at his comrade, who was making his hasty escape, using a tram as a convenient shield from the German bullets. His heart nearly breaking his ribcage with its savage force, Jan stepped forward and threw the bomb under the car, watching its movement as though hypnotized. The driver jumped out, following Jozef who had disappeared behind the tram, mere seconds before the explosion blasted through the street.
The force of the explosion made the windows in the tram burst and shower the street with their opalescent, icy torrent. The Mercedes lifted in the air and landed heavily onto the cobbled road, emanating the acrid smell of burnt tires. As though mesmerized, Jan watched an SS jacket, which had been carefully laid out by Heydrich’s maid, onto the back seat – cleaned and perfectly pressed – for him to change into, before his flying out to Berlin, fly up in the air and slowly make its way onto the tram lines. Only then Jan forced himself to shift his gaze back to the car.
Jan stood, rooted to his spot, as his intended target got out of the front seat, holding his side but with the gun firmly squeezed in his hand. Of course, they didn’t kill him. What were they hoping for? He wasn’t a man, after all; at least that part their commanders, who gave such a befitting name to the operation, were right about. Only as the gunshot whizzed past his ear, did Jan burst into a run, further from that beast as they had rightfully called him, propelled forward by sheer instinct of survival. One thought only pounded in his frantic mind; they had failed and The Hangman would surely kill them now.
Chapter 7
Reinhard kept shooting until the gun started producing only empty clicking noises in his hand. He proudly noted how steady his arm was. He proudly noted that he didn’t feel any pain, despite blood slipping through his fingers, staining his gray uniform. He started laughing even, softly at first and then louder, finding it particularly hilarious. Pathetic Czechs! They thought they could kill him. Him, Reinhard Heydrich whom they appropriately gave the name of Young Evil God of Death. Didn’t they realize that Gods couldn’t be killed?
But then he suddenly couldn’t feel his legs anymore and sank to the ground, very much surprised by such a betrayal caused to him by his own body. Now, sharp, searing pain was there as well, together with the realization of his own mortality. His driver Klein was already kneeling next to him, muttering something unintelligible.
“Get that swine!” Reinhard yelled at him, pointing with his hand, with the gun still clasped tightly in it, in the direction in which one of the assassins disappeared.
Klein took off running, his shots sending the crowd, gathered around the tram, scrambling and screaming. Reinhard remained on the ground, supporting himself on his elbow, refusing to lie down despite the agony slowly radiating from the torn flesh in his back.
The street came into focus before his eyes, slowly, deliberately, frighteningly real. Alarmed faces, shouts, panic; the shimmer of the broken glass around him became tangible, mortifying. A woman
appeared out of nowhere. Is Herr Protector all right? Does he need help? She’ll fetch someone at once – a blonde, German angel, God bless her. He watched her stop the car and argue with two men in its front seat, who kept throwing glances his way, none too thrilled with the idea of aiding their Protector. Fucking Czechs, Reinhard cursed to himself, should have lined them all against the wall from the very beginning…
The blonde was already pulling a confused driver out of another car – a Tatra van. He, too, was trying to protest something, but this time she would hear nothing of it.
“He’ll help you into the car, Herr Protector,” the blonde spoke to Reinhard with a reassuring smile.
Reluctantly, Reinhard allowed the Czech to help him to his feet, before growling, “I’ll walk myself,” and nearly fell again if the Czech hadn’t caught him in time.
Reinhard hated him with all his might at that moment. Hated the feeling of being helpless – for the first time in so many years; hated the gawking crowd around him; hated seeing his car with its rear blown up; hated the Czech’s hands on him as he helped him into the front seat.
“My briefcase,” Reinhard told the blonde, motioning to his car.
She promptly ran up to it, fetched his briefcase and arranged it on his lap.
“Are you comfortable?” She asked, looking over his tall frame cramped into a much-too-small passenger seat, with concern.
“No,” he admitted after a moment’s consideration. “I want to lie down in the back.”
The blonde was back to arguing with the driver in Czech as Reinhard felt more blood dripping through his fingers. He said nothing, just clenched his jaw tighter, pale and proud.
“He says, the van is full of shoe polish he delivers. It smells there.”
“I don’t care, just let me lie down.”
The Darkest Hour Page 34