“No drink,” he says. “Listen, we’ve got foreign guests here to shoot black grouse. We need you to guide them.”
“Grouse? This time of year?”
“We need you to accompany us now.”
He gestures to two Státní Bezpečnost, or secret policemen, standing by an official car.
“No fuss,” he says.
“I’d like to oblige,” I say, “but as you can see, I’m occupied.”
He puts up a shaking hand.
“Comrade Sobotka, you have no choice in the matter.”
WE DRIVE AWAY ON the road by the marsh. There is matter in the air from the chimneys in the industrial towns, a luminescence of dust that settles in the sunbeams and on the petals of the spring blossom.
“I need to go home to change and shave.”
He shakes his head and taps his wristwatch. It has a hammer-and-sickle dial.
“Just bring your biggest-caliber rifle and all the ammunition you can carry.”
“I thought we were going to shoot black grouse.”
“We are,” he says.
I GO IN MY HOUSE NOW. Květa is at the kitchen table, painting faces on snowman decorations from the factory in the town. I go wordlessly by her. I unbolt the gun locker. I take out the Mauser 7.92. I fill the satchel with a hundred or so 57 mm cartridges. Květa looks up.
“Back already?”
“Some officials are demanding I guide foreigners after black grouse,” I say.
“At this time of year?” she says.
She glances at the Mauser.
“You’re going to hunt grouse with that?” she asks. “Where’s your shotgun?”
She has an eye for detail. You see it on these decorations she paints.
“A rifle is what I want,” I say, “and a rifle is what I’m taking.”
“You’re not going dressed like that?”
I stuff the last cartridges into my satchel.
“My wife, my love,” I say, “I am in a hurry.”
I kiss her on the forehead, and I go to open the front door.
“You could start a revolution with all those bullets,” she calls after me.
THE TWO STB MEN STAND in the driveway with hands on their holsters. I climb into the back of the car next to the official. I arrange the rifle between my knees. We drive off fast, skidding around a bend and accelerating toward the town. I am disheartened. I am a Communist in the forest, where I fear the ground might give under me. I feel different out here. I have imagined the Communist moment to have risen higher, to be better and less authoritarian.
I turn to the official. It is hard to see his expression; sunlight is streaming into the car.
“This isn’t about black grouse, is it?”
“No,” he says. “Prepare yourself for a long night.”
“Where are we going?”
“We are going to the zoo.”
He speaks to me in the familiar form. It’s true — we are comrades. We are like distant relatives, avoiding each other at a celebration.
“To do what?” I ask.
I feel weighed down by the satchel. The car kicks up dust on the gravel road. The Svět blurs brown beside us. I have heard rumors of contagion, that the zoo has been under quarantine.
“You’re aware a contagion has broken out in the zoo?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“It is an animal infection. It must be contained.”
“That’s why you need me,” I say.
“You’re the sharpshooter. You’re the best shot in the district — everyone says so. You’re trustworthy, loyal, a Party member. You won’t go blabbing the story.”
“The story?”
“The story of how you were called on to shoot dead a group of giraffes.”
“Show me the order,” I say.
The StB men glance at me in the mirror.
“There’s nothing on paper,” the official says.
“You must have something.”
“This is from the top,” he says.
I squint into the light.
“I won’t do anything without a written order,” I say.
WE STOP AT A PANELÁK overlooking the Svět and pick up Máslo, the head of the district committee. He squeezes in beside me.
“The comrade is right,” Máslo says, nodding to the sweating official. “There are no written orders.”
Máslo is neckless, but not gracefully so, like an okapi. He has the face of a functionary. I do not recognize such faces or necks in the forest, where hats are pulled down and collars are turned up against the cold, but they are apparent to me out here, as if they were preordained for it, just as doctors used to say you can tell a thief by the slope of his forehead.
Máslo keeps smiling at me.
“Come on,” he says. “The drinks are on me afterward.”
I say nothing. Máslo puts a hand on my knee; he keeps it there.
“This is a question of national security. You have to do this for the good of our children, for the health of our ČSSR. As to the written orders, you have my word among witnesses this comes from the top.”
WE PASS OUT OF the town into the parkland, not slowing, going by people standing with vacant expressions under a stage that has been set up for the May Day parade. We come to a checkpoint, where the wide steps leading down from the chapel of St. Michael meet the Svět. We are ushered through. The road under us is suddenly white, powdery with quicklime. There are Veřejná Bezpečnost, or state security officers, and soldiers guarding the perimeter of the zoo.
“What’s going on here?” I ask.
“I told you,” Maslo says. “This is a matter of national security.”
We get out of the car. I am introduced to the regional director of agriculture, the regional security chief, ranking StB, VB, and army officers, and Interior Ministry officials from Prague.
There are several tents in which army field telephones are connected to zookeepers living with their animals in quarantine inside the zoo. Everyone wears rubber boots and leaves footprints in the powder. It is early evening now. The bonfires marking Čarodějnice have not yet been lit.
The new regional director of the state veterinary service walks over.
“František Vokurka,” he says, not extending his hand. “You must be the sharpshooter.”
“I’m the forester,” I say.
“Thanks for coming. I asked for a sharpshooter. I want to make this as humane as possible. We’ve tried strangulation. Chemicals are unsatisfactory for this size and number of giraffes. It’s too late for arguments or alternatives. Comrade: You are to shoot all the giraffes.”
I push my spectacles back. I feel myself falling back, as though shoved.
“How many?” I ask.
“Two have already been shot,” he says, avoiding my look.
“How many?”
“This is difficult for me,” he says. “I accompanied many of these giraffes from Africa.” He pauses, looks down. “Forty-seven,” he says. “Including fourteen calves.”
I want to walk away, but I do not.
“What about the zoo director? I don’t see him here.”
“He’s been abroad. He’s returning as we speak. Look,” he says, “the giraffes are done through with contagion. They have the pox. Their hides have opened into sores. There is no time to lose. The collective farms are already bringing complaints, saying their cows are giving no milk and their calves are dying without explanation.”