He nodded.’ He is here in Pilsen. If you should see him tell him—’ He seemed to hesitate for the message and then, so softly that I could hardly catch it, he whispered, ‘Saturday night.’ Then aloud he said, ‘Tell him — I shall always remember the times we had at Biggin Hill.’ He opened the door for me, called to his secretary and told her to take me to pan Marie. ‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘I will telephone him that you are coming.’ And he closed the heavy door.
My interview with Marie lasted nearly an hour. I was conscious of a view of one of the blast furnaces through tall, smoke-grimed windows and of alert eyes peering shortsightedly through thick-lensed, rimless glasses at my specifications. Of the details of the conversation I remember nothing. It was mostly technical. We were alone and we talked in English. I remember I answered many of his questions quite automatically, my mind going over and over again my interview with Jan Tucek. Why had he wanted to come and see me late one night? Why had he given me that message to Maxwell? I felt as though I had touched the fringe of something that could only exist on this side of the Iron Curtain.
My interview with Marie finished shortly after four. He informed me that he would examine certain of the specifications with his technical experts and telephone me tomorrow. Then he rang for his assistant and ordered him to call one of the factory cars. As I got to my feet and pushed my papers back into my brief case, he said, ‘Have you known/ran Tucek long, Mr. Farrell?’
I explained.
He nodded, and then with a quick glance at the door which was shut, he said in a low voice, ‘It is terrible for him. He is a fine man and he did great service to this country in 1939 when he fly to England with the blueprints of all new armament work in progress here including the Bren gun modifications. His wife is murdered. His father, old Ludvik Tudek, die in a concentration camp. Then, after the war, he come back and reorganise the Tuckovy ocelarny — that is to say the works here. He work like a man with a devil inside of himself, all day, every day, to make it what it is before the Germans come. And now—’ He shrugged his shoulders.
‘He looks very tired,’ I said.
Marie peered at me through his glasses. ‘We are all very tired,’ he said quietly. ‘Twice in a lifetime — it is hard to have to fight twice. You understand? It is the spirit who become tired, Mr. Farrell. Perhaps one day—’ He stopped then as his assistant came in to say the car was waiting. He shook my hand. ‘I will telephone you tomorrow,’ he said.
Outside clouds had obliterated the spring sunshine and the huge steelworks belched smoke into a grey sky. I got into the waiting car and was driven out through the gates into grey, brick-lined streets.
Back in the hotel I made a few telephone calls and then had some tea brought up to my room and did some work. I’d been behind with it ever since I’d started on the trip. I had covered Scandinavia and Central Europe, constantly adjusting my mind to different atmospheres, different languages and I felt tired. It was difficult to concentrate. And though I stayed in my room till past six, I got very little work done. My mind kept running over my interview with Jan Tucek, and always it came back to that message to Maxwell. Tell him — Saturday night. What was Max doing in Pilsen? Why was Tucek so sure I should see him?
In the end I stuffed my papers into a suitcase and went down to the lounge. It’s an odd thing, being alone in a foreign country. Impressions are heightened, everything makes a much more vivid impact. And the sense of loneliness is strong. In Prague I had had contacts. But here in Pilsen my only personal contact was Tucek and, sitting alone there in the heavy, over-ornate furniture of the hotel lounge, I had the feeling of being hemmed in — the same sort of feeling I’d had during those interminable months of captivity. The place was perfectly ordinary, the people who came in and out or sat around smoking and talking were perfectly ordinary. Yet behind the ordinariness of it all I sensed the power of something alien. I thought of Mazaryk’s suicide and set it alongside Tucek’s manner. And then I began to think about Maxwell.
It’s a queer thing, trying to escape from the past. I’d broken with flying, with all my old contacts. I’d voluntarily taken a job that would keep me wandering round Europe like a nomad. And here, behind the Iron Curtain, I had been given a message to one of the three men who knew my story. I remembered how kind Maxwell had been when I’d reported back to him at Foggia — his damnable kindness had taught me to hate myself. And now…. My mouth felt dry and harsh. The clink of glasses at the bar drew me like a magnet. For months I’d kept clear of the stuff. But now I needed a drink. I just had to have a drink. I went through into the bar and ordered a slivovice, which is a plum brandy and not the sort of drink to make one want to go on.
Nevertheless, I missed out dinner that night and took a bottle of konak up to my room. And there I sat with the bottle and my glass in front of me, staring out at the lights in the houses opposite, smoking cigarette after cigarette, waiting for Maxwell to come. I don’t know why I thought he would come, but I did, and I was determined to be drunk when he came. I tried to analyse my state of mind. But I couldn’t. It was beyond analysis, something deep down inside of me that hated myself for the weakness that had once overwhelmed me. I stuck my leg out in front of me, the one that didn’t belong to me, and stared at it. I hated that leg. It would be with me till I died, always there to remind me of the heat and flies and the screams that were torn out of my own throat in that hospital overlooking Lake Como. And when I died, they’d pull it off me and give it to some other poor bastard who’d lost his flesh-and-blood leg.
It was nearly eleven and the bottle was half-empty when I heard footsteps coming down the corridor outside my room. The footsteps were heavy and solid and decisive. I knew they were Maxwell’s before he opened the door. God! Hadn’t I heard those footsteps night after night at the mess at Biggin Hill, night after night in our billet at Foggia? And I’d known he’d come — known it ever since Tucek had given me that message. I’d been sitting there, waiting for him, trying to get drunk enough to face him. Well, I didn’t care now. Let them all come and stare at me now I was drunk. I didn’t care a bloody damn for the whole lot of ‘em. They hadn’t fought through the Battle of Britain, flown over sixty bomber sorties in less than two years and then … God damn them! They didn’t know what it was like to feel your nerves….
Maxwell shut the door and stood there looking at me. He hadn’t changed much. Maybe his face was a little thinner, the eyes a little more crinkled at the corners, but there was the same quick vitality, the same thrust forward of head and chin. ‘Drink, Max?’ I asked. He didn’t say anything but came across and pulled up a chair. ‘Well, do you want a drink, or don’t you?’ My voice sounded taut and harsh.
‘Of course,’ he answered and stretched over to the washbasin for the tooth glass. He looked at me as he picked up the bottle and poured himself the drink. ‘So you’ve become a commercial traveller?’ I didn’t say anything and he added, ‘Why didn’t you stick to aviation? A man with your experience—’
‘You know very well why,’ I answered angrily.
He sighed and said, ‘You can’t run away from yourself, you know, Dick.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You’re your own worst enemy. Damn it, man, nobody but yourself—’
‘Can’t you leave the past alone?’ I shouted at him.
He caught hold of my arm. ‘For God’s sake keep your voice down. Nobody knows I’m here. I came up by the fire-escape.’
‘By the fire-escape?’ I stared at him. ‘What are you doing in Pilsen?’