“Tell him to go,” Buback repeated. “I’ll deal with it; it’ll save us half an hour.”
He assumed both Czechs had some idea what hid behind the walls of the Theresienstadt fortress and former army base. At the stone gates, a barrier and men in SS uniforms stopped them. They studied Buback’s document much more closely than the military police had done that March in Moravia, and demanded the police IDs of both Czechs as well, but finally let them pass without a word.
The road led into streets that at first glance looked almost normal. The only surprising details were the barrackslike appearance of the buildings and the throngs of people that immediately surrounded the car. Buback had been through here quickly once before, investigating a case last winter: the deputy commander of the so-called Lesser Fortress had been robbing other officers. Thanks to Buback, he disappeared into a chain gang out east. That time too Buback had only driven through the fortified city, but the images of the strange anthill were unpleasantly fixed in his memory.
During their visit no one had attempted to explain to either him or his deputy Rattinger whether this was a permanent population or not, whether this was a practice run or a test of how Jews would get along in the victorious Reich, or whether this was just a way station on a journey somewhere else. No information was forthcoming, not even a hint, and asking questions was a violation of military secrecy.
From comments heard here and there in the Gestapo building, he had nonetheless formed his own picture. The most logical one seemed to be— and his first cursory visit to Theresienstadt confirmed him in this belief— that the Jews had been resettled in this way here and there, primarily in the East, where they had always been more common. It therefore shocked him when Grete laughed rudely at his recent mention of it.
“Buback! Are you really that naive, or that cunning?”
“What are you trying to tell me?” he asked, stunned.
“Nothing at all. If you’re that cunning, I don’t need to tell you anything, and in the other case I don’t want to deprive Germany of its last lotus flower. I’ll admit, I’m an ostrich with my head in the sand.”
Nothing could persuade her to explain herself, and for the first time he had the impression that she did not completely trust him.
For God’s sake, it wasn’t as if Himmler’s executioners were really liquidating them, as he’d heard in those anonymous rumors that refused to die! Of all the things his lover had offered him since that first night, her joyous levity fascinated him most. His early bad experiences taught him to avoid disrupting Grete’s now continuous sunny weather, so he swallowed her mockery this time as well. The day before yesterday he had heard a reliable report in Bredovská Street that a Red Cross mission led by Count Bernadotte of Sweden was operating in this very ghetto. It confirmed his cautious optimism: Otherwise they’d never let in a prominent neutral power, which could report any crimes they found to the world. However, he decided not to mention it to Grete….
As opposed to his last visit, the winter coats, blankets, and rags of various origins that protected their wearers from the cold had vanished from the streets, as had the infamous yellow stars. Neither did they see a single German uniform. The Jews — for Jews they clearly were — plied their trades, bought and sold, but also kept the peace. Even an exacting Swedish eye could hardly find fault with this picture, so why did he find it even more disturbing now than last time?
The answer was obvious: Suddenly he was seeing it through the eyes of the two astounded Czechs. The crowd fell silent, doffed their hats, and pressed to the side of the road at the mere sight of three civilians in a car — only the threat of imminent death could strike this sort of dread into people’s hearts. Yes, Hilde had sensed the truth and Grete probably knew it directly from Meckerle. But simpleminded little Erwin had stayed faithful till the bitter end, the slave of a regime embodying the very opposite of the values he thought he had spent his life serving.
He was so deeply depressed that his companions sensed something was wrong. Why had he treated them to this spectacle, which he was supposed to hide from them? The human mobs suddenly ended at the exit gates. The guards let them pass without notice and the car rolled past the ramparts of the Lesser Fortress and out into the open countryside. Suddenly he knew why he had done it. He turned to Morava.
“I want you to know that I don’t agree with that.”
And when his neighbor did not respond, he added, “Take it as a confidence, in return for yours.”
They did not speak the rest of the way back to Prague. He had no idea what the two Czechs were thinking, but felt relieved anyway. At last he had done and said what he should have a long time ago.
He caught himself thinking intently about Grete again. What did she mean to him? For some reason he couldn’t see in her the one thing he’d wanted so desperately from the Czech girclass="underline" a future. But what was so strange about that? It was probably why Grete did not want to hear his story. Only the present could link a man and woman whose destinies and personalities were so different; a deeper feeling and a more serious relationship would cost them both too much. Wasn’t it significant that neither had thought to ask the other what to do if the unthinkable happened? A volcano could erupt under them any day now, and they had not even discussed where and how they’d find each other afterward.
“Where to?” the driver asked in Czech, and Morava repeated it in German.
The car was approaching downtown Prague. Buback glanced at his watch. Past two. Grete was finished with widowhood for today, and was probably catching a nap before the afternoon trip out to the troops. He’d see her later, he was sure of that: She no longer missed a day.
“I’ll go with you,” he decided. “Let’s contact the diocese right away, so we don’t waste time tomorrow.”
The surprise at Bartolom
jská Street hit Buback harder than Morava. A chain of SS forces had closed off the road. Their car was immediately surrounded by heavily armed giants and they were ordered to leave the vehicle. He pulled out his papers again.
“What’s happening here?”
The corporal lowered his weapon and clicked his heels.
“Raid on the Czech police.”
“When did it start?”
“Once the workday was under way.”
Buback’s throat closed up. Grete’s nightmare!
“Come on,” he shouted at his companions. “Quickly! To Kav
í Hory!”
He kept running, even when he rattled and gasped for breath and his blood threatened to burst his arteries; he swerved from street to street, always heading downward, seeing no one behind him, meeting no one, and still in the back of his mind loomed the fear that they would catch him. Idiot, I’m an idiot! The words echoed in his ears, idiot, idiot, IDIOT!
Why didn’t the whore’s walk tip him off, that strange walk, too slow for such a young woman; why didn’t the location of the house, that street ending in a steep craggy slope, make him think twice; why didn’t the unlocked door and the way she called “come in” warn him off?
Half a dozen chickens in his roaster had spoiled him, made him overconfident; without a moment’s hesitation he’d walked in, convinced this would be the easiest catch of all — and meanwhile he’d practically put his head under the blade!
When he finally looked into her face from the kitchen threshold, he realized immediately she’d been waiting for him, that she must have known, that she’d led him here TO BE TRAPPED! Then it happened again: He froze, seized up, and turned to stone in the kitchen doorway, knowing their strong hands were about to grab him.
He knew that DEATH HAD COME for him, and just like the last time, when the grenades had fallen all around him, he felt anger seeping into his fear. IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED, MOTHER?