WHERE SHOULD I GO?
The priest managed to disappear from the garden before they arrived, but Buback had sharp eyes. When the housekeeper tried to convince him her brother had not budged from his bed since morning, he pointed at the two small hoes in the half-raked vegetable patch. To make a suitable impression, he had taken the driver with him up to the rectory; the man’s black uniform and accompanying giant pistol had the desired effect. She sat them down in the parlor, and in a few minutes the cleric arrived. He was nervous but seemed even firmer in his conviction than before.
Buback began the attack without delay.
“My young colleague — the Czech fellow I was here with this morning — had a wife, and was expecting a child with her. Three hours ago, she and another person became the latest victims of the murderer you are concealing. Yes, I said ’concealing’; you can’t deny that you’re personally responsible for what could be three unnecessary deaths. Your Saint Jan Nepomuk kept the secrets of the confessional at his own expense, while you let others pay with their lives. I’m ordering you to reveal everything you know, dispensation or no, about the man who confessed to the Brno murder.”
He wanted to threaten the man with imprisonment, but could not imagine what he would do with him. Bartolom
jská Street was out of commission for now, and taking him to Bredovská, the heart of the enemy’s camp, could bring on a stroke. His speech and his escort, however, were enough for the man’s sister.
“Venda,” she beseeched him, “you’ve got to tell them!”
Buback seized the opportunity. “What’s his name? How old is he? Where does he live? What does he do? I won’t rest easy — and neither will you — as long as he’s free, so out with it!”
The housekeeper, no longer the meek little mouse, now showed herself to be the real ruler of this small household.
“Come on, Venda, tell him! Would God hide a villain like that? Why claim that right for yourself in His name?”
As if that decided it, the priest cast an almost thankful glance at her, turned to Buback, and poured forth a sentence he clearly knew by heart.
“Antonín Rypl, born 27 May 1900 in Brno, nationality: Czech; marital status: single; trained as a heating mechanic, then as a soldier; temporarily on an invalid’s pension after a war injury; employed here in Klá
terec the last four years before the war as a sexton while his mother was a cook; mentioned during his visit in 1940 that he’d been living in Plze
since her death…. That’s all I know….”
Buback wrote it all down and stood up so sharply that his escort automatically reached for his pistol. The detective nodded to him that everything was in order, but did allow himself a parting shot.
“Before you start your repentance for violating the sacrament of confession, why not do something more usefuclass="underline" pray that the young woman and her child survive.”
Outside he ordered the driver: “To Plze!”
At some point during the evening — Morava had lost track of time — Beran appeared in the hospital room. The bags under his eyes were heavier than usual; today more than ever he looked like an old Saint Bernard. He did not ask about Jitka; he must have spoken with the doctors himself. Standing motionless behind Morava’s chair, he sadly observed the girl, her hand tightly clasped in the young detective’s. Then he gently clapped him on the shoulder.
“Come with me for a moment….”
Morava seemed eager to obey, as if this experienced and wise man, his teacher, advisor, and second father, could make sure that their beloved Jitka returned from death’s door. The superintendent took him by the arm and silently led him down the hall into another room. On a conference table in the doctor’s office stood Beran’s personal thermos, the one Jitka filled over and over with fresh rye coffee.
As if reading his thoughts, his boss said, “Unfortunately I made this myself, but it’s better than nothing. You have to get something into your stomach.”
Like the mysterious old man in fairy tales, he unwrapped some baked dumplings from a small sack.
“Matlák’s morning snack. He lost his appetite during the raid and is sending them over as… well, just because, what can I say? Eat.”
“I can’t,” Morava blurted.
“You have to. I’ve arranged for you to stay here; this bed is at your disposal, try to nap from time to time when your head feels heavy. And eat.”
Obediently he bit into the dough, chewed, but could not taste the filling. He froze and looked up at Beran.
“And it was my idea….”
“It was, and you did an excellent job. If it hadn’t been for the SS you’d have won.”
Then the superintendent did something no one had ever seen him do before. He stroked Morava’s head.
“Buback says hello,” he continued, practical as ever. “A strange man. He apologized on the phone for the Germans; he had no idea about the raid. The priest gave him the name. Rypl. Antonín Rypl. Buback is in Plze and hopes he’ll find him. Eat….”
“Why?” He spat the word out in his hopeless misery.
“What, why? Eat to stay alive.”
“But if she dies, I don’t want to live!”
“I thought you believed in God.”
“How can I believe in God if she dies?”
Beran’s hands rested on his shoulders.
“I can’t tell you that, kid. I’m not a believer. But every once in a while I force evil to a standoff, and that gives me a higher purpose. Maybe it seems I know more about life than you, but right now, next to you, I feel like a schoolchild. I’m alone because I never dared link my fate to anyone else’s. I felt less vulnerable that way, and stronger. But today, by your standards, I’m a poor man. You suffer because you love in a way I never have, and that makes you more experienced than I am. And it’ll make you even stronger in your fight against evil. Eat; now you just need to eat, to make it through.”
Morava obediently bit into the dough again, even though the dumpling was salty with his tears.
“Good work, Morava,” Beran praised him, “good work, good work.”
It was long since dark and noticeably cooler; he cursed himself for choosing a thin overcoat today. On the other hand, it made him blend in; these coats were popular in Plze, and both office staff and the 
koda factory workers wore them.
Worst of all, since February he’d been taking his own success for granted. Today he’d only taken enough money for the train and lunch. He hadn’t eaten, but even so he could barely afford the ticket back to Prague.
AND WHAT THEN?
During his years in Plze he had lost contact completely with the rest of his family, who had always been suspicious of the almost matrimonial relationship between mother and son. He greeted everyone here in his building politely, and at work they all acknowledged how handy he was, but aside from HER he had never found another kindred soul.
SHE WAS THE ONLY ONE WHO EVER LOVED ME!
His intoxicating successes these past few weeks had clouded his reason. The distance between himself and the rest of the world had become proof of his own superiority. Now, at the end of the vicious circle, he stood shivering and hungry at the train station again, and an old fact hit him with renewed force.
I’M ALONE!
What he still had, he realized, was a knack for self-preservation, which had saved him this morning in Prague. And he still had his luck, he remembered; without it he would have walked blindly into his own destruction.