I’LL BE A SOLDIER!
The soldiers at the front sensed it. He was the only rookie they didn’t mess with; on the contrary, a week later when he repeated his achievement in a mock battle, the feared Sergeant Králík invited him to the canteen for a beer. He should sign up for Slovakia, the sergeant urged him; it would undoubtedly be the last war for a long time and that was when military careers were made. He’d return as a noncommissioned officer and would be set for life.
After all those years with HER he was so utterly unprepared for this opportunity that he hesitated. No need to worry, Kralík said; he sensed something in the boy that makes a soldier a soldier. What? Well, what else: A TASTE FOR KILLING!
He froze. He did not understand where he, a fragile and unsure loner nicknamed “mama’s boy,” could have gotten it from, but at that moment he knew for sure that Králík was right.
I HAVE IT!
AND I WANT TO BE MYSELF!
He rushed into battle like it was a hunt; he literally shook with longing to score a hit. The Hungarians abandoned Komárno, on the Slovak side of the river, of their own accord; the battle in the streets was almost over. The rest of the day they spent huddled on the banks of the Danube in grenade-launcher fire, pulling the wounded out. When they were just about to storm the Hungarians, the last grenade landed and IT WAS ALL OVER.
He had had no place to go from the hospital except back to HER.
That taste suddenly resurfaced after almost twenty years, but by then he was guided BY THE PICTURE. It had captivated him so completely in the country church that he had remained there largely for its sake.When he left, he had to take it with him, since he knew it was the PROTOTYPE.
He had that taste, that old taste for shooting, again today, as beyond the doors the trap closed around him. He listened to the Czech-German conversation outside: Someone had seen him with that guy. With his pistol in hand he felt confident. If that whore had the keys, or if they broke through the door, half a round would take all of them out, and no one else would stand in his way.
Then he heard the neighbor’s oath, and even though it was the result of his own cleverness, he was still a bit disappointed. Still, there was no need to stir up extra difficulties for himself. Not when the hunt for Germans was just beginning!
So NEXT TIME!
Once the woman had returned to the apartment and he heard the men’s footsteps on the staircase, he went quietly through the kitchen and bedroom into the bathroom to see if the guy had wet his pants in disappointment.
My love,” Grete welcomed him home as he opened the apartment door, “they want to evacuate all of us.”
He had been expecting this pronouncement for almost a week now as various institutions vanished from Prague on a daily basis, but had not dared to think it through. Even if Grete had a definite destination, the likelihood of their meeting again was minimal. Once the fiery column had rolled past, telephones and post offices would no longer exist, and millions of homeless would wander across a devastated Germany like nomads. And as for himself, he knew he’d already decided inside; it was the only way to avoid complete disgrace in his own and her eyes as well. If that was his path, then his fate lay with the stars.
“Where to?” he asked, just to say something, and tried not to show how upset he was.
“Somewhere in Tyrolia.”
“And there?”
“All troupes of the German Theater are to be housed there temporarily until we can return here.”
“They said that!”
“Yes,” she sneered. “Theater Director Kuhnke appeared personally to assure us that starting next season we’ll be playing in Prague as usual.”
“And what does it really mean?”
“He wants to cut and run, but can’t do it without us, so he’ll pretend it’s to protect the flower of imperial art for better days. He’ll shove us into some flea-ridden barracks and get his own fat ass over to Switzerland; his brother works at the embassy there.”
“You think.”
“Everyone thinks.”
“And what do the others want to do?”
“Go, of course! Who wants to wait till it breaks? Come on, love, we talked this through two days ago. From there it’ll be clear what to do next.”
He could see in the distance that bridge blown off its foundations, hanging deceptively in the air.
“Yes. It’s coming soon. The only question is who’ll start it.”
“Exactly.”
She fell silent and looked inquisitively and inquiringly at him. He gathered his strength.
“I hope you’ll go,” he said.
“You want me to?”
“Yes.”
“Ah… that’s interesting.”
“Why so?”
“You mentioned something a while back about loving me.”
“Yes!”
“So that’s no longer the case?”
He could not let her get away with that.
“If I love you, how can I want you to stay? I want you to live, I want to have a reason to survive this. Once the battle starts, I could probably find you a hiding place, but I could hardly stay with you.”
“I know,” she said.
“Well, then.”
He felt the emptiness begin to open inside him, but kept his face and voice expressionless, so as not to evoke her sympathy. But why? Why not admit that without her he would be alone with the war, and his life would lose all meaning? Or should he give up this messianic complex of personal guilt and go with her? She was right: he was alone at work; he could issue his own marching orders.
“So you love me,” she said before he could speak again.
“Yes.”
“And you’ll let me leave.”
He steeled himself.
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“What?”
“That you love me so much.”
He did not know what to say to this. He felt like he was slowly losing her; every word he said sounded weak or false. This was to be his punishment; could there be a worse one? His nation had visited immeasurable sorrows on the world, and he was sacrificing his personal happiness to redeem them. He wanted to know everything, quickly.
“When will it be?”
“This evening at six, suitcases packed, at the theater. Departure is precisely at seven.”
He looked perplexedly at his watch.
“But it’s eight ”
“I know,” she said. “You see, I love you too. So why should you die here alone?”
Jitka’s funeral took place the morning of Saturday, May fifth. Jan Morava had barely left the dormitory on Konviktská Street when he sensed a new mood in the air. Once again the city’s temper had completely changed. An almost awkward enthusiasm replaced the fear that had gripped it since the February air raids. Most of the German signs had disappeared. The stragglers removing the remaining few did not worry about appearances; they simply crossed out the German words with two strokes of a brush dipped in lime or paint.
This time it was the Czech police closing off the entrance to Bartolom
jská Street. They looked quite exotic. For the first time in years, they wore their black helmets and officers’ belts with pistols and carried rifles. These men were clearly from another district, but they amiably waved him through without checking his documents; they must have known him from occasional contact with his office. Morava had only come in to announce that he intended to continue his search after the funeral, and was surprised when Beran told him that they would go to the cemetery together.