He realized he was asking them for the impossible. Grete and he, like all Germans, were at the mercy of fate.
The superintendent seemed to feel the same way. At a loss for words, he glanced over at his adjutant.
The young man drew a key from his pocket.
“She’ll recognize it,” he told Buback. “It’s the key to the house. I don’t know if she can stand the idea; I moved out rather than go back. If she can, then take her there. And stay there yourself, if you like. The owners won’t come back till the front’s passed through; until then, only the two of us will know you’re there. And we’ll keep looking for a way out.”
Buback was deeply moved. How would he have acted if their roles were reversed, he wondered. The only proper way to thank them, he felt, was to reveal his final lie.
“Gentlemen, I have a secret advantage over you; it’s the reason I was put here. But your generosity compels me to give it up.” Then, finally, he broke into their common native tongue. “Umím 
esky — I speak Czech. Please forgive me!“
The commissioner’s office was just around the corner, so Beran, Brunát, and Morava walked over, but at times it was more like elbowing through a crowd. Bartolom
jská Street was swarming with officers, all hurrying to and fro and saluting the two police chiefs. Morava kept shaking his head until the superintendent asked him why.
“All those cops running off at the mouth with Buback around ”
“Whatever he heard, he heard. In the end he did what he did. Maybe hearing those rumors helped.”
“The whole time he was deceiving us ”
“A military stratagem. And beautifully executed, I have to admit. I never even suspected.”
“Except you made sure I didn’t know anything.”
“Except for that,” Beran conceded with a smile.
Then they plunged into the corner building. The secretary transmitted their request for an interview. They waited silently for a few minutes; this was Rajner’s way of demonstrating his rank. Once admitted, they greeted him respectfully, took their seats, and were asked the reason for the audience. Only then did Beran request that the police commissioner formally step down.
Everything went so tactfully and the superintendent phrased his request so politely that at first Rajner completely missed its significance. Once he had heard it for the second time, his forehead broke out in sweat.
“Who… whom did… what were you…,” he stammered.
Morava knew the others had caught that whiff of fear as well.
“I’m authorized by the Czech National Council,” Beran explained to him matter-of-factly. “Brunát and I have been temporarily named to your post, with the responsibilities divided between us.”
Rajner tried to object.
“I don’t even know this council of yours!”
“It’s a new organ appointed by the legal government of the reconstituted Czechoslovak Republic — which you once swore allegiance to.”
“And the Germans… Did they agree to this?”
“When they learn about it, they’ll probably welcome it. At least they’ll have someone to negotiate a capitulation with.”
“But gentlemen…” Rajner’s voice almost cracked into a falsetto. “They have a huge advantage in numbers and strength! They’ll turn Prague to dust and ashes; is that what you want?”
“Actually,” Brunát said, stepping into the fray, “that’s what we’re trying to prevent. First of all, we can offer them an orderly retreat from the city. We’ll make sure they’re not attacked, and that it’s not attractive for them to attack. But just in case, we’ve taken measures. So you’d better get over to the interim internment wing, where we’ll be keeping collaborators until the courts can get to them.”
The door flew open and Rajner’s secretary ran in.
“Mr. Commissioner, sir! Turn on the radio!”
She did not notice the mood in the room at all and ran around the table to turn on the huge superheterodyne herself. The magic green eye was soon fully open and an excited voice filled the room, accompanied by distant gunfire.
“.. are murdering our people! I repeat: We call on the Czech police and all former soldiers, come immediately to the aid of the Czech radio; the Germans here are murdering our people! I repeat…”
“Morava!” Beran bellowed. “Captain Sucharda’s team is waiting at the garage. Go with them; you can translate and serve as my representative. Try for a truce, but first and foremost save those people and the studios. We won’t get all the city loudspeakers working; we’ll have to blanket Bohemia with our broadcasts. And Morava!” he called after him through the door. “Have them form up and send out more teams. If there aren’t enough cars, they can commandeer trams!”
The last thing Morava saw as he closed the door was Rajner’s frozen, waxy face.
He got to Sucharda in three minutes, and shortly thereafter fifteen men with carbines were jumping into the bed of a small truck driven by the garage manager, Tetera. Morava had to admit that once they had fastened their helmets beneath their chins, they looked quite imposing. He squeezed into the cabin behind Sucharda, and the vehicle pulled out of the courtyard and turned right. Through the open windows they heard dull thuds and curses; a few of the men in back must have fallen over like bowling pins.
Národni Avenue had changed. Any building not already flying Czech flags was unfurling them from the windows. For six long years under the Nazis, displaying red, white, and blue together had constituted a serious offense; where, Morava wondered, had they hidden those mountains of material? Crowds of people coursed along the sidewalks as if it were a national holiday, with tricolors in their lapels; who had made them so quickly? Groups sang; snatches of the former republic’s national anthem flew by. The truck full of armed Czech policemen was warmly greeted all along its path. The men up top were infected by the general enthusiasm and shouted back that classic Czech greeting from a generation before, when they had first shaken off the Hapsburgs.
“Nazdaaaaaaaar!”
Rypl might be waving to us too, Morava thought, but immediately turned his attention to the captain. Sucharda had been in constant telephone contact with colleagues who were unobtrusively monitoring the numbers of German guards at the radio station. At around eleven-thirty, however, a motorcycle detachment of SS forces sneaked into the courtyard so quietly that they managed to occupy the first through third floors of the building where the announcers’ offices and the technical equipment were located. Fortunately, Sucharda smirked, some clever fellow had hit on the idea of unscrewing all the directional signs and nameplates from doors, so the Germans were wandering around like Hansel and Gretel in the Black Forest.
“We’ve got to get past them and block off the broadcasting studios.”
When they turned onto Wenceslas Square it was as if they were suddenly in another time. The long, wide street was quiet and empty. They spotted the reason instantly. Starting at the intersection with Jind
i
ká Street and Vodikova Street, a half dozen firing posts zigzagged up the square toward the National Museum, each manned by a trio of Wehrmacht soldiers. One lay on the pavement gripping the handle of a heavy machine gun, the second knelt next to him with the ammunition belt, and the third stood ready to give orders to shoot.
The garage manager slowed down.
“Should I turn around?” he asked huskily.
A tense silence descended on the back of the truck.
“Sir, the rifles—”
Morava did not need to finish. Sucharda was already bawling an order through the tiny window into the truck bed.
“Hide your guns!”