I’M GOING TO FIGHT!
There were no trams, but it wasn’t far; he alternated quick walking and slow trotting — the “Indian run,” she’d called it a long time ago. “I’ll teach you everything he should have taught you, Tony, so no one will ever know you didn’t have a father….”
From Saint Ludmila’s onward he could definitely hear gunfire. Clumps of people had positioned themselves anxiously and defiantly within reach of the buildings’ front doors. At the Vinohrady Theater he came across his first fighters: a few men, mostly around twenty-five, dressed as the historical moment had caught them, one in a tram driver’s uniform, the others in overalls or civilian clothes, wearing hats they had no place to leave. They had two hunting rifles between them and kept a respectful distance from the corner of the sloping street.
“What’s happening?” he asked them.
“The radio’s down there,” one man said excitedly.
“So?”
“There’s a side entrance. I know how to get to the studios; I’m a sound technician.”
“So what are we waiting for?”
“A Kraut’s hiding behind the garbage cans,” one of the two hunters retorted, “and he keeps firing at us.”
Rypl, called Sergeant Králik from the depths of time; bob and weave the way I taught you and take that Hungarian down. If you’ve forgotten how, you’re done for.
Just like in Komárno, he pulled out his pistol and released the safety.
“Don’t be a fool,” said the tram driver. “He got two of ours already.”
“Once I take him out,” he told them all, “follow me fast!”
He lay flat on the ground, and then, lightning-fast, he stuck his head out and pulled it back. He had not lost his talent: The picture of the street was as clear in his mind as a photo in a frame, including the two motionless bodies and three garbage cans down by the radio station. Three doorways and an alley separated him from them. He retreated in the direction he’d come, diagonally across the roadway, until he could just see the first entranceway in the cross-street. They must have thought he’d given up, but all he needed was a running start.
He worked up enough speed that he hit the alcove of the doors opposite before the German could fire. No skill, he realized gratefully. Now he’ll be aiming at the middle of the street. He waited for the man’s hand to stiffen up a bit, took a deep breath, and hurtled toward the next house on his side. A shot cracked, but too late. His ragged breathing grew calm and he readied himself for the lookout trick again. The soldier had been firing through the chink between the garbage cans, and at some point he would have left the man’s angle of vision. So? Careful… head out, then back! And now he was sure: To hit him, the soldier had to straighten up and make himself a target. Still, the German had the advantage of a rifle against a pistol, which couldn’t aim precisely at this distance.
He hesitated. Because no one was covering him, he had to risk another leap forward into the alley or rot there until they picked him off; if the Germans sent a small counteroffensive from the building it might come sooner than he thought.
MOTHER, SAVE ME!
Her response came immediately.
I CAN TAKE CARE OF MYSELF!
He threw caution to the wind; racing out along the side of the building near the garbage cans, he deliberately squeezed the trigger, trying to hit the chink between them: one, two, three, four, shit in your pants, Kraut, and stay back there, or you might just knock me off, five, six— then he reached the life-saving alley, spitting distance from the garbage cans, and suddenly he wasn’t running but flying through the air; dropping his gun, he splayed onto the concrete like a frog. Was he hit? No. Immediately he realized what had brought him down: he had tripped over a corpse without a face. The hand grenade that had opened these gaping holes in the alley walls had probably blown it off.
Why had he left those six whores’ faces on? Shouldn’t he have cut out their likenesses as well as their hearts? It could have been his own contribution to the inspirational PICTURE. Wait… maybe what he’d just tripped over was a SIGN meant for him. He ignored the German— let his nerves jangle for a while — and rummaged in the man’s clothing. There was an identity card unscathed in the breast pocket. Tensely he unfolded it and swallowed with gratitude: The faded picture showed a middle-aged man with average features, easily interchangeable with half of mankind.
INCLUDING ME!
He shoved his own papers into the man’s pocket and repeated his new name to himself.
LUDVÍK ROUBÍNEK.
Now he turned with renewed interest to the enemy. Pressed against the alley wall closest to the German he glimpsed the corner uphill where he had started. Those chicken-shits still didn’t dare come after him. But he didn’t need them; actually, he’d rather take care of the German himself and just hoped the Kraut wouldn’t run away like the Hungarians did at Komárno.
He HAD THAT TASTE again and intended to satisfy it. He called out to his prey.
“You there!”
The air vibrated with the shots and detonations still resounding from the radio building. He shouted louder, and in German.
“Sie dort!”
No answer.
“Your men won’t help you. They’re surrounded. Give up!”
Silence, humming with the nearby battle.
“I have a grenade; I’ll count to three. Put your weapon on the trash can, or it’s all over. Don’t be a fool and you’ll live to tell the tale. One… two…”
MOTHER, HELP ME, don’t let him call my bluff.
Metal clanged against metal. A submachine gun lay on the garbage can, gently rocking on the bent top of the lid.
YOU’rE DIVINE! But what about him?
Two fiercely trembling hands appeared. Slowly a cap and then a head emerged. The haggard kid in the SS uniform might have been twenty. BUT HE’s A GERMAN, SHE said sternly. AND YOU’rE A CZECH!
Yes, yes! He raised the hand with the pistol and went as close as he could, until only the garbage can divided them. The barrel touched the gray-green cloth in the region of the heart. No, that would be too fast a death for a German pig. The soldier licked his lips, but did not move when the gun slid diagonally down to his belly.
He’d give him time.
TIME TO REPENT.
Iwas waiting till I knew it was you, love,” Grete explained; he had been banging on the bolted door, but she would not open it until he began to call her name. “No, I’m not afraid, not in the least; I’m just a bit terrified, actually. But since you wanted me to go somewhere I wouldn’t go, and I decided instead to be terrified by your side, I really can’t complain. Tell me what’s going on; suddenly the radio only speaks Czech!”
Litera had explained why as they were leaving.
“They’re fighting over it.”
“And that means…”
“Probably the beginning of the uprising. And maybe of the assault on Prague.”
“Aha. And what about us?”
“I warned the Czechs, Grete. And I want to keep it up as long as I can.
“Good idea. What will they do for us in return?”
Her selfish directness made him doubt his reasons for changing sides again. She flared up at him as if reading his thoughts.
“Don’t try to be Saint Erwin, love. Since you’ve decided to save yourself, save both of us in the bargain! Why should the only Germans to survive the war be the criminals?”
“Morava offered me an apartment,” he responded. “The one where you and his wife… where it happened. Can you bear it there until we can see what comes next?”