ehrad, to the right the cupolas of Karlov, and beyond the river the distant Hrad
any Castle, which seemed to hang in the air.
How odd: Although he had lived most of his life in Dresden, and its destruction had filled him with deep sadness, he accepted it as a higher form of justice, one gruesomely foreshadowed in the deaths of Hilde and Heidi. Now he felt sure: This war Germany had begun was immoral. It had bathed Europe in tears and blood, and his nation would be punished for it with the cruelest defeat in history — tragic, yet logical! Prague had been brutally violated six years ago; was it really possible she would be reduced to ruins now, when freedom and renewed dignity were just around the corner?
How strange it was! He had spent his early childhood in Prague, and had only a couple of fleeting, not to mention banal, memories of his life here; how could he feel more connected to this place than to the city where he had studied, worked, and loved, a city he had known far better? But he knew the answer: Something in the unconscious of the young child Erwin Buback had stirred his mind and heart and tied him inexplicably to this place. For years that “something” had been submerged beneath a flood of other sensations, but it did not disappear. It was still there, as strong as ever, and awoke again as soon as he returned: the language of his birth mother, forever his native tongue.
This did not quite make him a Czech, but he could not call himself a pure German either. So he was simply a native of Prague, heir to two and more cultures which for centuries had lived side by side, separate but not hostile. He must have had more of Prague in him than he realized, since both his Czech and German sides hoped with equal fervor that the splendid scene before him would be preserved for future generations.
So then, he was not a traitor, absolutely not. He was a redeemer of betrayal, destined by his heritage to help bring this destruction and murder to an end, so that Czechs and Germans in his native city could someday meet on the same sidewalk and greet each other with a tip of the hat…
Only the Praguers gave Brunát’s reinforcements trouble on the way over. Encouraged by the radio defenders’ example, they suddenly filled Wenceslas Square; the Germans lost interest in shooting, and seemed glad of the chance to withdraw to Bredovská Street with their skins intact. When the police finally got through, they reached the building by climbing across rooftops, and after a short battle drove the SS from the sixth to the fourth floor. The Germans attempted to break through past Morava to the main hall, but they did not succeed. The soldiers on the first floor were now hemmed in by Czech irregulars on the surrounding streets, and Director Thürmer was forced to open negotiations.
Thürmer was a shadow of the man who two hours earlier had shouted at them, pistol in hand; he clearly saw the situation (or, at the very least, his own personal case) as hopeless. He did not even mention retreating with weapons; instead he requested, or more accurately begged, for an escort to accompany the German employees and soldiers to the main train station, which was still occupied by the Wehrmacht. The commander of the SS forces in the hall agreed to the arrangement as well. Brunát took over command but did not release Morava.
“Once they leave the building, have it searched thoroughly, so they don’t leave a Trojan horse in here — they’ll certainly try to get the radio back by any means possible and we don’t want to be stabbed from behind. And Morava: Get some systems in place right from the start. I know our countrymen: Soon thousands of radio station warriors will be demanding a reward for their services. Round up all the paper pushers and have them record everyone who’s been here since twelve-thirty. And be sure to get a list of the dead; they’ll start looking for them shortly. Then off to Beran; he needs you.”
While two hours earlier everyone stuck at the radio had desperately wished to be as far as possible from that steel-and-concrete trap, now almost no one would leave the building. Despite the near-certainty that the Germans would be back, the Czechs were now eager and impatient; their long-awaited victory could come here, today.
Onlookers gawked at the battle sites, and the diligent cleared away the debris blocking passages. For safety’s sake, the heroic announcers moved into a hurriedly equipped studio in an air-raid shelter. Doctors descended on the building, examining the lightly wounded on the spot, and sending the severely wounded off to various hospitals. The fallen were carried down to the courtyard.
This was where Morava stationed what seemed like the more reliable civilians, instructing them to secure the victims’ personal belongings before the scavengers arrived. They did not believe anyone would take advantage of this historic moment, but promised him they would work in pairs, recording every detail.
A wild burst of fire in front of the building almost sent him scrambling outside, but it ended as quickly as it had begun; soon he learned that someone had tried to start a massacre of the departing Germans. Civilians kept bringing down more dead Czechs as they found them in various corners of the ravaged building, and he tried to wrap up all the tasks Brunát had set him as fast as he could, so that he could get back to Beran and then to his mission.
An hour later Morava was sure there were no Germans hiding in the building, and the snipers on the surrounding blocks had been taken care of. He returned to the courtyard. The fallen lay on thick curtains from the large music studio; at their feet were bundles made from canteen napkins, which held the contents of their pockets. Where possible, the personal effects of the deceased had been put back into the bags or briefcases they had been carrying when they were struck down. Morava promised to send a replacement over as soon as possible, took copies of the list, and went to report to Brunát.
On his way there, a woman in a beret, which looked odd against her gray pigtails, addressed him timidly. “Excuse me, officer… my son ran over here at noon to help and hasn’t come back; do you know if anything’s happened to him…?”
When he unfolded the papers he realized he could not give her a definite answer. He should have assigned someone to get a list of the wounded; now their relatives would have to wander from hospital to hospital. He could have kicked himself, but he hoped that at least he could rule out the worst for her.
“What’s his name?”
“Richter. Rudolf Richter.”
He looked but could not find the name.
“If it’s any comfort, I have a list of the dead and…”
He fell silent, staring at the name he had found in place of the woman’s son.
“Rypl Antonín, b. 27 May 1900 in Brno, res. Plze
.”
Jitka! Could he have gotten off that easily?
The horror in the woman’s eyes shook him out of his trance, and he quickly showed her that her son’s name was not on the list. Then he hurried back to the courtyard. The dead man was number thirty-five and a bloody towel covered his head. Accustomed as he was to gruesome sights, he still shuddered when he lifted it. Only the back of the man’s head remained; the front had been almost entirely shorn off.
He untied the bundle. The identity card! Agitatedly he unfolded it. The face from the Plze police document stared out at him.
But everything in Morava that made him a detective protested. Why, out of all the dead, had this particular one lost his face? Was it an incredible coincidence? Or a clever ruse?
He bent down, piled the rest of the personal items between the prewar corduroy trousers (Careful! We’ll need the shoes and clothes to show Rypl’s colleagues and neighbors!), and put one item after the other on the napkin. A comb. A nickel-plate watch. A key ring (important for identification)! A wallet. Contents? A couple of banknotes and change. A half-empty matchbox. No cigarettes. A child’s fish-shaped penknife. A handkerchief. (Monogrammed? No….)