The white-haired man strode purposefully toward them, droning on through his megaphone.
“Masaryk, the founder of our state, taught us that humanitarian ideals do not admit the collective guilt of races or nations. These men were soldiers; they followed orders and in spite of them capitulated. We cannot change the decision of the Czech National—”
“Then they should fuck off!” Lojza shouted at him. “We shed blood and we want an eye for an eye!”
He almost laughed at Lojza for not saying “a tooth for a tooth,” but it made him angry to see the policeman gaining the upper hand among the crowd. THOSE BASTARDS ARE LISTENING TO HIM!
At that the first of the Germans exited the building, flanked by Czech guards. The foursome of ashen women in front — probably secretaries — caused some confusion, but the male employees, marked by white bands on their sleeves, drew whistles of derision. Their escorters smiled, as if acknowledging the onlookers’ annoyance, but implying the crowd must surely understand their position too.
Lojza was arguing wildly with the policeman; leaving them to their quarrel, he stepped forward to see better.
The soldiers had begun to come out. The orderly rows of men had neatly polished and buttoned their hated uniforms, and held their heads up as if on review. Their commander had made a mistake in thinking this would boost their morale; signs of defeat would have been more to their credit. Any feeble sympathy the onlookers might have had now disappeared.
Now, finally, there arose in him a strong, almost holy wrath against Germans, similar to the one his mother had instilled in him years ago against feminine infidelity.
Before anyone noticed, he raised his submachine gun, took aim so as not to threaten any of the Czechs, and began to squeeze the trigger. He heard another rifle at his side — must be Ladislav! — and in the corner of his eye saw Lojza fighting with the policeman.
The women shrieked, the whole transport dove against the pavement for cover, but shots rang out from it as well.
Those whore bastards had guns!
HE WAS RIGHT!
The irritable policeman with the wispy white hair immediately deflected his aim by shoving his gun barrel into the air, but in the ensuing chaos he had so many other problems that he was soon distracted; it was necessary to round the prisoners up again, look them over and send them and their dead away as fast as possible. The cop had managed, however, to infect a decent-sized group of people who instantly turned against the three gunners. Among them was the four-eyes who’d irritated him over by the garbage cans.
“Degenerate!” Now the kid was taunting him with this completely nonsensical word. “Go back to the nuthouse; this is a democratic revolution!”
You’re the crazy one, he wanted to shout back; and a TRAITOR TO OUR CAUSE, who deserves the same treatment!
SHOULD I JUST BLOW HIM AWAY?
This time right in the heart, so as not to horrify the more delicate bystanders…. He quickly came to his senses. Many in the crowd were just as well armed as he was.
In addition he remembered that he had a new name, but the same old face. There were clouds of police swarming about; what if by coincidence..?
“Men,” he said to his companions, “the fun’s over, anyway. The hell with these cowards; there are plenty of Krauts left in Prague.”
M’love!” Grete said. “Oh, my love, finally! It’s been forever since I saw you!”
Of course her time dragged, while his flew, it seemed only moments since he had left her at the house. In the meanwhile, however, yesterday’s city had changed into a jungle which even the natives did not recognize.
The neighborhood called Pánkrac, where he and Kroloff had been sent, was an exception; it was still firmly in German hands. A single barricade of derailed trams beneath the court building reminded them of the unrest; its builders had been driven down into the Nusle Valley. Immediately thereafter a merry-go-round of motorized watches went out, discouraging other potential barricaders.
Schörner’s heavy tanks would turn Pánkrac into an extensive operations base. From here they could roll over the barricades in the valley, opening a passage to the city center and onward to the west. Aside from sporadic fire from various directions, however, there was no noise at all, and even after twilight only advance men on motorcycles came through. They mentioned barricades sprouting in the villages and towns around Prague, saying the colonnades had had to detour around through fields. These could not have presented any real obstacles to such powerful equipment, and thus further rumors were born. The prevailing opinion was that the Americans were approaching, which made a German advance pointless. Kroloff eagerly spread that afternoon’s news: In his imagination the Protectorate was to be the launching point for a future western alliance, including the Reich, against the hydra of Communism.
“And that’s the secret weapon,” he kept repeating, “the truly brilliant secret weapon the Führer providentially left us!”
The headquarters was filled with commanders from various lower units. They had nothing to do beside organizing patrols; there was no word from the approaching army and the Prague division just checked in every hour to ask what was new. Buback thought of Grete, alone and helpless. It gave him an idea for how the officers could usefully fill their time. There were thousands of German civilians in Prague; why not concentrate the ones in this corner of the city under military control, at least until the army could guarantee their safe passage out or their right to remain?
His idea did not strike anyone’s fancy. None of the officers seemed eager to complicate his own life unless ordered to do so; not even Buback’s authority as a Gestapo emissary helped. It was Kroloff who dealt the plan a final blow. The Führer’s memory, he parroted, could be best honored by unflinching adherence to the principles of Total War. The German citizens of Prague had been offered the opportunity to arm themselves a long time ago. The ones who availed themselves of it must have realized that every German apartment here could become a fortress. The ones who failed to do so had only themselves to blame; they had cut themselves off from the fellowship of a brave warrior nation.
Buback reminded him about the German woman who had saved the armored transporters trapped in the web of suddenly nameless streets that afternoon. If any of her Czech neighbors had spotted her, she would pay dearly indeed. After all, they couldn’t expect civilians in their apartments to behave like soldiers under fire, if only because they had no unified command or clear orders.
Aha, Kroloff trumpeted triumphantly, but a civilian evacuation would confirm the Czechs’ false hope that the Reich was capitulating, and could provoke a real uprising — the recent attempts by extremists had fortunately been just a pale imitation. After all, they’d just learned that one airborne torpedo had put an end to the unfortunate episode with the radio!
Buback did not prolong the argument. Better to preserve his authority for a real crisis situation. He would have to meet with Morava or Beran again to warn them of the problem; the haunting image of a murderer’s holiday, which Grete had used, was seared into his brain. Grete! He had to see her, to put his mind at ease.
Two highly unpleasant events put a temporary end to the confused discussion. The same Czech announcer who had recently been cut off in midword during the successful German air raid now unexpectedly resurfaced, apparently from a replacement studio. And the telephone stopped working in the local pub the German command had occupied. The Czechs therefore controlled the city switchboard. Buback seized the moment.
“You stay here as long as necessary,” he ordered Kroloff. “I’ll try to get to Bredovská. We’ve completed our mission, but I don’t like the fact that we don’t have orders covering various possible developments. What’s important is not which of us is right, but what sort of general directives have been worked out in the meanwhile.”