“They won’t bring you back through at night, and there may already be more than one barricade in the valley.”
Buback was amused to see Kroloff s earlier outbursts of toughness give way to fear.
“I realize that. The surest way back is on foot.”
“But there’s a curfew.”
“All the better. I’ll take an escort as far as our outpost sentries. On the other side I’ll blend in in civilian garb.”
“How will you get back tomorrow?”
“The same way, unless a corridor has been freed up by then. You should know, Kroloff, why I was transferred here: I’m originally from Prague.”
The skull head was dubiousness incarnate, but as Buback’s subordinate, he had to accept the decision. His superior had them fetch the headquarters’ map of the district, which had the outposts marked. As he had assumed, the furthest was at the edge of Kav
í Hory, not far from the little house. Once there, he nodded to his escort and to the sentries sheltering themselves against the beginning rain, turned up his overcoat collar, and set off into the darkness.
He shoved his work papers into his right sock, on the inside of the ankle and then into his shoe; the pass from Beran he hid in his left one. Just in case, he took the safety off his pistol. Swiftly he strode down the empty streets with their low houses. He stopped next door to check he was truly alone, and only then approached the house and pressed the bell as she’d requested: three short rings and a long one. He was caught off guard when the door opened immediately; swiftly he reached for his gun, but then he smelled her perfume, felt her hands pulling him inside, and heard her whispering voice.
At his request, she locked the door in the dark, but she did not let go of him. Before he could speak again, she pulled rather than led him up to the attic, telling him what she had been through. For hours she hadn’t been able to sleep, but neither could she wake up: Agitation followed exhaustion and then exhaustion overcame agitation again until she fell into a strange trance in which she could not move, but her visions seemed absolutely real. As if in a fever, she saw her whole life and finally her death, because suddenly she had become Jitka Modrá, who had so trustingly exchanged fates with her.
“Suddenly I was the one who was fatally wounded here, but I wasn’t dead — you just couldn’t see it, and I was there as you put me in the coffin and you didn’t notice as I tried desperately to give you a sign, and then the lid slammed down and they banged the nails in and they picked me up and lowered me in and finally I managed to scream, just as the soil drummed down on the lid, so I made one last effort — I gathered all my strength and swung upright so forcefully the lid flew open and I tried to stand up in a hail of dirt, but I was too late, you see, it took away my breath and consciousness, and suddenly it’s all over, but my head hurts and I’m standing at the door and you’re ringing. .. Where have you been so long, love?”
When he found out she had not eaten at all, he wanted to fetch her something from the stores in the cellar, but she went with him and would not let go of him, as if drawing energy from his touch, holding him by the hand even as he sliced the rock-hard bread and opened military tins of sausage and cheese. On the way upstairs his foot hit an empty gin bottle he had found in the judge’s bathroom as they fled. He realized she had drunk it while waiting for him and then fallen asleep by the front door.
He forced her to eat and meanwhile decided to stay until morning; it would be easier and safer to get to the center during daylight anyway. When he undressed and lay down next to her, he felt for the first time that she was not interested in him as a man; she clung to him as if she were freezing and only animal warmth could save her.
He began to stroke her, slowly and lightly, with just the balls of his fingers, along her back, her shoulders, and as she gave in and opened herself to him, he moved along her elbows, thighs, feet, not missing a single spot on her body. He had never done this before, but he could feel how deeply it touched her, how her fear and agitation abated, how she gradually calmed down and her confidence returned.
“Ah, my sweetheart,” she sighed, “this is even better than making love….”
Then she took his hand and as shots rang out here and there in the distance, she suddenly took up her story again, like in the old days that now seemed so idyllic to him.
After Rome, where they finally reconciled thanks to the mysterious Sicilian, a nasty surprise awaited them in Berlin. Martin’s former father-in-law, a high-placed Nazi, arranged their assignment to a theater touring the East Prussian frontlines. Although this was a part of the Reich, it was, under the circumstances, an extremely inhospitable place; the spectre of another Russian offensive hung over them constantly. The state of the German troops they performed for was ample evidence of what the Bolsheviks were like. These were no tanned sportsmen like in Italy, treating the war with the Anglo-Americans as a gentlemen’s competition even after their recent defeats. The East Prussian soldiers, in spite of their youth, reminded them more of old men. There was no thought of volleyball or soccer, and neither did they laugh at the famous comedian in their troupe; at camp they mostly slept or stared lifelessly off into space.
For Martin, the environment and sterile, pseudo-artistic programs reeked of degradation and humiliation. It all depressed him so deeply that one day he wrote to Berlin for their Jester. Martin had never been one for dogs, Grete said, looking back through the twilight into another time, but this one had caught his fancy. An infatuated fan had given Jester to him one opening night, apparently in the hope it would open the door to Martin’s private life for her. Grete was already ensconced there, but he kept the dog anyway. Jester was a delightful little mongrel — they found unmistakable features of at least five breeds in him — but he had inherited their best qualities, beginning with a rare good nature. He would draw his masters out of arguments — and Buback would just have to believe her — by laughing; yes, he would stretch his lips back just like a human until his teeth shone through, and grin and hoot with laughter. Who could resist him?
When Martin switched to doing tours and Grete was allowed to join him, his older sister was happy to take Jester home. Then they truly began to miss him. On each swing through Berlin they spent much of their time petting him; it was during their estrangement and Jester was the one thing that connected them. Her unused tenderness for Martin flowed through Jester, Grete said, as did his for her, or at least so he claimed later.
By the time they reached Köningsberg they no longer needed this service from him. The two of them were at the top of the world, their own personal Himalayas, as Grete called them (and here Buback finally felt that prick of jealousy again, reminding him of his humanity in that inhuman night), but she and Martin thought the sweet little animal would bring joy into the rest of their gloomy wartime existence. The single bright spot in the Prussian assignment was a spacious apartment in the house of a German teacher, who had worshipped Martin’s films for years and still could not believe his luck in having the actor under his own roof.
That hot summer before the first evacuation — Buback felt her shudder inwardly again, but this time her storytelling calmed her — the post office and rail lines were still running, despite the air raids. They called Martin’s sister, and had her send Jester in a small box with air holes, which they would pick up directly at the station. A vigorous dog who had been walked and fed should easily manage a seven-hour trip. His sister cried as she read off the train number to them.