The two of them were looking forward eagerly to his arrival; the little dog had become a sort of talisman for them, presaging their wild, crude world’s return to its original state of innocence. Their disappointment and fear was all the greater when they did not find the package as advised in the baggage car. They were on their way to the station agent so he could telegraph back down the line when Grete— on a hunch! — stopped at another wagon where they were unloading huge wheeled iceboxes carrying meat, butter, and eggs for the army. With the guards’ permission she went inside and immediately her eye lit on a small package with her address. In a trance, she carried it out and gave it to a pale Martin. Their fingers turned numb with cold. To this day she could see him holding the small bundle horizontally in both hands as he slowly tipped it: inside a dead weight slid back and forth.
They walked home silently, she said, shocked by this senseless, icy death. The creature who was supposed to bring them help had turned into a symbol of their own ruin. Neither of them had the courage to do the most natural thing: walk out past the town limits and bury the corpse. Bereft of reason, they brought the little coffin into their room and placed it on the table. The apartment was an oven in the afternoon sun, but they did not even open the window for a cross draft; instead, they sat broken-hearted at the table, helpless against this paralysis. It was like in the fairy tale, Grete said, where they all turned to stone until a miracle happened; she was sure that even three hours later they would never find the strength to get up and leave for the tour.
And then the miracle happened! They heard something like a hiccup from inside the box. Neither of them moved. When the sound came a second time, Grete saw Martin holding his breath to hear better; he looked as if he might suffocate, but now the wooden box trembled lightly and then shook with a blow, as if the object inside were scrabbling to get out. Martin let out a hiss; he flew into the front hall and returned from the kitchen with a wood axe. He pried sharply up; the lid instantly gave way and out flew a furry ball.
She had never seen anything like it, Grete marveled in this foreign house in an enemy city, as joyfully as if she were reliving this resurrection. Jester, restored from near-freezing by the room’s intense heat, tore around the room like a crazy dog, across and back, up and down, flying over the furniture with huge leaps, running a third of the way up the wall before falling back to earth in a somersault, only to defy gravity again on the other side of the room.
“It was like an explosion of life. We just sat there, holding each others’ hands awkwardly and watching his return from the dead: ten, twenty, maybe thirty minutes went by, and he ran, jumped, barked, pulled and gnawed at us; he couldn’t get enough of this life, and we couldn’t get over his boundless, unfreezable desire to live, which infected even us, consumed as we were by our ongoing destruction.”
Grete smiled.
“It lasted until…”
Grete burst into tears.
It was grief, sudden and wild, and Buback realized that since he did not know its source, he could not console her with soothing platitudes. He just took her firmly in his arms, as if trying to prevent her from splitting wide open, and listened helplessly to her howls. As the sound weakened, his heart grew lighter; fortunately, even boundless despair eventually reaches the limits of our body and soul, and slowly blunts itself against them.
He said nothing, but began almost imperceptibly to rock her like a child. The sobs trailed off, her tense muscles loosened and slowly she relaxed. After a while she began to speak almost normally, as if beginning one of her many stories.
“The first retreat went fairly smoothly; the troupe set up camp and we went to walk Jester. We’d been on a horse-drawn cart all day; gas had to be saved for the army. A fire beyond the birch wood drew us over. It radiated a kind of serenity, and we completely forgot that border areas were strictly off-limits all over the Reich. Then we saw a strange group of soldiers, probably deserters, but it was too late. We tried to say hello and quickly turn around. But one of them had already picked Jester up and was playing with him. The dog gave him a smile, which made the rest of them laugh. And we laughed too; suddenly we weren’t as anxious. Then the soldier said in bad German that he’d be good for soup. Martin nervously passed this off as a bad joke, but the man wouldn’t let go of the dog; he held him in his left hand by the scruff of his neck. Martin tried to pull him away. And with his right hand the man pulled out a pistol and shot Martin through the temple. I saw his brain spatter. Then he threw Jester into the cauldron alive. The splash of boiling water scalded my face. I kicked off my boots and fled into the darkness, but went the wrong way. They chased me, but didn’t catch me. I don’t know how I survived that night. In the morning I left the forest. I found the remains of the campfire, but nothing else, not even a bone. Somehow I found my way to the road. Our camp was already gone. A military car stopped for me. It was carrying war correspondents; they had a lot of cognac. I drank and drank and told them jolly stories about the theater all the way to Berlin; it was like a dream. They roared with laughter. One of them fell in love with me and arranged to have me sent to Prague. And that’s all I know. Now I have to sleep, love. But don’t let go…!”
She fell asleep instantly and he held her, motionless; from time to time his lips touched the fiery scar on her neck, as if it could heal her burned soul.
The staircase confirmed that he was deadly tired. Today it had no end, as if they were adding on floor after floor. At last he dragged himself wretchedly up the final flight. Suddenly he was on his guard. What was it? A sharp line of light beneath the door of his room. He was sure he’d turned it off. Most of the dormitory’s residents were single policemen; none of them would enter his room. So who, then? Him, he realized! He must have been nearby when Morava had asked about him at the radio station, and had followed him back to Bartolom
jska. But how had he gotten the address? And most important: what now? Go back for reinforcements? And if the killer got away in the meantime? Then Morava remembered the pistol he’d fired that time in the car, almost killing Beran in the process. He pulled it out and carefully removed the safety catch. If he were right and Jitka’s murderer was waiting for him, he would shoot once and only once, to kill. Wait…. did he really want to do that? Hadn’t he taught his recruits what Beran had taught him and generations before him? Never let yourself believe you’re the law; in all cases, gentlemen, you are its servants, and only it is sovereign! Behind the door, however lurked something only superficially human: it was pure Evil, and it mocked heaven by masquerading as a person in the presence of its victims. Could Beran’s principles apply to it as well? No, he decided, if it were waiting there, he would kill it. His only responsibility was to do his best, despite his inexperience, to kill it straight off, so that it would not suffer the way its victims had. He inched the key into the lock bit by bit, so as not to make the slightest noise. With his finger on the trigger he slammed the door open and immediately dropped his gun hand to his side, horrified. His mother sat at a freshly-laid table, smiling back at him, her hands folded peacefully in her lap. Now her smile froze. Child, you frightened me, why all the hullabaloo? Mommy! — he unobtrusively hid the gun, which she fortunately hadn’t noticed — what are you doing…? Well, didn’t you tell me to come if the war got too close? But, he stammered the Russians are already there…! Yes, they came sooner than expected. So how did you get past the front…? I don’t know how, child, the main thing is I’m here; aren’t you happy? Of course, mother, but… who opened the door for you? Who else, she laughed, you silly boy; your Jitka, of course!