Now he knew he was in the grip of a dream, but this deceptive condition was much nicer than full consciousness, which was gradually gaining a foothold. He tried to prolong the fantasy. Lying motionless, his eyes closed, he imagined the unrealized meeting of his life’s two loves. He could see his mother’s face and movements from his March visit: he called up images of Jitka from her last days and had a wonderful few moments when both of them were alive in his memory as if they’d known each other forever. For the first time since Jitka’s death her memory did not tear at his soul. And if his mother was alive, as he felt with every fiber of his being, then he had at least one fixed star in his universe.
At that he remembered the horrible beginning of his dream and the beloved faces faded as quickly as a rainbow. He was back in the bloodstained present. But how could he catch Rypl now, when overnight the killer had switched from widows to Germans and wrapped himself in the mantle of a patriot?
Morava could think of nothing else, even on the trip back from the radio to Bartolom
jská yesterday. He had been there within a few minutes, since the city center was suddenly empty, as if everyone was celebrating at the station. However, by the time he reached the office, the revolutionaries had stopped broadcasting. A German turbine aircraft flying close above the roof had attacked the building in a daring raid; the torpedo plunged down precisely into the entrance hall, which Morava had just left. The explosion took many lives and disrupted telephone lines and broadcasting. Despite the chaos, the Czechs were working mightily to repair the transmitters and set up replacements, and Beran chased Morava straight back to prevent Brunát from broadcasting one particular proclamation, which he said could cause a split in the Czech National Council.
He had only recognized the white lion by his voice; a turban of bandages covered his mane. A piece of shrapnel had taken off a portion of Brunát’s ear before ramming into a concrete column. The man who had been talking to the commander in the hall was killed on the spot. Brunát read Beran’s paper, muttered something about pricks, and disappeared.
When he returned to Number Four, Beran finally called him to his old office for a report. He welcomed Morava in, saying he wanted a short break from all this soldiering. It was amazing how quickly his jovial old boss — despite a uniform he swam in like a scarecrow — had truly become a commander. Morava glossed quickly over his noon mission; it was old news. He described in detail how he had found Antonín Rypl’s trail, and put forth his request.
“Sir, this isn’t a personal vendetta, even if it could be seen that way….” They could both feel the emptiness of Jitka’s abandoned desk through the open door behind them. “I’m concerned about the purity of our revolution; it was supposed to put an end to this sort of barbarity. According to witnesses, he’s killed almost ten people since noon today: three sadistically and all of them without provocation, because they’d already surrendered. Anyone who says they were just Germans and brushes it off is making a terrible mistake. He keeps on murdering because he can get away with it. For some people he’s a hero, and apparently he’s found a few thugs with similar tendencies. And what if they become a murder squad? What’ll they do once they run out of Germans? Turn on their fellow countrymen? Start on the collaborators, real and imagined? And who after that? Sir, we have plenty of men who are better than I am at messengering, interpreting, and capturing radio stations, but right now I’m probably the only one who can catch him. It’s a point of honor for the police; he’s a self-appointed executioner and we can’t let him go free when peace comes.”
He’s looking past me at her chair; he can’t turn me down! Morava felt sure he had won.
Beran stood up and went to close the door. Then, unusually, he sat down on his desktop and stared through Morava at the wall. The detective had never seen his boss this way.
“It’s a point of honor for the police, if you’re interested, to protect Prague from both the Germans and its own citizens,” Beran began. “Using only our own modest forces we’ve met the demands of our political and military leaders: an impassable city, the Germans in it momentarily paralyzed. The sad thing is, the Czech delegation fell apart before they ever came together.”
He saw that Morava did not understand.
“I think of myself as one of a dying breed of civil servants, who stood apart from factions so they could serve the community. I’ve been involved in this for weeks, as you know, and, in my neutrality, I’ve been more and more horrified at what I see. It was clear to both sides that an uprising would increase the chances that Prague would be destroyed, and it had no real military value given the massive front movements. But there was still a political value in deciding whether to rebel. The winning side will be the one that’s best at anticipating the pious wishes of whichever Allied force ends up in control here. Finally, the democrats started it off; they bet on the Americans, encouraged by their quick advance, but now they’ve got the losing hand. At the moment the Communists hold the trumps, because the Western Allies have stopped outside Plze
.”
“No…!” A gasp escaped Morava.
“Yes. The Big Three have apparently decided that the Red Army will liberate Prague. I take it I don’t have to tell you what the consequences will be.”
“I had no idea,” Morava admitted honestly. “When will they get here? It’s just a hop from Dresden and Linz; those claws would cut Schörner off from the rest of the Reich and that would end the war.”
“Remember the Warsaw and Slovak uprisings,” Beran answered glumly. “They let them bleed to death.”
“On purpose? But why?”
“A liberator never likes it when people free themselves first. They don’t get the gratitude they need to stay in power.”
Morava was shaken.
“So the Communists have renounced the uprising?”
“On the contrary. They’re trying to seize control of it.”
“How?”
“Very simply. They didn’t start it, and now they’re claiming they’re obliged to salvage what they can. If it’s successful they’ll be the ones who give the Soviets the keys to Prague. If we’re defeated, they’ll claim the democrats are soldiers of fortune who are responsible for needless losses and damage. Today they blocked the decision to offer the Germans an unhindered retreat to the west in return for capitulation. Suddenly they were calling it a separate peace that would disappoint the Allies — read: the Soviets. As a result we’ll be fighting a force that outguns us many times over.”
“So it’s a cynical game?”
“Why cynical? History proves that the worst atrocities are always committed by the keepers of a sacred truth, who truly believe in their mission. And that mission includes destroying all other truths — which, of course, are nothing but lies — along with anyone who supports them.”
The telephone rang.
“Good to hear your voice.” Beran sounded relieved. “When it hit I was really afraid for you. Yep, be right down.”
He hung up and gave a sad grin.
“Brunát is supposed to bring me to the council meeting. More bull… bullyragging, apparently.”
“I’ll hold down the fort here.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort; you’re going to sleep. Have you forgotten what a day you’ve had?”
He remembered. His wife and child’s funeral. And a bit of war. Suddenly an unbearable heaviness rolled over him. Beran took him by the arm almost tenderly.
“Get up, Jan… can I call you by your first name? I’ve been meaning to ask for a while, and I may not get the chance again. Get up and go lie down. You’re absolutely right; the best thing you can do for your country is catch him. I’ll give you Litera.”