“What the…,” Lojza whispered.
That was all anyone said.
As he undid the straps to wrap them back around his waist, all of them solicitously helped him, one at each corner of the bed. Then it was he who used the stoker’s joke:
“Well, the morning’s still young!”
To dispell the shock, he had them count up their money. When he’d left the runt’s yesterday for the radio station, he’d completely forgotten he was broke. Events had taken the other three unawares as well; the older two had a couple of crowns, the boy not a coin to his name. They searched the apartment, but the Germans had cleverly removed their marks and jewels to a safer place in the Reich. In the woman’s purse they found a handful of crumpled Protectorate crowns; it would have to do for the time being.
“So what,” he reassured them. “The harvest’s just starting; we’ll do our reaping somewhere else.”
As they were putting on their guns in the entrance hall, the bell rang. His throat caught, but immediately he realized the advantage was on their side. He nodded to Ladislav and Lojza to stand with him opposite the front door, and to the youngest to go open it. The boy showed his cleverness; as soon as he had done so he dropped lightning-fast to the ground to give them clear aim.
The two men in front of them, one in a police uniform, the other in civilian clothes adorned with a helmet and bayonet, were suitably horrified.
With the reaction of his comrades to the bedroom scene, he felt confirmed as their leader.
“What do you want,” he asked sharply.
The civilian could not stop shaking, but the uniformed man was not as green and quickly found his tongue.
“We’re securing German apartments. And what are you looking for here?”
“Nothing. Quite the opposite. My friend had to pay back a debt.” He turned to Lojza, who bared his gap-toothed jaw.
“So you’re the council for the protection of Krauts,” the bald man spat.
“We have no interest in protecting them,” the policeman retorted. “Our job is to secure property and deliver the Germans with any necessary belongings to Girls’ High School, where they will be concentrated for the meantime.”
“Best this lady can hope for is concentration in a mass grave.” Lojza laughed.
The man remained businesslike.
“I am required to uphold certain directives. The Red Cross will take charge of German civilians in Prague, according to international—”
“Where was your Red Cross when those pigs kicked out my teeth,” Lojza shot back angrily.
“The newly resurrected Czechoslovak Republic will be a country of law. Private reprisals have no place here,” the policeman insisted.
He knew the other three were waiting to see what he would say or do, and it made his blood boil to hear these platitudes again.
“This lady knew she was guilty. She committed suicide.”
“How?” The pest would not be satisfied.
SHOULD I DEMONSTRATE ON THEM?
He suppressed the temptation. There might be more of them hiding here; only the STRUGGLE AGAINST THE KRAUTS could give him and his men a sacred mission, and he did not want to lose it.
Now the boy answered.
“She impaled herself on my knife,” he announced. “The fucking whore tried to seduce me, and I showed it to her, like this, told her to get dressed, and suddenly she ran at me like a crazy woman. A second later it was all over.”
“Where’s the knife?”
“I was so scared I threw it out the window. It’s somewhere in the vegetable patch.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“No.” Now he cut the kid off. “And if necessary he’ll have three witnesses right away.”
The uniformed man could see he was on the losing side, but wanted to save face. He addressed the boy.
“Your papers.”
“At home,” Pepík said. “How could I know some Czech cop would want to see those fucking German papers?”
“If mine will be enough,” he offered on a whim, “here.”
The others gaped while he enjoyed watching the fool copy down Ludvík Roubínek’s address. When the policeman wanted more names, though, he put an end to the comedy.
“One witness is enough for a Hitler whore; no one could care less about her. Enjoy playing Samaritans and detectives; we’re going to join the fight.”
The adventure had an unexpectedly pleasant finale. A large Mercedes stood in front of the house; it had Berlin plates, but Czechoslovak flaglets adorned its windows. A handsome mustached man in an Afrikakorps cap with a tricolor pinned to it was slumped behind the wheel.
OUR STRUGGLE DEMANDS TRANSPORTATION!
He did not bother checking with the others.
“You’re waiting for your colleagues.”
“Yeah….” The driver perked up.
“You’re to take us there first.”
“Where…?” He seemed doubtful.
“To Girls’ High, of course. But we’ll stop on the way for a stool pigeon.”
Interestingly enough, none of his men so much as opened their mouths. He could sense why: Before they’d felt RESPECT for him, but that German lady had infected them with her FEAR. He was quite satisfied with this development.
The chauffeur shrugged and started the engine.
“Whatever you want. Where to?”
“Can we get through to the Vltava?” For now.
Not much had changed in Prague overnight. The war was only an occasional distant drumbeat, and the ants were still diligently hauling paving stones to raise the barricades. There were more guns and unshaven men trying for a fighter’s look.
He too was sprouting stubble; it had been stupid of him to shave at the runt’s house when he could have had a new face to go with his new name. So, onward! From the front seat he laid out the plan. They were after a caretaker who’d betrayed a Resistance contact man and a parachutist to the Gestapo. He intended to get more information out of the caretaker, but must not be recognized beforehand. The other three would pick the man up and blindfold him. Than they’d all take him down to the rafting yard and he’d put the pressure on him. If the traitor confessed, they’d take him up to Girls’ High with the other Germans, where he belonged.
“And if not?” Lojza wondered.
He threw the bald man’s line back at him.
“His bad luck.”
Their target played dead for a few minutes. Just as they had decided there was no sense in ringing again, there was a flutter of dirty curtains as the old man tried to check inconspicuously who wanted him. The boy climbed up on the stoker’s back and rapped on the high first-floor window. The caretaker’s nerves failed him, and he went to let them in.
Shortly thereafter they led him out blindfolded; a woman passerby took it as she was supposed to and spat distastefully. As they crammed into the backseat with him, a foul stench filled the car. The confused driver crossed the intersection as ordered and turned down the ramp to the river’s edge.
“Where are you taking me, sir?” the caretaker asked fearfully.
“Just a bit further,” the stoker reassured him.
He observed the two streaks dribbling from under the kitchen towel that covered the man’s eyes, and began to have doubts: Was he truly dangerous? The wretch had only seen him for a couple of seconds three months ago. He was a man, and a Czech.
HE WOULD GIVE HIM A CHANCE!
He ordered the driver to stop just short of the bridge’s arch, and had the other three take the caretaker out. The booming echo of their steps frightened the man even more.
“What do you want from me?”
“We just need to ask a few questions,” Lojza said.
He pondered how to arrange it so he’d be alone with the caretaker for a while. A sudden sound and movement gave him his chance. The starter sounded and the Mercedes began to crawl back up toward the embankment. The bald man was first to understand.