“An interpreter!”
The Czechs’ experiences so far quashed any impulse they may have had to step out of the crowd that had become their last refuge.
On the second call, Morava volunteered. The officer indicated he was to join them on the tram, and nodded to his guide.
“Your fellow citizens have lost all reason,” the skull roared at the throng. “They have blocked the path of hundreds of thousands of German soldiers who are defending Europe against Bolshevism. Since they did not let us pass, you will have to convince them; it is our right and your responsibility! Translate!”
Morava deliberately translated in the third person, making it clear he was not one of them.
“Anyone who insists you are civilians is lying. A handful of bandits have made all of you rebels, meaning you are not subject to protection. If we bleed needlessly, then so will the Czechs. Once your people cease their resistance, we will once again treat you as ordinary citizens under international law. That is all. Translate!”
When he had finished, he asked the commander, “May I add something?”
“No!”
“It would be in your interest for these people not to panic. I wanted to tell them an assault might not be necessary, because Colonel Meckerle is negotiating with the Czech National Council.”
Both Germans were visibly shocked, each in his own way.
“How do you know that?” the SS man asked.
“How do you know him?” the civilian inquired.
“I told your men when we were detained that we are both“—he pointed to Litera—“members of the local criminal police working in close cooperation with your officers. This morning I was present at a meeting between my superior and a Gestapo representative; they’re looking for a way to prevent further fighting. It’s not in your interest to cause more pointless losses of life!”
They conducted the conversation on the tramcar platform, tensely followed by hundreds of Czech and German eyes. The major was evidently wavering.
“I’m also a confidante of Lieutenant General Meckerle,” the civilian said, emphasizing the title. “Who was this envoy?”
“Chief Inspector Buback,” Morava said and immediately realized he had made an error.
“Didn’t I tell you?” The shaven head crowed triumphantly. “The Lieutenant General would never have entrusted a traitor — a deserter! — with such a task. Buback’s authority has automatically devolved to me, and therefore my orders are still valid: clear a route!”
If Morava had briefly thought he could convince the SS man, the German’s eyes soon disabused him of the notion. They clearly had only one goaclass="underline" to get as far as possible from the scene of their crimes. The man turned to his officers.
“Get moving.”
In a few moments the attacking tanks’ motors roared to life. The hundred-strong Czech crowd was shoved into the wide, sloping street. One last gesture of false nobility awaited the policemen.
“I’ll treat you as negotiators,” the major announced. “You’ll be returned to where you were detained.”
Morava saw in his mind that ordinary man who had sacrificed himself for his family. Futile or not, his deed was a challenge. He glanced at Litera and saw agreement in his eyes.
“We’ll go with them,” he said. “Maybe a solution will be found… so long as you don’t order them to fire prematurely.”
“It all depends on your side,” the officer retorted, and motioned genteelly to them to climb down first from the tram platform, as if he were waving them through a cafe door.
The tanks rode close behind them. Morava and Litera had to run again to catch up to the Czechs, who were now spread across the width of the street. Behind them were SS men with guns at their sides. The soldiers and Czechs were surprised to see two police uniforms pushing their way through them to get up front. The two of them did not speak the whole way down; talking was beside the point.
Why am I doing this, Morava mused: Jitka, my beloved, am I looking for the quickest route to you? Or do I want to give life without you some other meaning? But why am I dragging poor Litera with me? He shuddered; Litera dotes on his family as much as they do on him! Too late now….
The scene was all the more unbelievable for taking place in broad daylight in a metropolis virtually unscarred by war. Two rows of lifeless, locked-up apartment buildings formed a channel, and a multitude of people who, a short while earlier, had been living quite ordinary lives in similar houses now filed along it toward an inescapable fate. Tanks rumbled behind their backs, their treads scraping along the cobblestones and tram tracks.
The front row reached the place where the sloping avenue turned right. A barricade about three hundred yards distant appeared around the bend. Tramcars placed end-to-end formed a sizable barrier just as they had uphill; here, however, they were reinforced by a high, impassable mound of cobblestones. Above them flew the Czechoslovak flag.
The Czechs stopped. Surprisingly, the soldiers made no immediate attempt to drive them forward. Gradually even the din of the tank treads subsided. In this place full of men and machines silence reigned, broken only by a strange sound Morava had never heard before. Then he realized he was breathing loudly to calm the wild beating of his heart. The unfamiliar sound was the agitated crowd’s collective breath.
It had started to rain, but no one noticed.
The barricade too was silent. But they have to shoot; they have to risk it! Strange, Morava thought, now I have time to face the fact that in a few moments my life will be over, but I’m still not afraid. Did my sense of self-preservation — all my feelings, for that matter — irretrievably disappear when you did, Jitka? Or is it merely resignation, a consequence of realizing that once God is lost life itself has no meaning, since it can end so capriciously and stupidly time after time? A voice broke into his thoughts.
“Shouldn’t we scatter? It’ll open up the Germans and our side could shoot.”
It was a very young girl to his right asking.
Why didn’t I think of that, he wondered; she’s right!
Before he could answer, fighting broke out from a completely different direction than they had expected; a wild cannonade and machine-gun bursts rang out behind their backs, somewhere up on the hill they had just left. Everyone, captives and captors, turned that way. They saw a tangle of sparks striking the treads of the rapidly turning tanks, and then confusion in the German ranks. The SS men left the hostages to their own devices and scurried behind the metal colossi.
“The Americans!” someone cheered.
Vlasov’s men, Morava thought; thanks, Mr. Beran!
Many apparently had the same idea as the girl; suddenly they scattered toward the barricade, dragging the rest with them.
Immediately the barricade began to shoot past the fleeing hostages, but the Germans aimed their retaliatory fire right at their own prisoners.
Panic broke out. Some of the hostages flung themselves on the ground, others kept fleeing toward safety. Screams nearly drowned out the fire. The girl tripped on a body, lost her balance, and fell. Morava went back for her and picked her up. Suddenly he saw red. He blinked in vain. Then his forehead began to burn sharply. He reached up to it and felt a sticky liquid. Instantly strong hands pulled him forward and from somewhere he heard Litera.
“Come on, Jan, just a little bit further!”
He came to on wet sand originally covered by paving stones. The girl was binding his head.
“You sure got lucky, Mr. Policeman. Skin of your teeth!”
The distant battle still raged; here men and women were waging a noisy argument in its place.
His forehead burned agonizingly and his head would not stop humming, but at least he could see. He tried to look over his shoulder.