jská turned out to be a well-developed organization. Where had it come from in this part of the city, which until recently had been firmly under SS control?
A man in an old Czechoslovak Army lieutenant’s uniform and an accompanying sergeant of the former Protectorate Government Forces were turned away from the entrance shortly after he was. Spotting Morava, they approached him.
“Sir.” The officer saluted him. “We’ve been sent from city command to organize the concentration of German civilians as called for in the Hague Convention; once the battle ends, their deportation will be arranged. Could you direct the guards to let us in?”
“I’m sorry,” Morava said, “but I’m not wanted here either.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? And what’s the ’rG’?”
“I think it stands for Revolutionary Guards.”
“I’ve never heard of them. Who are they under?”
“I have no idea.”
A man came running across the schoolyard to the gate; from up close, Morava recognized the man who had brought him there, the leader of the RG escort. Seeing the uniforms, he hurried across the street to them. He was pale, and fear shone in his eyes.
“Please, do something!”
“What’s happening?”
“In there.. they’re.. beating and…”
For a moment he was unable to go on.
“Who?”
Mutely he pointed to his armband, slipping it off the sleeve of his leather jacket. Only then could he finish his sentence.
“… and killing….”
“What should we do?” the lieutenant asked helplessly.
“I’m expecting reinforcements,” Morava said, “but now I don’t know if there will be enough of them.”
A car swerved sharply into the street and stopped directly in front of the guards. Three armed men in camouflage with RG armbands got out, as did a tall man in a black overcoat and hat; sunken black eyes ruled the man’s thin face and black goatee. Why did he look familiar? Morava knew immediately: This was how he’d always imagined the medieval Czech martyr, Jan Hus. He stepped across the street.
“Hello,” he called, drawing their attention.
The four of them stopped.
“What do you want?” the smallest snarled, bristling; what he lacked in height he made up for in energy, like a coiled spring.
“Do you have access to this building?” Morava asked.
“Why?”
It sounded like a bark. The other two soldiers and the shaken man with the armband in his hand came to join Morava.
“The lieutenant is supposed to prepare the Germans for deportation, but can’t get into the building. They won’t even let me in.”
“They’re following orders. Which say: no servants of former regimes.”
For the first time in a long while Morava felt himself turn red with embarrassment; just like little Jan from the Bartered Bride, Beran had always laughed.
“I’m from the criminal police,” he defended himself, “and the lieutenant served the republic, not the Protectorate….”
“A republic of exploiters and capitulators,” the coil announced. “But its time is up, and yours is too. We’re the security forces of the future Czechoslovakia, where the workers will rule.”
The lieutenant had meanwhile collected himself.
“Czechoslovakia will remain a democracy, represented by President Bene
and the government in Koice; I’m here at their orders. Are you planning a putsch, gentlemen?”
“Of course not,” the man in black very quietly interjected, and it was immediately clear that he was in charge here. “We’re also here from the legitimate government via the Czech National Council. Here.”
He pulled out, unfolded, and displayed a sheet of paper.
“I have one too!” The lieutenant dug frantically through his pockets, finally finding it. “Are there two national councils, then?”
“Of course not,” the tall man repeated, now reminding Morava of a patient teacher, “but there are different factions; democracy is being restored and we represent the political forces that have obtained a clear majority in the council. In accordance with its resolutions, we are creating a new revolutionary militia from people untainted by the past. Its task here is, among others, to prevent collaborators from the ranks of the domestic bourgeoisie and bureaucracy from eliminating German witnesses to their treachery.”
“But that’s exactly what’s happening,” the runaway guard member exclaimed.
“What?”
“They’re torturing them!”
“Who? Whom?”
“Your people! Are torturing Germans. Civilians! Take it back….” He stuffed his armband into the man’s hand. “I don’t want to be like the Nazis.”
Another car pulled up behind Morava’s back; its door slammed. Warily he turned and his soul leaped. Matlák and Jetel were there behind Litera; both of them had submachine guns. The forces were now balanced, and Morava quickly roused himself to action.
“Is torture one of your ’tasks,’ then?” he asked sharply.
“Nonsense!”
For the first time, the black-suited man was upset and spoke loudly. Morava did not back down. He showed the man his badge.
“A charge of serious criminal activity has been made and we“—he pointed to his foursome, including the new police driver—“are detectives. If it’s true, then the international convention on treatment of civilian prisoners—” Grete Baumann! A thought flashed through his head: How is she? Got to check as soon as possible! Then he continued, “is being violated as well. And if we’re all part of one and the same government, then I appeal to you: Honor the reinstated law of this land and investigate the accusation together with us!”
The wiry one was about to object, but the man in the hat silenced him with a gesture.
“We have nothing to hide. But if it’s a lie, then you’ll prosecute him“—he pointed to the breathless man—“for slandering the revolutionary authorities.”
Although the boys at the gate played soldiers for them again, no one paid them any further attention. The excited lieutenant hurried ahead toward the left and apparently main entrance, but once there timidly stood aside, despite the fact that it had started to rain again. The black-clothed man entered first, with Morava behind him. A stench from his childhood assailed his nostrils, the identical smell of primary schools everywhere: a pervasive mixture of dust, sweat, and disinfectant wafting from the toilets and the open cloakrooms lining the school classrooms. When they reached them they stood stock-still in amazement.
The lockable cubicles surrounded by metal grillwork were filled with people. Displayed before their eyes like animals in a zoo, but packed as densely as in an overfilled tram, the cage’s silent inhabitants were primarily women, children, and the elderly. Occasionally one of the children would sob, and the newcomers would catch the fleeting movement of an adult hand covering the small mouth.
Only now did they notice the distant murmur of male voices. It suddenly intensified as the doors at the end of the hallway opened and three Revolutionary Guards entered. Seeing the police and army uniforms, the men rushed toward them, shouting hysterically, “Stop! Who let you in? What do you want?”
The man in black stepped forward in front of Morava, this time making no effort to back up his statement.
“My name is Svoboda; I’m a member of the Czech National Council and of the Central Committee of the Czechoslovak Communist Party. Who are you?”
The bristling trio drooped; their spokesman was almost embarrassingly unctuous in response.
“Excuse me, sir… I mean, comrade… I’m Lokajík, assistant to the local commander….”