The Widow Killer (48 page)

The now-sergeant nodded at his men to indicate the final decision still rested with him.

A rumble reached them that could only be tank treads. The roadblock here was more than solid, a core of tramcars strengthened with various construction materials rising to the second floor of the corner buildings. Tanks could not roll past without partially clearing it first. He could imagine, however, what one tank grenade could do: Paving stones from the barricade would fly in all directions like huge fragments of shrapnel. Where would he aim, he mused, if he were their gunner? Over there, where the outlines of an openable passage were visible. He therefore selected a post on the opposite side.

The captain, he had to admit, had had his cement-bag gunners’ nests atop the barricade built straight by the book; now he lay down behind them between Lojza and Ladislav. The boy kept watch on the mustache down below and—just in case—covered their backs.

In that strange suspended time that vibrated with an ever-louder rumbling, he could finally think over everything that had happened since morning. He had long known that nothing in his life was an accident. For years she had given him inspiration; from that other world it was even stronger than when she had been alive. Sometimes, when his strength unexpectedly deserted him, he had doubted himself. Now he knew she was with him again, showing him a path he had almost given up on.

From shadow into the sunlight!

Antonin Rypl was dead, killed in the battle for the radio, and would never be reborn; he could not let a few whores threaten the new avenger of Czech shame. Not even Ludvik Roubinek, who had lent him his name and face, was a final solution. The man’s unknown life concealed unknown people who might come looking for him. Mere exchanges would not help in the long run.

I need a brand-new me!

His experiences yesterday and today showed, unfortunately, that even if a brand-new Czech state arose from the ashes of the Protectorate, its pillars would be the very same policemen. The fact that he was not alone gave him hope; for just under twenty-four hours he had led a small but determined company, which had now become the fighting core of this barricade. His inner voice told him something significant would occur here, placing him one step closer to his final goal:

TO TAKE POWER INTO MY OWN HANDS!

No, he didn’t want to play the hero and perish senselessly on this godforsaken watch, but he definitely had to risk something to seize control and widen his power base. Then his new self would be born: a refugee from the Totaleinsatz, a freed prisoner, a partisan (or whatever, there was time to figure that out). The timid office mice of the new regime wouldn’t dare question his past; they would give him any papers he asked for.

The din of steel treads grew stronger and the victims appeared around the bend of the road, a long line of men and women, and a second, third, and further one behind it. From several hundred yards away he could not make out the expressions on their faces, but their gait was the very picture of powerlessness and fear: some were holding hands, others had arms around their neighbors’ waists, and their slow, loping motions betrayed the weakness in their legs.

The barricade defenders let out a loud, simultaneous gasp.

“Jesus Christ…” he heard from one close by.

Now the first row of SS had appeared; they marched almost in step, guns held two-handed at their sides like hunters on the chase.

“What do we do?” the same voice asked, horrified.

The captain appeared again and tried to shout over the din.

“Retreat! Retreat to the next barricade! Vlasov is on the move, he’ll be on them before we know it.”

Lojza and Ladislav glanced at their leader. He was still down behind the embrasure and called to the officer, “So why drop back?”

“For the hostages’ sake! Come down, Sergeant!”

“Stay!” he told his companions.

The boy was waving his weapon from below.

“Should I get my ass up there with the Panzerfaust?”

“No!” he roared. “Keep an eye on the car!”

The others were already clearing out.

“Sergeant! Didn’t you hear me?”

“I want to cover them with my fire!” he shouted to him and his own men.

“Men, that’s an order!”

The hostages and soldiers had just come within range and the first tank had crawled around the bend when the sky ripped open on the hill above them. Something there had evidently taken a direct hit and flown up in the air. A frenzied crossfire of light and heavy weapons followed.

The Germans stopped first, turning around hesitantly; their formation collapsed. The Czechs turned as well, but some inertia drove them onward; from the top of the barricade it was clear that in doing so they had opened up the Germans.

This was a target to die for!

A few paces away the machine gunner was also wavering. He clearly did not want to leave either and had taken aim at the Germans. It was time to decide.

“Fire at the Krauts!”

Three tommy guns and a machine gun carved deep swaths in the ranks of the SS. Through the deafening roar he could hear wild screeches. They came from the Czech crowd, which had run forward and scattered. The remaining German soldiers were lying on the ground, partially covered by the fallen, and firing like mad. Not seeing the gunners, the Germans had set their sights on the fleeing hostages.

“Stop firing! Stop firing!”

In the corner of his eye he could see the captain trying to pull the gunner away from the machine gun. Just then the other barricaders reached him, along with the first prisoners lucky enough to make the barricade.

“For God’s sake, don’t shoot!”

He stopped grudgingly because the Germans were in a blind retreat; the tank went first—he could have taken them all down! But with both superficial and more serious casualties among the Czechs—probably including a few deaths—the fuss was even worse than the one at the radio building.

The sergeant and his men had acted against explicit orders, the captain said, asking others to confirm it, like a little sneak. No, they acted like soldiers being led by a chickenshit, Lojza thundered at him, and the machine gunner agreed: It was their sacred obligation to attack Germans. The war wasn’t over and every dead one counted; who knew how many other lives they’d saved? A few hostages shared this point of view, but the majority were insistent. There was no point staying here any longer.

“Pack up!” he told his men. “We’ll get our payback somewhere else. Anyone want to come with us?”

Out of sudden instinct he turned to the machine gunner.

“Sure!” the man responded eagerly; a remarkably pale fellow, he looked too skinny and weak to handle the long weapon on its tripod.

“You must be crazy!” the officer snapped at him. “Without you we can’t hold the barricade.”

“Then drop back,” the man scowled. “This gun nearly cost me my head yesterday and I don’t lug it around to shoot rabbits for fun. You don’t need weapons to retreat, anyway!”

“Cowboys!” the captain shouted at them, tears of rage in his eyes. “Just shoot up the town and move on, is that it? Our dead are on your conscience; there was no reason they had to die!”

A clearly audible “Hurraaaaaaah!” carried down from the hill.

As he led the way across the wet soil beneath the barricade, he nearly stepped on a Czech policeman whom a muddy young girl was trying to resuscitate. Drop dead, he wished malevolently.

The rain grew stronger as the battle slackened. And why not go uphill, it occurred to him. There’d be plenty of Germans to smoke out of their hiding places. In addition, the Czechs up there had just lived through an SS massacre and wouldn’t be as squeamish.

Then he remembered another place they could dry out in peace and quiet and maybe even repay another debt…

Like a fire that suddenly flares up from charred rubble, the war reappeared to surprise Buback again. He was taking a shortcut, a trail that led down beneath the old fortress to a railway bridge, when the previously isolated gunshots melded into the cohesive hum of battle from several directions.

Standing in the rain, he wondered whether he should go back; everything in him wanted to be with her. Logically, though, it would not solve anything. On the contrary, it meant forfeiting control over their lives and entrusting them to luck. Logic won out, but his inner turmoil remained; part of him could not stop feeling her fear.

This time he needed his letter of transit at nearly every barricade, I and twice the bedraggled revolutionaries shook their heads over it before giving in. He would not be lucky enough to get there and back tomorrow as well. If he was to save Grete, he had to arrange it today. On the way he listened closely for rumors. The most credible one was that a couple of German units billeted in Prague, whose commanders had formally capitulated in return for a promise of free unarmed passage out of the city, had feared revenge from a now armed populace, and tried to force their way through to a safe retreat.

In front of the police commissioner’s office he came across a familiar face. A broad-shouldered man looked inconspicuously around and informed him sotto voce that he was Matlak from Morava’s group and was waiting here, at Beran’s orders; Buback should follow him at a distance. Soon they were alone under the shelter of a crooked Old Town passageway, and Matlak poured out his story.

Beran and Brunat, he revealed to Buback, had been removed from their post and placed under some sort of house arrest. Why? Buback was flabbergasted. Because! The Communists had taken over the Czech National Council; they claimed Beran’s acceptance of Vlasov’s help was a gamble deliberately meant to insult their Soviet allies, as were Beran and Brunat’s local agreements with the German commanders, which the Germans had broken without a moment’s hesitation. Beran’s message to Buback was that he could no longer do anything for him, his lady friend, or any other Germans. However, he still approved of any attempt to defend those decent and innocent German civilians, and hoped the majority of them would live to see peace without harm.

Could he speak with Beran’s replacement, Buback asked despairingly. The broken truces were no doubt provocations by dyed-in-the-wool Nazis, who thought nothing of saving their own skins at the expense of their defenseless fellow citizens and exposing them to the enraged Czechs’ vengeance. Matlak warned that it wasn’t advisable. The garage manager had been named revolutionary police commissioner; since yesterday Tetera had taken the hardest possible line against the Germans and their Czech helpers.

The garage manager, realized Buback; my God, our informant is now in charge! But who can I tell?

Matlak informed him that on both sides, the radicals had simply swept out the moderates. All they could do now was try to prevent the worst from happening. He was among the few who had learned to appreciate Buback; therefore he was risking this conversation and would be glad personally to keep helping him as long as he was able. I need to get hold of Detective Morava urgently, Buback requested. He went somewhere with some soup; yes, Matlak repeated to the amazed German, he had been there in the canteen when Morava and Litera had picked up a canister of soup and bread to take to someone.

Buback, of course, knew whom it was for. They must have just missed each other, so they would be long since gone from Grete’s, but he was grateful all the same. He would risk one more trip to Bredovska for fresh news of the German side’s intentions and then head back to Kavci Hory; he couldn’t leave her alone any longer.

“Please,” he finished, “if you believe we’re among those ‘other Germans’ who want to atone for the havoc Germany has caused, tell Mr. Morava as soon as possible that I’ll be waiting for him at a familiar place.”

“The house on the hill?” Matlak asked, and, seeing Buback startled, tried to calm him down. “I’m sorry, it just occurred to me; I’ll forget it right away…”

What occurred to Matlak could occur to others, said a fearful voice inside his head as he marched onward, showing the letter of safe conduct with its already invalid signature. At any cost he had to get Grete out of that place; it could become a deathtrap at any moment, and his only hope was Morava. Only? What about Meckerle?

Immediately he felt ashamed. Had he already sunk so low that he’d switch sides again? What set him apart, then, from Vlasov’s traitors, whom he’d found so contemptible? But was this really a defection? Didn’t he have the right, even the responsibility, to use any means available to save his love? If Meckerle could extricate himself and his men from this siege, the giant couldn’t refuse to take her along. But then if Buback wanted to appease his own conscience, there was only one way: He had to stay to the bitter end, whatever it might be.

Mired in thought, he reached Wenceslas Square. The last Czech crossing point not only accepted his pass, but even tried strongly to dissuade him from continuing. The Germans had gone on the rampage, picking up every Czech who appeared on the street. And a hidden sniper was firing on anyone who tried to cross over. Buback bet on speed and luck to avoid him, and won. Around the corner, however, he was arrested.

What should have been a trifling problem for Buback, of all people, turned into a surreal scene with an ever wilder script. Before he could even speak, two SS men tackled him like butchers grabbing a meat calf and shoved him over toward a handful of men they had evidently picked up before him. He could not find the courage to dig his Gestapo identification papers out from his socks and shoes in full view and decided to remain anonymous until a less awkward opportunity presented itself. Besides, personal testimony of how Germans treated Czechs in these critical hours could prove exceptionally valuable in his coming conversation with Meckerle.

Shortly thereafter a covered truck pulled up and the prisoners were herded under its tarpaulin. None of the Czechs made a noise, and their escort was menacingly silent, although the Germans’ gun butts proved more demonstrative. Buback sustained a sharp blow to the shoulder, but this only strengthened his determination to stay and observe what his kinsmen were doing.

Grabbing hold of each other to avoid falling over on the curves, the prisoners careened along the slippery pavement toward an unknown goal that could not possibly be Bredovska. Buback realized despondently that this was precisely how all Europe had come to know his people in the last five and a half years: as armed robots choosing victims at random, imposing their divine will on nations they judged less worthy. Anywhere else in the world, Buback’s job would have been a perfectly respectable one, but here he belonged to these robots, was one of them, and bore full responsibility with them for each and every one of their deeds.