Pavel Kohout - The Widow Killer

That afternoon they assembled, crossed out, rewrote, and rerefined both texts, for public and selective distribution. For the latter Morava more or less copied out of his notebook his first, raw impressions from the embankment.

At five in the afternoon he gave his report to Buback first. The cooperativeness that had replaced the German’s earlier primness on their trip seemed to have evaporated; he was practically sleepwalking. Finally Buback said he agreed with the suggestion in principle, but they would go over it together in detail the next day; now he had to leave.

As Morava walked past Jitka to Beran, he managed to surprise her in the anteroom while she was on the telephone. He bent toward her and blew gently on her hair from behind, but when she quickly swiveled toward him he saw alarm on her face instead of a smile. She covered the mouthpiece.

“Jan, stop it,” she whispered forcefully.

She was apparently dictating some statistical data to the presidium about office supplies — quite absurd as the apocalypse approached! — and in the meanwhile Beran returned. He read through each version carefully twice and gave them his blessing. Buback’s delay meant their publication and distribution would have to wait a day, which disappointed him.

“Let’s hope the murderer isn’t conceited to boot,” Beran remarked gloomily. “If he’s trying to send the world a message, we may be torturing him with this silence. He might strike again immediately to get the word out.”

“Then why did he burn the last one to cinders?”

“The fire definitely started near the stove; he might not have closed it all the way.”

“So what else can we do?”

Beran fixed him with questioning eyes.

“You’re a Christian, aren’t you?”

“Yes… Czech Brethren….”

“Then you can definitely do more than I can as an agnostic: pray. Sadly enough, Morava, the toughest hours in this job are dealing with maniacs like this one. He has to continue in this game until he makes the fatal mistake that betrays him. All we can do is wait; wait and not despair.”

He went with Beran to pick up the mail from Jitka, and so Morava only found out what had scared his beloved so badly as they came out late that evening onto Bartolom jská Street.

“Buback came to see me.”

“Will he help your father?”

“He didn’t say…”

“So what did he want?”

“He invited me…”

Morava halted, confused.

“What?”

Shadows moved across the darkening Narodní Avenue. The trams and cars acridly belching wood gas had narrow cats-eyes scraped from their blued-out headlights. They stood face to face and could barely see each other.

“He invited me to dinner,” she finished.

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Where?”

“He said he’d pick me up if I liked.”

“And you said…?”

“I said yes…”

He knew it was the only possible answer, and he also knew it was good; after all, he himself had arranged this opportunity for her. For Jitka? Now he was not so sure; maybe it was for Buback? His heart rose into his throat and so, for the first time, he knew what it was like to be horribly jealous.

“Was that wrong?” she asked timidly.

“No.” He brushed it off bravely. “Buback is a German, Gestapo even, and I barely know him, but I don’t think he’s an extortionist or a rapist. When he told me that a bomb had killed his wife and daughter, there was no hatred in it, just grief. That surprised me. I’d say he’ll help your father.”

They still stood on the corner of the narrow street, although they were both going the same way.

“I’m still afraid…”

Morava was too, but as the man it was his job to provide solace.

He clasped his palms behind her back, pressed her close, and tried to talk himself into believing it.

“War or no war, German or not, even evil has to stop somewhere; that’s why God made people like you, Jitka, whom no one would ever dare harm.”

Like evil itself howling with rage at how little he appreciated its omnipotence, sirens suddenly began to wail across the city. The closest, right above their heads, deafened them. The tram shadows stopped, and human ones hurried forward. Holding hands, the two young Czechs set off at a slow pace back to the air-raid shelter in the police complex, as alone as lovers on an evening stroll.

The air-raid siren nipped Buback’s problem in the bud. Before they even got to dance, he offered Marleen Baumann his arm and instead of leading her to the floor took her down to the cellar. Everyone politely made way for Meckerle and his spouse; they sailed to the steps as if in an air bubble while the other two moved elbow to elbow in a pack toward the mouth of the funnel. Fortunately the ominous hum of bomber squadrons did not materialize, and the crowd’s nervousness did not grow into panic. He could just imagine the ladies’ hysterics; most of them had never felt the daily breath of war.

The woman beside him seemed made of sterner stuff. When he called for her at the relatively modern apartment house in Prague’s New Town, where Meckerle’s driver took him before picking up his boss, her appearance surprised him. She was not much shorter than he — the pants of her close-fitting suit showed her long legs to good advantage — but she seemed dainty, not only in body. Her face as well was unusually long and thin, accentuated by blond hair combed straight back over her ears, contrary to the current fashion, and caught at the nape in a short ponytail. He was intrigued by her reaction when he said he was honored to accompany her in the place of Colonel Meckerle. Without raising an eyebrow, she answered, “That’s both gallant and prudent on his part. Dancing with me seems to exhaust him.”

The driver apparently knew her well, so they limited themselves to pleasantries. He knew no more about her when he presented her to the Meckerles; but he did catch himself admiring how easily and naturally she behaved when being introduced to her lover. So what, he thought, trying to quash an absurd feeling of sympathy; she’s just playing a role.

The giant’s wife, whom Buback was also seeing for the first time (she was huge and square like a dish cupboard), seemed like a real shrew, probably the only person on this earth who knew how to keep Meckerle in line. From that perspective he understood his superior’s choice of a mistress; she could hardly have presented a greater contrast. As the companion of an important colleague — which was how Meckerle introduced Buback — Marleen Baumann aroused no suspicions, and Meckerle’s spouse accepted her with relative affability.

While real champagne was being poured for some of the more important tables, the giantess continued her laments about the loss of their Dresden villa and her complaints about the drabness of life in Prague. None of them could get a word in edgewise. Mrs. Meckerle seemed to forget completely about the other woman’s existence until after the state secretary’s short yet interminable speech toasting the Füh-rer as creator of the Protectorate, when the first notes of a waltz sounded. Rising from her seat before her husband could ask for the dance, she turned to Marleen.

“Shall we take the boys out for a spin, then?”

The next second, with no warning, the sirens announced an air raid. The horrifying memory of February fourteenth and the sudden bomb explosions was still fresh. Even this group, with numerous experienced soldiers, was not immune to it as the crush of the crowd inched toward an illusion of safety. A proverbial deathly quiet reigned, broken only by the shuffling of soles. The bodily warmth of this mass in a heated building led to a greenhouse effect. Sweat stood out on the men’s foreheads; powder trickled down the women’s cheeks.