Pavel Kohout - The Widow Killer

Morava obediently bit into the dough again, even though the dumpling was salty with his tears.

“Good work, Morava,” Beran praised him, “good work, good work.”

It was long since dark and noticeably cooler; he cursed himself for choosing a thin overcoat today. On the other hand, it made him blend in; these coats were popular in Plze , and both office staff and the koda factory workers wore them.

Worst of all, since February he’d been taking his own success for granted. Today he’d only taken enough money for the train and lunch. He hadn’t eaten, but even so he could barely afford the ticket back to Prague.

AND WHAT THEN?

During his years in Plze he had lost contact completely with the rest of his family, who had always been suspicious of the almost matrimonial relationship between mother and son. He greeted everyone here in his building politely, and at work they all acknowledged how handy he was, but aside from HER he had never found another kindred soul.

SHE WAS THE ONLY ONE WHO EVER LOVED ME!

His intoxicating successes these past few weeks had clouded his reason. The distance between himself and the rest of the world had become proof of his own superiority. Now, at the end of the vicious circle, he stood shivering and hungry at the train station again, and an old fact hit him with renewed force.

I’M ALONE!

What he still had, he realized, was a knack for self-preservation, which had saved him this morning in Prague. And he still had his luck, he remembered; without it he would have walked blindly into his own destruction.

So THERE IS SOMETHING!

He was amazed how little it took to shake him free. And he knew where his strength came from. How awful he’d been this morning, cursing HER memory as he fled!

MOTHER, FORGIVE ME!

Now he knew what to do. He bought a ticket to Prague from the sleepy cashier. If they weren’t waiting for him here, they’d hardly be waiting there.

AND FROM THERE I’LL MANAGE!

At the documents division of the Plze police they gave Buback everything he needed in a few minutes. If Germans have taught mankind one thing, he thought bitterly, it’s how to track civilians.

From there he called Superintendent Beran. He learned that the raid had ended ingloriously shortly after noon. Not a single extra weapon was found on Prague police premises.

Buback informed Beran where he could find Jitka, Morava, and Litera and requested that he tell the assistant detective he was still on the trail. The superintendent then had a word with the Plze police, which they correctly interpreted as orders.

Eight men in two cars formed a small convoy; in between them Buback rode alone with his SS escort. He decided not to bring in the local Gestapo, in case they decided to report the expedition to Prague; what if Meckerle sent Rattinger or even Kroloff here after him?

On his way to catch the murderer who’d almost killed Jitka Modrá, Buback read through the man’s extensive card file. As a seventeen-year-old apprentice Antonín Rypl had been found unfit for service in the Austrian Army, but a year later was accepted as a volunteer for the new Czechoslovak forces. When the doctors’ board questioned the sudden change in his health, he explained that his mother had made him drink a coal brew to keep him off the front. He thus fell right into a smaller war; as a new recruit, he was sent to cleanse southern Slovakia of Hungarians. He was seriously wounded in action and was granted a temporary pension. Later he worked in his native Brno at a large heating installation firm until it closed during the Depression. After several years apparently spent living on support or off his mother, the Klá terec rectory hired him as a sexton. When war broke out in 1939, he moved to Plze and found work as a stoker and janitor at the city theater.

They opened the garret of the apartment building on Pra ská Street without any trouble. Inside, it was as clean and orderly as a military sitting room. Or the bedroom of an exemplary little boy, Buback thought. A large photo of a woman approximately forty years old hung on the far wall. The deeply carved features spoke of severity, but certainly not coldness. She must have been an extraordinarily passionate woman! When she was photographed, she fixed her eyes right on the lens — so her son would never be able to escape her gaze? Buback could imagine how here, through this picture, Rypl had begun to talk to her….

Their search revealed nothing. They left an ambush team behind and continued on to the theater; in the meanwhile the local police had surrounded it. The business manager sent for Rypl, but no one had seen him since early that morning. He then took Buback and his escort to the furnace room; it had been closed since February, when the German military hospital had requisitioned their remaining supply of coke fuel. There too there was perfect order in the desk and the tin locker, and not even the slightest clue.

On the way upstairs they had to stop and press against the wall of the staircase as two technicians dragged the last dripping slice of ice past them.

A third man followed them rather perplexedly, carrying five small frozen objects wrapped in wax paper.

Morava mechanically finished the dumplings without tasting them; he drank the coffee, forgetting to sweeten it. The bed went unused. As soon as Beran left he returned to Jitka’s bed, holding her motionless hand and silently watching the nurses and doctors go just as mutely to and fro. He did not ask. He knew that they would tell him if there were any good news.

They came more frequently now with injections, and her breathing became still louder and more ragged. Morava felt himself swimming up out of a shocked numbness; his grief seemed almost a physical ache. Yes, Beran had been right; his suffering was as great as his love for her. But he could not imagine surviving her, or more importantly, wanting to.

At the thought of her death, the whole long life they had dreamed about together the night before was suddenly, unexpectedly, and irrevocably cut short, and none of its possible replacements could hold a candle to the project they had embarked on together. What would he do then? Redouble his fight against evil, as his mentor expected? But how, when he’d already lost the decisive battle? Evil would laugh as he mourned her.

At moments an intolerable pain twisted his heart and stomach. He tried to staunch this new hopelessness, willing himself to the faith he had always used since childhood to quell his fear of death. For minutes at a time he would emerge from his gloom; surely Jitka could not resist his stare, and any moment now would open her eyes. As soon as it happened, he would easily pull her back among the living.

However, her eyes remained shut and her face began to change, as if once again she were facing unimaginable horrors. He returned to the question that had oppressed him since Beran’s departure.

Why, in all this time, hadn’t he asked God for help?

Because, he admitted, for the first time he was angry with Him. If this was punishment for his sins, then why Jitka and not him? Or was it a test of his humility? In which a pure creature, carrying a child untouched by sin, would meet a cruel death?