Pavel Kohout - The Widow Killer

After Malina returned from his neighbor’s, he had forced the terrifled runt to bind his own legs at gunpoint with the straps. The poor half-pint still believed that his disobedience had aroused the parachutist’s suspicions, and swore up and down that he was a true patriot. Obediently he put his hands behind his back, so he could be more easily tied up, and even nodded appreciatively when told that the Resistance hero would have to secure him temporarily; of course, he would release his host with honor as soon as it was possible.

When it came down to it, this motor mouth posed a real danger to him. Now that he’d resolved to take revenge on the Krauts he had THE RIGHT TO A TACTICAL DECEPTION.

He explained his reasoning to the half-pint quite convincingly. After a while Malina stopped squirming and resigned himself to his unpleasant fate, lying bound and gagged in the bathtub bed he had made for himself the day before. During the day the bathroom door was unlocked, and he was allowed to signal with a muffled knock that he needed facilities or food. Eventually the half-pint’s hunger passed. At least we’ll save on food, his captor thought; for the moment there was nowhere else to go and supplies were running low. At night he locked the bathroom so he could sleep in safety. If you even think about knocking on the wall to your neighbor… He had left the sentence unfinished and put his long, slender knife up to the guy’s throat.

It was strange that now, when the only thing keeping him safe was the thin wooden panel of the door, his heart wasn’t even racing or his knees knocking! In the space of a few dozen hours, something had happened to him in that apartment, and it was evidently connected with his NEW MISSION. But there was something else, something he had automatically grabbed at home and hidden to use later as bait, and now, as he felt it, it brought back the best moments of his life.

THE PISTOL.

He could still remember the marvelous happiness he’d felt on the Brno shooting range. In 1919 he had joined a regiment of fresh recruits for the brand-new Czechoslovak Army. SHE tried to derail his application, but failed: he was absolutely healthy, and greenhorns were just cannon fodder anyway.

Seasoned legionnaires from France led the exercises; they worked the recruits so mercilessly that he had no time for homesickness during the day, and evenings he simply collapsed from exhaustion. The Hungarian invasion of Slovakia made time of the essence. On the seventh day they marched over to sharpshooting, and that was where it happened. He was the only one in his unit to hit all the targets and was singled out in the orders for his unforeseen talent. He had never been the center of attention before. It was no surprise that he now set his sights on the army.

I’LL BE A SOLDIER!

The soldiers at the front sensed it. He was the only rookie they didn’t mess with; on the contrary, a week later when he repeated his achievement in a mock battle, the feared Sergeant Králík invited him to the canteen for a beer. He should sign up for Slovakia, the sergeant urged him; it would undoubtedly be the last war for a long time and that was when military careers were made. He’d return as a noncommissioned officer and would be set for life.

After all those years with HER he was so utterly unprepared for this opportunity that he hesitated. No need to worry, Kralík said; he sensed something in the boy that makes a soldier a soldier. What? Well, what else: A TASTE FOR KILLING!

He froze. He did not understand where he, a fragile and unsure loner nicknamed “mama’s boy,” could have gotten it from, but at that moment he knew for sure that Králík was right.

I HAVE IT!

AND I WANT TO BE MYSELF!

He rushed into battle like it was a hunt; he literally shook with longing to score a hit. The Hungarians abandoned Komárno, on the Slovak side of the river, of their own accord; the battle in the streets was almost over. The rest of the day they spent huddled on the banks of the Danube in grenade-launcher fire, pulling the wounded out. When they were just about to storm the Hungarians, the last grenade landed and IT WAS ALL OVER.

He had had no place to go from the hospital except back to HER.

That taste suddenly resurfaced after almost twenty years, but by then he was guided BY THE PICTURE. It had captivated him so completely in the country church that he had remained there largely for its sake.When he left, he had to take it with him, since he knew it was the PROTOTYPE.

He had that taste, that old taste for shooting, again today, as beyond the doors the trap closed around him. He listened to the Czech-German conversation outside: Someone had seen him with that guy. With his pistol in hand he felt confident. If that whore had the keys, or if they broke through the door, half a round would take all of them out, and no one else would stand in his way.

Then he heard the neighbor’s oath, and even though it was the result of his own cleverness, he was still a bit disappointed. Still, there was no need to stir up extra difficulties for himself. Not when the hunt for Germans was just beginning!

So NEXT TIME!

Once the woman had returned to the apartment and he heard the men’s footsteps on the staircase, he went quietly through the kitchen and bedroom into the bathroom to see if the guy had wet his pants in disappointment.

My love,” Grete welcomed him home as he opened the apartment door, “they want to evacuate all of us.”

He had been expecting this pronouncement for almost a week now as various institutions vanished from Prague on a daily basis, but had not dared to think it through. Even if Grete had a definite destination, the likelihood of their meeting again was minimal. Once the fiery column had rolled past, telephones and post offices would no longer exist, and millions of homeless would wander across a devastated Germany like nomads. And as for himself, he knew he’d already decided inside; it was the only way to avoid complete disgrace in his own and her eyes as well. If that was his path, then his fate lay with the stars.

“Where to?” he asked, just to say something, and tried not to show how upset he was.

“Somewhere in Tyrolia.”

“And there?”

“All troupes of the German Theater are to be housed there temporarily until we can return here.”

“They said that!”

“Yes,” she sneered. “Theater Director Kuhnke appeared personally to assure us that starting next season we’ll be playing in Prague as usual.”

“And what does it really mean?”

“He wants to cut and run, but can’t do it without us, so he’ll pretend it’s to protect the flower of imperial art for better days. He’ll shove us into some flea-ridden barracks and get his own fat ass over to Switzerland; his brother works at the embassy there.”

“You think.”

“Everyone thinks.”

“And what do the others want to do?”

“Go, of course! Who wants to wait till it breaks? Come on, love, we talked this through two days ago. From there it’ll be clear what to do next.”

He could see in the distance that bridge blown off its foundations, hanging deceptively in the air.

“Yes. It’s coming soon. The only question is who’ll start it.”

“Exactly.”

She fell silent and looked inquisitively and inquiringly at him. He gathered his strength.

“I hope you’ll go,” he said.

“You want me to?”

“Yes.”

“Ah… that’s interesting.”

“Why so?”

“You mentioned something a while back about loving me.”

“Yes!”

“So that’s no longer the case?”

He could not let her get away with that.

“If I love you, how can I want you to stay? I want you to live, I want to have a reason to survive this. Once the battle starts, I could probably find you a hiding place, but I could hardly stay with you.”