Pavel Kohout - The Widow Killer

Potatoes were coming out his ears, but he kept eating them, because he knew:

I HAVE TO BE STRONG!

For five nights he’d slept lightly so he’d hear them coming, and now he’d take a new leap into the unknown; it was too risky to stay. So he tucked into the food like a fattened goose and listened with one ear to the murmur of the radio connecting him to the outside world. Suddenly a melody practically bowled him over. It was the famous Sokol march, the anthem of the most patriotic Czech society, which had been outlawed the first day of the German invasion. Its message flew over airwaves censored till now by the occupiers, exhorting the occupied nation to move forward “with lion’s strength on falcon’s wings.”

Before he had time to wonder, the song was interrupted, and a voice cut through the ether. Now it sounded agitated, almost like a different person from the familiar announcer who had read out the correct time just a moment before, twelve-thirty — but ONLY IN CZECH, he realized belatedly!

“We call on the Czech police and all former soldiers: Come immediately to the aid of the Czech radio! The Germans are murdering our people!”

Along with it he heard a thumping he recognized as distant gunfire. The announcer repeated the call a second and a third time before he understood.

THEY’rE CALLING ME!

His hour had come, bringing him a NEW TASK, just the way he’d known it would that night in the train. Why just punish a few lusty hussies when there was an entire GUILTY NATION out there! He’d seen the Czechs’ and Moravians’ hour of glory once already, when he was fighting the Hungarians. Now once again his time had come, freeing him from his self-imposed imprisonment. With an iron will he scarfed down the rest of the potatoes.

I’M A SOLDIER AGAIN!

He pulled on the leather coat he liked the best from the wardrobe; to his surprise it fit him (did it belong to the cuckold next door?) and the pocket would hold his pistol. With an ear to the outside door he listened to the house’s murmurings to choose the right time for his exit. Suddenly he remembered.

THE GUY!

The decent thing would be to tell him he was leaving, thank him, and give him his freedom, so he could take off the straps…. The straps! The shorter two around the guy’s ankles were from his first schoolbag, a present from HER; the longer ones, binding his arms up to the shoulders, were a memento of imonek and Báre ka, two angora goats he’d loved taking out to pasture. These strips of leather were scraps from the bootmaker’s workshop next door that SHE had used to make the shopping bags she sold. Now that the SOULS were gone, the straps and his beloved knife were the only witnesses to an important stage in his life, as he stood on the threshold of an even more important one.

He entered the bathroom. The half-pint rattled as he slept; the gag interfered with his breathing.

Wasn’t it awfully strange the way that runt had found him in the train? The way he’d risked his life to hide a parachutist in his home? Maybe the half-pint had something up his sleeve; maybe only his own presence of mind had foiled the guy’s plot. He didn’t have time to think it through, and so he followed his instincts again….

Afterward he carefully cleaned his knife, wound the long straps at his sides like an outlaw’s belt, and stuck the short ones into his pockets. He closed the door noiselessly, turning the key as the bolt reached the jamb so the neighbor wouldn’t hear when it clicked shut. Once again he met no one in the building. Doubtless they were all glued to their radios, listening to the battle.

I’M GOING TO FIGHT!

There were no trams, but it wasn’t far; he alternated quick walking and slow trotting — the “Indian run,” she’d called it a long time ago. “I’ll teach you everything he should have taught you, Tony, so no one will ever know you didn’t have a father….”

From Saint Ludmila’s onward he could definitely hear gunfire. Clumps of people had positioned themselves anxiously and defiantly within reach of the buildings’ front doors. At the Vinohrady Theater he came across his first fighters: a few men, mostly around twenty-five, dressed as the historical moment had caught them, one in a tram driver’s uniform, the others in overalls or civilian clothes, wearing hats they had no place to leave. They had two hunting rifles between them and kept a respectful distance from the corner of the sloping street.

“What’s happening?” he asked them.

“The radio’s down there,” one man said excitedly.

“So?”

“There’s a side entrance. I know how to get to the studios; I’m a sound technician.”

“So what are we waiting for?”

“A Kraut’s hiding behind the garbage cans,” one of the two hunters retorted, “and he keeps firing at us.”

Rypl, called Sergeant Králik from the depths of time; bob and weave the way I taught you and take that Hungarian down. If you’ve forgotten how, you’re done for.

Just like in Komárno, he pulled out his pistol and released the safety.

“Don’t be a fool,” said the tram driver. “He got two of ours already.”

“Once I take him out,” he told them all, “follow me fast!”

He lay flat on the ground, and then, lightning-fast, he stuck his head out and pulled it back. He had not lost his talent: The picture of the street was as clear in his mind as a photo in a frame, including the two motionless bodies and three garbage cans down by the radio station. Three doorways and an alley separated him from them. He retreated in the direction he’d come, diagonally across the roadway, until he could just see the first entranceway in the cross-street. They must have thought he’d given up, but all he needed was a running start.

He worked up enough speed that he hit the alcove of the doors opposite before the German could fire. No skill, he realized gratefully. Now he’ll be aiming at the middle of the street. He waited for the man’s hand to stiffen up a bit, took a deep breath, and hurtled toward the next house on his side. A shot cracked, but too late. His ragged breathing grew calm and he readied himself for the lookout trick again. The soldier had been firing through the chink between the garbage cans, and at some point he would have left the man’s angle of vision. So? Careful… head out, then back! And now he was sure: To hit him, the soldier had to straighten up and make himself a target. Still, the German had the advantage of a rifle against a pistol, which couldn’t aim precisely at this distance.

He hesitated. Because no one was covering him, he had to risk another leap forward into the alley or rot there until they picked him off; if the Germans sent a small counteroffensive from the building it might come sooner than he thought.

MOTHER, SAVE ME!

Her response came immediately.

I CAN TAKE CARE OF MYSELF!

He threw caution to the wind; racing out along the side of the building near the garbage cans, he deliberately squeezed the trigger, trying to hit the chink between them: one, two, three, four, shit in your pants, Kraut, and stay back there, or you might just knock me off, five, six— then he reached the life-saving alley, spitting distance from the garbage cans, and suddenly he wasn’t running but flying through the air; dropping his gun, he splayed onto the concrete like a frog. Was he hit? No. Immediately he realized what had brought him down: he had tripped over a corpse without a face. The hand grenade that had opened these gaping holes in the alley walls had probably blown it off.

Why had he left those six whores’ faces on? Shouldn’t he have cut out their likenesses as well as their hearts? It could have been his own contribution to the inspirational PICTURE. Wait… maybe what he’d just tripped over was a SIGN meant for him. He ignored the German— let his nerves jangle for a while — and rummaged in the man’s clothing. There was an identity card unscathed in the breast pocket. Tensely he unfolded it and swallowed with gratitude: The faded picture showed a middle-aged man with average features, easily interchangeable with half of mankind.