Pavel Kohout - The Widow Killer

“What if they’re still there?” Pepík inquired.

“Their bad luck. They kept a goat at their Vyso any plant and since I was the second watchman there, I brought them milk every day at noon. Twice I caught another guy in the apartment; I think my boss’s wife sweet-talked her husband into bringing the milk himself in the evening, so he cut me loose. I’d like to kiss that whore’s ass good-bye.”

The intimately familiar word grabbed his attention. He approved.

The turn-of-the-century street far from the main avenues was trying to pretend it had nothing to do with the rebellion. No one reacted to the night bell. The bald man swore regretfully.

“The evening’s still young. ..” The stoker repeated what was evidently his only joke.

He did not want to give up so easily.

“We can open it. Anything handy?”

“Could always blow the fucker open with the Panzerfaust.” The boy grinned.

No one even laughed. They were dragging an entire armory with them and it was useless. His years with the theater, however, had taught him that in a pinch anything would do. Now he remembered his knife. When he drew it out to its full length from the pouch tied around his body, Lojza whistled appreciatively.

“Nice poultry knife. You a butcher, by any chance?”

“No,” he said, “but I like butchering.”

The lock clicked on the first try. They lit matches. The apartment Lojza led them to took up the entire third floor. The doorplate had no name on it, understandably. They rang. Nothing. They gave a longer ring. From the depths of the apartment they could hear the bell. Still nothing.

“The blade?” the boy asked impatiently.

Then they heard a woman’s footsteps: When she opened the door, chain in place, and he shoved his foot between the door leaves, he felt the excitement. It grew as Lojza tried to persuade her. Of course she should let them in; they’d been sent to protect her and she knew him, after all, he used to bring her milk from the factory…

“Ick habba eenen tseegenmilk haulen, gnaydigga frau…”

From then on, though, everything was different. Lojza and Ladislav played with her for an hour like cat and mouse; they let her change out of her nightgown and bathrobe into the clothes she’d wear to the assembly point for Germans; of course she could take her valuables with her. She outdid them in obligingness, and his mouth began to water when she poured a half liter of scrambled eggs into a pan.

Slowly she regained some color, repeating ad nauseam how grateful she was to Mr. Alois (as she called Lojza), because he was a personal acquaintance of theirs. Her husband must have been delayed over in Vyso any; Mr. Alois of all people knew how decently they’d both treated the Czechs.

He ate his fill, but otherwise kept quiet. Conversations with women weren’t his specialty; after all, he’d only ever had one (that time in the train), and look how it had turned out. But what about HER? Wasn’t SHE a woman too? How does it work, he began to wonder: are mothers women to their sons or not? SHE clearly had been, and such a strong one that he’d never had room in his life for another. The one time he’d been curious what he was missing, that woman had mocked him. He punished her on the spot, and since then he had either hated other women or simply ignored them. Now, for the first time, he could observe how men treated them and what they might want from them. Only his hellishly tight self-control stopped him from gaping open-mouthed like the boy.

They let her wash the dishes — so the Czechs who would come to live here, the bald one urged her, wouldn’t think Germans were pigs— and then they all accompanied her as she went to make the bed. She continued to nod and obey them until Lojza gave her an almost friendly order to undress.

“Tsee dick aus!”

Once again she turned ashen and began to beg. He was very surprised that she chose him from among the four of them as her intercessor. Before he could react, Lojza’s sharp slap silenced her.

“See this mess?” He bared his half-toothless gums at her. “That’s your pig-husband’s fault, for sending me to the Reich. So now you’ll let us have some fun and we’ll call it even. Agreed?”

She stood as if turned to stone, making not a sound. And her horrified eyes NEVER LEFT HIM. Why?

“We’re not going to rape you,” Lojza continued. “As Czechs we’d never stoop that low; but we could give you fifty on your backside, which is more what you deserve.”

He pulled up his sweater and undid a thick belt. He cracked it with a whistling sound on the edge of the brass bed.

“You’ll sleep at least a month on your stomach with a sore ass, guaranteed. Or is my first offer better? Might be more enjoyable. What do you say?”

He raised his hand again, but did not need to demonstrate any further. She began to undress as meekly as she had earlier cooked and washed.

He was excited now as well. He had never seen a woman naked before and the effect was even stronger amid three armed men. He found it disturbing, the way she kept looking at him when she WASN’t EVEN TIED UP.

“A gag!” he suggested.

“Why?” Lojza joked. “This way she can tell us who does it best.”

“So she won’t shout….”

As if she’d understood the instruction, she let out a yelp, but a lot of water had gone under the bridge since that tart in Brno, and his skills had improved. In the twinkling of an eye he whipped out his handkerchief and stuffed it into her mouth, pushing her back onto the bed as he bent her legs. One hand held both hers in an iron grip, while the other fished under his coat for the straps. Then, with the help of the others, he tied all four limbs to the cornerposts of the bed. She lay stretched out like on a medieval rack, unable either to move or speak.

“You’re a fucking grenade,” Ladislav marveled belatedly.

“For that you can start her off.” Lojza offered appreciatively.

The boy just rolled his eyes and swallowed with excitement.

His cheeks flushed; he hoped no one would see it in the glow of the small night-lamp. He played for time, managing to laugh.

“She’s your girl!”

“No problem,” the bald man responded. “Anything for a friend.”

It’s crazy, the thought crossed his mind; it starts the same way.

MY TWO MISSIONS HAVE MET!

“So help yourself,” the stoker said, a bit impatiently.

He had already recovered and was ready.

“I’m sorry, but never with a German.”

“No cunt stinks too bad for me.” Lojza laughed toothlessly. “You don’t wanna, then leave her; I’ll start for old times’ sake, gnaydigga frau.”

He did not even take off his pants, just unbuttoned them, releasing an engorged member, and lay down on the German woman. For some time he moved up and down on her, grunted twice, and got up, satisfied, buttoning his fly.

“Take a number, step right up!”

Ladislav’s turn lasted longer and involved much heavy breathing. At the end he let out a few sounds resembling moos.

He was careful not to let them notice how closely he was watching. And was that all, he marveled. For this people get married and divorced, love and hate each other? Then SHE had been right — a hundred times right! — to protect him from it. This, these funny jerking movements, was what was called passion?

THEN MINE IS STRONGER!

It was the boy’s turn. He wiggled oddly on the prone figure.

“What’s wrong?” Ladislav inquired.

“I don’t feel anything…”

The stoker bent over him with evident professional interest.