Pavel Kohout - The Widow Killer

Now the boy answered.

“She impaled herself on my knife,” he announced. “The fucking whore tried to seduce me, and I showed it to her, like this, told her to get dressed, and suddenly she ran at me like a crazy woman. A second later it was all over.”

“Where’s the knife?”

“I was so scared I threw it out the window. It’s somewhere in the vegetable patch.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“No.” Now he cut the kid off. “And if necessary he’ll have three witnesses right away.”

The uniformed man could see he was on the losing side, but wanted to save face. He addressed the boy.

“Your papers.”

“At home,” Pepík said. “How could I know some Czech cop would want to see those fucking German papers?”

“If mine will be enough,” he offered on a whim, “here.”

The others gaped while he enjoyed watching the fool copy down Ludvík Roubínek’s address. When the policeman wanted more names, though, he put an end to the comedy.

“One witness is enough for a Hitler whore; no one could care less about her. Enjoy playing Samaritans and detectives; we’re going to join the fight.”

The adventure had an unexpectedly pleasant finale. A large Mercedes stood in front of the house; it had Berlin plates, but Czechoslovak flaglets adorned its windows. A handsome mustached man in an Afrikakorps cap with a tricolor pinned to it was slumped behind the wheel.

OUR STRUGGLE DEMANDS TRANSPORTATION!

He did not bother checking with the others.

“You’re waiting for your colleagues.”

“Yeah….” The driver perked up.

“You’re to take us there first.”

“Where…?” He seemed doubtful.

“To Girls’ High, of course. But we’ll stop on the way for a stool pigeon.”

Interestingly enough, none of his men so much as opened their mouths. He could sense why: Before they’d felt RESPECT for him, but that German lady had infected them with her FEAR. He was quite satisfied with this development.

The chauffeur shrugged and started the engine.

“Whatever you want. Where to?”

“Can we get through to the Vltava?” For now.

Not much had changed in Prague overnight. The war was only an occasional distant drumbeat, and the ants were still diligently hauling paving stones to raise the barricades. There were more guns and unshaven men trying for a fighter’s look.

He too was sprouting stubble; it had been stupid of him to shave at the runt’s house when he could have had a new face to go with his new name. So, onward! From the front seat he laid out the plan. They were after a caretaker who’d betrayed a Resistance contact man and a parachutist to the Gestapo. He intended to get more information out of the caretaker, but must not be recognized beforehand. The other three would pick the man up and blindfold him. Than they’d all take him down to the rafting yard and he’d put the pressure on him. If the traitor confessed, they’d take him up to Girls’ High with the other Germans, where he belonged.

“And if not?” Lojza wondered.

He threw the bald man’s line back at him.

“His bad luck.”

Their target played dead for a few minutes. Just as they had decided there was no sense in ringing again, there was a flutter of dirty curtains as the old man tried to check inconspicuously who wanted him. The boy climbed up on the stoker’s back and rapped on the high first-floor window. The caretaker’s nerves failed him, and he went to let them in.

Shortly thereafter they led him out blindfolded; a woman passerby took it as she was supposed to and spat distastefully. As they crammed into the backseat with him, a foul stench filled the car. The confused driver crossed the intersection as ordered and turned down the ramp to the river’s edge.

“Where are you taking me, sir?” the caretaker asked fearfully.

“Just a bit further,” the stoker reassured him.

He observed the two streaks dribbling from under the kitchen towel that covered the man’s eyes, and began to have doubts: Was he truly dangerous? The wretch had only seen him for a couple of seconds three months ago. He was a man, and a Czech.

HE WOULD GIVE HIM A CHANCE!

He ordered the driver to stop just short of the bridge’s arch, and had the other three take the caretaker out. The booming echo of their steps frightened the man even more.

“What do you want from me?”

“We just need to ask a few questions,” Lojza said.

He pondered how to arrange it so he’d be alone with the caretaker for a while. A sudden sound and movement gave him his chance. The starter sounded and the Mercedes began to crawl back up toward the embankment. The bald man was first to understand.

“He’s giving us the slip!”

Without waiting, he tore off, the stoker and the boy behind him. Now the caretaker would get his chance.

“Take it off.”

The trapped man relaxed a bit as he untied the rag with trembling fingers. His eyes squinted as they got used to the light again. A few paces away the car’s motor had shut off; Ladislov and Lojza were arguing with the driver.

He asked the caretaker, “Do you know me?”

What he saw sufficed. The man before him began to shake his head when suddenly his face twitched. He was not clever enough to mask it; he froze in recognition.

NOTHING TO DO, THEN, BUT…

“Pepík!” he shouted at the car.

The boy ran over.

“Here!” He gave him a submachine gun, safety off. “He confessed. He’s yours.”

The excited Pepík almost dropped the Panzerfaust on the ground. For safety’s sake he took it from the boy and set out toward the car stopped halfway up the slant of the embankment. Behind him he heard the caretaker’s wheezing.

“Let me go! I’m a witness, he’s a murderer, the police are protec—”

A long fusillade cut off the last syllable; the kid doesn’t know what moderation is, he’ll turn him into a sieve!

But he did not turn around, just slowed down to let the boy catch up before he reached the petrified group at the Mercedes. Wordlessly he exchanged Pepík’s weapon for his own.

“Thanks, Mr. Ludvík,” the boy said enthusiastically. “You can count on me!”

In the two hours he spent in the police commissioner’s office, Buback found the Czechs were having similar problems with the uprising: Things were not going smoothly, and skirmishes between local Resistance factions were hindering their struggle against the occupiers.

The military situation in Prague and the rest of Bohemia had not changed significantly overnight, but Buback knew it was just the calm before the storm. Right now the Germans were determined to wait for the Americans, but sooner or later that would give way to their fear of the Russians. And once that giant mass of frontline soldiers and war machines moved, it would pour like molten lava over everything in its path. The only way to prevent it was for the Czechs to open the barricades and let the Germans retreat westward, except that the Czechs could not get a political consensus on this point.

Forgotten in a corner of the antechamber as policemen, soldiers, and civilians ran in and out, Buback could overhear snatches of heated arguments and wondered whether Beran trusted him or was simply careless. Finally the new commissioner emerged and explained it himself.

“I don’t think there’s anyone else in Prague with as good a chance as you, Mr. Buback. That’s why I want you to have a clear picture of us. You didn’t get any military secrets here today, just an impression you can take back to your superiors. I’m hoping they won’t react the way they’ve done at the front or in other occupied countries. The fighters in Prague don’t take orders from us or any other centralized authority. All we can do here is try to bring some order to what’s already happened, or what’s happening now without our knowledge. But if the Germans preempt the council’s decision by attacking, that fractiousness and unpredictability will work against them, because then they’ll be at the mercy of each and every barricade commander. I’d caution you strongly against risking it.”