Pavel Kohout - The Widow Killer

Once he had gotten rid of the old fool, he told his men, “My grandma knows more about war than that office boy. I’ve seen battle. Keep an eye on me. When I leave, we’ll meet right away at the car.”

“Watch it!” the boy warned the drooping mustache. “Run off early and I’ll mow you down!”

To their surprise, a nearby pub brought them out some quite decent pork, dumplings, and cabbage, but afterward there was just more waiting and boredom. Meanwhile, they heard that reinforcements had gotten through to the Germans in the city center, the other central train station had fallen into their hands, and a new attack on the radio station was expected. He had already begun to consider heading in that direction when the captain hurried over. The Germans on the hill had moved, he announced breathlessly, and were driving Czech civilians in front of them as hostages, but in a short while — on good authority! — they would themselves be attacked from behind by General Vla-sov’s Russian corps. Their task on the barricade was to hold their fire and let the hostages approach, so they would have a chance to escape behind the barricade. He would remain at the telephone, while Sergeant Roubínek would see to it that there was no premature firing or a premature retreat.

The now-sergeant nodded at his men to indicate the final decision still rested with him.

A rumble reached them that could only be tank treads. The roadblock here was more than solid, a core of tramcars strengthened with various construction materials rising to the second floor of the corner buildings. Tanks could not roll past without partially clearing it first. He could imagine, however, what one tank grenade could do: Paving stones from the barricade would fly in all directions like huge fragments of shrapnel. Where would he aim, he mused, if he were their gunner? Over there, where the outlines of an openable passage were visible. He therefore selected a post on the opposite side.

The captain, he had to admit, had had his cement-bag gunners’ nests atop the barricade built straight by the book; now he lay down behind them between Lojza and Ladislav. The boy kept watch on the mustache down below and — just in case — covered their backs.

In that strange suspended time that vibrated with an ever-louder rumbling, he could finally think over everything that had happened since morning. He had long known that nothing in his life was an accident. For years SHE had given him inspiration; from that other world it was even stronger than when SHE had been alive. Sometimes, when his strength unexpectedly deserted him, he had doubted himself. Now he knew SHE was with him again, showing him a path he had almost given up on.

FROM SHADOW INTO THE SUNLIGHT!

Antonín Rypl was dead, killed in the battle for the radio, and would never be reborn; he could not let a few whores threaten the new avenger of Czech shame. Not even Ludvík Roubínek, who had lent him his name and face, was a final solution. The man’s unknown life concealed unknown people who might come looking for him. Mere exchanges would not help in the long run.

I NEED A BRAND-NEW ME!

His experiences yesterday and today showed, unfortunately, that even if a brand-new Czech state arose from the ashes of the Protectorate, its pillars would be the very same policemen. The fact that he was not alone gave him hope; for just under twenty-four hours he had led a small but determined company, which had now become the fighting core of this barricade. His inner voice told him something significant would occur here, placing him one step closer to his final goal:

To TAKE POWER INTO MY OWN HANDS!

No, he didn’t want to play the hero and perish senselessly on this godforsaken watch, but he definitely had to risk something to seize control and widen his power base. Then his NEW SELF would be born: a refugee from the Totaleinsatz, a freed prisoner, a partisan (or whatever, there was time to figure that out). The timid office mice of the new regime wouldn’t dare question his past; they would give him any papers he asked for.

The din of steel treads grew stronger and the victims appeared around the bend of the road, a long line of men and women, and a second, third, and further one behind it. From several hundred yards away he could not make out the expressions on their faces, but their gait was the very picture of powerlessness and fear: some were holding hands, others had arms around their neighbors’ waists, and their slow, loping motions betrayed the weakness in their legs.

The barricade defenders let out a loud, simultaneous gasp.

“Jesus Christ…,” he heard from one close by.

Now the first row of SS had appeared; they marched almost in step, guns held two-handed at their sides like hunters on the chase.

“What do we do?” the same voice asked, horrified.

The captain appeared again and tried to shout over the din.

“Retreat! Retreat to the next barricade! Vlasov is on the move, he’ll be on them before we know it.”

Lojza and Ladislav glanced at their leader. He was still down behind the embrasure and called to the officer, “So why drop back?”

“For the hostages’ sake! Come down, Sergeant!”

“Stay!” he told his companions.

The boy was waving his weapon from below.

“Should I get my ass up there with the Panzerfaust?”

“No!” he roared. “Keep an eye on the car!”

The others were already clearing out.

“Sergeant! Didn’t you hear me?”

“I want to cover them with my fire!” he shouted to him and his own men.

“Men, that’s an order!”

The hostages and soldiers had just come within range and the first tank had crawled around the bend when the sky ripped open on the hill above them. Something there had evidently taken a direct hit and flown up in the air. A frenzied crossfire of light and heavy weapons followed.

The Germans stopped first, turning around hesitantly; their formation collapsed. The Czechs turned as well, but some inertia drove them onward; from the top of the barriade it was clear that in doing so they had opened up the Germans.

This was a target to die for!

A few paces away the machine gunner was also wavering. He clearly did not want to leave either and had taken aim at the Germans. It was time to decide.

“Fire at the Krauts!”

Three tommy guns and a machine gun carved deep swaths in the ranks of the SS. Through the deafening roar he could hear wild screeches. They came from the Czech crowd, which had run forward and scattered. The remaining German soldiers were lying on the ground, partially covered by the fallen, and firing like mad. Not seeing the gunners, the Germans had set their sights on the fleeing hostages.

“Stop firing! Stop firing!”

In the corner of his eye he could see the captain trying to pull the gunner away from the machine gun. Just then the other barricaders reached him, along with the first prisoners lucky enough to make the barricade.

“For God’s sake, don’t shoot!”

He stopped grudgingly because the Germans were in a blind retreat; the tank went first — he could have taken them all down! But with both superficial and more serious casualties among the Czechs — probably including a few deaths — the fuss was even worse than the one at the radio building.

The sergeant and his men had acted against explicit orders, the captain said, asking others to confirm it, like a little sneak. No, they acted like soldiers being led by a chickenshit, Lojza thundered at him, and the machine gunner agreed: It was their sacred obligation to attack Germans. The war wasn’t over and every dead one counted; who knew how many other lives they’d saved? A few hostages shared this point of view, but the majority were insistent. There was no point staying here any longer.