Jáchym Topol - Devil's Workshop

There’s a patch or two of ice on the pavement. But except for that, and a heap of slush here and there, all of the streets are clean as a whistle. Not like in Prague, never mind Terezín.

We turn off of the Boulevard of Heroes, Maruška says the name of the street, it slips my mind as soon as I hear it. Same roadway, pavements, enormous buildings, a red banner or two up above. I stop in front of one that reminds me of the banner in Terezín. The last time I saw something like this was before I went to prison.

Some of the banners have yellow stars, a red flag or two flaps in the wind. Given how grey the streets are, it’s actually pretty nice.

There are no crowds strolling the streets. The people are tiny compared to the spectacular size of the buildings. I remember the way in Prague the streets twist and turn. Here you can see far into the distance and count everyone. We walk past another stunning palace. The pale yellow of its facade disappears up above in the snow.

Maruška, wait!

I tilt my head up. I’ve never seen such a thing.

You like it? Maruška asks. She stops too.

Yeah!

You should see the TV Palace on Communist Street. Or the Palace of Ground Forces. Now that’s something!

What’s this? I say, the back of my head feeling numb.

This? This is the Palace of the Party Central Committee. But the KGB Palace is just as big.

A crowd of people stands on the corner. The guys have jackets with hoods like mine, some have funny ear flaps or big fur caps. I wouldn’t want one of them. The crowd starts to move, spilling on to both sides of the street. Maruška stops.

We hear screams, the bang of firecrackers. Standing on the icy pavement, we’re not alone, a few other people have stopped to watch the crowd with us. And some are pretty nervous. An older lady in a flowered scarf with bags in both hands steps in front of Maruška, puts down her bags, salutes, and jabbers something. Maruška nods, points her towards the crowd, the woman picks her bags back up and scurries off.

What did she want?

She asked if she could pass.

She thought you were a cop, huh?

And then I hear a voice from a megaphone, it’s telling us to get out of here quick, that much I understand.

They run towards us, maybe they came through the crowd, I don’t know, men running towards us with shields and batons. One of them passes the woman Maruška talked to, a swipe of his arm and she flops to the ice, bags scattered around her.

The men come to a stop in the middle of the street and lean on their shields. I glance behind me and see some young men with long wooden sticks. A couple more running closer. Someone hurls a can, it slams against a shield, a cloud of smoke engulfs the cops.

Maruška takes my elbow.

Come on, let’s get out of here, they’ll move, they’ll let us go.

Around the corner it’s quiet. We turn back into one of those long drawn-out streets, striding beneath the enormous facades. I wonder if there’s a pub nearby where we could talk.

That was a protest, Maruška says. We get them all the time now. Don’t worry.

I won’t! You know any pubs around here?

We’re on assignment.

Right! So who is this Kagan, anyway? I ask. The name has stuck in my head.

He’s from the ministry too. He’ll be receiving you as a foreign expert.

In what?

The revitalization of burial sites.

All right, I say. So you know this guy well, this Kagan?

Yeah, very.

We keep striding along these straight, seemingly endless streets. Some with cars zooming by, some without. They all merge into one for me. What time is it? We had breakfast, what about lunch? I don’t know and I’m not going to ask. I don’t know where we are, either, and I don’t care.

Her bag bangs against my hip, that’s how close we are. Her head by my shoulder. Hair slipping out from under her beret. I wish I could touch it.

We walk, we keep walking. I don’t know any city except for my native fortress town and a few glimpses of Prague. So why do I feel so on edge here? The palaces are amazing. Straight, long, solid walls. Now I know what’s bothering me. I can be seen from all sides, just like on Central Square. Right, but in Terezín there were passages through the walls, and catacombs underneath them, and in Prague you could just slip into the nearest winding lane.

Here I’m out in the open. Where would I hide?

Do these buildings lock their doors? I ask.

Depends on the caretaker. The dezhurnaya .

This city is starting to get on my nerves.

Hey, Maruška, what’s with all the right angles here, anyway?

It’s all rebuilt. What you had in Prague, pshaw, that was nothing! A couple of buildings bombed. Here whatever the Nazis didn’t bomb or shoot to pieces, the Soviets finished off. After the war we had to rebuild. No more dark little alleys where people lived scrunched up like rats in a cage. No: nice wide boulevards. So the sun can get in everywhere. Sorry to say, but it’s pretty dirty and smelly in Prague.

It is not! This place is weird.

This is Sun City. It was a project after the war for the happy people of the future. They built cities like this in lots of places. Wherever a town had been burned down. They weren’t for everyone, though.

Why not?

Every Sun City had a burial site on the outskirts.

I didn’t know that.

You should. That’s why you’re here.

It is?

Shit! There are no taxis. We’ll have to take the underpass, OK?

Whatever you say, Maruška! You know best.

We stand waiting to cross the street. A feeble glow comes from the shop windows. It’s as gloomy now as it was in the hotel dining room. The clouds overhead are still swollen, ready to let loose the snow.

A gap in the traffic opens up. We run across and then down some stairs into the underpass. There are flowers strewn all over the ground, flowerpots, wreaths, burning candles. Maruška leads me through the crowd, shouldering past anyone who won’t move for her uniform.

A chill comes from the concrete. Somebody strums a guitar. A couple of people light candles from each other. Behind them yawns the dark maw of the underpass. That’s where the cold is coming from. A draught tugs at the candle flames.

Maruška, look!

A rat flashes past through the shadows. Now I can make out words in the hum of the crowd. Somebody’s saying names, women’s names. People around us are crossing themselves and bowing at the waist.

I guess we’re not going to get very far with the underpass either.

She grabs my hand and drags me through the crowd, bumping into people.

We stop at the coffin. That’s what they were all bowing to. The coffin is surrounded by pools of red and yellow wax. A girl lies inside. In a white dress. No, silver. A princess. Long hair, headband covered with pearls and glittering stones. She looks nice. I lean over the coffin, look at her face. It’s a mannequin. A fake. Maruška’s still holding my hand. We slowly walk around the coffin. Now we’re right at the entrance.

That’s a bride, you saw a bride, Maruška whispers to me.

There are candles flickering here too.

The girls that died in here are called brides, Maruška says, in a normal voice now. There were fifty-three of them.

During the war, huh?

No. In ’99.

What?

There was a concert. Awesome line-up: Mango Mango, I love them, Maruška says. She points to the wall. Scratches in the plaster. You could see them in the candlelight.

There were claw marks all over, Maruška says. The crowd crushed them up against the walls and the bars, down there. She waves her hand, there’s a grille. They got suffocated and trampled to death. High-heel wounds all over their bodies. The girls had their nicest dresses on, for the concert, of course. And they wore really high heels back then. Stilettos, they call them. Nasty things. I never wore them. I was at the concert too.