Jachim Topol - Gargling With Tar

Now the altar boys quickly and quietly took off all the various bits of their uniforms and tossed them on the ground, and put on sweaters and trackies and other normal clothes which they had ready, so it took a while, and they also put their sub-machine guns and rifles and grenades and their cool knives in a big pile. Some had Siaz marked on them. Some were quite nice. Then one after another they clambered over the ramparts. It crossed my mind that one of them could be my lovely Hanka’s brother, but I couldn’t ask! I was just a reform school kid who’d skipped his tank unit! They didn’t want me on the crag… I didn’t dare risk it.

So I was sitting with the Bandits, just like old times, listening to all the tales about what had been going on. What surprised me most was the news that since his hero’s death old Mr Cimbura had also become a superstar.

‘What with Vyžlata being a martyr, that makes two Siřem saints,’ Martin called out faintly. ‘Think how happy that would make the sisters.’ And in the glare of the fire he clapped gently, just patting his palms lightly, his cheeks ablaze.

Martin was glad I asked him things, so off he started and the other lads just chipped in now and then… I heard that the extraordinary wartime beatification of Mr Cimbura was decided by no less than the auxiliary bishop of Louny… and that the hero Alexander Dubček was still alive, and he’d sent a messenger to Siřem all the way from Prague with his personal greeting. After all, the entire Czechoslovak uprising — in the suppression of which the best combat troops of five armies were nearly bled dry — broke out in Siřem right after Cimbura’s great act… ‘Dead right,’ the lads chimed in, and here and there one of them tossed a twig on the fire, and Martin handed me his canteen and carried on talking…

‘First they wanted to turn Siřem into a model of collaboration, right? The Radio Free Siřem transmitter really got up their noses… In the five armies and all over Czechoslovakia people had heard about how brilliantly organized our Siaz was, and all zones in revolt looked up to us… We was held up as an example! So that’s why the Soviets decided to bring Siřem to its knees,’ said Martin, and the lads lapped it all up, and it crossed my mind that he wasn’t telling this tale for the first time…

‘The five armies’ TV — the eyes of the entire world — were supposed to see us brought down and made powerless. There were platforms on the square in Siřem for all of them bigwigs and officers and top brass, and, just fancy, collaborators came up to them (they must have brought in actors or something, because a Czech collaborator? That don’t make sense! They hired people) and the collaborators come up and they bring the keys of the town to them cut-throat generals with uniforms all covered with spangles, but it didn’t happen, man… Siřem was meant to be a model of collaboration, but instead it came to symbolize nationwide resistance!’ As he talked, Martin waved his arms about as if the words were straining to get out. He told his tale, but it was not like when Commander Vyžlata told stories to send us to sleep. It wasn’t like Commander Baudyš giving instructions, and it wasn’t like Dago’s babbling on the tank. The lads hung on his every word…

‘Suddenly, Cimbura rides into the square on his wheelchair, pushed along by some old woman. He’s brandishing his crutch and he bellows, “To Moscow!” and he hurls his crutch and sends the collaborators’ keys of the town flying into the dust, honest! And Cimbura wheels himself away from the old biddy, then pours petrol over himself and with everyone looking on sets fire to himself and rides straight at the platform and the platform goes up in flames as if hell itself had opened up!’

Martin spoke very fast, sweat streaming down his face. ‘And so it started! People remembered their oaths and pledges, their dear Czech homeland, and the whole green rang to the tune of “Arise, Ye Holy Warriors of Blaník”, and the Home Guard, headed by Holasa and Kropáček, and Moravčík and Dašler, got to work with a will, and before the anthem “Where is My Home?” came to an end all the Russians were gone from Siřem, at least the ones who were alive; the others were lying around the green in the acrid stench of the charred remains of the generals… The nation rose up after the great Cimbura became a living torch. I saw the live broadcast. The rest you know, eh, Ilya?’

They were all silent. I nodded earnestly, because what could I say? The tank column? Snipers? The gangs in our sector? There was no point.

I sat and watched… then I grabbed a handful of grass and rubbed the mask of axle grease and the blood of insects from my forehead and cheeks. The tea had gone cold, so I used that too… Martin tossed me a sweater he’d picked from the pile left by the altar boys. I stood up, pealed off my tank jacket and hurled it into the flames, then I wriggled out of my tankman’s trousers and tracksuit, which was so covered in oil, sweat and blood (not mine) it was as vile as an old scab, and tossed everything into the fire. It was a good thing nothing was cooking on it.

Martin gave me a nice T-shirt to go with the sweater. I also got an army shirt with the sleeves cut back, and from the pile by the fire I chose other items, big and small, to cram myself into, and I was dressed like the other boys, and that was good. I kept the case with my maps, and the sad remains of the Manual and the Book of Knowledge and put them where they belonged. And when Dýha hung his canteen around my neck, the lads all laughed, and so did I.

Then a sound came down on us. My ears were muffled by that strange sound. I turned towards the heavy sigh that I could hear for the first time: Ooaaargh! And again: Ooaaargh!

It was coming from the mountain above us. I could have missed it, because Martin was talking. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and a shiver ran down my spine. I glanced at the lads. They were all silent.

‘They’ve got prisoners up there,’ it crossed my mind.

‘It’s Baudyš,’ Dýha told me.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ I asked.

‘He’s groaning with pain, man,’ Dýha told me. ‘Moaning with the pain, our hero,’ someone whispered. I was still shivering at the sound. ‘The commander’s studded with all sorts of injuries,’ said someone else. There was another almighty sigh, so loud it seemed to fill the whole dark mountain above us, escaping like air from a giant balloon.

‘We sank a shaft for the commander, just like he wanted,’ Martin said in a whisper.

‘We did it with dynamite,’ whispered Dýha.

‘And people decorated it,’ said Martin quietly, ‘with branches and flowers. The womenfolk swept all the odd bits and pieces of rock out, so it’s all clean and cosy, like in church. You’d never believe it!’

‘Kids took their toys to the shaft to honour the commander,’ Mikušinec said.

‘But now nobody’s allowed near,’ said Karel.

‘At first,’ Mikušinec said, throwing a few branches onto the fire, ‘when our commander breathed like that, the whole mountain shook.’

‘And even animals from Chapman Forest would come!’ said Martin.

‘I never saw none!’ said Dýha.

‘But I did,’ said Martin. ‘And eagles circled over the mountain.’

‘Come off it, man,’ said Dýha, ‘where do you find eagles around here? Magpies maybe.’

‘When our commander ordered us to dig out a shaft, there was birds circling over the mountain!’ insisted Martin.

And again we heard sighs coming from the mountain. Now and again a twig crackled in the fire. I took a sip from a fresh brew of hot tea. All around, beyond the rocky ramparts, darkness was sinking into the forest. My old uniform on the fire had stopped stinking. It didn’t stink for long.