Peter Pišťanek - The End of Freddy

On the other side of the Polygon, Kubeš runs down into the village. In the grocer’s near the little castle, he buys a newspaper and ends up in Pavel’s Pub , with pork brawn and a beer.

* * *

On Monday morning, Sosna summons both submarine commanders and their first officers to join him in the crisis room.

“I shan’t waste your time with pointless preambles,” says Sosna. “The time’s come to tell you about the mission that we’ve prepared you for.”

Sosna walks up to a big map.

“This is the Junja archipelago,” he says. “It lies beyond the Arctic circle. All the details of its geography, population, industry, and political situation you’ll find in a file in front of each one of you. I assume that, if you read the papers, you’ll have some knowledge of the present situation. For our purpose we need now to focus on two important facts: first, some of the population is of Slovak origin and the Czechs have backed their fight for independence ever since the conflict broke out.”

Sosna makes a dramatic pause, as if considering whether he should mention the second point.

“The second fact is one that you will not find discussed in the press,” he continues after a moment, “and it concerns our own wellbeing, rather than our relationship to this fraternal nation. From casual remarks by Junjan Slovaks who came here on a visit, our intelligence analysts learned interesting facts. We therefore secretly sent a group of experts to the Junjan archipelago to carry out a geological survey. Their findings have made a big impact on our military secret service: under the archipelago are the world’s biggest oil deposits. Luckily, they are so deep that no satellite has found them. On the island of Öggdbardd, the biggest and the main island of the whole archipelago, oil comes to the surface. The locals of Slovak origin have for generations travelled there for fuel. Gentlemen, when drilling starts, Kuwait and Saudi Arabia can pack up. They’re finished! According to preliminary findings, this is the purest oil ever found anywhere. Luckily for us, the local population of Slovak origin have managed to keep the existence of these deposits secret from the Junjans as well as from their former Soviet rulers and the present fascist regime. The Czech Crown believes that it is necessary to help the Junjan Slovaks attain independence. It is a moral issue and accords with the Masaryk-Havel traditions of the Czech State. Besides, there’s oil and other natural resources, right?”

Sosna shows them another map, showing the sailing route.

“Your secret combat mission is to transport in two submarines type P-45/M humanitarian help for the Slovak resistance: medicine, food, weapons and ammunition. After the victory of the democratic Slovak forces in Junja, the reason for the mission’s strict secrecy will lapse and you will be able to admit publicly your assignment to the Czech navy’s submarine fleet. Until then, not a word is allowed. Your combat mission will be performed in civilian clothing; neither submarine will have national or other identification. In any emergency, the Czech Ministry of Defence won’t acknowledge your mission and so it is in your own interest to avoid situations where you could be discovered, so you won’t be acting the hero for no reason.”

The vice-admiral passes cigars round.

“This is the most secret and most dangerous mission in the history of the Czech military and secret service as such,” he says, “including World War Two and the assassination of Heydrich. This is why you will have to keep the mission’s goal secret from your crews until the last moment. Submarine Number 1 will sail with its cargo on February 1st. Which crew mans it will be decided by your scores, as before. That seems to be all for now. Any questions?”

The four men are shocked into silence.

“This looks like a very simple mission, sir,” says Kubeš. “What’s the catch?”

Sosna laughs.

“You’ve earned a point, Mr. Kubeš,” he says. “Naturally, there’s a catch, and I won’t hide it from you. I’d have told you even without prompting from Lieutenant Commander Kubeš. Well: the extraterritorial waters round the Junjan archipelago are patrolled by Russian navy ships. Russians keep out of the conflict, they observe strict neutrality, but, in fact, what they’re doing round Junja is really a naval blockade. Our information is that helicopter gunships and torpedo ships check all ships headed for the archipelago. You’ll have to break a blockade. That’s why the submarines.”

Sosna gets up, to show that the meeting is over.

“You’ll make it, gentlemen,” he says and, against regulations, shakes the hands of all four men.

“We expect the warrant officers and non-commissioned officers to join us this afternoon,” he says. “I’d like you to be their superior officers and commanders straight away. And now, gentlemen, off to work!”

* * *

Life is cruel and merciless: even a dead man is two days’ work.

Junjan Slovak proverb

When the Soviet system collapsed in Russia, the hunters’ collectives in the Junjan islands disintegrated. The real workers, the Slovak trappers and hunters, sensed that the Junjan officials no longer had any backing. The officials were not shot, as they were by the nomads, nor were they tipped into the sea, as they were by Slovak fishermen. The trappers just stopped delivering pelts to the trading posts. They preferred to work the pelts themselves and sell them in the cities, or to adventurous Norwegians, Swedes or Americans whose ships strayed too close to the shore in the summer. Only now did the Slovaks realise how valuable white and blue fox pelts and reindeer skins were. An American would pay as much as two or three paper dollars for a pelt, depending on quality. And those paper dollars would buy in Űŕģüllpoļ or Ćmirçăpoļ more goods than the Slovak trappers had ever seen before.

The Üngütür ököltott (Morning Glory) officials had no one to exploit and were left without support. The permanently drunk Bolshevik commissar Yasin cleared the settlement warehouse, loaded it onto a ship and went back with his sidekicks to the motherland. Gargâ’s Junjan officials were helpless without their Russian Bolsheviks. Russian ships stopped bringing tinned food, vodka, tobacco, coffee, and diesel for the electric generator. The decline was irreversible. The Junjans began to starve.

Some decided to raid nearby Slovak settlements and make them hand over food. The Slovaks knew that times had changed, kicked the Junjans out, fired in the air, beat them with sticks and set their dogs on them.

For Junjan settlements, hard times had come. Some, the younger and more capable, left for the cities. Only the stupid, old, and helpless were left behind in the settlements. They lived on shore mice and fishing. Now and again they stole something from the Slovaks, but the latter soon began to keep an eye them. They left nothing outside even at night, and moved everything into their yurts. Their dogs guarded their natural ice-block refrigerators outside.

Gargâ settlement lay under a hillside on the steep shore. Former collective farm officials lived there. Their yurts were poor and jerry-built. Some were large, with a domed roof, others were small, roofed with cardboard and plastic bags. In the middle of the settlement was the collective’s once proud fur-trading post. Of the huge one-storey warehouse building only the massive foundations and remnants of the installations were left. Plywood insulation panels, bits of corrugated iron roof, columns and all the interior equipment had been taken by the settlement’s inhabitants. The huge diesel generator, left to rust, had not been moved. It was no use to anyone, and, besides, the Junjans were afraid of it. Even now, cold and motionless, it stuck out in the chilling wind like a big black shadow. The Junjans made a big detour round it.