Peter Pišťanek - The End of Freddy

Soon Freddy has a reputation as a reporter with more sang froid than anyone else. After a while, the CNN group staying at the same hotel, or rather workers’ barracks, offers to pay in dollars for his superb shots. Freddy doesn’t refuse. His filming is only a pretext to get himself killed, but, if it’s so good, why shouldn’t it be shown worldwide?

Money doesn’t matter to Freddy, since he won’t benefit from it, but, of course, that’s not what he tells the Americans.

Since Freddy longs for death and has absolutely no interest in living, he reacts with stoic calm during an attack when a bullet hits him and only the camera absorbing most of the bullet’s momentum saves his life. Not much is left of the camera. Freddy throws it at a group of rocks which other journalists are hiding behind. Freddy gets up, blood pouring from his forehead. He turns his body to face where the shot came from. Dying is better than living like this. When one stray bullet whizzes past him, he offers his body to another. He reaches into his jacket for a small automatic Minolta Riva that he bought for some reason at the airport.

“Take cover!” his Czech colleagues shout at him from their shelter. “Take cover!”

Freddy ignores the insistent voices. He ignores the bullets whizzing overhead. He stands tall to photograph Junjan mercenary units finishing off wounded Slovak guerrillas with their rifle butts.

High in the air something whistles and thunders. Freddy turns round. Instinct tells him to throw himself on the ground, but his mind is made up and disobeys. The air warms up for a fraction of a second and from somewhere behind Freddy comes a dull explosion. Flames and black smoke hover over the Czech journalists’ hiding place. The hot blast throws Freddy several metres from the explosion. Another round whistles in the air. A mortar round, thinks Freddy. They’re firing from a mortar. He checks if his camera was damaged when he fell. About a hundred metres from him another round explodes.

Somewhere near Freddy a group of men runs by, weapons in their hands. The smoke has filled Freddy’s eyes with tears, but he can see they are Slovak guerrillas. A burst of machine-gun fire comes from ruined buildings. The guerrillas fall to the ground. One of them quickly throws himself into the Czech reporters’ hiding place, which the mortar round has turned into a crater. Freddy throws himself after him. The safest place in a bombardment is the crater from a previous round; rounds never fall in the same place twice.

There are several dead bodies in the crater and a mass of camera shards. The Slovak guerrilla is wounded; blood oozes from his arm through his torn sleeve. The advancing mercenaries are close. You can hear their hoarse voices and occasional shots. They’re finishing off prisoners, Freddy guesses. And here it is: his longed-for death is imminent.

The Slovak guerrilla sits in the corner, leaning against the crater wall. Freddy feels that he has seen him somewhere before. Yes, he reminds him of a Czech journalist who was always high on something. The guerrilla is tattooed all over, but looks like him. Unlike the slim Doložil, the guerrilla is a big man with black braids. He does not wear glasses, even though his tattoo looks like glasses. Freddy turns round. Doložil is lying there, dead in the mud. his belly ripped open. Freddy throws himself at the corpse and rummages in its pockets. He takes out the international journalist’s card and puts it in the guerrilla’s hand.

“Quick!” he whispers feverishly. “Take this. You will be him from now on. They won’t shoot you. But you’ve got to cut your braids off.”

The guerrilla holds the card in his hands. He looks at the photograph and nods. He takes out a razor-sharp knife and rapidly slashes off his braids. Then he quickly combs his hair with his hand. In an instant his hair is short.

“Wow!” says the astonished Freddy, who’s never seen such quick, neat work in his life.

The guerrilla digs a hole in the semi-frozen ground, buries the braids and knife and fills in the hole with his hands.

“Now put his waistcoat on!” says Freddy and begins wrestling with the corpse. “But quick, quick!”

The guerrilla helps Freddy undress the dead man. He puts on the Czech’s waistcoat. Luckily, there are no sleeves, so he can wear it, even though he is three sizes too large. He still looks like Frankenstein’s monster in this tight waistcoat.

“Put his glasses on!” Freddy hurries him, handing him the journalist’s John Lennon style dark glasses.

The guerrilla can’t see a thing now, but accepts this part of the disguise, too.

“Good: now the camera,” says Freddy, picking up Doložil’s Leica. “It doesn’t matter if it’s broken! Can you hold it? This is how. When they come, you wave your card. From now on you’re a Czech journalist. But you have to play dumb, or else you’ll give yourself away.”

Freddy reads the name on the card.

“From now on, you’re František X. Doložil,” says Freddy. “Do you get what I’m saying?”

“Sure,” says the guerrilla wanly. “God bless you, good man!”

There is a sound of steps near the crater.

“ Ömhünd źzŕitt! (You two!)” shouts a killer with a machine gun. “ Mozćd karmwlltź, prgýz’g agğaä! (Come out with your hands up!)”

Freddy and Doložil climb out of the crater. They both keep their hands above their heads, holding their journalist’s cards.

“ Źžurŕnńrdğ! (Journalists!)” the killer announces to someone behind him in a contemptuous and hateful tone.

Freddy realises that he has no further need of the cassette in his breast pocket. Nor of the Minolta. They search them and do, in fact, take his cassette and camera. Doložil also loses his broken Leica. They are escorted by guards with guns at the ready to a yard.

Other journalists are already gathered there, being interrogated one by one.

“ Du yoo speack English ?” asks a moron in Junjan army uniform. “ Zpreschen sei Dutsch?”

“ Ein bisschen ,” says Freddy.

“What are you doing here?” asks the interrogator.

“I am a CNN cameraman,” says Freddy. “Here is my card.”

“Where is your office?” asks the interrogator.

“I don’t have one,” says Freddy. “I work on my own.”

“Strange,” says the interrogator. “All cameramen have an office. Only Slovak spies work on their own.”

“You can check,” says Freddy. “If you think I’m a spy, shoot me on the spot. Don’t spin it out.”

“Well, we’ll see about that,” says the interrogator. “We’ll put you in an internment camp. If CNN wants you, they’ll ransom you. If they don’t pay in three months, you’ll be liquidated as a Slovak spy.”

This reminds Freddy of the Animal Protection Law.

“Better execute me right away,” says Freddy and opens his green cameraman’s waistcoat, warm jacket, pullover and flannel shirt wide, showing his pink chest. “I’m ready to die.”

The interrogator smiles.

“If you’re a journalist we can get money for, we shan’t kill you,” he says. “At least not right away. If you turn out to be a Slovak spy, you won’t escape death. Take him away.”

The last words were said to two armed men in Junjan army uniform.

As Freddy leaves, he sees the interrogator beginning to interrogate Doložil. Freddy returns.

“He’s a famous Czech journalist,” he tells the interrogator. “Everyone knows him at home. His name’s František Xavier Doložil. Their shelter was hit by a mortar round.”

“So what?” asks the interrogator. “Is your friend dumb that he can’t tell me that himself?”

“Yes, he is,” says Freddy. “Their shelter was hit by a mortar round and he was the only one to survive. He was scared mute. You’ll get a lot of money for him: his weekly paper belongs to a rich Swiss company!”