The Cowards (30 page)

‘Mitzi …’ I said in a low voice.

‘Yes?’

‘Would you have any time this evening?’

She grinned. ‘Well, I don’t know, Mr Smiricky.’

‘Please, Mitzi. There’s so much I’ve got to tell you.’

‘Yes? About what?’

‘About how crazy I am about you.’

‘Oh, go on. Since when, Mr Smiricky?’ she said in a slightly sarcastic but still pleasant way.

‘For a long time. Ever since we came here for a visit the first time.’

‘Mitzi!’ a voice called out from the salon. Mitzi stiffened, glanced around, then turned to me and quickly slipped her hand into mine.

‘At the edge of the woods at eight – all right?’ I said.

‘Behind the house?’

‘Yes. Will you be there?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe,’ she said with a look that made my head spin.

‘Well, good-bye now,’ I said and Mitzi squeezed my hand and looked away. I was lucky. Like always. I was lucky with most women. Except with Irena. Jesus, it’d been going on like that for years already.

‘
Kommen Sie herein
,’ Mitzi said to the Englishmen. They went in. Mitzi winked at me and closed the door.

I stood there staring into the big mahogany door and then turned and looked out over springtime Kostelec. I could see the grey factory buildings down below and the backs of the apartment houses in town, the river, the railroad embankment, and then the little houses strung out at the foot of Black Mountain and the woods and the hills and the blue sky above them and over to the left and the red roofs of the new residential section beyond the slums, and the air was clean and wonderfully fresh. Then suddenly, from a long way off, came a hard, low, steady coughing sound interrupted by louder repeated booms. The front – machine guns and artillery – and spring had come and the Protectorate was over. The remaining four Tommies stood there on the path, looking at me. The fat one was sitting on his knapsack, his shirt unbuttoned at the neck, his cap in his hand. He had a crew cut. I walked down the stairs and over to them.

‘Shall we go?’ I said, and we started off down the path towards the garden gate. I looked back at the mansion. Against all those green plants and shrubs it loomed up white and shining, with bits of mica glinting in the stucco and the windows bright with the sun, and in the garden the fountain spouted its plumes of spray into the air. I dragged myself away from the sight and strode along with the Englishmen, the white fence flickering by on the side. My destination was the Vevodas,
where I planned to commit my last act of malice. The sidewalk dropped sharply down towards the creek, then went through Shanty Town and on up towards the new residential section beyond the factory-workers’ district. Shanty Town was just a colony of old freightcars jacked up on to concrete blocks. Goats grazed and snotnosed kids were playing in the grass; blankets and bed linen lay draped over racks to air out. We crossed the creek above the weir and clambered up towards the newer houses. I told the Englishmen to wait at the corner for me and then headed for the building with the lion’s head over the door. That was where District Attorney Vevoda lived with his sour, dumb shrew of a wife. I rang the doorbell. Nothing happened for a long time. Then I heard a faint noise as somebody first opened the peephole. They opened the door just a crack. I could only see a sliver of Mrs Vevodova’s face.

‘Madame,’ I said, ‘I kiss your hand.’

‘Good morning. What do you want?’

‘Madame, I’d like to lodge two English prisoners with you. The town is full of refugees and we’re trying to put our Englishmen up with some of the better families.’

‘Prisoners?’

‘Yes. English soldiers. Prisoners of war.’

‘Well, I really don’t know … my husband’s not at home.’

‘I’m sure your husband won’t object. Dr Vasak’s taken some, and Director Heiser and the Mouteliks and …’

‘And … uh … how many did you say there were?’

‘Just two.’

‘Well, I’m not sure my husband will allow it. There’s little enough room as it is.’

‘Oh, he will. And if he does object, you can always phone us,’ I said. I was eager to unload my two prisoners on her as fast as possible.

‘For how long would it be?’

‘Just two or three days.’

‘Well … what sort of people are they?’

‘What do you mean, ma’am?’ I said, playing dumb.

‘Well, I mean … are they … they’re not filthy, are they?’

‘Ma’am, if they miss their daily bath, they get sick.’

‘Yes, well … I just don’t know what my husband’s going to say to this.’

‘No need to worry about that, ma’am. Thanks very much. I’ll bring them right over.’

‘Well …’ said Mrs Vevodova, but I’d already gone.

‘Go right in. She’s waiting for you,’ I said, shoving the fat one and the runt towards the door. I caught one last glimpse of the runt’s dirty boots and the fat guy’s greasy rear and then turned and hurried off towards town with my last two Englishmen. Just the thought of the mess those soldiers would make of Mrs Vevodova’s place made me happy and I hoped they’d do a thorough job of it. I really longed to see them turn her house into one big pigsty. She was one woman I just couldn’t stand. And so I prayed they’d really mess it up for her. We went down to the main street and headed off towards home.

I took the two Englishmen – their names were Martin and Siddell – upstairs. Mother opened the door and I said they’d be staying with us for a couple days and then I took them to the bathroom so they could wash up. Here in the house, they both suddenly seemed very shy. I left them in the bathroom and went into the kitchen. It was two o’clock.

‘What should I give them to eat, Danny?’ Mother asked.

‘Oh, anything. Boiled potatoes would be all right. Anything.’

‘But I don’t have any meat.’

‘That’s all right, Mother.’

‘How am I supposed to talk to them?’

‘They know German. You have any lunch for me?’

‘It’s been ready for a long time, Danny.’

‘Could I have it then? I’ve got to go out again right away.’

‘My God. Where are you going this time, Danny?’

‘I promised Benno I’d come over.’

‘Danny, be careful. I don’t want you to get mixed up in anything dangerous.’

‘Don’t worry Mother.’

The sergeant appeared in the doorway.

‘Sit down,’ I said, and got up and brought them into the room. Embarrassed, they sat down at the table and rested their
hands on their knees. Mother brought in plates and bowls and served us soup.

‘So,
bitte
,’ she said.

‘Danke, Frau,’
said the sergeant.

We finished the soup off and Mother brought some meat and potatoes.

‘Danny, do you really think I can serve them this?’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s horse meat. I don’t have anything else.’

‘They won’t mind.’

‘Bitte,’
said Mother.
‘Es ist nur Pferdefleisch.’

‘Danke sehr, Frau,’
said the sergeant. We ate.

‘Where’re you from?’ I asked the sergeant

‘London,’ he said.

‘And you?’

‘Liverpool.’

‘Married?’

‘Yes,’ said the sergeant. ‘I’ve got three kids.’

‘Well, you must be glad you’re on your way home.’

‘I am indeed,’ said the sergeant. After a while he said,

‘This is the second time.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘This won’t be my first homecoming.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I served in the first war, too.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said.

‘And I’d go again if there were ever another one.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. You see, I hate the Germans.’

‘I see,’ I said. I didn’t know what to say to that. The sergeant, chewing away on his horse meat, looked at me soberly.

‘Well, fine,’ I said and turned to the other one. ‘Are you married too?’

‘No,’ he said, making a face as if he’d stepped on a nail.

‘Well, then you’ve got something to look forward to too, don’t you?’

‘I should say so.’

‘We’ve got some pretty girls here, don’t you think? You like them?’

‘Oh, very much.’

‘They’re pretty, aren’t they?’

‘Yes. But then, you see, I haven’t had a girl for five years now.’

That kind of shocked me. He said it the same way a man might say he hadn’t had anything to eat for a week.

‘Well, you can have one now.’

‘Really?’ he said with interest. ‘But I don’t have any money.’

This time I made a face.

‘You don’t need money,’ I said. ‘Our girls are good patriots.’

The Englishman chuckled. He was a big, redheaded, husky guy. I thought about Mitzi. Maybe I should do a good deed and let him go to meet Mitzi instead of me. No. If he’d held out this long, he might as well hold out a little longer.

‘Well, I’ve got to be going now,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you this evening. In the meantime, get some rest.’

‘Thank you,’ said the sergeant.

‘Well … good-bye for now.’

‘Good-bye.’

I got up.

‘Will you make up their beds for them, Mother?’ I said.

‘You’re going already, Danny?’

‘Yes.’

‘When will you be back?’

‘Tonight.’

‘Be careful, Danny.’

‘Don’t worry. Good-bye, Mother.’

‘Good-bye.’

I went out the door and hurried downstairs. When I got to the landing I looked back and saw Mother standing in the doorway watching me. She looked worried. I blew her a kiss. She smiled and waved. Then she turned away. I hurried downstairs. Out on the street everything still looked the same. The same grey crowd as before except now, somehow, it seemed to me they were moving faster. I headed down towards the
station but after putting away all that horse meat, walking wasn’t easy.

‘Gnädiger Herr,’
I heard from behind me. Somebody touched my arm. I turned and saw an incredible filthy ugly woman in a striped dress.

‘Bitte, wo ist das?’
she said and held out a piece of paper. Behind her stood a whole flock of other women wearing striped clothing like hers. You couldn’t even tell whether they were old or young. Hunger stared from their eyes. They looked like ghosts. I glanced at the piece of paper. On it was a typewritten message:
‘For Lewith factory cafeteria: Serve lunch to fifteen Jewesses from Schörkenau concentration camp.’
At the bottom there was a round rubber municipal stamp and somebody’s signature.

I handed the paper back to the woman and said, ‘Come with me. I’ll show you the way.’

The woman held up a bony hand and said a few words in a shrill voice to the others. I turned and started off. The whole group followed along behind me. I turned to the woman with the piece of paper and slowed down.

‘You just got out of a camp?’ I asked. She looked up at me respectfully, then came to me as meekly as if I were her master. We walked on side by side.

‘Yes. From Schörkenau,’ she said in an almost reverent tone of voice. I didn’t know what to talk about. She trotted along beside me, alertly and expectantly, and I could tell she was ready to tell me anything I wanted to know, but for the life of me I couldn’t think of anything at all. Just by looking at her you knew everything. I’d heard a bit about the camps. About Schörkenau especially. Some of the guys who’d worked for Luftmetal had told me about the Jewish women from the camp who were laying a spur line there. So I’d heard about the place already. The Jewish woman limped along at my side, her bare feet caked over with dust, her striped clothes hanging on her like on a skeleton.

‘A good thing it’s all over now, isn’t it?’ I said, and as soon as I’d said it I felt how dumb it was. I was sure it must sound insulting to her. I felt guilty. I wasn’t sure why but I felt guilty
anyway. For no good reason maybe, but there I was walking with a full stomach in front of all those women and then, in that same obsequious voice, the woman beside me said, ‘Yes. Yes, it’s a very good thing,’ and then went back to being as alert and attentive and cautious as before. It was embarrassing how servile these women were. Hell, if I could only have told them they didn’t need to act that way any more, that they weren’t in a concentration camp any more and that they had just as much right to everything now as I did or something like that, but I didn’t know how to tell them and I had the feeling it was impossible to, or that maybe I didn’t have any right to tell them things like that, so I didn’t say anything and just kept on going, wishing we were already at Lewith’s. We’d been walking along the sidewalk on the right hand side of the street and, crossing over to the other side in front of the Grand Hotel, had to make our way through a swarm of people. The mixture was still the same – Mongolians, French, Italians, Serbs, and clusters of people in rags – but it seemed to me there were more people than ever now and that they were moving faster. Every once in a while the sea of people parted and a wagon creaked by loaded with children or a skinny nag clomped past with two or three kids on its back. Sometimes somebody on a bike wove in and out along the fringe of the crowd – usually a man in uniform, a Frenchman, or a guy with a
NEDERLAND
patch on his shoulder – but the main current of that human flood flowed steadily by on foot, surging westward through the heat and swirling dust. I cut across that current, me and my Jewish women, and we walked on towards Lewith’s cafeteria. The white concrete building of the new spinning mill – which the firm of Lewith had finished just in time for the Germans – gleamed in the sunshine like a palace and there was a line of refugees, standing or squatting, that stretched the full length of the iron fence. Small bunches of them, led by kids wearing white armbands, were being let into the cafeteria. I took my armband out of my pocket, put it on and turned to the Jewish woman.

‘Could I have your paper now?’ I asked. She handed it to me. We walked down the sidewalk, rows of squatting and exhausted
people to each side, towards the factory gate. Two guys from the Red Cross stood at the gateway. Without a word I handed the paper to one of them. He read it and handed it back to me.

‘Where’s the cafeteria?’ I asked.

‘Around the corner to the left,’ he said, and the next minute he was already busy with another group.