The Cowards (52 page)

‘… And on your brave shoulders you bring us freedom,’ I heard, as a breeze wafted Sabata’s voice my way. Nobody could understand what he was saying. But then, even if the doctor had been stammering into a microphone nobody would have understood him. I remembered I really ought to be grateful to him since he’d saved my life just a few days ago. Or maybe not, since Prema and his gang would have turned up sooner or
later. Sabata droned his way through his exalted rhetoric and the courteous general shifted from one foot to the other. Then finally Sabata said a few words without looking at the paper and held out his hand. The general pressed it with enthusiasm and Sabata’s knees almost gave way. People started clapping and then the gentlemen, all gesturing wildly and stepping aside for each other, propelled the general up the steps and on to the podium. The applause and cheering grew louder. The general lumbered heavily up the steps and clutched the railing. He looked really magnificent. His uniform was a bit dusty and his medals glinted in the sunshine. His sweltering face broke into a large white smile and his thick-fingered hands waved in greeting. The crowd’s excitement built to a climax and then slowly ebbed. Everybody quieted down to listen. The general glanced over the assembly and paused dramatically. Then his rough, rasping, heroic voice thundered out over the hushed square:
‘Tovarishchi!’
And a submachine gun started blasting away from a window somewhere. Everything happened with incredible speed. Somebody pushed me from behind and I fell flat on my face. I saw the general bounding off the platform in a single leap, then a whole lot of little white holes suddenly popping up across the front wall of City Hall just behind the platform. I lay there. I watched the gentlemen from the welcoming committee pushing and shoving each other to make their way back to the entrance. The brass band ducked around the corner leaving behind only a couple of white caps and the bass drum. There was bedlam behind me; the square was emptying out fast. The gun barked again I saw people dropping to the ground; those who were a little farther off were crawling towards the houses. It was quiet. The sun shone down. I looked around to see where the shots were coming from. The Russian officers peeked out from behind their cars; the general was standing bareheaded behind a pillar in the doorway now. He had red hair. He was holding a revolver. The submachine gun started blasting away again and you could hear the cracking impact of the bullets as they tore into sheet metal. Whoever it was was obviously trying to hit the Russian officers. I looked around and saw a flash in the attic window of the house next to the
City Hall. Then there was a fainter shot. I turned around again and saw the general, cool as a cucumber, firing his automatic up at the attic window. Another submachine gun started firing from the Russian car; glass tinkled, slate shingles around the window split. Then a couple of Russians ran around from behind the car and dashed towards the house, their pistols drawn. The Russian submachine gun covered them with a short burst. They ran to the door and disappeared inside. It was silent. I glanced around the square. People in their Sunday best were lying on the cobblestones. The whole square was strewn with sprawling bodies; heads peered out from behind the church, behind the well, and behind the statue of St Jan Nepomuk. Two fainter shots suddenly rang out into the silence. The general stepped from behind the pillar, strode slowly over to the plaza in front of City Hall, putting his automatic back into his holster. His red hair gleamed in the sunshine. One of the Russians poked his head out of the attic window and shouted something down to the general. I quickly got up and dusted my knees off. The general looked around. People started getting up and drifting back towards the podium. The general smiled and waved them to come closer. Then he picked his cap up off the ground and mounted the platform again.

‘Eto germanski barbar,’
he shouted at the people with a laugh and a wave of his hand. The crowd burst out laughing and began clapping. Another head appeared in the attic window and then the upper part of his body with one hand dangling limply. I recognized the man’s face. It was Kurt Schnobel. His father had a shop in that building. He’d been fifteen at the time of the invasion and he’d become a first-class Nazi. So he was the one who’d done it. His body dangled half out of the window and then the Russians gave Kurt another shove and he tumbled out and down on to the sidewalk. He fell like a rag doll with outstretched legs and arms and hit the ground with a splat. I watched the people run over and start to kick him but he was dead anyway. Then the general started off on his speech again.
‘Tovarishchi!’

I didn’t understand a single word. After a while I got pretty bored; I looked around at the people. Judging from their faces,
most of the others didn’t understand him either. And then I noticed that the welcoming committee was slowly creeping back to its place up by the platform. They looked around cautiously as if expecting more bullets any minute, but when they saw everything was under control they started applauding like mad. The general kept raising his voice portentously and every time his voice went up a note the crowd applauded.

‘He sure can talk,’ somebody said behind me. It was Haryk.

‘I’ll say,’ I said, and went on listening. About a quarter of an hour later, the general finally concluded his speech. After the applause, Mayor Prudivy stepped up on the platform, took out a sheet of paper, and thanked General Jablonkovski for his address.

‘After six years of unutterable hardship,’ he said, ‘the fraternal Red Army has finally brought us freedom again. Once again we can breathe freely, and now our mothers no longer need to tremble in fear for their children. The hated German intruder has been routed by the heroic armed forces of our Slavic brothers and their Allies.’ He went on like that for half an hour. I gradually stopped hearing what he was saying and, instead, suddenly saw him wearing that same morning coat or cutaway or whatever it was and standing there, in exactly the same spot he was standing now, on that very same platform which they probably stored away somewhere in City Hall, except that then there had been a big
V für Victoria
painted on it and Mr Prudivy was translating Regierungskommissar Kühl’s speech and calling on all citizens to contribute to
Winterhilfswerk
and saying something – not very enthusiastically, granted – about somebody else’s ‘brave shoulders’ which ‘bore the brunt of the fighting’ or something like that, I couldn’t remember too clearly. Then one time he’d been at our place on a visit and had made a big fuss about how Kühl had forced him to translate that speech and both my father and Dr Sabata had hastened to assure him how important it was to have trustworthy patriots in important positions, et cetera. Well, I realized he hadn’t meant it seriously about those brave German shoulders. He wasn’t a collaborator. It was just that he was
always a trustworthy man in an important position. And that’s exactly what he was. And always would be. They could count on him. People like Dr Sabata and Mr Krocan who owned the factory and, well, almost anybody. He was demonstrating that right now, with real flair. He stuck out his chest, stood on his tiptoes, and bellowed, ‘Long live the free Czechoslovak Republic!’

There was wild applause. Prudivy waited and then he shouted, ‘Long live President Benes and Marshal Stalin!’

This time the applause lasted even longer. When it died away, Prudivy gave it everything he had and screamed, ‘Long live our great Slavic ally, the USSR!’

‘Watch out you don’t bust a gut, you Slav slob!’ Haryk muttered behind me. Haryk in particular had a bone to pick with him because Prudivy had made him have his head shaved once. It was when Moravec
*
issued that proclamation about zootsuiters. Potzl, a collaborator, was opening an exposition of paintings by an anti-Semitic artist named Relink or something and Haryk made a special point of turning up in a water-waved pompadour with a sharp porkpie hat on his head and he didn’t take it off the whole time Potzl was speaking. He even offered his own opinion of the artist in question and Potzl heard him and started screaming that it was a provocation and Mr Prudivy, who was standing nearby as a National Confederation delegate, got scared and he and Potzl led Haryk off to the barber shop. Later he apologized to Haryk’s parents, saying he had no choice, that otherwise Potzl would have denounced him and so on. And the only reason he himself had gone to the exposition in the first place was because he had to, being chairman of the National Confederation. I kind of felt sorry for the guy. He always had to do things he really didn’t want to do. And so now there he was again, welcoming the Red Army. He had to do that, too, so nobody would bring up all those other things he’d had to do before. All right. He’d always been dependable, as my father used to say. And he’d go on being that way. You could count on him. When I looked up at him standing there on the podium I figured this revolution probably wouldn’t change things too much after all.

The crowd roared with enthusiasm and Mr Prudivy concluded his speech. The general turned and started shaking hands. The brass band struck up a march. The celebration was over. The dignitaries surrounded the general and towed him into City Hall. I turned to Haryk.

‘So I’ll see you at two at the Port?’

‘Right,’ said Haryk.

‘You going home?’ I said.

‘I’m going to see that Lucie gets back.’

‘Well, so long.’ I turned and pushed through the crowd. I started home. I walked along thinking about Irena, wondering why she hadn’t come. A funny buzzing started up in my head and people’s backs seesawed pointlessly in the sunshine ahead of me. Everything started to seem unreal. The celebration, the general, the German terrorist, and Irena who’d been so close to me just the day before that she’d been the whole purpose of my life. I knew she was dumb but I needed her and her silly chatter. Right now I needed her somehow. It was as if something was wrong with me and with the people around me and I needed Irena so I could think about her and wouldn’t have to think about those other things which suddenly, out of nowhere, were getting all mixed up in my brain – the general and Mayor Prudivy, the sweet stink of those Russian wagons, that leaflet we found last winter, Prema and the machine gun which had been put away again in the warehouse – and it all made a chill run down my spine and I was depressed or dissatisfied or something, God only knew. I just wished Irena were there. She didn’t know beans about life or, when you come right down to it, that everything is just a lot of nonsense and suffering, and so she had her own silly, vague idea of some sort of gorgeous, happy, cosy life, and all I felt was that funny chill. And, still, I needed her. I loved her. Or else it was just because I was alone and suffering from depressive melancholy, as they called it, and from that strange confusion of the world which, up until recently, had seemed somehow simpler, in spite of the fact that there’d been the war. Or maybe because of it. In any case, life made some sort of sense. Now I was nothing but a living corpse. We all were. Me, Mr Kaldoun, Mr Moutelik. Everybody.
They’d made a living corpse out of me and I didn’t know for the life of me whether there was somewhere some magic potion that would bring me back to life. I went past our house in the direction of the brewery. I went up the stairs to Irena’s apartment and rang the doorbell. Her mother came to answer it.

‘Good morning, ma’am. Is Irena home?’ I asked.

‘No, she isn’t, Mr Smiricky. She went out this morning and hasn’t come back yet.’

‘Aha. Well, I’ll drop by this afternoon,’ I said.

‘May I give her a message?’

‘No. I’ll drop by again. Thank you, and good-bye.’

‘Good-bye, Mr Smiricky.’

She shut the door and I went down the stairs. Everything disgusted me. And I knew where Irena had gone. I remembered the sofa and the brown shades and I was sick with jealousy. I shook my head and hissed between my teeth. That helped a bit. I went home.

Mother opened the door. ‘It’s a good thing you’re here, Danny,’ she said. ‘The Englishmen are leaving.’

‘Oh?’ I said. ‘How come?’

‘They’ve made up a special train for them.’

‘I see,’ I said, and I went into the room. Father was sitting at the table with the younger Englishman, Siddell. In front of them stood an open bottle of wine left over from New Year’s Eve and Siddell’s eyes were sparkling. He looked rested and he was freshly shaved.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘Hello, Danny,’ said Siddell.

‘Where’s the sergeant?’ I asked.

‘He’s already gone to the station,’ said Siddell.

I sat down. ‘Well, so you’re going home, right?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ said Siddell.

‘You’re glad, aren’t you?’

‘It’s been five years,’ he said.

I started to eat. Father was making conversation with the Englishman in his broken German. There was a white tablecloth on the table and our best plates. I thought about Irena.
After lunch Father poured everybody a glass of wine. We stood up.

‘So,’
said Father.
‘Auf glückliche Reise nach Hause!’

‘Your health,’ said Siddell.

We drank. It was half past one.

‘I’ve got to be going,’ said Siddell.

We all got up from the table and started saying good-bye. The Englishman said thank you, Father shook his hand and grinned at him. I took my saxophone out from under my bed and went to the door.

‘I’ll go with you,’ I said.

The street was shady. Most of the people were indoors eating lunch. You could hear people singing from over by the station and the singing came closer and just then a column of Russians marched past the Hotel Granada in their rumpled uniforms with an officer in front and they were singing. Their chests were full of medals and they had submachine guns on their backs and the song they were singing was strange. It gave me the same feeling as that procession this morning. Their voices sounded full and wild and alive and just then I felt a deep and awful longing for something and I didn’t know for what – for life, maybe, God only knew, or for Irena, for a different kind of life than this one – and I stopped, under the spell of those bellowing soldiers, and looked at those men marching by and at their mouths that opened and shut rhythmically and out of which all those sounds were coming, and Siddell stopped, too, and then all of a sudden, out of the clear blue sky, he yelled ‘Long live the Red Army!’