Hermann Frank and the first members of the Czech government are beginning to arrive. The little local hospital is busier than it’s ever been, or ever will be again.
Kubis keeps looking over his shoulder but he is not being followed. He’s done it. But what exactly? He hasn’t killed Heydrich, who seemed perfectly fine when he left him, spraying bullets at Gabcik. Nor has he helped Gabcik, who looked in serious difficulty, with his jammed Sten. As for putting himself out of danger, he is well aware that this is only a provisional escape. The manhunt will begin any minute, and they won’t have much trouble describing who they’re looking for: a man on a bike with an injured face. He could hardly be any more conspicuous. Once again he is faced with a dilemma: the bicycle allows him to escape more quickly but it also makes him easier to find. Kubis decides to dump it. He thinks while he’s riding. Bypass the curve in Holesovice Street, and leave the bike outside the Bata shoe shop in the old Liben district. It would have been better to move to a different district, but each passing second outside increases the likelihood of him being arrested. That’s why he decides to seek refuge with his nearest contact—the Novak family. Inside the workers’ apartment building, he climbs the stairs four at a time. A female neighbor calls out: “Are you looking for someone?” He clumsily hides his face.
“Mrs. Novak.”
“She’s not here just now, but she should be back soon.”
“I’ll wait.”
Kubis knows that good Mrs. Novak never locks her door, precisely in case he or one of his friends turns up. He enters the apartment and throws himself on the sofa. It’s the first respite he’s had on this very long and very testing morning.
The hospital on Bulovka now looks like a cross between the Reich Chancellery, Hitler’s bunker, and the Gestapo headquarters. Shock SS troops are posted around, inside, above, and beneath the building; enough of them to take on a Soviet tank division. Everyone waits for the surgeon. Karl Frank chain-smokes cigarettes as if he’s about to become a father. In fact, he’s brooding: he ought to inform Hitler.
The town is in pandemonium: uniformed men run in all directions. There is a great deal of agitation to very little purpose. Had Gabcik and Kubis wanted to leave the city by taking the train from Wilson Station (although it’s no longer called that) during the first two hours after the attack, they could have done so without any difficulties.
Having got off to a bad start, Gabcik now has fewer problems. He has to get hold of a raincoat—because the description of him broadcast by the Germans will doubtless mention that he doesn’t have one, having dropped his next to the Mercedes—but on the other hand he has no injuries at all, visible or otherwise. He runs until he reaches the Zizkov district, where he stops to catch his breath and calm down. He buys a bouquet of violets and calls at the apartment of Professor Zelenka, a member of the Jindra Resistance group. He hands the bouquet of violets to Mrs. Zelenka, borrows a raincoat, then leaves. Either that or he borrows the coat from the Svatos family, who have already lent him their briefcase—which he also dropped at the scene of the crime. But the Svatoses live farther away, near Wenceslaus Square. At this point in the narrative the witness accounts are unclear, and I’m a bit lost. Somehow he ends up at the Fafeks’ place, where a nice hot bath is waiting for him, along with his young fiancee, Libena. What they do, what they say, I have no idea. But Libena knew all about the assassination attempt. She must have been very happy to see him alive again.
Kubis washes his face, and Mrs. Novak applies tincture of iodine to his wounds. The neighbor, a good sort, lends Kubis one of her husband’s shirts so he can change—a white shirt with blue stripes. His disguise is completed with a railway worker’s uniform, borrowed from Mr. Novak. Dressed like this, his swollen face will attract less attention: everyone knows that workers are far more likely to have accidents than gentlemen in suits. But one problem remains: someone has to pick up the bicycle he left outside the Bata shoe shop. It’s too close to the curve in Holesovice Street—the police will soon find it. Happily, young Jindriska bursts in at that very moment: the Novaks’ youngest daughter is hungry after a day at school—people eat lunch early in Czechoslovakia—so, while preparing her meal, her mother gives her an errand: “A man I know has left his bicycle in front of the Bata shop. Go and get it, will you, and bring it back to the yard? And if someone asks you who it belongs to, don’t say anything. He had an accident, and it might make things difficult for him…” As the young girl dashes off, her mother shouts: “And don’t try to use it—you don’t know how! And watch out for cars!”
Fifteen minutes later, she returns with the bike. A lady questioned her, but she did what she was told and didn’t reply at all. Mission accomplished. Kubis can leave now, his mind at ease. Well, when I say “at ease”… obviously I mean as at ease as anyone could be when they know they’re fated to become one of the two most wanted men in the Reich within hours or even minutes.
As for Valcik, his predicament is not quite so delicate, as his participation in the attack has not yet been clearly established. But still, limping around Prague during a state of emergency with a bullet wound in his leg is probably not the best way to secure an untroubled future. So he finds refuge with a friend and colleague of Alois Moravec—another railway worker; another Resistance fighter who has helped the parachutists; another husband of a woman utterly devoted to fighting the German occupation. It’s this man’s wife who lets Valcik in. He’s very pale. She knows him well, having often looked after him and hidden him, but she calls him Mirek because she doesn’t know his real name. With the whole city buzzing with rumors, the first thing she asks him is: “Mirek, have you heard? There’s been an attack on Heydrich.” Valcik lifts his head: “Is he dead?” Not yet, she says, and Valcik lowers his head again. But she can’t stop herself asking the burning question: “Were you in on it?” Valcik manages to smile: “You’re kidding! I’m much too softhearted for that kind of thing.” Knowing from experience that this man is made of sterner stuff, she realizes he is lying. And in fact Valcik does so only as a reflex; he doesn’t really expect her to believe him. She has no idea he’s limping, but asks him if he needs anything. “A very strong coffee, please.” Valcik also asks if she might go into town to find out what people are saying. Then he’s going to take a bath, because his legs hurt. The woman and her husband assume he must have walked too far. It’s not until the next morning, when they discover bloodstains on his sheets, that they understand he’s been injured.
Around noon, the surgeon arrives at the hospital. The operation begins straightaway.
At a quarter past twelve, Frank bites the bullet and rings Hitler. As expected, the Fuhrer is not happy. The worst bit is when Frank has to admit that Heydrich drove around town in an unarmored Mercedes convertible without bodyguards. At the other end of the line, Hitler screams, just for a change. The contents of the Fuhrer’s ravings can be divided into two parts: first, that pack of dogs that they call the Czech people are going to pay dearly for this. Second: How could Heydrich, the best of them all, a man of such importance for the good of the Reich—the whole Reich, you understand—how could he be cretinous enough to be guilty of such self-neglect? Yes, guilty! It’s very simple. They must immediately:
1. Shoot ten thousand Czechs.
2. Offer one million Reichsmarks as a reward for any information leading to the criminals’ arrests.
Hitler has always been fond of figures. And, where possible, nice round figures.
In the afternoon, Gabcik—accompanied by Libena, because a couple always looks less suspicious than a man on his own—goes out to buy a Tyrolean hat. It’s a little green hat with a pheasant feather. He does this to look more German. And this hasty disguise works better than he could have hoped: a uniformed SS guard calls him over and asks for a light. Ceremoniously, Gabcik takes out his lighter and touches it to the German’s cigarette.
I’m going to light one too. I feel a bit like a graphomanic depressive, roaming around Prague. I think I’ll take a pause here.
But only a short pause. We have to get through this Wednesday.
The man in charge of the inquest is Commissioner Pannwitz: the black-coated man glimpsed earlier in the hospital, sent by the Gestapo to find out the news. Judging by the clues left at the crime scene—a Sten, a bag containing an English-made antitank bomb—there is nothing very mysterious about the origin of the attack: London. Pannwitz makes his report to Frank, who calls Hitler back. The internal Resistance is not responsible. Frank advises against mass reprisals because they would suggest that the local population was largely opposed to the Germans. Executing individuals suspected of the crime, or of complicity—and their families, for good measure—would seem the best way of putting the event back in its true perspective: an individual action, organized abroad. Above all, they must not let the public form the unpleasant impression that the attack is an expression of national revolt. Surprisingly, Hitler seems more or less convinced by this argument in favor of moderation. The mass reprisals are put on hold for the time being. However, as soon as he puts the phone down, Hitler starts ranting at Himmler. So that’s how it is, eh? The Czechs don’t like Heydrich? Well, we’ll find them someone worse! At this point, obviously, he needs some time to reflect, because finding someone worse than Heydrich is no easy task. Hitler and Himmler
