Perhaps I am writing this book to make them understand that they are wrong.
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An Internet site designed to get young Czechs interested in the history of the village of Lidice, which was utterly destroyed by the Nazis in June 1942, is offering an interactive game, the goal of which is to “burn Lidice in the shortest possible time.”
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The Gestapo is so short of leads you might think they’d given up looking for Heydrich’s assassins. They need a scapegoat to explain this incompetence and they think they might have found one. He is a civil servant for the Ministry of Work, and on the evening of May 27 he authorized the departure of a train full of Czech workers going to Berlin. Given that the three parachutists still haven’t been found, this lead seems as good as any other—so the Gestapo “establishes” that the three assassins (yes, the inquiry has made some progress—they now know that there were three of them) were on board the train. The men from Pecek Palace are even in a position to give some surprising details: the fugitives hid beneath their seats during the journey and got off the train while it made a brief stop in Dresden, where they disappeared into the countryside. It’s true that the idea of the terrorists leaving their own country to take refuge in Germany seems rather daring, but you have to be more daring than that to escape the Gestapo. Unfortunately, the civil servant is not prepared to be the scapegoat, and his defense takes them by surprise: yes, he authorized the train’s departure, but only because he was told to do so by the Air Ministry in Berlin. Goring, in other words. Not only that, but the meticulous bureaucrat has kept a copy of the authorization, stamped by the Prague police services. So if there’s been a mistake, the Gestapo would have to accept its own share of the responsibility. The men from Pecek Palace decide not to pursue this particular lead.
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The idea that finally solves the problem comes from that old soldier Commissioner Pannwitz, clearly a fine connoisseur of the human soul. Pannwitz begins with this observation: the climate of terror deliberately created since May 27 is counterproductive. He has nothing against terror, but in this case it’s inconvenient because it scares off those who might otherwise be tempted to inform. More than two weeks after the attack, nobody is going to risk trying to explain to the Gestapo that they know something but that, up to now, they haven’t admitted it. The Gestapo must promise—and deliver—an amnesty for anyone who comes forward of their own free will and provides information on the assassination, even if they themselves are implicated.
Frank is persuaded by these arguments and decrees an amnesty for whoever provides—
As soon as she hears this news, Mrs. Moravec understands what it means: the Germans are staking everything. If, after five days, nobody has denounced her lads, they will be free from any further fear of informers and their chances of survival will increase considerably. Because, once the amnesty has expired, nobody will dare to go and see the Gestapo. Today, June 13, 1942, a stranger turns up at Mrs. Moravec’s apartment, but there’s nobody there. The man asks the concierge if Mrs. Moravec has by any chance left a briefcase for him. He is Czech but he doesn’t give the password, “Jan.” The concierge says he knows nothing about it. The stranger leaves. Karel Curda has almost resurfaced.
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Aunt Moravec has sent her family to the countryside for a few days, but she herself has too much to do in Prague. She washes and irons clothes, and she runs errands all over the place. In order not to attract too much attention, she is helped by the concierge’s wife. They mustn’t be seen too often carrying packages, and naturally the parachutists’ hiding place must remain secret, so the two women arrange to meet in Charles Square, surrounded by flower beds and crowds of people. After that, the aunt walks down Resslova Street, enters the church, and disappears. Another time, they get on the same tram but the concierge’s wife gets off two or three stations earlier, leaving her bags, and the aunt picks them up. She brings the men cakes still warm from the oven, and methylated spirits for their old stove. She also brings them news from the outside world. The lads are all a bit under the weather, but their morale has improved. Heydrich’s death cannot erase the memory of Lidice, but gradually they come to realize the significance of what they’ve done. Aunt Moravec is welcomed by Valcik in his dressing gown. He looks a bit peaky, but he sports a thin mustache these days—and, my word, how very distinguished it makes him look. He asks for news of Moula, his dog. Moula is fine: he has been adopted by a family with a large garden. The swellings on Kubis’s face have gone down, and even Gabcik has recovered a bit of his old joie de vivre. They are beginning to get organized, this little community of seven: they’ve improvised a sieve from an undershirt and they’d like to try to make coffee. The aunt promises to find some. Meanwhile, Professor Zelenka is working with the Resistance on some very hypothetical plans to get the parachutists out of the Reich. The problem is that Anthropoid was really designed as a suicide mission, so nobody gave much thought to the question of their return. First of all, they must be smuggled into the countryside, but the Gestapo is still under great pressure to arrest them and the city is in a state of maximum alert—so this will have to wait. It will soon be St. Adolf’s day, and as they wish to celebrate this (because, to be clear, Lieutenant Opalka’s first name is Adolf), Aunt Moravec is going to try to get hold of some veal scallops. She’d also like to make them a broth with chunks of liver. The lads no longer call her “Aunt,” but simply “Mom.” These seven highly trained men are now reduced to a state of total inaction, as vulnerable as children, cloistered in this damp cellar and wholly in the hands of this little lady who cares for them like a mother. She keeps repeating to them: “We just have to get through to the eighteenth.” Today is the sixteenth.
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Karel Curda stands on the pavement at the top of Bredovska Street—today renamed the Street of Political Prisoners—which comes out at the central train station. On the opposite corner is Pecek Palace, a dour and menacing presence in gray stone. This huge pile was built after the First World War by a Czech banker who owned almost all the coal mines in northern Bohemia. Perhaps the anthracite-gray facade was designed as a reminder of the origin of his fortune. But the banker gave up the mines and the palace to the government, prudently deciding to leave the country for England just before the German invasion. Even today Pecek Palace is an official building— home of the Ministry of Commerce and Industry. But in 1942 it is the headquarters of the Gestapo for Bohemia and Moravia. Nearly a thousand employees work here at the blackest tasks, in rooms so gloomy it looks like night even in the middle of the day. Located in the heart of the capital and equipped with the latest technology—a printing works, a laboratory, a pneumatic postal service, and a telephone exchange—the building is, from a functional point
