The Cowards (27 page)

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Only you’ve got to. I’m very sorry about that.’

‘Don’t you think, sir,’ said the sergeant, ‘we might simply pass through town – without going through all these formalities?’

‘But what do you want to do?’

‘As I say, we want to reach the Americans.’

‘But you can’t get through to them. There’s a revolution going on in Prague.’

‘What?’ the sergeant asked, shocked.

‘A revolution.’

‘The communists?’ he asked in a tense whisper.

‘I don’t know. All I know is it’s a revolution against the Germans.’

‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘But then the Americans must surely be there by now.’

‘No. They aren’t there.’

‘But we heard that the Third Army was already in Czechoslovakia.’

‘They are. But they stopped at Pilsen.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘About two hundred miles from here.’

‘Great God!’ said the sergeant. ‘Why aren’t they advancing?’

I shrugged. He turned to his companions. The men – there must have been about twenty of them – huddled around me and the old bowlegged sergeant told them something which I couldn’t make out because he spoke too fast and too English for me. All around us the stream of fleeing men flowed on. The Englishmen stood in a tight group by themselves, keeping their distance from the swarm of others. They were English. Then the sergeant turned to me.

‘Listen, friend,’ he said. ‘I take it we can trust you?’

‘Sure,’ I said with a real American accent, which made me feel good.

‘Tell me then, is it true that war’s broken out between the Russians and the Western allies?’

‘What?’ I yelled and this time I sounded even more American than before.

‘A war,’ said the sergeant slowly and distinctly so I’d understand. ‘Between Russia and Great Britain and America. Understand?’

‘That’s nonsense,’ I said, and suddenly remembered a nice expression I’d read once in some article about Ford. Ford, apparently, had used it about history. ‘That’s bunk,’ I said.

‘You’re quite sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘But that’s what they told us.’

‘Where?’

‘In camp.’

‘Oh, they’ve been pulling your leg,’ I said, this time in very
British English. ‘That’s the Germans for you. That would suit them fine – a war between Russia and the West.’ I was surprised myself how well my English came out.

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said the sergeant.

‘Of course I’m right. How long ago were you captured?’

‘I was in the rearguard at Dunkirk. It’s been five years now.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said and felt respect for the old guy. ‘Listen, you can trust me completely. I think the best thing for you to do is wait here for the Russians. You are welcome here in Czechoslovakia.’

‘Thank you. Well then, I suppose we should stay,’ said the sergeant. ‘What do you say, men?’

The Englishmen started muttering among themselves.

‘There wouldn’t seem to be much choice,’ said the Scotsman.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘Then come with me.’ I walked between the tall thin man and the sergeant as we headed towards the square. The stream of people swept us along. Flags were flying again from people’s windows and the morning sun made their colours look brighter than ever. The white-lettered backs of the Russian POWs bobbed along in front of us and the sun brightened the letters. I noticed that the Englishmen stuck close together. You could tell they felt strange in that seething mass of people. I felt strange and different there, too. I felt there was danger in the air, as if all those heads were full of hidden violence, though I knew very well they weren’t, and that all these poor Mongolians were thinking about was food. I was still subconsciously parroting the racial lines that Goebbels had drummed into us. As we passed the loan association building, a whole troop of police came out of a side street, led by Chief Rimbalnik. They marched quickly off in the direction of the ghetto. Mr Rimbalnik was pale but otherwise as pompous as ever in his corset and white gloves. The blue-uniformed police plunged into the dirty grey sea of prison camp fugitives and made their way over to the other side of the square. A couple of bearded, ragged old gipsies respectfully stepped aside for Mr Rimbalnik, probably out of respect for that corset of his. No wonder. That corset had made lots of people respect him. That and those gold epaulets on his uniform. An SS man
made a pass at Mrs Cuceova in her store once – she was the pastry shopkeeper’s young widow – just as Mr Rimbalnik walked in. He had a crush on the widow himself and when he saw how that SS man was trying to feel around with her, he turned red as a beet and bellowed at him in perfect German and the SS man just clicked his heels, saluted, and left. Probably never seen a blue uniform like that in his life, with all those gold epaulets, and thought Rimbalnik was some kind of admiral. Or else that corset subconsciously reminded him of Prussian drills and he forgot all about race. God knows. Anyhow, after that performance, Mr Rimbalnik nearly fainted and the widow had to revive him with rum in her kitchen in the back of the shop. Though maybe Mr Rimbalnik was just putting on an act. He had a crush on her and finally, they say, he got what he was after.

We made our way past the loan association office as far as the square. It was bright with the sun and swarming with people. A long line of people, some in uniform and some not, stretched all the way from the City Hall to the church. Most of them were men but there were some women, too. And mostly they were the bright green Soviets, lots of them, with bunches of civilians and people wearing other uniforms mixed in. At the corner just ahead of us stood a handful of soldiers wearing blue uniforms. One of them, a swarthy little guy, came up to us and asked something in French. My bowlegged sergeant started talking to him. I couldn’t understand a word.

‘Wait here,’ I said. ‘I’ll see what’s going on at City Hall.’ I took the army armband out of my pocket and put it on my sleeve. Then I started elbowing my way towards City Hall and the armband helped. People stepped back for me on both sides so I got through without too much trouble and also got a chance to take a look around. People were standing and sitting all around on the pavement, most of them silent. The Mongolians interested me. When I looked at them, they smiled broadly and their small eyes almost disappeared in the deep creases of their flat faces. Lots of them wore long, droopy Mongolian moustaches and all of them stank of straw or stables or something like that. It was as if they carried around the scent of
vast virgin lands in them though, God knows, it was probably just a concentration camp smell, I said to myself, because the Germans hadn’t pampered these inferior races like they had my Englishmen, yet even in spite of living in those camps they’d somehow never lost that country smell, that smell of horses and straw. I wanted to say something to them but I didn’t know what, so I said in English, ‘Cheer up, boys,’ which made me feel pretty heroic, and then I passed by a bunch of curly-headed Italians and when I said ‘Cheer up, boys’ to them they all clustered around and one of them, a handsome dark-skinned guy with a real beard already shaping up under the stubble, started jabbering away at me but I couldn’t understand what he was saying until suddenly I realized he was mixing a few words of English in with a lot more Italian. ‘Americano?’ he said. ‘Army Americano?’ No, no, I said and kept right on going and finally there I was at City Hall. Two soldiers with fixed bayonets stood at either side of the door and between them was Mr Kobrt, wearing a white armband with a red cross on it. They were only letting one small bunch in at a time. Mr Kobrt was yelling at the weary, ragged fugitives in a mixture of Russian and German. They looked tiny in front of him because he had a hyperproduction of the hypothesis, or something like that anyway.

‘Good morning,’ I said.

‘Good morning,’ he said without even bothering to look at me. He’d collared a couple of gipsies and was bawling them out. I stood there watching him and gradually came to the conclusion that I wasn’t going to get all caught up in this organization. I could just imagine that bunch of bureaucrats sitting around a table inside asking these bedraggled characters for their name and religion and all the rest of it so everything would be in order and so Mr Machacek would have plenty of material for his history of the Kostelec uprising. Then I noticed they were roughing a Russian around and decided then and there that I’d look after my Englishmen myself. I’d been an Anglophile for as long as I could remember, especially since the time I fell in love with Judy Garland, and now here was my chance to do something about it. And I knew plenty of people
around town. And suddenly I felt like taking care of these guys. And putting them up in the most comfortable houses in Kostelec. Sure. At Dr Sabata’s. At the Mouteliks’s Wholesale Notions. At Dr Vasak’s. All sorts of places they could stay came to mind and I was convinced the ladies of the house would welcome them. Because they were Englishmen. Sure. The little Mongolians could sleep on the floor in Lewith’s cafeteria but my Englishmen would snooze in Dr Vasak’s guest room. I glanced over at Mr Kobrt and saw he was busy barking away at some muzhik in the doorway and I decided to skip the whole thing and turned and made my way back through the crowd. I was lucky.

Before I got back to my Englishmen, I bumped into Dr Vasak’s wife at the corner by the cigar store. She was standing there in a white linen dress without any stockings on and the hair on her legs glistened like gold. She had a red stringbag in her hand and around her neck a string of big blue beads.

‘Good afternoon,’ I said, and smiled. She smiled back a very affectionate smile. Yes. Dr Vasak’s wife was fond of me. I used to sit with her and her husband and my parents at Sokol Hall Saturday nights during the war, and while other people discussed the war, we just looked at each other.

‘Could I ask a favour of you?’

‘Why, of course,’ she said with that same nice smile.

‘Well, you see, the thing is I’ve got these Englishmen – boys who fought at Dunkirk – and I’d like to find a nice place they could stay for a few days, because … well, you can see for yourself,’ I said, gesturing towards the colourful, stinking crowds all around us. ‘And, after all … I mean, they’re Englishmen.’ I paused and looked at Mrs Vasakova as though she would naturally understand what that meant.

‘I’d be glad to, Mr Smiricky. Of course,’ she said. ‘How many do you have?’

‘Well, how many do you think you could take?’

The doctor’s wife thought a moment. She looked at me with her pretty blue eyes and tapped the sidewalk with the heel of her little white shoe. My God, I thought, those guys are in for some welcome all right.

‘Would four be enough?’ she said.

‘Why, of course. Four would be fine,’ I said, and smiled at her.

She smiled, too, and then added quickly, ‘And how many do you have?’

‘About twenty,’ I said. ‘But I hope I’ll find other people as helpful as you’ve been.’

‘Wait a minute. Go to my sister-in-law’s. Tell her I sent you, will you? Mrs Heiserova, the managing director’s wife.’ She looked happily excited, but when she saw I was still smiling, she blushed. ‘I’m sure she’ll take in a few too,’ she said a bit more stiffly.

‘Thank you very much.’

‘Be sure to call on her. And say I sent you.’

‘I certainly will. And thanks again.’

‘And now where are these Englishmen of yours?’

‘Would you mind coming along with me?’ I said, and took her over to meet her Englishmen. They were still standing there on the corner and they saw us coming but it wasn’t me they were looking at.

‘Do you speak English?’ I asked her.

‘Unfortunately, I don’t. But perhaps some of them know French or German.’

‘I’m sure they do,’ I said. We stopped and Mrs Vasakova smiled at the Englishmen. The Englishmen smiled back at Mrs Vasakova and the biggest smile came from the bowlegged sergeant.

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘I’ve fixed it so you won’t have to register. Now I’ll take you around to some of the best families where you’ll be put up for a few days.’

‘Splendid,’ said the tall, hollow-cheeked redhead. ‘Thank you very much, friend.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘This is Mrs Vasakova who’s been kind enough to offer to take four of you in at her place.’

They all beamed again and Mrs Vasakova beamed back. I turned to the sergeant. ‘Sergeant, pick four men, and it would be good if they could speak French. Mrs Vasakova speaks French.’

‘I speak French,’ said the redheaded Scot and turned to the doctor’s wife.
‘Je parle français, madame,’
he told her. The doctor’s wife smiled again.

‘Well, I know some French ways,’ said a broad-shouldered, smooth-shaven Don Juan with a bandaged head. He grinned.
‘Merci, madame,’
he said to the doctor’s wife. She smiled and I glanced at the sergeant and saw he was following the whole scene with great interest.

‘Two more, sergeant,’ I said. ‘Two more to go.’ The sergeant snapped to attention and looked his men over.

‘That’s the lot. Nobody else speaks French,’ he said and then turned and, with a glint in his eye, added, ‘except for me.’

‘Yes, but I’m going to need you. You’re the commander here,’ I said. Looking dejected, he about-faced, paused, and gave his order, ‘Kilpatrick and O’Donnell, fall out,’ and two well-built but wiry men emerged from the crowd. No doubt about it, he certainly knew how to pick a team for the doctor’s wife.

‘Aye, aye, sir,’ said one of the men and grinned.

‘That’s it, then,’ said the sergeant.

Looking very slim and pretty in her white dress, Mrs Vasakova stood there surrounded by the four Englishmen, and she laughed.

‘Thank you very much,’ I said.

‘Not at all. I thank you,’ she said with a wink. She’d stopped being so formal with me now.

‘We’ll all meet here tomorrow at nine,’ I told the four and they mumbled that that would be all right with them.

‘Good-bye,’ said the doctor’s wife with a friendly smile, and started off down the street flanked by her imposing escorts.

‘Well, let’s go,’ I said and tried to think where to find places to put the rest of them up. We were walking along under the arcade when suddenly I had a bright idea.