The Widow Killer (29 page)

He wanted to threaten the man with imprisonment, but could not imagine what he would do with him. Bartolomejska Street was out of commission for now, and taking him to Bredovska, the heart of the enemy’s camp, could bring on a stroke. His speech and his escort, however, were enough for the man’s sister.

“Venda,” she beseeched him, “you’ve got to tell them!”

Buback seized the opportunity. “What’s his name? How old is he? Where does he live? What does he do? I won’t rest easy—and neither will you—as long as he’s free, so out with it!”

The housekeeper, no longer the meek little mouse, now showed herself to be the real ruler of this small household.

“Come on, Venda, tell him! Would God hide a villain like that? Why claim that right for yourself in His name?”

As if that decided it, the priest cast an almost thankful glance at her, turned to Buback, and poured forth a sentence he clearly knew by heart.

“Antonin Rypl, born 27 May 1900 in Brno, nationality: Czech; marital status: single; trained as a heating mechanic, then as a soldier; temporarily on an invalid’s pension after a war injury; employed here in Klasterec the last four years before the war as a sexton while his mother was a cook; mentioned during his visit in 1940 that he’d been living in Plzeü since her death… That’s all I know…”

Buback wrote it all down and stood up so sharply that his escort automatically reached for his pistol. The detective nodded to him that everything was in order, but did allow himself a parting shot.

“Before you start your repentance for violating the sacrament of confession, why not do something more useful: pray that the young woman and her child survive.”

Outside he ordered the driver: “To Plzen!”

At some point during the evening—Morava had lost track of time—Beran appeared in the hospital room. The bags under his eyes were heavier than usual; today more than ever he looked like an old Saint Bernard. He did not ask about Jitka; he must have spoken with the doctors himself. Standing motionless behind Morava’s chair, he sadly observed the girl, her hand tightly clasped in the young detective’s. Then he gently clapped him on the shoulder.

“Come with me for a moment…”

Morava seemed eager to obey, as if this experienced and wise man, his teacher, advisor, and second father, could make sure that their beloved Jitka returned from death’s door. The superintendent took him by the arm and silently led him down the hall into another room. On a conference table in the doctor’s office stood Beran’s personal thermos, the one Jitka filled over and over with fresh rye coffee.

As if reading his thoughts, his boss said, “Unfortunately I made this myself, but it’s better than nothing. You have to get something into your stomach.”

Like the mysterious old man in fairy tales, he unwrapped some baked dumplings from a small sack.

“Matlak’s morning snack. He lost his appetite during the raid and is sending them over as… well, just because, what can I say? Eat.”

“I can’t,” Morava blurted.

“You have to. I’ve arranged for you to stay here; this bed is at your disposal, try to nap from time to time when your head feels heavy. And eat.”

Obediently he bit into the dough, chewed, but could not taste the filling. He froze and looked up at Beran.

“And it was my idea…”

“It was, and you did an excellent job. If it hadn’t been for the SS you’d have won.”

Then the superintendent did something no one had ever seen him do before. He stroked Morava’s head.

“Buback says hello,” he continued, practical as ever. “A strange man. He apologized on the phone for the Germans; he had no idea about the raid. The priest gave him the name. Rypl. Antonin Rypl. Buback is in Plzeü and hopes he’ll find him. Eat…”

“Why?” He spat the word out in his hopeless misery.

“What, why? Eat to stay alive.”

“But if she dies, I don’t want to live!”

“I thought you believed in God.”

“How can I believe in God if she dies?”

Beran’s hands rested on his shoulders.

“I can’t tell you that, kid. I’m not a believer. But every once in a while I force evil to a standoff, and that gives me a higher purpose. Maybe it seems I know more about life than you, but right now, next to you, I feel like a schoolchild. I’m alone because I never dared link my fate to anyone else’s. I felt less vulnerable that way, and stronger. But today, by your standards, I’m a poor man. You suffer because you love in a way I never have, and that makes you more experienced than I am. And it’ll make you even stronger in your fight against evil. Eat; now you just need to eat, to make it through.”

Morava obediently bit into the dough again, even though the dumpling was salty with his tears.

“Good work, Morava,” Beran praised him, “good work, good work.”

It was long since dark and noticeably cooler; he cursed himself for choosing a thin overcoat today. On the other hand, it made him blend in; these coats were popular in Plzen, and both office staff and the Skoda factory workers wore them.

Worst of all, since February he’d been taking his own success for granted. Today he’d only taken enough money for the train and lunch. He hadn’t eaten, but even so he could barely afford the ticket back to Prague.

And what then?

During his years in Plzen he had lost contact completely with the rest of his family, who had always been suspicious of the almost matrimonial relationship between mother and son. He greeted everyone here in his building politely, and at work they all acknowledged how handy he was, but aside from her he had never found another kindred soul.

She was the only one who ever loved me!

His intoxicating successes these past few weeks had clouded his reason. The distance between himself and the rest of the world had become proof of his own superiority. Now, at the end of the vicious circle, he stood shivering and hungry at the train station again, and an old fact hit him with renewed force.

I’m alone!

What he still had, he realized, was a knack for self-preservation, which had saved him this morning in Prague. And he still had his luck, he remembered; without it he would have walked blindly into his own destruction.

So there is something!

He was amazed how little it took to shake him free. And he knew where his strength came from. How awful he’d been this morning, cursing her memory as he fled!

Mother, forgive me!

Now he knew what to do. He bought a ticket to Prague from the sleepy cashier. If they weren’t waiting for him here, they’d hardly be waiting there.

And from there I’ll manage!

At the documents division of the Plzeh police they gave Buback everything he needed in a few minutes. If Germans have taught mankind one thing, he thought bitterly, it’s how to track civilians.

From there he called Superintendent Beran. He learned that the raid had ended ingloriously shortly after noon. Not a single extra weapon was found on Prague police premises.

Buback informed Beran where he could find Jitka, Morava, and Litera and requested that he tell the assistant detective he was still on the trail. The superintendent then had a word with the Plzen police, which they correctly interpreted as orders.

Eight men in two cars formed a small convoy; in between them Buback rode alone with his SS escort. He decided not to bring in the local Gestapo, in case they decided to report the expedition to Prague; what if Meckerle sent Rattinger or even Kroloff here after him?

On his way to catch the murderer who’d almost killed Jitka Modra, Buback read through the man’s extensive card file. As a seventeen-year-old apprentice Antonin Rypl had been found unfit for service in the Austrian Army, but a year later was accepted as a volunteer for the new Czechoslovak forces. When the doctors’ board questioned the sudden change in his health, he explained that his mother had made him drink a coal brew to keep him off the front. He thus fell right into a smaller war; as a new recruit, he was sent to cleanse southern Slovakia of Hungarians. He was seriously wounded in action and was granted a temporary pension. Later he worked in his native Brno at a large heating installation firm until it closed during the Depression. After several years apparently spent living on support or off his mother, the Klasterec rectory hired him as a sexton. When war broke out in 1939, he moved to Plzeh and found work as a stoker and janitor at the city theater.

They opened the garret of the apartment building on Prazska Street without any trouble. Inside, it was as clean and orderly as a military sitting room. Or the bedroom of an exemplary little boy, Buback thought. A large photo of a woman approximately forty years old hung on the far wall. The deeply carved features spoke of severity, but certainly not coldness. She must have been an extraordinarily passionate woman! When she was photographed, she fixed her eyes right on the lens—so her son would never be able to escape her gaze? Buback could imagine how here, through this picture, Rypl had begun to talk to her…

Their search revealed nothing. They left an ambush team behind and continued on to the theater; in the meanwhile the local police had surrounded it. The business manager sent for Rypl, but no one had seen him since early that morning. He then took Buback and his escort to the furnace room; it had been closed since February, when the German military hospital had requisitioned their remaining supply of coke fuel. There too there was perfect order in the desk and the tin locker, and not even the slightest clue.

On the way upstairs they had to stop and press against the wall of the staircase as two technicians dragged the last dripping slice of ice past them.

A third man followed them rather perplexedly, carrying five small frozen objects wrapped in wax paper.

Morava mechanically finished the dumplings without tasting them; he drank the coffee, forgetting to sweeten it. The bed went unused. As soon as Beran left he returned to Jitka’s bed, holding her motionless hand and silently watching the nurses and doctors go just as mutely to and fro. He did not ask. He knew that they would tell him if there were any good news.

They came more frequently now with injections, and her breathing became still louder and more ragged. Morava felt himself swimming up out of a shocked numbness; his grief seemed almost a physical ache. Yes, Beran had been right; his suffering was as great as his love for her. But he could not imagine surviving her, or more importantly, wanting to.

At the thought of her death, the whole long life they had dreamed about together the night before was suddenly, unexpectedly, and irrevocably cut short, and none of its possible replacements could hold a candle to the project they had embarked on together. What would he do then? Redouble his fight against evil, as his mentor expected?

But how, when he’d already lost the decisive battle? Evil would laugh as he mourned her.

At moments an intolerable pain twisted his heart and stomach. He tried to staunch this new hopelessness, willing himself to the faith he had always used since childhood to quell his fear of death. For minutes at a time he would emerge from his gloom; surely Jitka could not resist his stare, and any moment now would open her eyes. As soon as it happened, he would easily pull her back among the living.

However, her eyes remained shut and her face began to change, as if once again she were facing unimaginable horrors. He returned to the question that had oppressed him since Beran’s departure.

Why, in all this time, hadn’t he asked God for help?

Because, he admitted, for the first time he was angry with Him. If this was punishment for his sins, then why Jitka and not him? Or was it a test of his humility? In which a pure creature, carrying a child untouched by sin, would meet a cruel death?

The certainties he had grown up with now left him. Doubt filled the void.

Maybe there is no God. What a frightening thought.

Or what’s worse: maybe God exists, and would let Jitka and their child die, leaving him alive.

I don’t want a God like that!

Inwardly he flinched. Would this bring His wrath down on them? Then his resolve hardened: it was the only way to save her.

If He were as just and loving as the Scriptures said, He would be appalled by what was happening and save her.

Three faithfully devoted sheep, or none at all. He would have to decide for Himself.

At the height of his agitation, Morava fell asleep on his uncomfortable chair.

SHE WAS STILL WITH HIM! Only she could have led that guy to his compartment, of all the ones in the almost empty train.

The little fellow was looking for a match to light his cigarette, but failing to score one, he stayed on for a chat.

When he spoke, it was one long salvo of insults against the Reich and its Fuhrer.

At first he thought this half-pint had to be a provocateur, but soon he came around. This was no stool pigeon, just a person who, after six years, had had enough.

It’s starting to break!

At first he listened, then grunted his assent, and after a while they were talking heart-to-heart; he felt himself being drawn in, and waited for her sign. Finally it came. Light filled the cabin, like a ray from heaven.

He saw his old sergeant, Kralik, giving him the thumbs-up as he had done on the Brno shooting range.

I’m a soldier, after all!

He remembered the incident on the bombarded train.

And i have nerves of steel!

And imagination!

Immediately, he confided to the guy in strictest confidence who he really was. The story was so convincing that he believed it himself. With his military background, it was easy to create the impression that he was still active in the now-illegal Czechslovak Army.

By the end of the trip, the runt was bursting with pride. After all, he was sitting in the same compartment as a real parachutist, just back from England!

At Smichov station, he pulled the contents of his bag out of the concrete pipe in the guy’s presence, dispelling any remaining doubts. Of course, he was taking a risk, even there on the deserted railway platform, but now he was sure he was back on track.

Her hand protects me!

His old army pistol clinched the deal. The guy—naive beyond his years!—enthusiastically promised to hide him in his own home.