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Authors: Pavel Kohout
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their lovemaking. “Forgive me, Jaroslav, my Jarousek, my love,” she begged in a whisper. For a moment her desires seemed hideously carnal and she weighed writing Jindfich not to come.
Then, as if swimming up from the chilly depths, she heard the voices of the first birds as they returned after winter to the treetops and transformed the cemetery into a park. In the breeze she felt a hint of spring scents and her misgivings seemed senselessly cold. Jaroslav was dead; he was changing slowly into earth, which would soon nourish the fresh greenery. Why shouldn’t new feelings grow here too from the love two people bore him, feelings that would join all three of them together?
Barbora had brought water for the bouquet of cowslips and a rag she used to wash the marble stone with its gilded name and two dates. Then, as always, she cleaned out the small blue lantern she had brought for better days: after the February bombing, Praguers had bought up all the unreliable ersatz candles for their cellars, and anyway cemeteries were subject to strict blackout laws. When she had finally finished her prayers, crossed herself, and stepped back from the grave, she bumped into a man.
It frightened her, because she was usually alone here among the dead at noon. The man hastily apologized. His Czech had an unusual accent, but what caught her attention was his odd appearance. The smart black suit, a prewar cut, clashed with a battered brown suitcase. Had he come straight from the train station to a funeral? But there were none scheduled today. Maybe he’d got the time or place wrong?
Of course she had no intention of asking; she simply assured him she was fine and didn’t analyze what else in him disturbed her. She had set off toward the exit when he asked her where he could find the grave of Bedfich Smetana. She led him to it; those with loved ones here followed an unwritten code, helping visitors to find the graves of the national heroes who a hundred years before had revived the Czech nation from a similar deadly slumber.
On the way, she could not help asking where he was from, and was shaken by his story. He had lost his wife and home in the recent bombing of Zlin in east Moravia and had set off for Prague, to his divorced sister’s. Before she got home from work, he told Barbora, he wanted to lift his spirits by visiting some historic sights he’d longed to see since his school days.
As she bade him farewell at Slavin, a piercing wind blew up and he remarked that winter was far from over. She realized what had disturbed her about him, and asked why he didn’t have a coat. It had been in his house, he explained simply, and she reddened with shame that it hadn’t occurred to her. Her wardrobe was still full of Jaroslav’s outerwear, which would have made slim Jindfich look like a scarecrow, and anyway, she’d feel better without them…
“I don’t live far,” she said in a wave of sympathy, “and I still have lots of my husband’s things. You can take something for yourself.”
“God bless you, thank you kindly,” he said in his old-fashioned Moravian way—now she could place the accent! He picked up the bulging suitcase and strode after her.
Assistant Detective Morava had met with Chief Inspector Buback several times already, but never for so long and in such close quarters. First he offered Buback the front seat, then tried at least to leave him alone in the back, but the German more or less ordered Morava to sit next to him; otherwise they’d have to shout at each other, he said. With Beran’s instructions fresh in his mind, he expected the Gestapo agent to press him for information about the police, and was surprised: Buback merely wanted to hear the facts about the four suspects who had been investigated and cleared of the murder in Brno. With the help of Morava’s notebook this task was easily and quickly behind them.
Josef Jurajda, born 5 March 1905 in Olomouc, Moravia (the Brno office had promised to
Then, as if swimming up from the chilly depths, she heard the voices of the first birds as they returned after winter to the treetops and transformed the cemetery into a park. In the breeze she felt a hint of spring scents and her misgivings seemed senselessly cold. Jaroslav was dead; he was changing slowly into earth, which would soon nourish the fresh greenery. Why shouldn’t new feelings grow here too from the love two people bore him, feelings that would join all three of them together?
Barbora had brought water for the bouquet of cowslips and a rag she used to wash the marble stone with its gilded name and two dates. Then, as always, she cleaned out the small blue lantern she had brought for better days: after the February bombing, Praguers had bought up all the unreliable ersatz candles for their cellars, and anyway cemeteries were subject to strict blackout laws. When she had finally finished her prayers, crossed herself, and stepped back from the grave, she bumped into a man.
It frightened her, because she was usually alone here among the dead at noon. The man hastily apologized. His Czech had an unusual accent, but what caught her attention was his odd appearance. The smart black suit, a prewar cut, clashed with a battered brown suitcase. Had he come straight from the train station to a funeral? But there were none scheduled today. Maybe he’d got the time or place wrong?
Of course she had no intention of asking; she simply assured him she was fine and didn’t analyze what else in him disturbed her. She had set off toward the exit when he asked her where he could find the grave of Bedfich Smetana. She led him to it; those with loved ones here followed an unwritten code, helping visitors to find the graves of the national heroes who a hundred years before had revived the Czech nation from a similar deadly slumber.
On the way, she could not help asking where he was from, and was shaken by his story. He had lost his wife and home in the recent bombing of Zlin in east Moravia and had set off for Prague, to his divorced sister’s. Before she got home from work, he told Barbora, he wanted to lift his spirits by visiting some historic sights he’d longed to see since his school days.
As she bade him farewell at Slavin, a piercing wind blew up and he remarked that winter was far from over. She realized what had disturbed her about him, and asked why he didn’t have a coat. It had been in his house, he explained simply, and she reddened with shame that it hadn’t occurred to her. Her wardrobe was still full of Jaroslav’s outerwear, which would have made slim Jindfich look like a scarecrow, and anyway, she’d feel better without them…
“I don’t live far,” she said in a wave of sympathy, “and I still have lots of my husband’s things. You can take something for yourself.”
“God bless you, thank you kindly,” he said in his old-fashioned Moravian way—now she could place the accent! He picked up the bulging suitcase and strode after her.
Assistant Detective Morava had met with Chief Inspector Buback several times already, but never for so long and in such close quarters. First he offered Buback the front seat, then tried at least to leave him alone in the back, but the German more or less ordered Morava to sit next to him; otherwise they’d have to shout at each other, he said. With Beran’s instructions fresh in his mind, he expected the Gestapo agent to press him for information about the police, and was surprised: Buback merely wanted to hear the facts about the four suspects who had been investigated and cleared of the murder in Brno. With the help of Morava’s notebook this task was easily and quickly behind them.
Josef Jurajda, born 5 March 1905 in Olomouc, Moravia (the Brno office had promised to
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