HHhH Бине Лоран

109

In the first draft, I’d written: “squeezed into a blue uniform.” I don’t know why, I just imagined it being blue. It’s true that in photos Gring often sports a pale blue uniform, but I don’t know what he was wearing on that particular day. He might just as easily have been in white, for example.

I’m not sure if this kind of scruple still makes much sense at this stage.

110

Bad Kreuznach, August ’41. The second German fencing championships have just taken place. The twelve best fencers of the Reichsonderklasse [literally “elite class of the Reich”] have been chosen and will receive a gold or silver medal from the NSRL (National Socialist Society for Gymnastics). In fifth place comes an Obergruppenfhrer [did the magazine editors make a mistake, or are they toadying up to Heydrich by giving him an anticipated promotion?] of the SS and general of police: it’s Reinhard Heydrich, the head of the Gestapo and the SD. He joyfully received the congratulations of the public, but his whole attitude breathed the modesty of a true victor. Those who know him know that rest is, for him, an alien concept. No rest and no relaxation: that is his first principle, whether with regard to sport or to service.

(ARTICLE APPEARING IN THE SPECIALIST MAGAZINE GYMNASTICS AND PHYSICAL EDUCATION)

Those who know him know that, above all, it’s better not to skimp on praise for this tremendous thirty-six-year-old athlete, nor to dwell on how stressed the judges might have been feeling when they had to decide whether to validate a strike against the head of the Gestapo. Nor is it a good idea to mention Commodus or Caligula, both of whom fought in the arena against gladiators who knew perfectly well that it was not in their interests to win against the emperor.

During the tournament, though, Obergruppenfhrer Heydrich seems to have behaved quite well. One day, when he cursed a judge’sdecision, the tournament director put him curtly in his place by telling him, in front of everyone: “In fencing, the only laws are those of sport, and nothing else!” Stunned by the man’s courage, Heydrich didn’t even protest.

He kept his fits of hubris for other circumstances. For it was at the time of this tournament in Bad Kreuznach that he would tell two friends (since when did Heydrich have friends?), in vivid terms, that he would not hesitate to neutralize Hitler himself “if the old man gives me any shit.”

What exactly did he mean by that? I would like to know.

111

This summer, at the zoo in Kiev, a man entered the lion’s enclosure. When another visitor tried to stop him, he said, stepping over the barrier, “God will save me.” And he was eaten alive. If I’d been there, I’d have said to him: “Don’t believe everything you’re told.”

God was no help at all to the people who died at Babi Yar.

In Russian, yar means “gully.” Babi Yar, or “Grandmother’s Gully,” was a huge natural ravine just outside Kiev. Today, all that’s left is a grassed-over depression, not very deep, at the center of which is an impressive, Socialist-style sculpture commemorating those who died there. But when I went, the taxi driver showed me the place where Babi Yar had been. He took me to a kind of wooded gorge where, he explained through a young Ukrainian woman who acted as my translator, the bodies had been thrown. Then we went back to the taxi and he dropped me off at the memorial, nearly a mile away.

Between 1941 and 1943, the Nazis made of Grandmother’s Gully what is probably the largest mass grave in the history of humanity. As the commemorative plaque makes clear—in three languages (Ukrainian, Russian, and Hebrew)—more than 100,000 people perished here, victims of fascism.

More than a third of them were executed in less than forty-eight hours.

That morning in September 1941, the Jews of Kiev turned up in the thousands to the meeting point where they’d been summoned, carrying their personal effects. They were resigned to being deported. Little did they suspect the kind of exit the Germans had in mind for them.

They realized too late—some on their arrival, others not until they reached the ditch’s edge. The process was quick: the Jews gave up their suitcases, their valuable objects, and their identity papers, which were torn up in front of them. Then they had to walk between two lines of SS guards who beat them with truncheons and clubs. If a Jew fell, they let the dogs loose on him. Either that or he was trampled underfoot by the panic-stricken crowd. At the end of this infernal corridor, emerging into a hazy landscape, the stunned Jews were ordered to undress completely, then conducted naked to the lip of a gigantic ditch. There, even the most obtuse or the most optimistic must have abandoned all hope. They screamed with terror: at the bottom of the ditch was a pile of corpses.

But the story of these men, women, and children does not end above this chasm. Because, with a very German concern for efficiency, the SS—before shooting them—first made them descend to the bottom of the ditch, where a “crammer” was waiting for them. The job of this “crammer” was similar to that of an usher at a theater. He led each Jew to a pile of bodies and, having found a suitable place, made him or her lie facedown, naked and alive, on top of naked corpses. Then another guard, walking on the dead bodies, put a bullet in the back of the neck. A remarkable customization of mass killing. On October 2, 1941, the officer in charge of the Einsatzgruppe at Babi Yar wrote in his report: “Sonderkommando 4a, in collaboration with group staff and two commandos of Police Regiment South, executed 33,771 Jews in Kiev on September 29 and 30, 1941.”

112

I’ve just learned of an extraordinary story that took place in Kiev during the war. It happened in 1942 and none of the main characters of Operation Anthropoid is involved, so theoretically it has no place in my novel. But one of the great advantages of the genre is the almost unlimited freedom it gives the author.

In the summer of 1942, Ukraine is governed by the Nazis with characteristic brutality. However, they wish to organize soccer matches between the various occupied and satellite countries of the East. Now, it happens that one team soon distinguishes itself with a series of victories over Romanian and Hungarian opponents: FC Start, a team hastily assembled from the bones of the defunct Dynamo Kiev, which has been banned since the beginning of the occupation but whose ex-players are reassembled for these matches.

Rumors of the team’s success reach the Germans, who decide to organize a match in Kiev between the local side and the Luftwaffe’s team. The Ukrainian players are told they must make a Nazi salute when the teams line up.

The day of the match, the stadium is full to bursting. The two teams come out on the pitch, and the German players lift their arms and shout “Heil Hitler!” The Ukrainian players also lift their arms, no doubt a disappointment to the crowd, who see the match as an opportunity to show some symbolic resistance. But instead of shouting “Heil Hitler!,” they close their fists, bang them against their chests, and yell: “Long live physical culture!” This slogan, with its Soviet connotations, sends the crowd wild.

The match has hardly begun when one of the Ukrainian strikers has his leg broken by a German player. At the time there were no substitutes, so FC Start have to play on with only ten men. Thanks to their numerical superiority, the Germans open the score. Things are going badly. But the Kiev players refuse to give up, and they equalize to loud cheers. When they score a second goal, the supporters explode with joy.

At halftime, General Eberhardt, the superintendent of Kiev, goes to see the Ukrainian players in their changing room and tells them: “Bravo, you’ve played an excellent game and we’ve enjoyed it. But now, in the second half, you must lose. You really must! The Luftwaffe team has never lost before, certainly not in any of the occupied territories. This is an order! If you do not lose, you will be executed.”

The players listen in silence. Back on the pitch, after a brief moment of uncertainty, and without discussing it, they make their decision: they will play to win. They score a goal, then another, and end up winning 5–1. The Ukrainian fans go crazy. The German supporters mutter angrily. Shots are fired in the air. But none of the players is worried yet, because the Germans believe they can avenge the insult on the pitch.

Three days later, a return match is organized, and promoted by a poster campaign. The Germans send urgently for reinforcements: some professional footballers come from Berlin to strengthen their team.

The second match kicks off. The stadium is full to bursting again, but this time it’s patrolled by SS troops. Officially, they are there to maintain order. As before, the Germans score first. But the Ukrainians never lose faith, and they win the match 5–3. At the final whistle, the Ukrainian supporters are ecstatic but the players look pale. The pitch is invaded, and in the confusion three Ukrainian players disappear: they will survive the war. The rest of the team is arrested and four of them are sent immediately to Babi Yar, where they are executed. On his knees at the edge of the ditch, Nikolai Trusevich—the captain and goalkeeper—manages to yell, before getting a bullet in the back of the neck: “Communist sport will never die!” The other players are murdered one by one. Today, there is a monument to them in front of Dynamo’s stadium.

There are an unbelievable number of different versions of this legendary “death match.” Some say there was actually a third game, won by the Ukrainians—with a score of 8–0—and that it was only after this that the players were arrested and killed. But the version I’ve recounted seems the most credible to me, and in any case all the versions share the same broad outline. I’m worried that there are some errors in what I’ve written: since this subject has no direct link with Heydrich, I haven’t had time to investigate more deeply. But I didn’t want to write about Kiev without mentioning this incredible story.

113

The SD reports are piling up on Hitler’s desk, denouncing the scandalous leniency of the Protectorate’s government. Acts of sabotage; a still-active Resistance; seditious conversations overheard in public; an expanding black market; an 18 percent fall in production; the Czech prime minister’s relations with London… according to Heydrich’s men, the situation is explosive. With the opening of the Russian front, the productivity of Czech industry—one of the best in Europe—is now becoming crucial for the Reich. The koda factories must work flat out to support the war effort.

Despite being paranoid, Hitler is not a complete fool. He must know that Heydrich has a vested interest—coveting, as he does, Neurath’s position as Protector of Bohemia and Moravia—in discrediting the old baron by making things look as black as possible. At the same time, Hitler loathes weakness. He isn’t too keen on barons either, for that matter. The latest news is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. A call to boycott the occupation newspapers, made by Bene and his clique in London, has been taken up to a remarkable extent by the local population for a whole week now. In itself, this isn’t a big deal, but it shows how much influence the Czech government-in-exile still exerts. And what it says about the local population’s overall state of mind is not very comforting for the occupying forces. When you bear in mind Hitler’s sworn hatred of Bene, you can guess at how angry this must make him.

Hitler knows that Heydrich is a rising star ready to do anything to further his own ambitions. This doesn’t shock him, though, and for a good reason. Couldn’t the same thing have been said about Hitler himself? Hitler respects Heydrich because he combines fierceness with efficiency. If you add to this his loyalty toward the Fhrer, you get the three elements that make the perfect Nazi. And that’s without even mentioning his pure Aryan appearance. Try as Himmler might to be “faithful Heinrich,” he can’t compete with this blueprint. So it’s likely that Hitler admires Heydrich. Along with Stalin, that would make him one of the few living people to have had this honor. What’s more, Hitler seems not to have been afraid of Heydrich—surprising, for a paranoiac like him. Perhaps he wanted to stoke the fires of competition between Heydrich and Himmler? Perhaps he believed, as he confided to his Reichsfhrer, that the dossier on Heydrich’s supposed Jewishness was a guarantee of his devotion? Or perhaps the Blond Beast was such a perfect incarnation of the ideal Nazi that Hitler couldn’t imagine him capable of betrayal?

In any case, he must have called Bormann to organize an emergency meeting in his Rastenburg HQ. Summoned immediately: Himmler, Heydrich, Neurath, and his assistant Frank, the Sudeten bookseller.

Frank is the first to arrive. He’s about fifty and has a deeply wrinkled mafioso’s face. Over lunch with Hitler, he paints a picture of the Protectorate that confirms the SD reports in every detail. Himmler and Heydrich arrive next. Heydrich makes a brilliant speech in which he outlines the problems and proposes solutions. Hitler is impressed. Neurath, delayed by bad weather, gets there the next day—but by then his fate is already sealed. Hitler uses the same tactics as when he wishes to strip a general of his command: enforced sick leave. The position of Protector is now up for grabs.

114

On September 27, 1941, the Czech press agency, controlled by the Germans, sends out the following press release:

The Protector of the Reich of Bohemia and Moravia, Reich minister and honorable citizen Herr Konstantin von Neurath, has decided that it was his duty to ask the Fhrer for prolonged leave due to reasons of health. Given that the present war situation means the Protector must work full-time, Herr von Neurath has asked the Fhrer to temporarily relieve him of his duties, and to name a replacement for the whole length of his absence. In view of the circumstances, the Fhrer could not refuse this request, and he has named Obergruppenfhrer and police general Heydrich as Protector of Bohemia and Moravia for the entire duration of Reichsminister von Neurath’s illness.

115

In order to occupy such a prestigious post, Heydrich is promoted to Obergruppenfhrer, the second-highest rank in the SS hierarchy—subordinate only to Himmler’s h2 of Reichsfhrer. The only rank that surpasses that is Oberstgruppenfhrer, and in September 1941 nobody has reached that level yet. (There will be only four Oberstgruppenfhrers by the end of the war.)

So Heydrich savors this decisive step in his irresistible if somewhat meandering rise. He phones his wife, who is not very taken by the idea of moving to Prague. (She claims to have said to him: “Oh, if only you’d become a postman!” But she is so conceited and complacent that it is hard to imagine her ever having such a regret.) Heydrich replies: “Try to understand what this means to me. It’ll be a change from doing all the dirty work! Finally, I will be something more than the Reich’s dustbin!” The Reich’s dustbin: so that’s how he defined his duties as head of the Gestapo and the SD. Duties, by the way, that he would continue to fulfill with the same efficiency as before.

116

Heydrich arrives in Prague the day that his appointment is announced to the Czech people. His airplane, a three-engined Junkers 52, lands at Ruzyne Airport around noon.

He goes to the Esplanade Hotel, one of the most beautiful in town, but he obviously doesn’t spend long there, because that same evening Himmler is able to read his colleague’s report, sent by teleprinter:

At 15:10, ex–prime minister Eli was arrested, as arranged.

At 18:00, also as arranged, the arrest of ex-minister Havelka took place.

At 19:00, Czech radio announced my appointment by the Fhrer.

Eli and Havelka are being interrogated now. For diplomatic reasons, I must convene a special assembly in order to bring Eli to justice before a popular tribunal.

Eli and Havelka are the two most important members of the Czech government that is collaborating with the Germans under Hcha’s presidency. They have nonetheless maintained regular contact with Bene in London—a fact known to Heydrich’s spies. This is why they are immediately condemned to death. Although, after thinking about it, Heydrich decides not to execute the sentence straightaway. It is, of course, only a temporary reprieve.

117

The next morning, at eleven o’clock, Heydrich’s investiture takes place in Hradany Castle, or Hradchine, as the Germans call it. The vile Karl Hermann Frank—the Sudeten bookseller turned SS general and secretary of state—greets Heydrich amid great pomp in the castle courtyard. An orchestra, summoned for the occasion, plays the Nazi hymn “Horst Wessel Lied.” Then Heydrich inspects the troops while a second banner is hoisted next to the swastika that flies above the castle and the town: a black flag embossed with two runic Ss, signaling that another rung has been climbed on the ladder of terror. From now on, Bohemia and Moravia are, almost officially, the first SS state.

118

That same day, two great leaders of the Czech Resistance are executed: General Josef Bil and Major General Hugo Vojta. They were found guilty of fomenting an armed uprising. Before his death, General Bil shouts: “Long live the Czechoslvak Republic! Now shoot me, you dogs!” These two men—yes, two more—do not really have a role to play in my story. But I felt it would be disrespectful not to even mention their names.

Along with Bil and Vojta, nineteen former Czech army officers are killed, four of them generals. The crackdown begins in the days that follow. A state of emergency is declared throughout the country. All gatherings, indoors or out, are forbidden in accordance with martial law. The courts now have only two options, whatever the charges: acquittal or death. Czechs are sentenced to death for distributing pamphlets, selling goods on the black market, or simply listening to foreign radio stations. Each new law is announced by a red poster in two languages, and soon the town’s walls are filled with them. The Czechs learn quickly who their new master is.

And the Jews, of course, learn even more quickly. On September 29, Heydrich closes all the synagogues and announces the arrest of any Czechs who, in protest against the recent law forcing Jews to wear a yellow star, decide to sport them in sympathy. In France, a year later, there will be similar shows of solidarity, and anyone imprudent enough to take part will be deported “with their Jewish friends.” In the Protectorate, however, all of this is only a prelude.

119

On October 2, 1941, at Czernin Palace—now the Savoy Hotel—situated at the end of the castle’s enclosure, Heydrich sets out his political creed as interim Protector of Bohemia and Moravia. Standing with his hands on a wooden pulpit, his iron cross hanging over his heart, his wedding ring visible on his left hand, he addresses the leaders of the occupation forces. He wishes to educate his compatriots:

“For tactical reasons relating to the war, we should not provoke the Czechs into action, nor push them to the point where revolt seems their only option.”

This is the first aspect of his policy. There are only two: the carrot and the stick. The stick comes next, although the dialectical balance between the two is uncertain:

“The Reich will not be mocked, and the Reich is master in its own house. This means that no German should let a Czech get away with anything, in the same way that no Jew should be allowed to get away with anything in the Reich. No German should say that a Czech is a decent person. If someone says that, we should expel them. If we don’t form a united front against Czechness, the Czech will find a way to cheat us.”

After that, Heydrich—who is unaccustomed to making public speeches, and is certainly no Cicero—moves to the illustratio:

“No German can allow himself to be seen smashed in public. Let’s be frank about this: we can get drunk, and we can relax—nobody has anything against that—but we must do it within four walls or in the officers’ mess. The Czech must see that the German holds himself straight, in both military and civil life. He must see that we are the master, the lord, from head to toe.”

After this odd example, the speech becomes more specific—and more threatening.

“I want to make the citizens of this country understand, without any ambiguity and with an unshakable firmness, that they are part of the Reich—and, as such, owe their allegiance to the Reich. This is an absolute priority dictated by the imperatives of war. I want to be certain that each Czech worker gives his all to help the German war effort. To be clear, this means that the Czech worker will be provided for according to how well he works.”

Having dealt with the social and economic aspects, the new interim Protector now moves on to the racial question. He can, after all, justifiably claim to be one of the Reich’s first specialists on this subject:

It is obvious that our approach to the Czech people must be completely different to that of other races, such as the Slavs. The Czechs of Germanic origin should be treated firmly but with justice. We must guide them with the same humanity we show our own people if we wish to keep them in the Reich for good, and to make them mix with us. In order to decide who is fit for Germanization, I need to make a racial inventory.

We have all kinds of people here. For those who are of a good race and are well-disposed toward us, things are simple: they will be Germanized. At the other end of the spectrum—those of inferior races with hostile intentions—we must get rid of them. There’s plenty of room for them in the East.

Between these two extremes, there are others whose cases we must look at more carefully. There are racially inferior people who are favorably disposed toward us. This type can be moved, whether in the Reich or elsewhere, but we must ensure that they do not reproduce, as we have no interest in their development. In the long term, these non-Germanizable elements—who we estimate at about half the population—can be transferred later to the Arctic, where we are building concentration camps for the Russians.

That leaves us with one group: those who are racially acceptable but ideologically hostile. These are the most dangerous, because they belong to a race of leaders. We should ask ourselves very seriously what should be done with them. Some can be rehoused within the Reich, in a purely German environment, in order to reeducate and Germanize them. If that proves impossible, we must put them up against the wall. We cannot allow them to be sent to the East, where they might form a class of leaders who could turn against us.

I think he’s covered all the bases there. Notice, by the way, this discreet and euphemistic metonymy: “to the East.” Although his audience doesn’t know it, what Heydrich means by this is “to Poland,” and more specifically “to Auschwitz.”

120

On October 3 in London, the free Czechoslovak press formally records a change of politics in Prague with this headline:

“Mass Murders in the Protectorate.”

121

One of Heydrich’s men was already running things there two years before. In 1939, Eichmann—having done such a good job in Austria—found himself in charge of the central office for Jewish emigration in Prague before being promoted to head of Jewish affairs at the RSHA in Berlin. Today, he returns to Prague at his master’s summons. But in two years things have really changed. From now on, when Heydrich organizes a conference, it is no longer to discuss “emigration” but “the Final Solution of the Jewish question” in the Protectorate. These are the facts: 88,000 Jews live in the Protectorate, of whom 48,000 are in Prague, 10,000 in Brno, and 10,000 in Ostrava. Heydrich decides that Terezn will be the ideal transportation camp. Eichmann takes notes. Transportation will be quick—two or three trains a day, with a thousand people on each train. Following the tried-and-tested method, each Jew will be allowed to take one piece of luggage (without padlock) containing up to fifty kilos of personal belongings. In order to simplify the Germans’ task, he should also carry enough food to last him between two and four weeks.

122

Newspaper and radio reports relay developments in the Protectorate to London. Sergeant Jan Kubi listens as a parachutist friend tells him about the situation in his homeland. Murders, murders, murders. What else? Since Heydrich’s arrival, every day is a day of mourning. People are deported, tortured, hanged. What monstrous new details have plunged Kubi into this state of shock today? He shakes his head and, like a stuck record, repeats: “How is it possible? How is it possible?”

123

I went to Terezn once. I wanted to see the place where the poet Robert Desnos died. Coming from Auchwitz, and passing through Buchenwald, Flossenburg, and Flha, he ended up—on May 8, 1945—at the liberated camp of Terezn. But during the long, exhausting death marches that preceded this, he caught the typhus that would kill him. He died on June 8, 1945—in death as he was in life: free—in the arms of two young Czech nurses, a man and a woman, who loved surrealism and admired his works. Another story I could write a whole book about: the two young nurses were called Josef and Alena…

Terezn—Theresienstadt in German—was “a fortified town built by the Empress of Austria to defend the Bohemian quarter from the grasp of the Prussian king Frederick II.” Which empress? I don’t know. I’m borrowing this sentence—because I like it—from Pierre Volmer, Desnos’s companion and the witness of his final days. Maria Theresa? Of course—Theresienstadt, the town of Theresa.

In November 1941, Heydrich turns the town into a ghetto—and the barracks into a concentration camp.

But this is not all there is to say about Terezn. Far from it.

Terezn was not like the other ghettos.

It was used as a transportation camp: the Jews there were waiting to be deported eastward, to Poland or the Baltic countries. The first convoy left for Riga on January 9, 1942: a thousand people, of whom 105 would survive. The second convoy, a week later, also went to Riga: a thousand people, 16 survivors. The third, in March: a thousand people, 7 survivors. The fourth: a thousand people, 3 survivors. There is nothing unusual in this dreadful numerical progression toward 100 percent. It is just another sign of the Germans’ famous efficiency.

But while the deportations continue, Terezn has to function as a Propagandalager—a showcase ghetto for the eyes of foreign observers. The ghetto’s inhabitants must put on a good show during visits from the International Red Cross.

At Wannsee, Heydrich announces that German Jews decorated in the First World War, German Jews over the age of sixty-five, and certain famous Jews—the Prominenten, too famous to disappear overnight without a trace—should be kept at Terezn, in decent conditions. This is done out of consideration for German public opinion, somewhat aghast by 1942 at the politics of the monster it has nurtured since 1933.

In order for Terezn to work as an alibi, the Jews must appear well treated. This is why the Nazis allow them to have a relatively well developed cultural life, with art and theater encouraged—under the vigilant control of the SS, which asks everyone to wear their most winning smiles. And it works. The Red Cross representatives, impressed by their visits, report very positively on the ghetto, its culture, and the treatment of prisoners. Of the 140,000 Jews who will live in Terezn during the war, only 17,000 will survive. Kundera writes of them:

They were under no illusions: they were living in death’s antechamber; their cultural life was exhibited by Nazi propaganda as an alibi; but should that be a reason to refuse freedom, however precarious and fraudulent? Their response was utterly clear: their creations, their art shows, their concerts, their loves, the whole array of their lives were incomparably more important than their jailers’ macabre theatrics. That was their wager.

In conclusion, he adds: “It should be ours, too.”

124

You don’t need to be head of the secret services to see that President Bene is extremely worried. London constantly evaluates the contribution to the war effort made by the various underground movements in the occupied countries. And while France—thanks to Operation Barbarossa—is benefiting from the input of Communist groups, the Czech Resistance is practically nonexistent. Since Heydrich took control, the Czech underground movements have fallen one by one, and the few that remain have largely been infiltrated by the Gestapo. This ineffectiveness puts Bene in a very uncomfortable position: as it stands, even if the Allies are victorious, Britain will not want to listen to a discussion about revoking the Munich Agreement. This means that, even in victory, Czechoslovakia would be restored only to its September 1938 frontiers, with the Sudetenland amputated, leaving it far from its original territorial integrity.

Something must be done. Colonel Moravec listens as his president moans bitterly. This humiliating insistence with which the British compare Czech apathy with the patriotism of the French, the Russians, even the Yugoslavs! It can’t go on.

But what to do? There’s no point ordering the internal Resistance to intensify its activities, given its disordered state. So the solution lies here, in Britain. Bene’s eyes must have shone, and I imagine his fist banging the table as he explained to Moravec what he was thinking. A spectacular attack on the Nazis—an assassination prepared in the greatest secrecy by his parachute commandos.

Moravec understands Bene’s reasoning. The Resistance is dying, so reinforcements must be sent from abroad—armed men, well trained and motivated, who will accomplish a mission that sends out shock waves, nationally and internationally. It must impress the Allies by showing them that Czechoslovakia cannot be counted out, and at the same time it must stimulate Czech patriotism so that the Resistance can rise once again from the ashes. I say “Czech patriotism,” but I’m pretty sure that Bene said “Czechoslovak.” I’m also pretty sure that he was the one who insisted that Moravec choose a Czech and a Slovak to carry out the operation. Two men to symbolize the indivisible unity of the two peoples.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. First they must decide on a target. Moravec thinks straightaway of his namesake—Emanuel Moravec, the most collaborationist minister in the Protectorate, a sort of Czech Quisling. But his resonance is too local—no one beyond the country’s borders would care. Karl Hermann Frank is better known: his ferocity and his hatred of the Czechs is legendary—and besides, he’s a German, and a member of the SS. He could make a good target. Then again, if you’re going to choose a German, and a member of the SS…

I can imagine what it must have meant—especially to Colonel Moravec, head of the Czech secret services—the idea of assassinating Obergruppenfhrer Heydrich: interim Protector of Bohemia and Moravia, Hangman of his people, Butcher of Prague… and also head of the German secret services, thus in some ways his opposite number.

Yes. If you’re going to do something, do it properly. Why not Heydrich?

125

I read a brilliant book set against the backdrop of Heydrich’s assassination. It’s a novel written by a Czech, Ji Weil, enh2d Mendelssohn Is on the Roof.

The h2 is taken from the first chapter, which reads almost like a joke. Some Czech workmen are on the roof of the Opera House in Prague in order to take down a statue of Mendelssohn, the composer, because he’s a Jew. The order has come directly from Heydrich, recently named Protector of Bohemia and Moravia, and a connoisseur of classical music. But there’s a whole row of statues on the roof, and Heydrich hasn’t specified which is Mendelssohn. Now, apart from Heydrich, it seems that nobody—even among the Germans—is capable of recognizing the Jewish composer. But nobody dares disturb Heydrich just for that. So the SS guards supervising the operation decide to point out the statue with the biggest nose. Well, they’re looking for a Jew, aren’t they? But—disaster!—the statue the workmen start to remove is actually Wagner!

The mistake is narrowly avoided, and—ten chapters later—the statue of Mendelssohn is finally pulled down. In spite of their efforts not to damage it, the Czech workmen break one of its hands when they’re laying it on the ground. This comic story is based on fact: the statue of Mendelssohn really was knocked over in 1941, and (as in the novel) one of its hands was broken. I wonder if they stuck it back on again In any case, the peregrinations of the poor SS guards in charge of removing the statue—imagined by a man who lived through this period—are an apex of burlesque typical of Czech literature, which is always imbued with this very particular kind of humor, sugarcoated yet subversive. Its patron saint is Jaroslav Haek, immortal author of the adventures of the good soldier vejk.

126

Moravec watches the parachute commandos being trained. Soldiers in combat fatigues run, jump, and shoot. He notices an agile, energetic little man who brings down all his opponents in hand-to-hand combat. He asks the instructor—an old Englishman who has served in the colonies—what this soldier is like with explosives. “An expert,” the Englishman replies. And with firearms? “An artist!” His name? “Jozef Gabk.” A Slovak-sounding name. He is summoned immediately.

127

Colonel Moravec talks to the two parachutists selected for Operation Anthropoid: Sergeant Jozef Gabk and Sergeant Anton Svoboda—a Slovak and a Czech, just as President Bene wished.

“You will know, from newspapers and the radio, about the insane murders being committed in our homeland. The Germans are killing the best of us. This state of affairs, however, is part and parcel of war, so there’s no point moaning or crying about it. We must fight.

“In our homeland, our people have fought. But now they find themselves in a situation that limits their ability to do so anymore. It’s our turn to help them, from the outside. One of the tasks that must be performed as part of this outside help will be entrusted to you. October is the month of our national holiday—the saddest since we won our independence. We must commemorate this anniversary in a dazzling, devastating way. It has been decided that this will be done by an act that will go down in history—just as the murders committed against our people have done.

“In Prague, there are two men who personify this mass extermination: Karl Hermann Frank and Heydrich, the new arrival. In our opinion, and in the opinions of our bosses, you must see to it that one of these two pays for everything—to show them that we’ll fight back, an eye for an eye. This is your mission. You must go back to our homeland, the two of you, so that you can support each other. This will be necessary because, for reasons that will become clear, this is a task you must complete without the collaboration of our compatriots. I mean to say that you won’t receive any real help until your mission has been accomplished. Afterward, you will get plenty of assistance from them. You must decide yourselves how to accomplish your mission, and how long it will take you to do so. You will be equipped with everything we are able to give you. But, for your part, you must act with prudence and consideration. I don’t need to repeat that your mission is of great historic importance and that the risks are high. To succeed, you must rely on your own skill. We’ll talk more about this when you come back from your special training. As I’ve said, the task is serious. You should therefore consider it with an open and loyal heart. If you have any doubts about what I’ve said, tell me.”

Gabk and Svoboda have no doubts. And if the high command was perhaps still hesitating over the choice of target (as Moravec’s speech would suggest), the two of them already know which way their hearts incline them. It’s the Hangman of Prague—the Butcher, the Blond Beast—who must pay.

128

Captain Sustr is talking to Gabk. “The news isn’t good.” Following a parachute accident that occurred during a training jump, Svoboda—the second man of Operation Anthropoid, the Czech—is still suffering from persistent migraines. He’s been sent to London to be examined by a doctor. Gabk must complete his preparation alone, but he already knows that Anthropoid has been postponed. His partner will not go with him. “Do you know anyone among the men here capable of replacing him?” the captain asks.

“Yes, Captain, I know someone,” Gabk replies.

Jan Kubi can now make his entry upon the great stage of history.

129

I’m now going to paint a portrait of the two heroes with much less hesitation than before, as all I need to do is quote directly from the British Army’s personnel reports:

JOZEF GABCIK:

A smart and well-disciplined soldier.

Not the brain of some others, slow at acquiring knowledge.

Thoroughly reliable and very keen, with plenty of common sense.

Self-confidence in practical work but lacks it as far as brain is concerned.

Good leader when sure of his ground and obeys orders to the last detail. He is surprisingly good at signalling.

Also appears to have technical knowledge, perhaps of use (worked in poison gas factory).

Physical training: very good

Fieldcraft: good

Close combat: very good

Weapon training: good

Explosives: good 86%

Communication: very good 12 words/min in Morse code

Reports: very good

Map reading and sketching: fair 68%

Driving:

bike yes

motorbike no

car yes

JAN KUBIS:

A good reliable soldier, quiet, comes in for a certain amount of good-natured teasing.

Physical training: very good

Fieldcraft: good

Close combat: very good

Weapon training: good

Explosives: good (90%, slow in practice and instructions)

Communication: good

Reports: good

Map reading and sketching: very good (95%)

Driving: bike motorbike car

You can’t imagine my joy at discovering this document at the army museum in Prague. Natacha is the only one who could describe it to you, as she saw me feverishly copy down these precious notes.

These reports allow us to sketch the contrasts in style and personality between the two friends: Gabk, the small one, is a fiery ball of energy, while Kubi, the tall one, is more thoughtful and easygoing. All the witness accounts I’ve found support this view. What it meant in concrete terms is that they were allocated different tasks: Gabk got the machine gun, and Kubi the explosives.

Other than that, what I know of Gabk leads me to believe that the officer who wrote the report scandalously underestimated his intellectual capacities. And my feeling is corroborated by Gabk’s boss, Colonel Moravec, who writes in his memoirs:

During the training, he showed himself to be talented, clever and cheerful, even in the most difficult situations. He was open, warm-hearted, enterprising and resourceful. A natural born leader. He overcame all the difficulties of training without ever complaining and with excellent results.

About Kubi, on the other hand, Moravec confirms that he was

slow in his movements, but with great stamina and perserverance. His instructors noted his intelligence and imagination. He was very disciplined, discreet and reliable. He was also very calm, reserved and serious—the complete opposite of Gabk’s merry, outgoing personality.

This book, Master of Spies—picked up at the clearance sale of a bookshop in Illinois—is one of my most cherished possessions. Colonel Moravec had a real story to tell. If I’d followed my instincts, I’d have copied out the whole thing. Sometimes I feel like a character in a Borges story. But no, I’m not a character either.

130

“If you’re lucky enough to escape death during the assassination attempt, you will have two options: try to survive inside the country, or attempt to cross the border and make your way back to the base in London. Both possibilities are extremely risky, considering the likely reaction of the Germans. But to be perfectly honest, the most probable outcome is that you will be kiled on the spot.”

Moravec summons the two men separately, in order to give them the same speech. Neither shows any emotion.

For Gabk, the mission is a war operation, and the risk of being killed goes with the job.

Kubi thanks the colonel for having chosen him for such an important mission.

Both men say they would rather die than fall into the hands of the Gestapo.

131

You are Czech or Slovak. You do not like it when they tell you what to do, nor when they hurt people—that’s why you decide to leave your country and join up elsewhere with your compatriots who are resisting the invader. You go north or south, through Poland or the Balkans, and—after numerous complications—you reach France by sea.

When you get there, things become even more complicated. The French make you join the Foreign Legion and send you to Algeria or Tunisia. But you do finally end up with a Czechoslovak division formed in a town full of Spanish refugees, and you fight alongside the French when they in turn are attacked by the Nazis. You fight courageously and take part in all the retreats and defeats. You cover the never-ending retreat while planes roar through the skies. You suffer through this long agony, which the French call La Dbacle, and for you it is both the first defeat and the last. In the conquered south of France everything is in chaos, but you manage to take off again and this time you land in England. In recognition of your courage in heroically resisting the invader and redeeming March 1939, President Bene decorates you in the middle of a field. You are exhausted, and your uniform is crumpled, but you are standing next to your friend when Bene pins a medal to your coat. And then it’s Churchill himself, leaning on his walking stick, who inspects you and your comrades. You have fought the invader and in doing so saved your country’s honor. But you are eager for more.

You join the special forces and are trained in various grandly named castles all over Scotland and England. You jump, you shoot, you fight, you throw grenades. You’re good. You are extremely charming. You’re a good soldier and the girls love you. You flirt with the young women. You drink tea at their parents’ houses, and their parents think you’re wonderful. You continue to train for the most important mission that any country has ever entrusted to only two men. You believe in justice and you believe in vengeance. You are brave, willing, and gifted. You are ready to die for your country. You are becoming something that grows inside you, and that begins, little by little, to be bigger than you, but at the same time you remain very much yourself. You are a simple man. You are a man.

You are Josef Gabk or Jan Kubi, and you are going to make history.

132

Each London-based government-in-exile has its own reconstituted army, and each army its own football team, and these teams play regular friendly matches. Today it’s France versus Czechoslovakia. As always, there is a large crowd, made up of soldiers of all ranks from many different countries. The atmosphere is relaxed; men in colored uniforms shout encouragements. On the terraces, in the middle of this noisy crowd, we can see Gabk and Kubi, wearing brown army hats and talking animatedly. Their lips move quickly, as do their hands. Their conversation, you guess, is technical and complicated. Only half watching the match, they stop talking whenever a dangerous move gets the crowd on its feet. They follow the action to see what happens, then resume their discussion with the same gusto as before, surrounded by shouting and singing.

France opens the score. The French supporters celebrate noisily.

Perhaps our two heroes’ behavior contrasts so markedly with the engrossed spectators around them that people take notice of them. In any case, they are already the subject of gossip among the soldiers of the free Czechoslovak forces. Their special mission, prepared in the greatest secrecy, gives Gabk and Kubi a mysterious prestige that is intensified by their refusal to answer any questions about it—even when the questioners are their oldest comrades from the evacuation of Poland or the French Foreign Legion.

Gabk and Kubi undoubtedly discuss their mission. On the pitch, Czechoslovakia presses for an equalizer. The number 10 gets the ball near the penalty spot and pulls his foot back to shoot, but is blocked by a French defender. The center forward, lying in wait on the left, picks up the loose ball and fires a powerful drive under the bar. The beaten goalkeeper rolls in the dust. Czechoslovakia has equalized—the stadium explodes. Gabk and Kubi stop talking. They are happy. The two teams leave the pitch after the game ends in a draw.

133

On November 19, 1941, at a ceremony that takes place amid the golden splendor of St. Vitus cathedral in the heart of Prague’s Hradany district, President Hcha solemnly presents the seven keys of the city to his new master, Heydrich. These grand, finely worked keys are kept in the same room as St. Wenceslas’s crown, the Czech nation’s most precious jewel. There is a photo of Heydrich and Hcha standing in front of the crown, which sits on a finely embroidered cushion. It’s said that on this occasion, Heydrich couldn’t resist placing the crown on his head. And according to an old legend, whoever wrongfully wears the crown will die within the year, along with his eldest son.

If you look carefully at the photo, though, you’ll see that Hcha, resembling an old bald owl, is staring at the crown mistrustingly, while Heydrich appears to be putting on a show of somewhat forced respectfulness. I suspect that he’s not really awed by what he might very well regard as a quaint ornament of little value. In short, I wonder if this ceremony isn’t a bit of a bore for him.

There is no proof that Heydrich really did put the crown on his head. I think people wanted to believe this story because it suggested, restrospectively, an act of hubris that could not go unpunished. But I doubt whether Heydrich suddenly believed himself to be in the middle of a Wagnerian opera. As evidence, I offer the fact that Heydrich handed three of the seven keys back to Hcha: a show of friendship designed to give the illusion that the Germans were prepared to share the government of the country with the Czechs. An empty symbolic gesture, to be sure, but the halfhearted nature of this exchange means that the scene loses its potential outrageousness. This is diplomacy at its most formal and least meaningful. Heydrich probably can’t wait for the ceremony to be over so he can go back home and play with his kids or work on the Final Solution.

And yet… if you look more closely at the photo, you’ll see Heydrich’s right hand, partially masked by the cushion on which the crown rests. Heydrich has removed his glove—his right hand is bare, while his left is still gloved. The right hand is moving toward something. In front of the crown, half concealed by the cushion, is a scepter. Now, even if we can’t see it clearly, there are strong reasons to believe that his hand is touching, or about to touch, the scepter. And this leads me to reinterpret the expression on Heydrich’s face. Perhaps it is not boredom but covetousness. I don’t believe he put the crown on his head, because we’re not in a Charlie Chaplin film, but I’m equally sure that he did pick up the scepter—to weigh it casually in his hand. A less demonstrative gesture, but symbolic all the same. And Heydrich, though pragmatic, also had a pronounced taste for the trappings of power.

134

Josef Gabk and Jan Kubi dunk biscuits in the tea made for them by their landlady, Mrs. Ellison. The English all want to help with the war effort in any way they can. So when it was suggested to Mrs. Ellison that she put up these two boys, she agreed with pleasure. Particlarly as they’re so charming. I don’t know how or where he learned the language, but Gabk is fluent in English. Talkative and outgoing, he leads the conversation, and Mrs. Ellison is enchanted. Kubi is more reserved and less at ease with the language, but his good-natured smile and his kindness go down well with the hostess. “You’ll have a bit more tea?” The two men, seated side by side on the same sofa, accept politely. They’ve suffered so many hardships in the past that they never pass up the opportunity to eat and drink. They let the biscuits melt in their mouths. Suddenly, the doorbell rings. Mrs. Ellison gets up, but the door opens before she can get there and two young women appear. “Come in, darlings, I’ll introduce you!” Gabk and Kubi stand up. “Lorna, Edna, this is Josef and Jan—they’re going to live here for a while.” The two young girls move forward, smiling. “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce my daughters.” At this moment the two soldiers must say to themselves that sometimes, after all, there is a bit of justice in this mean, cruel world.

135

My mission involves being sent to my native country with another member of the Czechoslovak army in order to commit an act of sabotage or of terrorism in a place and according to methods which will depend upon the circumstances that we find there. I will do all that is in my power to obtain the results desired, not only in my native country but also beyond it. I will work with all my heart and soul to be able to successfully complete this mission, for which I have volunteered.

On December 1, 1941, Gabk and Kubi sign what looks like a standard document. I wonder if it was used for all the parachutists of all the armies based in Great Britain.

136

Albert Speer, Hitler’s architect and the minister of armaments, should have been Heydrich’s kind of man. Refined, elegant, charming, intelligent, he operates at a cultural level markedly higher than most Nazi dignitaries. He is neither a chicken farmer like Himmler, nor a crank like Rosenberg, nor a fat pig like Gring and Bormann.

Speer is passing through Prague. Heydrich shows him around the city in his car. He takes him to the Opera House, where Mendelssohn’s statue is no longer on the roof. Speer shares his taste for classical music. In spite of this, the two men don’t like each other. Speer, a distinguished intellectual, sees Heydrich as a cultivated thug who unblinkingly carries out Hitler’s dirty work. As for Heydrich, he regards Speer as a competent man whose qualities he admires but who is nonetheless a snobbish, pampered civilian. What bothers him about Speer is that he doesn’t get his hands dirty.

Speer, in his capacity as minister of armaments, has been sent by Gring to demand that Heydrich supply sixteen thousand extra Czech workers for the German war effort. Heydrich does his best to fulfill this request as quickly as possible. He explains to Speer that the Czechs have already been tamed—in contrast with France, for example, which is overrun by Communist Resistance fighters and saboteurs.

The line of official Mercedes cars crosses the Charles Bridge. Speer goes into raptures over the tracery on the Gothic and Baroque buildings. While the streets rush past, the architect in Speer gets the upper hand over the minister. He dreams of various urban developments: this vast unexploited area in the Letna district, for instance, could be used to build a new headquarters for the German government. Heydrich doesn’t say a word, but he’s not keen on the idea of being forced to leave the castle, where he can think of himself as a monarch. In Strahov, near the monastery, which houses one of the most beautiful libraries in Europe, Speer envisions a great German university rising from the earth. He has many ideas for completely redeveloping the banks of the Moldau, and he recommends that the replica of the Eiffel Tower—which sits imposingly on Petn, the highest hill in Prague—be demolished. Heydrich tells Speer of his desire to make Prague the cultural capital of the German Reich. He can’t resist mentioning, with pride, the piece of music he has chosen to open the coming musical season: an opera composed by his father. “Excellent idea,” Speer says politely. (He’s never heard any of Papa Heydrich’s works.) “And when will that happen?” May 26. Speer’s wife, in the second car, examines Lina’s appearance. The two spouses give each other the cold shoulder, apparently. For two hours, the black Mercedeses continue to crisscross the city’s main streets. By the end of his visit, Speer has already forgotten the date of Heydrich Senior’s opera.