Mendelssohn is on the Roof (12 page)

Obediently he looked out at the cat. Yes, everything was all right.

‘Goodbye, Adela and Greta,’ he said to them. ‘Give my regards to Mrs Javurek.’

He looked through the peephole to see if anyone was out in the hall. Then he quietly opened the door and tiptoed out of the apartment.

H
E SHOULD HAVE LEFT at nine that morning, but he was delayed because the children kept begging him to tell about his trip: What does Paris look like, what city did his plane fly from yesterday?

They hadn’t seen him in the evening because they were already asleep when he arrived. For Lina to let them stay up late – that would have gone against her principles: discipline must be maintained from early childhood. He brought home many presents – the Paris Gestapo took care of everything – even in 1942, Paris was a wealthy city. Silks for his wife, fine underwear, perfumes, toys for the children, French wines, cognac, olives, shrimps.

He shouldn’t have allowed himself to be delayed by the children when so much work was waiting for him in Prague, and when he was obliged to fly again the next day to Berlin, and from there to Holland. The great plan of the final solution was in full swing. Of course, he’d have to keep everybody on their toes. Things were going well in Prague; the head of the Central Bureau was a capable fellow, and besides, he could supervise him personally. But nothing was working in France – not surprising, in view of French sloppiness and self-indulgence. Instead of chasing the Jews into detention camps, the Office for the Solution of the Jewish Question kept publishing its stupid pamphlets, translated from the German; nobody read them, even though they were distributed free. The French police were unreliable. The Jews escaped across the border into the ‘free’ zone, often with the help of the French authorities.
The most vulnerable ones hid away in Nice, where the Italian authorities gave them a hand, probably for money – why else would the Italians do it? Eichmann’s commissioner was haggling with the locals; here and there they handed over a few foreign-resident Jews. They made excuses, saying that they were unable to recognise who the Jews were unless they had a list of them. One of their stupidest ideas was to hire physiognomists who claimed they could reliably pick out Jews on the street simply by their appearance. He paid those good-for-nothings real money, though they recently picked out the ambassador’s secretary.

All of France was a mess. He had a folder in his briefcase containing all the plans, the figures and quotas. The final solution depended on reliable fulfilment of plans. How was Auschwitz to work properly, how could it use the crematoria and gas chambers at full capacity if the quotas didn’t arrive regularly, if everything was done in a makeshift way, if instead of the required number of Jews from France the Reich’s functionaries had to fish for Jews all the way to the Peloponnese? He’d send Eichmann to make order there, to show those Frenchmen that the Reich wouldn’t stand for such sloppiness. They knew how to steal property, but to send the quotas with regularity, that didn’t interest them.

And in Holland, where he was to go tomorrow, the situation was even worse. There the inhabitants were rebelling against the Jewish laws, and everyone in Amsterdam was deliberately pinning on the Jewish star. He’d show those fat Dutchmen that the Reich could treat them the same way it treated the Jews. The task would be accomplished, no matter what.

Today he had a meeting scheduled with those clowns that called themselves the government of the Protectorate.
First he had scared them to death with the red decrees. Now he’d encourage them a little with some promises.

The children had asked what the Eiffel Tower looked like and whether the Reich flag flew from it. Yes, he’d seen the Eiffel Tower – if you’re in Paris you can’t help seeing the Eiffel Tower. But he hadn’t gone up. What would he have done there? He had other things to do. In fact, apart from the streets he drove through in a closed limousine, he saw nothing of Paris. His wife was curious about French food. He couldn’t tell her about it. He’d eaten whatever they set before him at the German officers’ mess – he couldn’t even remember what it was – he simply gulped down the food and hurried to his next meeting. He had nothing good to say about Paris, a spoiled, good-
for-nothing
city where nobody wanted to work, where people sat around in pavement cafes as if there weren’t a war going on, as if there weren’t air raids and bombings. Except that nobody was bombing them. Paris was undamaged, while Berlin was covered with rubble. But the French would pay heavily for it after the war.

He was impatient. The day had started somewhat
inauspiciously
because of the delay; Frank was surely waiting for him in his office by now. Everyone had grown accustomed to discipline and punctuality – he set them a good example. This was the first day he hadn’t left at the exact time he was supposed to. And Paris? He had only taken a quick look at the Madeleine, because the Leader had stopped there on his way into the subjugated capital city.

A driver wearing an Oberscharführer’s uniform brought Heydrich’s open car to the back wing. The clock read ten past ten. Heydrich sat next to the driver in order to hurry him. Two flags bearing the sovereign insignia of his rank
flew from the front bumper. The driver could ignore the local highway rules. They flew through villages where nobody at all appeared on the road; the poultry and geese were shut up in their sheds, according to his orders, and the people didn’t come out of their homes. Good, a dead village, while the lord and master rides by. He only wished it really were dead. They hurtled through Zdiby and Chabry towards Kobylisy, the driver paying no attention to the speed limit. The troopers and police had already sent out word that the Reich Protector was on his way. The road was empty, not a soul in sight, not a single person standing in front of a house or a shop, even though it was a weekday, a beautiful day in May.

He filled his lungs with the sharp fresh air. He loved to drive fast, to have everything rush by. He loved the illusion of flying through a dead countryside accompanied only by wind, sun and clouds. Slowly his mood improved, his bad humour lifted. Now he didn’t care whether he came late or not. So what, they’d wait. Why shouldn’t the various officials and Frank and the government clowns wait for the ruler of the land? He was tempted to tell the driver to slow down, but that would have deprived him of the joys of speeding. Then he thought of something else. He’d allow himself one more pleasure. He screamed into the driver’s ear: Let’s go in by Hradcany Square.

The driver nodded. He’d drive through the majestic wrought-iron portal. On each side of the portal were statues standing on pedestals; the Acting Reich Protector had taken a particular liking to them the first time he’d marched through this portal on the way to the castle courtyard and been welcomed by a guard of honour as the future ruler of the subjugated land. The statues had
impressed him even then. Even then they symbolised his power. Above the mighty backs of the vanquished enemy stand two giants. One of them holds a club, the other a dagger. In a moment the club will crush the spine, in a moment the dagger will plunge into the soft back. No mercy will be shown the adversary – that is clear from the faces of the victors. The blows will fall, blood will flow from the crushed body, from the pierced heart. These figures stand on their pedestals at the entryway of his seat of power, to remind him of his mission – when the fight begins he must show no mercy or pity. And his flag, the sovereign flag of the ruler of the land, waves in the breeze, that all may know he is here to rule this land in the name of the Leader and to transform it, with the help of club and dagger, into a part of the Reich. Today he’ll be in residence in his office and the whole city will know, thanks to the flag, that he has returned. His signature will once again appear on the red decrees.

They drove at full speed along the main highway without stopping at the tram stop. People ran like rabbits, out of the car’s way.

‘Drive more slowly,’ he ordered the driver, ‘that curve is dangerous.’

The driver nodded. They drove the same route every day, didn’t they? He didn’t need driving lessons.

He looked at his wristwatch: 10:31. Good work. If they drive through town at the same speed, they’ll be at the castle by a quarter to eleven. But you really can’t drive as fast in town and besides one has to take into account the sharp climb to the castle. Let’s say eleven. They’ll have been waiting for him an hour and a half. Good work, a good German machine, the Mercedes-Benz.

They took the curve slowly. A tram was coming towards them and it halted at the stop. The driver turned on the high-pitched siren of the car of the highest lord of the land. Then a man ran into the road directly in front of the car. Idiot – he was running around like a lunatic. If he didn’t jump to the side the driver would run him down without a thought. But then he saw that the man was holding an automatic pistol in his hand. Mechanically he reached in the glove compartment and took out a revolver. Mechanically he drew the briefcase closer.

Two members of the London parachute team known as Anthropoid had been waiting there since nine o’clock. They had figured everything out long before. They knew what time he left Brezany. They could calculate what time he would arrive at the curve. They picked that spot after studying the whole route long and hard. They were experienced. They’d been sent from England to get rid of Heydrich. Arriving by parachute, they wandered through the countryside, running, hiding. They were turned away from many a door; they saw the red decrees and understood that people were afraid. Finally they found a hiding place. They obtained false papers, food, cigarettes, money. They walked around the city and hardly recognised it, having been away for many years. The city was different, changed, beaten down. But there were still people who were
unafraid
, who were willing to help. They had to fulfil their mission: to kill.

They jumped off their bikes and leaned them against the fence of a vegetable garden. Then, calmly, they took their places at the tram platform. Under his raincoat one of them had an automatic pistol. The other had a hand
grenade in his briefcase. Above the curve two other men were keeping watch, to give them a signal with a hand mirror when the car was approaching. Only the two at the tram stop were supposed to strike, one with the automatic, the other with the grenade. No mercy would be shown the adversary, the blows would fall, blood would flow from the bullet-torn heart, from the shattered body. They stood and waited nonchalantly at the tram stop.

The sun was extremely bright. It was a beautiful May day. They waited and waited endlessly, and yet no signal came from their associates. Something must have happened, how strange. They knew that Heydrich had returned – someone at the airport had informed them. They knew he must go to the castle, because he had a meeting scheduled there with Frank and the Protectorate government. They had received reliable reports from the castle. Why, in that case, wasn’t he here yet? He always left Brezany at nine o’clock – they had confirmed that themselves. They kept waiting and waiting, never giving up hope. Maybe something had gone wrong with his car, a breakdown. But he had to go this way, there was no other way, and he had to get to the castle if there was an important conference scheduled, one he had instructions from Berlin to hold. That meant to keep on waiting. According to the wristwatch bought in England, it was ten past ten. They’d been hanging around the station here for over an hour, letting tram after tram go by. People might begin to notice them. But people at tram stops obviously have other things on their minds. Also, there were no windows nearby for anybody to look out of. It was an ordinary weekday, everybody was working.

At last the light signal flashed. One of the Anthropoids automatically looked at his watch: 10:31. He’s coming. At
that moment a tram arrived at the station heading for Kobylisy. Bad luck. Maybe it would leave quickly – nobody was getting on. One of the Anthropoids, the one with the automatic pistol, jumped on to the tram tracks. The other was only a stand-by, in case something unexpected happened.

Holding his automatic, the Anthropoid marksman stood in front of the car. He was calm, he aimed carefully. He pressed the trigger, but there was no report; the gun had failed to fire. The car was beginning to move slowly along the edge of the pavement, continuing on its way.

Suddenly the second assailant moved away from the
lamp-post
at the edge of the curve, took two or three steps towards the car and threw something.

A loud noise was heard, as if a tyre had blown out. The windows of the tram shattered, the doors of the car crumpled and tore out of the frame, a coat flew into the air and caught on the electric tram wire. Then slowly it fell to the ground. The assailants fled. One of them, the one who had vainly tried to fire, threw the useless gun away. The other, as if slowly waking up after tossing the grenade, only began to run after a few seconds.

The driver was unharmed. He jumped out of the car with his revolver and began to shoot.

A dull, unbearable pain in the back. As if someone had broken his spine with a club. He must control himself. He must force himself to get out of the car, to stand next to the driver and shoot. The assailants pull out revolvers and shoot back. They stop running for an instant and the driver takes off after them. Heydrich wants to run with him, but the pain, the dull and unbearable pain, holds him back. Though the pain makes him stagger, he must stand
up straight. Only subhumans hang back and throw away their weapons, subhumans like the ones who finally got him.

Confused people are running around like insects, like ants after someone has poked their anthill. They run away from the shots, and then they run back out of curiosity. They jump in and out of the tram. They’d like him to be lying on the ground, face downward, back uncovered. No, he must remain upright, even if the pain tears him to pieces. He must show these subhumans how the highest lord of the land behaves.

He wants to stand with revolver in hand, shooting, even though the pain is paralysing his hand. He leans his other hand against the metal fence. He cannot pursue the assailants, who flee. He feels that he will collapse, after all, that he will reveal his back with its gaping wound. This is the end. They got him. He drops the revolver.