HHhH: A Novel полностью

So the Sten doesn’t fire. And everybody remains rigid with shock for several long tenths of seconds. Gabčík, Heydrich, Klein, Kubiš. It’s so kitsch! It’s like a Western! These four men turned into stone statues, all eyes trained on the Sten, everyone’s brains working at incredible speed, a speed no ordinary man can even comprehend. At the end of this story, there are these four men at a curve in the road. And then, on top of that, there’s a second tram coming up behind the Mercedes.

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In other words, we don’t have all day. It’s now Kubiš’s turn to enter the action—Kubiš, moving unseen behind the two Germans, who are still transfixed by Gabčík’s appearance. Calm and gentle Kubiš, taking a bomb out of his briefcase.

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I, too, am transfixed—because I’m reading Europe Central by William T. Vollmann, which has just appeared in French. Finally, feverishly, I read this book that I would love to have written, and I wonder, reading the endless first chapter, how long he’ll keep it up, this style, this incredible tone. In fact, it lasts only eight pages, but those eight pages are magical, with phrases streaming past as in a dream, and I understand nothing, and understand everything. This is perhaps the first time that the voice of history has resounded so perfectly, and I am struck by this revelation: history is a prophet who says “We.” The first chapter is entitled “Steel in Motion,” and I read: “In a moment steel will begin to move, slowly at first, like troop trains pulling out of their stations, then more quickly and ubiquitously, the square crowds of steel-helmed men moving forward, flanked by rows of shiny planes; then tanks, planes and other projectiles will accelerate beyond recall.” And, further on: “Serving the sleepwalker’s rapture, Göring promises that five hundred more rocket-powered planes will be ready within a lightning-flash. Then he runs out for a tryst with the film star Lida Baarova.” The Czech. When I quote an author, I must be careful to cut my quotations every seven lines. No longer than seven lines. Like spies on the telephone: no more than thirty seconds, so they can’t track you down. “In Moscow, Marshal Tukhachevsky announces that operations in a future war will unfold as broad maneuver undertakings on a massive scale. He’ll be shot right away. And Europe Central’s ministers, who will also be shot, appear on balconies supported by nude marble girls, where they utter dreamy speeches, all the while listening for the ring of the telephone.” In the newspaper, somebody explains to me that this is an account of “slow-burning intensity,” a novel that is “more fantastical than historical,” the reading of which “requires a psychoanalytic listening.” I understand. I will remember.

So … where was I?

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Here I am, exactly where I wanted to be. A volcano of adrenaline sets ablaze the curve in Holešovice Street. It is the precise instant when the sum of individual microdecisions, transformed solely by the forces of instinct and fear, will allow history to perform one of its most resounding convulsions, or hiccups.

Each man’s body has its own responsibilities. Klein, the chauffeur, does not restart the engine, and that’s a mistake.

Heydrich stands up and draws his gun. A second mistake. Had Klein shown Heydrich’s presence of mind, or had Heydrich remained paralyzed in his seat like Klein, then probably everything would have been different, and I might not even be here to tell you about it.

Kubiš’s arm describes an arc and the bomb flies through the air. But nobody ever does exactly what they’re supposed to do. Kubiš has aimed for the front seat but the bomb lands next to the right rear wheel. Nevertheless, it does explode.

Part Two

An alarming rumor comes from Prague.

—

GOEBBELS’S DIARY

, May 28, 1942

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The bomb explodes and instantly the windows in the tram opposite are blown out. The Mercedes jumps a few feet in the air. Fragments from the explosion hit Kubiš in the face and hurl him backwards. A cloud of smoke fills the air. Screams burst from the smashed tram. An SS jacket, laid out on the backseat, flies upward. For several seconds, this is all the suffocating witnesses see: a black uniform floating above a cloud of dust. It is, in any case, all I can see: the jacket, twisting and spiraling gracefully like a dead leaf, while the aftershock of the explosion travels calmly outward to echo as far away as Berlin and London. Apart from the spreading sound and the fluttering jacket, nothing moves. There is no sign of life at the curve in Holešovice Street. From now on, I am talking in seconds. A second later, everything will have changed. But here, now—on this clear morning of Wednesday, May 27, 1942—time has stopped. For the second time in two minutes, albeit rather differently.