“Do pici!” When he falls to the ground, a violent pain in his thigh, all Valčík can say is: “Shit, what an idiot!” Hit by one of the German’s bullets—tough luck. The SS giant is now only a few yards away. Valčík thinks the game is up. There’s no time to pick up his gun, which he dropped. But then a miracle happens: Klein doesn’t slow down. Either the German regards Gabčík as the more important target, or—in concentrating on him—he hasn’t noticed that Valčík was armed and about to shoot at him. Or perhaps he hasn’t seen him period. He runs past without stopping, without even glancing at him. Valčík can think himself lucky, but he’s cursing all the same. If that’s what really happened, he’s been hit by a stray bullet. When he turns around, the two men have vanished.
Farther down the hill, things are hardly any less confused. A young blond woman, however, has grasped the situation. She is German and has recognized Heydrich, who is lying across the road, clutching his back. With the authority born of believing oneself part of a race of natural leaders, she stops a car and orders the two occupants to take the Reichsprotektor to the nearest hospital. The driver protests: his car is loaded with boxes of candy, which cover the whole backseat. “Get them out! Sofort!” barks the blonde. So now we have another surreal scene, described by the driver himself: the two Czechs, clearly less than thrilled, start unloading the boxes of candy as if in slow motion, while the pretty and elegantly dressed young blond woman babbles away in German to Heydrich, who seems not to hear. But this is the blonde’s lucky day. Another vehicle arrives, which she judges at a glance to be more suitable. It’s a little Tatra van, delivering shoe polish and floor wax. The blonde runs toward it, yelling at its driver to stop.
“What’s going on?”
“An attack!”
“So?”
“You must drive Herr Obergruppenführer to the hospital.”
“But … why me?”
“Your car is empty.”
“But it’s not going to be very comfortable. There are boxes of polish, it smells bad. You can’t transport the Protector in conditions like that…”
“Schnell!”
Tough luck for the worker in the Tatra—he’s stuck with the job now. Meanwhile, a policeman has arrived, and he helps Heydrich toward the van. The Reichsprotektor tries to walk on his own, but he can’t. Blood seeps from his torn uniform. He maneuvers his too-tall body with difficulty into the front passenger seat, holding his revolver tightly in one hand and his briefcase in the other. The van starts up and takes off down the hill. But the driver realizes that the hospital is in the other direction, so he makes a U-turn. Heydrich notices this and shouts: “Wohin fahren wir?” Even I, with my poor German, understand that this means “Where are we going?” The driver understands, too, but he can’t remember the German word for “hospital” (Krankenhaus), so he doesn’t say anything. Heydrich threatens him with the gun. Luckily, the van is now back at its starting point. The young blond woman sees them arrive and rushes toward them. The driver begins to explain, but Heydrich murmurs something to the blonde. He can’t stay in front—it’s too cramped. So they help him out, then put him in the back of the van, lying facedown, surrounded by boxes of polish and wax. Heydrich orders them to give him his briefcase. They throw it in next to him. The Tatra starts up again. With one hand Heydrich holds his back, and with the other he hides his face.
