While this is going on, Gabčík keeps running. Tie flapping in the wind, hair messed up, he looks like Cary Grant in North by Northwest or Jean-Paul Belmondo in That Man from Rio. But obviously Gabčík, though very fit, does not have the supernatural endurance that the French actor would later display in his spoof role as a hero. Unlike Belmondo, Gabčík cannot keep running forever. By zigzagging through the neighboring residential streets he has managed to put a bit of distance between himself and his pursuer, but he still hasn’t shaken him off completely. Each time he turns into a new street, though, there is a period of a few seconds when he disappears from the other man’s field of vision. He has to use this to his advantage. Breathless, he spots an open shop doorway and throws himself inside, precisely during this brief window of opportunity. Unfortunately, Gabčík didn’t have time to read the name of the establishment: Brauner the butcher. So when, panting, he asks the shopkeeper to help him hide, the butcher rushes outside, sees Klein belting toward him, and—without a word—points at his shop. Not only is Brauner a German Czech, but on top of that his brother is in the Gestapo. This is bad news for Gabčík, who now finds himself cornered in a Nazi butcher’s back room. But Klein has had time during the pursuit to notice that the fugitive is armed, so instead of entering the shop he takes shelter behind a little garden post and starts shooting like crazy through the doorway. Thus Gabčík’s position has not really improved much since he was hiding behind the telegraph pole being shot at by Heydrich. But whether because he remembers his abilities as a marksman, or because an ordinary SS stormtrooper standing six feet away impresses him less than the Hangman of Prague in person, he reacts very differently. Moving into the open for a second and seeing part of a silhouette sticking out from behind the post, Gabčík aims and fires—and Klein collapses, hit in the leg. Without any hesitation Gabčík springs out, runs past the felled German and back up the street. But he’s lost in this maze of residential alleys. At the next crossroads, he freezes. At the end of the street he’s about to enter, he can see the beginning of the curve in Holešovice Street. In his frantic flight, he has gone around in a circle, and now he’s back to where he started. It’s like a Kafkaesque nightmare stuck on fast-forward. Hurrying to the other side of the crossroads, he runs down toward the river. And I, limping through the streets of Prague, dragging my leg as I climb back up Na Poříčí, watch him run into the distance.
The Tatra reaches the hospital. Heydrich is yellow; he can barely stand up. He is taken immediately to the operating room, where they remove his jacket. Bare-chested, he scornfully eyes the female nurse, who runs out without asking him to take off the rest of his clothes. He sits alone on the operating table. I’d love to know how long this solitary wait lasts. Eventually a man in a black raincoat arrives. He sees Heydrich and his eyes widen. After looking quickly around the room, he leaves to make an urgent telephone call: “No, it’s not a false alarm! Send an SS squadron over here immediately. Yes, Heydrich! I repeat: the Reichsprotektor is here, and he’s injured. No, I don’t know. Schnell!” Then the first doctor arrives—a Czech. He is as white as a sheet but immediately begins to examine the wound, using swabs and a pair of tweezers. The wound is three inches long and contains many fragments and bits of dirt. Heydrich doesn’t flinch while it’s cleaned. A second doctor, a German, bursts in. He asks what’s happening, then he sees Heydrich. Instantly he clicks his heels and shouts: “Heil!” They return to examining the wound. There is no damage to the kidney, nor to the spinal column, and the preliminary diagnosis is encouraging. They put Heydrich in a wheelchair and take him to the X-ray department. The corridors are full of SS guards. Security measures are being taken: all exterior windows are painted white to protect them from snipers, and machine gunners are posted on the roof. And, of course, they get rid of any patients who are in the way. Making a visible effort to retain his dignity, Heydrich gets out of the wheelchair and stands in front of the X-ray machine. The X-rays reveal further injuries: one rib is broken, the diaphragm is perforated, and the thoracic cage is damaged. They discover something lodged in the spleen—a fragment of shrapnel or a piece of the car’s bodywork. The German doctor leans close to his patient:
“Herr Protektor, we’re going to have to operate…”
Heydrich, white-faced, shakes his head.
“I want a surgeon sent from Berlin!”
“But your condition requires … would require immediate intervention.”
