Kubiš washes his face, and Mrs. Novak applies tincture of iodine to his wounds. The neighbor, a good sort, lends Kubiš one of her husband’s shirts so he can change—a white shirt with blue stripes. His disguise is completed with a railway worker’s uniform, borrowed from Mr. Novak. Dressed like this, his swollen face will attract less attention: everyone knows that workers are far more likely to have accidents than gentlemen in suits. But one problem remains: someone has to pick up the bicycle he left outside the Bata shoe shop. It’s too close to the curve in Holešovice Street—the police will soon find it. Happily, young Jindriska bursts in at that very moment: the Novaks’ youngest daughter is hungry after a day at school—people eat lunch early in Czechoslovakia—so, while preparing her meal, her mother gives her an errand: “A man I know has left his bicycle in front of the Bata shop. Go and get it, will you, and bring it back to the yard? And if someone asks you who it belongs to, don’t say anything. He had an accident, and it might make things difficult for him…” As the young girl dashes off, her mother shouts: “And don’t try to use it—you don’t know how! And watch out for cars!”
Fifteen minutes later, she returns with the bike. A lady questioned her, but she did what she was told and didn’t reply at all. Mission accomplished. Kubiš can leave now, his mind at ease. Well, when I say “at ease” … obviously I mean as at ease as anyone could be when they know they’re fated to become one of the two most wanted men in the Reich within hours or even minutes.
As for Valčík, his predicament is not quite so delicate, as his participation in the attack has not yet been clearly established. But still, limping around Prague during a state of emergency with a bullet wound in his leg is probably not the best way to secure an untroubled future. So he finds refuge with a friend and colleague of Alois Moravec—another railway worker; another Resistance fighter who has helped the parachutists; another husband of a woman utterly devoted to fighting the German occupation. It’s this man’s wife who lets Valčík in. He’s very pale. She knows him well, having often looked after him and hidden him, but she calls him Mirek because she doesn’t know his real name. With the whole city buzzing with rumors, the first thing she asks him is: “Mirek, have you heard? There’s been an attack on Heydrich.” Valčík lifts his head: “Is he dead?” Not yet, she says, and Valčík lowers his head again. But she can’t stop herself asking the burning question: “Were you in on it?” Valčík manages to smile: “You’re kidding! I’m much too softhearted for that kind of thing.” Knowing from experience that this man is made of sterner stuff, she realizes he is lying. And in fact Valčík does so only as a reflex; he doesn’t really expect her to believe him. She has no idea he’s limping, but asks him if he needs anything. “A very strong coffee, please.” Valčík also asks if she might go into town to find out what people are saying. Then he’s going to take a bath, because his legs hurt. The woman and her husband assume he must have walked too far. It’s not until the next morning, when they discover bloodstains on his sheets, that they understand he’s been injured.
Around noon, the surgeon arrives at the hospital. The operation begins straightaway.
At a quarter past twelve, Frank bites the bullet and rings Hitler. As expected, the Führer is not happy. The worst bit is when Frank has to admit that Heydrich drove around town in an unarmored Mercedes convertible without bodyguards. At the other end of the line, Hitler screams, just for a change. The contents of the Führer’s ravings can be divided into two parts: first, that pack of dogs that they call the Czech people are going to pay dearly for this. Second: How could Heydrich, the best of them all, a man of such importance for the good of the Reich—the whole Reich, you understand—how could he be cretinous enough to be guilty of such self-neglect? Yes, guilty! It’s very simple. They must immediately:
1.
Shoot ten thousand Czechs.
2.
Offer one million Reichsmarks as a reward for any information leading to the criminals’ arrests.
Hitler has always been fond of figures. And, where possible, nice round figures.
In the afternoon, Gabčík—accompanied by Libena, because a couple always looks less suspicious than a man on his own—goes out to buy a Tyrolean hat. It’s a little green hat with a pheasant feather. He does this to look more German. And this hasty disguise works better than he could have hoped: a uniformed SS guard calls him over and asks for a light. Ceremoniously, Gabčík takes out his lighter and touches it to the German’s cigarette.
I’m going to light one too. I feel a bit like a graphomanic depressive, roaming around Prague. I think I’ll take a pause here.
But only a short pause. We have to get through this Wednesday.