‘Kurt Kahlo,’ said the man. ‘Criminal Assistant to Inspector Willy Abendschoen, from Prague Kripo.’
He looked at the other man and grinned, unkindly.
‘And this is Inspector Zennaty, of the Czech Police. He’s only along for the sake of appearances, aren’t you, sir? After all, technically speaking this is a Czech matter, isn’t it?’
Zennaty shook my hand but he didn’t say anything. He was thin and hawklike, with shadowy eyes and a hair style that looked like an extension of a short stubbly beard.
‘I’m afraid our Czecho friend doesn’t speak much German, do you, Ivan?’
‘Not very much,’ said Zennaty. ‘Sorry.’
‘But he’s all right, is our Ivan.’ Kahlo patted Zennaty on the back of the hand. ‘Aren’t you, Ivan?’
‘Very much.’
‘Mister Abendschoen would have attended himself,’ said Kahlo, ‘but almost everyone in Prague is now looking for this Moravek fellow. General Heydrich has made his apprehension the number one police priority in the whole of the Protectorate.’
I nodded. ‘So who’s dead? They didn’t say.’
‘One of General Heydrich’s adjutants. A captain named Kuttner, Albert Kuttner. Did you know him at all, sir?’
‘I met him for the first time yesterday,’ I said. ‘How about you?’
‘I only met him a couple of times. To me, one adjutant looks like another adjutant.’
‘I’d expect this one might look a bit different now, don’t you?’
‘Good point.’ Kahlo’s eyebrows were almost permanently at an angle, like a sad clown’s, but somehow he managed to raise them even higher up his forehead.
‘How about you?’ I asked Zennaty politely. ‘Did you know Captain Kuttner?’
‘Not very much,’ said Zennaty.
Kahlo grinned at this, which helped persuade Zennaty to stare out of the window. It was a kinder view than Kahlo’s sneering, ugly mug.
We drove east for a while, to Kripo headquarters in Carl Maria von Weber Strasse, where Zennaty briefly left the car and Kahlo informed me he had gone to fetch an evidence box. He and Zennaty had been across the river at the Justice Ministry when Abendschoen, Kahlo’s boss, had telephoned telling him to pick me up and then go to Jungfern-Breschan.
After a few minutes Zennaty returned and we drove north again.
To see Prague in the autumn of 1941 was to see a crown of thorns with extra points, as painted by Lukas Cranach. A city of church spires it certainly was. Even the spires had smaller spires of their own, the way little carrots sometimes grow bigger ones. These lent the unfeasibly tall Bohemian capital an unexpectedly sharp, jagged feel. Everywhere you looked it was like seeing a Swiss halberd in an umbrella stand. This sense of medieval discomfort was accentuated by the city’s omnipresent statuary. All over Prague there were statues of Jesuit bishops spearing pagans, heavily muscled Titans stabbing each other with swords, agonized Christian saints horribly martyred, or ferocious wild animals tearing each other to pieces. To that extent Prague appeared to suit the cruelty and violence of Nazism in a way Berlin never did. The Nazis seemed to belong here – especially the tall, spindly figure of Heydrich, whose austere pale face reminded me of a flayed-alive saint. The red Nazi flags that were everywhere looked more like blood dripping down the buildings that they hung on; the polished bayonets on German rifles at sentry points across the city glittered with an extra steely edge; and goose-stepping jackboots on the cobbles of the Charles Bridge seemed to have a louder crunch, as if beating down the hopes of the Czechs themselves.
That was shameful if you were a German but worse if you were a Czech, like the impotent Inspector Zennaty. Worst of all if you were one of Prague’s Jews. Prague was home to one of the largest communities of Jews in Europe, and even now there were still plenty of them left for the Nazis to kick around. Kick them around they duly did; and it remained to be seen if the legendary Golem that was reputed to dwell in the city’s Old New Synagogue would, as legend supposed, emerge from the attic one night and climb down the outside wall to avenge the persecution of Prague’s Jews. Part of me hoped that he had already put in an appearance at Jungfern-Breschan and that Captain Kuttner’s unexplained death was just the beginning. If things were anything like the silent movie called
Twenty minutes later the car stopped outside the front door of the Lower Castle and we went inside.
Kritzinger, the butler, ushered Kahlo, Zennaty and me upstairs to Heydrich’s study, where he was waiting, impatiently, with Major Ploetz and Captain Pomme. Heydrich and Pomme were wearing fencing jerkins and it was clear from their flushed and still-perspiring faces that they had not long finished their absurd sport.
Since I was the only one wearing uniform I saluted and then introduced Kahlo and Zennaty.
Heydrich looked coldly at Zennaty. ‘You can wait downstairs,’ he told the Czech policeman.
Zennaty nodded curtly and left the room.
