We swapped parts of the Commander’s story among ourselves. Some had extra bits, because they’d been dreaming it, and others lost some words of the story in their sleep, so we all knew slightly different versions.
Mikušinec, say, fell asleep hearing about the tank driving into the fire… Others fell asleep earlier and others later. So it was ages before I pieced together the whole story of the son of the regiment… Dýha, for example, talked about Fedotkin being disgraced, and then he and Karel would always argue. Karel claimed Fedotkin was officially delegated to the hut at the Vorkuta camp!
‘Delegated, you stupid prat! That means he was promoted!’
‘Bollocks!’ Dýha shouted back. ‘If that’s so, why was Fedotkin brought before the criminal tribunal of Stalin’s Flying Brigade, eh?’
None of us ever heard the story to the end, because Commander Vyžlata didn’t have just a pistol in his armoury. He also had a voice that made you sleepy.
So the days passed, and one day a van came up from the village… and we were excited at the prospect of airguns. I hoped that Mrs Kropek would show up with Hanka, but it was Mr Holasa bringing salamis and smoked meats. He dropped off his load of crates and left. And another day another van came, and we gathered round in expectation… it was Mr Kropek with bread and jugs of milk and stock cubes, but he had Mrs Kropek with him as well, and I went backwards and forwards carrying the jugs of milk ever so carefully so as not to spill any. I spotted Hanka, too, but it was just as we were being given our assignments. We formed into cleaning details, details to watch over the youngsters and mopping details… There were no more classes with the nuns, no more praying or singing (and only the choirboys were sorry about that), and no more geography or bible stories or homeland study and we were glad, because we didn’t give a shit about learning by heart all the rivers and forests of some bloody homeland.
Every day our teams struggled with bundles of ancient documents and heavy old books, and the strongest among us would rip them from their bindings and we burnt everything, but there always seemed to be plenty more… So far we hadn’t cleared out a single floor. Great mounds of ash piled up around the spot where the fire blazed, but we couldn’t dig them into the ground because it was frozen solid.
So the days passed, one after another, each one much like the next, like pages torn out of the same book, round and round in a circle, days turning at their centre, which was always the evening, when we fell asleep to the story of Fedotkin.
During the day, thoughts of Monkeyface were driven from my mind by work. It was a good thing that I could look forward every day to the Commander’s story.
Me and Hanka did see each other, on the day the van came from the village, but they split us up straight away.
I was taking out a full ash pan from the kitchen stove and bumped into her in the doorway. Bleary-eyed from sleep and half-blinded by the ash that the wind kept blowing in my face, I put an arm around her, because I was falling over. She put an arm around me too. The smell of her hair was gorgeous. She hugged me to her. The weight of the ash pan nearly toppled us over. I accidentally placed a hand on one of her breasts. It was soft, firm and warm. Unfortunately, my other hand was holding the ash pan. I tried to tell her everything quickly. I was sure she was looking for Monkeyface. But her hair was in my mouth. We had our arms around each other, but only for a moment. I had to let the ash pan go, so I could put both arms around her. It clattered off down the cellar steps. We stood there in a cloud of ash and started coughing. Then it was over.
Some of the lads came running out of the kitchen. The noise had broken in on their morning ablutions. Billows of steam followed them out. They whooped and shouted. Dýha, Karel and the others. ‘Wow, look at that! Ilya’s groping Freckleface,’ shouted Mikušinec… And now they were right by us, and Dýha touched Hanka. Then they were all touching her. They shoved me away with their elbows, backs and bottoms and formed a huddle around Hanka. I couldn’t get through to her. For a moment I couldn’t move at all.
She tripped, she was on her knees. I caught only glimpses of her face between the boys. It was bright red now. In the steam they were all going bonkers, as if they were hidden in a cloud. Some longshirts also came out into the corridor, squeaking and shouting.
And suddenly there was the Commander. In an instant he had opened the front door and there he was. And did he lash out! The lads fell away from Hanka, fleeing from the Commander. Mrs Kropek also came indoors, and started screaming and shouting and raging. ‘Filthy beasts! Wretched little idiots! And you, you silly tart, stop gawping!’ That’s how she spoke to her own child, and she pushed Hanka outside. Suddenly they were all outside. Mrs Kropek stayed behind with me, leaning against the door and breathing so fast that I thought her heart was going to burst.
‘Don’t stare, you poor mite!’ said Mrs Kropek ever so softly. After all the shouting I quite liked her soft voice. She turned and went outside. So I went too.
I pottered up and down outside the Home from Home. Where had the Commander chased them all off to? I followed the wheel-tracks of the Kropeks’ truck around the corner.
And there I saw Hanka again. She was sitting huddled in a blanket and staring ahead. I tapped on the window. What did I want? I dunno. I tapped the glass again. I dunno what she was thinking. The Kropeks never came again. Later on they couldn’t.
And every day we stood by the bonfire and poked at the piles of pages and documents with our poles and rakes to make sure they were thoroughly burnt. And sometimes a flame shot up high and a wall of fire whooshed up and over and hung in the air, then slid hissing back to the ground. Some of us danced and shouted, especially when the Commander ordered us to burn the books the nuns used to teach us: The Catholic Book of Knowledge and My Jesus ABC… and other books. The lads hadn’t enjoyed lessons, but I made a grab for The Catholic Book of Knowledge. I had had to keep an eye on Monkeyface so often while the lads were in class, so now I could look through it, and I gawped at all those animals, whales and globes. I hid it under my pillow, though I ripped off the cover and tossed it on the fire. Later I put The Catholic Book of Knowledge under my tracksuit top… I spent the evenings poring over it and so protected myself from Monkeyface’s face, until the Commander came in to tell his story.
Every day, old records turned into ash above our heads, then fell back down into our hair, and every day charred bits of pages floated down all around us. That was us clearing out the Home from Home.
One day I was standing there with the other Bandits (no-one was allowed near the bonfire on his own) when I was gripped with anxiety. I suddenly knew that nobody wanted to run away to join the Legion any more, so I would have to go alone, make my own way in the world, because I couldn’t bear to stay in Siřem, because Monkeyface was there and because it had happened.
I tossed my pole away and left… The Bandits started shouting, but I went inside and I didn’t care where Commander Vyžlata was, because he could be anywhere. I passed by the kitchen and round the bend in the corridor and down the steps to the cellar. The water made my feet cold. It splashed. I made my way to the cubicle and heard low, mumbling voices.
Šklíba was kneeling over Monkeyface’s grave in a torn, dirty, black tunic and Martin was kneeling under the Cross in a crumpled, dirty, black tunic. Only two of the six little choirboys were kneeling there and they had just one tiny candle. Šklíba’s face twisted with anxiety when he heard me. I gave him a fright! But when he saw me, his face was calm again… I went to take a look at the solitary cell and was amazed to see it had been repaired. I sat down inside it on a blanket. In the silence the praying voices floated through all the cubicles towards me… but then I heard some quiet footsteps and before anyone spoke my short hair stood on end in horror. I could feel every single hair on my skull… I knew the choirboys couldn’t hear the footsteps. When they prayed, they mumbled. And Commander Vyžlata said, ‘What’s this then?’ After that all I could hear was him cuffing the boys and them yelling. I crept close to the cell wall. I could hear the boys sobbing, then Commander Vyžlata chased them out of the cellar and they screamed… but he soon drove them away.