I pretended not to hear. I walked on quickly. If I turned back now and asked Mikušinec for the picture of Czechia, he’d let me have it. But there was no turning back. I was outside the Home from Home. I reached for the door handle. The door opened.
I peeked into the workshop-kitchen: shiny tools oiled and tidy everywhere. I drank from the tap, gulping down the cold water and remembering how I used to stand guard in there. Beneath me was the cellar. I felt sick. In my head and in my body. I must have been made ill by everything that had happened.
I went up the stairs, moving fast like a rat. On the first floor I almost tripped on a bundle of documents and broke my neck. There were still vast piles of this twentieth-century tat that we hadn’t had time to burn. The beds in the dorm had no blankets, pillows, nothing.
I went on, invisible. There was someone in the Home from Home. I could tell.
I took off my shoes and tip-toed past the dining room. You can’t hear me, I thought. I am a commander of saboteurs. Private Fedotkin was watching to check I didn’t do a bunk. I wanted to get that stuff — the knives and things. I didn’t know what was going to happen.
I slunk from step to step, and I was outside the shortpants’ dormitory.
I slipped across to Dýha’s bed, grabbed a floorboard, then another, and I stuck my hand in the secret hiding place.
The knives were wrapped in old documents. I crammed the matches, the ball of string and some other small items inside my tracksuit top, stuffing them in there with my maps. The blade of a kitchen knife stuck out through the paper and was all shiny. I kept the knives in my hand and left.
I was about to slip out into the corridor, but I couldn’t. I heard footsteps. It felt like the very worst moment in my whole life.
I leaned back against the door of Sister Leontina’s study and I was in. I slithered backwards, tripped and fell — papers, candles and knives, the whole lot went flying. I’d tripped over Monkeyface’s tub. I picked up some of the parcels, the rest I hid in various corners. My maps were safely in their place.
Commander Vyžlata had made Sister Leontina’s study his command post.
I decided to try the nuns’ bedroom. I turned the door handle and slipped into the gloom, blinking like a rat. That’s how I could see in the semi-darkness… The door of the command post had just squeaked. Vyžlata had switched on the light, which shone on my feet through the crack under the door.
We were in neighbouring rooms. I crawled over to the door and peeped through the crack.
Margash was pouring water into the tub. He tipped buckets full of hot water into it. The steam made him cough. It was swirling around him. Vyžlata undressed and sat in the tub. Margash poured water over him. Vyžlata had his back to me. I had never ever cut anyone’s throat, though they did teach us how to. I didn’t know how I was supposed to kill him. I didn’t know how I was supposed to get out of there. I waited to see what happened. Maybe something would happen by itself.
Vyžlata was wallowing in the tub and splashing.
I could see his back. He was washing with soap. It took ages. The steam kept rising from each bucketload. There were splashes on the floor all around the tub. Finally, Vyžlata got up. He came towards me. Towards my door. I crept under the nearest bed.
The door opened and Margash came in. He was naked. Vyžlata followed him. Margash lay down on the bed I was hiding under. Vyžlata lay down next to him. For a while they just lay there. I peeked out stealthily to see what was going on. Then Vyžlata hauled himself up over Margash and dropped back down. Like doing exercises. I could see the flesh on his belly wobbling, and I could see his neck and shoulders as he bobbed up and down on the bed… I closed my eyes and I could hear Vyžlata breathing heavily and Margash whimpering… and it was disgusting… I opened my eyes again and took another peek, and I saw Vyžlata’s sweaty belly wobbling and flying this way and that, and the slapping noise it made… I shouted out… They couldn’t hear me, because Vyžlata was wailing a terrible wail and it was all mixed in with Margash’s whimpering… I started talking, so I didn’t have to hear them, and I said all the dirty words the nuns wouldn’t let us say. Then I ripped the paper off the kitchen knife and stuck it up under the falling belly. The belly speared itself on the knife, and I could feel its warmth on my hands… The belly reared up again, coming free from the knife, and now all three of us were shrieking, because the belly came hurtling down again onto the kitchen knife I was still holding. The blood squirted in my eyes. Then Vyžlata flopped sideways and spiked his hip on the knife as well… and it was over.
I crawled out. From the other side, Margash peeped under the bed, probably wondering what I was doing there… He scrabbled around under the bed, pulling out another knife, ripping off its paper wrapping, and stabbed Vyžlata in the neck.
I sat on the bed. Margash said, ‘Quick!’ He wrapped the body in a sheet. We were both splattered with blood, and I said as much. Margash glanced at me and said, ‘Aha.’
We ripped the sheets off more beds and tossed them over the corpse.
We went into Sister Leontina’s study and used Vyžlata’s bath water to wash ourselves. There was no other water. We helped each other: ‘There’s some more here!’ ‘You’ve a spot there!’ We helped each other, because we didn’t have a mirror. So we stood facing each other and we were each other’s mirrors, except that Margash was naked.
‘Get dressed!’ I told him. He put his vest and pants on, and a jumper and his tracksuit, which he had to hand. My clothes were bloodstained, but not much. Most of it was on my face and hands. I checked my pillowcase map. It was under my tracksuit. It had become part of my clothes. I wiped the blood from the knives as well. I spotted Margash wrapping a knife in a clean document, then keeping it, so I did the same. I just stuck it behind me, inside my trouser elastic. Margash did the same.
‘What now?’ I asked.
‘We’ll take him downstairs,’ said Margash.
‘You glad?’
‘Yeah. Very,’ Margash said, and then we were emptying the tub together. We both had the same idea. We poured the water onto the bed, because the mattress would soak it up and there wouldn’t be a telltale puddle. That was Margash’s idea.
We picked up Vyžlata in the sheets and he was pretty heavy, and I remembered all those bundles of paper and scuttles of coal, and the rocks and sacks of flour and buckets of slops. Vyžlata was heavy, but we got him across to the tub. I wondered whether his arms had gone stiff like the weasel’s paws. But they hadn’t. They were flabby.
We put Vyžlata in the wash-tub, then Margash clapped his hand to his forehead and said, ‘Hang on!’ He nipped back into the nuns’ bedroom. I was left alone with the corpse, and I didn’t like it. But Margash came straight back. He tossed that big black pistol into the tub. I said nothing.
I went first and Margash held the back end of the tub. We made our way down the stairs, bumping on each one, then I heard a strange sound — grx-grx! — and Margash called out ‘Stop!’
I put my whole weight against the tub and Margash explained that it was Vyžlata’s teeth clacking. He wound a rag torn from a sheet around the Commander’s chin and part of his head and we set off again, and this time it was okay.
Then one of Vyžlata’s hands flopped over the edge of the tub. It dangled along the side, as if the dead man were trying to scratch the wall. I was glad when Margash tucked it back in and covered it up.
We carried on down past each floor to the dining room. There was someone there! We put down the wash-tub and went to see. Our knives were behind us, held in place by our trouser elastic. If you keep your kitchen knife like that, you know about it with every move you make.