130
“If you’re lucky enough to escape death during the assassination attempt, you will have two options: try to survive inside the country, or attempt to cross the border and make your way back to the base in London. Both possibilities are extremely risky, considering the likely reaction of the Germans. But to be perfectly honest, the most probable outcome is that you will be killed on the spot.”
Moravec summons the two men separately, in order to give them the same speech. Neither shows any emotion.
For Gabčík, the mission is a war operation, and the risk of being killed goes with the job.
Kubiš thanks the colonel for having chosen him for such an important mission.
Both men say they would rather die than fall into the hands of the Gestapo.
131
You are Czech or Slovak. You do not like it when they tell you what to do, nor when they hurt people—that’s why you decide to leave your country and join up elsewhere with your compatriots who are resisting the invader. You go north or south, through Poland or the Balkans, and—after numerous complications—you reach France by sea.
When you get there, things become even more complicated. The French make you join the Foreign Legion and send you to Algeria or Tunisia. But you do finally end up with a Czechoslovak division formed in a town full of Spanish refugees, and you fight alongside the French when they in turn are attacked by the Nazis. You fight courageously and take part in all the retreats and defeats. You cover the never-ending retreat while planes roar through the skies. You suffer through this long agony, which the French call La Débacle, and for you it is both the first defeat and the last. In the conquered south of France everything is in chaos, but you manage to take off again and this time you land in England. In recognition of your courage in heroically resisting the invader and redeeming March 1939, President Beneš decorates you in the middle of a field. You are exhausted, and your uniform is crumpled, but you are standing next to your friend when Beneš pins a medal to your coat. And then it’s Churchill himself, leaning on his walking stick, who inspects you and your comrades. You have fought the invader and in doing so saved your country’s honor. But you are eager for more.
You join the special forces and are trained in various grandly named castles all over Scotland and England. You jump, you shoot, you fight, you throw grenades. You’re good. You are extremely charming. You’re a good soldier and the girls love you. You flirt with the young women. You drink tea at their parents’ houses, and their parents think you’re wonderful. You continue to train for the most important mission that any country has ever entrusted to only two men. You believe in justice and you believe in vengeance. You are brave, willing, and gifted. You are ready to die for your country. You are becoming something that grows inside you, and that begins, little by little, to be bigger than you, but at the same time you remain very much yourself. You are a simple man. You are a man.
You are Josef Gabčík or Jan Kubiš, and you are going to make history.
132
Each London-based government-in-exile has its own reconstituted army, and each army its own football team, and these teams play regular friendly matches. Today it’s France versus Czechoslovakia. As always, there is a large crowd, made up of soldiers of all ranks from many different countries. The atmosphere is relaxed; men in colored uniforms shout encouragements. On the terraces, in the middle of this noisy crowd, we can see Gabčík and Kubiš, wearing brown army hats and talking animatedly. Their lips move quickly, as do their hands. Their conversation, you guess, is technical and complicated. Only half watching the match, they stop talking whenever a dangerous move gets the crowd on its feet. They follow the action to see what happens, then resume their discussion with the same gusto as before, surrounded by shouting and singing.
France opens the score. The French supporters celebrate noisily.
Perhaps our two heroes’ behavior contrasts so markedly with the engrossed spectators around them that people take notice of them. In any case, they are already the subject of gossip among the soldiers of the free Czechoslovak forces. Their special mission, prepared in the greatest secrecy, gives Gabčík and Kubiš a mysterious prestige that is intensified by their refusal to answer any questions about it—even when the questioners are their oldest comrades from the evacuation of Poland or the French Foreign Legion.
Gabčík and Kubiš undoubtedly discuss their mission. On the pitch, Czechoslovakia presses for an equalizer. The number 10 gets the ball near the penalty spot and pulls his foot back to shoot, but is blocked by a French defender. The center forward, lying in wait on the left, picks up the loose ball and fires a powerful drive under the bar. The beaten goalkeeper rolls in the dust. Czechoslovakia has equalized—the stadium explodes. Gabčík and Kubiš stop talking. They are happy. The two teams leave the pitch after the game ends in a draw.
133
On November 19, 1941, at a ceremony that takes place amid the golden splendor of St. Vitus cathedral in the heart of Prague’s Hradčany district, President Hácha solemnly presents the seven keys of the city to his new master, Heydrich. These grand, finely worked keys are kept in the same room as St. Wenceslas’s crown, the Czech nation’s most precious jewel. There is a photo of Heydrich and Hácha standing in front of the crown, which sits on a finely embroidered cushion. It’s said that on this occasion, Heydrich couldn’t resist placing the crown on his head. And according to an old legend, whoever wrongfully wears the crown will die within the year, along with his eldest son.
If you look carefully at the photo, though, you’ll see that Hácha, resembling an old bald owl, is staring at the crown mistrustingly, while Heydrich appears to be putting on a show of somewhat forced respectfulness. I suspect that he’s not really awed by what he might very well regard as a quaint ornament of little value. In short, I wonder if this ceremony isn’t a bit of a bore for him.
There is no proof that Heydrich really did put the crown on his head. I think people wanted to believe this story because it suggested, restrospectively, an act of hubris that could not go unpunished. But I doubt whether Heydrich suddenly believed himself to be in the middle of a Wagnerian opera. As evidence, I offer the fact that Heydrich handed three of the seven keys back to Hácha: a show of friendship designed to give the illusion that the Germans were prepared to share the government of the country with the Czechs. An empty symbolic gesture, to be sure, but the halfhearted nature of this exchange means that the scene loses its potential outrageousness. This is diplomacy at its most formal and least meaningful. Heydrich probably can’t wait for the ceremony to be over so he can go back home and play with his kids or work on the Final Solution.
And yet … if you look more closely at the photo, you’ll see Heydrich’s right hand, partially masked by the cushion on which the crown rests. Heydrich has removed his glove—his right hand is bare, while his left is still gloved. The right hand is moving toward something. In front of the crown, half concealed by the cushion, is a scepter. Now, even if we can’t see it clearly, there are strong reasons to believe that his hand is touching, or about to touch, the scepter. And this leads me to reinterpret the expression on Heydrich’s face. Perhaps it is not boredom but covetousness. I don’t believe he put the crown on his head, because we’re not in a Charlie Chaplin film, but I’m equally sure that he did pick up the scepter—to weigh it casually in his hand. A less demonstrative gesture, but symbolic all the same. And Heydrich, though pragmatic, also had a pronounced taste for the trappings of power.