Republic Of Whores Page 6

  “Danny, come and give us a hand,” Dr. Mlejnek implored.

  “I can’t. Růžička wants to see me about something.”

  He grabbed the latch and opened the door of the political department, stepped in, clicked his heels together, and recited the formula: “Comrade First Lieutenant, Tank Commander Sergeant-Major Smiřický reporting at your request, sir.”

  The two battalion political officers appeared to be deeply engrossed in their work. Hospodin was typing something with two fingers. Looking over his shoulder, the tank commander could read the title of the work — REPOTR ON PSIVTIVE VETTINH — and below that, in small letters, on Sorg. Amt. Paveza.

  Hospodin didn’t look up from the keyboard, but peered sideways at a piece of paper covered with corrections, from which he was trying to type a clean copy of his vetting report. Růžička stared at the tank commander with his handsome eyes and stubbed a cigarette out in the ashtray. He looked intelligent, but this was a beautiful illusion. He picked up a freshly sharpened pencil (he wore an enormous ring on one of his fingers) and began to tap it against a mimeographed sheet he had in front of him.

  “Smiřický,” he said with playful sarcasm, “you’re the cultural worker in the battalion’s branch of the Czechoslovak Union of Youth, are you not?”

  “Yes, Comrade First Lieutenant.”

  “Then let me read you what’s just come down from division headquarters.” The lieutenant began reading from the mimeographed sheet: “ ‘Unit groups and their cultprop reps will ensure full co-operation in fulfilling the pledges made on May Day 1951, on Army Day, to gain their Fučík Merit Badges by taking part in and passing the necessary tests in the Fučík Merit Badge examinations. The FMB tests will take place in all units at the same time, in the week between 9 and 16 September.’ ”

  At this point Lieutenant Růžička stopped, raised his eyes, and looked at the tank commander; the week in question was already ending. Then he went on reading: “ ‘Unit groups of the Czechoslovak Union of Youth and the cultprop officers, along with Party organizers, agitators, and political workers, will provide.…’ ” But Danny wasn’t listening any more, for he was secretly glancing at a far more interesting text, the slowly emerging positive vetting report that Hospodin was preparing on Sergeant Antonín Paveza. Over the lieutenant’s shoulder, he read:

  Comrad Pacez is of worjing class orejin and polticicaly on averrage level. He is contientious and loyil to the poeples demogadic systim. He is goodnatred and well liked by his colectiv. He caries out miltery and union duties well. He can be arogant and mouthy even thow he is not a comm —

  That was as far as Hospodin had got for the time being. But because Růžička was still reciting his letter with almost religious intensity, the tank commander kept his eyes on the typewriter keys set hesitantly in motion by Hospodin’s fingers. First an “i” followed the “comm”, then in rapid succession “s-h-u-n-d”, and then, after a long pause, an “o”, an “f”, and a cluster of letters: “i-s-e-r”.

  “ ‘And the cultural workers are personally responsible for the event’,” said Lieutenant Růžička firmly, and the tank commander had just enough time to look him in the eye and nod attentively. The first lieutenant then went back to reading the orders, while Danny covertly observed Hospodin’s stumbling progress. After further exhausting effort, Hospodin leaned back in his chair and with some satisfaction read what he had just written: even thow he is not a commishund ofiser, he gives advise to others. Danny wasn’t sure whether this was meant as a positive or negative characteristic.

  But he had no time to give it any more thought. Lieutenant Růžička had raised his voice and was glaring at him. “ ‘A report’,” he read, “ ‘shall be submitted by the cultprop officers not later than 17 September’ — that’s tomorrow — ‘to the commander of the higher units. Signed: Commanding Officer of the Cultural Club, Major Kudrnac.’ ”

  He looked up craftily at his subaltern. “You have to have the test planned by tomorrow, Smiřický,” he said. “How’s the Fučík Badge thing going, anyway? Things proceeding according to plan?”

  The tank commander shrugged his shoulders. “There are no books, Comrade First Lieutenant. The comrades are keen to participate, but we haven’t got a fraction of the Fučík Badge books in our unit library.”

  “Yes,” Růžička admitted, “there are difficulties, but that’s no excuse. You’ll just have to find a way around it, as the comrades in the Komsomol did. Not only did they not have books,” he pointed out, a tragic tone creeping into his voice, “but often they didn’t have enough to eat. Yet they fulfilled their pledges. How many of the comrades are prepared to take the Fučík test?”

  “Let me see,” said Danny. “About ten.” He based this guess on the number of men in his squadron who either were ready for anything, or couldn’t care less.

  “But that’s not enough, Smiřický,” objected Růžička. “You pledged thirty percent. That’s a minimum of fifteen men. You’re aware, of course, that the onus is on you?”

  Why was this idiot bringing personal onus into it, Danny wondered. It was Růžička who had prepared the pledge, and he had merely handed it over to the tank commander to sign “on behalf of the group”. Anyway, what was he worried about? The examination would take place before a commission consisting of those who already had the Fučík Merit Badge — that is, the cultural worker (Danny himself), Private First Class Dr. Mlejnek, and Sergeant Kanec. The pledge will be 120 percent fulfilled, as everything always is — perhaps even 130 percent, if Matka’s scrounging for special praise. This is all obvious to both of us. Danny swore to himself. Out loud he said, “I know, Comrade First Lieutenant. But I’ve pointed out to you several times that we have no books, and neither the comrades nor myself have the time to go looking for them. You promised me you’d get them.”

  “I know. But more important fundamentals got in my way. And the Komsomols, I remind you again, Comrade Tank Commander, didn’t have books either, yet they passed their Fučík Badge — I mean, they did what was asked of them. Now, have you involved the politruks in the FMB circles? Are the unit and squadron groups working well? Are they helping? What about the examination committee, how many of them have their Fučík Badges? You know, don’t you, that they’re all supposed to get them?”

  Růžička’s voice rose censoriously at the end of every question. And of course he was right. He was washing his hands of the matter. He knew well enough that the examination committee hadn’t even met yet. Why would it have?

  “That’s my worry, Comrade First Lieutenant,” Danny assured him. “Everyone here will get the badge.”

  “But you’re not going about it the right way, Smiřický.” Růžička’s tone was still censorious, but more affable, in response to Danny’s confident manner. “Cramming at the last minute is a bad way to catch up.” As his misgivings subsided, his itch to preach increased. He began feeling that he’d done all he could, and that the responsibility now belonged solely to the tank commander. “Is that the proper way to understand the mission and purpose of the Fučík Badge? What do you think?”

  The tank commander adopted a tone of comradely confidentiality. “You know how it is, Comrade First Lieutenant. How much can you expect out of guys who are doing an extra six months?”

  “That’s not true, Comrade Tank Commander,” said the officer, shaking his head. “Just look at how those very same comrades did in the machine-gun competition, shooting from a moving tank at a fixed target. Think how well they fulfilled their pledges there. Why can’t they do the same with the Fučík Badge?”

  Danny knew that the real reason for those legendary results was the skill of the target-master, Sergeant Kobliha, who had simply punched better results into the target with a poker. But he offered a different explanation: “That’s not quite the same thing, Comrade Lieutenant. The reward for doing well in target practice was a five-day leave of absence.”

  “And that’s precisely your job as cultural worker — you have to
motivate the comrades, show them that leaves of absence are not the real reason for trying hard.” He spoke firmly, underlining with a professional flourish a line on the mimeographed sheets that said: fulfilling the pledge by passing the test. Tapping each of the underlined words with his pencil, he added, “It’s wrong to try to pass these tests by cramming at the last minute. Plan to do them in the noon break tomorrow. In the evening, you’ll have to test the officers and their wives.”

  Danny was astonished. “For the Fučík Badge?”

  “Yes,” said Růžička. “Here’s a list.” He rummaged around in a drawer. Over Lieutenant Hospodin’s shoulder, Danny caught sight of the final sentence of the positive vetting report: Comrad Pacex is a compatent comrad. He is calpable of holding ofice in the Uouth Ynion in his local district.

  “Here it is. You’ll carry out the tests tomorrow, at two o’clock. Here.”

  He handed the tank commander a list. Glancing at it, Danny saw among the familiar names one with a feminine ending: Jana Pinkasová. That was enough to raise his spirits.

  “Yes, comrade,” he said, and with a lilt of delight in his voice he declared, “Comrade First Lieutenant, request permission to leave.”

  Permission was granted with no further objections.

  * * *

  Darkness had fallen outside. A quiet breeze rustled the leaves of the chestnut trees in the park across from the political department, the distant clatter of tanks leaving for night manoeuvres drifted in, and a radio in the officers’ mess across the park was playing brass-band music. The night air was full of warmth and, though it was already September, it radiated the extraordinary summer beauty of life. The sentry had laid aside his novel of blood and thunder and was sitting on the steps with his hands in his pockets, staring at the moon with absent eyes. The moon was drifting through the treetops, and little winking red and green lights were moving through the clouds. Somewhere up there, the roar of a jet engine drowned out, for a moment, the murmuring silence of the dark. The daughter of Colonel Vrána walked along the path among the trees, her white summer dress swaying seductively in the night breeze; the tank commander followed her for a long time with hungry eyes. Even the assistant in the foyer looked up from the trashy reading concealed in the rules and regs and smacked his lips loudly. The colonel’s daughter was used to this kind of attention and didn’t even look around. Her white skirt vanished into the darkness, the hum of the jet faded, and the trees resumed their murmuring. In the face of such beauty, everything else seemed unimportant.

  * * *

  But the master of fate, bored by the uneventful progress of life in the Seventh Tank Battalion, had prepared an unpleasant surprise for the following day. This took the form of six new lieutenants freshly graduated from the armoured division school. They reported for duty to the commanding officer, ablaze with as yet undimmed enthusiasm, as bright as the sparkling pips on their epaulettes. By now their predecessors were walking about like bodies without souls, their boots unpolished, their golden pips tarnished, between the camp store and the officers’ mess, languishing for Bobby Kohn’s fun-loving wife, who sunbathed nude in the woods within range of the binoculars trained on her from the observation tower of the shooting range. Instead of being mindful of their duties, they were dreaming up ways to get off the base on Sunday. But the six new musketeers promptly asked for work to do. Five of them received immediate satisfaction, so much so that for the next twelve hours — that is, until well after lights-out — they were bent over tactical maps, carefully sketching in battle situations. The sixth and last officer looked about in vain for a map of his own to work on, and during his search he unfortunately happened to come across Tank Commander Smiřický’s notice on an otherwise empty bulletin board:

  The test for candidates for the Fučík Merit Badge will take place in the Political Department today at 1:30.

  Flashing his own brand-new Fučík Badge, the officer immediately offered his services to Lieutenant Růžička. The delighted former waiter welcomed the offer and, exercising his authority (if not his foresight), appointed the lad chairman of the examination committee, a post that not a single officer of the Seventh Tank Battalion could qualify for.

  Thus Tank Commander Smiřický was relieved of his post. The demotion didn’t bother him, but the new appointee did fill him with misgivings. He felt that he himself would have had greater success in enticing the more reluctant recruits to try out for the silver badge (which looked very much like a decoration for valour). After all, the makeup of the original examination committee had been a guarantee of absolute fraud. Private First Class Dr. Mlejnek was known as a last resort for those who had unsuccessfully requested passes, because he had access to the necessary stamps and could imitate the signatures of all the commanding officers. Then there was Sergeant Kanec, a bookkeeper in the canteen who provided luxury items from the stores for private Saturday-night parties held by those who weren’t able to attain even Dr. Mlejnek’s counterfeit passes. And it went without saying that Danny would stand behind the fraud. But after lunch, when word got round that a certain Lieutenant Prouza, a greenhorn from the armoured training school, had just been parachuted into the chairmanship of the examination committee, a group of soldiers that Danny had almost persuaded to take part in the ritual crowded around him, protesting angrily.

  “They can go eat shit as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Are they all out of their fucking minds? Nobody here’s read bugger-all.”

  “They can stuff their Fučík Badge right up their ass.”

  And so, of all the candidates who were supposed to fall in at thirteen hundred hours to march over to the political department under the leadership of Tank Commander Smiřický, only one first-year private showed up. His name was Pravomil Poslušný, and he was trembling with anticipation because, although he had read all the other books on the list, he had missed Lenin, Stalin, and Kalinin Speak to Young People, and he felt badly prepared. The rest of the potential candidates stayed behind in the barracks in protest, getting ready for their afternoon rest break.

  Danny ordered Poslušný to review the material silently, and went over to the political department. First Lieutenant Růžička was livid. “How is this possible? Is this what you call fulfilling your pledge? Why won’t they volunteer?”

  “They’re afraid Comrade Lieutenant Prouza here will be too strict with them,” said the tank commander, tilting his head towards the spit-and-polish officer and hoping Růžička would catch his drift.

  But before the politruk could say anything, Lieutenant Prouza intervened. He spoke in the warm, comradely tone that some of the cadet officers, at least the more naïve ones, had learned at the training school. “Afraid?” he said in astonished tones. “You can tell the comrades, Comrade Tank Commander, that this will be a comradely discussion. That ultimately the purpose is to satisfy ourselves not, in the end, as to whether the comrades have actually read everything, but as to whether they have somehow managed to absorb, as it were — to take into themselves — what those books are all about — something that will stand them in good stead throughout their future work.” As the tank commander listened to him, the last hope of avoiding catastrophe died within him.

  “I told them all that,” he said, “but they’re still afraid.”

  “But they gave their pledges,” said Růžička, “and now they have to realize that this is simply their duty as members of the Union of Youth.”

  “Just go tell the comrades what I told you, Comrade Tank Commander,” said Lieutenant Prouza. “Here, the point is simply for us to explain and clarify problems to each other in the form of a comradely discussion. If something isn’t clear to one of us, then we explain it to him, and ultimately he may be able to explain certain problems for us in return. This is how we do things in the People’s Army, and ultimately it will help us all eliminate barriers to our further work.”

  Danny looked at the lieutenant as though he were a creature from another world. “That’s what I
told them,” he said darkly. “But it didn’t do any good.”

  The tank commander was unaware that, at this very moment, the voice of the instructor in moral and political readiness at the school, Major Kondráč, was speaking in the young lieutenant’s mind. We have good people, said the voice, but we don’t know how to persuade them of the truth. We have not discovered a way to stimulate their interest. Electrified by this great thought, the lieutenant jumped up energetically, straightened his uniform in front and back, smoothed out the wrinkles on his hips, and said, “In that case, Comrade Tank Commander, I’ll go with you.”

  “Please do, Comrade Lieutenant,” said Růžička, and he turned to face the tank commander. “You see, Smiřický, you and the committee may have made a pledge, but you haven’t been able to turn it into a concrete reality. When that happens, your work becomes alienated from the comrades. You may well be fulfilling your pledge, and carrying out your duty, but what good is that pledge and that duty if you can’t carry them down among the people?”

  Danny said nothing. Meanwhile Lieutenant Prouza had finished primping his uniform, and with perverse delight he brought himself to attention and said, “Comrade First Lieutenant, request permission to leave.”

  And the waiter awoke in Lieutenant Růžička, and he opened the door for them and mumbled distractedly, “Right this way, please.”