Chapter 7 Chapter Four "No. 400"

Resurrection from the dead is a rather strange thing.Strange beyond words.The world is enchanting when you wake up from a deep sleep on a beautiful day.But when you come back from the dead, the day seems more beautiful than ever, and you sleep like you never did.You feel that you know the stage of life very well.But when you wake up from the dead, it's as if the lighting engineer unscrewed all the bright arc lamps, and suddenly a transparent and transparent stage is presented in front of you.You will feel that you can see everything, as if there is a telescope in front of your eyes and a microscope on top of it.Dead and Back is all about springtime, as if springtime is exhibiting an unexpected charm that you don't even feel in your most familiar surroundings.

Even though you know it well, this scene is only fleeting, even though you are in such a "pleasant" and "colorful" environment like Pancratz Prison. The day has finally come when they take you out.On this day, they send you for interrogation, not on a stretcher, but on foot, even though it seems impossible.Holding on to the railing of the stairs and the walls of the corridor, it is more like climbing with four feet than walking with two feet.The fellow prisoners are waiting downstairs, and they help you into the prison van.From now on you sit in that dark mobile cage with ten to twelve people.Some strange faces smile at you, and you smile at them; someone whispers to you, but you don’t know who it is; In a flash, you drove into the passage of the Pechek Palace. Your friends helped you out of the car and walked into a spacious room with bare walls. Five rows of benches were neatly arranged, and people sat upright on it. Putting your hands on your knees, staring blankly at an empty wall in front of you... Friends, this is a corner of your new world-the so-called "movie theater".

Interlude of May 1943 Today is May 1, 1943.It just so happens that the guy who can get me to write is on duty.How lucky I am to be temporarily a Communist Party reporter again, reporting on the May Day parade of the fighting forces of this new world. Don't expect me to tell about the waving flag.Not at all.I can't even tell the touching stories you'd love to hear.Everything is normal here today.There is neither the huge waves of tens of thousands of people leading to the streets of Prague that I have seen in previous years, nor the magnificent sea of ​​people that I have seen on the Red Square in Moscow.You don't see millions of people here, not even hundreds.You'll only see a few gays and lesbians here.However, you will feel that this is already a lot.Yes, quite a few, for this is a parade of power, which is being smelted in fire, and it will not be reduced to ashes, but to steel.It was a kind of parade in the trenches at the time of battle.But in the trenches people usually wear gray-green field uniforms.

You may think it's a small thing, and who knows if you'll ever fully understand it when you read what I'm reporting about that you haven't experienced yourself. Try to understand it.You have to believe, the power is here. The morning greeting from the cell next door, usually delivered in two-beat Beethoven, was struck more solemnly and resolutely than usual today, and the walls conveyed it in soaring tones. We wear our best clothes.All cells are like this. We all got dressed before we ate breakfast.Orders marched past the open cell doors carrying bread, black coffee, and water.Comrade Skoshpa sent us three loaves of bread instead of the usual two.It was his congratulations on May Day—the actual celebration of a cautious man.When handing out the bread, he squeezed my fingers under the bread.Talking is not allowed, and they even watch your eyes—but don't the mute speak clearly with their fingers?

The female prisoners ran out to "let the wind" in the yard under the window of our cell.I climbed onto the table and looked down through the bars, maybe they could see me.They really saw me.They greeted me with raised fists.I also return the gift.In the yard, today is very cheerful and active, completely different from usual.The female guard didn't notice it at all, maybe she didn't notice it on purpose.This is also related to today's May Day review. Now it's our turn to "let the air go".I direct morning exercises.Today is May Day, friends, let's start with something else, and let's surprise the guards.The first quarter: one-two, one-two, sledgehammer.Section Two: Harvesting the Wheat.Hammer and sickle.With a little imagination, maybe comrades will understand the meaning of hammer and sickle.I look around.Everyone smiled and practiced repeatedly with great enthusiasm.They got it all.Friends, this is our May Day parade, and this pantomime is also our May Day oath: We will go through fire and water until death.

We return to the cell.It's nine o'clock.Now the Kremlin clock is striking ten o'clock, and the parade begins on Red Square.Father, we go with you.Now the "Internationale" has been sung there, and the singing resounds all over the world. Let this song also resound in our prison cells.We sang.Then we sang revolutionary songs one by one, we don't want to be alone, and we are not alone, we are with those who are fighting like us now... Comrades are in prison, in the cold torture room, you With us, together, even though you are not in the ranks... Yes, we are with you. Our cell No. 267 was going to use singing to solemnly end the May Day parade in 1943.Is it really over?Why is the handyman in the women's prison walking back and forth in the yard in the afternoon, whistling "March of the Red Army", "Song of the Partisans" and other Soviet songs, isn't it encouraging the comrades in the men's prison?Why is the man in the Czech police uniform, who brought me paper and pencil, standing guard in the corridor at the moment, isn't he trying to prevent someone from catching me by surprise?Didn't that other person try to encourage me to write the report, and take the finished manuscript out of prison, hiding it carefully so that it will be published in due time?For this little piece of paper, they might lose their heads.The reason why they take this risk is to connect today behind bars with a free tomorrow.They are fighting, steadfastly fighting at their posts, and according to different situations, they are flexible and flexible to participate in the battle with various means within their power.They are ordinary soldiers, working in obscurity. No one can imagine that what they are fighting is a life and death struggle. In this struggle, they are our friends; in this struggle, they either win or win. sacrifice.

You have probably seen ten or twenty times how the revolutionary procession conducts the May Day parade.That's certainly majestic.But it is only in battle that the true strength of the team can be appraised and realized to be invincible.Dying is much simpler than you think, and heroic deeds are not surrounded by brilliant lights.The struggle is much crueler than you imagine, and it takes incomparable strength to persist in the struggle and lead it to victory.You see this power at work every day, but you don't always realize it, because it all seems so simple and natural. Today, during the May Day parade of 1943, you rediscovered that power.

May Day interrupted this report for a while.This is also good.Because in this glorious festival, the memories will be a little different. Today, joy prevails, and the memories may be exaggerated. But in memory, the "cinema" of the Peček Palace is not at all joyful. This is the vestibule of the torture room, you can hear other people's moans and creepy screams coming from the torture room, you don't know what is waiting for you there.You see some strong and vigorous people go out here, and after two or three hours of torture, they come back crippled and half dead.You will hear a sonorous voice answering the call,--only to return after an hour to a staccato choking sound of pain and trembling.

But there is another kind of worse: here you will also see such a kind of people, when they leave, their eyes are upright and clear, but when they come back, they dare not meet other people's eyes.Maybe somewhere in the interrogation room upstairs, just a moment of weakness, a moment of faltering, a moment of fear, or a desire to protect oneself--the result is that there will be some new prisoners today or tomorrow. , Some people who were betrayed by their comrades in the past came here, and they will experience all these terrible things again. It is more terrifying to see a man who has lost his conscience than to see a man covered in bruises.If you have eyes cleansed by death that walks by, if you have senses awakened by the resurrection of the dead, it is self-evident that you will perceive who is shaken, who may have betrayed, who is dying in the soul. Some corner mused that maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he sold out the least of his comrades to make it easier for him.Poor coward.What kind of life is a life that is saved by sacrificing the life of a friend?

When I sat in the "movie theater" for the first time, I didn't seem to have this idea.But then it came up repeatedly.This idea arose precisely that morning, not in the "cinema", but in another environment, the place where people know each other best: "No. 400". I didn't sit in the "cinema" very long.Maybe an hour, maybe an hour and a half later, someone called me behind my back.Two Czech-speaking men in plain clothes helped me into the elevator, drove to the fourth floor, and took me into a spacious room with a sign on the door: No. 400 is under their surveillance. Sitting alone on a lonely chair against the wall at the back, I looked around with a strange feeling, as if I had seen the scene before me.Have I ever been here?No, not here.But I still know this room.I know this place, I have dreamed of it, I have seen it in a terrible, febrile dream that distorts it, alters it horribly, but does not render it unrecognizable .Now it is lovely, full of daylight and vivid colours, and through the large stiles of windows one can see the Church of Thien, the green hill of Retana, and the old castle of Hradchani.In the dream the room was gloomy, without windows, illuminated by a foul yellow light in which people moved like shadows.Yes, there were some people here at that time.Now it is empty, with six rows of benches close together, like an interesting lawn of dandelions and buttercups.In the dream, it seemed that the place was crowded with people, sitting next to each other on benches, their faces pale and bloody.Over there, next to the door, stood a man in battered blue overalls, with pained eyes, who demanded a sip of water, a sip of water, and then slowly, slowly, like a curtain being drawn down, On the ground... yes, all of this happened, and now I know it wasn't a dream.Reality itself is so cruel and crazy.

This was the night of my arrest and first trial.They've brought me here three times, maybe ten times.I remember only taking me out when they needed a break or something.I still remember that I was barefoot at that time, how the cold square bricks once comfortably soaked my bruised soles. Those benches were filled with workers from the Junkers factory.They were all nightly prey of the Gestapo.The man standing by the door in his battered blue overalls was Comrade Bartoni of the Party branch of the Junkers factory, and he was the indirect cause of my arrest.I say this not to blame anyone for my unfortunate fate.I was arrested not because of mutiny or cowardice among my comrades, but simply because of carelessness and bad luck.Comrade Bartoni is looking for leadership connections for his own section.His friend, Comrade Yelynyek, was somewhat negligent about the rules of secret work and told him whom to contact.Originally, Comrade Yelynyek should have consulted with me in advance, so that the matter could be settled without him.This is a mistake. Another more serious and crucial mistake was that an agent named Dvořák cheated Comrade Bartoni into trusting him.Comrade Bartoni also told him the name of Yelynyek - so the Gestapo began to pay attention to the Yelynyek family.Not because of the main task that these comrades successfully completed in two years, but because of a trivial incident, due to the complete neglect of the regulations on secret work. So the Pechek Palace decided to arrest the Yelinieks. It happened that we were gathering at his house that night, and the Gestapo dispatched a lot-all by chance.This incident was originally not planned by the Gestapo. They originally planned to arrest the Yelineks the next day, but after they successfully cracked down the underground party branch of the Junkers factory that night, they got motivated and drove out." Take a ride".Their sudden attack took us by surprise, but finding me here took them even more by surprise.They didn't even know who they were capturing.They probably never would have known, if I hadn't been arrested with... It took me quite a while to get this knowledge of "400". That time I was not alone here, the benches and the walls were crowded with people.The interrogation was going on, and every moment was full of surprises: strange surprises that I didn't understand, bad surprises that I understood well. My first accident, however, did not belong to any of the above categories. It was a pleasant little incident, not worth mentioning. The second accident: the four file into the house, greet the plainclothes guard in Czech,—and me, and sit behind a table, spread papers, and smoke a cigarette, in a manner of complete complacency Complacent, as if they are the officials here.But I clearly recognize them, at least three of them, do they serve the Gestapo?impossible.Or maybe yes, they really are here to serve.This is obviously R. , was the secretary of the party and the trade union earlier, although he was a bit rough, but he was kind - no, it was impossible.This is Anka Vikova, grizzled, but still a dignified, beautiful, unyielding warrior—no, that's impossible.And that Vasek, who once worked as a mason in a mine in the northern Czech Republic, and later became the secretary of the district committee of that area, how could I not know him?We've fought so much together in the North.Can the Gestapo bring him to his knees?No, it's impossible.But why are they here? What are they doing here? I haven't found answers to these questions yet, and new ones have arisen.They brought in Milek, Yelinek and Fried.Yes, I know these people, unfortunately, they were arrested with me.But why is art historian Pavel Klobachek here too?This man had helped Milek do some work among the intellectuals.Who else knows about him except me and Milek?Why did that slender young man with his face swollen from the beating indicate to me that we don't know each other?I really don't know him.Who is this?Shkih?Dr. Shikikh?Zdenek?Alas, God, so a whole host of doctors have suffered too.Besides me and Milek, who knows about them?Why did I ask about Czech intellectuals during my interrogation in the cell?How did they find out that my work was related to the work of intellectuals?Who knows besides me and Milek? The answer is not difficult to find, but this answer is serious and cruel: Milek betrayed, and Milek confessed.At first I had a glimmer of hope that maybe he hadn't confessed all, and when they brought another batch of prisoners upstairs, I saw: Vladislav Vanchula, Professor Faber and his son , beaten beyond recognition Bedrich Vaclavik, Bozhina Bulpanova, Indrich Arbor, sculptor Dvorshak , everyone who participated or was invited to participate in the National Revolutionary Committee of the Czech Intellectuals is here.Milek confessed all the work of the intellectuals. My first few days at Peček Palace were difficult.But this is the hardest blow I've ever had here.I look forward to death, not mutiny.However much I tried to judge leniently, however much I searched for excuses, however much I thought he would not betray, I couldn't find any other way to say it, it was treason.Momentary wavering, cowardice, tortured to death and seeking relief in stupor and madness, none of this can be forgiven. Now I understand why the Gestapo knew about me on the first night. name.Now I understand why Anitchka Iraskova is here too, where I met Milek several times.Now I understand why there is Krobachek and Dr. Shikikh here. Since then, I have come to "No. 400" almost every day, and learned something new every day. — some pathetic, creepy situations. Humph, this man, this man of backbone, who braved bullets on the Spanish front and survived the ordeal of the French concentration camps, is now frightened pale under the whip of the Gestapo, betraying others in order to survive.His courage is so poor, just to save a few whips.His faith was equally shaky.In a group, among like-minded people, he was strong.He is strong because he thinks of them.Now, when he is isolated and surrounded by enemies, he completely loses his power under torture.He lost everything because he started thinking about himself.In order to keep his body, he did not hesitate to sacrifice his friends.He succumbed to cowardice, and out of cowardice he rebelled. When they found the documents on him, he didn't make up his mind that he would rather die than decipher the code.He translated.He gave out the names of some people and some secret working contact points.He led Gestapo agents to meet Shikikh.Have the Gestapo go to the Dvosak house where Vaclavik and Klobachek met.He confessed Anichka.He even confesses to Lida, the strong and brave girl who once loved him.A few lashes would wear him out enough to make him confess half of what he knew, and when he was sure I was dead and no one would come to confront him, he confessed the other half as well. His behavior didn't do me any harm. I was in the hands of the Gestapo anyway, so what else could I do?On the contrary, his confession is only the preliminary clues that the interrogation relies on. It can be said that one end of the chain has been handed over, but the following links are in my hands, and they need to unravel these links very much.Because of this, I and most of my group survived beyond martial law. In this case, if Milek is faithful to his duty, a large number of people will not be implicated.Both of us may have died, but others may live; we fell, but another coward lost more than his own life.Milek is like that.He fled from the ranks of honor, and the basest of enemies looked down on him.He lives and dies because he is rejected by the collective.Later, he also tried to make up for his sins, but he could never return to the collective.Being spurned in prison is more dreadful than anywhere else. Prisonership and loneliness—two concepts that are often confused.In fact, this is a big mistake.Prisoners are not alone.The prison is a great community from which not even the most severe isolation can separate a man, if he does not isolate himself.Here the fraternal fraternity of those who are oppressed has a powerful force that binds men together, tempers them, sharpens their sensibilities.It pierces the living, talking, and message-carrying walls, linking an entire floor of cells made of their common misery, their common "sentry," their common servants, and the fresh-air They are linked together by the common half-hour "release"; by using the "release" to say a word or make an action, you can find out the news or save a person's life.This fraternal bond binds the prison together as prisoners go to trial together, sit together in the "movie theater" or return together.This kind of camaraderie is seldom expressed in words but in colossal deeds, where a simple squeeze of hands or the sneaking hand of a cigarette is enough to break the cage that holds you in and lift you from the destructive loneliness rescued.There are hands in prison; when you return from your sentence, you will feel how these hands hold you up and keep you from falling; when the enemy tries to drive you to the brink of death with hunger, you will use them get food.There are eyes in the prison; they watch you as you go to the execution ground, and let you know that you must walk with your head held high, because you are their brother, and you should not weaken their fighting spirit with unsteady steps.It is an unconquerable brotherhood paid for in blood.Without the support of this fraternity, you cannot bear a tenth of the pains that fate inflicts.Neither you nor anyone else can stand it. In this report—if I can go on (because we don't know when we will be gone)—the words that will often appear as the title of this chapter: "No. 400."At first I only thought of it as a room, and the first few hours I was there, the impression was not pleasant.But it's not a room, it's a collective.A happy, fighting collective. "No. 400" was produced in 1940, when the Anti-Communist Section strengthened its activities.It was the waiting room—a branch of the "Cinema", that is, a waiting room for prisoners, set up exclusively for the Communists, so as not to drag prisoners from the ground floor to the fourth floor for every question.The prisoner should always be near the interrogating officer, so that the interrogation will be convenient.This is what they set up "No. 400". It only took two prisoners—especially two Communists—together, and in less than five minutes a group was formed capable of destroying all plans of the Gestapo. In 1942, "No. 400" was simply called the "Central Committee of the Communist Party."It has gone through many vicissitudes: thousands of gays and lesbians have taken turns sitting on these benches, but one thing has remained constant: a spirit of collectivism, a devotion to struggle and a belief in victory. "No. 400"-this is a trench protruding far from the front, surrounded by the enemy from all sides, and has become the target of enemy fire, but the idea of ​​surrender has never flashed.The red flag flies above it.Here is shown the solidarity of the entire people who struggled for their own liberation. Downstairs, in the "cinema", SS men in high boots patrolled up and down, and you were shouted at by them every time you blinked.In "No. 400", we were monitored by Czech police officers and spies from the police station. They served the Gestapo as translators, some voluntarily, some were sent by the reactionary authorities, and some served as interpreters for the Gestapo. accomplices, some fulfilling their duties as Czechs, but others in between.In "No. 400", you can sit upright without putting your hands on your knees, staring straight at your eyes.Here you can sit with relative freedom, you can look around, make gestures—sometimes even more casually, but it depends on the situation and which of these three people is on duty. "No. 400" is the place where you can know the animal called "man" most profoundly.Here, as death looms, everyone is nakedly exposed—the Communist prisoners or Communist suspects with red bandages wrapped around their left arms, as well as the guards and those who participated in the interrogation in a room not far away. people.In interrogation, words can be a shield or a weapon.But in "No. 400", words cannot hide it.What matters here is not your words, but everything in your heart.Only the most essential things are left in you. All that is secondary, all that obscures, softens, or embellishes the most essential features of your character, is swept away by the whirlwind of your death.All that remains are the simplest subject and predicate: the faithful stand firm, the traitor betrays, the vulgar despair, and the heroes struggle.There is strength and weakness, bravery and cowardice, firmness and vigor, and purity and filth in everyone.But here, only one of them can exist, either one or the other.If someone wants to drift unobtrusively between the two, he will attract more attention than a man with a yellow feather in his hat and a cymbal in his hand dancing in the funeral procession. Such people exist among prisoners, as well as among Czech police officers and spies.At the interrogation he burned incense to the Reich God, and in the "400" he also burned incense to the Bolshevik "Red Devil".Whereas the German police officer can knock out your teeth in order to force you to reveal the name of your liaison officer, in "No. 400" he can pretend to be friendly, hand you a piece of bread to express his concern, and make you Not to starve. During the search, he robbed your house, but in "No. 400", he can give you half a looted cigarette to show your sympathy.There is another kind of people—a variant, so to speak—of those who have never actively harmed anyone, but have never helped anyone either.They only care about their own lives.They are therefore sensitive, which makes them an obvious political barometer.Are they aggressive or bureaucratic?It must be that the Germans are attacking Stalingrad.Are they friendly and chatting with prisoners?That's when things got better: the Germans must have lost at Stalingrad.It would be great if they began to describe their Czech descent and how they had been compelled to serve the Gestapo: the Red Army must have advanced to Rostov. —There are those among them who stand by while you are drowning, and who gladly hold out their hands to you when you climb ashore by yourself. Such people feel the collective "400" and want to get close to it because they are aware of its power.But they never belonged to it.There is another kind of people who are not aware of the existence of this collective at all. I want to call them executioners, but even executioners still belong to the category of human beings.And these fierce beasts who spoke Czech and held wooden and iron bars tortured the Czech prisoners, but they were so cruel that even many German Gestapo dared not look at them. They don't even have to hypocritically say it's for the good of their nation or empire, they torture and kill for the sheer pleasure of knocking out your teeth, piercing your eardrums, gouging out your eyes, cutting you off genitals, smashed the victim's head, and tortured you to death.There was no other explanation for this cruelty—it was sheer animality.Every day you see them, every day you have to deal with them, you have to endure their torture, their presence fills the air with the smell of blood and screams, their presence helps you to believe that even if they All the witnesses were killed, and they still cannot escape justice. But just beside them, at the back of the same table, sat other people who looked as if they belonged to the same job, and these people were very rightly called "persons" with capital letters.They made the prisoner's institution their own, they helped to create the Collective 400, to which they gave their whole being, all their courage.They are not members of the Communist Party, which shows the greatness of their spirit.On the contrary, when they worked in the police station, they did anti-communist things, but later when they saw the communists fighting against the German occupiers, they knew the power of the communist party and understood the significance of the communist party to the entire nation Since then they have faithfully served the common cause and helped every man who sat on a prison bench and remained faithful to the cause.Many fighters outside the prison may have hesitated if they thought about the horrors they would experience if they fell into the hands of the Gestapo.But all these horrific scenes appeared in front of these soldiers every day and every day, every day and every time they might be included in the ranks of prisoners, and they might suffer more painful torture than others.But they remained steadfast, saving thousands of lives and alleviating the tragic fate of those who could not be saved. The title of hero belongs to them.Without their efforts, "No. 400" would never be what it is now, as thousands of Communists have seen it: it is a bright place in that dark house, a base behind enemy lines, a The center of the struggle for freedom directly in the occupier's den.