The Diplomat's Wife(66)
“That’s the Astronomical Clock,” a voice from behind me says. He is speaking Czech, close enough to Polish for me to understand. I spin around to face a tall man in a bright yellow jacket. He points up at the clock. “The outside ring is meant to function as a normal clock, with the inside circle showing the position of the earth in the heavens. It was built in medieval times and functioned for centuries, but it hasn’t worked since the Germans hit it during the war.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised at his friendliness, this spontaneous offer of information. He is young, not more than twenty-five, I would guess, with a thin face and brown goatee that remind me of Alek. “It’s beautiful.”
“I’m Hans, by the way.” He extends his hand.
I hesitate, remembering Renata’s admonition not to talk to anyone. Then I reach out and shake his hand. “Marta.”
“You aren’t from here,” he observes.
I shake my head. “Is my accent that obvious?”
“Your accent is fine. You just don’t see many people staring at the clock. Those of us who live here have grown immune to its charms. And we don’t get many tourists these days.”
I curse inwardly at having stood out, hoping that no one else has noticed. “I’m here on business,” I say slowly, trying my cover story for the first time. “A cultural project at the British embassy.”
“I see.” I study his face, wondering if he believes me. But he is looking over my shoulder, distracted. I turn, following his gaze to the far end of the square where a group of people have gathered by a statue. “I’m sorry, but I really must go. It was nice to meet you.” He strides off in the direction of the group.
“Wait…” I begin, but he is already halfway across the square. As he approaches, the group grows larger. People, mostly young men and women, come from all directions until there are several dozen assembled. They begin to walk toward one of the streets that leads from the square. I hesitate. I should head back to the hotel. But, curious, I start across the square, following the group. Ahead, I see Hans toward the front of the crowd, his yellow coat bobbing in a sea of darker colors.
The crowd makes its way down one narrow street, then another. Something is different here, I realize. The stores are closed, metal grates pulled close across their fronts. The windows in the apartments above are dark, shades tightly drawn. Other than the people who walk with Hans, there are no shoppers or pedestrians on the street. I remember again the passersby who ignored the man shot by the Nazis in Kraków. The people are afraid. They do not want to be a part of whatever is about to happen here. I should walk away, too. But I find myself pressing forward, part of the crowd now, compelled to see what this is all about.
A moment later, the street ends at another square, much larger than the previous one. It is rectangular, narrow at the base where we have entered, with two long sides running upward toward a large, gold-domed building. The National Museum, I recognize from the tour book in my hotel room I thumbed through last night when I could not sleep. This must be Wenceslas Square. As the group surges forward, they are joined by hundreds of others, appearing individually or in small groups. They seem to be mostly students, though I see a smattering of older people, too. Some carry crude homemade signs I cannot read from a distance. A political protest. The group swells and surges forward toward the museum building. At the top of the museum steps, a line of police stand shoulder to shoulder, forming a barricade.
I hang back as the crowd pushes forward around me. I cannot afford to get caught up in this, not now. “Democracy!” the protesters chant over and over. I inch forward, standing on the tips of my toes to get a better view. These are the very people we are trying to help, I realize, scanning the crowd. Perhaps Marek, or even Marcelitis himself, is here. But I do not see Marek, and I have no idea what Marcelitis looks like. They would be too smart to get caught in something so dangerously public, anyway. Someone a few meters in front of me starts singing the Czech national anthem. The song seems to catch fire throughout the crowd, until it seems that all of the protesters have joined in one enormous voice. Looking at the determined faces around me, I am reminded of our own resistance movement during the war. If only we’d had this kind of support from our people, things might have been different.
As the anthem concludes, the protesters surge closer to the museum building, pressing up the stairs. “No communism!” they chant in unison. “Democracy now!” The front of the crowd climbs the steps, reaches the barricade. Some of the protesters exchange heated words with the police. Though I cannot make out what they are saying, they seem to be demanding entry to the building. A policeman pushes a demonstrator roughly, sending the man flying backward down the steps onto the pavement. Shouts erupt in the crowd. Scuffles between the demonstrators and police break out. The rest of the throng, incensed by the conflict, presses forward.
Suddenly a shot rings out in the air, then another. The scuffling ceases and the protesters freeze. The police must have fired into the air to stop the fighting, I think. Then, at the top of the stairs, I spot something bright yellow on the ground. Hans’s jacket. He lies motionless, arms flung above his head as though surrendering.
“No!” I gasp. I hold my breath, stifling the urge to scream. The crowd, stunned by the shooting, stands motionless. But the police, having caught the protesters off guard, now take the initiative. They leap forward, brandishing nightsticks. I watch, horrified, as a number of young men are beaten to the ground. Others are dragged away by the police. A cloud of smoke rises from the front of the crowd. Tear gas, I realize, as some of the protesters begin to clutch at their eyes. The crowd begins to flee, police in close pursuit. I have to get out of here, I think, as the protesters stream back past me in the direction from which we came. If I stay here, I am going to be arrested, or worse. I turn around. A police truck has blocked the street from which we entered the square. We are trapped.