COLIN COHEN
THE LAST DAYS OF KAFKA
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright ©
2007-2012 by Colin Cohen
info@cc600.com
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in any part in any form.
Published by EIMI Press at Smashwords
Second
Edition
May 2012
The Last Days of Kafka
THE old train sputtered at such a slow speed that a fast walker could’ve easily overtaken it.
And inside one of the cars a tall and frail man of thirty-nine—a man with a ghost-like complexion—looked around and noticed that the only passengers remaining were others just like him—men half-alive. Men taking their final journey. And, because of this, he half-expected Charon to walk through the door and lead them the rest of the way. He even reached into his pocket for a one-heller coin, just in case.
So, he wasn’t surprised at all when a god-like entity entered the car, even if he were dressed as a train conductor.
“Usti nad Zapomnenim,” the man bellowed unemotionally. “Last stop. Usti nad Zapomnenim.”
The conductor then exited to the next car, and the train soon came to a stop in front of a tiny and dilapidated and empty station. And the men, moments later, stood up, almost in unison; and, moments after that—in single file—they mechanically walked out into the dim cold morning light of the town.
And the first man off saw, in the near distance, a large white edifice sitting on top of a small hill—the only building in town. One seemingly glowing in the smoky fog.
Anyway, while maintaining a single file, the men silently marched toward the building, as if in a chain gang.
And when the tall and frail man reached the gate of the building, he looked down at the dying river below—with its flow barely a trickle. Which was just before a short man bumped into him gently from behind, signaling that he should proceed.
He afterward entered the sanitarium and was immediately greeted by a stoic-looking nurse, who handed him a card with a number. And he took it and sat on a nearby bench with the others and waited.
And waited.
It was a long wait, but he didn’t mind, as he had plenty of time.
He had eternity.
Which didn’t arrive until nearly sunset.
“Mr. Kafka,” the nurse at this time spoke, while looking over his file, “you do realize that this is a provincial establishment. Our staff doesn’t speak German well. Some not even a word.”
“I realize.”
“Would, wouldn’t you be more comfortable some place closer to Prague, or even in Austria?”
“My doctor recommended the air here.”
“Did he mention that we don’t have private rooms?”
“It does not matter.”
“Very well. Nurse Cerna will show you to your room.”
Suddenly, Kafka felt a coughing spell oncoming and instinctively reached into his pocket for a handkerchief.
The spell was long and violent; and, when it finally subsided, he looked at the blood-stained cloth, unable to determine which stain was newer.
And just at that moment, Nurse Cerna, a large woman with enormous dark eyes, lifted him with ease off his seat and into a wheelchair, before leading him down a seemingly endless and eerily silent corridor.
The journey was so long that he lost track of the time, especially when his eyes wandered toward the misshapen ceiling, where the filthy paint conjured images of beasts—beasts long hidden just below his consciousness.
Finally, she wheeled him inside a large room, where a small group of men were surrounding the bed of an obese individual Kafka’s age, who was reading aloud from a notebook.
“Lieutenant Dub,” the obese man spoke, “who thought the horrible liquor was going to his head, tapped his finger on the table and lucidly explained to Captain Sagner: ‘The district commissioner and I have always said, “Patriotism, loyalty to duty, self-achievement—these are the true weapons in war.” I’m reminded of this especially today, when our troops are on the cusp of crossing the border.’”
The obese man then fell silent. And the men around him, who looked on as if they were listening to the word of God, glanced at each other uncomfortably for a few moments.
“Well?” one finally asked.
“Aren’t you gonna finish?” inquired another.
“There is no more, gentlemen,” answered the obese man. “Perhaps there will be no more.”
“You can’t just end it without finishing the story,” said a third.
“I don’t know what I can tell you.”
Suddenly, the obese man started coughing, just as violently as Kafka had—only without a handkerchief—before wiping the product of the fury onto his gown, which was far from clean beforehand.
“Do, do you think,” timidly began one of the acolytes, “do you think you could sign my copy?”
“What for?” barked the obese man. “What good will it do you now?”
The timid man responded by lowering his head. And the obese man sighed; or, more accurately, moaned.
“Give it here,” he afterward uttered.
Instantly, the timid man brightened and quickly took from inside his robe the first volume of The Fortunes of Good Soldier Svejk—which was wrapped in the finest leather—and handed it to the obese man, who quickly signed and returned it.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Hasek,” the acolyte cried, “thank you!”
“Jarda. My friends call me Jarda.”
“Jarda.”
“Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me . . .”
In response, the men smiled and nodded at Hasek before quickly taking their leave, just as the nurse wheeled Kafka to the free bed next to him.
And Hasek took just one look at the Semitic features of Kafka’s face before reddening with anger.
“What’s this,” he howled, “it’s not enough the Jews have taken over Prague—now they have to take over my death bed, too?”
“Mr. Hasek,” the nurse bellowed, “I’ve told you before to keep your bigotry to yourself. You’ll soon discover how meaningless your petty prejudices truly are.”
“Oh, don’t get so upset, nurse. Most of these Jews don’t even understand Czech; apart from the numbers on the bills.”
“Sometimes not even that,” Kafka murmured as he was helped into bed.
“So, you speak Czech. What a miracle. I’m to be stuck with one of the few Czech-speaking Jews in the world. Nurse, please find me another bed.”
“Find yourself one. Now, Mr. Kafka, if you need anything, just ring the bell on the end table.”
“Thank you, nurse.”
“Thank you, nurse,” Hasek parodied, as the nurse left. “Where did you learn to speak Czech so well, Jew?”
“My father’s house. He forced us to speak it.”
“Why?”
“This is his country, too. And mine.”
In reply, Hasek grumbled something under his breath, before turning away and pulling the covers to his head.
Which was just before sleep came.
To both men.
“FRANZ Kafka!” a monstrous voice echoed in his head, causing his whole body to shake.
Then, the voice repeated itself.
And, when he opened his eyes, Kafka saw Hasek standing at the foot of his bed holding his chart with a surprised expression on his face.
“You’re Franz Kafka?” Hasek asked, with a bitter tone. “Franz Kafka, the writer?”
“You’ve heard of me?” Kafka groggily replied.
“I’ve read some of your stories. If you can call them that. ‘Absurd nonsense’ is a better name for them. Men turning into bugs, and ridiculous penal colonies.”
“Yes, and you are one to judge literary quality, Jaroslav Hasek. The author of pure and utter dreck. The ramblings of a drunkard. A common street urchin can write more coherently than you.”
“You filthy . . .”
At this moment, Hasek awkwardly rushed toward Kafka and swung his arm at him—missing Kafka, but knocking Kafka’s end table onto the floor, along with the bell. And, moments later, Hasek rolled up his sleeves and muttered, “It’s time for a little pogrom.”
“I should warn you,” Kafka replied, while sitting up fearlessly, “my father was a boxer, who taught me well. Very well. Even in my state I can still knock you to the floor. Especially in your state.”
“Boxer? . . . You, your father’s not Hermannek?”
“Well, I’ve certainly never called him that; but yes, his name is Hermann.”
“He’s got a little shop on Staromak?”
“Yes.”
In reaction, Hasek began to smile—almost against his will. And, as he did, he lowered his fists and sat on his bed.
“Why,” he afterward uttered, “that man—he, he’s more Czech than me.”
“That’s quite possible,” said Kafka.
“You know, I think he’s the only man in Prague who can out drink me.”
“That’s quite possible, too.”
“How come I’ve never seen you with him?”
“I don’t frequent pubs and such places.”
“No, I don’t imagine someone like you would.”
“What does that mean?”
“A member of the literati hobnobbing with us common folk?”
“Listen to you talk, like you’re some kind of proletariat. Why, you’re likely the richest writer in the country. I doubt even Capek makes what you do. Seriously, what you earn off Svejk in one day probably exceeds my writing earnings for a lifetime.”
Just then, Nurse Cerna burst inside the room.
“What’s wrong?” she screamed. “I heard a bell.”
“I’m sorry, nurse,” spoke Kafka. “I knocked the table over by accident.”
Skeptically, the woman came over; and, while warily looking at Hasek, she picked up the table and bell.
“Don’t let this ruffian bully you, Mr. Kafka,” she told him.
“Oh, have no fear of that, Nurse Cerna,” Hasek jokingly replied. “He’s the son of one Hermann Kafka of Old Town Square Prague—a man who once stared down a whole street of rioters. And I should know. For I was one of them.”
“If he bothers you, Mr. Kafka,” she added as she left, “you let me know.”
“Well, I’ll say this for you, Jew,” Hasek then whispered, “at least, you’re no rat.”
FOR Hasek, there were bad days, and even worse ones.
And this particular morning was one of the latter.
He awoke in a frenzy of hacking, and was coughing so badly that he couldn’t even see. And, when it finally subsided and his eyes gained focus, he saw that his pillow was drenched in blood and mucus.
Well, on bad days, he could usually drag himself outside for a short walk on the grounds, but on days like this all he could do was scurry around the halls a bit in his wheelchair.
At least, it was something, he told himself. Something that would remind him he was still alive.
Anyway, he crawled into the chair just as Kafka awoke, and he slowly made his way toward the exit, where he nearly bumped into a smiling Nurse Cerna, who was accompanied by a well-dressed man about Hasek’s age.
The stranger was also smiling; that is, until he saw the man sitting in the chair in front of him. Which is when he instantly turned away, looking quite uncomfortable.
“Good morning, Mr. Hasek,” he muttered.
“It was,” Hasek nastily replied, before pushing his way through the two people.
“Mr. Kafka,” the nurse proudly announced, “you have a visitor.”
Hasek, at the same time, rolled himself down the hallway with all his might.
But, by the time he reached the end of the first corridor, he was out of breath. In fact, he needed to rest five minutes just to acquire sufficient strength to go back to his room. And when he finally reached the threshold, he saw the visitor sitting on Kafka’s bed talking to him.
“You must do what I ask, Max,” Kafka pleaded.
“I can’t,” Max pleaded back. “Ask me anything else. You are more than a brother to me. I’ll do anything. Anything but that.”
“You must burn them.”
“I can’t.”
Instantly, Kafka grabbed Max by the lapel, and hollered, “It is my property! Destroy it, you hear—destroy it.”
In reply, Max lowered his eyes.
“Promise me,” Kafka insisted, with his voice suddenly becoming faint.
“I . . . I promise,” murmured Max.
He then stood up, and, on the verge of tears, rushed toward the door.
Soon, he passed Hasek without acknowledgment, and only stopped when he felt something holding his jacket.
Which is when he turned around and saw Hasek looking up at him, with his eyes ablaze.
“What do you want?” Max asked, in a loud whisper.
“Burn what?” Hasek whispered back.
“What are you talking about?”
“What are you to burn?”
“I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”
Seconds later, Max pushed Hasek’s hand away and started walking off.
But Hasek followed, as best he could.
“Brod!” he then screamed, once he realized the chase was quixotic.
On hearing this, Max stopped, but didn’t turn around. And Hasek rolled up to him and lifted himself out of the chair, before grabbing hold of Max for balance.
“What does he want you to burn?” Hasek demanded.
“His novels,” Max replied, just as he started crying.
“He has written novels?”
Max nodded back.
“Are, are they like his stories?” Hasek asked.
“Better,” answered Max.
“Better? And you, you’re gonna burn them?”
“What else can I do?”
In response, Hasek forced Max to face him.
“What gives you the right?” Hasek roared.
“Me?” meekly spoke Max. “Their not mine; their his.”
“What gives him the right, the selfish little kike!”
“Let me go!”
“Listen, you worthless wretch—you’re gonna publish those novels, every single word.”
“No!”
“The greatest writer Prague has ever known, and you’d turn his poetry into ash? You’d be damned. For such crime there can be no absolution!”
“Leave me alone!”
Soon after, Max pushed Hasek away—causing the obese man to fall to the floor—before he ran off.
“You won’t do it, Brod!” Hasek screamed. “I know you won’t!”
Well, a short time later, Hasek crawled back onto his chair and slowly made his way back to his bed.
“What was all that screaming about?” Kafka asked when Hasek passed.
“I don’t see how it’s any of your business,” Hasek replied.
“You know Max?”
“I know him.”
“He’s a very good writer, don’t you think?”
“If you like that sort of stuff.”
Just then, Hasek lifted himself into bed and turned away from Kafka, and soon pulled the covers up to his head. Which is when he murmured, “I lied.”
“Excuse me?” Kafka replied.
“When I told you yesterday that I had read some of your stories, I lied.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve read them all. Every single one. In fact, I still have them at my home in Lipnice.” Hasek then paused for a few seconds, and added, “Mr. Kafka, you are looking at a jealous man. A man jealous of your talent and accomplishments.”
“You?”
“I’m a failure, you see. It doesn’t matter how many books I sell; I’m still a failure. All I ever wanted was recognition. Just a little recognition. To be considered a real writer, not just some uneducated scribbler.
“Yesterday, you called my book ‘dreck.’ You wanna know why it made me so mad? Because that’s what many publishers called it. All of them, actually. That’s why I had to self-publish. No one would touch it. Not because they thought it wouldn’t sell—they knew it would. But because it was dreck.”
“If it’s confession time,” Kafka uttered after a brief silence, “then I guess it’s my turn. I never really thought your book was dreck. I, I was just lashing out. I . . . I loved every page. Every single page. You’re a modern Rabelais, Mr. Hasek—a Cervantes even. And if publishers are too stupid to see that, never you mind. History will prove them wrong.
“You call yourself a failure. But let me tell you a little story. About a month ago, I was walking through Prague and I saw a group of teenage boys acting out a scene from your book. One of the bawdy ones, of course. They had memorized all the best lines. Through them, Mr. Hasek, Svejk will live on past you. He will live forever. These children will pass it onto their children and their children’s children.
“I should be the one who’s jealous. When I die, I’ll be quickly forgotten. But you . . .”
Suddenly, tears streamed down Hasek’s face. He couldn’t remember the last time he cried like that—if he ever had.
“Don’t be so sure you’ll be forgotten, Mr. Kafka,” he soon after uttered, with his voice breaking. “Don’t be so sure.”
“FRANZ Kafka!” the voice echoed in his head.
Though, this time it wasn’t so monstrous.
Kafka opened his eyes and saw a smiling Hasek staring down at him.
“It’s time, Mr. Kafka,” Hasek cooed.
“Time for what?” replied Kafka.
“You’ll see. Come on, let’s go.”
“Go where? I’m sorry, but I don’t have the strength.”
“You will.”
Hasek then helped Kafka into his wheelchair and slowly pushed him into the hallway, where they were greeted by a surprised-looking Nurse Cerna.
“Mr. Hasek!” she howled. “What are you doing with Mr. Kafka?”
“Ah, my dear Nurse Cerna,” Hasek howled back with a grin, “the better question is what has Mr. Kafka done to me!”
Well, as the two made their way through the hospital, Kafka looked up at the misshapen ceiling. But no matter how hard he tried, he could no longer see the beasts.
And a short time later, they exited the building into a beautiful sunny morning. Which is when Hasek stopped and took a deep breath.
“Well?” he asked the man in the wheelchair.
“What?” the man in the wheelchair asked back.
“Shall we walk down to the river?”
“I told you, Mr. Hasek, I can’t.”
“But we can.”
And, without waiting for a reply, Hasek lifted Kafka up, and the two men gently strode down the small hill, while leaning against one another. Together, they complemented each other to the extent that they appeared almost as one healthy body.
Suddenly, when they were about half way to the water, Kafka slipped on a stone.
Quickly, Hasek caught him with his bear-like arm, which he kept around Kafka’s shoulders for support.
And Kafka reciprocated.
“Can I call you Franta?” Hasek soon asked, with his face beaming with joy as it reflected the nearly blinding sun.
“You may,” Kafka affirmed.
“And you call me Jarda. That’s what my friends call me.”
Eventually, they reached the bank of the river, and they could see a skiff in the near distance, manned by a single ethereal boatman.
“He’s here for us, Franta,” Hasek said.
“I know,” replied Kafka.
“Have you got your heller ready?”
Kafka smiled at this.
Which was strange, he thought, as he had almost forgotten he knew how.
“Are you scared?” Kafka asked.
“A little,” Hasek told him. “You?”
“Not anymore.”
Prague Gothic
THE young boy smiled.
His first smile in many days.
And he then used his left hand to keep his right one steady as the paint sprayed from the can onto the side of the building. And, not having done this before, he found writing this way difficult, especially as the words were in a language not his own. The alphabet in particular—even though it was drummed into him since his first days of school—was hopelessly foreign.
“Poydite Domoy!” he eventually wrote, hoping he spelled it right, hoping it were legible, and hoping most of all that the Russian soldiers—who days earlier had “liberated” his country—would read it and follow its advice, by going home.
Well, he didn’t have to wait long to discover that his grammar was quite good.
Too good.
For a Soviet tank turned the corner just as he finished writing, and soon after a round of bullets hit the wall just above his shoulders, ripping half the slogan—along with lots of concrete—onto the sidewalk.
And the boy ran.
“Stop!” the commander of the tank shouted in Russian as he rose from inside.
But stopping was the last thing the boy wanted to do. And instead he turned right onto Dusni Street and disappeared.
Quickly, the tank followed, but by the time it maneuvered the corner, the boy was gone. In fact, the only soul there was a tall old man limping along the side of the road.
Seconds later, the tank pulled up to him and halted.
“Hey, you!” the commander shouted.
In response, the old man stopped and turned to the soldier, and smiled as he pointed to himself inquisitively.
“Yeah, you,” the commander continued. “Where did the boy go?”
“What boy?” the old man asked.
The commander, in reply, pulled out his revolver and pointed it at the man, before releasing the safety.
“Where did he go?” he firmly reiterated.
“Lots of boys around today,” the old man muttered, “running all over the place. Who am I to keep track of them?”
At this moment, he turned and started on his way. And, a moment after that, the commander thought about shooting him for his impertinence; but he quickly realized his bullets would be much better spent that day on the young. So, he gave the signal and the tank lunged forward.
Anyway, after a few blocks, the commander gave up looking for the boy, as he now faced a much bigger problem.
He was lost.
The Prague populace—during the first hours of the occupation—removed most street signs; and, in truth, finding your way in Old Town wasn’t easy even with them, as the roads twisted and turned in all conceivable directions.
And to make matters even worse, the commander’s compass was awry. One second it told him they were heading south, and the next, north. And so in disgust he threw it onto the cobblestone street—in the immediate path of the tank.
Which is when they turned another corner.
And there he was again—the old man, limping along. And, as soon as he saw the tank, he smiled and waved as it passed.
He even winked.
And the tank continued on. And the men inside quickly noticed there were no cars traveling on the road and no people on the streets; and most importantly, no other soldiers in sight. And, before long, the driver became nervous. So nervous that he started hitting parked cars and lampposts, and nothing the commander said could calm him down.
Finally, they ran directly into a building and halted.
Just as the old man limped around the corner.
“Hey, you!” the commander shouted, while pointing his gun.
On hearing this, the old man stopped and turned to the soldier, and smiled as he inquisitively pointed to himself.
“Yes—you!” cried the commander.
“You know, you should be careful, friend,” the old man murmured. “These streets—most have been around since before Charles the Fourth. They weren’t made for tanks.”
“Never mind your Charles the Fourth. These are Soviet tanks—they can cross anything. . . . You, you’re coming with us. You’re gonna lead us out of here.”
“Sorry, I cannot help you.”
“What do you mean?” the commander howled, quickly turning red with anger.
“I’m just an impartial observer.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Best of luck. And give my regards to your emperor.”
At this moment, the old man turned and started on his way. And, even though he was the Russians’ only hope, the commander was so furious that he shot him.
In reaction, the old man calmly stopped and turned back to the commander. And said, “Now, why did you have to do that?”
Immediately, the commander unloaded another shot. And yet another. And still the old man stood.
He even smiled.
“Better men than you have tried to kill me,” the old man afterward told him. “And one far better than them all has kept me alive.”
Seconds later, the commander flung his gun onto the street. And the old man once again turned and started on his way.
“I actually like you,” he then said, without stopping or looking back. “So, I will partially defer my impartiality and offer you some advice. Avoid the next street up ahead. Go back. Go back where you came from.”
Suddenly, the tank pulled away from the building and started backward.
“Not backward,” the commander howled. “Forward!”
“But,” a young voice cried from inside the tank, “he said—”
“—I don’t care what he said, college boy! I said, go forward! That’s an order!”
Soon, the tank inched forward.
“Faster!” the commander screamed. “Faster!” And, before long, the tank reached the intersection. Which is when the ground began to give way.
Quickly, the tank fell right through the cobblestones and through the soil underneath it. It fell through rock and limestone—meter after meter—before breaking into a shaft, where it crashed onto a stone landing.
And, many minutes later, a half-dozen soldiers exited the tank in a state of daze. Apart from the commander, they were all young—very young. Perhaps a generation older than the boy they were chasing; some were perhaps even younger than that.
And they all saw they were in a tunnel—one at least a thousand years old. It was also well lit, and, from the movement of light it was easy to surmise that its source was torches.
Lots of them.
Well, fearlessly the commander stepped forward.
But no one followed.
“Let’s go,” he ordered.
“Where?” one of the men meekly asked.
“Someone lit those fires. Men. We’ll find them and make them lead us out of here.”
At this moment, the commander started once again, with his men following tenuously. And, a short time later, they reached an intersection.
“Which way?” one of the younger men asked.
“Comrade Commander!” shouted another, clearly frightened, while pointing toward a wall. “Look!”
In response, the commander turned, and saw on the wall a word written in large letters—in an unfathomable archaic alphabet.
A word written in blood.
“What is it?” the commander asked.
Only silence came back. Though the young man who first noticed it started shaking with fear.
“Lebedev,” the commander uttered, “what’s wrong?”
Lebedev shook his head in reply, over and over.
“Come on, college boy—what is it?”
“It . . . it’s in Gothic.”
“Gothic? What do you mean, Gothic?”
“They, they just disappeared.”
“What are you talking about?” the commander screamed with great exasperation.
“The Visigoths—they, they conquered Spain. But the Ostrogoths, they simply vanished.”
“You’re talking gibberish.”
“What if they didn’t disappear?”
“Who?”
“The Goths!”
“Are you saying there are Goths living under Prague? Barbarians?”
“What does it say?” one of the young soldiers asked, while pointing to the wall.
“It says . . . “
Just then, the commander grabbed Lebedev and threw him onto the ground against the wall. And hollered, “Shut up!”
Which is when a set of bass drums started beating in the distance. Drums that got louder and louder.
“Weapons!” the commander screamed.
Hesitantly, the men pulled out their revolvers. And they afterward formed a loose semicircle behind the commander.
And soon the sound of the drums were joined by screams—deep blood-curdling screams. Screams coming from all directions.
And, seconds later, there were different screams, coming from different men.
But the sounds were no less horrific.
THE young boy stood stoically at the corner while watching the workmen repair the road—trying at the same time to forget what he had witnessed from the edge of the chasm days earlier.
Suddenly, a large hand grabbed his shoulder from behind. And the boy turned and looked up, and saw the menacing countenance of a Soviet major.
“Did you see what happened here?” the man asked.
“No, sir . . . I mean, comrade.”
“You’re lying!”
Just then, one of the workmen turned around and limped toward them—a tall old man who had “Ahasver” stitched on his work shirt.
“It happens all the time,” Ahasver told the major.
“What?” the major asked.
“These old streets, they just cave in.”
“I’ve never heard such nonsense.”
Ahasver shrugged at this.
“Could . . . could something have fallen through it?” the major then asked, a bit unsurely.
“What?”
“I don’t know . . . a tank perhaps?”
“A Soviet tank?”
The major nodded in reply.
“Nah,” Ahavser told him with a wave of his hand, before turning around and walking back to the site.
“How can you be so sure?” demanded the major
On hearing this, Ahavser stopped. And afterward he paused briefly before turning back to the major.
Which is when he smiled and murmured, “Soviet tanks can cross anything.”
The Revenge of Stalin
HE cried the day his hero fell.
A large teardrop rolled down his plump cheeks onto his bright red bandanna as he watched the twenty-meter-high statue of Stalin explode into hundreds of pieces onto Letna Park. For while the vast majority of Prague’s residents were delighted to have this monstrous blight wiped from their sight, for this little boy the day was well beyond tragic.
MANY years later, on Christmas Eve, a little boy attacked his gift—ripping the wrappings to shreds.
And there it was: the electric-powered slingshot he had wanted. And so he looked up at his father, with joy filling his eyes.
Though his father shook his head at this.
For while he loved the boy, he hated what he was becoming. And the man knew that he and his whole generation would be lost if something wasn’t done—something desperate.
So, he went to the hall closet and took out a bright red bandanna, which he wrapped around his neck. And then he put on his coat and grabbed a canvas bag and a large thin book lying by the door. And he left, with his son watching warily.
AT a remote hanger on the outskirts of Ruzyne Airport a lone figure stood against the soot-filled sky.
Soon, this same figure put a thin book between his legs and pulled out a pair of heavy wire cutters from his canvas bag. And he placed the cutters over the thick chain covering the door; and, as he began to apply pressure, he looked up at the sign that read: “NEBEZPECI!”
And he smiled at this, as he was certain that there was anything but danger inside. And so, after breaking through, he stepped into the structure and turned on the lights.
And there it was: tons of white marble.
The remains of Stalin.
FROM high on top of Stalin’s head, the man chiseled late into the evening.
And when he finally finished, he sighed and looked down at the word he had carved on Stalin’s forehead.
PRAVDA.
“Truth!” he then proclaimed, before stretching his arms as wide as he could. And, before long, he dropped to his knees and caressed Stalin’s cheek. And uttered, “And the truth shall set you free.”
Then, he returned to the floor and grabbed his book. And he sat down and opened the book to the title page, upon which was printed, “Komunisticky manifest”—and which was signed by Marx himself.
And he soon turned to the first page. And, with a high-pitched squeaky voice he shouted, “A specter is haunting Europe—the specter of . . .”
Suddenly, there was a rumble—one that grew louder and louder.
Quickly, the man jumped to his feet, just as the hundreds of pieces of marble flew together as one.
Before long, the entire statue was once again whole. And Stalin began to rise, with joy filling the man’s eyes.
“Glory to the Soviet—” he began.
Unfortunately, he was unable to finish his tribute, as the strong right hand of Stalin smashed him into oblivion.
And Stalin continued to rise; and, after breaking through the hanger ceiling, he came fully to his feet. Which is when he saw the bright lights of downtown Prague below. And he began walking toward it, with his infamous smile forming on his equally infamous face.
Though, unbeknownst to him, a small figure was watching this from behind—the figure of a boy. One who was carrying a canvas bag.
Anyway, Stalin had barely made his way down Dejvicka Avenue when the Czech fighter jets arrived.
At first, they just hovered around him, not really believing what they were seeing. But soon they began firing bullets, and afterward missiles.
But while their efforts did result in quite a bit of fallen marble, Stalin continued on as if the planes were nothing but mosquitoes.
Finally, he grew annoyed and started swatting them. And he destroyed most of them. Though when he saw the NATO reinforcements arrive he quickened his pace.
Which is when he discovered something familiar—the Soviet architecture of the Hotel International. And so he climbed onto its roof and started smacking and crushing the aircraft that came near him, as if they were but toys.
And, after he smashed the last of them, he laughed heartily, as he knew he was invincible—even more so than before. And because of this, he pounded his chest and howled—a howl heard a hundred kilometers away.
But just then the boy rose from the depths of the nearby Metro station. And from his canvas bag he pulled out the slingshot. And, after picking up a small stone, he placed it in the device and aimed for Stalin’s head.
And fired.
And the stone hit Stalin directly in the forehead.
Though the impact was so slight that he didn’t even feel it. But, moments later, the marble began to collapse. And in hundreds of pieces it fell to the ground.
Well, the military couldn’t understand how a small rock could succeed where all its firepower had failed. That is, until they found the head and saw that the rock had obliterated the “V” in “PRAVDA,” breaking the spell.
You see, while the Devil may indeed wear Prada, Stalin most certainly does not.