Short Stories and other tales

Vojanovy Sady

                In the heart of Prague, in a flat on the bank of the Vltava river, a woman is getting ready for her date. Miluše is sitting at her dressing table, holding a silver hairbrush in her small manicured hand. She runs it gently through her long wavy hair dangling on her shoulder blades. She carefully applies red lipstick on her thin mouth. She wants to be the prettiest for her rendezvous: after weeks of waiting, the man she loved asked her out for a stroll along the river, and they are supposed to meet in a lovely green park nearby.

Her lips stretch into a dreamy and confident grin. She cannot prevent her thoughts from being drawn to Oleg. She daydreams about his beautiful green eyes that always seem to pierce through her soul, his thin face and soft cheeks, and his messy dark hair. Miluše usually never likes men who look messy, but Oleg was the only exception. O, sweet exception, she thinks.

She stands up from her dressing table and slowly walks to her wardrobe. She opens its doors and grasps the dress she separated from the others. She had it imported from France just for the occasion. Her fingers softly remove her gown, which slips down her curves. Then, she puts on the dress. How beautiful it is! It is a red dress whose end strokes her shin bones, lightly tightened at the waist by a thin belt. Its sleeves are long and the collar is similar to this of a blouse.

Miluše walks back to her dressing table and picks up her pearl necklace. She ties it around her neck and positioned it properly. I feel good today, she repeats to herself. She hangs pretty earrings to her earlobes and stares at her reflection in the mirror. She allows herself to smile and picks up the hairbrush once again, brushing away the strands that are out of place. With a hand, she gently lifts her mane and sprays perfume on her skin. A sweet scent of violets and roses settles on the hollow of her neck.

She stands up and moves towards the corner of the room. She takes a pair of black shoes inside which she slips her small feet wrapped up in tights. With her delicate fingers, she tightens them and inspects every detail of her outfit. Her hair is perfect and her makeup is, too; she flattens her dress and starts pacing up and down on the wooden floor of her bedroom, making sure she can keep her balance with the high heels.

Perfect.

Her face lights up with a grin of satisfaction. She grabs her handbag, hung at the coat rack, takes her keys, and leaves the flat. She closes the door behind her and walks down the stairs to the front door.

Miluše walks in the Karoliny Svetle, with her chin up and a bright smile. Passers-by look round at her. It doesn't surprise me, I'm gorgeous today! She follows the Vltava river for a short while, crosses the Charles Bridge, not paying attention to the beautiful statues with some golden parts on each side of it. Then, she arrives at the Vojanovy Sady, the park where she is supposed to meet Oleg. She crosses at a slow pace, joyfully swinging her arms back and forth. From time to time, she looks up and smiles at the birds landing on the branches of the high trees. The people sitting in the park fix their gaze on her; some even point at her while whispering things she cannot hear.

She spots the bench on which she met Oleg two years ago. She grins and sits right there, her handbag resting on her knees clamped together. She throws glances in every direction, searching for the one she loves. She even looks behind her, in case he wants to surprise her. But for now, he is nowhere to be seen. So she looks down at her nails and makes sure she filed them well. Hasty steps echo through the park. Her eyes leave her hand and find the source of those steps.

Oleg is here. He is running towards her.

She stands up, carried away by enthusiasm; but when she is about to call him, she notices he is not alone. Two men in grey uniforms are chasing him. One of them raises his arm, holding a truncheon, and lets the tip of his weapon dash his neck. Oleg falls and Miluše hears him moan, even from afar. She dares not move. Her body is frozen. The two men yell in a language she does not understand. It cannot be Czech; the words are spoken inarticulately, and they sound unpleasantly familiar.

It is German.

With the tip of his black boot, the man who hit Oleg forces him to roll on his back. The other German rummages through a small bag hanging at his belt, and takes out a revolver. He laughs as he points at the yellow star sewn to Oleg's jacket, on his chest, and aims at it with his gun. He pulls the trigger, and the roar of the detonation deafens the whole park, making women scream and children weep.

However, nobody is moving around them.

The German soldier riddles Oleg's motionless body with bullets and smashes his face against the ground with the heel of his boot. The two foreigners leave the park, chatting noisily.

Miluše starts to quake. Once the two men are out of sight, she collapses on her knees beside Oleg's stiff body. She screams and cries his name. Her dress is soaked with rainwater mixed with dirt. But the state of her dress is the least of her worries.

On a nearby bench, a teenager gently nudges her mother in the ribs. She clutches the mobile phone she is holding in one hand, and with the other, she points at the poor woman.

"Maminka! Maminka! Look at that old lady up there! She's the nutcase of Prague!"

The mother looks up from her book and lets out a sigh.

"I know, miláček. We can't do anything for people like her."

"Do you know her story?"

The mother sighs once again and wedges her bookmark between the pages of her novel, before closing it slowly. She slips it back in her bag and looks up.

"Her name is Miluše Fiala. Rumours have it that in 1943, she went on a date with a man named Oleg Zimmermann, who was Jewish and who hid so he would not be taken to the ghetto. But Miluše knew nothing about it. On his way to the date, he was spotted by two German officers who chased him to the park and slayed him before her. Poor Miluše never got over it, and since that day, she relives the date every week, on every Friday. Every week since seventy-three years."

For the fourth time, the mother sighs and watched the old Miluše, down on her knees, holding an imaginary body, burying her face in an invisible chest.

"The poor thing doesn't even know the war is over."