The old train sputtered at such a slow speed that a fast walker could’ve easily overtaken it. Inside one of the cars, a tall, frail 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. He almost 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 when a god-like entity entered the car, dressed as a train conductor.

“Usti nad Zapomnenim,” the man bellowed unemotionally. “Last stop. Usti nad Zapomnenim.”

The conductor exited to the next car, and the train came to a stop in front of a tiny, dilapidated, and empty station. The men stood up almost in unison; and in single file, mechanically walked out into the dim, cold morning light of the town.

The first man off saw, in the near distance, a large white edifice sitting on top of a small hill. Seemingly glowing in front of the smoky fog, it was the only building in town.

The men, maintaining a single file, silently marched toward the building, as if in a chain gang.

When he reached the gate, the tall man looked down at the dying river below — its flow barely a trickle. A short man bumped into him gently from behind, signaling that he should proceed.

He entered the sanitarium and was immediately greeted by a stoic looking nurse, who handed him a card with a number. He took it and sat on a nearby bench with the others and waited.

It was a long wait, but he didn’t mind. He had time. He had eternity.

He wasn’t called until nearly sunset.

“Mr. Kafka,” the nurse spoke, looking over his file, “you do realize that this is a provincial hospital. Our staff doesn’t speak German well.”

“I realize.”

“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.”

He felt a coughing spell coming 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 new.

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 surrounded the bed of an obese man about Kafka’s age, who was reading from a notebook.

“Lieutenant Dub, who thought this 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 fell silent. The men around him, who looked as if they were listening to the word of God, glanced at each other uncomfortably for a few moments.

“Well?” one asked.

“Aren’t you gonna finish?” asked another.

“There is no more, gentlemen. 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.”

He started coughing, as violently as Kafka — only without a handkerchief — before wiping the product of the fury onto his gown, which was far from clean beforehand.

“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 lowered his head in reply. The obese man sighed; or more accurately, moaned.

“Give it here.”

The timid man brightened instantaneously and quickly took, from inside his robe, the first volume of The Fortunes of Good Soldier Svejk — which was wrapped in the finest leather cover — and handed it to the man, who quickly signed and returned it.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Hasek — thank you!”

“Jarda. My friends call me Jarda.”

“Jarda.”

“Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

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.

Hasek took one look at the Semitic features of Kafka’s face and reddened with anger.

“What’s this — it’s not enough the Jews have taken over Prague — now they have to take over my death bed, too?”

“Mr. Hasek,” the nurse admonished, “I’ve told you 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 understand Czech; apart from the numbers on 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’d you learn to speak Czech?”

“My father’s house. He forced us to speak it.”

“Why?”

“This is his country, too. And mine.”

Hasek grumbled something under his breath, turned away, and pulled the covers to his head.

Sleep came quickly. To both men.

* * *

“Franz Kafka” the monstrous voice echoed in his head. His body shook. And the voice repeated.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Hasek standing at the foot of his bed holding his chart with a surprised expression on his face.

“You’re Franz Kafka? Franz Kafka, the writer?”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“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 to judge literary quality — the author of pure and utter dreck. The ramblings of a drunk. A common street urchin can write more coherently than you.”

“You filthy . . .”

Hasek rushed awkwardly toward Kafka and swung his arm wildly at him — missing Kafka, but knocking Kafka’s end table and the bell onto the floor. Hasek rolled up his sleeves.

“It’s time for a little pogrom.”

“I should warn you,” Kafka replied, sitting up fearlessly, “my father was a boxer, who taught me well. Even in my state, I can still knock you to the floor. Especially in your state.”

“Boxer? . . . Your father’s not Hermannek?”

“I’ve certainly never called him that; but yes, his name is Hermann.”

“He’s got a little shop on Staromak?”

“Yes.”

Hasek started to smile. And as he did, he lowered his fists and sat on his bed.

“Why, he’s more Czech than me.”

“That’s quite possible.”

“You know, 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. What you earn off Svejk in one day probably exceeds my earnings for a lifetime.”

Nurse Cerna burst inside.

“What’s wrong?” she screamed. “I heard a bell.”

“I’m sorry, Nurse,” Kafka spoke. “I knocked the table over by accident.”

She came over; and warily looking at Hasek, picked up the table and bell.

“Don’t let this ruffian bully you, Mr. Kafka.”

“Oh, have no fear, 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. I should know. I was one of them.”

“If he bothers you, Mr. Kafka,” she added before leaving, “you let me know.”

“I’ll say this for you, Jew,” Hasek whispered, once the nurse left, “at least, you’re no rat.”

* * *

For Hasek, there were bad days, and even worse days. This particular day was one of the latter. He awoke in a frenzy of hacking — coughing so badly that he couldn’t even see. When it finally subsided and his eyes gained focus, he saw that his pillow was drenched in blood and mucus.

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 — something that he could do to remind himself that he was still alive.

He crawled into the chair just as Kafka awoke and slowly and painfully made his way toward the exit. There, he nearly bumped into a smiling Nurse Cerna, 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. He turned away, looking uncomfortable.

“Good morning, Mr. Hasek.”

“It was,” Hasek nastily replied, before pushing his way through the two people.

“Mr. Kafka,” the nurse proudly announced, “you have a visitor.”

Hasek rolled himself down the hallway with all his might. But by the time he reached the first corridor, he was out of breath. He needed to rest five minutes just to acquire sufficient strength to go back to his room. 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. 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.”

Kafka grabbed him by the lapel.

“It is my property! Destroy it, you hear — destroy it.”

Max lowered his eyes.

“Promise me,” Kafka insisted, his voice becoming suddenly faint.

“I . . . I promise.”

Max stood up; and, on the verge of tears, rushed toward the door. He passed Hasek without acknowledgment, and only stopped when he felt something holding his jacket. He turned around and saw Hasek looking up at him, his eyes ablaze.

“What do you want?” Max asked, in a loud whisper.

“Burn what?”

“What are you talking about?”

“What are you to burn?”

“I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

Max pushed Hasek’s hand away and started walking off. Hasek followed, as best he could.

“Brod!” Hasek screamed when he realized the chase was quixotic.

Max stopped, but didn’t turn around. Hasek rolled up to him and lifted himself out of the chair. He grabbed a hold of Max for balance.

“What does he want you to burn?”

“His novels,” Max replied, crying.

“He’s written novels?”

Max nodded.

“Are they like his stories?”

“Better.”

“And you’re gonna burn them?”

“What else can I do?”

Hasek forced Max to face him.

“What gives you the right?” he roared.

“Me? 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 known, and you’d turn his poetry into ash? You’d be damned. For such crime there can be no absolution!”

“Leave me alone!”

Max pushed him away, causing Hasek to fall onto the floor, and ran off.

“You won’t do it, Brod!” Hasek screamed. “I know you won’t!”

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.”

“You know Max?”

“I know him.”

“He’s a very good writer, don’t you think?”

“If you like that sort of stuff.”

Hasek lifted himself back into bed, turned away from Kafka, and pulled the covers up to his head.

“I lied,” he murmured.

“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. In fact, I still have them at my home in Lipnice. You are looking, Mr. Kafka, 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. A little recognition. To be considered a real writer, not just some uneducated scribbler. You called my book ‘dreck’ yesterday. You wanna know why it made me so mad? Because that’s what many publishers called it. I had to self-publish, you know. No one would touch it. Not because they thought it wouldn’t sell, 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 was just lashing out. I . . . I loved every 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. 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. These children will pass it to their children and their children’s children.

“I should be the one who’s jealous. When I die, I’ll be quickly forgotten. You — you will live forever.”

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, Mr. Kafka,” he uttered. “Don’t be so sure.”

* * *

“Franz Kafka” the voice echoed in his head. This time it wasn’t so monstrous.

He opened his eyes and saw a smiling Hasek staring down at him.

“It’s time, Mr. Kafka.”

“Time for what?”

“You’ll see. Come on, let’s go.”

“Go where? I’m sorry, but I don’t have the strength.”

“You will.”

Hasek 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!”

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.

They exited the building into a beautiful sunny morning. Hasek stopped and took a deep breath.

“Well?” he asked.

“What?”

“Shall we walk down to the river?”

“I told you, Mr. Hasek, I can’t.”

“But we can.”

Hasek lifted Kafka up, and the two men gently strode down the small hill, leaning against one another. Together they complemented each other to the extent that they appeared almost as one healthy body.

When they were about half way to the water, Kafka slipped on a stone. Hasek caught him with his bear-like arm, which he kept around Kafka’s shoulders for support. Kafka reciprocated.

“Can I call you Franta?” Hasek asked, his face beaming with joy as it reflected the nearlyblinding sun.

“You may,” Kafka affirmed.

“And you call me Jarda. That’s what my friends call me.”

As they reached the bank of the river, they could see a skiff in the near distance, manned by a single ethereal boatman.

“He’s here for us, Franta.”

“I know.”

“Have you got your heller ready?”

Kafka smiled. He had forgotten he knew how.

“Are you scared?” Kafka asked.

“A little. You?”

“Not anymore.”

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