The ground at Dablice is holy.
And at the same time it is rather unholy.
Here, headless, lay buried the seven heroes who fought the SS in the crypt and in the loft of a church on Resslova Street in Prague.
They were in hiding among the ancient bones and bibles after their plot to assassinate SS Obergruppenführer Heydrich worked out in the end, and the tyrant died of sepsis from his wounds.
Between the time of death of the Obergruppenführer and that of the heroes in the crypt, the town of Lidice was razed in one of several acts of retaliation. Its inhabits were shot, gassed, or sent off to a camp.
But back to the church, and the bones, and the bibles, and the Nazis, and the brave parachutists who died there.
Those men lay here, in this mass grave under or near where I stand in silent worship of their heroism. Among them are other Czechs executed for their roles in the assassination.
Mingling in eternal sleep, or eternal decomposition, or eternal juxtaposition with them all however, are the bodies of the men who ordered their death, and the traitor who betrayed their location to the Gestapo and the SS.
Unholy and holy. All at once.
I write much more about this layered story in my book ‘The In Between’.