Alice to Prague

by Tanya Heaslip

  That sounded odd but I nodded nonchalantly to show I was an experienced traveller and unafraid of new experiences. I headed off and pushed the door open.

  And crashed into another room.

  Full of urinals.

  And men.

  And a stench so bad I thought I would bring up my řízek.

  Several men were lined up against the wall, spraying urine everywhere and yabbering. They leered drunkenly at me as I walked past. One had no teeth, just red gums, and was leaning against the wall, fumbling with his fly and smoking. At the end of the room was another door that inside offered three cramped cubicles.

  Dear God, let this be the Ladies, I prayed, hoping no one would follow me. I rushed into the first filthy cubicle, then as quickly as possible rushed back out, washed my hands and ran past the men smirking openly at me. My heart banged all the way back to the table.

  Míša laughed and told me about an old Czech joke: ‘You can find a Czech pub in any village by following the stink of WC.’

  I was still in a state of disarray when we headed out again. Worse, after another hour my bladder again demanded attention, and I begged Míša to stop.

  ‘You need to go again?’

  ‘It’s the pivo,’ I said through gritted teeth, jumping out. What did he expect, anyway? One-litre glasses of beer were way too much for this Australian novice.

  Rushing into the nearby forest, I crouched down in relief but almost as quickly I jumped up, screaming. Once Míša stopped chortling, he said I’d most likely planted my bottom onto the country’s famous kopřiva—stinging nettles—and I spent the rest of the trip to Šumava clutching my rear, whimpering in agony, while Míša and Pepík wiped the tears from their eyes. So much for the impressive reunion I’d imagined with Karel.

  By the time we arrived at a small stone cottage nestled in a picturesque valley, I was no longer focused on anything but pain and rage against Czech toilets, kopřiva, bladders and beer. Míša had promised me that our host Ludva would have some ointment that would soothe the stinging and I’d begged Míša to take me straight to him. The last thing I wanted was for Karel to see me like this.

  But Karel, Jarda and his wife Jitka, and a bubbly Czech-Australian blonde named Nad’a were heading towards us, intent on hugs, backslapping and cheek kisses.

  ‘Taaaarnya, how good of you to join our small gathering in the mountains,’ Karel said chivalrously as he helped me out of the car. It was the same disarming, halting textbook English I remembered. He shook my hand and kissed my cheek.

  For the first time I really noticed that everyone was older than me—not that it made any difference to how we connected. I also noticed that Karel was dressed in the same faded blue jeans, denim jacket and white T-shirt he’d worn on my visit to Prague. As I gazed up at him, I lost all sense of feeling and was reduced to offering only a finger-twisting, breathless ‘Thank you!’

  Míša quickly explained the predicament of ‘Tanya and the WC and the kopřiva’ and amid much suppressed laughter Karel leapt in.

  ‘Oh dear—our WC in country pubs are special experience. And our famous prickle plants most unfortunate. May I recommend you spend more time with me? I would not let such problem happen. I am expert in the Czech nature.’ He shook his finger at Míša. ‘My poor friend here has spent too long in Australia and forgotten about our dangerous countryside and its pubs.’

  Míša retorted with something unpronounceable, then said to me, ‘Now I take you to Ludva for recovery, my little kangaroo.’

  Ludva was a tall, charming man with a red beard who we found chopping wood at the back door like he belonged in another century. He and Míša shook hands, with more robust backslapping. On hearing my story, Ludva said, ‘Goodness me, come inside with me, please, Tanya. I can help.’ He spoke very good English, which was not surprising; when the Czech-Australians had headed Down Under, he had headed to England, where he had lived ever since.

  ‘Let me see . . .’ He searched in an overflowing cupboard and pulled out a tube of ointment. ‘It is not so new but it will help take away the pain of the stinging nettles. It has magical Czech properties!’

  ‘Thank you,’ I gulped, red-faced.

  He pointed to a tiny room at the back of the cottage and I ran, ointment clutched between my fingers.

  When I emerged I felt much better, largely thanks to the magical properties of Ludva’s ointment. But I felt awkward and embarrassed. I hovered nervously in the doorway, not knowing what to do. Everyone was sitting on benches around a large fire outside the front door, layered in jackets and scarves, chatting away in Czech and drinking beer. The Gang, as they called themselves, were in high spirits.

  Eventually, I forced myself to move out of the shadows and Karel saw me. He stood up and gestured for me to sit next to him. I smiled shyly, my anxiety subsiding, my bottom completely recovered in that moment.

  ‘Tak! I hope you feel better now, Tanya. And how is life in the Sedlčany?’

  But before I could answer, he conjured a rolled-up newspaper like a magician.

  ‘I have brought for you this American paper from Prague. The Prague Post. It has some work advertisements for English schools in it. It may help if you are still interested.’

  My fingers shook as I took the paper, thrilled, and devoured the English words. Karel couldn’t have given me a better present. I loved newspapers but hadn’t read one for nearly three months. This one was full of stories of life in Prague that I understood: politics, expats, jobs. There was also a world news section, with stories on Britain and the United States and the troubles in Yugoslavia.

  I flicked through excitedly for advertisements and sure enough they were there. ‘Karel, there are three schools looking for English teachers!’ I cried out. Two had unpronounceable names but the other, surprisingly and simply, was called ‘English House’.

  ‘Tak! This seems, how you say, a promising sign, yes?’

  ‘Yes, yes!’ I had an overwhelming desire to hug him, then restrained myself. ‘Thank you so much, so very much.’

  Prague now felt possible in a way it hadn’t before.

  Two more couples arrived: Standa and Ivana, and ‘Growing Boy’ Peter and Vladěna. They were childhood friends of the group, and were charming and welcoming to me.

  Standa was great fun and he had a cheeky laugh. He told me Karel was responsible for Peter’s nickname ‘Growing Boy’, which celebrated the stomach Peter was growing as a result of a lifetime drinking beer. Growing Boy rubbed his impressive stomach, his eyes twinkling mischievously. Ivana was blue-eyed and blonde-haired, while Vladěna was petite with huge, beautiful eyes. Both women spoke a little English. I loved them all immediately.

  ‘Time for celebrations,’ said Ludva, officially declaring the party had begun. His neighbour had caught a pig in the forest a few hours before our arrival and the Czechs were wild about their game. Large and pink, this hapless pig was now turning and roasting and crackling before us on a spit, giving off succulent aromas. The neighbour had also brought mushrooms, picked in the same forest last autumn and preserved. Hunting and gathering were de rigueur in the mountains.

  ‘This is like being home.’ I turned to Karel. ‘We used to kill our own meat too. It was normal to live off the land like this.’

  My past and that moment in Šumava lurched against one another, careered, bounced.

  ‘This is very interesting,’ Karel said. ‘Perhaps we have more in common than not, Tanya?’

  He held my gaze and I wanted the moment to last forever.

  As the stars emerged overhead, we ate and drank our fill, and then it was over to the real business of the evening: music.

  Instrument cases were opened. Jarda, Karel and Ludva tuned up their guitars and Míša handed me his.

  ‘Tanya, you tell me you play guitar with the students, so please, we would like you to play “Waltzing Matilda” for us.’

  Most of the Gang were serious musicians and had played for decades. Many of them still performed in bands.
Yet here they were, together after so long, watching an Australian girl coming off a much lower base. I held the guitar nervously and looked up at them all. Like a teenager, I wanted them to like me, to like my playing, but I was only a three-chord-wonder girl. For a moment I was paralysed. Then I put my head down, took a breath, and after a few strums the music took me with it and I felt the familiar elation that came with being part of something bigger than myself.

  ‘Waltzing Matilda’ turned into a huge jam. Everyone joined in with vocals, lead and bass guitar, banjo, mandolin and plenty of harmonies. The cottage and the nearby countryside were rocked with song. By the time I’d finished, I was flying high. I’d passed the test, playing in front of such accomplished musicians, and I saw Karel’s eyes upon me. Our eyes locked, held, I laughed out loud with happiness. Perhaps he would want to play music with me again. Perhaps I could learn some Czech folk songs from him.

  Later, much later, we crawled into our sleeping bags. I dozed off to the chuckles of Ludva and Karel, who were still telling jokes, and Vladěna’s cross ‘Sklapni!’ (‘Shut up!’)

  I wished my sleeping bag was closer to Karel’s.

  Then I told myself to sklapni as well.

  Over strong black coffee, dark bread, cheese and yoghurt the next morning, Ludva announced, ‘Today we make trip to our famous nearby castle.’

  Back home, if anyone had said on a Saturday morning they were off to visit a castle, they would have been telling stories—literally. There were no castles in Australia and, furthermore, the Australians I knew considered the weekend a sacred time of relaxation and sport. Gearing up to explore places of culture and history was unheard of. Yet this activity was commonplace for Czechs.

  We headed towards Velhartice hrad, a ruined thirteenth-century monolith that once housed the crown jewels. Even from a distance, the tower soared above the countryside. The castle itself had massive stone walls that reached for the sky, like the castle in Jack and the Beanstalk. A red turret perched on the pinnacle of the tower like a cherry.

  ‘Special, yes?’ Míša grinned.

  Yes—extraordinary, in fact. Any minute I expected to see Jack climbing up over the top and a giant stomping past shouting, ‘Fee-fi-fo-fum . . .’

  Inside the castle walls there was an enormous cobbled entrance, and beyond that a small ticket booth. The place was deserted except for a fierce lady wearing a grey cardigan and pinafore who peered out of the booth She appeared to hold the dual role of castle guard and ticket attendant.

  The Gang became increasingly noisy—no doubt excited at seeing a castle after so long—and Jarda shouted ‘Shhh!’ Perhaps there were rules in castles, so I followed his instructions and did what I was told, excited and a bit nervous myself.

  But as Jarda headed for the ticket booth, the Gang became even noisier. Then they started to act like, well, bored schoolkids. Growing Boy and Standa wrestled with Míša and Karel until Míša and Standa fell to the ground, legs splayed in the air, crowing with laughter. Pepík stuck out his tongue at Jarda, Ludva stuck his fingers up his nose, and meanwhile Jitka and Nad’a, and Ivana and Vladěna held hands, pulled faces and giggled like naughty little girls.

  Er—was there something in Jarda’s instructions I’d missed?

  All the while Jarda and the ticket attendant continued to speak, with much gesturing and pointing towards the group with earnest, solemn faces. Eventually Jarda concluded his conversation. Nodding to the lady in apparent thanks, he rounded up the group and herded us towards the entrance. Everyone shouted and pushed and shoved, ignoring Jarda’s stern tones of admonishment. I followed, mystified. It was only once we were inside an ancient and empty hallway that the Gang fell apart in hysterics.

  ‘What is going on?’ I begged, the only one left out of the joke.

  In between snorts and chuckles, Jarda told me he had persuaded the attendant that he was overseeing a group of inmates from a mental asylum in Prague and, after observing the antics of the Gang, the attendant had accepted the story and let everyone in at half price. This trick proceeded to keep the Gang in stitches for hours.

  But why do it? It made no sense to me. The tickets weren’t expensive, and the Gang were more than grown-up. Why pretend to be psychiatric patients?

  Then I remembered that outwitting those in authority was still a national sport. It was not the principle of saving money that motivated the Gang; it was the sheer pleasure of continuing to outwit those who held rank, right down to a ferocious-looking ticket attendant guarding an old castle.

  ‘As you say in English, old habits die hard,’ Jarda said with a wicked grin.

  ‘You are lucky,’ said Karel. ‘You have now seen the antics of Švejk in the live.’

  Back at the cottage that night, I raised the topic of Prague and everyone agreed I should apply to the schools.

  The general view was ‘Proč ne?’ (‘Why not?’) ‘You can always visit Sedlčany if you miss your friends there, but Prague is good for someone young like you.’

  I wasn’t so young—thirty-one felt almost ancient to me—but I knew they considered me young. Naive, too, and probably foolhardy. As a result of some surreptitious questioning, I’d concluded the Gang were all about fifty, yet they had the energy and humour and joie de vivre of people half my age.

  ‘You are very welcome to stay with me while you find what you want,’ Karel added.

  My stomach leapt about a bit at this point. It was a tempting offer, and slightly dangerous.

  Actually, it was ridiculously dangerous.

  ‘Thank you, but I wouldn’t want to impose.’ My voice was jerky.

  Karel laughed. ‘Není problem. We Czechs all like to be together, you can see that. We cannot have you on your own in Prague. That would not be nice for you—or us.’

  The pressure slid from my shoulders and I thanked him. Despite Prague’s glittering allure, it was a big step to take.

  ‘I can help you learn about Prague, too, if you wish,’ he added. ‘Every day I crisscross all of the Prague by foot. It is necessary for my work as engineer to know every tiny street and historic building like, how you say in English, the back of all my fingers.’

  ‘Hand,’ I automatically corrected him, and then flushed.

  He stretched out his fingers languidly.

  ‘This is good. I can tell you are good teacher. In the past I learnt from secret books and newspapers and sometimes could even tune into forbidden frequencies on radio, like BBC. It kept my hope and spirit alive. Now it will be great to have personal lessons!’ He beamed, adding, ‘I try to make my two daughters to learn as well.’

  My jaw dropped and my stomach lurched.

  I should have realised he was married.

  Karel went on smoothly. ‘My eldest daughter Šárka, who is twenty-one, speaks English quite well. I would like her to have chance to speak more. My youngest daughter Radka, who is eighteen, does not speak English. This is despite my encouragement. Perhaps you would also be very good teacher for her.’

  ‘Yes, yes of course, if she would like to learn.’ I tried to sound professional. ‘And’—I couldn’t help myself—‘your wife?’

  He paused again, a beat. ‘There are just my girls and me.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Yes. When Míša and Jarda escaped in 1968, I stayed to be with my wife and family. Simply, I could not leave my country. But my wife and I are divorced many years now. My girls are the most precious thing in my life.’

  My head banged with conflicting thoughts. I felt overwhelming thankfulness that Karel wasn’t married, yet bewilderment; he was a man of responsibility with daughters. I had not anticipated this. Images of the two Karels collided, crashed.

  I don’t know why I hadn’t imagined Karel with children and a family. Perhaps it was because he seemed so free-spirited. He had an ease about him, a lack of burden; he took joy in life. He didn’t seem like an old, weary father but a Pied Piper, especially with this group. He told most of the jokes and kept people in stitches.

&nb
sp; The jokes inevitably came with a Švejk theme.

  He would start in his drawling way with something like, ‘Have you heard the one about the Russian Special Minister of Defence and the Czech Next-in-Line Special Minister of Defence at the special parade at the Kremlin with their two helpful Good Workers of the Motherland . . .’ He would then insert Švejk-esque characters and on it would go, with the Good Workers causing mayhem and madness until both Ministers were either (a) sent to Siberia, (b) sacked, (c) demoted, or a combination of all three, with the Good Workers then cheerfully going off to the pub. Each story could take a good half an hour, with the Gang wheezing and slapping their chests and falling about in hysterics.

  Even to my uneducated ears the jokes were hilarious and Jarda confirmed they were really clever, not just in their themes but in the way the words were put together: the use of Czech wit, the play on words. Not everyone could tell a Czech joke cleverly, he said. If you got the emphasis wrong or one word in an incorrect place, it would fall flat.

  Karel had the gift.

  He was also a magical musician. As I watched his long, elegant fingers move across guitar strings and listened to his gentle harmonies, I decided I could adjust to the new Karel. The one with daughters. The one who would actually make things safer for me. There’d be less chance of me fantasising about romantic possibilities, and less risk of falling down that slippery slide of unrealistic hope.

  I was also dealing with a growing sadness. The Czech-Australians were flying home the following week and Ludva was leaving for England. I’d felt so strong and safe with Míša and Jarda. Then I remembered Jarda’s words as I’d left the restaurant at Benešov and blinked back the salty tears. I didn’t want them to think me cowardly or not up to the job. I was an explorer, a foreign correspondent, a lucky traveller who had a passport to leave, and I knew I was morally obliged to make the most of my experiences.

  The Gang dropped me off at the nearby railway station at the end of the weekend as Míša had to return directly to Prague. It would require four train changes to get back to Sedlčany but the boys had prepared the usual notes and this time I felt more confident.