Alice to Prague

by Tanya Heaslip

  Then there were the two ‘right hands’ to Anne and Richard; blond and bespectacled English Alistair, who was jovial and charming and spoke fluent Czech; and Canadian Carolyn, stout and primly dishevelled, who wore round glasses, beamed around at us all and offered up her home-baked pumpkin pie.

  And Lisa from Tasmania!

  The only other new teacher to English House.

  The only other Australian in town, as far as I could tell.

  She looked up with a face almost as anxious as mine. We clutched each other’s hands, ecstatic at meeting, promising friendship, exchanging common experiences in garbled undertones.

  Anne called us to order and handed out relevant textbooks, timetables and school details. Then both she and Richard briefed us on what they expected from the group in the coming term. It was a lot.

  Anne had previously told me everyone she employed had a TEFL degree. Most had taught in various parts of the world. Some taught in other Prague TEFL schools as well. Most spoke one if not two foreign languages. Many studied Czech at night classes. I squashed myself in behind a bookshelf at the far back of the room, hoping no one would ask me anything.

  Once the briefing was over, Anne came towards me and said, ‘I will draw you a map, with transport stops, so you know how to get to the Ministry of Justice and High Court.’

  She stopped and relaxed, her eyes smiling. ‘Did you enjoy the other night?’

  ‘Yes, thank you so much.’ I relaxed too, and we hugged. ‘It was fabulous. Did you?’

  Her dimples gave it all away. ‘Dickie is staying on for a few days without the band. Fancy dinner in the Old Town with us? There’s an old pub where the meat comes in different weights—a relic of wartime rationing—and I want to show him.’

  ‘Yes, I’d love to!’ I couldn’t believe I was so lucky and sensed a bourgeoning friendship with Anne lay ahead. She was my first friend here who linked me back to the West and I found that hugely comforting.

  Vera walked towards us, smiling, and Anne reverted to Headmistress mode. ‘Vera will give you some more details about your new role, Tanya. She worked in it last year but is now starting at a law firm.’

  I nodded quickly, hoping my enthusiasm would make up for my lack of everything else.

  Richard called out to the group, ‘Okay, I now pronounce the autumn term of English House 1994 open!’ There was much laughter and cheering, and he added, ‘We will now go to the Obnoxious Pub for lunch.’

  Feeling like a tongue-tied student again, I joined my young, groovy colleagues as they adjourned to an evil-smelling pub across the dusty courtyard that effortlessly lived up to its name. The place was smoky and filled with drunken men, and the service and food were appalling. However, it boasted three redeeming features: proximity to the office, excellent beer and cheap prices.

  As I settled into conversation with my new friends, an unexpected ache grew inside.

  If only I could tell my family all about these thrilling developments! If only they could wander alongside me and experience firsthand the beauty of this city; experience my new life ‘by my side’, as the Czechs were fond of saying. In that way they would understand why I was so captivated. But my family were on the other side of the world and could not feel the magic of this place in their veins. And to the locals it was all normální.

  Fortunately, Karel had recently bought a fax machine for his business and although it was expensive to use, he’d generously invited me to send letters home on it. I was thrilled because the Czech post was slow and unreliable. I decided to fax once a week, like I had done at boarding school, although back then we’d communicated by letter. I also hoped it would alleviate the ache that was starting to feel like a mulga stick in my leg, niggling, painful, unrelieved.

  I finished the cheap beer and floated back to Prosek, composing a letter home in my head, the mulga stick ache blessedly numbed for the moment. Karel’s kisses waited for me and for now, that was enough.

  21

  Finding the Ministry of Justice

  Mr Svoboda—Deputy Minister of Justice, lawyer and rising political star—was my first English House student. He was also the most handsome man in Czech politics, not to mention the most unusual. He did not drink, he was honest, and he had no affiliation to the former regime. Not for Mr Svoboda the early morning vodka, garlic soup and gossip sessions with colleagues in the basement restaurant (which, according to the locals, was the norm for every other minister and bureaucrat). No—he spent every free moment studying French and English before dashing off to The Hague or Geneva on international legal matters.

  And from 8 a.m. to 8.45 a.m. each day, he studied English with me.

  On my first day, I wore the two smart things I’d brought with me to the Czech Republic, a dark-blue court dress and blue court shoes. But they were designed for an office, not for the cobbled streets of Old Prague. It was a hot morning; my toes pinched, my knees hurt and perspiration dripped down the back of my neck. When I finally made it to the entrance of a long and inconspicuous Ministry building, a large guard jumped out at me.

  ‘Zastavte!’ he shouted, brandishing his weapon.

  I stumbled backwards. Did I really look that dangerous? But I didn’t want to get the guard offside on my first morning so I quickly handed over my documents and looked deferentially at my feet. He spent some time reviewing them before nodding, reluctantly it seemed, and pointing me through the revolving door.

  On the other side, a metal box-like contraption barred my way. It looked like something the Russians would have made James Bond enter in order to extract the obligatory confession. Tottering inside, I waited to be zapped or electrocuted or imprisoned, but I got through unscathed and immediately encountered another guard, who descended with a buzzing handheld device. She ran the device over me, coming perilously close to my nether regions in her zeal to find whatever James Bond–type devices she suspected I’d secreted in my crevices. Sporting a large moustache and even larger eyebrows, she inspired a fearful flashback of the guard in the Sedlčany supermarket. My attempts to smile were met with narrowed eyes.

  Finally, I was through, sweating all over by now, and put before guards at a counter who reviewed my documents again, stamped them and directed me through a further glass door, after which a female guard led me up several flights of wide, concrete stairs. We turned right and entered a large waiting room. Groups of besuited men with briefcases sat on chairs around the wall and stared at me. The guard spoke to a receptionist, who turned to me and said in broken English, ‘You are new teacher? Please sit, wait too.’

  But I’d barely sat down when several men marched out and the receptionist pointed to me and instructed, ‘Come!’

  I leapt to my feet and followed her through the inner door into a long olive-green room that reminded me of the Oval Office in the White House. It was very grand, with paintings along the wall and a long desk in the middle.

  A tall man raised his head from some papers, politely gestured me towards a seat at his long table, and said in a courteous tone, ‘Good morning, Tanya. I am Mr Svoboda.’

  My heart somersaulted. Black hair that curled into crisp, grey-flecked locks around the base of his neck. Crisp, pressed shirt. Dark tailored suit that hung elegantly off his tall, slender frame—they were all bought in Paris, I later learned. Immaculately groomed. Discreet eau de cologne. Early forties, at a guess.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Svoboda,’ I gulped. Was that the right way to address a Deputy Minister who looked like a film star? Were there any telltale signs of perspiration on my dress? I shook his hand, trying to appear calm and professional, trying to focus.

  Mr Svoboda spoke in perfect and lightly accented English. ‘I have many people who wish to meet with me. They are not happy to be sent away or to have to wait because of my lessons.’ He gave a wry smile, and I smiled back, nervously.

  Mr Svoboda explained he had been recently appointed to represent his country at the European Court of Human Rights. It was the Czech Republic’s opportuni
ty to show it had moved on from communism, had improved its record on human rights, and was ready for admission to the European Union. His immediate superior, the Minister of Justice, did not want to learn English, and wished for his Deputy to carry out the international missions.

  ‘Tak! We need to make sure I am prepared well for these meetings and to have enough in English to contribute.’ He looked at my copy of Advanced English irritably. ‘Do you have anything else—more relevant?’

  ‘Er—yes, well . . .’ My mind emptied. My new student’s grasp of English was going to challenge mine. In a rush, I suggested, ‘Why don’t we review documents you need for your trips? That way we can make your lessons practical and useful.’

  He raised one elegant eyebrow. Letting a foreigner like me look at confidential documents wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind. I added, as authoritatively as I could, ‘As a lawyer, you can trust me to keep this all confidential. Why don’t we try it and see how it goes?’

  He looked taken aback but after a moment nodded. ‘I am writing a speech for the next UN meeting in Brussels. We wish to make our laws the same as European Community laws and this speech expresses our intention. I need the English words to be perfect.’

  ‘Let’s work with that, then,’ I said, breezily, as though I did this kind of thing all the time. ‘We can focus on how it should be written. It will be a practical application of grammar and spelling and you can take away a finalised document.’

  ‘Very well, Tanya. This once, we will see.’

  But, as in Sedlčany, here I knew instinctively that I’d found my way in. I’d learnt I was better at practical teaching than theoretical approaches, and I knew this would work. I’d just substituted a guitar for a political document.

  By the end of our lesson I’d learnt a great deal, and Mr Svoboda had seemed to enjoy it too. When he said, ‘This was very good and very useful’, I glowed from head to foot. I would conduct all lessons in the future based on his material. But I wouldn’t tell Anne just yet that we’d discarded Advanced English.

  I picked up my bag and was ushered out while the next round of besuited men with briefcases was ushered in. It all happened in a whirl.

  ‘Thank you very much. See you tomorrow!’ I said politely to the receptionist.

  She watched me go, her face closed. I was starting to get the message—I was an interloper here. But I didn’t care. I swept out of the waiting room and bounded down the wide stone staircase. Tomorrow we were going to look at another UN document. It was history in the making—legal history, in fact. Not even a foreign correspondent would be able to do this!

  The future was full of stimulating opportunities waiting to unfold. Thank you, thank you, thank you, I called out to the grey morning sky with its pale slants of yellow light. To think I could still be in Australia dealing with wills, divorces and disputes about fences.

  One floor down from Mr Svoboda was the Ministry’s Office for International Relations.

  And the Head of International Affairs.

  Mrs Wurstová, my next student.

  When I arrived for my first lesson, I was told Mrs Wurstová was running late and that I should take a seat in her office. I looked around in some alarm; in contrast to Mr Svoboda’s streamlined, elegant surrounds, this room overflowed with papers, books, paintings and coffee cups.

  As I tried to squeeze my bottom onto a chair piled high with files, my student steamed into the room like the Queen Mary. ‘Oh, my little kangaroo.’ She shook my hand up and down, beaming. ‘So glad you are here! We are going to be a wonderful team! Coffee, we must have coffee just now. Dana, please bring some and meet our new kangaroo. Oh, this is going to be great fun and you are going to be tremendous help to me!’

  Mrs Wurstová was generously proportioned and had fiery red hair. She wore a vibrant red silk blouse with ruffles, matching red lipstick, a black skirt and high heels. She trailed an exotic perfume in her wake, along with a line of people who were falling over themselves (and the files and books on the floor) to finalise matters with her before our lesson began.

  The phone rang as they put more documents before her. Mrs Wurstová picked up the phone and called out instructions while busily signing papers. Another assistant rushed in with several overflowing files. The assistant looked anxiously about the desk, no doubt trying to find a spot for them, and when she couldn’t she piled them on top of a large dictionary where they teetered precariously. Mrs Wurstová signed more documents while talking to the assistant. Dana brought coffee. The phone kept ringing. Mrs Wurstová kept giving instructions.

  I drank my coffee fast.

  ‘So, Taaaarnya.’ Mrs Wurstová finally turned her dazzling gaze back to me, as I tried to refocus. ‘Tak! You are here to teach me everything I must know so I can do the best work possible. Yes! This is new role for our country and it is important that we make our mark in the international relations and especially the UN Commission on Human Rights.’

  The phone rang again but this time she ignored it, shouting instead to the secretary in the adjoining office. Seizing the opportunity, I pushed forward my carefully prepared lesson.

  ‘Now, Mrs Wurstová, shall we begin? I have prepared a lesson based on—’

  ‘But you must know, I am not interested in the grammar.’ Mrs Wurstová pushed away the papers just as firmly. ‘No, I will not be good at this thing called grammar and don’t intend to be.’ Big peals of laughter.

  ‘But . . .’

  Mrs Wurstová leant towards me, speaking confidentially in warm, honeyed tones. ‘Oh, but I want to learn to speak better. That is most important. You will talk with me and you will come with me sometimes to meetings if I need a help and you will find interesting things for me to read and learn about.’

  I stared, open-mouthed. That was a worse deviation from English House’s strict rules than the rewriting of Mr Svoboda’s curriculum. But Mrs Wurstová waved her hand dismissively at my concerns. ‘And sometimes we will have a little glass of wine and chat. I want to hear all about your country with its beautiful kangaroos and funny wild animals.’

  And with that, she beamed me out of her office.

  From that moment on, our lessons involved lots of conversations and glasses of wine, but I quickly understood Mrs Wurstová’s style was to learn by osmosis. I also learnt that although Mrs Wurstová was now important enough to have a driver and a car to bring her to work, she still lived in a little panelák, just like the rest of us.

  ‘It is normal,’ she chortled. ‘Only President Havel has the castle.’

  Mrs Wurstová had a huge heart and an unyielding will.

  ‘My intention is to create international respect for our Czech position on human rights,’ she said, proudly. ‘And I will do whatever it takes to make that happen. And you, my little kangaroo, will help me!’

  Every night I rushed home to tell Karel about my day. And once a week I crammed small words into every conceivable space of an A4 page, stories pouring out in a jumble like the roofs that tumbled from the castle down the hillside, my excitement bubbling out into disjointed sentences. I pressed ‘send’ on the fax and waited anxiously for my family’s responses.

  When the machine burst back into life, usually between eight and thirty hours later, I would rip the paper out and devour the familiar cursive letters of Mum that had filled so many pages to me at boarding school; the rounded words of my sister, who seemed as close to me as if we were still in the schoolroom together; and sometimes even a short note from Dad that brought a lump to my throat.

  Inevitably I felt waves of homesickness as I soaked up their responses, which were a mixture of tenderness and love as they tried to understand my strange descriptions and support my adventure. There was day-to-day information from them too: the dry weather, the difficult cattle sales, the mustering camp, the endless work. And then there were stories of M’Lis and her husband Chris’s baby Mitch: his new tooth, his angelic smiles, the joy he brought them all. There were phrases that tugged on my heartstring
s—‘we miss you’—and, from Mum, ‘Please thank the kind family you are living with’. I hadn’t mentioned my liaison with Karel. I didn’t dare; I wasn’t ready.

  When Karel said, ‘This weekend the girls and I will go and stay with some friends in their cottage in the country. We will also see Standa and Ivana, and Growing Boy and Vladěna. We will walk by the river—there will be full moon—and play some guitar, drink special local pivo. Would you care to join us?’, I said yes, quickly, gratefully. Family was important, as Karel had pointed out on my first night in his panelák, and I missed it more than I was prepared to admit.

  22

  Love is for nothing

  I couldn’t put off my visit to the Department of Foreign Police any longer. One morning the following week I left Prosek at 4.30 a.m. to get the right combination of bus, metro and tram in order to reach the Foreign Police by 6 a.m. My strategy was to beat the queue, but that strategy, like most in this country, didn’t work.

  On arrival I found a large, soulless concrete building with a long queue already pushing out around the corner. People had obviously slept there all night. My fellow queuers were the saddest people imaginable—mainly Romany Gypsies and refugees from Yugoslavian and Baltic states, all of whom looked far more fraught than this well-fed Westerner. Children wailed while mothers clutched them to their hips; thin, gaunt men with shadows under their eyes smoked cigarettes. When the doors opened finally opened at 8 a.m., I found a building awash with smoke haze and grime and human misery.

  That included my own, as I stood in wrong queue after wrong queue all day. There were no signs in English and no one spoke English to translate (not that I’d expected otherwise). And I lost my place every time when either I could hold my bladder no longer and had to rush to the one stinking toilet, or, having eventually got to the front of a queue, was sent to the back of another one. This Kafkaesque crisscrossing of the room took all day, and it starred a series of bored, greasy-haired bureaucrats who might as well have been characters in Kafka’s own stories. Nine exhausting hours later, I tottered home with some documents I couldn’t read and my purse significantly lighter, having parted with more money than I thought was legal.