Alice to Prague

by Tanya Heaslip

  ‘I’m never doing that again,’ I wailed to Karel, looking for sympathy as I collapsed on the couch back at Prosek. ‘It was dreadful.’

  ‘On the contrary! You had success! Did I not tell you the other night this was how the system worked? Besides, five years ago you might not have even been allowed here.’

  ‘You are unbelievable,’ I said, throwing up my hands. ‘Don’t you ever get frustrated?’

  Appearing to consider my question, he eased himself down onto the couch before turning to look at me, his face only centimetres from mine. I nearly stopped breathing. He was close, very close, and I tried to move but couldn’t.

  ‘Sometimes, yes,’ he said finally. ‘It all depends what about.’

  His blue eyes were intent on mine and I could smell his musky scent, almost taste it. As I registered what he was saying, butterflies squirmed in my stomach and fluttered up to my throat so that I forgot to swallow.

  But before I could think of any way to respond, Radka walked in. She looked thunderously at me, then at Karel, and burst into tears.

  Karel leapt to his feet. I cringed and hunched back on the couch, mortified, wanting the room to swallow me up. When I finally managed to look up again, they were both in the kitchen, Radka’s words coming out in choked fits and starts. Karel’s voice was calming and soothing.

  I crept to my feet and started edging towards the safety of the bedroom, but before I could get there Karel led her back to the couch and spoke in English.

  ‘Radka has some boyfriend problems.’

  My legs went wobbly, my whole being flooded with relief. It wasn’t me! It was a boy!

  ‘He has gone off with someone else. And I have told her my “old truth”.’ His tone was weary. ‘Never run for a bus—or a girl, or a boy—because there will always be another one around the corner.’

  Radka stood next to her father, white-faced. She didn’t look as though she’d bought his old truth. And in the rush of adrenaline that accompanied my relief, I blurted out: ‘That’s a bit hard-hearted! Radka might be in love.’

  Karel looked at me askance. ‘Radka is too young to know what love is!’

  Radka burst into a fresh wail. Perhaps she understood more English than she let on.

  ‘That’s ridiculous, Karel!’ The day had been long and exhausting and this situation was becoming increasingly irritating. ‘Love has nothing to do with age. Love can exist at any time of your life when you meet the right person.’

  ‘Tak!’ Karel now looked exhausted himself. ‘Love is for nothing. It does not last. It is of no use for her to destroy her young life now for something that will leave as quickly as it came.’

  Love is for nothing?

  ‘You and Radka are young. You will know this one day too.’

  ‘That’s insulting!’ I snapped, adding before I could stop myself, ‘You sound old and bitter!’

  As soon as my words were out I regretted them. ‘Maybe, yes,’ he retorted, ‘but this simply means we are destined to be, how do you say, at cross-swords with life.’

  Tears seeped afresh through Radka’s beautiful dark lashes.

  He turned to her again, murmuring softly in Czech, and said to me, ‘I will now put Radka to bed.’

  I grabbed my keys and ran downstairs. Everyone told me there was no crime in Prague and women could walk safely everywhere at night. That was lucky. I pounded along Prosek’s floodlit concrete, upset and angry, yet knowing I had no reason to feel this way. Irrespective of Karel’s negative views about love, what did it matter? There were no bright lines drawn around our liaison; it could vanish by tomorrow morning. As might I from this city, if I didn’t get more work. What did I expect from Karel? Love, too?

  I thought of the fun dinner I’d shared with Anne and Dickie several days earlier. We’d met in a ‘locals only’ restaurant tucked into a side alley just off Staroměstské náměstí, and I’d watched Anne and Dickie glowing with the radiant blush of new love. They’d held hands under the table, gazed into each other’s eyes. The only impediment between them was distance—Dickie was about to return to England—but in every other respect they were, to use a Czech expression, ‘on the same board’. They intended to have a long-distance relationship until Christmas and then ‘work out next steps’.

  Karel and I were not on the same board. We were two people who had connected, passionately I thought, but did we have a future? I might be trying to create one, but he was a busy man with a busy present, which was where he put his focus. There was something else too. He was also constantly surrounded by women. No surprise: he was charismatic and handsome. But I’d discovered surreptitiously that he’d had many girlfriends over the years. I was sure I’d already met several of them—gorgeous, glamorous women, all tall with high cheekbones.

  Rage and fatigue after my long day burned hotter.

  When I stomped back into the apartment, Karel was sitting at the table. He got up stiffly.

  ‘Where have you been?’ He could hardly keep the anger and anxiety out of his voice.

  ‘What does it matter?’ I sounded childish, churlish.

  He came over to me and pulled me to him. I stood, hands by my side, unwilling.

  ‘I wish to tell you something, Táničko. I have never had any woman live in this apartment before. Since my wife left fourteen years ago, I have invited no one to live. It was my rule.’

  I blurted out, ‘But women—there were always women, yes?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said irritably. ‘I’m not some monk. But not to live. This is all new. For me and my girls. But it is okay. You are different—and my girls are happy. We just need to take it easy. We don’t need to talk about big words that only cause problems.’

  By ‘big words’, I assumed he meant ‘love’. I breathed out, heavily, trying to get perspective. For fourteen years the girls had had their beloved father to themselves. I was here, and allowed to be here, presumably because I was no threat; they no doubt thought I was sure to leave soon enough. But I was here. More than that, Karel had said I could stay as long as I wished. Every time I talked about leaving he talked me out of it. Perhaps I did need to take it easy. Perhaps I was worrying too much.

  ‘But the girls, and Radka particularly—I’m in her space.’

  Karel shrugged. ‘It is good. We are all happy. Just come to bed.’

  There was nothing more to say, no further answers, other than the infinite tenderness of Karel as he took me to his bed. I lost my sense of self as his hands came back to my face and waist. With the practised ease of a much older lover, he undressed me through kisses, and made love to me through more kisses, until finally I lay curled up in his arms, satiated.

  I was falling in love, in every way, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  But I had to hide it, not tell Karel, stuff it down deep.

  23

  Bowing before the High Court

  Across the river from the Ministry, several tram rides south of Lesser Town in the direction of Petřín Hill, the High Court towered over a cluster of ancient buildings and churches that encircled its grounds and sloped away towards the River Vltava.

  The High Court was the second-highest court in the land, equivalent to Australia’s Federal Court. It was an enormous building with three storeys of courtrooms and offices. Each floor was linked by sweeping staircases; and its rooms boasted high ceilings and big windows. Surrounding the building was a wide expanse of green lawn, perfectly cultivated roses and gravel paths.

  Within that building awaited my next set of students: their collective Honours, the Judges of the High Court.

  I’d been told by English House there would be three classes—beginner, intermediate and advanced—comprising twenty students in total.

  There was just one problem.

  While I’d assured Headmistress Anne that I was up to the job, I hadn’t told her that judges terrified me. I’d spent most of my legal life trembling whenever I stood before those esteemed creatures. Admittedly, mine had
n’t been a long legal life but there had been sufficient excruciating moments during that time for me to put judges on the same platform as God.

  Going to court had been the most nerve-racking part of my previous life. Judges, wigged and gowned, ruled the courtroom with their probing questions and brilliant minds. I would usually rush into court, disorganised, papers all over the place, my own wig at a dishevelled angle, gown hoicked up with pins because it was too long and I was too short. A bad day in court was akin to having my appendages pulled off with pliers, one by one. I’d leave as I’d begun—a wreck—and head home to hide away.

  Now, on my first morning at the Czech High Court, I had more pressing matters to worry about. First, there was the usual panic to find the right metro and tram stops, and time my arrival accurately. Next, I had to try not to think about Karel, or the fact I had a limited wardrobe of business clothes and would really have to do something about buying some new ones. If only I had the courage to go into a Czech shop.

  Fortunately, the High Court’s security arrangements turned out to be almost identical to those of the Ministry so I settled into the lengthy Švejk-like process like a local. Once the guards were satisfied I wasn’t a saboteur, I was led up several flights of stairs. We entered a side room with many desks, and long windows that overlooked a courtyard filled with flowers. Before me were ten men and women with expectant looks on their faces.

  Women? What a lovely surprise! I didn’t know any women judges. Maybe no glass ceiling here, then? I blurted out ‘Dobrý den, jsem Tanya.’

  The judges looked startled at my attempt at Czech, then stood up and introduced themselves slowly in English.

  ‘I am glad to be here with you,’ I plunged on, nervously. ‘We can study from the Advanced English textbook if you’d like, but first I’d like to get to know you, understand what you’re interested in, and see how I can make our classes relevant. I’m particularly interested in your law. Perhaps we can work our time together around the kind of legal issues you are dealing with.’

  Before I could say anything further, a woman in the front row spoke in exquisite English. ‘That sounds excellent,’ she said warmly. She had beautiful, shiny dark hair swept back in a short bob, and wore elegant designer clothes. ‘I am Marta, Deputy Chief Justice of the Family Court,’ she added, then laughed—a great, rich laugh. ‘We need a lot of help in the Family Court,’ she said. The room rocked with more laughter.

  Relief filled me and another judge, Vladěna, spoke.

  She said she was one of several judges who presided over the criminal and civil courts. Shy and softly spoken, she nonetheless spoke fluent English and she said, with some urgency, ‘I am very interested in international law.’ She had recently received permission to attend a legal conference in Geneva and, like Mrs Wurstová, was excited to play her part in legal matters beyond the border.

  During the first lesson we agreed to talk about law in the Czech Republic generally. ‘Being a judge here is very difficult role,’ they all said, ‘especially in this new world.’ To my joy, the conversation flowed and I started to relax.

  They wanted to know about my legal background too, and why I’d left the law to come here. I was chuffed by their interest and gave them a summary of my career, which, to be honest, sounded much more impressive in the telling than the living. And to my delight, the conversation had real depth, because we shared a profession, albeit with some differences.

  They told me the Czechs had a civil system, similar to France and much of Europe, rather than a common law system like Australia’s. They didn’t have juries for criminal matters, and judges ran the cases and interrogated the parties. They didn’t wear wigs and gowns.

  By the end of our session, I’d learnt more than they had, yet everyone said they were looking forward to the next lesson. They promised to bring printouts of recent European Court of Justice decisions to work on. As I packed up my books, my head was spinning. For the first time I’d met colleagues here on an equal footing and that was empowering. Marta and Vladěna appeared at my side while the rest of the class headed out the door.

  ‘Tanya, we wish to invite you to our local wine bar. Are you free to join us?’

  I fell over myself to say yes. My Ministry lessons were in the morning and the High Court in the afternoon, so the timing could not have been more perfect. I tripped after my two new friends around the corner to another grey building. The venue didn’t matter—I would have gone to a grotty old parking block with these two judges, such was my thrill at being asked to spend time with them. I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed having colleagues.

  Inside, the bar was busy and cheerful. We found a table in the corner and huddled in like three university friends catching up. Marta ordered Rulandské šedé, an expensive dry white wine. I kept thinking: If my friends could see me now . . .

  As we sipped and shared stories, I asked them to tell me more about life as a judge here and why it was so difficult.

  ‘Many reasons.’ Marta’s response was prompt. ‘A lot, lot of work, the pay is not good and we are not well-respected. The parties can yell at us and we have little authority to control this. This is because the government will not give us support.’

  I was aghast. ‘Why not?’

  Vladěna sighed with the melancholy air I had come to associate with the Czechs. ‘Reason, of course, is political.’

  Of course.

  She explained: ‘The former regime was “unofficial” main court. They made the big rules about important things like treason and crime. And if people behaved in criminal way, the secret police usually dealt with them first. We were left to solve arguments between people, which government did not think important.’

  ‘By “arguments between people”, do you mean civil law disputes?’

  ‘Yes, problems between neighbours, meaning of contracts and so forth.’

  ‘What about family law?’ I asked Marta.

  ‘People wanted divorce, of course, but there was no free accommodation anywhere, people had little money, so not everyone tried for it. Even today it is not easy because finding accommodation is still a big problem. You might know this.’

  I certainly did.

  ‘Restitution is the biggest problem facing the courts just now,’ Vladěna added. ‘The cases are clogging up the courts and taking much time and money. Do you know of it?’

  The new government’s policy of handing back property that had been illegally taken from families? Yes, I did know about it. Czech-Australian Jarda was still working to get his property back, and Ludva luckily now had his cottage up in the Šumava mountains.

  ‘What are restitution disputes about, though?’ I was curious. ‘I thought people would be glad to have their properties back.’

  ‘Disputes are mainly about who are correct owners. Most property was taken by the Nazis in the 1940s or the communist regime in the late 1940s and 1950s. Memories from that time are not good. Documentation has been lost or destroyed.’ Vladěna frowned. ‘My own family, we were handed back old family home near Letenské sady, but other family argue it is theirs, and have taken us to court. Luckily, we have all the necessary documentation to prove our case. But other family wants to make us run out of money in the courts and force us to surrender. We had to vacate our panelák last year to move into the house, and have nowhere else to go if we lose our case.’

  We all sipped our wine in mournful silence. If judges couldn’t even get a leg-up through a system that was inherently corrupt, what hope was there for anyone else?

  ‘Although,’ Vladěna added with a weak smile, ‘perhaps other family deserve it if they get it. The house is so cold and in such bad repair, and we have no money to heat or fix it.’

  Marta filled our glasses. ‘But Tanya, I am optimist. We now have a new Commercial Code and that means there will now be commercial cases that need to be solved. There is much corruption here—the former communists who still hold the money—and foreign companies take advantage of our people. We ha
ve no experience in commerce, we have no background. Court problems like this will bring publicity and so perhaps government support and money for us.’

  Who would have thought that sending high-profile corrupt companies to court would finally grab the government’s attention? I decided Marta was a visionary.

  Vladěna agreed. ‘This is reason why we must learn the English better and have chance to travel to other jurisdictions and learn how law is managed there. The more we can find out and bring back here, the more chance we have to make a difference.’

  ‘You must always remember to be glad you can practise your law in the West, back in your own country. It is great luck for you,’ Marta finished, draining her glass.

  As I crossed back towards the Old Town on the trundling tram, the river sparkling beneath the city’s many rows of bridges, quivers of delight ran through me. I’d felt validated today; my own story had been given meaning. If I’d had my stock hat handy, I’d have ripped it off my head and waved it joyously in the air. I couldn’t wait to send a fax to my family about all these new experiences and share my excitement with them. For the first time in a long time, I felt proud of myself and my career.

  My next student at the Ministry of Justice was Dr Holub.

  Once the Chief Justice of the High Court, Dr Holub had been seconded to the Ministry to advise on International Affairs. He primarily assisted Mr Svoboda and Mrs Wurstová with his ‘excellent expertise’ and ‘excellent English’. I could attest to the latter. It was formal and perfect.

  I guessed Dr Holub was in his late sixties. A thin, sparse man whose threadbare suit hung down from his gaunt shoulders, he wore black glasses and combed his thin wisps of hair neatly back. He loved to avoid grammar by starting each lesson with a detailed history lesson based on his life, which had involved terrible suffering under both the Nazis and the communists. Stories included that of his mother in a German labour camp, the repressions he had suffered and observed, and his views on the fruitlessness of war.