By the third lesson, he obviously felt confident enough to set some war records straight. He told me the West betrayed the Czechs to the Nazis and then to Stalin. Did I know that?
I looked at him, appalled, insulted. We, the West, we were the good guys—the Allies. Weren’t we?
Dr Holub told me that during the 1930s, when Czechoslovakia was enjoying its second decade of independence (after centuries of occupation), Hitler’s popularity was also on the rise. As part of his power play across Europe, Hitler urged the Sudetens (ethnic Germans living along the northern and western Czechoslovakian borders) to publicly agitate for the return of their lands to German control. Czechoslovakia suddenly found itself a pawn in a much bigger game between Eastern Europe and the Western powers at the time—Great Britain, France and Italy. The Western powers had been World War I allies and were desperate not to go to war again. Under pressure, they capitulated. They signed the Munich Agreement. This gave Hitler permission to seize the Sudetenland area. They might as well have given Hitler the keys to all of Czechoslovakia. Within a year Hitler’s troops had rolled into Prague and were rounding up Jews, communists and anti-fascist resistance members from one end of the country to the other.
By the time the West realised that Hitler had no intention of stopping, it was too late. The Czechs had been sold down the river, Hitler had seized most of Central Europe, and war broke out anyway.
I frantically searched my memory for Mrs Howe’s Year 11 Modern European History lessons. I dredged up a vague recollection that British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain had come back to London after the Munich talks, victoriously waving an agreement that he claimed would prevent war. Now I remembered it was a hollow victory as Hitler did not abide by its terms. I’d not known the other side of the story—that the West sacrificed Czechoslovakia for that short and hollow victory.
I remembered my conversations with Pavel in Sedlčany about what the Nazis had done to the Czechs. I felt sick.
‘There is more,’ Dr Holub pressed on. ‘By the time war was over, Hitler had nearly destroyed us, which you would think should have caused great shame among the Allies. But no, because as part of a deal to finish the war, the Allies then handed us over to Stalin.’ Dr Holub looked as though he couldn’t believe it either. ‘Our resistance fighters flew for you, for Britain, they were so loyal, and when they came home here, as heroes, Stalin’s thugs killed them.’
‘Why?’ My head snapped up. ‘Russia was on the same side as us in the war.’
‘Stalin and his people were insane. They killed people because they considered them a threat to their power.’
I remembered Míša and Jarda telling me about those terrible years in Czechoslovakia after World War II under Stalin: trumped-up charges, thousands killed or disappeared overnight, hauled off to uranium mines. I felt even sicker as the pieces of the puzzle fitted together.
‘It is the same story throughout history,’ said Dr Holub. ‘Governments only want to make their people happy so they can be re-elected. The West did not care about us. We were so small and, how you say, dispensable.’
No wonder the Czechs hated the West. The reasons kept piling up.
He tapped the table grimly one more time, for good measure. ‘We just want our country back to ourselves. Now, have I told you about the latest problem with the Romany Gypsies?’
Arriving for Mrs Wurstová’s lesson, I could see it would be difficult to keep her focused between phone calls and a ‘Top-Secret and Very Urgent’ missive that was flying around the Ministry. In an effort to put Dr Holub’s details out of my mind, I thought I’d concentrate on something happier—The Life and Career of the Fabulous Mrs Wurstová.
‘Ah.’ Her sharp eyes drilled into mine. She put down her pen. ‘That is not a great story. There were bad times.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, immediately contrite. I wasn’t doing well today. I took a deep breath and tried again. ‘But I am very interested in the career path you took to get to your current role.’ That was true, particularly as I had now met the female judges. ‘We have the glass ceiling in the West, which often means women don’t get into positions of power, like you are in.’
Mrs Wurstová frowned, confused.
‘What is this thing, your glass ceilings?’
I explained the concept to her. ‘There are of course women who have reached the top positions in Australia but the numbers are few. Pitifully few, given women represent half the population. But there are women judges here—and then there is you!’
Mrs Wurstová’s response was immediate and to the point.
‘All women were all made to work under the former regime so that is nothing great. And my new role is’—she paused—‘very new. I was granted it because of what happened to me under communism.’ She sat back and looked at me, as if weighing up whether or not she should disclose what happened. Decision made, her eyes darkened.
‘In 1968, I was young lawyer and—how you say—ambitious. I had big dreams. President Dubček had brought in a more liberal regime and I was going to be young diplomat abroad.’ She paused. ‘But you know what happened then, of course—the Russian invasion of Prague, August 1968. I was taken from Academy, my place of work, with forty of the forty-three other lawyers—marched out like a prisoner—and charged with crimes against the state. Do you know what they were?’
I shook my head.
‘I was charged with not being sympathetic to the invasion, to communism, and to Russia. Only three lawyers kept their jobs. Like President Havel, and thousands of others, we were punished for the rest of our careers. Just because I wanted to be a diplomat abroad.’
Her voice shook, momentarily.
‘My father was Vice-President of the Supreme Court in 1968. Most respected man, excellent lawyer. He was my hero. He refused to vacate his court for the use of the Russian troops. They stripped him of his title and rights, his court, the right to practise law. They made him a “no one”.’
I remembered that also happened to Tomáš in The Unbearable Lightness of Being.
Mrs Wurstová didn’t lose her law ticket altogether but spent the next twenty years of ‘normalisation’ paying her penance in boring, soul-destroying work in a planning department. She was a ‘marked woman’ within the regime, never allowed to apply for promotions, never able to advance her study of law; all her dreams of an international legal career destroyed.
‘The anger burned, burned hard inside,’ Mrs Wurstová said, looking fierier than ever. ‘When miracle of Velvet Revolution came in November 1989, it was too late for my father, but not for me. This is my chance now, Tanya,’ she said, leaning forward. ‘After these many years, I can join the outside world, and use my legal skills to benefit my country. And you will help me.’
The air was electric. In that moment I wanted to give her my all, to stay forever and assist her with her dreams. I wanted to help the women here everywhere—to use my legal training in the West to assist them. To help make amends for the past, to secure retribution for their previous betrayals. I saw a future where I was bold, vocal and independent, finally finding my real place in law—using it for good, and encouraging local and international forgiveness.
But our lesson was up. My starry visions dissipated in the chaotic wake of Mrs Wurstová’s departure for her next meeting. I quickly collected my bag and a large box.
The box caught her eye. ‘What do you have there, my little kangaroo?’
‘Czech crystal—some glasses, for my Czech family.’
She looked at me sagely, then murmured, ‘You talk about this family a lot. This Karel especially . . .’
I blushed and departed hastily, with her laughter ringing in my ears.
On arriving back at the flat with my box of glasses, I found Karel home early.
He was delighted. ‘Our famous crystal!’ He ran his long fingers slowly across the neck of a glass. He pulled a bottle of Bohemian Sekt from the fridge. ‘Thank you, Táničko. They must receive a famous Prosek welcome, ye
s?’
Karel was relaxed as I joined him in the kitchen. He had changed out of his suit and was wearing his usual blue denim shirt and jeans. They brought out his blue eyes.
Cracking open the chilled bottle, he poured its bubbles into the two glasses; it sparkled through the delicate crystal. To aid the celebration, I lit candles and placed them around the kitchen. Then he put out mandle, toasted almonds, which we both agreed were a drug: once you had one you couldn’t stop.
As he handed me a glass, Karel told me Radka was with her new boyfriend tonight. Had Radka moved on to a new boy—a new bus—so soon? I didn’t want to raise the subject. Besides I was also achingly glad to have Karel all to myself for the whole evening.
‘Have you heard of this special Czech song by famous folk group Brontosaurus?’ Karel pressed ‘play’ on a song on his tape deck. The music enveloped the room. He put my glass down and took me in his arms. ‘And now, Táničko, may we dance?’
Could any Australian man I knew match an offer like that? I doubted it—no Australian man that I knew, anyway—and I melted. We slow-waltzed around his tiny kitchen in the glow of the candles, Karel whispering a translation of the folk song as we swept and turned: a story of the moon and forests and rivers; of boy meets girl, boy wants girl; of love and passion and longing.
Only the moment mattered as he kissed me, then swept me off my feet and into bed. I wanted to be nowhere else tonight.
I was in love.
24
Finding language and music
I had also fallen in love with Prague’s trams. During the day they rattled and swerved and hummed around the old city, offering up glimpses of hidden alleyways, the grand National Theatre, bridges lined with statues, palaces adorned with angels, and the baroque towers that loomed over the Vltava. At night you could glimpse the castle sparkling, its reflection glittering in gold along the length of the river, rippling and skidding over the water in a fantasy swirl of skirts and tulle. I would sit mesmerised, my breath falling and rising as the tram rocked underneath me.
I spent a lot of time on trams because my various classes were located on both sides of the river. That gave me chances to discover new places—an art gallery, a Renaissance café, a tucked-away park, a walled palace. It was during those rides I noticed the colours of Prague starting to change. The thick plane trees lining both sides of the river turned to russet and rouge, deep gold and blistered orange. The parks took on a deeper, richer hue. The air became crisper and sharper. I felt filled up with energy and the joy of life.
My challenges, however, grew in equal proportion to the delights. Language difficulties headed the list. Not being able to speak more than a few words of Czech meant ever-present anxiety and frustration. The lack of language meant nuances, meanings and connections with places and people were limited. Worse, Karel and I had regular misunderstandings that arose from the meaning of words and the endless cultural differences between us. If I was going to make a success of my foreign liaison and working life, I would have to take the plunge and learn how to speak Czech.
Fortunately, by now I was smitten by the sound and pitch of the language. My whole body resonated with its singsong quality, the way it curved up and over the end of the sentence like a wave that peaked and then crashed. I found it extremely sensual. Singers crooned its complicated words around musical notes, people flirted with it in the street and radio announcers exaggerated its nuances. When Karel spoke Czech, I would sit silently, absorbed, obsessed even with the soft lyrical quality of his conversations. It was music after all that had helped me so far in this country. But the grammar and the words remained enigmas.
I decided to enrol in a language school. But which one? Headmistress Anne said Státní jazyková škola was the best in Prague but it was well beyond my budget. I looked around at other options. None suited for a variety of reasons.
Karel came to my aid. ‘If it is important to you to learn our language, then I would like to help you go to Státní jazyková škola.’
I couldn’t believe it. Karel had consistently argued that the best place to learn language was in a pub, where local words and phrases and expressions flowed with the beer. But perhaps he had also realised that a better grasp of the language would benefit us both. Despite my protests, he therefore paid for my entire first term: 2900 Czech koruna, nearly A$147. This was a lot of money for any Czech and the stakes were high.
He shrugged off my gratitude. ‘You are very intelligent, Táničko. I tell you this often, so I think it is good investment for me, yes?’ He grinned cheekily.
With Czech for Beginners and Do You Want to Speak Czech? stuffed into my briefcase, I determinedly headed off to class.
‘Dobrý večer. Jsem Jiří.’
Those were the first words spoken on the first night of our first lesson.
I looked around triumphantly. I knew he had said, ‘Good evening. I am Jiří’, but most people’s brows were furrowed and their eyes screwed up. Not me. I was a local. I knew basic Czech terms. I was having a wild affair with a Czech man. I was going to be just fine.
Teacher Jiří then bounced into an unbroken stream of Czech at breakneck speed. Earnest scratchings of unrecognisable words on the blackboard were followed by voluble exclamations, meaningless to the class, and so it continued for the next hour. My rush of self-congratulation was short-lived.
In retrospect, what had I been thinking? I’d only studied one year of languages at school—Year 8 French—and that had been a long time ago. Nad’a and Peter Barr had told me Czech was similar to Latin and full of complex, archaic rules.
By the end of the lesson, with eyes glazed and head aching, I’d learnt precisely four new Czech words in total and missed all the grammar. As I packed up my books, I muttered to the English accountant sitting next to me, ‘Complete waste of time and money’, and he nodded gloomily. We shuffled out into the evening darkness, heads bowed, each lost in frustrated (and, in my case, humiliated) thoughts.
The lessons did not get any easier.
In fact, they reduced me to impotent fury. I spent most of the time with brows knotted, and migraine pending. I was not alone. My English accountant friend began carrying a hip flask and took long swigs before and during lessons.
At the end of each lesson I said I was going to quit. Then I remembered that Karel had paid for the entire term. Given that he had thought the whole process was a waste of time in the first place, I couldn’t pull out.
Finally, some of the class started to get the hang of it. They were the clever ones already skilled in European languages, or those who had studied Latin. Or the Scottish among us who naturally rolled their ‘r’s, like Headmistress Anne. The English accountant and I remained in the back row, a shameful disappointment to ourselves, the class dunces.
I would go home and weep bitter tears to Karel, berating him and his forebears for creating a grammatical structure so impossibly difficult. His helpful response was to revert to form and suggest that I ought to spend more time in a pub if I really wanted to learn Czech.
As a way of filling the grammatical gaps, I became obsessive about learning vocabulary. While waiting for the metro or in between my students’ lessons, I would pull out my language books and recite words to myself. I devoured lists, billboard text, shop names, instructions on the inside of buses and trams. I also focused on learning the names of the many ‘set’ Czech meals. My frustration at not understanding the Benešov restaurant menu, on the night I had first met Míša and Jarda, was never far from mind. And, as the Czechs would intone: ‘Without work there is no cake.’
Eventually, I started having some wins, especially with menus. Once I started registering the patterns in the clusters of words, and memorising them, I became better at recognising and knowing the difference between, for example, the umpteen different ways of presenting cabbage, or the squillion methods of preparing pork: boiled, stewed, fried and baked.
Finally, painfully, excruciatingly, I began to get a handle on words and
useful phrases, if not the grammar. Each time I translated something correctly, I thrust my fist into the air and felt like I was a kid again, rounding up and returning to the cattle yards the last of the would-be escapee scrubber bulls, my horse and I galloping along in victory, my long blonde plaits flying out behind me.
Fortunately, my ability to teach language surpassed my ability to learn it. News about my English classes spread by word of mouth throughout the Ministry and the High Court. Before long, class numbers expanded. Headmistress Anne and Richard were pleased. My probation period was over. My hours had extended to fifteen per week.
I was both chuffed and relieved, but I’d done the figures and it still wasn’t enough. I needed a minimum of thirty hours in order to live here long term.
On Karel’s advice I advertised in Prague’s English newspapers: ‘Legal consultant experienced in Western business negotiations. Will help companies negotiate English business deals, improve oral or written communication skills, and assist with business presentations.’
Karel let me put his phone number in the ad and took me out to celebrate. I couldn’t believe my daring. I’d never have had the audacity to do something like that back home. And I wasn’t even sure I could deliver on what I was offering in that advertisement.
But I had a reason to be bold. Karel and Prague were now intertwined for me. It was both of them, or neither. I couldn’t imagine being here without Karel and I was hungry to make my own mark in this city, to carve out my own exciting career, to make the kind of life I couldn’t make back home. And if I missed my family too much (and I did miss them, very much and often), I could keep on faxing them and then visit for holidays. I knew I had a way out: a Qantas return ticket.
Alice to Prague Page 20