We walked back to the panelák hand in hand. The tears froze in my heart.
29
Snow, glorious snow!
Snow, snow, snow everywhere.
Finally it came, transforming Prague into a magical fairyland of soft, glistening white. Every nook and cranny of the ancient city was turned into a scene from those traditional Christmas cards I had coveted in early December. Heavy snowdrifts carpeted the cobbled squares, winding staircases, palace turrets and buildings. Thick, pristine white layers muffled the city’s sounds; the jangling sound of the tram bells, the clickety-clack of horses and carriages promenading across Staroměstské náměstí, and the deep booming church bells that echoed across the still, near-frozen waters of the Vltava disappeared into the silence of snow.
Karel was ecstatic too, but for less romantic reasons. ‘Tak, Táničko, the Prague is full of snow, everyone is in the mountains for holidays, and now we can ski.’
He rubbed his hands gleefully and headed outside to the tiny balcony to extract a bottle of beer from a large stash covered in mounds of snow.
‘Snow is much better for beer than is fridge.’ He opened it with a flourish.
‘How can you drink freezing beer in this freezing weather?’
‘Táničko, you know very well we Czechs cannot leave beer bottle alone too long in case it dries out. Now, let us talk about skiing.’
‘I’ve only skied twice before, Karel, and you’ve been skiing since you were a boy.’
Karel dismissed my hesitant tones with a wave of his hand. ‘Není problem, Táničko. Unfortunately, on my special mountain we have no beginner slopes, but you will ski very well alongside me. Besides, we Czechs have special life-saving weapon that helps us ski with great success.’
‘Yes?’
‘All over the mountains are many grog stands. You can ski to one or another for sips of hot grog and svařené víno.’
I was nonplussed. ‘You can buy alcohol on your ski fields? And drink when you ski?’
Karel stared back at me, equally nonplussed. ‘Do you think Czech person can ski without it? In our country, no one skis cold sober.’ He chuckled enormously at his little joke. ‘It would not be good for our health to do so.’
Terrifying images filled my mind: drunken Czechs careering out of control from one ski slope to another, yelling and laughing and falling over and abusing one another all day long, crowding in their hundreds around these tiny stands, fighting in the freezing cold to be first in line to be served. Hashing was bad enough. Was I up to this?
Karel headed to the hall cupboard where he pulled out boxes and bags and thick jackets and Russian fur caps and ski boots and, finally, the pièce de résistance, two long dusty brown planks of wood. As he propped them up carefully against the wall and lovingly ran his long fingers down their sides, I gazed long and hard. I could only assume they were skis but they didn’t bear any resemblance to the sleek polished equivalents I’d seen whizzing down Australian or American slopes.
‘Er . . . are these your skis?’
‘Ano, I made them. I have had them for many, many years.’
He turned them over gently and then looked up at me, beaming like a little boy showing off his favourite toy.
My desire to go skiing was waning by the minute. I imagined myself ashen-faced and frozen, staggering to the top of a high mountain on huge unwieldy planks of wood, watching helplessly as Karel and his mates sailed blithely to the bottom of the slope and disappeared in pursuit of another grog stand, quite forgetting they’d left me behind. What if I was lost forever in the white Czech wilderness? What if I ended up succumbing to the warm allure of the grog stands and crashed drunkenly into a tree or plunged over the side of a cliff?
Fortunately, any immediate threat was removed when Karel discovered there was not enough room for me in the smoke-billowing Škodas and Ladas that he and his friends had pooled to get them to their favourite ski spot on the coming weekend.
‘I hope you do not mind this time,’ he apologised after the car seats had all been counted. Hiding my relief, I assured him it was absolutely fine. I was in no rush to test the veracity of my imaginings. It was more than a six-hour drive to the Šumava mountains and the television news kept flashing real-life pictures of cars queued up on narrow winding mountain roads, slipping on the ice and crashing over the edges. Each day we read about more holiday-makers being carted off to hospital with broken limbs.
Besides, I had a hot date on Saturday night with my High Court judges Marta and Vladěna. They had invited me to a ‘special Czech-Indonesia restaurant’—a cooperative venture between some Indonesian immigrants and Czech entrepreneurs—and I couldn’t accept fast enough. I started dreaming of fresh, spicy, flavoursome delicacies, coconut cream and coriander and lemongrass and herbs and spices, steamed mounds of fresh greens, delicate water chestnuts, slivers of corn, florets of broccoli and cauliflower, string beans, chicken and beef and chilli and garlic—all the food and flavours I hadn’t tasted since I left Australia. I couldn’t wait.
So on Saturday night I headed off, filled with anticipation, excited about the snow, excited about being with two independent, professional women I admired, and enormously excited about the prospect of food I’d missed for so long. Leaving the metro, I walked briskly into the freezing air, joining streams of people wrapped tightly in long winter coats and thick scarves and hats heading for Karlův most, the pedestrian bridge leading to the castle.
As we approached, my heart did its usual leap. The bridge never failed to thrill. Even at this hour, it was alive with painters and accordion players and postcard sellers and spruikers, and people like me, mesmerised and enchanted. Candles and high lanterns cast long glows over the pedestrians as they crossed from side to side. A soprano’s rendition of Rusalka floated above the bass growl of an old man calling for people to buy his wares, and the laughter of people rose and fell, the buzz of different languages infusing the scene.
Below me the dark and beautiful River Vltava was hung with pockets of mist and danced with fantastical reflections. It looked like a gleaming jewelled necklace as it wound its way between the seven hills of Prague that rose steeply from its banks; I touched my own gold chain that lay against my neck. Spire after spire thrust themselves into the air like frozen witches’ fingers, glittering and sparkling under an icy, star-studded sky. Uneven silhouettes of chapels and ancient mansions completed the jumbled skyline.
My ribs hurt, so intense was my joy at being here, now, experiencing this. My body wanted to expand through my layers of wrapping and become part of all the images that surrounded me, to connect with the sense of oneness that Prague invoked in me.
What was it about Prague? Why did I feel this? From almost the first moment I’d laid eyes on the city, I had felt a deep connection here, but still could not explain it. Just why did my soul feel such a deep sense of belonging in this city, so far from my bush home?
Perhaps it was the perfectly curved lines and golden colours of the castles and palaces. Or the constantly shifting kaleidoscope of images, and the reflections and beauty of the river. Or the ever-present clang of church bells; roar of honking traffic and rushing water. Or the fragments of evocative classical music that floated out of windows and doors at every turn. Or, perhaps most fundamentally, the city’s stoic, brave spirit, having survived decades of oppression and decay and isolation from the rest of the world. Was it a combination of all of these things—or something more?
There were no words to fully describe, even to myself, how I felt or why. I knew only this: that somewhere deep in my heart and soul I belonged here. It was a spiritual knowing. An inexplicable truth. And on nights like this, I couldn’t bear to think about leaving, couldn’t imagine not being here. Fairytales had led me here, offered me the soul of this city, and now Tatiana belonged. The paradoxes of my own life collided—reality versus fantasy—and blurred the truth of where I really belonged and what I really wanted.
But I had to go or I’d be lat
e. Above me, lights gleamed through tiny square castle windows and embraced the golden towers of Národní divadlo, the beautiful National Theatre. I hurried across the rest of the bridge and under the stately towers, down the narrow, cobbled roads that led towards Betlémské náměstí and then turned east. Soft lamplight threw shadows from the dark buildings, set in hard relief against pallid yellow walls. I found the restaurant, an unremarkable square building with a newly painted sign swinging over the doorway.
Marta arrived just after me, looking like Sophia Loren with a thick dark-blue woollen coat and matching scarf sweeping out behind her. Vladěna followed, shaking the snow out of her long hair and laughing like a young girl. This was as much an adventure for them as for me. We entered and handed our coats to the Czech doorman. I looked around with high hopes. Although it looked and smelt in every way like a classic Czech restaurant, I was optimistic.
Once seated, Marta ordered Moravian red wine. As we sipped liquid that looked like it had been siphoned out of a bull, they asked me what my plans were for the coming year. I told them how much I wanted to stay but I needed more work. I told them about Dr Holub’s dire predictions. They nodded regretfully and agreed that he was probably right. The Czech bureaucracy was too conservative, narrow-minded and fearful of outsiders to allow one into their Ministry in anything but a limited teaching role.
That made me feel despair, so I cheered myself up by telling them about the conversation I’d with Mrs Wurstová and Dana before Christmas. ‘Isn’t it brilliant we can sit here together, as women, and learn about each other and enjoy each other’s cultures and stories, without fear of repercussions?’
Marta agreed, taking the proffered menus and passing them around. ‘Back then, if we were caught, you would be ordered out of this country. And we would have been caught of course because everywhere were spies—especially in nice new foreign restaurants. We could have been arrested for crimes against state, depending on how dangerous they thought our meeting was. Then they might have stopped us working as judges.’
I thought again of the privileges enjoyed by judges back home; respect, excellent pay and working conditions, and, best of all, the separation of powers, that wonderful Westminster doctrine that prevented the executive arm (the government) from controlling the judiciary.
Marta was on a roll. ‘You tell us you have a ticket to go home in late March. Will you go? It will be loss for us all but we understand you have your law to return to and that is very important.’
Her eyes held mine, as though she needed to impress upon me the gravity of this moment. And she was right. I had a career I could freely enjoy, where I also received (mostly) respect, (mostly) excellent pay and working conditions; best of all, I would never need fear the arrival of the secret police on instructions from the state to prevent me from doing my work freely and independently.
‘Yes,’ I said, returning her gaze, acknowledging my luck, acknowledging I should not waste the gifts and benefits available to me back home. To do so would be the act of an ingrate. Both Marta and Vladěna, not to mention Mrs Wurstová, would have probably once given their left arm and right leg to practise law as freely as I did.
Vladěna broke the tension, smiled gently. ‘But you can always come back. We will always be here. We will always be happy for you to return as a teacher.’
I blinked back tears. It was an emotional discussion for me. Many options, many confused thoughts. Marta took charge. ‘What about the food?’
Gazing optimistically at the menu, I looked for something recognisable—such as the Czech words for ‘spicy’ and ‘chilli’ and ‘fresh vegetables’. But there was nothing.
Marta adjusted her half-rimmed glasses over her fine nose and read aloud for my benefit. ‘Tak! We have:
pork in the peanuts,
pork on, how you say, little stick, with peanuts and without the peanuts,
pork with, how you say, the noodles, with peanuts and without the peanuts,
and pork without the noodles.’
She looked at me over her glasses.
‘These are very good warm dishes, yes? Is this what you have in your Indonesian restaurants Down Under?’
‘I am sure there are similarities,’ I said as brightly as I could. ‘Why don’t you order for me?’
Most Czech restaurants served meals quickly because food was prepared well in advance. However, this menu spoke of ‘special preparation’, which meant we were in for a long wait. We solved the world’s problems and our own, and had almost finished a second bottle of wine before three laden plates were delivered to our table. Famished, I looked down in hopeful anticipation. Pierced by a skewer, three pieces of fatty pork balanced on a watery heap of yellow noodles, surrounded by congealed grease and many crushed peanuts. Not a vegetable to be seen.
‘What do you think of our Indonesian kitchen?’ Vladěna studied my face intently. ‘Is it good?’
Both women waited for my answer. Silence crackled between us. I picked up my knife and fork, hacked away at the first piece of pork I could prise free from the skewer, scooped up some crushed peanuts and raised it all to my mouth. I chewed carefully and responded just as carefully. ‘It’s very tasty.’
They beamed.
International relations were at an all-time high.
30
Maturitní ples
While Karel was away skiing, I also took up an invitation that came by letter from my gorgeous Sedlčany student Kamila to attend Maturitní ples. That was the Gymnázium Sedlčany ‘graduation ball’ for classes 4A and 4B.
Kamila described an evening of much pomp and ceremony, where starry-eyed school-leavers were sent out into the world, and students such as Kamila and Pavel entered their final year. I was excited. I hadn’t seen my students for several months and if I was to head home in March I didn’t want to miss the chance to say goodbye.
On the Friday afternoon I boarded the now familiar bus, remembering Headmaster Zdeněk and Young Maruška driving me along the same road many months before. Gazing at the enormous mound of white snow dropping away below me, it was hard to believe how much the countryside had changed within the space of one year. Bare trees lined the roads like a tangle of cobwebs against the snowy mountains in the distance, and yet I knew that in a few months they’d be alive with blossom. It was so different to my home. Alice Springs really only had two seasons—summer and winter. Spring and autumn skipped in for a couple of weeks and then vanished. Thinking about home brought on a wave of confused emotions, so I tried instead to focus on the happiness of the weekend to come.
Maturitní ples was, as Kamila had promised, a simply wonderful occasion. Her parents drove us to the large wood-panelled hall, which was strewn with streamers and banners, all handpainted and hand-decorated; the walls were lined with trestle tables of food, wine and beer. I did a double take. It was a complete step back in time, as if I’d walked into one of those old-fashioned country dances that existed right up until the 1970s and ’80s across rural Australia and that I remembered so well.
Jak je to možné? How is it possible?
Sedlčany connected me to my past in a way nowhere else did. I couldn’t explain it. Here I stood, behind the former Iron Curtain on the other side of the world, yet I was transported back to my childhood. How could I describe Sedlčany? If Prague was a place of dreams, Sedlčany was a place of hope and heart.
I’d been back to Sedlčany a number of times, including in early December for the highly anticipated St Mikuláš ball (the Czech version of Father Christmas or St Nicholas, who came with his very own Angel and Devil), and each time I stayed with Kamila and her family who welcomed me in as one of their own. Tonight was Kamila’s big night and I was proud to be with her. She wore a long, fitted velvet gown made by her mother, with a black choker and gold-buckled shoes. With her long blonde hair curling down her back, she could well have been Guinevere heading off to a medieval dance.
I was filled with joy at seeing the teachers when I arrived at the ball
. There were lots of hugs and catch-ups and Cinzanos in curved glasses. Male teachers and boys smart in shiny nylon suits with coloured bow ties came up to shake my hand; the women and girls twirled in front of me in their beautiful home-sewn garments. A local orchestra was already in full swing, playing some sort of polka or reel, and the dance floor was a swirling buzz of young and old. Nad’a and I ducked into the corner and tried to catch up over the noise.
‘How is life in the Prague?’
‘Wonderful. But I may have to go back to Australia in March. My ticket expires then.’ Tears stung my eyes.
Nad’a looked sorrowful. ‘I am sorry to hear this, my friend. We have all been so happy knowing you are teaching in Prague. Will you come back?’
‘I hope so.’
But before Nad’a could respond, the local orchestra kicked off the ceremony with trumpets and a dramatic fanfare. We moved to one side and watched. To great applause, the final-year students processed towards the front of the hall where they were first presented with sashes by Headmaster Zdeněk. Next came a presentation from their form teachers: colourful carnations (even in winter), intricately wrapped in green fronds and ribbon, and a crystal glass of wine. The orchestra struck up again, the students tossed back the wine, and then all the families gathered in a wide, noisy circle to throw haléře (coins) all over the floor.
‘This is ceremony for good luck,’ Naďa explained as grown men and women yelled their support while the students scrambled unceremoniously on the floor to grab coins and stuff them into the empty glasses. ‘But I think the boys mostly enjoy looking at the girls’ legs from the floor!’
She grinned conspiratorially and I laughed. I was so grateful in that moment to know Nad’a—to know them all, to be part of the ceremony so rich with meaning and tradition. I was grateful for their friendship, grateful for this night.
Alice to Prague Page 25