Alice to Prague

by Tanya Heaslip

But no evening with my students would be complete without music.

  ‘Tanya, please sing for us!’ Pavel said.

  The crowd started clapping.

  ‘You may borrow my guitar,’ another favourite student, Michael, offered.

  ‘Please,’ Pavel cajoled. ‘“Waltzing Matilda”?’

  I was easily persuaded. Truth was, I couldn’t wait to sing—couldn’t wait to sing along with all my bright-eyed students who pressed around and wanted to be part of it all.

  Pavel led me to the stage and Michael followed with his guitar. I’d never sung with a Czech orchestra before and could not believe my luck. This was a dream come true.

  ‘Waltzing Matilda! Waltzing Matilda! Waltzing Matilda!’ the crowd yelled, stomping and clapping.

  Michael put his guitar in my hands and then stood behind me, holding the strap in both hands to keep it from falling. The orchestra members didn’t speak English but that didn’t matter. I turned to them and we communicated with fingers on frets and sign language, and all the while the crowd cheered us on. I touched the strings on the guitar and leant towards the microphone.

  ‘Thank you!’ I said to the hundreds of faces below. ‘Thank you for welcoming me back!’

  The faces looked back, expectant, smiling, eyes shining. The students stomped their feet and shouted in a strange mixture of English and Czech. The orchestra waited for me to lead off. Then they swung in behind me. We filled the rafters. I sang like I’d never sung before. I felt I could drown in the warmth and acceptance of that room. Even if I never returned here, I knew I would never forget everything this place and all its people had given me.

  But it was not over yet.

  ‘Before you go, we have present for you.’ Zorka, a gorgeous curly-haired student from 4A, pulled me to one side.

  A gaggle of students—Michel, Lenka, Petr, Honza, Štěpánka—watched as she handed me a small, roughly wrapped package in green-and-gold paper. The significance of the colours became clear when I pulled it open. Nestled inside was a large tea towel with ‘Made in Czech’ embroidered across the bottom and a picture of two kangaroos against a desert backdrop at the top. A box in the top left corner was headed ‘My Country’. Inside the box was Dorothea Mackellar’s famous Australian poem, carefully printed in English.

  ‘I love a sunburnt country . . .’

  I stared in disbelief; my heart somersaulted.

  ‘We found this in souvenir shop in Prague,’ Zorka told me, smiling shyly. ‘You like?’

  All the way back to Prague I clutched the tea towel close to my chest. Dorothea Mackellar’s poem surged through me in unceasing, powerful waves, bringing up exquisitely deep feelings of belonging, of connection, of remembering my sunburnt country so far away. Feelings separate to the world I lived in here. Feelings I knew I could never share with Karel.

  31

  Petřín Hill

  When Karel returned from skiing, I summoned my courage and said in a rush, ‘Karel, I have decided to go home and see my family in March.’

  He nodded slowly, pushed his hands into his pockets.

  I plunged on. ‘I’ve spoken to all my students and they are happy for me to have a break. They won’t bring in a replacement teacher but will wait for a month or so for me to return.’

  I was secretly chuffed that my students didn’t want to replace me. And now I’d made the decision to return to Australia I was starting to feel excited about getting on that plane. My beloved home and family were finally within reach after such a long time. And I didn’t feel it was goodbye to Prague—I was sure I would return because I wasn’t ready to give it all up here. And I secretly hoped that absence might make the heart grow fonder for Karel.

  I finished with my breathless pièce de résistance. ‘And Mrs Wurstová is confident she can get me extra hours at the Ministry to make it worthwhile coming back.’

  Karel sighed. ‘Táničko, you must do what you must do. We will all be still here if you wish to return to us. You know I have always said that. You can come back forever. But you must choose what is right for you.’

  Then he saw my face fall and tried to distract me in his usual way.

  ‘Prosím tě, maybe you might like to join me in Malostranské náměstí after the 6 p.m. tomorrow night? We can have pivo in some nice pub and I will take you to Petřín Hill in the snow. Then you will have some beautiful pictures in your mind to take home to your family.’

  I’d been with Karel to Petřín Hill numerous times—it was one of the first places he’d mentioned to me on my first day in Prague—and it offered glorious vistas over the city. I agreed, relieved to be distracted and always glad to have time alone with Karel, which was increasingly rare with our busy and competing schedules. But it was freezing and dark as we stomped our way through the snow up the hill the following evening and I lost enthusiasm with each step. Karel, however, wouldn’t pause until we reached a huge monument, well-lit with gas lamps.

  ‘And now, we arrive at my most favourite place at Petřínské sady.’ He spread out his arms and gazed reverently up at the structure, and then down at the slopes that spread below him in waves of white and darkness. ‘This is the monument to Karel Hynek Mácha that I told you about on that first day I met you. Do you remember?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said shortly, my breath coming out in gasps. My fingers and toes had surely grown chilblains. ‘You’ve actually told me about him a number of times.’

  He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Ah. Yes, well, he is our most famous romantic Czech poet. Many people come in the spring and the summer to lay flowers at the foot of his statue. They pay the tribute to his works on love.’

  Love?

  He turned and gazed at me very intently. Underfoot, the snow crunched beneath my boots. The sound matched our laboured breathing. Apart from that, there was silence. The trees below and above and around us were draped in blankets of white, enfolding Karel and me into our own private circle.

  My mouth was suddenly dry. ‘But you don’t believe in love.’

  ‘Mácha wrote about his love of the countryside and the beauty of the nature as well. I have told you about his poem “May”, yes? He describes the loveliness of the dawn, the stars on the lake, the sky in rose light, the songs of the nightingale and turtle-dove, the pale moonlight over the dark hill. He uses most evocative of Czech words. Of course’—he laughed for a moment—‘it is also tragic poem about tragic love. But, for the way he talks of our nature, there is no more romantic words or feeling.’

  He paused, shuffled in the snow.

  ‘So here, Táničko, right in Prague, under the snow and the stars and the moon, here is something more than words can say, but the heart can feel.’

  The air itself felt almost frozen, swirling with white mist.

  ‘I feel you understand us, our country, our soul.’

  I started to feel giddy.

  ‘Jak je to možné?’ How is it possible?

  One of Karel’s favourite sayings.

  I didn’t know how it was possible either but I was confused. What was he doing? Meaning? Suddenly I was frantic—I didn’t want to lose the moment.

  ‘Karel,’ I burst out, ‘I will come back. But I also need some . . . hope. I just need you to . . .’

  He rocked backwards and forwards on his feet. Then took my face in his hands and kissed me. But his eyes betrayed him. I could see that he thought that, like the snow, I too would soon be gone forever.

  32

  Žofín

  Before I left I had one very important thing to do.

  The Czechs enjoyed a season of balls to dispel the gloom of winter. From January to March, when the snow turned to slush and the short, dark days took their toll on the national spirit, the Czechs adopted one of the more stylish practices of their Austro-Hungarian rulers. The newspapers were crammed with photographs of glamorous Prague celebrities sweeping off to balls in grand palaces and Gothic halls. It reminded me of the bejewelled New Year’s Eve concert broadcast every y
ear from the Vienna Opera House.

  Like Cinderella gazing at the castle in the distance, I longed to experience a ball. Indeed, I’d dreamt of this moment since my first day in the city, when Karel had danced with me on Slovanský ostrov by the Žofín palace. I remembered so well the white-and-yellow ball house with its impressive entrance pillars and high balconies. It sat on its island in the Vltava like a grand madam. When I saw it on my first day in Prague, I had thought everything was possible and dreams would come true.

  Now I was desperate to go there and dance with Karel before I left. But when I proposed this, Karel looked as though I’d asked him how we might get into KGB headquarters.

  ‘The balls there at present are full of our special communist friends, who are still in our system, simply in different disguise. They would throw us out before we even got to front door. We need to find a ball somewhere else.’

  I was undeterred. It was the Žofín or nothing. I had to live out the dream for Mum and me if nothing else. I kept remembering Mum waltzing me up and down the kitchen, the Blue Danube album on her little record player, telling me we were both princesses from Vienna. Mum would twirl me under her arm, her eyes alight. Outside, the heat of the desert summer stifled breath and crushed down upon the baked land, but such was the joy of the moment, we might as well have been waltzing in a palace under glittering chandeliers. I was going to find a way into the Žofín, even if Karel couldn’t.

  I went to my fairy godmother, Mrs Wurstová. Did she know of any upcoming balls at the Žofín?

  Mrs Wurstová looked at me over the top of a mound of Top-Secret Documents that spilled from one end of her desk to the other.

  ‘Yes, I do, as a matter of some facts. ODS have ball at the Žofín next week. Our very own Minister Novák will be present. It is Prague’s most important—how you say—“who’s who” affair.’

  ODS was the leading coalition Czech party.

  ‘Really?’ I scrabbled for more information. ‘Will you go, Mrs Wurstová?’

  ‘Oh no, I am not important enough.’ At my raised eyebrows, she said, ‘Ne ne ne, I am not political person. After communism time, I do not want politics. If it was legal ball, perhaps . . .’

  I hugged my wonderful fairy godmother, then rushed home to tell Karel about Minister Novák and the ODS ball.

  ‘And I’ve got a great idea how we can do it.’ I paused for dramatic effect. ‘Let’s gatecrash!’

  Karel was stunned. I might as well have suggested we both volunteer to go off to a Russian gulag.

  But I was undeterred. ‘We’ll pretend that we are entitled to be there because I am part of the Ministry in some way. The only person who might recognise me is Minister Novák. But I could keep out of his way. My link with the Ministry gives us a chance. What do you think?’

  Karel shook his head in disbelief. Then he went to the English dictionary to find a word to describe me. ‘Yes, you are sooooo audacious, Táničko!’ I couldn’t tell whether he was exasperated or admiring, or both.

  I was taking a gamble, but Karel was a natural free spirit at heart and loved a challenge. I just hoped the Švejk-like spirit of my suggestion would win him over.

  After a lot more persuasion on my part, it did. He conceded he had promised to take me dancing, and although he hadn’t expressly said it would be at the Žofín, now I’d raised the possibility he took to planning Operation Žofín with minute detail, as though it were one of his major reconstructions. ‘Okay, Táničko, we go, we do!’

  On the week of the ball, Karel suggested we have a back-up plan, ‘just in case we do not get through the front door’.

  I wasn’t interested in a back-up plan. The hardest thing I’d faced to date was deciding to leave Karel and Prague, even if temporarily. Gatecrashing a ball and possibly being thrown out were surely nowhere near as difficult. But I didn’t tell Mrs Wurstová of my plans. Caution and restraint were required there. I did not want to prematurely lose my job—especially if I was going to come back.

  The big night arrived, finally.

  As we dressed, I felt a strange sense of euphoria.

  Neither Karel nor I had proper ball attire. He didn’t have a tuxedo, nor did I have a ball gown. It would all be smoke and mirrors. Karel wore his ‘dress suit’, which was dated, but he looked distinguished. I also thought the expression ‘dress suit’ was rather romantic. I had an elegant black pantsuit that managed to do those things all girls want—it accentuated my cleavage, displayed my back and arms, flattened my tummy and swept out flatteringly over my hips until it touched the floor.

  Karel looked at me with his blue, blue eyes and smiled, touching my cheek. ‘You look beautiful, Táničko.’ No matter how many times he looked at me with those eyes, they always had the same mesmerising, heart-fluttering effect.

  I tried not to blush like a schoolgirl. Bedecked in enough fake jewels (generously loaned to me by Radka) to look the part, black high heels and bright-red lipstick, I wondered madly, crazily, whether this evening would be enough to give me that butterfly ‘down’ Karel deemed necessary for finding love. But I pushed the thought away as quickly as it arose. No point raising my hopes. Just enjoy the moment, as Karel always said; take it easy. We were Bonnie and Clyde (hopefully with a better ending), both of us sprinkled with Cinderella stardust, and we were off on the adventure of our lives.

  ‘Taxi!’ called Radka, peering over the balcony. A taxi was an almost unheard-of luxury for any Czech in any panelák suburb, but Karel deemed it a worthy chariot for the night’s outing. I was grateful for his generosity. It would not have been much fun traipsing in high heels to the Žofín via Prague’s public transport system. I would have arrived with sore, frozen feet before the ball had even begun. This way I would arrive instead like a princess.

  We climbed into the taxi, which was fragrant with vanilla pods—a specialty of Czech drivers—and Karel gave directions. I listened to his lilting Czech and leant my head on his shoulder. He took my hand. It was all perfect—Cinderella in her carriage, heading to the ball, with Prince Charming by her side.

  The Žofín was ablaze with lights, surrounded by long black cars and swarming with guests in evening attire. The sound of an orchestra tuning up floated down from an upstairs window. At ground level, the Žofín was ringed with big men in suits.

  ‘Prime Minister’s army,’ Karel whispered to me as we alighted from the taxi.

  Outside, the temperature had dropped to –10°C and our breath froze on the air. But I couldn’t feel a thing. Fixing his eyes on the line of guards, Karel squared his shoulders, took my elbow and instructed me to hold my head up and walk confidently towards the door.

  ‘Act as though you are someone important,’ he murmured. No problem there. I was a glamorous spy on James Bond’s arm, about to infiltrate a secret Cold War meeting. In my stilettos and Australian pantsuit, I was walking a tightrope between two worlds, the East and West . . . and nobody knew.

  We passed the first set of guards and then the second. Karel held two thin slips of white cardboard in his hands that looked like tickets. He flashed them at the guards. Beyond them, I could see golden chandeliers glittering in the high hallway. Just out of reach, beyond the main doors, sparkling lights illuminated the grand entrance. We were so close. Another few steps and we would be in the antechamber. We crossed the threshold. Security people lined the room, examining tickets and ushering guests through the doors. An older man and woman with clipboards watched from the corner.

  ‘Stay here, if you please,’ Karel said.

  Slipping the papers into his pocket, Karel relaxed the grip on my arm. He strode to the couple and bowed slightly. They appeared surprised but nodded back. Within seconds he was talking earnestly, gesturing towards me, gesturing towards them, looking like a politician himself. I caught snatches of the inflections in his voice and of shared laughter. The couple handed him two tickets, nodded and waved him on. He strode confidently back to my side.

  ‘Yes, Miss Heaslip.’ He bowed slightly. �
�We have the opportunity to go in. Won’t you come this way?’ Almost as an afterthought, he added, ‘Our hosts say they are delighted to welcome some special legal diplomat who teaches English to our most important Minister of Justice.’

  Unable to speak, I took his proffered arm once more. Even in my high heels I barely came to his shoulder. We glided into the hall towards a magnificent marble staircase that rose before us. It gleamed golden brown, with rich red carpet leading up its centre. Pillars rose high under the vast ceilings. Ornate lamps and sparkling chandeliers lit our path as, high above us, four black-suited trumpeters heralded the arrival of the dignitaries with a Czech fanfare.

  A waiter hovered on the landing. Karel took two glasses of Bohemian Sekt from him, turned to me and clinked my glass. My fingers trembled around the crystal stem. Then I collapsed into one of the gilded chairs lining the walls. ‘What did you say to them?’

  Karel waved his glass at me, impishly.

  ‘Well, Táničko, I used all my special Švejk innocence and charm to tell them I accompany one certain VIP from Australia who was specially appointed to work with the Minister of Justice and that she wants to say hello to some Comrade Ministers she knows. I told them there had been some problem with her tickets and we needed new ones.’

  ‘That was it? That was enough?’

  ‘Táničko, you have to understand how special communist-trained system works. It is very important to, how you say, save face when confronted with someone very important. Nobody knew who we were but nobody dared to reject our presence because you are international VIP and we are here to see the Minister. They are not willing to make the fatal mistake of admitting they do not know us. You see?’

  I didn’t really, but I tried.

  ‘We are presented with tickets from Special Representative for Prime Minister. That is the man I spoke to. It is also my game. To approach the most important person in charge of tickets because they will not dare to upset their ministers by refusing us entry.’