Love and Freedom

by Rosemary Kavan

  ‘Masaryk was a man of the people not of political parties,’ Pavel retorted. ‘He said himself: “How can my friends abroad think I could go against the will of the people?’”

  According to Pavel, Masaryk recognized that the new government was the people’s choice, and therefore he had unhesitatingly accepted a ministerial post and publicly declared his support for Gottwald. Pavel emphatically rejected the idea of premeditated suicide. For one thing, Masaryk had asked him to return in the morning to pick up a letter for the Ambassador in London. The heap of cigarette ends in the ashtrays in the morning suggested yet another sleepless night.

  ‘Masaryk took his life in a moment of temporary derangement,’ Pavel declared.

  This categoric conclusion was one of Pavel’s simplifications. He took no account of inner conflicts, psychological pressures or subtleties of motivation. He was interested only in political ambiguities: for or against. Secrecy surrounded Masaryk’s death. Rumours that he had been murdered by the communist state security police persisted for many years. An enquiry initiated in 1968 was abandoned after the Russian invasion.

  Czechoslovakia’s volte face over Marshall Aid confirmed British fears that the Czechs were trapped in the Soviet net. Czechoslovakia could certainly have made good use of American dollars. Large capital investments would have speeded up the reconstruction of the economy. Jan Masaryk was to have represented the Czechs in Paris. Pavel was jubilant. ‘We’ll accept their money and avoid their political strings,’ he declared.

  But Stalin saw the Marshall Plan as a means to bind the recipients to the United States and isolate the Soviet Union. He framed an ultimatum: either an American loan or friendship with the Soviet Union. Gottwald chose the latter. Pavel accepted Stalin’s — and Gottwald’s — judgement unquestioningly. We still had unshakeable faith in the Soviet Union. We had been invited to private film showings and a recital of protest and battle songs by Paul Robeson at the Soviet Embassy. Songs of the partisans and films such as Stalingrad and Meeting on the Elbe had reminded us again of the Soviet Union’s decisive role in the war, and of the heroism of the Red Army and the Russian people. Pavel believed that Czechoslovakia would be better protected by the Soviet Union than by the West.

  Before the February 1948 crisis relations between Czechoslovakia and Britain had been smooth. An agreement to promote friendship, cultural exchange and understanding had been signed. Now that a ‘disguised dictatorship of a single party’ — in the words of the British government — had been established, the agreement was terminated.

  When I returned to Prague two years later I found the British Council had been closed down, the only British paper available was the Daily Worker; Western books, films and plays were boycotted. In short, Czechoslovakia was completely cut off from the West.

  While political relations got bogged down, trade went ahead. In the summer of 1949 Rudolf Margolius4, a Vice Minister of Foreign Trade, came to London to negotiate a trade agreement with Britain. I mention Rudolf because he was one of the nicest Czechs I’ve ever met and his wife was to become my lifelong friend. The trade agreement was to have tragic consequences for Rudolf.

  Coming events do not necessarily cast their shadows before them. While the Embassy celebrated the signing of the treaty, Rudolf had no presentiment of disaster. When Yugoslavia was expelled from the Cominform for ‘betrayal of international communism’, Pavel and I had no premonition of the impact it would have on our own lives. Would I have returned to Prague with Pavel if I had known what to expect?

  As it was, our marriage was near collapse. Pavel was under considerable strain. The Cold War aggravated the difficulties of his job. Like Masaryk, he was worried about the international situation: world peace was menaced; the division of Germany was a threat to Czechoslovakia. The Embassy had divided into factions. He had incurred enemies among the staff, he told me, but would divulge no details.

  He was smoking and drinking heavily. He began to suffer from high blood pressure. His Czech doctor detected signs of cardiac strain. After this diagnosis Pavel went about for days veiled in gloom and doom. Any suggestion on my part that he should sort out the piles of newspapers that were gracing, or rather disgracing, the living room, write some long-owed letters to friends in Prague or throw a little water over the Minx (we had bought a new car in London, Matilda had remained with Karel) met with the lugubrious prognosis: ‘I shan’t be here much longer. Do you have to bother me with trivialities?’

  Alarmed at the prospect of imminent widowhood, I went to see his doctor who assured me: ‘Provided your husband leads a normal, quiet life there is no reason why he should not live as long as you or I.’ But Pavel refused to be reassured. His father had died of heart failure at the age of fifty. Pavel was convinced he was marked for the same fate. Fear of an early death, anger at what his family had already suffered and rage at his own disability erupted in fits of uncontrollable fury. A trifle would act as a trigger. A missing shirt button, mislaid car keys, a suit delayed at the cleaners’, or a message forgotten would cause him to rant and roar like one possessed. I met these outbursts with a pained silence that invariably goaded him to further frenzy. Doubtless I should have shouted back and thrown things, but it was not in my nature: I was miscast in the great Slav drama of which Pavel was the centre. My English upbringing defined shows of temper as selfish and in bad taste. Whereas in Pavel’s education self-control had not ranked high. He had bossed his younger brother, unopposed. His mother and uncle had indulged him. No one had gainsaid him.

  Such explosions left me physically and mentally immobilized. I felt less of a person, less myself. I was affected not so much by the actual, as by the potential violence. In the aftermath Pavel would sulk and send me to Coventry. I found these long, heavy silences hard to bear. After a few days, I would swallow my pride and beg Pavel to end it. As a sign of forgiveness for my being in the right, Pavel would start talking to me again. He never admitted blame.

  Perhaps if I had been less tired I would have coped better. But, even with domestic help, two babies took a toll of my energy. (Curse the baby books of that time, which forbade feeding at night and assured mothers that crying was good for baby’s lungs.) I couldn’t catch up my lost sleep during the day, for one or another of the boys was always awake. Pavel allowed himself no respite; I was allowed none either. In addition to my diplomatic duties, I was expected to attend trade union meetings and lectures in political theory at the Embassy, teach some of the staff English and occasionally help out with the clerical work. In short, my life was governed by musts. You must attend this function, invite these guests, join the Embassy’s ladies’ tea-party, visit the Soviet Ambassador’s wife, go to that opening, or fashion show. I was told what to wear, what to discuss, what priorities to observe.

  At the same time, I was largely in the dark about Embassy affairs: matters of real policy were discussed at meetings of communists, and these Pavel did not disclose to me.

  I was too busy and too fatigued to study the news thoroughly. In any case no world developments seemed as important as my babies. Even Pavel preferred a recital of his sons’ achievements to a political discussion with me in the evenings. Consequently, in conversation with our colleagues, I sometimes confused names and events. This infuriated Pavel, and increased my disorientation.

  I began to feel stupid and inadequate. I allowed myself to be swayed even when I knew I was right. For example, over the question of language, I suggested that we speak English at home and Czech elsewhere, so that the boys would be bilingual. Pavel was violently opposed, asserting that they would speak neither language properly. They would develop split personalities, not knowing where they belonged. Emphatically no English was to be spoken. I was to learn perfect Czech. We were to be a hundred-per-cent Czech, not an Anglo–Czech, family.

  I yielded, against my better judgement. As a result, the boys knew little English when forced into exile later. I did eventually learn almost perfect Czech. For that I am grateful. But had I elimina
ted the last trace of a foreign accent, my shape would still have betrayed my origin; even my uptilted nose distinguished me as non-Czech. Moreover, not even a mastery of Czech enabled me to fathom Pavel. He remained an enigma.

  We decided to take a holiday in Scotland without the children. I looked forward to the break. I fondly hoped that being alone together in new surroundings with no responsibilities would do much to restore our relationship. I could not have been wider from the mark. We got as far as Stirling without mishap. There Pavel suddenly stopped the car outside a clothier’s and instructed me to go in and buy a length of Scotland’s famous suiting for our Ambassador. Unacquainted with the Ambassador’s preference, I asked Pavel to go with me.

  He shook his head irritably. ‘Use your own discretion.’

  ‘It’s too big a responsibility, please help me choose,’ I begged, almost in tears.

  This harmless plea sparked an incredible reaction. Pavel seized me round the throat and shook me like an old coat, screaming: ‘Will you do as I say?’

  His eyes were bulging with rage, mine with fear. We must have looked like a couple of gargoyles at close range. I was convinced I’d be stiff before Pavel realized what he was doing. Desperately I gasped: ‘CD.’ Reminded that a corpse in his diplomatic car might cause awkward comment, Pavel came to his senses. He released me and drove on, the matter of the Ambassador’s suit forgotten.

  *

  Histrionics was one thing, assault was another. No one had ever laid a finger on me before. My whole nervous system quivered with outrage. When the agitation ceased, it was succeeded by total numbness. I looked at Pavel and felt nothing. Nothing at all. Appalled, I tried to digest this discovery.

  ‘What’s the matter now?’ Pavel’s impatient voice broke the silence.

  ‘Nothing.’

  He pressed me.

  ‘Well,’ I gulped, ‘this was supposed to be our second honeymoon and you’ve spoilt it.’

  ‘I’ve spoilt it! You started it by refusing a simple request.’

  ‘It wasn’t simple,’ I kept saying.

  ‘If you’re going to rake this up every few minutes, we’d better call the holiday off,’ Pavel growled.

  He threw open the door, pushed me out into the pouring rain and drove off. Wet and shivering, I made my way back to the village we had just passed through. I saw with chilling clarity that my marriage had been a terrible mistake. We were totally incompatible. The British under-statement and the Czech overstatement just would not jell. Divorce was the only answer; I’d start proceedings immediately. The court would be on my side. Of course the papers would make political capital out of it. I could see the headlines: English wife throttled by barbarous Bohemian; wife seeks divorce rather than return to Iron Curtain country. I couldn’t condone that. That would be playing into the hands of the reactionaries. And the publicity would ruin Pavel’s career. He may have been nuts, but he didn’t deserve that. I’d wait until we were back in Prague.

  At the time I couldn’t account for Pavel’s behaviour. Now, with the perspective of decades, I understand him better. He was a man with a vision. He couldn’t afford self-doubt: it would have diminished his drive. He wanted an easy, smooth relationship that would leave all his energy free for work and politics. He demanded unqualified love and devotion under all circumstances. Reservations unhinged him because he needed to be right and to be recognized as right.

  I found out the time of the next train to London, then adjourned to the village café to while away the next three hours. A hot drink would have been welcome, but I was refused coffee because it was after lunch and tea because it was not yet tea-time. I made do with some bilious-looking lemonade. When I returned to the station, Pavel was waiting outside. He took my arm as though nothing had happened. He did not apologize, of course, but his lovemaking that night was particularly passionate. Perhaps he sensed how near he’d been to losing me.

  I resolved to say nothing about divorce until the time was right.

  In the meanwhile I made the best of things. I was supremely happy with my two delightful toddlers. Jan and Zdeněk were beautiful to look at — sturdy, curly-haired with small, neat features and large, bright eyes — and fun to be with: sunny, alert, responsive to imaginative games and always ready to laugh. I regretted that I could not spend all my time with them and had often to leave them with our Czech maid, a carefully screened working-class cadre who had little aptitude for childcare.

  I appreciated the advantages of diplomatic life. After Czech shortages, diplomatic rations were a luxury, and a chauffeur-driven limousine was infinitely more spacious than a Prague tram. I got a kick out of being presented to their Majesties King George and Queen Elizabeth, and enjoyed the irony that only marriage to a Czech communist had opened the gates of Buckingham Palace to me.

  Receptions with their groaning tables of caviar and smoked salmon were not exactly a chore, though Pavel took the edge off my pleasure by censoring my behaviour. Don’t ask the wrong questions. Don’t joke about serious matters. Don’t wave your arms about when you talk. Don’t laugh loudly. Don’t treat a diplomat you’ve just been introduced to as though he were an old friend.

  After the usual series of vodka toasts to peace and solidarity, Stalin, Gottwald and all the other socialist leaders, I would forget my censor. I might be relating a funny story to the Polish Ambassador with non-protocol verve and gesticulation. Pavel, lurking behind an aspidistra, would emit a loud, warning ahem. I’d fall silent in mid-word and mid-gesture. The Ambassador would beg me to continue. I’d scramble through to the punch line in a subdued monotone — much to the puzzlement of my listener.

  Pavel need not have worried. My informality made us popular. At our dinner parties diplomats relaxed and loosened their ties while I disappeared to feed a baby or change a nappy. Often the evening ended in an international singsong on cushions on the floor.

  I must confess my only contribution to diplomatic history was on the lighter side. After I’d introduced some English party games at a private gathering for our Embassy children, the Ambassador’s wife asked me if I would arrange a St Nicholas party for our East European and Soviet colleagues. Rashly I agreed. Just before the guests were due, Pavel began to moan: ‘It’ll be a flop; you’ll be a laughing stock!’ I panicked. Why had I let myself in for this ordeal? Why did I never say No? It was too late to call the party off. I downed a double whisky and made Pavel do the same.

  The guests began to arrive. The sight of formal black evening wear and solemn People’s Democratic expressions sent my spirits down again.

  The initial game of guess-the-name-pinned-on-your-back-and-find-his/her-partner got everyone off the political situation and away from wife or husband. So far so good. But that might have been classed as an intellectual exercise. The next item couldn’t, by a long chalk. Each man was given a sheet of newspaper, five pins and three minutes in which to make his partner a hat. I anticipated a mass getaway. But no, the men applied themselves diligently to the task. The results had to be seen to be believed. The millinery talent of the Eastern Corps outdid Ascot! But the next item was the trickiest. If they went for that, they’d go for anything. It was musical chairs. As I reduced the number of chairs, protocol was flung to the winds and rugged individualism came to the fore. Counsellors created sprint records, dragging their long-skirted partners behind them. Ambassadors and cypher clerks fought spiritedly over seats. Pavel, ever apprehensive, predicted an exchange of diplomatic notes on the morrow.

  My final test was the animal game. Remember, these diplomats had been starched stiff before leaving their countries. The majority of them were communists, to whom unconventional conduct was as alien as non-conformist beliefs. I explained the rules of the game to this dignified assembly. ‘You’ve each got a card bearing the name of an animal. At the word go, each makes the noise appropriate to that animal and by this means locates the nine others in his team. The team that gets together first is the winner.’ I gave the signal, expecting dead silence and emb
arrassed glances. But no! A collective roar of sound arose from about one hundred and fifty throats that shook the foundations. It also brought the police to the front door to ascertain whether the Embassy staff were being murdered by incensed emigrés.

  Dedication is dedication, whatever the cause. Once my guests were committed to letting themselves go, they abandoned themselves wholeheartedly. More and more crazy games and dances were called for. I dare say that I did more for inner-bloc détente than a dozen political meetings. By three in the morning people were falling on each other’s necks from mirth and exhaustion, irrespective of protocol.

  For days afterwards the Czech St Nicholas party was the number one topic in the Eastern bloc. Pavel basked in reflected glory. Europeans laugh at the English and their childish love of games. But the party proved to me that all adults need play for release and the re-discovery of their childlike selves. An uncompromising representative of the socialist bloc is no exception.

  As a result of that evening, some of our diplomatic acquaintances became personal friends. I recall, in particular, the Bulgarian Cultural Attaché and his wife, with whom we spent a delightful weekend at Stratford-on-Avon and a number of evenings at London theatres, and a cultivated Soviet Counsellor with whom we enjoyed stimulating discussions on a wide range of subjects.

  Altogether, my pleasantest memories of that period are of informal evenings, mostly with Embassy colleagues — Eda Goldstücker, who was Counsellor, then Chargé d’Affaires and later Envoy to Israel, Alois Skoumal, our witty and erudite Cultural Attaché, and Evžen Zeman of our commercial office — but often with English friends like Harry and Marjorie Pollitt, fine communists and entertaining company; John Gollan, who was to succeed Harry as Secretary of the British Communist Party, and his lively wife Elsie; Konni Zilliacus, a left-wing MP and John Platts-Mills, a leading socialist barrister.

  Our three years were drawing to an end. I was not sorry. My task had been easier than I had anticipated. Pavel’s crash course in history had stood me in good stead. I had been able to identify with the Czechs and therefore to represent them. (I had even given some informal talks on developments in post-war Czechoslovakia.) But on the whole I had not enjoyed the role of diplomatic wife who, after all, is a mere appendage, entirely subservient to her husband’s career. I looked forward to a real job in Prague and a greater degree of independence.