I was finding that freedom had its limitations. Our living conditions were claustrophobic. Money was more than short. Jan lived on a shoe-string. I received a few pounds National Assistance. After an initial flutter (a couple of interviews on the radio, two articles in The Guardian) London had lost interest in its returned prodigal. The employment exchange was not exactly fighting over women approaching fifty. I found that twenty-odd years doing odd jobs in Eastern Europe did not equip me for the more interesting jobs that paid enough to live on, whereas I was turned down as over-qualified for the clerical jobs usually offered to unclassifiable women of uncertain age.
In the end a young English friend of Jan’s introduced me to a genteel firm of architects in need of a secretary. As regards qualifications, the interview was a replica of those in Prague.
No, I didn’t know shorthand. Never mind, Sir Anthony preferred to write out his letters. Yes, I could type, quickly and inaccurately; or slowly and accurately. I was however a faultless speller. Sir Anthony looked relieved: he apparently was not. No, I had had no experience with architects but I had worked in a drawing office.
I think it was my cultured accent that got me the job. It was particularly useful when mollifying a titled client because of some delay or discrepancy. On the other hand, my equally convincing Cockney accent rallied reluctant plumbers and electricians, and frequently averted disaster.
One of our projects concerned alterations in a wing of Buckingham Palace. Minutes of discussions with members of the royal household on the shape of royal urinals and the pros and cons of mahogany or plastic seats for royal loos afforded me welcome light relief.
Having been received at the front door of the Palace in 1948, I should like at least to have got in through the back door in 1972. One of our young architects promised to smuggle me in at the end of a rape measure, but I left before he got around to it.
My new secretarial job still left all my evenings and weekends free to help Jan. ‘It looks bad for Jiří.’ Jan handed me a wad of papers. This has been smuggled out to me.’
I recognized the flimsy, closely typed sheets of a samizdat document. It was the indictment against ‘Müller et al’. Again I marvelled at the courage and resource of the underground. The hearing had been held in camera.
‘You are included,’ Jan added casually.
My eyes raced over the pages. In unbugged, untapped England the events of only a few months ago seemed a hundred light-years away. The defendants Jiří Müller, Rudolf Battěk, Jaroslav Jíra, Jean Rosemary Kavanová and Stanislav Furek were charged with ‘subverting the Republic’, which carried a sentence of three to ten years’ imprisonment. The main charge was ‘assisting other persons to organise an anti-State leaflet campaign’. I was charged also with ‘departing the Republic contrary to Article 109, Section 1’ (i.e. illegal emigration) and with ‘damaging the Republic’s interest abroad’ — a reference to my two Guardian articles which being truthful were hardly flattering.
Jiří’s trial was held in July 1972, concurrently with eight other political trials. Gustav Husák could not have enjoyed eating his own words, especially to the accompaniment of righteous noises by his old enemy, ex-President Novotný.
The trial proceedings eventually came into our hands. (I was scheduled for a separate trial at a later, unspecified date.) Two further names had been added to the list of accused: Dr Jan Tesař and Pavel Mareš. The ‘criminal’ activities with which some of the defendants were charged, in addition to the leaflet, were signing a ten.point manifesto protesting at the betrayal of the 1968 reforms, supporting a Short Action Programme (drawn up by Brno socialists, based largely on the 1968 programme) and distributing domestic and foreign ‘anti-State publications’.
Convictions hinged on the phrase ‘motivated by hostility toward socialism’.
While admitting their activity (indeed some defendants, for example Jan Tesař, tried to assume maximum responsibility and protect their friends), the accused denied opposition to socialism. The court presented proof of hostility with glib sophistry: the defendants had engaged in acts deemed by the court to be hostile (acts which could not be defined as hostile unless motivation was established), therefore they were motivated by hostility, Q.E.D.
‘Jiří, of course, turned the trial into an indictment of the regime,’ Jan observed.
I read Jiří‘s speech in his own defence, which was enough to provoke a hail of bullets.
‘The prosecution has assumed that there is a wide-ranging identity of interest between society at large and the group in power … I can only conclude that, in Czechoslovakia, loyalty to the State and society is the same as loyalty to those in power. Furthermore, the citizen is required to demonstrate this loyalty in his every belief and action. This being so, any disloyalty towards those in power would be interpreted as an expression of hostility toward the social system.’
Jiří asserted that his activities had been based on socialism, but had been opposed to a regime created as the result of the invasion of Czechoslovakia by foreign armies, a regime whose internal policy was based not on general consent but rather on coercion, effected primarily by making prospects of employment totally dependent on political opinions.
Jiří stated boldly: ‘My conviction and guilt are a foregone conclusion … This trial is not concerned with questions of guilt or innocence. Its real concern is to prove support for a policy which could be described as “Keep quiet and don’t step out of line”.
‘I am convinced that this policy will ultimately be destroyed. When it is, the verdict of this particularly political trial, and others, will be reversed. My future standpoint is, I am certain, obvious to everyone.’
The verdict in the name of the Republic — how familiar that phrase sounded; how many phoney judgements had been passed in its much-abused name! — was Guilty. The sentences were high. Dr Tesař came off worst with six years; Jiří got five-and-a-half years.
‘Five-and-a-half years!’ cried Jan, grief-stricken.
First his father; twenty years later, his dearest friend. The show trials of the fifties had launched Jiří on his political path. Now he himself was a victim. Was there no end to this cruel and senseless waste of brains and integrity?
However dearly they had paid, their sacrifices had not been in vain. It was a needed reminder that the few were still carrying the torch of honour and national self-respect. Characteristically, Jiří refused to ‘keep quiet’ even in prison. He wrote a letter to the Federal Assembly complaining of his treatment not on the grounds of personal suffering but as violations of the law and the prison regulations.
Jiří was allowed to leave his cell only for a short exercise break five times a week. He was forced to work twelve hours a day sticking pins into cards in the dimly lit cell; his food ration was reduced if he failed to keep up with the very high rate. He had less light, air, exercise and hot water than the non-political prisoners, i.e. ordinary criminals, and far less than the law provided. He was deprived of all intellectual stimuli. When he was ill he was placed in solitary confinement instead of in the prison hospital and was denied proper treatment.
My thoughts went out to Mrs Müller, permitted only three-monthly visits, seeing her son in a terrible state: emaciated (the doctors had refused to operate for gall-stones, the authorities to allow a diet), going blind, losing his hair; his back a mass of running abscesses, his muscles atrophied (he had suffered from this complaint as a child; lack of exercise was exacerbating it).
If I were his mother, I would not be able to bear it, I cried inwardly. Not true, I told myself. Mothers endure everything. They see their sons crucified and bathe the wounds with their tears.
Yet Jiří’s spirit remained unbroken. In a letter to his parents he quoted the well-loved Czech humorist Jan Werich: ‘The struggle against stupidity is the only struggle that is always in vain, yet can never be relinquished,’ and could write: ‘In prison, if one is calm and not bitter and is able to concentrate, the opportunities for medita
tion are invaluable. In many ways I feel that I am maturing for the second time … Prison contributes to self-knowledge. I have come to know the exact measure of my composure, fear and courage, and I have discovered in myself a greater degree of tolerance and reconciliation than I had ever dreamt of. My nature, which evidently is not easily repressed, has acquired a field for fertilization: the creation of a full life out of subsistence.’
Jiří showed more concern for the welfare of his parents and the wives and children of other political prisoners than his own. He even remembered me. He mentioned in a letter to his mother: ‘I can hear Karel Gott singing “Rosemarie” on the radio and wonder what news there is.’
My chances of returning to my adopted country were nil. Twenty-six years of my life had been swallowed up without trace, like a hamlet in an earthquake. Or so I thought. I was mistaken. Jana risked writing to me openly and sent me photos of my new adopted grandson. Other friends smuggled out little notes. Heda and I corresponded regularly. I realised that bonds of friendship forged in adversity were indestructible. Though penniless, I was rich — in love and experience.
I should have been behind bars. I had escaped by the skin of my teeth. A further miracle happened: I met a painter, Richard Haughton-James — known as Jimmy to all his close friends — at his exhibition at Woodstock. And my whole life changed. Jimmy and I saw each other nearly every day for a fortnight. We visited galleries and museums, drove through villages, walked in the country and talked and talked. Several months later we were married in Melbourne; Jimmy had found himself an Australian citizen after serving in the Australian army during the war, and had lived there until 1956. Shortly afterwards we settled in Positano in Italy, where Jimmy had earlier decided to make his home.
Despite my marriage to Jimmy, I had not cut myself off from the Czech cause. I could not have fully enjoyed my peace and plenty if I had not been contributing something. I continued to translate documents from Czechoslovakia, and during my visits to England I put myself at the disposal of the chronically understaffed Palach Press agency which Jan had founded at the end of 1975 with the voluntary co-operation of some young English people, moved and angered by Czechoslovakia’s fate. These committed young people became my friends too. Our discussions and parties rekindled the spirit of our ‘commune’ days.
In December 1976, Jiři Müller was freed. He had been released conditionally six months before the end of his sentence. But only a month later two other close friends — Vladimír Laštůvka and Jan’s old school friend Aleš Macháček — were imprisoned and accused of distributing Czech literature published abroad.
The banning of many books and authors was acutely felt by the Czechs. In Czechoslovakia culture is not an elitist thing. Books are cheap; everyone reads, not escapist trash, but works of literary merit. The regime had had to ban books if it aimed to break the people’s spirit: for a spiritless people is more easily manipulated.
The underground had produced a partial solution: samizdat editions of new books by proscribed authors. For technical reasons these were limited in number. Larger editions involved printing; this meant publication abroad. Thus a Kafkaesque situation had arisen: in order that the Czechs might read their own authors in their own language, numerous persons had to risk their liberties smuggling manuscripts out of Czechoslovakia and the printed article back again!
Jan was stricken when he read of Aleš’s arrest. He recalled his friend’s loyalty and generosity, his down-to-earth attitude to politics. A qualified agronomist, he had worked on farms, setting up workers’ collectives — even after workers’ councils had been banned — trying to get workers to fight, through the trade unions, for their interests and a share in decision-making. How had Aleš met Laštůvka, Jan and I wondered. Two men whom we had known and liked individually were now linked by a common fate.
A fresh campaign was born. Macháček and Laštůvka were unknown in the West. There was a danger that they would be forgotten; at best the pressure of world public opinion secured only the release of well-known writers.
Jan espoused their cause vigorously in the Western press. The Gestetner which Jan had sent in several years earlier was found in Aleš’s garage, but the indictment concentrated mainly on the Kafkaesque charge of helping to supply Czech books to Czech readers. The verdict was three and a half years’ imprisonment. The voice of dissent was not silenced, however.
Charter 77, an association committed to the defence of human rights, was founded three weeks before Aleš’s arrest and grew into a widely-based movement. Samizdat developed into an alternative culture with its own literature, theatre, music and university.
Palach Press gradually grew into an institution, highly regarded in the West as an authoritative source of information. It was also adopted by many chartists as their agency; they sent their documents, articles and books to Palach Press as well as incredible shots of chartists under police surveillance. Nearly all the T.V. programmes involving chartists, shown in England and other European countries, were made with Jan’s collaboration.
Jan was worked off his feet: his headaches persisted, his blood pressure and his cholesterol count rose alarmingly. His doctor warned him: ‘You’re heading for a heart attack.’ But he would not let up. His friends were inside Czechoslovakia, suffering persecution. He was outside, in freedom. He could not do enough. I helped out when I could.
In May 1977 I found myself in London helping Jan to translate documents for both a BBC Panorama programme on Charter 77 and for the campaign in defence of Aleš and Laštůvka. In the hassle of the campaign and deadlines, I had almost forgotten the primary reason for my visit to London. This was a lump in my breast that had suddenly became painful. I had seen my GP and been put on the local hospital’s waiting list. I was not troubled by the delay. Nothing could happen to me. Jimmy was my talisman against misfortune. Then I happened to mention my problem to my sister-in-law, Faith, herself a doctor. She was very much concerned and immediately arranged an appointment for me at the Royal Marsden.
I saw Mr White, a gentle, compassionate consultant. He did a biopsy. The results would be ready in three days, he said gravely. My confidence was shaken. The test would surely shown the tumour to be benign. There were only benign influences in my life now. So sure had I been of the outcome that I had dissuaded Jimmy, whose first wife died of cancer, from accompanying me to England.
He was expecting his grandchildren for a short stay. I would be back in time to see them, I had assured him.
The phone rang. It was Faith.
‘I’ve spoken to Mr White,’ she said, ‘And —’
There was a long pause. That pause told me all I needed to know. ‘Now, Faith, no euphemisms. It’s cancer isn’t it?’
‘Yes, my dear, it is.’
My heart cringed.
Faith went on in a sad, sweet voice: ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I — er — I took the liberty of phoning Jimmy. I thought it might come easier — from me, a doctor. He’s flying over.’
‘Oh, yes, thank you,’ I answered mechanically. Poor Jimmy, the second time within a few years.
I continued sitting cross-legged: the only space for the phone among Jan’s myriad papers was on the floor.
Checkmate.
It had started in Prague, six years ago, perhaps earlier; anyway I had first noticed it in summer 1971. Then it had been small and painless. The specialist had scoffed: ‘Fatty tissue, my good woman. They come and go. Nothing to fuss about.’
I hadn’t fussed; I had forgotten. But I had carried the dread disease away with me — from Prague.
I was still gazing at the phone, as though waiting for it to ring a denial. Then I remembered the translation. Whatever my fate, it had to be handed to Panorama in the morning. I rose to my feet, and the movement sent blood and optimism coursing through my veins.
Not checkmate. Only check. I am a survivor. I have to survive — to see Prague again.
I sat down at the typewriter and continued translating
the voice of hope.
Copyright
This ebook edition first published in 2014
by Faber and Faber Ltd
Bloomsbury House
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London WC1B 3DA
All rights reserved
© Rosemary Kavan, 1985
Foreword © Arthur Miller, 1988
Introduction © William Shawcross, 1988
The right of Rosemary Kavan to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–0–571–31060–9
Love and Freedom Page 32