by Simon Mawer
Other ghosts in the shadow of The Castle? Jaroslav Hašek for one, father of the Good Soldier Švejk. Hašek’s life span coincided almost exactly with Kafka’s (both were born in 1883; Hašek died one year before Kafka), but in every other way, both literary and personal, they occupy the opposite ends of any spectrum you care to invent. Drunk against teetotal, riotous extrovert against diffident introvert, bigamist against celibate, hilarious against somber. Czech against German. Gentile against Jew.
But now all has changed. It is the summer of 1968 and the man in the high castle is a genial and white-haired war hero who goes by the name of Svoboda, which, in one of those coincidences of meaning that make one sure there is an ironist in heaven, means “Freedom.” And the man more or less in charge of the Party and therefore holding the reins of power in the country as a whole is some kind of interloper, a tall and gangling Slovak with a long nose and a warm smile and a tendency, dangerous amongst rulers, to consider the true feelings of the man and woman in the street. So now the writers and philosophers are talking at the café tables, writing freely at their desks, publishing in Literární listy and Reportér. A mere Two Thousand Words—the journalist Ludvík Vaculík’s famous June manifesto—has shaken the foundations of the socialist state. People can say what the hell they please and there is tacit concordance between the Party and the Castle because the Švejks are, for the moment, no longer in the ascendancy. Instead it’s socialismus s lidskou tváří, socialism with a human face, while the Soviet Union gathers the fraternal parties together on the banks of the Danube, in Bratislava, for a conference where they all swear that, while claiming “unwavering loyalty to Marxism-Leninism, each fraternal party may decide questions of further socialist development in a creative way, taking into account specific national features and conditions.”
It was during this Bratislava conference that a letter from five anti-reformist members of the Presidium of the Czechoslovak Communist Party was passed to a member of the Soviet Politburo to be handed directly to Leonid Brezhnev. This letter, the so-called letter of invitation, implored Brezhnev to intervene in Czechoslovakia “with all means at your disposal” in order to save the country from the “imminent danger of counterrevolution.” So that there would be no misunderstanding, this invitation was written in Russian, with a plea to treat it with the utmost secrecy (prior to 1992, when it was released from the Russian State Archives, its existence was no more than a rumor). This treacherous missive, the excuse that the Soviets needed to give an aura of legality to their invasion, was passed to the intermediary in exactly the place where shit and piss are always passed, in the gents’ lavatory of the conference building.
What, I wonder, do the ghosts of Kafka and Hasěk say to each other about all this as they meet on the ghostly Prague streets? Or do they merely nod and pass by on the other side, the one off to haunt his favorite brothel, the other to the pub?
26
Things to see, places that live on in postcards sent to parents and friends—Tyn Square with the stiletto spires of the church of Our Lady standing over it, the Charles Bridge where musicians busk until moved on by the police, the Art Nouveau marvels of the Municipal House just near the medieval Powder Tower which has Gothic needles at the brim of its tall, pointed hat. Even the building and the room where Vladimir Ilyich Lenin founded the Bolshevik Party of Russia. Lenka will write about their visit, a piece for Student on how the Prague Spring is perceived by two students from the famous University of Oxford.
“You will be famous in Czechoslovakia,” Lenka tells them. It’s unclear whether her tone is ironic or not.
Another place that she wants to show them is something unique to her city. “You must take the memory of this back with you to England,” she says. “This is very special.”
The building is a squat, secretive place hunched below the level of the pavement as though endeavoring to sit out the harsh storm of the twentieth century. A synagogue. They follow her inside only to discover that the storm is within, a blizzard that stings the eyes and batters on the mind. Not snow or sleet but names. Names everywhere, names on the walls, names on the arches and the alcoves, ranks of names like figures drawn up on some featureless Appellplatz. Names and dates: given names and dates in black, surnames in blood. Dates of birth and dates of death. Seventy-seven thousand seven hundred and ninety-seven of them, names so crowded that they appear to merge one into the other and become just one name, which is the name of an entire people—all the Jews of Bohemia and Moravia who died in the camps.
Lenka speaks very quietly, looking up at the rows and rows of careful lettering. Ellie and James stand beside her, neither of them understanding what to do with this. They have both read about the camps in books, seen them in photographs, watched the horror on film, of course they have. They know the facts and the figures. But this is none of those things—this is just a list of names.
Lenka peers upwards, pointing. “My grandparents are there.”
There’s a shock of the unexpected, like a physical blow. “Your grandparents?”
“Vadinský Elias and Vadinská Sára.”
They try to follow her finger and make them out, as though the sight of the names will somehow mean a sight of the couple itself, her father’s parents, who stare out of the photo frame on the dressing table in her room in Jitka’s flat.
“Yes, I can see them,” James says, but he can’t. It’s just that he doesn’t want to disappoint her. He tries some mental calculation, guessing at her age. “How did your father…?” The question fades away but, of course, Lenka understands what he intends.
“How did he survive? He was part of the communist underground. For the first years of the war he was in hiding, then things got too difficult and he escaped to Moscow.” She’s still staring up, perhaps so they cannot see her expression. “My mother was already pregnant with me by then, but she was a Christian so she was as safe as anyone could be. But the rest of my father’s family stayed in Prague and they were not safe. His sister, my cousins, all of them”—looking hopelessly round the white space and the myriad of names—”they are all here somewhere.”
Here and not here. The fleeting nature of presence marked only by shadows on photographic paper and names inked onto the wall of a synagogue.
“Perhaps he always had—what do you call it? The guilt of the survivor.”
Later they make their way outside, into the old cemetery where a narrow pathway leads through a chaos of tombs and headstones to nowhere in particular. The air is ripe with the smell of earth and mold and weathered stone. “This is just a historical cemetery. There is also a very big modern Jewish cemetery in Žižkov.” A pause. The sound of birds in the trees, traffic in the street beyond the walls. “But of course now there are no Jews.”
No Germans in the border areas, no Jews in Prague, dissidents dead or in prison or relegated to menial work out of the public eye; a country defined by its absences. Until the last few months, that is, and these moments of strange, frenetic freedoms.
* * *
That afternoon, after the synagogue, Lenka takes them to a political meeting in one of the many theaters of the city. The auditorium—black stage, black curtains and backdrop—is packed with an audience as vocal as the people up on the stage. Jitka’s husband is there behind the microphone, his voice as sharp as a blade, while Jitka herself is in the audience. Lenka provides some kind of summary translation of the speeches. There is argument, debate, laughter as well as shouting. Her boyfriend from the embassy is there as well. James has forgotten the man’s name. “Samuel Wareham,” Ellie whispers. “His father’s at New College. A physiologist.”
How does she know these things? Physiology is more in James’s line than hers, and yet he hasn’t made the connection. He feels stupid and naive, possessed only of limited knowledge that is useful to no one. Then, as they watch the proceedings onstage, the focus of the whole theater shifts, rotates, swirls giddily round in a vortex until, absurdly, they have become the center of att
ention.
“Representatives from English University of Oxford,” Jitka’s husband cries over the loudspeakers, pointing at them. Lenka is telling them to stand up and take a bow. Voices in broken English are all around, urging them on. Zdeněk, that’s his name, is calling them to come up onstage, to speak on behalf of the famous University of Oxford.
“I can’t speak on behalf of anyone but myself,” James protests. People laugh. People applaud. People stamp their feet and cheer. Lenka has him by the hand and is pulling him down the aisle. Ellie is quite happy with the whole thing, as though this is some ridiculous revolutionary drama put on by the Oxford Revolutionary Socialist Students. But for James they are Fando and Lis, clambering onto the stage, finally arriving in the fantasy city of Tar. They are bathed in light. Zdeněk is showing them where to stand.
“Greetings from Oxford!” Ellie yells into the microphone. Her voice is edged with nerves but the audience cheer appreciatively. “Greetings from the students of Oxford and greetings from the workers of Oxford.” More cheers. She’s growing in confidence, standing small and indomitable before the crowd. “Socialism has a human face!” she shouts, and those that do understand explain to those that don’t. The cheering grows. “Nothing,” she cries, “is more powerful than an idea whose time has come! You can resist the invasion of armies but no one can resist the invasion of an idea!”
James has never seen her like this, doing her Pasionaria thing. The audience cheer and he stands there reflected in the light that falls on Ellie. They both smile and wave. In the wings Lenka is there to congratulate them and lead them back to their seats with the audience watching and still applauding and the English guy, Sam Whatever, smiling wryly at them and saying “quite a rabble-rouser,” in that nasty, sarcastic manner that people like him possess. Schoolmasterly. It gives James the shivers.
27
The building is close to the river, close to Kampa with its ancient waterwheels and historic flour mills. With conscious reference to the club in Liverpool this place is called Kaverna. It consists of brick-lined storerooms, like an ancient vaulted church of three naves with arches leading from one to the other. Each nave is packed with worshippers heaving and gyrating as though in the throes of religious ecstasy. The walls are painted black, so illumination is limited to small pools of light. The air is rank with sweat and smoke. At one end of the central nave is a wooden stage raised two feet from the floor. On it, bathed in the uncertain light from three spots and flanked by speakers, are the musicians. Their name is blazoned on the bass drum: THE IDES OF MARCH.
* * *
The leader, John, stands center stage like a preacher in a revivalist meeting, his mouth almost enveloping the microphone, his voice booming round the vaulted ceiling: “I don’t understand what the fuck anyone is saying!”
His audience cheer.
“Y’all off your heads!”
They cheer some more.
“Just a couple a days ago we crossed our own Rubicon—the Iron fucking Curtain!”
Laughter from those who have understood.
“That’s”—he glances at a scrap of paper in his hand—“Shelezna-shoustani-opona to you.”
More laughter. Cheering and laughter.
“An’ we find you cats all spaced out here on the far side, just like the kids back home. So now we gonna sing about it.”
More cheers. Those who understand make some kind of translation for those who don’t. The drummer—it’s Archer, isn’t it?—begins a thumping beat, the bass guitar adds a grating undercurrent of threat and they launch into their signature song, adapted for the occasion:
We’re gonna cross the Rubicon,
We’re going to be free.
We’re gonna cross the Rubicon
And choose democracy.
The audience cheer like a football crowd, singing along with the chorus. Democracy they understand. Rubicon, as well. Free, they comprehend free. There is a guitar solo with Elliot, all teeth, long hair and ragged beard, playing his instrument as though it’s a girl’s body laid out across his hips.
Let me cross your Rubicon,
Let me hold you tight,
Let me cross your Rubicon,
Girl, it’s gonna be all right.
Ellie is dancing, smoking and dancing, her arms above her head, her hair loose, eyes glazed, mouth pulled into some kind of smile. From the small stage Elliot points her out and ejects new words into the microphone:
I went down to her Rubicon,
I bent to taste it fine,
I crouched beside her Rubicon,
It had the taste of wine.
People circle Ellie, clapping in time with the beat, while James watches from the sidelines, nursing a beer. He feels trapped, by circumstance, by language, by the girl even now gyrating in the midst of her little circuit of admirers. The temperature of the place rises. Jitka is there—they persuaded her to come, although, thank God, her husband refused the invitation. She is spiky and angular and strangely awkward with the tempo, but at least she is enjoying the gig, laughing with Ellie, circling round her while beyond them the music thunders on.
James goes over to the bar, where the beer is cheap and if you like you can chase it down with hard, white plum brandy. He finishes a beer and rejoins the crowd, feeling detached as he always does in this kind of setting, wondering where the ecstasy lies. Ellie grins at him out of her mop of unruly hair but barely seems to recognize him. They’re playing an Animals number now—”We gotta get outta this place,” John screams into the mike—followed by something slow, a piece of blues with the guitarist, Elliot, wringing pain out of his guitar and John bemoaning the fact that she, whoever she is, has been gone fourteen long days and he’s praying to the Lord not to take his love away.
* * *
Later, James is out in the cool night, wandering along the water’s edge. The sound of the concert comes to him dulled by heavy walls—a drumbeat from the bowels of the earth. Beside him the river flows past, a great dark weight of water shining like obsidian. Lights from the other side reflect off the surface, but the impression is that they are immersed deep within the liquid, gleaming from the depths, shimmering with the passage of waves overhead.
Someone, a mere silhouette, approaches and says something in Czech. “Prominyte,” James replies helplessly. “Anglitzky.” I’m sorry. English. That’s almost all he knows, along with a few other stock phrases that Lenka has taught him. He’s sure the pronunciation is wrong but he doesn’t really care. And anyway, why the fuck is he apologizing for being English and not being able to get his tongue round this impossible language?
The figure—a male of indeterminate age—stands looking out across the river. There’s the glow of a cigarette. “Where you from?” he asks.
“You speak English?”
“Little.”
“Sheffield.”
“Ah.” The man smokes, one can imagine thoughtfully. Perhaps he’s trying to marshal his knowledge of English geography. “Student?”
“Yes.”
“I work three years in London.”
“Really?”
“Czechoslovak embassy. Kensington Palace Gardens. You know Kensington Palace Gardens?”
“Not really.”
“Is very beautiful. Very private.”
“And now what do you do?”
The man pauses and takes another drag on his cigarette. “I watch people. You perhaps.”
At first James feels only bewilderment. “You what?”
“And your girl. And these Americans, what are they called? Ides of March. And all these kids.”
“You watch us? Are you some sort of pervert?”
The man laughs. A faint gleam of teeth. “Maybe you could say perversion, but it is my job. To watch people.”
“Your job?”
“In London it was important people. Cabinet ministers, members of your parliament, civil servants. But now? Students like you.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? A
re you police?”
“Police, yes. Something like that.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“No need to believe. Not at all.”
“So why are you telling me this?”
The man pauses. The dull beat of music comes from the building behind them. Light leaks out across the grass as a door is opened, letting out a sudden flood of sound. There’s a shriek of laughter and two shadows running. “Perhaps I am warning you. You’re having fun. It’s an adventure, isn’t it? Lots of good kids, lots of cheap beer and laughter. Music, all that kind of stuff. Girls. But don’t make mistake. Here can be, will be, very dangerous.” He flicks his lit cigarette end into the darkness, so that it spins over and over, a small, angry fire, and vanishes into the river. And then the shadow, like its cigarette, has gone.
Bewilderment is overtaken by a kind of nausea. James walks back to the lights and the noise. Inside the sweltering space, recorded music is being played. The Ides’ instruments lie around the stage like the debris after a fight. Some of the audience are dancing but most are just waiting for the next set. There’s Jitka talking with some people.
“Have you seen Ellie?”
She grins. “You wanna meet my friends?” Wanna. Her American intonation is exaggerated. There’s an exchange of greetings, smiles, nodding, the fumbling of language. Hi. Ahoj. Nazdar.
“I want to find Ellie,” he insists.
“She’s around someplace. I saw her going out.”
He excuses himself and pushes on through the crowd towards the far door. Archer, the drummer, is there with his arm round the waist of a whey-faced girl, his free hand clutching a bottle of beer.
“Where’s Ellie?”
The drummer’s eyes are clouded. “Who’s Ellie?”
“You know. The English girl. You gave us a lift in France, remember?”