by Ivan Klíma
‘A week at most,’ she replied. ‘Don’t forget, I’ve got children to look after.’
‘Are you teaching still?’
‘What other option do I have?’ And she added, ‘They’ve decided to leave people like me alone, now.’
‘Yes, so I’ve noticed.’
‘They’re giving Jaroslav the push instead.’
‘That’s your husband, is it?’
The streets were now deserted but the traffic lights went on working busily.
‘Adam’, she said, ‘it’s totally illegal what they’re doing to him. I don’t want to bother you, but it just struck me that you might be able to give us some advice, at least.’
They drew up in front of an apartment house in a drab backstreet. He listened to her as she told him how they were throwing her husband out of the school where he had taught for ten years. (No, it wasn’t in The Hole, but in some small town in Moravia.)
He took down the details in his notebook and promised to do what he could. The fact was, though, that he had really no idea what he could do for a teacher of maths and physics who had been turfed out of his job for signing the very same declaration that every Tom, Dick and Harry had signed four years ago. What could he do for him, seeing that he had signed it himself, particularly as he no longer wielded the slightest power or influence.
3
I was born in Prague on 23rd February 1938 but my mother Marie Kotvová now domiciled in Turnov at No.215/36 Pod kopcem didn’t want to keep me so I was handed straight over to my father Karel Kozlík now deceased and my grandmother Aloisie who looked after me until she was executed which happened when I was four years old on account of she listened to foreign radio broadcasts and agreed with the assassination of Heydrich. When I was eight years old my father married Milena née Bradová now domiciled at No. 814/5 Kašparová Street, Prague 3, who was always a good mother and friend to me and I always did my best to help her on account of she was sickly and she had bad back trouble particularly after my youngest brother was born. Later I had to look after my brothers too and because my father often came home drunk I used to have to protect them from same. At that time I had to have an eye operation as a result of which due to a slip-up which the head surgeon himself said happens only once in a hundred years I have only had the sight of one eye, namely, the left one. When I finished school my stepmother wanted me to go on to the tech but my father said I couldn’t study with one eye, but I might just about cope as an electrician as a consequence of which I was apprenticed right off to a bloke who used to make fun of me sometimes calling me Jan Žižka from Žižkov and other times Babinský because he said I’ve got criminal’s ears. On account of he never left off I lost my head one day and hit him with a spanner and that was the end of that. It was that time I started getting headaches, but the doctors thought it was due to the bad operation and offered to do it all over again but I said no because I was afraid I’d end up completely blind. On account of my bad record it took me a long time to find a job even though I was no shirker. In the end I got a job as a navvy and I moved in with my girlfriend Jarmila Studená now living in Modfany at No. 168/4 Nad roklí even though she was older than me. Soon afterwards at the Valdek Café where I had gone for the purpose of dancing some man of gypsy origin that I didn’t know before then came up to me just when Jarmila was dancing with my friend František Vrána and said she was rubbing up against him like a whore. In those days I was sure that Jarmila was a decent girl and that was a slur on her character and an attack on my honour so I told him to step outside into the alley where we had a fight. It was my opinion that any honourable man would have done the same in my place but the court sentenced me to borstal training which I served near Uherské Hradiště. When I came back home I tried to settle down to live the life of a decent working man. I was back at my mother’s who suffered a lot then on account of my father who was an alcoholic and consequently she begged me to steer clear of any rows or fights. When I had been unable to find a suitable job after about three months the doctor said I should avoid heavy work and dust in case I lost my last remaining eye so in the end I got a job as a forklift operator in a cement works.
At that time I was visited by one of my old friends from borstal Jiří Probst currently serving a sentence and we started going to the pub together and on Saturdays we used to go off to the country with a guitar. Then one day Probst told me he knew of a weekend cottage where there were a lot of things like old clocks statues and a lot of liquor but I got angry and said no and he started making fun of me. So I went off with him after all even though in my view I didn’t take part in any breaking and entering or robbery. I waited outside for him but I was given four years without the option. I tried to behave myself in prison but when I was working in the pits I started having trouble with my good eye but the doctor said I was shamming so I often got sent to the punishment cell when I got headaches. When I almost went blind which I didn’t report as a protest against my treatment a fellow-prisoner in my cell whose name I don’t recall started to teach me philosophy and English and he explained to me that real strength is doing good against hatred and misunderstanding. I decided to do good and work with youngsters after my release to help them find the right way. At that time my health improved and I started to see with my left eye again and my headaches were improving. On account of my father had died and my mother had got married again while I was still in prison to a Mr Emanuel Kobza a lorry driver of the same address who had a bad influence on her I had to find lodgings after my release so as to avoid rows. For that purpose I went to see my former common-law wife Jarmila Studená who took me in and seven months later she had a little girl and said I was the father. From the testimony of the doctor and my friends I ascertained this was not the case. I found digs with a Mrs Obensdorfová domiciled at No. 886/14 Mladenovicova Street, Prague 3 and got a job as a boilerman at Krč Hospital. I paid my maintenance payments for my daughter regularly and sometimes I would send her presents like a dolly or a ball and kept up my payments for my accommodation while in prison. At that time I got to know Libuše Körnerová domiciled at Za pivovarem 19/1, Prague 4, who informed me she was expecting my baby. I therefore settled down to live the life of a decent working man. I also made regular visits to my mother and my brothers and used to urge them to steer clear of bad company. I treated my landlady decently which wasn’t easy due to her domineering nature. I used to carry her up coal because our flat was on the top floor and I used to carry her shopping bags and help her wash the floor and I painted her hall and kitchen for nothing and mended the water and cooker and in return she upped my rent so instead of the 150 crowns I was paying at the start in the end I was paying 220, even though she paid only 90 crowns rent for the whole flat. Also she accused me of taking something from the pantry and the larder even though I had stolen nothing since the day I was released. Every time I put the light on in the evening she accused me of blowing all the rent money even though I had only a 40W bulb. Then she took out the fuses on account of which I was obliged to use a candle and sometimes I would stop seeing altogether because I strained my eyes trying to read a lot. Furthermore she banned me from bringing friends back to my room and demanded that I had to be home by nine because she said that was the time she went to bed and I would disturb her which had no basis in fact as I used to be very quiet when I came home.
On 3rd April last I came home at about half past ten after I had been to the pictures with Libuše and because she had taken out the fuses again I tripped and accidentally pulled down a shelf that Mrs Obensdorfová used to have different things on like mirrors, bottles of perfume and face powder. She came out shouting that I was drunk. I told her calmly that I wasn’t and that it was her fault for taking out the fuses. Then she started screaming at me even more telling me to clear out that she wasn’t going to live with a jailbird any more. I told her to stop shouting at me but she told me again to pack my things and clear out by morning. I started to get one of my headaches and went to my bedroom a
nd sat there for a long time in the dark. On account of I was thirsty I went to the kitchen for the purpose of having a drink. Mrs Obensdorfová was already back in her bedroom on the other side of the kitchen where she always left the door ajar for fear of someone stealing something from the kitchen. But I could hear she was asleep. That is when the idea came to my head that if I turned on the gas and went away people would think she had done it herself because it wouldn’t have been the first time and at her age she didn’t always know what she was doing. I also put a kettle of water on the stove. I swear there was no way I could of known that her granddaughter Lucie Obensdorfová was staying with her that night because I never had anything against any of her relations and she didn’t make a practice of staying overnight. I also remembered that she kept her savings book in the dresser and she had in it the money she wrongfully took from me for rent so I took it with me which I had never done before and I regret my action. Then I left the kitchen because it was full of gas.
I declare that I would never have committed this act if she hadn’t told me to leave the flat by the next morning as I had nowhere to go. I left the flat immediately with the intention of going to some licensed premises. I felt like going to the Srdíčko wine bar but then I realised I didn’t have any cash and I was frightened to go to the Main Post Office on account of I was frightened of being recognised. Consequently I went to the station where I remained for a time as it was cold outside . . .
Kozlík’s mention of the station reminded Adam that he ought to go and meet his wife. He closed the file and put it back in the drawer.
Involuntarily a phrase from his childhood came back to him: ‘she was gassed’. For a moment he was overcome with a revulsion verging on nausea.
4
He was early getting there: punctual, though this time his punctuality was the product of anxiety and impatience rather than eagerness exactly. But he was looking forward to his wife’s arrival. He looked forward to hugging her here on the station and then cuddling her in the car. In his imagination she always seemed more seductive and passionate than she was in reality. He only hoped that she would not take too long telling him her news and that the kids would get off to bed without any bother. She was bound to be tired after the journey, and if she was tired she would flake out and scarcely curl up in his arms before falling asleep like a baby, however much he might desire her.
The rest of her behaviour seemed childlike to him too – occasionally he found it irritating but most of the time it was touching.
Amazingly, the train arrived on time and he soon caught sight of her among the crowd of arriving passengers, first by her yellowish hair above her high, never tanned forehead. She was flanked by two young men, the one on her right moon-faced like a photograph of Marx. An odd-looking girl was clearly in the group as well, walking barefoot on the incredibly filthy station tiles.
He raised his arm but it didn’t look as if Alena had seen him. He realised that, unusually for her, she wasn’t wearing her glasses. Without them she could scarcely see more than a few yards.
‘You’ve come to meet me,’ she exclaimed, as he made his way over. ‘This is Adam,’ she said before he’d had a chance to do or say anything. ‘And this is Jean,’ indicating the barefoot girl. The bearded one was called Jim. They had both come all the way from Texas and were stopping over in Prague tonight.
He couldn’t understand where she’d bumped into her companions. He doubted if they’d come all the way from Texas for a librarianship refresher-course. Most likely she had met them in Bratislava, or even in the train. It irked him that he would not be left alone with her straight away. But perhaps they might take Petr’s list of books with them.
‘And this is Honza,’ she said, introducing the other youth, a bespectacled young man with a Jewish nose. ‘He lives out in Vokovice, do you think we could fit him in too?’ and she blushed unexpectedly.
He picked up her cases and headed for the car.
‘How are the children?’ she asked, when they were all fitted in.
‘Fine. They can’t wait to get away!’ Only now he noticed that his wife’s eyes were red from lack of sleep.
‘You didn’t even write to me,’ she scolded. As if there was any sense in writing when she was only away four days. ‘Which route will you take?’ she asked. ‘Do you think you could stop in the Old Town?’
He threw her a reproachful glance, but apparently she didn’t notice, she was chattering in a loud excited voice with the barefoot girl; the cramped interior of the car was full to bursting with her shouts. They crawled along in the direction of the square where he was born. Surprisingly, he managed to find a place to park. The barefoot girl trod gingerly on the hot paving stones. Her feet were covered in dust, which he found repellent. ‘This is the Old Town Square, and here’ – he pointed – ‘stood the Town Hall. They burnt it down on the last day of the war. It would probably have been saved if the Americans had come; they had been stationed just outside Prague for several days. But they didn’t come. By then it had been decided that this country would belong to the other camp.’
They fell quiet for a moment, unsure whether to take it as a personal criticism or a historical comment.
‘Three hundred and fifty years ago they executed twenty-eight Czech nobles on this spot,’ he said, as always seized with doubt whether it had really been so many. Fortunately, it was immaterial; a few more or less made no difference when you thought of the total number of people executed in the course of history and anyway he was sure his two listeners had no idea what that execution had brought to a close and what war it had begun. ‘Now it’s used for rallies, demonstrations and ovations.’
Most of the houses looked tatty, but some had been renovated recently (including the house where he was born). And even the indifferent way they let superb buildings slide into ruin could not subdue the charm of the place.
The visitors were clearly impressed. There was more he could have told them. He could have pointed out the curve round which the No. i tram used to clatter as it squeezed its way through the gorge of Celetná Street, showed where Stanislav Kynzl the cooper used to have his yard, described how he had ogled the books in Storch’s in the days when there were still good books to buy: a fact which he had been incapable of appreciating at the time, and therefore had not valued it as he should or taken advantage of it either. He could have shown them the Kinský Palace and told them that Mr Herrmann Kafka used to have his business there, taken them into Týn Court and asked them to close their eyes and imagine small shops with junk and enamelled pots and wooden two-wheeled carts that were marvellous as see-saws. But he hated giving tours of anything that related at all to himself or his own past.
A wizened old man approached in the kind of hat that painters wore at the turn of the century, carrying a black umbrella that looked rather silly on a cloudless summer day. ‘Excuse me,’ he asked, ‘are this lady and gentleman foreigners?’
Adam nodded. He had a feeling he’d seen the man here on some occasion, or more likely remembered him from when he lived here.
‘I do beg your pardon, but are they Germans?’
‘No, Americans.’
‘A pity. If they understood German, I could explain something to them.’
‘Perhaps I might interpret it for you,’ Alena offered.
‘That would be very kind of you,’ he returned raising his hat solemnly. ‘They are young people and I don’t expect they know anything about John Hus.’ The old man lifted his head and looked up at the stone features. ‘They will be unaware that modern times started as much with this man as they did with Gutenberg or Columbus. If you’d be so kind as to tell them, young lady, that Master Hus died for the truth. He died a martyr, and yet he only needed to say one word and he could have saved everything that people set such store by: his office, his property and his life.’
She translated that sentence and they listened with an interest that might not have been feigned, the sort of interest which people reserve for
drunks, lunatics, pavement artists or sword-swallowers.
‘And if you’d be so kind as to translate this also,’ the old man continued, ‘it was not just Master Hus, but the entire nation that took up arms to defend the truth they’d learned from him, and they went on to stir the conscience of the world, even though they were later disgraced and defeated.’ The old fellow tipped his distinctive hat and moved away, while the barefoot American girl exclaimed ‘Fantastic. Fantastic.’ It might have applied to the chatty old gentleman or to nations that took up arms in defence of the truth.
Adam finally guided them to the Old-New Synagogue. After that he only showed them St Wenceslas from the car window as they passed, before dropping them with relief in front of the Hotel Flora. Then silence fell in the car. He was no longer in any mood for talk, and his wife and the bespectacled Czech youth were glumly silent. Then the boy, with single-word directions, guided him to a street he’d never been in before, and with the same shortness took his leave. (As Adam was driving away he glimpsed him in the rear-view mirror standing immobile on the pavement staring for some strange reason after their departing car.) And at last they were alone. He wanted to take her by the hand at least, but she slipped out of his grasp and he noticed that her spirits had suddenly slumped; she looked tired, almost broken, as if the life had slipped out of her. ‘How was it, then?’
‘OK. The same as usual.’ She hesitated. ‘Then I met Jim and Jean; they were on their way back from a seminar in Vienna. They’re Quakers.’
‘And that Czech,’ he asked, ‘he was on his way back from Vienna too?’
‘No. Honza was with us. How are the children?’