On major street corners, teenage Soviet soldiers hold AK-47s at the ready, but the crowds of shoppers seem to ignore them, grasping nylon net shopping bags and walking resolutely toward stores with empty shop windows. After a week in the city, I will conclude that during shortages Prague women shop all day, not because there is so much, but because there is so little. One must be at the small grocers’ stores when deliveries of oranges or coffee arrive, or at the druggist when toiletries appear. Lines form outside in anticipation, and what I have heard seems true—you come not to purchase a specific item but to buy whatever there is in the quantity the clerk allows. The successful shopper may have extra lemons or sanitary napkins to trade with a neighbor for sugar or toilet paper. Standing in the bakery line, I recognize the flowery scent all around me, the scent of my grandmother. Clearly there has been a recent abundance of rosewater cologne.
As I leave our hotel room earlier that morning, Rudy’s request for plain crackers and tea bags seems reasonable; hours later I understand it is an impossible dream. My own hope of finding deodorant and laundry soap would have to be postponed until I have time to stand in another line in front of another drug store.
The next day, Rudy is nearly ready for Prague, but the doctor and I are able to convince him to rest another day. I have been careful not to share details of armed soldiers and the anti-American displays I have seen. Instead, I am compliant as he reviews Rule Number Three, letting him choose my most plain and gray attire for the day, clothes that might blend into the city backdrop. I take deep breaths, realizing that he and I have for just a few days changed roles and that already I am ready to give up the Adventurer persona.
Genetics are, however, a powerful force. Gathering a few shreds of determination, I set out to find a phone book and my cousins. Our government-provided hotel does not allow me to view its telephone directory, but in subway stations I find phone booths, one of which has a six-inch phone book, the size of any major city directory, minus the yellow pages of capitalism. And, as I had suspected, I must be related to many of the faces I see on the streets. While at home, our family name is typically two or three listings in a phone book, here page after page holds the name or variations. Like it or not, I am home.
I make my first attempts at contact, choosing to call those with the first name of a family hero: Uncle Anton, who had raised our father after Grandfather left.
Whether I say “hello” or “prochin” to the Antons, the response is the same—a loud click from the other end, or a definitive No. When I sense they understand English, I try explaining I am family, have the same name. Then the click.
I dare to ask “Do you speak English?” to some and the click comes faster. My spirit wavers more with each call, and I find myself saying “good-bye” or “thank you” even when there has been no exchange.
Head down, I walk back to tell Rudy of my failure.
“As soon as I say the word ‘English’ they say ‘No’ and hang up.”
“Why do you think that happens?”
“Well, I’m guessing they’re angry and don’t want to be interrupted. Maybe they don’t get many phone calls and they’re startled.”
“Or . . .?”
“Or they could be old, sick . . .”
“Or?”
“Or . . . I don’t like to think about this . . . they could be afraid. Do you think they’re afraid?”
“Afraid to have an American relative? Why not be afraid?”
At twilight, I walk the streets again, looking more intently this time at those I pass. Finally, it is their eyes that dissolve me, and dissolve my planned reunions. The eyes of my cousins are gray, staring, fearful.
MY mate awakens early the next morning, a new man with the old Rudy vigor.
“Up and at ’em, babe. It’s time to be tourists in Prague.”
We explore Castle Hill, its one-of-a-kind beautiful monuments and art collections. Today with a bit of sunshine and Rudy healed, I am able to visualize the buildings without their soot layers and to realize they are world treasures. We find Charles Bridge, following the strains of guitars strummed by long-haired young men, dissidents perched on the rails between statues. One statue commemorates the first Northern European university founded here, just one reminder of Prague’s noble heritage.
With that heritage buried so deeply under Soviet control, it is impossible for us to guess that in six years Czechoslovakia will be transformed again, when the nation’s artists orchestrate the peaceful Velvet Revolution and turn back communist control. We do not recognize them that day, but the clues are here: the young armed soldiers keep a distance (perhaps respectful) from the guitarists, and as we turn to leave the bridge, we hear echoes of Western music.
RUDY is humming, packing to leave Czechoslovakia in the morning. I am too nervous to think clearly and end up scattering my belongings across the room, packing and repacking.
“What are you so worried about?” he asks. “Sure, getting into the country was a little, uh, difficult, but we made it. Why would leaving be hard? I’ll even find gas before we go.”
I do some preventative planning for escape day, spending most of our Czech currency, throwing away anything that looks like maps of the city, and postponing journal writing until we are safely beyond the border. Yet catastrophic scenarios continue to play in my mind.
“Well, they could find Czech coins we lost track of and jail us for currency theft . . . or they could kidnap us for a prisoner exchange.”
My vision of departure day is a bit closer to reality than Rudy’s. The shortages had escalated so dramatically that stores are almost empty and spending out our currency is a challenge. I buy stale chocolate bars from the hotel clerk for ten times the going rate; Rudy presses a generous if forbidden tip into the palm of our housekeeper; and in the end we spend our last currency to ransom a dusty, button-eyed cloth doll sitting alone in the back corner of a seamstress’s window, dressed in a blue babushka and white pinafore. She has been a legal resident of California for over thirty years now.
Departure morning drags on: checking out of the hotel and retrieving our car and passports consumes an hour, the gasoline line another hour, and then, on the rural roads to the border, we are stopped twice by police cars. In the first stop, I am settling into the passenger seat and beginning to untangle the worn seat belt when a car behind us swerves and moves within inches of me. The uniformed man has noted the “D” for West Deutschland on the license of our rental car and, in a combination of German and gestures, he clarifies the problem.
“No seat belt. See passports.”
When he realizes we are Americans, he gleams and reaches deep in his jacket pocket to pull out a handful of papers. From the stack, he selects one for me: a handwritten, well-used note that says “Fine. US Dollar 8.” He holds out his hand.
I have noted in the past that on occasion my fear turns to anger and I mutter some words my mother would be ashamed of. This is one of those occasions. Rudy takes charge, ending the conflict by opening his wallet and handing bills to the man. “Need receipt, receipt,” he insists, and the original ticket comes back to us, now with some large letters on it. Presumably, we have an autograph.
Within minutes, a second police car stops us and we become another eight dollars poorer. This time we have entered a one-way alley in the wrong direction, gone one hundred yards, then turned around. But entering is the crime. Rudy in a burst of basic German tells the officer/bandit that this is the last ticket police will give us, or that we will have to tell our country. Right. We don’t know why the harassment stops. Perhaps Rudy’s anger impresses them or there is an industry standard for how many times in one morning a foreigner should be ticketed, or, simply, they don’t want us to tell our country.
An American couple we met in Prague had recommended we leave from this smaller, rural border exit, as they had had an easy entry to the country here compared to our frightening experience at the major crossing. This border, however, harbors some secrets. As we
approach the small, old guardhouse we count twenty-three large, new 18-wheeler trucks, each filled with ripe and beautiful produce. While Prague women stand in line at their shops, hoping for a few fresh oranges, the best of their country’s peaches, berries, and vegetables are leaving through a small border exit in search of foreign currency.
Three young Soviet soldiers collect our passports for review and begin what looks like a routine riffling through our trunk. Routine until one of them inspects the compartment under the luggage near the spare tire. He pulls out a plastic bag, holds a handful of Tampax aloft, and yells for his comrades. We learn that there is a resemblance between Tampax and dynamite and that we and the tubes need more thorough review. When Rudy looks to me to help him explain, I am sitting on a worn bench, my legs collapsed under me, and my head down in an attempt to find some oxygen. Rudy is left alone to repeatedly explain the items are for “the frau” in “the month.” When the guards begin to understand and blush, and as Rudy offers to give a demonstration, the trunk is closed rapidly.
Just one more hurdle. My passport photo, taken years earlier and before harrowing travel with Rudy, shows a young, healthy woman with makeup and a wide smile. I have to admit there is little resemblance to the Me I present at the guardhouse. Worse, I am Czech and I look Czech; that is, I look this day as if I may be a countrywoman seeking escape with a crazed American tourist. I need to stay on my resting bench while Rudy sorts this out. I put my head down again and hear a flurry of German, first in arguing tones, and then some lightness. My hero, bowing slightly, retrieves me from the bench and hands me my stamped passport. We set off slowly driving through the guard gate.
“How ever did you manage that?” I ask. “I thought I was going to live in Czechoslovakia all my days.”
“It was simple. I just told them that if they had had the hard travel you had, they would look this old and ugly too.”
CHAPTER TEN
I AM NERVOUS. EVEN OUR ROAD MAP FLAUNTS THE FRACTURE: a thick red line cutting in half one country, one capital. The Germanys are East and West, split in half, spoils of war. The two halves meet at a tall wall dividing countrymen and families. Studying routes from Czechoslovakia to West Berlin, I remember warnings from tourists: “Be careful. The corridor roads in and out of the city are supposed to be open to all travelers, but remember, Soviets occupy East Germany.” East Germany surrounds the eastern corridors.
“It can’t be that bad, Mare. We’ll stay alert. We’ll find the corridor easily. It’s bound to be well marked.”
Apparently we did not stay alert, not to our fuel level, nor to road signs labeling the transit corridor we should have taken. The “BDR” exit is meant for us, but, convinced we are already on the safe route, we drive on, happily spotting a one-pump gas station along the road. None too soon. We pull up to the pump. The worker, a thin, elderly man, gesticulates wildly and points to our rental car license plate with its bold “D” from West Germany, then begins to scream.
“What’s he saying? What’s he yelling?” I beg Rudy to translate but Rudy has turned ashen.
At last he can speak. “He’s saying something like, ‘My God, man, what are you doing here? Get out. Get out. You will be arrested.’ I’m not sure I got that translation exactly right.”
Close enough. But we can’t leave; we’ve got to get fuel. Rudy takes a moment to pat my arm, look into my watery eyes. “Don’t worry. Just a little mistake—we must be in East Germany, the occupied part. It will all work out.”
This is the way it works out: the kind attendant hears our despair, rushes to give us a few liters of petrol, then gestures that we must go and go now. He does not want our coins, as he cannot use West German money. He only wants us to leave. Rudy stuffs a few dollar bills in the man’s shirt pocket, races to the driver’s seat, and we are off. It is a half hour (more like fifty-five hours) before we spot the sign announcing an upcoming corridor roadway. On the way to that blessed junction, we watch our rearview mirror for any police cars following us, debating which is the better approach to a successful escape. I want to speed to the exit, shortening the time of terror. Rudy thinks a slow, measured pace attracts less attention.
Neither of us is prepared for what happens around a twisting bend in the road: a Soviet soldier, holding a rifle, steps out from roadway bushes, directly into our path. We veer, skid to a stop. He is young, maybe eighteen or nineteen years old, drunk, staggering, struggling for balance, but keeping his rifle aimed toward us. There is scarcely time to be afraid, just a brief moment before he falls toward the hood of our car and then manages to right himself. Falling close to the car with its engine running seems to somewhat sober him and he stands upright, steps backward, disappears into the bushes. Rudy agrees it is time to speed to the junction.
I am past being able to take my slow, relaxing breaths. Instead I clutch a paper bag, at the ready for any hyperventilation. Rudy has an awareness that haunts us.
“We must’ve put the gas station man in danger. Was his fear a fear for all three of us?” And a chilling thought: “Will he remember to hide those dollar bills?”
ONCE in West Berlin, we stay in a modern, convenient hotel, one I choose for the bright red carnations in its window boxes. It has been weeks since we have seen flowers in window boxes. We find the Olympic Field where Hitler had to watch Jesse Owens, an African American, take four gold medals. We visit residents at the famed Berlin Zoo, sample international cuisine on the neon-lit Ku-Damm Boulevard, and explore Ka De Wah, a six-story department store doubling as an ad for capitalism.
Rudy visits a different section of the German Historical Museum each day. I start to question his fixation on the place, and then I remember it is his history he finds there. He is particularly intent that I go with him to see the Kaiser Wilhelm cathedral. Drastically damaged by Allied bombings in the war, it is rebuilt now, but its original spire still rises high. A “from the ashes” story.
As for me, it has been a long summer in Soviet-controlled nations and I lack enthusiasm for a tour of East Berlin, the other side of the Wall. “But we can’t go home without seeing the Pergamon Altar,” Rudy insists, “and it’s just over there,” he says, pointing at the Wall. I know I am losing this argument, for after all, the second-century treasure traveled all the way from Greece to meet us.
In one of those rare but lovely compromises in travel, we find a tour company that offers day trips to the cultural highlights of East Berlin. Rudy checks to be sure the Altar and Babylonian walkway are included; I check to be sure this is a licensed company that follows all the rules in East Germany, and has never left a tourist behind.
At Checkpoint Charlie, a watchtower and guardhouse serving as the border crossing, heavily armed soldiers search our bus and passengers. They pass enormous mirrors under the vehicle, look in the restroom, search under our seats. I am confused: do they think people want to smuggle their way into East Germany? When time comes to inspect our passports, mine again causes a stir and delays our bus long enough for me to lose a few friends among the passengers. Rudy again has to explain to guards, in his mix of languages, “She looked better before we started this trip, looked like that picture on the passport.” And, shaking his head regretfully, man-to-man, “She has gotten older.”
SOMETIMES it helps to start at the saddest place and work your way up to the less sad. Fellow passengers are distraught as the bus drives through East Berlin’s empty, car-less streets, passes buildings under construction or being restored.
“It’s so gray,” they say. “Look, nothing’s finished here. Where do people shop?” They bridle against the rigid tour structure that the guide outlines. “Eight minutes here, fifteen minutes there, don’t wander away from me, don’t miss the bus, for sure, don’t miss the bus.” These sound like liberal guidelines to Rudy and me, but the groans of our tour mates tell us this is their first experience in a tightly controlled land.
When Rudy and I compare it to Czechoslovakia, we find this region more subtly Soviet. If Czechoslo
vakia now is the dead of winter, East Berlin is very early spring. Life seems to be rising here, with multiple restorations underway and main squares being refurbished, one or two looking nearly now like their pre-war photos. And—the Pergamon Altar enchants.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WE ARE BASKING IN CAPITALISM AND COLOR IN AUSTRIA, preparing to face communism and gray in Hungary. I am weary of Soviet-occupied countries; my eyes get misty looking at bountiful flower boxes on Salzburg windows or at the variety of fresh food filling the stores. I cannot put the somber faces of Prague out of my mind.
Clearly, though, it is Rudy’s turn to find his roots. His birth mother Francesca, an immigrant to America from Budapest, died shortly after his second birthday. He knows little about her country and culture and is anxious to learn. I have promised to go with him, but today at breakfast in our hotel coffee shop I cannot stop myself from trying a compromise.
“A promise is a promise, I know, and we will do this trip, but why not next year? We can get rested and come back next summer and stay longer.”
He hesitates, but the blue eyes betray disappointment. “Well, a promise is a promise . . . but if you can’t do this, that’s different.”
I don’t know what to say. I put my head down and he moves his chair close to mine, putting his arm around me.
Rudy's Rules for Travel Page 6