My Crazy Century

by Ivan Klíma

  Later, when the political situation in Czechoslovakia was becoming more interesting, he started speaking about politics with me and would ask if I thought we’d ever slip out of our Soviet shackles. Sometimes when my English retarded the conversation, he allowed me to speak in Czech. It didn’t occur to me that he could have been sending someone reports about my opinions, but I was definitely grateful for the lessons several years later when I had to teach in English for an entire semester at an American university. This was just after the Soviet occupation, and he had disappeared somewhere out in the world. I never heard from him again.

  At the same time I plunged into English, my friend Ludvík Vaculík excitedly informed me that an American astronomer by the name of Schmidt had discovered a quasar. A quasar, he explained, was an extremely distant body radiating an enormous amount of energy. According to Vaculík, this was a revolutionary discovery, and he expected that more such celestial bodies would be discovered. The universe was loaded with energy as well as the mysterious antimatter.

  It was 1963.

  This year was revolutionary for Czech culture as well. This is when Miloš Forman’s Black Peter and The Audition were premiered, as well as Věra Chytilová’s Bagful of Fleas. Bohumil Hrabal’s Pearls at the Bottom came out, along with Fuks’s Mr. Theodore Mundstock and Vladimír Holan’s Mozartiana. While Stanislavsky was still the highest authority in the permanent repertory of so-called stone theaters, viewers were avidly attending the Semafor Theater. Theater Na zábradlí brought out Václav Havel’s The Garden Party, a wonderful parody of the emptiness and vapidity of official thinking and speech. My Hour of Silence was published that year as well.

  Some of the above authors, including myself, were members of the Communist Party. Others (at least in thought) were its opponents (like Hrabal, Havel, and Holan), and their words had until recently not been allowed to be published or performed.

  At the same time—at least at the very top of the power structure—very little had changed. There was change, however, taking place below—primarily among those educated in the humanities—in individual artist unions, universities, and the Academy of Sciences. Of all the legal organizations, the Writers’ Union resisted and provoked the government the most, even though it had arisen from the will, or more precisely the despotism, of Communist power. The Communists had broken up the original writers’ organization, Syndicate, and replaced it with the Writers’ Union, composed primarily of party members who in the beginning served it loyally. Now the ruling power tried to distance itself from all writers’ gatherings as much as it could. Nevertheless, after seven years, the union met for only its third congress. (The congress was important for me because I could participate. I had heard almost nothing about the shameful inception of the union; those whom I met and who had participated in its beginnings usually didn’t talk about it.)

  Scores of writers came together, many of whom I’d never heard before. Most of the contributions were provided by famous authors, and almost all of them dealt with the past. It even seemed that, whereas the recent past had been criminal, today those crimes were being atoned for and freedom was just around the corner. The speakers kept repeating that the dogmatism in the official Communist approach to literature was responsible for the breakdown of creative activity. Others kept returning to some personal wrongs they’d suffered. The former editor in chief of Květen, Jiří Šotola, criticized Literární noviny for working with an overly narrow group of writers.

  At the congress, I was one of twenty-three “novices” (most of them were as young as I was) who had been elected to the central committee of the union.

  It was a monumental gathering, but the greatest event of that year was the birth of our daughter, Hana, beautiful and long-haired even as a baby.

  My wife, who invariably comes up with nicknames for everyone, at first called her František and later Nanda.

  *

  The new leadership of the union decided to reshape the content of Literární noviny. Until then the editor in chief was more of a Communist functionary than a writer and journalist, and he personified the dogmatic thinking that had been much criticized.

  At the end of the year the first quasar was discovered, a meeting took place during which it was decided to recommend that the editor in chief take a working vacation. It was difficult, however, to find a replacement. Finally we offered the position (perhaps somewhat mischievously) to Šotola, who had been critical of the newspaper. Let him try to run it, we thought. He accepted the position and asked if I would join him as perhaps his deputy. I don’t know why he chose me. We knew each other a little from Květen, and he obviously assumed that I had at least a little journalism experience. He was also worried about how he would be received. He knew that I contributed to the paper and that my wife worked there, so perhaps he hoped that he would be well received.

  Our editorial offices occupied two floors of a building on the corner of Betlémská Street and the embankment. From the street came the constant ringing of the tram and the roar of automobiles. Several windows had an unequaled view of the river, the Little Quarter, and the castle from which, of course, the proletarian president looked down on our journal with growing ill will.

  Apparently so that I would not become conceited or feel like one of the worthies, I at first didn’t get a desk. (I sat across from my wife at hers.) Then, just as at my last place of employment, I was placed in a dark, but quiet, passageway with a forlorn view of a wall of the building next door.

  This new job was unlike my start at the publishing house; here I had some idea of the work. Literární noviny arose as the traitorous heir of Lidové noviny (which had been renamed Svobodné noviny after the war). Although nothing remained of its prewar freethinking spirit, it had taken over the format and rotary printer despite the fact that it had become a weekly.

  A slightly idealized image of the prewar Lidové noviny became fixed in my mind, a journal that masterfully combined all journalistic and literary genres. On the first page it would print a poem and a column, usually by writers rather than journalists. The first page would also have the beginning of a feuilleton and an installment of a novel. Alongside the daily news, Lidové noviny would run a column of criticism along with reportage, national and foreign political commentary, articles about the economy, and even a small sports section. The foremost writers and specialists contributed to the newspaper. For a moment I forgot I was living under completely different conditions and believed we would succeed in relaunching Literární noviny in that form and at that level. We would create a marvelous journal difficult to compete with in Czechoslovakia.

  Essay: Dogmatists and Fanatics, p. 491

  12

  At a meeting of the General Assembly of the Central Committee of the Communist Party, a resolution was passed concerning ideological work. As usual they were trying to resuscitate old phrases with new words. I never read party resolutions of this type—probably, neither did most people. This time, however, someone decided that it would be necessary to explain the significance of the resolution to members of the party throughout the country, and hundreds of activists were supposed to go out into the “field” at the beginning of 1964. As a young writer (that is, a worker on the “ideological front” in the eyes of party functionaries), I now had to take my turn. This time they sent me, not to eastern Slovakia, a place I at least knew something about, but to Moravia.

  They put up the entire group of agitators in the Grand Hotel, one of Brno’s most luxurious hotels.

  Our group was led by Prebsl, the secretary of the ideological department of the Central Committee. He was a worker by trade—apparently he’d been trained as a stove fitter—which is why he held the position he did. I came to understand that it was party policy that the less someone understood what he was in charge of, the more obediently he carried out the instructions of his superiors.

  We gathered in Prebsl’s apartment, where he handed out our agitprop brochures, which we were to read immediately, beca
use the first meetings were to take place that very evening, and we would always be working with two local functionaries. He distributed our food allowances—nine hundred crowns for the week—and expressed his conviction that we would not let him down.

  I opened the brochure when I got back to my room and read that in Czechoslovakia, new societal conditions are supporting and stimulating an unprecedented development of culture, imprinting Socialist features onto its face, creating the conditions for the broad development of culture and the overall advancement of the cultural level. All cultural politics in Czechoslovakia, the development of culture, education, and enlightenment, are being led by the spirit of scientific worldwide Marxism-Leninism in close conjunction with the life and work of the people.

  I couldn’t imagine repeating such gibberish, in which conditions were creating conditions and culture possessed a face with features. Most likely I would say it was necessary to correct previous crimes and that much of what was now taking place was problematic. Whoever did not want to admit this should not hold office. I tossed the brochure into the trash and devoted myself to reading some short stories by Heinrich Böll.

  At about 7 p.m. my provisional superior knocked on my door and delivered some news he found depressing: The meetings planned for this evening were not going to take place. Owing to an unfortunate error, the meetings would not be taking place for another three weeks, and we, of course, would no longer be here. He went on to inform me of the schedule for the rest of the week. Today, Monday, was a free day. For Tuesday, a meeting had been scheduled at the Integrated Agricultural Co-Op in the Blansko District. Wednesday, a meeting at the Industrial Construction Company of Gottwald; Thursday was a free day for the same reasons as today. Friday there were three meetings scheduled at the Integrated Agricultural Co-Op in Jihlavsko. On Saturday and Sunday we would probably not have any work again. Then he asked if I played Mariáš.

  The next day those who knew Mariáš started playing right after lunch. The others took off somewhere, most likely to chase women. The boss brought in a few bottles of beer, and because his cards were going well he was in a good mood.

  Toward evening, a frost descended on the city. Two cars were waiting for us in front of the hotel, and we were all dressed in sweaters and winter coats ready to take off wherever we were summoned. But there was no place to take off to because the meeting in Blansko also had been canceled. Our stove fitter grew angry, cursed the local functionaries, and considered how he would put this into his activity report. I started to realize that this was the way these things usually went—groups of functionaries travel across the country pretending to work. For this they are paid and receive an ample food allowance, but in reality they’re simply enjoying some time off, chasing women, or, at the very least, playing cards. Every now and then they write a report in which they praise their own activities. Anything could be put into these reports. Those who are supposed to read them never do because they themselves are out either chasing women or playing cards.

  *

  Shortly thereafter, the members of the Writers’ Committee were invited to meet with President Novotný. I’d met several high functionaries before and was always surprised at the immodesty with which they voiced their platitudes and catchphrases. What kind of man stood at the head of the entire country and determined almost everything? What could he actually determine in a country so dependent on the Soviet Union?

  The meeting took place in a large boardroom on the second floor of the Central Committee of the party and was supposed to start at three in the afternoon.

  The president arrived exactly on time. He went around the entire room and shook everyone’s hand in turn. Then he sat down and placed in front of him a bundle of white paper along with four perfectly sharpened pencils (three of them were for some reason red) and said he would not speak for long. He’d come primarily to hear the opinions of the workers of the soul and the pen. Despite this promise or resolution, his oration was a lengthy one. I had to admit that he spoke quite fluently and engagingly and without any notes. But his speech wallowed in a general deluge of figures, statistics, and economic results along with anecdotes that seemed to come from real life. The anecdotes were obviously meant to illustrate that his life was just like everyone else’s. For example, once he was riding the tram with his son and overheard two men exchanging information about him and his speech at a session of the presidium. So you see, comrades, this was something that was supposed to be secret! A moment later he pulled out another anecdote. He and his wife had gone to a shop on Wenceslaus Square to buy a watch, and he was shocked to discover that the prices of some watches were reduced. How could the economy and commerce continue to function if some goods were sold at a low price and others at a needlessly high one? He wandered from topic to topic and even touched upon the problem of churchgoers. Personally he was for tolerance. He knew, for example, the chair of a cooperative who was a member of the People’s Party. An outstanding worker with excellent results. He sends his children to church and stops by himself as well. And why wouldn’t he, comrades, since he’s a believer? But he no longer, he informed us triumphantly, prays every evening.

  Was this naive, stupid, or shameless? Most likely all three.

  He also returned to the topic of the executed members of the Communist Party and assured us that Slánský—he’d known him personally—had been a genuine fiend who had on his conscience a number of villainous blunders and the arrest and persecution of innocent people. He said he would never agree to the rehabilitation of Slánský‘s name and raised his finger as if threatening anyone who would try.

  I noticed with amazement that when he spoke about the deficiencies in the running of the country, he—the man who stood at the peak of power—used the plural “we” or “they,” or he talked about something as if it had appeared out of nowhere. Why had they nationalized the newsdealers and pubs and not returned them to those who worked there? Why couldn’t we have private beekeepers or bell manufacturers, he asked, somewhat affronted and taken aback, as if it were “we” and not “he” who decided such matters.

  It occurred to me several times that his speech touched upon some of his own personal issues. He found himself in an important position that separated him from others and therefore tried hard to give the impression of a common, ordinary, and, primarily, concerned citizen. He was trying to earn a little appreciation from people whom he perhaps subconsciously respected and at the same time feared because they possessed something he didn’t: an education and the art of public speaking. He was also aware (even though he refused to admit it) that he had been present when many judicial murders had taken place and therefore claimed—perhaps he’d even convinced himself—that genuine criminals had been executed, and deservedly so.

  At one point when he was discussing the future he suddenly dropped the “we” (we the party, we its presidium) and switched to the singular: “My politics is one of reason and peace and the gradual path to the prosperity of all.”

  I recounted my meeting with Novotný to everyone at the editorial offices and paused over the fact that he had invited writers but hadn’t mentioned a word about literature.

  “Be glad!” someone remarked, and everyone broke out laughing.

  *

  Jean Paul Sartre and his companion Simone de Beauvoir visited Prague. Our meeting with them took place at Dobříš Castle. At the time, Sartre was one of the most famous philosophers in the world (shortly thereafter he was honored with the Nobel Prize, which he refused to accept, claiming he wanted to remain absolutely independent). His notebooks on existentialism (along with Camus’s The Stranger) thrilled me and perhaps, at least a little later, influenced my own perception of the world.

  People usually idealize their models, including their appearance. Sartre was anything but imposing: a small, cross-eyed, unattractive little man whose features lit up only when he spoke.

  To my embarrassment and shame, and despite the fact that I’d tortured myself with six years of L
atin and tried to teach myself a little Spanish and Italian, I didn’t know a word of French. I could communicate to the famous philosopher only through a translator that I admired existentialist philosophy, especially his. Sartre was used to such expressions of admiration and had a prepared response: He’d written all that so long ago that he felt the need to polemicize with himself.

  During the meeting with him I wrote down and underlined one of his assertions: The hero who, despite all of his horrific experiences, remains a Socialist seems to me especially human. And he elaborated that he was referring to those who had lived through Stalin’s prisons but had nevertheless remained Communists with their convictions fortified. He added that the West no longer had anything to offer mankind. The only great topic for a novel of the twentieth century was man and socialism.

  My colleague Milan Kundera then tactfully asked (or perhaps objected) that perhaps we might consider the entire Socialist attempt a dead end, an aimless turn of history.

  Sartre, however, maintained his claim. Socialism, whether or not it had a future, was leaving its mark on an entire era. Perhaps it was a hell, but even hell could serve as a grand literary theme. A disappointed faith, death at the hands of one’s own comrades—wasn’t that the most modern embodiment of tragedy?

  Certainly, I didn’t say this aloud, but hell was indeed a wonderful theme, especially if you didn’t have to live in it.

  Otherwise the French thinker was thrilled (or at least for decency’s sake he pretended to be thrilled) that the Socialist state had bestowed such a beautiful castle upon its writers. But he could not have perceived that the same prominent writers were living here whom I’d seen a year ago. It was they who applauded Sartre’s contention that socialism offered a grand subject for a magnificent contemporary novel.