My Crazy Century

by Ivan Klíma

  We ended up meeting on several occasions. Unlike her, I didn’t have a lot of time. Usually we would drive outside Prague, stop somewhere, and kiss in the car. She would weave her tales of foreign lands; sometimes she would pretend to listen to what I was saying, but she obviously wasn’t paying any attention. She tried to conceal this fact by repeating my last sentence in a slightly bored tone: You really think you can change anything? Do you really want to see me again?

  I knew our relationship would soon come to an end. I couldn’t imagine abandoning my wife and children, but at the same time I couldn’t tear myself away from this strange new lover.

  Until then I had never been unfaithful to my wife; now I was trying to justify my actions. A year earlier, Helena participated in a Quakers’ seminar at Lake Balaton and fell in love with one of the student leaders. When she told me about it, she explained that he had saved her life. She had swum too far out and had lost her strength. He swam out to her and held on to her side until they made it back to the shallows. Later, she was so moved when he told her about his childhood and that his father, a Communist, had been locked up. She wanted to help him somehow. It was only a brief fling, she explained to me, and added that when we had met, I had already been with several girls while she hadn’t had anybody.

  I could offer no reasonable justification for what I was doing, except perhaps the fact that this girl, thirteen years my junior, was different in every respect from all the other women I knew. I was impressed by the ease with which she accepted the world as a place intended for distant journeys, lovemaking, and sojourns in pleasant places (best of all where a willing servant brought you food and drink).

  I understood I was only one of many. I could be replaced at any time, or I could leave anytime and would be immediately forgotten. That’s how things worked in her world—something I, perhaps prematurely, criticized about her generation. Also, and unlike my wife, she was not interested in anything that interested me.

  This apparently cynical girl painted surprisingly well and as a graphic artist had a sense for detail even in her stories. I learned that as a child she’d longed to have a puppy. When her parents refused to grant her wish, she took an old shoe box, painted it, and dragged it around on a string behind her and talked to it like a real dog. She also confided in me that she had her own image of God—he was an agreeable, stout old man whom she prayed to when she was sad. I realized that all of these stories were meant to hide some kind of internal wound, perhaps an insufficiency of love during childhood. Perhaps she needed to raise her self-esteem and therefore sought out ever new declarations of love from different men.

  Once I invited her to a match of the Davis Cup, and, to my surprise, she accepted. She brought along with her, however, a Dutch student whom she described as exceedingly sweet and beautifully naive. So right now she was in love with him. While I was trying to follow the action on the court, she was softly chitchatting with him and kissing him.

  *

  One evening I started writing a one-act play called Klára and the Two Gentlemen, which I finished by morning.

  Just like my own lover, Klára longs to be happy, while her married “gentleman” dreads the situation in which he finds himself. I situated the amorous couple in Klára’s flat. In one room they are getting ready to make love. In the other, Klára’s previous lover, who has recently returned from a Communist concentration camp, is dying. Apparently absurd details and circumstances keep entering the play: A bale of barbed wire is in a linen cupboard, and the dialogue is interrupted by the ringing of a telephone, but no one is ever on the line. At the end, the protagonist, upon the wish of the dying man, barks in the place of a guard dog.

  It was Olga’s words that I heard in Klára’s dialogue, which moved back and forth obsessively between lovemaking and foreign lands.

  Because I’ve always had a tendency to moralize, the lovers’ desire for a moment of bliss, when they can forget all their responsibilities and the world around them, never arrives. On the contrary, they part with a feeling of emptiness and silence, within both themselves and their surroundings.

  A one-act play seemed too short to offer to a theater; I needed at least one more of the same length, but I didn’t have any ideas, nor did I have the time to write anything.

  Then at the beginning of August I went into a little oak forest not far from our house in Hodkovičky to see if I could find mushrooms for soup. Right on the edge of the forest, I was startled to see dozens of death cap toadstools. I’d never seen so many in one spot.

  This unassuming toadstool always excited my imagination. Whereas all poisons are subject to more or less strict control, the death cap offered every mushroom hunter an abundance of one of the deadliest poisons known. (As our foremost mycologist Albert Pilát writes, just two-hundredths of a milligram of the poison, called amanitin, would kill a mouse in twelve hours. Half a gram would kill a hundred thousand mice, which, as the mycologist calculates, would create a line of mice eighteen kilometers long!)

  The possibility of coming into possession of such an effective poison tempts a person at least once—at least in his thoughts—to become a killer.

  I do not think the task of literature, even though it is sometimes assumed so, is to concern itself with politics. In my defense, I can only say that in my play I allowed myself to be much more skeptical than I would have in a newspaper article or a speech to people who were longing to hear some good news about a situation that was becoming increasingly strained. The plot of The Sweetshop Myriam was simple. A young couple who are trying to get an apartment are supposed to find an old homeless person and bring him to a renowned sweetshop. With the payment of a small amount of money, the forsaken man would be given some almond cookies that had been poisoned. The manager of the shop would then see to it that the young people received an apartment.

  My two heroes, Petr and Julie, need a place to live. When they discover how they can acquire one, Julie hesitates slightly but her boyfriend is appalled and decides he must publicly reveal and thwart the criminal enterprise. One after the other Petr summons a policeman, a lawyer, and a minister of parliament. To his horror, he discovers that everyone not only knows about the crimes but also participates in them. Each of my characters has a good reason for his or her actions. The mushroom hunter who supplies the sweetshop with death caps explains that a person’s got to make a living somehow when he has children and is building a house. The manager of the sweetshop claims he does it so that young people can get housing. The policeman himself needs an apartment, and the lawyer says the police stand on the side of the criminals—they not only fail to investigate but directly support the malefactors.

  Finally the minister shows up and expresses his shock at what he hears. There is no longer any doubt that everything going on here is a criminal conspiracy. And then, Petr is brought a bowl of poisoned cookies and will be forced to eat them. Julie keeps trying to silence him and leave as quickly as possible before they kill him. Petr, however, is determined not to back down.

  They can kill me. I don’t care. Can one live in a place where criminals go unpunished? Where powerful criminals protect murderers, and the others beg for a part of the loot?

  To Petr’s astonishment, the minister applauds. At the conclusion of the play, which until then seems to be nothing more than black humor, I express my fear that everything that happens in society is only a cunning attempt to preserve felonious power.

  The minister explains to Petr why he is applauding:

  MINISTER: I am applauding your justice, which spares no one. (Loudly) Justice that spares no one is necessary. Yes—how many times have I tormented myself with this question?

  PETR: But I, I am accusing you. You are murderers!

  MINISTER: Am I guilty of anything? Sometimes I think, yes, I am guilty of a great love for you, my children. That blinded me. And you (to the others), didn’t you come here like lambs? Did you not hold out your hands? Did you not declaim your thanks? And now these accusations, th
eir sting, strikes me here! (Grabs his heart)

  At the end, when those who have consumed the poison along with those who are supposed to investigate the murder sing insane songs, the pastry chef who prepared the poisonous cookies lifts the rebellious Petr onto his shoulders while the minister proclaims:

  But I applaud you nevertheless. (To Petr) I applaud your justice and devotion. I applaud your incorruptible longing for pureness, which makes no distinctions. We need youth and pureness. We need those who are able to give precedence to a bed beneath the arch of a bridge instead of a bed that is considered tainted. We need those who are able to speak out about crimes so that evil, which is necessary, does not become a custom. We need those who do not divide but rather unite. We were united in the longing to help you find a home. And we were united in the impact of your angry words. We feel ourselves guilty, for who is innocent? (The others applaud.) And who would not, once in a while, like to hear that he is not alone in his longing, or even in his guilt? Young man, we need you on our team! Come to the sweetshop Myriam every Thursday at eight o’clock and shout out at the top of your voice. (He raises his hand to Petr and presses it.) Repeat those beautiful, cleansing words you pronounced today. Thank you!

  The play ends with a funeral procession for another victim. The criminals who hide behind beautiful words need jesters to help create the impression that we are living in freedom because while crimes are being identified, the criminals are going without punishment and continue their activity.

  I offered the play to the journal Plamen but the editors turned it down. No theater would stage it. The criminals who soon took power no longer needed their jesters.

  *

  Literární listy was now actually making a profit, and so it was no problem to hire several more editors. My wife and I could finally take a vacation. As long as I’d known her, Helena longed most of all to better know life in Israel. She put together a group of her colleagues and acquaintances and organized a working trip to the Shomrat kibbutz. She also decided to take along Michal. I didn’t feel like going anywhere to work, and I was also enticed by the idea of spending a few days with Olga. Helena couldn’t convince me to come along. She departed, and I decided to set off for England, which I had liked on my earlier trip. What’s more, Mr. Darling offered me his apartment in Hampstead; he was currently in Prague and I would be spending the whole summer on the Continent (this is how the Britons refer to the less significant part of Europe). So I would have the flat all to myself. He entrusted his keys to me along with the name and address of his neighbor with whom I could leave the keys when I left.

  Somewhat abashed, I suggested to Olga a trip to Britain. She didn’t understand why I hadn’t chosen Italy, since I could go wherever I wanted, but she admitted that she’d never been to Britain and could stand a couple of days there.

  Before I left, I went to say goodbye to my parents, and Father wanted to know why I was taking a vacation right now of all times. I explained that I was tired and needed to be somewhere far away and not think about politics and not attend meetings every night with my fellow citizens.

  Father said he understood, but in fact he assumed that I actually wanted to be out of the reach of the Soviet police when the Russians invaded. He suggested I take the car and as many things along with me as I could. My mother led me into the bedroom and almost in a whisper complained that ever since Father had been locked up, he was always expecting the worst. I shouldn’t let him ruin my vacation. Then, counter to what she had just said, she softly asked me to be careful what I wrote about and not to see friends such as Vaculík and Kohout. I had to realize that people, and definitely the Soviets, were looking at them and at me in completely different ways.

  Even though Father’s prediction somewhat shocked me, I did not follow his advice. Although I did go by car, I took only enough belongings for a two-week trip.

  Our daughter, Hana, who was five years old at the time, was staying with Helena’s parents nearby, and when I went to say goodbye to her, I was weighed down by unease. Father’s prediction was certainly possible, if not probable, and to leave a child at this time seemed like a betrayal. But I persuaded myself nothing would happen. After all, just a few days ago the Soviet leaders had agreed with our leaders that everything would be resolved peacefully and amicably

  When I’d first visited London about a year earlier, I had been alone and was therefore master of my own plans. Now I had Olga with me (she didn’t speak any English), and I felt a responsibility to show her a good time. I assumed she’d be interested in seeing some galleries, so I took her to the famous Tate, but she seemed bored by it. It wasn’t that she minded walking among all those paintings; it was more that my presence was somehow a nuisance. I was a man from another world, with other interests and other desires, who assumed he had a greater claim to her than anyone else she might choose.

  Just as we left the gallery, she noticed a group of beatniks sitting on the sidewalk drinking beer and smoking what I guessed was marijuana. I saw that Olga wanted only one thing: for me to leave her alone so she could sit with them, go off somewhere, and spend an interesting night.

  The next day it rained, so we took refuge in a cheap Irish pub where some fellow in a sailor shirt was playing an accordion, and my perfectly made-up conductress started recalling beautiful, sunny Italy and asked if we couldn’t leave here and travel to the south. The day after that I gave her part of the money I’d scrounged for the trip and suggested she spend the day however she liked. I asked if she would be able to communicate without me. She assured me that she would speak in Italian or with her hands. Then she kissed me and said, “Klíma, I think I’m starting to fall in love with you,” and promised to be back by evening. I used this time to visit Janet, whom I had stayed with on my previous visit, and passed on to her a gift from Helena. Then I walked around the streets. I called Neal Ascherson at the Observer and reminded him that we had met in our offices and he had invited me to look him up when I was next in London.

  We met at a small bar. Neal seemed worried: According to the latest news, armored brigades were gathering on the Czechoslovak borders, not only with the Soviet Union but with Poland and Hungary as well. I asked if he thought it might come to military intervention. Yes, this is what he feared.

  I wanted to know what the Western powers would do.

  He thought for a moment and then said: Nothing.

  I asked what we should do.

  Nothing, he said. You’re not an island. If we did not live on an island, we would never have been able to defend ourselves against Hitler.

  *

  My sweetheart showed up that evening with a large box. She brought with her two slightly tipsy young men who were around her age and wore tattered jeans. She kissed them and told me they had invited her to their place for the night, but she’d refused because she was here with me and loved me because I’d brought her here, to this city full of fabulous boys from all over the world. Then she pulled from the box a pair of leather boots and put them on to show them off. She said she wanted to make love to me in these boots.

  Suddenly I felt I was taking part in some stupid comedy I myself had written. I longed to see my wife and children. While this unfamiliar boot-shod girl was falling asleep at my side, I wanted only to be at home with my family.

  The next morning I was awakened by the telephone. It was Mr. Darling, and in a voice that was both precipitous and somber he advised me to be careful if I wanted to return home. It would be best not to make any statement right now. When he realized I had no idea what he was talking about, he asked in astonishment: “You don’t know? Soviet troops invaded your country last night.”

  Then he said I could stay in his apartment for at least a month, and I should use the telephone as much as I needed. I managed only to stutter some thanks, and he added that he was sorry—very, very sorry.

  I had no idea what to do. I was here with a girl who, although I had been making love to her, was a stranger to me.

 
She took the news about what had happened at home quite calmly. I said that was the end of freedom, and she repeated after me, “So you think that’s the end of all freedom?” And then she objected with unexpected judiciousness: “But that depends on the people.” She asked if we were going to return and added that I had my family there, and she had her boyfriend, parents, and brother, and everything.

  I wanted to leave, but I needed to know more about what was going on at home, if there was shooting in the streets, if those who had said or written too much were being locked up.

  Meanwhile, just as she did every morning, Olga made herself up perfectly, and when I expressed surprise that she could devote herself to something like that at a time like this, she said we didn’t know when we were going back, so she would have to start searching for work, and for that she had to look nice. Then we drank some tea, and she left, saying she’d be back in the evening.

  All day I floundered about with a sick feeling in my stomach. I tried to call Helena in Israel but couldn’t get through to her kibbutz, so I sent her a telegram with my phone number. Then I called our editorial offices, but apparently no one was there. Maybe they’d all been taken to be tortured somewhere. Finally I got through to my parents. With his typical matter-of-factness, Father told me there was only a little shooting going on. For now the radio station was transmitting freely. Dubček along with several other politicians had been spirited off to Moscow, but otherwise he didn’t know of anyone being arrested or locked up. At least they weren’t talking about it on the radio, but for now I should definitely be glad, he said, that I was where I was. Then I called my mother-in-law, who assured me everything was completely calm in Hodkovičky, no tanks or soldiers. Then she put Hana on the line, who said, “Hi, Father, I miss you. When are you coming home?” “As soon as I can,” I answered.