My Crazy Century

by Ivan Klíma

  I repeated that my books were banned from publication.

  “But you must have a copy of what you send to Mr. Jürgen in Switzerland.”

  I said I had no copies of my books because I didn’t want any trouble.

  “That’s too bad.” He seemed saddened. “But have a look around at home. You must have some manuscript lying around.” He neglected to mention that he could send a band of his subordinates to help me look. Instead he said, “Of course, I’ll return it when I’m finished.”

  Then it was as if this charming fellow had suddenly remembered that the last time he spoke with the minister, he mentioned that perhaps their offices could accommodate my passport request. “That wasn’t right. In fact it was downright wrong. We must support our artists—even if they can be annoying at times. You know what I mean; don’t take it personally. You see, our people downstairs like to demonstrate their vigilance, but they overdo it. Mr. Klíma, if you ever have the feeling you’re being harassed, give me a call and I’ll look into it. Here,” he added almost ceremoniously, “is my card with my direct number. I don’t give this to just anyone. You see how much I trust you.” Then he got up and walked over to me; I was afraid he was going to hug and kiss me goodbye, but he said, “And could I have your number in case I want to get in touch?” (As if he wasn’t fully aware that my telephone hadn’t been working for two months.) I said that my telephone had apparently been disconnected.

  “Really?” He looked surprised. “A breakdown?”

  “That’s what they tell me. They say it can’t be fixed.”

  “Odd.” He feigned astonishment. “You see how people work in this country. They don’t want to go to work, so they say it can’t be fixed. Something should be done about this. If you want, I’ve got acquaintances in communications; I can press them on it.”

  It was a farce—the person who probably had my telephone disconnected in the first place, and whose power and responsibilities were certainly more extensive than seeing that my telephone be reconnected, was now pretending to be someone who availed himself of acquaintances at the switchboard. I merely thanked him and said that I found it quite pleasant not to have the telephone bothering me when I was trying to work.

  Then my official, who had apparently been waiting for me in the other room with the secretary, escorted me out of the building.

  Outside, I fondled the card in my pocket. No, it wasn’t a dream. I should have tossed it into the garbage—none of my friends carried around the business card of a secret police colonel.

  About a week later, a uniformed officer rang our door with a summons to appear at the district department of State Security. I was to bring my car.

  I objected that my car had been inspected less than a month ago, and although they had taken my inspection certificate, I had had the supposed defect repaired, and it was returned to me.

  He hesitated for a moment but then said that my car wasn’t to be inspected. “In Tábor a man was run over by a blue Zhiguli, and the perpetrator fled the scene.”

  I told him I hadn’t been in Tábor for several years. He replied that if I did not report within two hours, I would be brought in.

  I was alarmed by the thought of trying to prove I hadn’t been in Tábor at a certain time on a certain day: They could simply claim to have found dried blood on the hood and accuse me of killing a pedestrian.

  I remembered the colonel’s card and his vow to protect me from needless harassment by overeager police officers.

  After thinking it over a moment, I dialed his number and was indeed connected with him at once. I told him about the summons concerning the auto incident between a blue Zhiguli and a pedestrian in Tábor, where I hadn’t been for several years.

  “You see?” he said. “There you go. Instead of trying to discover where you were, they’re harassing you. Don’t go anywhere, I’ll take care of it.”

  I thanked him and hung up.

  Then I realized he hadn’t even asked where he was supposed to take care of it, and he immediately believed my assertion that I hadn’t been in Tábor. Why? I was starting to have my suspicions.

  After another week, a young man appeared at our door and refused my invitation to come in. He explained he was only a messenger. When he saw my surprise (at first I thought this was a messenger from Jürgen), he added that he had a message from the colonel; he would like to get together.

  I asked him if this was a summons.

  “No, of course not,” he said. “There isn’t to be any interrogation. The colonel just wants to talk to you and was hoping you might have found one of your manuscripts at home.”

  I asked him when I should show up.

  “The colonel says it’s completely up to you. He’ll find the time.”

  I didn’t know what to do.

  “And where should I go?”

  “The colonel asks that you come see him at his office. He doesn’t think anywhere else would suit you.”

  It was Monday. To put off the meeting as long as possible, I suggested Friday.

  “Certainly,” answered the messenger. “At what time?”

  This ostentatious accommodation strengthened my desire to confirm my suspicions. At the same time, I kept telling myself, Don’t get involved in any games with them. They are stronger and, more important, they have no scruples. But why was the colonel trying to engage me?

  I suggested eleven o’clock.

  On Friday I pulled from the drawer my manuscript of A Summer Affair, which had come out in several editions abroad and would show the colonel there was nothing seditious in a book that had been banned from publication in Czechoslovakia. When a person decides to do something stupid, he can usually find a reason to justify it to himself.

  At eleven o’clock, I presented myself at Bartolomějská Street.

  The same official met me at the porter’s lodge and led me to the same office, where I was greeted by the colonel. He offered me wine, coffee, tea, or mineral water. I refused everything, and the secretary brought me a bottle of mineral water.

  The colonel invited me to have a seat and began by noting that the summer holidays were approaching. He himself hadn’t been on vacation for several years and asked if I was planning to go anywhere. He promptly corrected himself and said he didn’t want this to seem like an interrogation, then he suggested it was best to spend the summer near the water, for example at Lake Balaton. The Lipno Dam was also nice. He mentioned his company cottage not far from Jevany and reported with excitement that according to meteorologists, the air was supposed to be better there than in the Giant Mountains because the currents above their cottage bring air all the way from the Alps. He asked if everything was fine with me. When I replied that it was, he said he was glad to hear it. Then he asked if I had brought any of my books.

  I pulled Summer Affair from my briefcase. He seemed surprised and thanked me profusely. He was very much looking forward to reading the manuscript and said that, of course, he would return it when he was done. “Perhaps you need it,” he added, “to send to Mr. Jürgen.”

  He stood up, extended his hand, and said he hoped I would go on to write something nice.

  A few days later, I received a subpoena to appear immediately at the district authority of police.

  When I presented myself, I was asked to hand over my identification card. The official examined it for a moment and led me to the second floor to meet with a military member of executive power, apparently the local commander.

  He was handed my quite well maintained ID, glanced at it, and started shouting: How dare I present such a grubby and tattered document. Did I realize that this document was the property of the state?

  I protested that the ID was neither grubby nor tattered.

  He roared at me to shut my trap. He paged through the ID booklet and carried on shouting: Where was I employed? Why didn’t I have a stamp?

  I said I was not employed but worked freelance.

  “So you’re freelance? To me, you’re a parasit
e, and that is how I will deal with you. I am hereby confiscating your identity booklet.”

  When I didn’t budge, he advised me to clear out before he lost his patience.

  After I spent an hour waiting downstairs, my information was written out on a form, and I was told that this was a temporary ID valid for one month. I must submit a request for a new one.

  My suspicions were confirmed. Now I was supposed to call my colonel, who would claim I was simply being harassed again; I could pick up my ID first thing tomorrow, or perhaps he would order it to be brought to me with an apology. Then he would invite me to come see him and allude to all the things he was doing for me and even confide in me that he had some acquaintances in publishing. He could arrange for one of my books to be published if I would only do some minor favor for him in return.

  Perhaps this district director was not aware that I was collecting partial disability pay, and the charge of parasitism would not stick.

  I applied for a new ID and didn’t call the colonel. I simply waited.

  About two weeks later, another messenger stopped by to call me in. He was just as polite and just as accommodating.

  When I took a seat in the colonel’s office and received the usual mineral water (I’d never taken so much as a sip), I said I preferred to receive a summons. The colonel, however, gave me to understand that this was out of the question. This wasn’t an interrogation, or did I have the impression, he asked, somewhat offended, that it was? He was simply interested in my fate and wanted to help, so that I would not be disturbed in my writing. Then he spoke for quite some time about vacation possibilities and mushroom hunting in the military zone, where he once again invited me to join him. When I asked if I could bring along a friend, he wanted to know whom. When I said Vaculík, he seemed thrilled by the idea. To enjoy the company of two such marvelous writers—what more could he wish for? He would definitely stop by my place soon.

  He didn’t ask me anything more. Instead, he waited to see what I would start talking about, but I kept silent and thought what I would do if he actually stopped by. There was no way I would go mushroom hunting with an officer of State Security, let alone to the military zone, where I might be shot. Accidentally, of course.

  The colonel then mentioned my novel. He said he found it quite absorbing and hoped I would forgive him if he kept it for a few more days. Lately he’d had little time for reading. Finally, he asked if everything was okay with me.

  When I said everything was fine, he asked more specifically: No harassment?

  “No,” I said, “If you have in mind my ID booklet, they have to issue me a new one; otherwise they will be violating the law.”

  My answer seemed to take him by surprise, but he was a professional. He wished me a pleasant vacation and reiterated that he would let Vaculík and me know if he was planning a trip somewhere to the woods in the military zone. We simply had to go mushroom hunting together.

  He never got in touch again. He, or perhaps somebody above him, had decided I was not a good prospect, and he never returned my manuscript. If he’s not dead, perhaps he’s still reading it.

  *

  Writers on Their Congress

  Immediately upon the conclusion of the constitutive congress of the Czechoslovak Writers’ Union, reporters from the Czechoslovak Press Agency invited several delegates for a discussion. . . . MILOSLAV STINGL replied: . . . In the speech by the chair of the party and the ruling delegation, I was fascinated by the genuinely deep interest and solicitude of the highest representatives of our society for the development of Czechoslovak literature. And what am I personally taking away from the congress? I want to dwell not on what I’ve already accomplished, but rather on what I still have to do. I want to put everything inside me in the books I have yet to write—perhaps even more. Is the precept “Outperform even yourself” meant only for miners? Through my humble works, I wish to serve the Czech reader and Czech literature.

  From Lidová demokracie, December 10, 1977

  *

  It was during this time that I received my first small royalty payment for my story for the cartoon Krtek. Aware I could be accused of parasitism (my partial disability pension could be taken away at any time), I decided to try to renew my writer’s insurance.

  And it worked! The moment a crack appeared in the seemingly impervious fortress of prohibition, the bureaucracy fell into confusion. I went to the offices of the Literary Fund and presented my signed contract along with confirmation that Krátký Film had paid me a royalty. The source of my income was legitimate, and the appropriate official (I sensed he was sympathetic) renewed my insurance according to the law. A year later my name appeared on TV in the credits for the scripts of the short films I had written, which surprised everyone including my friends (those who noticed). Many began to hope that the ridiculous proscriptions would finally cease. But in this they were mistaken. I heard a rumor that someone from the ideological department protested that I had been allowed to work on officially produced films. Nevertheless, because the films had originated at a time when only permitted authors could publish, my name was not removed from the credits. At the same time, however, nothing else was allowed to appear with my name on it until the end of the eighties.

  *

  I think it was Pavel Kohout’s idea—it was definitely his wife, Jelena Mašinová, who bought dozens of tickets to a railway men’s dance. I thought it would be ridiculous for me to go, since I didn’t know how to dance. But Helena was excited; we would see our friends there, and the railway workers would be surprised when they saw who was in attendance.

  So I bought tickets. Helena wore her graduation dress, I wore my Sunday best, and Michal donned his suit from his dancing lessons. Then we got into the car and set off for the dance, the first one in my life.

  On the way from the Vinohrady Theater, where we managed to find a parking spot, we kept running into friends who warned us not to try to get into the dance. Secret policemen were standing at the entrance turning everyone away who wasn’t a railway worker.

  For a while we lingered in the little park out front, then we saw a limping Pavel Kohout being supported by his wife. Pavel had refused to leave and kept showing his invitation, claiming that anyone who had bought a ticket had to be admitted. Instead, he had been tossed down the stairs.

  I offered to drive him to a doctor.

  The closest clinic was only about four hundred meters away. I noticed two vehicles following me; one of them belonged to the secret police. When I stopped, and Helena and Michal took Pavel inside, two members of State Security stepped out of their vehicle, which they had parked just behind mine. They asked for my documents. They didn’t know what to charge me with, so they had me breathe into a tube. Only an idiot or a gambler would have drunk alcohol before such an event. They told me everything was in order and handed back my documents while I waited for my injured friend to return.

  Then we set off across Prague. Pavel, who had just recently moved out of his apartment in Hradčany, was temporarily living at Václav Havel’s in Dejvice. (I did not have fond memories of this place—at one of Václav’s birthday celebrations, I had indecorously taken a seat on a tabletop displaying the family crystal. The tabletop, however, was not secured, and I sent all the crystal crashing to the floor. Only shards remained. Václav, magnanimous as always, consoled me and said it was his fault; he should have had the tabletop attached a long time ago.)

  Now we drove to Dejvice with a police escort worthy of a ministry chairman from some friendly African nation. We then said goodbye to Pavel and headed home. As we were nearing the Branický brewery, one of the cars tailing us suddenly passed and ordered us to stop. When the police officer once again pulled out the Breathalyzer, I protested that I had breathed into it a moment ago, and everything had been fine.

  He was an older officer and looked like someone from the countryside (apparently, they’d activated police from all precincts of Prague). He resorted to an explanation I would never forget
: “You could have been drinking behind the wheel.”

  I blew into the device once again. The officer ripped the Breathalyzer from my hands and said in a direful tone: “Positive.”

  I asked if I could see the device, and he said that was not permitted. He seemed both truculent and somewhat embarrassed. Obviously, he was an ordinary traffic cop, and such mendacity was not part of his job description.

  They confiscated both my driver’s license and my car keys. They didn’t think about Helena’s set of keys, and she drove me immediately to the sobering station (this time without a police escort) for a blood test. When we explained to the surprised doctor on duty why we wanted the test, he gladly took my blood and promised to send the results as soon as possible.

  For the next two weeks I searched for my driver’s license, which was apparently roving around various police stations. Finally, I made it all the way to the head of a regiment of the riot squad. He admitted me, even though it was after business hours. He was in his shirtsleeves with his police trousers held up by wide suspenders, and told me fairly genially that he’d had my driver’s license but he’d sent it to the local station on Peace Square.

  The person in charge there actually pulled out my driver’s license and several sheets of supporting documents. He looked them over for a moment and then informed me, “You were subjected to a breath alcohol test. No alcohol was detected in your blood. Unfortunately, your driver’s license was in such a state that it had to be confiscated.”

  Although my driver’s license was almost new, their retreat from the ridiculous charge that I was driving drunk seemed to me a small victory.

  *

  Even in the Soviet Union, the government was treating those who criticized the regime more leniently. Andrei Sakharov was neither executed nor run over by an automobile. He was merely exiled to Gorky. Alexander Solzhenitsyn, that “mercenary in the pay of imperialists,” whom Stalin would have had destroyed along with his family and friends, was now forcibly dragged into an airplane and sent to West Germany.

  The rulers in Moscow advised the collaborationist government in Prague to likewise banish unpleasant critics.