People in Prague marching in protest and surrounding Warsaw Pact occupation tanks.
Courtesy Česká televize.
We made an agreement. The soldiers assured me that they would only take orders from the highest level and that they wouldn’t betray anyone. We promised each other, and we were very agitated. They took me to my car, and I drove back. And it was fantastic. Already everywhere there were posters. People had arms, and everything was being prepared for a fight. I thought: “I can’t let this go by. That would be sheer stupidity.” I returned to Prague, where some fighting had taken place. Cars were on fire, and the façade of the National Museum at the top of Wenceslas Square was covered in bullet holes. I saw one girl who had a lit torch in her hand walking behind a Soviet tank and, with an elegant movement, throwing the torch under the tank.
I won’t ever stop recalling those couple of days because that was the only time in my life when I saw people being fully united, as one, in solidarity, truly together in noble spirit. I came home and listened to the radio and television all night. They said that the allies had arrived, the forces of Warsaw Pact countries, but mainly from the Soviet Union, and they appeared to keep losing their way. I thought: “Dammit, what if the street name signs were removed. That would make it even more difficult.” I looked out of the window, and there was a man on a ladder taking the street sign down. People were thinking of the same things; it was like one huge being who thought, felt and did everything with such unanimity and such acumen that it was staggering. That image of unity that we took with us when we finally left for exile kept our spirits up for years – I came from that country where so many good people lived.
In Prague the shooting carried on. We roamed the streets, and then a friend called me to say that he had heard a request from the town of Vysoké Mýto in Eastern Bohemia asking for assistance from well-informed personnel. The Polish Army was approaching, and they needed people to help with coordination and to support the locals. I took my car and drove there with my friend and his wife. We had problems along the way because the Soviets kept stopping us, and my friend told me: “Don’t look at them like that; you look so fierce that they’ll shoot us.” So I sat behind the wheel and let him do all the talking. All the road signs pointed toward Moscow. There were no signs showing the way to the town we were going to. However, there were old men, some in wheelchairs who guided us. “Go there and there; there you have to turn, and then drive that way.” No real signs whatsoever, but everywhere new signs in Russian: “Go home,” and some other humorous slogans.
In Vysoké Mýto there was really a confused situation because some of the actual news wasn’t picked up, and the town council wasn’t sure of the events or how the occupation was progressing. We began to help and explain; my friend was a part-time journalist and was able to formulate the situation in Prague for them and then broadcast it over the town loudspeakers. There was a great deal of local activity with many sensible people helping, including the town mayor who organized it all. Suddenly the Poles turned up and wanted somebody who spoke Polish. I remembered that I knew Polish. In the camps everybody learned Polish because we were located in Polish territory and many prisoners were Poles. I still had some recall of the language, so I agreed to translate. In fact it was quite simple; the Poles needed water for their soldiers and vehicles. I translated for the council members, and the mayor said: “Tell them we have no water. This is a dry countryside, and we only have enough water for the town folk.” Then they all started to quarrel, and they quarreled for an hour or two. In the end there was no need to translate because they screamed and swore at each other, and that didn’t need translating. Finally the town stood its ground and won this skirmish, but as it is known the final result was different for the country as a whole.
We stayed in that town for some time. They maintained quite a resistance, and people behaved courageously. I can’t forget that time because it showed what could happen and what a good country this was with good people who only needed a reason to defend themselves to achieve freedom and to make life worthwhile. The three of us were together at my friend’s parents’ house, and very tired, when one evening, we heard on the radio how the occupation had finally concluded. We all cried, packed our bags and drove home where everything was lost. The Soviets were in Prague, and we were defeated.
Initially in 1955 when I started working as a translator I was persona non grata, and it wasn’t until the beginning of 1968 that I became a member of the translation section of the Writers’ Union. I went there, and all of my translator friends sat there making a list of names, addresses and telephone numbers to make it clear who would be in the resistance. Even I was prepared to join some resistance movement. I went back home, and in the doorway of the Topič building on Národní Avenue, which housed the Writers’ Union, an enormous Russian soldier with a rifle and bayonet stood, and I thought: “What sort of imbecile am I? Again I’ll have to crawl into a hole. Again I’ll have to look over my shoulder. Again I’ll be an outcast. Again I won’t be able to do anything. I’ll be bound hand and foot and preached to by some idiots?” I thought I’d stay in Czechoslovakia because I never imagined leaving. I couldn’t envisage life without Prague, but suddenly the penny dropped.
I ran home and packed my little case. By chance I had a French visa because during the 1968 spring I decided to meet Ivan in Paris, so he too could see a bit of the world. We had friends there, so I got the visa and could leave without a problem. A transit visa through Germany was also required, but I couldn’t have cared less and dashed for the train. The train was packed. A father had a baby in each arm, so I offered to hold one, such a charming baby. Everybody was devastated; it was such a sad train journey. That was the beginning of my exile.
Cars at the border of Czechoslovakia following the Warsaw Pact Invasion, 1968.
Courtesy Česká televize.
XVII
A LINE FOR APPLE STRUDEL
THE EXILE
When I got off the train in Paris and went for a walk on Saint-Germain Boulevard, which I had known from the past, I couldn’t hear a single word of French – it was crowded with Czechs. Desperately, they sat on the sidewalks and street benches. We were so frustrated, you could cut the air with a knife. The atmosphere was despondent not only because we had left our country, our families and friends, memories and possessions but also because we had to give up our great illusion, which we had developed during that spring and in those few days of fighting.
I had to wait in Paris for several days and, through my friends, managed to communicate with my husband who sent money for the journey. I went first to London to see Ivan and then continued to the United States. My husband had already initially arranged lecturing engagements at several universities for a one-year term, and that helped us to get by.
What was your experience of exile?
Ours was the usual story of refugees who didn’t leave to seek work but freedom. In the beginning we lived in Boston in a rather primitive attic accommodation rented to us by a nice lady. Our chairs had to have the legs inserted before sitting down otherwise they would come loose. Our landlady brought us flowers from her garden, and people behaved very kindly. Finally my husband got a permanent post, and I tried my hand at minding children and dog walking. I declared myself an expert in antique furniture restoration based on observing a friend repair a cupboard. Someone hired me to clean a painting, and I nearly ruined it by using the wrong solvent.
Then I translated into English excerpts from a survey of European art exhibition catalogues that formed an essay on the subject. I told them I could use my knowledge of Czech and French; then they wanted someone to cover Serbian and Dutch catalogues. I realized that if I was able to work partially with some languages, say Polish, in the end, with good dictionaries and help from friends, I could tackle most languages. Then I worked as a sales assistant in a ladies fashion shop on Beacon Street, which was a dreadful experience. In this way I scraped together a living until the autumn of 19
75. Luckily Jan Štěpán, the international law librarian at the Harvard Law School Library, a very fine man, also a Czech refugee, rescued me and offered me a position as an assistant librarian.
At the Harvard Law School Library everything was bound in leather with real gilded edges and stamped onto the spines were gilded crests that shone in the light. They had books and documents there that couldn’t be found anywhere else but in that library. I always thought: “Where are all those minds who conceived all this, where are all those past societies that nurtured them and that by now are so different? And all that knowledge is now hidden here in the vaults of the Harvard Law School Library.” However, we had very little material from Czechoslovakia, and most of it was out-of-date. But the Library was magnificent. After years of living in the States, having gone through many jobs that were so foreign and harsh for me, I was finally working in a place of my liking.
I had an advantage of knowing several languages, but the work, which involved carrying heavy tomes, was much too hard for me, and after a year and a half I collapsed with a serious heart attack. I nearly died. I recovered very slowly, unable to work for several months. On my return they found a place for me at the lending desk and later, working as an assistant reference librarian, advising students on how to use the library. By then we had computer terminals installed. I loved it there and tried to learn more and more from the law literature collected from all over the world, which was fascinating.
I was the oldest person employed there, sort of a mother figure for the staff members as well as the law students. Students asked for advice, and now and then I made apple strudel at home and brought it to the library. A line formed that included even the teaching staff. I established a certain reputation there. There was a student from North Korea who confided in me that his mother had just died and that he couldn’t go back to visit. It was very sad because before she died she kept repeating his name. We sat together and talked. Evidently he was looking for support from someone with maternal leanings.
My activities at Harvard really suited me because being there made life interesting. I observed the amazing intelligence of people all around me and felt their kindness toward me. I had the feeling that my abilities and contribution were useful. Finally I reconciled myself with exile. I wasn’t able to do so before, mainly due to my terrible longing for Prague. When Ivan left for Britain he was nineteen and hadn’t developed fully then. He did not yet have his own deeply rooted characteristics, habits and life preferences, but being middle aged when one emigrates one can’t adapt that easily. However, the library environment was so fully international, with many users and staff who needed me and who I could help and be useful to, that finally I could really identify with Harvard. When the definitive version of my memoir was published, they organized a big party and formed a line to have the book signed; it was really endearing.
Have you become a US citizen?
For me as for any other exile, working hard meant that everything came out well. One had to work hard, and if one was proficient then one got settled and accepted. All the beginnings were difficult, but in the States there was hope and an atmosphere that encouraged self-confidence. Still, being an immigrant it was a bit different than being a fully recognized citizen. First, a person is given a residence permit and with that one can also travel abroad; however, one still doesn’t feel entirely at home, living on the fringes of society. After emerging from the hall where one promises loyalty to the new country and having received citizenship, one attains the same rights as citizens-at-birth. You didn’t even have to know the language that well. There were many Mexicans and people from many other countries who had little knowledge of English but still had the rights of free people, and nobody persecuted them, not even the state. At the moment you become a citizen, you are fully a citizen and your interests are protected. You could count on that. Suddenly I realized how many things depended on one’s attitude. One couldn’t have his or her personality and mind decimated from above as was done in Czechoslovakia. Once you gained self-confidence, then whatever happened, you could look after yourself, and the world flung open all its possibilities.
The 1968 émigrés who I had known were mostly intelligent, educated people. We tried to help each other. I always cooked potato soup and plum dumplings because that was the cheapest meal I could offer others; I invited teenagers because some found it very hard to settle and had lots of problems. After those difficult beginnings, they all finally settled down and lived comfortably but not in any luxury.
Heda Margolius Kovály, Prague, August 2000.
Courtesy Česká televize.
I don’t know who spread rumors in Czechoslovakia that the 1968 émigrés had built themselves villas with swimming pools. I didn’t know a single one – they rented little houses where they felt and lived well and were respected because they had a good education. Most of them lectured at universities or schools. The younger ones settled across the United States, one in Idaho, another in California and more in other states. On occasion, I meet them when they visit Prague. Suddenly they miss their native country, even when they were so young when they left, and now they are married and have children – as soon as they come back to Prague, their American idyll becomes disrupted.
When did you return?
I took with me into exile the vision of the events of 1968. In the post-occupation era when one saw how the people of Czechoslovakia suffered and how they were affected – that was really heart-breaking. Then freedom returned, and I decided that I had to come home. I came back early in 1990, but I still worked on and off at Harvard. My husband had a few more years until retirement, so we used to come for visits. We had a small studio flat in the suburb of Barrandov, and when it was possible I stayed the whole summer. In the spring of 1996, we came back to Prague for good.
Heda Margolius Kovály and Helena Třeštíková in Heda’s apartment, Soukenická, Prague, August 2000.
Photo: Vlastimil Hamernik.
XVIII
WHAT ELSE COULD I POSSIBLY WANT?
THE END
You lived through such dramatic partings with your first husband. Can you compare and describe them?
I said goodbye dramatically twice – first in Auschwitz and then in Pankrác prison. I think if I hadn’t survived the parting during the war I wouldn’t have survived the second tragedy. I learned that one mustn’t succumb and must carry on and on, that always something can happen and that somewhere sometime there can be another life. It all depends on how old one is. A young person has enough vitality that even if the times are really tough he or she will be able to overcome them. Auschwitz had been such a shock that I didn’t manage to come out of it for at least several months. When I got better it became clear to me what probably happened with my parents, but I knew that Rudolf was healthy and hoped that he had gotten out of there. I clung to the chance that we would meet again in Prague and at the end all would turn out well. That was a great help to me. However, with the next catastrophe, there was no prospect that it would end well. Life is never as light as a tiny feather. Everyone has to struggle with what fate serves up.
When you look back on your life, can you say which were the most beautiful and the most awful experiences?
For me the best time of my life was when I had a baby. When they brought me little Ivan he already had a curl in his hair. He turned out to be a nice boy, and I realized that our family would continue to exist from then on. It was something so beautiful that I didn’t even have to consider whether there had been any moments in my life better than this one.
My parents were totally obliterated from the face of the earth without even the tiniest fragments or their name remaining, and today they have magnificent healthy great-grandchildren. Those children are happy and live in a free world. So in the end, we have achieved our goal. It would be so different if we had given up our lives. Many people committed suicide, but they were in the minority. For a human being, it is natural to struggle to stay alive, and it doesn�
��t require any special determination. But sometimes he or she hasn’t got the strength, or the situation is such that it can’t be overcome. While one is alive one has to carry on; there is no other way.
The worst moment?
The worst experience was Auschwitz. I stopped being myself; my soul separated from my body. It was such dreadful pain. I got on so well with my parents – they were amazing people, and my mother was an extraordinary human being. In Łódź Ghetto, where people had no time or strength to accomplish the smallest undertaking, not even few extra steps, my mother gathered around her small children because their parents had to go to work. And those poor children had to stay at home, feeling very hungry and crying all the time. Mother collected children from the surrounding houses, sang songs and told stories; she kept saying: “What’ll become of these children? They’ve no school to go to, nothing …” We know what happened to them – no child could survive. They were immediately gassed. If a mother held a child by the hand or in her arms, then both went to the gas chambers; no child survived. My mother tried to look after them. She became a saintly figure. Many people from all around came to see her for solace. On her own, she hadn’t coped any better, but she was a strong-willed person and managed to overcome her own suffering to help others.
When in an instant, all those people were suddenly dead, and I knew what had happened with all of my many other relatives; and when I perceived that atmosphere of sheer madness where people were sent in columns to their death and knew nothing and went calmly like a solid mass, that was totally beyond understanding. I could comprehend it when barbaric hordes invaded a town and started murdering people – in that action was hatred, frenzy and boldness, but this was like some industrial process. No human mind could take that in.
Hitler, Stalin and I Page 12