Looking back, I think I must have known that I was going to be caught. Reciting poetry at an antifascist conference or a militia reunion was pretty safe, because the people who went to these functions were the kind of people who went out of their way to avoid my parents. But the Great October Socialist Revolution parade was a public event. It was held in November, because at the time of the Revolution in 1917, the Russian calendar was different from the Western one, and it was first and foremost a children’s parade. At school, we would make lanterns to carry in the evening, and after dinner the participating families would gather at the town hall and parade across Cernosice to the Rotten pub. The big room in the back, where the Friday and Saturday night discos took place, would be transformed into a banquet hall, and there would be beer for the parents and lemonade for the kids. It was an interesting example of civic socialism at work. Year in, year out, the Communist families of Cernosice staged an October parade in November, endured the usual speeches, sent their children home early, and then settled down to the important business of drinking. It was through nights of drinking that the town’s status quo was maintained. A lot of townsfolk who privately deplored the bad roads and poor public works overseen by the National Committee felt compelled to turn up at all the Communist functions for the simple reason that they didn’t want to be excluded. Gossip was rife, and the last thing you wanted was the people in town to start discussing your affairs. My family could be counted on to not attend these parades, but a lot of our neighbors would be there, and the word would quickly spread that Furman’s daughter had recited Communist poetry.
I was going to get into a lot of trouble.
As the day of the parade drew nearer, I started willing myself to fall sick. I’d come down to breakfast, complaining of headaches and dizziness, but my mother was impossible to fool. She would take my temperature and put an extra orange in my lunch box, and send me down the hill. I sat in class, glaring at the posters of workers, and was quite rude to Andula Thatcher, whose dad was a policeman. Comrade Humlova must have sensed that something was wrong, because she called me up to the front of the class.
“You seem restless, my dear,” she said. “Are you nervous about tomorrow’s parade?”
“I’m very nervous!” I replied. “And I think I might be catching a cold! My head hurts and I feel dizzy all the time!”
“You should eat more fruit,” Comrade Humlova smiled. “But right now, I’d like you to do me a favor.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“We need some cardboard for tomorrow’s lanterns, and the art department has run out. Would you be a dear and run to the shop for me? We need ten sheets of orange and ten sheets of purple. You can tell Mrs. Seidlerova to put it on our account.”
“Okay!” I said, cheering up immediately.
I went to Mrs. Vincentova and got her to unlock the cage so that I could get my shoes. She was preparing to go out herself, and grumbled and groaned the whole time. I changed out of my slippers and left the schoolyard, walking up the main road to the local shops. There was a newsagent and stationery shop around the corner from the train station, and I felt very important asking Mrs. Seidlerova to give me some cardboard on the school account. She rolled the cardboard up in a tube of butcher’s paper and sealed it with sticky tape, and I headed back to school. As I was walking past the long row of notice boards outside the station, a large poster caught my eye. It was a new poster with an old slogan—THE SOVIET UNION: TOMORROW IS YESTERDAY ALREADY!—and it made me remember the parade and reciting Comrade Humlova’s poems in front of the whole town. My sister was right. Reciting poetry was stupid, especially since no one believed what the poems were saying. I looked around me at the potholes in the roads and the peeling paint on the buildings and the line of rusting Skodas in front of the town hall, and I realized the poster was right—tomorrow was yesterday already. I snatched it off the notice board and threw it in the bin. I walked back to school and gave Comrade Humlova her cardboard, then I slumped down in my bench and concentrated on my headache. I was definitely coming down with a terrible cold.
A few minutes before the end of the class, Comrade Richmanova made an announcement through the public address system, asking Comrade Humlova to come to her office. The second she left, the classroom erupted into the usual chaos, and for once I joined in. I was out of my seat, helping Honza Tucek throw poor Petr Halbich’s slippers around the room, when Comrade Humlova appeared at the door. Mrs. Vincentova was standing beside her.
“To your seats! To your seats!” Comrade Humlova clapped her hands. “Furmanova. Come with us please.”
I had no idea what was going on, but the look on Mrs. Vincentova’s face made it clear that she had scored some kind of personal victory. I followed them up the stairs to the headmistress’s office. The door was open and Comrade Richmanova was standing near the window. This time she wasn’t smiling. Sitting on her desk was the crumpled-up poster I had thrown in the bin.
“Would you care to explain this?” she asked me quietly.
My chin started to tremble. How could I possibly explain something so simple and yet so complicated? The conflicting emotions of the past month came flooding back to me, and my eyes filled with tears.
“I saw her with my own eyes!” Mrs. Vincentova hissed. “Willful destruction of state property! That’s a serious offense!”
“Thank you, Comrade Vincentova,” the headmistress said curtly. “I’d like to hear what Dominika has to say.”
“I’m sorry.” I sobbed. It was hard to get the words out.
The headmistress’s office was very hot. Comrade Humlova pulled out a handkerchief and started to mop her ample bosom.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Dominika is one of my best students. She’s reciting at tomorrow’s parade. This might just be nothing more than a simple case of nerves.”
“She knew exactly what she was doing,” Mrs. Vincentova snapped. “Her sister was a troublemaker, and her father has well-documented anti-Socialist leanings!”
The tears were spilling down my cheeks.
“I think I’ve heard enough, Comrade Vincentova,” Comrade Richmanova said. “Would you please excuse us?”
The caretaker narrowed her eyes. “As a committed Socialist, I demand to know what you intend to do about this,” she said.
Comrade Richmanova walked to the door and pulled it open. Her eyes were very unfriendly. She spoke slowly and her pronunciation was chillingly precise.
“I will punish the girl, Comrade Vincentova,” she said. “You’ve done your duty reporting this matter. You can be assured that we will deal with it appropriately. Thank you.”
Once Mrs. Vincentova had gone, the other two women relaxed. Comrade Richmanova handed me a tissue, and asked again why I had thrown the poster in the bin. All I could whisper was “I’m sorry.” Comrade Richmanova pulled a detention slip from her desk and sighed as she filled it in, while Comrade Humlova, with real emotion in her voice, told me that I would no longer have the privilege of reciting at the Great October Revolution parade.
“A good Pioneer must never steal or destroy other people’s property!” she said, and as punishment, I had to stay after school and write this sentence one hundred times in my exercise book.
I was sad and ashamed, but secretly relieved as well.
Later that afternoon, sunbeams stroked the windows as I sat in the third-grade classroom and refilled my pen with ink. My fingers were dark blue and my eyes were red from crying. I could hear the sound of children outside in the yard. I ground my teeth together, because the nib of my pen was very scratchy on the paper. Every ten minutes, I stopped and counted the sentences. Fifty-five. Fifty-six. I looked at the clock on the wall and watched the minute hand move to a quarter past four. I was thinking about how if I died, Comrade Richmanova and Comrade Humlova would be so upset that they would punish Mrs. Vincentova for pushing me over the edge. My father would rush to the school and yell at the caretaker and maybe even break her broom acr
oss his knee. Sixty-six. Sixty-seven. The minute hand moved to half past four, and then the classroom door opened and Comrade Richmanova was standing there, looking in at me.
“You’re still here?” She sounded genuinely surprised. “Poor little thing.” She handed me a tissue and I blew my nose. “How many have you written?” she asked.
“Sixty-nine and a half,” I replied, and covered my face with my hands.
“Well, that sounds like enough,” she smiled. “Why don’t you pack up your things and go home?”
I took my hands away from my face, and she laughed. “Dear me, you can’t go home like that. You’ll frighten your parents.”
I looked at my reflection in the window and saw that I had smeared ink all over my cheeks.
“Come on,” the headmistress said kindly, putting her arm around my shoulders. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
We went to the bathroom, and I washed my face with soap. Comrade Richmanova stopped by her office, and when she came back out, she was holding a banana.
“Are you hungry?” she asked. I hesitated, because bananas were very rare in Czechoslovakia at the time, but she gave it to me and patted me on the head.
I took the banana and eagerly started to peel it.
“I’m sorry you won’t be reciting tomorrow,” she said. “Comrade Humlova says you’re very charming.”
“I like reciting!” I said with my mouth full. “I just have a problem with all the violence in the poetry.”
“Do you now?” Comrade Richmanova smiled. “Your house is right at the top of the hill, isn’t it? Why don’t I give you a lift in my car?”
Like everyone else in Cernosice, Comrade Richmanova drove a Skoda. Her car was very clean and I liked the way it smelled. I was happy to sit next to her and eat my banana, and even happier to realize that she didn’t think I was a terrible person for tearing down the poster. As we drove up the hill, it suddenly struck me that the worst was over. I could stop pretending to be a Pioneer. I could concentrate harder on my ballet lessons. I wasn’t going to upset my parents. I felt almost dizzy with relief.
When we arrived at the house a few minutes later, Comrade Richmanova surprised me by unbuckling her seat belt and walking me to the door. She hadn’t said anything, in fact. She stood beside me and waited until my mother answered the door, then she quietly asked if there was a place where they could talk for a few minutes. I thanked her for the banana, and she ruffled my hair as she followed my mother downstairs to the kitchen. She didn’t seem angry or upset. Her manner could be best described as cautious. I was sent out to play in the yard while the two adults had a cup of coffee and a chat. As I played, I began to understand how dangerous communism could be.
Comrade Richmanova was an important regional official, whereas Mrs. Vincentova wasn’t even a party member, but I could see that when Mrs. Vincentova demanded justice “as a committed Socialist,” she had made both the headmistress and Comrade Humlova nervous. So nervous that Comrade Humlova was prepared to cut me from her poetry group, even though my recitals had made her look good. My father had warned me about the complexity of the system, but this was the first time it had affected me directly, and I resolved to be more careful in the future.
FOR THE NEXT THREE YEARS that I attended the state school, Mrs. Vincentova kept a watchful eye on me and was always ready to denounce my bad behavior. Fortunately, I was protected by a handful of teachers who quietly approved of my strong personality. Comrade Richmanova saw that my father’s bad papers disappeared from my file, and Comrade Humlova wrote a long report commending me for my stirring poetry recitals. She persuaded me to recite at a few more functions in spite of my fear that my parents would find out, and oddly enough, when they eventually did, the whole thing had a positive outcome. My dad went down to the National Committee one day to renew his license to reconstruct our house, and Comrade Holoubek, the local chief of state and public works, was unusually friendly to him.
“Here’s your permission, comrade engineer,” the old Communist had smiled. “I have to say, I always thought of you as being the enemy of the regime, but when I saw your daughter reciting at the people’s militia reunion, I changed my mind. The way she shook her fist while she spoke! Honestly, it brought tears to my eyes!”
My father was very surprised to hear this, but he was also very glad that he didn’t have to pay Comrade Holoubek under the table to have his license renewed. When he came home, we had a friendly chat about politics and art. He told me that if I loved reciting poetry, reciting it for the State didn’t necessarily make me a collaborator.
I was a good trumpet. It wasn’t my fault that the orchestra was bad.
nine
THE LITTLE YOLK WREATH
THE FOLLOWING SUMMER was even hotter than the last. Weeds and scaffolding covered the construction site, making our house look like a ruined castle. My father had driven off in search of a job, and my sister had put on a white blouse without a bra and caught the train to Radotin, where she made heaps of money as a waitress. All the children in the neighborhood were away on holidays, and my mother was back at the Economic Institute, working on a new book about the Soviet oil trade. I wandered through the backyard where a spade truck had dug a ditch the week before we ran out of money. I poked the bottom of the ditch with a stick, making clusters of frog eggs float to the surface. Tadpoles swam in the water beneath my feet, and I imagined that the pool was the Mediterranean Sea and the tadpoles were boats sailing from Italy to Greece. I hit the water with my stick, making waves and trying to sink them, pretending to be the goddess of the ocean.
When I finally got bored, I walked down the street to Terezka Jandova’s house. Terezka was one of the quiet girls in my class. She had long, braided hair and often brought Comrade Humlova apples. I was never really comfortable visiting the Jandas. The last time I had played in their garden, Terezka’s brother Tomas had pissed in my shoes when I took them off to climb a tree. They were devoutly religious, but also kind of mean.
“Hello, Mrs. Jandova!” I called out to Terezka’s grandmother, who was reclining on a deck chair beneath a yellow beach umbrella. “Is Terezka home?” Half a sweater hung from the knitting needles she held in her lap. She appeared to be asleep.
“Hello! Mrs. Jandova? Are you asleep?” I tried again.
Mrs. Jandova sat up in her chair. She looked at me without a trace of recognition.
Then she frowned. “Ah ... you’re Furman’s little girl.”
She lifted her knitting needles up to her nose.
“Terezka’s at church,” she said briskly. “It’s her first communion on Sunday, so she’s preparing for it with the other girls and boys.”
I looked around the yard. It was full of nice trees and there was a swing hanging from one of them.
“The other girls and boys?” I asked. “I thought everyone was away at Pioneer camp.”
“Not at all,” Mrs. Jandova replied. “The church has been holding a communion workshop all week. Children have been coming in from as far away as Radotin and Mokropsy.”
“Really?” This was very interesting.
Mrs. Jandova began to fiddle with her knitting.
“How many children?” I asked.
“I really don’t know,” Mrs. Jandova sighed.
“Just a few, or lots and lots?”
“I have no idea,” Mrs. Jandova sighed again. “What time is it? Shouldn’t you be running home for lunch?”
“There’s no one at home!” I complained. “My dad’s looking for work and my mother’s at the Economic Institute and my sister’s making heaps of money at the Portland pub in Radotin. I have no one to play with.”
“I see,” Mrs. Jandova said gravely.
“But perhaps I could go to church,” I pondered. “I’ve never been to church. Maybe I could go! What do you think? Do you think I could go?”
Mrs. Jandova dropped the knitting into her lap.
“You would like to go to church?” she asked suspiciously.
“Maybe,” I said. “I have nothing else to do.”
A wince of a smile crept over the old lady’s face. She looked up at the sky and made the sign of the cross. Then she climbed out of her chair and folded her knitting on the seat.
“If you are really interested in going to church, I will take you,” she said. “But you must promise to behave. And no talking. You’re not allowed to talk in church, is that understood?”
“Yes!” I said happily.
And then I talked to Mrs. Jandova all the way down the hill.
The local church was a small, sand-colored building with six vaulted windows and a classic Czech baroque tower. It stood near the Under the Forest pub and the War Memorial, and was surrounded by a wall of boxwoods. There was a small graveyard at the back, where my dad’s father was buried. Mrs. Jandova walked me to the ivy-covered balustrade in front of the gate.
“You must be quiet now,” she said. “This is God’s house. You’re sure you haven’t been here before?”
“No, never,” I replied. “My granddad is buried in the backyard, but I’ve never been inside.”
I hadn’t been inside the church, in part because it was rarely open. There was a Mass on Thursday afternoons and a service on Sunday mornings, but the rest of the time, the building was locked. There were many beautiful cathedrals in Prague, of course, such as the Snow Lady, the Saint Martin in the Wall, and the Holy Mother Under the Chain, and my mother and I had often visited them during our long walks around the city. Their cold, silent naves were filled with the smell of incense and mold, and pigeons cooed behind their dusty, stained-glass windows. My mother would lift me up and I’d dip my fingers in the font of holy water, but more often than not the basin would be empty, because religion was discouraged and many people were too afraid to go to church. Most of the city’s wonderful cathedrals stood forgotten beneath a permanent coat of scaffolding.
“The Communist Party has liberated the working class from the cage of superstition!” Comrade Humlova would preach from the front of her classroom. “God is the residue of the bourgeois mentality, and the personage of Jesus Christ was invented by priests to fool the working class and steal its money!” A poster with an illuminated head of Karl Marx hung near the door, bearing the slogan RELIGION IS THE OPIATE OF THE MASSES!
The Twelve Little Cakes Page 25