Red Wolves & White Knights

by Peter Kysel

  “Da, da, da, ja ponimaju Alexey Nikolajevich” mumbled the general secretary into his red emergency phone

  “But, what do we do now? We take your instructions.” Jakeš was humble, when he spoke to his superior.

  “That’s all over. Now, in the spirit of glasnost, you take your own decisions.” The phone clicked as the advisor cut him off and the StB tape recorder stopped.

  This call, and Milouš Jakeš’s subsequent actions, sealed the fate of the regime. The last days of socialism were about to turn from potential tragedy, into farce.

  Jakeš’ wife, Květena, watched Milouš from the adjacent sitting room. She felt apprehensive about the political developments. Milouš was trembling as he put down the receiver. He is scared she thought to herself.

  Květena motioned the StB guard to pour two glasses of Becherovka and joined Milouš to steady their nerves. The grandfather clock chimed 8pm. For several minutes they sipped the liqueur and watched the demonstration in silence. Then Milouš exploded, “My advisor Semionov told me that the Soviets won’t give us fraternal assistance. Květena, socialism is under threat. That antichrist Gorbachev has deserted us. I have been loyal for forty years.” Reflecting on his words and on the ingratitude of his masters, Milouš began to cry. His lifelong treachery was turning into a lia­bility. Květena wondered if she should hug him. Then she remembered that communists didn’t hug. Instead, she motioned the StB agent to refill their glasses and they drank more Becherovka in silence.

  It was Milouš Jakeš who, on the instruction of his earlier Soviet advisor, had telephoned Leonid Brezhnev in Moscow in August 1968, with a plea to the Soviets to occupy Czechoslovakia and destroy the Prague Spring. Milouš was then rewarded with the top party job. Květena understood that Milouš’s new plea for suppression had failed and she began to tremble. Her immediate thoughts were practical. They will punish us. We’ ll lose the villa that the party confis­cated for us. Its capitalist owners may get the villa back and that wouldn’t be fair. Where will we live? She began to sob in sympathy with her husband and her tears galvanised Milouš into action. He turned to his StB guard.

  “Comrade sub-lieutenant, we are not at home. Do you understand?” Milouš said sternly. The agent looked blank and asked, “Are you going out?”

  “Of course not. We’ll be in our bedroom. I shan’t answer any calls. If anyone asks, you tell them that we aren’t here. I refuse to take decisions without Soviet advisors. Bring our dinner upstairs.” Květena looked at Milouš with admiration

  “Milouš, you’re so wise. If they can’t blame you, we’ll keep our villa.” They left the agent to answer the telephone and climbed the stairs to their second-floor bedroom and barricaded themselves inside. The head of the StB, General Lorenz, called at 8:30 pm to ask for instructions regarding the arrested demonstrators. The sub-lieutenant picked up the receiver

  “I cannot call the comrade General Secretary. He and his comrade wife are out.” Lorenz screamed into the receiver

  “Comrade sub-lieutenant, as your superior, I order you to tell me the whereabouts of comrade Jakeš. Has he gone to the Soviet embassy to ask for political asylum?” The agent hesitated, but then he clicked his heels and reported, “No, comrade general. I have just delivered a tray of food to the comrade General Secretary and his comrade wife. The comrades have locked themselves into their bedroom and switched their lights off. They have instructed me to tell callers that they were not in the residence.”

  “Write the complete report and hand it over to me, with our tape recordings, in the morning.”

  “Yes, comrade general” Lorenz understood Jakeš’s game and turned to his subordinates

  “Let’s take our phones off the hook, comrades.” Within an hour the whole regime’s hierarchy played the “dead duck game.” Hundreds of telephones were taken off the hook or remained unanswered. Bloodshed was averted and was fol­lowed by a complete farce.

  Under the blankets, Milouš was planning his survival. It was hard. He wasn’t used to thinking independently. Looking at the tray of leftovers, Jakeš had an inspiration. It’s important to have enough food and drink. He instructed his wife, “It’s important for the country, that I remain out of sight. Květena, prepare a shopping list for our siege. Tomorrow send my chauffeur to special Party shops and stock up with enough provisions for a month. Our villa will be a fortress against the counter-revolution.” Inspired by Soviet films, Milouš tried to remember a suitable rev­olutionary song, to lift their spirits up, but none came to mind. Květena and Milouš pulled their duvet from the bed and slept on the floor, for extra protection from any stray bullets.

  The next day Květena reported a successful shopping expe­dition. The chauffeur observed that the situation in Prague was calm. The siege of 5 Kozlovská Street failed to materi­alise. Beaten and bloodied students were repeatedly shown on television. A nationwide general strike was declared. More demonstrations followed. Watching television, Milouš felt reassured by his decision to stock up on food in defence of socialism and keep out of sight.

  “I told you that they would blame us,” he said to his wife, but Květena had more important concerns than the fate of socialism. She was resolute.

  “Milouš, if you resign, your enemies will leave us alone. We must keep this villa.” Milouš looked surprised by her incisive comments. He thought She looks almost sexy. Should I tell her? Err, No.

  A week later comrade Jakeš ventured out, to announce his resignation. He scurried back home before anyone could tell him to surrender his official residence. He lost his personal StB guard and his chauffeur, but not the villa.

  Jakeš eventually passed the villa to his family, as spoils of his proletarian struggle. His sons sold it for the bourgeois sum of 45 million crowns (£1.5 million).

  In Czechoslovak House in London we handed the StB report back to Hronek.

  “Who has copies?”

  “Our StB and the Soviet KGB. We exchange security information.”

  “Will you be shredding your copies?”

  “Yes, but they will remain at the Lubyanka in Moscow”

  Carol asked Hronek to take her home. When they left, Pavel turned to me.

  “Hronek mentioned the Prognostics Institute in Prague. My sister works for its director. She’s coming to London. We should get the inside track from her.” Most of us had never heard of the institute. As exiles we were fascinated by the sudden political changes in Prague and wanted to learn more. Pavel’s sister Dagmara came to London and explained

  #

  Think Tank

  The Prognostics Institute was the prime think-tank in the country. It was set up in 1984 on orders of the general secre­tary of the Soviet communist party Yuri Andropov, colloqui­ally known as “Butcher of the 1956 Hungarian revolution.”

  The institute was tasked with generating optimistic eco­nomic projections, arguments for the superiority of the Marxist economy and justification for the leading role of the Party in society. All its members were approved by the central committee of the KSC (communist party of Czechoslovakia), with top political clearance. Their priv­ileges included generous salaries, foreign travel, access to special shops and preferential housing. Several of them were StB agents. The director was Valtr Komárek.

  Valtr and his family had impeccable credentials. Both his parents were founding members of the KSC and his siblings were high ranking communists. The young Valtr joined the party when it took control in a coup d’état in 1948. As a loyal cadre, he was educated at the economic institute in Moscow and rose to high ranking jobs in the central com­mittee. His salary was exceptional, well above the ministe­rial grade.

  #

  Prognostics Institute

  In the closing days of the regime, Dagmara’s boss, Valtr Komárek offered the economic expertise of the Prognostics Institute to dissidents of the Civic Forum. The dissidents were romantics. Political democracy was their goal. It didn’t occur to them that democracy depended on the economy. Paradoxically, they w
ere about to be handed political power precisely because the socialist economy, like everything else in the Soviet bloc, had failed.

  Václav Havel personally welcomed Komárek’s offer to take responsibility for economic reforms. This put the nascent democracy in danger of being wrecked by the brave dissi­dents, who had fought for it. The Civic Forum obtained min­isterial positions for members of the Prognostics Institute in the government of national unity. The government was appointed on 9th December, with three institute’s members as ministers. Valtr Komárek became the first deputy prime minister, Vladimír Dlouhý was made the economics min­ister and Václav Klaus the finance minister. The first two were communists. Václav Klaus came from a solid commu­nist family but was not actually a member.

  Eight members of the Prognostics Institute rose to national prominence after the velvet revolution. They founded three separate political parties and two of them, Václav Klaus and Miloš Zeman, eventually became prime ministers and pres­idents of the country.

  In London, Hronek was ready to resign from the diplomatic service before he was pushed out. He and Carol formed a business to launch training programmes for managers in Prague. We asked Hronek about the Prognostics Institute and Komárek.

  “I have a StB report on them. I’ll let you read it in exchange for you telling me how to structure our business.” Hronek’s report was in Czech, with appendices from the KGB reports in Russian. It filled in gaps left by Dagmar.

  #

  Comrade Judas

  The KGB report covered Valtr’s secret visit to Moscow in October 1989, to meet the Soviet politburo. He was an ambitious man, albeit with a tenuous grip on reality. As the communist camp was teetering on the edge of an abyss, he made a pitch for dictatorship.

  “Comrades I ask you to appoint me the general secretary of the Party and the country’s president. Our socialist society is in danger. The incumbent comrades, Jakeš and Husák, are useless and must be replaced. My qualifications are outstand­ing. I was educated in Moscow and sent, by you, comrades, to Cuba to train Che Guevara and Fidel Castro in economic management. I was selected by Comrade Andropov to form the Prognostics Institute. I am devoted to the Soviet Union. I’ll deliver the loyalty of Czechoslovakia, with your fraternal help,” Valtr concluded, referring to Soviet occupation troops. The politburo asked him to wait outside, to consider his request.

  “Comrades, Komárek’s request is insane. Military interven­tion to install him as the dictator would start a civil war” said a pragmatic foreign minister, Eduard Shevardnadze. The others nodded when he added, “Komárek is just not a man of substance. His affected fake academic style, with wild hair and a goatee beard, remind me of Trotsky, another demented revolutionary.” They laughed and someone else added another joke at Valtr’s expense, “Komárek’s advice nearly destroyed the Cuban economy. It cost us billions of roubles. We should have him shot for economic sabotage.” Laughing more, they turned to the KGB’s chairman, Kryuchkov, for his view

  “The StB general Alojz Lorenz, reports that Komárek is unknown in the country and lacks leadership. There is only one point in his favour, comrades. He was appointed by Yuri Andropov, just like me.” The other members chuckled and called Valtr Komárek back. The Soviet comrades were blunt when dealing with collaborators.

  “Comrade, your duty is to be loyal to your Party leadership. You are not fit for any high office of state. Your results in Cuba were disastrous.” Valtr left Moscow shaken and emp­ty-handed. He ignored Gorbachev’s call to the allied coun­tries’ independence at his own peril.

  On the flight back to Prague, Valtr wallowed in self-pity. My comrades have disowned me after forty-three years of loy­alty to the Soviet Union, I deserved better treatment.

  Komárek, realising that news of his secret mission would leak out, felt desperate. His prospects looked bleak. As the aircraft landed at Ruzyně airport, his mood changed again. He became indignant. In common with millions of communists throughout the Eastern bloc, the thought of a timely betrayal occurred to him – When the conditions are right, I’ ll offer my institute’s expertise to the dissidents. They are ignorant of economic matters. They are bound to embrace us. I’ ll call my comrades to prepare.

  Having failed to persuade the Soviet politburo to appoint him as a dictator, the humiliated and angry Komárek took his revenge by turning on his former comrades. Inadvertently, he became one of the godfathers of the Velvet Revolution.

  Reading the StB file we felt disturbed. The shadow of the secret police hung over the country. I shuddered when I remembered my first encounter with them in Prague as a thirteen-year-old boy. I was arrested for asking my friend on a crowded tram for a stick of chewing gum. The terror I felt three decades ago hit me again. I should only return when StB is disbanded. Regardless of Hronek’s reassurances, I could be their target.

  Chapter 2

  Johnsons

  We spent a family Christmas holiday in South Africa with Florisse’s sister Lindy and her husband Rick. Their bunga­low, in Halfway House, was built on a large plot of land and laid out in the shape of a horseshoe, overlooking a barbecue terrace. Sloping gardens surrounded a circular swimming pool with a small island in the centre. The property was protected by an electrified fence and security lights.

  Lindy and Rick had no children, but their house and pad­dock were full of animals. They traditionally held parties at Christmas. When we arrived, Florisse’s father, Wim, took me aside.

  “Our neighbours in Cape Town, George and Fiona Johnson and their son Michael are coming to the party to meet you. We’ve put a table for you in a quiet spot at the far side of the pool. You’ll be able to chat there undisturbed.” Florisse and I were wondering about this need for privacy, but let it pass. We assumed that George wanted to chat about his investments and Florisse rolled her eyes. Finance bored her.

  The Johnsons were pleasant and easy-going people of our age, who had emigrated from England in the 1960s. The families had become friends over tennis and golf. Michael was sent to Harrow and then on to Oxford, to study Russian, which included a year in Moscow. He was completing his studies with a diploma in accountancy.

  It was a hot afternoon and the lunch party was in full swing. Most people were sitting on a lawn between the bar­becue and the pool. Some, including Tamara, splashed in the pool.

  “Shall we move to our table?” suggested Florisse, when we had filled up our plates.“ We wanted to have a word with you about Michael,” said Fiona. Florisse and I looked up with interest, waiting for them to continue. George took over and dropped a bomb, “There is no delicate way to explain it. I’ll get to the point. Michael wants to get a job in Moscow and Fiona and I are worried about his safety. Michael and I are direct descendants of the Russian Tsars. We are interested in your advice.” He paused, to let us digest the information. Before we formulated our response, George added, “There are so many pretenders to the Romanov crown, who squab­ble about their relative claims. Their publicity is a useful diversion. We have kept our ancestral links secret.” I looked at Florisse. She was leaning forward, fascinated, and keen to hear more. Fiona took over.

  “Michael is a romantic. He loves Russia and is excited about the recent changes. He wants to help. Deloittes are offer­ing him a job. Do you think he’ll be safe?” she asked with apprehension. I shrugged my shoulders. Florisse responded first.

  “Peter has similar yearnings and plans to visit Prague. But then he has family there. What is pulling Michael to Russia?” Fiona and George exchanged glances seeking each other’s reassurance. George went on to explain, “Michael’s education was financed by my father’s trust, on the condi­tion that it included the Russian language and culture. We hope to re-establish links with our former homeland.” We waited to hear more and George obliged us.

  “My father was the youngest son of Natalia (Natasha) Sergeyevna of Brasov and the grand duke Mikhail Alexandrovich, the youngest brother of Tsar Nicholas II. Florisse interceded.

  “The names are fa
miliar.” She had studied Russian his­tory because of her interest in ballet. The names made no impression on me. My history lessons covered the Soviet Union. The Jacksons looked uncomfortable. There was a long pause. George shifted in his chair and responded.

  “It’s the story of three families caught up in the Bolshevik revolution. My grandmother Natasha was the twice-di­vorced mistress of grand duke Mikhail Alexandrovich. She and Mikhail scandalised society when, against the Tsar’s wishes, they secretly married in 1911.” George went on.

  “Mikhail Alexandrovich had a private secretary, Brian Johnson, who was a British military intelligence officer. After the Bolshevik revolution, Michael and Brian were exiled to the city of Perm. Natasha was permitted to visit her husband for a week in May 1918. A month later Mikhail and Brian were shot by Cheka [precursor to KGB] in Perm on instructions from Trotsky. The pregnant Natasha was escorted by intelligence agents to England. In 1919 she gave birth to my father, Alexander Michael. Alexander was adopted at birth by Brian Johnson’s brother Philip.” It appeared that the Jacksons had a bloodline leading back to Russia.

  Michael Johnson’s family tree:

  I was thinking; given that the Bolsheviks slaughtered the impe­rial family, the young Michael Alexander has probably more claim to the Romanov crown than anyone else. Lenin ordered the extermination of the family. Communist rule is being swept away, but it could be replaced by another dictatorship. The Soviet Union is a brutal place. Michael will be in danger. He would be foolish to expose himself. I looked around. Other guests were at the other side of the pool enjoying the barbe­cue. We couldn’t be overheard.

  “I’ll meet Michael in London to discuss if and how it would be safe for him to work in Moscow.” Jacksons nodded in appreciation and we re-joined the party.