Love and Freedom

by Rosemary Kavan

  My younger son sometimes left his chess problems and appeared at discussions, listened, came to his own wise conclusions and withdrew. He wanted to understand, not make, history. He too had been admitted to university. He would have preferred to read psychology. As he said: ‘With two lunatics in the family, it seems a practical subject.’ But that year enrolment was closed at the re-established department of psychology. Rather than be drafted, Zdeněk had switched to law. In view of Jan’s activities, this too seemed a practical choice.

  The radicals were determined to win over workers for their programme. This was no easy matter. If there was one thing that Novotný had achieved it was the depoliticizing of the workers. He had sown among them distrust of the intelligentsia. A further obstacle was the sheer physical difficulty of contacting workers. Just as unofficial meetings were forbidden, so were unofficial and horizontal contacts between social groups. It would have been illegal for students to enter a factory in order to talk politics. The last thing the workers’ state wanted was for the workers to get ideas!

  The whole social structure was pyramidal: orders came down from the apex, proposals went up from the base. Occasionally such proposals were blessed and sent back down through the various layers. More often they got stuck at the tip — in the case of youth the ČSM Central Committee — and were never heard of again.

  A two-day Prague City ČSM Conference offered an opportunity for communication. There students and workers were actually under the same roof. Even so, there were problems. The students had no chance in the conference hall; but during the breaks they managed to get into conversation with workers in the corridors. Hearing for the first time views other than official ones, a number of workers continued the discussion late into the night. This immediately bore fruit. The next day Luboš Holeček, Pinc, Jan and Laštůvka were elected as delegates to the National Congress. This was a triumph indeed!

  The apparatchiks launched a counter-offensive. Congress delegates were ordered to reject student proposals out of hand. Standpoints to be adopted by Party members on all issues were laid down.

  A communist faculty lecturer warned Jan of the consequences of disobedience. Despite precautions, the radicals waylaid other delegates at lunch and in the corridors and deluged them with Müller’s ideas. In this way, they successfully divided the congress.

  Jan arrived home shining with triumph and celebratory Risener.

  ‘Imagine, Mama, not a single unanimous decision was taken! And over a hundred delegates voted against Zavadil’s re-election!’ Zavadil was the ČSM chairman who had been responsible for Müller’s expulsion.

  To have broken the spell of unanimity was an unprecedented achievement. It signified the first crack in the political monolith. A further encouraging sign was that some courageous Party members among university staff quashed the disciplinary proceedings instigated against Jan and other disobedient students.

  *

  One night not long after the congress, Jan mentioned casually: ‘I sold you for six hundred crowns today.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I owe a friend six hundred. She agreed to waive the debt if I would try to win you for her father.’

  ‘Really Jan, marriage broking, and with your own mother as object! What will you be up to next? Your friend doesn’t even know me.’

  ‘Yes she does. She was in that group of girls Dela and I arranged for you to interview for your population article. She liked you very much. Her father’s a widower. He’s engaged to some woman who’s only interested in clothes. She and Alena don’t hit it off. Alena’s going to work on her father; then we’ll arrange for you two to meet. You could do worse, Mamulinda, he’s tall and good-looking and clever. He works in foreign trade which means he travels about a lot, and he isn’t a bit stuffy.’

  ‘But what about Arnošt?’ I managed to get in at last.

  I had been going out with Arnošt for some months. He was a middle-aged divorcee, a prudently progressive communist and a kind and devoted man.

  ‘He won’t last,’ my son prophesied. ‘I mean, he isn’t your type, really, is he?’

  ‘He’s a very good man. A woman has to be sensible at my age.’

  ‘He’s much too old and dull for you,’

  ‘He’s fifty; that’s not old,’ I demurred.

  ‘Well, you act like twenty; that’s a big age difference,’ Jan retorted. ‘You’re not seriously thinking of marrying him, are you?’

  ‘I haven’t promised but he’d like me to; and I’ve got to settle down some time.’

  ‘You don’t love him.’ Jan’s eyes were coldly accusing. ‘You’d be marrying him for security. I’m sure Arnošt is all you say, but he’s too conventional. Mamulinda, you’ll be bored to death in a couple of years. You’ve never compromised, taken the easy way out. Some women equate comfort with happiness, but not you. Think it over carefully, Mama. Not just because of Alena’s father — that’s only partly serious, though it might work — but for your own sake.’

  My son’s tired face was full of concern. My happiness was very important to him. Though he expected me to act as nurse to his ailments and counsellor to his friends, he never forgot that I was a human being as well. He was sensitive to my moods and could not bear to see me unhappy or out of temper with him. This rarely happened. Though, I must say, he would have tried the patience of the archangel Gabriel. Absent-minded, like his father, he strewed Prague with forgotten caps, umbrellas, pens, spectacle cases and address books. For him, as for Pavel, time was immeasurable: all his obligations were fulfilled with nerve-racking haste in the small hours of doomsday. And such mundane tasks as sorting background material for articles, carbon copies, faculty notes, newspapers and letters were postponed indefinitely. If I remonstrated that his den was a breeding ground for bacteria and an offence to the aesthetic sense, he would reply loftily: ‘Shaw worked in chronic disorder and he was not only a creative genius but lived to be ninety-four, or was it six?’

  He was extravagant. I at least spent only what was in my pocket; Jan spent what was on the horizon. A ring on the downstairs bell at 2 a.m. would drag me to the window. Jan would call up: ‘Be an angel and throw me down 30 crowns for the taxi. I’ll pay you when my next article comes out.’ I would be about to demur that he already owed me more than a front-page, three-column splash could cover, but the reflection that the taxi meter was ticking away further crowns precluded argument. When Jan received a fee, he would remember somebody’s birthday or take flowers to a friend in hospital or to Lída, and the settlement of his debt would recede farther into the future with the consoling promise: ‘If I don’t pay before, Mamulinda, I certainly will in your old age, when you’ll be in greater need.’

  From time to time I steeled myself to deliver some home truths; but the target would elude me. Having assured me he would be in for supper, he would phone to cancel the meal for unimpeachable reasons. Or he would come home unexpectedly early and regale me with details of a political meeting or faculty discussion. His talent for mimicry and outrageous black humour — which only he and I understood — would soon reduce me to helpless laughter, in which state I could not work up steam for a sermon.

  If ever I did manage to administer some overdue rebuke, Jan would hover around miserably until I had forgiven him, which I did almost immediately. It was impossible to remain angry with him. His demonstrative affection and constant need of my companionship far outweighed the anxiety he caused me.

  Now I considered Jan’s words. He was right. Marriage to Arnošt would be a convenience. I was not in love with him; it would be unfair to him. His offer was tempting; someone with whom to share the cost and responsibility of living. A chance to ease off, relax a little. (As though there could be any relaxation with Jan around!) Arnošt would have to move in with us. In his position, he might take exception to Jan’s political activities. I might have to choose between loyalty to Arnošt and loyalty to my students. I knew what my decision would be. I had thrown in my lot with the students.
I believed in them. They in turn awarded me special status. ‘We always think of you as one of us,’ Jana said. ‘You are, after all, only a grown-up child.’

  To which Jan added with a grin: ‘She doesn’t mean you’re mentally retarded but that you haven’t lost your youthful enthusiasm.’

  *

  I thought of Milan. Arnošt had not really assuaged the ache. With Milan I had known real love. I still believed in it. I remembered my words to Dela. It might happen again. Nothing less would do. It took me three months to summon up sufficient courage to break off with Arnošt. Every time I screwed myself up to the point, he brought me steaks or theatre tickets and I postponed the discussion. For weeks I was tormented by remorse. A year later Arnošt was happily married. Alena’s father was still engaged and I was unattached.

  I was not lonely; my life was too full for loneliness. Time and energy seemed to flow from magic cups: the more I drained them, the more remained. I still had a job and a half, a home and children, yet I squeezed in theatres and concerts, swimming and tennis, and an ever-increasing social life. Pre-fifties ‘friends were back in circulation. Colleagues from my teaching days kept in touch. My new job brought friends — on the magazine staff, in the journalists’ union and among the people I interviewed. Jan, of course, continued to fill the flat with his friends (besides his radical colleagues), whom he automatically assumed would become my friends. Even Zdeněk, who was not gregarious like his brother, occasionally brought home a kindred spirit. Not all the evenings were spent in serious discussion. Some were devoted to rock and pop music, for my mother sent the boys the latest English and American records long before they were available in Prague.

  Apart from my full working and social life, I was too absorbed in events to be lonely.

  While I was writing about positive developments such as retraining schemes for redundant workers and improvements in work safety, the critical forces were precipitating open clashes with authority. The first was provoked by the writers. At their national congress in June 1967 they openly attacked censorship and Party control of culture as well as the leadership’s failure to solve any of the basic human problems — the economy, housing, education and so on.

  Pinc and Jan entered my office. ‘Can you lend us a typewriter, some paper and a room where we won’t be disturbed?’ Jan asked.

  I pulled them hurriedly into a small storeroom. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We’ve got a copy of Ludvík Vaculík’s speech!’ Pinc stuttered with excitement. ‘It’s dynamite! We want to type as many copies as we can this morning, then we’ll distribute them to other students who will make copies of them. By tomorrow evening nearly every student in Prague will have read it.’

  I scanned the speech. It was a crushing indictment of power politics which, the author claimed, would eventually create instead of a resistant, cultured community, a docile populace, easily dominated by foreigners.

  I supplied the boys with the necessary materials. Then, in summer 1967, Czech Samizdat was born.

  The regime took harsh revenge. The most audacious writers were expelled from the Communist Party; Literární Noviny, the writers’ openly critical weekly, was taken out of their hands. From Jan and Pinc’s personal friendship with a number of writers sprang a bond of solidarity between writers and students. Protests in support of the writers were hatched in our flat. The writers reciprocated a few months later when students clashed with the police. The immediate cause was a purely practical matter. For months students at one of the technological colleges had been urging the authorities to repair the faculty cables that were responsible for frequent power cuts. When the lights went off for the umpteenth time on a dark October evening, the students’ nerves snapped and they marched out in protest. Their orderly procession was set upon by the police who inflicted severe injuries with their batons. The press and the ČSM apparatus published only distorted police reports of the incident.

  Jan put out a bulletin explaining the students’ case. Again the ČSM apparatchiks intervened to prevent its distribution. After a few issues it was banned.

  Nevertheless, the demo proved to be a turning point. It had brought students into direct conflict with the regime. It brought them closer to the writers and to some of the reformist politicians. The defenders of Jiří Müller, equipped with this earlier experience, set up a political structure and began negotiating with the government. Jan was elected a chairman of a committee co-ordinating activities among the university faculties. The following spring, Professor Kadlec4, the pro-Dubček Minister of Education, referred to student activity as ‘a trigger to democratization’. At the time, however, the leadership took a different view. Mamula5, head of the Party CC’s infamous Eighth Department, insisted that the student unrest was fomented by foreign Intelligence. Novotný was rumoured to be planning a trial with agents Pinc and Kavan.

  Pinc chuckled over supper. ‘I’m supposed to be in contact with a spy ring in Latin America. The idea probably sprang from that pair of orthopaedic boots a Mexican student sent me!’

  Jan was an obvious suspect. He visited his grandparents in the West. His mail bore stamps from all over the world. Since his schooldays he had had pen-friends in several continents. In the summer months our flat was filled with foreign students whom he had met on his roundabout trips to England and generously invited to enjoy the beauties of Prague and his mother’s hospitality.

  I awoke to find Jan bending over me.

  ‘Mama, do you know where my travel permit to Hungary is?’

  ‘Are you mad? You’re not going to Hungary at this time of the morning. It’s only six o’clock.’

  ‘I know, but the police are here …’

  In crumpled dressing-gown, unwashed and uncombed, I donned my hostess smile and advanced into the passage, where two men were standing.

  ‘My son is extraordinarily untidy; I’m sure it will take him hours to locate any specific piece of paper. Won’t you come in?’ I waved vaguely towards my room. This was a piece of bluff. My bedtime reading had consisted of several copies of Svědectví, a journal on Czechoslovak affairs published in Paris by a Czech emigré, Pavel Tigrid. The two policemen declined my offer. They did not wear shiny leather overcoats, nor did they get up so early in the morning as their predecessors of the fifties. After ten minutes they withdrew with Jan’s passport, saying: ‘Report to Bartolomějská at 10 a.m., Mr Kavan. If you find your other travel document, bring it along.’

  What could the police want of Jan? That question blotted out everything else all day. I went through the motions of work at the office, but like a sleepwalker I had no memory of what I had said or done. To my relief Jan was in his room when I reached home.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, what was it about?’ I demanded.

  ‘They questioned me about Vladimír Andrle and my movements and contacts abroad.’

  That dread phrase ‘movements and contacts abroad’ again! The implication was clear. Andrle, one of the ten radicals, had fallen in love with an English girl; he had remained in England after his vacation and asked for asylum.

  ‘You didn’t see Vladimír when you were in England?’ It was hardly a question.

  ‘Of course I did. He’s my friend. His decision to stay was a private one. He wants to study there and get married.’

  Nevertheless, the regime regarded Vladimír as a defector, an enemy of the state. Contacting him had aggravated Jan’s own position.

  Two days later Jan announced that he had been summoned for further questioning to Hradec Králové, Vladimir’s home town where preliminary investigations were being conducted. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. He left. I felt sick with anxiety. The fifties had come to life. Pavel had also had preliminary interrogations. Would Jan’s similarly be followed by arrest and conviction? I pictured Jan being subjected to the same treatment as his father. How long would his health hold out before he confessed to whatever was required of him? Novotný had a bad conscience: that would make him hate the victims of injusti
ce. He would be only too happy to prove their ‘guilt’.

  Momentarily, I weakened. I longed for Jan to give up the struggle. The price was too high. We had suffered enough. He was gone all day. The evening dragged on. Zdeněk chatted to me to take my mind off my worries. He always emerged from his shell to support and console me when his brother was in hospital or in trouble. At midnight I went to bed, but not to sleep.

  At one a.m. I heard the front door open. I gave Jan time to fall asleep, then I crept into his room. Moonlight slanted across his face; he looked innocent and vulnerable. Tears of relief trickled down my cheeks.

  Jan was unusually uncommunicative over breakfast. He said only: ‘The investigation was supposed to concern the Andrle case, but secret police from Prague interrogated me for hours about Müller et al.’

  My fears were confirmed: the police were indeed trying to pin the label ‘hostile faction’ on a group of friends.

  *

  A nice little trial with some fresh agents of imperialism might have rallied the workers and united the Party behind Novotný, but he wavered, uncertain of Party support and public reaction. Opinion had swung round in sympathy with the students after the police brutality. A few broken heads had lost Novotný the chance of ‘legally’ disposing of others.

  They had also proved to be the last nail in the ČSM’s coffin. Students resigned from the Union en masse. Jan and Jana, convinced now that the ČSM was beyond reform, initiated a referendum for or against the creation of a separate student organization. Considering that Müller (and later Holeček) had been expelled for advocating federalization of the ČSM, this move illustrated well the extent to which the students were able to put the regime on the defensive.

  In the meantime, the philosophical faculty anticipated events. On the initiative of the radicals, the faculty elected a student micro-parliament to run its affairs. I attended the inauguration ceremony. My presence at student meetings was never questioned: someone always recognized me as ‘the mother of the regiment’. In addition, I was collecting material for an article on student aims. A solemn hush descended on the large lecture hall as the ČSM representatives handed over their authority and funds. It was a thrilling and symbolic moment: the first act of abdication by the power apparatus.