My Crazy Century

by Ivan Klíma

  In “Freedom and Responsibility,” the sociologist Miroslav Jodl distinguished between external and internal freedom. The political system must ensure external freedom in the form of political freedoms, that is, the freedom of expression and of association. He also discussed, although on a theoretical level, the character of contemporary power: All power tends toward hypertrophy. From this it follows that no power can be allowed to exist for long without control from below. Otherwise power degenerates into license and arbitrariness; it does not recognize any limitations other than those it establishes itself, and it transforms the citizen into a vassal.

  Václav Havel contributed an essay to the same issue titled “On the Theme of an Opposition.” Even in a Socialist society, he claimed, an opposition is necessary, and whoever imagines that such an opposition can be substituted for by some sort of unorganized public opinion (for example, the press) is mistaken. Every opposition must have the opportunity to try to hold power. He expressed this aphoristically. Ultimately, power really listens only to power, and if government is to be improved, we must be able to threaten its existence, not merely its reputation. Aware that the Communist leadership would allow only unwillingly the founding of new parties, he cautiously proposed the concept of such a new party. Its goal would also be to create democratic socialism, but it would come from the historical and humanitarian traditions of our country. Although it would be a fully legal partner in the battle for power, because it would no longer be built on class bases, its politics would be founded on a historically new type of coalition cooperation . . . with full political autonomy.

  At the end of April, I wrote an article called “One Design, One Party” and tried to impugn the image of an ineluctable Socialist society. I identified all the praiseworthy aspects of socialism, such as the socialization of the means of production, the payment for work according to merit, and the building of a humanitarian society. Then I asked how much of this had been achieved. The answer was obvious: nothing. The entire project had been a utopian fantasy combined with the ideals, illusions, and one-sided rationalism of the nineteenth century. I characterized the party, which had taken on responsibility for the creation of what it called a Socialist society:

  The party that arose to create a rationally governed society is engendering irrationality and chaos. It proclaims itself a scientific government and at the same time chains down science. It proclaims itself the most just order and at the same time sentences thousands, tens of thousands (in some countries, millions) of people who doubt the justice of this order. It proclaims the equality of the people and at the same time creates a myth of a chosen class; it proclaims a higher form of democracy and at the same time disposes of even imperfect guarantees and institutions of the previous system. It proclaims the greatest freedom and at the same time limits the most fundamental freedoms. . . . It proclaims class consciousness as the primary motivation for work and at the same time builds masses of forced-labor camps. It proclaims itself the embodiment of progress and at the same time quickly turns into an odd community, where side by side stand the remains of the elite, careerists, even sordid hoodlums. It proclaims itself the party of the working class and at the same time deprives workers of rights for which they have fought persistently for hundreds of years. . . . For this party there are only two choices: look truth in the face, no matter how shocking it may be, or continue down a path that cannot lead anywhere but to national catastrophe.

  I then admitted that several positive changes had occurred over the past few years.

  One thing, however, has not changed: the theory of the necessity of a single, optimal, societal design and a single avant-garde political organization that will consistently and without fail discover the truth. After every change, no matter how absurd, the investigators have stood side by side with their rehabilitated victims. After years, the most obvious thing has not taken place: Those whose politics were errant or monstrous have not abandoned power.

  *

  At the request of several of our foremost scholars, Ludvík Vaculík composed and published “Two Thousand Words” at the end of June. In what he considered a sort of democratic manifesto, he attempted to characterize the corruption of Communist power and provide some guidelines concerning the means of rectifying the situation. His enumeration of the attributes of Communist power was overwhelming. The Communist Party transformed a political party and an alliance based on ideas into an organization for exerting power, one that proved highly attractive to power-hungry individuals eager to wield authority, to cowards who took the safe and easy route, and to people with a bad conscience. Because the party was connected with the state and everything that happened in the country, there was no one to criticize it. Parliament forgot how to hold proper debates, the government forgot how to govern properly, and managers forgot how to manage properly. . . . Personal and collective honor decayed. An uncontrollable apparatus ruled the country. It claimed that the working class was in charge, whereas in reality the apparatus itself had become the new suzerain. The manifesto warned people not to be satisfied with what they had gained so far. He recommended that citizens call for the resignation of those who until only recently ruled incompetently, those who abused their power, damaged public property, and acted dishonorably or brutally. Ways must be found to compel them to resign. To mention a few methods: public criticism, resolutions, demonstrations, demonstrative work brigades, collections to buy presents for them upon their retirement, strikes, and picketing at their front doors. . . . For questions that no one else will look into, let us set up our own civic committees and commissions. There is nothing difficult about this; a few people gather together, elect a chairman, keep proper records, publish their findings, demand solutions, and refuse to be shouted down.

  On the day the manifesto was published, Ludvík and I were at a meeting somewhere in Vysočina—I no longer remember the name of the town—and because the discussion, as often happened during that time, went on well into the evening, we spent the night in a small hotel. The manifesto did indeed elicit disapproval, even among Dubček’s leadership. Vaculík was hunted everywhere, but the manifesto had already seen the light of day. Tens of thousands of Czechoslovak citizens had signed it, and for all the opponents of change both here and in the Soviet Union, it became one of the pretexts for the accusation that counterrevolutionaries were making their way to power.

  If Vaculík had published the text merely as his own personal opinion, rather than as a manifesto, it probably wouldn’t have been greeted with such enthusiasm. In the same issue he wrote an article called “The Process of Renewal in Semily,” in which he quoted a statement by one of the discussants: It is necessary to consider the Communist Party as a criminal organization . . . and exclude it from public activity no matter how pleasant its current members make themselves out to be. This was perhaps the most critical political formulation that appeared in the press at that time, yet I do not recall that it aroused any reaction.

  *

  Editorial Board of Literární Listy:

  I align myself with the great number of those who express complete agreement with the article “Two Thousand Words.” I cannot refuse to join you despite the fact that I cannot operate within the framework of any organization. . . . I enclose two pamphlets (with the same text) of the fifty or perhaps more I found today (6 July 68) around 5 a.m. on the way from Vysočany to Ohrada. These pamphlets lay scattered along the right side of the road near the sidewalk in the grass:

  COMRADES!

  OUR SOCIALIST HOMELAND IS UNDER SERIOUS THREAT.

  Enemy forces are going on the offensive. . . . They have taken over the press, radio, and television. With their irresponsible speeches they are disorienting the public and inhibiting its activity. They are maligning everything we have achieved over the past twenty years and attempting to dismantle the social amenities of workers and farmers. . . . The proclamation “Two Thousand Words” is an open call to counterrevolution. . . . The rabble of traitors and murderers
from the K231 Club are preparing a reactionary takeover and preparing to massacre honorable Communists and patriots. Minister of the Interior Pavel is systematically providing Mr. Brodský a list of names and addresses of members of the state security forces in order to institute mass terror. . . . Close ranks and prepare for battle against the enemies of socialism! People, be vigilant! Be prepared to defend socialism, weapon in hand. Organize demonstrations with armed units of the people’s militia.

  From a letter to Literární listy

  *

  At the editorial offices we started to realize the danger threatening from within the disunited but still ruling party, as well as from the Soviet Union and other Stalinist countries of the Warsaw Pact. We tried to formulate things more cautiously, and we naively assumed that someone would take note of our more moderate tone. It soon turned out, however, that everything had already been decided.

  Never before or since have I lived with such haste or intensity.

  Even though we wrote about the necessity of an opposition party, these were merely theoretical considerations. An opposition party never arose, and if we had been even a little honest with ourselves, we might have suspected that the ruling party would never have allowed it. Certainly most of our readers suspected as much. Some even started to consider our paper as such an opposition party, or at least the voice of one.

  Readers came to our offices offering advice on what to write about or to tell us their stories. But we had only sixteen pages, two of which were devoted to advertisements and cultural events. The critical and foreign sections demanded at least half the remaining space.

  Although we hired several more editors, we didn’t have time even to read all the letters we received. When I left the offices on Friday, I would carry them home with me in my briefcase, but I knew I wouldn’t have time to look at most of them. Foreign correspondents came to see us, as well. Many of them stopped by the foreign desk. This is how I came to meet Neal Ascherson from the Observer. He was interested in everything that was going on and in return invited me to visit his own editorial offices in London.

  Vaculík, Pavel Kohout, Jan Procházka, Alexandr Kliment, Jiří Hanzelka, myself, and many other writers were often invited to various meetings and discussion evenings. It was as if a miracle were taking place. The silent crowd of people was suddenly transformed into citizens eager to communicate their opinions and suggestions. Most of all they asked us what they should be doing, what we thought about the situation, and how everything would turn out.

  But we knew nothing more than they did.

  When troops of the Warsaw Pact started traveling around our country in July pretending they were merely extending their planned maneuvers, I wrote an article in which I challenged our government to make it clear that if we were attacked, we would defend ourselves. (As early as the beginning of May we published such a challenge, in which my colleague Jiří Lederer quoted from Le Monde: “General Yepishev, chief of the Main Political Directorate of the Soviet Army, announced that the army of the USSR was prepared to fulfill its duty if he received a request from a group of loyal Communists to come to the aid of socialism in Czechoslovakia.”)

  Milan Jungmann called me into his office and said my article might incense our Soviet comrades even more. They were already incensed, I objected. But if they knew we were willing to take up arms, perhaps they were hesitating, if only in view of the international repercussions a war in Central Europe would have. To capitulate ahead of time had turned out to be a serious tactical mistake in 1938 when we surrendered to Hitler without a fight.

  Finally I agreed that we would go to the Central Committee of the party and consult with them.

  Most of the functionaries had already been replaced in the ideological department. I was received by Milan Hübl, who was also a member of our working group of historians. He said he’d read my article with interest. Afterward he rose, brought out a large map of Europe, and ran his finger along our borders. Here the border with the Soviet Union continues with the border with Poland, then the German Democratic Republic, where Soviet units remain until today. Then a small border with Bavaria and neutral Austria, and then Jan Kadár’s Hungary. “And you want to take up arms?” he asked. “As far as international repercussions go, have no illusions in that regard. The Americans will submit a note of protest; the French will submit a polite query that will make its way to a meeting of the UN Security Council, where every resolution will be vetoed by the Soviets. Furthermore”—he continued his deductions—“the Soviets are just waiting for something like this so they can substantiate our betrayal because to take up arms against the Soviet army would mean betrayal. The manifesto ‘Two Thousand Words’ was enough for them to allege that socialism was under threat in Czechoslovakia.”

  It was difficult to decide who was right, but I pulled the article.

  *

  About a week later two students appeared at our offices asking to speak with someone in charge. They were brought to our department, where Saša Kliment and I happened to be. The students feverishly told us they had positive information about a provocation being prepared by Soviet agents who were calling for a demonstration on the Old Town Square in the name of some new organization (I don’t recall the name). They were going to call for our exit from the Warsaw Pact and for a proclamation of neutrality. They had invited correspondents and journalists from the Soviet Union as well as the West. The students asked us to do something because the outcome of such a demonstration was certainly clear.

  The students left, and Saša and I argued about what to do. As if we could prevent any sort of demonstration. The police were the only ones who could do anything like that. Finally we went to see the new minister of the interior, Josef Pavel.

  It was a strange time when two editors from a literary newspaper could set off for the Ministry of the Interior, introduce themselves at the porter’s lodge saying they had to speak immediately with the minister, and a few minutes later enter the minister’s enormous office.

  The minister seemed out of place in the expanse of the room, even symbolically small. We relayed to him what the students had told us. The minister didn’t seem at all surprised (it later occurred to me that he’d certainly known about the planned provocation before we had) and said, “Gentlemen, if we started forbidding people to gather, we’d be behaving just like those who had forbidden us before them.” But he promised to take it under consideration and consult with his deputies. With that we were dismissed.

  The police actually did prevent the demonstration, but those who had prepared the provocation could go off and organize another one at any time. There was no doubt about that.

  Essay: Dreams and Reality, p. 503

  My father and mother, before I was born.

  Passport photo, age seven, for a passport I never used.

  In the army, 1953.

  During one of my reportage expeditions, here with

  Mirek Červenka in the Soviet Union, 1956.

  Family wedding photo, from the right: father,

  mother-in-law, grandmother, Jan, Helena, myself,

  mother, father-in-law, sister-in-law.

  Helena and me with my brother Jan in London,

  en route to the United States.

  .

  As a visiting professor at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor.

  Tuning in and listening to Svobodná Evropa

  [Radio Free Europe] with Helena.

  © Michal Klíma

  Working as an orderly, early 1970s.

  © Petr Kliment

  A get-together in Broumar; Milan Uhde reads aloud. To his right, Honza

  Trefulka; to his left, Milan Jungmann and myself, June 1984.

  With Milan Kundera, 1973.

  Michal and Arthur Miller at our place in Hodkovičky.

  Meeting with Philip Roth during one of his visits.

  With Pavel Kohout and Václav Havel at the beginning

  of the 1970s in Hrádeček.

  Fro
m left: Zdeněk Kotrlý, Miroslav Kusý, Milan Uhde, Šimečka Junior,

  Václav Havel, Miroslav Zikmund, myself, Milan Šimečka, Eda Kriseová,

  Petr Kabeš, Karel Pecka, Milan Jungmann, Jan Trefulka, Iva Kotrlá,

  Lenka Procházková, Zdeněk Urbánek, Ludvík Vaculík,

  at the beginning of the 1980s.

  As a public speaker at the end of 1989.

  15

  It was sometime in April of that cataclysmic Prague Spring when Helena and I went to a party at Karol Sidon’s. There were many other guests in his home, most of them unfamiliar to me. As usual during this period, politics was the primary topic of conversation. However, I noticed a girl there—perfectly made up and beautiful—who was unquestionably bored. She hadn’t said a word the entire time and then proceeded into another room. I set off after her.

  She was sitting on the floor paging through some illustrated magazines. I introduced myself. She said her name was Olga and added that she’d heard of me.

  We talked about acquaintances, and then she started to tell me about a trip to Italy the previous year and described the dazzling sun and marvelous countryside, the wonderful and subtle wines, and the delightful slender and suntanned lads who, unlike Czechs, hardly set eyes on a girl before they try to make a move. She became quite animated as she recounted her sojourn. She had a melodic voice and spoke passionately about something in which I had no interest. I also learned she was finishing her studies in applied arts and was not married. The tall boy sitting in the next room getting drunk on crappy wine belonged to her. I understood from her stories that there were several more boys who belonged to her. I can’t explain why—most likely simply because she was appealing—I suggested we get together sometime. After a moment of hesitation and on the condition that we would talk about something other than what everyone was always talking about, she agreed.