by Ivan Klíma
I offered the doctor some money and asked if Father could be moved to a private room. And so for his final days, Father received his own room with a bathroom.
I went to see him every day at the hospital. Although he was extremely weak, he still believed his health would improve, and just before the end, he told me he would fight his illness. He really didn’t feel so old.
The day before he died, he complained he had fallen on the way to the bathroom and couldn’t get up. When he called the nurse, she started shouting at him to pick himself up off the floor; she had enough work without having to get him back into bed. He asked me how people could be so insensitive to someone who had lost his strength.
In his final hours, I sat by the bed holding his hand. I don’t know if he sensed I was there, but I hoped at least part of him registered that someone was trying to hold him from departing, that he was not alone. His breathing became more and more intermittent; a few seconds would pass between the individual breaths, and I knew the moment was approaching when they would cease altogether.
Certainly I had witnessed too many deaths in my childhood, but I had never been present when someone close to me was dying. I had never experienced firsthand the moment of the irrevocable leap from the last breath to eternal nonexistence.
That moment kept coming back to me, and I knew there was only one way to overcome its morbid insistency.
Perhaps it was the final impulse for me to start writing the litany I called Love and Garbage.
I had filled various notebooks with fragments of love declarations, letters, and unhappy meditations about our precipitous and self-destructive civilization. I had noted down a word or two about Father’s death, but now I could think of little else. I loved my father, and nothing could tarnish or impugn this love—it would endure for as long as I lived, perhaps even longer, since things in this world cannot vanish entirely. Angels or some other ethereal beings carry scales in their hands upon which are weighed all the love and hatred in this world, and life inclines to that which predominates.
*
The news came that Václav Havel was seriously ill in the prison where he was being held for defending the unjustly persecuted from despotism. Finally, fearing that the world-famous author might die from pneumonia in a cell, the custodians of power commuted the few months remaining of his sentence and released him. He lay in the hospital near Petřín Hill, and as soon as he was doing a little better, we went to see him. I don’t think this tiny hospital had ever had a patient so besieged with visitors.
Václav was pale and thin, but otherwise it seemed his long stay in prison had neither broken him nor dulled his interest in public affairs.
When they released him into home care a few days later, we invited him to a meeting where we were composing our journal Contents. We told him about the events that had unfolded since the last time he had met with us—who had allowed himself be exiled abroad, who had written something new, what we thought about the political situation after the change of the Moscow potentate. He listened attentively and then, with a certain matter-of-factness, gave us his assessment of the situation. In his opinion, changes were happening beneath the apparently unvarying surface of society. The Communists, who assumed they were destined to remain in power here and in every other country in which they had seized power, were demoralized and so intellectually barren that they were gradually losing the ability to alter anything. Without change, no future was possible, and so the heterogeneous society of those who refused to accept the current state of affairs would become more important. The Communists had already lost the majority of their ardent followers, and even though they lived with a certain self-deception, they knew well enough that all the Socialist euphoria was feigned, and they were supported by the people less and less. They remained in power only owing to the police force, but at the same time they did not dare resort to their previous violence. Havel also discussed the international situation, the attempt to suppress Solidarity in Poland and the alternation of old men in Russia. His “lecture” lasted about thirty minutes. When we expressed our collective surprise that a person who had just returned from three and a half years in prison possessed such an overview of events, he explained that it was quite simple. All you had to do was read Rudé právo thoroughly. You don’t read it, he admonished us, and have no idea that everything is right there between the lines—what’s happening, what rankles those at the top, and what kind of miracle they are still hoping for.
*
I wrote to Jürgen Braunschweiger that I had something resembling a novel in my head, and a large part of it on paper. Also, I had unexpectedly obtained my passport. Then I explained to him the limited number of countries I was allowed to travel to. I immediately received a proposal that all of his authors—the ones who had passports, at least—meet somewhere in Hungary. He had purchased an old castle in the town of Motovun in Slovenia, which he had converted to a summer residence where he spent almost every weekend. From there, it wasn’t far to Hungary, and he’d almost certainly be allowed into Hungary. First off, he didn’t publish any Hungarian authors, and, second, the Hungarian authorities behaved much more civilly than ours.
With Wolfgang’s help, Jürgen and I agreed in writing on a place and time to meet. In the end, only three of Jürgen’s authors attended the meeting—Kohout and Gruša were already living in Austria and Germany; Ludvík Vaculík was refused a passport; and my former boss at Literární noviny, Jiří Šotola, had gone so far as to be published officially. I was somewhat alarmed by the idea that, like Pavel Kohout, I could be deprived of my citizenship and thereby exiled from my country, but I didn’t think it probable that the authorities would allow me to go to Hungary with such perfidious intentions.
We decided to gather at a small summer resort near Lake Balaton, and after a span of ten years I saw my publisher and my friend Gruša again. My friends consumed a great deal of truly superb wine (I was rather abstemious as far as wine was concerned) and discussed the possibilities of further publications. Some time ago, Jürgen had left the publishing house that had brought out our works and established his own company, which published illustrated books—studies, for example, about the history of flags or a pictorial devoted to different countries or nature reserves. Publishing any sort of imaginative literature did not fit into his plans, but he was prepared to continue working with us as a literary agent. He lacked experience, of course, in publishing books other than in the German language, but he promised to help us as much as he could. If we found a better agent, he would have no objections. He also said that the worst was behind us. We had successfully gained access to the book market—we were now known and he had no doubt we would become established. I saw that he would have been relieved to be released from the burden of his friendly duty to help us.
It was discouraging to think of losing a friend from a country where blacklists of authors did not exist. It wouldn’t be easy to find a new publisher or agent abroad, even if one were to write a book that publishers wanted.
On top of everything else, our faithful courier Wolfgang was concluding his diplomatic career and preparing to leave our country. He invited us whose mail he had delivered to his abode in Vinohrady. We racked our brains over what to give him to express our gratitude. Finally, I had an idea: Just as we had awarded Hrabal the title of Prince of Czech Literature, we would bestow an order on Wolfgang. My friends took to the idea, and we wrote an accompanying text for the order, which stated “for assistance to Czech literature during times of darkness.” Once again, Saša obtained a Latin translation, our Nanda copied out the text in old-fashioned lettering, and one of our friends and foremost sculptors created the order in the form of a bronze book brooch (it weighed at least a kilo and was certainly not suited for pinning on a lapel). Václav Havel, Ludvík Vaculík, and I signed the document, and thus we usurpers, as current propaganda would have designated us, elevated ourselves to spokesmen for Czech literature. During the first farewell toast we solemnly presented t
he unsuspecting Wolfgang with the order. I don’t remember who symbolically pinned it on him. It was probably the oldest of us, Vaculík. Václav had no idea he would soon be pinning several dozen awards every year, and among the laureates would be Wolfgang himself.
It was our order and accompanying text that our extraordinary courier hung on the wall of his home in Melsungen and claimed it was the highest award he had ever received.
*
On her fourth try, Nanda was accepted at the Academy of Performing Arts in a field with a somewhat mysterious description: educating students in the craft of theater and broadcasting with an emphasis on puppetry; her major—design and technology. It was a subject we resorted to out of necessity, but it turned out to be serious and multifaceted. Nanda learned not only how to draw and paint but also how to fashion puppets and work with different materials.
At the same time, more and more people were coming to see me to borrow books from our typewritten series. I think I could tell who visited upon the assignment of State Security, who out of sympathy, and who out of an interest in what was new in a literature that was not subject to censorship. Several times I was invited—usually outside Prague—to someone’s cottage or a private apartment to read something or talk about literature. I was usually led into a roomful of guests I didn’t know, but I believed that no one came out of ill will. It was encouraging to meet with people who themselves were not among the persecuted but had enough courage and curiosity to meet with those who were.
After four years of commuting, Helena finally got a job in Prague at a couples’ therapy office beneath the Nusle Bridge. One evening, she was invited to an acquaintance’s place in Hanspaulka. Apparently, she and her husband had gotten their hands on a rare film about Dubček and the events of 1968. It would have been a shame to show the film just for themselves.
Helena accepted the invitation. Before we set out, I heard some news that no longer surprised anyone: Another Bolshevik leader had expired (the second in ten years), and the hearts and minds of all the vassals in the entire camp of peace were filled with the deepest sorrow.
When we arrived in Hanspaulka a little late, we saw that the hostess had fulfilled her intention to show the film to more than her immediate family. Around fifty guests crowded the apartment, among them many of our friends who were banned from publishing or research. I saw sandwiches on plates in the kitchen, but first the film started. Just at the moment when the ingenuous and smiling face of Dubček peeped out at us, something prompted me to turn around. To my astonishment, I saw uniformed members of State Security standing in the doorway. Where had they come from? Were they among the invited guests?
After about twenty minutes they let us off on Bartolomějská Street. Even though it was nearing ten o’clock at night, the lights were on. State Security had apparently been on high alert, and only then did I realize that the projection of the rare documentary occurred on the day of the unplanned death of the Soviet leader, Konstantin Chernenko. Such events were always accompanied by greater police vigilance.
We were led into some sort of large hall (I didn’t know they had anything like this) and, from there, were taken individually to be interrogated. It went slowly, and we didn’t see those who were led away again; they were either locked in cells or let out through another door. Time dragged on more than it did in a dentist’s waiting room. The officers watching over us demanded we not speak to one another. Then one of the women started singing “Kyrie eleison.” The hymn sounded powerful and, in view of the situation, absurd. To compound the absurdity, our host protested that we were starving—he’d prepared food at home, and now it was going to waste. To our amazement, the officers bundled him into a car and drove him back to Hanspaulka, where he grabbed the trays of sandwiches and returned.
After midnight, they came for me and I was led to an office where I saw “my” official behind a desk. Mr. Irovsky had been interrogating me for the past two or three years—he seemed like a typical police official of the times. He demanded that I report to him whenever summoned and that I not demonstrate disrespect for his office. He never once yelled at me. (If he’d been given the order to yell, I’m sure he would have done so.) Usually he asked questions about our samizdat journal, or my meetings with some journalist from Britain or another free country, and when I said I didn’t remember or refused to answer, he didn’t press me. He would note down everything briefly, hand me the minutes to sign, and, with an ironic comment, perhaps concerning my faulty memory, let me go. This time he greeted me once again ironically: “We should have known. Wherever something provocative is going on, we are sure to find Klíma.” I said that I didn’t do provocative things. Besides, I had no idea what was supposed to be going on. It occurred to me that I wouldn’t be harming anyone by telling the truth, and I explained that my wife and I had been invited over by an acquaintance and, to our surprise, we were met with a large gathering.
He released me after ten minutes; Helena had been released a few minutes before. A number of my friends were led to a cell for the night and let go the next day.
Once again at liberty, we learned the name of the man who had been chosen for the Soviet throne. I had never heard his name before: Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev.
Essay: The Elite, p. 530
20
The pension insurance I had managed to acquire, thanks to Zdeněk Miler when he filmed seven cartoons based on my stories, lasted for several years. Each year, I declared at least part of my foreign income in order to keep the insurance.
Because I had spent three and a half years in a concentration camp during the war, I had the right to retire a little earlier, and the time was approaching. Two years and three months before the target date, a new and ambitious collaborator, boasting the regal name of Kaiser, was assigned to head the Literary Fund. Kaiser decided to cancel my insurance with this intriguing justification: Please find enclosed the supporting documents you submitted with your request for artists’ social security. It is not possible to demonstrate unequivocally that your income was the result of artistic activity. This determination was maliciously timed. The law stated that every insured person must work at least one day during the two years before retirement—that is, he must receive an income from a proper and approved work source. If I didn’t, I would lose my entitlement to any sort of pension.
Of course, getting proper employment for a single day was impossible. Therefore, I had to look for someone who would employ me. I knew I would not be allowed to perform qualified work. I couldn’t publish my books; I couldn’t write reviews or work as a copyreader, so I tried to think up some kind of job that would be at least a little interesting and that I could actually perform.
Engineer František Kocina, who also regularly played Mariáš at Jaroslav Dietl’s, worked at the Institute of Geodesy. I recalled Kafka’s two characters who were the surveyor’s assistants, and the protagonist in my first novel who was a land surveyor. I went to see František at the institute and confided to him that I needed to be employed for at least a short time.
He told me that they took on externs, usually students, and he could get me a job if I wanted, but I would have to work at least two months. Then he tried to talk me out of it. We would be surveying in the fields, and not only would my job consist of holding the surveyor’s pole, but most likely I would have to do quite a bit of digging as well.
I told him I would get used to it and that I was counting on the job.
We agreed I would start at the beginning of September. Until then, he added, I could still change my mind.
I had found work but I was still uneasy. What if I got sick in September or didn’t get the job in the end?
After he finished college, Michal found a position at a computer technology firm and heard they were looking for a messenger. I did have, after all, some postal experience, and he suggested this would be much less hazardous.
And so, almost fifteen years after my time as an orderly, I once again found myself in a normal job
, a Socialist job, I should add. When I had finished reading the newspaper or part of a book I had brought with me, I was politely asked to deliver a package to one of the offices. Sometimes it was a fairly large package of computer disks—their enormous computers were located in Vršovice, while my office was in South Town. The central office was in Old Town, where I sometimes took the regular mail. Nobody checked up on how long I spent on my errands, and sometimes when I came back, my amicable boss would say, “If you’re not having any fun here, you can go home. We won’t need you for anything else today.”
My “work” here was indeed quite pleasant—things were worse with my other, more risky postal work. Wolfgang’s replacement was much more careful, and he asked me to request his services only when it was truly important. He didn’t want to risk meeting unnecessarily and decided we would use a trash can in front of his house as a dead letter drop, something he’d unimaginatively come up with himself. I thought this much more risky than delivering the material in person. Fortunately, we met the American attaché, and it was to him that I would deliver the outgoing mail.
After two months, my official postal duties at Michal’s company came to an end. To bid my fond friends farewell, I cooked up an enormous pot of Russian borscht in honor of the auspicious perestroika under way in Russia.
Thus, I had ensured I would not be deprived of my miserable pension. But suddenly I was sorry that I had missed out on the opportunity to work as a surveyor’s lineman.
I went to see František and told him truthfully that I no longer needed the work, but I had made a promise, and I was here to announce that I was ready. František was astonished. He said this had made sense when I explained it was a matter of my pension, but now that I didn’t need it, he couldn’t understand why I was eager to take on such a difficult job, especially as someone unused to physical labor and for such poor pay. Of course, he was right. I was interested in the work precisely because I’d never done anything like it before. My friend again tried to talk me out of it but finally shrugged his shoulders, flipped through a batch of papers, and then said I should report on September 1 to Engineer Beránek in Městec Králová at 7 a.m. at the latest. The building was on the right corner of the square coming from Prague. That was where we would be staying, but as far as he was aware, we would have to obtain our own beds. He also said that Engineer Beránek was a decent fellow and would certainly understand my situation.
