My Crazy Century

by Ivan Klíma

  *

  From the very start of 1989, we met more often than in previous years. At the beginning of April, Yevgeny Yevtushenko, the Russian poet known for his rebellious verses, came to Prague. His translator, Václav Daněk, convinced him to skip lunch with the head of the official Writers’ Union and visit us instead. Daněk assured him I would definitely invite more interesting guests. I did indeed invite most of my friends, among them our two celebrated travel writers, Jiří Hanzelka and Miroslav Zikmund. These two had traveled through the Soviet Union and composed their devastating findings and sent them to the Communist Party.

  Yevtushenko arrived with his typical self-confidence and enthusiastically described the changes occurring in his country. He also recited his poem “Russian Tanks in Prague,” which he had written, he said, two days after the Soviet invasion of Prague and sent it to the misguided rulers of his country. For its time, the poem was quite courageous. The first verses read:

  Tanks are rolling across Prague

  in the sunset blood of dawn.

  Tanks are rolling across truth,

  not a newspaper named Pravda

  Tanks are rolling across the temptation

  to live free from the power of clichés.

  Tanks are rolling across the soldiers

  who sit inside those tanks.

  The conclusion was very personal and, as was fitting for Yevtushenko, even affected:

  Before I bite the dust,

  no matter what they call me,

  I turn to my descendants

  with only one request:

  Above me without sobbing

  let them write, in truth:

  “A Russian writer crushed

  by Russian tanks in Prague.”

  Then the Russian poet proclaimed that he had always believed in the ideals of the Prague Spring. Now he believed we would return to them.

  To this, my colleague Hanzelka replied that it wouldn’t be so easy, and then he availed himself of the following image: A criminal breaks into a house, ties up and gags the owner, places a guard on him, and leaves. After twenty years, the criminal’s son remembers the victim; he even feels somewhat sorry for him and tells him, Father overdid it a little; now you can do what you want. But the victim is still gagged and bound. The guard hasn’t even been called off. Even if he managed to free himself, could anyone expect that twenty years in fetters hasn’t changed him?

  Yevtushenko suggested that Hanzelka write a description of our situation, and he would make sure Gorbachev himself got it, or at least his trusted associate and adviser, Alexander Yakovlev.

  But Hanzelka had already sent too many letters with no results.

  *

  A few days later, we convened another interesting meeting. Along with my usual friends, I invited members of the underground who, just like me, were prohibited and illegally published the typewritten journals Vokno and Revolver Revue as well as a typewritten series called Popelnice. I had assumed that although we had different literary convictions, we all wanted everyone to be able to publish freely. But our guests accused us of remaining official authors—more precisely, officially prohibited authors—and now we were attempting to reestablish our bygone prestige. Most of us unjustly considered ourselves creators of underground literature, but we were nevertheless publishing abroad and giving interviews to foreign journals. Unlike us, they had always remained secluded, off to the side because they were interested in authentic art, not some kind of consumer production that was forbidden only because of some official idiocy. We tried to explain that we too were trying to create authentic literature. But we couldn’t come to an agreement. Who can judge what is authentic?

  At another meeting, this time without our critics from the underground, we agreed that we should establish an independent writers’ organization with a mission to stand up for freedom of creativity for every author, however he was characterized. But such an organization would have no hope of being recognized and permitted by the authorities. It would just bring further interrogations and, most likely, renewed assaults. It occurred to me that the PEN Club was still alive (and some of us were still members). The authorities hadn’t banned the organization because it was an international group with its seat in London, where their authority did not reach. They did, however, try to hobble its activities (which, among other things, included defending freedom of expression and creativity), and in the early seventies the Prague office was designated a sleeper office. What if we attempted to resuscitate it now?

  My friends liked the idea and, as usual, I was punished for it by having to put it into action.

  I decided to get thirty signatures from Czech writers, which would revive the Czech office of the PEN Club. My thinking was that these thirty signatures would represent all of Czech literature.

  At the time, writers could be divided roughly into three groups based on their relationship with the authorities, not on their artistic convictions. First were the writers who were most acceptable to the government, members of the official Writers’ Union. The second group, referred to as the “gray zone,” comprised authors (usually younger) who, although they were permitted to publish, were not members of the Writers’ Union and often had difficulties with the censors. Finally there were the prohibited authors. I asked those who kept away from political activities to sign the request to renew the PEN Club in the name of all banned writers. Then I turned to several of my colleagues in the “gray zone.” Some were excited about our project.

  Then I visited Mrs. Marta Kadlečíková, who for twenty years had remained the secretary of our sleeper office. She was still receiving documents from London, which were sent to all active or sleeper offices. I asked her in the name of thirty petitioners to inform London that we were renewing our activity.

  Receiving recognition from London was easy; we expected more trouble from our authorities. Marta and I sent to the Ministry of Culture our notification that we were reestablishing the activities of the PEN Club, and, without waiting for an answer, we assembled the standing members of the committee from 1968 (I had been one of them) and immediately co-opted several more members, among them Václav Havel. We immediately planned our first meeting for the end of the summer.

  To my surprise, the response from the Ministry of Culture was not wholly negative. They were willing to meet with the members of the original committee and listen to our plans.

  We were received by a deputy who told us that, in principle, they would have no objections to the club’s activities as long as the PEN Club held to its statutes and did not pursue political activity. The statutes, which had been ratified sometime in the 1960s (and which the assiduous ministers had dug up), included a communal dinner associated with the meeting, to take place once a year and always during the first quarter. Our ministry bureaucrat informed us that we could not have our meeting as late as August as we had planned.

  I protested that not a single anniversary meeting had taken place over the last twelve years, and it would be ridiculous to wait another six months, especially when, on the matter of freedom of expression, there was something to talk about.

  But the state official insisted that we hold to our own statutes.

  Even before we left, we had agreed to organize the meeting, whether the ministry approved it or not. Ultimately we were an international club, and we had informed the ministry only out of goodwill.

  *

  We succeeded in putting together a list of potential members, but our provisional committee had decided on too large a number for our regular meeting space—and we wanted to invite all of them. My colleague and translator, Jaroslav Kořán, suggested that we have it in the Chodov Citadel, where the curator was willing to accept the risks associated with an unlawful meeting of a lawful or, more precisely, not prohibited organization.

  Around eleven o’clock on the day the meeting was to take place, the aforementioned curator called and told me to come see him right away. I asked if there was a problem with our using the hall
for our meeting, and he said that was precisely why he was calling, but he didn’t want to discuss it on the phone.

  It was clear what had happened. Members of the secret police had strongly recommended that he not allow us to gather in the citadel.

  There were only a few hours left before the meeting was supposed to convene, not enough time to inform everyone that it was canceled; besides, we wanted to have it. Marta Kadlečíková said she had the keys to the apartment of a writer who was now abroad, Jiří Mucha. One of the rooms was large enough to accommodate a few dozen people. She suggested we move the meeting there. We would have to call and inform everyone of the change of venue.

  I wasn’t going to say anything over the telephone that would inform the secret police where we were meeting. Two members of the committee had automobiles, and we could assume that several of the attendees also had cars and could drive those who arrived at the citadel by metro.

  We did indeed manage to transfer everyone to Mucha’s flat on Hradčanské Square. (It is difficult to imagine a more worthy place than this apartment filled with antiques and pictures by Jiří’s father Alfons Mucha and other masters of art nouveau.)

  Nevertheless, State Security somehow found out about our new meeting place and detained several writers, including Vaculík and our Brno colleagues.

  A few days before the meeting, I had received a long letter from Václav Havel. It began with an apology:

  Dear friends, a concurrence of circumstances has seen to it that I will most likely not be able to participate in your meeting, or that I will be able to participate in a limited capacity. At that time, I am to be meeting with representatives of the People’s Militia where we will probably talk about whether they will fire upon people on the 21st of August. You will certainly realize that this meeting is, at the moment, of utmost importance.

  There followed a series of instructions concerning what we should discuss and what to endorse.

  Václav suggested accepting everyone into the organization who had been accepted by the PEN Club abroad. These were writers who had been the most persecuted.

  The old committee, which has in fact long been defunct, should resign and charge one member with conducting the remainder of the meeting. Then we should elect a new committee to accept new members but not accept anyone who had publicly committed an offense against the charter of the PEN Club by participating in the suppression of the rights of his colleagues to publish. Then Václav asked that we ratify two documents immediately if we didn’t want to make fools of ourselves at our very first meeting: one to demand that the political prisoner Ivan Jirous be pardoned and the other to take a stance on the case of Salman Rushdie (the fanatic Ayatollah Khomeini had issued a fatwa, that is, a death penalty on him for apparently offending the Prophet Muhammad in The Satanic Verses). It would also be good, continued Havel, if we requested the pardon of others imprisoned exclusively for distributing literature or other alternative culture.

  Havel’s suggestions seemed to me reasonable, but the meeting was being led by someone who was trying by all means to avoid any political discussion, let alone any protests or petitions. The most peculiar thing was his insistence that we conclude the meeting by seven o’clock (even though we’d begun nearly an hour late because of the location change).

  The chair’s attempt to avoid complications and conclude our first meeting in twenty years as quickly as possible met with such resistance, even among the official authors, that he finally gave up chairing the meeting. We understood his reasons when, just after seven o’clock, our friends started arriving after having spent the afternoon locked up for various reasons. Obviously, the secret police had been assured that the meeting would be concluded by then.

  We quickly passed the necessary resolutions and elected Jiří Mucha president of the club. I was to be his deputy, but because Mucha was abroad, I was to head the PEN Club for the near future. (Soon thereafter, at Mucha’s request, I was elected president in his place.)

  Soon after our meeting, I was called in for an interrogation, where I was asked, at length and almost politely, about the PEN Club, its mission, and its charter. They said they had nothing against our electing Jiří Mucha president. It was now in fashion, added one of them ironically, that every organization have a president, but they knew I was the organizer. They understood our protest against Khomeini’s fatwa on Rushdie; writers should not be sentenced to death for their literary works. They said nothing about our protest against our colleagues’ imprisonment or our announcement that literature should enjoy freedom. Finally, I realized that the only point of the interrogation was to warn us not to elect Václav Havel, instead of Mucha, as president. This would threaten the existence of our club as an independent and nonpolitical organization.

  I received this warning approximately three months before the Federal Assembly elected Havel president of the republic.

  *

  Helena said that a march to Albertov was going to take place on November 17 to mark International Students’ Day and asked if I wanted to participate. I was much less a student now than twenty years earlier when I allowed myself to be convinced to go to Texas as a student, and I was not fond of marches or any kind of demonstrations. I preferred to stay home and write.

  So Helena went by herself. At Albertov, she listened to a passionate speech by a student spokesman whom, to her surprise, she recognized as our nephew Martin. Then she traveled with the entourage all the way to the National Theater, where she just barely managed to avoid police truncheons.

  I heard the reports (including the false information that Martin Šmíd was dead) on the radio—not the one broadcasting from Prague, of course.

  The very next day I called a meeting of our PEN Club at the apartment of Karel Šiktanc. Karel, one of our best poets, never cared to involve himself in politics, so I thought his apartment would be safer than ours. Just in case, however, I arrived at his place an hour early.

  In fact, a moment after I arrived, the police appeared in front of the building and were displaying the uncertainty characteristic of the time. They detained several members of the committee and led them off for interrogation. Other, less well-known members had their IDs checked but were allowed inside.

  We were the only writers’ organization able, or even willing, to publicly speak out against the events at the National Theater, and in view of our tradition and historical experiences, the position of writers could influence the behavior of the citizens. Therefore, we formulated our proclamation as emphatically as we could. Among other things, we wrote:

  The Czech Center of the PEN Club expresses bewilderment and anger at the brutal intervention by the forces of law and order, supported by members of special units, against a peaceful student demonstration. During the demonstration, not a single rock was thrown at the armed units; not a single window was broken; the students sat on the ground with lighted candles and, face-to-face with the armed forces, called out, “Our hands are empty” and “Dialogue, dialogue.” . . . The authorities, not for the first time, responded to this call with violence, but this time it was more brutal than in the past.

  The Czech Center of the PEN Club appeals to the employees of all news media: Tell the nation the truth about the tragedy that has come to pass. Let the victims have the final word. The PEN Club appeals to all writers and translators to join this call.

  We sent our proclamation to the Czechoslovak Press Agency, but just in case, we also immediately telephoned Radio Free Europe.

  Two days later, I was invited to the New Stage of the National Theater. As in all other theaters, the actors here were on strike and, instead of continuing with their planned performances, they were calling various personalities onto the stage, usually those who hadn’t been permitted to appear before any kind of audience for twenty years. Essentially, we all talked about the same thing: free elections, basic human rights, how freedom of speech and association had to be guaranteed, and that the constitutional article guaranteeing the leading role o
f the Communist Party had to be abolished.

  I don’t remember what I said. I do remember the feeling when, after almost two decades, I stepped onto a stage and the people in the hall began applauding even before I said anything. Somewhere in my subconscious was huddling the idea that at any minute, one of those gentlemen would appear whom I knew all too well and who for years had been on the lookout for anyone who, in their opinion, threatened the safety of the country, socialism, peace, and, thereby, all of humanity. Where were they? Where had they disappeared?

  While I was thinking that the moment had arrived, the moment we had imagined over these years, the moment of change, I was overcome with an excitement similar to what I had felt when I stood by the collapsed fence at Terezín and waved at the passing soldiers who I knew were bringing with them the end of the war.

  There are few experiences as strong as that of freedom, especially when it seemed for decades so unattainable. The most uplifting thing at this moment was the feeling that people in the audience were experiencing the same thing I was. Never had I longed to merge with the masses. In fact, such feelings frightened me. But once or twice in one’s lifetime, for a few climactic moments of shared history, one can allow oneself precisely this exalting feeling.

  *

  During those days, writers who had been assiduously writing and publishing started calling me (apparently they had heard I was the head of the Czech PEN Club, which, unlike the current collaborationist Writers’ Union, seemed to be the primary writers’ organization for the near future). Only a week earlier, it was as if they hadn’t known who I was, but now they were all but declaring their love and admiration for everything I’d ever written and done. Then they usually alluded to the fact that, although they had been publishing all along, they had actually been sacrificing themselves. They had longed to say something of import to their readers, but with censorship—certainly I could recall my own experiences—life was almost unbearably difficult. Then they tried inconspicuously to turn the conversation to the future: Would only certain people be allowed to publish, and others be banned? Would the roles now be reversed? Could they join the PEN Club?