A Note on Czech Pronunciation and Usage
Unlike English, in which the pronunciation of letters may vary from one word to another, Czech letters are reliably pronounced just as they are written. Some are voiced differently when they carry a diacritic, and there are no silent letters. Additionally, words in Czech are nearly always stressed on the first syllable. Thus, “Otylie” is pronounced “Oh-til-i-eh,” and “Jakub,” whose first letter takes the soft “J” sound, has the phonetic spelling of “Ya-koob.” The háček (pronounced “ha-chek”) in Tomáš’s name changes the sound of the s from “s” to “sh,” so “Tō-mahsh.” Jiří’s name, which ends with a long i, contains the Czech letter perhaps most difficult to pronounce—“ř,” which, loosely speaking, combines a rolled “r” with a “zh” sound (like the “s” in “pleasure”): “Yih-rzhee.”
The suffix “-ová” that indicates a feminine surname in Czech (Bartošová, Svobodová, Kettlová) has been retained, but I have taken the liberty of omitting the accent that usually appears over the “y” in the Czech name “Otylie.” This is already an unfamiliar name to American and English readers, and, at any rate, Otylie herself drops the accent when she adopts the United States as her home. Finally, the term “antikva,” used to describe Jakub’s shop, is not the word Czech speakers would typically use (“antique shop” is the rather gnarly starožitnictví) but because this novel was written in English, I preferred antikva as a term that would roll more comfortably off an English-speaking tongue.
Acknowledgments
I am enormously grateful to the Guggenheim Foundation for a fellowship that helped make much of the writing of this novel possible. Gratitude as well to my colleagues at Bard College who have been supportive while I worked on the project.
Also, in Prague: Thanks to Tomáš Joanidis for his wise and generous counsel while I explored Prague for insights into the Czech World War II resistance and the Velvet Revolution, for his interpreting, and for his knowledge of Czech culture and history and pubs. To Andrea Bartošová, who walked the streets of Prague with me, offering ideas and answering questions about her city. To Soňa Černocká, head librarian at the Lobkowicz Library, Nelahozeves Castle, north of Prague, who allowed me to handle rare music manuscripts from the same period as the Prague Sonata. My gratitude also to the anonymous resident at Jánská 12 who answered his door and kindly allowed me, an inquisitive stranger working on a novel, into his building and his flat, then showed the way out via a courtyard to Nerodova.
In New York: My deep gratitude to pianist and friend Jeff Goldstein, and to my Bard colleague, the superb musicologist Christopher Gibbs, who brought a wealth of knowledge to bear on this work. A fraternal hug to Douglas Moore, who traveled with me from New York to two of the American Pragues, in Oklahoma and Nebraska. Thanks to Martine Bellen, who joined me on my first visit to Prague, Czech Republic, in the 1990s, and to Barbara Grossman, for her early encouragement. To Nicole Nyhan, Nicholas Wetherell, Tom Johnson, Beth Herstein, Hy Abady, and Jay Hanus, who read and commented on aspects of the book—thank you. A fanfare to fellow novelists Andrew Ervin and Eli Gottlieb, who each gave the manuscript a close reading and offered advice, and to Pat Sims, who provided a sage preliminary edit. George (Jiří) Huraj, Laura Arten, and Christopher Harwood helped with Czech phrasing, as did Tomáš Kotik, who was an art student in Prague during the Velvet revolution.
In London: To Beethoven expert Jonathan Del Mar, who offered crucial advice about music, composers, the sonata, and all manner of other matters I am greatly indebted. Thanks to Neil Rees of the Czechoslovak Government in Exile Research Society, who provided information regarding details about life in Edvard Beneš’s exile government in London and the Aylesbury Vale during the Second World War.
In Prague, Nebraska: Warm thanks to Adolf Nemec, town historian and polka bandleader, who sat with me in the Kolache Korner Café on two separate visits, and answered questions about life in his community. The square fish sandwich was delicious.
In Los Angeles: I am grateful to Carolina Miranda, cultural staff writer for the Los Angeles Times, for her invaluable comments regarding the life of a stringer working overseas.
In Italy: To Maria Teresa Delpiano and the whole Delpiano family, I owe thanks for their support and love over the years while this book was being written, and long before.
Huge gratitude to the wonderful people at Grove Atlantic for bringing this book into the light. To Morgan Entrekin for his belief in my work, and to Allison Malecha, whose keen editorial insights and knowledge of all things Czech made their mark throughout these pages. Warmest thanks also to Judy Hottensen, Amy Hundley, Deb Seager, Justina Batchelor, Gretchen Mergenthaler, Sal Destro, Julia Berner-Tobin, Susan Gamer, and everyone else at Grove. And to Kimberly Burns, whose energy and enthusiasm know no bounds, my own boundless appreciation for helping to get this novel out into the world.
I am truly grateful to my agent and friend, Henry Dunow, who took me and The Prague Sonata on years ago, and patiently represented other books of fiction in the interim while I continued to write this one. His persistence, guidance, and wise editorial perceptions played a critical role as he encouraged me to see this quest to fruition.
Finally, my thanks to the brilliant, indefatigable Cara Schlesinger, who read the many drafts of this novel and brought her razor-sharp literary sensibilities, her personal knowledge of the Czech Republic, and her generous imagination to this novel. My gratitude to her is beyond words.
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