On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Mother and I would climb the steps of the Economic Institute, which had a crumbling facade and a yard filled with stinging nettles. Her office was on the ground floor and was furnished with a battered desk and a single filing cabinet. She would make me sit on the floor and draw pictures while she worked. When I got bored, I would get up and walk through the building in search of someone to play with. Fortunately, there was usually some kind of party going on. Of the fifty economists who worked at the institute, my mother was the only one who appeared to take her job seriously. Everyone else, including the two men whose names appeared on her books, seemed to spend their afternoons celebrating their colleagues’ birthdays and name days.
By lunchtime, a crowd would gather in one of the larger offices to drink wine and sing “Happy Birthday” to a colleague, and by mid-afternoon, the damp corridors would be echoing with laughter. I was always welcome at these parties, and had lots of fun drinking lemonade and eating little cakes with the people who would end up running the country after the revolution. I spent many a happy afternoon watching the future leaders of Czechoslovakia drink themselves under the table, until my mother finished work and came to collect me. Then we would walk down the hill from the castle and cross the Charles Bridge to the Old Town and take the tram to Mrs. Sprislova’s school.
I loved these walks with my mother. We would explore the ancient streets of Mala Strana, looking at the houses with painted or sculpted signs above their doorways. My mother told me the stories of these buildings—wonderful tales of ghosts, mysterious deaths, and intriguing historical events. Mala Strana after dark was the haunt of headless knights, black dogs, and howling women, according to local folklore. We would buy cheese rolls at our favorite little bakery and carry them over the Charles Bridge, looking out across the Vltava River and up at the blackened statues of the saints. Then we would make our way around the Klementinum Library until we came out into the Old Town Square, which has always been my favorite place in Prague. I always nagged my mother to let me watch the striking of the hour on the Astronomical Clock. The clock was mounted on the tower of the Town Hall. Whenever it chimed, the twelve apostles would appear in little windows, and a tiny figure of Death would ring his bell. It was over almost as quickly as it had started, but I would always watch it with great anticipation.
“I wish the apostles would hurry up,” I would complain as we waited. “Do you think the clock might be broken?”
“No, but it’s been damaged a number of times,” she told me. “The eastern wing of the Town Hall was blown up by the Nazis on the very last day of the war. And when the Red Army came to liberate Prague in 1945, one of the first things Marshal Konev tried to do was have the clock dismantled and sent back to Russia. Fortunately, it was too big for their transport vehicles, so they had to leave it here.”
“Why would the Russians want it?”
“Good question,” my mother smiled. “For some reason, the Russians have always been obsessed with clocks and watches. Whenever their armies came to Prague, the first thing their soldiers would do was steal every wristwatch and clock they could find.”
“Well, I’m glad they didn’t take this one,” I said.
“So am I,” my mother laughed. “Ah, here come the apostles now.”
After the striking of the hour, we would walk along the side of the Town Hall, with white crosses embedded in the cobblestones. They represented the twenty-seven Czech aristocrats beheaded in 1621 for trying to lead an uprising against the Hapsburgs. Then we would cross the square and eat our cheese rolls on the steps of an enormous statue of Jan Hus surrounded by a group of defeated men and women groveling at his feet.
“He was a Catholic priest who was killed in 1415 for preaching against the Church,” my mother told me.
“Why did he want to preach against the Church?” I asked.
“Well, back in those days, the Church was selling pardons, which were like tickets to Heaven, to anyone who was rich enough to pay for them. Jan Hus didn’t think that Jesus would have approved of this, so he accused the Church of making an enterprise out of the Christian faith.”
“But why did they kill him?” I asked. “Couldn’t they have just told him to stop?”
“They did, but he refused. The Church was very angry, because people were listening to him and not buying their pardons, so they called him a heretic and had him burned at the stake. He had many chances to back down, but he ended up dying for what he believed in. After he died, he became a symbol and a hero of the Czech nation in much the same way that Joan of Arc became a French one after leading an army against the English.”
She took a bite of her cheese roll and smiled at me.
“We’re not a particularly religious or righteous country, but in times of war or occupation, many Czech parents will name their children ‘Jan’ or ‘Jana’ as a form of protest,” she said. “You can always tell when we’ve been invaded by the number of little Johns and Janes running around.”
“Your name is Jana,” I pointed out. “So you must have been named after Jan Hus as well!”
“I was,” my mother said. “I was born during the German occupation. My father was hoping for a son and he had the name Jan already picked out, but when I turned out to be a girl, he named me Jana instead. But he would often call me ‘Jan’ or ‘Honza’ as a joke. He wanted a son so that he could teach him medicine, but he ended up teaching my sister instead.”
Whenever my grandfather came up in conversation, my mother would always become sad and reflective. We sat underneath the Jan Hus statue for a while, and as the Astronomical Clock began to chime the next hour, we got up and walked through the Jewish Quarter to the number 12 tram that took us across the river to Mrs. Sprislova’s school.
The North Prague School for Junior Dancers was located in the basement of the Prague Transport Office; an ugly tower block covered in dirty white tiles. It was a strange place to study dancing, as the upper floors were teeming with disillusioned public servants who would roll their eyes at the young ballerinas who gathered in the lobby. My mother and I would take the ancient paternoster elevator down to the basement, where we would find the changing rooms overflowing with half-naked girls and their well-dressed mothers, and I would change into my leotard and slippers while my mother tied my hair up in pigtails. Then Mrs. Sprislova would appear in the room and clap her hands.
“Hurry up, and try to keep the noise down!” she would cry. “This is a ballet school, not a farm!”
We would trot out onto the floor of the studio, which was a shabbier version of those at the preparatory school. There was a battered grand piano in the corner, and as I self-consciously stood with the other girls, an elegant lady on crutches hobbled over to the piano, sat down, and started to thumb through the scores. The woman’s name was Miluska, and she had contracted polio as a child. She was an excellent pianist, and after she had put her crutches on the floor, she would run her fingers effortlessly over the keyboard while Mrs. Sprislova took us through the basics. We would start with a warm-up and some stretching, and then we would exercise at the bar.
I was quiet and shy my first day, and looked at the other girls with envy. They were all at least a head taller than I was, and not only did their leotards and slippers fit properly, but they wore elegant cotton socks instead of three pairs of woolen ones. Mrs. Sprislova called out her instructions in French, and they executed them with confidence. I began to worry I might never catch up. I desperately tried to copy what the other girls were doing, which was particularly hard, as the bar was too high for me to reach, but to judge from Mrs. Sprislova’s smile, I wasn’t doing too badly. She didn’t scream like Mrs. Saturday, and, if someone made a mistake, she would silence Miluska with a regal wave and patiently explain how to do the exercise properly. On my first day, she showed us how to make halos above our heads with our arms and how to keep our balance on the points of our toes. I followed her instructions until my whole body ached, and at the end of
the lesson, she complimented me in front of the class.
“Good work, Dominika,” she smiled. “You have good endurance and a natural sense of rhythm.”
The other girls looked at me with surprise. It was common knowledge that Mrs. Sprislova didn’t throw compliments around freely, and as soon as the class was over, I was surrounded by a group of girls who wanted to know who I was. They told me their names as we changed out of our costumes, and I tried to remember them all. Their mothers made polite conversation with my mother and then we had to run and catch our tram. As we rattled back toward Prague Castle, I sat in my mother’s lap, looking across the river at the blue light in the windows of the Frantisek Hospital. I could see the silhouettes of people, and imagined that one of them was my grandfather. I was proud that he was a famous surgeon who had saved the lives of many people.
For the next six months, I worked very hard and became one of Mrs. Sprislova’s favorite students. I think she had a soft spot for me because of my size. I was too small to work properly at the bar, but I would assume my position with a lot of enthusiasm, balancing against the mirrored walls whenever my arms were too tired to grasp the bar above my head. On the occasions when we were allowed to improvise, I would position myself as close to Miluska as I could. I would stand on the tips of my toes and use the steps that Mrs. Sprislova had taught me, letting Miluska’s music carry me along. More often than not, when the music stopped, I would open my eyes to find myself on the opposite side of the room, with the whole class, Miluska, and Mrs. Sprislova watching me. I may have been small, but I was one of the most expressive dancers in the class, and as the seasons changed and December approached, Mrs. Sprislova rewarded me for my efforts. I was invited to perform the “Waltz of the Marionette” from Coppelia in my very own segment of the Christmas show.
“Normally, I get my girls to perform in groups,” she told me, “but I think we might let you dance this one by yourself. I’ll show you the steps, and then you can practice at home with your mother accompanying you on the piano. What do you think?”
“I’d love to!” I cried. “Could I bring Mrs. Liskova and Mrs. Sokolova from my street?”
“You can bring anyone you like,” Mrs. Sprislova smiled.
I triumphantly told the ladies about my solo, and my father agreed to drive everyone to North Prague on the night of the performance. My mother and I practiced the “Waltz of the Marionette” in the living room until I had all the steps memorized, and then I would go to school and beg Miluska to play the music at the end of class, so that Mrs. Sprislova could see how I was coming along.
“I’m getting very good at this,” I would tell her. “See? It’s like there are strings attached to my arms and legs!”
“Well, that’s the idea,” she would say. “Okay everyone, we’ll see you next week, and for those of you whose parents are making costumes, please bring them with you. Ahoj!”
On those evenings after class, as my mother and I caught the tram back into Prague, I would always look for the blue light in the hospital windows and imagine inviting my grandfather along to see me dance. How could he say no, if he loved ballet as much as I did? As the weeks passed and the night of the performance drew closer, I became more and more convinced that if he did come and see me, he might change his mind and want to be part of our family once again.
One afternoon, on the way to school, I led my mother down Parizska Street, the nicest street in the Jewish Quarter. We walked past the Jewish cemetery and around the back of the Staronova Synagogue, and a couple of narrow streets later, we came out at the corner of the Frantisek Hospital. We had walked this way a few times before, and I knew how nervous the hospital made my mother feel. As we passed the massive wooden doors of the main entrance, I pulled at her sleeve.
“Mum, can we go inside and visit Granddad?” I asked.
“No!” my mother said reflexively. She seemed frightened by the suggestion, but I could also see that she was yearning to speak to her father. “I don’t think so, little one. He’s probably too busy, and even if he isn’t, he might not want to speak to us.”
“Yes he will,” I insisted. “When I tell him that I’m going to be a dancer.”
“I don’t think so,” my mother replied. “The court case made my parents very angry, and it’s possible that my dad will still be upset.”
“Please, Mum. I just want to say hello to Granddad.” I looked up at her with a big, hopeful smile. “Please,” I begged. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to see us.”
“All right,” my mother said reluctantly. She took a deep breath and led me through the doorway.
The Frantisek Hospital had once been a monastery, and it was a very grim and imposing building. We crossed the cathedral-like lobby and climbed a crumbling stone staircase to the second floor. My mother led me down a long corridor, and the sound of her heels striking the tiles echoed through the whole building. When we stopped in front of her father’s door, our hearts were beating loudly in our chests.
My mother gently rapped on the door.
“Vstupte!” an authoritative voice called from inside. “The key’s in the latch. Come right in.”
I clutched my mother’s hand as we entered the office. A thin, stern-looking man with a shock of white hair was sitting at a desk, hunched over a pile of paperwork.
“Yes?” he said, without looking up.
My mother opened her mouth but no words came out. There was an uncomfortable pause, and as my grandfather continued to rustle through his papers, I thought he might have forgotten we were there.
“Hello, Granddad,” I said finally. “We’ve come to see you!”
The old man dropped his pen and looked across the room. When he saw my mother, all the blood appeared to drain from his face. If it was possible, he looked even more frightened than she did.
“I’m your granddaughter, Dominika,” I told him. “And I got Mum to bring me here so I could tell you that I’m going to become a ballet dancer when I grow up.”
A wave of conflicting emotions appeared on Dr. Cermak’s face. His hands started to shake and he dropped them in his lap.
“I have no granddaughter,” he finally managed to say.
“Dad, please,” my mother spoke now. “Dominika begged me to come and visit you. It’s terrible that she doesn’t know her grandparents. She’s really proud of you. She talks about you all the time.”
Dr. Cermak shook his head slowly and gathered his resolve. The corners of his mouth turned down, and when he spoke again, it was quietly and firmly.
“I only have two grandsons,” he said.
My mother let out a deep sigh and tears rolled down her cheeks. She looked terribly hurt, but so did my grandfather.
“That’s not true,” I told him. “I’m your granddaughter and so is my sister, Klara. And we’re very sad that you never come to see us. Mum has told us so many good things about you. How you save lives and play the violin. She really loves you, Granddad. We all do!”
I walked over to his desk and took one of his hands in mine. It was a big, delicate hand, and the skin was smooth. Dr. Cermak looked down at me in astonishment.
“I always wanted to have a granddad,” I told him. “And I would really like you to come and see me dance. I have my own solo in Mrs. Sprislova’s Christmas show, and Mr. Slavicky has said that he will wait for me to dance Odette in Swan Lake with him when I am older!”
“Jaroslav Slavicky?” My grandfather looked up at my mother.
“Yes! He really said he would dance with me, didn’t he, Mum? Didn’t he say he would?”
“He really did,” my mother sniffed.
Dr. Cermak took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. I could tell that he was very moved, even though he tried not to show it. I climbed up onto his lap, and when I pressed my head against his chest, I could feel his heart slowly warming. He sat helplessly in his chair while I put my arms around his neck, and chattered away until the wall of his resolve crumbled.
> “Can I offer you a cup of coffee or tea?” he asked finally.
“A cup of tea!” I replied. “Do you have any biscuits?”
My grandfather rummaged through his desk drawers, pulling out a packet of biscuits, some tea bags, and a jar of instant coffee, and then he went to fill his kettle. There was a hot plate on the windowsill along with a number of porcelain cups and saucers, and as the water began to boil, Dr. Cermak put tea bags in two of the cups and started to spoon some coffee into the large cup he kept on his desk. His hands shook as he handled the cups, and when the kettle gave out a sharp whistle behind him, he accidentally knocked his special cup off the desk. It fell on the floor and broke in half.
“I’ve got it, Dad!” My mother sprang from the couch.
She crouched at her father’s feet to gather the broken pieces of his cup, and my granddad crouched down, too, and grabbed her hands. Then he put his arms around my mother and both of them burst into tears.
“I missed you, Honza,” my grandfather whispered.
“I missed you, too, Dad,” my mother sobbed.
They embraced for a short but intense moment as the kettle continued to whistle above them.
“The kettle!” my mother finally managed to say.
Dr. Cermak stood up, switched off the hot plate, and poured water into our teacups while my mother collected the broken pieces of his cup. Then she swept up the spilled coffee and helped her father carry the tea to the couch. They sat down beside each other and I quickly climbed back up in my grandfather’s lap.
The Twelve Little Cakes Page 13
