by Ivan Klíma
8
Letters
Dearest,
The little one has just gone off to sleep. You needn’t worry about her. Your mother is staying here overnight now. Yesterday Eviěka called her ‘Nanna’! I’m sitting in our room and ought to be writing a sermon but I can’t concentrate. I keep on thinking about you. It’s empty here without you, even though someone is always dropping in, and the place is often full of people. But I don’t need to tell you that. And everyone asks about your health and is praying for you to get well soon.
And the Strakas told me about a healer in Starà Ves, a Mr Zástěra. He draws strength from the trees and then transmits it to people. Mrs Straková used to have that big lump on her face and the doctors said she’d need an operation to remove it, but then Zástěra laid his hands on her three times and the lump disappeared. They told me people come from Prague to see him, and from as far away as Brno and Olomouc. Even doctors visit him, apparently, and when they see the results they say they have no explanation for it. He even cures conditions which they regard as incurable. When you come back from hospital we’ll go and see him.
This Sunday I intend to preach on Matthew 14, on the feeding of the five thousand, but what caught my attention in particular was a sentence that we don’t tend to lay much stress on: ‘And Jesus went forth and saw a great multitude and was moved with compassion toward them, and healed their sick.’ I realized that it still applies, his power to heal anyone who arouses his compassion. And it can know no bounds, can it, since he’s the embodiment of love? That’s why he came among us mortals and died the way he did. It was to cure those of us who are sick and to give us life – here and beyond the grave – a life of love and hope. That’s going to be the theme of my sermon and you know that above all I’ll be speaking for you and about you, so that you’ll get well.
I want you to know that I’m with you every moment of the day in my prayers and my thoughts, and at night in my dreams.
Last night I dreamt we were walking alongside the River Vltava at Zbraslav. It was a sunny summer’s day and your hair glowed in the sun as if it was on fire. And you were completely well and you were laughing and I could hear your laughter. And then all of a sudden a boat arrived, a big river steamer full of happy passengers. We could hear music from on board and see the coloured lanterns. And …
Evika just called me, so I went and warmed her some semolina and she’s sleeping again.
I won’t continue with the dream. I’d better say cheerio, because I have to get on with my sermon. I’ll pop the letter into the hospital for you tomorrow and the day after tomorrow is a visiting day again. I can’t wait to see you and I hug you in my thoughts. Keep the faith. Don’t lose hope. You know what he said: ‘Take heart, daughter, your faith has made you well.’
Fondest love, Dan
18 November 76
My dearest Dan,
They’ve just brought me your letter and I’d sooner write straight back. I know you’re coming tomorrow, but what if something happens in the meantime? I feel terribly weak, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped hoping and believing. It’s just that I can’t ignore what awaits me. After all, you can see it too, can’t you, and the reason you didn’t tell me the end of your dream wasn’t because Evika woke up but because you yourself got a shock. Because only I went on board the boat, even though you wanted to follow me. And the boat moved off and you didn’t manage to get on board. That was the way it was, wasn’t it, Dan? But the passengers were all cheerful. They weren’t sorrowful even though they knew they would never return. That’s the important thing, dearest. That boat isn’t going to capsize, it’s just going somewhere the two of us have not visited yet. But that’s no reason to grieve, is it?
I won’t be coming back to you, even though it makes me sad to think about it, Dan. I’m sad it all lasted such a short time, that I didn’t get a chance to enjoy Evika, that I’m leaving the two of you on your own, even though I don’t want to. I don’t want to leave you. You know I was happy with you. I don’t know what made me write ‘was’ – I still am happy, of course.
But when that boat takes me away, don’t grieve. You’ve got to go on living, Dan. You have a power within you that you’ll be able to transmit to others: strength and wisdom and love. It has been a privilege to live with you. Maybe I won’t be here tomorrow, but people will remain. Our little girl, all of them, are going to go on needing you and you will go on serving them. And even if we must part for a while, don’t let it distress you, don’t be sadder than you need be. We’ll meet again one day, after all. In a place where nobody will ever separate us again.
Forgive me for writing this particular letter. It’s not from lack of faith, it’s just that I’m afraid of leaving without having said the most important thing.
All my love,
Your Jitka
28 November 76
Dear Rut,
Something terrible has happened. Jitka died. I don’t know how I’m going to live. I’m trying in vain to find some consolation in scripture, from the thought that God’s will is inscrutable. Evika will be six months old in two days’ time.
I enclose the death announcement. That’s as much as I can write.
Your Dan
3 April 1994
Dear Reverend, my friend and deliverer,
I must thank you most of all for your last visit. And also, of course, for the things you brought me, especially the fruit and bananas. I know you or your children don’t even have everything you need. But you’re the sort of person who makes sacrifices in order to give other people a treat. I’ve never met anyone else like you. Never. I’ve only ever known the sort of people who try to fleece the next fellow, to hurt him or even kill him. I used to get drunk with the gang, smoke grass and shoot dope. We used to have a laugh and fool around with girls and boys. But what was good about it? Nothing except the fact we were all wallowing in the same muck. That’s what we had in common. Nothing else. Except for getting involved in the same scams on the odd occasion. We used to share out what we took, but mostly it wasn’t fair shares. The one who was strongest got the most. It stands to reason.
Dear Reverend, my friend and deliverer, I thank you most of all for the fact you talk to me as if I never did anything wrong. As if I was the same as you. You told me last time that I ought to think as much as possible about my future. You know that I’ve never really had a job in my life. I’ve spent the five years since I was fifteen either in here or loafing around bars where I had a good time. As they say. In other words I spent all I stole. I’ve no idea what I’ll do outside. I’ve got no proper skills, have I? I could drive a car maybe, or some of the things they taught me in the can like raking leaves, digging and a bit of work on the lathe that I’ve already forgotten. I used to hate their methods. And all the time I was wanting to have no one over me. And you told me that he is over all of us. Jesus and his love. And I’m going to have debts to pay. And at the same time I’d like to live like a man and not a beast. By which I mean I don’t want to drink, smoke or shoot up any more, but have something decent to eat at least. And find some nice girl and have kids. I’d like to be their breadwinner and look after them so they should never be in need. And Reverend, my friend and deliverer, I’d like to make up for the things I’ve done. And make it up to my Mum first off. I hurt her a lot and cost her a wad of money. And then some of the people I stole from. There was one old neighbour, she was eighty. I stole five hundred from her. That was nothing for me. The price of a bottle in a bar. But not for her. It could have been her dinner money. And I ought to pay back lots more. And give some thought to my future. Nothing definite, I’m afraid. I just know I’ll never return again to Satan’s world. No way. I’d sooner go and work in a hospital. Only I’d never earn enough there to do the things I’ve just been writing about. Dustmen are paid better. I don’t know whether I’d be up to work like that. I’d like something more. But I’ve had no schooling and I doubt I’ll ever catch up now. There’s no time. There i
sn’t the money. But I don’t blame anyone. It’s my fault the way I wasted my life like an idiot. Maybe you’ll be able to advise me, and show me the way in this too. Or maybe he’ll show me the way. You’ve told me so much about him that I’d never heard or dreamt of even. Who had compassion for the least of people? Who said: Ask and it will be given to you? Knock and the door will be opened to you. Another thing I have to tell you. He appeared to me himself. It was some time in the night when I got this panic attack that I wouldn’t keep it up, that there’ll be too much for me to change or live up to, and at that moment I heard a voice. He whispered to me, don’t be afraid, have faith. Your faith will save you. It wasn’t a dream because I looked round the cell to see who’d whispered to me, but they were all asleep, and anyway none of them would say anything like that and then I caught sight of a face above me. It was terribly pale and nothing like the face of a living person. And the moment I set eyes on it it disappeared. Maybe they’ll release me next month on probation for good behaviour. I enclose an invitation for you.
Best wishes, Petr Koubek
Dear Petr,
I was really pleased with your letter and am happy that you’re sticking to the path you’ve decided to take.
I’m glad that in your mind at least you’ve found the path back to your mother. Always remember: ‘A foolish son is a grief to his mother.’ It also says in the book of Proverbs: ‘Hear, my son, your father’s instruction. And do not forsake your mother’s teaching.’ And right after that: ‘My son, if sinners entice you, do not consent. If they say, “Come with us, let us lie in wait for blood, let us wantonly ambush the innocent … we shall find all precious goods, we shall fill our houses with spoil; throw in your lot among us, we will all have one purse” – my son, do not walk in the way with them, hold back your foot from their paths; for their feet run to evil, and they make haste to shed blood … but these men lie in wait for their own blood, they set an ambush for their own lives. Such are the ways of all who get gain by violence; it takes away the life of its possessors.’
You can look up the saying yourself, it is in the first chapter of Proverbs. There you are, already thousands of years ago people had the same worries and problems as we do. Some did their best to live as they should, others longed to get rich at any price and refused to see that the price was precisely their own souls. I believe that you, young Petr, have already grasped the essentials and have now left the paths of those who set murderous ambushes. I don’t want to give you the idea that the path you are taking will be an easy one, but one thing I can promise you: you won’t remain alone on that path, there are plenty of good people who will help you and support you when you grow weary. Maybe you won’t fill your house with expensive goods, but instead you’ll be able to invite the friends you’ll make there.
Forgive me for being so brief, but I am giving a talk on television today. I’ll be talking about our relations with those who are despised by people for no reason, purely on account of some prejudice.
May the love of Christ remain with you even in the place where you are now living.
With best wishes and congratulations,
Yours, Daniel
Dear Daniel,
I was unable to come to the funeral as I was in bed with a fever. But I was thinking about you, dear Dan, and what you were probably going through and the pain you were feeling. We only have one mother, after all. She and I didn’t see each other very often, but from the first I knew she was a good person, a fine and wise woman. I have never stopped thanking God that she brought up her son the way she did. It took someone very special to do that. My Hana will always be grateful to her too. After all, she had such a hard life, full of disappointments and but for you she would have grown bitter and spent her life in solitude. I am sure you’ll be able to rely on her at this difficult time and even though she can’t take a mother’s place she can at least give you her love now and for the rest of her life. All of us who love you will do that too.
With love to you all, Granny Hana
Dear Mum and Dad,
I’m only writing a postcard, because all the girls are only writing a card. The snow is wet but it’s possible to ski. The Partridge said I was good. Apart from that we muck about terribly. We broke in a door and broke a window and hid the Partridge’s skis. And we got drunk on wine, but I didn’t. The Partridge said we’ll give her a heart attack, but before that she’ll give us all black marks for misbehaviour. Last night I said my prayers, and I prayed for Grandma to like it in heaven. Best wishes to Eva and Marek.
Love, Magda
Dear Dan,
I had to stay at the hospital for the afternoon shift too. Things are quiet on the ward for a moment. I’d love to talk to you, but you’re at the synod and will be coming in even later than me, so I thought I’d write to you. Anyway we have so little time to talk together these days and whenever we do, somehow we always seem to be in a hurry.
I realize that your grief over your mother’s death comes on top of all the other things on your mind. I’d love to help you but I know that grief is something that words or pills can’t dispel.
Two old ladies died on the ward today. One of them reminded me of your mother. She was also a small woman – quiet patient and devout. She received extreme unction the day before yesterday. It’s something I’ve noticed over the years about people with a faith, even if they die unhappy, they have no anxiety and instead have hope. It’s important that your mother left us in that way: with our love and her faith. As my father used to say: A believer now the Lord will endow. I still miss my father but one has to come to terms with it.
Nobody loves one as much as one’s mother, nobody listens to one as well as she does, I’m aware of that. But whenever you’re sad, Daniel, you’ve got me, even if I’m not able to tell you as well as your mum that I understand and share your feelings and I’m with you. Maybe it’s precisely because I’m often unable to tell you and I’m shy of saying it out loud that I’m writing now to say I love you and that you’re the only person for me, that you’re mine.
Your Hana
Chapter Two
1
Every second Sunday, Daniel takes the service at the preaching station at Myslice, about thirty minutes’ drive away. As the service in his own church ends around ten o’clock and the one at Myslice starts at half-past ten, he abandons his own congregation just before the final hymn. He generally has his old Škoda car parked in the nearest free space and he climbs into it without even removing his gown. On this second Sunday in April, he does all the usual things but the car refuses to start. Daniel leaps out and raises the bonnet. Whatever is wrong with the car, there is no time to attempt a repair.
The sound of singing can still be heard from inside the chapel. Daniel stares at the grimy motor and he is thinking less about what might be at fault than about which members of the congregation came by car and could possibly give him a lift. Then, although he heard no one approaching, a voice immediately behind him asks, ‘May I be of any assistance, Reverend?’
He knows that soprano voice only from the hymn-singing in church. He looks around. The unknown woman, who has attended his service three times already but has always got up during the last hymn and disappeared before he can ask her anything, is now standing there with her head inclined forward slightly, as if stooping. Daniel notices that her neck is long and slender like his first wife’s. She looks exotic in her brightly coloured knitted cardigan, compared to the other women of the congregation at least. ‘My car is here if you need to get somewhere in a hurry.’
‘I do, but I can hardly impose myself on you. It’s a half-hour drive.’
‘That doesn’t matter, I’m not busy. My husband went off on a trip yesterday and my mother is looking after our little boy.’ As they walk to her car, she tells him her name is Barbora Musilová but everyone calls her Bára. She has been attending his services for several weeks already.
He tells her he noticed her the first time. Then he adds, ‘The Sun
day you first came was the day my mother died.’
‘I’m sorry I brought you misfortune.’
‘You? I’m not superstitious, I’m afraid. My mother would have died whether you had come or not.’
‘My mother is still alive. But my father died a long time ago.’
She unlocks his door first. ‘The car belongs to my husband. He’s obliged to show off – he likes to, in fact. So we’ve got this little Japanese thing with metallic paint. Not that I care about such things.’
‘I’m very grateful for the lift, Sister Musilová.’
‘But I don’t belong to your church,’ she says as they drive off.
‘Did the word “sister” offend you?’
‘No, why should it? There’s nothing wrong with having a brother. Or having you as a brother for that matter. I just thought you ought to know.’
‘Are you a Catholic?’
‘No, I don’t belong to any church.’ Then she adds, ‘My mother’s Jewish but she has never attended synagogue. My father believed in communism when he was a young man. Then he stopped believing in anything, like my husband.’
‘And did your mother survive the war?’
‘She must have done to have me. I was born after the war, almost ten years after, in fact.’
‘Of course. What I really meant was, how did she survive it?’
‘She married my father before the war, when she was eighteen, a year younger than I was when I married. Fortunately she didn’t get divorced, unlike me.’
‘You were saying something about your husband, about him going off on a trip somewhere.’
‘I remarried. Naturally enough, though God knows why. I’m sorry, I suppose I oughtn’t to take the Lord’s name in vain. Not in your presence, anyway.’
‘Just speak the way you usually do.’
