Tvář was discussed at almost every meeting of the central committee of the Writers’ Union, but the topics of conversation were individual articles or sentences. No one tried to attack or even mention its independent and nonconformist spirit.
Finally, upon an initiative “from above” (that is, from the ideological department of the Central Committee of the Communist Party), our union committee met in Bratislava to discuss the continued existence of the ideologically cantankerous journal.
Every meeting of the union’s central committee (as was the case with all legal organizations) was preceded by a meeting of the Communist members. As I’ve already mentioned, this was practically the entire committee. Because every resolution accepted at the meeting was binding for the Communists, the meeting of the writers’ central committee was just a formality. Everything of significance had already been discussed and decided, but it wasn’t until this formal meeting that minutes were taken. In this way, the Communist Party was continuing the methods it had employed when it was seeking to gain power. Everything of real significance was supposed to happen in secret, not before the eyes of the public.
At this time, however, the party organization in the Writers’ Union was fractured and did not look anything like what it was supposed to be, that is, a collection of subordinates obediently endorsing the party’s orders.
Of all the meetings I have experienced, and often suffered through, this one in particular stuck in my memory. It was led by the chairman of the Central Committee’s ideological department, Pavel Auersperg. Those present were other subordinates in his department. The principal party ideologue explained that the journal Tvář was a disgrace to the good name of Czech writers. We were all proud to have among our ranks genuine creators and a number of authors dedicated to the party, but which of these great writers had ever appeared in Tvář, except as an object of uncritical attack and perfidy? The journal had begun as a tribune for young authors. Who of our young and talented writers had appeared here? Only scum, both homegrown and translated. What did the verses of the aging Vladimír Holan have to say to us? He had the recalcitrant journal in front of him and began to read.
Dungeon after dungeon grows
And almost all of us are imprisoned
perishing within as if God willed
to be in us only without us. .
What did young writers have in common with Gerard Manley Hopkins, who had died three quarters of a century ago, the sixty-year-old Witold Gombrowicz, Georg Trakl, or Pierre Teilhard de Chardin? What about Ladislav Klíma, who was even passed off as an example worthy of being followed? In an enthusiastic paean to the idealistic philosopher, young readers will learn that he was reading again, that he lived on raw horsemeat and pure grain alcohol, and that he had once, as he himself writes, stole a bitten-into mouse from a cat and gobbled it down, just as it was, with the fur and bones — as if I were eating a dumpling. A wonderful example for our young writers.
Why was it precisely these authors who were appearing in the journal? Because they were decadents and thus ideological opponents of any sort of progress; they had nothing in common with our efforts to build a Socialist society.
A debate followed. To the surprise of the party functionaries, many of the discussants — such as Milan Jungmann, Kundera, Kohout, Karel Kosík, and Jaroslav Putík — praised Tvář for introducing new topics and new names, and, of course, even young authors (one could name dozens of them). The critical section, which formed a significant part of the journal, was certainly one-sided, but it decidedly expressed the opinion of part of the young generation. Of course there were also plenty of discussants endorsing the opinion of the party ideologues, and during the break they warned those of us who were defending Tvář that this was a serious matter; if we did not retreat, we could count on provoking those who determined literary matters.
The debate over Tvář lasted well into the night, and at one point the telephone rang. Auersperg picked up the receiver, and at once all the arrogance vanished from both his face and his demeanor. With almost servile deference, he sank into some sort of vassallike bow and then answered as loudly as he could, “Yes, Comrade President, the discussion is still under way. I will definitely pass it on. I’m certain your concern will encourage them.”
He hung up and passed on the greetings of President Novotný, who was greatly interested in ensuring that Socialist literature received the utmost support, both material and ideological. Then, still with an expression of deference and devotion, he added that the comrades in the central committee of the union will certainly appreciate the president’s concern and will not gamble with his goodwill.
This performance had obviously been prearranged; the players sought to stage a scene combining promises with hidden threats.
Around midnight, when everything had finally been said, we requested a vote on whether Tvář should be halted or allowed to continue.
The vote was close, but we who voted to preserve the journal prevailed. We enjoyed our feeling of victory for only a few minutes, however. The envoy of the party leadership informed us that the Central Committee of the Party had already decided the matter. Tvář would no longer be published. It was up to us to plausibly account for its demise, and for us, as members of the party, this decision was binding.
During the following meeting of the now legitimate central committee, some of us knuckled under; others either abstained or even, despite the warnings, voted against the ruling.
Thus Tvář was closed as an unprofitable enterprise.
*
Before the Six-Day War, Helena and I were invited to Israel by an organization of Czech-Israeli friendship. Although at that time the relationship between Czechoslovakia and Israel was a cautious one, it wasn’t unfriendly, and because the invitation had come from an organization that behaved amicably to the Communist regime, our trip was approved.
I was somewhat surprised. Why had they chosen to invite me? I’d never written anything about Israel, and I wasn’t very interested in the problems of the Jewish state. In this I was probably influenced by my mother; it seemed a mistake to let some Nazi rules tell me how to see myself. Despite my time in Terezín, I had only indistinct ideas about Judaism. I didn’t speak a word of Hebrew (with the exception of the greeting shalom); I had not the slightest knowledge of the Talmud or even the prescriptions adhered to by believers.
Helena, on the other hand, was excited. She had some distant relatives in Israel, as well as her first love, and she harbored an affectionate admiration for the country. (Later I learned that it was she who had arranged the invitation.) I was most interested in Israel’s agricultural communes, which my wife had enthusiastically told me about several times. I learned that they were the only communes in existence and perhaps even prospered in the middle of a free and democratic society.
In Haifa, overwhelmed with the scent of thousands of blossoming orange trees, we left for the kibbutz Artz, which would be our home for nearly a month.
The kibbutz was pleasant and bright, the houses small but modern. The common kitchen was amazing in its spaciousness and quantity of food. Each person could take as much as he wanted, but because the food mostly consisted of chicken, overeating seemed to have fallen by the wayside after a while.
We were treated kindly by one and all, as if we were their close relatives. They praised our republic, which had sold them weapons when they were fighting to establish their state.