The next day it rained, so we took refuge in a cheap Irish pub where some fellow in a sailor shirt was playing an accordion, and my perfectly made-up conductress started recalling beautiful, sunny Italy and asked if we couldn’t leave here and travel to the south. The day after that I gave her part of the money I’d scrounged for the trip and suggested she spend the day however she liked. I asked if she would be able to communicate without me. She assured me that she would speak in Italian or with her hands. Then she kissed me and said, “Klíma, I think I’m starting to fall in love with you,” and promised to be back by evening. I used this time to visit Janet, whom I had stayed with on my previous visit, and passed on to her a gift from Helena. Then I walked around the streets. I called Neal Ascherson at the Observer and reminded him that we had met in our offices and he had invited me to look him up when I was next in London.
We met at a small bar. Neal seemed worried: According to the latest news, armored brigades were gathering on the Czechoslovak borders, not only with the Soviet Union but with Poland and Hungary as well. I asked if he thought it might come to military intervention. Yes, this is what he feared.
I wanted to know what the Western powers would do.
He thought for a moment and then said: Nothing.
I asked what we should do.
Nothing, he said. You’re not an island. If we did not live on an island, we would never have been able to defend ourselves against Hitler.
*
My sweetheart showed up that evening with a large box. She brought with her two slightly tipsy young men who were around her age and wore tattered jeans. She kissed them and told me they had invited her to their place for the night, but she’d refused because she was here with me and loved me because I’d brought her here, to this city full of fabulous boys from all over the world. Then she pulled from the box a pair of leather boots and put them on to show them off. She said she wanted to make love to me in these boots.
Suddenly I felt I was taking part in some stupid comedy I myself had written. I longed to see my wife and children. While this unfamiliar boot-shod girl was falling asleep at my side, I wanted only to be at home with my family.
The next morning I was awakened by the telephone. It was Mr. Darling, and in a voice that was both precipitous and somber he advised me to be careful if I wanted to return home. It would be best not to make any statement right now. When he realized I had no idea what he was talking about, he asked in astonishment: “You don’t know? Soviet troops invaded your country last night.”
Then he said I could stay in his apartment for at least a month, and I should use the telephone as much as I needed. I managed only to stutter some thanks, and he added that he was sorry — very, very sorry.
I had no idea what to do. I was here with a girl who, although I had been making love to her, was a stranger to me.
She took the news about what had happened at home quite calmly. I said that was the end of freedom, and she repeated after me, “So you think that’s the end of all freedom?” And then she objected with unexpected judiciousness: “But that depends on the people.” She asked if we were going to return and added that I had my family there, and she had her boyfriend, parents, and brother, and everything.
I wanted to leave, but I needed to know more about what was going on at home, if there was shooting in the streets, if those who had said or written too much were being locked up.
Meanwhile, just as she did every morning, Olga made herself up perfectly, and when I expressed surprise that she could devote herself to something like that at a time like this, she said we didn’t know when we were going back, so she would have to start searching for work, and for that she had to look nice. Then we drank some tea, and she left, saying she’d be back in the evening.
All day I floundered about with a sick feeling in my stomach. I tried to call Helena in Israel but couldn’t get through to her kibbutz, so I sent her a telegram with my phone number. Then I called our editorial offices, but apparently no one was there. Maybe they’d all been taken to be tortured somewhere. Finally I got through to my parents. With his typical matter-of-factness, Father told me there was only a little shooting going on. For now the radio station was transmitting freely. Dubček along with several other politicians had been spirited off to Moscow, but otherwise he didn’t know of anyone being arrested or locked up. At least they weren’t talking about it on the radio, but for now I should definitely be glad, he said, that I was where I was. Then I called my mother-in-law, who assured me everything was completely calm in Hodkovičky, no tanks or soldiers. Then she put Hana on the line, who said, “Hi, Father, I miss you. When are you coming home?” “As soon as I can,” I answered.
Suddenly I was seized with a feverish energy, which only concealed my feeling of helplessness.
I ran out into the street in a vain attempt to escape reality. Behind the windshield wiper of my car I saw a note. To my amazement, it was from my colleague Igor Hájek, who worked at the foreign desk of our paper. He’d been in London several days, but had no idea where to find me until he saw my car. He was staying not far from here and included the address. He added: I’ve got a transistor radio and can get Prague. Come.
I can still see the small room crammed with furniture. Everything was immaculate, and in the middle of the room a wire stretched from wall to wall, compensating for, or rather amplifying, the antenna. There we were, two men from a Prague newspaper that had once again been silenced. Against all odds we had met in this city of several million and were sitting by a small radio receiver that was, with variable signal strength and intermittent comprehensibility, informing us about what was happening in the streets of Prague: Tanks were headed toward the radio station, and there were the first dead.
I asked him if we should go back right away, and he in turn asked if I was crazy.
The next morning Olga carefully made herself up once again, and as she was preparing to go out the door told me not to worry about her. She would take care of herself. I set off for our embassy.
For the time being they had no special instructions from Czechoslovakia and were just copying important documents. On the night of August 21, the president of the republic announced very briefly: Troops from the USSR, PRP, PRB, NDR, and HPR invaded the territory of our country. This occurred without the agreement of the institutional organs of our state which, however, must quickly resolve the situation and achieve the removal of foreign troops in accordance with its responsibility to the people of our nation. And he added that for us there is no way back. The next announcement was issued by the presidium of the Communist Party, which considered the act of military intervention to be not only inimical to all principles of the relationships among Socialist countries, but a repudiation of the fundamental standards of international law.
The foreign minister, Jiří Hájek, flew back from Yugoslavia, where he’d been vacationing, and quickly went to the Security Council, where he apparently spoke with greater fervor and rejected the Soviet claim that the troops had invaded upon the invitation of our officials.
No such request was ever issued. I speak with emotion, sadness, and sorrow of the tragic occupation of my country for which the governments of Socialist countries are responsible, who, without regard for fundamental mutual relationships, without regard to the contractually established bilateral and multilateral obligations, resorted to force and occupied militarily the territory of Czechoslovakia on the night of the 20th to the 21st of August. This is an act of force that cannot be justified in any way.