“During the war, innocent people were sentenced. Do you think innocent people are sentenced in our country?” asked Nezval threateningly.
“We were asking for amnesty. This has nothing to do with guilt.”
“So you were asking for amnesty for people who you admit have committed a crime.”
I said I had nothing to say to that.
“Do you have children?”
I acknowledged that I did.
“You have a daughter and a son?”
“Yes.”
“Imagine your daughter is walking home from school, and a drunk driver runs her over. He’s sent to prison. Would you also seek amnesty for him?”
“But he wouldn’t be a political prisoner,” I objected.
“Besides, what you’re requesting in your petition, some sort of Christmas vacation, where did you ever hear about prisoners going home for Christmas?”
“In Sweden, prisoners are let out on Sunday, for example.”
“Fine, I’m not saying our laws don’t allow for such cases. If a fellow’s in the lockup because he got drunk and got in a fight and then behaved well, let him go home for Christmas, but those who are there according to Chapter One are enemies. Do you understand? They won’t be released even a day early. So, who came to see you with this letter? Vaculík or Havel?”
I said nothing.
“Let me tell you something. You should hear what people working in factories think; you should know what the public’s opinion is. They write to us and demand that we finally deal once and for all with our enemies.”
“But I think the people. .”
The blond got up behind me and interrupted: “Do you mean to say you know a different public opinion?”
“I’m sort of interested in it because of what I write. Public opinion does not always have to be entirely one-sided.”
“So you’re writing something. For the desk drawer or for somebody else?”
“I write for myself.”
“Have you written anything lately?”
“I’ve written a novel. A love story.” (Once again, owing to inexperience, I jabbered too much about things they didn’t ask and perhaps even didn’t know.)
“And what’s going to happen to it? Is this one for the desk drawer? Or is anyone publishing it?”
“It will be published in Switzerland.”
“So you do have outside contacts, after all, since you sent them your novel.”
“I sent it by mail.”
“Do you have connections with a publisher or not?”
“I acted in accordance with a contract.”
“What sort of contract?”
“Dilia has been shut down here. It’s an official literary agency,” I added.
The blond behind me spoke up, as if very well informed: “Yes, you have a contract with a Swiss publisher and according to Swiss law. It’s interesting that you, a Czechoslovak citizen, have a contract based on Swiss law.”
“Lawyers from Dilia secured the contract.”
“How much are the Swiss paying you?”
“Whatever they pay authors all over the world.”
“We’re interested in how much you’re getting.”
I started to realize the absurdity of this line of questioning. They forbid me to publish, try to deprive me of all my money, and then reproach me for publishing a book somewhere. “I don’t know. Ask someone from Dilia.”
“You’re getting enough to live on. At least for now. Does your wife work?” The blond was getting worked up.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, you’re trying to tell me you don’t know where your own wife works?”
“Even if I did, I don’t have to tell you anything. I don’t think that’s why you called me in here.”
Nezval once again joined in: “Yes, it seems we’ve gotten a little off track.” He was shouting again. “Now, for the last time, tell us who came to see you with this piece of paper. Was it Vaculík? Havel? Kliment?”
I remained silent.
“What were you talking with Kliment about yesterday? You think we don’t know you were at his place?”
“I don’t remember.”
“What don’t you remember?”
I said nothing.
“You were elaborating — what were you talking about?”
“I don’t remember exactly.”
“You really do have a bad memory.”
The blond: “Isn’t it instead, Mr. Klíma, that you don’t want to remember? Who else signed this letter?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you sign the first or the second page?”
“The second, I think.”
“And whose signature was above yours?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t notice.”
“Let me help you. Adolf Hoffmeister signed on the first page with a felt-tip pen. Do you remember?”
“No, not at all.”
“Where were you last employed?” I didn’t understand why they were suddenly changing the subject, but I answered nevertheless. “I taught at a university in America.”
“Fine, fine, but here.”
“For three months I worked as an orderly.”
“So who came to see you: Kohout? Vaculík?”
They were angry; Nezval was shouting. But it was clear they had no idea that I was one of those who had had been collecting signatures. The informer knew only about Vaculík. I remained silent.
Then another agent entered the room, apparently a superior because Nezval reported to him: “Mr. Klíma has decided not to tell us anything.” The new arrival merely said at the door, “You are naive, Mr. Klíma; your friends Vaculík, Kliment, and Havel have already told us everything anyway. They’ll be laughing at you later. And what are you so worried about? It was all within the law, wasn’t it? You assumed well enough that we wouldn’t lock you up for it.” He must have given a signal to release me because Nezval then said, “Since you’re not going to tell us much, we’ll bring this to an end in order to detain neither you nor ourselves.”
He called in a typist. When she’d taken her seat behind the typewriter, Nezval leaned over to me and, with feigned friendship, suggested, “You know what? Dictate it yourself. How did this letter come to you, who came to see you?”
I must have looked astonished because he immediately added, “We won’t even put your name down, if you don’t want us to.”
He finally dictated several meaningless sentences with the concluding formula: “I have read everything and agree.”
Thirty-four writers had signed the letter before State Security found out about it. Several more signed after Vaculík was arrested with the text in his possession.
Essay: Occupation, Collaboration, and Intellectual Riffraff, p. 511
17
At the beginning of the 1970s, the foremost international, especially American, writers started coming to Prague (the Czech government was still graciously granting them visas).
One of the first to arrive was Arthur Miller, at that time, along with Dürrenmatt and Beckett, one of the most famous living dramatists, and a recent president of the PEN Club. Miller traveled to Prague as a private citizen and, to the dismay of the official Writers’ Union, was interested in meeting with only proscribed authors.
I first met him in the Alcron hotel, showed him around Prague, and the following afternoon invited him and several of my friends to our apartment in Hodkovičky.
Before our guests arrived, two black Tatra 603s parked around the corner of our street. I went over to one of the cars and asked the driver if he was looking for anyone.
He told me not to worry about it and rolled up the window. His physiognomy told me more about him than if he’d presented his service card.