I could imagine how it had all played out. The Prince of Czech Letters was happy to believe that the nation was awaiting his books — he was also a generation older than we were, and not so long ago he had experienced the plight of the outcast. He probably didn’t think he had much time left to speak to his readers. Self-justification is not difficult. During a period when most citizens had given in, why should a writer have to play the hero?
In one thing, however, he was mistaken. It was less significant that they had elicited from him a statement than that he had let himself be dragged into a trap which, like most traps offering a tiny morsel, deprived him of his freedom. In return for once again becoming an “approved” writer, he was forced to heed the orders of various censors, along with their superiors and subordinates, who arrogated to themselves the right to tell him what and how to write. It soon became clear what they were requesting of Hrabal, or, more precisely, what he had to accede to for his writings to reach his readers in printed form. One can find many examples in his now “official” work, but I will present one that illustrates how far the author was compelled to withdraw from his original aim.
In one of his best prose works, The Little Town Where Time Stood Still, Hrabal has a brief scene in which his father, who was at the time a brewery owner, had to move out of his office during the Communist takeover. In the original typewritten manuscript, that is, the uncensored version, the scene reads:
When Father had carted off the last box of pens and tiny calendars and notebooks, he opened the cupboard and took out the two round lamps, the light of which he had used to write by all those years ago, and which were ready and waiting, in case the electricity went out, the lamps with green shades, and as he was carrying them off, the workers’ director remarked, “But those lamps are listed in the brewery inventory. .,” and he took them out of Father’s hands. “Then I’ll buy them,” said Father softly. But the workers’ director shook his head and said in an alien voice, “You’ve raked up enough as it is, and you’ve built yourself a villa.”
And when Father left the office, this was what the workers’ director had been waiting for. He took both lamps with their green shades and threw them out the window onto a pile of lumber and scrap, and the green shades and cylinders smashed to pieces and Father clutched his head and there was a crumpling sound inside, as if his brain had been smashed. “The new era’s beginning here too,” said the workers’ director and walked into his office.
I think that in our prose, no one else had captured in such an image, so forcefully, simply, and precisely, the perverse, arrogant, and arbitrary nature of the administrators of the February Communist takeover and, in a single sentence, all the portentousness and inhumanity of that “new era.”
In the official version, Harlequin’s Millions, Hrabal inflated this scene with a lot of words and, at the censor’s request, changed its meaning into its opposite:
And when he came back for the rest of his things, he took from the wardrobe two old oil lamps with rounded wicks, the lamps that hummed when they were lit and gave such warmth to the writer’s hands, so the workers’ director said, “But those lamps aren’t yours, they’re in the brewery inventory that we’ve just taken over.” Francin felt a prick in his heart, turned red, and said, “Then I’ll buy them, these lamps are witness of my good old times when I was happy.” But the director insisted. “These lamps aren’t yours. You’ve raked up enough as it is, and you’ve built yourself a villa while we had to live by begging. Just remember the servants’ room in the brewery where your own brother, Mr. Pepin, had a bunk next to the maltster Mára, just think about our children living in hovels where in winter the water froze in the pots on the stove, just remember how you took such care not to make anyone on the board angry.
But in the end, what do you think, comrades? We’ll be generous and let you have the lamps as memorials to your good old times.
” Francin carried out his last things, but the director called after him when he was in the courtyard, “Because those good old times of yours will never return.”
History provides countless examples of people recanting their beliefs before an inquisition and later privately adding, “And yet it moves!” In place of such a postscript, Hrabal would sometimes send his uncensored versions again to samizdat.
Essay: Self-Criticism, p. 517
18
As the pages of my novel accumulated, my original joke about a thousand-page book stopped being a joke; at the same time I began to fear that the marauding search team might invade again and this time confiscate my manuscript and thereby lay waste to the result of almost two years of work. I was tempted to type up the unfinished manuscript in several copies, which I would then hide with various friends. But as soon as I finished the manuscript (if I ever finished it), I would start making the final corrections, rendering the typed copy pointless. Finally, I took everything I had written to my father-in-law, who was happy to hide it among a pile of old magazines.
My manuscript worries were not the only thing troubling me. My writer’s insurance had been canceled, and from that moment I was considered a parasite according to Socialist laws, especially since I could not demonstrate a legal income. It was just another way to make the lives of my wife, my children, and myself more unpleasant. Nanda had already finished elementary school, and my “parasitism” and “antisocialist” stance might jeopardize her further studies. She was an excellent artist, and we’d heard that the graphic arts school in Žížkov was very good. It was not out of the question that she would be accepted if she aced the entrance exam. Two of our acquaintances taught at the school, and one of them promised to give Nanda drawing lessons to prepare her for the test.
But our daughter started complaining that she had to keep drawing chairs, boxes, wrinkled rags, and her relatives’ faces over and over. Her drawings, we were assured, were getting better and better and something truly unforeseen would have to happen for her not to be accepted.
Around that time, Zdeněk Miler stopped by. He was the kind, good-natured author of the popular animated cartoon Krtek. We had been neighbors and friends for quite some time, and our families had gone camping together in the Tatra Mountains.
Zdeněk came with an offer of work. German television had ordered several five-minute films featuring Krtek. I could write a couple of screenplays, he would conceal my name under his, and I’d earn a few crowns.
His offer appealed to me. It wasn’t only the money; I needed to publish something legitimately without undergoing some sort of self-criticism. It would help Nanda get into the school, and I could try to renew my writer’s insurance. I explained this to Zdeněk and admitted that it would be difficult to get my name past the overseers. I’d be very obliged, however, if he would try.
Zdeněk didn’t hesitate for a moment and said he would give it his best shot.
I wrote seven brief screenplays, and Zdeněk took them to the studios. To my amazement, they were accepted, and I was to stop by to sign a contract.
Even today I’m not sure how this happened. The regime was thorough in this area. Anyone who appeared on a secret list of prohibited writers could not publish a single word. How was I suddenly and undeservedly an exception? One explanation is that I have an ordinary name, and those who had approved the screenplays (if they’d even ever heard of me) must have assumed it belonged to one of my namesakes. Another explanation, however, was more likely. After the Soviet occupation, a man with a very dark past — and apparently with the rank of colonel — took over as the studio’s director. It was difficult to tell, but perhaps he’d had an attack of conscience or perhaps he was trying to demonstrate his own independence and disdain for the official obstinacy with regard to artists. He provided many prohibited or persecuted artists either full-time employment or other work opportunities.