One of the most fanatical Communist actresses, Jiřina Švorcová, read a long, impassioned speech which, with the usual phrases, proclaimed her unity with the working people. She claimed that extraordinary works and achievements had been accomplished, which have enriched the spiritual life of our people and received much deserved recognition both at home and abroad. These achievements were realized in conjunction with the everyday work of our people whom our Communist Party led out of years of disruption. They emerged as a part of mutual efforts to achieve the rich, Socialist development of life in our country. They emerged in the favorable atmosphere of devotion, understanding, and optimal conditions that our society is creating for art and culture.
After all the usual curtsies to the progressive forces of the world, the actress came to the heart of her message:
That is why — in accord with the Final Act of the Helsinki Conference — we stretch our hand across the borders of countries and continents, fully aware that true art and true culture should help individual nations and all of humanity move forward; they should create understanding among people of diverse countries; they should win people over to the humanistic perspective concerning peace and mutual cooperation in the interests of joyful human life. That is why we hold in contempt those who, in the unbridled pride of their narcissistic arrogance, for selfish interests, or even for filthy lucre all over the world — even in our country, a small group of such backsliders and traitors can be found — divorce and isolate themselves from the nation, its life, and its genuine interests and, with inexorable logic, become instruments of the antihumanistic forces of imperialism and, in its service, the heralds of disruption and discord among nations.
This document of protest against Charter 77, which outlined the optimal conditions for artistic development in a country in which censorship watched over every publicly pronounced word, where hundreds of thousands of educated people were unable to work, and where hundreds of artists were banned from making their work public, was signed, to their shame (with a few exceptions), by those who were willing to accept the occupying regime and its violence against culture. Over the course of several days, Rudé právo printed more and more signatures, first of the most famous and then of entirely unknown actors, actresses, artists, musicians, and regional authors who perhaps believed that their signature would open their paths to fame. (It is difficult to find an excuse for such a deed.)
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Apparently my deviation from this common enterprise interested the State Security agents. As far as I could judge, they considered me one of the more active opponents. Why had I suddenly pulled back? Was it a sign that I’d had some disagreement with the others, that I had become the so-called weakest link in the chain? They decided to look into it.
At the beginning of February 1977, an article appeared in Rudé právo about a German journalist named Walter Kratzer who was leaving Czechoslovakia on January 15. A letter was found on him with instructions concerning whom to turn to in Prague:
The best contact is the writer Ivan Klíma, Prague 4, Nad lesem 8, Tel. 46 12 64. Klíma signed the Charter 77, knows all the signatories, and is a close friend of authors of the “Prague Spring.” He will open doors for you. Should you be unable to reach Klíma, contact Klíma’s friend, the American actress Marlene Manchini, who lives in the Intercontinental Hotel.
The rest of the article mentioned that my German publisher was subsidized by the West German news service, and we were therefore reputed fighters for human rights, but in reality were a bunch of castaways and political adventurers.
The intent of this nonsense, especially the mention of an American actress whom I’d never laid eyes on, was apparent. The article was offering me an opportunity to publicly protest this mendacious information. The reference to the actress was simply intended to make this easier. I could get angry and say not only did I not know Marlene Manchini but I had not signed any pamphlet by a handful of castaways and political adventurers and then demand that the newspaper issue a retraction.
I did not allow myself to be tricked and refused to react to the article.
Around this time, I was invited to the Swedish premiere of a film adaptation of my novel A Summer Affair. Although I knew it would be futile, I decided to request my passport. I filled out a complicated form, listed all my relatives abroad (Aunt Ilonka in Canada), and proceeded to the People’s Committee for the first stamp. The unsuspecting official took the form and said she’d be right back. She did indeed come right back and with some embarrassment — in fact, she seemed downright frightened. They couldn’t give me the stamp, and I certainly knew why. I said I actually didn’t.
“You signed,” she said in a whisper, “that pamphlet. . that charter.”
I went home and, weighing every word, composed a letter of protest to the minister of the interior.
I do not understand why someone who signed Charter 77 cannot receive a passport and even less why someone who didn’t sign the Charter is refused a stamp on a request for a passport with the justification that he signed the charter.
I also wrote that I had been invited to the premiere of my film, as is quite common, and I would be ashamed to tell the studio I couldn’t attend because, despite all promises by the government about upholding basic human rights, our offices refuse to issue me a passport.
About two weeks later, I was called in for an interrogation. The official had in front of him my letter to the minister, with about half the lines underlined in red.
“You think,” he asked, offended, “we don’t know you didn’t sign the charter?”
I said I had no way of knowing what they knew, especially when Rudé právo, apparently on the basis of materials received from the powers that be, wrote not only that had I signed the charter, but that I was also the best contact because I knew all the signatories.
“So you read the article?” He was comforted. “Why didn’t you protest, since you knew it was false information?”
I said it would have been senseless.
He wanted to know why I thought this. I explained, “Because I know that what Rudé právo writes is the truth even if it is erroneous.”
He twitched his lips and quickly changed the subject.
This time he was almost collegial. Perhaps he was supposed to be playing the good cop, or at least they hadn’t ordered him to play the bad cop. He said it might be possible to consider a passport for me as long as I was willing to show a little goodwill.
I said that it was not appropriate for anyone to judge my goodwill if I was asking for something to which I had an obvious right. All at once, I was afraid they would issue my passport and let me out but not back in. Without further ado, I informed him that the premiere had already taken place, so my intention to travel to Sweden had lost its justification, and I had no plans to go elsewhere.
“So you actually don’t want your passport?” he asked, feigning surprise.
“I think I’ll wait,” I decided to say, “until all my friends receive theirs.”
“Fine,” he said, “but just don’t go complaining to some foreign radio how we’re suppressing your rights.”
So I didn’t get my passport. In addition, they disconnected my telephone and confiscated my car inspection certificate.