Marlene Manchini, if she actually existed and was even in Prague, had certainly departed by now.
Essay: (Secret Police), p. 522
19
Over the course of several weeks, Charter 77 issued a number of thoroughly elaborated documents (a number of outstanding lawyers were among the signatories). They drew attention to, among other things, the fact that many young people were limited in their right to an education and that the government persecuted religious devotees. Some of the documents dealt with illegal trials or labor law violations. (When my friends were preparing a text on the suppression of freedom of expression, especially literature, they asked me to help them.) Václav Havel, one of the three spokesmen, was arrested at the beginning of January. The authorities knew that in him the charter had a person of exceptional political abilities. On March 13, after a daylong interrogation, Professor Jan Patočka, the second spokesman of the charter, died.
The death of an outstanding philosopher, whom State Security had treated as a criminal, was not in the best interests of the leaders of our country, but they remained true to their resolve that anyone who tried to reveal their villainies would remain an outcast even after death.
Despite the malevolent campaign against the charter, thousands of people attended the funeral of its first martyr. A number of us recognized our investigators making their way through the crowd of mourners and noting those who dared to mourn publicly. The funeral was taking place in Břevnov, where there was a motorcycle track nearby, so State Security sent motorcyclists to ride around the track as fast and loudly as they could. Helicopters meanwhile hovered overhead to drown out the words uttered at the graveside.
As the funeral rites were being performed, the cops turned their backs to the grave and photographed those who came to pay their respects. These obstinate manifestations of disrespect revealed the pathetic nature of the country’s rulers more than any critical document ever could.
*
The fact that I hadn’t signed the charter and still seemed to be abstaining from all protest activity struck the State Security as extremely suspicious now. After Hrabal’s self-criticism, they hadn’t been able to persuade anyone else to abandon his erroneous ways — not to mention that Hrabal was nonpolitical and his self-criticism didn’t have the appropriate impact.
A few weeks after my last summons to Bartolomějská Street, the mail carrier delivered to me the familiar subpoena.
At the porter’s lodge, I was met by the same official who had investigated my complaint to the Ministry of the Interior. He feigned affability and asked after my health and whether I’d received any more invitations from abroad.
When he pressed the button in the elevator, I noticed that we were going to a higher floor than usual. I asked where he was leading me this time, and he said we were going two floors up. In every sense of the word.
I was led down a corridor that did indeed look less dreary. He knocked on one of the doors, and I unexpectedly found myself in a human environment. There were even pictures on the walls and a fairly decent rug covering the floor. Somewhat bewildered, I said hello to the secretary, and she replied in kind. Then she rose from her chair, opened a padded door, and said the colonel was expecting me.
In this room were bookcases overflowing with various collected works and a little gray-suited gentleman with the slightly puffy face of a civil servant.
He seemed pleased to see me. “Ah, Mr. Klíma,” he said. He rose from behind his desk, shook my hand, and introduced himself as Mr. Irovský. He pointed to a leather armchair and invited me to have a seat. Then, like a good host, he asked if he could offer me something to drink. I thanked him and said I wasn’t thirsty.
He informed me he’d invited me here because he wanted to speak about my future plans, as they say. He apologized for the official form of his invitation, but we definitely should not consider this an interrogation. He would have asked me to a café, where it would have been much more pleasant, but from everything he’d heard, in all likelihood I would have refused such an invitation.
Then followed a conversation that some instruction manual or textbook of State Security probably referred to as “cordial and friendly.”
The colonel assured me that, for him, our meeting was a rare opportunity. When would he ever have the chance to sit and chat with a world-famous author? He emphasized “world-famous” in order to flatter me or to let me know he was aware of the publication of my books and performances of my plays abroad, which could be considered an act hostile to the state, to socialism, and essentially to all progressive forces of the world in their battle for peace. Then, no matter how astoundingly incongruous it seemed, he started talking about literature. He mentioned Hemingway, whose book about the Spanish Civil War seemed to him quite progressive; and Howard Fast, who, on the other hand, had gone over to the enemies of socialism. “And what about your books?” he wanted to know. “I asked about them at the bookstore just around the corner in the building where you used to work, but they didn’t have anything.”
Had he yelled at me, had he interrogated me, it would have been very easy to keep quiet, to ignore the questions or say I wasn’t going to give evidence. But when a person is sitting across from you and says he’s surprised he can’t get a copy of one of your books, it seems stupid not to reply even though I knew this was some sort of ludicrous game. I knew he hadn’t asked anyone about my books because he was well aware they were forbidden to appear in bookstores. It was entirely possible that he was the one who had issued the order to confiscate my books immediately if they appeared anywhere.
I said I was not allowed to publish here.
“That’s a shame,” he replied. “I’ll bet that’s really quite vexing. Or perhaps it’s all the same to you?”
I said there were plenty of other things more vexing.
He ignored my response. “But you must be working on something now. One of those little novels of yours? And plays as well. A colleague mentioned that something of yours was playing in Switzerland and Vienna. You apparently poked a little fun at our circumstances here. But that’s part of your trade,” he quickly added. “Did you go to the premiere?”
I said my passport and my wife’s had been confiscated.
“So why didn’t you submit a request for them?” he mused and immediately added, “But I’m not going to sit here and ask you questions. It might seem like an interrogation.”
Why else would I be sitting in this viper’s nest? It was more like an insane dream.
Then the colonel decided to change the subject of this amicable conversation and began discussing mushroom hunting. He’d heard it was my hobby (his agents had provided him with even this information), but the regular forests had already been picked clean. “Where could one find a decent mushroom?” he complained. At least a parasol or rosacea mushroom. He offered to take me out to the military zone where there were plenty, and I’d have a full basket in no time.
Then he returned to my writing and said he’d like to read something.
I repeated that my books were banned from publication.
“But you must have a copy of what you send to Mr. Jürgen in Switzerland.”
I said I had no copies of my books because I didn’t want any trouble.
“That’s too bad.” He seemed saddened. “But have a look around at home. You must have some manuscript lying around.” He neglected to mention that he could send a band of his subordinates to help me look. Instead he said, “Of course, I’ll return it when I’m finished.”