After I spent an hour waiting downstairs, my information was written out on a form, and I was told that this was a temporary ID valid for one month. I must submit a request for a new one.
My suspicions were confirmed. Now I was supposed to call my colonel, who would claim I was simply being harassed again; I could pick up my ID first thing tomorrow, or perhaps he would order it to be brought to me with an apology. Then he would invite me to come see him and allude to all the things he was doing for me and even confide in me that he had some acquaintances in publishing. He could arrange for one of my books to be published if I would only do some minor favor for him in return.
Perhaps this district director was not aware that I was collecting partial disability pay, and the charge of parasitism would not stick.
I applied for a new ID and didn’t call the colonel. I simply waited.
About two weeks later, another messenger stopped by to call me in. He was just as polite and just as accommodating.
When I took a seat in the colonel’s office and received the usual mineral water (I’d never taken so much as a sip), I said I preferred to receive a summons. The colonel, however, gave me to understand that this was out of the question. This wasn’t an interrogation, or did I have the impression, he asked, somewhat offended, that it was? He was simply interested in my fate and wanted to help, so that I would not be disturbed in my writing. Then he spoke for quite some time about vacation possibilities and mushroom hunting in the military zone, where he once again invited me to join him. When I asked if I could bring along a friend, he wanted to know whom. When I said Vaculík, he seemed thrilled by the idea. To enjoy the company of two such marvelous writers — what more could he wish for? He would definitely stop by my place soon.
He didn’t ask me anything more. Instead, he waited to see what I would start talking about, but I kept silent and thought what I would do if he actually stopped by. There was no way I would go mushroom hunting with an officer of State Security, let alone to the military zone, where I might be shot. Accidentally, of course.
The colonel then mentioned my novel. He said he found it quite absorbing and hoped I would forgive him if he kept it for a few more days. Lately he’d had little time for reading. Finally, he asked if everything was okay with me.
When I said everything was fine, he asked more specifically: No harassment?
“No,” I said, “If you have in mind my ID booklet, they have to issue me a new one; otherwise they will be violating the law.”
My answer seemed to take him by surprise, but he was a professional. He wished me a pleasant vacation and reiterated that he would let Vaculík and me know if he was planning a trip somewhere to the woods in the military zone. We simply had to go mushroom hunting together.
He never got in touch again. He, or perhaps somebody above him, had decided I was not a good prospect, and he never returned my manuscript. If he’s not dead, perhaps he’s still reading it.
*
Writers on Their Congress
Immediately upon the conclusion of the constitutive congress of the Czechoslovak Writers’ Union, reporters from the Czechoslovak Press Agency invited several delegates for a discussion. . MILOSLAV STINGL replied:. . In the speech by the chair of the party and the ruling delegation, I was fascinated by the genuinely deep interest and solicitude of the highest representatives of our society for the development of Czechoslovak literature. And what am I personally taking away from the congress? I want to dwell not on what I’ve already accomplished, but rather on what I still have to do. I want to put everything inside me in the books I have yet to write — perhaps even more. Is the precept “Outperform even yourself” meant only for miners? Through my humble works, I wish to serve the Czech reader and Czech literature.
From
Lidová demokracie,
December 10, 1977
*
It was during this time that I received my first small royalty payment for my story for the cartoon Krtek. Aware I could be accused of parasitism (my partial disability pension could be taken away at any time), I decided to try to renew my writer’s insurance.
And it worked! The moment a crack appeared in the seemingly impervious fortress of prohibition, the bureaucracy fell into confusion. I went to the offices of the Literary Fund and presented my signed contract along with confirmation that Krátký Film had paid me a royalty. The source of my income was legitimate, and the appropriate official (I sensed he was sympathetic) renewed my insurance according to the law. A year later my name appeared on TV in the credits for the scripts of the short films I had written, which surprised everyone including my friends (those who noticed). Many began to hope that the ridiculous proscriptions would finally cease. But in this they were mistaken. I heard a rumor that someone from the ideological department protested that I had been allowed to work on officially produced films. Nevertheless, because the films had originated at a time when only permitted authors could publish, my name was not removed from the credits. At the same time, however, nothing else was allowed to appear with my name on it until the end of the eighties.
*
I think it was Pavel Kohout’s idea — it was definitely his wife, Jelena Mašinová, who bought dozens of tickets to a railway men’s dance. I thought it would be ridiculous for me to go, since I didn’t know how to dance. But Helena was excited; we would see our friends there, and the railway workers would be surprised when they saw who was in attendance.
So I bought tickets. Helena wore her graduation dress, I wore my Sunday best, and Michal donned his suit from his dancing lessons. Then we got into the car and set off for the dance, the first one in my life.
On the way from the Vinohrady Theater, where we managed to find a parking spot, we kept running into friends who warned us not to try to get into the dance. Secret policemen were standing at the entrance turning everyone away who wasn’t a railway worker.
For a while we lingered in the little park out front, then we saw a limping Pavel Kohout being supported by his wife. Pavel had refused to leave and kept showing his invitation, claiming that anyone who had bought a ticket had to be admitted. Instead, he had been tossed down the stairs.
I offered to drive him to a doctor.
The closest clinic was only about four hundred meters away. I noticed two vehicles following me; one of them belonged to the secret police. When I stopped, and Helena and Michal took Pavel inside, two members of State Security stepped out of their vehicle, which they had parked just behind mine. They asked for my documents. They didn’t know what to charge me with, so they had me breathe into a tube. Only an idiot or a gambler would have drunk alcohol before such an event. They told me everything was in order and handed back my documents while I waited for my injured friend to return.
Then we set off across Prague. Pavel, who had just recently moved out of his apartment in Hradčany, was temporarily living at Václav Havel’s in Dejvice. (I did not have fond memories of this place — at one of Václav’s birthday celebrations, I had indecorously taken a seat on a tabletop displaying the family crystal. The tabletop, however, was not secured, and I sent all the crystal crashing to the floor. Only shards remained. Václav, magnanimous as always, consoled me and said it was his fault; he should have had the tabletop attached a long time ago.)
Now we drove to Dejvice with a police escort worthy of a ministry chairman from some friendly African nation. We then said goodbye to Pavel and headed home. As we were nearing the Branický brewery, one of the cars tailing us suddenly passed and ordered us to stop. When the police officer once again pulled out the Breathalyzer, I protested that I had breathed into it a moment ago, and everything had been fine.