It was discouraging to think of losing a friend from a country where blacklists of authors did not exist. It wouldn’t be easy to find a new publisher or agent abroad, even if one were to write a book that publishers wanted.
On top of everything else, our faithful courier Wolfgang was concluding his diplomatic career and preparing to leave our country. He invited us whose mail he had delivered to his abode in Vinohrady. We racked our brains over what to give him to express our gratitude. Finally, I had an idea: Just as we had awarded Hrabal the title of Prince of Czech Literature, we would bestow an order on Wolfgang. My friends took to the idea, and we wrote an accompanying text for the order, which stated “for assistance to Czech literature during times of darkness.” Once again, Saša obtained a Latin translation, our Nanda copied out the text in old-fashioned lettering, and one of our friends and foremost sculptors created the order in the form of a bronze book brooch (it weighed at least a kilo and was certainly not suited for pinning on a lapel). Václav Havel, Ludvík Vaculík, and I signed the document, and thus we usurpers, as current propaganda would have designated us, elevated ourselves to spokesmen for Czech literature. During the first farewell toast we solemnly presented the unsuspecting Wolfgang with the order. I don’t remember who symbolically pinned it on him. It was probably the oldest of us, Vaculík. Václav had no idea he would soon be pinning several dozen awards every year, and among the laureates would be Wolfgang himself.
It was our order and accompanying text that our extraordinary courier hung on the wall of his home in Melsungen and claimed it was the highest award he had ever received.
*
On her fourth try, Nanda was accepted at the Academy of Performing Arts in a field with a somewhat mysterious description: educating students in the craft of theater and broadcasting with an emphasis on puppetry; her major — design and technology. It was a subject we resorted to out of necessity, but it turned out to be serious and multifaceted. Nanda learned not only how to draw and paint but also how to fashion puppets and work with different materials.
At the same time, more and more people were coming to see me to borrow books from our typewritten series. I think I could tell who visited upon the assignment of State Security, who out of sympathy, and who out of an interest in what was new in a literature that was not subject to censorship. Several times I was invited — usually outside Prague — to someone’s cottage or a private apartment to read something or talk about literature. I was usually led into a roomful of guests I didn’t know, but I believed that no one came out of ill will. It was encouraging to meet with people who themselves were not among the persecuted but had enough courage and curiosity to meet with those who were.
After four years of commuting, Helena finally got a job in Prague at a couples’ therapy office beneath the Nusle Bridge. One evening, she was invited to an acquaintance’s place in Hanspaulka. Apparently, she and her husband had gotten their hands on a rare film about Dubček and the events of 1968. It would have been a shame to show the film just for themselves.
Helena accepted the invitation. Before we set out, I heard some news that no longer surprised anyone: Another Bolshevik leader had expired (the second in ten years), and the hearts and minds of all the vassals in the entire camp of peace were filled with the deepest sorrow.
When we arrived in Hanspaulka a little late, we saw that the hostess had fulfilled her intention to show the film to more than her immediate family. Around fifty guests crowded the apartment, among them many of our friends who were banned from publishing or research. I saw sandwiches on plates in the kitchen, but first the film started. Just at the moment when the ingenuous and smiling face of Dubček peeped out at us, something prompted me to turn around. To my astonishment, I saw uniformed members of State Security standing in the doorway. Where had they come from? Were they among the invited guests?
After about twenty minutes they let us off on Bartolomějská Street. Even though it was nearing ten o’clock at night, the lights were on. State Security had apparently been on high alert, and only then did I realize that the projection of the rare documentary occurred on the day of the unplanned death of the Soviet leader, Konstantin Chernenko. Such events were always accompanied by greater police vigilance.
We were led into some sort of large hall (I didn’t know they had anything like this) and, from there, were taken individually to be interrogated. It went slowly, and we didn’t see those who were led away again; they were either locked in cells or let out through another door. Time dragged on more than it did in a dentist’s waiting room. The officers watching over us demanded we not speak to one another. Then one of the women started singing “Kyrie eleison.” The hymn sounded powerful and, in view of the situation, absurd. To compound the absurdity, our host protested that we were starving — he’d prepared food at home, and now it was going to waste. To our amazement, the officers bundled him into a car and drove him back to Hanspaulka, where he grabbed the trays of sandwiches and returned.
After midnight, they came for me and I was led to an office where I saw “my” official behind a desk. Mr. Irovsky had been interrogating me for the past two or three years — he seemed like a typical police official of the times. He demanded that I report to him whenever summoned and that I not demonstrate disrespect for his office. He never once yelled at me. (If he’d been given the order to yell, I’m sure he would have done so.) Usually he asked questions about our samizdat journal, or my meetings with some journalist from Britain or another free country, and when I said I didn’t remember or refused to answer, he didn’t press me. He would note down everything briefly, hand me the minutes to sign, and, with an ironic comment, perhaps concerning my faulty memory, let me go. This time he greeted me once again ironically: “We should have known. Wherever something provocative is going on, we are sure to find Klíma.” I said that I didn’t do provocative things. Besides, I had no idea what was supposed to be going on. It occurred to me that I wouldn’t be harming anyone by telling the truth, and I explained that my wife and I had been invited over by an acquaintance and, to our surprise, we were met with a large gathering.
He released me after ten minutes; Helena had been released a few minutes before. A number of my friends were led to a cell for the night and let go the next day.
Once again at liberty, we learned the name of the man who had been chosen for the Soviet throne. I had never heard his name before: Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev.
Essay: The Elite, p. 530
20
The pension insurance I had managed to acquire, thanks to Zdeněk Miler when he filmed seven cartoons based on my stories, lasted for several years. Each year, I declared at least part of my foreign income in order to keep the insurance.
Because I had spent three and a half years in a concentration camp during the war, I had the right to retire a little earlier, and the time was approaching. Two years and three months before the target date, a new and ambitious collaborator, boasting the regal name of Kaiser, was assigned to head the Literary Fund. Kaiser decided to cancel my insurance with this intriguing justification: Please find enclosed the supporting documents you submitted with your request for artists’ social security. It is not possible to demonstrate unequivocally that your income was the result of artistic activity. This determination was maliciously timed. The law stated that every insured person must work at least one day during the two years before retirement — that is, he must receive an income from a proper and approved work source. If I didn’t, I would lose my entitlement to any sort of pension.