During the war, and then in the 1950s, it was good news when we got a letter from father or the uncles. It meant they were still alive somewhere in the camps or in prison, and that there was still hope we'd meet again. Of course in the end, they killed both my uncles.
I also considered it good news when my wife, whom I loved, sent a message that she was looking forward to seeing me. Genuine good news always relates to encounters that take place in love or in freedom — and best of all, in both conditions: a loving encounter in a state of freedom. The best news of all told us about a free encounter with God's love, which is why I am wary of giving unconditional credence to it.
I delivered rhy first message when I was still a student. It was pouring with rain outside like this too, but it must have been sometime in early spring, because a couple of days before that they had come to arrest my father. Early in the morning someone rang the doorbell. At that time, every ring of the doorbell made my mother nervous, so I went to answer it. It wasn't them, however, but one of my former classmates from high school. I can still see him standing there, drenched, inadequately dressed in a worn anorak, his ginger hair wet and stringy, his face unshaven, his eyes hollow and red from smoke or lack of sleep. Before I'd had a chance to invite him in, he pushed his way into the flat and closed the door behind him.
'What's up?' I wanted to know.
He assured me I had nothing to be afraid of; he'd made
sure no one was following him.
'Why should anyone be following you?'
He explained that they were after him, but he'd managed to lose them.
I wanted to know what they were after him for.
It was better I didn't know, he said.
Very well, but what did he want of me?
I had to hide him. At least until tomorrow. And to deliver one message.
'Me? Why me?'
'Who else have I got to turn to?' he asked. 'They won't look for me here, you have a national hero in your family. And I know you won't turn me in, because you've been in prison yourself.'
'That was during the war.' I felt myself becoming afraid.
'Makes no difference,' he assured me. 'A prisoner won't betray a fellow.'
'They were here a week ago and took my father away.' I was convinced they'd made a mistake, but I didn't say so out loud.
This made him uneasy. 'Is your place being watched?'
'No. At least I don't think so.' It had never occurred to me that we might still be under surveillance. After all, they'd searched our flat so thoroughly. And the rest of us? Surely they had nothing to suspect us of.
My mother appeared and asked why I didn't invite my friend in.
Then we sat in the living-room, drinking tea and pretending to reminisce about things we'd done together. The second my mother left the room he asked me for a piece of paper and an envelope and hastily scribbled something down. He put the paper into an envelope and
stuck it shut. 'Could you deliver this for me?' he asked.
'What's in it?'
'You saw — a letter.'
'What's it say?'
'That's irrelevant. But it mustn't fall into their hands. If. . if they go after you, you have to destroy it.'
'Wouldn't it be better if you delivered it yourself?'
Hadn't he told me they were after him, and that it was a miracle he escaped?
Very well, why didn't he stay until dark when he could deliver it himself.
'It's worse at night than in broad daylight.'
This letter would change everything. He promised. As soon as I brought him a reply, he would disappear, because he would know where to go, and how.
I had to bring him back a reply as well?
'You're not going to leave me in this alone, are you?' he said. 'Surely you understand, now that they've arrested your father.' He gave me a name and address and told me to memorize it. He told me how to get there as welclass="underline" I had to take the tram and trolley-bus and then walk the rest of the way. And I had to be constantly on the lookout. If I saw them coming after me. .
Yes, he told me that already. But how should I destroy the letter?
You could eat it.'
I went to explain to my mother that my friend would be staying until evening, but I had to go to a lecture. I got dressed to go out. I was afraid, and angry. He could at least have told me why they were chasing him, why I should have taken this risk for him, and what was in the letter. What if they caught me before I had a chance to swallow
it? Besides, I had never had any burning desire to deliver spy messages.
He came into my room one more time. He was very nervous. 'If you're thinking of turning me in,' he said, 'they won't believe you anyway, not when they find me here.'
I wasn't hurt by his insinuation because the possibility had occurred to me. But despite his threats I could never have brought myself to turn someone over to the police who probably hadn't done anything.
I set off in the rain, which had at least emptied the streets. In those days, there were so few cars that I would certainly have noticed if I were being followed. My errand took me all the way to Jinonice on the outskirts of Prague, a village with narrow streets and low country houses. Occasionally a dog barked at me, and I would start with fright. Here, on the hilltop, the rain had changed to sleet that slid down my forehead and into my eyes.
Who was I was going to see? What if he were an agent for some spy service? Or head of an entire network they had just uncovered, and I stepped into his house as they were arresting him?
I couldn't drive out the scarecrows they had put out in my mind at the many political schooling sessions I'd had to attend. They, the secret police, were still fresh in my memory. Grey faces, grey suits. I didn't want to admit it, but they reminded me of the men who had turned over our flat at the beginning of the war, except that those men had spoken German.
I was twenty-two, I wanted to paint pictures and write love poetry, not visit houses I might never leave.
The person I was taking the message to lived in a cottage with a well-kept garden. The tree trunks were painted with
lime, the flower-beds were protected with evergreen branches and the leaves had been carefully raked from the grass. The curtains were drawn. I checked several times to make sure I'd got the right house. There was no name on the door. I rang the bell.
For a long time nothing moved. I seemed to be able to discern the outline of a face behind the curtains. I remained still; so did the face. I longed to tear up the letter, throw it off a bridge and never come here again.
However, my uninvited guest was waiting for me back home and if I didn't deliver the letter, he wouldn't leave. He would stay with us until they caught him or I drove him out, and then they would arrest him. He, of course, would tell them where he had hidden.
I rang the bell again. At last the door opened. There stood a man with a wreath of white hair around a bald head. His face was sickly yellow, he had a sharply protruding nose and on it, a pair of spectacles with thick lenses. 'What do you want?'
I asked him if he was — , the man I was looking for.
He said he was. 'And what do you want?'
'I have a letter for you.'
He nodded and invited me in.
I stepped into a small entrance hall with a floor of well-scrubbed boards. A few pairs of shoes stood beside a painted wooden box, along with a sweet-smelling basket of apples. A cross hung over the doorway. Through another half-open door I could see shelves full of books. I handed him the letter. He took it carefully, scarcely touching it. He put it on the box, took a penknife out of his pocket and slit the envelope open. He stared for a while at the paper with the message on it, then he folded it and put it back in the