While I was still at university I managed to visit London — thanks, no doubt, to Dad's unimpeachable political record. That was the first time I became aware of masses of people, a universe full of human beings whom I'll never know, never speak to and never understand. Ever since then I've been afraid of those masses, especially when I see people bunched together so tightly that they touch shoulders.
I can go and sit down on the steps by the Hus memorial and wait. I can go home and wait and wait — what for, who for, in fact?
We await salvation, which has departed from us. A line of verse crosses my mind, goodness knows where from, the Bible maybe. Perhaps I heard it some Sunday when I was attending church to spite my father.
The narrow lanes of the Old Town offer some shade at least and to my surprise I find an empty telephone booth.
I insert the phone card and hesitate before dialling the number.
A woman answers the phone. She's not particularly old by the sound of her voice; but then why should she be? His mother needn't be much older than I am, and my voice hasn't aged — or at least so I tell myself.
I overcome the temptation to hang up without saying anything; I introduce myself and ask after her son, my lover.
'Hold the line, please, Miss. I'll call him.'
It is stiflingly hot in the phone booth and his 'Miss' is bathed in sweat.
'It's me, Kristýna.'
'I recognize your voice, of course.'
'You haven't left yet?' I ask stupidly
'No, I'm leaving in an hour.'
'What will you be doing in the meantime?'
'I was making a few more notes.'
A moment's silence and then he asks, 'And what are you doing?'
'Walking around Prague.' And I'm miserable — I don't say.
'I thought you said you'd be with your daughter.'
'She's out. She told me she was going to some demonstration and then to some cottage with a girlfriend.'
'And you're home alone?'
'I'm not at home. I'm walking around Prague. I went to have a look at that demonstration but I couldn't find her. The place is so crowded it's impossible to find anybody, not even a demonstration.'
'Do you think we could meet for a short while?'
'But you'll be leaving soon.'
'Where are you now?'
I tell him truthfully that I'm in a phone booth.
He wants to know where I'll go after I hang up, but I don't know.
'So try and help me to find you.'
'You won't have time anyway'
'But I won't go to the seminar if I've got a chance to be with you.'
I'm touched by his words. I'm touched that he gives me precedence over something that's bound to be important for his career. For a moment I'm unable to speak, then I simply say, 'You're crazy. You'll only regret it if you stay here.'
We talk it over for a bit longer, then we agree to meet in an hour in front of the National Theatre. I hang up.
My hair is matted and my blouse is sodden with sweat. I didn't really put on any make-up. I'm wearing the old threadbare skirt I wear at home. I rushed out without changing into something
else. How did it ever occur to me to make a date with him looking like this? He's bound to be fed up that he didn't go on my account. Maybe he's already regretting it.
I'd make a bad violinist because my hand would shake when I performed, even though it's usually firm. I used to get butterflies when I started going out with my first and only husband. Before every date I'd be terrified he wouldn't turn up. I was afraid, even though I was still a beauty — or so fellows told me, and Karel assured me too. I was terrified of falling out of favour, as if it were my job to be anxious and fearful for our love. I never entirely rid myself of that fear, even though I knew I was stronger.
If I make a dash to the metro I'll still have time to get home, have a shower and change. I can take a taxi back. On the other hand I could phone my lover back and tell him to go to his seminar instead. Or I could invite him straight home.
5
According to my horoscope, Pluto is crossing the Sun — a fatal aspect that foretells a major upheaval in my life. It looks as if my work for the Institute is heading in that direction. That's unless the upheaval concerns my private life. Most likely it concerns my entire life.
There are too many people who feel threatened by the things I uncover. I'm not trying to say I'm particularly important. Thousands of others could do the work I've been doing. Anyone who took this work seriously and tried to discover the truth of what happened, instead of covering up the tracks, would be considered a threat. The previous director, who tried to prevent others blocking our work, was given the boot, with all honours. Now it's our turn and there won't be any honours.
On several occasions I have noticed that I was being tailed; mostly after I'd arranged a meeting with someone who could
supply interesting information. It was impossible to say whether I was being tailed by the former operatives or the present ones. Maybe it was the present ones after consulting the former ones.
They never stopped me. If I happened to have a rendezvous in a pub or a café they'd try to sit as close as possible to me. I made their work harder by choosing a place where all the adjacent tables were full. I don't know what listening equipment they used, but four years of reading about their activity has taught me that if they are determined to listen in to what I say, I'd have a hard job eluding them.
Nobody says anything to my face. Sometimes I get worried that I'm becoming paranoid.
The people whose reports I study are either dead or act as if they had nothing to do with that activity. And when they admit it, they insist that they never harmed anyone. And what about those for whom the reports were written? They've disappeared; the waters have closed over them; they have all been spirited away to some unknown destination. But occasionally a miracle occurs and the waters open once more — as happened just a few days ago. Ondřej came to ask me whether I'd ever come across a Captain Hádek in the files.
Ondřej is my immediate superior, but we're friends more than colleagues. We share a number of interests. We both like games. Ondřej is great at computer games and he's an excellent chess player, so we nicknamed him Alekhine. He's never kept snakes, but he has two tortoises at home. Maybe he's more of a realist than me. He scoffs at my belief in horoscopes. In his opinion, what can't be proved doesn't exist — that's probably the best approach in our line of work.
I couldn't recall any Hádek. In what connection might his name have arisen?
He explained that this man had been in charge of interrogating a number of Scout leaders, maybe even my dad. My friend and superior had managed to discover from one witness that the
captain — who was apparently promoted to Major afterwards — is still alive. His real name is Rukavička.
That name seized my attention. The first two letters made me think of the guy called Rubáš who dealt with Dad.
'He's really still alive?'
'He lives in some retirement home just outside Prague.' Ondřej shows me the place on the map that hangs on the wall of our office. Naturally the former interrogator is very old now — over eighty.
But Dad's interrogator operated under a different name.
That was possible, of course, Ondřej said. The files from Dad's trial have all disappeared. Ondřej told me he'd try to question Rukavička — Hádek as soon as possible. I could attend too, if I liked.
That reminder of Dad's fate provoked my return to a project I'd previously put to one side. About a month before, I'd been invited to a seminar in Brno, where they wanted me to talk about the beginnings of Communist terror in this country The seminar was to be attended by several well-known historians, as well as some politicians, so it would be an opportunity for me to say something about our work and voice my own opinions. At the same time I feared I wouldn't pass muster. That was why I hadn't written a single line so far.