Our upstairs neighbor, Mr. J, was a strange fellow. He looked about seventy years old, always had a week’s growth of dirty beard with yesterday’s crumbs peeking through the grey. He was blind, at least legally blind, because when he indulged in a game of “mariash” *, using me as his trick whisperer, he would sometimes snort: “Shut up, I know what card to play”. He never left the house, certainly not alone. He wore slippers and pajama pants all day with a moth eaten sweater on top. On very cold days, he would add a woolen scarf to his toggery. He spent his days sitting at the large kitchen window, mostly in silence. At noon and at seven in the evening, the radio was turned on for the news and that was when Mr. J became quite vociferous. “Bastards!” The radio droned on about the triumphs of our Communist party, about the bountiful harvest, about the imminent NATO invasion (it was *always* imminent) “Fuckers. Those ignorant fuckwits! Assholes!” The English equivalents will reveal Mr. J’s mood, but none can come close to the ripeness of his Czech curses, especially his favorite “kurvy zasrany” (loosely translated: “shit whores”) He cursed the Communists and yelled at them, shook his fist at them and ranted at every opportunity.
There were also three females in the household. His angelically patient wife, her ancient mother who smiled, baked pastries, shuffled through the apartment and mumbled, and Mr. J’s daughter Z, who was a year older than me and my best friend. Z told me that her father was actually 49, her mom 40 and her grandmother in her early sixties. Being 14 years old, they all naturally looked ancient to me but even my parents thought that Mr. J was at least in his late sixties and his mother-in-law in her eighties. Z also told me one day that she had an uncle, her mom’s brother who was “still in jail”. “What do you mean, *still*?” And she told me the whole story.
After World War 2 and up to the recognition of the State of Israel, Czechoslovakia was a friendly nation to the Jewish State. More importantly, as Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin once stated: “Our war of independence would probably have been lost without the massive supply of Czechoslovak armaments” It was only after Stalin’s abrupt about-face in the early summer of 1948, that Israel suddenly became “the Zionist entity” and was never mentioned on the news except as the “agent of imperialism” or “soldiers of Zionist revanchism”.
Z’s whole family, both on her mother’s and father’s side were deeply involved in aviation. Her mother’s family had owned a large aircraft manufacturing company (nothing could be less kosher than that for the Communist regime) and her father had been a commercial airline pilot. I assume many pilots find love on board and Z’s parents were no exception. Her mother was a stewardess who had worked many flights with Mr. J in the cockpit. Mr. J often flew the Prague - Tel Aviv route - a 3.5 hour flight today, probably closer to 7 hours in a DC-9. And it just so happened that he flew the very last direct flight on that route, discontinued when Stalin’s idea of what Israel should have become had not materialized. When Mr. J safely landed at Prague Ruzyne Airport that evening and descended from the cockpit, he was a strapping young man of 28, full of self-confidence and plans that included marrying his pregnant girlfriend, a stewardess on his flight. Those plans, along with his optimism and self-confidence crash-landed that night. He was surrounded by men in wide-brimmed hats and long overcoats (it was never clear to me why the Czech secret police had stolen not just their methods but also their fashion stylings from the Gestapo) “Open up the cargo door, you fascist swine!” Mr. J, in complete shock, tried to object: “That is not my job, sir. The cargo will be unloaded in the usual fashion!” The thug slapped him across the face. “Open up the fucking cargo door, you piece of imperialist shit!” They walked alongside the plane and got the cargo door open. The long-coated goon climbed in and emerged holding two automatic rifles. “What the fuck is this, you pig?” Instantly, Mr. J knew he was lost. There was going to be no wedding, no more flights - not just to Israel but anywhere. The STB - Czech secret police - had planted weapons in the cargo hold. He had no idea how and when, since he had done a brief inspection and had signed the cargo manifest in Tel Aviv. But the Communist agents had their tentacles everywhere. It could have happened just after landing or perhaps even during flight. Passengers were not required to pass through metal detectors back then. “You’ll come with us and so will that girl over there!” They pointed to Mr. J’s future wife, Z’s mother.
Everything Z knew about that day and the days that followed was from her mom. Her father was interrogated and mercilessly beaten for weeks. His teeth were knocked out, his jaw dislocated and his eyes were badly damaged by the punches he received. He was eventually sentenced to 11 years for being an “agent of Zionism and western imperialism, who had planned to undermine and harm our Socialist homeland” Z’s mother was sentenced to 5 years for aiding and abetting. She gave birth in prison and was subsequently released along with her daughter on “humanitarian grounds” when Z was about six months old. Her father was not so lucky. He served his whole 11 year sentence performing heavy labor despite the fact that he was almost completely blind towards the end of it. While he was in jail, Z had seen countless photos of him in his pilot’s uniform: 6 feet tall, a smile on his face, proudly displaying the four gold stripes on his sleeves. There were no visits allowed in the maximum security prison where he served his time. And then one fall day in 1959, a beat up cab car pulled into the courtyard, the back door opened and an old, hunched, grizzled man got out and walked slowly up the stairs to the apartment which he had never seen and which was going to be his next quasi-prison, for the second half of his life. “Dad’s home, Z!” Her mother couldn’t stop crying as she hugged the old man with a scraggly beard. He was 39 years old. At first, Z screamed and wanted nothing to do with this beggar, this smelly apparition, but she was a big girl already and she quickly understood. Mr. J settled into his pajama-pants-and-slippers life, drinking gallons of black coffee, sitting by the window, playing an occasional game of mariash and listening to the news, yelling obscenities at the radio. He never received an explanation, not to mention an apology, not until sometime in the mid-60’s, when the family got a short official letter from the Ministry of the Interior: “On behalf of the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic, allow me to offer an apology for the mistakes made by our government in the 1940’s and the 1950’s. Those errors are not compatible with the true Marxism Leninism our government aims to implement in order to improve the lives of our citizens. Signed…”
Mistakes, errors, missteps. No compensation, no mention of the immense suffering, no punishment for the sadistic STB agents, no regret.
“You said your uncle was still in prison!” I said to Z. “That’s right! He got 20 years.” “20 years? For what? Was he convicted of murder?” “No such thing. He was convicted of being a member of an imperialist blood sucking family who had exploited hundreds of workers in their airplane factory! The factory was taken over by the Commies. My uncle got 20 years, and all the managers have served prison terms as well”
Z’s uncle did get out in 1967, very shortly after our initial conversation about him. He had served more than 17 out of his 20 years. During the Prague Spring the following year, when along with the lilac, our hopes for a free and beautiful future blossomed in Czechoslovakia, the uncle did receive a proper official apology. It came with a promise the perpetrators of the Communist Party crimes would be punished to the full extent of the law. Since Soviet tanks rolled into the streets of Prague a scant few months later, I’m not certain any punishment ever took place.
And I understood the shabby, sickly looking man with crumbs in his beard who had been a handsome airline pilot once, yelling “shit whores” at least twice a day. Many more times than that quietly to himself, I’m sure.
* “mariash” is a popular Czech card game. The word is a derivation of the French “marriage”. The rules of the game designate a “marriage” as the pairing of two special cards, earning 20 points.
Czechoslovakia encapsulates History's lessons as few other nations.
Born in the redemptive dawn of the first global madness, soon became the first prey to the raptors surrounding her, the Nazi werewolves followed by the neighbouring hienas salivating at the spoils.
Eternal symbol of international cowardice, so much more in the face of such indomitable people.
A people of heroes like Jozef Gabčík and Jan Kubiš, shouldered by countless anonymous stalwarts of freedom, by far the bravest ever facing the worst 20th century tyrannies.