Later, In Between the Sheets
“In 1956 I was teaching at the university. I was twenty-six. Young, precocious, fortunate. My brother Tomáš taught in the same department. He was eight years older than me, and a full professor. A man with a sound critical reputation. He had translated Dante into Czech. After the invasion of Hungary he published a pamphlet, privately, illegally, denouncing the Russians. It came to the attention of the state—why would it not? He lost everything—home, wife, son, life.”
“Life?”
“He died in prison. I’ve no idea whether he was just worn out or took a bullet to the back of the head. There was no body, there is no grave. But … the contagion spread. He saved his wife Magda by telling the secret police he was divorcing her. All the same she withstood weeks of interrogation. He could not save me. Guilt by association. I served a year in prison. Still … they had a marvellous library, everything you could ever want by Marx, Engels or Lenin. I rather enjoyed Engels … if there’s anything you need to know about the condition of the working class in Manchester in the 1840s, I’m your man.”
Nell said nothing. Silently willing him to go on.
“Of course, I could not return to the university. I took to writing. First magazines—we are allowed magazines that are subscription only, a small concession—then script editing for short films at Barrandov Studios, and then a full-length film in ’65. As both writer and director. Hiding in Plain Sight was immediately suppressed. There is, after all, no such thing as an unhappy childhood in a state that provides everything from cradle to grave, including hot and cold running happiness. The copy you saw in Berlin last year was smuggled out. Not without notice. I was charged with parasitism—that is, no obvious means of support … writing was not a recognised job in my case, so I got another four months, which is why I never got to Berlin. I was sent to a light engineering factory in Mladá Boleslav making parts for Škoda car doors, on a hand press—the process took four seconds, repeated ten hours a day. I’ve never complained of being bored since. It could have been worse. The scrapyards Forman and I joke about are real enough. I got out just after Christmas.”