Toronto, March 15, 1989
THE MAIL HAD ARRIVED earlier than usual that day. Karl paused on his way to the kitchen, newspaper in hand, glancing down at what appeared to be bills, the usual useless fliers, and a bank statement or two. There was an advertisement for a membership to a tennis club that looked interesting. Now sixty-eight, Karl had maintained a youthful vigor. While he had long ago given up skiing and cycling, he walked and hiked regularly, and was still an avid and skilled tennis player.
As he flipped through the remaining envelopes, one caught his eye. It looked like an invitation of some kind, but the return address and postage were Czech. Who would invite me to Czechoslovakia, he wondered. And what kind of event would be taking place there at this time? In the early spring of 1989, Czechoslovakia was still an oppressive place under a Soviet regime that ruled with tight, unyielding laws. State Security, the infamous secret police, was everywhere, watching its citizens and arresting dissidents. It was common practice for them to wiretap telephones, watch apartments, open and read mail, and search homes without warning. Individuals were frequently arrested for what became known as “subversion of the republic.” Citizens, at all levels of society, were “encouraged” to watch their neighbors and report any suspicious activity, or risk falling under suspicion themselves. Informers were strategically placed within businesses, schools, and community groups. The people of Czechoslovakia lived in constant fear.
There had been a brief period of liberalization, known as the Prague Spring, which began in January 1968 under the leadership of Alexander Dubèek. Under his rule the country saw a loosening of regulations inhibiting free speech, travel, and the press. Many Czechs rallied behind these progressive changes, and called for even more rapid advancement toward democracy. But this alarmed the Soviet Union, and, fearing that these reforms would lead to a weakening of the Communist Bloc during the Cold War, the Warsaw Pact nations, including the Soviet Union, East Germany, Poland, Hungary, and Bulgaria, invaded Czechoslovakia on August 21, 1968. Approximately ninety civilians were shot and killed, and close to 3,500 fled the country, many finding refuge in Canada which, in contrast to its policies during the Second World War, this time opened its doors to escaping Czechs. Gustáv Husák replaced Dubèek as president of Czechoslovakia and reversed almost all of his reforms. The party was purged of its liberal members, and intellectual elites were dismissed from public office and professional jobs. Control was gradually restored, and hard-line Communists were reinstated as leaders. Twenty years after the Prague Spring, Czechoslovakia was still a repressed country. With its closed borders and restricted opportunities, there were few if any celebratory events or occasions that might have prompted someone to send an invitation to Karl.
He turned the envelope over in his hands and then carefully broke the seal, removing a stiff cardboard note with formal black lettering. Its contents startled Karl. The card requested his presence at the fiftieth anniversary reunion of his former high school in Rakovník. And, as he stared soberly at the invitation, memories stirred.
March 15, 1989 – it was fifty years to the day that Germany had invaded Czechoslovakia, setting off the string of events that would plunge the country and eventually the world into the chasm of war. And it was fifty years to the day that Karl and his family had fled Rakovník to the temporary safety of Prague, and, ultimately, Canada. Karl had only visited his former homeland once in the years since his family had been forced to flee. But the truth was, he had never had any desire to return. Any sentimental attachment to Czechoslovakia that he might have retained in the early days of adjusting to life in Toronto was gone. It was as if that part of his life had ended and a new chapter – one that represented freedom and security – had been born to take its place. Despite the slight remnant of an accent that still identified him as European, Karl felt and was more Canadian than Czech. His entire adult life had been formed in Canada. He had found a home and a career here, had married, and had raised two children with Phyllis. Linda taught marketing in the business schools of two universities. Ted had his own successful business distributing restaurant equipment. Both had married and had had children of their own, a source of additional pride and joy for Karl and Phyllis.
Karl stared again at the invitation, wondering how the organizers had even tracked him down after all these years. Then he shook his head and smiled wryly as another thought flashed through his mind. He had not even graduated from his high school! That place was one more reminder of the virulent anti-Semitism that had plagued his country even before the war. Karl tossed the invitation aside, marveling at how the letter had instantly propelled him back to a place and time he had worked hard to forget. Memories had that power, he realized. The slightest event or object could catch you off guard and hold your mind hostage to the past.
He took another deep breath, wondering where Phyllis was. He needed a cup of tea, and wanted to talk to her about the invitation. The dog whined softly at the door, anxious to go for a walk. “Later, Quinta,” Karl said firmly. At Karl’s command, the brown Welsh terrier sniffed and reluctantly turned away.
Karl was just about to head for the kitchen when one more envelope caught his eye. This one had been at the bottom of the pile and might have been overlooked completely had it not been for its familiar onionskin wrapping. It was an airmail envelope, Karl realized, and also from Czechoslovakia. Two letters from his former homeland in one day! It was more than he had received in years. But it was the salutation on this envelope that made Karl catch his breath.
Mrs. Marie Reiserová* or anybody from the family.
More memories! Marie had died five years earlier. Her heart had begun to fail her in her advancing years. One mild heart attack followed another, and gradually she began to fade. This was followed by a series of ministrokes until, in her ninety-first year, Marie ended up hospitalized for what would prove to be the last time. Karl visited her every day, sitting by his mother’s bedside and often helping to feed her. Her declining health and the countless physical examinations by the doctors at the hospital frustrated her terribly. Karl talked about his children and grandchildren, and these conversations always put a smile on Marie’s face. Though she now had difficulty speaking, her mind was as sharp and clear as ever. It was here in the hospital that she also reminisced about Czechoslovakia.
“You know, in spite of losing so much, I can honestly say that my life has been happy,” she said one afternoon, propped up in her hospital bed. Karl was astounded that, in spite of her frailty, she maintained this strong and positive attitude. “There were only a few things I missed of what we had to leave behind,” she continued. “Our possessions were only objects, nothing compared to the fact that all four of us were able to get out alive. But, I’ve always been sorry I had nothing to leave you and Hana. There should have been a family legacy.” She paused and turned her head to stare out the window while Karl looked on. It was the closest she had come to talking about the four paintings and her ill-fated attempt to retrieve them since returning from Prague in 1948.
In 1984, Marie passed away. She had outlived Karl’s father by forty years, and had outlived Arthur Brock by more than thirty years. Her second husband had died of leukemia in 1951. Karl was grateful for the long, productive life Marie had lived, though his heart still stung from the void that her absence had created.
He tore open the envelope and quickly scanned the letter inside. It was written in English – that alone was unusual – and by a man who identified himself as Jan Pekárek. It took a moment for Karl to register who that was. And then, slowly, the realization began to sink in. Jan Pekárek was the grandson of Alois Jirák, with whom Marie had fought for ownership of the paintings. As Karl recalled, Jan had even attended school with his sister, Hana, back in Rakovník. Karl went back and reread the letter, more slowly this time, trying to process its contents.
Dear Mrs. Reiserová!
By examining the inheritance which has been left by my parents I have found some paintings. From the correspondence which we have found, we have learned that these paintings belonged to Mr. Victor Reiser. These paintings were kept back by my grandfather during the German occupation and have stayed in his house until now.
I suppose that these paintings are very valuable, and since they still are your ownership, I would like to hand them to you or to your descendant.
Let me know, therefore, in what way it would be possible to hand them to you. I advise you, however, upon the fact that first of all these paintings should be examined by our authorities for the purpose to obtain the permission for their exportation. As soon as I receive some instructions from you I can start an action in this sense. I suppose, however, that the best way would be a personal contact with your descendant or with a person to whom you trust. This dealing must take place in Prague as we cannot normally travel abroad.
From the above mentioned letters I also notice that some misunderstandings had occurred between our families. I shall be only too happy to have this matter settled in a calm way and to restore a friendly atmosphere between our two families….
With kind regards,
Yours sincerely,
Jan Pekárek
“What’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!”
Karl looked up. He had been so absorbed in reading the letter that he had not heard Phyllis approach. At sixty-seven his wife was still attractive and as spirited as ever. But now her face only registered concern.
“Karl, what’s the matter?” she repeated, reaching out to touch her husband’s arm. “You’ve gone quite pale.”
Karl was dazed. “You won’t believe this,” he began breathlessly, and then proceeded to read the letter aloud to Phyllis. When he finished, he looked up to meet his wife’s startled gaze. “I believe Mother secretly hoped that one day she and the paintings might be reunited. She never lived to see that day.” He paused and rubbed his eyes.
“What are you thinking?” Phyllis asked.
Karl shook his head. “I’m not sure,” he replied. What was he thinking? On the one hand, it appeared that Karl might have a chance to achieve what Marie had had to give up – a chance for the family to be reunited with their possessions. Karl knew that his mother had gone to her grave wishing and praying for their return. It appeared that here was an opportunity to fulfill that dream. But how? “There’s nothing here in this letter to tell me how I might be able to retrieve the paintings,” he continued. “I can’t just ask this Pekárek fellow to ship them to me!”
Indeed, there was little chance that anything of value could be sent in or out. Without understanding the exact details, Karl knew that goods of worth that entered or exited Czechoslovakia were meticulously examined and heavily taxed or even confiscated. “Even traveling there to pursue this could pose a problem,” Karl continued. A visa was required to enter the country, and those were only provided if the reason for the visit was legitimate enough to satisfy the government. On what pretext would Karl be able to go?
“You know the biggest irony in all of this?” Karl asked, shaking his head. “A moment ago I was thinking about how it would be fine with me if I never set foot in Czechoslovakia again. And now this comes along!”
Karl rifled through the discarded mail and retrieved the letter from his old high school. Could that invitation now be of help? He read it through again. The reunion was to take place in May – two months from now. There was ample opportunity between now and then to write to Jan Pekárek and begin to explore the options available. He looked at the reunion invitation again and then glanced up at Phyllis.
“You know,” he said, “this might be the answer. Look at this invitation that also came today.” He held it up for Phyllis to see. “Perhaps I should attend.”
Phyllis read it through quickly. “Why would you ever want to go to this?” She was well aware of Karl’s bitter disappointment and contempt for his old school.
“I don’t! But don’t you see? The reunion gives me a legitimate reason to be in the country, and a valid basis on which to apply for a visa. Once I’m there, I can at least sit down and talk with this Jan Pekárek and find out about the paintings firsthand.” Karl knew that it was impossible to even think of doing anything about the paintings from outside the country. “I think I should respond to this man’s letter and tell him that I’m planning to be in the country in May.” Karl was speaking as much to himself as to his wife.
Phyllis looked worried. “But even if you go and see him, that still isn’t an answer as to how you’ll be able to get the paintings out.”
“No, it isn’t. But between now and then I can start to explore the options available.” He reached up to rub his eyes again. He needed that tea more than ever, and Quinta was chomping at the bit to go for a walk. “It’s a step, and it’s all I can do right now.” He looked at his wife with new resolve. “Yes, that’s it! I’m going to reply to the invitation and say that I will plan to be there for the reunion. Then I’ll write to Mr. Pekárek and tell him that I would like to visit Prague in May. In the meantime I’ll see what I can find out about getting goods out of Czechoslovakia.”
“Karl, what about our trip?” Years earlier, Phyllis had created a company called Phyllis Reeser Tours. She developed and led photographic excursions to countries around the world. This passion for photography had been ignited in her after Karl had resumed his interest in taking pictures while on a trip to Switzerland. The two of them were actively involved in the local Toronto Camera Club. Over the years, Phyllis’s proficiency in photography had increased, and even surpassed Karl’s, leading her to start her business. Karl usually accompanied her on these photo tours. Her next excursion was coming up in May, an expedition that would take her and a group of amateur photographers through Turkey. Karl had been looking forward to this trip, a chance to explore a country he had never seen before.
He was silent for a moment, “This could all work well. It will mean that I will have to cut my tour of Turkey short. But I could go with you for the first part, and then arrange to fly to Prague from there.”
The coincidence of Phyllis’s trip, the high school reunion, and the revelation about the paintings, now seemed more remarkable than ever. Though Karl had little idea of what he was getting himself into, he felt drawn to this journey with an urgency he could barely contain. There was a voice from the past calling to him. Perhaps it was Marie’s, guiding him back to their belongings. She had called the paintings their family’s legacy. Maybe it was time to finish what Marie had begun. It was time for family restitution.
* Czech surnames identify individuals as male or female. Here, the feminine form of Reiser is achieved by adding the suffix “ová.”