Liberation Movements

Peter
1968

There is something comforting about being taken prisoner by amateurs. They make mistakes all the time. Though he realized their mistake quickly, Peter did not at first move. He remained on his cot and listened to the undertones and footsteps in the corridor, trying to ascertain his position here. The sonata came to mind. Themes in a sonata change roles depending on the melodies around them or the key they’re in-a light, airy melody becomes ominous in a minor key. Peter had gone from incompetent farm boy to demure, silent music student, then co-conspirator-albeit a minor one-in the making of socialismu lidskou tvar. Then, for mere days, he’d been a refugee until, for just a few moments that night in the field outside eske Bud jovice, he’d become a fool.

And that role, like a change in key, had colored the roles that followed. Prisoner, suspect, traitor-and now, fugitive.

Peter climbed out the window and jumped two floors to the bushes below. Bare branches scratched his sore face, but he had no trouble getting up and running through the warm dusk, past unsuspecting students, down Pod Stanici.

He wasn’t sure where to go. His family was in Encs, on the southern border-but that was no longer his home. His small circle of friends now despised him. So he found himself, after another long tram ride, on Celetna, in front of the Torpedo bar.

Stanislav Klym was already at their back table, but without his rifle. Before him was a full ashtray, a sheet of paper, and three empty beer glasses, a fourth at his lips. He lowered it. “Peter! Come on, come take a seat.” Stanislav waved to the bartender for another beer. “What happened to your face?”

“Some trouble.”

“Trouble?”

“Some friends.”

“Not very friendly.”

Peter touched his cheek. “They had reason.”

“Did you kill someone?”

“I’ve made mistakes.”

Stanislav grunted. “Haven’t we all! But the kinds of friends who beat you to teach a lesson, those are friends you can do without. Here.”

The bartender set a fresh glass on the table and, before leaving, caught Peter’s eye. It was a hard stare. Stanislav slid the glass to Peter. “Drink up. You’re among friends now.”

It surprised Peter how comfortable this soldier made him feel. Stanislav was in a mild state of euphoria, waiting for his trip back home. He patted his pocket. “Ticket’s here, I’ve already said good-bye to the regiment, and now I’m going to drink until eight thirty in the morning, when the train leaves. You know what I’m going to do as soon as I get back?”

“What?”

“I’m going to marry my Katja.” He tapped the paper in front of him, which Peter now saw was one of her letters. “That’s all I’m interested in doing. And then we’re going to stay in bed for a week.” He folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket. “You ever been in love?”

“I think so.”

“What do you mean, you think so?” Stanislav shook his head. “You must not have been, because when you are, you know it.”

“I did a lot of things so she would notice me. I abandoned my schoolwork for her. To me, that’s love.”

“And how far did it get you?”

Peter didn’t answer at first. He stared at his glass, then at the soldier’s face. He felt a pang of the thing he had felt that whole trip-first in a pickup truck, then on foot-to the Austrian border: jealousy. An intense jealousy that erupted whenever he saw the two of them under their blanket, the way Ivana stroked Toman’s cheeks until he fell asleep, and the kisses she woke him with. “It didn’t get me far at all. You can see the result here.” He touched his pink eye.

“Then you need to stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Doing so much for others. You’ve got to be independent. Women like that.”

“I can’t be independent here. Everyone knows me.”

“Then get out of Prague,” said Stanislav. “Try Bratislava. Start doing things for yourself.”

“Once I get some money together, maybe.”

The soldier placed a fist on the table. “Don’t procrastinate. I’ve spent enough of my life procrastinating. Now I know what I want. It’s my girlfriend, my apartment, and a quiet life. You should go somewhere else. Then no one will disrupt your plans. You can start again, become who you want to be.”

It struck Peter that this soldier, unlike himself, did not change key. He had no relation to the sonata. Whether or not he donned a uniform, Stanislav Klym remained what he would always be-a simple man motivated by his love for one woman.

“You sure you’re all right?” asked Stanislav.

“Can you excuse me a minute?”

“You’re leaving?”

“I just need to make a call. There’s a pay phone outside.”

“There’s a phone behind the bar.”

“I’ll be right back.”

He got up and wound his way through tables and smoke and wide, hunched backs until he was outside. Across the street, two more soldiers shared a cigarette, unaware of him. He walked to the Czech Telecom booth on Republic Square, across from the Obecni Dum, and closed himself inside.

After a minute, the voice spoke to him. “Captain Poborsky here.”

“Look at you. You’re shivering. It’s cold out there?”

“No,” said Peter. “Mind getting another round for us?”

Stanislav held up two fingers for the bartender, mouthing pivo, then turned back. “You look like you just saw a dead man.”

Peter rubbed his arm. “Tell me about your home.”

“You don’t want to hear about that again.”

“I do. Really.”

So Stanislav began to speak. When he talked of his grandfather’s apartment on 24th of October Street-building number 24, in fact-it was as if he were speaking of a palace. One with limited hot water and peeling walls, but a palace nonetheless. His description of his village, Pacin, was cursory, a few friends and a loyal family, but with one truly extraordinary detail-Katja Uher. They had been in school together, their parents distantly related like everyone in that village. Even though they had spent all their time together, neither of their parents had expected them to fall deeply in love when she was fifteen and he seventeen, but they all condoned it, as if it were as inevitable as the harvest.

“Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not listening.”

Peter smiled. “I’m listening to every word. Trust me. Do you have the time?”

The soldier squinted at his watch. “Little after eight.”

“Mind if I step out again? Ten minutes.”

Stanislav took the letter out of his pocket again and unfolded it. “Take your time.”