Liberation Movements

Peter
1968

It was seven by the time he left Private Stanislav Klym and, a little drunk, began tracing his steps back through the darkening university district. He was surprised by how unchanged it looked. He’d expected crumbled buildings and commons areas turned into impromptu graveyards, but Prague was much as it had been before he left, the few people he saw only looking a little more exhausted.

He caught a half-empty tram, held onto the leather strap, and, as he swung back and forth, wondered if he hated, or if he should hate, Stanislav Klym. There was something that gnawed at him about the man, but it wasn’t hatred. Despite the invasion, and despite what had happened outside eske Bud jovice, he never felt the urge to spit in any soldier’s face. They were boys just as he was a boy, taken from their homes and stuck in a city where, like Stanislav, they’d rather be tourists.

He wasn’t upset with Stanislav because of his uniform but because of what the man had. Stanislav was happy; he had a life back home he was eager to return to. Whereas Peter Husak was returning to nothing.

In the Tenth District he got out and walked up Pod Stanici to the Hostivar? dormitory, which was decorated by a painted proclamation: AN ELEPHANT CANNOT SWALLOW A HEDGEHOG. He nodded at the young men who stood at the front door as if they were guarding the place. Inside, a thin, spectacled political science student ran up to him. “Jesus, what are you doing here?”

“I didn’t make it, Jan.”

Jan gripped his shoulders and squeezed as tight as his weak fingers could manage. “Christ. Peter-”

“I’m really tired. Can we talk later?”

“Yes, yes. Of course.” Jan patted his back. “I’m glad you’re all right. Josef’s up there now.”

He took the stairs to the second floor and paused in the empty corridor. The window at the far end was broken, and a cool evening breeze swept through. He took a breath and knocked on the door marked 305.

“Yeah?”

On one of the two cots, his roommate, Josef, lay with a book propped on his chest. Then he dropped it and was on his feet, his small, dark face twisting. “What happened?”

“They caught me,” he said as he dropped into his own cot. “Near eske Bud jovice.”

“Where’s Toman?”

Peter shook his head. “Toman and Ivana weren’t caught.”

“They made it?”

“I assume so.”

Josef paced a moment, as if this news opened a whole new world to him. Then he stopped. “But you’re all right, Peter? They didn’t hurt you.”

Peter stretched out and intertwined his fingers behind his head. “Just questions.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Did you give them anything?”

Josef had never wanted to bring Peter in on the marches in the first place. He’s got no political conviction, Josef had told Toman. Peter shrugged. “I don’t know enough to tell them anything. You never let me know.”

The pacing began again. “You see why now? If they’d gotten names out of you, there’d be hundreds more dead.”

“Yes, Josef.”

“They were around here, you know. Some bald bastard. Asking questions.”

“Yes, I know.”

“But at least Ivana and Toman made it. They’ll let the Americans know the truth.” He finally sat on his cot and clasped a knee. He sniffed. “Say, Peter…are you drunk?”

“A soldier bought me drinks.”

“One of ours?”

Peter shook his head.

“And you accepted his drinks?”

“I needed them. If you’d ever been in prison, you’d know.” He closed his eyes. “All he wanted was to tell me about his girlfriend.”