Via Prague

The name T.G. Masaryk probably means little to the average American, but here in Central Europe the name, like his contemporary Woodrow Wilson, is synonomous with democracy's highest aspirations.
And today, Czechs and Slovaks have a national holiday, in part to honor Masaryk and the country he helped found.
Just after the first World War, the country of Czechoslovakia was formed. Under President T.G. Masaryk (pictured) the republic enjoyed two decades of democracy and prosperity until the Munich agreement in 1938 brought about seven years of Nazi occupation. Slovak President Ivan Gašparovič and his wife will visit the Czech Republic today to mark the anniversary together with Czech President Václav Klaus.
In some ways, the celebration is ironic, considering that Czechoslovakia no longer exists. Since 1993's Velvet Divorce, there are two countries, Czech Republic and Republic of Slovakia. But for today, such distinctions are merely semantics.
It's a chilly, damp day. The trams are slower (they have the national flag draped on the front), but cafes and shops and pubs are open.
It's interesting as a foreigner to mark the anniversary. In America, we celebrate the fourth of July as our official day of independence. Here in Czech, they have this day, and next month, Czechs will also celebrate the 19th anniversary of the Velvet Revolution, which toppled 40 years of Communist rule.
Masaryk, who incidentally had an American wife, Charlotte, was a great scholar and statesman along the lines of his contemporary, Woodrow Wilson, and an early champion for democracy. There's a statue of him up at Prague Castle. President Bush, during his visit here last year to promote democracy and the U.S. proposed missile defense shield for Europe, posed for a picture next to the statue.
Czechs today are, as has been noted in a recent New York Times article, one of the great success stories of post-Communist Europe. For the past several years, the economy has grown at exponential levels, the crown has been strong, tons of foreign capital has flowed into the country. Czechs will also take over the rotating EU presidency in January. Of course, the stock markets here have suffered in the ongoing global crisis, but it's too soon to tell how much it will affect the real economy, although recent news reports have predicted a slowdown in construction.
The political situation here at the moment is a bit tricky -- the left-leaning Social
Democrats scored big victories in last week's elections, a victory some say was spawned by anger over recently enacted health care reforms (for example, fees to visit the doctor), and there are worries by a few that the country could be moving too far to the left, the nervous area of Communism, but that notion is dismissed by others as paranoid.
At any rate, 90 years after the founding of Czechslovakia, much has changed. Two world wars, half a dozen regime changes later, the Czechs and the Slovaks can find many reasons to celebrate. For one thing, the statues of Lenin and Stalin are long gone, and Masaryk, whose name during those oppressive years virtually was banned from public schools and debate, has reclaimed his rightful spot in Czech history and esteem.
Masaryk's life motto was: "Nebát se a nekrás (Do Not fear and do not steal), perhaps a motto that todays' financiers and political leaders could take heed of. Masaryk died of natural causes in 1937, having devoted his life to building a modern, democratic Czechoslovakia at a time when much of Europe was shuddering under the threat of totalitarian forces which would plunge the continent into war soon after his death. Today, it's a pity that his name is largely unknown in America, although there are statues of him in Washington and Chicago, so I would invite readers to take a bit of time and learn more about this courageous, visionary leader --especially since in these times, vision and courage are surely what are needed.

Posted by James Tressler at 02:45 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

My flatmate Islam has had it tough the past few days. He and his girlfriend Monika have broken up. Part of it was endless separations (she has a kidney stone and has been in and out of the hospital, and the rest of the time lives in another town). But also, Islam was counting on them getting married (in part to help extend his visa) and Monika, claiming a bad experience with a previous husband, an Italian, kept putting him off).
Now he's getting a little desperate. His visa, granted in July for six months, expires at the end of the year.
'Can you renew?' I asked.
'No, not this time,' Islam said. 'This was last one.'
I could see he was disconsolate. But in a way we were in the same boat. My visa has already expired, and until I leave Prague for Istanbul, where I've been offered a position in January, I've been trying to keep my head low.
'I must find new girl,' Islam said, breaking into a smile.
'You must fight,' I said.
'Must fight. Must win! Ah, James, there are many women everywhere. But I must be quickly. By hook by crook.'
'So come with me to Turkey,' I said.
'Yes, but they will not give visa.'
'You're Muslim. They're lots of Muslims in Turkey.'
'Yes, but I am from third-world country. Not like you.'
We've been over this ground before, as regular readers know. I feel I haven't done justice to Islam in past postings. Readers maybe get the impression that he's a sort of a simple fellow from Bangladesh. Not at all. I do know that back in Bangladesh he had a mobile phone business, and has traveled in Russia, China, India and Singapore. Along with English, he also speaks better Czech than I do, and he also speaks a bit of Farsi, Russian and Chinese. He says he lost his business in Bangladesh because the taxes were so high that he couldn't effectively sell his products and make a profit.
He came to Prague about two years ago, leaving behind a wife and daughter in Bangladesh. He met Pavel, owner of the pub in our neighborhood, by chance and got a job cooking in the kitchen. Pavel pays him about 100 crowns an hour, which is about minimum wage here (about $5). Islam's plan was to work long enough and save money to start his own restaurant.
'Working for yourself is best,' he says. 'There is freedom, I need freedom. It's no good work for somebody else.'
It's hard to believe sometimes that he's actually, at 26, ten years younger than me. In fact I like to think we're the opposite. Perhaps it traces back to growing up in a third-world country, where life is harder, but nine times out of ten Islam is the stronger and more mature of us. I've known him for a year now and I've never seen him take a day off from work. True, his kitchen job at Pavels is cushy. Most people go there to drink and smoke marijuana, so at most he has maybe a half dozen orders a night. The rest of the time he's free to sit in the kitchen, where he has a computer, and chat with his girlfriends (he's got a whole string of women, most of them married) or listen to his music from Bangladesh or read the news (he reads the BBC translated into Bangladeshe).
'Every day, must work,' he says.
'You should take a day off.'
'No, no. Cannot afford.'
Every now and then, though, on a Saturday or Sunday morning, we'll grab a bus -- any bus -- or tram and just ride it all the way to the end. Its a great way to see Prague, in fact, much better than those package tours the tourists idiotically pay a fortune for). Islam personally buys all the ingredients he uses at work, and sometimes on our tours he'll find a market with super cheap deals and load up. Last weekend I went with him to Michle, one of those unsung, out of the way districts of Prague, and there we found a 60-pound sack of potatoes for something like four bucks. The sack was heavy, but Islam had brought with him all these spare plastic grocery bags. So we opened the sack and distributed the potatoes among the bags, and split the load to carry home.
There have been times when I've been short of cash, and Islam will say, 'You need money? No problem.' Once he had 300 crowns, and said, 'You take two hundred. I will take one.'
Of course I've lent him money as well, but I admit it's harder for me to be philosophical about it sometimes, as Islam says, 'Money, always coming and going. Money can never be in one place, it must always go somewhere. This is the reason for money.'
What else? There are other things, things I'll probably remember later. But I was just thinking today, after listening to Islam tell me about what happened with Monika, and how he's not sure what he'll do at the end of the year. It's looking though like our paths, joined by expedience this past year, and having evolved into a genuine friendship, will separate.
Most likely, he will end up back in Bangladesh, where he can muster resources, get his bearings, and think of his next move.
'Home is best,' Islam says. 'There you don't need visa, you don't need to worry.'
Or, maybe he will find the girl willing to marry her fortunes together with him.
'Maybe you could pay a girl,' I offered. 'You know, just tell her you'll give her 20,000 crowns or something just to sign the paper.'
'No, no. They will be checking. The police, to see if we live together. Ah, James, life is life. There are many women here married, and they have boyfriends (this is true, two of Islams other girls have boyfriends). But we will see.'

Posted by James Tressler at 08:49 AM | Permalink | Comments (49)

Some nature photo..

Posted by James Tressler at 11:23 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

In the opening passage of 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being,' Milan Kundera contemplates the idea of recurrence. If there is a next life, then perhaps we are condemned to making the same mistakes over and over, or are weighed down by the 'heaviness' of trying to atone for those mistakes and perfect our selves next time around. Conversely, if there is no next life, then perhaps we are 'made light,' set free from the burden of history. We are free do do what we want since there are no consequences.
Thus goes existence, the constant struggle within, between heaviness, or responsibility, and lightness, the freedom, or at least absence of responsibility.
When I first read these ideas, I was a student still living in America, and the ideas didn't register. Rather, with a young man's fatuous grasping, I was merely impressed by the 'deepness' of Kundera's erudition. After moving to Prague, during my first long cold Czech winter, I read the book again on dark snowy nights over bowls of hot gulash and rohliky, Czech fresh rolls, bought with my last fifty-crown note.
In that atmosphere, thousands of miles from home, having that day received no emails from old friends, the ideas began to take a firmer hold.
For the uninitiated, the story in 'Unbearable Lightness' takes place during the Soviet-led invasion of then-Czechoslovakia in 1968. I found myself identifying with the protagonist, Tomas, torn between his desire to flee for the freedom of the West and the nascent, deep love he feels for Tereza, a village girl many years his junior who has given up her own life to be with him. Throughout the novel, Tomas, a womanizing doctor who years before left his wife and son without a qualm, struggles with the lightness of an independent existence (symbolized by fleeing to Switzerland) and the heaviness of responsibility (staying with Tereza).
In the end, Tomas chooses to stay with Tereza, and comes back from Switzerland to his home country, where the borders have been closed. After his return, Tomas is stripped of his status as a doctor, and forced by the authorities to work as a window washer. In the end, although he continues to be a womanizer, he and Tereza find a sort of qualified happiness - until they are both killed in a car crash.
This last detail is only mentioned passingly.
Anyway, living abroad, I have become more sensitive to Tomas' predicament. Life in a glamorous European capital has many advantages and rewards; at times you feel as though you're caught on a merry-go-round, and the world a sort of gilded menagerie, flickers in a diaspora of radiant colors and light. The crowds of people in the squares swirl and eddy with the flavor of constantly changing accents and dialects, and thrust into this seductive anonymity, you feel a sense of liberation -- the lightness of being far and away and turning.
But there's also the downside. The cold winter nights, low on funds; the flashing parade of colors seems suddenly too bright, drained of vitality. You think of old friends back home, the old life, family. In these moments the mask of brilliant anonymity pales, and you feel the sick longing of being lost in the crowd. But the instant you contemplate the question -- going home -- immediately a heavy, daunting feeling falls on your chest, and it seems too far away back, and even if you should make it, too heavy a burden to ponder, all the old responsibilities, jealousies, loyalties and ties.
Having waded through all this, I'll refresh you by getting to the point.
The worldwide headlines this past week surrounding the allegation of Kundera having allegedly informed on a fellow student back in 1950 set me on a train of thought. I don't wish to go into all the details again, as the story can be found in this past week's New York Times, as well as many other major newspapers, as well as a bit of reaction from my students in the past posting.
But the thing that stands out now, is something I read in a follow-up in the weekend edition of International Herald Tribune. Kundera, who since leaving his country for France in 1975, has been notoriously aloof and distant in regards to his former countrymen. His books only recently have been translated into Czech, and he has seldom returned for visits the past 30 years. When he has visited, it has been under assumed names, and friends were sworn to secrecy.
According to the report in the IHT, a friend in France said they got a message from Kundera a couple weeks ago, in which the author said simply, 'They are pigs.' The meaning of this cryptic message has been debated. What -- or who -- was he referring to? 'It could be,' the news report read, 'Kundera knew that his carefully guarded anonymity was about to disappear.'
Could it be, not to be too presumptuous, that Kundera felt something besides shock and outrage, if in fact he was referring to the news reports. For years he has lived the life of a Frenchman, or expatriate, or at least respected anchorite. Perhaps he was feeling the weight of the past, the very heaviness he refers to in his book, of responsibility? That may come off as fatuous to some, I realize. I'm probably reaching. Often those of us who leave our homeland suffer from a comfortable illusion that, once away, we cease to belong to that country. In a way we do, I suppose. But, like Holly Golightly, who said, 'I am not Lula Mae anyore. I'm not,' we're haunted by a nagging feeling of doubt. Yes, Holly, you are still Lula Mae. And who will you be when you're not Holly anymore?' She also was caught in the struggle between lightness and heaviness, although in a slightly different key.
Kundera's outrage -- he's called the allegations that he was once an informer 'pure lies,' and the news reports, 'the assassination of an author' -- have been so loud and vociferous that some here have quailed and reflected that perhaps he really is innocent. And I personally am quite ready to believe he is, even if the one thing I've learned about the history of the Communist era is that it's hard to know what to believe; the more absurd, the more strange, the more probable it did happen.
Was he outraged merely at being disturbed, of being dragged into the mire and limelight of a country he thought he'd long left behind; to be dissected by his countrymen, to the delight of enemies who, jealous of his success (as some say), have long ached to dig their knives into the side of this uppity, 'French' countryman of theirs?
Was his anger a visceral anger borne of a long-buried guilt? Or the heaviness of having to defend himself against a false charge? Of having to 'deal with those damned Czechs again?' (my quotes)
Who knows. I agree with those who now say that the allegations, true or not, throw new light on his work.'The Joke,' in particular, almost comes across as a confessional.
For me though, what persists in the last analysis is something far less literary, more personal. You can't escape where you come from, or the past, no matter where you go or how high you climb. The title of another Kundera book comes to mind, 'Life is Elsewhere.' For a long time, I've felt the same way, and probably will again. But maybe that's not true, or not always. Personally I hope it will re-fire Kundera's engines, and force him to reengage his lost homeland in new and surprising ways. The results could be illuminating -- for both sides, but also painful and hard -- and heavy.

Posted by James Tressler at 07:32 AM | Permalink | Comments (57)

One of my favorite Czech writers, Milan Kundera, made headlines this week. The acclaimed author of 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being,' 'The Joke,' and 'The Book of Laughter and Forgetting' might have been an informer for the police, according to a report by the Czech-backed Institute for the Study of Totalitarian Regimes.
According to the report, Kundera, as a student in 1950, told police about a guest in the dormitory where he lived. The guest, Miroslav Dvoracek, who had defected to Germany in 1948 and was said to have been recruited by the United States-backed anti-Communists as a spy, was subsequently arrested and was sentenced to more than 20 years in prison.
The report's findings were published in this month's Respekt, a Czech magazine, and this past week made headlines in the New York Times, and other leading papers around the world, and has caused quite a stir here in the Czech Republic. Kundera, who fled Czechoslovakia following the Soviet-led invasion in 1968, has resided in France since the 1970s, has for many years been seen as a moral voice of reason in regards to the Communist era. His novels offer profound, witty and dark criticisms of life under a totalitarian regime.
Czechs have mixed feelings about Kundera. For one thing, many of his books have not been translated into Czech, and the reclusive author rarely visits his native country.
In a rare interview this week, Kundera called the report's findings 'pure lies,' and accused the news media of committing 'the assasination of an author.'
'My memory has not tricked me,' Kundera told CTK, the Czech news agency. 'I did not work for the secret police.'
I talked about the story a bit with students, especially since as I said I highly regard Kundera's work. 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being,' in particular, is required reading for any self-respecting lover of modern literature, Czech or otherwise.
Some in the media have speculated whether the report's findings will forever tarnish Kundera's standing, both as an author and as a critic of his country's Communist past.
My student Misa, who works for the government, offered a perspective that other students agreed with.
'I think during the time of Communism, everybody was at least a little guilty,' she said. 'Nobody was completely innocent.'
'I think it is possible,' says Daniel, another student, whose grandfather spent more than five years in prison during the 1950s after the state took over his farm.. 'Knowing that at one time (Kundera) was a strong supporter of the Commuist party. In our archives there are a lot of documents still uncovered, so they may contain a lot of surprises.'
Many people, Daniel, added, during that time who were publicly against the Communists also secretly collaborated with the secret police.
'But for some people cooperation with secret police was the only way to continue doing their work.'
Under Communism, informing -- on friends, colleagues, enemies -- was rampant. Why? Perhaps out of the misguided belief that by informing on your neighbor, then the state will believe you are innocent, or that your own crimes or misdemeanors will be overlooked. Such hypocrisy is a focal point in many of Kundera's works, an irony that surely hasn't been lost on his admirers.
According to the report, in 1950, during the era of Stalinist terror, 'Milan Kundera, student, born 1 April 1929 in Brno, resident of Prague VII student hall of residence,' went to the local police at 4 p.m. and made a statement about Iva Militka, another student from the residence.
Kundera allegedly learned that the woman had been approached by a man (Dvoracek) and given a briefcase 'for safekeeping.' Informed by Kundera about the briefcase, police waited for Dvoracek to return, found that he had a false identity document, and arrested him.
According to the report, the briefcase contained, 'two hats, two pairs of gloves, two pairs of sunglasses, and a tube of cream.'
Sound strange? It wasn't uncommon, during the years after the second World War, that Czechs who escaped the country returned to spy on the Czech government. In fact, the reporter who broke the story, Adam Hradilek, was was researching a story on these people when he came across the report. The magazine's editor, Martin Simecka, told reporters he had no reason to doubt the authenticity of the 1950 police report.
I'm sure we'll have follow ups to the story in the Czech press. Personally, the findings -- true or not -- won't affect my admiration for Kundera as an author. As to his actions as a young man nearly 60 years ago, well, who knows? I don't know what it's like to live under a totalitarian regime. I do know that Kundera was a staunch supporter of the Communists until the 1968 invasion, after which he was fired from his teaching position and his works banned. It is conceivable that as a young supporter of the Party, that he could have informed on a suspected spy, and perhaps now, as a lionized aging giant, is in a state of denial. Certainly what happened to him subsequently, the loss of position and the censorship, were heavy prices to pay themselves.
Either way, his work will stand, and I wouldn't be surprised if we saw in his next work this whole issue revisited.
Daniel says the findings won't affect his opinion of Kundera, but it could affect the writers' reputation among others.
'It's difficult,' says Daniel. 'The Velvet Revolution came when I was 10, I didn't really live under Communism. So I don't know how a lot of people felt. I think his guilt hasn't been proved. The affair needs time to be sorted out. But as for others, it could affect his reputation because for them it could mean Kundera collaborated with the secret police.'

Posted by James Tressler at 07:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (1128)

On a recent evening, a well-dressed couple, both middle-aged, entered a cafe in Prague.
They were tired, having just checked into their hotel nearby. The man was distinguished looking, despite his attempt to dress down in traveler's gear; the woman was handsome and florid, with outward-squinting crow black eyes.
In fact, upon entering the pub the woman's eyes immediately began to search through layers of thick smoke hovering over the heads of the customers. The bar is full. The man, with a disconcerted look, tries to usher the woman out, but with her curious, insistent expression she waves him to stay.
There's a din of conversation, mostly in Czech with a bit of Russian from a table of Ukrainian workers, a sprinkling of English. On a large TV mounted in a corner, something is playing. It's a documentary about women undergoing breast implant surgery.
'We'll just stay for one,' the woman says, in a clipped Coventry accent, still peering around.
'You smell that?' the man says meaningfully. A pungent odor drifts past. At the next table a group of people are passing a joint. The woman pretends not to notice.
The barman, having eyed them carefully for a minute, comes over. His name is Franta, and a two-day growth of stubble stretches on his cheeks as he greets them with a smile.
'Do you speak English?' the woman asked.
'A little,' Franta said.
'Could we have two highballs, please?'
Franta looks confused.
'Sorry?' He leans closer.
'Highballs,' both the man and woman say, in distinct tones.
'Sorry,' the barman shrugs helplessly.
'It's all right,' the woman says brightly.
'Perhaps a bourbon,' says the man.
'What?'
'Bourbon? Do you have bourbon?'
After a second, Franta frowns and shakes his head slowly.
'Sorry.'
'Well, then, what do you recommend?' the woman asked.
'We have only beer -- and cola.'
'OK, make it two beers, then.'
'A small one for me,' the woman said.
As Franta went to the bar, the couple looked around some more. The place was dark, and all the tables were full. At virtually every table people were either smoking joints or in the process of rolling joints. A couple young guys blazed in, scarfs around their necks to keep out the chill. 'Cau Franta!' they cried.
'Cau!'
'Cau!'
'Ahoj!'
'Ahoj!'
The young men hovered at the bar for a few minutes, while Franta poured the beers. Then Franta wiped his hands and went over to the far end of the bar to greet the young men. They had a quick conversation, then Franta did something behind the bar, and the two men handed him some money. Then they were leaving, one of them clutching a small bag.
'Cau!
'Ahoj.'
Franta brought the beers over to the couple. Up on the TV screen, a stoutish, not unattractive woman in her forties was stripping off her shirt and bra. Her newly enhanced breasts, with large dark nipples, bulged heavily and jiggled on the TV screen. The woman was explaining, in Czech, the details of her surgery. She seemed proud of the new breasts, almost like someone showing off their new car, going over the trimming and interior.
'Excuse me --' the English woman asked, as Franta set the mugs down. 'What sort of place is this?'
'Sorry?'
'What -- what sort of place is this?'
On the screen the woman was putting her shirt back on. At the next table, a freshly rolled joint was being lit and passed.
Franta shrugged.
'Is it a movie bar or something?' the woman asked helpfully.
'Yes,' Franta said, looking at the screen.
'Can we order dinner?' the man asked. He had been flipping through an ancient menu.
'Yes,' Franta said.
'I'd like this,' the man said, pointing.
'Sorry.' Franta shrugged helplessly.
'You don't have it?'
'No, sorry.'
'Well, what do you have?'
'I mean,' Franta said. 'We have chicken.'
'Chicken?'
'Yes.'
'Oh well, never mind.'
'No?'
'No, thank you.'
The couple took a few obligatory sips of their beer, the woman still looking around, the man trying not to watch the TV screen, where the same woman, now with her doctor, was stripping again.
'Shall we go then? the woman asked.
'Yes, let's.'
The man went to the bar, handing Franta a 50 crown note.
'Keep it,' he said.
'Thank you.'
The couple was already well on their way to the door. They left without looking back.
One of the guys handed Franta a joint. He took a puff, leaned back and watched the TV. The woman was displaying her breasts for the doctor, who pressed and prodded and listened to the woman.
'That's good service,' someone said.
Franta laughed and puffed on the joint.
'Good service.'

Posted by James Tressler at 02:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (178)

This photo was taken by my student and friend Marian Havel on our recent trip to Terezin, which during the second World War served as a prison for tens of thousands of Jews, Russians and Czechs resistant to the Nazi occupation. While the majority of prisoners were shipped off to the death camps in Auschwitz, Riga, et al, many also perished in the prison at Terezin due to harsh living conditions. The photo shows a burial ground outside the prison.
To find out more about our trip, read last week's entry entitled, 'The Saddest Lesson.'

Posted by James Tressler at 03:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (147)

Two men were sitting in a pub on a recent afternoon.
'Well, so we're both fucked,' says the first guy, a middle-aged now former banker with an impressive mop of silver hair. He went by the name of Muller.
'Call my mother, will you?' says the second, of similar profession and features.His name was Turner. 'Tell her she's on her own.'
'What, you mean --' cried Muller.
'That's right -- she lent me her savings last week. I told her the markets would bounce back.'
'Yer a right bastard,' said his colleague.
The waiter brought two shots of bourbon.
'Whose round?' asked Muller.
'Yours.'
'You sure?'
'Yeah. I got the beers.'
Muller reached in his pockets, scrounged for loose change, with a heavy, insulent air.
'How much?'
'Eight,' said the waiter.
'You take euros?'
'Sure, as long as they're not coins.'
'Well, shit. How about a card?'
'We ask for a 20 buck minimum, plus a 5 dollar surcharge.'
'Jesus,' said Muller. He cast a glance at his friend.
'Don't look at me,' said Turner. 'I'm busted.'
'Me too.'
Meanwhile the waiter stood there waiting.
'What about your fiancee?' Muller asked, his eyes lighting up.
'What are you on about?'
'Can't you call her up?'
'For what? To lend us money for these drinks?'
'Well -- ' Muller looked up at the waiter, a young guy.
'I'll come back,' the waiter said, with a cool nod.
'You're crazy,' Turner said. 'Besides, she isn't my fiancee anymore.'
'What?'
'Well, you remember our joint savings account?'
'You mentioned it. Wait -- oh, no!'
'Oh, yes.'
'Guess, we're both right sons of bitches.'
The two men raised the glasses of bourbon.
'Well ...'
The waiter came back presently.
'Waiter,' said Muller. 'I guess we'll put it on the card.'
'On the card? No problem. Two more?'
'Two more.'
'Good thing your card still works,' said Turner.
'Yeah. At least I think it still does. I hope so.'
'What do you mean, you hope so?' Turner grew alarmed.
'Well, you see --' Muller's expression grew pained. 'You see, last week my wife, she asked if she could borrow my credit line, just for a few days ...'
'Oh. To cover her losses?'
'Guess so. At least -- I think so.'
'She lose a lot? Where is she now?'
'Who knows. Haven't heard from her since Tuesday.' It was now Friday afternoon.
'She hasn't called?'
'Her phone's out of credit. Anyway that's what she'll say when I see her.'
'Sounds pretty weird. Is she always this way?'
'What way? What kind of question is that? After 22 years!'
'She's been out of credit for 22 years?'
'No! I mean --' Muller, with a defeated look, sipped his bourbon. 'The markets in Europe and Asia are down too,' he said, after a moment. 'Way down.'
'Yeah,' Turner commiserated. 'The worst since --'
'Don't say it!' Muller said into his drink. 'I've got enough to worry about.'
The two men sat for a while in silence.
'Think we'll ever get it back?' Turner asked.
'Get what back? Our money, you mean?'
'Nah. You know.'
'I'm sure you're mother will forgive you, if that's what you mean. That's what mothers do.'
'What about your wife?'
'What about her?'
'Will she --?'
'What? Will she come back? Will she restore my credit line? Will I ever hear from her again? How should I know?' Muller looked wildly around the bar, as if expecting the crowd to corroborate his outrage at such asinine questioning.
'That's not what I meant,' said Turner.
'Well, what did you mean?'
'Do you love her?'
'Well, now, that's something different.'
'You must've. Any man who would allow his wife to take over -- what was your credit line, how much? --'
'It wasn't that,' Muller said. 'Besides, I owed it to her anyway.'
'You have kids, right?' Turner asked. 'Robert's at university now, and Tara's in, what was it? Prague? or was it Croatia?'
'Kiev,' said Muller. 'Actually she emailed me this morning.'
'Broke again?'
'She wants me to Western Union her a couple hundred.'
'Has she paid back the other times?'
'What do you mean?' Muller looked at Turner. 'Since when do children pay their parents back? Your kids, how much they owe you?'
'Kenny borrowed 5,000 for a down payment on the car. Jenny asked for a couple grand. She wants to take a few months to think things out, as she says.'
The waiter came by.
'Another bourbon?'
After the waiter returned with fresh glasses, the two men drank in silence for a while.
'I guess it's not so bad,' said Muller reflectively.
'What, the crisis? The work situation? Your wife? The kids?'
'All of it. We'll weather the storm, ride it out.'
'Cautious optimism,' concurred Muller.
'My old boss used to say that,' said Turner. 'Said it every year the budget looked bad. He just kept on saying it.'
'And what happened?'
'He retired. The company laid off 200 the next month.'
They clinked glasses.
'Is there a such thing as reckless pessimism?' Turner asked, facetiously. 'That's about how I feel.'
'Back at the bank our boss used to say there is no such thing as pessimism. Only 'gloomy outlooks.'
'What would he say now?'
'He'd say the outlook was gloomy, but he was cautiously optimistic. I wish the sonofabitch was here. He owes me ten grand.'
'I still want to know,' broke in Turner suddenly.
'What?'
'You love her?'
Muller glanced sideways at Turner, making eye contact.
'Shut up about that!' he said, and took a good sip of his drink.
'I was just joking,' Turner said, after a moment.

Posted by James Tressler at 03:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (814)

The past week or so most people I encounter here have been somewhat blase about the financial crisis. In a few I've even detected signs of 'schadenfreude,' which is German for feeling pleasure in the pain, suffering or misfortune of others.
In some ways, I suppose it's natural. As a friend of mine in California used to say, albeit facetiously, 'If you can't laugh at the misfortunes of others, what can you laugh at?'
But that reaction is gradually and suddenly giving way to concern. Today European markets joined in Wall Street's woes. Markets over here were down some 5 percent. Last week, Czech banks were reporting that they were 'unfazed' by the U.S. crisis. But today, markets here are also down, recording heavy losses. The Czech daily Hospodarsky noviny has concluded, 'Times of Easy Credit are Over.'
Meanwhile, former Czech President Vaclav Havel, hero of the 1989 Velvet Revolution, has called the global financial crisis a 'warning.'
Havel, who helped end 40 years of Communist rule here and led the country through its transition to a market economy, told the AP that the crisis should remind people not to abandon basic human values in the struggle to prosper, and that unrestrained materialism is not what freedom and democracy are supposed to be about. Finally, Havel is reported as saying the global financial meltdown proves the world shouldn't put it's trust 'in the pride of economists who think they understand everything.'
I can't help but wonder if this last bit, about 'the pride of economists,' is a small dig at current Czech President Vaclav Klaus, who was prime minister in the Havel Administration. Klaus is an economist, and his far-right views -- for instance, he maintains that global warming is a 'myth' -- have often been at odds with the former president.
But that's speculation. Klaus has not been quoted in the media on the current crisis. Czech Finance Minister Miroslav Kalousek, who this week was given an award by the magazine Emerging Markets, has been reported as saying he's confident the Czech Republic will weather the storm.

Posted by James Tressler at 09:45 AM | Permalink | Comments (1306)

About an hour outside Prague, near the confluence of the Elba and Egre rivers, is the town of Terezin. It's a lovely town, with the autumn leaves falling in red and gold in the town square. A melancholy flavor fills the streets, particularly on Sunday afternoon, when the streets are quiet.
It's hard to believe, as you walk the streets, that such a place could have been witness to some of the most horrendous crimes of the Twentieth Century. Here, following the occupation of Czech lands in 1939, the Prague Gestapo Police set up a prison in a small fortress on the outskirts of the town. The fortress would become what was known as a transfer station, one of many in Europe, that were part of Hitler's Final Solution to the Jewish problem.
By the time the war ended in 1945, some 88,000 people passed through its gates -- many bound for the death camps at Auschwitz and Riga. In the end, a mere 3,000 survived the war. Of those who weren't transferred, many died because of disease and suffering under extremely harsh living conditions.
My student Marian and his girlfriend Andrea invited me along with some of their friends, Radek and Bara, to tour the fortress. I'd seen footage of such horrors on the History Channel, as I'm sure most readers have, but nothing prepared me for what what we'd experience that afternoon.
The fortress itself, built in the 18th Century, is spread out over rolling countryside, grass growing from the flat roofs. After paying at the gate, we passed the guardhouse, which served for censoring inmates' mail as well as for interrogations. Then a clothing warehouse, where new arrivals had to hand over their civilian clothing and dress in uniforms of armies defeated by the Nazis. And then on into the First Yard, divided into two blocks, with mass and solitary cells. Up to 1,500 inmates lived in this yard at any given time.
I'd heard from others who've been to concentration camps all the cliches about chills running down the spine. Walking into one of the mass cells, where the flat wood beds, a long single board that ran the length of the wall, five stories high, you do feel your eyes begin to mist. A single sink, rotted out now with rust, sits by the wall. 'Imagine,' says Marian. 'Up to 100 people were in this room and they had one sink.'
According to our brochures, the cells were often so crowded that each prisoner had less than one square meter of individual space -- which led not only to nervous tension but also helped spread disease. When it got too bad, to relieve overcrowding inmates were shipped off to the death camps.
We passed a delousing station and a 'model' barbershop, a mock room that was designed to show in propaganda films the high quality of hygiene maintained at the prison.
Later we toured blocks of individual cells. I got in one and, to my surprise, Marian shut the door. There was a single wooden bed in a tiny box. I could hardly stand up straight.
'How does it feel?' Marian asked.
'Let me out,' I said.
After passing through a winding corridor we arrived outside. It was a quiet, grassy hillside. A single plaque on the ground told us that it was here that once stood a mass grave. A total of 601 bodies were exhumed in the summer of 1945, and later reburied in the National Cemetery.
But amid these horrors, there were unexpected treasures. In one of the former mass cells, today is a gallery featuring the drawings of a young Czech student who was imprisoned at Terezin during the war. She survived and later became a professional artist. Her drawings, many of them simple pencil drawings, offer wistful, sometimes sad, sometimes insightful, portraits of everyday life in the prison. Evenings when the prisoners sat and talked, or the sick crowded around the cell's single, inadequate heater. One particular drawing struck me: A single person, their back to the viewer, is sitting on the ground by a tree. The inscription, in Czech, reads 'We just want to go home.'
Other such treasures awaited us in the museum, and later, when we toured the Ghetto museum down the street. Scores of artists, musicians and scientists were among those imprisoned at Terezin. While life was harsh and inhumane, many found time and resources to continue to create. Scores for operas ('Terezin Waltz,' I remember one of them being), hand-made cloth dolls, poems, letters, drawings, survive. They provide testament to the courage of people doomed and yet possessed with an indomitable life energy. Thousands of children also were imprisoned, many sent to death camps. And yet teachers held 'secret lessons' for the children, in hopes of providing them with some education should they survive the war (a few did). Some of the children's drawings survive, and are on display.
Marian and Andrea, as well as Radek and Bara, are all university students. They're starting back to school on Monday. Marian's a third-year law student, Andrea and Bara are area studies majors, and Radek is a 'first -year, second-time,' as he says with a smile, IT student. These events happened long before any of us were born, and all of them are too young to remember the Communist era that followed the end of the Second World War, but they all seemed affected by what they saw, just as I was.
In the end, it's a little overwhelming, the sheer volumes of names, of places, of dates and atrocities. You're both exhausted and melancholy, and the sunlight outside seems unnaturally bright, the streets so calm that Marian was moved to remark it felt like a ghost town.
'Next time we have to do something happier,' he says. The others are quiet, reflective. To break the strain, we make little jokes.
Throughout the day, something nagged at me, what I couldn't say. It was a peculiar form of loneliness, an elusive worry, a haunting restlessness, that I was unable to put into words. Walking along with the others, thinking about the day and how tomorrow they had school to go to, the week ahead and my lessons, and then it hit me.
Why didn't I do this before? How many days and nights, since I've come here, have I been content to just sit in a pub, going to the same places with the same people, doing the same things -- wasting time. What about all those people, the thousands upon thousands back there in that place. Children who never got to grow up; old people who committed suicide rather than spend the rest of their lives in prison. Writers who faced extermination with perhaps their best works still residing in them; countless many denied a future simply for being a certain race, or having certain beliefs -- marked for death before they were even born, before they had a chance just so they could fulfill the dreams of a maniac.
There were many lessons to be found at Terezin, but for me on this lovely fall afternoon, that was the saddest lesson. Not just that so many people perished, their lives unfulfilled; but that so many of us with the privilege to live fail to live fully and honorably.
My last image is of a score of music. The composer's name wasn't there, the exact name of the piece eludes me. But I remember looking at that piece, the last page of it open and on display under glass. I studied music at university, but it's been years since I read through a score. For a moment I tried to follow the notes of the piece, to try to summon in my mind the phrases the composer intended, to hear the music as it was meant to be heard. My eye fell on a line of sixteenth notes, slurred together, with a rest on the first sixteenth of each measure. But there was no marking which voice it was, and my skills were too rudimentary and rusty to pull the whole thing together. The notes connected like dots for a moment, but no melody, no music. I should have studied harder in school -- I could have heard that music, and saved it, saved for the lost one who wrote it that which too often expires on the breath, the inexpressible.
I supposed that's what I meant when I said the saddest lesson.

Posted by James Tressler at 10:13 AM | Permalink | Comments (985)

A man walks up to a tabák in Prague.
'Dobry den,' he says to the clerk. 'One pack of cigarettes, please.'
When he gets the pack, the man sees a label on the side. 'Smoking causes cancer.'
He hands the pack back to the clerk and asks for another.
The second pack has a label that says,' Smoking can cause impotence.'
The man hands the pack back to the clerk.
'Hmm,' the man says. 'I guess I'll take the first pack.'

Posted by James Tressler at 05:18 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

There once lived a beautiful young woman in a small village in Bohemia.
When the time came for her to marry, the young woman announced she didn't like any of the men who lived in the village.
So she proposed a contest. Suitors from all over the world were invited to come to the village, and they would be asked a question: What is love?
The one who answered correctly would win the hand of the lovely maiden.
The first who showed up was a Russian.
'What is love?' the Russian asked. 'Bah! It does not exist! It is only propaganda put forth by intellectuals to keep the middle classes in bondage.'
'Interesting answer, very strong,' the young woman replied. 'But no, that's not it. Next'
The next suitor was an American.
'Well, ma'am,' said the American. 'To me, love means we'd be together forever, through good times and bad.'
'That's very touching,' said the girl. 'Very optimistic. I'll think about it. Next.'
The next one was a Frenchman.
'To me, mademoiselle, love is the stars and the rain and the sunlight in your eyes!'
'Ah, how romantic!' cried the lovely girl. 'But, we'll see. Next.'
Up stepped a suave Italian.
'For me, love means we would go to bed and make love constantly!'
'How exciting!' mused the girl. 'I'll think about it.'
Finally, a young Czech man, who came from a nearby village, stepped up. He had just arrived in the village and wondered what all the fuss was about.
'It is a contest,' said the lovely maiden. 'Can you answer the question, what is love?'
'What is the prize?' asked the Czech, thinking about it.
'Why -- me.' The girl flashed her dazzling smile.
'Yes, yes,' said the Czech. 'And what other prizes are there?'
'You bastard!' cried the girl.
They were married the next day.

Posted by James Tressler at 05:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (28)

This column, which appeared on Tuesday, was shared with me by Frank Tsongas, a former UPI and Radio Free Europe editor (and friend of former T-S city editor Dave Rosso). Thought readers who missed it might enjoy.

By THOMAS L. FRIEDMAN
Published: September 30, 2008
I was channel surfing on Monday, following the stock market’s nearly 800-point collapse, when a commentator on CNBC caught my attention. He was being asked to give advice to viewers as to what were the best positions to be in to ride out the market storm. Without missing a beat, he answered: “Cash and fetal.”

I’m in both — because I know an unprecedented moment when I see one. I’ve been frightened for my country only a few times in my life: In 1962, when, even as a boy of 9, I followed the tension of the Cuban missile crisis; in 1963, with the assassination of J.F.K.; on Sept. 11, 2001; and on Monday, when the House Republicans brought down the bipartisan rescue package.

But this moment is the scariest of all for me because the previous three were all driven by real or potential attacks on the U.S. system by outsiders. This time, we are doing it to ourselves. This time, it’s our own failure to regulate our own financial system and to legislate the proper remedy that is doing us in.

I’ve always believed that America’s government was a unique political system — one designed by geniuses so that it could be run by idiots. I was wrong. No system can be smart enough to survive this level of incompetence and recklessness by the people charged to run it.

This is dangerous. We have House members, many of whom I suspect can’t balance their own checkbooks, rejecting a complex rescue package because some voters, whom I fear also don’t understand, swamped them with phone calls. I appreciate the popular anger against Wall Street, but you can’t deal with this crisis this way.

This is a credit crisis. It’s all about confidence. What you can’t see is how bank A will no longer lend to good company B or mortgage company C. Because no one is sure the other guy’s assets and collateral are worth anything, which is why the government needs to come in and put a floor under them. Otherwise, the system will be choked of credit, like a body being choked of oxygen and turning blue.

Well, you say, “I don’t own any stocks — let those greedy monsters on Wall Street suffer.” You may not own any stocks, but your pension fund owned some Lehman Brothers commercial paper and your regional bank held subprime mortgage bonds, which is why you were able refinance your house two years ago. And your local airport was insured by A.I.G., and your local municipality sold municipal bonds on Wall Street to finance your street’s new sewer system, and your local car company depended on the credit markets to finance your auto loan — and now that the credit market has dried up, Wachovia bank went bust and your neighbor lost her secretarial job there.

We’re all connected. As others have pointed out, you can’t save Main Street and punish Wall Street anymore than you can be in a rowboat with someone you hate and think that the leak in the bottom of the boat at his end is not going to sink you, too. The world really is flat. We’re all connected. “Decoupling” is pure fantasy.

I totally understand the resentment against Wall Street titans bringing home $60 million bonuses. But when the credit system is imperiled, as it is now, you have to focus on saving the system, even if it means bailing out people who don’t deserve it. Otherwise, you’re saying: I’m going to hold my breath until that Wall Street fat cat turns blue. But he’s not going to turn blue; you are, or we all are. We have to get this right.

My rabbi told this story at Rosh Hashana services on Tuesday: A frail 80-year-old mother is celebrating her birthday and her three sons each give her a present. Harry gives her a new house. Harvey gives her a new car and driver. And Bernie gives her a huge parrot that can recite the entire Torah. A week later, she calls her three sons together and says: “Harry, thanks for the nice house, but I only live in one room. Harvey, thanks for the nice car, but I can’t stand the driver. Bernie, thanks for giving your mother something she could really enjoy. That chicken was delicious.”

Message to Congress: Don’t get cute. Don’t give us something we don’t need. Don’t give us something designed to solve your political problems. Yes, Hank Paulson and Ben Bernanke need to accept strict oversights and the taxpayer must be guaranteed a share in the upside profits from all rescued banks. But other than that, give them the capital and the flexibility to put out this fire.

I always said to myself: Our government is so broken that it can only work in response to a huge crisis. But now we’ve had a huge crisis, and the system still doesn’t seem to work. Our leaders, Republicans and Democrats, have gotten so out of practice of working together that even in the face of this system-threatening meltdown they could not agree on a rescue package, as if they lived on Mars and were just visiting us for the week, with no stake in the outcome.

The story cannot end here. If it does, assume the fetal position.

Posted by James Tressler at 03:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I received something of a jolt the other day, or rather, two. They came when I was checking up on the local news at the T-S website, which since leaving the paper four years ago, I've continued to do on a daily basis. The first jolt came when I noticed that one of the postings on my blog Via Prague had made 'Best of the Blogs,' and was featured on the editorial page. The second came when I read reader comments. 'I guess calling it a blog is an excuse for poor writing,' one (anonymous) reader observed. 'Worst thing I've read in this paper a long time. Painful actually.' Another reader, Jeff, concurred, noting it was 'surprisingly poorly written,' and noted I was a former T-S reporter.
I hate writing as a defensive exercise, especially in defense of 'poor writing,' of which there is no defense. And in defense of the blogosphere, trading barbs with people you're never likely to meet in person. Rather, I much prefer the Hemingway approach. Upon completion of his novel 'The Sun Also Rises,' in which several people recognized themselves in the characters and who subsequently threatened to kill the author, Hemingway announced that at such-and-such-a-time he would be hanging out having a drink at such-and-such-a-bar, and whoever wished to kill him were free to try to do so. No one showed, at least according to Hemingway. But -- not all of us are Hemingway.
Having said that, I'll admit I agree, at least this time, with my critics. That's why I was surprised the posting - 'Bombing is not the (only) solution' - made 'Best of the Blogs.' To be honest, I wasn't that hot on the piece either -- but wait. I've always regarded 'Via Prague' as merely a joural, a way to record passing thoughts, observations, mine as well as others. Here in Prague you can encounter fascinating people, fantastic liars and veteran bores from every corner of the globe. Most of the confidences you meet are unsought -- often you've already had a few pints of frothy Bohemian brew. Now and again you meet a certain remark, even made in passing, and for the hell of it throw it up into our new ether-eralized posterity.
The result -- viewed later -- can sometimes be profound, other times facile or cliche, and sometimes just nothing. Or it can be all of these things together, or you might later on find it useful in some other project. But that's the beauty of it. Since just what exactly a blog is, or is supposed to be, is still in its infancy, it continues to evolve. It's not hard-bound, like a daily newspaper, by certain obligations. Readers? Hell, what readers? Most of the hits I get are spam ads offering to enlarge my penis and sell me a college degree ('No Study Required!') So it's still hit and miss, but remember it's not as if anybody were paying us anything. The balance is, we're free to do what we want, with admittedly mixed results. I've already posted this damn piece three times, then thought about it, came back and added a new thought. But then, in my case, that's the advantage of being 9 time zones away from my base readership (not including the folks at Viagra, of course, another faithful 'reader').
I remember on the eve of leaving America for Europe, a lot of people patted me on the back reassuringly, sometimes enviously, and told me to make sure to 'interview' people 'over there' and 'get some new perspective on America,' some such truck. Naturally, or vainly, I agreed it was a good idea.
Mostly I've tried to include those I've talked to 'over here' in my efforts. Islam, my Bangladesh friend who was quoted at length in the unfortunate last posting, was actually cooking and leaning over my shoulder while I wrote his comments. Understand, his English isn't perfect, and I'll admit I quoted him literally, with all the mangled verb conjugations and prepositions, etc left intact. This was not to disparage him, but to try to capture the unique rhythm of his speech, which I think adds impact to his points. Think of Jim in 'Huckleberry Finn.' Imagine if Twain had corrected Jim's speech to sound like the Queen's English. The sense would have been the same literally, but the music of it would have been lost. I was trying to capture some of that same spirit in Islam. If I failed, I failed and take the blame.
Anyway, what I'm trying to say -- for those who speak only English -- is I didn't think much of the posting either. But think of Via Prague as an ongoing, extended dialogue, a story. And let's hope the next part will be better. If not, dear readers, I can be found hanging out a certain pub in Prague called Pilotu (or just ask for Pavel's bar in Vrsovice) and you are more than welcome to drop by (armed or unarmed, well, unarmed is best) and we'll settle our differences in person. The first pint's on me. And you can even try Islam's cooking. I recommend the curry beef and rice. If you're really nice, he might even let you use his computer.
In my defense, Islam read the reader responses and smiled. 'So --' he said. 'They think we are wrong.'
'Let's write another one,' I said, sitting down with a determined air at the computer in the kitchen at Pavels' where he works.
'No, no,' he said. 'Today we have not anything to say. We must wait.'
Grudgingly I realized, after a few vacant stabs at the keyboard, he was right. The critics had had their day. It's certainly not the first time. While working at the T-S, I recall a certain inmate (who insisted he was innocent) at the Humboldt County Jail used to leave messages on my phone telling me how bad my reporting of his case was.
'I wonder,' the inmate ruminated ominously. 'I wonder, Mr. Tressler, how you sleep at night.'
Not very well, but that could be for any number of reasons -- even poor writing -- but certainly not for any inmates parked in the Pokey, innocent or otherwise, and certainly not for critics. This is not just a turn of phrase: We're all innocent of at least one crime. I may be a 'former reporter,' but being a good writer is one crime of which I've sometimes been accused, but never convicted.

Posted by James Tressler at 01:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)