I was released from the Air
Force in December 1957. I was 21, with precious little wisdom, my spirit was
bruised by the brutality and debilitations inflicted by the Czechoslovak
People’s Army and did not know what to do. After Christmas I presented myself at
the state–run Labour Exchange Office that resided in a side lane at the
beginning of Vajnorská ulica. Given a piece of paper with pencil-scribbled
address I walked to an office of land surveyors in the basement of a magistrate
building at the top end of Gottwald Place, as it was known then. I presented
myself to a comrade Blažíček, who was the manager. The office belonged to the
District Institute of Survey and Geodesy, with the Slovakian headquarters
opposite the nearby Primaciálny palác. I was hired on the spot by the comrade
B. and given the title of Trainee Surveyor Technician. Apart from the comrade
B. there was in the office one much older, dark-haired fellow, but he was
constantly somewhere else, and I saw him but seldom.
On occasions we had Czech speaking
visitors from the capital Prague. And there was Mr. Gustl Macher: about 60
years old, from the well-known local family who resided around Gottwald Place;
I’ll return to him a little later.
Details of the initial training
(all two days of it) escape my memory now. Probably they consisted of
familiarisation with the type of maps used, and with various methods of
comparing features in the field with those on maps. The maps we had were fairly
old, some of them printed in the reign of Kaiser Franz Joseph, that is before
year 1918.
During years around 1957 in
Czechoslovakia ran the so-called Economic-Technical Adjustment of Land
campaign, abbreviated (in Czech) HTÚP. First step of that campaign was to
compare the maps with the actual situation. A few days after I started I was
given my “hunting ground”. The borders were as follows: Malinovského ulica
(nowadays Šancová, I think), Račianska ulica, Pekná cesta up to the red
tourist track, red tourist track up to the restaurant Železná studnička,
down to the Červený most, along the railway line, Pražská ulica back to
Malinovského ulica – all up an area of about 5 x 5 kilometres. It consisted of
about 10% of urban sprawl, 20-30% vineyards and agricultural land, and the rest
was a hilly and mostly forested national park with some tourist and military objects in it.
Observation on the relationship
between the Czechs and Slovakians at the time.
A little later, at a seminar for
Air Traffic Controllers, I was sitting at the same table with a few colleagues
from Prague. One of them, by coincidence, left the army service at the same
year and month as myself, and, to my surprise, started his working life in the
same job as me, as a land surveyor. Naturally, I asked him about the
Economic-Technical Adjustment of Land campaign – he never heard of it! It
transpired that from Prague headquarters a large group of land surveyors was
posted in Albania, and he was part of it. In those days the posting abroad was
highly paid and a coveted thing. In Slovakia we have never heard of it!
A year or two later my then
girlfriend received permission for a tourist trip to Belgium and France. I took
her to the train station in Bratislava, where she joined a group of four
tourists from the whole of Slovakia, who were waiting for the same train coming
from Prague. When the train arrived – it was full of tourists from Prague! In
Slovakia, in those days, it was near impossible to gain permission to travel
abroad (except to the so-called socialist states). I myself, on one occasion,
applied for permission to travel to Yugoslavia, and was denied for “shortage of
foreign currency”. I am mentioning all this as a few of the “little things”
that eventually caused the break-up of the otherwise fairly sensible
commonwealth of Czechs and Slovakians.
As a newly-minted land surveyor,
I set out for my first surveying mission to the vicinity of where I lived at
the time (Račianska ulica, near Krasňany, opposite the pub “U Dudáša”, for
those with the longer memory). I was accompanied by Mr. Gustl Macher, and in
the pursuit of our mission we both carried permits enabling us to enter any
block of land. The area I lived in was abutting large vineyards, all of them
with names in German language. Behind our house was an area called Hohenau; a
bit higher uphills, next to the road called Schienweg, there were Salty
vineyards, Salzen in German. Other names from the area that I remember were
Pfalzen (there is student dormitory Mladá garda today), Vogelsang (near
Sliačska cesta), Oily vineyards (between the old Jewish (?) cemetery and
Légiodomy), etc. I wish I could read a book about the history of these places…
The blocks of land around my
house were largely in order, and our maps were true to the reality: what on the
map was, say, a building block, had indeed a house standing on it. Traipsing
from block to block became boring after a while, and Gustl promised to tell me
a secret. He took me to one old timber hut in the middle of a vineyard only a
few hundred metres from my house, above Gaštanový hájik, and with a dramatic
gesture announced: “Old Mr. Falb - in this hut - hanged himself!”. It came to
me as a shock, for as a child I used to play in and around that hut. He told me
the whole story, from which I remember only that behind all that was some
beautiful girl of old. Afterwards I avoided that hut whenever I happened to be
in the vicinity, until it fell apart and disappeared.
The Gaštanový hájik (Chestnut
grove) disappeared, too. Partly it was eaten from the Bratislava end by the
short-lived penal settlement, and later by the Agricultural Cooperative that in
the mid-1950s built their administration and machinery sheds smack in the
middle of it. Nowadays, in its place, there are small factories and
administration buildings.
What was it, this Gaštanový
hájik? It was a piece of land, about one kilometre long and some 200-300 metres
wide, sprawled between Račianska ulica and vineyards, and starting east of the
Biely kríž colony of houses. It was full of mature chestnut trees. It was
largely neglected, except for a few little gardens on its northern edge, from
whence I could hear Czech language on occasions. It was not fenced, and we used
to come and gather chestnuts fallen on the ground. It was occasionally guarded by
a uniformed person with a shot gun (mad dog Franc, and later mild-mannered
Cintula). Long after the grove disappeared the tram stop next to the railway
bridge used to carry its name – not any longer, I guess…
GUSTL.
I became fond of the old fella.
He was not much to look at. Middle-to-short of stature, slim, about 60,
suffering from asthma, a bachelor. When young he lived in a flat at Jozefská
ulica, and whenever we were in the vicinity, he always remarked on the good
times he had with his girlfriends there. His language was pure “prešpurák”,
that is Slovakian, mixed with German and Hungarian expressions, all with a
heavy “Viennese” accent.
His knowledge of vineyards
seemed to be encyclopaedical. Not only he knew the names of all the districts
and individual allotments, he did not hesitate to point at discrepancies
between our maps and what he knew; he knew the names of the owners, their
family relations and problems; he knew when and how the owners built various
implements and structures; he knew grape varieties and whether they were
suitable for the given location; he knew what kind of wine was made from grapes
in various areas, and whether they were profitable to the owners or not. I
started making notes from all his remarks, and I had a few exercise books
scribbled full, sometimes legibly, sometime not, depending on the weather –
it’s difficult to write with your mittens on, for example. I was dreaming of
writing a book, but it never happened, the notes have evaporated and all that
is left in my memory are these few shards here…
His stories included annual
visits of women from the nearby Morava region. The seasonal work in vineyards
in Slovakia starts a few weeks before those in Morava, and the women used to
come to earn some extra money. Gustl became rather excited whenever he broached
the subject, for the women from Morava were highly valued by the local men
(less so by the local women). On occasions Gustl would point to me cabins in
the vineyards where the local winemaker would hide with his favourite
“Moravka”. I do not remember if he ever mentioned similar situation concerning
Slovakian women in Morava…
Back to work: the results of our
expeditions were pencilled in maps, and those were taken back to the office to
be processed. The most important data were those where the usage of land was
different from what was indicated in the maps. For example, when a block of
land marked as “building” in reality had a vineyard, or an orchard on it.
Another important item of consideration was difference in size or shape. In
that case we had to determine one corner of the block in relation to the
nearest “triangulation point”. Those points, spaced a few hundred metres apart,
could be found everywhere, and were marked either by a cross on top of a
milestone, or a steel nail in the pavement, and perhaps others. The distance of
one corner of the block in question from such a point had to be measured as
exactly as possible. From that corner we then continued measuring the sides of
the block, back to the origin. The abutting blocks had to be also determined in
relation to the nearest “triangulation point”. The method was not strictly
scientific, but sufficient for the task on hand.
The data gathered in the field
were processed back in the office. Final result of each such day was a map with
highlights of changes, and a list of blocks of land processed, total area of the
blocks, and total area of various usages, such as urban, agricultural,
factories, military objects, etc. Gustl was suffering from boredom during such
mundane operations, until I invented some amusement for him: his job was to
dictate to me the data from bits of paper, while I was operating an ancient
mechanical adding machine. The keys were hard to press, and my fingers were
getting cramps after a few hours of such work; after every number a huge lever
on the side had to be pulled, from which action I was suffering from tennis
elbow. And Gustl had the habit of slipping into the local German-Hungarian
lingo… We would start with Gustl intoning his formula “o.k., now!: three
hundred-twenty-five”. I pressed to appropriate keys, pulled the lever, and
waited for the next number: Two hundred-fifty-eight. 2-5-8, lever. Four
hundred-seven-twenty. 4-7-2….. Ooooops, Gustl! Stop speaking the lingo,
please!!! The order of number intoned was in German fashion; it was difficult
to cross the incorrect number off, and the number had to be subtracted at the
end of the session. “Sorry, Charles, o.k. now: four hundred-twenty-seven!”
4-2-7, lever… Gustl. Gustl!!! “What, what??” “Stop squinting into the
newspaper, please!!!” “Sorry, Charles, o.k. now…”
There were days we had to stay
in the office, especially in winter, due to inclement weather. We were dressed
in our own clothes, wore our own shoes, with no compensation for wear and tear.
For travel we used public transport, and fares were redeemed by Mr. B. upon
presentation of our tickets. And our wages were miserable! I, as a “trainee”,
was receiving about 700 Czechoslovak crowns a month, with average wages in
those days being about twice as much. Gustl was a full time “assistant
surveyor” with kingly wages of about 1200 Cz. Crowns per month. I was beside
myself with envy!!! For consolation he treated me on occasions to a cup of tea
laced with rum, or a bowl of tripe soup at the butcher’s shop on the top end
of Štefánikova ulica.
Our attempts to enter the large
military areas in our hunting ground are worth mentioning. We presented our
Permits to Enter to the sentries and waited. The sentry’s superior would turn
up, usually a sergeant, and tried to shoo us away. We had Permits and refused
to go! An officer would turn up and tried to sweet-talk us away – to no avail,
again. Eventually, following a telephone call somewhere to the military
stratosphere, the Gate was open, and we allowed in. That instant, all interest
in our presence disappeared, and we were free to roam. Alas, we never found
anything that merited correction in our maps; once a military object – always a
military object. We were not allowed to enter building, above- or under-ground,
and thus the top secrets of the Czechoslovak People’s Army remained
undisturbed.
Sometimes I was dispatched by
comrade B. to deliver documents to the local head office. It was on the top
floor of a building opposite Primaciálny palác. It was governed by a man with
Russian surname, Tretyakoff, Ustinoff, or such. He used to yell, and in
summertime, when their windows were open, I could hear his voice as far as the
tržnica (market-place).
A SMALL DETOUR.
Behaviour of people we asked for
permission to enter their properties was interesting to observe. The action had
been lavishly described and praised in the media, so the people were generally
not unaware of our mission. After cursory inspection of our cards, we were
more-or-less reluctantly allowed to enter. Many enquired about the details of
our mission, and often offered a glass of wine or some refreshments. Quite a
few times we were sumptuously wined and dined. Once, in a villa belonging to an
erstwhile clothing magnate Nehera, a few scantily-clad girls were offering us some
imprecisely described pleasures, but the two of us bolted and slammed the door
behind us – Gustl was a bachelor, remember!? On occasions we were asked for a
minor “adjustment” of data collected. For example, if somebody had an orchard
on a block of land designated for building purposes. Often, sums of money were
offered to us, or some valuables, for such “adjustment”, which I declined to
accept, even if the monetary values of such offers were often far in excess of
my monthly wages. I was admonished by Gustl for acting foolishly, for it could
represent handsome side earnings. I suspected even then (and Gustl knew 100%),
that the entire action was a ruse to get as much money from the population as
possible. We lived in the so-called socialism…
Our household was a typical
example of its effects. After grandfather’s retirement we lived in a house, and
some 300 metres from it we had access to part of the grandfather’s old land,
some 30x60 metres of it, bordering with a fishpond. In the garden we grew
everything we could think of: potatoes, corn, fruit, vegetables, all according
to the season and diligence. Around the house we had every year a pair of pigs,
chooks, ducks, rabbits, on occasion even a goose or two. Grandfather even
managed to catch a wild hare, and from the fishpond we had a nice pike from
time to time: as to the basic foodstuff we were completely self-sufficient. It
lasted until about 1950, when the “socialism” erupted in full force! Various
methods were used to discourage the population from – being self-sufficient.
Various taxes appeared, whether in money or in kind, so much so that people
gave up keeping animals, gave up cultivating their gardens.
The were regular inspections of
backyards. Inspectors counted the number of animals, measured the vegetable
plots, intimidated. People were encouraged to buy foodstuffs in state-run
shops. These shops were poorly managed, the produce sold was of poor quality,
often not available, and there were periodical shortages of various items:
there were meat-less times, times without onions, garlic, butter, fruit,
clothing, shoes, white-goods, etc., etc. Our family, until then self-sufficient
in food, even during the war, started to tighten its belts. At the same time,
the backyards, gardens, fields, began to go to waste, overgrown with weeds. At
the edge of railway embankment, where Mrs. Lang used to graze her goat, was
grass and weeds waist deep; the weeds were growing on the edges of roads, in
the ditches, where people used to cut the grass to feed their animals.
Resultingly, spring rains water was overflowing, flooding front gardens and the
roads. The backyards ceased to be noisy: where previously oink-oink of the pigs
was heard, quacking of the ducks and cock-a-doodling of roosters, it all became
quiet. The countryside was turning to wilderness, too. The land in the hands of
newly created agricultural cooperatives was cultivated in a higledy-pigledy
fashion. Often a tractor or some piece of agricultural machinery could be seen
all winter in the middle of the fields – it was left where it stopped due to
some technical problem, or simply ran out of fuel. General demeanour of people
became cloudy and angry. Those who could used to bring home from work various
items: pieces of meat, flour, a length of steel pipe, a handful of nails
(myself later, when working in a chemical factory, used to bring home pockets
full of fertiliser). One of our neighbours used to make front gates for sale
from pieces of metal brought home under his coat – used to make, that is, until
imprisoned for stealing from “national property”…
To improve the buying power of
the people the government in 1953 introduced so-called monetary reform. That
reform actually started a few years earlier, when personal savings were frozen,
life insurances confiscated, and private companies “nationalised”, i.e. also
confiscated. In 1953 was the robbery of the nation finalised by creation of new
banknotes, exchanged for the existing money in increasingly usurious rates: for
your “old” money, up to, I think, 500 crowns, you were given one new crown for
every five; higher sums were exchanged in increasingly unfavourable ratios,
such as 1:50, 1:500, etc. The prices in shops (controlled by the state)
remained unchanged. Thus, progressively, the population lost everything,
property, savings, life insurances, and finally, the buying power.
Later, when the treasury found
itself short of cash again, the government declared various actions to mop up
the remainder of money: money collected ostensibly to help the Vietnam people,
help to the fraternal North Korea, helping African countries. The tribunes
during various state celebrations (attendances compulsory!) were full of
various beggars, and I saw with my own eyes Kwame N’krumah, Sékou Touré, Ho Chi
Minh, Indira Gándhi, Osvaldo Dorticos Torrado, Todor Zhivkov, Tito and his
wife-tsarina (judging by the way she dressed), various high-ranked Russians,
etc., etc. My (at the time future) wife shook hands with no other than Leonid
Brezhnev on one such occasion! And when all the collections turned out to be
insufficient the government decreed illegal the ownership of all precious
metals, wedding rings excepted. When we were getting married my fiancée
produced and old family brooch, we had to give the jeweller to make our rings
from. Where she found the brooch, I did not inquire, it was illegal to own,
and, by law, I should have reported her to the authorities – such instances
were not uncommon at the time! One of the last such actions was Alweg, around
1967. Money was collected to build “hanging” railway from Poprad to High Tatra
Mountains: it hasn’t been built to this day (1999)! And what happened to our
money in the fraternal North Korea, and all the friendly African countries?
Well, it’s all there for all to see to this very day…
It has been said before by wise
people, but it is important for it to be repeated, over and over: most
individuals know how to handle their property. They know to select the right
one from the myriads of wisdoms at their disposal, know how to use land at
their disposal, know how to save their money, know how to support the new
trends, know-how, and also which beggar to support (and which not). In
socialist system all these activities are taken by force from the individuals,
and all these activities are performed by the government. The government,
however, is not formed by the people skilled in the aforementioned activities:
the government is formed by people skilled in displaying adherence to the
government (which, in the end, leads to political claustrophobia). Resultingly,
various "wisdoms" are accepted without scrutiny; ignorance of land
husbandry is mind-boggling; money is thrown into the political winds of the
day; innovations are suppressed out of ignorance and misguided caution; beggars
(by which I mean various foreign governments and organisations) are supported
generously and indiscriminately… And when the riches of all kinds plundered
from individuals finally run out - the socialism falls apart, leaving behind
impoverished and bewildered mass of people (ready for manipulation and
exploitation by the opportunists)!
SOCIETY.
The old neighbourhood customs also slowly vanished, like
exchanging meats during pigs slaughtering seasons.
Every autumn, with incoming of
first frosts, came the pig slaughtering season. It was organised differently
from house to house, usually by inviting the local butcher to kill and cut the
animal to manageable pieces. In our house it was done by us. Only once we
invited the local butcher, who shot the pig in the forehead with a special
“pig” pistol. The pig bolted and started running all around the backyard, until
four of us managed to catch and kill it by using the time-honoured method, with
knife in the heart. Grandmother had vessels ready to catch the blood, after
which ritual the carcass was lowered into a big though full of boiling water in
order to wash it and allow the hair to soften. After a while the carcass was
rolled onto old hessian bags and shaved with ordinary kitchen spoons. The whole
family, up to seven of us, was busy for two days. My job a few times consisted
of washing the intestines, both small and large; the clean intestines were used
to make sausages of various sizes. Pieces of meat and fat were constantly being
cooked or roasted, and every few hours a big eating and drinking feast was
taking place. And every now and the grandmother handed to me a plate heaped
with pieces of whatever was just cooked, covered in ornamental cloth, and dispatched
me to various neighbours with donation: “Don’t forget to say a nice hello, and
wish them all the best from us!”, was her send-off on each such occasion…
JANO.
A
few months after I started my land surveying carrier a new man came into our
office. His name was Jano, and I forgot his surname. Handsome looking, lively
and intelligent young man. He had a beautiful mum, and his stepfather worked as
a “political officer” in the same building. What was the role of “political
officer”? It was a function parallel with the personnel manager, with the task
of evaluating employees from the political angle. I was aware of such an
officer from the army, and also from the university. These “political officers”
were usually men with very little education, of “proletariat origins”, with
rough and oppressive manners.
I
had to see this political officer in order to get permission to apply for
aeroclub membership. I was member of an aeroclub in nearby Nitra, where I
studied for two years at the Agricultural University, and, living in Bratislava
I simply wanted to transfer my membership to the local aeroclub. The
“Proletariat Member” has never met anyone from aeroclub, and his evaluation
took two or three days. Eventually I was called into his office for an
interview. We were going through my application item by item – Christian name,
surname, date of birth – until we ambled to my father: proofreader! What is
that, asked the Member. “Well, he corrects mistakes in books, magazines,
papers, etc.”. “And does he sit in an office?”. “Well, yes, he does.” “Soooo,
he is a clerk! In that case, the permission to join an aeroclub shall be
denied!”, was the Member’s triumphal verdict…
According
to communist theories, the clerks were the lowest and officially despised part
of the society, almost akin to the “remnants of the rotting capitalists”, i. e.
shopkeepers, factory owners, car service station owners, etc. And thus, there
appeared on my application form a big blot – unsurmountable blot. Fortunately,
I had Jano sitting next to me, and, apparently, he did not like his stepfather
all that much. “What?”, exclaimed Jano, when appraised of my travails. “What?
That swine is refusing to sign your application? And what is he? He also sits
in an office! He himself is a clerk as well!!!
I
went to see the “Member” again. “Whadayawant?”, he looked at me with his eyes
clearly showing his contempt with a scion of the remnants of rotting capitalists.
“Comrade xx, I just want to know if your Jano could become a member of an
aeroclub?” “WHAT? What did you hammer into his head?” “I did no such thing. I
just want to know if he could…” “Of course, I see no obstacle there”, was the
answer. “Why do you ask?” “Well, he is your stepson. You also sit in the
office, you are a clerk, same as my father…”
I
don’t remember his reaction to this supremely reactionary statement. Most
likely I was kicked out of his office, with an additional blot on my
application. A few weeks later, however, I was called to his office, where my
application was handed to me – flatteringly referred and signed! A bit later
Jano intimated that he told his mum about me. In my stupidity at the time, I
did not think of all the combinations, and did not show my gratitude. So,
belatedly: a big thank you, Jano (and your mum)!
The
ending of this story does not belong to this overall narrative, but I would be
amiss not to include it.
Jano
once intimated to me that his mum is friendly with a swarthy member of the
“nomenclatura” (a member of the highest class in the communist society, usually
high-ranking member of the communist party, or the state security service,
largely the same organisation). A couple of years later, when working in a
chemical factory, I heard that the managing director at the time (and a member
of the Slovakian parliament as well), comrade Krahulec, swarthy, with black
beetles’ eyebrows, is very friendly with a married woman, who lived on Krížna
ulica (and Jano lived on the same street!). Oh, yes, Jano, I thought at the
time… And another couple years later a small announcement appeared in the local
paper that “comrade Krahulec, managing director, member of Parliament, etc.,
was brutally murdered on Krížna ulica…”.
Note:
comrade Krahulec is mentioned in the chapter Dynamitka as well.
NOW
THEN…
When
we encountered some chaos in our blocks of land, if, for instance data in our
maps were out of alignment with what we found in the field, we had to go to the
Land Office. That institution resided in the Justičný palace (Palace of the
Justice), somewhere in its right wing as viewed from the street. After a few visits
we were known to the clerks and received a free run of the rooms. Gustl loved
such visits! He would select one of the huge hand-written books, secluded
himself in a corner and murmured the names for himself as they came into his
view while flicking the pages. Sometimes he expressed agreement with what he
saw in the pages, sometimes he argued (in German; swearing, however, was always
in Hungarian) that “that corner did not belong to him it belonged to (say)
Pohančeník”, or “that vineyard is smaller than what is written here”, and
similar shibboleths. With my business I was usually done in 20 minutes, and the
rest of time I used to wander around the Palace. At the time there was a court
case in full swing, the accused were members of POHG, a semi-military
organization during the WW2. A few times I saw miserable looking men (Bunta,
Koleno – these names remained stuck in my memory), freshly shaven, in
ill-fitting clothes, being led to the courtroom. Many years later I met one of
my wife’s school-mate, a beautiful girl, a daughter of one of those men – a
spitting image of him, as I remembered him.
My
task was nearing the end. In little more than one year we roamed all the blocks
of land in our allocated area, added up everything, pencilled all the changes
in the maps, and one day comrade B. announced that from next week I would be
transferred to Moravské Lieskové, a village some 100km east. Sure enough next
week I was reporting in the nearby Nové Mesto nad Váhom in the local Land
Surveying Office to the engineer Trebatický. The same afternoon I was in the
bus to Moravské Lieskové. I was put up in the house belonging to Kusenda
family, in a nice room at the end of long village-type house. Next day I was
working in the local office. The work was the same as in Bratislava, except the
rural blocks were a bit larger. The village itself was being processed by a
local comrade (Jánošík by name, I think), my job was around the rather hilly
fields. The blocks of land were poorly marked, and the fixed points, from which
I had to establish the distances, were often kilometres away. At my disposal
was but 25 metres long tape measure, I had no assistant, and a kilometre
distance, often across hilly pastures, of creek gullies, took 2 or 3 hours.
Accuracy? Plus a flock of curious cows or sheep I had to navigate
around… At first, I was enthusiastic about doing my job properly (once I even
fell into a creek called Klanečnica). Toward the end my enthusiasm faded, I
ticked off whatever I saw on the map, occasionally invented a change as a
testimony to my diligence, and a few weeks later I was done and was sent home
to Bratislava by the comrade engineer. My salary was still but 700 crowns per
month. I was thinking of going back to university, but my “clerical” background
was against me, and I was told to get some factory experience. I applied for a
job in the nearby chemical factory called Chemické Závody Juraja Dimitrova: I
became a labourer in one fertiliser unit with a kingly salary of around 1500
crowns per month.
That
was the end of my land surveying carrier. I do not remember how we parted ways
with Gustl. After many years I discovered that he died but a year later, in
August 1960, barely 62. O. k. now, Gustl: may your winemaking heaven be kind to
you, und auf wiederschau’n…
EPITHAPH.
After
good many years I was privileged to meet one pretty and lively lady, who every
now and then complained about her husband, as it were. He was over 70, and I
felt he was suffering from some mild form of senility. The debate with him
consisted of listening to his speeches, for he liked to talk: mostly about his
sore knee, pins and needles in his back, the doctors can’t figure out the right
medicines, well, it’s downright horrible, Mr. Hatvani!
Somehow,
I managed to coax from him something about his work. It turned out that in the
times of “socialism” he was some sort of big cheese at a Central Planning
Ministry (“we were good mates with Václav, that is Klaus (later Czech
President))”, he allowed himself to drop an aside, with a tiny sly smile). In
between his knee speeches I managed to say the word HTÚP. He sprung to life:
“What, what did you say?” “I said HTÚP”, quoth I. "Oh, my, I had a lot to
do with that", he intoned. Such an enormously successful action it was!
Usage of the land in entire country was absolutely precisely accounted for! How
many valuable bits of knowledge were compiled for us, to better and more
effectively plot the way forward in the national economy, etc., etc. I stopped
listening to his coloratura, and started thinking about our cavalier way with
the numbers; our typing errors; various rewards offered to us, which the wiser
from me no doubt accepted; and about the sewage the entire national economy
ended up in when the stolen and mis-handled money ran out, the sewage this man
and “nomenklatura” like him had no idea about until they were pushed from their
pedestal – and many of them, like this one, remained ignorant until this day.
Thank
you for attention, and bowing to the past – goodbye, and let’s hope you shall
remain there forever, "comrades"!
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