MY FAMILY - (PRE)HISTORY
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My great grandmother Zdenka (1) Meisnerová, The "lost" portraits : mother Elisabeth Boulogne and daughter Karolina Seelingiová, her husband Jan Seeling, below |
Karel Jan Nepomuk Ferdinandi 
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Pohlaví: |
Muž |
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Narození: |
23. června 1802 |
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Nejbližší rodina: |
Syn Georga Emanuela Ferdinandiho a Marie Anny* Ferdinandi |
Jindřiška
Gawalowská (Ferdinandiová)
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Pohlaví: |
Žena |
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Narození: |
02. června 1833 |
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Úmrtí: |
06. listopadu 1918 (85) |
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Nejbližší rodina: |
Dcera Karla Jana Nepa. Ferdinandiho a Ursuly Ferdinandi |
“When people leave us, one after another, their presence quite naturally anchors itself and survives in the memories of the ones who remain, in the reminiscences and everyday conversations, in the albums one sometimes takes out of the cupboard to show the children, to explain to those who never knew the ones who have departed. From time to time, flowers are put on their graves, and their names are there, engraved in stone, essential symbols, through which different generation maintain the ties between each other, follow each other, and communicate by spoken or written words… “
Author´s note: In the following text, I put in the cursive and brackets remarks meant for you personally, and I underlined references that you might like to google. I hope it will not all disappear in the final version in the blog. I wrote this part before the Family Chronicle, so there maybe some repetitions. As with the Chronicle, new facts and memories keep emerging but one has to stop somewhere...
MY PARENTS
The three siblings belonged to the Golden Youth of Prague - my father travelled, played tennis, cycled, skied, drove a car (his father had owned one of the first motor vehicles, a tricycle, before he got himself a proper car, a Tatra), went to concerts and operas - he was a music lover and an accomplished amateur pianist, though he only learnt to play at the age of thirty. I was an only child, but it sometimes felt as if I had a big brother – my father´s grand piano. It was not a Steinway, but it was a concert quality instrument none the less. It stood – black and shining – in the bay window of our dining room, flanked by glass cabinets crammed with music scores and adorned by a portrait of a composer Jan/Hans Seeling and a little alabaster bust of Bedřich Smetana (to both of whom our family was related (see My Family); a plaster death head of Beethoven looked down on it from its perch on top of the sideboard. (You have it now, Thomas) It did not matter if WE were too hot or too cold, as long as the temperature was right for the piano, even if it meant shutting the blinds against the afternoon sun in summer or hauling an extra bucket or two of coal from the cellar, a daily activity in winter: as soon as my father came back from the bank in the evening, he changed into an old tweed jacket, put on gloves and together we went down to the coal cellar in the basements, a badly lit, rather scary place. My father devoted every spare moment to practicing his scales and chords, but the highlights were the weekends, when he could give himself up to the music for hours, measured by the metallic clicking of the metronome. Often a hunchback maiden aunt of his, Fanča Jenčová, came to play compositions for four hands with him, and occasionally a couple of friends arrived on an evening with a violin and a cello to make up a trio. During these “home concerts” I used to sit under the piano and let the vibrations wash over me. If the music was lively, I tried to dance to it, but that was rather frowned upon. The aunt had developed the hunch by falling on ice while skating as a young girl. Despite this misfortune, she was one of the kindest and most cheerful persons I have ever known. My parents would take me along to performances of the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra - they managed to keep a box from the pre-war times, on the balcony above the podium, so that my father could watch the pianist´s hands. When too little to attend concerts, I had been left home alone; there was no babysitters system in place and no question of asking the grandmothers, but a kind lady lived in the flat underneath our bedroom and I was given a sturdy broomstick and told that if I got scared to bang on the floor with it, and she would come to rescue. I can´t remember if it ever came to that. My father´s favourite composer was J.S Bach, and a fat German book about his works, written in Schwabacher, the old German script, was his “bible”. Because of Bach, he had taught himself to play the organ, with the help of an organist friend. On some Sunday mornings I could listen to my father playing this majestic instrument in a gothic church, St.Martin in the Wall, well known for organ music concerts. More famous for organ concerts to this day is the impressive baroque church of St.James in the Old Town, where, later, I used to go often. Through his love of Bach, he befriended a couple of the most famous interpreters of Bach´s music of the time, the clarinettist Milan Munclinger and his wife, a cembalist, Viktoria Švihlíková. I remember them well – he was tall and thin with curly black hair and a beard, she small and slim with long black, straight hair. He was also a friend of the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra conductor, Karel Ančerl, who followed Václav Talich. We owned a Philips radio, the type that can now be seen only in museums, and a record-player for our collection of the 78´ records – the breakable sort with the scratchy sound. I loved the little dog on the “My Master´s Voice” label, with its ear to the “trumpet” of an even older type of gramophone. It was my task to change the steel needles, but to position the pick-up upon a disc was judged a too delicate an operation for a child´s clumsy hand. Music in all its shapes and forms was one of my father´s three favourite pastimes that he could continue to pursue even in the communist times. The other two were cycling and reading, if possible in English – he was an Anglophile. Another hobby of his was tracing the family roots and writing down the family trees. His ambition was to prove that there was a link leading to the Pešina of Čechorod, but it was not very likely. Still, he traced the Pešinas to the early 18t century at least, if not earlier. (I have the family trees written in his hand, but at hand at the moment;Honzíček put some of it on the internet.) It is a shame, that the Pešina´s clan comes to an end now, “by mail tail”, that is to say, die out when your uncle Vítek, the last male Pešina, is gone, not having had any children. And to think, that two generations ago there were 21 children, 14 of them boys, though many of them died in childhood or did not have male descendants or even got married. There were/are descendants of some of his sisters, but they go under other names; I knew some of them as a child, but lost track of their children. (For the names and details of my grandfather´s brothers and sisters see my aunt Máňa Šulová “Kronika”. It has some nice family photos. It is also on a CD.)
But let´s return to my father. In the meantime, the war (WW2, about the beginning of which later.) was drawing to an end and the Germans were losing, but Prague still somehow escaped destruction; Berlin had been heavily bombed and the Germans moved their headquarters to Prague. On the 14th of February 1945 the American air force dropped a number of bombs on Prague and surroundings. According to American pilots, it was the result of a navigation mistake: possibly targeting a weapon factory farther on. (You can look it up on Wikkipedia: Bombing of Prague 1945.) Collateral damage: Our house got a direct hit, which destroyed the topmost apartments and killed several people. It was lunch time, many people were in the streets and the casualties from other bombs were numerous. As my uncle Otto later told me, I was in the pram in the park next door, pushed around by our maid. When the sirens sounded, the maid wheeled the pram back and had a long discussion with my mother on the balcony, whether to come in or not. My father was in his office at the bank. Finally we did come in and waited the shelling out in the vaulted hall. Ever since, my uncle Otto Šula always wished us “a happy second birthday” on this day. Though all members of our family escaped unharmed, one casualty of the raid was my maternal grandparents´ farm in Milín, a building dating from the 18th century, of which only the baroque gable was left standing and became, ironically, a protected monument (of architecture, not the bombing), until it was finally pulled down many years later. Also the spires of the gothic church (Emausy) above the park were destroyed. They were eventually replaced by modernistic gold tipped spiky things, which originally caused a great scorn but one got used to them eventually. After the air raid, our house was deemed unsafe and we went to live with the Šulas on the opposite bank of the river, at the end of the Jiráskův bridge, where they lived in a 2nd floor apartment in the other paternal grandfather´s house (Dienzenhofferovy sady 2). Aunt Marie (Máňa) Šulová, the older sister of my father, had married Ing. Otto Šula and they were the parents of my cousins Peter, Pavel and Jan/Honza. There were other air raid alarms and we had to spend many a night in the shelter in the cellar. My cousin Pavel has never really forgiven me that he could not sleep because of my crying. Or so he says...We spent several months there darting into the cellar frequently even during the day, as apart from the possibility of more bombings, during the Prague Uprising in May 1945 against the German occupants various fire arms were going off all around – not even the second floor was a safe place to be. I had always thought, that the destruction of the gothic Old Town Hall was also a victim of the air raid, but was corrected, when checking with Pavel – it was, in fact, burned down during the Uprising. Luckily, the great tower, with its astronomical clock, now one of the main tourist attractions of Prague, was left standing. The war finally ended, for us later than elsewhere, on the 9th of May 1945: Prague had to await her liberation until the Soviet army got there from the east, while the US soldiers were idling in the western Bohemia town of Pilsen, drinking the famous Pilsen Urquell beer and making babies. There was a treaty about how far the US army might advance and so the liberation of Prague stayed forever symbolized by lilac flowers thrown on the Russian, not American, tanks. I would like to think that when some normality returned, my parents were able to make up for the lost war years and resume their carefree life from before the war but the euphoria of freedom did not last long: after political upheavals, which I don´t feel qualified to analyse, in February 1948, the communists took power. I always heard it was a coup, referred to as “the revolution”, though the communists did get voted in the government. As my uncle Otto used to say, the peasants knew nothing about Marx´s and Lenin´s theories, but understood damn well, that if they vote for the communists, they would get a share of their landlords´ lands. He was a landowner himself – for several generations his family owned a farmhouse in the town of Stráž nad Nežárkou (upon Nežárka) in Southern Bohemia, though by this time the fields had been sold and only a portion of a wood was left. Anyway, that day in February 1948 (known thereafter as “The Victorious February” in the communist Newspeak) changed the lives of all my family and thousands of other members of the “bourgeoisie” class – the “enemy” class as it became to be called - for ever: gone overnight were the money, shares and bonds in the banks and properties like castles, factories, mines, the above mentioned farm lands (including the wood of uncle Otto and the farm in Milín) etc., were nationalized, as were all the industries, banks etc. The owners of houses that could not be considered a family home, were either forced by various methods to “voluntarily donate” their properties to the state or were allowed to nominally keep them, assuming all the responsibilities, while the rent, hugely reduced, went to the state. Some people had to leave their homes altogether, some had to accept unwanted tenants or even share their apartments, if these were considered too large for them – there was a law stating how many square meters one person had a right to. This of course did not apply to the new governing elite, who in no time moved into the confiscated apartments and villas. We were very lucky that this did not happen to us or anybody else in our family, though our apartment largely exceeded the allotted living space. Our family´s houses were the solid, turn of the century (19th) four or five stories high central European buildings, with large, high ceilinged rooms: Ours (and all the others I had known, give and take a room) had a large central hall, a living and a dining room in front, and a bedroom and a white-tiled kitchen of the same size as the rooms in the back. From the hall one entered a WC, a walk-in larder, where the not perishable food supplies were kept on shelves, and a bathroom. There was also a small maid´s room, which, after the revolution, was converted into a store room, where I liked to play at being lost and scared; the maids and other servants quickly disappeared from our lives, even if they had not always wanted to. They mostly had to move back into the countryside; some of them remained faithful and visited our family for many years, bringing us homemade cakes or fruit and vegetable from their gardens, when these became unavailable in the shops. I am not sure, why we were left to enjoy our beautiful home undisturbed, possibly because we were still the owners on paper and were not the “capitalistic exploiters” in the “true” sense of the world. Neither did we have to pay rent, which was a blessing, as money was scarce. In any case, this was the only luxury left over from the pre-communist days. Otherwise we went from riches to rags – or almost. Gone were the balls, the tennis, the foreign travel, the cars, gone the nice clothes and other luxuries. I shall come back to these times later. All that hit my father hard. Instead of an heir to a fortune he became “a class enemy” and as such could call himself lucky not to have been imprisoned or forced to work in the uranium mines as many others, but allowed to continue working in the bank, nationalized like all the rest, but on a very reduced salary, and it was hard to make ends meet. As still formally the owner of the house, he was held responsible for its upkeep. Every month he collected the rent from the tenants, who respectfully kept calling him “Mister landlord”; part of it went to the state and the other, smaller one, was deposited in a so called “repair account”. Needless to say, this money never amounted to much as the rents had been hugely reduced and no big repairs were ever possible and the house was slowly but surely decaying. Strangely enough, all the former tenants were allowed to stay on undisturbed, even those of the intellectual, read “enemy”, class”, like the widow and daughter of the composer and conductor in chief of the National Theatre Opera, Otakar Ostrčil. Only the 4th floor, destroyed by the bomb and converted into three apartments, became occupied by new families, two of working class and one engineer´s family, members of the Party. They had two children of my age and was strongly warned to watch my mouth when talking to them.
A cousin of my father, Karel Pešina, the son of professor Matěj Pešina, a famous paediatrician (there was once a postal stamp issued for an anniversary), was among many who preferred to flee to the West; he crossed the border with Austria on skis and eventually ended up in Australia (where we met more than 30 years later – “the Uncles”). His friend, Ladislav Velíšek, married to his sister, Alena, fled as well, leaving her and their 6years old daughter Michaela behind, and ended up in Argentine. He kept sending packages with clothes and various goodies like western pop music records (the “singles”), chewing gum and the like to his family. They lived on the top floor of a big house on the Wenceslas Square, and aunt Alena used to organize elaborate birthday parties for kids– the only ones I had ever frequented. Her new husband, Karel Svoboda, worked as a director at a Prague theatre, where my cousin (once removed) had free access, often taking me along, and her new little half-sister Karla was a child film star. Michaela used to tease me a lot when we were children and when, as teenagers during the holidays in Třeboň, she, Honza and I used to go to local village dances, Honza was always dancing with her – she was very sexy - and I was very jealous. But when we were attending dancing classes in Prague, a must for all the young people then, she handed me down several pretty dresses of the Argentinian provenance. That´s was why, when we visited Buenos Aires from Quito with Daddy, I managed to track down her father and we met for coffee and a chat. Alena, having divorced her second husband, joined the second wave of emigration in 1968, taking Karla with her and ending up in Switzerland. Michaela was already married (to Richard Macek), had two small children and did not dare to leave. When we lived in Berne, Karla, who had become an actress in London under the name of Butterfield, came to play the title role in Anne Frank´s Diary in the Berne theatre and brought her mother with her, so we met again. She now lives in Germany, in Solingen, with her husband Wolf Janke, two sons, Felix and Karlo, and grandchildren.
In 1953 Stalin died. (A little anecdote: I had this friend, Jana, from across the back yard – the tenement houses of Prague were built in big closed quadrangles, forming spacious back yards, and we “met” calling to each other from our respective kitchen balconies. I was visiting her the afternoon when Stalin´s death was announced on the radio. As Jana was still a good friend at that time, I disregarded my parents´ warning never to express any opinion held at home, and I exclaimed joyfully: “That´s good news!” On hearing this, the mother, as if fearing that “The Big Brother was watching” as in James Orwell´s ´1986´, or, rather, because they were a working class family sympathetic to the communist regime - reprimanded me severely and sent me home with “Blaničko, I think your Mummy needs you…”). The death of the Soviet dictator did not stop the infamous political purges, trials and executions of the fifties. My father´s undoing was, that as a son of a prosperous business owner branded “an evil exploiter of the working class”, he became an undesirable, and as such fell victim to the purges. He survived the first round of firing people from their jobs on the grounds of their class origins, but his turn came sometime in 1957, I think. The procedure dragged on; my father tried to save himself by recounting the story of how his father had been of humble origins and built up the firm by his own hard work, and how he himself had never really had anything to do with it. I read this appeal later and acutely felt the humiliation this must have caused him. The father was dead by then and the firm no longer existed, thus he himself had escaped imprisonment or hard labour. This final stress, on top of the ten years of hardship, took toll on my father´s health: before the bank could formally fire him, he fell ill with what he maintained was a stomach ulcer; he had difficulty swallowing and, slim as he always had been, lost more weight. Operation revealed cancer. In his weakened state, he caught measles from me, which is a dangerous illness in adults. He spent some time in a sanatorium, but after he came back, the cancer spread and he had to be operated on again; I do not remember this period very well, I suppose things were kept from me as much as possible. I do remember, however, the last weeks of his life, spent in a hospital in the Na Slupi street, a former cloister, round the corner from the secondary school, called “Na Hrádku”, in Botičská street, which I was attending. Everyday after classes, I would go and stand under the window of his room (communal, not private), from which he would wave to me, as long as he was able to get out of bed. With my mother we visited him daily as well. Eventually, he became a living skeleton, and though I was aware of his suffering, I did not quite realized he was actually dying. To my shame I have to confess that during these visits, I was impatient to leave and meet my then boyfriend. Yet, when coming home from school on that 28th April, 1959, I met my mother all dressed in black, I knew I had no father anymore, and I felt a great void descending upon me. It has never been filled since. But it was only after my mother´s death, six years later, that I spent the nights crying from guilt on account of not caring enough at the time, for both of them.
To make things worse, my father´s death created a legal tangle: if we were to inherit, we would not only have to pay death duty on the house but also accept the mortgage on it taken out after the war to pay for the reconstruction of the damage caused by the bombing, which run into millions. There was no other solution than to give up all inheritance rights, including his personal possessions. My mother managed to hold on to the furniture, the piano, the books, claiming it was all her dowry and swapped other jewellery for her engagement and wedding rings. However, there was no question of staying on in our apartment. Luckily, we were able to exchange apartments with the erstwhile owners of the pub downstairs, “U Kalendů”, where I used go and buy soda water for us and which exists to this day, a family of three plus parents of the husband, who lived in a one room and a kitchen flat on the remodelled fourth floor. My mother and I would have hated to move from our house altogether. We made the kitchen into a living room and a makeshift kitchen in the bathroom. (Luckily, the flat had a separate WC). We still had our magnificent view of the river and the Castle and the same address…The piano would not fit and we had to sell it, for a fraction of its value. On the insistence of my maternal grandmother, I had to wear black for the following six months. Sad as I was, I hated it. I was also not allowed to attend the dance lessons like everybody else of my age, but that was the least of it and I caught up later.
My mother, Blanka"the 2nd", née Gawalowski was very beautiful but had a short and not exactly happy life. Born 30.1. 1921, she was just seventeen and out of convent school of the Sv.Ursula order, when on one cold and snowy day of March 1938 the Nazi Germany´s army marched into Prague and turned the first Czech Republic, independent only since 1918, into the “Protektorat Boehmen und Maehren”, breaking all promises made by the Nazi Germany to the British (Chamberlaine) and the French (Dalladier) at the infamous Munich conference in September 1938, namely, that all that Hitler wanted was to annex the Sudeten, where many Germans were settled. The “World powers” did not seem to be bothered by the “entente cordialle” existing between Czechoslovakia and France and through it with England. The Czech army was well prepared and ready to fight, and the borders were better protected and fortified than the Maginot line. There was a general mobilisation and enthusiasm, followed by de-mobilisation and general deflation. All the armament as well as the weapon and car factory Škoda in Pilsen, fell into the Nazi hands, to be used against the Allied forces, when, not long after, the World War II broke up, 3.9.1939, after Hitler had invaded Poland – it was a bigger country… I do not really know all that much about the war years, not having been around for most of them, but the daily life seemed to go on more or less as before, at least for some, as well as the social life of the “upper middle class”, to which my mother´s parents belonged: her father was MUDr (doctor of medicine)) Karel Gawalowski, a university professor and a member of the Rotary club. Born in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, he was an officer in the Austrian cavalry – I still have his sword. As soon as he graduated, he was drafted as a medic to the Russian front and after its collapse to the Italian one. In between he managed to get married, in August 1918. His wife, my mother´s mother, born Linhartová and christened Věra Blanka but always called Blanka (“The First”), came from a well to do lawyer´s family, who owned a couple of houses in Prague and also the farm in Milín, which supplied them with victuals that were otherwise getting scarce as the war progressed. There are photos of my mother at balls, looking pretty and coquettish, and surrounded by a crowd of young men. However, she fell in love with one that did not “belong”: a son from a miner´s family with leftist tendencies, whom she met at a party at the farm Milín. He asked for her hand, but was judged unsuitable and rejected by her parents, although by then he was a JUDr. He had never stopped worshipping my mother and much later helped me out of tight spots on one or two occasions. Even my mother´s childhood does not seem to have been all that happy. The relationship with her mother was, and always remained, difficult. Her mother fell pregnant again, but the foetus died in her womb without anybody realizing (there was no ultrasound then) and she went on carrying it till she nearly died of poisoning. After that she could not conceive for nearly four years, but finally gave birth to another girl, Helena (your aunt in Canada), and focused all her love and attention on this child, so long longed for. (According to my great aunt Myška, she had planned to have a big family.) Moreover, this second girl did not turn out anything as beautiful as the first, and my grandmother tried to compensate for this by being overindulgent with Helena and over severe with Blanka. The father adored his elder daughter but kept his distance, as fathers did in those days. The years when she was kept away from home at a school in Brno, Moravia, did not help. When Helena grew older, what she lacked in beauty she had in abundance in intelligence, mental strength and will power. Unfortunately, in my memory my mother was no longer the beauty from her early studio portraits, in which she could have competed with Hollywood stars of that time. The later events took their toll: she became a little plump and cut her dark, abundant hair short; the shabby clothes she was reduced to wearing did not help; the communist regime did not encourage glamour anyway. I remember her as a shy, almost self-effacing, and usually a very mild person, liked and loved by everybody (except by her own mother, it seems). She was always there for me but would give me a sound beating, when I misbehaved.
Eventually, my mother found a new love, a dashing son of a wealthy self-made businessmen in coffee import, twelve years her senior. She met Zdeněk (my father) in 1940, at a party given for my great aunt Myška´s 40th birthday, to which he was invited through his younger brother Jaroslav, the art historian, who had met Myška in Rome. The wedding took place in June 1941, in the middle of the war, like her parents´, but still in a great style, in the baroque church of the Knights of the Cross (Křižovníků), at the Old Town end of the Charles Bridge. She in cream coloured long dress I had a bouse made of it and had it on with a grey two-piece at my wedding- something old) and clouds of white transparent veil, with four bridesmaids in flowery dresses, my father in tails and the other gentlemen in morning suits and top hats, my grandmother in a cape edged with ermine fur, like a royalty. I remember some of my mother´s fancy dresses well; one of the simpler ones I wore for my First Communion and others, as they had no other uses, were worn by me and my friends when playing “princesses”. My favourite was a full length, wide skirted salmon pink satin “slip” that was normally worn under a transparent black chiffon dress - there is a superb photo of my mother wearing it. With it goes a deep etched memory of a beating I was given by my mother – she did have a temper – when I would not let my friend, Jana, the girl from across the backyard, wear it. The beating was administered with the help of “rákoska”, a thin but hard bamboo stick, quite possibly of Indian provenance. It hurt like hell – my mother´ arm was well “trained” by the twice yearly (Christmas and Easter) “carpet beating” in the courtyard; we had a hoover, actually an Electrolux, so we used to “lux”, not “hoover”, yet clouds of dust came out of the rugs. What was worse than the beating was the humiliation, it happening in front of the girl. Anyway, the lesson stuck: guests should have the first choice. I think it was the only time she used the rákoska on me, normally she just resorted to smacking my bottom by hand. The stick always rested on top of one of the two bookshelves, (I still have them now in my study, but stacked one on top of the other), originally out of my reach, but eventually I was able to stand on tiptoes and with a flick of a finger send the dreaded stick crashing behind the bookshelves. They were too heavy to move, so there it stayed till the next spring cleaning. I must have gotten an extra punishment for this trick but it was worth it. Normally, it was reserved for punishments by my father, for more serious “crimes”, usually related to school, like when I once improved a mark in my daily report. It was not so much for the bad mark itself as for trying to cheat. With these punishments, the worst was the waiting for my father to return from work, confessing all over again and thus spoil my pleasure at seeing him. Often I got away with begging forgiveness and promising “never again”.
The newly-weds moved into a spacious apartment on the first floor of one of the houses owned by my grandfather Pešina, on the right embankment of the river Vltava (Moldau), with a picture postcard view of the Hradčany Castle. It was his wedding gift to the young couple. (Rašínovo nábřeži 58: it is the second house after the little park, walking upstream from the Palacký bridge towards the Railway bridge.) My mother´s parents supplied a sumptuous dowry of monogrammed linen, dining service, silver cutlery and made to order furniture, most of which survives to this day. I know nothing about the first years of their married life but I hope that at least those were reasonably happy, despite the war still going on. On the 12th of April 1944, at 7 AM, I was born (in a clinic in Anglická street, now a museum of petrified wood) and remained an only child. There should have been a brother two or three years later but my mother suffered a miscarriage as a result of a fall when trying to jump on to an already moving tram – they were in a hurry to get to a concert on time; the carriages did not have doors then, and “catching” a tram that way was a popular sport, even in my days. Years later, worse was to come: the illness and finally the death of my father, at the age of not quite fifty. My mother became a widow at the age of 38. She received a pension, which would have kept us barely alive, so she had to look for a job. That was not easy. True, she had no profession – after the convent she attended so called family school, where she was taught cooking and other home skills like embroidery, knitting, sewing... after all, what more would a rich and beautiful girl need to make a good match? The bigger problem, though, were her “class origins” (another bit of the Newspeak). While not an “exploiter of the working classes”, her father belonged to the other most “abhorrent” class, the one of the intellectuals. He himself was lucky to be allowed to keep his position till retirement, and his private practice even after that. How well I remember the cold, dark room, where, in winter, I used to lie under the “mountain sun” as it was called – a kind of apparatus that smelled of ozone (emitting infrared rays, I think) and was supposed to strengthen my bones, successfully, it seems. In his consulting room proper, he would carefully and at great length examine the eczema on my face with a magnifying glass – I can still hear his rasping breath, he was a heavy smoker all his life. Then he would prescribe a miraculous ointment that always helped. In this room we also came with my mother to have him remove little warts on our hands, with an electric contraption that burned them off with a hiss and a smell of burning flesh. His being allowed to keep his practice was, of course, not just luck: he was an internationally known capacity in his field, dermatology, and for many years the head of the 1st dermatologist clinic in Prague. He attended many congresses abroad and in Belgrade, he was awarded the Cross of St.Sava, the patron saint of Serbia. His “class origins” in turn were not too bad – his father, Karel Jindřich Gawalowski, had been a manager of several country estates belonging to the Prague Chapter, a prestigious job in his days, but humble enough in the communists´ eyes. Anyway, with a university professor for a father, my mother could not get a decent job; All she was “good” for, was a cleaner´s job in the Smíchov Brewery, another big Czech beer producer. There my pretty mother slaved for the rest of her life as a char woman, the most demeaning of jobs, even in the so called classless communist society. She adapted to her rough surroundings as best as she could, in order to survive. It would not do if she gave herself airs. She found a friend and protector there, a married man, whom I detested with all my soul; he used to come to our flat, trying to “buy” me with Becherovka, a famous digestive brewed in Karlsbad, which I detest to this day. I found him very vulgar, but I can understand now that he made my mother happy, or better put, less unhappy, something I could not do: I was a teenager then and had my own life, friends, school and loves, and later became a busy student at the Charles university. Finally, it was all too much for her and she fell ill with cancer, had an operation, then another, and after much suffering, died the 5th of June 1965, aged 44, in the hospital near the Charles Square, across the street from her father´s clinic. She must have spent several months there, as I remember going to see her every day with my leg in plaster, hobbling on crutches, having torn my right knee ligaments while skiing that winter. Towards the end, she was so heavily drugged with morphine that she was practically unconscious or delirious most of the time. As fate would have it, I went away that Saturday with my grandparents to their little log cabin in the wooded hills above the Moldau, near the Slapy village, which had been saved from the communist greed by its modest size. It was uncle Milan Pštross, my aunt Helena´s husband, who arrived with the news and took us all back to Prague. This second half of that year, together with the beginning of the next one, was ours, and then just mine, annus horribilis. Not only had I lost my mother, but the second set of grandparents as well; the early death of his beloved daughter proved too much for my grandfather: he died of a heart attack in October 1965, at the age of 75, going to Slapy on a bus. He was a passionate “mushrooms collector” and it was the season. My grandmother had to go and identify the body of her husband in a morgue. I think it was then that she decided she did not want to live any more. She made order in her things and decreed who gets what, down to the last pot of homemade jams, and in January fell ill, was taken to the hospital and operated on, but as the cruel saying goes, “they opened her up and sew her closed again”. In the doctor´s words, she had so much cancer in her body that it was a miracle she had never fallen ill before, and even had stayed alive for so long. All this personal experience leads me to believe that cancer is strongly related to mental stress or another kind of suffering. In February she died, and what was left of my family gathered in the crematorium for the third time in less than a year to watch that terrible iron gate open and swallow the coffin of a beloved. Already the very first time that I had had to endure this, six years before, was a traumatic experience, and the painful memory came rushing back, joining the fresh sorrow. Both my parents are buried at the Vyšehrad Cemetery on top of the Vyšehrad Rock, where the castle of the first rulers of the Czech nation had been (Vyšehrad means “high castle”), and so it is connected with numerous legends. In the cemetery many famous people are buried, like Dvořák and Smetana (one part of Smetana´s symphonic poem My Fatherland is called Vyšehrad). The tomb of the Pešinas, next to the east end (abcis) of the church, had been bought “for eternity” by my grandfather Pešina (see my letter to you both), who lies there together with his wife Zdenka (2); his other son Jaroslav and his wife Alena, parents of your uncle Vítek, are also buried there. My mother´s parents were buried in the Gawalowski family tomb in Olšany Cementery. Unfortunately, this grave no longer exists. When both I and aunt Helena with her two children were living abroad, my aunt´s ex-husband Milan had the tomb opened, theirs and my grandfather´s ancestors´ remnants cremated and the ashes scattered over the meadow set aside for this purpose. Talking about graves, my grandmother´s sister, Auntie Myška, and their ancestors, the Linharts and the Emlers, are also buried at Vyšehrad, under the art nouveau arcades. The plot had been bought by my great great grandfather prof. Josef Emler, and built by an Italian architect in the Beuron art style (Monica´s speciality, see a big illustrated book I have; Filipa knows where the tomb is, her grandmother and my aunt, Marie Šebová, “of the house in Prague” is buried there as well.)
MY CHILDHOOD
What seems to be my earliest memory is not a very happy one: I see myself standing in front of the dressing table in the bedroom of my grandparents Gawalowski (further”Gaw”) and scrutinizing my face in the mirror; my conclusion was: “I am ugly…” There was something about my nose being red. A traumatic experience that had repeated itself until my twenties, when I was persuaded otherwise by others …. I also remember what I had on – a chequered red and blue “two piece” and a white blouse - and the rest of the bedroom, and where it was situated in the apartment. According to my aunt Helena, I could not have been more then three years old then, as afterwards the bedroom was moved to another room. My grandparents Gaw occupied two four rooms apartments on the 1st floor of a house on the corner Budečská ulice, nr.16 (Vinohrady) – in one they lived and the other served as my grandfather private practice consultation rooms: the consultation room proper, a waiting room for ladies furnished with antique furniture, Persian carpets and guilt mirrors; a waiting room for gentlemen, much more modest, and a room with various contraptions for treatments. The rest of the floor was occupied by his mother, Barbora Gawalowski, of whom I have only a shadowy memory as I did not see her often; she died at the age of 93 years, when I was 6. She was wrinkled and thin and wore a lacy cap on het white hair. I used to have a small rag doll with a lacy hat, which always reminded me of her. Her husband, Karel Jindřich, died in 1944, shortly after my birth. On the ground floor lived my other great grandmother, Věra Linhartová née Emlerová, (her husband, Bedřich, died a few years before my birth), with her unmarried younger daughter, Milena Linhartová, PhD, my great aunt known affectionately as Myš (Mouse) or auntie Myška (Little Mouse), but only since the communist took over. Before that, they occupied another big apartment in the 2nd floor. This great grandmother died when I was ten, so have a fairly good memory of her - a stout lady with round glasses. Her portrait as a young woman in a green dress hangs in my apartment in Prague. Fittingly, as she had lived in this house, in a big apartment on the 1st floor, with her 3 sisters and parents (the Prof. J.Emlers) until she got married (to JUDr Bedřich Linhart). From the same age, or perhaps a year later, comes a happier memory of me playing with Honza in the courtyard of the Třeboň castle, where we used to take holiday rooms, but only until 1948. Afterwards, until I started school in 1950, we spent the June months in the Třeboň spa; my mother seemed to have suffered from rheumatism and took peat mud baths, for which the spa was famous and is to this day. It frightened me to death to see my mother submerged in the black mud, looking like gollywog. Despite the unfavourable political and economic situation, my childhood was not unhappy overall, even if I was constantly reminded of the lack of means: I had to wear the hand me downs of Honza´s clothes (hence you had to wear David´s clothes, Thomas, though there was no economic need for it, just the remembered thrift). I had to eat everything that was put in front of me, and finish it, too. When I was dawdling over my supper, my father´s used to say “I have denied myself this morsel so that you can have it…”. There was food I detested, like spinach, boiled kohl-rabi, (it usually had hard bits in it), sour milk (in those days we only had fresh milk and it turned sour quickly, especially in summer, but had to be drunk nevertheless, when it thickened), and especially celery in whatever preparation, raw in a salad, cooked in a soup or disguised as a Wienerschnitzel. My aversion to celery was such, that my mother gave in and served me fried salami instead, which my father was not supposed to realize, though I am sure he knew. Eventually, I got over all these dislikes and got to love spinach and sour milk, but I can´t face celery to this day. But there were also treats, courtesy to the American canned food of UNRA (United Nations Relieve Administration) in khaki green tins, from the aid drops by the US Army - to make up for having dropped the bombs? There were baked beans in tomato sauce with bits of sausage (maybe that´s why you, Thomas, were so fond of them at one stage). Some contained grapefruit juice, a never before and only a very long time after tasted delicacy (maybe that´s why I am so fond of it); years later, Honza and I found a couple of these cans in a loft of some friends´ country house and assuming they had had been forgotten there, drunk them both to the last drop. We must have assumed right, as we were never punished for the crime. Other cans contained tiny pale violet granules, which, when a small quantity of them was dissolved in water, produced what Honza and I called “the purple lemonade”. It was very sour but it was the best thirst-quenching beverage I have ever known, and the best treat I could offer Honza, when he came to visit. We were both very sad when we eventually finished the last bit of it. I also loved my mother´s substitute goulash, with paprika cream sauce and again bits of sausage instead of meat, the potato “pancakes” (bramborák!), and a hot semolina pap with melted butter, sprinkled with cocoa powder and, when available, a little piece of chocolate melting in the middle – truly delicious. Meat of any kind hardly ever figured on the menu. My mother was an excellent cook, but she could not use her skills, just scrape together whatever was available. The first years after the war we lived with the ration system – there was no Marshal plan for the countries that fell under the Soviet Union´s sphere of influence (Czechoslovakia, Poland, Hungary, Bulgaria, Romania and Yugoslavia – this last more or less). I remember the yellowish sheets of perforated little squares of the ration system: each or several of those equalled a certain amount of certain victuals like flour, sugar, salt, dried peas and lentils, butter, eggs, meat…With these we used to shop in a little grocer´s shop a couple of houses down the street, into which one descended by a short flight of steps. I think I remember that the grocer was still chopping lumps of sugar from a sugar loaf. As the nationalisation progressed from big properties to the smaller ones, his shop was eventually confiscated and he had to go and get a “honourable” job in a factory. Ironically enough, he and his family were allowed to move into one of the three flats on the reconstructed fourth floor of our house, and many years later, after my father´s death, when my mother and I moved up there as well, we used to go to their flat to watch ice-skating championships or popular TV series (The Forsyte Saga by Galsworthy for one) on their television set – we never possessed one: more irony here: the former landlord´s wife and daughter had to watch TV at the former grocer´s home. The vegetables and fruits, such as were available, and there were not many, we were getting from a green grocer´s corner shop a bit further down, in the first street left (Trojická ulice), an important street in my life, as will be shown later. Also his business was expropriated, but he was allowed to go on selling the state product, because he had joined the Communist Party. There were always potatoes (one kind only, but of all sizes and covered in earth), onions, cabbage, maybe cauliflower and carrots (the big, “grown” up sort – I had not seen, let alone tasted, the “young” ones and many other vegetables until I travelled to the “West” for the first time, in 1965) and, of course, celery…The kohl-rabi, spinach, cucumbers and tomatoes were only available in their season, as were the fruits: for short consecutive seasons one endured long queues for strawberries, apricots, cherries, melons, pears, apples, plums. This situation persisted more or less unchanged until the “Velvet Revolution” of 1986, though in later years the “repertoire” had grown wider and it was even possible to get bananas, oranges and pineapples at Christmas. The potatoes were at their cheapest at the harvest time in the autumn, so everybody bought them by the sack and store them alongside the coal in their cellars. By the time the new harvest came, they were all soft and sprouting, if not rotten. But for a short time in the spring, the so called new potatoes were available; with white cheese and melted butter, they represented another treat. There was also a season for hoarding eggs, which were then preserved in a special solution in huge glass jars. The fruit in season was made into jams and stewed fruits, coming in handy in winter. (It may be boring for to you read this, but it explains my annoyance with you, when children, and now with my grandchildren, when eating /or not eating/ habits are concerned.) The possible nutritious deficiencies were made up for by two revolting supplements: liver oil and fish powder. The oil slid down my throat more or less effortlessly, but the powder was very hard to swallow. Still, until this day I don´t seem to have any signs of osteoporosis (touch wood), so it must have had its benefits, though it did nothing for my ligaments. On top of the scarceness of food, there were several years of winter evenings black-outs, and we had to make do with the light of paraffin lamps. Luckily, the households were not entirely electrified; we cooked on gas and heated with coal. Still, with the prices of everything brought down, on Sundays we could afford a modest lunch in a restaurant on the corner of Na Moráni and Václavská street (now a fancy hotel), when we were not treated, about once a month, to a Sunday lunch at the Gaw grandparents. Despite the delicious food and, later, sips of wine diluted with water - my grandfather´s treat, he was a connoisseur - the lunches were not really happy occasions. My grandmother was very strict about table manners and etiquette. Being the youngest, I was always served last and nobody thought of “saving the best bits for the child”. I was constantly reminded to spread the napkin on my lap (grandfather had his tucked in his collar), to keep my hands on the table and elbows OFF the table and close to my body, not to slurp or smack my lips, wipe my mouth before taking a sip of water, which was frowned upon during main meal anyway, not to talk with my mouth full and unless talked to… Well, the list was long and the worst of it was, that should my grandmother find my behaviour faulty in any way, it would be my mother who would “catch it”. More often than not we left with my mother in tears and me feeling miserable. On the other hand, it was this grandmother who had taught me not only good table (and other) manners, but also the art of laying a festive table, which served me well after I became a diplomat´s wife. And she also occasionally took me for walks through Prague, the castle and the Old Town especially, and taught me about architectural styles, while telling me about history and making me proud to be a Czech. After my father death we went together to concerts; if there was anything modern on the programme, or, god forbid Russian/Soviet, we left at the intermission. It took me a long time to get over this attitude, even when the Russian (pre-communist) music or literature was concerned. The books I had to read for school did nothing to improve my opinion of the Soviet literature. The financial situation became worse after the monetary reform of 1953, 5 crowns became 1; as in all such reforms, the salaries kept to it without exception, but not so the prices, and with saving accounts, the bigger the amount, the less favourable the ratio. At the same time, “a millionaire tax“ was introduced, which calculated the “worth” of people on the basis of what they had been worth in money before the devaluation and what they had owned before they were disowned. And so, though no longer millionaires, both my grandparents had to pay the tax. According to my aunt Helena, the precious antiques of the “ladies waiting room” had to be sold to get the money together.
Despite of the hardships, I had a nice home and caring parents. Before school, I spent my days mostly at home or its vicinity. My mother was busy with house chores, so I was playing by myself or with my friend Jana, with the few toys I had, supplemented with kitchen utensils and the like. Plastic toothpaste tubes were great to play with in the bathtub and one my few dollies came from my mother´s perfume flask – a rubber tube ending in a squeezing ball adorned with long silky pink tassel, which I could wash, comb and pleat – my real dolls had only painted hair. We often played in the dirty sunken courtyards between our houses. One vivid memory from those times: there was a light shaft in front of a cellar window. Once a ball fell inside the shaft and, wanting to retrieve it, I jumped down and got my left buttock speared on the protruding rusty piece of iron left there from a broken off fence. It immediately started bleeding profusely. I ran up to our apartment and lifting my skirt I said to my mother: “Please, mummy, don´t be startled!” But to no avail. The sight of the gaping wound shocked my mother into slapping my face, as I feared it would: if I got hurt, I must had done something I should not have. As soon as my father arrived from work, he took me by the hand (we had no car, of course) and together we ran all through the Trojická street, along the Na Slupi street, through Albertov and up a long flight of steps to the Children Hospital up on top of the Karlov Hill, where I was stitched up and given an anti-tetanus injection. I have the scar still. The following day was a Saturday and my parents took me to the ZOO as a reward for my suffering, but it could have been the end to my short life: a wasp settled on my lollipop and with the next lick, it stung me in the tongue, luckily not in my throat. Other times, I played in the little park next door, running about with other kids or riding my little blue and red scooter. When I could find absolutely nothing else to do, I went to talk to our concierge, a short, plump woman with piercing blue eyes and red cheeks; she came from a village somewhere in Moravia, was very kind and sometimes shared with us country goodies sent to her by her family. She always wore an apron and a kerchief, tied in the manner of Queen Elisabeth the II. (But there the likeness ended.) She, her husband and daughter had lived since always in a dark basement flat. Its windows gave on the courtyard, barely above ground. I remember that even then I felt uncomfortable about it, when I thought about our airy and sunny apartment, but she never bore us, her bosses before the communists, any resentment – it was the order of the world for her, she was unconcerned by any changes and kept the house spotless, scrubbing the many stone steps with a brush, dusting the ornate railings and even polishing the big bronze handles on the swing door on the mezzanine. Above this door, there hung a large picture of Madonna and Child in a carved wooden frame – I took it down when I moved out of the house after my marriage as “a souvenir”, and it travelled round the world with us. (It is now hanging in my bedroom in Brussels; it has no artistic value). Her husband took care of the heavier tasks, like sweeping the snow of the pavement and taking out the dustbins every week – no child´s play: they were metal and weighed a lot, especially in winter, when they were filled up to the brim with ashes from all the coal stoves in the house. Moreover, they had to be hauled up first two and half flights to the mezzanine and then down again to the street level, and there were perhaps eight of them. Or was this the dustmen task? In the “old days” it was not on, to leave the dustbins in the streets for hours on collecting days. I was also always looking forward to the “great laundry day” which happened once a month. Needless to say, we had no washing machine, the daily laundry was done by hand by mother, but the bigger pieces like bed sheets, table cloths etc. were done by a washer woman, another relic from before the communist era, a burly woman from Zbraslav, a little town just outside Prague, who had been doing laundry for grandmother Gaw for years. There was a special laundry space on the fifth floor, a big room with a cement floor, built-in stone wash-tub and a huge copper pot on a stove heated by wood, where the laundry was first thoroughly boiled. This caused the room to be so full of steam that I could hardly see “the little soul”, as we used to call the washerwoman (or “zieltje in Dutch). She was a big woman but her name was Mrs. Soul and the English sadly lacks diminutives. I used to spend the whole day with her –after boiling there was washing and scrubbing on the wash-board. (Do you two remember how the women washed their clothes down in front of our house in Guapulo?), several turns of rinsing in cold water and finally starching. When the washing was done, it was hung from ropes strung between the balks of the loft under the sloping roof – a scary but magic place for me. It was very dusty, as the skylights were always kept open and it was never swept. It was imperative not to let anything fall or drag on the floor, otherwise one would have to start all over again. In summer, the laundry would dry overnight, in the winter, it took several days. She used to bring us some goodies made by her, cookies and such. She was one of several examples of the abolished servant class, that instead of wanting to shoot us as the class enemy, remained faithful to my family, probably because of the kind and respectful treatment they had always received. The loft brings out another memory: when we lived underneath it, I used a ladder to squeeze myself and a blanket through one of the skylight in order to sunbathe on the flat bit of the roof. Once it ocurred to me to try and walk all around the block along the roofs. With the help of the chimney sweepers´ foot bridges, it was quite easy until the very end of my "sky walk", when I came up against an unpleasant surprise: there was such a big gap between the two last bridges, that I had to jump; I hesitated for some time, it was a long way down, but I did nor want to give up so jumped I did - and lived to tell the story. There was a precendent - when at the age of 4 or 5 I was left alone in Jana´s apartment front room, I decided to climb out of the window and walk along the ledge underneath it. The flat was at about the same as ours (1st floor above the mezzanine). A panic broke out among the passers-bye; eventually someone found the right apartment and the rang the bell - the houses did not used to be locked - Jana´s mother rushed in, coaxed me inside and then gave me the what for. I could not understand the fuss.
What I enjoyed most, however, was being and playing with my cousin Honza. As I mentioned before, they lived across the river, at the end of Jiráskův bridge, and I went there often, apart from the regular Wednesday afternoons and evenings, the time of “open door” at the Šula´s, when various other relatives and friends used to gather, like uncle Otto´s sister Micuška (Marie) with husband Josef Kalous, their daughter Helena and her husband Vladimír Janko; though they were my cousins as well, they were quite a bit older, but they were good fun and I was always happy to see them. They organized games like charades and such. Vladimír was my favourite adult and while I was little, I used crawl on his knees and cuddle up, to a great amusement, and my bemusement, of the other adults. The Jankos had one son Tomáš, much younger, from a late pregnancy. On the other hand, Honza´s brothers, Petr and Pavel, being respectively 5 and 7 years older than him, considered us a nuisance, if they noticed us at all. Sometimes our cousin Vítek, same age as Honza, was allowed to come up from the other Pešinas´ apartment on the ground floor. He came very rarely, as his mother, aunt Alena, usually insisted that he was too “sick” to play with us, though he was always a picture of health. We played in the “nursery”, where Honza had a big wardrobe full of wonderful stuff, which he had “inherited” from his brothers or collected himself. He was fond of playing a magician and had quite a few tricks up his sleeve. Or we played “at house” under the blankets thrown over the table and chairs. Sometimes we were allowed to build uncle Otto´s electric railway set, with metal rails and carriages. (You would love it, Thomas!) When we learnt how to read and count, we were reading a lot, the same few books over and over. The favourite was a comics series “The Fast Arrows”, about a group of five boys, getting up to all kinds of adventure. They remain the only comics I have ever read. And later the books by the German writer Karl May, the Vinetou series about the Wild West and the conflicts or friendships between the “white and red faces”. Later his books were made into films in Germany. They were very romantic and thrilling and I just loved them. The counting came in handy, when we were playing “Monopoly”. In the afternoons we usually went out, first just in the little park in front of the house or on the island Žofín near by, later in the comparative wilderness of the hill Petřín, the one with the miniature copy of the Eiffel Tower on top, which we often climbed, and the Mirror Maze. We had “real” adventures there, with a bunch of Honza´s friends. As the only girl I was only suffered in their midst, or rather at the fringe, if I kept up with them. It was hard for me, but I had no other choice than run as fast as I could, climb trees, explore caves and sometimes get into quite dangerous situations, if I wanted to stay with them. Though already a “tom boy” had been germinating in me and I have never actually grown out of being one. Honza spurred me on by calling me either “srab”, basically a lowly coward, and “kabrňák”, or “atta boy”. I would do literally anything to avoid the first and deserve the second. Often we went up in the funicular, old and shaky, one of the oldest city funiculars in Europe (now renovated) and the challenge was to stay upright without holding onto anything and not fall or even just change the feet position. In winter we took out Honza´s wooden sledge, there was always snow in winter then. When it got dark and Vítek did not have temperature, we went to see aunt Alena´s maiden aunt, who lived next door, to get deliciously scared by her ghost stories. The Šulas also organized dancing lessons for their two older sons, Peter and Pavel, and their friends, with my mother and aunt Máňa as teachers. Honza and I joined in, getting in the way. I did not really get to know the two older cousins till many years later. When the age difference would have ceased to be a problem, they both disappeared for two years into the army and then Pavel got married to Dana, a daughter of the Šulas´ friends, the Hlavas. They had a cottage on the river Nežárka not far from Stráž, where they used to spend the summers; that´s how Pavel and Dana met – on bicycles. Later on the Hlavas bought the farm “Krávovna” (which you know). Soon a baby daughter arrived, Zuzana, (mother of Honzíček, Lukáš and Lucinka), who, sadly, died of cancer at the age of 45 (same as my mother). Markétka was born 10 years after Zuzana. We got friendly with Pavel only after I had returned from Holland. With Peter I never had much contact. He also got married but his wife, Jana, has never been very likeable. They had two children, Jitka (Nováková) and Richard, and four grandchildren (Markéta, Ondra, Věra a Jaromír), but I do not see much of them either. Jitka got divorced and is in a relationship with Patric, whom I do not care for very much.
From an early age I was having piano lessons with a young woman, herself a student of the Prague Music Conservatory, and though I duly went through the Beyer´s Scale Exercises and Czerny´s Etudes, I never could fulfil my father´s expectations. I had no “musical ear” - when caught cheating at recognizing the chords by watching the dampers rise in the belly of the open piano, I was severely punished, with rákoska, probably. Also, I was shy and hated to play for, and being criticised by, my father´s musical friends, one lady in particular, who claimed to be a relative of Gustav Mahler. She could have been – she was Jewish, Mahler had been born in the present day Bohemia/Moravia and had five surviving siblings. There is a commemorative plaque on the house in Jihlava/Iglau, where he grew up. Even worse were the monthly performances with other children, all pupils of students from a class of one Erna Gruenewald, a professsor at the Conservatory, and a formidable lady. Imagine a gloomy room full of girls in white stockings and bows in their hair and boys in short trousers and little bow-ties, each of whom had to prove teaching competence of their teachers/students to their professor by playing a piece, from memory and to perfection. I was very fond of my teacher, a gentle creature with waist long hair, and wanted to perform well for her sake, but my nerves betrayed me every time and I ended up crying. Moreover, I disliked having to practice every day after school, to cut my nails to the quick and being discouraged from playing folk and pop music. But apart from lacking enthusiasm, I mainly lacked talent, so eventually the lessons were given up, as a fruitless luxury we could ill afford. I came to regret this when I grew up and thought I´d try to catch up when we were posted in Belgrade. There was a piano and our cook, an ex-teacher, could have tried to teach me, but before we had even started, the Kosovo crisis and the NATO bombing chased us away from Belgrade for good. (That short but traumatic stay in Serbia is the cause of my being a fan of Djokovič.) Because of all that I am now so happy with my granddaughter Lucía´s obvious talent, not only for ballet but also for piano playing: how proud would her great grandfather be of her!
During the spring, summer and autumn, every Saturday afternoon my parents and I would walk along the linden trees lined embankment of the river Vltava to visit my paternal grandparents in their cubistic villa at the foot of the Vyšehrad Rock (past the railway bridge). We would first take care of the garden behind the house, which extended in terraces way up the flank of Vyšehrad, weeding and watering. There were bushes of lilac along the walls, beds of roses and a round pool in the middle, with gold fish, water lilies and two statues made of cement – a boy and girl sitting on the edge, spouting water from their mouths. Afterwards, we would go up to my grandparents´ quarters on the top floor to be rewarded by a homemade “bábovka” (Kugeltorte in German) and tea. Nobody paid much attention to me; as long as I “behaved”, i.e. was not noticeable, I was left to my own devices, there was no question of my grandmother and even less my grandfather playing with me. In those days, the relationship between parents and their children was far more formal, and even more so between grandparents and their grandchildren: they demanded (and got) respect. On the other hand, my grandmother Pešinová did notice, in the midst of the violent events of May 1945, my first steps, and even wrote it down in a kind of “occasional” family diary (It is in Stráž.) After all, I was her first (and also last) granddaughter.) And one fun moment with my grandfather is etched into my memory: we were walking along the park next to our house, I was hanging on his crooked forearm and he was lifting me up rhythmically to some ditty he was whistling. That´s how small I was then. I can also see him lying in his bed before he died in 1952 and I remember his black and silver coffin in the neo-gothic church of St.Peter and Pavel; and getting lost during the short funeral procession to the grave, and my other grandmother saying, “What an idea to bring such a young child to a funeral! ” His wife followed him two years later, having suffered a stroke, my last memory is of her is her twisted face in a hospital bed. Before I forget, my grandfather Pešina´s parents are buried at Třeboň cemetery, where Prof. Matěj Pešina, my granfather´s brother with his little daughter Běla are buried as well. I remember visiting that cemetery at least once, but have no clear memory of the graves; strangely enough, we did not used to go there regularly during our holidays. So my childhood, teens and the early twenties were dotted by deaths and funerals, starting with my great grandmothers, Barbora Gawalowski and Věra Linhartova, and continuing with my paternal grandparents, my father, my mother, my maternal grandparents. (1950, 1952, 1954,2x, 1959, 1965, 1966,2x).
But enough of death, let´s talk about happier times, like the summer holidays. We had two full months off school, July and August. My father had only 3 weeks and those we used to spent in Třeboň, with two exceptions: at Zvíkov castle village, in 1957, the year of great floods, that July it rained every single day; and in 1958 at Prachovské skály, the sandstone rock formations labyrinth with an added attractions of a ruined castle, aptly called Trosky (The Ruins), in the vicinity of Jičín. Before I started school we used go in June, my father´s favourite month (and now mine, too), afterwards in July. We travelled by train (no more car by then), in rattling carriages with wooden benches pulled by a mighty steam engine, invariably getting at least one soot in the eye. The journey took several hours, but what a joy to finally descend at Třeboň – Lázně onto a street lined with linden trees, abuzz with bees. In the first years we were met by the “local fool”, Pepíček, who rather embarrassingly drooled over my mother, but brought along our suitcases on his rickety wooden carriage to wherever we were staying, first in the town castle of the Rožmberks, the ancient and mighty but long extinct local nobility (Rosenberg in German=Rose Mountain; their emblem, the five petal rose, can still be found everywhere), later in the mud spa and then in private lodgings. My parents´ bicycles came by a goods train. At first, my father had me on his bike, perched on a tiny seat in front of him. His bicycle, a heavy English BSA, had just one extra gear, for going uphill, which was switched on by a small leaver between my legs. Changing gear therefore fell to me. As we approached the right spot for the change at the bottom of a hill, he would say “now”, stopped pedalling and I would push the leaver. It felt very important. When he no longer could see over my head he went on long rides on his own and my mother and I spent the days at the bathing place called “Ostende” on the bank of the Třeboň´s lake called “The World” (Svět), it is so huge. There were other holidaying children, like my second cousin Michaela, the daughter of Uncle Karel Pešina´s sister Alena, and we had lots of fun in the water and with the clay at the edge of it, excellent for making castles, little figures etc. I got my own bicycle at the age of six, a present from Child Jesus; it was a second hand one, and when I complained that it was scratched, the explanation was that there were many bikes in heaven, packed together; the things one believed – and remembers. But it took some time and a bigger bicycle before the three of us could go on family bike trips together. Also at the age of six I learnt to swim, at a wooden bathing platform on the river Moldau, right in front of my grandparents´ villa. There were several shallow “pools” with wooden floors to splash in, and on hot summer days it was packed with sunbathers. I had lessons in the river itself, hanging on a rope attached to a pole manipulated by the swimming instructor. He taught me the strokes á dvě tř, á dvě tři (one two three, but he used “á´s” as one ,“jeden”, is too long for the rhythm). Gradually, the rope was loosened, and when I could keep myself afloat, it was detached from the pole altogether. I had to take an exam – swim on my own across the river to the opposite bank and back, with the instructor in a boat alongside me. From that day dates my urge to swim across any water I happen to be at… I got a certificate and soon was swimming across the Svět, no mean feat, and a prelude to my, at the time undreamed of, swimming as far as possible (forget safe) in seas and oceans all over the world. (As you both well remember.) August was spent with my grandmother Gaw at the log cabin above Slapy, about 35km from Prague up the river Vltava, sometimes with grandfather Gaw or my mother; in that case, my father came to spend the weekend with us on his bike. Here, I had to “work for my keep”: with the log cabin came a large piece of wooded property, where I helped my grandmother to fell trees and saw them in smaller pieces to be split by a hatchet; it was fuel for the open fireplace and for the cooking stove (my grandmother cooked lunch every day), augmented by pine cones, baskets of which I collected from the ground. Another task was fetching drinking water from the neighbours across the woods; all the plumbing was in place, but for some reason we were not connected to the mains, and the well, though very deep, did not always have water. When it had, it had to be hauled up in a bucket, but it was the best water I have ever drunk. For washing etc. we used rainwater, which again had to be brought inside in buckets from the reservoirs under the rain pipes. These were the daily tasks. Once a week or so it was necessary to walk down to the village to do the shopping. There were several boys and girls staying in other properties and we all went together, so we had fun, despite having to lug a heavy rucksack two or three km back up a steep hill. Then there was raspberries and blackberries picking, which I did joyfully – the reward was sweet: hot muffins with the fruit sauce and sour cream. My grandfather sometimes took me walks in the woods and was teaching me about plants, trees, flowers and mushrooms, he knwe them all. From his mushroom picking holidays he used bring loads of them for us not only to eat but also to cut up and dry or pickle. So I was kept busy, yet still had a lot of time to play with my friends, sometimes volleyball, sometimes just with snakes and little frogs. Some times we used to treck for about one hour to a crumbling concrete pool on somebody´s confiscated and abandoned property. After the death of my mother and grandparents I inherited half of the property, and when aunt Helena and her children Hana and Michal emigrated after the Russian invasion in 1968, her ex-husband, Milan Pštross and I took turns enjoying this little paradise and looking after it for a few years more. Before I left for good, I had to sell my half to him, because I was not allowed to keep any real estate. Many years later, after the “Velvet Revolution”, Hana returned from Switzerland and with her partner Vladimír bought another property in the vicinity, a big villa (the one you know), from, ironically, the parents of the boyfriend who had left with her but never returned.
The Christmases used to be celebrated, at least in my country, in a very different way from the present days. First of all, there was practically no signs of Christmas in shops or on the streets, which may have been due to the communist regime, but Christmas was, in any case, an intimate family celebration. Secondly, the presents were brought by “Baby Jesus” (Ježíšek), at least as long as children believed in him – the school usually put an end to this. How upset was I when told in the first grade by a girl from a communist family, that, in fact, it was the parents that were responsible for the presents! The beauty of believing in Ježíšek was that you did not have to pretend to be thankful when disappointed, so when I learnt “the truth” I felt remorse for complaining that I had not got what I asked for in my letter to Ježíšek. Everybody continues to “make believe“ to this day, asking “What has Ježíšek brought you this year?” Officially, Ježíšek had been replaced by “Father Frost” imported from the Soviet Union and a sort of equivalent of Father Christmas. It never took root, but to the present day I am sort of allergic to this bearded fat man multiplied ad infinitum in the commercial centres. (Sorry, kids and grandkids!) Ježíšek was never seen, and the Christmas tree, hidden away, was decorated by parents in all secret only just before the Christmas Eve (24.12.) That day was a fast from meat, we had a special “Christmas cake” (vánočka), a sort of sweet bread with raisins, eaten with butter and honey for lunch, after which my father took me for a long walk ending up at the Vyšehrad cemetery to decorate the family grave with a wreath of pine branches and to light a candle. During that time, mother decorated the tree with trinkets, homemade chocolate figures and other cookies, and placed the presents under it in the bedroom, which remained out of bounds. Supper was early and preceded by a prayer and a mention of the dear departed ones; it started with fish soup made from the innards of the carp, which, accompanied by potato salad, was the main dish, and ended with Christmas cookies, that we had been baking for months ahead. The carp was always plentiful, as since centuries it had been, and is to this day, cultivated in the numerous ponds, or lakes. A linguistic detour: “a pond” in English evokes a smallish surface of water and “a lake” is reserved for the big ones; however, in Czech, the difference does not lie in the size but strictly in the origin: a lake (jezero) is of natural origin, no matter its size, a pond (rybník) is manmade and mostly in order to breed fish, the famous carp, and can be too big to be called a pond. The crux of the matter is that the root of the word rybník is ryba – a fish, exactly because they had been created for the breeding of carps, mainly. South Bohemia is most famous for them: in the 16th century, a personage named Jakub Krčín, had created an ingenious system of interconnected water bodies, from tiny to huge), draining the marshes at the same time. Rožmberk “pond” is the largest one (nearly 500 hectars water surface), not only in Bohemia but even in the whole world, in this category (manmade for fish). It is officially still a pond in English, but looking at it, the word “lake” must need spring in mind, as is I the case with many others. Every autumn, some were drained and a multitude of fat carps was dragged out in huge nets, a popular spectacle. In Prague, for about a week before Christmas, the fish was being sold out of big barrels alongside the Moldau – we did not have far to go. One could have it killed on the spot, or, more traditionally, buy it alive and keep it the bath tub till it was time to cook it. Somehow, this was not causing any trauma, as a carp is not a very cuddly pet. (Nothing sacred about them, David, they are not even pretty to look at, all muddy grey…) After supper, a jingling of a little bell would suddenly be heard, and I would run to the bedroom, where the tree was lit with real candles and crackers, all done by Ježíšek. It was pure magic. The first Christmas I remember must have been in 1947 - a very early memory again, held at my grandparents Gaw, together with my great grandmother Věra Linhartová and her daughter, my great aunt Myška, and my mothers´sister, aunt Helena, not yet married. It was a festive affair, the table laid with silver and lace and decorated with candles, mistletoe and holly branches. The dinner was a rare feast, there were imitation “snails” (their shells filled with a fish paste), the fish soup and the carp, prepared in several different ways, and of course, the potato salad and sweets and cookies. I found those meals tasty but endless, could hardly wait for Ježíšek to ring his bell. The tree stood in the “Ladies´ waiting room” and reached to the ceiling. Even then my grandmother kept to a strict etiquette – the older generations went in first, while I was jumping up and down with impatience and trying to see between their skirts. On Christmas day (25.12.) another feast followed, the stuffed turkey and all the rest. The communist coup took away not only our money, but these sumptuous Christmases as well, turkey and all, only the carp remained available. We spent one (or two?) Christmas Eves at home alone, but it was too sad, so we started going to the Šulas, who used to have the Pešina grandparents over on Christmas Eves, while they were alive. These Christmases with the three lively boys were not solemn but jolly, though discipline ruled here, too – uncle Otto was very strict, but knew how to relax as well. Aunt Maňa was a good cook and did wonders with what little was available. With my mother we still made cookies and also potato salad (the one you know). It was all put with the presents into a big laundry basket and carried across the frozen river; the Moldau used to freeze over solidly every winter, so that it was possible to skate upstream all the way out of town. Later, a series of dams was built and the ice never became thick enough anymore. The routine was the same – an early dinner and then the arrival of Ježíšek. We also all went to a nearby church for the Midnight mass and more carol singing. To top it all, I was allowed to stay the night, so Honza and I could play with our new toys till Christmas Day lunch, which I think, consisted of leftovers. On the 26th, St.Stephen day (the Boxing day) we went to the Gaws for lunch.
So I was growing up in the Czechoslovakia under the Russian styled communist dictatorship, (which, ironically, was a mirror image of the Nazi regime that had risen partly out of fear of communism spreading in Germany.) Especially hard were the fifties, when the “liquidation of the exploiters´ class” began in earnest, and then again in the seventies, after the crushing of the “Prague Spring” in 1968. As the country was not included in the Marshall Plan, the scarcity caused by the war was replaced by the scarcity caused by the socialistic economy, and the ration system was in place for several more years. Orwell´s “Newspeak” took root and fear and treachery invaded the society. Although I must have been only seven or eight, I vividly remember the night, when the StB (Státní bezpečnost -The State Security, a euphemism for the Secret Police) entered the apartment of our neighbour, an antique dealer, whose shop had been previously confiscated, and searched it, hammering on walls; soon enough they found a hollow in the pantry containing a stash of (his own) gold jewellery and took it away together with the man. He was sentenced to 25 years of hard work, leaving behind two children of about my age and a wife, who henceforth earned their living washing dishes in an eatery, not being allowed a better job. He had been a stout, jolly man, who used to present us with an antique glasses with the December rent; I have most of them still. When he came back during an amnesty, he was a shadow of his former self. I never knew their family history, but I am sure he had got his shop and relative wealth by hard work, never having robbed or harmed anybody. Someone had probably denounced him out of envy or a grudge, as was often the case, like that of a family friend, denounced for listening to Radio Free Europe and sent to prison for a similar length of time; he also had a wife and two children. My father used to listen to BBC, but luckily, our neighbours in our apartment house all belonged to the same “enemy class” and did not listen at the door. We had several valuable paintings in safe keeping for friends in prison. At the time of the Hungarian uprising in 1958, overhearing the news, I kept asking, who is hungry all the time?
I started school in 1950 (the classes went from first to eighth or ninth), in Botičská street, in a building dating from the Austrian Empire times, as described in Stephan Zweig´s “The World of Yesterday”: a U shaped structure, with wide staircases, tiled corridors, where we used to circulate during breaks, spacious classrooms with big windows and blackboards (really black), elevated pulpits for the teachers and school benches in one piece for two pupils each. I had gone to the pre-school there, in order to get used to the school proper. However, my first day at school left me deeply unhappy: my only friend, the Jana from across the courtyard, was in another class, in C, I was in A. When I found out, I burst in tears and was sat down next to another crying girl, which did not help, as I thought her very ugly and her name ridiculous: Mahulena (after a young woman in an old Slovak legend, Radúz and Mahulena, also an opera by Josef Suk.) As it turned out, she lived in the Trojická Street, not far from our house, so we walked home together and before we knew it, became best of friends. The Trojická street was one of those perpendicular to the river; At the far end, near the University Botanical Garden, there was (and still is) a little baroque church of the St. Trinity (hence the name of the street: Trinity=Trojice), where I had my 1st communion. During the first year or so, it was still allowed to attend catechism classes after school. On the corner of the other end was a “patisserie”, selling a great variety of delicious little cakes, hard sweets and, in the summer, ice cream. In the middle there was a small cinema, “Vyšehrad”, where we saw all the films (black and white) that were on, and a cosy café right opposite. There were also several pubs, paper and tobacco shop and a grocer cum butcher shop. Round the corner we used to take the bed linen and tablecloths to be ironed between steaming hot rollers, and a little further was the Family school, where my mother had been a student. It became a food industry school and Honza, much later, learnt how to brew beer there. So it was a busy little street and offered most of what we needed. Throughout the elementary school (1st -5th grade, later extended to 8th) I had mostly all “1´s” (the classification system being from 1, “excellent”, to 5, “insufficient”, with the consequence of repeating the class), despite being absent a lot in the 1st grade - laid up in bed with gradually almost all of the childhood infectious diseases, the only inoculations then being against smallpox and TB. Still, I caught up. Ironically, the previous spring I had spent 6 weeks in a sanatorium in Karlovy Vary (Karlsbad) to recover from a bout of jaundice caused by duck served at one of the monthly lunches at grandparents Gaw. I avoid it to this day. Not only was I extremely unhappy there – as a loner I only befriended one girl trough a shared infatuation for one of the older boys, who suffered us to hang on his arms during outings – but moreover I caught the scarlet fever and was put in isolation, so even this small pleasure ended. So I came home weaker than before and not even the summer months restored my resistance. The first two years we had classes in the mornings only, also on Saturdays, it was the six days working week then, later twice also in the afternoon, but I was always home for lunch, the school was only about 15 min on foot. We were about forty in the class (the post war baby boomers) but were on the whole well behaved, the discipline was strict and parents did not challenge it. A bad mark for “behaviour” was generally punished more severely than other marks on the reports. Still, once the notorious “bad boy” of the class slapped a teacher´s face. She was young and pretty and we were all stunned. The Principal was called but the boy was not expelled, as he came from a poor communist home. Out of class it was another matter, some bullying and fighting was often going on. I do not know why, but I got myself a “protector” and a sweetheart in one from the first grade onwards. The classes used to go out in a formation of three in a row, boys first. On one such outing, a boy, who was always marching in the first row, grabbed my hand and announced: “This girl belongs with us”, meaning his best friend and – me! The teacher did not interfere, probably finding it amusing, and so it stayed ever after, for four years, until the boy had to go to live with his grandparents in another town, because his parents had gone to live in Africa. His father was an engineer, previously also working in Syria, when the country became friends with the USSR and went socialist. He was a member of the Party, which used to worry me a great deal – how can I marry a son of a Communist? I was not even 10 years old, but that´s how serious my “persuasion” and our “relationship” were. When now, at the time of writing in the 2020, I was looking for family documents, I came across our “correspondence”. We used to exchange notes during lessons, folded in little squares that would fit in the palm of a hand, and passed them to each other through trusted classmates. Kája (Karel Havlíček) was easily the handsomest boy in the class, tall, with dark hair and eyes, neat looking (I am sure you could pick him up in the class photos, if you ever happen to look at them. I, on the other hand, looked a fright), but he knew how to fight and took on anybody, who he thought behaved incorrectly towards me. He always came away a winner. In some of the notes, I implore him, not to be too hard on so and so, like for example the son of the sweet shop owner– that was not a good policy - and not to get into trouble because of me. We were visiting each other´s homes, playing with our stuffed animals, in all innocence, even if our notes could be almost called love letters, very sweet, really. One of them got intercepted by a teacher, we became the scandal of the year and were reprimanded by the Principal. Some years later, the elementary school was upgraded to a secondary and I became a student there. Some of the teachers were transferred as well, so the first thing I heard in my new class was: “Ah, Pesinová, how is Havlíček?” But I had no idea, we never saw each other since he had left, yet these notes are the only “love letters” that I kept. The ones from later times I destroyed before getting married, and I sort of regret it now– it would be nice to read them in my old age… Most of the 11 years till the bac I spent in this same school, except for the last two, the 7th and 8th (counting from 1 up), of the elementary, when, due to a reorganisation according to how close you lived to a school, I was transferred to another school (in Resslova street, across from the Church Cyril and Metodej of the Parachutists, right next to the present shopping centre and near my house Na Zderaze; little did I know then). It was a tragedy! As a homogenous class from the first grade, we were hostile to newcomers, few as they were, and I fully expected my new class to behave in the same way towards me. (You two, who had to change schools often, can´t imagine how shaken I was – or maybe you can only too well.) In this crisis, Mahulena proved a true friend: another girl was transferred as well and Mahulena offered to change in her stead – they lived across each other on the Trojická street, through which the dividing line ran, and the swap was accepted by the authorities. It was way easier to face the new classmates together with my friend. Somehow again I got to be the sweetheart of one of the several not bad looking boys in this class. We eventually broke up soon after finishing the elementary school, but not before he had introduced me into his fencing club, where I never won a single match but did conquer the heart of the current national champion in the foil (fr. fleuret) category in each of my two years there . The first, Pavol, a Slovak/Hungarian, was a few years older than my “sweet sixteen” and my first “real” love; it was very difficult to concentrate on studying for my Bac that spring. Despite of being head over heels in love with Pavol, I was also romantically, platonically and hopelessly in love with our young physics teacher, Michal Basch, which lead to my “falling in love” with his subject as well, and choosing it as my optional subject for the bac. (I think you know the story – later I kind of transferred this interest to you, David). Through a girl I befriended when Mahulena left to study at a film school outside Prague, and who knew Michal from a boating club, I got twice invited along to join his cross country ski group in a private hut high up in the Krkonoše. We had a great time and it did not bother me in the least that his girlfriend was there as well. A true platonic love. In the summer Pavel disappeared back into his native Košice, where he had a fiancée, as I learnt later. So it was my first heartbreak as well. I started dating the other champion, Peter, on a rebound, yet I only narrowly “escaped” marrying him. He was studying to be an architect, and at the time the graduates had to accept a position anywhere in the republic. However, should he have a wife domiciled in Prague, he could get work in the capital. So he asked me to marry him. It was also the time of the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962, preceded by the Bay of Pigs Invasion in 1661), and the fear of war breaking out was very real. So I said “Yes”, like the WW II “war brides” in England, despite my mother´s entreaties not to. She even promised to buy me a motorcycle (I had my driving licence by then) so as I could visit Peter wherever he would be sent. In the end, the war did not happen, Peter managed to get a job in Prague and saw no more need for an immediate marriage. It was a wise decision as we would have had nowhere to live anyway, and in retrospect a good one, but at the time it hurt me deeply and marked the beginning of an end of our relationship, tough I only broke “the engagement” off sometime in 1964. But I am getting ahead of myself. Mahulena started working at the TV and got married (and divorced) quickly, but our friendship held and on my visits to Prague from abroad I was staying with her, until I got my house (her mother was looking after you, first just David, second time both of you.) She died suddenly at the age of fifty, after some mental troubles after the death of her second husband, a composer Luboš Fisher. A tragic story.
The students of all secondary and other schools were obliged to go hop-picking (so called voluntary brigades) at the end of every summer holidays. Several classes were allocated to various villages, sleeping in the lofts of farms or in school gyms, on mattresses or bunk beds, and spending 12 hour days on the hop fields. The hop (Humulus lupulus) is a creeping plant of the hemp family (Cannabaceae), that climbs along wires attached above in the height of about 5 m. One had to pull down the plant and then pluck all the hops, its flowers. The stalks and the leaves had tiny but nasty thorns and at the end of the 2 or 3 weeks, my palms were as of leather; I have always hated doing anything in gloves. Each picker had a long row of these plants to tear down and pluck, putting the hops into uniform baskets, emptied and measured by officials. There was a fixed minimum of measures to deliver each day. Those who regularly fell under, got a bad report. But we also got paid a small sum for each measure, to spur the thrifty on. Lunch was brought out to us. It was quite hard work, one got very hot and sweaty under the summer sun, and it was worse when it rained. Yet, in the evening we also had fun, it does not take much, when one is young: some boys had guitars and we were singing along, mostly Country and Western songs. Some “fooling around” was always going on as well. There was a nice Czech film/musical made about this, “Starci na chmelu” (Old men picking hops (?)Perhaps you can find it on the Youtube?)
Even though my heart was elsewhere that spring of 1961, my head stayed cool enough to get me through my Bac exams, though nearly failing in my favourite subject; I had studied all the difficult questions on electricity, magnetism, optics etc. to perfection, but I drew “simple machines”; six of them (inclined plane, the wedge, the screw, the lever, the wheel and axle, and the pulley) seemed so boring that I had skipped them. Yet I stuck to my decision to study physics, nuclear of all things. Here comes a twist in my life story: the unhappy lot of my parents made me an almost “working class” girl: In my university application I could fill in: Father, a bank clerk, Mother, a charwoman, near enough to acceptable “Class origins”, and I was accepted - there were not many candidates for nuclear physics then anyway, and I was the only girl that year. According to the newspeak slogan of “forging brotherhood with the working class”, we spent five days a week working morning shifts in a heavy machinery factory, and only Saturdays in the classroom. Even though I tried hard, I failed my exams miserably, decided to radically change direction and take up philology. However, the admission to the philosophical faculty was more restricted and applicants more numerous. I had to take “a gap year”, not travelling the world, but working on a building site, in an attempt to further improve my “class background”, not building anything, just being a cleaning and a tea/lunch lady, from 6 to 2, six days a week. It was there, where I had my one and only brush with the “sexual harassment”: in winter I had to first of all light the stove, so the workmen could change in warmth. For that I needed to collect wood from a shed, ruled over by an old man. Every morning I had to fend off his “advances” before he let me have some. The foreman had promised to support my university application, but at the end of the year refused even to terminate my work contract. Possibly he was also hoping for some “bribe”, but then there came another twist to my story: my mother´s rejected suitor, having since his youth been a member of the Communist party, had by now become a person of some influence. Still treating me as a daughter, he was willing to pull some strings and secure my release from the job. I chose English as the main subject; I had worked at it hard as a sort of tribute to my father, and passed the entrance examination for English studies, with the help of my extensive reading list from my father´s library inherited from his English friend, who had left Prague in 1948. A second subject was compulsory and I chose Spanish, which was then very popular because of the Cuban Revolution. There was a course “?Habla usted espaňol?” on the radio. But I chose it rather because the other subjects had not appealed to me at all. The Dutch came later.
After the death of my mother and my grandparents in 1965/6, I found myself on my own, but not abandoned: uncle Otto became my legal guardian and the Šulas my second family, which they to some extend had always been. I could always count on them for an advice or a meal, though not for money, they could hardly get by themselves; uncle Otto was an electric engineer and an expert in interior lighting (p.e. he re-did the lights the National Theatre in Prague), thanks to which he could keep his job even as a non-communist, but at a very inadequate salary; And he had five mouths to feed. He had refused to join the Party, like my father had done, but my father was no expert in anything, except J.S.Bach, so he was dispensable. And I had (great) Auntie Myška. (Whom you both still had the luck to meet in Prague, though you probably don´t remember her much.) She was now living in a garsoniére, a few blocks away from her ancestral house, where she had been moving up and down and up again - after her mother (my great grandmother) died, she had to leave their two room ground floor apartment and move in for some years with her sister and brother–in-law (my grandparents), where my aunt Helena with her husband (Milan Pštross) and their two kids (Hana and Michal) were already living. It was a squeeze and some adjustment had to be made: my grandfather ended up sleeping in the maid´s room. My mother was by far Myška´s favourite of her two nieces and she transferred her love for my mother to me. Although she apparently had had plenty of suitors, she never married because she considered herself a disabled person, due to a heavy limp caused by the dislocation of a hip during birth, for which then no treatment existed. She obtained a PhD and specialized in archive research. Before the WW II she had worked in the archives of the Vatican and spoke Italian fluently, among other languages. When she was forced to return to Prague after the war, she devoted her life to working on the times of the Czech king and Roman Emperor, Charles the 4th (the one of the bridge). After the death of my grandparents and the emigration of Helena with her children in 1968 (by that time she was divorced from Milan), she had to move again, to the one room garsoniére. Due to her limp, she was eventually doomed to staying at home for years, as she could not tackle the few stairs leading to the lift. Despite of that, she stayed interested in the world affairs and in other people affairs – like mine. She was a good listener and apart from visiting her as often as I could, I used to spend at least an hour every day on the phone with her – the flat rate being in place then. Despite suffering from angina pectoris and having the cyanide tablets always at hand, she lived till almost the age of 89, dying just a few weeks before her birthday in October and the final collapse of communism in November 1989. She was the hardest to leave behind, when I married and emigrated. In her, I lost my best friend, who had always loved me without reserve, and the last but one of the family members that had known me all my life. The other one is my aunt Helena, in Canada since 1968, who at the moment of writing this (March 2020, the year of Corona virus) is nearly 95. She had never showed me much kindness, rather the contrary, but I have kind of forgiven her and we are in frequent contact by mail. It is nice to still have someone who knows the family history. Also, her daughter Hana (whom you had known in Switzerland and in Slapy) had died in her fifties -a family tragedy repeating itself: a mother losing her daughter, and again when Zuzana, Pavel and Dana´s daughter and Honzíček mother died aged 44. It is a sad irony of fate, that Helena has no grandchildren, while my parents had not lived long enough to even know I´d get married and have two wonderful sons and grandchildren. Talking about aunts, there was also aunt Slávka, a widow of Franz Srb, who was a nephew(?) of my great grandmother Barbora Gawalowski, (née Srbová); though an aunt several times removed, she was kindness itself to me. The Srb family used to own a big farm with fields just outside Prague until the communist expropriated it, and included it in a “Kolchoz” – a collective farm- thereby bringing it to ruin, like all the rest. Aunt Slávka was “allowed” to continue living in a room and a kitchen in their former house and to earn her keep as a “bull girl”, taking care of a stable-full of bulls. To her I used to turn when in urgent need of money, which happened maybe a couple of times a year. I went to see her then, on foot across the fields, announced, as she had no phone, never hinting at any money problems. Yet, after feeding me some delicious tid bits, which she always had at hand, she lifted a corner of the tablecloth, and there it was, the green piece of paper representing 100Kčs, a lot of money in those days, for her as well as for me. All things considered, my "financial situation" was not all that bad. In general, wages and salaries were low, but so was the cost od living and also of culture (books, theaters, concerts, cinema, all of which plentiful). Monthly, I received my orphan "pension" (sure) and the "good student" grand (had to study hard for). The rent for my 1+1 and the telephone (a shared line with a neighbour and flat rate for local calls), electricity and gas, all that did not cost me much. I augmented my income by teaching English and some ocassional work, like proofreading and interpreting. But the most profitable was working as a camelot - selling an afternoon edition of a popular newspaper, "The Evening Prague" (an equivalent of the "The Eveneing Standard" that Granny used to read) on the streets. This was one of Honza´s student jobs; for several years he did it every weekday and eventually ceded 3 days of his round to me. One collected a bunch of the newspapers, as many as one could carry (500 for Honza, 300 for me), and then walked the streets in the city center ( each camelot had his rayon and tresspassing was not allowed) in the rush hour, crying "Evening Pargue" on top of one´s voice and selling to the passers-by. But Honza was not any old camelot - he secured the most profitable circuit - the pubs in the vicinity of the Wencelav Square and the Old Town. In the beginning, I found it mortifing to enter a pub and start yelling "Evening Prague", but the reward was worth it: big tips. And that was the point - the job itself was paid very little. After each round I came home with a bagful of coins and small denomination notes. For illustration, the newspaper cost like 50 "cents" (hellers), so people just gave 1 crown as a matter of fact. In the pubs, the men, having had a few beers, often gave a 5 crown note and refused the change... So even with the smallest tips, three days a week I earned 150 crowns in a couple of hours, more than a quater of my monthly "orphan pension"! There were also fixed stands, mainly in the underground passages of the metro, "manned" by old ladies, with stacks of at least a thousand issues. Before I took this job, I was feeling sorry for them, but they must have been amassing a fortune just sitting there... And I could afford some extra "luxuries".
After this long detour, back to the Dutch: the family travelled around some more and in the end paid us a visit in Prague, met my mother and asked her permission to invite me to Holland for the next summer. Due to the “thaw”, travel to the West was becoming possible, when one could produce a written invitation with a guarantee of all expenses paid - an ordinary person could not buy foreign currency, except on the black market, which was very risky. In order to please the family, I bought a Dutch textbook at the University, at the same time discovering, that the study of Dutch opened every four years, the next opening being the following academic year. Immediately, I took steps to drop Spanish, which somehow seemed very difficult, and take up Dutch. The invitation duly arrived, the passport and permission to travel to Holland (only) were issued. Then, in June, my mother died. All the more welcome was a first ever holiday abroad and in the West to boot. The travel to the other socialist countries was possible, with the exception of the USSSR, which was totally out bounds for ordinary citizens, but I had never been tempted. The family arrived to fetch me in August and my Grandmother invited them for a “high tea”, which in England would really mean a late lunch or an early supper – she, too, was an Anglo and America-phil, adored the Queen (Elisabeth II) and general Eisenhower, read the “Good Housekeeping” magazine and deluded herself that all the “Westerners” must be well educated and used to her pre-war style of life, and she wanted to impress the Dutch with her granddaughter´s good family background. So she dressed a beautiful table among the antiques in the “ladies waiting room” that were still left, and filled it with as many delicacies, salty and sweet, as she could buy or make. We had no way of knowing that the kind family was of rather modest means; they only seemed rich in the communist context. The tea was a disaster. I was made to serve (my granny: “From the left, from the right…”) and the guests would not eat a thing, having had a big lunch, but also from embarrassment and, as I later found out, just because they were Dutch. Anyway, the next day off we drove to the border, where my heart stopped from fear, till we reached the other side. The German autobahns lead us smoothly all the way to Rotterdam, where the family lived in a tall, narrow house, one in a block in a modest suburb. While they were unpacking, I was left downstairs with a tin of biscuits. I was hungry and ate the tin nearly empty. When they came down, stupefaction! Now, the Dutch have a thing with biscuits, as I found out later, when we were invited to coffee (and biscuits) with friends: you get served a dainty cup of coffee and a tin of biscuits is passed round, each guest taking one. Then the hostess shuts the tin and puts it away in a cupboard. If you are offered a second cup, the tin comes out, you take one biscuit and… Anyway, what impressed me during this first “taste” of the West, was the abundance of everything in the shops, particularly of fruit, some kinds I had not even heard of before, and of course the first ever sighting of the sea, at Hoek van Holland; it was on a cloudless day, and at first, I just could not see it, could not make out, where the sky ended and the sea began. Rotterdam as such did not impress me much, it was mostly new and modern, having been bombed heavily during the WWII. It made me realize, that Prague´s beauty, which I had taken for granted, was something exceptional. We visited few other places, as Wytze was at work all day. The month passed quickly and I was put on a train home. Wytze became a conscientious objector and instead of the army service, compulsory in all of Europe then, disappeared into some work camp, from where his letters to me were supposedly not delivered. However, next year, another invitation to come to Rotterdam arrived. I had started the studies of Dutch; we were only four students and the professor was married to a Dutchman, who had emigrated into Czechoslovakia: he was a communist, had deserted from the army to avoid fighting in Indonesia, the then Dutch colony, and sentenced to death in Holland. I went, but the family atmosphere this time was full of tensions. I hadn´t known before that the father had adopted both children, when he married their widowed mother, much younger then himself, and now they stopped pretending to be a happy family. When Wytze hinted at the possibility of marriage, the father nearly had a fit – he had a terrible temper. In any case, Wytze as well was behaving strangely, so nothing came of it - I had another lucky escape. The following year, 1967, I made excuses and did not go. Instead, I arranged to go to England that summer as an au-pair, with the help, i.e. a letter of invitation, of my father´s English friend (the donor of the English books). I remember having visited him and his unmarried sister before they left in, mainly because they had a cute little white doggie. He kept in touch with us even after my father had died, and sent a package or two with Nescafé. So I asked him to write the letter of invitation, and to recommend me to an au-pair agency, at the same time assuring him I´d not inconvenient them in any way; in that summer camp I had also made an acquaintance of two English boys and one of them, John, promised I could stay in his parents´ house until I started working. All this was harder than it seems, but in the end I arrived, by train via Germany on a transit visa, changing trains in Frankfurt in the middle of the night and involving a long wait; I was pretty scared, there were some strange individuals around, even then. I crossed the Channel by ferry, landing at the foot of “the white cliffs of Dover” and then took a train on to London. I will not describe London in detail here, after all you both have been there. Suffice to say, I fell in love with this city as it was half a century ago –no tall modern buildings; it felt good just to walk window-shopping along the streets, the English were so polite! I visited all the sights, museums etc. But I did not like the au-pairing much, it meant being on beck and call for unlimited hours six days a week for two pound six shillings a week + food and lodging, and in the end managed to obtain a working permit in order to work in the Hospital for Sick Children, serving food in the underground canteen to the lowest order of nurses – the hierarchy was unbelievable, the downside of the capitalistic society. The work was much harder, but there were fixed eight hours shifts, whole weekends free and the salary was something like ten pounds a week – a fortune! I lived, for a small fee, in the hospital hostel. I extended my stay by three months, visited famous places nearby, like Cambridge, Oxford, Brighton, Bath, Winsdor and other castles, palaces, cathedrals etc. and also Stonehenge, where I was practically a sole visitor. I was also able to save enough money to undertake a round trip of Scotland; a friend gave me a lift to Manchester and from there I went hitchhiking and staying in youth hostels, up along the east coast, through York, Edinburg and Aberdeen all the way to John o´Groats, the northernmost tip of the land. From there I took a boat to the Isle of Hay; I offered to work my passage washing up tea cups, but it was no go, I had to pay for my ticket. On the other hand, a family of four got talking to me and invited me to stay in their house in Kirkwall, the little capital. In two days I crisscrossed the island on foot. I hitchhiked back along the spectacularly beautiful western coast and hopped over to the Isle of Sky, the biggest of the Inner Hebrides Islands, did an inland loop to visit the Loch Ness, took a dip in the ice cold Atlantic at Ayr, walked around in the Lake District. I got back to London after two weeks, having spent something like 10 pounds and doing the whole trip alone. Once or twice a met a nice boy in a youth hostel, but they were always going the opposite direction. Travelling on my own did not bother me, I was used to bike all days alone around Straž and Třeboň, and moreover I was already a seasoned lone hitch hiker: wherever I wanted to go in the CZ, I hitchhiked there and back; it was then almost a question of honour for young people to travel in this way, and there were often long queues on the roads. One such “hike” from Třeboň was one I had always dreamed about – flagging down a foreign car. This one happened to be French, with a couple and one man in it. They stopped for a picnic, sharing it with me. From the fruit on offer I picked a banana, saying that that was a real treat, which surprised them. With the man we exchanged addresses. He knew some English but I made my first attempt at learning French, using my mother´s old textbook. He came to Prague the following summer and brought me bananas - not just a kilo or two, but a whole branch with several rings of bananas attached to it! He wanted me to accompany him on his holidays, but I refused, bananas or no bananas, and that was the end of the affair, except that my mother and I were eating bananas breakfast, lunch and supper for weeks afterwards. On the train journey from England back to Prague, I got off in Cologne to meet with a German girl, who had worked with me in the hospital, and who had invited me for a short stay. She waited on the platform with her father and there is some unpleasantness hanging about that visit but I can´t put my finger on it. Anyway, I could now visit the famous cathedral seen before only from the train window, and the city on the river Mainz. ( Actually, my memory played a trick on me: I made this trip to Scotland right after I arrived to London for the second time, in July1968, using money I had saved during the year from tips I got while doing interpreting jobs and some I could buy offcially from a bank. After the trip I took the job in a hotel, the Invasion happened in August and then I went to Ireland. When I returnes I made all the arrangements in order to be able to stay legally abroad, described here later. I found out this upon discovering my diaries from those two stays in the UK, which I had no idea I had...)
Although the au-pairing experience had not been altogether happy, I made arrangements to repeated it, with variations, the next summer. The end of 1967, the week of the Old Year´s Eve and the New Year´s Day we spent with Honza in Vienna. By that time, no invitation was necessary. The old Habsburg Empire capital always seemed to us tantalisingly near Stráž, which lies some 10km from the nearest border crossing at the village of Chlum (where we rented the bikes for you, Thomas) and whose lake, Staňkov, (where we intended to take a boat ride but were caught in a thunderstorm) stretches as far as the border, which runs through the woods. That was why its southern half used to be off limits and heavily guarded by soldiers, as were the wide swaths of the country along the whole border. We had to be careful not to dare too far when swimming or biking around there. The tempting road signs Vídeň/ Wien were everywhere. Apart from that, uncle Otto had been born (in 1905) and raised in Vienna, where his father had an employment. After the founding of Czechoslovakia in 1918 on the ruins of the Habsburg Empire, the many Czechs living and working in Austria, had to choose which country they wanted to be citizens of – Austria or Czechoslovakia. Otto´s parents had chosen the latter, for better or worse… Uncle Otto often talked about his early years in Vienna and so Honza decided he wanted to visit his father´s old home and see the house where he had lived. We went by train, first along the railway tracks so well known until Třeboň, and then beyond and across the border, as we had so often dreamt of. The border crossing was still as frightening as when I was travelling to England: high electrified barbed wire fences stretching out of sight in both directions away from the tracks, along a wide sandy corridor. Still on our side of the boarder, the train stopped for a long time and the police conducted a thorough check of documents and search of the carriages, while outside, armed soldiers stood guard, assisted by vicious looking Alsatian dogs, and others were banging the undercarriages with metal rods, to flush out any possible “black” passengers. (For many years afterwards, even when crossing the border as a Belgian citizen, my stomach still tightened with the remembered fear.) After an hour or so, the train puffed through the lifted barrier to be subjected to more relaxed Austrian border control. In a couple of hours, we finally descended on the platform of Franz-Joseph Bahnhof and went in search of a pension recommended to us and owned by a Czech; many had decided to stay in Austria and there were numerous Czech names above the shop fronts, which surprised us, though it shouldn´t have: lots of Czechs back home had German names but as there were no private shops any more with names above them, one did not think about it. Neither Honza or I had any useful knowledge of German, despite the efforts of Uncle Otto´s sister, who had been trying to teach both of us for years. First of all, we went in search of uncle Otto´s house, asking direction as best we could and as often as not, after a few words, the person continued in Czech. The house was still standing, so we took some photos. Afterwards we had a ride on the giant wheel in Prater, the famous amusement park, walked along the Ringstrasse, climbed the St. Stephen cathedral´s spire. The Old Year´s Eve, or Sylvestr, we spent in a place with dancing and shows, also on recommendation, Vienna was not yet too expensive. We had a good time, but in the early hours of the New Year misfortune struck: when getting our coats from the cloakroom, Honza was given somebody else´s coat, a very similar one, only his passport and the train ticket were not in its pocket. His coat was gone. It was a shock, but the restaurant manager admitted it was their fault – the ticket did not match the coat, and compensated Honza for his train ticket in Austrian shillings. Despite the early hour on a holiday day, we managed to find an open police station. We tried our poor German on an officer on duty and after asserting we were Czechs he did not answer in Czech, but said, wait a minute, I´ll call my wife, she is Czech. We heaved a sigh of relief; with her help Honza explained his predicament. We were referred to the CZ embassy, which would open for emergencies the next day. We had the New Year´s lunch in Grinzing, known for its wine and beer gardens. The embassy made no fuss and issued Honza with temporary papers. Relieved, Honza rushed to the Judengasse, famed for bargains, and bought himself a pair of Levi Strauss jeans with the money he had been given, and instead of by train he went back by a cheap tram still running since the “old times” between Vienna and Bratislava, the capital of Slovakia, just over the border. From there, he treated himself to a short plane trip to Prague – he had to be back at work the next day and he would not have made it by train. Months passed, till one day he called me and said: “You would not believe, what happened. In today´s post I received an envelope, with apologies and my passport!”
The year that we started in Vienna with an adventure with a happy end – 1968 - was the year of another adventure, this one with a tragic end: the year of the Prague Spring (not to be confused with the music festival), the awakening of our nation and an attempt to establish a freer system, so called Socialism with a Human Face, still headed by the communist party, which had apparently reformed itself at its XIII congress in 1966 in Prague, and an Extraordinary one in Bratislava in 1968. (You can find the details on Wikipedia). This had been preceded by some years of the “thaw” mentioned above. I confess that I was not very interested in what was happening, but made good use of the relaxed conditions for travel, and in May 1968 I found myself in Italy, with the help of Aunt Myška: after each bereavement, the family jewels had been divided among the bereaved and after my grandmother´s death, aunt Helena, as the surviving, though younger, daughter, had taken the better part of her jewellery, including an heirloom of an antique wedding set, there may have a been tiara. Aunt Myška was left with one non-divisible item: a diamond bracelet of great value. Through an Italian friend living in Prague she had got to know a Trade Unionist from Rome, called Tonino, who travelled often to the Trade Union headquarters in Prague. He was no poor worker, but a wealthy man, and was more interested in buying antiques, which were then plentiful and cheap in Prague, than in the Unionist matters. He bought the bracelet from my aunt, but instead of paying in cash, it was arranged that he would organize a month travel through Italy and take care of all the expenses, first for my aunt Helena, in 1967, and the following year for me. It was lucky I chose May, before the invasion of Czecoslovakia happened in August. I had the luxury of a sleeping car and woke up to the morning glory of the Alps. In Milano, Tonino picked me up and after a couple of days of sightseeing, most notably the Duomo and Leonardo da Vinci´s “The Last Supper” fresco (David you recommended to me a book about it, “La cena secreta” by Javier Sierra), which was then exposed to the elements, its wall miraculously having survived the bombing of the monastery refectory, but not to the millions of tourists, he sent me off to Venice. It was like stepping into a dream, everything pink and golden as if made of lace, and compared to later times, almost empty of tourists. I stayed a few days, charging from one church to another and from one island to another. Aunt Myška had given me “a course” on all that I absolutely had to see in Italy. I will not dwell here all the other beautiful places I visited, some with Tonino and his wife Lina in their car, some by train or bus, hitchhiking was a no no in Italy, even if there were plenty of men offering a lift, in fact because of it. I had bought a mini dress, or what went for “mini” in those days, at a street market somewhere; the weather was very hot and I was wearing it stubbornly, although it attracted a lot attention from males of all ages, which was rather pleasant at first, but soon became bothersome. (“Bon giorno, signorina, bella, belissima, do youu speeek Eenglish?”) They were not always easy to shake off, including a “carabinieri”, who helped me to get into the Duomo in Pisa – at the entrance to every cathedral and church, there was someone seeing to it that no bare knees or arms would get in. I was grateful to him, as I only had one day in Pisa and could not change into something more “decent”, but then he followed me up the Leaning Tower, politely letting me go first up the stairs, and even insisted he would take me in his car wherever I was going. After Venice, it was Florence that impressed me most, never mind that in the Duomo catacombs I had to slap a youth who harassed me just too much. I loved its colourful marble façades, Boticceli´s “Birth of Venus” in the Uffizi Gallery and the somewhat weatherworn copy of David next to it; the pristine original can be admired in a small Michelangelo museum, where you can compare its perfection with a row of unfinished statues rising from blocks of marble next to it, in which traces of Michelangelo´s chisel can be seen. Along the Mediterranean coast I arrived unharmed to Naples and via Pompei to Sorrento, where I took a dip in the sea under the stars, and the next morning took a ferry to Capri – the pretty little island from where you have to “see Naples and die”… For the last days, Tonino booked me in to a quite luxurious beach hotel, full board, including wine, at Spotorno. It was still off season and so practically empty of guests. Unfortunately, he could not book the sun, so I took a bus to Genoa and San Remo, meaning to go as far as Monaco, but was turned back at the border, my visa was valid only for Italy. So no gambling for me, but I did get to sunbathe and swim at the end of my stay. All in all, it was a dream holiday.
In July I arrived to London and in contrast to Spotorno, here I was working, in the black, in a small hotel as a cleaning lady, while staying with the other English friend from the camp, Michael, who looked a bit like young Sean O´Connery. It was quite a shock after having been a spoiled guest in Italy, but better than au-pairing; the money was good and the work not too demanding, even if a little disgusting; ever since I try to leave any hotel room I am staying in as tidy and clean as possible. I took evening classes and successfully sat for the Oxford Proficiency in English exam. (I have the diploma still.) The teacher, Chris, was a full blooded Greek, who had grown up in the UK as a war child refugee. He was struck by “the East European melancholy”, as he called it, seeping through my essays. We became friends, and we met again when I was living in Amsterdam and he visiting a friend. (I am mentioning him because while writing this, I was re-reading my letters to my aunt Myška, where he figures prominently, as a great friend, witty, knowledgeable and funny, but hopelessly unattractive and completely lacking in social graces. I enjoyed his company, but only up to a point). As soon as I had saved some money I went on another hitchhiking trip, this time all over both Irelands. The hitchhiking there was more difficult than in Scotland: cars were scarce and the drivers distrustful, but one English couple treated me to lunch at a seaside – I tasted oysters for the first time, and never have wanted to taste them again. I met up with a friend, Finn, (but he was Irish), whom I had met in Prague at some students gathering. He took me to a cemetery at night and tried to make me believe in the “little people”, the Irish are very superstitious; it was a bit scary but scarier events were in the offing: the fateful news of the Soviet and their satellite states invasion of my country on the night of 20th/ 21st of August I heard on the radio, when back in London from Ireland. During a short time afterwards, the Czech Embassy staff were issuing yearlong and worldwide visa; I rushed to one and took a train to Amsterdam – another link in the chain of events that had started with my infatuation with the old doctor and the thunderstorm: the year before I had been introduced as a star student of Dutch by my English professor to a Dutch professor of English, who was attending a congress in Prague, and asked to look after his wife. We had kept up a correspondence and by a stroke of luck I wrote to them from London; they got in touch immediately and offered help. I let a married friend of mine, who was expecting a baby and had nowhere much to live, know that they could move into my flat for the time being, and quickly requested the University in Prague to grant me a year suspension of my studies. Nobody knew, what the future would bring, and I did not want to slap the door shut irrevocably, unlike my aunt Helena, who grabbed what she could and fled with her son Michael; Hana went separately with her then boyfriend to a refugee camp set up in Vienna and instead of joining her mother, they accepted the Swiss offer to take in and provide with jobs and lodgings some 30 000 Czechs. (So the history repeated itself: 20 years before, in a refugee camp in Vienna, Uncle Karel accepted a similar offer from Australia, while his friends opted for South America.) We met briefly with my aunt in London, before heading in the opposite directions: saying England was not far enough for her from the Communists, she took herself and Michael over the Atlantic, choosing Canada over the US, and settling in Montreal, despite the fact that close family of my aunt Míša Šebová, (née Ženíšková, see My Family), her cousin once removed, lived in the US, having emigrated after 1948, and they could have helped her. They did meet and kept up later. Aunt Helena was /is a commercial engineer, very clever and speaking several languages, so she found a good job easily. Hana also made good in Switzerland, living in Basel. We had not been seeing each other much as children, she was five years younger, and our grandmother Gaw never had us in Slapy together, Hana´s month being July, but we did meet several times when we lived in Berne, in the second half of the eighties.
But back to my story. I took the train to Amsterdam, where the Dutch couple, the Breitensteins, picked me up. They had no children, having tragically lost a son in a car accident, and they treated me with utmost kindness, gave me a generous allowance and arranged for me to continue studying English at the University of Amsterdam, from which I received a graduation diploma. At weekends, they took me sight-seeing by car, usually stopping to eat pancakes somewhere on the way. They tried to “hook me up” with one or two sons of their friends, but it did not work out and I found myself a boyfriend at the university. With him, I went hitchhiking all over Denmark during the July month of the holidays. Somewhere we got interviewed for some reason I have forgotten, and an article with a photo appeared the next day in the local newspaper – the cutting, in Danish, should be among my stuff. It began something like “They walked hand in hand…” Before that, at Easter, Honza with his first wife, Olga, came to visit me. They were in Saarbruecken since before the invasion; Honza was working in a brewery there and stayed on. The Breitensteins were away and let them to stay with me in their house. They had no visa, but Honza had bought a car, so with his German number plates he had no trouble at the borders. We drove around Holland for about a week and then they took me back for a reciprocal visit. I was looking forward to a stop in Luxemburg, the city where, when travelling to Amsterdam from London, I had to change trains and from outside the station I had a glimpse of its impressive viaducts spanning the deep valley. We had a late start and only arrived at after dark, but illuminated, it looked even prettier. The stay in Saarbruecken was nice, but the city had not much to offer, so we decided to visit Frankfurt. As I found out from my diary, I had gone ahead hitchhiking, in order to try and obtain a visa for Great Britain for Honza – can´t remember how I was supposed to achieve that and I did not, either. Frankfurt had been flattened in the war but the old centre was completely reconstructed in red bricks. By the time they arrived by car, Honza developed such a high fever, that not only was there no question of further sightseeing, but we had to persuade a student staying in the hostel to drive us back and pay him the trip back by train. There is never a dull moment with Honza. I wanted to finally visit Luxemburg city at leisure, so I decided to hitchhike there and only then take the train back to Amsterdam, so I´d have time to walk along the valley under the viaducts and to visit the cathedral, where the Luxemburg dynasty is buried, a.o. count John of Luxemburg, or John the Blind, king of Bohemia from 1310. He died while fighting in the Battle of Crécy at the age of 50, having been blind for a decade. Most importantly, he was the father of our Charles IV. I liked the city of Luxemburg so much, that years later, when we were living in Brussels after Berne, we repeatedly arranged with Honza to meet there for lunch, who by then was again living in Saarbruecken with his 2nd wife Sonia; I went by train, he by car. But back then, a problem arose, when I was ready to continue my journey. While Honza and Olga were in Amsterdam, I had paid for everything (in guilders), and in Saarbruecken Honza took care of me in marks. He had given me some for the train fare, but as it turned out, it was not enough to buy a ticket all the way to Amsterdam. I had no guilders on me either, it had not seemed necessary, so I asked for a ticket as far as the money could buy; the name of the place meant nothing to me and my plan was to feign sleep till Rotterdam, where I hoped a couple, whom I had been a guiding in Prague, would help me out. As soon as my ticket had been checked I settled in a corner and shut my eyes. But, unluckily, my co-passengers “kindly” woke me up at “my” station, the border town of Rosenthal, and willy-nilly I had to get off. It was the middle of the night and not knowing what to do I got the idea to go to a police station, but when I asked for one, people looked at me as if I were crazy. Next, I went to the ticket counter and begged a man in front of me, if he would consider buying me a ticket to Rotterdam, promising I´d send the money by post. Also looking at me as if I were crazy and saying “No need for that”, he, also kindly, paid for the ticket – with a couple of guilders! It turned out Rotterdam was just one stop further… I caught the last train which of course let me stranded in Rotterdam just after midnight but luckily this time there was a police station right outside. I went in and, explaining my predicament, asked, if I could spend the rest of the night there or, if necessary, in a cell. I got this “She must be crazy” look again, but they let me stay in an empty office and, in the morning, even brought me to my friends´ house in a police car. I spent a couple of days with them, borrowed money for the ticket to Amsterdam and finally made it back.
Life was not bad in Amsterdam and the Breitensteins had as good as adopted me, but when the visa expired, I decided to return to Prague, despite the dark times of the “normalisation” as it was officially called, and events like the tragic self-immolation by fire of Jan Palach, in January 1969, in protest against the continued occupation; I was afraid that if I did not return home now, I would never be able to: it took 20 years for the emigrants of 1948 to be allowed to set foot in their country. (And, as I rightly feared, another twenty for those of 1968.) Also, I had time to experience what it felt like to be a foreigner in a country and it was not so great; despite of all the kindness shown to me, I always felt like a poor relative. Back home, I had no parents or siblings, who could be punished for my defection, but everybody I loved and everything I owned had been left behind. Now I was leaving behind my “foster” parents and a Dutch boyfriend, but he promised to come to Prague and marry me. He never did – yet another lucky escape! The Breitensteins were disappointed, but extended their kindness to taking me, and all my expanded luggage, to Prague by car and so were able to meet my aunt Myška. After my return, I felt somewhat estranged from those, who had experienced the invasion – I did not hear the rumble of tanks under my windows, did not participate in demonstrations, did not feel the fear and uncertainty of the past year, just arrived in the middle of the repressions of the “Normalisation”. Luckily, my family and friends did not hold it against me. When I first called Pavel after my return, he said: “How stupid you are!” for not having stayed in the West. It reminded me of Honza saying to me “You are cow” = stupid, when I told him I would join the Pioneer organisation, the Soviet replacement of the Scouts, which had been banned. That time I was able correct the “mistake” by not joining, even if it meant to be deprived of participating in summer camps and other activities, which, in hind sight, I rather regretted. White shirts and red scarves instead of khaki and scarves variously coloured, but the children had a lot of fun.
After my return, I finished my studies of English and Dutch and graduated, first in English and a year later in Dutch, but the title of Mgr. - Master in Germanic languages, was officially granted me only years later, after the “Velvet revolution” of 1989. The English Department of the Charles University had an outstanding reputation and I had some excellent professors. One of the older ones, Prof. Poldauf, was the author of English/Czech and Czech English dictionary, which I am using to this day and and a pretty blonde lady prof was a leading translator and to this day heads the translators´ union. Also, my prof of Dutch translated most of the Dutch and Flemish literature up till the modern times and received a Dutch prize for her life work. They both became my good friends later. During the last year at the university I translated a novel by the Dutch leftist writer Theun de Vries about van Gogh, “Vincent in den Haag”. (Over the years, I translated the following books: Seul, by Gérard d´Aboville, The Mad King, a biography of Ludwig II of Bavaria, by Greg King, wo novels by Klostermann, The 9th Buddha and The Incas Legacy, and lastly, the Booker Prize winner, an Indian writer Kiram Desai, The Inheritance of Loss. Some copies are in Prague, some in Brussels.)
After graduation, I made a Kafkaesque attempt to obtain a position at the Czech embassy in The Hague: “So you have a degree in Dutch but are not a member of the Communist Party? How dare you even ask!”, and then at a position of a professor of English at a university, with the same result. I was deemed “good” enough to teach at a Language school, but there were no vacancies that year, so I started freelancing as an interpreter, with an agency PIS (Prague Information Service) I had occasionally worked for before, and never looked for another job since. I was as free as could be – there was no “communist cell” to force a membership on me. It was an irregular work but well paid, one or two weeks of full days´ work would see me through the month. I did not usually do any groups, only one or two persons at a time that came to Prague for professional reasons. Again, the Dutch played an important role: thanks to my year in Holland, studying hard and reading a lot, my Dutch was, I will not say perfect, but fluent, and I soon built up a reputation. (You might not think so, but until I started interpreting I had been shy and had a low opinion of myself, to the point of an inferiority complex. It was the success in this job that gave me confidence in myself.) I can´t quite put a date to it, but soon after my graduation I somehow got into a two weeks´ course for students of Dutch in the pretty town of Nijmegen. We stayed in an old monastery, sleeping in the cells, but nor leading a monastic life at all. We had classes all day, but in the evenings we partied and danced. There was a chapel with an organ and one night after the party, being in a melancholy mood, I sneaked in there and started “improvising” on the organ. The mighty sound filled the night and soon everybody rushed to the chapel, amazed. (You two do have a crazy mother.)
There was quite a busy cultural exchange with Belgium and Holland, but the Czech counterparts, the “big communist shots”, spoke no foreign languages (except, perhaps, Russian), and I got to look after all the Dutch speaking guests, being practically the only Dutch interpreter at the time; there were enough for the other languages, especially English, though jobs in English came my way as well, occasionally causing me embarrassment, when the guest was an Indian, an Arab or a black. I had to be with my charges all the time, picking them up at the airport, accompanying them to their meetings and taking them to lunches, dinners and cultural events, when provided. These dark faces were a rare sight then and the Czechs were xenophobic, as they are to these days. So I was getting some very strange looks, particularly in the country towns. Still, some important charges made up for it, like the Indian and the Finnish president of the time, the pop group The 5th Dimension, which then included Diana Ross of the Supremes, and the conductor André Previn with his then wife, the actress Mia Farrow (Rosemary´s Baby). I did not see much of him, but spent the time looking after her; she was extremely thin and once, over supper, confided in me that she was finding it difficult to sleep, because her knobbly knees kept jarring against each other. Travel was frequently involved, which was an extra benefit: I was getting to know places I´d have otherwise never visited. Two summers running, my job was equal to paid holidays: groups of working class Dutch people came to spend their holidays in another of the sand stone formation region, around “Hrubá skála”, a castle perched high up on one of the big rocks, where we were lodged. I had a room with the view over the whole area and was woken up very day by the screeching of jackdaws. The days´ work consisted of walking among the rocks with the group and interpreting a guide´s comments. Two experiences worth mentioning: the mostly perpendicular rocks were a favourite with climbers and one of the local ones gave an exhibition. He had become blind, but was still climbing, as sure footed as ever. It was incredible to see, yet I put my life into his hands (and feet), asking to be included in one his climbs, which he would lead. So one day I found myself tied to a rope and hanging in the middle of a group on a sheer cliff side of a high difficulty rock. There were several grips when I thought, I just can´t stretch any further, but I had to, there was no way back. Once on top, the feeling of achievement, of surpassing oneself, and the view, was great. The down-sailing was another challenge, having to let oneself fall backwards into the void, but proved to be the fun part. The other experience was meeting a deaf and mute teenage boy, who could speak and lip read so well, that I had not realized his handicap until one day when he stood with his back to me, while I was talking to him. He then explained, that his mother had taught him speech by holding his hand on her throat while talking and making him reproduce the vibrations in his own throat. It impressed me very much.
I loved my job but I had to be careful – being in contact with foreigners, though officially approved, was playing with fire, when I talked to them freely about the situation in my country. And I did get burnt once: One year in the early seventies I was taking care of a group from Antwerp participating in an amateur theatre festival in Náchod (northern Bohemia) and the following year a Czech group was sent to Antwerp, with me as a guide. I had trouble leading the bus out of Brussels, as I did not know then, that “Anvers” was “Antwerpen”, and it took a while to find a Dutch speaking person on the streets. After the group´s performance, a journalist came up to me requesting an interview. I referred him to the leader of the group. The journalist said, “He can be present as well” and, used as he was to freedom of speech, barged into asking me very personal questions which I transformed, as best as I could, into questions about the group, for the benefit of the pair of accompanying Secret Police blokes. The reporter went on asking about a dissident theatre director and I said, “I can´t speak about that, and PLEASE do not mention I said that, either…” Once back in Prague, it did not take long and I was summoned to the Secret police offices, confronted with the article in Dutch and ordered to translate it. To this day I remember the beginning of it: “The young lady (full name and description – blue eyes and all), agreed to talk to us, but only in the company of some morose looking characters…” The entire interview followed, including my plea to leave the tricky bits out, and with some unflattering political comments added by the journalist himself. I was afraid to change anything – I could not be sure they had not obtained a translation somewhere - the ever present fear, the powerful instrument of any dictatorship. Somehow I was able to persuade the two interrogators that I myself had said nothing detrimental to the regime, got off with a warning and was allowed to continue my job as an interpreter, under the condition of “having a coffee” with a “minder” from time to time and “snitch” on the Czechs involved in whatever the interpreting job was about. Needless to say, I never “heard or saw” anything, but it was very unpleasant. Still, I got trusted with interpreting abroad again, once in Gent, with a different group of theatre amateurs, and even once with a parliamentary delegation, in The Hague, where we happened to witness some kind of an attack or a siege of the Parliament building from our hotel window, I can´t remember what it was about exactly, but it was scary. And lastly in Helsinki, for a couple of the paper industry Trade Unionist officials. Not that I spoke any Finnish, they just had not found a Finnish interpreter. The translating went Finnish – English – Czech- English – Finnish –English- Czech- English – Finnish – English – Czech etc, it was very restful – normally an interpreter has to talk all the time and concentrate on not mixing the languages up. Or saying something inappropriate in the wrong language. One day we drove through the woods dotted with lakes to Kusankoski to visit a paper mill there. The Finnish counterparts were all men and invited me to come along to a sauna on a lake shore. Luckily, there were separate rooms. They warned me that after the sauna, everybody would have to plunge in the lake – it was March. I was well used to jumping into the ice cold water after a sauna in Prague, so I plunged, while the men just gaped; they thought they were having me on, but the joke was on them. There was daylight for practically 24 hours and the whole week I hardly went to bed. I sort of fell in love with the Finnish language and listened to it like to music. (Now I love Sibelius…) For two memorable jobs I did not need to travel anywhere: Twice an American film company came to Prague and a friend helped me to get included in a group of interpreters /communicators between the American and the Czech crew: everything was double, like the Flemish/French radio programmes in Belgium. Only the director was just one, but had a Czech assistant. The first one was George Roy Hill, of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, a western, which “made” Paul Newman and Robert Redford (if you still know, who they are), and The Sting. The other was Lewis Gilbert, who had done three James Bond films (You Only Live Twice, 1967, The Spy Who Loved Me, 1977 and Moonraker, 1979). Apart from meeting these famous directors (unfortunately no famous actors), it was a fantastic experience, witnessing the making of a film, in the film studios (Barrandov) and “in the field”, and getting to know the tricks of the department of special effects. The first film was Slaughterhouse Five, based on a novel by Kurt Vonnegut Jr., a sort of SciFi, which included scenes of the bombing of Dresden. A town not far from Prague, (Most), was sitting on a surface brown coal field and was doomed to be demolished. So the Americans had bought a part of it with the right to bomb the real thing, instead of building and then destroying the props. They also filmed some other scenes, like a crash of plane on a snow field, but finished the rest of the film in Hollywood, it took place in the space. I saw it later, but the film was not a success. The second film, Seven Men At Daybreak, from a novel by Anthony Burgess, was one of the many films made about the assassination in 1942 of Reinhard Heydrich by Czech parachuters, sent from England, who then were killed by drowning by the SS in the crypt of the orthodox church of Cyrilus and Methodius, (you know it, on the corner of “my” street Na Zderaze). The shooting of each film spanned several months, took long hours and seven days and sometimes nights a week, but not only was it fun, it was also very lucrative. Looking back, I was incredibly lucky to get in trouble only once, speaking openly to all the Western visitors whom I was interpreting for, but I have never spoken to a journalist again, even when living safely abroad. Just recently, reading a book about Alfons Mucha´s son, a suspected spy himself, I learnt, that a New Zealand professor, whose lectures I followed at the University, was, in fact, an important spy for the KGB. So when I started dating a young Belgian diplomat (your Daddy), in the spring of 1974, we had to be extremely careful. We had been brought together by the Flemish wife of the Head of the British Council in Prague, whom I met at a reception given by her husband in honour of a Welsh poet I was interpreting for. I had no business going to foreign receptions, but my charge had asked for me to be present and I was granted permission. A lady from the Ministry of Culture introduced me as “our Miss Pešinová, who speaks English, Dutch and Flemish…” I did not correct her, let her think I speak three languages. The Flemish lady pricked her ears and asked, did I know the young Flemish bachelor at the Belgian Embassy and then, having established I was not married, would I mind giving her my visiting card to pass on – the Dutch connection yet again. I did not mind and some weeks later an invitation came to attend a reception given by JUDr Joris Couvreur for his ex- Ambassador father and his wife. As it happened I was going to be in Finland just that week, so I wrote an apology and then sent a postcard as proof that I was not just “getting out of” going. He did not give up and invited me by phone on a blind date. I accepted but very nearly got off the tram halfway to the Wenceslas Square (Václavské náměstí) – I had had blind dates before; nearing thirty, I was getting a bit desperate (too many lucky escapes), but every time the man had turned out to be a disaster and hard to get rid of. This time though, I was agreeably surprised and it was mutual. We had supper in the suitably named hotel Ambassador; (your Daddy enjoyed his food and drink, and was quite a heavy smoker then) and it was a success, so we agreed to meet again, but no more phoning – his phone at the villa permanently rented by the Belgian state (Holečkova ulice 41(?), Praha 5) was bound to be tapped - just arrangements from date to date. Similarly, I never got into his car, a white sport Opel, and we took the crowded bus, whenever we wanted to hide away at the log cabin at Slapy. In those days (the seventies) one could not trust anybody, and not even my best friends knew anything about the relationship – if you want to keep a secret, keep it to yourself. The only person I confided in was Auntie Myška, and later on I introduced him to the Šulas, the secret was safe with them as well. We risked going by car to Stráž, where they now lived permanently since Uncle Otto retirement, having recovered possession of the whole bigger half of the house (now Honza´s) The police regularly checked cars right in front of my house and the CD plate might not have deterred them, but we were lucky. I had been caught once in the car of an Austrian, whom I was interpreting for at a car fair, when somehow all the German interpreters were busy elsewhere. It happened sometime after my confrontation with the Secret Police and the “minder” was on it immediately, yet this time I had a bad cold, which made me short tempered and I was so rude to him, that I never heard from him again That summer of 1975 we decided we were serious and that it was time for me to meet Joris´s parents. By now a letter of invitation from the West was not enough. The officialdom got wind of it being misused – many a girl had arranged a fake marriage in this way, in order to leave the country legally, avoiding sanctions against their families left behind. The condition for getting a visa to the West had become obtaining so called foreign currency voucher from a bank. I called on my father´s friend, who, having served his term in prison, was back at the bank, and ask him to please put my request on top of the file (in the same way as our friendly Japanese ambassador arranged for your Japanese working visa permit in Korea, David; some things never change!) Armed with this voucher, I queued for hours at the British consulate to obtain a visa, and finally all was in order; in July I bought a train ticket to London, but got off in Paris, where Joris picked me up and after a brief sightseeing tour we continued to England, with the end stop in West Byfleet, Surry, where Joris´s maternal Granny, Winnifred Nevill, had a house (Great Granny to you, you surely remember), and where my prospective parents–in-law were staying during their annual visit. I was very nervous, but it went well: my future mother-in-law was of a similar “mould” as my Granny Gaw, and both she and Aunt Myška must have been looking down upon us happily… We borrowed Granny´s old Hillman car and went off on our “pre-honeymoon”, touring all over Wales. The sun was shining all the time. Before returning to Prague, we announced our intention to get married before the end of the year, which was met with approval. To get an approval of the Czech authorities was way more difficult. However, there was no law prohibiting a marriage to a foreigner, yet various attests were needed, like that neither party was already married and such, before we could officially register our intended union at a town hall and book a date. Luckily, there existed a legal cooperation treaty, which facilitated the procedure; also, Joris´s working at the embassy helped a lot. Honza, who had married his 2nd, west German, wife Sonia a couple of years before, needed more than a year to collect all the documents before they could tie the knot, and he was allowed to leave only because he had gotten a permanent release from the army on the basis of not being quite right in the head after contracting the Lime disease.) Joris had informed his ambassador, Count Enfant d´Avernas, and in order that they could meet me we risked a dinner with him and his wife at a restaurant “Zlatá Hruška” in the vicinity of the Castle. Also this “test by fire” I withstood well and was thankful to my Granny for brining me up so strictly, not for the first or the last time: her instructions came in handy in my later life as a diplomat´s wife. The count and countess served me for ever as a model of perfect Ambassadors. (I think you met them at Grandpa´s funeral service.) Once married, the real obstacle was getting permission to leave the country, regardless of any Helsinki Congress Accords (summer 1975) concerning unification of the family. As soon as the higher authorities/secret police got wind of our marriage registration, it caused quite a stir – how come it had not come to their ears before – what had the spies been doing?? Our secrecy paid off. They summoned us for talks, suggesting, that if we wanted to stay “united”, why wouldn´t Mr. Couvreur settle in our socialistic paradise? Joris politely declined. Luckily again, they could not extend too much pressure: they couldn´t very well afford a diplomatic incident and, me being an orphan and having no siblings, they had nobody to threaten with sanctions. More distant relations were safe: the illegal emigration of aunt Helena and her children had not affected me. Even the communists kept to some rules: the children paid for the “sins” of her parents, but not of their grandparents: my father and mother had been punished for having “bourgeoisie” parents, but their parents would have been OK, as they, in turn, had come from modest backgrounds. The official also kindly “overlooked” the fact that at the beginning of my “career” as an interpreter I had been made to foreswore any contact with foreigners outside my work. I perjured myself more than once – a word given to a communist did not count. Anyway, we got married in the Old Town Hall, the one with the astronomical clock, in the morning of the 12th December,1975. My close family was by then depleted - also Uncle Otto had died and aunt Máňa was not well. Instead of them I had invited my Dutch “foster parents” and asked Mr. Breitenstein to “give me away”. Uncle Mark and a friend of mine, the one who had lived in my apartment when I was in Amsterdam, acted as witnesses. Still, a surprisingly big crowd gathered, consisting of my own friends and of people, who had known my parents and grandparents. The half an hour allotted to each ceremony stretched well over an hour; the couples to follow us were not pleased. Afterwards, there was a mass in the big church of St.Mary Under Týn on the Old Town Square, the one with many spires. We gave a reception in our villa (by that time I had moved there from my house). The count and countess d´Avernas offered a lunch at the Belgian residence. The guests were: Joris´s parents, the Breitensteins, the British Council couple (the Pearsons) uncle Jaroslav Pešina and his wife (I did not care for them much, but they were the only close family I had left and at least he was a Professor and spoke languages), Prof. Votoček and his wife (a distant family, but also quite "distinguished"), uncles Mark (Joris´s witness) and Daniel and my witness friend. Aunt Myška came to the wedding and the reception, but for all my entreating would not assist at the lunch, though she would have been my guest of honour. Am I forgetting somebody? Uncle Milan maybe? To pair my witness? Anyway, it was a great lunch with many speaches, only tinted by sadness that the ones, I´d have most liked to be there - my parents and the Sulas, were either dead or abroad (aunt Máňa was in Saarbruecken with Honza, who had married his second wife, Sonia a year or so before). At the lunch, the ambassador, with a big smile, handed me my brand new Belgian passport and the Belgian citizenship with it. To my dismay, though, the name was still Blanka Pesinova – there must be some mistake, I thought, I am now Couvreurová… When I timidly pointed this out, the ambassador explained to me that in Belgium, the women kept their maiden names for all official purposes. I was happy to keep my old name, but later, it led to all kinds of misunderstandings. Your Granny used to complain that she could never find her friend in hospital, as in the social life, the married name was always used. The Belgian Foreign Ministry very benevolently did not make us leave immediately like the British would, and a Swiss diplomat, who had married a Czech shortly before, was even made to leave the diplomatic service altogether. Being a western foreign diplomat´s wife in my communist homeland was very special: I had my friends and family around and could enjoy whatever my country offered, the beauty of countryside and the cultural life in Prague, and at the same time live in spacious villa overlooking Prague, have a cook/maid (never mind that she, as well as the gardener/concierge were government spies), drive around with a CD number plate (could park wherever I wanted), be able to hop over to Germany (West) for shopping and travel. Gradually, I was being introduced to Joris´s colleagues and to the diplomatic life in general, and started tennis and golf lessons. However, I was still a Czech citizen as well and there was work to be done about it. First, I needed a permission to live abroad, and for that I had to pay back my free university years. Second, a permanent emigration permit, for which I paid back my studies all over again, as the loss of the money “invested in me” was this time round considered irrevocable, especially as I also requested to be released from the Czechoslovak citizenship, a condition imposed by the Belgian state in order to keep the Belgian one granted to me. (After the “Velvet Revolution” of 1986 I got it back, you know the story.) Before we “went public” with our intention to get married, I had been playing a “Russian roulette” with my little flat. It was of course not really mine, the whole house having passed into the state ownership after my father´s death, but I had a contract for it and was paying rent. One of the features of the communist system was a chronic shortage of apartments and an “exchange” system was in place: whoever wanted to exchange an apartment for a smaller or bigger one, put in an ad in the paper; it was quite legal. Small as it was, my flat was still bigger and better than what some other people had, and on a prime location. What was not legal was that money changed hands as well: one had to pay to get a bigger/better place, and therein lay the risk: If “the buyer” denounced you, you would be in huge trouble. Nevertheless, I went ahead and soon found a buyer. He lived in Na zbořenci street, round the corner from Na Zderaze, (in the house that you can see from my attic´s back window), in a single room with a communal WC on the balcony. (This was also the case with the house on Na Zderaze, before we had it reconstructed.) We came to an arrangement, but until it was officially approved and he gave me the money in exchange for the contract, I lived in fear. Luckily, he was a decent man and even waited till I could move out directly to my new home, so I only changed address on paper – the one on our marriage certificate. I used the money to pay off my studies the first time. The second time, I had to use the share that my father had received “under the table” after the sale of his parents´ villa to some big shot, and which we had managed never to touch – it was our safety net and was bringing a yearly interest, not much (but still more than what it has been lately). There was no money left for my “dowry”, but I had most of my Mother´s (furniture, linen, dinner service…) and, what was most important to me, my husband did not have to “buy” his bride from the state, I paid my price myself. In May the following year we went for a two week postponed honeymoon to Greece by car, a long drive on the smooth German Autobahns and then, in stark contrast, along the dangerous road to Turkey, lined with car wreckages, presumably mainly of Turkish “Gastarbeiters”, and referred to as “the route of death”. It was narrow, winding and busy, and I had to help Joris to overtake (like Carolina on our way to the Amazonie “Dale, dale!...). Once safely in Greece, we were able to crisscross the mainland including the Peloponnese and the island of Crete at will, and visit all the archeologic sites of the antique ruins. (I hope you will, too, one day!) From the ancient history point of view, it was fascinating, but compared to Italy, rather bleak and monochrome. We only found one little beach, where I could take a dip, that was disappointing. The tiny island of Mykonos, famous for its numberless white windmills, was so rocky all around, that try as I might, I could not even put my toe in the so invitingly deep blue sea. Very frustrating… Normally, we should have stayed in Prague till the summer 1977, me getting used to the diplomatic “circus” and enjoying my pleasant status of “a foreign diplomat in my own country”, so it was quite a blow, when the last of the diplomatic exams, German, (Joris was only a “stageur” at the time) was suddenly put forward and we had to leave in February, which also crushed my hopes of giving birth for the very first time “in my mother tongue”. Having moved only once in the first 30 years of my life and that only 3 storeys up, I was now moving for the second time in just over a year, and not only into another house but into another country and into a different political system – to the other side of the “Iron Curtain”. Moreover, I had to go to Brussels all alone by train beacause a long journey by car was judged too risky at my advanced state of pregnancy. Since the day I left, on the 13th of February, I kept a “Diary”, the beginning of which, the year 1977, follows here in this blog, A Diplomat´s Wife´s Travels Around the World http://BPtravels.blogspot.com, which by now has mutated into the memoir of my early life in Prague until my marriage, and a history of my (and your) Czech family, after the POSTCRIPT AND FAST FOREWARD. I did continue my diary faithfully through all the years till Joris´s retirement in January 2011, and after that I have only written „travel logs”, all of it in Czech. So far have translated into English my “Australian Diaries” till just after Thomas´s arrival into this world. Hopefully, I´ll continue with it, but first I want to write down what I know of your Czech ancestors.
POSTSCRIPT – THE STORY OF THE RESTITUTIONS AFTER 1986
It was only through a chance remark by aunt Myška, that I knew about the house Na Zderaze 6 and its location, and later, during the restitutions in the ninetieth, I discovered, that it had never been sold but stayed registered in the name of my great grandfather Linhart and that I could claim it as inheritance via my great parents (Gawalowski) and great aunt Myška, as the next in line, my mother, was gone as well. Aunt Míša Šebová did all the paper and leg work for me and by another chance, inherited a half of the house: great aunt Myška had the bad luck to die just a few weeks before the “Velvet revolution” in 1986 and she made aunt Míša, her once removed niece, the sole beneficiary of her will, with a side bequest to me of the cupboard and chest I have in Prague. Her reasons for that was a) she had no idea she was or could again become the owner of two ancestral houses and b) aunt Míša was taking care of her, as both her grandnieces, aunt Helena and myself, were living abroad. So aunt Míša legally inherited, or restituted, halves of both houses, and Helena and myself the other halves. But aunt Helena was an “illegal” emigrant and refused to request the Czech nationality back, which was a condition of any restitution, even if she did try to get the house through Hana, who still lived in Prague, but with her mother alive, had no claim to anything. This lead to a legal tangle and it nearly cost us both houses. On the other hand, aunt Míša was more honest than most people would be, and acknowledged, in her own words, that though she was legally fully entitled to both halves, she had come by them as result of circumstances, and gave up her half of the bigger house, the one in Budečská street. I, on my part, was no less “noble”, and after the house in Budečska had been sold, I duly sent Helena “her” half of the money, but asked her to formally give up her quarter of Zderaz, as I did not want to have any problems with Hana in future. Aunt Míša had expressed a wish, to keep the half of Zderaz, because my great grandmother, was her grandmother´s sister (both born Emler, see My Family), were sisters and lived there. Keeping in mind what she had for Aunt Myška in my absence, I agreed and she supervised the reconstruction of the house with the help of her son Michal, who subsequently rented the ground floor form us for his offices. The house was in sorry state, the facade pealing off, the ground floor used for storing coal. In what is now my flat, an elderly Slovak lady lived, without a bathroom or WC, the atticks was just a dusty loft witrh a WC, which she used. I paid her a sun of money to move out to her family in Slovakia and designed the reconstruction of the flat and the attick myslef, and paid for it with what I had got from the sale of the other Linhart house. My aunt redid the first floor under me. Only the front apartments were more or less decent. The Blažek family stayed on the 1st floor and so did an old lady in the divided 2nd floor, until her death. in the other part a policeman´s family lived and they were not easy to dislodge. Finally, they did move out, asking for a considederably bigger amount that the Slovak lady. For some reason I had to hand over the money somewhere out of Prague, like in a gangster movie, and I was quite scared. (So a lot effort, money and emotions went into the house, so, please, do not treat lightly what is now yours and do not quarrel over it!)My aunt also very efficiently run the whole house and I could have never managed without her. The Linharts had also owned a house round the corner, which was demolished and is now the parking place, my part of which I sold to Michael. I am telling you all this, so you understand how the situation came about and why you share the house with Michael, now that aunt Míša passed away. And also how you are related to him and Filipa. In the same way, my cousins on my father´s side, especially Pavel (Honza was also abroad), helped me to get my share, that is one third of the two remaining houses bought by our common grandfather Pešina, or rather of the amount for which they were eventually sold. The so called restitutions was a process initiated after the “Velvet Revolution” in Czecoslovakia, aiming to return the properties confiscated by the communist regime to their rightful owners or their descendants, including factories, castles, lands etc. One condition was that the claimant was of Czech nationality and had a permanent address in the CZ. Pavel helped me to get my Czech nationality back, Michael and Monica “lent” me provisionally their address, as if I were their tenant in their villa that you know. Pavel then went through all the necessary steps required on behalf of himself, Peter and Honza (one third from their mother) and me (one third from my father), aided by Vítek, who also proved himself fair and stood on my side against his parents, who were still alive then, and were opposed to my getting my share, especially his mother Alena, who had never been liked by our family and had a reputation of being greedy. According to her, I forfeited my inheritance/restitution rights by leaving my homeland after marriage. Uncle Jaroslav had always been considered “a black sheep“ of the family for joining the Communist party and a careerist for supposedly marrying Alena because her father, Prof. Matějček, a re-known art historian – everybody knew the volumes of his History of Art – and the Head of the History of Art Department of the Charles University, where my uncle eventually followed him, patiently suffering the endless chatter and extravagances of his corpulent wife – the price he had to pay. Not that he did not deserve his career and position, he was gifted and dedicated to his profession, he only lacked spine. Of all of us they were the least in need of money and there had already been a clash over the proceeds from the sale of the cubist villa after the death of my father and they /she? were very mean to my mother, which rankles to this day. If anybody should have protested, it was the three brothers, as their individual shares were much smaller (1/3:3). But they did not and Vítek prevailed and I got my third. So this is the story behind the house Na Zderaze and the money I have in my name. I have told it in great length because I want you to know the kind of people my family are and how good they have been to me, and I hope that you will somehow be able to keep up with their children and grandchildrinen. To remind you who yours and Luka´s and Lucía´s cousins are:
FAST FROWARD:
Our postings were: Australia, December 1977 – September 1982; The Philippines, November, 1982- July 1985 ); Switzerland, summer (1985 – summer 1990), Brussels /(1990- December 1993); Ecuador (1993-1997); Yougoslavia (October 1997 – March 1999); Brussels, 1999- 2003); Syria, September 2003- September 2006), Colombia (October, 2006 - January, 2011). (As you may recall, we witnessed upheavals and historic events in each of our postings. I can include Australia and Switzerland, where Thomas was born in Canberra, and the Belgian royal couple, King Baudewijn and Queen Fabiola, paid us a visit in Berne, but those events were joyous. In the Philippines, president Marcos and his wife Imelda were forced to leave and the new president, Aquino, was shot to death on the steps of the airplane, at landing in Manila. Even during our stay in Brussels, there was the sudden death (of natural causes) of king Baudewijn in 1993. In Ecuador, another war with Peru took place. In Yugoslavia, we had to evacuate from Belgrade because of the Kosovo crisis and the NATO bombing. In Syria, well, to be precise, in Lebanon, the prime minister Hariri was blown up in Beirut, and later, Israel once more attacked Lebanon. Finally, in Colombia, considered the most dangerous, we arrived after the events, when president Uribe had defeated (practically) the FARCs, but we did witness (on TV) the dramatic rescue of their long time hostages, a.o. Clara Roja and Ingrid Betancourt and tensions with Venezuela.)
THE YEAR 1977:
JANUARY
I started this diary on the13th of February, the day and I left Prague to start „ a new life“ Belgium, so I am not sure how exactly we spent the first day of this year. As I was 6 months pregnant with David, and already quite big, I suppose we just stayed quietly at home. The rest of January, however, must have been quite busy preparing our move - the first of many to come - and taking leave of my family, friends, diplomatic colleagues and my city in general. I remember being very upset at hearing the news we were to move in February already, as originally I was counting on staying till the summer and consequently giving birth to my first baby „at home“. So Christmas was rather a tearful affair. Moreover, the gyneacologist advised against such a long journey by car and so I had to leave by train - alone. Joris would follow a few days later.
Sunday, 13.2.
The last morning in our Prague home (a villa in the street Na Hrebenkách 41, P5, high above the city), where we spent the first 14 months of our married life, dawned grey and misty. By now it was stripped of all our possessions, and only memories were being left behind, over which I shed a few tears, when getting into the car to leave it for ever.
The farewells having all taken place before, there was, beside Joris, only one old family friend (a rejected, but ever faithful suiter of my mother) on the platform of the Main Prague railway station near the Wencelas Square (Nowadays renamed Wilson´s Station) to wave me off. Luckily, the train was due to leave almost immediately, which spared us the agony of protracted Good-byes. The two waving figures quickly disappeare behind a bent and the train gathers speed. As it happens, the railway to Germany leads trough the part of Prague, where I had lived until I got married, and so „my whole life till then flashes before my eyes“ - first my old school (elementary and secondary, called Na Hradku, in Boticska street), and next to it, the St.Ursula convent hospital, where my father died in 1959. Then on to the Railway bridge, with a shattering noise under its intricate, soot blackened metal arches, and over the river Moldau (Vltava), with waters of which „I had been christened“. From the bridge, looking downstream, I can see our family house on the river embankment (Rasinovo nabrezi 76) and the majestic outline of the Prague castle (Hradcany). Running to the opposite window I catch a glimpse of my Grandparents´ Pesina cubism style villa (long since lost), on the right bank of the river, above which towers the mythological rock of Vysehrad, crowned with two black neo-gothic spires of the church of St. Peter and Paul; the adjacent cemetery, famous for its many Art Nouveau tombs, contains the graves of most of my family from both Mother´s and Father´s side. On the other side of the river I can see the hill on which stands the house I have just left. For a while, the railway follows the river upstream, along the road to Slapy, where Joris and I spent many a romantic secret weekend in our family log cabin, hiding from the „evil world“ ( where I spent all the August part of the school holidays with my grandparents - mother´s side. I had to sell my half to my uncle before emigrating). All this fills me with considerable sadness and nostalgia.
But enough of that. The train is taking me towards a new life, that I had chosen of my own will and now must hope that it will be happy.
The first class compartment was empty and I was grateful to be able to relax for the next 12 hours with a book - the last month left me pretty exhausted (lugging around, as I was, some 15 kg extra weight, due to the future David).
Around noon a long wait on the border in the Sumava forest. One unlucky passenger´s papers were not in order and he was hauled off the train. Though I was by now fully and solely a Belgian citizen, I was gripped by the old familiar fear, that I so often experienced on crossing this point before, as a subject of the communist state, and held me all the way through the „no man´s land“, between barbered wire fences and barren stretches of ploughed earth lined with guard towers, till the first stop in Germany - Furst im Wald - where I had spent a few happy hours doing Christmas shopping last December.
Lunch in the Czech dining car - only DM accepted, was expensive and bad. Dinner in the newly added German diner, was still expensive, but good.
At half past eight the train reached Koln (Cologne), where I was met by a German friend, Cassia, and her mother, at whose house I was also spending the night. (At the time of translation, I cannot remember how I knew them, but apparently I stayed with them also 2 years before. Lucky thing I WAS writing a diary, otherwise what else I might not have forgotten!)
Monday, 14.2.
The morning broke bright and beautiful, with spring in the air - a good omen, perhaps? Cassia´s father gave me breakfast and took me to the station next to the looming, brooding cathedral, an old friend. From my several journeys to and from England).The direct train to Brussels was one of the first modern ones, without compartments, I felt more like in a plane. I had to pay extra for this luxury. After leaving Germany we entered the gently rolling landscape of my new homeland, green even in the middle of winter.
I arrived at Bruxelles Midi at half past one, and was met by Father-in- law and brother-in-law, Mark. „Welcome home,“ they said in unisono. I was sorry not to see Daniel - he left the very same morning in the opposite direction for Germany, to begin a two months stage there at a bank, having successfully completed his studies of economy. Mother-in law was at home, cooking lunch. Mark drove and the traffic scared me - already then I described their style as „where there is a space, squeeze through it“. In their spacious apartment in Kindermansstraat 1 in Elsene (whose surroundings did not impressed me very favourably, rather the contrary) Mother welcomed me as warmly as ever and there was no end to questions about how I was feeling and how I left „George“. After lunch we went to see the apartment, that Father found for us, round the corner from their flat (in Bosstraat). It was in one of four blocks of flats around a small park in the middle, on the 3rd floor. It was very pleasant and light, but I was shocked, how small it was. (The villa in Prague, permanently rented by the Belgian government for the nr.2 of the embassy, was very big.) It had an L shaped dining/sitting room, albeit with a with fireplace and big windows, a tiny hall, one small and one very small bedroom, narrow kitchen with a small balcony. What worried me was, that my solid, „middle European“ furniture, inherited from my parents and never intended to be moved once installed, would never fit in. But I had to put a brave face on it, as Father was very proud of his „find“. It has been two long and emotional days and I was glad to creep between the sheets early.
Tuesday, 15.2.
Morning spent in our new fat, measuring and puzzling over how to place the furniture, when it arrives tomorrow afternoon. Mother´s cleaning lady, Consuelo, and the concierge Julienne, who is in fact a woman, but one would not think so at a first glance, gave the place a thorough and highly necessary clean up. After lunch went with mother to buy some chairs and a table for the kitchen. Joris arrived at six and in style - by service car driven by the embassy driver Tunkel. They successfully smuggled out my little antique bureau, few old paintings and family portraits, and some Persian carpets. (We were not sure we would get permission to export them, so we chose this more secure, though a bit dangerous way. But in those days, the diplomatic number plates worked wonders.) Joris´s Granny called from England.
Wednesday, 16.2.
Furniture arrived late, at four, so the moving in happened in a great hurry. By some miracle, everything not only got in, even my big, all in one piece double bed (though it had to undergo an „operation on its feet) but even fitted in quite nicely, although the general aspect at the moment is more of a very untidy warehouse than a home.
Wednesday, 23.2.
A week after the furniture, we moved finally in, too. Every day from morning to evening I was unpacking and moving things around, until everything was to our satisfaction. I could not believe, how much STUFF we had - and I shall continue to be surprised by this fact throughout our long gypsy life; yet, whatever I threw or gave away, I would regret bitterly soon afterwards....Another experience will repeat itself unerringly - the (practically illiterate) movers will ALWAYS find an unguarded moment to unpack and mess up the books, packed with great care in alphabetical order.
Joris spends his days at the Ministry, the courses for his final exams have started, so it was left to Father to help me - we cautioned each other constantly, to be careful and not overdo it. Consuelo and Julienne cleaned some more, and Albert, Jullienne´s tiny husband, hung up the pictures. Mother was busy shopping and cooking (which she detests and never stops to point it out), or „chauffers“ me around, when needed (Father doesn´t drive). On Sunday she drove us all out for a little walk in the woods on the outskirts of Brussels - the Bois de la Cambre, which is very pretty.
On Monday we were invited to lunch at the house of the d´Avernas - our ambassador in Prague.
One of our living room windows gives on the west - the sunsets are spectacular and I watch them with a huge nostalgia for the sunsets of Prague.
A bit of cheese for our first supper, not very exciting, but I simply could not manage anything more demanding.
Monday, 28.2.
Life has assumed its routine, Joris leaves early, walks to the ministry and comes back for lunch ( and a nap). I sleep late, potter around, cook lunch, wash up, sometimes go shopping (there is a handy little grocery shop, the „winkel“ across the street from the parents´house, but for big weekly shopping we go by car with Mother to a self service Delhaize) or for a walk, depends on the weather, which is changeable but quite sunny and warm and spring seems in the air already - the leaves are budding on trees in the streets and in the parks and gardens the colourful crocuses are pushing through the earth and forsythias bushes are all golden. The month of the big move is over and I feel quite happy but also very tired. Friday Mother and Father came with a pink azalea plant and a bottle of wine to drink to our new home. Saturday went for a nice long walk in the woods. On Sunday we had lunch with the parents and in the evening our first guests for supper, one of Joris´s colleagues Guido Curtois and his Slovak wife Danica, a journalist. They came back from the Ivory Coast for the exams. I made cheese fondue (from a packet) and a trifle. We had a nice evening, talking mainly about Prague, though Danica is from Bratislava.
Sunday, 6.3.
Wednesday an important day - a visit to my new gynaecologist. He is an elderly man and so from the old school. His thoroughness and personal attention reminded me of my grandfather Prof. Mudr.Gawalowski, and I was relieved, feeling I am in good hands. Though no chicken at my nearly 33 years, or rather because of it, I am becoming quite terrified at thought of giving birth in a month or so. Such a small hole...All the films, dwelling with such relish on the agony of it, have not helped. However, I was able to listen to the beat of the child´s heart - what a noise - like horses galloping. Amazing. (In those days, nobody dreamed yet of getting to know the child´s sex beforehand, it was not even a mater of course, that fathers should be present at the birth.) But he did make the first, ultrasound, photo of David to be. Not much to see, if you don´t know, what to look for. Still, a nice souvenir.
Saturday, I made my first acquaintance with Joris´s uncle Walter, his father´s bachelor younger brother and professor of oriental linguistics in Antwerp. A tall, thin man, with a shock of nearly white hair, who never stopped talking. He seems to have an universal memory and remembers everything that he ever read or heard. Interesting, but a la long tiring. Has written lots and lots of books and is just finishing another, about the city of Antwerp. Unfortunately, he had been a member of the extreme radical Flemish party, De Vlaamse Blok, and has always been for separation of the Flemish from the Walloons and joining the Dutch. His views and action had caused many problems to his brother, during his diplomatic career (he was the first Fleming to make it into the service, dominated in those days by the French speaking nobility). Uncle Walter also has a very sharp tongue, and his critical outpourings over the Belgian public figures did little to transform a „new born“ Belgian citizen like me into a patriot.
Today another walk in the woods, they are really quite wonderful and stretch apparently for miles out of Brussels. Yesterday we went by car with mother and father to Waterloo, the site of the defeat of Napoleon . There is a museum and a artificial hill with the famous statue of the Lion on top. Despite my big tummy and swollen legs, I climbed the nearly 200 steps up. ( I boasted about this heroic feat to all my visiting friends, that puffed their way up there with me in later years.) Instead of the cannon fire the place was filled with laughter and screaming of children.
Sunday, 13.3.
The Friday afternoon hailstorm was not able to triumph over the spring, the hyacinths, tulips and pansies are all out, though the sun is not.
Having walked through the streets of Brussels quite a lot, I don´t find it as ugly and gloomy as during my pervious brief visits - mostly just driving through to somewhere else. It depends of course on the part of Brussels one lives in, or even just the street one walks along. Around here, in Elsene, there are some lovely streets of 19th century pseudo baroque bourgeois town houses, or better still, little gems of art nouveau, for which Brussels is rightly famous. It is a great shame though, that many of them were pulled down in the fifties and replaced by plain, even ugly concrete boxes of apartment houses - ours and the parents´ are examples of just plain, or low even uglier car show rooms, and there are also many empty lots behind wooden fences. But the more recent architecture is better, lots of tall buildings of all shapes covered in glass, which reflects the ever changing hues of the skies, and there are many parks and trees lining the mostly spacious, and quite clean, streets (except for paper litter and, which is worse, dogs´ poo. The freedom here applies even to these four legged friends of man - in this case, a little too much.)
I started a French course at the Ministry, I am the only pupil, even though it is gratis. I also go to some gymnastics for pregnant women, with massage and breathing exercises.
Daniel came from Frankfurt to spend the weekend. We all went to the theatre Saturday evening, 3 short plays in the Brussels English Comedy Club- my initiative, and quite successful. Sunday family lunch at parents´ also Mark was there, and then a walk around the lake in the Bois de la Cambre - little me with my big tummy and three tall handsome men. Pity that the rain cut it short. Both Mark and Daniel are bachelors. Mark is very handsome and thin and very much with the „high society“ of Belgium, including the members of the royalty. About a year ago he had terminated a tempestuous relationship with a beauty, who was soon afterwards killed in a car accident. Like Daniel, he graduated in economy and is now studying for the entrance exams for a diplomatic career. Daniel is a bit chubby and is dating Kira, a primabalerina in the ballet company of Maurice Béjart.
It is a month since I left Prague. I have not yet had time to become homesick, but I have been dreaming about it and people i know there almost every night, perhaps subconsciously escaping to the familiar surroundings from all the new impressions.
Monday, 21.3. - 1st day of Spring
The temperatures oscillate between 20° and 10°, which makes me very tired, nevertheless I persevere with the exercise classes and the French lessons, I walk the half hour to the ministry and back, enjoying the advancing spring that manifests itself even in the streets - some trees covered themselves in white, some in pink (the lovely Japanese cherry trees, which line also our street), the magnificent magnolias are ready to bloom and so are the large chestnuts in „our“ park. The colourful tulips dot every little bit of lawn.
At the domestic front some plumbing problems and difficulties with Jullienne, who wants more money for cleaning...
The traffic continues to frighten me and I do not dare to drive. What amazes me is the „right of way from the right“ without exceptions, even in the tinniest of streets leading on a to thoroughfare of several lanes, like the Louizalaan. I also marvel at the yellow, single wagon trams, which seem minuscule compared to the Prague´s rattling red and yellow double ones; they seem almost antique, with a table between each pair of seats. There are also buses and a metro is being built. For the time being, its finished parts lock onto the trams rail system, and use the trams, which is quite ingenious, I think. The system of road tunnels, built at the time of the World exhibition Expo 58 in Brussels, helps the traffic to flow smoothly, especially at the weekend exodus. (The Expo was held in the „Jubelpark“ in Laeken, where the then Belgian pavilion - the Atomium - still forms a distinct ive Brussel´s landmark. The Chinese Pagoda and the Japanese pavilion are also still standing. The Czech pavilion, made world famous by the innovative theatre cum film performances - the „Laterna Magica - The Magic lantern“, had been moved to Prague, where it still functions as a restaurant on one of the hills above the river.)
Saturday dinner at the Parents, together with another couple, the daughter and her English husband of their old time friends, (a Scottish noble lady Joey, married to a Dutch Count van Linden). We are supposed to strike a friendship, but I don´t know, if it happens - a friendship cannot be arranged, it must grow from some common experiences or shared activities. (This „piece of wisdom“ has been confirmed to me since, in all those years of for ever having to form new ties in the new countries. It has grown more difficult with the age, and at the time of translating this and sitting in Damascus, I have almost given up...) Anyway, they were nice, though a bit superior (and older). Joris did not help - he was practically asleep with his eyes open.
During supper the first thunderstorm of the year - in compliance wit a Czech superstition I hurried to lift up something heavy (due to my condition, only a chair) and made Joris to lift ME up, which should assure him enough strength for more than just one year.
Yesterday a beautiful morning, so decided to drive out with the Parents after lunch. Though the weather looked set to last for a fortnight, the afternoon became cloudy, but we went anyway, to visit Beersel, partly ruined little castle, not far from Brussels, a water fort from the 14th century. As with the trams, I was struck by its diminutive size, but impressed by the loveliness of this round structure from read bricks, set in the green woods. We walked round through its half destroyed walls surrounding a roofless courtyard, before we were chased away by the rain. We found refuge in a nice old fashioned restaurant next door. Lesson: when the sun shines, go out immediately! In the evening watched the film From Here to Eternity about Pearl Harbour, with Frank Sinatra and Burt Lancaster ( on TV).
Monday, 28.3.
Home alone - Joris left for Paris till Friday, with all his colleagues, as part of the preparations for the exams. Yesterday rain with snow and cold - what happened to the Spring?
I have had a haircut - a big decision, but not as drastic as originally planned - I had meant to have it cut quite short, just as I used to wear it some years ago, but was persuaded by Mother to stop at shoulder length. The result is so so, shouldn´t have listened to her.
More important was another visit to the gynaecologist. He thinks I might be more advanced than we thought, the baby seems quite big and he dissuaded me from the visit of my Dutch „adoptive parents“, the Breitensteins, in Amsterdam, which I had planned during Joris´s absence. I am very disappointed, as I was planning to see all my friends from the year I had spent there in 1968/69. Instead, I was advised to rest and sleep a lot, which actually suits me fine. On one of my walks I discovered a beautiful gothic monastery and church - Ter Kameren / La Cambre, not far from us. It used be far out of Brussels in the old times and now sits in a deep hollow, landscaped in the style of a „French garden“. I decided that it is here that I want my child christened, even though it is a French community church. Father goes to Flemish masses at the end of rue de Baillei /???/, to a baroque church, badly in need of restoration - the absis is shut off by a „temporary“ wall. It is gloomy inside and outside and do not like it.
Monday, 4.4.
As I could not go the Breitensteins, they came to see us this past weekend. They stayed with parents. Joris said he was too busy, so Daniel, who happened to be Brussels again, very kindly offered to take us on a tour of Brussels on Saturday afternoon, which was interesting for me as well. We managed to see everything - from the Palace of justice to the Mannekke Pis - and had a well deserved tea on the Grand Place. Daniel made a scene, because the waiter did not speak Flemish (yes, he used to be like that!) Later we had drinks at our place and looked through the wedding album. The Breits brought some presents, a.o. a little wooden box covered in lace (hand made by mevr. Breit, whose hobby it is), which it was customary in Holland to hang over metal door knockers, in the times before electric bells, when there was a baby sleeping in the house. (It is now in my flat in Prague, in a glass cabinet.) The Dutch crown princess Beatrice (now the Queen) was given one from the Dutch Guild of lace makers on the birth of her son, prince William. So I am in good company.
Sunday morning was raining, so nothing to do but to visit the Palais de Beaux Arts. We concentrated on Rubens - in my present state, his corpulent naked beauties made me feel good....Lunch at Parents, poor Mother had to cook for 9, as Uncle Walter invited himself unexpectedly as well. The conversation certainly flowed, at least from his side...
Easter
There was some talk about going to church on Friday, but the Flemish mass started too late, the English was too long and the French was vetoed by Father, so we stayed at home, the weather was horrible anyway, more like Christmas, with snow and all. I listened to the Mathew´s passions by Bach on the radio, with my feet up. We went to church on Sunday, Joris, father and I to the Flemish one, Mother the Anglican. I really miss the richness of the Prague churches. The ritual of the Holy communion has been modernised - the confession is done „en mass“ at the beginning of the service and at the end one stands in a queue and helps him/herself to the host from a plate. The wine is also offered, even at the Catholic mass, but I abstained (my aunt Myska always insisted, that it was an unhygienic habit!)
At lunch we feasted on lamb and exchanged eggs.
On my birthday Tuesday I thought about my Mother, who, 33 years ago experienced what I am going to experience so soon now. She did not have a too hard time with me, so I am hoping for the same. Joris gave me a big jewellery box, wooden with copper lining.
Several days were spent trying to buy a pram, for which the Breitensteins left us money. A seemingly simple and normally joyous occasion turned into a nightmare, due to well meant but exaggerated efforts by Mother to save money on one hand, and assure the pram were of such quality so as to last for generations. (I have no idea, whether her pram survived even her own four children.) In the end, we bought the one I originally chose, a light hearted affair covered in denim and on high wheels, with a removable „carry cot“ and hood, and a basket underneath with ample room for shopping, overriding Mother´s objections to its inferior quality, judged to be so on the bases of its cheapness. (The shop in the Bascule, where I also got all the other stuff, is still there, next to Innovation, and as it turned out the pram survived intact all our travels and very heavy duty, especially in Canberra, where it eventually carried both Thomas,and David and lots of shopping, and occassions even a suitcase on top. I was quite sorry to part with it when we left Australia, but was not prepared to have more babies in order to keep it...)
Also bought a baby bath ( all the baby cloths etc I have already) and were lent a beautiful old-fashioned crib, all covered in white lace by Mother´s friend Joey. What we still do not have is a name. The short list is Luiza, Claudia, Andrea or Clara for a girl, Andreas, Simon, Mateas, Nigel or Christopher for a boy, but Joris is not really keen on none for a boy, though he does not seem to care much which girl name I choose.
On my insistence we went to see the opera La Traviatta, arranged by Béjart, and so half opera, half ballet and rather unusual, the various innovations not always an improvement on the traditional concept.
Sunday the 17th there were elections, compulsory in Belgium and made complicated, at least in the case of our family, by the fact, that women here keep their maiden name for all official purposes and in the ID. So Mother (Nevill) and I (Pesinova), had to go and vote at a different location from the male Couvreurs, as P and N are so far from C in the alphabet. There were 17 parties to choose from, I just did what Joris had told me - so much for the coveted democracy!).
I have reached elephantine proportions, my legs and hands are swollen, life is difficult and time seems to have come to a standstill. The baby kicks with all its might, it is sometimes quite painful - or is that something else? Despite back pain, I still perservere with exercises and French. But there is good news, the baby might arrive within 2 weeks.
1st May
The rest of April mostly uneventful, except for another cultural expedition, this time to the Flemish Theatre to see a guest performance of an English company Prospect, which, I remembered, had been highly praised by en English theatre director I was once an interpreter for. Mother refused to go, being tired after a visit of the van Linden. We had lunch with them. I was sorry, as the invitation was meant partly to repay all her kindness to me. We saw Bernard Shaw´s Joanne of Arc and it was excellent - the play as well as the performance.
Daniel returned from Germany, but is leaving tomorrow again, this time for England, for four months. The Parents organised a farewell cocktail for him. I really did not want to participate, I am feeling very awkward and stupid, but we had to. Mother sat me down on a sofa a kept bringing to me all the present ladies one by one. The conversation always started with the question“ When is it going to be?“- the baby - and continued with description of the births of their own babies. In the end I felt like had had mine already. Why didn´t she bring any MEN along?!
The 6th of May, 1977, at 11.45 A.M (summer time), in Brussels,
under combined efforts of Dr.Boll and mine, and to some extend of Joris, our son DAVID (Zdenek Daniel) was born to us. Measures: 51 cm and 3.36 kg
To listen to a concert on the radio and to watch my son David to make funny faces in his sleep, is my favourite preoccupation now. I am a brand new mother and I am profoundly enjoying this greatest miracles of all miracles, which though it has happened billions of time to billions of women, is quite unique to me.
But to begin at the beginning. On Thursday, the 5th of May, dr. Boll decided, that it was high time for the baby to be born and to induce the birth the following day. The suspicion crossed my mind, that the doctor was loath to having his weekend spoiled, should the baby come then, but I was not cross with him, as I myself could hardly wait. The very same evening Joris took me to the Elsene public hospital (which I chose above the famous private Edith Cavell, as I was promised a private room - nr.39, lucky number - and that, and my doctor Boll being present, was all that mattered to me.) Just before leaving, we realised, that we still had not decided on a name. From the girls´ list we chose Astrid, but even at this 11th hour Joris did not really like any of the 10 boys´names. Suddenly he said - what about David? And so David it became.
Joris stayed a while, very nervous, and when he left I tried to sleep, but in vain - the screaming of the new-borns and pain in the tummy kept me hopelessly awake. After the nurse gave me a sedative I slept blissfully till the start of the hospital day at 5.30. I was very hungry and thirsty, but was denied all food and drink. At 8 o´clock my water broke, which erased all doubts about dr.Boll´s decision (among other things, he speared me the mess at home). I was taken down to a room outside the operating theatre and given the drip to induce the contractions, but they started almost simultaneously, so maybe naturally, but in quick succession and very strong from the beginning. The prenatal preparation in relaxation and breathing exercises stood me in good stead, even the silly ditty we had to sing „Ten greens bottles are standing on the fall, if one of them falls, there are only nine...“etc etc. The trick is not to fight the pain, but „go with it“, i.e. not to stiffen and contract the muscles, but loosen up. It needs a strong will and concentration, as it does not really lessen the pain (which feels as if one´s inside are torn by red hot pincers), but it helps not to increase it. Joris arrived at ten, by which time I was not very sociable. At eleven, relaxation or no not, I had enough and asked the nurse to get a move on. She checked and said OK, it is time. Then the worst contractions came, when I could not relax while climbing from the bed onto a stretcher and then onto the operating table“ . As all the women befor me, I thought I would die ... but did not. Once I was allowed to push, the pain abated. Joris, in a white surgical gown was told to stand behind me and keep my head up, but was not told to let go, when the nurse was pushing it down, when I had to take breath. She was quite rough with me and when I asked for water she nearly smothered me with some wet cotton wool - I felt like Christ on the cross, being offered the sponge soaked with vinegar. Dr. Bill had a brief look, then went to see to a more imminent case. After half an hour, I could hardly breath for thirst, let alone to keep up the rhythm, and there did not seem to be any progress. Finally, the doctor came back and to my utmost chargin announced he would have to use some instrument, not forceps, but some sort of medical „plumber’s help“ (normally a rubber bell on a wooden stick, that is used to extract things from blocked toilets by suction...sorry David!) I felt utterly useless and inferior - a woman incapable to give a natural birth! - and wanted to give up. But the pain made me to co-operate further. Despite a last minute local anaesthesia, the baby´s head broke through with an excruciating pain ( it has not softened over the years, hey, David?)), followed by a warm fish of the body, the pain disappeared and it was all over. Seconds later, the doctor was showing me my baby, still tied to me by the umbilical cord, announcing proudly: a boy!
Etched only as a dark shape against the window, he seemed enormous and I could hardly believe, that he really came out of me. Only when I held him in my arms, still bloodied all over, it sank properly in, that we had a BOY, for whom we both ardently wished, though of course maintaining, as is proper, that we don´t care, as long as the baby is born healthy and whole. Then Joris´s smiling, happy face came into focus and I was overwhelmed by such an intense feeling of happiness and of tremendous accomplishment, as I had never felt before. David´s first cry soon confirmed, that everything was as it should be, and as they say, all previous suffering was completely and utterly forgotten. Of course, I was lucky - my ordeal did not last very long - not even four hours, which is very short as the births go, especially at such „advanced“ age as mine. For that I had to thank dr. Boll´s drastic, but quick method, (which apparently was his trademark), notwithstanding, that it caused me another sort of agony a week later, when a nurse read me a long exposé of David s state of health, ending with the announcement, that the suction pressure on his head left behind not only a sort of red tonsure on his skull, but also haemorrhage in the eyes, which will have to be checked, but should disappear within a few days. I had trouble following her rapid French and she left, before I could ask any questions, mainly „Did she say cinq, quince or possibly cent days?!“ (I still have problems with these numbers ...and my distaste for French may have its origin in this incident.) Because, if it was 5, it should have disappeared by now...and does it imply that he will go blind?! I started blaming myself for having let myself become so overweight ( though honest to God, I was NOT overeating), as the same nurse explained to me, that the use of the instrument was necessary, because I had developed such high blood pressure, that further effort could have led to a contraction ending up in a cramp, preventing the child get out in time and thus suffocate....The high blood pressure was due to my excessive weight., which was caused by malfunction of the kidneys - most of it was water: within two days I lost 8kg of the 16 gained. My „sin“ was not stopping salt completely, as advised, having underestimated its importance. Be it as it may I spent a couple of dark hours in tears. Luckily, Mark arrived earlier than usual (he comes to see me every day, as he is working in a nearby Military hospital in lieu of the military service) and with his help all was explained. The haemorrhage is normal under the circumstances, will disappear within 15 day, and will not have any adverse effects. But to come back to the 6th of May .
When both baby and I were bathed and decent enough to face the world, we were taken to my room. David kept whimpering and Joris examined him minutely, raising all kinds of objections:
Head too long (that was also due to the use of the instrument), no hair ( not QUITE true, there was a soft down discernible), not enough chin ( with no teeth, what can he want!), eyes possibly not big enough (they were tightly shut). He was not even happy with his size, until he found in a book (Dr. Spock´s which I am going to study minutely, not having the faintest idea, what to do with a baby that I now have), that David´s weight almost, and his length exactly correspond to average values given for a new born... I asked him, if he maybe entered David into a competition and put all his money on him - he is a betting man, so far only on horses. Satisfied, he finally left to announce the good news to his parents, but I was not left in peace even then and was subjected to all kinds of examinations, while David fell asleep. Joris came back later with a big bunch of red roses - they were the first flowers I have ever received from him. (Not many followed, either.) He says, he „does not believe in it“ - whatever that means. The proud Grandparents stopped by in the evening - David is the first Couvreur of the next generation. Rests to hope, he WILL make them proud...
I made it just in time to celebrate the Mother´s day on Sunday. A nurse brought flowers. David and I both slept all night and I was allowed to get up and have a proper wash - and so had David. He looks quite human now and is, of course, the most beautiful baby in the world, and will surely be very intelligent, I can tell from his nose...though it does not promise at the moment to become straight like mine. His mouths looks just like Joris´s - good. Eyes dark blue, but that may change, fat soft cheeks the colour of apricot. Legs like a frog, with big feet (already then) and long fingers with perfectly formed nails, at which everybody, who had babies, always marvels. But I never heard an admiration being expressed at the miraculous intricacy of the ears - they had seemed an elaborate works of art. Unfortunately, the plusquamperfectum is the correct tense to use - when he woke up this morning, his ears were rolled into little ice cream cones! They were still soft as the modelling clay, and I tried to put them right again, but my clumsy human hands were not quite up to the original God´s handiwork. I put a lace cap on his head (that my father used to wear as a baby - they were not stupid in those days, though the nurses think I am mad), to prevent further damage. (In the end, I did a quite good job with one, but not with the other. (That´s why, David, your ears are not both the same - or haven´t you noticed?)
Had two unsuccessful attempts at breast feeding. Though my breast would not look bad in the Playboy, David does not seem interested in them. Changed nappies - no problem there. I have him with me in my room all the time, as this hospital is quite old and has not the more modern common room for the babies. It suits me fine.
Monday, 9.5.
Our little idyllic world was shattered yesterday afternoon - David was diagnosed with a infantile jaundice, nothing serious, but it meant his removal from my room into an incubator. I can go and visit him, he is lying on his tummy his glass dome, among dozens of other babies, mainly premature ones, sleeping peacefully. All I can do is to stroke his naked back. I am very sad.
Our friends, Jan and Mieke Grauls came yesterday still in time to see him. Mieke is expecting her second child in June, they have one girl, Siegrid. Jan is Joris´s colleague from his „promotion“, they had been in Bonn, where we visited them, and they us in Prague. (They came to visit us also in Bern- the people with the „girls“, with whom we went walking in the mountains.) Joris came four times that day, so worried was he about David. Mother said, she had been afraid of this jaundice coming - judging from the apricot colour of David´s cheeks, that I, in my inexperience, had admired so much. Also dr. Boll came, „unofficially“ - still his holiday outfit, sunburnt and looking very handsome - I hardly recognised him without his habitual white gown.
Friday, the 13th -
but a lucky day for me - I got David back! The past days were rather boring, though I was reading Barchester Towers by Trollope - extremely funny - catching up on my French and doing postnatal excerises. Due to still high blood pressure and albumin I was put on a completely saltless diet - the food tastes absolutely horrible, but I am loosing weight fast.
I had two noble visitors - the countess d´Avernass and Mother´s friend countess Joey, both brought fantastic bouquets. I rather wished that the various communist apparatchiks, from whom I had had to suffer various humiliations at times ( not to speak about what my parents and grandparents had to endure, but that´s a different story), could see it.
During all that time, I could only see David twice a day and very briefly. All his needs were taken care of by the staff, all I was allowed to do was to look at him and watch his antics through the glass. He seemed to be growing very fast, though from necessity fed from a bottle, or possibly overfed - Joris was horrified at the size of his tummy, when he once saw him after feeding, and said literally: „At his age so fat already? You will have to put him on diet...“
So on David´s first week´s birthday we are reunited again. He is already very accomplished: he can yawn, grasp at fingers with the astonishing strength of all newborns, and when lying on his tummy, is capable of lifting his head and turn it to the other side, resting on his nose midway - according to Grandpa, this last is very advanced indeed! I am finally trying to be a real mother, but my son still does not seem to consider breast feeding a very attractive solution of assuaging his hunger. Joris has put aside all his objections at last and finds him „cute“.
He has showed me the form from the Ministry, in which he had to fill our „wishes“ , five al together, for our posting, that´s coming up around the end of the year. From the available countries he chose already four, but coudn´t think about a fifth. Without much reflection, I said Australia, the reason being, that this was the only country besides England, that I was interested in as a child, because my father had a cousin there, who left CSR in February 1948, straight after the communist takeover. It was a romantic story - he had lived in Trebon and crossed the border to Austria on skis. There he stayed in a camp and was supposed to emigrate to Argentina, with a whole group of friends, but when Australia made a generous offer, he decided to go there. His other friends went to Argentina. He never managed to return to his homeland till 20 years later, during the brief period of freedom, that followed the „Prague Spring“ 1968, and he has not been able to come back again since. On that visit I missed him, as I was in London at the time, but asked his address from my cousins and we have been exchanging X-mas wishes ever since. He lives in Sydney with his Australian wife. (Sydney, my father told me, means Zdenek, which was his name - another bond with Australia for me.)
Joris said why not and wrote it down. (Of the other four I only remember Iran - we would have been caught in the Khomeni revolution, had we got that!)
Monday, 16.5.
Today is the last day in the hospital and I am depressed. Or maybe scared of the „big, bad world“ outside and of leaving the security of the hospital. Dr. Boll ordered another month of rest, if possible in bed! This seems quite attractive in itself - I do feel very tired even if doing nothing, probably because of lack of proper sleep - but will mean abusing Mother´s and Father´s kindness even more. I am, of course, very lucky to be able to stay with them, but apart from feeling guilty about it, Mother has a pessimistic disposition and a rather tragic way of going about things. Having had four children, she has been feeding me with horror stories of everything, that did or could have gone wrong, and worse, might go wrong. She herself always had a nurse to help her, so I fear, she has no more personal experience with babies than myself. And father has not been feeling too well lately, seems like his old ulcer is waking up, due to too many parties lately.
Apart from that, I had decided to give up breast feeding. David never took to the breast properly, as during his week in the incubator he got accustomed to the bottle and grew too lazy to put in the effort, which breast feeding apparently requires from him. The sessions became a real torture for David, whom the nurse was forcing, quite roughly, to suck, while squeezing my breasts, equally roughly. Also I did not seem to have enough milk to satisfy his voracious appetite: as long as the nourishment was coming out of the bottle, he was drinking willingly and they were overfeeding him in the incubator. He has been loosing weight, since coming out of it, so bottles it will be and once again, I am feeling inadequate.
And thirdly, though on the whole I am glad, that David was born in my new home country and in Brussels, as it has created a sentimental link with this otherwise alien city, I feel a great nostalgia for my own Prague and feel very sad at not being able to share the happy moments, and David, with my family and friends, and also for the fact, that my parents did not live to see their grandchild. So I cry and daydream a lot.
But everybody is saying, what a beautiful baby David is, so that cheers me up again. 10 days old today...
Wednesday, 18.5.
According to the calculations, it was only yesterday that David was to be born, but instead it was the day of „homecoming“, at least to Granny´s and Grandpa´s place. Before leaving the hospital, I was assured, that David´s eyes are absolutely OK, so great relief. I felt a bit sad at the prospect of not seeing dr. Boll daily, he has become rather special to me, through this momentous event in my life, at which he was, in a way, a protagonist. Joris fetched us in the car and all the (short) ride to Kindermansstraat I was terrified we would have an accident, and I realised, that as of this moment, I shall probably never stop worrying...(It has not been as bad as I imagined, but the thought „ I hope they are OK“ has always been at the back of mind, and often in front, whenever you boys were out of my sight - so understand, that I get upset even now, when I do not get answers to e-mails....)
All was ready in the guest room (where Daddy sleeps now when in Brussels), including the steriliser, a row bottles and a stack of disposable nappies - one of the best inventions of mankind, as far as I am concerned. I could washed my hair at last - bliss!
Today, the Breitensteins came to see us for a day all the way from Amsterdam and brought more presents: a white embroidered christening robe over a100 years old (you were both christened in it), and an antique silver rattle on a ivory ring (The ring got broken by one you, cannot remember which, but the silver ball should be somewhere among my things).
We had champagne with lunch. They assumed the role of the missing pair of grandparents.
David seems for ever hungry, but it is quite a struggle to get the teat into his mouth - I miss a third hand, or at least the long lost monkey tail - as my mother´s mother used to say, it was a great evolutionary mistake, at least in case of women - and does not seem to relish his morning bath, so he screams quite a lot. Mother has christened him „ an orange in a black wig“! The weather is lovely, we are spending many hours in the garden.
Tuesday, 31.5.
Last week Uncle Walter came for lunch and also Aunt Denise, his and Father´s cousin. The apparently do not get on too well, but Mother said she was not having them separately, as was the custom before, with all she has on her hands these days (us). But it went well, Uncle Walter never stopped telling jokes and seemed to arrive a bit tipsy. He has given us a super, big red wooden a play pen - well done, for a bachelor!
David is putting on weight, and seems to be growing some hair. Though he does not yet see in the proper sense, he seems to be looking at the world with great interest and having profound thoughts about it, while making very funny faces.
Monday, 6.5.
David is a month old, weighs over 5kg and at the present rate will soon reach 60cm! The paediatrician thinks he is exceptionally big for his age. Maybe we should have called him Goliath...We marked the occasion by our first social outing - a cocktail given by Joris´s Maitre de Stage ( the function Daddy had from 2000 to 2003, when we were in Brussels after Belgrade). I found a dress I fitted in!
On Friday we celebrated Joris´s birthday with a moderately festive lunch. He is too involved with the preparations for his exams to be much fun - has stopped drinking even beer!
First out with David in the pram - a nice experience - passers-by peeping inside and asking a girl or a boy? I felt very proud.
Sunday, 12.6.
Yesterday David and I finally moved to our flat, quite an upheaval, an incredeble ammount of our stuff somehow accumulated in the Parents ´apartment. In the evening Joris was baby sitting for the first time - I went to the theatre de La Monnait with danica. She works for the festival of Flanders, and got free tickets for Béjart´s ballet „Our Faust“. It was great - bits of Goethe´s text and music mainly by Bach´s Mass in B minor, with Argentina tango´s in between.
Sunday, 19.6.
Life is much harder now that I am on my own. It is Joris these days, who practically lives with his parents, in order to have some peace for his studying, as David spends the evenings mostly screaming. I am almost back to my normal weight and David is 6kg and measures 60cm. My back gave in today.
Saturday a week ago, Mieke Grauls gave birth to a second daughter, Ellen, and we went to Leuven to repay their visit, when David was born.
Tuesday, 27.6.
Today the results of the exams, written and oral, were announced, the whole group passed, so celebrations are in order. It is a great relief for Joris, but also for me. He was working terribly hard and was very nervous and worried after each exam. That was not very helpful - it is quite enough for me to cope with my darling new born. But luckily, all seems to be running along normal lines, apart from minor upsets. Bathing has become fun and the new art of eating mashed fruit with a spoon mastered fairly quickly. David spends most of his waking hours in Uncle Walter´s play pen, watching the animals and things hanging across it. (This advice of Mother´s, to put you there from the day 1, turned out to be worth of gold - you spent your day in it - out of way of all possibble harm, even when you started walking, up till the time you were big enough to climb out of it..) I nearly forgot - the little yellow Bunny, that Daniel gave him at birth, has become his favourite cuddly animal and he wont be separated from it.
Last week we spent a day a little outside Brussels with the daughter, Jill, of some Mother´s friend, at her house with a big garden. She has three children and is very nice.
When the weather is good, I go out every day with David in the pram, which keeps him wonderfully quiet. Usually I walk all the way to the park in the Bois de la Cambre and sit on the lawn near the lake surrounding the „Robinson Island“. It is my favourite outing and I have spent many a happy hour there reading or writing letters, while David was sleeping in his pram. Another, nearer spot is a little pond with ducks, behind the Abbey de la Cambre.
David is beginning to sleep longer during the night - bliss! But he still cries a lot in the evening, before the last feed, I try to keep him quiet dancing with him on my arm. . (NOW I know, that I should have fed you, David, when you cried. But Granny strongly recommended to keep to the time schedule - „otherwise he will turn the night into the day“ and vice versa. She was wrong, I think. When Thomas was born, I fed him whenever he cried - so as not to wake YOU up, and he slept through the night when he was a week old.) It is raining a lot now again and it is cold - does not seem like June - my favourite month - at all.
Wednesday.6.7.
Nice and hot weather at last on Sunday, so we undertook a little outing to a Beloeil castle - a small copy of Versailles, about 60km from Brussels. Walked around a lake in a beautiful„French“ park, the air smelled of hay and the birds were singing their hearts out. Lunch in a restaurant in the company of ducks, peacocks and parrots. Last week went out to supper with one Joris´s colleagues, Baudewijn de la Coute.(?).. and his Italian wife - a countess. He strikingly handsome, she much less so. But of noble birth. (As Danica said, so she can afford to hav a fat arse...)
David two months today - weighs more then 6 and half kg and measures 64cm - one can almost see him growing. He is very solid and is quite incredibly strong - where does it all come from, without having done any muscle building? When he pinches me, it is no laughing matter. Otherwise he is beginning to be a real joy to us - it is great watching him smile, kick and box...I „speak“ Czech to him, the rest of the family English.
Last check at dr. Boll´s, he was pleased to see me slimmed down.
Tonight we went with Mother to Grand Place, to watch Mark in a rehearsal for a giant costumed game of chess - an annual event here. Mark was not a chessman, but dressed as Henry the VII, he was reading out the moves. Nice summer atmosphere, lots of tourists. The real performance is tomorrow, televised.
Monday,11.7.
Busy weekend. On Saturday visited Uncle Walter in his impressive ancient „herenhuis“ with „trapgevels“ in Happartstraat, in the old part of Antwerp, where he lives with several cats and a plump housekeeper, called „juffrouw“. We had visited him several times before, every time we came to Brussels from Prague, and always I was impressed by the beauty of the house and its contents - the period furnishings, paintings, rugs, antiques and thousands of books. (Unfortunately, all this has been lost to the Couvreur family through his later marriage to his long time girlfriend and former student, Rezi, who on his death in 1996 inherited and sold/auction everything. The antique sleigh in Uncle Daniel´s house comes from there, he bought it at the auction. I made a bid for a bronze statue of David - 200 000 bef - but was not successful, though not far bellow the price it was sold for. Aactually, it was lucky, I don´t know, what we would have done with it, it was huge...) Every lunch with him was a long drawn out event - he was a gourmand and as he was a fast talker, he was an excruciatingly slow eater On one memorable occasion we were treated to a lunch of oysters. Unfortunately we both loath this slimey delicattesse and had politely refused to eat it. The first course was quite enough for us, but then we had to sit and watch him eat through not one, but three dozens of the beasts, as he was not wasting any... I was feeling sick merely from the smell of them...When we told this to the rest of the Couvreurs, they were shocked at our barbarity and complained bitterly, that THEY had never been offered such a treat - and how would THEY have loved it... This time the lunch was delicious and David, to my great relief, took this rather frightening personality of his great uncle like man and did not burst out crying, which I had been afraid of.
On Sunday we briefly visited an impressive medieval castle on top of a rock, Ecaussines-Lalaing, and then another, a baroque one, a delicate red structure, sitting very prettily on a green lawn in the middle of an „English“ park. We walked around and had lunch in a rose garden. The sun was hot and the smell of grass together with the peeling of the bells from a nearby church transported me right back into the summer days of holidays long passed, spent cycling in the woods around Trebon with my parents. My father had always made a point of finding a nice sunny spot at lunch time and looking at his watch he would announce: „High noon, gentlemen!“ (There were never any gentlemen, just me and my mother.) Then he quietly relished the midday heat for a few minutes. Often in the afternoon a thunderstorms came and we pedalled for dear life to a nearest shelter. (One such thunderstorm, years after his death, led in a rather tortuous way to my learning Dutch and the consequences there of - but that´s also another story. )
No thunderstorm came this afternoon, but we still ended up in a cosy pub and the beer tasted really good - original Pilsen!
Tomorrow Mother and Father go to England for their annual visit of Joris´s Grandmother. So we shall be without transport and without baby sitting!
Wednesday, 27.7.
Last week we had another colleague of Joris and his wife for supper, a very boring couple (can´t remember, who it was now), and the following day was a National holiday - 21st of July - so poor Joris was at home and had to help clearing up.
We found a new cleaning lady, who is willing to baby sit, so went to see the film „Slap Shot“ with Paul Newman and directed by George Roy Hill (also by him „Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid“, „The Sting“ and „Slaughterhouse 5“. When still in Prague, in 1970, I was working as an interpreter on the set of this last film, which was filmed partially in the CZ, so I knew him personally, and had seen all his films.)
The weather mainly horrible - June has scored an infamous record: the fewest sunny days since 1883! Also there was no sun at all on 6 consecutive days and 25 days it rained. By the look of it, July will have some bad records as well. Brussels is rather empty of people, which is pleasant, and lots of shops are closed, which is less so.
David keeps growing and making various little progresses, but evenings are still difficult. (I kept starving you, my little lamb!) He has left the crib and moved into a wooden cot we had bought in Prague. What a job to put it together!
Last Friday in Leuven dinner with the Grauls, David with us. Present also Danica and Guido, who will be leaving for Washington soon, and another couple, the Vermeulens. Nice evening this time. The two new babies cried in unisono in the bedroom.
We are getting ready for our holidays - in England and France. The amount of stuff we - and especially David - seem to need is incredible. First England, leaving on Friday by plane.
Friday, 29.7.
Left Brussels early in the morning and in the rain, but England was sunny and looked very pretty from above - first time I saw it from a plane. David did not cry once. At Heathrow Mother, Father and Daniel, had lunch there and then journeyed by car down to West Byfleet, a little village in Surrey, where Joris´s Grandmother lives. She was waiting for us with five o´clock tea all ready. Afterwards Joris, Daniel and I played some tennis with the neighbours, the Cherries.
It is the 4th time that I have been here with Joris. The first time was in summer 1975, when we stopped there on our „funny moon“ trip, i.e. before our wedding later that year (12.12.) in Prague. It was here that I was introduced to his parents and also met Joris´s younger brother Mark for lunch in the Suisse center. After a few days we continued in Great Granny´s old Austin to Wales. Second time was after we were married, we spent Christmas there, and the third last September.
„Great Granny“ Nevill (86) is an extremely sweet and wise lady, very much up to date in everything. She took to David, her first great-grandchild, immediately. She had been widowed many years ago and has been living alone (Mother is her only child, and her only brother was killed in WW 1. Strange to consider, that a brother of my paternal grandmother was also killed, but fighting on the opposite side - in the Austrian army. I hope they did not kill each other...) in her charming country house, built in a Tudor style, down to the smallest details, like metal catches on the doors, windows of small coloured glass panes set in lead, thatched roof, fireplaces etc. Luckily the bathrooms, heating and lighting are of more modern times, though not very efficient. The house is quite big - a hall, a large and a small sitting room, kitchen (where we eat, when it is too cold to eat on the back porch), a scullery ( a place for washing up, meant for a maid and so not very pleasant), coal shed, loo, garage. From the hall an open wooden staircase leads to the upper floor with 5 bedrooms and 1 bathroom. Each bedroom has a fireplace (now bricked in and provided with an electric heater) and a washbasin ( which is typically English). On the landing stands a „grandfather“ clock, which chimes loudly every hour. (The one which we now have. Also the „bureau-bookcase“, the „wine cooler“, the two heavy wooden chairs, the silver tea service, the set of pewter jugs and plates, and Daddy´s „Toby jugs“ come from there. Daniel got the „Chinese“ grandfather clock, a corner display cabinet, a carpet and some pictures, Mark the „tall boy“ cupboard, the big carpet in their sitting room, armchairs with sofa in the kitchen and the big sideboard in the dining room, to name just a few of the pieces of furniture there, so you can imagine it a little bit. Granny has got the dining table, the too wooden/upholstery arm chairs, the fire screen, the secretaire. Her Grandfather clock and bureau-bookcase also had come from Great granny place, originally, as well as all the china. I forgot now, what Liz got.) The house is surrounded by a large garden, roses in front and wonderfully green lawn, trees and shrubs in the back. It used to be much bigger - it had a grass tennis court, but part of it had been sold. But it is still big enough. Joris spent most of his school holidays here and he lived with his Granny for a year or two, when his parents were posted to Cuba; so for him, this place is home.
Monday, 1.8.
Saturday a shopping expedition (clothes for me) to a nice little town nearby, Sunningdale. Once again I was taken in by the prettiness and charm of the English countryside ( I had lived in England twice before, in 1967 and 1968, both times for 6 months and working as an au-pair, when studying English in Prague.) Yesterday visited some peculiar friends of Great granny - the Dyson-Lorries, whose 2 sons used be childhood friends of Joris and his sister. Their older, unmarried son, most peculiar of them all. Weather hot and beautiful, after a couple of rainy days.
Saturday.6.8.
David 3 months today, measures 65cm, weighs 8kg, is in fact a little too chubby. He is trying to find his mouth with his thumb. Otherwise no special developments, though some progress is made everyday, mostly in his motoric ability. Smiles and laughs most of waking hours.
Tuesday Joris and I went to London by train, to buy clothes for him, got all he needed, but it was tiring. Inner London is chockerblock with tourists, a lot of them Arabs, who seem to be made of money and are buying everything in sight, if possible by dozens. (Must have been the time of the oil boom.) But London being London, it copes with the crowds quite admirably, thanks mainly to the incredible English politeness and ability to be nice under all circumstances. The cars stop for pedestrians everywhere, not just on zebras, people manage not to collide with the gaping tourists and everybody is all smiles. Even when I practically knocked over an elderly lady, it was she who apologised profusely, for getting in my way, I presume.
Friday another shopping expedition together with Parents and Daniel, to the Surrey capital, Guildford, another very charming place, but much bigger, older and more interesting architecturally and historically (than Sunningdale, not London). We stayed on in the evening and went to the local, quite famous theatre on the river. We saw a comedy by Noel Coward. Great Granny´s daily, a Mrs. Morris, was helping to babysit David. A nice day.
Tuesday,9.8.
Last day in England. Yesterday in London again, more shopping, but I did not get anything much, all these Arab women pawing and buying everything put me off.
Sunday morning a nice walk with Daniel in the moors. I like this youngest brother-in-law a lot and he seems to like me. Although he is 10 years younger than I, we can talk about a lot of things. In the afternoon another walk, this time with Jorsis and David, along a little river meandering between tree lined banks, very pretty.
Friday,12.8
We left Byfleet, with regret, by car and with Daniel, who will drive the car (parents´big Volvo) back again from Belgium. We drove to Dover and took the ferry to Oostende. The sky was blue and so was the sea, it was a lovely crossing and a long time since the poignant salty smell of the sea filled my nostrils. We took turns with David in the cabin, lulled to a deep sleep by the gentle (luckily) swell of the Channel, and so two of us could enjoy the sun an air on the deck and watch the proverbial white cliffs of Dover slowly disappear. It was my 7th crossing and I never cease to enjoy it . (The only drawback are the many vomiting people. Thankfully, I have never been seasick.) In Brussels, it was raining again.
Two days spent unpacking, washing, ironing, shopping and packing again. Tomorrow we leave for Vittel (where the famous bottled water comes from) in the Vogéze in France (Alsas-Lorraine), where we booked two weeks in ClubMed that provides day care for babies.
Sunday, 21.8. - the 9th anniversary of the Soviet and co. Invasion of Czechoslovakia
The holidays turned out rather disastrous. The journey there was nice - we crossed Luxemburg, following the same route as we did with Honza and his 1st wife Olina in 1969, on our way from Amsterdam to Saarbrucken (that is yet another story). Luxembourg is pretty, hilly and very green, and still maintaining the „chessboard“ of multicoloured fields, which elsewhere in Europe practically disappeared. The meadows were dotted with horses an black and white cows. We had no time to stop in the capital, a pity. It is a dramatically beautiful place, with a deep rocky river valley in the middle, spanned by many tall viaducts and a gothic cathedral perching above it in the middle of a pretty medieval neighbourhood - the best kept touristic secret. The country towns´ architecture more solid and serious than the lighter Belgium style. We crossed to France in Thionville, which was almost like crossing from the tidiness of West Germany to the neglect of communist Czechoslovakia - ruined barns, shabby houses and a lot of mess. On the other hand, French villages are still real villages, not an extension of cities, like in (Flemish) Belgium or Holland. The weather improved and we kept crossing the river Mosele. Lunch in Nancy, on a beautiful old square, called Stanislaus´s, after a Polish king (I don´t know why), lined with ornate houses with wrought iron gates, and a baroque fountain at each end. (Another completely forgotten bit..If you asked me today, I would say I have never been to Nancy...)
No sooner we arrived to Vittel, we learnt of a sudden death of Elvis Presley, which caused a great commotion. It was very tragic, but it was not what spoiled our stay there.
The ClubMed hotel stood in the middle of an extensive and very beautiful English park and the building itself was an old 19th century „baroque“ style country mansion, or a imitation of it. In any case, it was incredibly grand, with sumptuous halls, supported by Corinthian marble columns, hung with enormous crystal chandeliers and furnished with period furniture. Quite breathtaking. We were allotted our room, but had to wait till after lunch to take possession of it. And the lunch was quite something. As we entered we were bowled over by the sight of the buffet table, laden with innumerable dishes of delicatessen such as juicy slices of roast beef, salamis, paté chicken, ham and fish, giant shrims and all kinds salads + eggs, olives and whatnots. Without stopping to think, we piled all we could on our plates, I, having been brought up on the communist scarcity of everything, driven by fear, that later all would be gone, and Joris possibly by my rather skimpy cooking in the past few months. Because of our greed we neglected to learn the seating system - one was supposed to be civilised and first find an empty seat and turn the glasses upside down, to show the place was taken. As a result, we were chased several times from the seats we took and which were somebody else´s. Moreover, we stuffed ourselves with what turned out to be mere hors d´oevres and could not sample anything of the warm main course, tucked away in corners, or taste the delectable French cheeses and many delicious desserts, that miraculously appeared afterwards. Only managed to take with us some fruit „for later“. In order to develop some appetite for supper, we went to have a swim. I have not yet swum once this year, so after donning my new bikini (having slimmed down enough to wear them) I eagerly ran to the pool, only to slip on the wet tiles and suffer an ignominious, and very hard, fall. The shock and the sharp pain in the small of my back reduced me to tears. Moreover I cut open my elbow, and spurted blood all over the white tennis shorts of Joris, who gallantly came to the rescue. Because of the gaping cut we rushed to the hospital. Nothing broken, but I had to had stitches and a tetanus shot. Which meant no swimming and no fish, eggs ham and especially no alcohol for three days - and wine, any amount, was free at table! I would have said to hell with it, but Joris was scrupulously seeing to it, that I obey orders and stick to the famous mineral water... (On the 15th of August - the Assumption - the hotel organised a grandiose feast - and me still on the wagon! A real torture!)
The next day we put David in the nursery, where he was supposed stay every day, so we could enjoy sports etc. But I was disabled for the time being and Joris was prevented from playing tennis by persistent showers. He only managed a few games during the whole stay and some table tennis. When I felt better and undertook several bicycle trips, but it took a while to find some nice routes, like one of 15km up and down a hilly, wooded countryside, dotted by meadows and fields. On top the highest hill I came to a village with a church in the middle. It looked quite poor, but had flowers in every window. Nice view.
As we could not do much sport in the Club ( I only managed some yoga and every late afternoon we went with David for a walk in the park), and as the weather continued bad, on Saturday we took the car and David and drove to visit my Aunt Alena and cousin Hana in Basel, whom I had not seen for 9 years - they both emigrated in 1968, (but are no relation to each other: Alena is a cousin of my Father and sister of zhe uncle in Australia, and Hana is a daughter of my mother´s sister Helena, who herself emigrated to Canada with her younger child, Michal.) The visit was nice but too short, it was further, than we had bargained for. On the way back the sun was shining and we enjoyed driving through the lovely Alsas. The meadows were full of flowers (no cows eating them!) and the villages pretty and prosperous, each with a bigger or smaller ruin of some kind. Especially pretty was a medieval place called Luxeuill, built from red sandstone, with arcaded streets and lots of churches. Blue mountains on the horizon. In Vittel, rain again!
The stitches came out the Thursday before - a 2 hours wait for a 5min“operation“, just when the sun came out of the clouds, and on Sunday I could finally start swimming. Around the pool, there were many topless ladies (a shocking sight to me in THOSE days!), and among the bushes further away even some nude sunbathers (would be still shocking even these days in place like this, I suppose).
For this second week I was planning a lot of sport activities for every day - swimming, jazz gymnastic, archery, some more bicycle and yoga. However I only managed one day of this ambitious programme. David caught diarrhoea (I told you so, said Mother) and a cold, and I developed a nasty flu, so we spent a couple of day together in the room. What a holiday - and at what price!
The last Saturday we went by car to the Vogéze, a nice place, but nor David or I were feeling too good. (We never set foot in the Clubmed again, though, strictly speaking, it was not their fault.)
Sunday, 4.9.
David was stayed sick for almost a week. His doctor away on holidays ( I do not like him anyway), so I took him the hospital, to see the lady doctor, who look after him there. She immediately noticed, what I have been worrying about for some time, and what the paediatrician refused to take seriously - namely, that David´s left foot keeps turning inward. She immediately made an appointment with an orthopaedist for next week. Otherwise all is OK, only David is much bigger than he should be, but that´s not really a problem, seeing the size of his father and uncles.
Today I felt well enough to drive out and continue to explore the castles of Vallonie (with Father. Mother is still in England). We drove through Namen and then through a lovely wooded valley along the river Meuze towards Dinant, before which we turned off to visit a little chateau d´Annevoie, or more precisely its park with its ingenious system of fountains and waterfalls, fed from four natural springs. Two of these, on top of the hill, feed a canal 365 m long and 7 m wide and lined with 52 trees and 4 statues - guess, what it is meant to represent.. We were surprised, that here, in the heart of the French speaking Belgium, all signs were in both languages, the guide and everybody else spoke perfect Dutch (Nothing new under the sun, he, David? And do you know of this park? It was in private hands then, and the entrance restricted.)
We continued to Dinnant, passing through a narrow gap between two tall rocks and twisted our necks, trying to get a glimpse of the citadel on top of the cliff. We did not stop, the place was very crowded. The valley grew wider and suddenly a mighty silvery grey castle appeared before us on a green lawn. It was round, and had 5 rounded towers with slate roofs along its perimeter. In the courtyard an enormous old linden tree. I sat there and fed David, while the men went inside. (I do not mention the name of this castle - what could it be???)
Tuesday,6.9
David 4 months today and his thumb found its way to his mouth - it keeps him wonderfully quiet. He holds onto the bottle, when I feed him, and catches the rings hanging across the play pen. Bad news is, that his foot is in plaster - up to the knee, poor darling. It makes bathing a problem, but otherwise he doesn´t seem to mind. (Maybe this is at root of the problem of your shorter leg?)
In the afternoon we met for coffee in a hotel on the Chausée d´ Alsemberg with an English couple, Dorothy and George Chandlers. He was a librarian at Oxford. They came to Prague once and I was his interpreter. They were very friendly and we kept in touch. Later he became the head of the National Library in Canberra, where they now live. They are in Brussels on an international congress. They gave David a Koala bear, a stuffed one, of course.
Monday,12.9.
Nice weather and we and father went to fetch Mother at Oostende. On the way visited another castle, in Flanders this time: Ooidonk. The style quite different, so called Spanish renaisance“: built from tiny red bricks and adorned with dozens of little gables, towers and spires. At the back of the courtyard two mighty half-round towers with trapgevels. The whole surrounded by a water ditch with still functioning draw bridge. Nice park. Had lunch on the seashore, hiding from the wind among the dunes, then went for a walk on the beach. It was ebb and the wet sand was hard enough to take the weight of the pram (and David). The barking of dogs mixed with the rather sad screeching of the sea gulls. The sea was stripey - brown, green, blue, with white crests of the waves in between. A group of sailing boats was slowly disappearing in the curvature of the sea surface - the earth must be round! People on the were flying colourful kites. Picked up Mother from the ferry and drove home.
Friday,16.9.
A few days of Indian summer. Went to a wedding reception of a son of the count and countess des Enfants d´Avernas - our ambassador in Prague, who gave for us our wedding lunch.(They were both EXTREMELY nice to me, when in Prague.) The reception was at the Royal Golf Club, a very posh affair. The bride is not of noble birth, but has money, so still a perfect match, says Mother. The guests mainly from the upper ten thousands ( among which we DO NOT belong), but dressed mostly in jeans. I was, therefore, ovedressed - a usual plebeian mistake...
Sunday, 18.9.
A big day - the christening of David. According to my wish, it took place in the Abbey de la Cambre, in a side chapel. I also chose Daniel for the God father, who arrived specially from England. Also present Uncle Walter and my „foster parents“, the Breitensteins from Amsterdam. David wore the splendid christening outfit they gave us. Afterwards coffee, cake and champagne at our place.
Friday, 30.9.
After some rainy days sunny, on Tuesday, so I walked with David once again to the park of the ter Kamerenbos, where I sat at my favourite spot under the trees on the lake bank, near the ferry to the Robinson Island.
On Friday last week we had two couples of Joris´s colleagues for supper.
Yesterday, I organised another cultural outing, we went to see a guest performance of a theatre company from Chichester - Shaw´s „Apple Cart“, in the Royal Flemish Theatre. A witty - what else - political comedy.
Monday,29.9.
Autumn arrived with strong winds and rains, but the remaining leaves on the trees are beautifully coloured. All we need is a bit of sun.
Joris´s sister Elisabeth - Liz - with her son Guillaume (2 years) and husband came to spend the weekend with the parents. She is five years younger than me and I met her for the first time on our way back from England with Joris in 1975, when we stopped by at the d´Abovilles family estate, Kérantré, in Brittany. In September 1976 we spent a week together in Lee Place, where I had a chance to get to know her better. She married Gérard d´Aboville, a French count, in Stockholm, while the parents were Ambassadors there (sometime before 1975). They live Kérantré, which is on the sea shore near Auray. Or to be precise, they live on a nearly hundred years old sailing yacht, called „Lady Maud“, anchored in a bay on their property. As Gérard has nine brothers and sisters, the mansion cannot accommodate them all. This yacht also provides them with living - recently they hired her out to a film company. Gérard does not believe in having a regular job. They had met in Paris, where Liz was sent to live with some relatives of Gérard to learn French. From her side, it was love at a firs sight (as she told me later) and before the marriage, she went hitch-hiking and camping „round the world“ with him - India, Mexico...
I like Liz, she certainly does not fit the popular image of a countess (always in jeans or other pants) and is good fun. She tells little anecdotes about herself. My favourite is how, shortly after the wedding, she was taken by Gérard and his parents to be presented to some high born neighbours. There was a crowd, and when they were coming up to greet their host, Gérard wanted to warn Liz, that the lady next to him was not his wife but his mistress. He nudged her in the ribs and whispered: „C´est sa poule.“ Liz, very nervous and not yet well acquainted with the French jargon, made a courtsey and said: „Bon soire, madame La Poule!“ Mother never forgets to mention, that she saw rats, when staying at Kérantré. When we visited, we never made it further then the huge and almost medieval kitchen downstairs. Her parents-in-law we met only later here in Brussels, shortly after David was born. They seemed very nice and quite ordinary. They have about 17 grandchildren already, but Guillaume is the first male grandchild from a son, i.e. first d´Aboville of the next generation, but is by no means being fussed about by his parents. To me, he seemed a sad little chap. Moreover he narrowly escaped death by drowning, when he was just 2 months old. Gérard was taking somebody´s yacht from Brittany to Spain - one of his sailing-related jobs - when the yacht capsized in a freak wave. There were no lifeboats and they had to swim for dear life in the ice cold water. Luckily, they were spotted in time by some fishermen and fished out. Apparently, Guillaume did not even catch a cold.
On Sunday Uncle Walter and Mark came to lunch at Mother´s. Daniel is back in England.
Today I finally met Viva, the English daughter-in-law of Mother´s countess friend Joey van Linden. She fetched me and David and drove us to their beautiful house in the middle of woods, a little beyond Waterloo. She has a five year old daughter and a two year old son. It was raining, but we had a nice chat over a glass of wine and some tea later. I like her and hope to see some more of her.
Thursday, 6.10.
David is five months old, weighs almost 10kg and measures 72 cm. He propels himself around in the playpen by kicking and thrashing his arms and catches everything within reach. Everything makes him laugh - when he is not hungry. Sleeps from seven to seven, with a little snack at about midnight. Made a first acquaintance with a mirror, tried to shake hands with himself, but got a little shock on touching only the cool surface. The cast was removed yesterday, he now has to sleep in little boots connected with a metal rod - it looks like an instrument of torture but he doesn´t seem to mind.
It has been confirmed, that our posting will be - Australia. So I got my wish, but I am now not so sure, that it really WAS my wish. It so far! And we shall not be in Sydney, but in the inland capital Canberra - I never heard of it! At least they speak English there „down under“, well sort of. Mother is horrified, she hates the Australian accent. So we are busy planning everything, we are to leave by the end of the year.
Thursday, 13.10.
David´s foot seems OK, another check in two weeks. Last Saturday in the theatre again, just Mother and me this time. We saw a comedy by a contemporary English playwright, Alain Ayckbourne, very funny.
The weather has been nice and warm lately. I just came back from Ter Kamerenbos, we spent the whole day there. It is twilight now, David is playing in the playpen and I am waiting for Joris to come home. The cold, misty autumn air still fills my nostrils and I am feeling nostalgic again. Autumn always has this effect on me, wherever I may be. At this season of the shortening days, one begins to appreciate the warmth of a home again, from which one kept fleeing during summer, to enjoy the sun and warmth (hopefully) of summer. I remember how I used to walk home through the darkening streets of Prague - there was a chill in the air and dampness rising from the nearby river. The yellow lights were coming on one by one in the windows of the solid, four or five story houses and I was looking forward to reaching my flat, on the fourth floor, overlooking the river and the panorama of the Castle. I would light the gas stove, (which hissed loudly and was a bit annoying, before I got used to it again, but which warmed the room quickly and efficiently), put on some music and sit for a while in one of the huge, comfortable armchair (the one you have now in your fklat, David) and watch the ever changing and ever beautiful display of colours on the western sky above the Petrin hill. Before I turned the lights on, I would phone my aunt Myška, it was somehow even nicer to chat about the events of the day (mine, she was completely room-bound at that time, but never lost interest in the world) in the dark. Or I could be returning from a long walk in the autumn woods into our log cabin in Slapy, where instead of gas, I would light a fire in an open fireplace and stare into equally changing play of flames, with a cigarette and a a glass of wine. The autumn evenings in the „little room“ in Stráz had the added charm of the company of my Uncle and Aunt Šula - we always had lots to talk about. (No TV to stare at, or newspapers to be buried behind, only the cat Pudlenka was purring gently.)
I love autumn most of all the seasons, it appeals most strongly to my senses. Summer is, of course, wonderful, and I can never get enough of the sun and swimming, but the autumn, with its tranquillity and wonderful colours and with its softly shimmering light in the air gets under my skin and moves me strangely. Winter I really like only in the mountains, where the snow is unsullied, the frost covered branches make intricate patterns against the blue skies (ideally) and at night the stars twinkle twice as brightly. In the mountains, even the bad eather, mist and driving winds, are enjoyable, giving one a pleasurable taste of danger. Spring does the least for me, the proverbial awakening of nature leaves me cold, though I appreciate the first warm rays of the sun and the pretty flowers and blossoms. One has to be in love to fully enjoy it, and that cannot always be the case...
Tuesday, 18.10.
This October is all that one could wish for in a perfect autumn. I spend everyday with David in the ter Kamerenbos under the blue skies. Last Friday, Honza and Sonja arrived from Saarbrucken, we talked till 1 in the morning. Saturday afternoon I took them to Brugge (Joris and David stayed at home), which is my favourite town in Belgium. I have been there often, for the first time in May 1971, during my first visit to Belgium. I travelled there in the role of an interpreter for a children choir, which was taking part at a Youth Music festival in Neerpelt. A year before, I was an interpreter at a Amateur Theatre Festival in Hronov (CZ) for a amateur theatre company form Gent. One of the plays performed during the festival was the play „Before the Cock Crows“ by a Slovak Ivan Bukovcan, which I was translating simultaneously for the Belgian company leader. He was so impressed, that he asked me to translate it into Dutch. Now, by a lucky coincidence, a few days after the end of the music festival in Neerpelt, the premiere of this play took place in Gent and I was invited to attend it and offered a week stay in Gent as my reward. As I was already in Belgium, it was not too difficult to have my visa extended (I pretended I was sick) and stay behind. The premiere in the Royal Flemish Theatre, though performed by amateurs, was a big cultural event, and Miss translator was afterwards hauled up the stage and given a bouquet. When I had seen all the sight of Gent, an impressive medieval city of grey stone, its main attraction being the mystical gothic triptych „Lammeke God“ by Jan Eyck in the Sint Baavo Cathedral, I remembered my grandmother always enthusing about Brugge, and decided to hitch-hike there. The last car dropped me at a little white fortress guarding the entrance to city. From there I walked - as it is only befitting in a medieval place, when no horse or carriage is available - along a twisting street, whose every bent revealed new vistas of pretty gabled houses, till it finally and quite suddenly opened onto a square right out of a fairy tale. It took my breath away. Against the pale blue western sky were etched the many miniature spires of all shapes, with some mighty church towers in the background. From one of them the peeling of the carillon bells suddenly shook the air. I followed the sound and came to another, bigger square. The bells were ringing from the Belfort of the town house. I sat down on a bench in the middle of the square at the foot of some monument and for a whole hour listened to the midday concert of the carillon bells and soaked in the atmosphere of this place, where time stood still. Afterwards, I climbed the many steps up to the top of the Belfort. My heart was nearly bursting, but one doesn´t get to know a city without climbing all its towers and visiting all its churches. I was rewarded by a wonderful view, with the sea in the distance. Down again, I returned to the first square, from where I followed the curves of the main canal, spanned by dozens of bridges - hence the name- which flows slowly, forming picturesque little lakes, disappearing under tunnels and re-emerging in pensive courtyards. It finishes its journey in a large lake, the „Minnewater“ - the Lake of Lovers (the whole city, it seems to me, is made for lovers...), on which swans float majestically.
The boats full of tourists, who could afford the treat, were jamming the canals, and as I dallied at one of the pick-up points enviously watching them, one of the guides started chatting with me, and when he learnt, where I came from, offered to take me for a free ride. In exchange I told him the legend of the Czech saint, John of Nepomuck (Nepomucenius), whose statue stands on one of the bridges, being the only one of its kind in these northern regions (just like the Michellangelo´s little marble statue of Madonna with the child in one of Brugge´s churches is the only one of his works out of Italy.) The legend has it, that he was a priest and a confessor to the wife of one the Czech kings, who wanted him to divulge, what his wife had confessed. John refused even under torture, and the king had his tongue cut out and his body thrown into the Moldau from the Charles bridge - where his statue, holding a crucifix, stands to this day, marking the spot. His body was retrieved and buried in a magnificent silver coffin in the St,Vitus cathedral, within the Prague castle. He later became the saint patron of river faring people and his statue can be found on practically all medieval bridges in Bohemia, Austria and southern Germany.
In the middleages, Brugge was a rich merchant city, as it used to be connected by canals to the sea. However, the port was gradually choked by shifting sands and the sea trade moved to Antwerp. The fame and prosperity moved away with it and the city froze in time, preserving its ancient character unspoiled for the future admiration of later generation. In modern times „it lives off tourists“. During my next two visits I was able to explore its famous Groeningemuseum of the Flemish Primitives and the museum of the medieval painter Memlinck in an old hospital. The fourth time I discovered the quiet charm of the Bigijnhof - a home to Bigijnen, who were unwed ladies - a sort of nuns without the wows. They lived in tiny „doll houses“ around a green lawn, which in spring are dotted woth daffodils. If they had no means of their own, they earned their living by making lace, for which Brugge is also famous. Some very old ones are still living there.
Now, with Sonja and Honza, we visited the Chapel of Holy blood, a romanesque basilica from the 12th century under a later, neo-gothic church, built as a shrine to a vial of Christ´s blood, brought here by a Crusader from the Holy land. It is supposed to turn liquid again every Easter. It was also the first time I experienced Brugge in all its dreamy and colourful autumn beauty.
In the evening Joris took us out to one of the hundreds of restaurants in the narrow alleys around the Grand Place, which was all lit up. As it was still warm, people were sitting outside and it was very lively. Sunday more sightseeing - Brussels by daylight and the Atomium.
Today we went to Germany, not to Saarbrucken but to Bonn (the birthplace of Beethoven), to buy our new car, a Mercedes, which has to have some special specifications, according to the Australian strict safety laws. The border crossing lacked the usual nonchalance: because of the recent terrorist attacks in Germany, the check ups were very thorough, especially coming back, as it is Germany´s turn this year at the „Europalia“ in Belgium and there are fears of more attacks. Armed soldiers all over the place!
Monday, 24.10.
Thursday at a dinner at Viva´s and her husband´s, and at the weekend, Joris I and David went to Amsterdam, to say good-bye to the Breitensteins. My old room was exactly as I left it more than 8 years ago and I was overcome by memories of my stay there. On Sunday we were to a concert in a church and to „Smorgesbrot“ lunch in a hotel next to it. Afterwards a little tour along the canals - I had almost forgotten, how pretty Amsterdam was.
Tuesday, 1.11.
Last night in our flat. All of the 100kg, which we are allowed with us in the plane, is packed, the rest goes by ship. Tomorrow we are moving to the Kindermansstraat again. We shall be leaving for Australia on the 10th of December. Last Sunday in Antwerps, to say good bye to Uncle Walter. The weather has turned bad again, but never mind, it will be summer in Australia.
Sunday, 6.11.
David is half a year old! He marked the occasion by turning from his back on his tummy! Had been trying to do it for quite some time. We bought him a funny sort of jumping device - a canvas, sort of pants like contraption on a long steel spring, which hooks on top of the door. One puts the child in it, so he hangs suspended, just reaching the floor with his tiptoes. As he kicks out, it sends him bouncing up and down. David loves it and can do it for hours. He has not gain much weight this last month - just as well - but has grown a couple of cm, reaching 3/4 m. Tomorrow off with him to Prague, for 10 days, to show him off to his Czech family and friends. (There is nothing in my diary about this visit and I do not remember anything particular about it, only that a mother of my oldest school friend, with whom we were staying, was babysitting you, while I was running about and having a good time; she never forgot the experience!)
Thursday, 9.12.
Last couple of days in Brussels have gone in a flash and tomorrow D-day. We had few more good-byes - a dinner with the Grauls, a lunch with the d´Avernas, a lunch at the Australian Ambassador´s here, and a dinner with the 1st secretary. One of the Australian couples present is returning to Canberra soon, Mary and Philip Constable. They promised to look us up, when we arrive.
The parents´ apartment is bursting in the seams - both Mark and Daniel are living there now. Aunt Denise and uncle Walter came for supper, each separately this time, bad luck for Mother!
Now it is good bye to Brussels, Belgium, Europe ... well, Au revoir, I hope. I wonder what Australia will be like.
Year 1977 - Part II
AUSTRALIA (CANBERRA)
(The journey there and the first days)
„Our identity is partly made of places, where we have lived and left parts of ourselves.“
„I hate cutting off one´s past life. It is like removing a limb. It is a complete negation of that period of life, which is a very depressing thought. Time changes situations, situations can change, people can´t change so much.“
„He who experienced nothing, knows nothing. He who travelled a lot, is full of wisdom“ (Sicharovec )
„It does not matter, what you achieve. Without the joy of sharing it with someone you love, everything is empty.“
DECEMBER
Everything seemed ready on Thursday at lunch time and we were looking forward to a quiet last chat with the parents, but Joris came back from the office with the news, that in the US (we had been allowed to take the longer western route on account of our „tiny“ baby and were stopping in New York and Washington), it was not the weight but the size of luggage that mattered, so we spent the evening crawling on all four, frantically measuring our suitcases, which at the last moment multiplied from 3 to 5, (plus five pieces of hand luggage). They were more or less OK, but the box with the undercarriage of David´s pram exceeded the norm by 10 cm. We had nearly given the up the idea of flying via the States, but then decided to risk it. Well, decided - we had no choice, really. (In the end, nobody ever bothered to measure anything....) So, on Friday, the 10th of December at 10 AM, we left the Kindermansstraat, with the parents and Daniel in the Volvo, which was nearly hitting the ground even without Mark, who just did not fit in. Daniel gave me a carnation to pin on my jacket, which David ate during the drive. The Parents were not allowed beyond the passport control, despite their still diplomatic passports (Father retired the year we were married, their last posting had been Stockholm), and so goodbyes had to happen in haste. The airport was extremely busy, there was even a wedding party and a bride in white dress with a long trail. The plane was a huge Boeing 472, the middle rows, where we were sitting, had 9 seats. David had one for himself, his carry cot - the top part of the pram - just squeezed in. On take off at noon, it started pouring and Brussels quickly disappeared in the mist.
The first crossing of the Atlantic should be an unforgettable experience, but thanks to modern means of transport it actually is not. Except for the size of the plane and the length of travel (8 hours), it is not all that much different from a flight from Prague to Bratislava. One is of course flying a bit higher and bit quicker and consumes more food and drinks, but has to continually remind oneself - „I am flying to the USA...“, and in the end can hardly wait for the plane to land, especially with a fretful baby. After the endless expanse of water with seemingly immobile white crests of waves, we saw a piece of Canada and then the State of Maine - green fields flecked with snow. On landing we were disappointed to see nothing of New York, not even the welcoming Statue of Liberty, just endless stretches of empty beaches and little houses in the woods.
It was not easy to extricate ourselves from the plane; simple arithmetic explains why: 5 pieces of luggage + carrycot with David = 6 pieces (not to mention 2 umbrellas - very stupid things to travel with (nowadays we would not be allowed them on board and would be spared the embarrassment...), and only 4 hands between us to carry them. We certainly did not need all those heavy books - we did not read a word: I either watched the movies, looked after David, or was eating, Joris slept most of the time. In the end we managed somehow and were met by a Sabena airhostess, who helped to carry some (lighter) things. A more serious problem arose at the passport control: the blacksmith´s mare walks unshod, as the Czech saying goes - Joris omitted to get visa for his son! But even that was solved somehow (which again would not be possible these days) and we proceeded to the United Airlines terminal, to await our flight to Washington. It was early afternoon here, but for us it was already 9 in the evening. Not surprisingly, only David was not tired. To perk up, we drank coca cola, as is only fitting in America. In the plane I had to throw a bit of hysterics (the woman´s weapon par excellence) to be able to wedge David´s carrycot on the seat, our outsize baby just did not fit in the fixed carrycots provided. The blood red sun was setting and this time we could glimpse the skyline of Manhattan disappearing in the dusk. We landed in Washington, DC, at 11PM local time - 5AM our time, so not in a great shape. Luckily, here we did not need to tackle the long tentacles of exit tubes, stairs and corridors. There is a bus system, but not the ordinary one, when one has to climb out of the plane, face winds and sometimes rain on the tarmac, heave oneself onto a crowded bus, fall over several times at sharp bends or sudden stops (never enough seats or bars to hold on), and THEN proceed up the stairs and along the corridors. Here, an enormous whale of a bus backs up to the aeroplane, lifts up a platform up to the door and swallows the passengers one by one, like a multitude of Jonases. The buses are so wide, that the driver has to watch its back on TV monitor inside the bus. It disgorges its evidently indigestible passengers at the door of the terminal, in our case directly in the arms of our Belgian friends, Guido and Danica. For some reason (they were too numerous to get on one plane?), it disgorged only half of our luggage and we had to wait an extra half an hour for another plane to bring them. On the whole, the United did not score very highly with us. Somehow we managed to squeeze everything into the car, quite a job, though Guido owned a typically huge American „ship“. (It was not the last time we embarrassed our hosts with the amount and weight of our luggage...). Once installed in their attractive villa with a garden in a wooded suburb of Washington, we were not allowed to think about our European time and succumb to sleep but instead made to wait for supper and retire at the more or less normal local bedtime. (Explain that to a baby!) It was wise, as we also got up at a more less normal time the next day, though it was nearly afternoon for us, and started forgetting about the jet-lag. We were invited for brunch by an American diplomatic couple, whom we used to know in Prague. They live in a renovated „dolls´ house“ in an old black neighbourhood on the steep bank of the Potomac river (some years later an aeroplane crashed into this river near there...), now fashionable among the bohemian minded whites. Once inside, I was suddenly transported back home - their house was almost entirely furnished by „stuff“ brought over from Prague. We feasted on a Jewish-style breakfast and then went to explore Washington, with David in a sling on my tummy. The Potomac wound lazily through the city, the white building of the Capitol towered imposingly against the blue winter sky, surrounded by memorials of various heroes of the American history: Washington´s in the shape of an Egyptian obelisk, Jefferson´s roundly Greek and Lincoln´s squarely Greek. The White House is indeed white but, compared to its reputation, surprisingly small - a tiny villa on a green lawn with a fountain in front of it. The broad, endlessly straight avenues are lined by huge modern blocks of government offices. One avenue contains exclusively embassy buildings, in a profusion of clashing styles. Everything looks very new and shiningly clean, as if someone had thoroughly scrubbed it only yesterday, apart form the areas where the black population (80% of the total!) lives in red bricks dwellings, reminiscent of London hospitals from the 19th century. On a hill sits a „gothic“ cathedral, the only one in the world, which is still being built (I suppose it has been finished by now...).
We passed a large department store and were told, that if we have any money to spare, we can order a camel from Africa or a wind-mill from Holland, or whatever else we might fancy. On the spur of a moment, we could not think of anything. Washington is not very big but as the USA capital it has several airports, one of them right in the middle of the town; those fond of noise, can have a picnic in a park next to it and listen to the roar of aeroplanes taking off and landing over their heads. The residential areas are all in the surrounding wooded hills along the river. The centre is full of parks and trees, now bare, but it must be very beautiful in the spring and in the autumn. The area around the Capitol is planted by Japanese cherry trees and, as known from the postcards, when they are in flower, it looks like a pile of whipped cream on top of a strawberry mousse. Back for a very welcomed tea. I was quite bowled over by Daniela´s American kitchen - the enormous freezer and the fridge, which spat ice cubes at a push of a button, sparing one the hardship of knocking them out of a container, automatically regulated oven with timer for pre-setting the time of cooking (When I finally got one like that in Brussels in 2001, I never bothered to learn how to use this device...), and most of all, the dishwasher. Next morning spent re-packing our hand luggage and downsizing it to more manageable number (4, including David). At 2PM we started on the 2nd leg of our journey - across the width of the US to San Francisco. Unfortunately it was cloudy most of the nearly six hour flight, but it cleared just before we approached the millions of lights of San Francisco; the Hippies song „If you are going to San Francisco...“ buzzed in my ears, but where to find flowers on the plane, to put in my hair? (S.F. was then more famous as the centre of „flower power“ than of „gay power“.) We seemed to be heading straight into the sea, as the airport is right on the shore and the final manoeuvre takes place above water. A bit frightening. We boarded a big yellow taxi with soft springs and film tracks music blaring; the driver lit a cigarette ( those were the days...) and took off with a frightening speed (far exceeding the limit) in a bumper to bumper traffic along the palm and eucalyptus lined beaches towards the city. This was America, as I had always imagined it - speed and lights, flashing neon advertisements and pulsating life. We drove over many overpasses, efficient, but ugly, and past a football stadium, with a fiery tail of tail lights of cars, waiting to get into the parking, attached to it. Our hotel, Canterbury, lived up to its name by emanating an atmosphere of a European spa, with a large restaurant in a winter garden, from which singing of birds could be heard, whether real or recorded I could not discover, as we skipped supper, having eaten on the plane. We gained 2 more hours. In the morning we took a taxi to the Golden Gate Bridge, on a toboggan drive through the centre of the San Francisco, which is built on a series of steep hills and whose steps like streets have supplied spectacular background to car chases scenes of many a gangster films. We had to pay a toll of 1 dollar to cross the bridge, but it was money thrown away - the bridge and the bay were almost totally hidden in a thick fog, which, it is true, did shimmer slightly goldenly in the rays of the invisible sun. Nevertheless, Joris took some photos of me and David in front the massive yet slightly spectral chains disappearing in the mist. (The pictures came out quite well, considering). „When it is clear, the view is quite spectacular“, the taxi driver assured us. This we saw only on postcards bought at the airport, when we were leaving for Hawaii in the afternoon. The flight was delayed, and David screamed the whole time, as I had to let him wait for his bottle until we were taking off, so that swallowing would relieve the pain in his ears, caused by pressure. For the rest, the flight was pleasant, the passengers in a holiday mood and the brown skinned Hawaiian crew friendly and informal in the typical flowered shirts. They did not skim on drinks, first the local speciality, mai-tai, based on rum, then wine, so I got slightly tipsy. We flew the 2 and half thousands miles above the Pacific entirely through a big, sunny blue - bright and transparent around us, dark and compact deep under us. We approached the islands at sunset and had a stunning view of its green, jagged mountains darkening against the purple skies, reflected in the quiet waters of the bay. When I stepped out of the plane, my knees nearly gave way; the effects of alcohol have long worn off, but the humid heat hit me like a crashing wall, it was like stepping into a greenhouse, overheated at that, including the palm trees with their fringed crowns etched against the pale sky. I did not fall, but the darkness did, before we had time to look around properly. After supper (the beer tasted vile), we went for a stroll, admiring the huge stars of the subtropical skies.
In my imagination, the air conditioning had always equalled the maximum luxury and comfort. The reality proved different. Imagine a sweltering summer day, you are covered in sweat, you don´t have a sweater - why should you? - but a towering thirst. You enter a welcoming restaurant and you feel like entering a fridge. The cold air blows at you from all corners and there is so much noise that you cannot hear yourself speak.. A cold beer is no longer tempting, a hot tea with rum seems more attractive, but it is still 35°C in the shade outside. On leaving the restaurant, you feel the heat hit you with a redoubled intensity. David almost froze to death, while we were having supper in the hotel. And at night we faced a dilemma - to be unable to sleep because of the heat, or because of the noise of the aircon.
Hawaii is an archipelago of 8 islands, the name being that of the largest one. The capital of this exotic American state is Honolulu, on one the lesser islands, Oahu, and we spend our one day and half of the night there. (Now, nearly 30 years later, I must say, with great deal of regret in some cases, that on most our trips or holidays, we have never spent quite enough time in one place. Daddy seems to be allergic to prolonged stays anywhere, and when planning a holiday, he always counts the nights, not the days. The promise, „ we´ll come back here again, never came true. The Galapagos Islands are just one of many examples. ) We rented a car and went exploring. The modern, high rise building from yellow stone fit badly in the backdrop of the tropical nature, but business is business, the thousands of tourists have to stay somewhere and the locals have a living to make. After the town centre came suburbs of villas in flowering gardens and then, at last, an open country. The view behind one sharp bend took our breath away: The bare cliffs of reddish rock fell sharply into the gently splashing waters of the Pacific, unbelievably blue - the brochures do not exaggerate here. It is not a transparent, turquoise blue like in Greece or Italy, nor the grey-blue of the Atlantic, and not at all the brownish green of the North Sea; it is simply blue, the most beautiful cobalt blue. I was sorely tempted to jump in, but with Joris at my side and our brand new offspring to think of, I resisted. Maybe I should not have...The road wounds its way carved in the cliff´s face, which occasionally recedes to accommodate beaches and golf courses. The beauty of the ocean is enhanced by numerous little islands, of pinkish colour and curious shapes. We visited an aquarium and watched dolphins, killer whales and penguins play, and admired the diversity of the underwater life. We stopped at the next bit of beach, which was very pretty and seemed completely deserted, and I was dying to make finally my first acquaintance with this largest of all waters. Before we had time to get out of the car, however, a police car arrived and the driver politely asked us, whether we intended to bathe there. We answered we did and he, still extremely polite, suggested we should not. I expected him to say something about sharks, but he merely warned us, that the place was known for frequent robberies. He saluted and left and we hurriedly clipped our safety belts in place and drove off. Only then we noticed several decrepit cars full of brown youths, evidently waiting for us to leave the car unguarded. On the way back we also realised, that the little houses, hidden in the luxurious greenery, which we took to be romantic native cottages, were, in fact, shacks inhabited by poor people or, possibly, criminals, so we did not take any chances and only dared to swim at the outskirts of Honolulu, where the scenery was utterly spoiled by the row upon row of hotels. But I turned my back on them and fully enjoyed the warm and surprisingly gentle water of the great ocean. The surface was smooth as a mirror and I had to swim far out of the shallows to reach the white crests of waves and enjoy their gently rocking motion. The sun was just getting ready to take its evening dip, when it was time to return, unwillingly, to the hotel, partake of enormous supper, pack up and to snatch a few hours sleep before our night flight - the last long leg of our journey to Sydney. At midnight we struggled out of bed and to the airport, only to find that the plane from San Francisco was delayed for several hours - fog again! If the airports are not very accommodating for passengers with too many hand luggage, they are even less so for passengers, who have to spend a long time waiting, especially the sleepy ones. A few rows of hard plastic seats here and there, one not a very cosy restaurant and apart from some TV screens, which went blank soon after we arrived, nothing to help to pass the time. It paid at last to have the carry cot with us: David , at least, could sleep in all comfort. Even when we got on the plane eventually, we did not get much rest. The seats in the economy class are not best designed for sleeping and rather cramped, especially for tall people like Joris. (The 1st class travel for Belgian diplomats under the rank of ambassador had been abolished shortly before, really unfair.) To add insult to injury, the posh food destined for the 1st class was passing right under our noses - a crab on a silver tray, deliciously looking and smelling main course on real china, rich cakes and coffee in silver pots...while ours, though quite tasty, came in plastic containers and cups. We flew Quantas and all the crew were rather glorious young males, performing their duties with undying smiles. For hours we were flying again over the blue masses of the Pacific ocean. Before we landed for refuelling on the Fiji Islands, green dots in all that blue, we crossed the international date line, an imaginary place, which is however real enough to cause us to loose a day of our lives, at least until we fly back in the opposite direction, when we should get it back again. What happens to it I have no idea, but one thing is sure: the Thursday, 15.12.1977 can be struck off our calendars. Champagne was served at breakfast, even to the common mortals in the economy, perhaps to console us for this loss. Also, the plane had made up for some of the lost time and we landed in Sydney „only“ 2 hours late, at 11 local time (I completely lost track of „our time“ by then). Even so, it was very annoying, as I had arranged to have lunch at the airport with my „long lost Australian“ relatives, Uncle Karel, a cousin once removed of my Father, and his English/Australian wife, Jean. He left Czechoslovakia in 1948, so I did not really knew him. As we waited (another hour!) for our luggage, I was getting glimpses of a couple waiting behind the sliding door - he tall and with a pronounced, „eagle“ nose, typical of Pesinas. I waved, they waved back. He knew a Slav face when he saw one, he told me afterwards. With all the delays, there was hardly time to exchange a few words, before we had to catch the very last plane of the journey, to Canberra, the capital of Australia, and so our final destination, and the lunch had to be postponed to some future date. Still, it was really nice to be met by family on setting foot in our new „home country“. The flight to Canberra took only half an hour, but was the worst bit of all: the plane was small and the ride very bumpy. The Australian continent passing underneath did not look exactly welcoming - vast patches of parched grass, which I initially mistook for sand, criss-crossed by red dirt roads and only interrupted by greyish green wooded mountains, from where here and there rose spirals of smoke from the bush fires - here, „down under“ it is middle of summer. Canberra from the air was just a lake surrounded by little houses hidden in greenery. On the tarmac we were hit by hot, dry wind, assaulted by flies, the „curse“ of Australia, and finally met by the lady consul, who drove us to our hotel, appropriately named „The Embassy“. I felt suddenly so tired that I was hardly capable of polite conversation. With the utmost effort I managed to change and feed David, then dropped on the bed and fell into exhausted sleep. Only the next day I was able to take in our hotel properly - and was very disappointed. Despite its grand name it was just a two storey motel, and the advertised pool a mere a puddle in the middle of an asphalt courtyard. What was worse, the room was tiny - with all our suitcases and David´s cot, there was hardly room to move. The thought of spending several weeks there was depressing, so off we went to see if there was anything better to be had, and were given a downstairs suit, with a balcony giving on to a lawn and some trees, from where I could look at the Southern Cross for the first time in my life that night - little had I imagined I would ever see it with my own eyes.
Saturday, 17.12.
In the morning a dip the pool and an hour of careful sunbathing, which gave me a tan like 2 days on the beach in Belgium. In the afternoon the lady consul took us for an exploratory drive. Canberra lies in a hilly (of about 800m on average) basin, surrounded by distant mountain chains of the Snowy mountains (south west) and the Blue Mountains (north west), which provide nice views all around. The town looks more like a park dotted with houses and it is, even despite this summer´s extreme draught - the worst since 1968 - very green, at least the old centre, with a great variety of trees, many of them imported from Europe and of a wide spectrum of deep hues of green, in sharp contrast with the muted olive green of the native eucalyptus (or gum) trees, which predominate in the outlying, newer neighbourhoods. Canberra has even now enough water and the lawns get sprinkled every day. In the heart of the town lies the lake Burley-Griffin, man-made by damming the river Molonglo. It is spanned by two bridges, and the water jet in the middle, the famous landmark of Canberra, spouts water dozens of meters high. It is a monument to the discoverer of the east coast of Australia, Captain Cook (who, in 1770 stuck the British flag in the soil of an island, off the present day Cape York, which he called „Ownership“ Island, and claimed the mainland territory for the British Crown. To the south of the lake rises the low Capitol Hill, from which the Union Jack is flying now, surrounded by government buildings, like the Parliament and the Prime Minister Office (Fraser at the time). The streets bear „imperial“ names - Queen Victoria´s, King George´s , Kings´ in general, Crown´s, Commonwealth´s etc. The northern shore is the commercial and cultural hub of the capital - businesses, banks, hotels, the biggest shopping centre (Civic); the Opera, cinemas and restaurants cluster around another low elevation, the City Hill, sporting a flag as well. The buildings are white and modern, some quite tall, but no skyscrapers. The architecturally quite avant-garde University is also situated here. The dominant elevation of Canberra is the Red Hill, which is not red, but dark green, and is a natural reserve, with radio and TV antennas and a panoramic restaurant on top. Most of the embassies are in the vicinity of our hotel, in one the old quarters, Yarralumla, named after another river, a tributary of the Molonglo. We ended our sight -seeing at our (the Belgian) Embassy Residence, which is a rather grand pink villa in the Mediterranean style, on top of a hill, overgrown with magnificent old eucalyptus trees. Its grounds are huge and comprise a swimming pool and a tennis court. The Chancery itself sits at the bottom and according to the Ambassador, looks like a garage, but the residence is included in the lists of compulsory tourist sights, which gives you an idea of the worthiness of Canberra in this respect, i.e. not all that much to see. It has apparently just 7 monuments to its name - 5 of them are war memorials, one the above mentioned Cook´s and one is dedicated to the Scottish poet Robert Burn´s (why exactly to him, I don´t know). There are also botanical gardens at the foot of yet another hill, the Black Hill, and a few (modern) churches. Each suburb has its own shopping centre, with a post office and other services. The one in Deakin, where we live for the time being, is quite small, but has everything we might need. Compared to the busy and crowded European cities, Canberra is very quiet, its residential quarters´ streets empty, even of cars, though nobody seems to be walking either, despite the TV advertising clip „Walk - it is easy; walk - it is healthy!“ The only signs of life are multitudes of black-and-white magpies, who fly hither and thither in the trees with a loud chatter.
Sunday, 18.12.
Today we had lunch with the Chandlers (the English professor mentioned before, when we saw them in Brussels). They live in one of the new suburbs on the steep slope of Mt. Taylor, and their house is among the highest up it. They have a spectacular view on the mountain ranges, but the surroundings are very bare, hardly a tree in sight. In the afternoon they took us for a swim in the river Kambah, to a place called the Pine Island, as some pine trees are growing on the river banks, providing welcome shade. The river is narrow and winding through a steep valley, whose sides are thick with eucalyptus trees filling the hot air with their pungent but pleasant (even if it evokes a cold) perfume. The rocky outcrops form small rapids and deep pools in the otherwise shallow stream. The water was cool and refreshing, but the sand scorching - impossible to walk on it barefoot. Some boys were diving from a high cliff on the opposite bank. There were very few people, despite the hot weather and many facilities - changing rooms, toilettes, showers, roof covered picnic tables, stone fireplaces with cut logs ready to use. Had a great swim, but burnt my back...
Saturday, 24.12.
Joris has started working on Monday, when he finally met his ambassador, Bartholomy, who has a reputation of being very difficult. Apparently, the first impressions are not too bad, but it is early days yet. I met his wife, Laura, at the residence for coffee this morning. She seems nice and „motherly“. Then I was introduced to the rest of the embassy staff.
In the afternoon we went shopping into Civic. The goods are more or less the same as in Belgium, though there is less choice, except for the meat, which is incredibly cheap and plentiful, but the supermarket has run out of milk and sugar, something unheard of in Belgium. It was probably due to Christmas, which is also the start of the main holiday season here. I, however, keep forgetting it IS Christmas in this hot summer weather. Australians still celebrate it as in „the old country“, starting only tomorrow, on Christmas Day, and with turkey and all.
Wednesday, 28.12.
Christmas for us passed almost unnoticed, we just exchanged little gifts on Sunday and went to St. Christopher church, a new building in a „pure Norman basilica“ style. The mass was in English and Italian (!?) and the church full of people and little children, who participated noisily, but nobody minded. The car we had bought and paid for had still not been delivered, though promised, so we rented one and drove to the Nature reserve of the Black Mountain. The Botanical gardens were closed, and all the reserve had to offer were eucalyptuses and flies. Nice view from top. We continued to the lake and I had dip - was quite alone. Maybe because it was overcast - for the first time since we arrived; it even rained a bit later. The hotel offered a special X-mas dinner of six courses, which we could not face - the portions are enormous here, the steaks almost bigger than the plates. I usually have quite enough with an appetiser, or hors d´oevres (mainly various kinds of shellfish), unless there is fish. The hotel restaurant is always full with outside guests, mostly young, chewing their way through these mountains of food. No wonder that obese people, especially women, are a common sight here. (Already then!!!)
New Year´ s Eve 1977
Nothing special was happening in the hotel, so we just waited around for midnight to toast out future in Australia, mentally send our best wishes to all the distant dear ones and went to bed. I hope I shall not regret that I added Australia on the wish-list: at the moment I am a bit depressed and wondering, what on earth I am - and will be - doing here among all the flies, magpies and the, so far somewhat invisible, „antipodes“.
“I HATE CUTTING OFF MY PAST LIFE, IT IS LIKE REMOVING A
LIMB. IT IS A COMPLETE NEGATION OF THE PERIOD OF YOUR LIFE, WHICH IS VERY DEPRESSING TOUGHT.”
Australian Diary 2, Year 1978
January
Sunday,
1.1.78
New Year in a new continent but still not in
a new home…
Friday, 6.1.78
David is 8 months old
today and he seems to prosper in the land of the antipodes. The heat does not
bother him and I let him tan carefully. He is finally growing some blond hair and
has mastered more movements - he rolls
over at will and with great speed, you could say he tosses about like a fish
out of water. Impossible to leave him alone on my bed even for a split second.
Changing his nappy has become quite a struggle. He has become very strong. His
big toe found his way into his mouth and his feet became his favourite toys.
Sitting up straight is no longer a hazard, and just this week he managed to
swing himself from all four into a sitting position. He has not started
crawling yet but he moves around efficiently by rolling over and sliding
backwards on his tummy; he worked out the principle of a rattle and tests
everything for the rattling sound. When in the bath, he splashes so vigorously
that I end up wet from head to toe. He chatters al the time – in his own
language – and laughs and giggles a lot, and when he is angry, repeats
“tatatata” at a great speed and volume. He loves doing “berany berany duc and
“paci paci pacičky” (bumping heads and
clapping hands) and grabs everything he sees, especially magazines and books,
not to read, but to tear them into bits and eat, if allowed. The permitted food he eats by spoon and
drinks out of a mug. Lately he has been trying to catch flies – a never-ending
source of entertainment here in Australia…
Tuesday, 17.1.78
Since the beginning of
this year I have been spending most my time looking for a house, driving around
with real estate agents. I have been looking in all of the neighbourhoods, so I
am getting to know Canberra quite well, but have not found anything suitable
yet: all too big, too small, too expensive or too far. Once we almost agreed on
one, but another dipl. couple offered more money at the last moment. Another
time I was very tempted, as the house was in the Couvreur Street! But it was
too modern for our taste and not big enough. I did some research and found out,
that the street was indeed named after a relative of Joris: Catharine Couvreur,
a wife of Joris´s distant great uncle,
who had lived in London and then settled in Australia. She was a writer and
wrote under the pseudonym of Tasma. (She
is mentioned in an Almanac “The Women Writers of Australia”, which I have kept
somewhere.)
We did buy a car – a
small white Datsun. It is officially mine, when I dare drive it – there is not
much traffic but one drives on the left here. On Saturday we drove around
Canberra and up one of the hills, the Ainsli, and in the evening up another,
the Red Hill, in order to have supper in a different restaurant for once. This
one was a round, Spanish style building with big windows and spectacular views
over Canberra and the surrounding mountains, and it is rightly very popular.
David was on his best behaviour – the restaurant provided a high chair form
him.
On Sunday we drove some
30km to a Nature reserve Tidbinbilla to see kangaroos, but it was also closed
like the ZOO. At least we were told why – because of an absolute ban on making
fires, due to an extreme drought of the last days. Since we arrived, there have been already two
serious bush fires, one before X-mas near Sydney and one just now, in the state
of Victoria. But even just the drive was worth the effort: undulating ground
with golden coloured grasses and dotted here and there by a lone eucalyptus
tree surrounded by horses or cattle, grazing in its scarce shadow. Some places
were strewn by gigantic boulders, while other were cut deep by rocky streams,
nearly dry now, but still providing nourishment to rows of vividly green willow
trees in stark contrast to the grey or khaki green of the eucalyptuses, with
ever pealing bark hanging down in untidy strips and knobbly branches reaching
to heaven as if praying for rain. They are not exactly pretty but their rough
stubbornness makes them appealing and attractive in a special way. We drove up
the first low mountain belt around Canberra, which at first sight seemed to be
covered by spruces, but they turned out to be pines in the outer shape of a
spruce: narrow branches growing all the way to the ground. Once on top, we
found that the ground didn´t slope down again as is usual, but continued on the
same level until next mountain range, at whose foot the Reserve was. On the way
back we stopped at the bank of stony river called Paddy´s, in the middle of the
pine wood and spent a lazy afternoon there in the company of a big green and
red parrot – they are native here. When I saw one in Canberra for the first
time, I though it had fled from somebody´s cage…It was very hot, but the water
was too low to swim in. Further down this river flows into a bigger one, called
Cotter, whose three dams supply Canberra with water, and which in turn is a
tributary of the Murumbidgee. We drove back with a thunderstorm on our heels –
it burst out, hails and all, just after we got safely home. The thunderstorms
are spectacular here, which brings me to the weather in general. Though most of
the time it is beautiful, with uniformly blue skies, temperatures between 25°and
30° and the scorching sun alleviated by an almost constant breeze, it is also
very changeable: sometimes out of nothing a cold wind brings dark clouds, or a
hopelessly overcast and cold morning turns into a hot sunny afternoon. Until
now we have only had two full days of rain and Canberra has turned much greener
than it was on our arrival. Despite of
Canberra being one big park, there are not many animals around, domestic or
wild, except for some birds, the European sparrows, crows, magpies, the local
parrots and some blackbird like birds, and of course the very typical Cookaburra
– a funny looking and funny sounding “laughing bird”.
We hit a few tennis
balls wit Joris, but it is too hot to play. Most of the diplomats are away –
this is the main school holiday season here. So I have nothing much to do
except for taking care of David, go for walks and read (The Thorn Birds – an
Australian saga). And of course looking for a house. Joris says he is very busy
and also went to Sydney for a meeting.
Sunday, 21.1.78
Friday we went to our
first cocktail here and had to leave David in the care of a girl from a
students baby-sitting agency. He did not go to sleep till our return, but was
otherwise OK. Who was not so OK was I. Joris announced that the cocktail was
practically next door and insisted we walk there. But it was further than he
thought, the wind made havoc with my hair and my toe, stung by a bee that
afternoon hurt like hell in my narrow pump. This of course did nothing to boost
up my already low esteem and nervousness from meeting a bunch of complete
strangers who will have nothing better to do than to critically asses the
newcomers – just as we used to do in Prague… To be the new one at such a
gathering is for me a sort of exquisite (because
of free drinks and delicious titbits) form of torture. According to the
diplomatic protocol, or even common rules of social behaviour, the couples can
be seen together only arriving or leaving otherwise they have to keep as far
away from each other as possible. One has to forget one´s good upbringing and try
to simply barge into the conversation of any group that´s at hand, in order to
introduce oneself, by name and embassy, but in my case also by “I am the wife
of that tall one over there, as Joris had already met at least the males
through work. The group in turn mumble their names and embassies or other
workplaces (which I forger straight away) and usually continue their talk as if
I were not there. So one mumbles, “excuse me” and bumps into another couple or
group. When I do manage to start a conversation with some kind soul (invariably
on the theme “who are you, where are you from, how long have you been here, how
do you like it here etc), before long a friend arrives and one is dropped like
a hot cake with an unfinished sentence choking in one’s throat. It is not that
people are being impolite, these are just the rules of the game, and once one
knows most of the guests, it is fun. We did manage to get friendly with a
Scandinavian couple, who invited us to join a Saturday tennis group, playing in
turns at various residences. So we went today, I did not distinguish myself much,
they all played better than me so I mostly just walked from one corner of the
court to the other, losing my services. Still, it was a pleasant afternoon.
David had learnt to wave, so he had plenty of people to practice on.
Sunday, 29.1.78
Last Sunday, the 23rd, David pull himself up in
his cot!
Rainy and stormy
weekend – the temperature dropped by 17°, to 13°C! In the afternoon the sun
came out again and we did a bit of sightseeing. Joris wanted to see the Academy
of Science, where he has to go to a conference next week. It looked sort of
like a submarine – a hemisphere with round portholes, supported by pillars
disappearing in the water of the canal. Further we drove to the Parliament Building
– a long low white structure on a green lawn sloping to the lakes, in whose
surface it reflects itself prettily. (Nowadays there is new parliament,
built after we left and landscaped by our neighbour Jenny´s husband).
Across the lake, we saw the grey, pink and green strips of the Anztac Avenue,
converging on to the War Museum, as ugly as the war itself. We returned past
various architecturally noteworthy embassy residencies, which in this city
without a history play the role of palaces elsewhere and are included in the
tourists bus tours, the Belgian among them. Canberra has a great variety of
trees, plants and flowers– a great many of them imported from Europe.
David has got his first
teeth, the two lower incisors! I discovered them on Thursday, when I was
feeding him and heard the spoon tinkle against them.
Tuesday, 31.1.78
It is my mother’s
birthday – what would she think about her grandson? “He celebrated” yesterday’s
Australian National Day by starting to crawl, all of a sudden and very fast.
Now I can’t wait for his playpen, as I can’t leave him even for a minute. The
“fence from the sofa cushions had become more of a threat than a protection, standing
up by it, he could easily tumble over it head first…
The weather cleared and
we drove southwest of Canberra, some 40km, to the so-called Lanyon farm. It was
built in1833 by convicts. The present buildings dates from1859 and it is a fine
example of a typical dwelling of the rich land and cattle owners and of their
life style. It is a white, square building, with a green tin roof and surrounded
by an open veranda. The house sits in the middle of an extensive, well-kept
garden, which borders on green pastures sloping down to the Murrunbidgee River.
It is a museum now and exhibits works by the Australian painter Molan –a “naïve
artist”. (More about the estate in English is in my Czech written diary,
between p.101-2.)
We had a pick-nick lunch
in the garden under a tall dry Eucalyptus; the dead trees, though sad, are
really quite spectacular: they shed the leaves, the small branches and the
untidy dark strips of bark to reveal heir silvery trunk and upwards pointing
gnarly branches that sparkle in the in the sun. A flock of white and noisy
cockatoos kept us company (apart from the omnipresent flies – the Australian
plague).
The way there and back
was very pretty, after the rains everything turned freshly green – the hills
around Canberra and the more distant mountains, washed of the dust, had taken
on a new sheen, and on the pastures white sheep and motley cattle were excitedly
running hither and thither, munching the crisp new grass and drinking water
from the muddy pools. Occasionally, we saw tree stumps with roots shaped like
fantastic animals. The nearby low and rounded hills were silvery green and the
more distant mountain ridges, curly with the thick cover of tall eucalyptus,
acquired darker and darker hue with the distance. The darkest spots marked the
pines – a veritable symphony in green under the clear blue of the sky, along
which sailed dirty white clouds…
Then we continued
further south and crossed an old bridge that surprisingly had not collapsed
under us. Even after the rains, the Murrunbidgee flew lazily among its sandy
banks. In the village Tarwa we stopped for ice cream and decided to make a
circle, returning by the Tidbinbilla Reserve. It was open this time and we were
welcome by a couple of emus at the gate, but we could not spend much time
there, it was getting late. The landscape along the way back changed quite
dramatically after the rains. A nice day. Tomorrow the school starts.
February
Wednesday, 1.2.78
Today I spent the day
in the house of Mr. And Mrs. Chandler; I think I had mentioned that they were
an English acquaintance from my interpreting days, who retired here. Now she
offered that we could stay at their house in Kambah, one of the outer /newer
Canberra suburbs while they were in New Zealand. We have finally found a house
and should be moving in in a week. So my lazy holidays have come to an end. I
had a good time in this hotel; no housework and no cooking, even if we did get
a bit tired of the menu. On the other hand, the evenings in the restaurant
provided us with an opportunity to study all kinds of Homo Australian species
and their behaviour. The restaurant is quite a popular place, frequented by
people of all ages, in couples or more often in groups, including a great
number of kids – four children per family is no exception here. Physically, the
Australians are fine specimens, though not exactly handsome, they are mostly
tall, tanned and slim (this was more than 30 years ago!), despite the
huge portions of food and great
quantities of beer they consume (Australia is currently 3rd in the
world in beer consumption; the local product is tasty and cheap). They are also fond of wine, home produced and
good as well. The ladies usually wear long dresses with naked shoulders, while the
men are in shorts sleeve shirts and more often than not, in shorts – a peculiar
combination…
David is slowly
mastering the art of “paci paci” and in his way is trying to repeat the nursery
rhyme that goes with it…
Thursday, 9.2.78
Since Saturday we are
at the Chandler´s house and the change did us good. The house sits high up on
the flank of the Mount Tylor, where the neighbourhood ends, so that the back
porch is so private that I can sunbathe naked, feeling like I am all alone in
the world. The only movement is the shimmering of the hot air or an occasional
flutter of a parrot´s wings. Apart from
their screeching, the silence is so absolute, that it causes me humming in my
ears. On the front terrace we can enjoy bloody steaks watching bloody sunsets
over the mountain ridge behind a shallow valley. Unfortunately, this
paradisiacal existence is coming to an end – tomorrow we are moving to our new
home. We had our first lunch with our new ambassador and wife; they are very
pleasant and I feel more at ease with them than with the d´Avernas in Prague,
perhaps because they do not have any “blue blood” in their veins…
Saturday, 18.2.78
To complicate matters,
we had a dinner at an American-Italian couple the Friday before the move,
plenty of delicious Italian food but a lack of sleep. And worse, already on
Tuesday our first guest to stay with us was arriving: Kenny, a son of Great
Granny´s friends in England (the MacDonalds
– the lady with the dogs) was arriving from New Zealand. So I was working
harder than I would have liked, to have the house more or less in order. Overall
it was easy, the house is big, there is room for everything, and the wrappings
came off in the garden, so no mess inside. The only drawback was caused by the
remaining one of the twin bedroom wardrobes inherited from my parents (the
other one is in Krávovna), just as it did when we were moving it to our
diplomatic villa in Prague (Na Hřebenkách
41, Praha 5) – the staircase up to the first floor was to low to let it
pass. Here, it could not be subjected the same acrobatics as in Prague, where
it had been lifted onto the first floor terrace on ropes and then pushed in
trough a large window. This house is in the typical English style and has sash
windows, through which can enter nothing much bigger than a dog. So it had to
go into the guest room in a later built annexe with a French window. We had
finally found this house in Griffith, one of the old central neighbourhoods,
practically on the border with the most fashionable one, Red Hill, on La
Perouse Street 22 (La Perouse was a French navigator and discoverer; just my
luck - now I shall have to spell not only my name but also the address…). But
it is on a quiet, tree lined street. The house is about 40 years old, which is
“antique” in Canberra, and has two storeys, which happens to be common in our
street but not so much elsewhere. It is white-washed and has red roof, doors
and window frames. In the middle of the grassy front garden towers a huge
eucalyptus tree. The back yard in front of the kitchen is divided by a wall
from a paved patio with some decorative trees in front of the guestroom. It can
be lit at night and we plan to have cocktails there in the summer, to spare our
old Persian rugs from spills and cigarette burns…In the back of the garden
there are some rose bushes, and we could see the Red Hill, if it were not for an
ugly square house obstructing the view. But we do have a nice view from
upstairs, over the lush greenery of the old neighbourhoods as far as the Cook´s
fountain on the Lake Griffith, and the mountains in the distance.
The house has a
kitchen, a dining room, a drawing room and a family room on the ground floor,
and three bedrooms on the first. It is heated by gas in bricked-over
fireplaces. (Years later a friend sent us
a couple of articles about the house, when it was being sold. It has been
remodelled since our time and a swimming pool put in the back. The articles are
in my diary, attached to p.103. The detailed description of the house as we had
it is on p. 104, but I Czech.) I have arranged one of the bedrooms as my
study and that´s where I am sitting now, at my father´s desk, enjoying the view
and listening to the screeching of the cockatoos in the little park across the
street and the twittering of some little birds in the hew tree near the main
door. The embassy is about 10 min by car and the Lake about 15 min. Not even a
10min walk along tennis courts and a day care centre takes you to the Manuka
shopping centre, not very big but nice and fashionable. Apart from many shops
and a supermarket, it has a church, a cinema, restaurants, a beauty salon and a
small clinic.
On Tuesday, everything
was more or less in place, bar the hundreds of books, and we spent our first
night in our new home in our (my parents´, actually) old bed. Another friend of
Kenny´s parents, Ruth Conley, drove me and David to meet Kenny at the airport
and took care of him during the day. In the evening we all had supper on the
red Hill. Kenny left for N.Z. on Thursday.
Tuesday, 21.2.78
On Sunday we spent a
lovely day at a barbecue lunch organized by a nice British couple, David and
Mary, who have a 2 years old daughter Clara. There were several other couples
with children. David was in his collapsible playpen – we had to buy one when
staying at the Chandlers´.
Thursday, 23.2.78
This morning, the
ambassador´s wife payed me a visit. It went well, except that she refused the
coffee and asked for gin and tonic, luckily I had both. She was very sweet with
David. Last night we went to see an amateur performance of Puccini´s La Bohéme. It sounded and looked more like a
musical than an opera.
Tuesday, 28.2.78
Last Sunday it was us
who “starred” in a little “Comedy of Errors”:
we departed, David, his pram and playpen and several bags with David´s
stuff and our swimming things, to what Joris had understood was to be a
poolside lunch at the house of the chairwoman of the “Welcome to Canberra”
committee, a great local lady. We struck our little camp, though there was only
another couple and their two sons present. While I was feeding David, the Lady
and husband departed, not to prepare lunch, but to have it elsewhere, leaving
“the youth” to tend for themselves. Only the two boys took a dip. Finally, we
gathered, that the invitations had been for pre-lunch drinks, with no lunch to
follow. So we packed up and left, feeling very foolish. Luckily, we refrained
from criticising “La Bohéme” – the Lady´s son starred in it…
At least today we did
get lunch – Ruth prepared a delicious Indonesian meal for us at her rooms at
the Boys´Grammar School, where she is the headmistress.
Yesterday another
cocktail, at the Lake hotel, I felt a bit better as I knew a few people.
March
Saturday, 4.3.78
On Thursday I had lunch
with four men (Joris included) in the university dining hall, but it did not
turn our as exciting as one might have expected. The fact is, that women in
Australia are still a sort of second-class citizens, apparently a hang-over
from the times of colonisation, when the women who had come here, or rather,
were deported, were convicts or prostitutes or both. That the first male
colonisers were mostly convicts as well seems to have been conveniently
forgotten. (Though it has now become a matter of pride, to trace one´s
ancestors to the English prisons, or so I was told). Still, men do not
shake hands with women when introduced to them and I quickly learnt to keep my
right hand behind my back…Anyway, though treated politely, I was mostly ignored
throughout the meal. On the other hand, I was not all that impressed by the
company: one seemed to be a homo, another was boring and the third one too full
of himself. David was at the Occasional Day Care in Manuka. This is a very
useful Canberra speciality, run by the state. It takes care of pre-school
children from the age of nearly zero (as long as they are bottle fed, which was
David´ case). It was set up right after Canberra was built and became the
federal Capital of Australia. The governmental and other employees were
relocated here from elsewhere, and therefore had no parents, parents-in-law,
siblings or even friends that could take care of their little ones when the
need arose. In the early years, it was strictly limited to emergencies –
doctor´s visits and such. By this time, the rules have been relaxed and one
does not really need a reason. It suffices to call a day or two ahead and
“book” one´s child for one of the three 3 hour sessions, for the price of 1
dollar. The toddlers´section, from the age of one year, has an inside and
outside section with a sand pit and water games. The teachers are busy playing
with the kids or reading to them all the time. And there is a snack of fruits,
as well. A wonderful invention! David likes it there; he cries when I leave
him, but stops as soon as I am out of sight – I was spying on him from behind
the hedge…
On Friday, just when I
was in the middle of the first “spring cleaning”, Joris called and said:
“ You have been honoured by an invitation to a
dinner at the Ambassadors´. Actually, it was not as much an invitation as a
command – I had to fill in for a lady who had been taken suddenly sick. Joris
came back early to supply me with advice, but I was still cleaning – my pride
did not let me change my programme for the day; so in the end I was a bit a
rushed getting ready. Joris was green with envy that I should have the opportunity
to meet a lot of ambassadors, while he had to baby-sit David. I was stressed
out, especially because I feared it will be a French evening – the diner was in
honour of a Walloon noble couple, who were passing through. Joris advised me to
announced immediately to everybody that I was Czech, speak Dutch, but sorry,
French not so well. It is also my way of fighting for the Flemish rights – why
shouldn´t the French speakers make an effort and speak Dutch for a change? (I
followed this advice throughout my diplomatic life, and it worked like a charm;
every time I had to introduced myself as Mrs.Couvreur, Belgian Embassy,
everybody who had a smattering of French, tried to use it at me. Proclaiming
myself a native Czech however, had most of them eulogizing about Prague…).
Still, my heart dropped to my shoes, when I saw I was seated next to the count,
but luckily, he was fluent in English and we settled happily to a conversation
in this “neutral” language. The whole evening went well as most of the guests
were Europeans and I was in no way ignored…
Tuesday, 7.3.78
On Sunday afternoon I
left the “boys” to their siesta and went to see “Gone With the Wind”, for the
second time. Why ever did I think it was all about love and happiness, when in
fact, it is pure, undiluted tragedy?
David is 10 months old.
He measures 84cm and weighs 13kg! I asked the paediatrician, if he isn´t somewhat overweight, but she said, no, he is
just solidly built…He can sit up and sit down on his own volition, walk while
holding onto the side of the play pen and stand up a while without holding onto
anything. He is getting quite good at playing with the “educational” toys – taking
things out and putting them back in and the like. We play a new game – peek-a-bu,
when he hides his face behind a scarf and laughs his head off…We put a little
gate in the door of his room, so he can crawl freely around. I can see him from
my room while writing or ironing. He is outside a lot, in his portable playpen,
while I cook or do the laundry. Downstairs he “lives” in his big playpen even
though he seems to obey the commands “Don´t touch!” or “Come here!” (“Pocem!) quite
reliably. I go shopping to Manuka with him almost everyday and our big pram
causes sensation – here the small babies are carried in something called
“kangaroo poach” and the bigger ones in push chairs. He loves sitting in the
shopping trolley, but has to be watched all the time, as he tends to “steal”
anything he can reach. Once he even pinched a few dollars from the cash counter,
unfortunately, the cashier noticed…Twice a week I play tennis with other local
mothers; there is a fenced in playground and the mothers, who are waiting their
turn to play, are watching everybody´s children. This really is an extremely
child-friendly place!
Sunday, 12.3.78
Quite a busy week: All
last weekend, Joris played in the diplomatic tennis tournament, which is a big
event here, with the participation of many worthy locals. The finals, which
Joris just had not made, were held on the tennis courts at the US Embassy, one
of the biggest and prettiest in Canberra. Afterwards there was a buffet lunch.
We met a nice new Finish couple, Marja and Heiko, and I took her on Wednesday
to a lunch for “diplomatic wives”, held at a sheep farm near the town of Yass,
some 40km outside Canberra. David was in the day care centre; when I arrived to
pick him up I called his name from the doorway and he immediately turned and
crawled towards me as fast as he could. In the evening a cocktail and on Friday
a dinner, which made us nostalgic for Prague (I didn´t mention why).
On Saturday, we had our
first guests for dinner – the Chandlers. They stayed till 1.30A.M., and at
eight the following morning Dorothy woke me up to thank me…I hardly slept at
all, as David developed a fever of nearly 40°C and was crying a lot. The doctor
diagnosed an inflammation of the middle ear. He is better after a dose of penicillin,
but now I have a cold.
Saturday,18.3.78
On Monday, Joris got
the cold and the fever. Jolly! But we were all well enough to accept an
invitation by Marjo and Heiko. The men played tennis and we chatted. We stayed
for supper. That night a thunderstorm came and made an end to two months of
almost uninterrupted nice, hot weather – 30°C during the day and not less than
25°C during the night, which is unusual for Canberra. It had been very dry and
the sheep and cattle farmers are not very happy. (The global warming 30
years ago already?) But Canberra has enough water and we can water the
lawns to our heart´s content, with the help of sprinkles, so we don´t even get
tired…
Easter Sunday, 26.3.78
We stayed at home over
the Easter holiday, to avoid crowds. Anyway, it was cold and rainy all week and
I had a lot of work in the garden – cleaning up after the storm; by the look of
the front lawn, half of the gum tree came down. It sheds leaves, branches, nuts
and bark all the time, but the wind played havoc with it. Also the roses and
hedges needed trimming and lots of unwanted weeds sprung up after the rains.
Joris was busy playing tennis. On Friday night Marjo and Heiko came to supper,
I made “my” spaghetti. The weather cleared this morning, so we drove out, east
of Canberra, where the hills are low and the monotony of the landscape of
greyish-green pastures is interrupted by haphazardly placed mossy boulders and
a variety of lone gum trees. When we arrived, I thought there were only two
kinds of them. Now I know there are several hundred varieties. At places, the
grass grew in silvery tuffs, all inclined in the same direction under the wind;
it looked as if hundreds of porcupines were grazing there…
We were told on many
occasions, that Canberra is not Australia and her inhabitants are not
Australians. On this outing, we could see why. Already the town of Queensbeyan,
only 15km away, has a completely different aspect. It is far less green and
tidy and the houses at the outskirts show neglected to the point of falling
down any minute. On the way to the next township, Braidwood, we passed several
estates; some were pretty and tidy, but most of them looked like gypsy
settlements: wooden structures with peeling paint and corrugated iron roofs,
surrounded by open verandas and a half built, or possibly half destroyed,
sheds, car wrecks and piles of assorted rubbish – wooden planks, metal
containers for rain water, broken bits and pieces that might come in handy one
day…There were also several burnt down houses with only a chimney standing –
witnesses to old bush fires. Braidwood calls itself a “historic” town, meaning
it has two “gothic” churches from the 19th century and a high street
lined with old “American West” style houses and sidewalks shaded by roofs
supported by wrought iron pillars. Half of the shops were boarded up and the
only cared for buildings were the town hall, the post office and the police
station. Once we left the town, we also left the “main”, the narrow tarmac road,
and turned left to follow a dirt road that Joris was not happy to be driving
along. To make things worse, we met with a huge herd of cattle, which did not
seem to know which way it was supposed to go, and kept crossing the road in
front off us, while a bunch of small, supposedly shepherd, dogs were trying to
move them forward. The human Shepherd motioned us to drive trough the herd, but
Joris preferred to keep a respectful distance. Suddenly, the cattle turned round
and performed something like the famous stampede, heading straight for us.
Joris deftly turned the car round and drove away like a hare, obeying the old
saying that a cow can´t catch up with a hare…To while away the waiting for the
road to become safe again, we ate our lunch – in the car. The cattle finally did find their way to
wherever they were going and we got on our way, down a serpentine and through a
thick wood, till we came to the target of our journey – a beautiful valley of
Araulen, greener than anything I have seen in Australia so far. It looked like
something out of a Swiss calendar, including the cows and the mountains in the
background (minus the snowy tops). Only the dwellings were again far from the
Swiss (or any other) tidiness. In the garden restaurant of the hotel several
long haired and barefoot teenagers and men in the “texas” hats and riding boots
were drinking beer. Coffee or tea could not be had. Ragged and filthy children
were running about everywhere. We tried to walk a bit, but there were no paths
in the meadows and the road was full of dust from passing cars. There was no
lack of flies, either. Beauty and squalor hand in hand…Back home in the rain. I
tried to make a nice Easter Sunday dinner, but the lamb chops got burnt, while
I was putting David to bed.
Thursday, 30.3.78
We spent Easter Monday
with the Chandlers, for lack of family – ours and theirs. They seem to be
becoming my new set of adoptive parents…The autumn is slowly setting in, in
Canberra street by street, depending on the kind of imported trees planted in
them. Outside Canberra there is no difference, all stays the same silvery or
dark green. Yesterday we had an invitation to a dinner, which was cancelled at
the last minute, the hostess was suddenly taken ill. As we had already called a
babysitter, we went to a cinema instead, to see the Star Wars. (I liked the
film much better, when I saw it for second time some twenty five years later…) Tomorrow
we are off to the seaside, at last!
April
Tuesday, 4.4.78
It is April and we have
to put on the heating, the house got very cold while we were away. We left
Friday after lunch, having packed all morning (we had rented a holiday cottage
right on the beach, and we had to bring not only food but also sheets and
towels) in sunny weather, by the same road we took the other day to Braidswood.
It is called the King´s Road, but there is nothing royal about it, as I said,
just a narrow asphalt road, though it goes all the 150km to the coastal town of
Batesman Bay (called in honour of Captain Cook´s friend). The vegetation grew
progressively thicker and greener and in the last 11km descent to the sea, the
road became a serpentine, sharply winding down the mountains overgrown with an
impressive forest of tall gum trees, through which we could now and then catch
a glimpse of further mountain ranges and even of the sea. The town sprawls
around the mouth of the river Clyde. We got to our cottage about four, put the
pram together and went for a walk along the sandy beach. There was not a soul
in sight, though there were many other holiday cottages along the wide, deep
bay, adorned by a couple of rocky islands. The weather was not very nice but I
could not forego to have swim. The sea was surprising warm and it was lovely to
be able to swim at last. With all the beautiful weather, in Canberra it is not
easy to indulge in this sport for lack of water. There is one spot, where it is
possible to make a few tempos in a deep pool, but otherwise the river is
shallow and rocky. The public swimming pools are too crowded and do not seem
very clean. We were rocked to sleep by the sound of waves crushing against the
beach and woken up by the patter of rain drops on the roof. It did not look
like wanting to stop any time soon, so we drove along the beach to the Turros
Head, a pretty, rocky peninsula with sandy beaches, jutting far out into the
sea. It rained all day, but on Sunday we woke into a shiny hot morning under the
uniformly blue sky. We spent the day happily on the beach, I mostly in the
water, swimming or body surfing on the big waves. Towards evening it started to
rain again, so we left early.
Monday, 10.4.78
Last week a dinner at
the Swedes, who had been posted to Prague. The autumn is progressing, but it is
not too cold yet, only very changeable, and it rained all last weekend, to a
great annoyance of Joris, who was planning to play tennis. Also the lunch for
Mary and David had to be held inside, so more work.
Monday, 17.4.78
All last week we had a
lovely Indian summer and Canberra is a riot of colours. I read somewhere, that
there are 7 trees for each of the 200 000 inhabitants of Canberra, and most of
them imported, hence the colours. I have taken to daily bicycle rides through
the town (while Joris is having his lunch break and siesta at home), getting to
know it and enjoying the sights. It is very pleasant to bike round the lake,
where people from the offices and shops of the nearby Civic Centre are eating
their lunches. From the Capitol Hill one a has a nice view and gets a good idea
of the town urban plan. The nicest Canberra church is St. Andrew, also only
from the 19th century, but a faithful copy of the English Norman
(gothic) style, including stained glass windows and the mystical half-light.
And, oh, it was my birthday last Wednesday. No big deal.
Wednesday, 26.4.78
Last week we had a
dinner at our Italian colleagues with a sympha name of “Martini”. I sat next to
the host and had such a lively argument about the pros and cons of socialism,
that I hardly managed to eat,; despite his name he was very much pro. I finally
gave up the argument in order to at least enjoy the desert, the vanilla cookies
– Mrs Martini is Austrian (their cuisine is very similar, if not identical to
the Czech one, as in the old days of the Austrian Empire, the cooks used to be
Czech…). At the Swedes´ dinner we met a nice Australian couple, Sally and Bob
St.John, and invited them on Friday for a drink. Sally gave me our relation´s
Tasma´s most famous book, “Uncle Piper of Piper´s Hill”. I read it
through the weekend, it is not too bad, similar to Jane Austin novels. (It should still be in my bookcase.)
This past weekend was a
memorable one: my “long lost“ uncle Karel Pešina and his Anglo-Australian wife
Jean (“The Uncles”, as David and
Thomas used to called them later), came to visit us from Sydney. They
arrived Saturday afternoon in their Volkswagen camping mini bus, in which they,
ten years ago, had travelled the length of Africa and most of Europe. It was
the second part of their journey “around the world”, before they had travelled
in Asia (and in Australia, of course), and in both Americas. We had supper in
the local French restaurant (too much salt and garlic for my taste.) Sunday we drove about 30km east of Canberra
to a place called Gundarro, to have lunch in a restored typical old Australian
restaurant, almost too primitively furnished but with plenty of atmosphere.
There was only one menu – corn on the knob, a baked potato and an enormous
steak. It was ten times more delicious than the refined French food…Coffee was
served in tin mugs and the cake in your hand. There was music and singing,
mostly Scottish (or maybe Irish, I can´t tell them apart) folklore, which is
the most popular of all imported lores. David loved all this commotion and
noise. In the afternoon, Joris disappeared to play tennis and we were looking
through my old family albums. On Monday they drove with me and David to Cooma,
a small tourist town at the foot of the Snowy Mountains (110km from Canberra),
where they used to work and where they met. The uniform gray-green of the
landscape was only now and then livened by yellow smudges of poplars trees,
which always signalled a human habitation. Cooma is similar to Canberra, but
much more lively. Uncle Pešina prepared a barbecue lunch of lamb chops - very
tasty- at the bank of the river Murrunbidgee. Cooma was the headquarters of a
hydro project that, with the help of dams and underground tunnels, turned the
flow of several rivers inland, so that their waters could be used in
agriculture instead of flowing uselessly into the sea. “The Uncles” used work
on this project. They departed on Tuesday and left us with nice memories. Uncle
Pešina is a cousin of my father. His father, Matěj (Mathew), one of the
brothers of my Grandfather, was a renowned Prague paediatrician and ironically,
and tragically, his own older daughter had died of diphtheria when just three
years old. He had another daughter, Alena, who in 1968 emigrated with her
younger daughter Karla to Switzerland. Her older daughter, Miška, was married
by that time and stayed in Prague. Uncle Karel emigrated twenty years before
his sister, in 1948, when the communist took power in CZ, in a dramatic way:
with a friend, he skied through the thick woods of South Bohemia, near the town
of Třeboň (where the Pešina family comes from), over the border to Austria. He
could have easily been shot, but luckily he was not. In the emigrants´ camp
(there were many), he took up the offer of going to Australia, which was keen
to bring white people to their under-populated country and give them a
start, like Switzerland did in 1968 – my cousin Hana benefited from this, while
her mother Helena, and brother Michal continued to Canada. Also all the friends
of Karel´s had chosen the western direction – South America.
The weather changed and
it is very cold: I had to put on boots and a thick jumperfor the first time.
Last night we had another family visit, from Joris´s mother´s side this time,
related in a very complicated way. They are our age and she is a diplomat…
Sunday, 30. 4.78
This morning we had
pre-lunch drinks at Bob and Sally´s, they lent me a pile of Australian books.
On Wednesday morning I was taken by my ambassadress (Laura) to the general
meeting of the Women International Club (WIC), which is the first step to being
admitted. They have many activities of all kinds, it would interesting to be
able to join, but there is a long waiting list. Half of the members are
Australian, so they leave only when the die…
(The WIC has been active also in Belgium, and I have always been a member of
their Book Clubs.)
On Thursday night
dinner at Austrians with a Czech name Mikl, but no Czech spoken…
I put away the summer
clothes, we shall have at least 5 months of cold weather. It gets dark at six.
In summer it was after nine.
MAY
Sunday, 7.5.78
An exceptionally
cultural week (for Canberra). First we saw an Australian film ”A Picknick At
the Hanging Rock”, an excellent but scary movie based on an actual event in
1900 – a mysterious disappearance of a group of school girls. Only one was
eventually found, on the verge of death. Extraterrestrial forces were implied –
very scary….Then we went to another amateur opera performance in the Canberra
theatre, the invitation specified a smoking. This time it was Verdi´s Masked
Ball. Not only were the singers mostly on the corpulent side and had no voices
to speak of, but the opera was transported into Chicago of 1924….A three hour
horror of another kind…The theatre is very pretty, it is a pity there is no
home company.
But the highlight of
this week was David´s first birthday, yesterday. He managed to blow the candle
and sucked on the many birthday cards. More than with the presents themselves,
he was thrilled with the wrapping paper that he could tear to pieces – what a
lovely sound - and try to eat. Joris bought him a toy train – what else – but
David would not let him put it together, he preferred throwing the bits
around. A separate wind-up engine, which
whistles as it chugs along, was a bigger success, after he stopped being afraid
of it. He can stand alone for quite a while and without wobbling and walks
safely when holding onto something, the first steps have no happened yet, but
he can climb up the stairs. He has had a third (lower) incisor for some time
now but the second one has got lost somewhere. He has become fluent in
saying “ne” (no) and applies it
vehemently when he does not want something. He learnt it from me of course, as
I keep telling him “no” quite often. Also says mamama and tatatata (for daddy)
and kočka (cat) and hafhaf. In the shops, people let me jump the queue and
admire his blue eyes (forgetting to add “like Mummy´s…) Lately he only naps in
the afternoon.
The weather has been
very pleasant, cold nights but during the day blue skies, so the sun warms the
air up to 20°C.
Thursday, 11.5.78
Tuesday morning there
was an emergency call from the residence – once again there was a last minute cancellation
for a diner, this time a couple, so it was “duty calls” for both of us. Still,
one of the guests arrived half an hour late, and without his wife. It was the
ambassador of Papua New Guiney, very black and very ugly, and who had the
honour to be his neighbour at the table – me, of course. Joris got off lightly,
as he had the empty chair of the absent wife on one side, so he could
concentrate on a rather charming and intellectual Australian divorcee on his
other side. I was getting along nicely with my other, Australian, neighbour
during the soup, when the “Papua” dug his elbow in my ribs and pointing to my
name tag on the table, asked: “And how do you pronounce this?” That was non-starter,
as I still can´t pronounce “Couvreur” properly. (And I can´t to this day, 40+
years later, it seems – no one in Belgium ever gets it.) So I asked him, “What does your name mean?” “A
man-eating lizard” he retorted and rolled his eyes. I quizzed him about his
country, which before I had not known it existed. When we got to religion, he
said he had written a book about it; if I buy it, he would autograph it for
me…As I was not quite sure if the empty chair really was meant for his wife, I
asked him, if he was married. He shrugged his shoulders and sniggered. At the
desert I turned to the Australian again, but soon I heard a loud yawn on my left,
so I turned back and said, “I am afraid I do not entertain you enough.” “No,
no, “he said, “you have done your best”, and stared at my chest. Luckily, this
“flower of diplomacy” left even before coffee was served, saying he had to take
care of his wife. My theory though is, that he killed his wife just before the
dinner and now he was in a hurry to get rid of the body….My ambassadress
thanked me, with a hint of admiration in her voice, for having been able to
entertain her difficult guest quite successfully... Yesterday a supper at an
English couple home – we were invited,
not standing in for somebody.
This morning the
embassy has organized a visit to the Canberra Entomological Institute, where we
were told about the problems that Australia has with the cow ding and the
measure taken to deal with it. It is no small thing. The cows, as well as all
the other domestic animals are not indigenous to the Australian continent and
therefore form invasive species. The beetles that in Europe, Africa and other continents
consume all the dung and other shit (dung beetles, which in Egypt are known
under a more romantic sounding name “scarabs” and were made sacred, not without
reason), do not normally live here either. Their distant local relatives only
ever had had to clean up after kangaroos and cannot handle the large splashes
of cow dung, which is left to become the fertile breeding environment for the
fly larvae. Hence Australia is plagued by myriads of flies. The graphic
documentary made us a bit sick. For ten years
the institute has been busy importing the dung beetle eggs, cultivating them,
breeding them and letting them wild in nature. The institute also breeds the
kind of mites that feeds on the kind that feeds on leaves. When a farmer has
this problem, they send him a batch of mites-eating mites and problem solved. (The
ecological studies has probably found problem with this by now.) A thought occurred to me: Could it be, that
“someone” is manipulating the mankind in the same way as mankind is
manipulating the “animalkind”? And we don´t grasp the purpose of this, just as
the mites don´t. At the end we were shown a collection of beautiful large
butterflies and even larger but less beautiful moths; the latter gave me
shivers so that I left quickly.
We have had rains and
storms these last three days and the temperature dropped to 5°C. We are leaving
to the seaside tomorrow, it is Pentecost.
Thursday, 18.5.78
The weekend was a
success, we drove a bit more to the south, to Tuross Head, a narrow, rugged
peninsula overgrown with eucalyptus, jutting out between a wide mouth of the
river Tuross and a “sea lake”. David woke us early and the sun was shining. We
chose one of the many half moon shaped beaches with golden sands, separated
from one another by rocky cliffs, against which the ocean´s mighty waves
crashed regularly, throwing up spectacular geysers of glittering white foam
that no beer would be ashamed of. Nice to look at but it seemed too dangerous,
even to me, to dare a swim. The cold wind chased us early back to the motel on
the highest point of the peninsula, where we sipped tea and watched the
changing colours of the sunset – the tops of the eucalyptus tress turned
golden, the sea surface silver and the distant mountains purple. By the time we
finished our tea, the trees lost their lustre, the mountains turned blue and
then black, throwing their purple hue up in the sky, where a full moon was
slowly rising. The next day we found a beach where I finally ventured into the
water, it was calmer. Otherwise we sat in the soft sand and watched the rolling
waves; it is like watching a fire – a perpetual, ever changing movement. The
sea was of a deep blue colour, changing in the waves into transparent
aquamarine. We returned in the afternoon by the same road, yet different in the
now low standing sun which added depth to the landscape and richness to the
colours. The eucalyptus trees don´t seem so uniform any more – if you look closely,
they show the same variety as the European trees: they vary in size and shape
of their trunks and branches, the aspect of bark, shape, thickness and colour
of their leaves, the way they grow, some straight like the Canadian poplars,
some twisted like ancient oaks, some fluid like weeping willows…
Sunday, 28.5.78
The Friday a week ago
Joris flew to Melbourne for the funeral of Sir Robert Menzies, the most famous
Australian Prime Minister to date. The security was extremely high because of
the still unexplained bomb explosion in front of a hotel in Sydney, at the
beginning of February, during the Commonwealth Conference. This was a first
terrorist action in Australia and the tension was great, as Prince Charles
assisted as well. Luckily, there were no bombs.
In the meantime,
Canberra has lost its motley autumn mantle, apart from the evergreens all trees
have lost their leaves and revealed a new view from the upstairs windows – a
ridge of mountains to the east of the town. Summer flowers have died or froze
to death but there is a host of spring ones (hyacinths, crocuses, daffodils),
which apparently got deceived by the still warm weather into believing the
spring has come round again.
David is trying to say
his name – when he sees himself in the mirror he smiles and waves and says
“Dada”, or some such. He can play with a ball, can open everything and is
experimenting with free fall – dropping constantly his toys on the floor for
mummy to pick up.
Last Friday we gave our
first dinner, we were fourteen and it was a success – the guests only started
to leave at midnight, which is late for Canberra. The food was prepared by a
Danish chef and was tasty (baked pancakes with mushrooms and cheese, tournedos
and chocolate mousse), but other preparations took me a week: apart from the
general cleaning of the house, the silver had to be polished, the china and glasses
washed by hand after the move, the tablecloths and napkins ironed, the tables
laid and decorated…One afternoon I spent cleaning up the front garden – after a
storm made our huge eucalyptus shed tons of leaves, branches, nuts and strips
of bark. That is the trouble with these trees. But lit at night, it looked very
decorative and I forgave him for the mess.
On Tuesday before the
dinner I went to my first lesson at the Alliance Francaise – on the bicycle, it
is about half an hour away. The course had started some time ago, I shall have
to catch up. Today we played tennis doubles with the Canadians, even managed to
win one set. In the afternoon I sat in the patio, mending some clothes, the sun
was quite hot.
Monday, 29.5.78
Yesterday still sunny
and warm, so we drove to the Tidbinbilla Nature reserve, were there are
supposed to be lots of kangaroos and koala bears, but we only saw some
droppings and bleached bones of the first and some discarded hairs of the
second, as with the pram we could not walk far enough. But we did see dozens of
colourful parrots and rather ugly emu´s, who let themselves be chased by small
children; both seemed to have fun.
June
Saturday, 3.6.78
Since Tuesday we have
been having a “quality” weather “made in England”, (or Belgium for that
matter): cold, rain, gale-like winds,
low clouds rolling over the mountain tops, so we are celebrating Joris ´s
birthday in the (relative) warmth of our home. His birthday coincides with the
celebrations of the official Queen Elisabeth´s birthday, and he had to attend a
military parade in the morning, bad weather or not, in the best English
tradition. Monday is a holiday.
David finally got his
fourth tooth and last Saturday made his first steps – only three and half and
very shaky, but still…He can stand up without holding on to something. If he is
not fighting me, he helps to get dressed and undressed.
On Thursday we had the
Australian secretary and her husband of the embassy for drinks; he is of humble
origins but looks like film star… The Ambassador is a grass widower at the
moment, madame has gone to USA to see their children. He is rumoured to have
said. “That´s because I married a rich woman – she goes whenever, wherever and
for however long she wants…” This is not Joris ´s problem… (Until the
Czechoslovak “Velvet Revolution” in 1986 and the consequent restitutions of
property.)
Thursday, 8.6.78
Yesterday a great
cultural event: the Australian Ballet of the Sydney Opera performed The Swan
Lake in the Canberra theatre. The décor was a bit overdone, but we enjoyed the
show.
A quote form one of the
Australian books that Sally lent me:
“Australia gets on my
nerves: it makes you all the time to want to do something, but there is nothing
to do…” I understand the feeling: the
beautiful weather is so inviting, you want to go out and explore, but one soon
runs out of options of day trips around Canberra, even in a car. It is
surrounded mainly by bush. Otherwise the
distances are enormous and everything is far.
I doubt we shall be able to get to know all of it. But we shall
certainly try. One has to consider an Australian well educated who, when I say
that I come from Czechoslovakia, says “Ah, that´s where they have communists”,
like a Czech would say “Australia? Oh, that´s where they have kangaroos.”
David is 13 months and
his walking is progressing, even if he looks like drunken sailor after a year
at sea.
Friday, 16.6.78
All week rain and wind,
in some parts of New South Wales floods, some places are cut off the world.
This is not good, as tomorrow we are embarking on our first big trip by car
(our little white Dutsun), to Melbourne and Adelaide, some 4 000km. People say,
we should not go, but we want to at least try. Last week our “abandoned”
ambassador came for supper and brought a present for David.
Saturday, 17.6.78
The morning dawned
clear and sunny, so we set out after all, in the southerly direction to Cooma
and beyond, through a rather desolate, hilly and bare country crisscrossed by
the rivers Murrunbidgee, Umeralla and many rivulets and creeks, their deeply
eroded beds bearing witness to the recent floods. The fine drizzle and mist did
nothing to brighten the scene. Only after passing through the village of
Nimmitabel, when the road started to go down the slopes of the Great Dividing
Range, the vegetation gradually made appearance, the trees got taller and
greener, and finally we were driving through the lush green of a eucalyptus
forest. In the bends of the winding road we could catch glimpses of the valleys
stretching all the way to the sea, now glittering in the sun. At the bottom we
entered a pastoral scene – cows, sheep and horses grazing on the vividly green
slopes that they had trimmed into a perfect “English lawn”, rivers and creeks
lined with willow trees, pretty farm houses – what a contrast with what we had
seen before. What struck us most was the tidiness of it all – even the car
wrecks at the “car cemetery” were lined up instead of piled up…The name New
South Wales seemed suddenly very apt. We reached the seaside town of Merinbula
at dusk. (250km)
Sunday, 18.6.78
The splashing of the
rain and the roar of the sea made for disturbed sleep and a dismal awaking. We
thought of abandoning our trip but were told there was no turning back – the
road we had come along was flooded and closed, so we had to continue, willy-nilly.
In the next town, called under the circumstances rather ironically Eden (whatever
was the place called, where Noah built his Arc?), the police assured us that
the road ahead was still passable and that, with a bit of luck, we might make
it. The idea of getting cut off ahead and behind in the middle of nowhere was
not very appealing, but we had no choice. We skirted the sea shore and passed
through various nature reserves and parks, passing many landslides and crossing
a number of threateningly swollen rivers, that at places flooded the land up to
the tree tops, but luckily had not reach over the bridges. We remembered
laughing at the sight of the names of the dried up rivers past summer, but we
were not laughing now. The rain oscillated between downpour and the open flood
gates. Nevertheless, we made it safely to today´s overnight place, The Lakes
Entrance. It even stopped raining and we could go for a walk. Sometime in the
afternoon we crossed the border into the Victoria State; covered 230km.
Monday, 19.6.78
The morning was sunny
and the news good – the road ahead was open.
We went for a walk on the beach, which was similar to Belgian and Dutch
beaches – sand dunes covered with grass. The sea was rough but pretty. We continued
along the coast; in the sea, flat, wooded islands were scattered. The road was
sometimes flooded, but passable. The countryside flat, with moors and reeds,
little woods and sea inlets. We were following the coast in the western
direction now and on the northern horizon we could see the southern tips of the
Great Divide Range. The towns of Bairnsdale, Sale, Traralgon a Norwell, between
which we crossed several rivers on the point of flooding, were industrial and
everything but pretty. After Sale we were finally prevented from following the
coast and were able to return to it only beyond Waragul, where we left the
Princess Highway (connecting Sydney with Adelaide), but the countryside was
worth the deviation - another pastoral. The individual gum trees seen from far
away often take on a resemblance to any European tree. From the little town of
Korrumbura, high up on the crest of the hills, the landscape bellow looked like
a maquette. There were showers but the sun kept shining, which resulted in a
magnificent rainbow that accompanied us all the way down to the sea shore. We
were spending the night on the Philipe Island, connected to the mainland by a
bridge. We got there just in time for the famous local nightly spectacle – hundreds of penguins walking in organized
formation out of the sea, to spend the night on the firm land. The moon was
spilling silver on the pitch black water of the semicircular bay and the
penguins, the smallest specie, looked incredibly sweet as they waddled on to
the lit up sand, their short wings spread out, their white breast reflecting
the moonshine and their beaks lifted up towards the spectators, not showing any
fear, just curiosity. They reminded us of David walking… From our room we could
see the lights of the ships anchored for the night, it was all very romantic.
(340km)
Tuesday, 20. 6.78
The sky was blue in the
morning, except for the horizon, where the sun was still airing its pillows and
duvets, which he later hung all over the sky and was coyly peeping through
them. We spent the remaining time walking around the peninsula and had lunch of
sandwiches (bought in the local bakery) on the grassy head with a view at a
rocky islet, a home to seals, they say. We were feeding ourselves, David and
the seagulls, and basking in the sun and enjoying the quiet but spectacular
beauty around us, before setting out for Melbourne, along a straight road
leading through a dull plain boarded on the far north by a misty mountain
ridge.
The suburbs of the
sprawling industrial town of Dandedong stretched all the 27 km to merge with
the suburbs of Melbourne, the traffic thickened, and so did the high wall of
smog that often plagues the city. Our hotel sits on the shore of a lake in an
eastern suburb of St.Kilda and from our sixth floor room we have a panoramatic
view of Melbourne and its high-rise buildings. After six months in the quiet
Canberra we were dizzy from the traffic and, like peasants, looked ten times
before crossing a street (first right, then left, due to the left hand
driving, still in
force, like in England). …(130km)
Wednesday, 21.6.78
Melbourne, like Prague,
still also has trams, one yellow and green wagon with two trolleys, one for
each direction. We boarded one to go to the City and found it noisy, draughty
and cold. After two hours of tortuous walking along the crowded, busy streets,
we still did not find anything worth mentioning beauty wise. Melbourne is
reminiscent of the uglier parts of London but altogether lacks its charm, apart
from the chiming of its very own Big Ben. The few old style houses that escaped
demolition cower sadly in the shadow of the mostly hideous high rises. The
architect who designed the city centre – a system of alternatively broad and
narrow streets, intersecting at right angles, made a mistake of not making them
ALL broad… Melbourne lies on the sea shore, but there is no picturesque
harbour, nor does the river Yarra Yarra (this is not a typing mistake but one
of many aboriginal names like Wagga Wagga etc.) comes to its own, though there
is an attractive residential quarter along its banks father out. One nice
tourist site was the Como Manor – a white building adorned with wrought iron
balconies and surrounded by a vast park in South Yarra. With its period
furniture of the last owners, it is quite a little “chateau”, a throw back to
the bygone times. It was dark when we arrived to the neoclassical Parliament,
but it was nicely lit.
Melbourne was founded
in 1835 by Tasmania (an island south of mainland Australia) colonizers, who had
bought up the fertile lands and were at first derisively called “squatters”.
Eventually, they had got rich and formed the Australian “aristocracy”. They
founded the city to challenge Sydney´s role as the seat of government. It was
soon recognized and christened after lord Melbourne, the prime minister under
king William the IV., and later it became the capital of Australia until the
foundation of Canberra. Nowadays it is only the capital of the State of Victoria. It has about 2 and
half millions inhabitants.
Thursday, 22.6.78
Out of today´s 370km,
some 250 covered an absolute flat countryside, dotted by cows but nothing else.
Only at the town of Geelong we turned back to the sea; the narrow road bit into
the steep wooded shore and crossed many ravines, hollowed by lively rivulets.
The sun was shining and the sea was bottle green. We had lunch at Apollo Bay,
where we left the sea, turned north and started climbing up the mountains.
Though only 500m high, it got very cold and everything was covered in dew,
though it was high noon. The undergrowth of dense gum tree forest was formed by
giant 2m high ferns, which looked more like palms. The highest point was Mount
Salina, with a restaurant shrouded in mist. Otherwise no human dwellings in
sight. It was already dark when we reached today´s goal – Port Fairy; there was
nothing fairy about it. (370km)
Friday, 23.6.78
Rain at night but fair
weather for our further drive through unexciting countryside, until we crossed
the state border to Southern Australia, where the man planted pine forests
constituted a pleasant change. The oldest date from 1926, the youngest from
last year. Lunch in Mt. Cambier, a town at the foot of an extinct volcano, with
a lake in its crater. The lake is famous for its twice yearly sudden,
overnight, change of colour: In winter, that is now, the colour is of greyish
blue hue, and in the autumn, it turns sky blue. We couldn´t wait till October,
so we had to believe it. In the afternoon we visited a cave, small but
exceptionally rich in stalagmites and their counterparts. After another monotonous drive through
flatlands along an incredibly straight road, we crested some hills, passed Lake
Elisabeth and ended up in Robe, a seaside resort. The water in the bay was
turquoise blue that at the sunset reflected the purple blues of the sky.
Beautiful. We spent the night in the “historical” hotel Caledonia from 1858 (in
Australia, anything from the last century is “historical”). It had its original
furnishing, which though refreshingly quaint after the uniformity of the motels,
was on the verge of discomfort. The fire crackled in the cosy dining room, but
unfortunately not in the bedroom, and the cosy dining room turned noisy. We
were cold and slept badly. (340km)
Saturday, 24.6.78
In the reddish clefts
of a rocky promontory outside Robe, the dark blue waters, whipped against it by
strong winds, boiled and frosted with white foam. But the rest of the morning
was almost unbearably dull – on both sides of the road nothing but brownish
purple moors and rows of telegraph poles proving the theory of the perspective.
Big wooden letter boxes and sign posts pointing somewhere into the void assured
us that there were human dwellings, and presumably humans, somewhere out there.
Finally, the sea was in sight again, though only as a long strip squeezed in by
a funny looking, long and thin peninsula, called “The Young Husband”. I
wondered where the wife was … At Meningie in the Alberta bay, within the
Alexandrina Bay, we had lunch in the company of ever-hungry seagulls. Passing
through slightly more varied countryside we reached the town of Murray Bridge,
where we crossed the greatest Australian river, Murray, known as “Mighty
Murray”. It is 2 589 km long and crosses the three states we have driven
through (New South Wales, Victoria and Southern Australia). We followed its
shallow valley for a while, before joining the highway to Adelaide, leading
through an almost Belgian landscape – low hills, copses and green pastures
dotted with luxurious villas and stately farmhouses. Adelaide lies in the Bay
of St.Vincent and is encircled by a string of mountains. Descending the winding
road, we had a lovely first view of the city. Overnight in an old colonial
hotel in the centre, full of atmosphere – dark green, red and guild wooden
ceilings, scarlet velvet curtains, dimmed old fashioned lights, a maze of
narrow corridors and steep staircases – but a nightmare scenario in case of
fire…
Sunday, 25.6.78
We spent the whole day
walking about Adelaide, which is as lovely as her name (after a princess). The modern centre, the City, in which exact
middle towers the statue of Queen Victoria, has, like Melbourne, streets
intersecting at right angles but they are all wide and surrounded by a green belt
of parks, woods and gardens, and adorned by statues of the many explores of
Australia. To the north of the meandering river Torrens, alive with row boats
and waterfowl (like the black swan, native to Australia), lies the old town.
The high rises of Adelaide are less tall a less obtrusive than in Melbourne.
The founders of
Adelaide first settled in a fishing village of Gleneg in 1836. At present, the
city has 900 000 inhabitants and is the capital of Southern Australia. This
state never had a penal colony and was meant to a become an exemplary state, a
sort of idealised England. The land was sold instead of just occupied, and the
money was used to enhance immigration. Nowadays though, it is not very
different from the neighbouring states of Victoria and N.S.W.
David cut is fifth
tooth, unnoticed by us. Yes, he is still with us and proving to be a prefect
travel companion – as soon as we start the car, he falls asleep and only wakes
up at stops. Yet, the constant change and exploring of the sights, seem to wear
him out so that he sleeps blissfully through nights as well. (330km)
Monday, 26.6.78
The morning brought
rain, which showed no signs of stopping. Still we took to the road again, to
continue our journey in the northerly direction, and through once again
absolutely flat land to Port Augusta. The up till now prevalent pastures were
replaced by endless fields stretching their browns of ploughed earth and the
greens of wheat far and wide. The trees were scarce and so were the farms. The
rain turned into a deluge and every passing lorry splashed us with tons of
water, it felt every time as if we drove through a river. However, it soon
cleared up and we could see the glistening waters of Spencer´s Bay, in whose
arms lay the Port, and further on the low peaks of the Flinders´s Range. It was
still early and David was sleeping soundly, so we gave the Port Augusta a miss
and headed towards the hills, eager to leave the flatlands behind. But as soon
as we entered the first rocky hills overgrown with silvery thorn bushes we
encountered an obstacle: the road disappeared under a swollen creek. A driver
coming from the opposite direction told us, that there were two more flooded
spots, and deeper. He did not think that our little Dutsan could make it
through. So, with regret, we turned back, apologized to Augusta and spent the
night there. The little port forgave us our original omission and presented us
with a spectacular sunset that was throwing purple golden hues at the slopes of
the Flinder´s Range, which will have to remain unexplored.
Tuesday, 27.6.78
After another night of
heavy rain, we woke up in to a sunny morning. Still heading north, we skirted
the lower but steep slopes of the Range and crossed without a mishap a few flooded
bits of the road. It was very pretty there but soon we found ourselves, once
again, in the middle of a uniform flat. Not for nothing is Australia the
flattest of all continents. Heading
south now (inversely, it was getting colder), we finally crossed another low
range of hills and, at the town of Clare, we entered the famous wine growing
region of Australia, the Barossa Valley, which is also renown for its
prettiness. The wine industry here had been founded by Germans settlers, whose
descendants continue in their tradition till the present day. The local names
are all German. As Joris does not drink wine, we skipped the local popular
pastime of wine tasting – a pity. Another beautiful sunset, gilding the ring of
hills. (350km)
Wednesday, 28.6.
Another day of driving
through inhospitable semi desert threwn with stones. Every now then, we passed
irrigated areas, which, like oases, grew orange and lemon trees, whose ripe
fruits shone orange and yellow amid the green leaves. The grapes had already
been harvested and the reddish field were ready to receive next year´s crops.
We followed closely the river Murray, even crossed it three times and had
lunch, where it had flooded and drown to death a wood of gum trees – their bare trunks and
branches were very spooky. Reached Mildura at dusk. (360km)
Thursday, 29.6.78
Today was the longest
and most monotonous drive of all – more of the prickly semi-desert and
absolutely straight road. Here and there a square of a reddish field, torn out
of the stony ground, a few heads of “lost” cattle and some dwarf gums that
looked like umbrellas turned upside down by wind. Occasionally, a truck
appeared, like a camel in a desert. 150km and only two towns, surrounded by
orange groves and win yards, thanks to irrigation. Instead of the Murray, we
were now crossing our old acquaintance, the Murrunbidgee river. After the
second town absolutely nothing until we reached our next stop for the night,
Narranderra, into which we drove through the arch of a rainbow. (450km)
Friday, 30.6.78
This last but one day
we drove through fertile lands, dotted with prosperous white farms, fit horses
and fat cows, under the light blue skies. All very idyllic, but it proved
almost impossible to find a patch of grass free of the barbed wire (made in
Belgium), where we could have our picnic. We reached our destination for the
night, Cootamundru, in the early afternoon (150km)
July
Saturday,
1.7.78
The last leg of our
epic trip was again short but seemed the most tiring, despite the perfectly
sunny weather. We were crossing a rugged mountain ridge whose slopes were
covered by enormous boulders and twisted gum trees, and its tops, though not
very high, were lost in the mist. The narrow road twisted up and down, which in
itself was a pleasant change after the endless plains, but it was full of deep
holes and ruts, making the driving difficult and dangerous. When we reached the
Melbourne-Sydney highway at Gundagai, we got stuck for a long while behind a
wide long trailer, impossible to overtake; though a highway, it had only one
lane each way. We could see Canberra from a long way off but it took ages to
reach it. Still, we arrived home at 1PM. (150km)
Joris brought me a lot
of letters from the embassy (those were still the days of letter writing),
so I had a happy afternoon reading them. David seemed more upset by being back
home than by the whole journey. It might seem paradoxical but he had improved
his walking a lot and is running all over the garden, getting used to his first
pair of shoes (later inherited, by Thomas, though they were much too big for
him at first. Later still, I had them covered in bronze and the boys have one
each.) Overall, he was a very good boy
indeed, saying brum brum when put in the car.
We were impressed by
the quality of the motels, they are everywhere, have cooking facilities in all
rooms, provide cots and high chairs for children and are nice and clean. Also
the roads are overall in good condition though quite narrow, which does not
matter much, as the traffic is mostly light even in the most densely populated
part of Australia – the so called “boomenrang” belt following the coast between
Sydney and Adelaide, which is still rather empty, compared to Europe. Highways
can be found only in the vicinity of big cities. The character of the
countryside changes abruptly and apart from the endless plains is quite varied.
Despite the occasional disorder, the country seems very clean.
Sunday, 23.7.78
After several days of
horrid rainy weather, the sun is back ad I had busy two weeks, first either
having people for lunch (the Belgian honorary consuls from Sydney, Melbourne
and Perth) and several lady friends for coffee, or going out visiting other
friends. Our neighbour, Jenny, invited me over with David, she has three
children: Savo, 5, Katarina, 3 and Petar, 17 months. David is bigger than the
two younger ones. Jenny´s husband, Savo, is a Serb, who fled from the Communist
Yugoslavia. I continue my French lessons in the local Alliance Francaise, while
David is getting used again to the “Occasional Care”. Last week we had several
invitations for dinners and cocktails, a.o. for the local Belgian community at
the Residence, which was very boring – the guests did not know when to leave.
At their monthly
meeting, I have become a member of the WIC – I have joined the tennis and the French
conversation groups.
Wednesday, 26.7.78
We organized our second
dinner, with our ambassadors as the guests of honour. All went well. Lately, it
is freezing at nights and the mountains around Canberra are covered with snow –
a pretty sight. Also, accordingly to their name, the Snowy mountains have
plenty of snow and everybody is going skiing at the weekends, the road there is
apparently chocker block. How I wish I could go as well, but with David and not
skiing Joris I have no chance. There is even a snow calamity in some places
that we had visited – it seems we were lucky making the journey between the
floods and snowdrifts.
I took David to a play
group, he did not play much with the other children and seemed the most
independent of them all, not hanging onto his mother´s skirts but exploring the
new grounds, bravely but also carefully: when he sees a different surface,
drops to all four and tests it by hands, before walking on it.
The dinner at the South
African colleague, turned out quite peculiar for me. We arrived last and I had
to shake hands twice with each of the four men present, because the Australian
I shook hands with last, exclaimed: “What a firm grip!” and the others wanted
to test it again. Then the hostess, who, I thought was some ten years older
than me, said I looked exactly like her sister, and to add insult to injury,
mentioned that the sister was older than she…I felt like throwing her into the
open fire. My neighbour at table was the aforementioned Australian, a well-built
middle aged specimen. He opened the conversation with: “If your surname means ´full
of curves´, then it is very appropriate…” I explained that no, that in French
Couvreur means something like thacher. He seemed disappointed but continued:
“Your eyes are beautiful, your nose narrow and hooked, your moth small – how
many fillings do you have?” At the same time, he squeezed my upper arm, saying
“good muscles”. So I asked him, if he was thinking of buying me. He apologised,
nevertheless continued in the same vein. To top it all, his wife was sitting
opposite us, and I was only hoping, that this is his usual style and she is
used to it. It was a bit like a bad dream, even though not altogether
unpleasant: I had not experienced a similar “come on” approach since my
interpreting days, when I was used to it, and I lost the ability to deal with
it. It might have been fun, except that I had become such a matron, that I
prefer to talk about the weather. Not that I mind an admirer, I am a woman
after all, but he was a bit too brazen for comfort. Being out of ear shot,
Joris seemed to like him.
Finally, we have placed
an ad for a domestic help. I would rather “go it alone”, but the social life is
picking up and David demands more and more attention. And my father–in-law will
be coming to visit us for two months. There were phone calls all day yesterday,
I have invited five to come for an interview and I am dreading it – that is one
thing that the communist society had not prepared me for.
August
Saturday, 5.8.78
After two days of interviews
I have finally settled for a young student, Suzan. All the others were much
older than me and knowing myself, I would not dare to give them orders.
The Canberra social
season seems to be in full swing, Joris brings home an invitation almost every
day. Bad luck that both David and I have a cold. Still, we went to the Irish
ambassador´s, on Thursday, who was telling long “funny” stories that nobody
understood. One of my neighbours, a Maltese, did not say a word, but the other
one was an nice Greek, who had been posted to Prague. His wife amused the whole
table wondering loudly, why on earth would Cristina Onassis had married a
Soviet citizen and went to live with him and his mother in a two and half room
flat in Siberia.
Monday, 28.8.78
And so the August
evenings were spent mainly partying, which was sometimes fun and sometimes not,
depending also on the state of my health, the persistent cold and coughs would
not go away. One evening we hosted a fondue bourguignonne supper for our
embassy employees and several friends.
I played my first
doubles with the WIC group, and did not really distinguished myself, despite
taking lessons at the nearby court, with a coach, that used to train important
players but now seems to be reduced to training hopeless women like me. Most of
the time he uses a balls shooting canon, while he discusses the boobs of his
other pupils. I don´t think I shall become his favourite in that respect.
Suzan seems OK so far,
but “a new broom sweeps best”. David is
well into his 16th month and the feeding times have become a bit of
a fight – he seems to resist being fed, but can´t manage the spoon. He loves
bananas but not much else. He measures about 85cm, no idea how much he weights,
but he lost some weight, as he was not eating well when he had the cold. The
other day I heard a loud boom and found him on the floor next to his cot, where
he was taking his afternoon nap. Luckily, he was unhurt, he had been practicing
falling from armchairs, but how he managed to fall out of the cot (still
borrowed from the hotel we had stayed in in the beginning), whose sides reach
up to his armpits when he stands in it, is a mystery. Probably managed to hook
his toes in the netting. So now he sleeps in the wooden cot from Prague,
hopefully he will not bang his head against it too much.
Last Saturday we went
to see a play by an Australia playwright David Williamson, performed by an
amateur company Nimrod. It was rather vulgar (lots of four letter words) but
quite funny.
In the meantime, the
spring has been slowly sneaking into Canberra; the city is yellow from mimosas
blossoms and before that, some sweet cherry trees softened the still harsh cold
with their pink blossoms. The sun of the last days is opening the leaves and
other buds and, surprise, we have
beautiful red and white camellia bushes in the front garden; I did not
recognize them just by their leaves. Shall I become The Lady with Camellias? Also the roses that I had pruned, are showing
signs of live. With the warm weather I have become a keen gardener, weeding,
trimming hedges and hydrangeas, sweeping dead leaves from under our
eucalyptus…I have even built a wooden fence to keep David out of a dangerous
place in the back yard…All this while Joris is playing tennis. There is an
industrial dispute going on the telecommunication sector, no trunk calls are
possible. It is also a spring holiday time, so all activities (except skiing)
have stopped. The relations with my neighbour Jenny are prospering, the kids
are getting along well with David, so I hope we shall be invited to the pool
when their summers comes.
Monday, 4.9.78
The dinner we gave last
Friday was a disaster. Serves us right for abandoning the Danish cook for a
cheaper but unknown lady and her daughters, who did not do a bad job of the
cooking, but had no idea how to serve or dress for the occasion – the waiter,
whom she promised to bring along had been laid up wit a flue, or so she said.
The guests arrived late but all together, which flustered both her and me. The
introductions and the pre-dinner drinks were a mess.
As she omitted to serve
the main course and the desert twice, which is customary, the dinner was over
too quickly and the guests left too early, after a shamefully weak coffee and
after the cook came into the salon to take her leave. No more of her that´s for
sure.
Saturday was so warm
and sunny that I could sunbathe in bikinis in the garden and forget about the
bad experience. The cherry-like trees in our street bloomed overnight and gave
out an intoxicating smell.
On Sunday we drove to
the Snowy Mountains, which rise some 60km beyond the town of Cooma and whose
white tops we could only admire from the shore of an artificial lake behind a
huge dam near Jindabyne, some 30km from the
snowline. We settled down on the grassy slope to have our picnic, when suddenly
we saw a herd of young bulls. Quickly, we had to restrain David, who thought
they were just nice big dogs, from running towards them. Luckily, I had him on the leash, as always. Only then
we noticed a warning sign…We packed up quickly and found another spot in a
charming valley with a gurgling brook at the bottom. Drive back under a pelting
rain and it is still raining now. The cherry blossoms suffer but otherwise it
is good, August was the driest month in 20 years.
Wednesday, 6.9.78
David is 16 months
today, how the time flies. He is still a
difficult eater, very choosy (meat and veggies are an absolute no no), but weighs 14kg and an
outfit for the age 3 is not really too big for him. In a week he got two new
lower teeth, now 8 altogether. He has gained confidence in walking and running
and only falls down when he stumbles over an obstacle. A few times he walked
with me as far as the shopping centre in Manuka (about 1 km), pushing his pram.
He has mastered walking down the stairs
and getting down from furniture – no longer head first. Enjoys whirling round
like a dervish and doing somersaults, throws and catches the ball and makes
attempts at dressing himself and at tidying his toys. Also likes to barter –
whenever I give him something, he gives something back. It is to be encouraged!
Monday, 11.9.78
Back from a trip to Sydney. I flew there on Thursday,
alone with David, who screamed a little but then started flirting with a pretty
girl across the isle. Joris would join us on Friday. We were met by the Belgian
consul general, who drove us to my Uncle´s and Aunt´s Pešina house at the
city´s outskirts. The next day, Aunt Jean volunteered to look after David and I
took a train to the centre. It was raining and the houses along the railway
tract had a dismal look, as it is the case in all big cities – peeling paint
and narrow, overgrown backyards with broken fences, lines of washing hung up to
dry and filled with broken toys and all kinds of rubbish, not unlike in the
outskirts of London, only worse. It seems that an Australian never throws away
anything, and never tidies up. Whatever is broken or has no use, is left on the
spot where it was last used.
I got off the train in George Street, near the St. Andrew
Cathedral, a neo-gothic sandstone structure. I still had two hours before meeting
Joris, so I was randomly walking in the streets of this biggest and oldest town
of Australia: more than 3 millon inhabitants in an area of about 12 000
km2, founded in 1788 as a penal colony under the name of Port Jackson. Sydney
was not so carefully planned as Melbourne or Adelaide and therein maybe lies
its charm, unhindered by the city´s many sky scrapers, which are diverse in
height and shape. Apart from a few main
avenues, the streets are narrow and winding.
It has been a while since I found myself walking outside
without the company of Joris or David. I let myself be carried along by the
crowd and thought that everybody must be staring at me. The shops I passed
without looking – no time to shop. Soon the massive, yet lace like arch of the
Harbour Bridge became visible in the distance – the symbol of Sydney, like the
Tower Bridge of London or the Eiffel Tower of Paris. When it was built in1923-32
it became the longest arch bridge in the world (503m). There is a road, a
railway and a pedestrian walkway. It spans the mouth of the Paramata river
empting into the Sydney Bay. In its shadow crouches a stone house, the oldest
preserved habitation in Sydney. On the way to Joris´s hotel I got caught in a
heavy shower. He had arrived safely and as picked up our new car. The next day
we went sightseeing together and parked the car in the underground garage at
the Opera House, since1973 the second landmark of Sydney. Designed by the
Danish architect Jorn Utzon, it was built over the period of 20 years at a cost
of some 100million dollars. It sits, or rather billows like a set of huge white
sails, on the shore of the Bay, at the foot of the Bridge. After drinking
coffee on the terrace in front of the Opera and watching the busy traffic of
sailing boats, tourist boats and sea faring ships, we took a cruise in the
harbour. Only then could we fully appreciate the beauty of this city, where
modern architecture blends seamlessly with the rugged coastline and jagged mountains
in the background. The boat took us as far as Port Jackson on the Pacific
shore, where we could feel the swell of the mighty ocean. The three hour cruise
left us quite charmed by the Sydney panorama. On leaving the underground
parking an unpleasant incident occurred: when we gave the attendant the change
amounting to a dollar, which, based on Canberra rates we thought largely
sufficient, he barked” Three dollars! Joris said scornfully “Three dollars?? You
must be joking!” The attendant retorted: “Is that perhaps too much for you? You
must be a bloody Pommy!” In this British ex-penal colony, Joris with his Queen´s English does not make
himself popular with the natives – he only owns up to his English mother to the
English here, and now he vehemently denied any connection with Great Britain.
While we were scraping together the remaining two dollars, a queue formed
behind us, but, thankfully, there did not develop a honking chorus. We tried to
apologise saying it was our first visit to Sydney and the attendant advised us
not to visit too often… All this dampened our euphoria a bit, but was soon
forgotten. In the evening we were invited to a dinner at the residence of the
Belgian Consul general. We had no time to return to the Pešinas, and so went in
search of public washrooms, which seem to be an unknown facility here. Luckily,
the restaurants and the exhibition rooms of the Opera are opened to public all
day, so we returned there. It has become dark and the view from the terrace of
the lit harbour was absolutely fabulous. Just then I noticed that people were
coming inside and we joined them – nobody stopped us and we were able to walk
the corridors and staircases, which look like something out of a sci-fi
picture, and afford great views of the Harbour, the Bridge and the skyline of
the city, all that accompanied by Wagner´s music – the performance of his
Master Singers of Nuremberg has just started in the theatre. Altogether an
unforgettable experience.
We enjoyed more wonderful views of Sydney lights from the
consul´s residence on the Darling Promotory. I rather envy him this spot. The
dinner went on till midnight, we only got to bed at one, waking up David… .
Nevertheless, we woke up early into a bright sunshine and had
another wonderful day: my aunt and uncle took us on a tour of the oldest part
of Sydney, called On the Rocks, at one end of the Bridge. It is very
dilapidated, but under reconstruction; when finished it will surely be charming
– a bit of old world in the shadow of the new skyscrapers. The residential quarters are a paradise for Art Nouveau lovers,
reaching here new heights of this decorative style. We had lunch in the revolving restaurant on
the 42th floor of the Sydney Telecommunication Tower, with more fantastic views
of the town, Harbour, the ocean, the mountains, all “moving” around us in a
slow motion. At 2PM we took leave of our
dear hosts and started on a slow journey back - the car still had to be run in.
But the road to Canberra, over the Blue Mountains, thickly covered by
blue-green eucalyptus forest (hence the name), was interesting enough to make
the time pass quickly. At the approach
of Canberra at dusk, the blue waters of the Lake Griffin contrasted prettily
with the pink of cherry trees blossoms lining its shore, yet the lights of the
Capital in the darkness seemed rather pitiful after the glamourous Sydney.
Friday, 15.9.78
On Monday we went to the Finns for drinks, to welcome Marjo
from her little holiday at home; she came back with a new hairdo, which does
not become her, even Joris, who finds her otherwise attractive, says so.
The spring is advancing, the ugly bushes in our garden have
turned into golden balls of forsythia flowers, but yesterday an icy wind blew
leaden clouds and rain that made the cherry blossom snow down, while real snow
fell in the higher regions. We went to the library to see some Australian
documentary films about the today´s youth – all rather depressing: two about
15m years old single mothers, one about homosexuals and another, to even things
out, about lesbians, and two about “normal”couples but pretty deprived anyway.
Sunday, 17.9.
The weather is slowly getting better, it was even possible to
sunbathe in bikini, though with shivers. I weeded out some rose borders. In the
evening we took our Madame Ambassadrice to a dinner in our favourite restaurant
on the Red Hill. We had a nice and interesting chat. Joris plays tennis as one
possessed, he even complains that it is too much. He put his name down for
several tournaments in our club, and when he advances, it takes up the whole
weekend.
Sunday, 8.10.78
The last three weeks have left me socially quite exhausted.
Apart from two invitations to a dinner (one with the South African, the other
with an English couple) and two cocktails (one to say good bye to the Lebanese
ambassador and one small one at Toni´s, a very sweet and popular Australian
bachelor, who is one of the most active of the tennis crowd. But the difficult
event was a working lunch that Joris was hosting in our place. Apparently for
the first time all members accepted, so I had to provide seating (and food) for
18 gentlemen. The dining room could not take them, so I put some tables in our
library cum TV room. The discussion and the lunch provided by the Danish cook were
both a great success and were rewarded by an applause.
One Saturday our faithful English friends took us to the
theatre to see a play The Flexitime by a New Zealand playwright (Roger Hall),
not bad but nothing special; another Saturday, madame Ambassadrice returned the
favour and invited us to dinner, in a restaurant with a funny name ” The 9th
Hole”. Not surprisingly, it was in the golf club…
The main social event was a banquet offered by the Governor
and his wife to a delegation from the metal industry, and the Heads of Missions.
We were invited as Joris is chargé d´affairs at the moment. We thought it would
be a big bore, but the Ambassadors of Austria and Luxembourg, who were my
neighbours at the table, were quite amusing, and it turned out that I play in
tennis doubles with the “better” half of an Australian couple, also seated at
our table; He is something important at a Ministry. The evening passed quickly.
Last
Friday David was 17 months, we celebrated by taking him to the doctor, he had
been coughing for a few days but suddenly took turn for the worse. We had an
invitation to a barbecue lunch at the Germans, and as it had been very warm, we
went anyway, keeping David in his pram. He absolutely refuses to take the
syrup, even with his favourite lemonade. Also his eating is getting steadily
worse, he lives practically only on milk, but the doctor said it is OK, as he
is quite chubby anyway. He has learnt to drink out of a bottle by himself,
discovering he has to tip it, and also from a cup. He is beginning to respond to simple commands, like bring me your socks
etc. and puts his “menagerie” of stuffed animals back into his cot, after
playing with them. After “tata” he says “mama” as well – finally! He stopped
sucking his thumb, which he had bitten till it bled, and also lost interest in
the bunny, his first toy, a gift from his Uncle Daniel.
Sunday, 15.10.78
David´s cold turned out to be measles! So he spent a week in
bed and was very good about it, mostly sleeping. Now, on the contrary, he is
being quite a difficult and whiney convalescent. Fortunately, we only had to go
out twice, to a reception for the Spanish National Day and to a “wine and
cheese “ evening at my French teacher´s, a boring affair.
On Friday the doctor confirmed my suspicion (the cigarettes
started to taste vile) of another baby to come, which was our intention. Lucky
thing I had had the measles…
Sunday, 29.10.78
David got over his measles quite quickly and looks well
again, but is still coughing, so the doctor prescribed penicillin, in order to
avoid chronic bronchitis. We gave one
dinner at our place, mostly young Australian couples, it was fun. Also two
cocktails , one following the other, as we could not accommodate all the people
we know in one go. Even so, we had to move all the movable furniture in to the
annexe. Joris ordered a lot of food and the guests were impressed by the amount
of tasty snacks. There was a journalist and a photographer and we got into the
local gossip press, though the photo of us did not make it.
Afterwards, as the rooms were empty of furniture, I did a
big spring cleaning and put away the winter clothing. This proved a bit
premature, as the weather is often cold and rainy. Still, Canberra looks very
pretty with flowering rhododendrons, lilacs, thorn bushes, roses and jasmines.
Thanks to all the rain, everything is of lush green.
Saturday, 11.10.78
Two weeks of busy nights, a cocktail at the Greeks and one not very enjoyable dinner with an
English couple, Mary and Brian, and one dinner at our place. We are running out
of people to invite and Joris has to spend his allowance. It went OK, even if
one Australian guest arrived late and without his wife, so we were 13…The wife
is rumoured to be a beauty, but nobody has seen her yet. Last Tuesday was the
day of the Melbourne Cup – the most famous horse race in Australia. In the Sate
of Victoria it is a public holiday but also everywhere else it is celebrated at
“Cup lunches” with champagne. I was invited to one at my neighbour´s friend
Janice, whose husband is a Slovak, though his name is Polak. There was a
private betting, but I did not win anything. Neither did Joris, betting
officially. Betting on horses is his only vice (that I know of). There were a
couple of dinners with the ”locals”, which Joris enjoyed as he adores meeting
new people, but I have had quite enough of the new faces in one year. Last week
I had a test in my French course, the result was better than I expected.
Yesterday, Joris played in the diplomatic tennis tournament
but not very successfully. David and I
went only to partake of a buffet at the French Embassy afterwards.
David passed his 18th month and we are being
assured, that the real fun is going to start now, and it is true that he is
starting to have fits of temper, throwing himself down and bagging his head on
the floor. Usually, I add a smack on his bottom which makes him stop. He is
becoming quite dexterous with his toys, like fitting in the various shapes and
building thing out of bricks Even though he is not one for much cuddling, it is
now necessary that I settle him down myself before going out – he cries at a
mere sight of the baby-sitter… In the Occasional Child Care he is now in the
section for bigger kids. He was a bit scared at the beginning and even now
cries when I leave, but five minutes later is happily playing – I watch through
the fence as usual…At home he runs all over the house and garden.
Sunday, 12.11.78
It has become very cold again, in the hills around Canbera
it is snowing – and we are like mid May in Europe! But the spring flowers in
the gardens are in full bloom and colour abounds.
Yesterday, I went to see the musical Grease, re-creation of
the rock´ n roll era.
Instead of going to the sea side as planned, we have to
entertain the Inspector of posts from Brussels, if possible lavishly, as he
will be checking, how we spent the government money…
Thursday, 23.11.78
My Father-in-law arrived last Wednesday. During the two days
of flying he was cradling an enormous Paddington Bear, red gumboots and all,
for David. Mother refused to undertake such a long trip. Moreover, as an
Englishwoman, she can´t bear the Australian accent… Father was very tired, but
we dragged him to lunch with the Inspector on the Red Hill. As a good Fleming,
he was still able to keep the conversation in French going, relieving me of
this difficult task.
Monday, 27.11.
Friday attended a dinner at the Danish ambassador, always a
great honour to be invited at the higher level. My neighbour was the Polish
ambassador, “Old Worldly charming. Moreover, after the meal, the host
entertained us playing piano, a pleasant change from the effort of after dinner
coffee conversation.
Saturday brought beautiful weather and we all went on a boat
trip on the lake Burley-Griffin. On Sunday it got really hot, so we went to
Kambah Pool to cool off in the cold river, at least me and David. In the
afternoon, while the men were taking a siesta, I went to see a film Julia with
Jane Fonda and Vanessa Redgrave. Sad but good.
Friday,1.12.78
Christmas is approaching, so it is getting busy. I went to
the Christmas meeting of the WIC (Women´s International Club), to taste
international X-mas cookies. To my
shame, I did not bring any, but enjoyed those of the others. Children from a
nearby school came to sing carols. Also I was included at the lunch at our
residence for the Ambassadors´wives. I was not very keen to go – I prefer to be
a big fish in a small pond then the other way round, but it went well. The
Peruvian lady had had a posting in Prague and was very enthusiastic about it.
Tuesday,5.12.78
Back from the weekend at the seaside at Kiama, situated
north of Batemans Bay. It was further than we had thought and we arrived only
at 5 PM. But from the road we had beautiful views of the blue sea, yellow sandy
beaches among reddish cliffs and, on the other side, the rugged mountain range
of the Great Divide. During the night we were pestered by mosquitos and in the
morning, David was covered in mosquito bites. There was a hole in the windows
netting and we had a row with the hotel about it.
I went for a swim, but the surf was so strong, that I could
not venture far enough, though David was all for it. Unusually for Australian
beaches, this place was crowded, and the pic-nicing families were very noisy.
So we departed to see the local curiosity, “the blow hole”, but despite the
miserable weather, the hole refused to blow, so we went to an aquarium instead.
David could not decide whether to be amazed or scared. On Monday it stopped
raining and we drove inland to visit a rain forest nature reserve and its
waterfall, Minnanurra. Just a short drive over low hills the exotic coast gave
way to a nearly European landscape – a valley with green pastures with grazing
cattle, sporadic farmhouse and small villages. At the end of the valley rose a
vertical rock face, at the foot of which we entered the rain forest, yet another
ecosystem. We had to leave the car at the entrance and go on foot, in the humid
heat and in a deafening noise of the cicadas. (We had heard them already on the
way to Kiama, and we thought for a while, that something was wrong with the
car.) The parking attendant caught one for us and explained, that they live
only for a few days after undergoing a metamorphosis process of seven years
underground. Joris stayed with David and
my father-in-law and I started on the way to the waterfall through a great
variety of trees (white and red beeches, sycamores, cedars, palm trees of the
cabbage trees variety, fig trees) and a undergrow of nettles, brambles and firs
that grew to great heights. In the end, we had to give up the waterfall, the
path became very steep and I was worried about father´s heart in the heat. He
would not let me go on alone, as I was some four months pregnant. From here we
drove via Kia and over a steep, wooded and cool hill to the Kangaroo Valley,
where it became so hot and steamy – the temperature must have gone up at least
20° C – that we thought the engine would overheat. Getting out of the car to
take photos of a quaint crenelated bridge spanning the Kangaroo river felt like
entering an oven. We did not see any kangaroos and quickly continued on, up
another hill to another nature reserve with another waterfall – the Fitzroy –
on the river Yarrunga (height 180m). This time we were able to reach it, as the
going was downhill through an arrow gorge between sandstone rocks cleaved
vertically, so that they looked like pipes of a stone organ. It was all so beautiful
that we found it hard to leave, but we had a long way back to Canberra along
the Hume highway ahead of us. We passed Lake George, full of birds and fowl
with their young.
Wednesday, 6.12.78
David has made a lot of progress in the last month, from a
little animal to a little human being: walks and runs erect even on stairs,
feeds himself and knows, what he wants; he can´t say it yet, though he has
learnt a few words, but points or takes
me by the hand and leads me to it. Loves going in the car and can climb into it
by himself. Has grown a lot and does not fit in the plastic tub, I bathe him in
the big one now. He is being a good boy – how long will it last?
Thursday, 21.12.78
More and more pre-Christmas socialising: on Thursday the 7th
the South Africans organized a dance party on a boat on the lake, not the thing
for a pregnant woman and no way to leave early…On Friday a dinner at Audray´s,
where I sat next to the son of an Australian writer K.S.Prichard, whose book
Coonardoo had been translated into Czech by my beloved English professor, Dr.
Emmerová. We had a good chat. On Saturday we took father to the Tidbinbilla
reserve to get to know wallabies and emu´s. The latter he got to know more than
he bargained for: we were enjoying our pick-nick, when a huge emu stretched his
long neck and snatched the top half of father´s sandwich. Father hid the rest behind
his back but the emu´s wife was in position and pinched it, biting father´s hand
in the process. No great harm done, but some blood and quite a shock for him.
Luckily, David was having his bottle, not interesting for these aggressive
birds. We finished our lunch shooing off the ever increasing flock of emus as
best as we could. In the evening supper with an English (she)/Australian(he)
couple. He prided himself of never ever having washed up… On Tuesday, 12.12.,
our 3rd wedding anniversary a
dinner at the Dutch colleague, so the celebration was taken of. Father was also
invited and it turned out, that he new our host´s father. On Wednesday a
cocktail at New Zealand, on Friday a coffee morning at the new president of WIC,
Jenny´s friend Jane Polak. On Saturday a long day at the Swiss, starting by a
swim at their pool followed by a barbecue; children were welcomed. The weather
was good for a change, so it was a success, though the announced dancing never happened.
It was also exactly a year since we had landed in Australia,
but I have no time to recapitulate in this Christmas season feverish times. On
Sunday, rainy and cold again, lunch at our English colleagues. Yesterday the
monthly lunch at the Press club, normally men only, but as it is Christmas,
wives were graciously admitted as well. Quite a few parties we had to refuse.
Christmas Eve, 24.12.78
The whole day was
spent packing for our trip to New Zealand, so we sat to Christmas dinner (fish
fingers, no carp) quite tired. The only Christmas tree we could get was a
casuarina – the local pine tree with scarce branches. I decorated as best as I
could and David´s amazement and delight at the lit tree and the pile of
presents was well worth the effort.
Despite it falling in the middle of the summer here,
Christmas is celebrated in the “old home country” (England) spirit, with turkey
and Christmas pudding on the 25th, but I insisted on “my” Christmas
Eve, though Joris refused to open his presents till the morning.
NEW ZEALAND, THE
SOUTH ISAND, 25th 1978 – 3. 1.1979.
N.Z. is only 3 hours flight away, but as we had to take the
short flight to Sydney first and wait three hours for the connection, it was an
all day trip, also because Christchurch, where we landed, is two hours ahead of
Canberra, so it was 6PM already. The flight was very pleasant as we were served
unlimited free drinks and an excellent lunch of turkey and all the trimmings –
a Christmas up in the air. Before landing we were treated to a fantastic view
of the South Island´s mountains´ rocky tops, peaking through the white puffed
up clouds, the ones above 3 000m covered in snow. Christchurch is on the
East coast of the island, on a flatland with mountains in the background. On
the way to the hotel we were surprised to see the countryside looking so completely
different; somehow we supposed, it would be just piece of Australia that had
drifted away a bit. But the bit is some 2 500km and this southern island
is much more similar to Europe than to Australia. N.Z.´s climate is cooler and
wetter and consequently greener. (We were quite happy not to see any eucalyptus
trees for a change.) The only things they have in common, apart from the head
of state (the British Queen) and the official language, are the vast
uninhabited spaces and the disproportion between the number of people and heads
of cattle and sheep: at the time of writing, there was slightly over 3 millions
inhabitants to 55 millions cattle, and 8 millions sheep. The capital,
Wellington, and the biggest town, Auckland are on the North Island, where 70%
of inhabitants live, including the ethnic Maoris, a Polynesian people with no
relation to the Australian Aboriginals and somewhat higher level of
civilisation. At the time of writing, N.Z. was a poorer country, which was
reflected in houses made mainly of wood and small, old fashioned cars, as far
as we could see on the way to the motel. But everything clean and orderly. They take their being “down under” very
seriously here: the numbers on the telephone dial go fro 9 to 0 and the hot and
cold taps are reversed… Joris and Father went out to dinner with some relatives
on Mother´s side, but I was too exhausted to join them.
Tuesday, 26.12.78
After 360km drive arrived to Duneden, lower down on the east
coast. The narrow road took us inland through flat land with pastures and
scattered pine woods, with the view of the “Southern Alps” range to the west.
The traffic was not heavy, and yet, every time we got stuck behind a truck, the
driver pulled to the side and let us pass – I have never seen anything like it
before (or since…) We crossed several
green rivers lined with yellow bushes and marks of high water when the snow
melts in the spring. Had lunch in a scented meadow with the view of the sea in
the distance. The road climbed up the mountains and then wound down steeply to
the town at the end of a deep bay. Dunedin is a university town and calls
itself “the Edinburgh of the Southern Hemisphere”, a slight exaggeration,
except for the weather – cold and rainy. The Anglican cathedral of St.Paul had
been founded by nobody else but Joris ´s great-great uncle, bishop Nevill, a
cousin of his English grandfather
(Mother is neé Nevill), and consecrated in 1912. He is buried there and a
statuette of him stands above the cathedral main entrance. (You can see it, if you googgle the
cathedral.) The relatives we met in Christchurch were his family. (360km)
Wednesday, 27.12.78
In the morning we set off to the Lake Ten Anau, 300km away
inland in westerly direction, through green valleys, towards the row upon row
of the Alps mountain range, the furthest snow capped. The weather cleared at
last. We crossed numerous rivers, the Clutha, the biggest of the island, among
them. One river we had to cross on a railway bridge, driving on rails.
Thankfully, we did not meet a train there – it was a one rail track to boot.
Picnic among the buttercups, in the company of a herd of cows. The road was
lined by a golden profusion of St.John´s broom and some of the hills were covered
with long stemmed yellow grass, giving them an appearance of lion´s head. The mountains were green lower down, black and
rugged higher up. We arrived early to Te Anau and went for a walk on its shore.
Its name in Maori means “The cave of the swirling water
current”. This cave has been discovered recently. It is the 2nd biggest
lake of N.Z. by surface and we could only see a tiny bit of its surface, framed
by the mountains and silvery golden in the dusk. (290km)
Thursday, 28.12.78
We got up at six to catch the boat to neighbouring lake, the
Manapouri (means anxious or sorrowful heart), the 2nd deepest in
N.Z. and often described as New Zealand’s most beautiful. The weather was
rather sorrowful as well, overcast and cold; later it began to rain and the
mountains were veiled in mist. The lake has many islands and inlets and the
surrounding mountains are crisscrossed by many silvery waterfalls. After two
hours we got to the opposite shore, were we were taken on a tour of an
underground power plant and then by bus through the Wilmot Pass. Despite the
poor visibility due to mist outside and the misted over windows inside, we were
impressed by the raw beauty of the wild nature of the pass – its steep slopes
covered by a profusion of mountain beeches, their trunks covered by thick
lichen and their colours ranging from greyish green, dark green, yellow, brown
to bloody rust, according to their many species. On the ground a great variety
of mosses. The road crossed a number of rushing streams with waterfalls. At the
end of the pass we boarded another boat and continued on the “Doubtful
Sound/Fiord”, the second most famous fiord after Milford Sound. It was named
Doubtful by Captain Cook, when he was exploring the N.Z. sounds; he doubted
whether it was navigable under sail and did not enter it. (Otherwise New
Zealand was discovered by a Dutchman Tasman, in 1773, and hence its name, after
the Dutch province Zeeland – compare with “New Amsterdam”, the original name of
New York…) It continued pouring with rain, the water of the sound was pitch
black and the mountains tops rugged, one peak often a mirror image of its
neighbour. After two hours we turned back, profoundly chilled.
Friday, 29.12.78
David has grown two new upper molars and one upper incisor!
No fuss!
Today´s trip to the lake Wakatipu was short (170km), along a
green valley cutting through mountain ranges and criss-crossed by numerous
streams with opaque blue green water. The meadows on each side were dotted
either by white specks of sheep or colourful spring flowers – margarets, bluebells,
lupinus, to name just a few. As the road climbed higher, the mountains crept
nearer, the countryside grew more rugged, the rain got harder and the tops of
the mountains were shrouded in mist. Quite suddenly we arrived at the shore of
the huge lake, at the foot of yet another mountain range in the background,
called the Remarkable, and remarkable it was. The road continued along the
shore, narrow and squeezed into a rocky precipice above the milky blue green
water melted from the distant glacier. Our hotel was in Frankton, in one of the
bays opposite Queenstown, the popular tourist town. In the afternoon, despite
the rain, we took a chair lift up the Coronet mountain (1730m). There are ski
runs in winter.
Saturday, 30.12.78
We woke up into a pouring rain and thought of leaving
prematurely, but by the time we finished breakfast, the sun came out, so we
stayed and had what turned out a fantastic day. First we went up a steep slope
in a cable car, which frightened David out of his wits, to admire the stunning
mountain panorama around the lake, ridge after ridge emerging as we ascended. Then
we took a cruise on the lake on board of a steamship Earnshaw from 1912, to
admire the same panorama from the bottom up. Under the blue sky the water
turned dark turquoise and clashed with the green of the weeping willows on the
shores. After a short run through Queenstown in an ancient two-wheel cart, went
by car to the Kelvin´s Heights, following a winding road among the pastel
coloured mountain flowers. Towards the end, the tarmac changed into a very
steep dirt road, and we very nearly got knocked off the mountain face by a bus,
which has no business to be there. From the top yet another breathtaking
panorama was our reward. Nothing but long yellow grass grew there but to
David´s delight, we could watch mountain goats, chamois and deer romping
around. We even saw a grown stag drinking from one of the little lakes.
Reluctantly we left this delightful spot to have supper in a colonial hotel in
the Arte Nouveau style.
Sunday, 31.12.78
In the morning a quick visit of the open air museum – a reconstructed
gold diggers village, from the New Zealand gold rush in the 19the century (See the Booker Prize winner of 2014, the
Luminaries by Elisabeth Catton.), then left direction north, following
first the river Kawaru in her gorge of steep black rocks and then the river
Cluthy flowing among grey gravel banks through a contrastingly flat valley with
many orchards, but otherwise rather desolate and sparsely inhabited. It got
very hot and the desolation grew, rounded hills covered with nothing but dull
rusty coloured grass, occasionally livened by golden clusters. After the Lindis
pass (900m) along the river Lindis, which offered some refreshing flowering
mountain vegetation, the same desolation awaited us, but in the distance we
could see the snow sprinkled double peaks of Mt. Cook massif – our goal that day. The long straight road
finally brought us to the lake Pukaki at the foot of Mt.Cook, where it ended in
a little village built entirely of dark wood, blending prettily with the
sounding nature. No sooner than we arrived, the rain came down, so nothing to
it but an early supper and glass of red wine to say Good-bye to the Old Year.
(271km).
Australian Diary 3, Year 1979
January
Monday, 1st of January 1979
The first day of the new year turned out nice. After the
usual morning mist and rain the sun appeared and the white clouds hung only
around the peaks. Mt. Cook is with its 3764m altitude the highest mountain of
New Zealand and has perpetual snow. We set out to explore the Tasman glacier,
one of the many preserved in N.Z. and one of its main attractions. After a short
car ride and a pick-nick lunch we started to walk Indian file along a stony
path trough the moraine field towards the bottom tail of the glacier. David was
stepping courageously, looking as if he could walk 10km, but 15 minutes later
began to cry and wanted mummy to carry him, which with his 20+kg and me being
pregnant was not feasible, so we had to abort the expedition. It started
drizzle and blow, anyway. Towards the evening it cleared completely and we went
for a walk through the beech woods and along the vast lupinus field. This
flower is typical for this region and flowers in all shades of pastel colours.
A very pretty sight contrasting with the snowy peaks. The mountains were sharply
edged against the pale blue sky, the black rock took on a silver hue and the
snow glittered in the setting sun. The thin sickle of the new moon was rising
above them – a good sign!
Tuesday, 2.1. 79
Despite the beautiful and quiet evening, a terrible storm
arrived in the night, the hotel hut shook frighteningly. In the morning we
learnt that a mountaineer lost his life on the Mt. Cook in an avalanche…It was
still windy and wet, but the bad weather was left behind in the mountains and
it became hot. On the lake Pukapi the sun and the clouds produced a shadow
play. Soon we turned towards the north again and drove along a flat and
monotonous plain with an occasional pine or larch copse. Farms and even sheep
were scarce, except around the lake Tekapo, a green blue jewel set among wooded
slopes. Behind us the Mt.Cook range slowly receded and finally disappeared from
sight. Through green and fertile valley of the river Apihi and over some steep
hills we reached the coastal plain and, finally, Christchurch. (331km).
Wednesday, 3.1.79
In the morning a quick walk around the town and a visit of
the Antarctic museum, where David was fascinated by the stuffed animals,
running from one to another with loud ooooh´s and aaah´s. After lunch to the
airport and bye bye New Zealand!
To conclude: From
what we saw of it, it is a beautiful country, but I feel I would not like to
live here. Not only because of its vast distance from Europe and anywhere, but
also because of its comparatively small size: all the time we were there I had
the feeling of being on a ship, stranded in the vicinity of the Antarctica,
even if that is a continent as well…
(The islands´
mythology and history, geological and natural, and of its discovery, settlement
and development, is very interesting, but I will not go into it now at the time
of translation – the year 2016, the age of Google and Wikipedia…)
Back in Canberra
Sunday, 7.1.79
Arrived safely, found the house had not been burgled or
burned down, and on the whole were happy to be home again and unpack the
suitcases for the last time. Even David seemed to realise this time that that´s
where he belongs. He was surprisingly well behaved during the whole journey,
even all the hours in the car; though he did not sleep much anymore, he seemed
absorbed by the passing landscape.
He is 20 months now, no longer a “teenager” and is
interested in everything, which he shows by pointing – no words yet, though he
has started singing. No idea how he came by it, certainly not form me. The 4
months old baby in my tummy was well behaved as well.
Friday, 15.1.79
It has become very hot, nearing 40°C, we went swimming once
in the Kambah river, where the water was pleasantly cool, though it was quite
impossible to walk on the sand barefoot.
We were not looking forward to a big dinner at the German
embassy, but they provided an air conditioned tent, served cold soup and ice
cream as a desert. Still, all the guests left a dark sweat stain on the velvet
of the chairs…
Saturday, 20.1.79
A week ago in somewhat cooler weather, we drove to Sydney –
we had been invited to the premier of Beethoven´s Fidelio in the famous Sydney
opera house. David was left in the care of a “Granny for hire” lady. The
building evoking the sails of a ship is spectacular but had cost much more than
foreseen and the planned underground car park had to be abandoned. So this
super modern cultural centre of a more than 3 million metropolis, where nobody
ever walks if they can help it, is served by shuttle buses, which involves a
lot of queuing, albeit orderly, and on this occasion made even more cumbersome
by the dress code: black tie and long dress, because of the presence of the
Governor General. The concert hall was huge and felt cold, not only because of
the too efficient air conditioning– the ladies in the known had brought furs,
though outside it was very hot and humid. I shivered and thought with nostalgia
of the red plush, gilded plaster and crystal chandeliers of European theaters…The
stage décor was also stark and grey. Not being an expert on operas, I could not
judge the quality of the performance, but I am glad that Beethoven had produced
one opera and nine symphonies and not vice versa. At the end, the orchestra
played “God Safe the Queen” and the audience stood. While waiting for the bus
we could admire the Sydney Harbour Bridge and waters under the light of a full
moon.
For Sunday lunch we took Father to the revolving restaurant,
meeting up again with Aunt Jean and Uncle Karel Pešina. Then took a crowded
ferry across to Manly, the Sydney beach.
An exhausting day and still we had to go to supper at the
Belgian consul´s general house, the superbly situated mansion above the harbour
we had visited before. This time we found out that the garden borders on the
bay and that the consul owns a boat… And to think that if Sydney had become the
capital, we would have been living there… On Monday Joris was in a meeting all
day and we, Father and I, rather suffered in a park, while David was having a
super time on swings and merry-go-rounds,
never minding the heat, wind and the smell of rubbish – the dustmen were on
strike.
Back in Canberra it was hot as well and yesterday we were
invited to a picknick, which in Australia means a barbecue, a very popular
entertainment here. At every suitable spot all around the town, you´ll find
large barbecues, built from brics with government money. It may be hot as hell
under the midday sun, but the fire for roasting stakes is roaring. Luckily,
this was a supper. Afterwards, in the cool of the night, we watched the brilliance
of the Southern skies – who would have thought, when I was singing the tramp
songs about the Southern Cross after a day of hop picking, that one day I´d
actually be sitting under it, munching on charred steaks…
Monday, 29.1.79
The Australia Day holiday, commemorating the founding of the
first official penal colony at Port Jackson. There is not much enthusiasm for
it anymore, but everybody is happy about a free day, and goes – picknicking. We
also went out and ate our sandwiches on a little river bank, surrounded by smoke
and smells of the proper barbecued lunches. I took a dip in the cool water of
the river, where it formed a pool.
February
Tuesday, 6.2.79
The New Zealand Day and David is 21 months old. I take him
to the Occasional Care twice a week, it seem to help him on with English a bit,
but he still does not make sentences, just utters some semblances to words. He
has grown two new molars, without too much teething trouble. He manages to
climb out of his play pen now, but is quite sure on his feet, and runs all over
the house. We are often at Jenny´s pool, it is great to splash about in this
heat. We went to the theatre once, the performance was not much good.
March
Tuesday, 3.3. 79
The weekend at the seaside, at Batemans Bay again, was a
success, On arrival at dusk we saw a group of kangaroos, for the first in the
wild. At night they represent a danger of collision, no light matter, as they
are very heavy. People attach big iron “fences” in front of their cars, to
avoid damage. This time David was not worried by the sand and enjoyed wading in
the sea. I had several long swims, once in the unwelcome company of jelly fish,
luckily I did not get stung. There was a full moon and the crooked branches of
the gum trees formed a pretty lace against the night sky. (D.H.Lawrence: the
Kangaroo: “The smooth, blue, inhuman
skies of Australia, the pale atmosphere so hard to describe. Tabula rasa. A new
page of mankind. And on this page – nothing.”)
Sunday, 18.3.79
Some more quotes from the “Kangaroo”: In Australia, there are no real class differences. There are
differences in wealth and appearances, but it does not make anybody feel better
or superior, only better off. It is a big difference between feeling better
than your fellow beings and feeling better off.
Freedom, everybody
says, you have freedom in Australia. And it is true. There is a great feeling
in the air, of a relief, relief from tension, from pressure. There is no
control… Above you, the sky stretches, around you the air expands. There is no
trace of the squashed Old Europe.
But what next? The
emptiness of this freedom is frightening…there is no inner meaning, just a
strong consciousness of empty spaces. Consciousness of freedom without
responsibility, freedom to do what you like. And all this of no interest at
all. What can be less interesting then obtaining freedom? The great swarming
and busy Sydney flows into the myriads of the suburban cottages like an
unchecked shallow flood. And then? Nothing. No inner life, no higher command, a
total disinterest – that´s the result.
Not even the race for
money is being taken too seriously here. Nobody cares very much for the power
that money brings. To tell the truth, money is no use where there is no real
culture. Money is the means to reach a higher, fuller, more subtle level of consciousness
– or nothing. And when someone does not sincerely care to reach it – what is
money to him? Money is a European, and American, invention. It has no real
power in Australia.
Although it was written more than 50 years ago and much has
changed since then, basically it still rings true. Foremost the feeling of
freedom and at the same time emptiness, which leads to a certain mental
laziness; the meaning of literature and arts, and even culture itself, gets
lost in these empty spaces stretching out of sight and harsh, unforgiving
nature. The level of education is on average pretty low. “I do not know and I
do not care” is a common attitude.
There is a lack of cultural tradition and no feeling of
belonging in this country/continent, where the white people had arrived only a
couple of hundreds years ago. The national pride does exists, but is weekend by
the still very strong ties to the “Mother Country (England) and an inferiority complex towards Europe. After
all, they are still a colony with the Queen as its head (also on stamps) and
governed by a British Governor General. I was stunned, by the way, to watch on
TV a Trade Union foreman being knighted. The very existence of knighthood in this
egalitarian society, where everybody calls everybody by a first name, borders
on the absurd.
Still, I like it here and don´t mind the prospect of staying
on for three more years. When you arrive here with your own cultural “baggage”,
the life can be very pleasant. You can enjoy the freedom and fill in the emptiness
with your own resources. What I would not like is to have been born and grown
up here without ever visiting Europe, which is the case of many of Australians.
April
Sunday, 1.4.79
Last two weeks a little bit of culture, twice in the cinema
(Death On the Nile and Death On the Cross – actually that was not the title,
but could have been, it was about Jesus of Nazareth) and a visit of the
Parliament, which is modelled on the British one. Also a dinner with the
committee members of the recent tennis tournament, which Joris had won. He more
or less had to dragged me to it, as I have entered the 8th month of
pregnancy and am again huge, like with David, though, honestly, I don´t “eat
for two” but scarcely for half. Trying to fit between the chair and the table and
to abstain from wine is no fun.
Sunday, 8.4.79
Yesterday definitely the last “social duty” – taking out
Madame Ambassadrice out for a dinner, she is “a grass widow” at the moment. The
food in the restaurant in “our” shopping centre in Manuka was OK, and what the
place lacked in elegance, it made up for in gallantry: every lady received a
red carnation. It made me think of a communist meeting and no doubt it was
slipped in the bill…
Instead of socialising with humans we turned our attention
to fauna and visited a Zoo, where local animals, wallabies, kangaroos, ponies,
sheep and goats roam freely, and David loved it. There was even a pair of bored
camels. These animals had been imported at the time of the gold fever in the 19th
century as means of transport, because they were better suited to these hot and
dry conditions than horses or oxen. After motorisation they were turned loose.
They thrive here in their thousands till this day, mainly in Central Australia.
David has passed his 23rd month, he is getting old…
His vocabulary is slowly broadening, mainly in English, and he brings a lot of
drawings from the day care. The meal times are still often a drama, not only is
he choosy, but insists on messing up with his hands, even though he is
perfectly capable of using knife and fork, if he has a mind to. But if he does
not, he drives me to distraction.
Thursday, 12.4.79
Believe it or not, another birthday has come round – 35
already! (in the meantime another 40 have
come round…). No special celebrations, as a gift I got a giant wrist watch,
to hang on the wall and remind me of the time passing… (It is still marking time in my study now, 40 years later,2019.)
Tuesday, 17.4.79
We spent the Easter weekend at Thredbo, a ski resort founded
and developed by Czechs, in The Snowy Mountains, which form part of “The Great
Divide”, and where you find the highest mountain of Australia, Mt.Koscuiusco
(2229m above sea level). A road leads all the way up and we followed it by car
up to the point, where it became so bumpy, that I feared I might give birth
even before reaching the summit. The
weather was nice, but all in all, neither the place, rocky and barren, nor the
hotel, very basic, were suitable for highly pregnant women and small children.
Tuesday, 24.4. St. George Day
We “celebrated” the day at the
place of pre-natal gym – it was the evening with fathers-to be, to prepare the
“new” ones for the event. Refreshments and socializing followed. Earlier that
week we had a guided visit of the hospital, where I am to have my baby – a
modern, austere building in Woden Valley, with nice views of the mountains.
Also went to see an Oscar winning film with Jane Fonda, “Coming Home”.
I am feeling fine, only my hands
get swollen at night. Not much longer now…
Monday, 30.4.79
The autumn colours have arrived, and it still nice and
sunny, though cool in the evening, sometimes we have to turn the heating on.
Lately I have stopped going out to dinners, too much trouble in my present
state, not to speak about figure… Furthermore, I got tired of the never ending
questions “When is it due? Would you like a boy or a girl? Have you got a
name?...”. It is worse than the stereotype questions after our arrival here.
May
Monday,7.5.79
So David turned two years yesterday and we spent the weekend
celebrating his birthday, giving him first his plastic tricycle and then a
little drum and a toy xylophone, to complement his trumpet, which only he
starts “playing”. Our neighbour Jenny and her three children came on Saturday
to have the cake with us. I tried to teach David to blow out the candles but he
did not want to do it – he liked the candle lights too much. We continued the
celebration on Sunday – lunch at Macdonald´s, also with Jenny´s lot. We gave
him the rest of his presents, also from his Grandparents, sent from Brussels.
He played quietly all afternoon in his room, where I put up the best of the
many painting he had made at the Occasional day care, where he still spends
happily two or three days a week. Vocally, he is making some progress, knows
about three dozens Czech words, less in English it seems, he babbles
continuously in a language of his own…At the 2years´check he was found
adequately developed, but bigger than average: almost 99cm and more than 17kg.
(When reading the
following “analysis” of your character, David, forty years later I had to laugh
– you have not changed much!)
He likes tidiness, or rather seeing things where they should
be and remembers the places of all things well. So he tidies, but only if he
feels like it and when he does not and is told to, throws a tantrum. On the
other hand, gets upset when things are not where/as he thinks they should be,
which sometimes leads to problem in case of difference of opinion. (Like, p.e.,
when I removed some items from his room he started to put them back - and I did
not think he had even noticed.) He is walking/running well, up to two hours
non-stop, but again, only where he wants to, and when pulled/pushed in another
direction, he would throw himself on the ground and let himself be dragged
along, screaming, to consternation of passers-by, not directed at him but at
me, the Australians are very tolerant towards “kids”. (This used to happen even in Switzerland at the end of our hikes,
when you were 6 or 7 – remember?) To sum up, he knows very well, what he
wants, and is extremely stubborn, which often leads to fights with me, lately
even literally: he tries to hit me with all his force; I either leave him in
his room till he gets over it, or in the end smack him. The fights are usually
about getting dressed/undressed, in/out of bath, going to bed and the like.
Also at meal times- he does not like to try anything new, especially meat,
which usually ends up on the floor…But on the whole, he is quite a good boy and
tries to be helpful, like when I am hanging up the washing in the garden, he
hands me the pieces from the basket, or brings me a glass from the kitchen when
he thinks I want a drink with my early evening TV show, after he had once seen
me taking one. Luckily, he found the alcoholic beverages disgusting, when I let
him taste some. (That has changed J!) Not much success
with potty training and I have not quite taken away the bottle – people tell me
that children of his age would regress anyway, once the new baby arrives. So we
take it easy.
Sunday, 20.5.79
The last two weeks have seemed endless. I feel OK, only some
back pain and very tired. “It” – we had not ask the about the sex – does not
even kick much, according to the doc, not enough room… We don´t do much
anymore, but last week we went to the races and I bet on a winner,
unfortunately very little, being very prudent, so the winnings hardly covered
the cost, and once to the Weston park, only Joris went with David on the
kids´train, I did not fit in it anymore…
Monday, 21.5.1979
Last night in bed, the baby was kicking my ribs. I tickled
“its” little heel and said to Joris, how strange, a little creature is moving
around inside me, ready to pop out (hopefully), yet we don´t know, if “it” is a
boy or a girl, if “it” has all that “it” should have and what “it” looks like.
Little did I know that in less than 5 hours I shall know… About half past
eleven we turned off the light and Joris fell asleep immediately. Before I
managed to settle down, shortly after midnight I felt the first contraction, very
mild and I was wide awake. Soon after another mild one, and more followed,
every five minutes and getting stronger. I was confused – I had been told to go
to the hospital when contractions happen every 15 minutes. As David´s birth had
been induced, I had no previous experience. At 1AM I got up and phoned the
hospital. A nurse told me, I should not put off coming, if the contractions
pattern stays the same. Hoping they will stop – the middle of the night is not
the best time to start giving birth –I settled down in the would be baby´s room
and wrote down instructions for the help, who was to come daily while I was in
the hospital, to feed the men and to help with David. Contractions kept coming
and getting stronger, so I woke up Joris, who thought he was having a bad
dream, and then David, who thought it was fun and clutched his Teddy and a
book. We grabbed him and the bag, luckily all packed, and drove out into the
frosty, starry night. The streets, normally a smooth bitumen, seemed to have
changed into cross country roads, I felt every little bump, but we had not so
far to go and arrived at the hospital at about 2AM. While Joris and David were
left in the waiting room, I was laid down on a very uncomfortable bench,
impossible to do relaxation and breathing exercises, which I began to need
sorely. Also the baby gave me such a kick that I threw up, the first time in
both my pregnancies. The nurse looked and said we are half way there, wheeled
me to the operation theatre and phoned the doctor. The crucial 10cm were there
before the doctor could stagger out of bed and I was told to start pushing.
Remembering that with David I was pushing almost an hour without much success,
I set to it with determination and already at the third go I felt the head.
Panic took hold of me - Please God, don´t let there be complications with no
doctor yet in sight. In the meantime, Joris, also thinking there will still be
a long wait, drove back home to put David in the care of Jenny, as had been
arranged beforehand, just in case. And case it was, but Jenny did not hear the
bell, when we tried before leaving…So, to his great regret, he missed the arrival of Thomas, who popped out of me
so fast, that the nurses only just managed to catch him, and at 3.45 AM I held my blooded baby son, still
attached by the umbilical cord, in my arms. Bliss!
Only then there were complications. The doctor arrived, but
the placenta would not come out and I got terrible shivers. After some poking,
the doctor said, nothing to it, we have to give general anaesthesia to get out.
But – at this hour, no anaesthetist was at hand and it took him hours to
arrive. The little Thomas having been taken to the nursery, I was left on the
operating with my shivers and the legs up – a sad ending to such a happy and
easy birth. Afterwards I woke up in bed with a sore throat and feeling
depressed as every time it had been administered to me (once quite
unnecessarily in London, for an extraction of a wisdom tooth, without even
asking me; the English are soft…). On the whole I felt like I had been severely
beaten but I could sleep all day and in the evening, when I held my new son in
my arms agin, all was forgotten, only the bliss remained. Joris arrived with
flowers and David, who seemed very pleased to have a little brother, stroke his
head and called him “děti” (children).
Thomas weighs a bit more than David did, but is also 2cm
longer, so he seems thinner, only his cheeks are chubby- his head is a bit
squashed from all the rush to get on with birth; it will surely right itself,
like David´s bump on the head… (This rashness, Thomas, stayed with you
until this day…J)
The night he spent in the nursery with the other new-borns. On Tuesday already
e was given his first bath – here they leave a few cm of the umbilical cord, so
there is no open wound. The stump is supposed to fall off later. I decided for
bottle feeding again. It looks like, as before, I shall not have enough milk
and Thomas seems to have a healthy appetite already. Also, in our way of life,
it is more practical. So I have undisturbed nights and most of the days, as
Thomas sleeps through them as well and does not cry, only whines from time to
time. He lies on his tummy and can already lift his head turn on the other
cheek. He has big, dark blue eyes, some black hair and his ears have stayed
flat against his head, so o hat for him. On Thursday, I finally had a shower
and washed my, both very necessary as I am having lots of visitors and a
photographer came to take the first pictures. (This was long before digital photography and smart phones – by this
time Luka had about a hundred photos and videos taken of himself…) And it
was the day Joris was allowed to take me out for supper – nice gesture on
behalf of the hospital, to let the parents have one quiet evening alone
together, in many cases the last one for a long time… Joris came every day with
David in tow, whom the Occasional Day Care let stay this week every day till
after the lunch session, when Joris picked him up. The “occasional Granny”,
Judy, took care of the rest.
Saturday 26.5.79
In the afternoon, Joris came to fetch me and “the holiday”
has come to an end. Outside, David threw a fit, when he realized, that the
“toy” brother was coming home with us. Apparently he had already screamed all
morning, wanting to go to “school”. Mercifully, after we arrived home he
immediately fell into an exhausted sleep, and so did we all…
Monday, 28.5.79
The house was more or less in order, but with a new even an
“experienced” mother has her hands full. Joris is quite good at taking care of
David, even if he puts his pants back to front sometimes and never can find a
matching pair of socks (for himself either…). Thomas is slowly shedding the
marks of his rushed arrival into the world, which had drawn some criticism from
Joris concerning his looks. By now, according to Jenny, “he is so pretty he
should have been a girl!” He has lost some weight (3.70kg), but drinks well and
a lot. Hardly a cry from him till now.
June
Friday, 1.6.79
Despite the fact, that the birth took place in yet another
for me strange country, everything, from getting pregnant, trough being
pregnant and to the birth itself, happened under much more relaxed
circumstances. Consider all that happened between David´s conception and his
birth: it was planned to take place in my native Prague, but Joris was rather
suddenly called back to Brussel to sit for his final diplomatic exams. We had
to leave already early next year (1977), which threw me into panic – the idea
of giving birth “in French” frightened me no end. No less frightening was the
process of finalising my emigration, which, though “legal” through marriage to
a foreigner, was still quite a hurdle in the communist country. There was the
last Christmas at home to get through and many good-bye parties and other, more
painful good-byes. And finally the packing and the move – the furniture by
truck, Joris by car and poor me by train, as explained in the beginning of this
diary. Then the health complications at the end and the rather traumatic birth.
On the contrary, with Thomas it was all plain sailing in the “backwaters” of
Canberra, except the maybe a bit daring trip to New Zealand. In any case, a
second time is always easier and one does not get so tense and worried about
the baby either. In Australia, the attitude to pregnancy is also more relaxed,
after my experience in Belgium, it seemed almost on the point of negligence,
the gynaecologist hardly touched me during the check-ups, there was no eco
taken, in short, no fuss. Also in the hospital all examinations were done by
the nurses, the doctors hardly stopped at the foot of the beds. Still, the
nurses were friendly and capable, there was no hierarchy - they all occupied
themselves with everything – and the overall care was good. Today a nurse from
the Manuka clinic dropped by to check on Thomas, all OK.
Monday, 4.6.79
We are slowly getting used to the life with four. Thomas is
a good baby and before I gathered enough energy to introduce the “rigid”
feeding regime of a bottle every four hours, crying or no crying as I had done
with David on Mother´s advice, he arranged his own: more or less every four
hours between sleeps, but in the evening he wants his bottle every two hours.
As I don´t want his crying to wake up David, I have given in; by ten or eleven
he has had the three. The reward – he then sleeps all night till eight. Quite
unusual for a not quite two weeks old and very satisfying for all. My absence
has done David a lot of good, he seems suddenly very grown up, like he takes
care of his guests (Jenny and her kids). So far he is not jealous and takes
care of new Thomas´s stuffed toys without wanting to appropriate them. He is
still at the day care every morning, brings home many “art works” and learns
new word and finally also sentences. Yesterday nice weather and we went to the
Weston Park, the first time with Thomas. In the evening we celebrated Joris´s
birthday, with a festive supper and a cake.
Sunday, 10.6.
Friday I took Thomas to the clinic, for the check-up, will
be going every week. He is putting on weight nicely. Jenny is not feeling well,
so we took her three kids with us to McDonalds. They had fun together. David
has learnt a new trick – to climb on a chair when he cannot reach something,
not so good…I have started to take him to so called Play group, an organized
pre-school activity for children between 2 and 4 years old. I can´t take
advantage of the Day care for ever and soon I hope I shall be able to be
”dropping off” Thomas there instead, in the baby section. Jenny is still not
well, she has a virus, which here is being blamed for every illness they
apparently thrive in this what I consider a healthy environment. (In this respect, Australia was far ahead of
Europe, where only recently all ills are blamed on them.)
So I had her children at home. They are all older, so they
teach David new ways to play with his toys. I gave him a doll before Thomas was
born, so that he would have his own baby. He is taking a good care of it now.
It is getting cold and misty, so no more playing in the garden.
Thursday, 21.6.79
Thomas is one month old and prospers, he weighs 4 and half
kg and drinks well. He can clearly see and his hair is turning blond. When on
his tummy, he can hold up is head and when on his back, he moves by pushing
with his heels. I took him to the Occasional Care for the first time, while I
took David and myself to a hairdresser´s. It went well.
I am learning, how to be a mother to two children, it is a
very different “ball game“: it is much easier to throw and catch one ball than
juggle two…By that I mean, to be fair to both the baby and the toddler, who
have different needs, to balance affection and discipline. At the same time,
David is learning how to be an older brother and not an only child any more. So
far it is going well but then, a tiny baby, who is mostly sleeping, is not much
of challenge. David is happy to have a new “toy” and is very caring, I just
have to be careful, that he does not accidentally smother Thomas with love…There
is sometimes a bit of trouble getting David to go to bed before I put Tomas
down. The other night he told his firs lie, claiming he did a “kaka”, in order
to be picked up again.
After three months of more or less hiding at home, I finally
ventured to appear at a society event, and just any old cocktail or dinner, but
to a black tie (and long dress) reception in the Government House, given by the
Governor General on the occasion of Her Majesty the Queen Elisabeth´s birthday.
We had been invited in lieu of our Ambassador, who is on trip to Darwin, the
Capital of the tropical Northern Territory. He kindly let us have his car and
driver, which was a blessing: Governor´s Residence sits in a vast park, and
without a
chauffeur driven car one is obliged to park outside the
grounds and walk a km or two to the main entrance. As it was dark, misty and
raining, the stroll would not have been a pleasant one. (We had been there once
before, invited for who we were, at a pre-Christmas reception for Ambassadors
and their number two´s, and then we had to walk the mile in the high noon
summer heat – I had nearly fainted while waiting in the queue at the door,
being pregnant.) I managed to squeeze in my old purple velvet dress and
difficulty breathing – where shall I put the food, I was wondering. At these
buffet receptions, no matter how little you take of every dish, you always end
up with your plate overflowing. It turned out a very snobbish and rather boring
affair, but both the dress and my stomach held so all was well (that ends
well). Today a national holiday and fireworks in the evening. Jenny came by
with a small aquarium and a gold fish for David – he had been fascinated by the
one they have. Jenny is a typical
Australian, it was not easy to break the ice with her, but
once a friend, always a friend.
Monday, 25.6.79
Last week another stand-by for our Ambassador, at a dinner
at the French residence. As it is usual with the French seating protocol, the
hosts sat opposite each other in the middle of the table and we, as the least
important guests, sat at the end, which meant I only had one neighbour, the
British High Commissioner (=Ambassador), and was afraid he would only talk the
lady on his other side, she being more important. (We stick to the English way
– the hosts at the opposite heads of the table and the least important guests
in the middle. It more tactful, I think, and also more practical, as nobody is
left next to an empty space, unless, of course, somebody does not show up…).
Luckily my neighbour was charming in the typical English way – superficial but
sufficient and we had a lively conversation. It is very awkward not to be able
to chat at a dinner table for lack of a neighbour, or, which is worse, of a
responsive person; many are those, who barely answer “yes” or “no” and never
ask any questions…The evening surprisingly ended by dancing to taped music.
The weather is nice, on Saturday we went to races, I got one
winner, an outsider. I tried to sunbathe on the unfinished (no railing and no
door) terrace with a nice view in front of our 2nd floor bedroom. It
required some acrobatic to a chair and myself through the sash window with a
push up fly screen and I shall not repeat the experiment. Strangely enough,
David´s room has a door but no terrace, just a ledge, luckily with a fence,
preventing people stepping out into the void. Did the architect´s plans get
mixed up?
An oil refinery is on strike, because of some trade
unionists imprisoned for holding public speeches without permission, so
scarcity of petrol issued. (This can only get worse, because of Iran´s
revolution.) And a general – all Australian – strike is announced this week.
Better not watch the news, disasters everywhere. I had not bothered with the
news much back at home, did not even have a TV. Whatever happened, happened
elsewhere, far away. Nothing bad could happen in a communist country and if it
did, it did not make the news. Now we might be or get in the thick of things
any time. (In other words, the difference between life in prison and in
freedom.) Here it is peaceful, but a bush fire would suffice…
Also, having children makes me more sensitive to suffering
of children of others and people in general -
most everybody has children and everybody is somebody´s child. The
foremost in the news these days are the “boat people”, the refugees from South
Vietnam and Cambodia, tens of thousands of them, hundreds of the small boats
have sunk and drowned all on board, the big ships with thousands of people are for
months anchored in the harbours of cities, which won´t allow disembarkation.
The Asian countries don´t want them and Australia and the Western countries are
willing to safe just handfuls, a drop in, or rather, from the sea.
(In the news I am
listening to now while writing this 40 years later - August 2019, just
substitute Vietnam and Cambodge for various African countries, or the Midle
East…And even then there were already hints of climate change – extreme hot
temperatures, draughts and floods. But nobody cared…)
July
Monday, 9.7.79
Social life is quiet, thank goodness, it is not easy to get
ready and away from two babies, even with a capable babysitter. Last week we
gave a buffet dinner, to pay off all the “debts”, which weighed heavily on
Joris´s mind. It went well - the guests stayed till midnight that did not
please us as it normally should, because we both had a cold, which in Joris´s
case developed into a bronchitis. We spent the weekend at home, watching
Wimbledon, Martina Navrátilová got her 2nd title and Bjorn Borg set
a record, winning it for the 4th time consecutively. I went for a
long walk with Thomas in the pram, to the Embassy to get the papers for Joris,
and back, 1 and a half hours, it did me good. David is beginning to show
jealousy, he does not take his afternoon naps anymore and he resents me giving
Thomas his afternoon bottle, climbing on my back, pulling my hair and even
scratching and hitting Thomas. I had to get very angry and it all ended up in
tears and being sorry. Still, normally he is being helpful obedient to verbal
commands – that is a progress. According to Joris, he has reach the 1m mark.
Thursday, 19.7.79
Thomas will be two months old and I took him to
paediatrician, just be sure all is well, and it is, weight 5.30kg, less then
David at this age, but the same length: 59cm. He is losing his lovely hair,
soon he will be bald like David was… I am all packed to go alone with the
children all the way to Queensland, for two weeks to stay with the Pešinas at
the beach. I need a break and to lose more weight, we had several dinners, one
at our home, and one at the Vatican Legation, the Monsignore is a keen tennis
player (!). There were several other priests and serving was taken care by nuns
(!). All the time I felt very sinful, just the night, when the Skylab orbiting
the Earth was to disintegrate in the atmosphere, possibly above Canberra. Luckily
it fell to pieces on some other, uninhabitated,
place in West Australia.
Tomorrow I am leaving, with both kids and the pram for
Queensland, to stay for two weeks with my Aunt and Uncle Karel Pesina at a
beach, where they have a cottage. A long journey.
August
Monday, 6.8.79
I am back, not having lost either of the babies or the pram,
only about five kg, which had been the idea behind my trip. We left for the
airport at 5 AM, only to find the airport closed because of mist. It caused a 2
hrs delay and I nearly went back home as I would miss my connecting flight to
Sydney, where I still had to catch another to Brisbane and then one more to
Townsville, where we were to catch the bus to Tulle, to meet the “uncles” to
pick us up. But I stayed and hoped for the best. David got into the plane with
enthusiastic cries of éro, éro, , but then got frightened by the noise of the
small plane and kept trying to leave through the loo. Not even the charming air
hostesse could calm him down. Thomas, in the “kangaroo poach” on my tummy slept
peacefully through. In Sydney they promised to get us on the next plane in 2hrs
time – another long wait. But somebody took pity on us and let us stay in an
empty staff room; not only it had coffee, but also a door that I thankfully
shut so that I no longer needed to chase after David all over the airport. I
fed the kids, changed their nappies and had a bit of rest, so we were fit for
the next leg of our journey to Brisbane (they
did get us on the plane at 12). In the bigger plane David was quiet, the
weather was clear and I could watch rugged East Australian coast and the blue
Pacific Ocean. Another plane took us over the town of Rockhampton, 1 732km from
Sydney, where we crossed the Tropics of Capricorn into the tropical zone. From
the air Townswille was a row upon row of corrugated iron roofs reflecting the
sun rays amids vivid green. From the ground you could see that roofs covered
white houses, mostly wooden and on styles, not so tidy as they seemed from the
air. It was 3PM and the heat felt like a wet blanket, the smallest effort, like
taming David, made me sweat. The bus for Tulle left hours ago – we should have
arrived there by then – and there was no other. Nothing to do but spend the
night, I was recommended a hotel, a tube-like “sky-scraper”. From the room on
the 11th floor there was a nice view. In the end it was a welcome
stop, we could wash and eat, and take out lighter clothes (it was cold in
Canberra). The first bus was leaving at noon, so I did some shopping on the
High Street lined with palms.
(There is a photo of
us at the bus stop, which is still clear in my mind, but I have quite forgotten
how adventurous the journey was. It explains why we look so fresh. No idea, who
took the photo.) Even though the (air-conditioned) bus came from as far as
Perth, on the west coast, it was half empty and we could make ourselves
comfortable, with Thomas in the pram carry cot. David also fell asleep soon,
and I could watch the countryside, flat land with eucalyptus trees on the
right, hills with eucalyptus trees on the left, with an occasional garden of
flowering bushes interrupting the eternal greyish green. Only after we passed
the river Herbert the vegetation became tropical – first sugar cane fields (the
town Ingham boasts the biggest sugar mill in the Southern hemisphere, which
sounds grand, but when you look on the globe, it means hardly more than when we
say “in Central Europe”…), then the flaming coral trees and banana plantations,
spoiled by blue plastic protecting the rings of ripening fruit from vermin, and
then pineapple fields – as Agatha Christie had said, it was disappointing to
see such a delicious fruit growing in the earth as common cabbage…After a low
mountain ridge covered in dense and luxuriant rainforest we reached the Cardwell
and there was the sea, finally, a narrow strip at least, bordered by the
mountainous island Hitchingbrook Then Tully at last and the Pesinas waiting for
us with their Volkswagen caravan, to take us the last 30km to the Mission
Beach, the end of our nearly 3 000km journey. (I am wondering now, how ever did we let the Uncles know, that we would
arrive a day later – no mobiles and almost surely no telephone either.) They
had built the cottage themselves, simple but comfortable dwelling with the
inevitable corrugate iron roof among a palm groove and within a stone throw
from the public beach – no one can own a piece of beach up to a distance of a
several meters above the highest tide. The cottage did not have an extra
bedroom, so Uncle Karel arranged a flat for us in a holiday complex about 1 km
away, free of charge. It was winter (tropical) and off season; we were the only
guests. The flat was sparsely furnished, so safe for (and from) David, but had
a kitchenette and washing machine, and a nice view of the ocean and its various
islands. Mission Beach is a 15km long narrow sickle of coral sand and a famous
holiday resort. After a short walk on the beach and a cold supper we went to
bed, since after seven it was getting dark.
The first week till Thursday it was
warm and cloudy but enough sun to get tanned. I had David always wear a T-shirt
(and hat which he luckily kept on) but on one overcast day I let him run about
naked and in the evening his shoulders were a little sunburnt. (I have forgotten this lesson by the time we
lived in Ecuador and on not only overcast but even a rainy day in Casa Blanca I
let you play in the surf without T-shirt or cream, which you hated, and your
back got so burnt, that I and you have not forgotten it to this day…) We
stablished a routine, in the morning we walked along the beach to the “Uncles´s
cottage, “parked” Thomas in hgis pram in the shade and with David went
frolicking in the sand. There was a little stream and puddles left over from
the tide, which David loved. The sea never ceased to frighten him till the end,
though the surf was mild. When I went for a dip, he cried all the time. For
lunch we went home and after I put David down for his afternoon nap, I went to
have run and good long swim, leaving Thomas in his pram on the beach. The pram
was on big wheels and covered with a mosquito net; there was nobody around
except a few dogs. Still, one day some people came by and told me off for being
a reckless mother. (I suppose I was and
always have been a little – what do you think?) Anther day I was got out of
the water caught in a sort of string with blue beads. Before I extricated
myself I felt a few stings, but it was not too bad. (Did
not need Joey or anybody to pee on me…) . Towards the evening we went back
to the Uncles for supper. Here I want to repeat, that I took this adventurous
trip in order to lose weight gained during the pregnancy with Thomas and when we
were shopping in Tulle for food for our lunches, I only bought diet biscuits
and soups for myself. (Thomas was still on bottled milk and David on potted
“solids”. After all my exercise I was ravenously hungry in the evening and was
looking for a substantial supper, but as it turned out, it seemed that the
Uncles were on a diet as well: the suppers were very frugal, just cheese and
ham a few slices of bread. As I had imprudently mentioned my intention to lose
weight, I could not very well protest or ask for more. I had never been so
hungry in my life, but the goal was achieved: 5kg down after the two weeks. In
Tulla, there is also a cane sugar mill,
it stinks as horribly as beat sugar mills, so I firmly declined Uncle´s offer
of a visit. I had been to one when at school back home, and it was quite
enough. The cane field are set on fire before harvesting, in order to get rid
of insects and vermin. It is very hard and dirty work and the Australians used
to bring virtually slave labourers over from nearby islands. (Mark Twain describes this in his excellent book
“Following the Equator”). Saturday it rained all day, we all three huddled
in my bed – the room was cold, not having any glass in the windows, just mosquito netting… Sunday brought brilliant
sunshine but also a rather cold wind; only on the last but one day it got
really warm and the owner of the hotel took us out in his small motor boat to
the group of coral islands called “The
Family”. We landed at one on them, on a white beach formed by crushed coral;
when we walked it produced a sound like jingle bells. The top was rocky and
covered with vegetation, but trough the clear blue water we could see the
colourful coral formation and tropical fishes. Too bad I had no snorkel. (For snorkelling above the corals I had to
wait till we moved to the Philippines, our next posting.) Further out is
the Great Barrier Reef of about 7 000 similar islands strung for a thousand km
along the eastern coast. (Unfortunately we could not go that far and
in the end, I never I never saw the Reef proper. And it is now apparently
dying…) I watched the pinky sunsets every evening, but only this last night
it was warm enough for a star watching walk on the beach. Next morning Thomas
woke me up earlier than usual with his grunts, so dared the morning freshness
to watch, for once, a sunrise. Sunsets I had seen galore, especially in Prague,
where I could watch the sun setting every night behind the Castle. (But until this day I can never have enough
of them.) But sunrises, that´s another matter, I like to sleep in. The ones
I did see were usually after partying the night trough… And never over the sea.
The spectacle was worth leaving the warm bed. The sky was pale blue and only a
stripe of yellow above the horizon indicated that something was about to
happen. A few little pink-grey clouds gathered over the fiery spot of the
nascent sun, as if to welcome it. After what seemed an eternity, the top of the
sun popped up quite suddenly, like a balloon held under water and released. It
seemed to pause, as if checking out the world it was emerging to, then it
continued to rise majestically in its orange splendour. When I could no longer
look into it, I went back to catch a bit more sleep. The way back was easier,
the children slept in the bus and my air ticket had been changed to a direct
one Townswille – Sydney, where Joris was waiting for us. He did not look too
neglected. The weather in Canberra was mild, so no big shock. It was super two
weeks, the first time I could enjoy the seaside for such a long time at a
stretch. The children survived well, Thomas at not quite three months was
goodness itself, sleeping peacefully most of the time and when awake, amusing
himself with the “mobile” over his pram.. David, at 2 years and 3 months, was
more trouble – “the terrible two´s”, wanting to be carried on the walks to and
from the Uncles ´cottage, while quite capable of walking the distance; at the
weight and size of him – over 1m - an impossible task for me, and me pushing
the pram as well. A smack on the bottom usually solved the situation. He got to
throwing things and kicking them about, refusing to pick them up. Being jealous
of Thomas also caused some problems, mainly at feeding times. But he is very caring,
when nobody is watching. He was happy playing in the sand with sells and
sticks, but never ventured into the sea. But on the whole, considering the
strange surroundings, he was a very good boy. He seemed happy to be back home
and in the Occasional care.
August
Sunday, 12.8.79
Wednesday, I took Thomas to the clinic for a check- up: weight
6.75, length 52cm, both a little less than David at his age. (And I got back to
my old weight and size.) He is becoming very sociable, trying to talk and is
smiling and laughing a lot. I find it difficult to put him down, but there is a
lot to do with preparations for our trip to Europe, leaving on the 14h.
The winter is in the air, mimosas are in full bloom (1.8.
was the “Mimosa Day”), but it is rainy and windy, and the first snow has fallen
in the mountains. High time to leave for the northern hemisphere summer – if
there is any…
Yesterday Jan and Jenny with husbands and children came over
for a “good-bye” lunch, altogether there were six children plus a baby
(Thomas), so it was a ruckus. Today busy packing and David senses that
something is up and clings to me as never before, probably worried that he
would be left behind. We are leaving on Tuesday,
the14th.
The trip:
1) Canberra to Los
Angeles (three stopovers), projected time 17 hrs
Having learnt from our flight to Australia, we had slightly
less pieces of hand baggage but one more child to carry…Everything went well
till Fiji, where we stopped for refuelling for the . After the take off the
children fell asleep immediately and we started to dose off as well, but half
an hour into the flight, the pilot´s voice came on: “As you may have noticed,
we have turned round are heading back to Fiji.” Nobody noticed anything, of
course, but apparently a warning light went for one the engines… I said to
Joris, if necessary, you grab David and run for the left exit, I´ll run to the
right with Thomas. So, fearing the worst, we “emergency” landed and waited full
eight hours for a fault to be found and apparently repaired, as we finally took
off again, not in the best frame of mind. The children had all the sleep they
needed and stayed awake, and bothersome, for the whole flight to the next
stopover in Honolulu, in the middle of night there, to face another unpleasant
surprise: as we were entering the US here for the first time, we had to go
through the passport control and the customs with all 80kg of luggage (three
suitcases ant the pram), and not a porter or a trolley in sight. It was hot and
humid and David kept running away. The only one in good mood was Thomas in my
“kangaroo pouch”, until he got hungry. Finally, we got on the plane for the
last leg of the journey and arrived to L.A. at 1AM local time – on Wednesday, the 13th, as we had crossed the date line again and got
back the day we “lost on the way to Australia, only it had been a Thursday and
we got back a Tuesday. The airport was a bedlam with an hour wait for the
luggage; at least here there were porters, portly negroes. The bus which was to
take us to our hotel was long gone, so we got there in a taxi, only to be told,
that our room was long gone as well and no vacancies, even though Joris had
asked the PanAm company to let the hotel know. At least the hotel found us a
room in another one and even had us driven there. We slept till noon and then
were fetched by the original hotel, Sheraton, 5 stars and with a pool. During
the afternoon I washed all the soiled clothes (in a machine) and prepared more
bottles of milk. The next day we finally set out for Disney Land and tried a
few attractions (David, you might
remember the trip by train through the jungle?) It was crowded and hot and
not all that suitable for very small children, so we di not go back and spent
the day lazing at the pool. The city of L.A. did not seem worth a sight-seeing
tour.
2) Los Angeles to Montreal, 1 stopover in Toronto
A pleasant flight in a spacious Dakota airplane till Toronto,
whose modern airport made the transfer smooth, in spite of all our luggage. Two
hours more and we landed in Montreal, when my aunt Helena met us, loaded with
nappies and fresh fruit. She had recommended a hotel but did not personally
check it and we found filthy, smelly and stuffy, evoking images of cockroaches
and lice, and posing a definite fire danger with no escape routes. So Joris
called Sheraton, where they said there was a room. So squeezed back into a
taxi, but despite the splendour of the entrance hall, the room was not much
better, only cleaner and the beds just iron cots. We were too tired to try
anything else and settled down as best was as we could, only to be woken up by
Thomas, who was hungry and his crying woke up David, who, on his part, never
stopped “talking” to himself loudly till the morning, when, to add insult to
injury, we were asked to leave; it turned out we were given a staff bedroom,
“out of kindness”… Joris ´s patience snapped and he book a room at an airport
hotel. It was far from the centre, but we had lost all interest in sightseeing;
it was raining anyway. The hotel, called “Mirabella Palace” and was worthy of
its name and worth of all the trouble. It was the atrium type, a glass covered
courtyard with plants, waterfalls, and a swimming pool, which you could watch
either from a restaurant terrace or a glass lift. The rooms modern and simple,
yet very comfortable. Also the hotel was completely soundproof, not a peep from
the airplanes landing or taking off. By now we have learnt that staying in a
five star hotel when travelling is not a question of snobbism but a common
sense. You can relax and despite the travel hassle, feel you are on holidays. Thomas
woke us up again, but both boys let us sleep in the morning. We packed everything
and went to have lunch with aunt Helena in her flat with a nice view over the
city. My friend and colleague from the university, Irena Žantovská, who had
emigrated in 1968 to Canada via fake marriage to a Murray, and it is with this
name she making a name for herself at the McGuire university, in the field of
architecture, although she was studying English and Chinese and was the
cleverest girl in my year. At one point we sort of shared a boyfriend. He also
emigrated, but I did not ask if they were back together.
In the late afternoon we returned to the hotel and went to
the airport through a connecting corridor. The plane to Brussels was delayed by
several hours and during the wait David was restless; a difficult eater at
home, when travelling refused to at all, only wanted to drink bottles and
bottles of milk and lemonade, which went through him like through a funnel and
consequently I was busy changing his nappies and panties. Although I had a good
supply of them, in the end all got wet. Also on the planes I had to keep
changing him or Thomas, not an easy thing on an airplane seat. Not very
restful. When we finally took off, we could enjoy a nice view of Montreal, rosy
golden in the setting sun, full of skyscraper but also greenery dotted with
emerald coloured swimming pools. The last leg took 8 hours and was a nightmare:
the kids wouldn´t sleep and David, overtired, made such a ruckus, that I
slapped him and then broke down in hysterical sobbing myself. The flight seemed
interminable and did the queues for luggage, passport and customs controls. It
was midday in Brussels and very hot and humid. Daniel brought us home to an
empty flat – Mother and Father had left in a hurry for England, because Granny had
a fall in the bathroom, so they had to go and see how she was. So no helping
hand for me and I spent the three days in Brussels washing and redoing
suitcases for our trip to England, while Joris spent the time at the Ministry.
At night we hardly slept, the boys had not yet managed to get over the time
difference. Poor Thomas, who had been so good as a new born baby, sleeping
solidly through the night as soon as we came home from the hospital, was now
making up for it, through no fault of his.
So hardly refreshed, we were in the air again (on Thursday, 23rd of August)
and on the way to London, where Mother picked us up – after an hour´s search
for her car in the huge airport garage. Finally we made it to Granny´s house in
West Byfleet. She has luckily recovered from her fall. We had two quiet weeks
there, Mother occasionally, though not exactly enthusiastically, took care of
her grandchildren, who finally started to sleep through the night, so Joris and
I could take trips into the pretty surroundings and do some shopping. One for
once sunny summer day, some friends of Granny came for an afternoon tea. David
behaved well, even playing a host, offering biscuits to the guests and Thomas,
all smiles, was handed from one lap to another.
Sunday, 2nd
of September, we had the christening
of Thomas, in a pretty little Norman church in a nearby village, Pyrford. It is
a protestant church and Father had had to arrange special permission and find a
catholic priest to perform the catholic rites, which did gladly, as he is a
Catholic himself. Mother is Anglican, but was happy as well, because her father
had been an important member of this church community and is buried in an
honorary spot at the outside wall with a commemorative plaque. The church was
nicely decorated with white and yellow flowers (the Vatican colours), and
Granny´s niece Mary with her family arrived for the occasion from Eastbourne.
Daniel was also there, but Mark was in New York at the time. David looked very
solemn and was on his best behaviour despite my fears he might throw a jealous
tantrum seeing that Thomas, adorable in Mrs. Breitenstein´s lace christening
outfit, was the centre of everybody´s attention. He was smiling throughout. The
one who misbehaved was Granny, who was making “funny” remarks, which she
thought nobody could hear – she was deaf. We all had tea and a cake in the
garden afterwards.
On Monday we went to London to do shopping for Joris,
extra-long sleeves shirts and such.
London is not the same pleasant city that I used to like so
much, it is overrun by foreigners and spoiled by new high-rise buildings,
though the countryside seems unchanged – old houses with tall chimneys and
evergreen fences, meadows with cows and horses or men in white playing endless
games of cricket.
On Wednesday, 5.9.
I embarked, alone with the two children, on another journey, to Prague which,
short as it was, turned out a real crusade. Joris took me to the airport, but
discreetly disappeared at the passport control, though with his diplomatic
passport he could have gone further; we were afraid that David would make scene
at a later parting – this was one our problems when travelling: David was
constantly worried that one of us might get lost and we had to stay together
all time. This went smoothly, as David had gotten used to one of both of us
“disappearing” from Byfleet. But it was
hell from then on, despite Joris having booked an ground hostess to assist me.
I had two heavy bags, a handbag, Thomas in the “kangaroo poach” and David on a
“leash”. She met us, but was not very helpful and did not like watching David
and the bags for me while I went to the Duty free to buy Campari (for my Aunt
Myška) and “American” cigarettes for friends, goods unavailable in the
communist economy. I used all my three boarding passes, so I had three bags
full, which the hostess refused to help me with, obviously disapproving of my
“greed”. Then she left us, saying to wait for her till the boarding. Easier
said than done – not surprisingly, David had become allergic to the airports
and started misbehaving badly, wouldn´t stay still, wanted to go somewhere and
when restrained, threw himself on the ground under people´s feet. When I bend
down to smack his bottom, Thomas threw up on my chest. At one point. A mass of
travellers started rushing to a gate, and David, acting on previous
experiences, decided to join them. I let go of the leash at the time and I had
to abandon the luggage chasing after him. When I finally caught up, he pulled
me forward with the strength of a bull dog. Thomas threw up again. With a big
effort, we made it back to the luggage heap. The hostess reappeared 1min after
the boarding was announced and while a male colleague relieved her of my bag,
she did not offer to take another one, but was swinging along empty handed.
Once on board, David calmed down, but insisted on sitting on my lap, though he
was, once again, soaked trough. Thomas, thankfully, slept through most of this.
After touch down I stayed put, while the crew was celebrating with champagne
the fact, that the British Airways landed in Prague on time – a first this
year! I did not get any, but a Czech ground crew came to help me, took my bags
and guide me to the passport control, behind which the Belgian Consul waited
for us. However, a bad surprise awaited us at the luggage retrieval counter:
the suitcase with all the children´s stuff (clothes and disposable nappies, not
available locally) did not arrive. (Later on I transpired, that it had gone to
Australia, as Joris put our address there on the tags). I was near desperation,
but once in the arrival hall, my spirits lifted: a welcome committee od Jaruna,
Milada with their children a Daniela were there with flowers. Tears and talk
flowed, to the bewilderment of the consul. They immediately offered to make a
collection of things I needed for my kids, including a pram. Then we squeezed
into the consul´s car and arrived at my school friend Mahulena´s mother flat in
Trojická street, where David and I also stayed the last time, before Canberra.
However, this time, I did not feel so welcome: she was getting ready to leave
for Canada to visit her younger daughter Zdenka there. So no baby-sitting this
time, I was on my own. Life was not easy there, everything was lacking,
including the mineral water to make the formula with for Thomas, and I have
grown used to my new easy life. Yet I still felt this is my home and was happy
to reunite with family and friends. The lost suit case arrived via Australia the
second week, and 15 September Joris from Brusels by car. David got quite upset
by the reappearance of his Daddy and wouldn´t let go of him, even if before he
did not mind being left by me in care of “strangers” and apparently was a very
good boy with them. We spent two days people-and-sightseeing, and then drove to
Stráž, to see Aunt Máňa, sadly without her beloved Otto. We managed some walks
and swimming and one day we drove to Třeboň. Then we left for Saarbrücken to
visit Honza and Sonia. We arrived at seven very tired, the children both had
diarrhea and did not sleep a wink. We managed to settle them down somehow and
spent a nice evening over schintzels, potato salad and beer talking away. Early
next day, we left for Amsterdam, to spend two nights with the Breitensteins in
my old room from my stay with them in 1968/70. Went for a nice walk in the
woods and had enormous pancakes for
lunch in an old fashioned restaurant. The drive to Brussels was mercifully
short and the parents were back from England. Joris´s sister Liz with her four
years old son Guillaume was visiting from Paris. The children got on well,
despite the language barrier. Gérard arrived later and we had a family reunion
evening, at which Daniel introduced his new girlfriend Dominique – he had
parted ways with ballet dancer because she was too often dancing abroad with
the famous Béjart company. (They
organized a big family engagement party during our next visit, but broke up abruptly
shortly afterwards, nobody never got know why. Brigitte appeared next – 3rd
time lucky.) Mark was still in N.Y. |Not to sit still for too long, on
Sunday we drove to Antwerp, to “show of” the two first new Couvreurs to their
great uncle, Walter. He lives alone, except for about six black cats, in an old
gabled house. The rest of our stay was spent, how else, washing and packing.
Due to the shopping spree in England, our suitcases were full to a bursting
point. Thursday, 27.9. in the
afternoon we left for |Canada, with a night stopover in Montreal, where we had
supper with aunt Helena, her son Michal and his local wife Liz (whom he later divorced, now has a new partner Patty). They unfortunately,
can´t have children, so no little Canadians cousins. In the morning we
continued to Vancouver, on the Pacific shore of Canada. Though the flight
across took 6 hours, the plane was quite small, as it was a domestic flight,
and not at all comfortable, the kids fell asleep just before landing, nothing
new there, and kept me so busy, that I missed the Rocky Mountains when flying
over them. A pity! We arrived to our hotel, Sheraton, a cylindrical building of
40 floors, before noon in a downpour (Vancouver is one of the wettest places on
earth) and were told no room before 2PM. With both babies crying and soaked
trough I lost my temper and got them to let us in a room. I changed the
nappies, prepared bottles, fed the boys and at 6 fell exhausted in bed, but before
we could fall asleep, a fire alarm sounded. We jumped out of bed and rushed out
to the corridor, where other guests were gathering. No sigh or smoke or fire,
so I called the reception and was told: false alarm! So back to bed; the alarm
kept sounding sporadically but we did not move, hoping, it was still false, and
luckily it was; we slept soundly and woke up safe and sound into a cold but
mostly sunny morning, with spectacular clouds, which soon dissipated, and we
could enjoy all the touristic things in Vancouver, a visit of a ZOO on a
peninsula jutting into the bay, where David enjoyed killer whale show, a bus
trip through the city, a cable car ride to the top of the mountain Grouse. We
were quite taken by the city. Leaving David sleeping in the room, but taking
Thomas with us, we had supper in revolving restaurant on the top floor of the
hotel, with a spectacular view of the night lights of Vancouver. We had
breakfast there as well, the city looking great in daylight as well. Vancouver
left a good impression on us, despite the rain starting again, we were leaving
again, this Sunday, 30.9. for the
Cook Islands via Los Angeles, where yet again the plane was late, Thomas was
yelling from the top of his lungs and David was picking up a fight with other
kids. When the plane finally arrived, it was almost empty, so we could spread
and sleep a little till the stopover on Fuji. For the rest of the flight I was
watching an endless but ever changing sunrise – the sun had to chase after us
and we gained the day that we had lost on the way out, arriving the same Sunday in time for breakfast – a
feast of tropical fruits plus the traditional cooked one. The island we were
heading to seemed so small, that I doubted the plane would fit in it, but it
did not miss the only runway next to the ocean and landed hazardously but
safely. The airport consisted of a few bamboo huts on pylons, but the entry
formalities were as protracted as in any of the big airports, though performed
by smiling black natives with flower wreaths round their necks. A rickety
minibus took us to the hotel, a group of brick huts with palm leaves roofs.
From our patio we could glimpse the blue waters of the bay. Joris and Thomas
went to bed and David and I went exploring the lagoon, with warm, crystal clear
water too shallow to swim in and bits of corral on the sandy bottom, pretty to
look at but painful to step on. The ocean was quite far away, crashing against
the coral reef. In the afternoon it clouded over and it rained intermittently,
but it was very hot and humid. In the morning, David was full of ugly red
insect bites and Thomas had a heat rash, so we took a taxi to “town” to get some
lotion. Despite an overall impression of poverty, the drugstore was well
supplied as any in the “civilized” world. In its centre, the island is
dominated by high volcanic mountains, covered with lush tropical vegetation. We
noticed many isolated gravestones – each family having their private graveyard?
The population is now mainly catholic. The Islands used to belong to New
Zealand, but has gained autonomy. By the time we got home, David developed a
high fever and we called the hotel doctor, who diagnosed an exhaustion from the
several days of diarrhea, lack of food and the heat, and gave him pills that
stopped the diarrhea and made him sleep through the night. At least we could
enjoy our last day, swimming (me) and sunbathing.
On Wednesday, 3.10.
morning we left, with mixed feelings – more disappointed than not, via Fuji
(again!) to Auckland, N.Z. When we landed there in the evening, it was cold and
raining. The drive to our hotel took us across the whole of the N.Z. capital,
which did not impress us very. much. In the morning continued to Sydney, where
the supposed immediate connecting flight to Canberra was cancelled and we had
another 4 hours wait. No need to describe it… It was about 6PM, still the 4th of October, after more
than two months “on the road”, we spilled out of the taxi in front of our house
and finally into it. A while later, my and Jenny´s friend Jan (a lady despite
her name) appeared with a cooked supper, a very welcome surprise.
The first week home was spent recuperating, David and Thomas
took it in their stride and started sleeping through the night after a few
days. I had them both checked at the Manuka clinic, they had not come to any
harm, on the contrary – David´s English and even Czech has improved
considerably and Thomas has been quietly growing and developing his charm, but
I ended up in bed with a mild pneumonia.
(I forgot all about
this, but in recent years, it has become “a habit” of mine – getting a bout of
pneumonia after an exhausting trip… At the time, we should have drawn some lessons
from this trip – do not go round the world with babies and toddlers, and more
especially, do not venture on tropical islands, but we had not, really, as we
were posted at the other end of the world from home. During the next home leave,
before our transfer to the Philippines, we went, among other, to the island of
Bora-Bora, the “dream of all tourists”, one of the French Polynesian islands of
Tahiti, which was very beautiful but the native styled huts were totally
unsuitable for us and when David stepped on a sea urchin we gave up romantic
for practical and moved to the capital, Raratonga, on the main island and into a
huge, boring hotel with a safe swimming pool… Still, despite of all the
complaining, I have no regrets.)
Back in Canberra, October
Monday, 22 .10. 79
Besides getting into the old life in one place, I am kept
busy with David´s potty training – it is high time but also time consuming -
when he is not sitting on his new “potty chair” and amusing himself with
drawing, I have to constantly be near him with a potty at the ready, when he is
running around the garden, naked, which makes it easier. It is very hot. Thomas
was 5 months yesterday, he weighs 9kg and is a happy baby, smiling or even
laughing most of the time, especially when I am changing his nappy; it seem like
he is very ticklish. He is getting used to Uncle Walter´s playpen again without any trouble, David´s
mobiles and other toys are new for him
and fascinate him. In his cot he moves about on his back, ending up right
across it in the morning. Sometimes I leave him in the Occasional Care with
David, no tears but always happy to see me. David is not jealous any more, on
the contrary, is happy to hand him toys and tells me to pick Thomas up, when he
is crying.
November
Tuesday, 6.11.79.
The weekend was busy and turned out memorable: Joris won the
in the singles of the “Diplomatic” tennis tournament, so is very proud, as his
name will be for ever engraved on the silver cup, almost like Wimbledon. I
spent both days watching and cheering with the kids. The finals were played at
the French Embassy court after a pick-nick lunch on the grounds. Joris is the
president of the Committee this season, so I had to organize a dinner for the
committee members and their wives, 18 people in all.
David is 2 and half years old today and celebrated the
occasion by asking for the potty himself, to do a “kaka”… He weighs 19kg and
measures 103cm. He knows, what he wants, is very stubborn and has quite a
temper (Already!!). On the pro side,
he is quite willing to help me, in whatever he can, like fetching things,
cleaning after himself, trying to get dressed and the like. Sometimes he skips
his afternoon nap, but stays quietly playing in his room. It is becoming easier
to communicate and make him understand simple “rules of life”. In fact, he is
chattering a lot, but his mixture of English and Czech is hard to decipher.
Jenny invites us often next door, to play with Peter and splash in their pool.
Today is also a national holiday, in honour of the famous
Melbourne Cup Horse Race. Jan invited me to her place with some other friends,
to have “mimosa” – the traditional drink
of
champagne with grapefruit juice – and to bet. I backed a
favourite, but he collapsed before the finish and had to be shot – quite a
traumatic experience. I got invited to join their tennis group. I already have
one – of mothers with babies and toddlers, with whom I also have a “play
group”: once a week one us hosts it at her place with all the kids. We all have
big gardens, sdo it is fine. The tennis takes place on the court in Manuka,
next to which there is a fenced-in playground, where we can safely “park” the
kids. They very quickly learnt, not to get on the court or cry for mummy´s
attention.
Wednesday, 21.11.79
Thomas turned six months today! I took him to the clinic for
a check-up, he weighs 9.60kg and
measures 71cm, a little less than David at that age. It also deems his eyes
will be darker, more blue green than blue. He can turn over on his tummy and
back again at wish (his). He wakes up quite early in the morning, but waits
patiently and quietly for his mummy to “rise and shine” and take care of him.
David is sleeping late, he takes after me in this respect. He is obediently
eating solids already, only has a bottle in the morning and at night, and has
two naps a day. He is beginning to show some of David´s temper but on the whole
is sweet and happily plays in his play pen.
When David climbs in with him he squeals with pleasure, even if
sometimes treated quite roughly by his “heavy weight” brother.
It is still nice and hot and the last two weekends Joris was
playing lots of tennis, and I played some, too, with my ladies´ doubles, and
also went to my reading group. Next year we shall concentrate on the Australian
literature. It did me good to exercise my “little grey cells” a bit.
December
Thursday, 13.12.79
Yesterday was our weeding anniversary, Joris took me out to
restaurant with a band, but after an afternoon of tennis was so tired, that
only just managed one very slow slow-fox…
Today we have had the hottest day here ever – 36°C! (This was a long time before the global
warming…) We spent the day at Jenny´s pool. In the evening a terrific
thunderstorm came and brought the temperature down by 10°.
Friday, 21.12.79
Last week we were busy with various cocktails and dinner – a
run up to Christmas – so I quite forgot another anniversary: on the 17th,
it has been two years since we arrived to Australia. They passed like a dream
and we are still happy here, even if we are beginning to understand what we
kept hearing – that there is absolutely nothing to do in and around Canberra.
It is not quite true, of course, especially with two small kids. It is a bit
sad to say every weekend let´s go somewhere, but where?, having already
explored the surroundings within the radius of one day car trips several times.
One feels one is wasting the prevalently pleasant weather. We thought of going
to the Blue mountains, but the bush fires started there. Still, now the X-mas
holidays has started, we shall be going to the seaside, we rented a house in
our favourite Bateman´s Bay. It will be good to change “the scenery”, both boys
are being difficult, David misses his “school” and refuses to have his
afternoon nap, and Thomas is fretting out of solidarity or because he can´t
manage to sit up. We shall spend Christmas there and the car is packed up to
the roof with presents – Joris insisted “Father Christmas“ must come exactly on
the day, while I´d have been content to have “Baby Jesus” pass by a few days
earlier in Canberra – the children wouldn´t know the difference, and we are
adults, after all. The house stood practically on the wide beach and had three
bedrooms. We put David in the “master”, in the double bed, but he still managed
to fall out of – it was his first time out of his crib. Some mornings we found
him in the bed of Thomas´s (who slept in his folding crib) room. The weather was changeable, at least we did
not get burnt. The beach and the sea were well suited for children, there was
no surf to speak of, and fortunately no jelly fish. We cut a small casuarina
fir tree and decorated its spare branches. David thought the candles were
solely to be blown out, as he had been taught at his 1st
birthday. Joris was pleased, he is not
keen to have “live” candle flames around. The main attraction for David was
tearing up the paper wrappings, though he duly handed the presents over. The
last day I went by car to visit my “play group” friends, who staying in
Rosendale, about which I heard. It was on the rocky part of the coast, with a
spectacular surf and blow holes. We returned on Sunday, the 3Oth, passing long queues of cars heading to the
coast – a good thing we had gone the weekend before. At the seaside, Thomas
mastered sitting up on his own, which makes him very happy and the parents
proud.
The New Year´s Eve, Monday, 31.1.79
The last day of this eventful year we spent quietly at home.
Both David and Thomas were sitting with us at the table, but I was the only one
to wait for the year to roll over, a little sad for the Old Year and lifting a
glass to the New One, hoping it will be
kind to us. (have you two ever read the H.C.
Andersen´s fairy tale The 12 Months? That is what has always made me sad on the
New Year´s Eve…)
“You know, it doesn´t
matter what you achieve; without the joy of sharing it with someone you love,
everything is empty…”
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