C H A P T E R S I X
SLEEPLESS IN VIENNA
7 July - 7 September 1980
I don't think Americans even want to know about this stuff [the Iron Curtain]. A lot of people I know back home think I'm out of my mind doin' what I'm doin'.
- Elvis Presley
(Oct. 1, 1958 - March 5, 1960
Friedberg, Germany, Scout Platoon, 32nd Armor, 3rd Armored Division)
Send editorial suggestions to jozefimrich@authorsden.com
A book is not only a friend, it makes friends for you. When you have possessed a book with mind and spirit, you are enriched. But when you pass it on you are enriched threefolds.
- Henry Miller The Books In My Life (1969)
What's the point of being a sole survivor if you're not convinced the world will read your story in the end? Somehow an awareness of death encourages us to live more intensely. I know writers who are smarter than me, who are more talented than me, who have stronger instinct than me, who know more literary agents than me.I am preoccupied with more guilt than all of them.
The struggle against forgetting is unending and according to Elie Wiesel:
Any survivor has more to say than all the historians combined about what happened..
Somewhere in the depths of my foolish soul I nurture one conceited notion: One day, perhaps - one day - something shining will be prised out of all this raw skeleton...
L ike a good father or a beautiful view, a work of art is harder to describe than to recognise. Professor Gombrich once said that there was no such thing as art, only artists. Which begs the question, what makes an artist?
V aclav Havel says that they are those who ‘celebrate our existence by making us more conscious of it.’ Art is a language and that it must have something to say:
Having my first daughter being born exactly 9 months after the Velvet Revolutiont is, perhaps, one of the most remarkable illustrations of how hope can spring from the most appalling of tragedies.
Jozef was born, which has made a lot of bullies angry over the years, and has driven several to taste justice. He has survived many attempts to rectify this obvious mistake and now finds solace by editing in short, hair raising bursts of energy. He welcomes your comments, hopes like hell you'll buy his book, and wishes you all the very best in everything except being mean to each other, which, he claims, is a game enjoyed by bullies and politicians alone.
Prove the naysayers wrong!
To download "Cold River: a survivor's story" use this link:
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Three men with courage to escape make a majority [Double Dragon Publishing]
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via Microsoft
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Via Fiction
On 7 July 1980 I became the enemy of the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic and sentenced to a life in prison.
On the eighth day of July my parents died a little. On Radio Free Europe my parents listened to my obituary. Five years after Aga’s death, their last born was reported dead, turning their world upside down.
In my family everything disintegrated like wet paper. For 40 hours my parents thought I was dead, the longest hours in my Mamka’s life. When my cousin Tibo eventually informed my family that according to the latest reports on Radio Free Europe I was alive, Mamka just cried.
No words can do justice to the fact that on the 8th of July I would stand before the mirror as if I were another person from the one I was on the previous morning. I would experience a rude awakening to the outside world, a dark liquid world. My first thought was, 'What if I'm dead but don't know it?' Where did the strange nagging voices come of 'How am I ever going to ...' and its evil twin, 'If only I had ...' come from?
So this was supposed to be my happy morning. I began my new chapter in life by referring to myself in the third person, not 'I', but 'he'. Closing my eyes brings only strange darkness and a chilling sense of emptiness. It was a moment in my life where my eyes and ears questioned everything. I wanted to drain every river in the world. I wanted to drain every drop of my perishable dream. The distant past was present in every moment, and the future had already happened. Coincidences, errors, accidents, feelings. My only satisfaction was the fact that the iron curtains of Communism turned out to be more flimsy than they appeared. I was part of something much larger than my own life.
It was like a cloud gradually blocking out the sun. The world was losing its light and meaning. There was a hole within me. I could not make sense of anything not even of the only communist coin in my trouser pocket, which dropped to the floor. The sound and air felt like a great machine crushing the subconscious mind. I had no proof that I was I. No papers. No face. No mind. My head was filled with an echo of doubt. I stood near the window and talked to my nonexistent self, a self hungry for information about the outside world. I became a tale of two personalities, noting how quickly emotions changed with each question. My eyes said, 'Where is Ondrej?' 'Am I free?' 'Where is Milan?' I could not answer; I had a stone in my throat.
As I leaned against the cold metal door of the bathroom and recalled the helpless shrug of the Austrian guard's shoulders.
You cannot help thinking of Shakespeare's tragedies when you stand across a mirror staring at a third person who looks like you. A person who was without doubt the unhappiest soul in the world. A gloomy, ravaged character who could only think he was just putty in someone else's hands.
Life imposed on me that I would feel strange and even stranger in the very depth of my being. I could not really think. I could only feel. Everything seemed surreal. I knew that I, the stranger, was one lucky bastard. I knew that. As July 7 unfolded in front of me in slow motion, I experienced how slamming the mirror with a bare fist feels. I, perhaps with some embarrassment, can still trace my first encounter in Austria with blood. I still remember the blood dripping from my hand on the broken mirror of defeat in victory. All the hopes that had underlain the heroism of the escape had suddenly been punctured, partly by their fulfilment and partly by my loneliness. Courage is seven-tenths context. What is courageous in one setting can be foolhardy in another and even cowardly in a third.
'Dear God, help me', I prayed, and that is the first time in adulthood I acknowledged a need to pray, because I could not do this alone no matter how alone I felt. Once the hazy veil of tears were lifted from my eyes, there was no reason to doubt that I was not going to see Ondrej and Milan the next day. Words of comfort came from strangers, instilling the false hope that I would see them again. Freedom granted from heaven it was not. But, there was no reason why I could not feel the same sense of spirituality as my grandfather did 60 years ago when he walked on Austrian soil.
Still, I went to bed only to toss and turn. I slept in waves of nerves and exhaustion. I was sowing the seeds of uncertainty that would rule the rest of my life. I had no idea then or any day since what the morning might bring. The sense of permanent doubt and self-doubt buzzed inside me loud and clear. I was too scared to think or close my eyes and even more scared to open them. Our escape was like a text with several possible meanings, some of them contradictory. I could feel a convincing story of myself as a victim who had suffered failure and loss or a story of myself as a success, who had gained freedom and choice.
The inexpressible smell of the Morava River, like some unseen phantom, lingered around my nose. Guilt can be insidious and to repress thoughts. I was exhausted by moral complexity. I was plagued by repetitive thoughts and fantasies about the drowning of Ondrej and Milan. I couldn't get them out of my mind. These thoughts would fill my mind even when I was awake. They were in my dreams when I slept. And the thoughts were insatiable. Whether in dreams or reality I just felt I had failed. That was probably the hardest thing that was stopping me accepting what had happened.
Every thought involved a thousand-meter-deep fall into nothing. That nothingness kept taking my breath away. In my nothingness, I talked to Ondrej, Milan, Mamka, Tato, opening the door of my bedroom, reading the magazines, switching off the lights.
An ancient well of revenge scenarios flooded my mind.
I suffered from a peculiar sense of distorted time. While I planned revenge against Gustav Husak, everyone around me only knew only one Gustav, Gustav Klimt, the father of 14 illegitimate children, who, like me, feared voices in his head. The dark furniture of my mind was all rotten. I merely drifted in what Milan Kundera might term 'unbearable lightness'. I needed a Kundera, or better yet, a Havel to describe my life's twisted deviation. I didn't know what I wished to do or how to search for meaning in the existential vacuum. Words failed me here. Memories failed me too. I wished I had my Tato to tell me what to do. 'Tell me, Tato, what is the best move in the Austrian world?' To be sure, any kind of answer would be an oversimplification of my situation.
Inside the Austrian police station near a large reception desk a photograph of Rudolf Kirchschlager, an Austrian politician, hung on one of the walls. Feeling lost and forlorn sitting on the cold bench of the Austrian police station, I recalled learning at school that there was no greater sorrow on earth than the loss of one's native land. It was a saying belonging to many centuries earlier, but it captured my feelings at this point, and many times beyond it.
It was dawn, July 8, 1980. And in a small cell across the way from the reception desk I sat with Bessie, clinging to the familiarity of her form, her smell, my only connection with my home. I felt nauseated and haunted. It was as if my greatest fears had caught up to me. The Morava River tried to drown me yesterday. That was hard to even comprehend.
I woke up several times during the night and each time it dawned on me that yesterday was not a nightmare. It had really happened. I recall wondering for hours how our escape could have been executed better. My whole body dreaming, remembering, thinking. Once I woke when a bright light was pouring in on me, and I started to open my eyes. I didn't know where in the world I was. I felt like screaming in pain, but I didn't scream; instead I turned the yell inward as I had taught myself to do.
The room seemed empty, and I didn't even know where the room was - it was all just floating in empty space, and I couldn't say what planet or star I'd landed on. All that was running through me in that one second was the loneliness of being this tiny insignificant particle in the universe, and how a life weighs nothing in all that light, that what happened at Moravsky Jan actually did happen.
The silence of the cold and dark morning was broken by the sound of lisping Austrian voices fading in and out through invisible gaps in the wall. The window rattled in an unfriendly way. The memories flooded into my mind, obliterating the present so I would experience myself back in the river, and feel again the original horror. Bessie's tail vibrated frantically, not comprehending my sweaty forehead. As I lay there, reliving the nightmare of the escape, sweat slithering down my shivering spine.
My mind was now plagued by doubts I never knew existed. Death seemed better than sleep. I was surrounded by an incomprehensible language and an unknown world of water. Much as the water envelops the planet, so sleep hides one third of a human life. Water and sleep have tides and cycles, risings and fallings, and each may be calm at one moment, stormy and filled with sudden, hidden horrors the next. For both sleep and the water have their shallows and shelves that drop without warning into sunless trenches. While both sleep and the water are familiar, each remains a strange and secret place.
Many strange questions swirled voraciously inside my head, shaking my sanity, my senses. I could hear the voice of my Mamka asking me why I had done it. I wanted to rush into her safe embrace, feel the security of her arms around me, taking me away from this mess. Why? Why? Why? If only I did things for one reason as a time. If only I was capable of dissecting and explaining my motivation to myself, let alone to Mamka. Logic had nothing to do with wanting to drink from the dangerous river of capitalism rather than from the secure teacup of Communism.
I went numb. Fighting panic as ice tore like electricity through me, I felt like a squashed insect under a microscope, a huge eye stalking me from above, and I sensed my own guilt and failure melting in my heart like a huge block of ice. I sat there with mud between my toes, grit in my hair, fear in my mind. The air around me reeked of body odour. Fear of suffocation filled my brain cells and stomach. And my lips moved against the will of their surrounding facial muscles.
This was not how I had imagined the first moments of freedom would feel. I did not immediately recognise that I was free, which was understandable, given my position in the police station cell. As I gritted my teeth, my courage was seeping away like the strength of my muscles as I struggled to swim across the Morava.
My life was not based on reality. It was based on an ideal. It was based on fantasy that swam out of the watery darkness. Somehow in this cell my life ended and I was being born out of the currents I left behind. I tried to draw strength from my memories of childhood, as I had done after Aga's death and during my time in the army. However visions of communists, fascists, and the high ranking powerful men who had transformed this part of the world into chain-ridden cells for millions of people dominated the scenes in my head.
In particular, my mind could not help draw the parallels between Hitler and the Slovakian communists. How could the Austrians and the German bear the ease with which they had been manipulated, the same ease with which the communists manipulated us?
I dwelled on the events of 1938 when we were sold out by France and Britain. I felt rage for events not even belonging to my own lifetime that had led me to this dark and threatening cell. A single tear travelled down my unshaven cheek. I missed my comfortable chair, my bed and the familiar marks on my bedroom ceiling, my own bathroom, familiar sounds. I sat still the entire time while my thoughts whirled around at lightning speed.
I remembered emerging from the river, the feeling of joy when I realised that I had made it. Then a gripping numbness when I realised that I could not see Ondrej and Milan.
'Oh, Mamka, oh Ondrej, Milan, I am alone.' I cried into Bessie's fur, or the wall or the mirror or whatever. That night my debilitated, but inexhaustible inner voice taught me that the basest of all things is to be afraid. My loneliness was exaggerated in this state.
My thoughts were caught in a flood, moving in all directions. The water blasted out. It sipped slowly into my consciousness. The water was like a metaphor for a loss of who I was and what was to become of me. My old sense of humour had drowned for ever.
If a country can cry, it cries in its escapes. The escape was mine, but the cries were Mamka's. 'Why, why did you leave us? Aga left us at 22 and now you ,' she told me on the telephone. Those words crushed every breath out of me. The feeling that I would not be at the centre of Mamka's world. Escape is a journey of trespass that is not an escape. I knew then that ahead of me was a lifetime of dealing with the crossing. Getting past the physical journey was easy. Getting family and me past the mental journey, was the hardest thing. I almost went mad thinking about the 'if onlys.' As the world was moving from summer to autumn, my eyes had no other expectation but to drift through icebergs of my tortured interior. My stare could freeze a lava.
I was unsure how to encourage the watch to tick with meaning again. Unsure why keeping correct facial expressions was beyond my abilities. How many times have my parents forgiven me? Surely, more than seventy times seven!
It is so ironic, but only when we lose something or are about to lose something do we realise how much we value it. When you catch a glimpse of death, it's amazing how many things you think vitally important aren't even in the picture; and the things that you have been taking for granted, the things that you can't buy, those are suddenly the things of matchless value. Mamka always left the lights on for me. Here I was in darkness, I did not even know where the switch was.
Whenever the 7 July comes around, I become a different person. I am moved by memories in a resentful way. I have no inclination to go to work, nor to walk along Bondi Beach, as is my usual custom.
The most vivid recurring image in the nightmare is watching Ondrej and Milan drowning. I try to reach them with my hands. Then the unidentified officer in a Nazi uniform throws me into the river. Despite repeated efforts, I too am drowning. I slip deeper and deeper into the Morava River. Every morning after such nightmares, I awake sweaty and in a mood as dark as a mad man's depression. Our escape was timed to be symbolic in its reverence for the day that Charter 77 was signed. It was meant to say to the world, hey look at us, what the young are having to do in Czechoslovakia.
Aga, who died so tragically young from leukemia, had no hope in this system. The hospitals and medical supplies were inadequate to help her and so quickly she slipped out of my life, with no time to fight. Maybe she would have died similarly in another part of the world, maybe medical care might not have been able to do anything for her. However, the fact remains that no-one could assist her in her dying hours. There was also the suspicious nature of the onset of the leukemia. If Aga hadn't been working at that plant, would she have suffered a similar fate? In my youth, I blamed it all on Communism, the uncaring system that was supposed to be a caring one. I still can feel that disbelief that it happened, and that insatiable sense of loss.
I held other memories of the communist putsch time. Most vivid were of my Auntie Otta, who daringly escaped across the marshlands of Sudaten land. Then there was the land confiscation, when my grandfather lost everything he owned. Not that he was alone in this as everyone had to 'make do', living each day as it comes and never knowing where the next meal was coming from or whether it would be the last.
Imagine a book, an encyclopaedia, that held the information you needed to conduct all aspects of your life. A book that could instruct you on your health, your business, the food you ate and even your future ... History tends to repeat itself. Humans don't seem to learn. Through my escape, I was running away from it all.
I spent fourteen hours on the polished wooden floors of the unfamiliar Austrian police station. All those hours I felt cut off from the world, lying in a darkened room in a cocoon of loneliness. I could hear the border guards and policemen and knew that I faced more uncertainty ahead.
At one stage I looked into the mirror and saw my eyes were bloodshot, my head heavy, my face unshaven. My darkened eyes felt like tinted windows - I could see out, but no one could see in. I turned quickly from the pull of my tinted eyes in the mirror. I did not pause to look inside them. Instead, I swallowed the strange sensation of seeing a man in tinted glasses poking a wounded dog with a stick. Bessie was engrossed in licking the salt of my right hand, the taste of my tears, maybe in the hope that I was going to take her out for a walk. It was summer and that was what we always did in summer. Bessie received no solace. My brain was still fogged with chilling images of me wrestling with masses of water. 'Oh, God did I do that? 'My eyes seemed stone cold. They had aged beyond their years.
When at last I brought myself to look out the window, I was at first surprised. The village resembled an elegant album of nostalgic snapshots, Austrian workers in comfortable shoes with bags in their hands, a cluster of pastel stately homes on the hill. Beyond them lay the motionless Czechoslovak border. In the distance was the mysterious Devin Castle. It was there, at the confluence of the Danube and Morava rivers, where Slovak and Austrian citizens in 1948, separated by the infamous Iron Curtain, gathered to wave to family and friends on opposite sides of the border.
The sun mirrored the freshly starched and pressed pastures in the window panes. The grass fields rose behind the Morava River. I whispered good-bye in my heart. Although there were some gaps in my memory, I did not require a map to tell me where the splendid Austrian countryside ended and the Slovakian concrete slum began. I focused my gaze on the concrete barbed wire fences - a line that was drawn on our map in Kezmarok several hours ago.
At the height of the Cold War, the world nervously watched as superpowers tested their chemical weapons. This was a time when most of my country men were being 'brainwashed,' many subject to torture, rape, manipulation, suppression. The treatment of conscientious objectors, democratic sympathisers, and other 'undesirables', was nothing less than legalised genocide. Combined with the full force of controlled print, radio and television, it produced a subservient nation, which was the intention of the communists.
I wondered why I was in an Austrian police station: the horror seared part of my memory. The full force of my fears came to fruition in that police station, whirling inside the chaos of my head. I scanned the faces of those Austrian police but was unable to tell whether they sympathised with my plight or not. Even if I had understood German perfectly and even if the translator had spoken Czech fluently, I could not possibly have relayed what I had been through in the last twenty-four hours, the culmination of many hours and years of my life as a Slovak...