The Double Truth

The Return of Jan Weiner

13 The Return of Jan Weiner History, you know, is one thing and our lives are something else. —octavio Paz In the old days when there was still a symbiosis in that magical city of Jews, Germans, and Czechs, all living together in peace and contrast around the same statues and fountains, I remember desiring only one thing, quality of life. I was a streetwise kid, unlike my brother, who went away to America for university and never returned. I was an anarchist and Jew who survived the war. I was John Wayne and Ronald Reagan in the summer of 1945 when I returned to Prague from London after flying twenty-four bombing missions in the Czech Air Force. I wore a Smith and Wesson at my side and went everywhere in my uniform because no one was making clothes yet; the factories had all shut down. Iwassittingatacaféonelateafternoonwiththreefriendswhen I looked over at a table across from us and saw three beautiful girls. I told my friends, “The one with the smoky eyes is mine.” We introduced ourselves, then sat together for a while in the warm afternoon sun. My friend Jaraslav said, “It’s such a beautiful evening. Why don’t we all go for a walk?” The girl with the smoky eyes and I walked down to the river where I took off all my clothes and went swimming. I can still feel that water and see the sun setting over the city. It was a moment I had been waiting for without knowing what it was going to be like. I had swum naked in the river before, grown up in Prague, and watched plenty of sunsets, but suddenly I felt I was seeing the city for the first time. A powerful nostalgia overwhelmed me. I saw the old city superimposed on the new one, that I was a lucky witness of the irrevocable loss. How was I now to recall that great city whose buildings still cast the same shadows through which Kafka, Brod, Rilke, Mahler, Kisch, Mucha, Čapel, Dvorak, Hašek, Škvorecký, Werfel, and Hrabal had walked, thought, and composed, if for just for a moment, in that cultural flowering we are unlikely ever to see deNiord text-2.indd 13 11/10/10 10:40 AM 14 again? My memory proved itself better than I thought as I recalled the looks of faces and heights of the fountains. I wept as I swam. I committed myself in that moment to preserve the memory of the old city, to hold a mirror up to the war and cut off its head, to teach architecture and history together as the same course, discuss what happened in these buildings, who was arrested where and in what room, who wrote what in which study. My favorite view is that of Kafka’s, the relief of the lamb above the large window across the street from his study, that lamb he wrote about in its awkward prone position with unvanquished dignity, innocence, and absurdity . I was at a great turning point in history, between one fascist regime and another, but all I could see was the city and the river and the girl with smoky eyes lying on the bank under the trees. WhenIwasthroughswimming,Isatnexttothegirlinthetwilight and stared at the river, fixing one eye on the current and the other on the liquid reflections of trees and buildings. We didn’t talk for some time, and then she turned to me and said, “Pin me like a butterfly.” So I did. Afterwards, we went to her house to meet her parents. They prepared a gorgeous meal for us. A large plant with thick leaves and full blossoms occupied the center of the table, preventing me from seeing my love on the other side. I did something foolish then. I took out my knife and cut the plant in two with one stroke. This was my mentality from the war. Her mother leaned back in her chair with an expression of shock and said, “How awful.” Her fathersaidnothingbutputhishandgentlyonmineandnoddedwith compassion, as if to restrain me further. I stood up and excused myself, thanking them for their hospitality. I showed myself to the door,andthen,whenIwasoutside,Iranfromthathouseandnever returned. deNiord text-2.indd 14 11/10/10 10:40 AM ...