Simon Wels - At the ‘Bernats’

I. Recollections From 1853 (20th April) to 1864

From my earliest childhood ‒ yes, I mean from the moment my mother realised she was expecting me, I caused her great worry and distress. The bigger I grew the greater the torture she suffered. When at last the village midwife was called and I was due to bless this world with my presence, our whole family was at sixes and sevens.

On the evening of 20th April 1853, in a tiny room on the first floor of house No. 15 in Osek, hale and happy I first saw the light ‒ of a little oil-lamp. It was no easy job for my father to keep my brothers and sisters quiet in the adjoining kitchen (for we had no other rooms), so excited was everyone about my arrival.

When I was old enough to understand such things, my mother told me in confidence the problems she had had because of that pregnancy: “after all, I was getting on then, I was forty-five years old and I was shy of going out. I didn’t even go to church once the whole time and was in a constant state of nerves. And now I can see how foolish I was then. What would I do without you now. Pappa is sleeping his eternal sleep in the cemetery, and you’re almost the only one I have left.”

I was my family’s last offspring.

When he came to pay the midwife (she charged 2 silver guilders) my father was in high spirits and offered her ten, “to pay in advance for all the births still to come in our family”, so as not to have to pay for each of them separately. But the midwife refused to take it, saying there might be too many and she would end up out of pocket.

I no longer recall how I was received nor very much about my early childhood. What I can still remember is that when our mother used to go to the neighbours for “a chat” and took me with her, I would spend hours holding on to her skirts, and I was proud when they praised me for being a quiet little boy. And I would always say no when they offered me something to eat. I am not sure now whether I did this out of shyness, or whether I wanted to show I could do without, or that I only liked home cooking.

When I was about three years old, I used to go with my sister Betty (who was four and a quarter years older than me) to meet my father in the evening on his way home with his wares from “hawking round the houses”.

We would stop at the brook on the way to Březina or by the Priest’s Pool and she would give me a wash and comb my hair, something I frequently required, and then we would happily carry on up to the appointed mound, where Pappa could rest his pack and pick it up again more easily. We would wait there and peer into the distance for the first sight of his approach. And then we would run to meet him and lead him to the place where the poor soul would take the pack off his back and rest, wiping the sweat from his brow. If we went to Březina, we would take the goat with us and let her graze on the thorn bushes along the path. We had her for two years. Pappa would rest, the goat would graze and we would tell him all about what had happened to us during the day and he in turn would tell us about the events of his day and we would chat away happily like that as if we had not seen each other for months. Many a time we would be late coming home and Mamma would be worried. Pappa was a cloth peddler. Every morning he would wrap up about a hundredweight of fabrics in a tarpaulin. Each day, weather permitting (if it was raining he would have to stay at home lest his pack would get wet), he would make a trip to one of the neighbouring villages of Litohlavy, Klabava, Chaloupky, Vitinka or Březina, and on Fridays he would go to see his customers in Kamýk. He would generally spend a whole day in each village and then return home with the unsold wares. He made on average between one and two guilders a day but also sold a lot on credit.

Whenever he returned from Litohlavy he would bring me a penny gingerbread watch with a paper dial from the Gingerbread Granny and he would hand it to me with the words: “this is a present with love from your favourite Granny”. I knew already what it would be and I was surprised sometimes that it was never of silver or gold. Maybe I would not have liked it if it had been. What is certain is that those watches gave me enormous pleasure. I would always silently bless her for it. How I would love to have thanked her in person, but I was never to set eyes on her. Maybe she was not the lovely angel I imagined her to be and Pappa did not want to spoil my illusions about her. Once Betty and I quarrelled with our elder brother Jindřich who was supposed to be looking after us that day while our parents were selling wares (mercury) from a stall at the yearly market in Rokycany. Betty ran with me on piggyback to Rokycany where we had never been before. We had no difficulty in finding the way, as the roads were full of people going in that direction and lots of cattle and horses were being led home from the fair. We found our way to the stalls on the square and at first we could not find our parents. Out in front of the stall Pappa had hung up scarves of silk and wool, so we were unable to see their faces. We therefore crouched down and looked for the light brown trousers that Pappa was wearing that day, and that was how we found him. They were as pleased as we were when we met up. Betty and I were given as many rolls as we could eat. To slake our thirst we went to the “well” at the end of the town, and as so much water had been drawn we were obliged to climb down a yard into it and literally “scrape out” the water. Since those days, the “well” has been properly deepened and there is a modern pump that serves almost the whole of Rokycany. Towards evening, our parents packed their wares into boxes and loaded them on to a cart with the help of the carter. I sat on a plank at the back and my sister climbed high up on to a box, and promptly fell off when the box started to shake as we were passing the chapel. There was a great commotion, but five minutes later she was sitting on the cart again having suffered no great damage. – We were living at the Forejts’ on the village square. Our landlady could not tell the difference between her own property and other people’s. She had a skeleton key to all the doors, and even had keys cut to the locks of our cupboards. When my father returned home in the evening, my mother would complain to him that she was sure that more had been stolen from us while she had been out than our father had earned all day (popping out for a chat was a weakness of hers). Pappa hoped against hope that one day he would have a little cottage just big enough to “hide his head”. On Sundays, when he was not out peddling, he would usually go round to the Šalomouns’ to play cards with an aged uncle. Once a man came to our house from Klabava to talk to my father. Mamma sent me to fetch Pappa, telling me he was “v Kile” (in “the Kilo”) and pointing me in the direction of the Jewish street. I found my way as directed and called up at the window: “Is this the Kile?” They called me inside and offered me something as a treat, but as usual I refused. I waited a little while for Pappa to finish his game and we went home together. I got to know Abraham’s children and used to go and play with them. Two of the sons are now Hamburg bankers, one of them is a banker in Paris. One of the daughters married a banker in Plzeň (there were some other children besides).

My father’s lifelong yearnings were fulfilled in his fifty-sixth year when his cousin Abraham Wedeles moved to Strašnice and sold us his cottage (No 100, at the beginning of the main street in Osek) in 1859. My father bought the little house for 750 silver guilders, paying him 12% interest and clearing the debt in a few years. When we moved into our new home we were all beside ourselves with joy. I was five-and-a-half years old. I used to get very upset about our kind father being away from morning to night for days on end. Every day we would look forward to the evening and his homecoming. He would arrive home covered in sweat and bent double under the load. The side of his coat where he carried his debt-book hung down a foot lower than the other, but we loved him even when dressed like that. If some other lad had told me that my father did not cut a handsome figure with his pack on his back, I would have no doubt fought him over it. But certainly, after he had had his supper and a rest, he truly was debonair and would entertain us until late in the evening. He loved to eat well and Mamma would rack her brains the whole day trying to think of a delicacy to serve him up when he came home. – And she would also seek advice from all and sundry, of course! But being a canny sort, she was unable to come up with anything costly, so some potato-dish was bound to arrive on the table that evening. We only had meat on Saturdays. There was no kosher meat to be had in our village or in Rokycany, where only one Jew lived. In Mýto, a little town about two hours away, there was a butcher who sold kosher meat, but only for the Sabbath or Jewish feast-days. A woman from Volduchy used to go around all the Jews in our village and in Volduchy (a half-hour’s walk away) taking orders. There were 12 Jewish families in Osek and about as many again in Volduchy. Each family would give her a little bag. She would get us a pound of meat, or at most a pound-and-a-half, being unable to carry more. We had to be satisfied with what she brought. For the pound of meat she would be paid two kreutzers. In summertime the meat would not be particularly good, being frequently the worse for the journey. All the cooking for the Saturday would be done on Friday. On the Sabbath, the food was only warmed up. In the Community Hall (the Church) there was an oven in which they cooked the dish of dried peas and barley known as shollet”. The pot contained a piece of goose. It was an excellent dish. At noon on Saturday the oven was opened and each family took out its pot and the shollet was hot enough for the table. No wonder we looked forward so much to Friday when Pappa would come home two hours earlier than usual so as to have time to shave. He would boil up a bluish-green ointment out of glycerine, which he would spread on his face and scrape off with a wooden knife. I expect it stung him dreadfully, poor man, but Jews were not allowed to shave with a razor. After shaving he would prepare the six-branched hanging-lamp, making cotton-wool wicks and filling it with oil. We all washed. Mamma would wash us little ones. We “men” of the family would dress up for the church. When we came home from the service Pappa would bless us all, laying both his hands on our heads and saying the Hebrew blessing Yevorekhekho adonai …”

After supper we would all remain at table, and as Pappa had had plenty of time to rest on Friday and was no longer tired he would be particularly entertaining that evening, and we would listen to him spellbound. On weekdays, Pappa would rise at five o’clock and spend over an hour in prayer, and it was nearly seven o’clock by the time he had finished his breakfast. Then he would prepare his pack and set off from the house. On Saturday, though, when he did not have to rise so early, Betty and I would creep into his bed and listen enraptured to his stories. When one came to an end we would beg him for another and he would go on thinking up more.

I can still recall something of them. For instance: “Once upon a time, in a year of drought, in a place not far from here, nothing prospered and children had to go out gleaning for sheaves of corn. After winnowing out a few grains from the sheaves they found, they took them to Labutinka Mill. The kind miller there tipped their grains into the top of the mill, and lo and behold, God sent his blessing and well-baked rolls and buttered cakes fell out at the bottom. The children ran home with them and their mother said: ‘The Good Lord knows that we do not even have any firewood for baking or any filling for the buns, so he gave us our bread ready baked.’ When their rich neighbours saw it they took plenty of the best grain to the mill, but all they got out were clods, stones and broken bricks.”

We enjoyed the stories so much that we were loth to let Pappa get up. We would just have time to dress before Mr Stadler, the teacher, was tapping on our window and calling Schul!” which was his way of summoning all the Jewish citizens ‒ the “balbatim” ‒ to the church. On Saturdays, I always used to get myself ready quickly and grab Pappa by the hand before running off with him. I would look forward to the jolly stories that the menfolk would exchange in front of the church while waiting for those of the congregation who had to come all the way from Rokycany, Volduchy, Litohlavy, Klabava and Bušovice. In summer we would pray in the church, but in winter the service was held in what was called the Winterschul” ‒ a room on the first floor where there was some heating. In summer, Pappa and Mamma would go for a walk in the fields to see how the corn was growing. The Jewish church stood two doors away from our house. It was quite a large, roomy building with some eighty seats for the menfolk, and a large gallery along its west side for the women. Around the walls, on all sides, were benches with numbered places, in front of which were stands for the sidorim” and “makhsorim” (prayer books). The eastern wall contained a cupboard for four Torahs behind a curtain known as the perokhis”. In the middle of the room was a raised area surrounded by a low wall where the Torah was read (chanted). The church was completed in 1803 and entirely renovated in 1863; the central raised area was demolished. The Torah was now chanted from in front of the altar and the benches around the walls with their sidorim stands were replaced by two rows of lifting seats, ten places on each side. A large gilt chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling, and smaller ones around the walls. On the first floor was the Winterschul with its stove where worship took place in wintertime. On the ground floor there was a large kitchen with a small bedroom attached: the teacher’s apartment. The church was also repainted to everyone’s satisfaction.

When we moved into our own house, the teacher was Benedikt Stadler from Rešohlavy, a tall, handsome man. His wife was half his size, but she was a wise person and an excellent house- keeper. They had a large family. Their eldest child was Anna, then came Tereza, Jakub, Leopold, Josef, Hynek, Bohumil, Žofie and Berta. We immediately made friends with Jakub and Leopold who were about the same age as I was. I started attending the Jewish school as soon as we had moved into our new home, even though I would normally have had another half-year to wait. We were taught reading, writing, arithmetic, German and religion. The latter consisted of learning to read from a Hebrew primer and when we could already read a little we would translate from the Hebrew Bible (the Mosaic Pentateuch) into German. [We also had a lesson in German script (sic): alef, beth, giml, dalet, hoy, which I enjoyed much more than translating Hebrew, because each day we would have to translate another passage and learn the new chapter at home off by heart. (I later forgot many words, and as we had no Hebrew dictionary, I even forget some of the Bible stories, as well). Hebrew was not taught particularly well, so I recall little of it, and we hardly did any religion at all. ]

We received orders ‒ I cannot recall from where ‒ that we had to attend the village school too. Ours had only two classes and I only went there for a short time.

I did not enjoy old Mr Balin’s classes. We mostly had reading, but nobody actually read from the book. We all knew the pieces by heart as pupils spent three or four years in the one class. When we were reading out loud and the master said “Next!” for the reader’s neighbour to carry on, he would know the place from memory and just continue in a monotone. I sat at the front of the class, lads twice my size ‒ 12 or 13 years old ‒ sat on the back benches. During divinity lessons I used to remain in the classroom. At that time, they used to be taught by Father Vondřich, the local priest, and a very strict and cold gentleman. He took the Gospel very seriously, and if a pupil did not know his homework word for word as it was in the book, he was in for a severe beating. Come rain or shine all the children had to go to church on holy days and weekdays alike. The many pupils that had no boots to wear had to go to church in winter barefoot. For that reason, even in those days pupils disliked religion and the church, and the divinity teacher most of all. Every boy was afraid of meeting the priest in the street. Even we Jewish boys tried to avoid encountering him because he liked to thrust his hand at us to be kissed. If any boy had a runny nose and left a deposit on his hand (handkerchiefs were few and far between in those days) he would receive a slap in the face with the other. There is a little incident I recall which shows the bigoted way people were brought up in those days. The priest had been given part of field on the other side of Šefl’s land. The women used to cut the rye there with sickles ‒ they did not even use a scythe at that time. The canny priest stood and kept watch to see that no one shirked (the women received 20 kreutzers for working from dawn to dusk). The moment came when he had to relieve himself. Seeing this, Josefina Šafařová clapped her hands and cried out: “Good Lord, the priest has to as well …” That about sums it up.

I ought to explain how I came to leave the village school. Our teacher, Mr Balin, was above all a stickler for handwriting. You could never call me a calligrapher and when I used to show him what I had copied from the board (which was no pretty sight in those days) it would never be to his liking and he would score through it thickly several times from top to bottom with his quill pen, and in order to demonstrate his displeasure still more he would rub the wet ink-lines with his cuff and return me my hour’s work all smudged. This offended me. Not only did he fail to teach me how to write, he did not even show me the right way, and just showed me up instead. I went back to the Jewish school. Often I hated being there. In a room already inhabited by an eleven-member family, six pupils used to have their lessons, each of them learning something different. Apart from that, all the usual family activities took place there: cooking, ironing, putting linen through the mangle, and eating. The humidity of the room and the various cooking aromas ‒ pleasant or less than pleasant ‒ did nothing to assist our learning. I paid seventeen and a half kreutzers a week for schooling.

The teacher’s status was far from illustrious. He received an annual salary of 300 guilders for his services and a rent-free apartment. Whenever he was away from the school, his wife would take over the teaching. I never welcomed such occasions. Since she had plenty of housework to do (they had no servant, but eleven children instead! ) whenever she had too much to do at a given moment she would make us copy out exercises or some sums. She was strict, often cross and selfish, but extremely clever. On Jewish holidays, they used to receive so-called “emoluments”, in other words, gifts from each family. We would generally give them a proving-basket of white flour and three-score eggs. So they had an enormous proving-basket made and when I would bring my usual-sized one heaped up with flour and pour it into theirs, they would say nothing but give me to understand what a paltry gift it was, with their basket remaining three-quarters empty.

And so one New Year, my mother decided to give them something better ‒ seven ells of light coloured cloth to make Josef a suit (I can still remember the pattern); but she did not tell Pappa. During that holiday we arrived at the church rather earlier than usual and Josef came in proudly wearing his new suit. Observing this, Pappa took him one side saying: “Wherever did you buy it? You’ve been well and truly diddled, and no mistake. It just so happens I’ve had a roll of that very same schmutter in my shop for a couple of years now and it’s falling to pieces. It’s not worth paying the tailor to make it up. It’ll be threadbare in no time.” Pappa noticed how the teacher and his wife exchanged puzzled glances and thought to himself that he would have done better to say nothing instead of spoiling their holiday. After all, they were very thrifty. At lunch Pappa related how Josef and his wife had been skinned. Mamma dropped the spoon she was holding and exclaimed: “You’ve done it now ‒ they got the material from me!” At this, Pappa burst out laughing and calmed our mother’s fears. “Don’t be upset. Give them some better material ‒ and straight away ‒ to give him time to have another suit made for the next holiday!”

On another occasion, Pappa bought a fattened goose in Litohlavy. Our thrifty mother showed little pleasure at his having struggled home with such a heavy goose on his back, and pointed out that she was already feeding up four geese herself. So Pappa told her he had only paid two guilders for it. The next day, as Mamma was taking the goose to be killed, the teacher and his wife commented favourably on the fine fat goose and said they would be pleased to have one like it. So Mamma decided to let them have it. That evening, Mamma told Pappa that she had sold the unwanted goose for two guilders. “Well done!”, said Pappa (though as someone who enjoyed his food, he probably thought to himself: What a pity, such a fine fat goose! ) When, the following Saturday, the Stadlers congratulated him on having an eye for a bargain, he told them in confidence that he had paid three guilders for it. – Mamma would have found the bad deal hard to bear, so Pappa had kept it from her, thinking that she would not find out about it. But Mrs Stadler loved to tell on people and rushed off to spread the news of her good fortune while it was still hot.

The six little houses in the street called “Jewry” contained one family each. The houses were owned by the squire, Count Sternberg, who rented them out at high rents to the Jews who were later forced to buy them dear from him. After all, the Count had to make his living too! But that particular Sternberg was not the worst of them. His father had been a man of great learning. It was said that the famous German poet Goethe had been a guest in his chateau at Březina. What we know for sure is that they used to exchange letters and had ties through their common interest in biology and natural history.

In the 18th century, the village of Osek had had as many as twenty Jewish families, with Volduchy having about the same number. Around the year 1700, the squire had let both communities have a piece of rocky land near the ruins of Kamýk for use as a burial ground. It had required a lot of hard work to level the area, including carrying away the largest rocks and bringing in topsoil. Above the cemetery there towers a tall rock on which, until 1800, stood a fine, roomy ballroom with large gothic windows. When I was a boy, four walls still stood, roofless, with the large holes where the windows used to be, having managed to withstand the ravages of time for so long. People would help themselves to sand, iron and masonry. The path to the ruins is entirely overgrown now, so it is a struggle to get to the top, particularly in summertime when the grass covering the rocks is dry and smooth, and as slippery as ice.

It was this difficult access route that appealed most to us boys. We used to have marvellous fun leaping around the hall. The floor sounded hollow under our feet and we would imagine that there were vaults full of treasure beneath us. One summer day there were several of us there. I was so exhausted from the heat and leaping around that I fell asleep in a corner. I woke up just as the sun was setting on the far distant horizon. It was breathtaking ‒ all the villages and woods in the blue distance.

I imagined to myself a minstrels’ gallery with musicians, polished parquet floors, huge mirrors between the windows, the hall decorated for a magnificent ball for the top nobility.

Such were the dreams a little boy would weave while running home to where the reality was quite different. There was a fair that day and I was sent out to fetch some beer. A band was playing in the main room of the tavern and I had a lot of trouble getting through to the taproom and even there it took me a long time to push my way to the counter. But I happily stood watching the couples on the dance-floor. Every corner of the little hall was full of dancers whirling round and round and the main dance always took place outside, even when it rained. Back home the family was just beginning to fear that something had happened to me, when I triumphantly arrived bearing the quart of beer for ten kreutzers, even though the family had long since lost their thirst. Instead I had a good drink of it, being hot and sweaty and very thirsty.

So I compared the two halls and the great difference between them. I realised how cleverly and judiciously the medieval builders had chosen the finest parts of our beautiful homeland for the dwellings of the nobility and their pleasures.

 I never went out without looking over the low wall into our cemetery. Complete stillness reigned there apart from the rustling of several birch trees, possibly conversing about the lives of those whose decomposing bodies now gave them sustenance. It is likely that in their lives some of them had not been the best of friends, yet now they lay here peaceably side by side.

The cemetery was already three-quarters full. The only gravestones now standing dated from the previous sixty years or so, the earlier ones having fallen or been stolen by some rogue or other for use as building material. Nowhere else on earth is silence quite so complete despite the rustling and whispering of leaves and the occasional chirp of a slumbering bird. Whenever I think of eternal silence I see in my mind’s eye an old wall, swaying birch-trees, a blue sky and a golden sun.

Once Pappa caught a cold and was taken ill. He complained of severe pain in one of his legs. We sent to Rokycany for the doctor. It was Dr Wiesler who came, a white-haired fine-looking old gentleman. He told Pappa he would have to rest up for quite some time. He prescribed him the “physicator”, a canvas plaster covered in black ointment, which we applied to the bad leg. The ointment brought him out in big watery blisters which Dr. Wiesler (dubbed the “saw-bones”) would lance, before healing the remaining wounds with another ointment. He would also use leeches on him, and when all else failed, brought with him a little implement he called a “cup” which he attached to Pappa’s leg and drew off a great deal of blood. Dr. Wiesler was not expensive. He would charge just one guilder for a visit from Rokycany, from whence he would come on foot. Pappa was confined to his bed for over half a year. We would sell our wares from home and Mamma would go buying to Plzeň with a basket strapped to her back to replenish the stock.

Generally she would go with two yeast-pedlars. These were women who went once a week with hods on their backs to the municipal brewery in Plzeň and bought about one guilder’s worth of yeast. When they got it home they would portion it out and barter it for flour or potatoes, and sometimes sell it too. They would leave home long before daylight because the yeast went on sale at around 7 a. m. when the vats were emptied. Those who came late got nothing. Mamma would leave with them at about three in the morning and was home by afternoon. She used to return heavy- laden. I recall her once bringing a whole lot of scarves and two large pieces of unbleached canvas called “Molinos”. The women of Litohlavy once came to us for a fine fabric known as “vaper”; they wanted new clothes to take part in the procession to Vršíček and the fair afterwards. Mamma went to buy some in Plzeň and on her way home she stopped off in Litohlavy and sold several lengths of “vaper”. That evening she came and sat by Pappa on his bed and recounted to him who had not yet paid and how much she had made. All this came to my mind when I was comparing my parents’ life with the one my wife and I enjoy. I wonder what sort of life my children will have? And their children? I only hope it will be easier.

In 1859 we went to war with Italy. Italian-speaking troops arrived in the Czech lands. Four billeting-officers came to see our mayor and he accompanied them around the houses telling each householder how many soldiers would be billeted on them. He immediately ordered a lunch to be prepared in advance ‒ three-quarters of a pound of meat with dumplings ‒ ready for their arrival on the morrow.

We boys rejoiced at the thought of having an Italian each at home. The next morning early we ran out of the village to meet them. The poor fellows did not arrive till afternoon ‒ dusty and famished. They formed up in ranks facing the chapel and each of them received a piece of paper with the number of their billet before being dismissed. I went round each of them to see if they had number 100 and was already dismayed that many of the other boys were already leading their soldier home when one handsome trooper came up pointing to the number 100 on his ticket. I grabbed him by the hand and brought him to our house. Mamma was not at home, so my sister showed him his sleeping quarters where he changed out of his clothes. Distraught, my sister showed me the meat soup she had made for our guest. She told me that each of the neighbours had been buying saffron, so she too had bought two penn’orth and put it in the soup. As saffron was something we never used in our family she had no idea how much to add, and put the lot in. The soup was a deep crimson colour. She had added more water to try and make it lighter. She now had soup enough for five soldiers ‒ but it had lost none of its ruddy hue. There was nothing for it but to serve it to him as it came up. Observing the trepidation with which she served him, he told her in German that that was how he liked it best. We immediately made friends. He was a young officer who had travelled half way round the world already, and he entertained us splendidly. He later taught me some

Italian. He stitched me together an exercise book and first of all wrote down the numbers “uno, duo, tre, quatro, cinque …”, and then some words, and finally whole sentences which I translated. I still recall some of them, for instance: “la bella giovina”. The soldiers received “Löhnung” in silver dollars and exchanged them at the shops. I even learnt to ask: “Have you any dollars to change?” But when I went and asked some private in Italian he replied with a flood of words that I could not understand. He followed me home and my father exchanged his silver pieces, making a little on the transaction.

Soon the war was over. Our Italian officer found it hard to part from us, but after all, they were all pleased to be going home. It was a long time before they reached Italy. In those days they went on foot and had long route marches each day.

That same year, confirmation took place in our village. There was much preparation beforehand. People came with wagonloads of branches for the festive gateways. One of them was set up in our street near the chateau gate. It bore a large inscription with the words: “We are yours to command!” There was another at the vicarage and a third at the end of Kamejk”. The peasant farmers rode in festive costume to Volduchy on beribboned horses, with bridesmaids in white dresses strewing the way with flowers and school pupils lining the streets. Even the Jewish community made festive preparations. On the arrival of the Archbishop ‒ I believe it was Count Schwarzenberg ‒ four of our community’s elders came and stood on the street in front of the synagogue, each of them holding a rod known as Rouchisstange” to which was attached the curtain from the Torah cupboard. Beneath this baldachin” stood my father with the Torah in his hands. Six pupils from my class, me included, also lined up at the side of the street. At the arrival of the Archbishop’s coach, we all straightened up like soldiers on parade and the Lord Archbishop gave us his blessing. Thus this high member of the hierarchy was welcomed by us and all the rest wherever he went. Maybe even the Jews sought to win his favour.

My brother Jindřich, four and a half years my senior, went off as an apprentice to Prague. We sent his trunk on ahead ‒ he went on foot. There was no railway line yet. We all felt sorry for him and Pappa even dreamt about him at night. My brother Josef ‒ six-and-a-half years older than me ‒ was extremely bright and attended the modern school in Rokycany where he carried away the prize for best pupil or premiant” every year. Mamma once took his class teacher a silk scarf, asking him to give him special attention, but the schoolmaster refused it, saying that the boy did not require his supervision, “after all, that pupil is the pride of his class”. He was a fine, strapping lad with fair hair and complexion and blue eyes. My father had two sisters in America. One of them (Grünhutová) was childless and she and uncle were always writing to us to send them a child, saying they would take good care of it.

Realising that Pappa lacked the wherewithal to let him continue his studies, Josef got a hankering to make the trip across the wide main. But our parents felt unable to send a fourteen-year-old on such a long journey. My eighteen-year-old sister was very pretty. She was an apprentice seamstress in Rokycany, and every day the local lads would wait for her and accompany her back to Osek. The foresters from Habr and Bažantnice would literally lay siege to our house, and when the soldiers were here, the officers would make a point of passing our windows. They would all flatter her and she would take it all in. She did not want to work lest she spoil her beautiful hands and slender fingers, so Mamma had great problems with her. Our parents just did not know what to do with her.

It was around this time that they started receiving the tempting letters from the uncle in America saying how rich he was, how well looked after the children would be, and my sister was enchanted at the idea. She was fully aware that no great fortune awaited her if she stayed with the family, so she and Josef came to an agreement to make the journey together.

Mamma tearfully got them ready linen and clothing, and when uncle sent us the steamer ticket, Mamma baked an enormous box of biscuits and rolls and filled up the spaces with dried fruit. On the eve of their departure, Josef still had to go to the tailor in Březina to collect his new suit and Mamma went with me to meet him, so as to have a last chance of seeing him. It was evening before he returned and Mamma shone the lamp on him the entire way home.

We spent a sleepless night, although everything was ready for the journey. Seeing our parents cry, we children cried too. Before dawn a wagon arrived and when we had loaded the trunks Roza and Josef climbed aboard. Pappa was to accompany them as far as Prague. Mamma ran wailing after the cart and then stood and lamented until the cart was lost to view in the distance.

They were sorrowful days and nights that followed. Mamma was convinced that our father would go with them as far as Bremen, saying that she would certainly do so in his place, that she would never be able to take her leave of them.

Five days later Pappa returned, recounting how, when they had dined at a restaurant, Roza had been surrounded by gentlemen, and how much she had enjoyed herself.
“I accompanied them to the station”, he told us,” and handed over the baggage. They climbed aboard and the train started to pull away, leaving me bereft of two children. I stood there dumbfounded, and although I had a list of goods to buy for the business, I disregarded all such fripperies and staggered home”. I thought things would be more cheerful with Pappa home, but not a bit of it! Now they both lamented!

They had promised us to write soon and often. We waited a week, then weeks, and then months before we received their first letter. Half a year had passed when we received a long letter saying how a terrible storm had driven their sailing ship far off course and how they had wandered four months upon the seas with the captain unable to find the right course to steer. The food situation was bad. Having no idea of his ship’s position, the captain gave people half portions, and this later went down to a quarter when stocks grew short. They wrote how religious people became when the ship tossed about in a storm, when waves towered above them like mountains, and when they did not know where they were. In such circumstances, they said, everyone learnt to pray to the Almighty. They also told us how passengers were made ill by rotten and mouldy food, and how useful had been the biscuits they had brought from home. They managed to stay alive and well.

Our uncle had come to meet them at the port and brought them safely back to St. Louis. They went on to tell us how much they liked the New World, which was a relief for us. But no evening passed without my parents talking about them.

In 1860, the northern states went to war with the South. The Northerners wanted to do away with slavery, a move that the Southern planters resisted. But there were other causes as well, above all economic ones. The cruel war lasted four years. My parents were pleased that there was no conscription in America and the army was made up entirely of volunteers. (It had been mainly because of military service that Pappa had sent my brother to America, lest the hale and strapping lad should spend years in the army). From time to time we would receive letters about how well they were doing and we were content. I will tell later how poor Josef came to die in the war.

We had a few pieces of arable land and meadow rented from the manor. Before the annual auction, Mamma begged our father not to rent anything this time, arguing that the fields provided us with nothing, what with having to hire people for ploughing, sowing, harvesting and threshing, and anyway we had no barn. The land we leased made nothing but a loss.

Pappa went to the auction, vowing not to rent anything, but he was impulsive and so something was bound to happen.

When he arrived home from the public sale, he announced to Mamma that he had leased fields in the “Allee”, and on “The Heights”, as well as at Rybnik and Újezd, and beneath Vytinka Hill. These were all under his own name, he explained, but he had also taken two large meadows at Rybnik together with his friend Buchbinder, as well as another meadow on his own account. It was a real kettle of fish.

This clearly was a shock for our mother, but there it was, and Pappa had to go out searching for some ploughmen who eventually did the work for us, but only when they had finished their own fields, which was often too late for us. And even then they took little care over it, and although we had manured our fields well (as they say: “dung your field, increase your yield”) our fields yielded very little. The fault lay in the bad ploughing. Pappa never troubled his head over the hired hands leaving it up to Mamma while he looked after the business.

On Saturdays, when there was nothing to do, Pappa would go to the field to see how the work was progressing. He would take me with him. It was lovely walking along with him, and it would take us the whole afternoon to complete our round of all those little fields. Pappa was always good-tempered and cheerful and would always amuse us. But he also amused the men and women he hired to work his fields. Once he had been talking to one of the women who was known as “Fat Marianna” because of her size. Pappa said to himself, but out loud, “they ought to call her ‘Miserable Mary’, too” ‒ and she was standing right behind him. She got cross and wanted to flee the field. It was a struggle for Mamma to persuade her to stay, but she later took Pappa one side and suggested that it would be better if he did not visit the fields at all. In saying that she did him an injustice, because he had a good understanding of all things.

When Pappa got up in the morning, generally at five o’clock, he was always covered in sweat. After washing and dressing he would wind his prayer straps round his hands and pray for a full hour. While he was praying, the kitten would usually jump on to his shoulder. He would leave it sitting there until his prayers were over, as he was a great animal lover. I recall how Mamma would get cross at our old tomcat for scoffing all our food, and above all the milk. One feast day, he cleaned off all the cream. Mamma went really wild this time and hired a lad to help her put the cat in a sack and take him to the fishpond at Labutinka where they threw him in. When they got home, they found the cat warming himself on the window-ledge. Once, she even gave the cat to old Hertl, a retired peasant who had shown an interest in him. When Pappa came home that evening and the cat had not come out to meet him, he asked what had become of him. At this, Mamma told him the whole story, Pappa was so sorry for him that he sent her to bring the cat home. But scarcely had she opened Old Hertl’s door than she smelt a lovely smell, and on opening the oven she found the cat roasting inside.

I cannot recall a worse year for the farmers than 1860. It was a year of terrible heat and drought. We had sown barley in the “Allee” but it did not prosper. One day there was an enormous hailstorm and the barley was beaten down. We had insured everything against hail.

When the official came from the insurers to assess the damage, he declared: “Poor hail-stones! They had nothing to knock down here.” We did not get much from him, and not nearly as much as we had paid in insurance premiums.

One night whole sheaves of wheat disappeared from our field at Rybnik. Pappa said he would keep watch the following night. I did not bother going to bed that evening and at around half past eleven, we went together to the field. As we got there, we could see a woman with her back to us stuffing wheat into a big basket. Meanwhile she was praying aloud, “Oh Mary, Mother of God, save me from being caught”. It was old Bejvlice, in her seventieth year or thereabouts, and hard of hearing. She did not realise Pappa was standing behind her until he took her by the shoulder. She took fright and fell on her knees, begging him for mercy. Pappa told her to tip out the wheat and go home. She leapt to her feet and took to her heels like a youngster. “There you are, my boy”, my father said, “today you’ve seen someone kneel before me. Never you forget it!”

Mamma was both care-worn and work-worn, and lived in fear of poverty and hunger, whereas Pappa tended to take life calmly and cheerfully in a philosophical fashion: a jester and a singer. – It was a very fine marriage; they had tremendous respect for each other. They were equally determined that their children should study hard.

When I was ten years old, Mamma took me to Rokycany to put my name down for the municipal school. The headmaster was a handsome thirty-five-year-old divinity teacher called Světlik, a native of the town. He was a proud and conceited man and after a perfunctory test he sent me to the third class. At the beginning of the school year, I left for Rokycany at six o’clock in the morning accompanied by Jakub and Leopold Stadler, all three of us carrying our boots over our shoulders to save the soles.

With a certain trepidation I entered the classroom where the boys were only just assembling. They were all strangers to me, and I to them. In a few minutes, our teacher, Mr Lodl, arrived, a tall, fat man, about fifty years old. It was immediately obvious that he would not get worked up about teaching nor did he intend to expend any great effort on it. Confronted by such a phlegmatic individual, I lost all my fears of being inadequately prepared compared to the local boys. I concluded that schoolwork would not be so very difficult, and I was not wrong. The entire week he did nothing but tell us stories, and when he started teaching in earnest we three country-boys turned out to be the best equipped. We enjoyed going to school though it irked me that it was so easy. I had been accustomed to a harder life. It seemed to me that the hour’s walk to school each day, and then the journey home merited more than the little schoolwork we had for it. For our lunch we would usually take a slice of bread with us, and sometimes a filled bun or a white, yeasty lámanec.

We used to carry a lot of books in our school-bags, and lest the bread should make it heavier, I had generally eaten it before we even got as far as Kamýk. But this meant that I was wolfishly hungry by the time I got home from school in the evening.

Come autumn, my two Osek companions used to stay in Rokycany and were given lunch in people’s houses. And I, a boy from a “wealthy home”, almost envied them when they told me what they had for lunch. It was horrid that I had to make such a long journey on my own. By November, I had to walk there and back in the dark. In bad weather, when it was muddy, or in snow, rain or storm, I would help myself along by singing all the songs and prayers I knew. It usually took about an hour.

One day, so much snow fell overnight, that I lost my way and found myself above Litohlavy instead of Rokycany. But I arrived safely at school in the end, though good and late, of course. I expect I made a sorry sight, judging from the fact that the schoolmaster forbade me ever to come to school on my own again. Mamma found me lodgings with Mrs Šupíková, the widow of an official at the Klabava ironworks.

When I moved to Rokycany, I had no need of a carrier. I had one palliasse, one pillow, one blanket, a small box of potatoes, one iron saucepan to cook my potatoes in, and a china coffee mug. Since I needed neither fork nor knife, Mamma also forgot to give me a spoon. My landlady wanted to lend me one, but not I: I had to have one of my own. Which meant buying cutlery. Mr Poláček, the tinsmith, offered me a spoon smaller than those we used at home, so I asked for a bigger one. He brought out from a drawer for me several sorts from the smallest to the largest, and declared: “they all cost four kreutzers”. Seeing that they cost the same regardless of size, I reached for the biggest one there. He asked me what I was buying it for. I told him it was for eating with. “But you won’t get it in your gob, my lad”, the tinsmith replied in surprise. “But I can open it very wide!” I rejoined. When I showed it to Mamma, she exchanged it for a smaller one.

Mrs Šupíková’s house was extremely clean. Each morning, I had to carry my palliasse, my blanket and my pillow up to the loft and bring them down again each evening. Everything seemed so strange to me. We lived on the first floor of a small round house near the Plzeň Gate. At supper-time, my landlady would lay a white table-cloth and set five genuine porcelain plates, and place in the middle of the table a beautiful dish. I was curious as to what delicacy awaited us for supper. Mrs Šupíková then proceeded to tip into it a saucepan of boiled jacket potatoes. We each peeled them on our own plate, and that was that, there was nothing else on the menu. Supper in this style was almost a daily occurrence. They were good folk: the mother and her three daughters ‒ Viktorka, Valerie and Mary, but they were extremely poor, and Mamma wished she could have sent food for myself, the lady and her daughters. But she could not afford it either. And so I always missed my home.

Admittedly I saved myself those long journeys to school and back, but even so, I yearned for the longer days of springtime when I would be able to run home again.

At the end of the school year there was always a public examination. Instead of going to the classroom, we would make our way to the school hall in formal dress. The entire town- council would also congregate there, headed by the mayor, as well as many townsfolk, including Mammas wanting to delight in the knowledge of their little darlings. Then came all the teachers in black suits, followed by the priests and last of all our divinity teacher and headmaster Mr Světlík in his long cassock, carrying the train over his arm. Even here, his examination manner was strict, but the questions were easy ones and he only called on those lads he could be sure of, and preferably those whose parents were present. And our teacher followed suit when he came to test us.

And we all gave the correct answers since we had been rehearsing them for two days already.

The Headmaster publicly praised our teacher on these fine results of his teaching. The Deacon congratulated our catechist on his “tremendous application”. The Mayor sang the praises of the headmaster and the catechist. The Town Clerk extolled the pupils and told us to be grateful to our teachers for their enormous devotion and effort on our behalf. Two or three pupils received books as prizes and this brought to an end the whole ceremony, which followed exactly the same course year after year.

At home I received neither praise nor reward for a good school report, nor did I expect it. It was regarded as a matter of course that I should study hard. And I expect my parents thought it cost enough as it was.

Then came the holidays and complete freedom from study. Haymaking arrived and we had six or eight reapers out in the meadow cutting hay from four o’clock in the morning. I used to take them their breakfast: a quarter of a loaf each, together with cheese and a quart of beer. On my arrival at around seven o’ clock, they would sit round in a circle, and these sun-tanned men, covered in sweat, would eat and drink. Then they went back to their reaping for as long as there was still dew on the hay. When the dew had gone they would leave off reaping and return towards evening, and then at four in the morning again. Then women would come and toss and turn the rows of hay before stacking it in the afternoon. I enjoyed helping them, and when we carried away the hay I would ride on the cart.

Hard work awaited us when we got home. We would carry armfuls of hay up steep stairs to the loft. I was given the job of treading the hay in the loft to make room for more. There was no skylight in the loft, not even an air-vent in the roof, and I can still remember how stiflingly hot and dusty it was. But I realised that it was necessary, so I kept it up until I was completely worn out. When the job was finished, and we went down to the yard, every little breeze struck me as if I was entering an ice-well, so great a difference was there between the loft under the roof and outside.

Then came the harvest and there was not much I could do to help, as the work was too hard for me. But I made up for it when it came to digging potatoes! I would collect the turned-up potatoes into baskets or hold up the sacks for the women to tip their potatoes in. But what I enjoyed most of all was raking the dry tops into a heap, setting light to it and baking potatoes in the fire. We found them so delicious when we removed them from the ashes, all hot and floury.

We were only small-time “agrarians”, lacking a barn for the reaped corn and straw. We did not even have a cellar for the potatoes. Mother took someone’s advice and dug a pit in the scullery floor to put the potatoes in when we brought them in from the fields in autumn. She covered them over with planks and straw lest they freeze. The following January, she went to take a look at them and got a terrible shock, poor thing. Water had got into the pit and submerged the planks and the straw. We had to remove all the potatoes lest they go mouldy. We waded into that freezing water and fished them all out. Mamma paid dearly for it: she got gout, which was to trouble her for thirty years until the day she died.

From time to time we received letters from America, and frequently copies of a German-language illustrated newspaper that consisted almost entirely of articles about war; nothing but soldiers and weapons. We did not find them very interesting and could not fathom out who was sending us them.

Once, when Pappa had got home, Mr Štádler paid a call on us and stayed till about ten o’clock. The following day, he came again and did so every evening that week, something he had never done before.

We were mystified as to the cause of his visits. On one occasion he came in the afternoon just when Mamma was doing the washing with my sister. He announced that Josef had fallen ill in America. I recall how Mamma cried out in alarm when she saw so much compassion in his expression. She asked whether the news was not actually graver. At this he explained that he had tried to tell us the whole week, but he could not bring himself to say the words. He feared for Pappa’s soft disposition. Our brother

Jindřich had written to him from Prague asking him to convey to us the heart-rending news that Josef had died in America. Mamma immediately started to shake and stagger, and we led her to the couch, where she passed out. Roza had written to Jindřich asking him to tell us, but he was afraid to, and wrote instead to Mr Štádler asking him to break the news to us gently. I will never forget how Mamma grieved. We begged her to forbear as Pappa would soon be home, and she calmed down. It took her a lot of effort but she managed to keep herself in check after a fashion.

Pappa entered the parlour, took one look at us and asked what had happened. We felt awful making excuses and he soon dragged the news out of us. It put paid to supper and any hope of sleep that night. Such a dreadful misfortune to lose such a fine, eighteen-year-old son. My parents blamed themselves for sending him so far away. Pappa lamented the fact that he had sent him to America because of military service and in the end he had died in the war. I too grieved bitterly over my brother, but I was unable to comprehend how it was that they could cry for days and nights on end.

When Jindřich arrived from Prague, Mamma gave him her valuable gold chain, asking him to sell it when he got back to the city, as she could no longer bear to wear such a jewel. She lamented incessantly. When Pappa came home that evening he tried to console her. “What if it had happened later, when he already had children.” Or: “Just imagine, they were digging a well in Klábava and it subsided on one of the men, and they pulled him out dead. He left four children.” Then he told a story. “There was a widower once cutting down trees over at Plecháč when, by a tragic accident, a trunk fell on him and killed him. He left behind six orphans and no estate. It’s a poor community and doesn’t know what to do with the children. That’s an even worse misfortune.” In this way, Pappa tried to console our mother, maintaining that a human being is no more than a little emmet, and that elsewhere there were people even worse off than them. He played the hero in front of Mamma and put it all down to God’s will. But when no one was looking, he too grieved sorely. And so we knew the saddest of times.

Later we discovered a few more details about Josef’s death. He had volunteered for the war, undergone a short period of training at Camp Boston and then taken part in the final battles. During the march home after the victory he drank something cold when he was hot and thirsty, caught pneumonia and died. In the lists he was already named as an officer. In truth, it was a waste of a fine young man.

From that day forth, Mamma was never quite herself, as they say. Pappa, though he too found it hard to bear the burden, did what he could to cheer her up, and occasionally he would actually manage to make her laugh. But it was a rare occurrence. Otherwise they were both pious and believed firmly in Almighty God, and this helped them endure all possible tribulations. All our neighbours liked us and made sure we were seldom alone, which also helped us somewhat.

During school holidays, my life was anything but monotonous, but term time came round again and I would become serious once more. I joined the fourth class. Our teacher there was Mr Karlík, some sixty years old and quite the opposite of Mr Lodl. He told us no stories, but instead, from the very first day, prepared us for proper learning. I can see him before me now: his long grey hair almost touching his shoulders, and his expression calm even when annoyed, his chief concern being that each of his pupils should prosper, which was no mean concern with rapscallions like us. It was marvellous how Mr Karlík looked exactly like what he was. A tall thin man, he always used to wear a dark suit, with a wide collar and a high neckerchief. There were a lot of pupils in his class and we all, and I especially, have much to thank him for. He liked me and he would be in my thoughts even at home. That is a great achievement, don’t you think? It’s a pity that there are not more schoolmasters like him. If there were, we would receive a far different preparation for life. He even required good hand writing of us. He used to say that handwriting mirrored one’s personality and character. I have kept to this very day the exercise- book in which we wrote our stylistic exercises. He would never make a mark on our texts but only write comments such as “Very good, but write more neatly, next time!” or “Satisfactory hand writing but dreadful style!” or “Who put this idea in your head?”

I once brought him an arithmetic exercise and got a good mark for it, but he called me up to the blackboard saying that I wrote threes badly. He went through awful torture until even I had to admit that the last one I drew was quite good. He was fairly strict, but I loved his strictness. Whenever I subsequently saw a portrait of František Palácký. I would always recall my beloved schoolmaster Mr Karlík. What a difference there was between his sort of strictness and the strictness of the headmaster, Mr Světlík, the divinity teacher. I used to stay in the classroom for lessons in the Catholic religion. I wanted to see more and learn more.

However, the catechist’s style of teaching was lamentable. He explained nothing. After all, everything was printed in the book. He would make his pupils learn it off by rote, page by page, line by line, from Monday to Tuesday and then test them. The test was like a lecture.

He would call up a pupil and shout at him “What do you know, my fine fellow, about St James?” Either the boy would not have done his homework or he would take fright at being bawled out by the catechist for no reason at all, whichever it was, the pupil would blush and stay silent. At that, the strict master would call up all the other boys from that same bench at once and order each of them: “Say what you know, and you, and you, and you” and the whole row either knew nothing, said nothing, or obdurately held their tongues in terror. The teacher would then shout at them: “What, you dunderheads, don’t you find St James interesting enough? I’ll make you like him better!” And the cane would swish. It was a mass calamity. And the strong man would then unashamedly give each boy a bad mark.

All the pupils detested not only the catechist but the whole cryptic business of religion, which represented to them a maze of snags and pitfalls.

I was pleased that he was not my teacher too. All the same, my own teacher of religion was hardly one I could be proud of.

Whether old Mr Jakub Korec was already a modern sort of teacher or whether he was just neglectful, I cannot say. He was supposed to teach us one hour a week in his apartment, every Sunday afternoon from one till two. I arrived with money in my pocket to pay for any books he might ask us to buy. But there was narry a word from him about any books. He told us how important our religion was and then dismissed us a quarter of an hour later, saying that he would go into it in greater detail in the next lesson. The following Sunday, his daughter Regy told us her father had a headache and would not be teaching that day. The third week, he was out walking, having forgotten all about the lesson.

There were about ten of us attending his lessons, all pupils from different classes in our school. I thought that he would divide us up accordingly, but he kept us all together in his room. But in fact, there was no reason why big and little children should not have taken part together, seeing as he taught us nothing. He was at home for the fourth lesson. He took the Bible, opened it and read aloud from it for half an hour. This completed our lesson and we were sent off home. This is how he taught us that first month, and went on to teach us in subsequent months, and years even.

There are many professional teachers, but how many of them are teachers by vocation? After all, the most important task is to educate young people, and the nation for that matter. With the odd exception, schools cripple children’s spirits.

Later, when I had a brief moment of free time in the course of my hard life, I spent a while reading the Bible ‒ that unique, perfect, living book of the world ‒ and I realised how much I had already lost by early childhood on account of my teachers’ neglect. What did the Holy Bible or religion mean to us then? What does piety mean to us, even now? I feel as if they cut the ground from under my feet when I was still a child.

In every respect, our teacher, Karlík, was a perfect man and a pedagogue of inestimable worth. It’s a shame he was already an old man and was unable to teach just one more generation of worthy people for the Czech nation.

One feast day, we pupils went on our first outing to Vršícek. Vršícek was the name given to a little church atop a beautiful wooded knoll. This was unheard of: such a strictly-run school taking pupils on a trip! The headmaster did not accompany us; no doubt he did not approve. The ladies of Rokycany supplied refreshments: milk, coffee, buns and rolls, bread and butter. How happy we were in that divine nature. We launched a big paper balloon, which caught fire up in the air, sprinkling us with paper ash. There was declamation too. One lad with the gift of the gab, came to the podium dressed in an old army uniform to represent a war invalid and declaimed:
“It’s a good few years since I was hurled
“Into this crazy, cock-eyed world
“The night-watchman blew a loud bugle-call
“And the cat and the dog played by our back wall”

It went on to relate something about General Laudon, that I no longer recall fifty years on, but I do remember that the fine ballad ended with the words:
“Twenty-five long weeks our men did contend
“Till Belgrade town lay besieged in the end
“That city had stood firm and suffered no harm
“Till we came along with our grand show of arms.”

It was not particularly brilliant and the lads could well have chosen something better, but we liked it and long afterwards those verses and that tune would be part of our rambles. They have stayed with me all my life, and I expect the same applies to all my school pals, accompanying some of them even to their death in war, in defiance of the Radetzky March.

I cannot recall why it was I did not spend the following winter at the Šupíks’. Maybe my parents thought they charged too much, or maybe the family did not make enough from me. Whichever the case, the next winter I stayed at the Weirs’ in a big, two-storied house ‒ a former convent ‒ just below the church. They rented one large room on the ground floor. When I moved in, I sat on my little trunk and just observed them. Would they make up in any way for my parental home? I did not hold out much hope. Mr Weir, a butcher’s assistant, was seldom home long, and even spent his evenings out. I never could understand how it was that someone could prefer tavern company to being at home with his wife and children, like it was in our home. When Pappa was home with us and told us things, it was sheer happiness.

Sometimes the “man of the house” came home drunk, undressed somehow and was soon snoring very loudly. I would lie on my palliasse in the middle of the room, unable to sleep. When I finally dropped off, it was the grandmothers turn to wake up, being unable to sleep at nights, and she would rouse me and talk to me.

Sleeping was altogether unpleasant, because the place was dirty, which encouraged fleas. One night, I killed as many as 23 of them. But I said to myself that I was better off than the horse that used be tethered in the middle of the leech-pond to feed the leeches. I at least could wreak vengeance on my tormentors.

My landlady was twenty-five years old, a kind-hearted, quiet soul, who never said a harsh word to her husband, though there was never a day when he did not deserve it, for he often treated her very roughly. Her sixty-year-old mother was close-mouthed by day and only at night would she unburden her cares to me, though I did not understand what she was talking about.

I recall a most terrifying incident there.

A menagerie came to Rokycany. It consisted of several wagons of wild animals. For a šesťák (ten kreutzers) I was able to see a grumpy old bear, a half-starved wolf and a skinny tiger. They roared incessantly in their narrow cages, from hunger, most likely. I was very sorry for them, even though I was also dreadfully afraid. Their roaring pursued me wherever I went.

That day, I did not get home till evening. I went straight to bed and fell asleep. I was suddenly awakened by a terrifying howl, followed by wailing and yelling. The tiger and the wolf had escaped! But it was right there in the sitting-room. I emerged from an oppressive dream and noticed that the din was coming from two corners of the room. It was getting louder all the time, a combination of high and low notes. But by now I realised that the beasts had not broken through their bars and were not with us in the room. Very soon Mrs Weirová got up and woke the grandmother and then shook her husband. The latter drawled: “Can’t you let me sleep?” and the old lady said: “I had an awful dream!” Subsequently when I would be woken by those wild nocturnal voices, they no longer terrified me.

They had a chubby little girl about four years old. She adored me and whenever I started my meal she would come close to me and stand like a puppy staring at my mouth as I ate. I had to share my food with her. I learnt how to give her portion first so she would not have to beg mutely in this way: in the morning, a drop of coffee and at mid-day a bit of stale bun. The little child standing by me relished it as if it were a layer- cake.

There was something else interesting about that house.

At that period there was a flourishing and widespread cloth industry in Rokycany. Altogether there were some 25 clothmakers. They would buy wool, and then wash and clean it. For this they required urine. Everyone in our house would make water into a bucket and take it to them. They would then spin the wool and weave it on an ordinary loom. Finally, they would dye the cloth. They produced white or checkered flannel.

Otherwise my landlord and landlady actually treated me very well.

During the time I was living with them, there was an outbreak of cholera in the surrounding countryside, as well as in our town. One day I had a severe attack of diarrhoea, with stomach ache and loss of appetite. I felt so weak I was unable to go to school. It was Wednesday. As usual on Wednesdays, Mamma came to bring me some coffee, buns and some titbit or other, I can still recall that on this occasion it was noodles in milk. After lunch I vomited it all up, and I felt strangely faint. Not wanting to be bedridden in a strange household, I staggered home on the morrow, and lo and behold, by Sunday I was up and running off to town with my satchel once more. I therefore fancied that I had caught the dreadful disease but it was a false alarm. Fear of cholera had caused me to display all the symptoms. It is amazing what sort of tricks the mind can play.

As soon as the weather improved slightly and the days lengthened, I took my leave of the apartment, with my kind landlady, the insomniac granny, the dreadful butcher-landlord and the sweet little “puppy-girl”, and happily returned home each day again. “Home sweet home!”, I said to myself. I was doing well at school and once more brought home a good report at the end of the school year. This brought my primary schooling to an end and I looked forward to attending the modern school.

My start at modern school was not particularly auspicious. In September I got a rash on my face which I neglected and went to school regardless. The rash dried up and flaked off, but another one immediately took its place. I suffered in that way the whole winter. It was an extremely tedious period for me.

I was due for confirmation that April; I was thirteen years old. My face was not better yet, but Pappa said that it was fine by now and the church was just a few yards away. So I got up early and went with Pappa to the church. Everyone there was pleased I had come and prayers commenced the moment we entered.

I had been given my first cotton trousers for my third birthday. Mamma had taken me to Martin the tailor, and I thought he would make me the trousers on the spot and I would be able to take them home with me. But when he told me I would have to wait a week for them, I did not want to leave the cloth with him. Mamma had to persuade me that it would not get lost there. So the tailor was given the cloth. But he put off the job so long, that mother took the material back. And when I was twelve and a half years old, and already attending the first year of modern school I received my new suit from that very same length of cloth.

I strutted off to secondary school convinced that all eyes were on me. At that time in Rokycany there were three classes. Everything looked the same as it did before my illness. Here again were the schoolmasters, Messrs Kučera, Randa, Panyrek and Svoboda.

Mr Kučera took us for Czech and German. He was about fifty years old, a stout, easy-going man. He reminded me very much of my old teacher, Mr Lodl. He was a good teacher, but did not exert himself much. Whenever he came to school in the morning straight from some social gathering, without having seen his bed since the previous day, his strenuous night’s jollification would lie heavily on his limbs, and the last glass of wine would weigh down his poor head. On those occasions he would not open a book, but instead he would lecture us on the virtues of temperance, enjoining us to dress simply, to go to bed with the chickens and rise with the sun, and to shun alcohol, warning us that wine was the fires of hell and the dwelling of Beelzebub. He used to declare, rubbing his stomach: “Whenever I’ve had a good meal of potatoes, I come out and people think I eat nothing but pheasant. It’s because I look so well. Let my modest way of life be an example to you, my boys!” Many of us loved those particular lessons.

Physics, mensuration and drawing were taught by Mr Svoboda, a lively young bachelor. He took a lot of trouble with us and I enjoyed both his style of teaching and the subjects he taught. My best friend was a boy called Hase who sat in the desk next to mine. He was very good at drawing caricatures, though they were extremely malicious. And one day he was caught out. He had drawn a young woman with a long nose and written underneath: “Svoboda’s bride”. The picture was extremely well drawn and the likeness was roguishly distorted. Unfortunately it was passed from desk to desk during one of Mr Svoboda’s lessons, to the immense enjoyment of the mischievous pupils ‒ until it reached the hands of the poor bridegroom. Hase was supposed to be expelled, but that was out of the question as he was the Mayor’s son.

Mr Randa was an excellent teacher, though of a nervous temperament, and whenever he got annoyed would almost lose control of himself. He taught mathematics and reminded me of my old teacher, Mr Karlík. He shared the latter’s enjoyment of his work and willingly took pains with each one of his pupils. A book would do for the weaker pupils, but for the better ones he had a pocketful of intricate problems. We used to call them “brain-twisters” or “bonbons”. He was constantly on the move before the blackboard, just like quicksilver. When, in spite of all his efforts, a pupil still failed to understand, or whenever he observed signs of laziness, he would forget that corporal punishment is not used in secondary school and would start to shout all sorts of things at the hapless pupil. He used to get so worked up that ears would soon be boxed.

I remember once being called to the board myself. He quite forgot that I was supposed to be his “oasis in the desert” and when I failed to get the right answer straight away he said that he should have called me a camel in the desert instead and gave me such a dressing down that I felt quite ill. “You dunderhead, you nincompoop” and other similar terms of endearment. But my sensitivity was in for worse still. “Hold out your hands!” and I was struck with the blackboard ruler first on the right and then on the left. I just stood there flabbergasted. Not even at home had I ever been chastised and now I broke down with the shame of it all. My head swam and I did not recover until I was out in the corridor, led there by two other boys.

The schoolmaster was standing in front of me, trying to console me: “There, there, you’re better now, aren’t you, you silly billy, aren’t you, you ninny?!”

But I could not be angry with that man, nor he with me. We remained friends even after that episode.

I enjoyed going to school. Every morning I would call for my friends Polda and Kuba. Once I took off my boots while waiting for them. In summer we used to carry them over our shoulders. It was easier to run barefoot and most importantly, we saved boot-leather. A pair of boots cost three guilders. So while waiting for them I put my boots under the bench. Then they came out and we ran off together to Rokycany. We got to the chapel where we were wont to eat our food and put on our boots. Well the other two boys did put on their boots, but I realised then to my horror that I had left mine at their house. So I went into school barefoot. With beating heart I sat the four hours at my desk, and luckily I was not called to the blackboard. I used to have nightmares about it for a long time afterwards, and I was haunted by the thought of what would have happened had I been obliged to stand barefoot in front of the schoolmaster, in front of the blackboard and the rest of the class.

We had lessons every day from eight in the morning till noon, and from two till four in the afternoon. At mid-day we would go for a walk, usually up to Stráň, but by a quarter to two we would be back sitting on the wall of the deanery waiting for Vašín, the caretaker, an unusually cantankerous man, to unlock the classroom. On cold or wet days, we “country boys” would stay in the classroom at mid-day. The caretaker would always lock us in lest we ran along the corridors and disturbed his lunchtime rest.

Then one day, the following incident took place. There were several of us in the locked classroom and one of us needed to empty his bladder. We called to the caretaker to come and open up. We yelled and battered on the door, but he was sleeping the sleep of those more just than he. He slept on the ground floor just below our classroom. He had a couch in the left-hand corner where he took his ease. We measured out where he was lying and carved a hole in the floorboard with a penknife and then took it in turns to relieve ourselves through the chink in the floor. A moment later the key was rattling in the lock of our prison-door and the caretaker burst in, red with rage, and seeing the damp patch on the floor he immediately realised what had happened to him. “You blackguards! I’ll see you kicked out of school for this, as sure as my name is Vašín! We’ll call a meeting straight away and we’ll have all of you scoundrels out, you filthy villains! I’ll teach you to wet me like that!” But we felt ourselves to be in the right and one boy shouted at him: “If we get kicked out, you’ll be the first to go! You have no right to lock us in. Where are we supposed to go when we need to?” And someone else added: “Anyway it’s not healthy!”

The caretaker left without saying another word. He came back with a rag and wiped up the damp.

That year I went to school with a boy called Gabriel Cipra. The two of us formed the sort of beautiful and lasting friendship that is only possible during one’s younger years. He was Cipra by name and “čiperný” (smart) by nature. He went on to military academy and our friendship waned. I think the academy spoiled him. In the end he was made an Imperial and Royal General.