Prague Memories

By Tecia Werbowski

The two short stories in this collection are steeped in the revelries and tragedies of nostalgia. A woman living in war-torn Prague contemplates revenge against her oppressors but instead chooses to "sleep with the enemy." The stories in this work are set against a glimmering and dangerous Prague-populated by characters who are equally mysterious and beautiful. {Guernica Editions}

• Language: English
• Publisher: Guernica
• Release date: Jan 1, 2004
• ISBN: 9781550714401

Tecia Werbowski

Tecia Werbowski is a social worker and a writer who writes in English and Polish.

Book preview

TECIA WERBOWSKI

PRAGUE MEMORIES

 PROSE SERIES 70

GUERNICA

Toronto – Buffalo – Lancaster (U.K.)

2004  

CONTENTS

Prague, New York

Prague Memories

PRAGUE, NEW YORK

On April 3, 1998, an ordinary blue Honda passing through the American customs at the Canadian border was stopped. The customs officer asked the driver to pull off to the right. The driver was a Canadian citizen, Martha Green. Her passenger, presumably a friend, was a Czech citizen, Alena Gazda. First, the customs officers thoroughly examined the car as if they were searching for something specific: drugs or guns? Then, Alena was asked to present her passport and was taken to an adjoining room for questioning. Martha was asked to sit and wait. No apologies were made. The men looked austere, their manner businesslike. Such procedure was familiar to Alena. She remembered the severity with which Czech citizens would be approached by men in uniform – police, customs officers – anyone with the authority to humiliate another human being.

A man in civilian clothes came in. He took her passport, studied the expiry date of her American visitor’s visa as well as her Canadian transit visa.

His cool, reserved, yet polite manner frightened her. The man was tall, handsome and aware of it, yet she felt there was something repulsive about him.

So you are Alena Gazda? Yes.

When were you born? May 12, 1959. Where?

In Prague.

Are you married?

Yes.

Your husband’s name? Paul Gazda.

Your profession? Biochemist.

Oh, I see, the man responded somewhat ironically, that may be a useful profession in more ways than one. 

He chuckled, then checked himself and continued his matter-of-fact interrogation. 

Do you have children?

Yes, a girl, eight years old. Her name . . .

What was the purpose of your stay in the United States?

That question put Alena on guard. She did not know what to say. Finally she answered:

I came as a lady’s companion for a distant relative I had never met before. 

Her name? 

"Clara Berg.

My daughter is sick. She needs a sophisticated operation. A very expensive one. We contacted a specialist in the States and in Sweden. Both the operation and the convalescence are very costly. She fell silent, regretting the outpouring of her emotions.

The man did not listen to her personal confession. He wanted facts.

When did you leave Mrs. Berg?

I left on March 30th, at eleven, after serving her breakfast.

Was she alive then? 

Alena was shocked.

What do you mean? Of course she was. She was her usual energetic self. She was doing her exercises at six o’clock as usual, had a big breakfast, was grumbling as usual.

And what happened then, Mrs. Gazda? For your information, Mrs. Berg was found dead by her janitor. The police are in the process of performing the autopsy to determine the exact cause and time of this lady’s death. Maybe you could help us to resolve this puzzle. So you claim that you did not know that she had died?

Alena became pale. Her throat was dry, her heart racing. 

Jezis Maria, oh, God, she said in Czech.

She could not imagine Clara dead. That woman seemed immortal, invincible, a tower of strength in spite of being eighty-one years old.

What day was it exactly and why were they questioning her in this dingy room? All of a sudden it seemed to her that she had lost the ability to express herself in English.

I would like to speak to someone who speaks Czech, she requested in a wooden voice, her face expressionless while she felt herself boiling inside. In the meantime, Martha Green was encouraged to continue her journey alone. Alena was allowed to take a bag with a few personal belongings. She was to be detained for at least a couple of days in Plattsburgh. Someone was to notify Czech Airlines and her husband in Prague of her delay without giving the reason for this state of affairs.

This is where I come in. My name is Miroslav Pešek. I have been in New York for only five months, working for the Czech consulate at a job with a rather vague job description. I am de facto l’homme à tout faire, but my main activity consists of serving as translator.

It was Thursday, the 3rd of April when my superior called me into his office.

Mr. Pešek, he said, "take our car and go immediately to the Plattsburgh-Canadian border. The officials there have stopped one of our citizens and they are interrogating her. She worked for an elderly woman who died suddenly, and some foul play is suspected, not to mention that she came here as a tourist but earned an income. The main worry is that she is suspected of murdering her employer. The whole affair stinks. Still, we want you to be as helpful to Mrs. Gazda as possible. She may be guilty but she may be innocent. The autopsy results are not yet available. The police are looking for Mrs. Berg’s will. The incriminating thing is that Mrs. Gazda is a biochemist, if you know what I mean.

Still I don’t understand the motive for her crime, if there is any crime. Make reservations in the motel nearest to the border, for her and for yourself. We will have to notify the airlines and her husband about this. It’s a mess. Don’t forget to call us when the case is concluded; and may God help her.

I drove as quickly as I could. It was about 9:00 pm when I arrived in Plattsburgh and I went straight to the motel where Mrs. Gazda was spending the night. At 8:30 in the morning after bad coffee and a big tasteless muffin, I was introduced to Mrs. Gazda. I was told to interview her in Czech and tape the interview, and then to translate it all into English. Her first words intimidated me. She said: You are so young. While it is true that I am only twenty-eight years old and don’t have a lot of life experience, this does not mean that I can’t understand the complexities of human nature.

Mrs. Gazda looked very tired and frail, with big green eyes and reddish hair tied into a braid, which gave her the look of a teenager. She was dressed very simply, and in her ears she had garnet earrings, the same as my sister used to wear. I was given a list of key questions to ask her and a man whose role was not explained to me sat in the background reading Reader’s Digest and occasionally checking to see if everything was all right. He provided the tape recorder and changed tapes when necessary. After a while I forgot about his unobtrusive but watchful presence.

Mrs. Gazda spoke from her heart, I could tell. She related the story as it really happened, I am sure. It was as if I hypnotized her. Maybe I got a bit over involved in my anxiety to prove her innocent and maybe I should not have asked about her past, but I was curious concerning the way other people felt about leaving Prague. I listened to her account with undivided attention, my second cup of coffee cold and bitter. This is what she said:

"I am not a well-traveled person, except for our trips to Bulgaria or Poland when we went to ski in Zakopane. We live on Vratislavova near Vyšehrad, which I think is the most romantic part of our beautiful city. You see, in Prague I feel a physical connection with every building. I think every cobblestone wants to tell me a story and I almost wish I could run barefoot to feel it. You can’t imagine how bewildered I was when I arrived