(my sweet little fingers) this is more than we can relinquish.
And to the star. The one and only arising above the earth and mirrored in the empyrean — I want to be the wind
the lamplighter and chase away the clouds that would dare sail in, the only thing reflected in the sky, your light is reflected everywhere around me;
and to the woman with hands more gentle than soft evening music—
the train was moving and you were already sleeping, sometimes quivering like the seashore as a wave breaks upon it. I want to be the sea within your strand, a sea of powerful waves and a silent surface. The sea is enormous and teeming with life; time and again it returns to its shore and never leaves; it is silent and strong and ever returns; I want to be the sea within your strand, to touch you in your sleep like a solitary wave rushing up to shore, to be the sea within your strand, always returning;
and to your eyes, afraid to see lest they lose the power of speech;
and your heart, which threatens to beat too hard,
only yesterday I understood You and I love You — let us walk together along high paths, ever higher where the earth fades away; but let us stay upon the earth, and it will tremble as the Gypsy foretold,
And to You — I call You Lenička, such an ordinary word, I call You my dear, I call You my dear, my dear, my dear, and it’s too little for me because words lack scent, breath, and hands for me
to touch,
and to love, do not destroy us, make us pure,
and to You—. . I am afraid to say it lest the words grow commonplace,
and to You — gentle, pure, and beautiful;
to You — you have grown into my life, and to tear you out would bring death, but
I will never do that because we will stay together. .
I’d gone out with a few girls in school; once I even thought about getting married when my beloved returned from a study trip to Romania. But then I learned she’d found a boyfriend there — at least for her time in Romania — and I no longer thought about a wedding.
I would always fall in love, but at the same time I would wonder whether my love was merely a delusion. This time, however, my new love instilled no fear.
Helena was different from me. She had no yearning to rescue anyone, but she was convinced that everyone had an obligation to help others, behave honorably, and never lie. She was a beautiful singer and loved music — naturally, different from the music I loved. I was enchanted by the Romantics: Beethoven and Dvořák. She preferred the spirituals: Bach and Janáček. She was shy and gentle, whereas I demonstrated my feelings in a flood of words. For her the words my dear meant just as much as my protracted declaration.
She was almost six years younger than I was, but she’d certainly read more books and seemed to understand them better.
She had absolutely no enthusiasm for my interest in politics. She recognized only moral authority, something that rarely appeared in contemporary politics.
She wanted me to meet her friends and family because they were a part of her life much more than all the ideas I heaped on her. For her, the family was the most important thing in life, and she frightened me several times when she said she wanted seven children. She adored her parents and was an unusually obedient daughter for her age. She refused to stay out late because her mother would worry, and she didn’t want to cause her any concern.
Our amatory relations had gone no farther than kissing on the bank of the Vltava River or on anchored boats by Kampa Island. And before we’d had a chance to actually embrace, I had to leave to attend two months of military training in Domažlice, which would be followed by my obligatory military service.
Helena said the waiting would be unbearable and promised to visit me.
It seemed to me that Domažlice would play some sort of role in our relationship, the import of which, however, was unclear. But one thing was certain: I had to reserve accommodations at least one week in advance.
*
At the time, military service was compulsory for all young men if they didn’t manage to obtain a so-called blue book. The service lasted two years for most, but we lucky ones who had attended military training in college had to serve only two months. Later, the same graduates had to sign up for six months; for my brother it was two years. Although I was completely unprepared, I began at the rank of sergeant trainee and already had a platoon under my command.
In the train on the way to the recruiting station, I met another former classmate and my friend Jirka, who had been called up at the same time. Right away Jirka started bragging about all the philosophy books he’d brought with him to fill the time we’d be sitting around the parade ground.
As future commanders, we were greeted without the usual hazing. We were issued military uniforms and a bunk in the headquarters. They advised us to prepare for our duties by reading through the rules and regulations and introduced us to a pack of obstinate corporals and lance corporals who were to command the newly established squads. The arrival of the draftees was expected a few days later.
The commander of the company Jirka and I were assigned to was small and shriveled. Before his time as an officer in the People’s Army, he had been a cobbler, or, more precisely, a worker in a shoe factory in Zlín. He stuttered a little and expressed more complicated phrases only with difficulty. Fortunately, oratorical skills were not in the job description of commander.
The day before the recruits arrived, all of us future platoon commanders (one was a genuine two-star officer and professional soldier) were called together and informed that it was now our task to transform “these civilians into class-conscious and disciplined soldiers who would vigilantly stand on guard and/or fight for our country.”
Shortly after the arrival of the afternoon train, half-drunken young men in civilian clothing began straggling into the garrison. What followed reminded me of my war years: shouting, cursing, and unjustly terrified young men reeling through the hallways wearing boots that were too big and uniforms that didn’t fit, driven into the uninviting expanse of the barracks, where bunks with straw mattresses awaited them. The confused bustling about, which we at first attributed to natural fear of a new unfriendly environment, however, had a different cause. The soldiers didn’t understand what was required of them. They came from southern Slovakia and were fluent only in Hungarian or an odd mixture of languages spoken by the local Gypsies.
The very first days, we noticed that our squad leaders were getting busy. Their triumphant shouting resounded throughout the barracks. Hardly had the recruits managed to put away the clothing and accessories they’d just been issued when they were driven into the bathrooms to fetch buckets of water. Then, to the incessant bellowing of the seasoned veterans, they scrubbed the hallways, while others worked on the floors and windows in the barracks. One Gypsy was even forced to bring out a ladder and clean the lightbulbs. Jirka and I looked on in a state of bewilderment, but since we were not acquainted with how things were done, we didn’t dare interfere. We permitted the squad leaders to act how they saw fit. In their turn, they were satisfied with our passivity, or, rather, our uninterest regarding any kind of military activity, and willingly filled in for us. They taught the recruits how to make their bunks, how to assemble their kit bags, how to leap up immediately upon reveille and go to the courtyard for morning drills, and primarily to keep in mind that military service required continual application. It was with the greatest pleasure that they would sound a nighttime alert and, when they were satisfied with how the frazzled recruits were packing their kit bags, would cancel it.
We witnessed a lot during those first few days. As commanders we were allowed to leave the barracks after our duties were finished and, especially at first, we took advantage of this opportunity to wander about the consolatory environs of the town. But despite the tranquil countryside, and most likely under the influence of having become active members of the army, we agreed that civilization was careening toward a tragic end and would perish, not like the brontosauruses, as a result of some cosmic catastrophe, but by our own self-destruction. The claim that we could survive an atomic explosion by lying down with our feet in the direction of the explosion (something we had to teach the new recruits), protected by our chemical suits, seemed like gallows humor.