Albert Russo
websites: www.albertrusso.eu - www.albertrusso.com www.authorsden.com/albertrusso

MARINA VELCOVA AND THE TEMPTATION OF AMERICA

by Albert Russo


PRAGUE, late spring 1968. Through the downy twigs of an apple tree beyond the grid of bridges the city lies aquiver under a silk veil. And dusk, in a last onslaught, lights up the Vltava with its sequined wand, sending between the river's banks ripples of diamonds. It is a glorious moment, a moment during which you feel as if you were the Creator contemplating the consummation of his efforts, but the ever mercurial lover retreats with not so much as a sigh, and before the distant lampposts begin to twinkle, the entire landscape is engulfed in a tide of India ink.
A bang suddenly shatters the idyl and instinctively the young woman next to you nestles against your chest, clawing at your chest with all her might. You then both burst into laughter, realizing that it was only a jet of the Armed Forces passing overhead. She releases the pressure of her nails and strokes your nape.
Your bodies cling most intimately as you wrap the flaps of your sheepskin jacket around her waist, savoring the warm and fruity perfume of her lips. You both want to cry for joy and have vowedthat your destinies will be forever united. This is the great era of
Alexander Dubcek where all hopes are allowed. A breeze of freedom is sweeping through the country, a dreadful weight has been lifted off the hearts of millions of Czechs. And you partake in this peaceful revolution in which socialism has cast its mask.

ASTORIA, Queens. February 1968. I had an umpteenth argument with Mother. “I managed to escape Czechoslovakia after the communists clamped down on the country, having suffered from disease and famine previously during die Nazi occupation, and then the humiliation of the Reds just because I happened to have a grandfather who was an aristocrat. And you want to go ‘visit the land of your forebears'! Do you realize that I left the country penniless and had to relinquish to the state our family jewels as well as the 18th century mansion we owned? I have buried my past, Francis, and now you want to bring its demons back into my life. (When she gets in these states, there are no tears, but her pupils ravage the irises and a network of fine carmine threads spread across the whites of her eyes. I am not without pathos, but I won’t let the heart overpower reason. “Oh do what you will, you're even more stubborn than your father was!" she retorts with a certain sadness.

PRAGUE, late spring 1968. Marina takes me along to discover allthose places the tourists see and those only the Prague citizens frequent. Before earning her Pb.D. in engineering from the Carolinum, one of the world's oldest universities, thanks to her knowledge of foreign languages she used to spend her summers guiding important visitors in the capital and also throughout the country.
The Old Town is now so familiar to me with its twin-spire Tyn church, the massive Powder Tower, the House at the the Minute which stands like a delectable candy-ornated gingerbread, the splendid astronomical clock and next to it the Renaissance window of the Old Town Hall, Melantrichova Street and its Gotic and Romanesque buildings, that I can cross it blindly whichever lane I choose to follow. When night falls, I stroll holding Marina by the waist, like any Prague lover, through the vaulted arccade in Havelska Street or along the lanes of the former Jesuit College.
The city by day is a symphony in pastels, ochres and grays but when the lampposts are lit, you enter a world of mystery and of ghostly shadows.
The following afternoon we take the tram and ride to Letna, beyond the cast-iron Hanava Pavilion. Marina and her parents live on the fourth floor in one of those drab collective housing complexes built in the late forties. It is a small one-bedroom apartment. The living room is cluttered with rustic furniture and trinkets and has floreated wallpaper yellowed by the years. The three-seater couch is where Marina sleeps. Her folks introduce themselves by their first names. They both seem happy to meet me.
Pavel's drawn features and wan smile reflect a tormented soul locked in resignation. Ekaterina, on the other hand, is stocky and her ruddy face reveals her peasant origins. Tall and fine boned like her father, Marina has her mother's complexion as well as that perennially mischievous twinkle in the eyes. Ekaterina seldom utters a sound, except to offer drinks and the delicious almond brownies she herself baked.
The tension has loosened around Pavel's jaws now that he trusts me. “You may be American," he remarks in his rugged English, “but you cannot deny the Czech half of you, a total stranger you are not!" Pavel leads the conversation, asking me to describe that mightiest of all nations, the United States of America, lamenting however the Allies' treachery in 1938 when France and Great Britain condoned the Nazi invasion of Czechoslovakia, and again at Yalta, when the U.S. gave in to Stalin. He wants to know how we really live, “for the Holywood movies must surely give a distorted view of America, with the gangsters on the one side and, on the other, those dream homes and lavish life style they make us believe are available to the majority of Americans. You are, of course, a free people. We were once ... a long long time ago," he adds, knitting his brows. "But things look very promising now," I claim, gleeful. “Maybe, maybe," he concludes with a sigh, then I notice how weary his stare has become suddenly.
On our way here, Marina spoke about her parents, but not once did she allude to the plight they, like many of her elder countrymen have lived through. On the contrary, though she undoubtedly loves her father, she still has at times heated arguments with him over the very principle of communism, for Marina believes in the magnanimity of the Great Soviet Liberators whose tongue she has mastered, besides English and German.
Her father keeps harping, "When I was your age I knew what true freedom meant. We were the most industrialized nation In Central Europe and look at us now; we're not much better off than some of those banana republics."
Marina calls him an inveterate pessimist, but since she does share with him a yearning for travel and adventure, she ends the discussion on a brighter note: "Soon, Papa, the borders will be wide open and we shall be able to discover the world and its treasures. Remember how you used to cycle all the way to Austria when you resided in Bratislava as a teenager?" He o'hums, unconvinced.
I have more than an Inkling that her thirst for discovery is stronger than her socialist ideals. She does not speak like a fanatic or echo the slogans which Radio Moscow beams daily to the four comers of the planet against Imperialism and its lackeys.
I recall Marina telling me that her father likes anything that smacks of the exotic and offer to treat them tomorrow to a Chinese dinner. Pavel gets up with a wide grin while Ekaterina stutters in a blush: “It's really too much, it will cost you a lot of money. Even though you're from the West, you're still a student." I kiss her on both cheeks as Marina and I stand on the threshold, about to leave.

In the Tatra Mountains, summer of 1968. For the past week and a half I have been touring some of the country's loveliest regions, guided by the person who has become the woman of my life. Thanks to her, the ancient names of Bohemia, Moravia, Silesia and Slovakia are no longer just streaks of color on the world map, or mere historical references. We have ridden on trains with wooden seats, sturdy yet uncomfortable buses, as well as on the clanking streetcars of Prague and Bratislava. I had never visited a spa resort before discovering the eerie beauty of Marianske Lazne, the Marienbad rendered famous by royally and those who counted during the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and now mainly patronized by the working classes, the intelligentsia and the party cadres. I had a taste of the same tepid and slightly nauseating water which they seemed to savor as if it were an elixir and strained myself to follow the leisurely pace of another century, under Marina's amused gaze.
The days in the heart of the Tatras go by so swiftly, I already suffer from pangs of nostalgia. In a resin-scented clearing, Marina and I lie with the sun as our sole witness. She strokes the moist down of my chest and whispers: "This can only be a dream.” Frowning, I counter almost aggressively: "No, it isn't. I'll come back next year and in 1970 we will get married here; then, once I have found a job in my field of study, data processing - computers are what the future will depend on - we'll settle in a home of our own. It will be a modest place but with all the amenities we Americans are used to. As for you, with your linguistic and engineering skills, and your savoir-faire, there will be absolutely no problem.”
“But won't I miss Czechoslovakia?" she asks. "After all, I love my country and had no reason to leave it, that is, until we met."
"Don't worry," I reassure her, "if we can afford it, you'll be able to fly back and visit your folks every year. Later on, we could even send them a ticket and they'll come to us. I know how delighted Pavel would be."
There's a silence, and as I bring my lips to hers, Marina says, "But if it doesn't work that way, if..." I crush my mouth against hers and smother all her doubts in a long deep kiss. She responds most willingly. Neither of us can get enough of each other and I think, miracles are possible.

PRAGUE, mid-July 1968. This last week before my departure for the States has been so dense and hectic, what with revisiting certain of my favorite spots, meeting Marina's closest friends and university acquaintances, discussing politics and reforms on the Art Nouveau terrace of the Europa Hotel or in some of the Old Town's wine cellars and taverns, such as the Café at the Golden Serpent where an Armenian merchant resided in the early 18th century, spreading the fashion of coffee drinking among his fellow citizens.
The atmosphere is simply electrifying. I feel a vitality here that is comparable only to the one I experienced during my first year in Greenwich Village when I still was an undergraduate at New York University, with the difference that in Czechoslovakia a whole society is being reshaped, words and ideas hitherto taboo are being expressed in public.
This evening Marina takes me to the Vinohrady Theater where they are rehearsing a play about the French Revolution and introduces me to Petr, a jovial man in his forties who earns his living tuning pianos. When he finishes his scales, Petr turns to both of us, his teeth glittering amid his dark gypsy face and says, "Let's go to an ale house around the corner from here, I'm dying of thirst. After that, if you're in the mood, I'll invite you to a small popular bistro where they serve hot, hot, spicy dishes." And he rolls his eyes impishly then hugs Marina and places a fatherly smack on her forehead.
Learning that Petr leads a jazz hand, I exclaim, "That's my hobby, three pals and I perform on weekends at private parties and college balls. I play the saxophone."
These common affinities create a new bond among the three of us. "We've just obtained permission to give several performances in England towards the end of autumn. It will be great," Petr announces, radiant, then adds in a hush: "Don't tell anyone, I'm superstitious."
We wind up the night strolling on Charles Bridge and contemplate Hradcany with its hauntingly beautiful castle which dominates the city from the opposite bank of the Vltava. Leaning against one of the thirty Baroque and Neo-Gothic statues that grace the bridge, a youth strums out a few notes on his guitar. The violet scarf he wears around his neck and his loose unbuttoned shirt uncovering his navel make him look more akin to the rebellious students of Paris and Berkeley than to his bashful young comrades. Soon a cluster forms around him and as he strikes up Elvis Presley's Jaithouse Rock , the small crowd takes to the beat and clap their hands. The guitar player sings in a raucous voice with gypsy accents, giving the tune a twist which is not unpleasant. When we walk away the audience has doubled and the clapping has become bolder. The scene is surrealistic: sounds of rock music that echo amid the gallery of stone saints mutely looking on while, all around, guarded by lanterns-flickering sentries, the Bohemian capital so charged with history lies majestic and unperturbed.

Another day and I'm off. Marina asks me to excuse her for a couple of hours; she has been invited for lunch by an Austrian friend of hers whom she has known for a few years. They had become acquainted during one of his numerous visits to Prague. He is an important industrialist and does a lot of business through the Ministry of Trade and Finance. We have our first row.
"There is no reason whatsoever for your jealousy!” she rebukes after I've hurled at her, "Who’s this bigwig anyway? Do you sleep with him?" Suddenly cupping my groin with her hand, she says in a pacifying tone, “Don’t be silly, he's 45 years my senior and considers me as his stepdaughter, for he's never been married or had children. He could be my grandfather. True, we are close, but ours is a family relationship. My folks know him well. So, you see, you have nothing to fear."
Marina is back at 2:30 p.m. and produces from her bag a small wooden box shaped like a miniature crate. "It's from Hans, to both of us," she says. "I told him we were going to get engaged. When he returns next year, he wants lo meet you."
Walking into the courtyard of Strahov Monastery, we munch our third or fourth chocolate filled with cherry and Grand Marnier then kiss voluptuously, relishing the heady flavors of our tongues. "Oh Frantisek," she mumbles once we release our embrace, staring into the glazed pools of each other's eyes, our pelvises hurting from desire, “how I want you!" Her visage is suffused with the glow of a polished apple. Marina calls me Frantisek whenever we become intimate. The name stirs emotions that go back to my early childhood when Father was still alive; they are happy if very vague memories. The day he died, Mother stopped addressing me by that name, as if by reverting to "Francis" she could secure for herself the fulfillment of her Americanization.
The Strahov Monastery now harbors the Museum of National Literature. Marina leads me directly into the Philosophical Hall whose ceiling is decorated with a stupendous fresco, painted by a Viennese rococo artist, depicting The Struggle of Mankind to Attain Real Wisdom . She gives me a brief historical background of the library which contains some 130,000 volumes, mostly leather bound, illminated manuscripts and incunables, as well as globes of the 17th Century, vases, portraits and medallions of Emperors Franz I and II.
As we browse around the halls lined with book cabinets that reach as high as the vaulted ceilings, Marina says: "There is many a revolution that sprang from these pages, most of them unfortunately quelled at birth. But the one we are living today is irreversible." Thus she introduces me to national heroes and personalities such as Jan Hus, the 14th Century religious reformer who was excommunicated by the Pope and was burnt on the stake in 1415 as a heretic; Jaroslav Hasek, author of The Brave Soldier Scweijk , the beloved humoristic novel about Scweijk the anti-hero during the First World War which saw the end of the humiliating Austro-Hungarian domination; and closer to us, Franz Kafka who, Marina points out with a tone of bitterness, wrote in German only, the language of the former occupying power and of the Nazis even though he died in 1924; Karel Capek, the originator of the word robot which he used in a play; and Jaroslav Seifert, the contemporary poet who more than once had decried the repressive influence of communist bureaucracy on cultural life and fell into disgrace.
We still have two hours left before museums close and I suggest that we return to Bertramka where Mozart composed his opera Don Giovanni. The rooms of the homestead are furnished in the style of Wolfgang Amadeus' time, there is even a piano on which he allegedly played. And Marina, the patriot that she is, goes on to talk about Smetana and his masterpieces My Homeland and the Moldova and about Dvorak who adapted the spirit of Czech nationalism and folk songs to his music, composing among other symphonies the Slavonic Dances .
At the airport, the following morning, we are both tense. I hate farewells but we can't afford to miss a second of each otlier's company. Holding Marina in my arms, I tell her that the year will be gone before we realize. When the announcement is made that the passengers of the CSK flight to London are to embark, she bursts into tears - I have never seen her cry before. "Yes," she finally says in a tremulous voice, adding with the sketch of a smile, "and in the autumn of 1970, I too shall be able to say 'God bless America'."
In the Soviet-built Tupolev I review those eventful weeks I have shared with Marina and reflect on the current situation Czechoslovakia finds itself in, asking myself if I could ever adhere to communism, even with a human face.

ASTORIA, Queens, August 20, 1971. It's exactly three years since the Warsaw Pact armies invaded Czechoslovakia. Those scenes on TV with the Soviet tanks rolling down Wenceslas Square amid a population infuriated and wounded in its pride still give me nightmares. Who will ever know how many people died during the street fights? There couldn't have been a more grim symbol than the self-immolation of Jan Palach. My helplessness in the face of such events make me terribly depressed. It may be selfish on my part, but not to be able to communicate with Marina is what hurts me most. Pavel was unfortunately right about the fate of his country. All in all I got three air-letters from Marina, the last one ironically bearing the postmark of August 20, 1968. That it could ever have crossed the border mystifies me to this day. In it, Marina still sounded cheerful in spite of some "somber rumors spread by certain circles - ah, such killjoys!" She also was getting involved in a number of activities connected with the implementation of the new reforms, nothing political, she stressed, and, of course, she rnissed me tremendously. She ended with this romantic note: "I have inserted your portrait in the gold-rimmed medallion you bought me and wear it as a pendant, so I can always feel your presence against my skin."

Not long after the invasion, I went to the Czech Consulate in Manhattan but they wouldn't receive me. I returned there several times and they finally deigned to listen to me. Some underling sat with me and made a few queries, after which he told me to fill in an incredibly long questionnaire. "We shall get in touch with you," he their said. But they never did and when I went back, the underling who had attended to me wasn't there anymore. I had to start the procedure all over again, but it was in vain, for they refused to issue a visa and didn't give me any valid reason. Was it because they knew I was half Czech myself and that I could be potentially dangerous? At first I thought it wiser not to mention the existence of Marina and of her folks. But seeing no results, this year I've decided to tell them the truth about our marriage prospect. To justify why I hadn't disclosed this before, I said, feeling terribly naive, that I wanted to avoid causing them any harm. They must have known, just by keeping track of the mail that I've been sending Marina during these last years, which probably got confiscated or discarded. Yet nothing I wrote could have compromised her, since I never alluded to the political situation or vented my anger towards the regime. I'm still waiting for their reply.

PRAGUE, March 1972. When I appear at the door of Marina's apartment and see the stunned looks on her parents' faces, I sense something is wrong. They let me in, peering at the stairway, in case I have been followed. Once inside, Ekaterina clutches me against her bosom, mutters "Oh Frantisek" and begins to weep in gasping sobs. Then Pavel tells me. Four months after I left for the U.S. the Secret Service came to fetch Marina who was expecting our son and locked her up, accusing her of being an agent of imperialism. They had searched, ransacked the apartment, but hadn't found anything. They claimed nevertheless that two of her fellow conspirators had given her away and produced all the evidence they needed.
Hearing all of this makes me want to regurgitate. I then settle on the couch which used to be Marina's bed and inquire about our son.
“In the cell with Marina, that was the only request they granted her," Pavel explains, adding, “She named him after your late father. Thank heaven, our Johnny is a bright and lively little boy; without him, I don't know what would have become of her."
In a surge of fury, I exclaim, “I want to see them, immediately!"
"I don't think it will be possible, Francis," Pavel says, “we ourselves are allowed to visit with her only periodically."
Pavel was right, the bastards wouldn't let me go near Marina and the child. But I don't relent and knock at the door of their office every morning and every afternoon at the opening hours. They're adamant and repeat that I have no business meddling in the internal affairs of a host country.
My visa expires after tomorrow, I can no longer contain myself and yell: 'The person you call an enemy of the State happens to be the mother of my son.” All at once, the floodgates break loose and the tears stream along my cheeks. The two officials stare at me without flinching, then the chubbier one turns toward his superior who gives him a slight nod.
Marina, my poor Marina, what have they done to you? Her face is marked with deep scars, they broke her nose, and look how painfully thin she's become. With her back hunched she looks double her age. Forcing a smile, she points to Johnny who is playing with letter blocks in the comer of the tiny cell next to the bunk. I go over to the child and lift him up. He stares at me with his big googly eyes and I whisper, “Papa, Daddy." I kiss his forehead and say in a louder tone of voice, purposely, for we are being watched: “Soon, you will both get out of here, and I'll take you to America; it's a promise."

ASTORIA, Queens, fall 1972. This long silence is excruciating. My letters remain unanswered, even those I address to Pavel and Ekaterina. Mother is very good to me, but one day as I was in a terrible mood and talked to her curtly, she blurted out: “Why did you have to go to that goddamn country? I had warned you. But you're so pigheaded. These communists are not human. Look in what a fix you've put us!" She then became hysterical and I had to calm her down. Upon my suggestion, we went out to Nikos', a Greek restaurant five blocks away from our apartment building. Mother loves their lamb pilaw and desserts, especially their bakhlavas and Kadaiffs.

I'm distraught: Marina is dead, DEAD. She has allegedly succumbed to bronchial pneumonia. The murderers! Eyes blurred, I reread Pavel's letter for the umpteenth time, as if behind the words a message were hidden which I somehow have to decode. Try as I may, I end up being more confused. A terrifying thought crosses my mind: Did they torture her because of my visit and what I said? Were they afraid that I would appeal to Amnesty International as I threatened - it slipped out of my tongue, I was so enraged - and that Marina, once freed, would denounce them?
Again, I peruse Pavel's concluding paragraph which by now is engraved in my memory: "Our greatest consolation in all this sadness, and we are indeed grateful to the authorities for it, is little Johnny's presence with us. In spite of everything, he has a jolly disposition, so please don't worry for him. No one can replace a mother, but he is still very young and we believe he will be happy with us..." Because of their censorship and for Johnny's well-being, Pavel had to be "grateful to the authorities." Ha, I could kill them!
I sent Pavel a cable then a letter. In vain! But the worst is that at the Consulate they refuse to grant me a visa, pretending I've made up the whole story. This time I do listen to Mother and don't flare up in front of them. "Think first of little Johnny and of your in-laws," she says. "Let things cool off for awhile, you don't want them to be harassed any more than they have been." I shall arm myself with patience and approach them again and again, a thousand times if necessary, until they yield.

VIENNA, Austria, spring 1974. I couldn't believe my eyes when I recognized Marina's handwriting on the envelope last week in Astoria. I had finally given up all hope of ever seeing my little Johnny or Pavel and Ekaterina. Then in May, last year, I met this wonderful girl, Candice who has now become my wife and knows all about the tragedy.
I called Marina immediately - she had included her telephone number - expressing my amazement and delight to learn that she was alive and well and, of course, I couldn't conceal the fact that I was now married. After an uneasy silence Marina said: "When could you come to Vienna, both of you? I shall send you the tickets and you'll be our guests. I know you're dying to see Johnny and Hans, too, wishes to meet you."
"What a twist of fate!" I say to myself with a knot in my throat as the taxi stops in the driveway of an ltalianated mansion surrounded by a lush park with twin pools and sculptured fountains outside Vienna. All along the ride, I haven't released my grip on Candice's hands, lest my soul should escape.
I have never seen Marina so radiant and beautiful. With that gray and blue silk chiffon dress, the pink Hermès scarf and those black suede shoes, she could pass for a high-fashion model.
'When Hans learned what happened to me, after your visit in Prague, he notified the authorities and threatened to cease all business relations with Czechoslovakia if they didn't release me and Johnny. They agreed only upon the condition that I never disclose what I had gone through. That is why my parents lied to you. And he saved us. So here I am, after the plastic surgery, Mrs. Hans Klotz. Johnny will be back from school in an hour..."

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 11.11.2009

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