According to an old Prague legend, Emperor Franz Josef used to take walks on the Charles Bridge late at night.
His hand clasped behind his back, he would walk up and down trying to soothe the heaviness in his heart and a lingering suspicion that something utterly horrible was about to befall his people. Like the children of a disgraced mother, they would soon be left at the doorstep of history and at the mercy of a madman with demonic ambitions.
My friend Wolfgang (not his real name) and I were following in those disheartening footsteps that evening.
I was walking and looking down at the frozen cobblestones of Mala Strana at the polished winter boots my friend was wearing. All of the sudden, like in a scary fairy tale, it was not his boots I was seeing but the tattered summer shoes of a young boy. Blood had been dripping over his socks designing peculiar flowers.
It was the summer after a terrible war and the little boy had been forced to march for hours, leaving behind his bedroom, his wooden toys, his schoolbooks, his sledge. He was also leaving behind everybody he had ever loved, but that was too painful to think of, so he preferred to fix his mind on the books, the sledge, the toys.
We continued to walk up the hill towards Malostranska Kavarna and the different parts of that horrible journey kept coming back to my friend’s mind like jinxed worry beads which you cannot stop reciting.
The icy coldness of the ancient stones was shooting straight through the soles of my feet and into my bones.
It would be another year before the floods hit Prague, but I was already sensing behind my back the damp embrace of the Vltava.
It had left her bed and regurgitated into Kampa all the horrible memories it had been forced to swallow for more than 50 years. Its waves shaped like spectral art deco silhouettes, high on absinth, were whispering into my ears how futile it is to try to forget the road that had taken us to hell and back.
Will we ever be able to leave that road? The waves-turned-art-deco-sorceresses were vomiting obscene laughs: “Once touched by evil …”
This is why I liked walking at night with my friend Wolfgang. Evil had touched him but the light his round face emanated was as comforting as the Moravian spring sun that used to illuminate his bedroom, his wooden toys, his school books.
He did not seem to have to wrestle with the horrible fear that Prague nightmares sprinkle over your bed at night, sending you tumbling into a world where there is no comfort, no parental love, no hope, no past or future only the sound of marching boots and glacial darkness.
He was not afraid to look at the faces of the passengers in a crowded Prague tram. They would not remind him of the obscene glow hatred had so skilfully painted on other people’s faces.
We were almost at the top of Nerudova, so I asked Wolfgang what he thought had made the difference. I needed to hear about the secret that can make you deaf to the alluring murmur of revenge.
He stopped and turned around “I can feel their pain.”
I kept walking until I reached the Castle, the city was at my feet wrapped in its milky winter sleep. I knew that night my Prague nightmares and their gory goons would not visit me. A little boy from Moravia and his sledge were guarding me.
Many thanks to my friend Daneeta for giving me the courage to write this story.
Photo: thanks to EEIP
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Your touching story maked me almost ashamed of the carefree wonderful time I had whilst on assignment in Prague earlier this year. It brought back some “Prague memories to NOT forget”. For a different perspective on the city including photos: Czech it out!
Looking forward to EuroComm!
Suzanne
Suzanne, the pictures of Prague are wonderful. Congratulations! They really capture the spirit of the city.
Looking forward to seeing you in Barcelona!
Silvia