Sneak Peek
Prague
November 18, 1989
A sharp wind pulled at Katerina’s autumn yellow hair that she had pinned up before leaving the house. Her boys had been distracted by the cartoons on the television, and her husband was not due home until late. No one would know that she had gone out. A shiver coursed through her body, but it wasn’t from the chill in the air. Katerina picked up her pace through the darkening downtown streets of Prague.
The daytime clung to the horizon, coloring the clouds a muted gold. In moments the sun would dip below the city roofs of the historic district and she would be shrouded in shadow. Most people were obeying curfew, choosing to stay tucked away in houses and apartments for the night. Instead of jovial music and warm lights, vacant tables filled beer gardens all around the Soviet-occupied capital. But no one would be missing these Czech traditions tonight. Students were amassing around Wenceslas Square. And the tension between occupiers and occupied was as tight as a coil.
Katerina kept pushing further into the heart of the city, past shuttered windows and bolted front doors. Danger was ever present, but she had to keep moving. Evening mass was about to start at St. Ignatius.
Three sets of double wooden doors, taller than any man, were framed by stone arches at the church face. A chilly damp hung in the enclosed space around the entrance where the last of the day’s sunlight could not reach. A swoosh of air exhaled from the building when Katerina opened the door to the church. A face with lines so deep that it seemed like invisible strings were pulling down at the woman’s skin turned to look at Katerina from a pew. The devout men and women in attendance had most likely been attending evening mass at this church since before the occupation by Germany in WWII. Curfew or not, they would continue to attend under the noses of the Soviet Union’s troops just like they had under the German soldiers. The people inside this church followed a different, holy power greater than any army of men.
Katerina’s fingers dipped too deep into the holy water. And when she crossed herself, fat droplets cascaded from wet fingertips to her forehead, running down the bridge of her broad nose. As she raised her head, she spotted him off to the left in the fourth pew. The natural waves in his blond hair concealed how many times a day he ran his fingers through it. Even from the back, Katerina could see how his suit no longer contained starched creases. The man’s temperament did not project revolutionary, or even a rebellious spirit. But his words, spoken and written, had been enough to land him in jail and stir up an entire nation in civil unrest.
Katerina moved into the darkened right aisleway where she could watch Vaclav Havel and not be seen. His lips moved during the service, but he was not praying. As the congregants rose for one of the liturgical readings, she caught sight of a stubbed pencil and paper atop his knee. He was writing a speech. Katerina knew little about Vaclav other than the toxic gossip spewed by angry Committee members during the cocktail hours that she and her husband attended. The unimpressive man, bowing forward in an old church pew, defied Katerina’s expectations.
“Go in peace with the Lord.”
A well-used benediction from the minister concluded the mass. Tired faces and sagging shoulders exited historic St. Ignatius, one by one, to follow Prague's cobblestone streets home. Someone dimmed the electric lights so only the flickering candles illuminated the sanctuary. Katerina waited behind a column, breathing softly so as not to give away her position. Vaclav made his way to the left of the nave with a handful of dark-coated figures who had entered the church after the service. They seemed to become the art on the church’s walls, the darkness enfolding them until they were unseen entirely.
Katerina drew in a shaking breath, her head a bit dizzy from the shallow inhales she had allowed herself. Up the aisleway, through a passage of shadows, Katerina followed the men. Near the pulpit was the source of the glow in the sanctuary. Katerina paused to gather two white votive candles from a donation box. The wax felt tacky on the pads of her fingertips as she pressed them into the sand at the altar. These new candles stood tall above the already lit ones.
With the nave empty, Katerina spoke out her petition to God: “Bring them home to me.”
The time was now, or never. She’d arrived at the only door left to open. Her fingers recoiled at the cold metal knob. The danger of this choice stung. Anyone in Czechoslovakia, friend or foe, could be on the other side of that door. Katerina might not know these men, but undoubtedly they would be shocked to see her, the wife of the Committee Chairman. Her profile was instantly recognizable, as she and her husband frequented the national papers. The only other person in that room whose face was printed more than hers was Vaclav. But he was a national criminal, vehemently speaking out against the government Katerina felt married to.
“Anna,” Katerina whispered, “guide me.”
She pushed open the door and stepped into the light. They all stood as if an intruder had entered the room. All except Vaclav. A younger man, whose nose seemed to tremble under the weight of his thick, charcoal glasses, jumped up from his chair and fled the room. The remainder regarded Vaclav in his seat, and then Katerina, who sat in the vacated chair. Silence suffocated everyone in the room. Despite her eyes pricking, she refused to blink and let a tear out. She held the power, not because of any reason they believed, but because they were wrong about her. Especially Vaclav, who refused to even look over at her. He might not be afraid of her position or party affiliation, but he should respect her story.
A period of intense silence began, before the door was opened by the priest. He disrobed from his ceremonial garments. The Catholics in the group bowed their heads to provide him privacy; the atheists averted their eyes. Katerina watched. She needed to get to know the man who had gone to great lengths to invite her to this illegal gathering tonight.
Out of the black garments, a short-statured man adjusted his spectacles and combed through his thinning gray hair. He acted like he was in the room alone, the way he went about arranging the collar of his black turtleneck sweater and pulling up his high-hemmed trousers. The ritual was so prolonged, they were left with no choice but to breathe again in a normal rhythm.
A barrel-shaped man cleared his throat. A bright pink was appearing in his cheekbones. “Father, why is she here?”
She was thrown like a dart straight at Katerina. The men all kept their chins tilted away toward the priest. In an instant, Vaclav and Katerina’s eyes locked. There was no civility between them.
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