TROUBLE…

Jaroslav Bálek

Contens

I. It's beautiful in the pub

II. 1960s

III.The arrival of foreign troops and the end of studies

IV. In the army

V. To work and even to the communist party?

VI. The fall of comunism

VII. The troubles of old age

I. It's beautiful in the pub

I am sitting in an almost empty pub, thinking about life. Actually, I have been going to pubs my whole long life. It started in my childhood, when I used to go to the cottage with my parents on Sundays. And on the way back, after exhausting work in the garden, they would have a beer or two at the U Smolíků restaurant at the Klánovice train station. I didn't enjoy it there very much and wanted to go home. So, to keep me quiet, they would order me lemonade and sometimes chocolate. Sometimes even cheese and salami. Well, today that probably wouldn't be anything special, and pubs probably don't even serve that combination anymore, but in the post-war period it was something.

And my first beer in a pub! It was an experience I still remember today. I was about fifteen at the time, and my cousin, who was a year older, and I went to visit our uncle at work. He was a stoker at Madeta in Tábor. It was snack time, around ten in the morning, and right across from the factory was a classic pub that was just opening. When we walked in, it was like a fairy tale to me. A large empty room, no one else there but us, clean tablecloths on the tables, which, it seemed to me, smelled wonderful, as did the fresh, soft rolls lying in baskets on all the tables. Then my uncle ordered tripe soup, which also smelled wonderful. Although I don't have a particularly keen sense of smell, at that moment I could smell a mixture of three aromas that did not overpower each other, as if a woman had put on three different perfumes, but rather complemented each other, creating what is often referred to today as a synergy.

The tripe soup lived up to its aroma and tasted really good. And with it, a properly chilled and frosty beer. The pub was still empty, probably because everyone was working hard, so we could talk about life in peace. Since then, I have liked empty pubs where no one disturbs you and where you can meditate in peace; perhaps Catholics do something similar in an empty church. On the other hand, pubs where strangers sit down next to you and constantly talk to you, or where there is a queue of people waiting for you to pay so they can sit down, are not for me.

Similarly, I remember, when I was a little older, how another uncle of mine, who was also my godfather, celebrated a milestone birthday in a restaurant. When everyone was leaving, he looked at me and said, "Come on, let's have some Georgian cognac together." How could you not love godfathers like that! Just to remind you, today this cognac is probably hard to find, but in the days of socialism it was not such an unusual and expensive drink. If you ask young people in our atheist country today who a godfather is, they will probably answer that it is the boss of the mafia or some other criminal group. Older people or Catholics will know that it is a person who participates in baptism and, according to traditional concepts, takes on certain obligations towards the child and his or her family. For example, that they will take care of the child if they lose their parents, help with their upbringing, be their friend, and advise them. However, such godparenthood has gradually become more or less formal, because in the event of the loss of parents, care is already provided to a certain extent by the state. Nevertheless, I think it's good to have a godfather, and not just so that they pay for a drink.

It is interesting that men remember such events for the rest of their lives, while they usually quickly forget most of the gifts they receive. It is probably different for women. Why do they remember such things? Who knows. Perhaps because it was unusual, surprising, maybe even a little shocking, and it was the first time!

In a pub, you learn things you wouldn't learn elsewhere; people confide in you things they wouldn't otherwise confide in anyone. In the days before the internet, craftsmen would gather there; later, when people started doing business and many didn't have offices, deals were made and contracts were signed there.

Cafés had a slightly different function, serving as a kind of internet server, because all domestic and some foreign newspapers were available there. My father was a great lover of cafés, but I didn't inherit that from him; cafés never grew on me. Probably because I prefer draft beer to coffee. These days, I try to enjoy it because this may be one of my last visits to a pub. I have diabetes, trouble walking, prostate problems, my liver can't take much more, and most of my friends can only meditate in heaven. Today, there are also many foreign restaurants here, where the food may be good, but they usually don't know how to pour beer properly and don't even have the right tap.

Well, I've experienced a lot in my long life in pubs, different prices, different foods, different opinions and attitudes. The lives of many people may sometimes seem completely unbelievable and incomprehensible to us, but that is only when we look at them from a distance without knowing the context and apparent details. But when we get to know them better, suddenly everything can seem understandable and believable.

But let's start from the beginning, for example with my favorite card game, Mariáš.

Mariáš is a game that is almost unknown today, but a few years ago, when there was no television or internet, it was the main activity for many men in the evenings. It was a short game that required a little thought, but not too much, and was played for money, but not too much. And, of course, people drank while playing, sometimes heavily, because for every renonc (for those unfamiliar with the term, it means playing a card against the rules), everyone had to pay for a shot, and the longer the game went on, the more renonc there were, and thus the more shots. In the past, liquor was relatively cheap, so it wasn't difficult to comply with this rule. However, with today's prices of hard alcohol, this could in some cases represent a significant drain on the family budget.

And what was important was that the game was played in a pub. For many men, a pub is something like a hospital where they can recover very quickly, or a church where they can strengthen themselves mentally. They escape from the daily cycle of duties and various tasks. They get rid of stress, complain, discuss their troubles and loves. They clear their heads of pressures and bad feelings. They recharge and regain the energy that everyday stress takes away. And some are convinced that drinking enough fluids will flush a lot of negativity out of their bodies and give them new strength. Women will probably never understand this, as they generally consider the time men spend there to be completely wasted, time that could be spent on far more useful things.

In my opinion, there are roughly two types of men who go to the pub. One of them lives alone at home, has no one to talk to, so he goes there to talk, likes to sit down with someone, preferably someone who is also alone, and doesn't shut up. The other lives in a household full of people and goes there for silence, choosing an empty table and trying either to meditate in peace or, on the contrary, not to think about anything at all. It's a disaster when these two types meet, then it's a massacre. They also go at different times of the day. For example, men who are already retired and whose wives are still working like to visit these establishments in the morning so that the alcohol can wear off and they can be good husbands at home in the evening.

In the past, playing Mariáš was also a step towards a certain social recognition; for example, playing it with a priest or a large landowner used to mean something in the village hierarchy. Many longed for it and usually strove for it in vain.

Later, for example, the first secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia and President of the Republic, Antonín Novotný, was a great Mariáš player. It was said that during his reign, an important criterion of real influence was whether or not someone belonged to the close-knit group that played Mariáš with him. In front of his vacation home stood a huge brewery barrel with a chair and table inside. And it was there that he played the game with his friends on Sundays. The regional party secretary who played there could sometimes have far greater influence than, say, a higher-ranking secretary of the Central Committee who did not play there. Even some seemingly ordinary and insignificant party apparatchiks who played there could gain considerable influence. Novotný himself was said to have been very accommodating towards them. The fact was that within the party apparatus itself, the formal hierarchy of individuals was by no means always decisive. It was said of some comrades that when you talked to them, it was like talking in Moscow. Knowing who they were was considered more important for practical party life than having a doctorate from the College of Political Science.

The importance of mariáš in terms of contacts and influence was, of course, significant even at lower levels than the presidential one. For example, those who played mariáš with the director were also important. But this also applied to culture. It is well known that famous bandleaders accompanying even more famous singers used to play mariáš with influential party officials in order to achieve optimal conditions for their development.

And Mariáš isn't such a stupid game as it might seem at first glance today. It can teach us a lot about life. In the game, everyone gets some cards, some better, some worse. Some are at an advantage, others at a disadvantage, just like in life. There is simply no such thing as fairness; not everyone can have good cards. But it is important to learn to play with what you have and not just wait for the next game. Who knows what cards I will get then. Look at what I've been dealt and do my best to play what I can. Play my hand to win with what I have in my hand. After all, everyone can feel good in life regardless of what they were dealt at the beginning of the game. You just need to realize that and not give up. If you want to win, you sometimes have to take risks, and it's certainly the same in life. On the other hand, if defeat is inevitable, admit it, fold your cards, and start a new game that will lead to victory later. Mariáš is a game, but life is also a game, so we mustn't take it too seriously. In addition, it is important that it connects you with other individuals, teaches you to seek and find allies and teammates, and also to see your enemies. It also requires concentration on the present moment, but also the ability to quickly switch to inevitable conversation and then back again. To win, you have to think and act. Without action, there is no victory.

I also sometimes met a group of young people in the pub who enjoyed playing Mariáš. This was quite unusual, as it was more of an entertainment for older generations, while young people preferred the company of women or work and career. But that's how it was, they were probably friends and exchanged views on life in the pub. There were four of them and I was the fifth. They played, and I just watched and listened, and over time I would fill in when someone was sick or away. Sometimes it was just for a few moments when one of the players had to go to the bathroom. They met like this from their student years until retirement age. I was a little older than them, so sometimes with a smile, but sometimes with anger, I listened to their opinions, which changed over the years, sometimes quite radically. It was probably due to their advancing age. It's probably different when you're young and single, different when you're older and have to support a family, and different again when you're retired, when you have or don't have life experience, when the political system is democracy or totalitarianism. But more on that later.

From the second half of the 1960s, we used to meet in a pub, which at the time was called a fourth-price-group restaurant. Although it wasn't really a restaurant, because the only food available was salami, cheese, utopenec (a type of sausage) and similar snacks. Today, such pubs probably no longer exist, except perhaps in some villages. They have been replaced by various KFCs, McDonald's, Chinese and Vietnamese restaurants. However, unlike these establishments, the beer there was very good and also quite cheap. Today, the difference between the price of draft and bottled beer is sometimes as much as fourfold. Back then, draft beer cost the same as bottled beer. And because draft beer, as all beer drinkers will confirm, is much tastier than bottled beer in our country—I say in our country because in some exotic countries it is often the opposite—we used to go to the nearest restaurant with a jug to get beer, which is probably unheard of today. This gave children the opportunity to have a little drink, but only a little, so that their parents wouldn't notice.

Cigarettes were also very cheap. In this respect, our students had an advantage over students in Western countries, where cigarettes were quite expensive, so young people had to buy tobacco and roll their own cigarettes, and so they were a little envious of ours. And our student, on the other hand, was glad that when he went to the West, he didn't have any money, but he took cigarettes with him, so at least he could offer them and enjoy a kind of appreciation and gratitude. People smoked happily in pubs. And if it was later claimed that not smoking was normal, then at that time it was normal to smoke. It was a time perhaps influenced by the war and post-war developments, and certainly also by films, where it was impossible to imagine a hero without a lit cigarette. Practically everyone smoked at home, at work, and at meetings, including youth meetings. Unlike in some other countries, however, smoking was not allowed in cinemas, for example.

And when it came to food, if you didn't want to go to the cafeteria for dinner for 2.60 CZK and paid a little extra, you could have a steak tartare or a real English steak, which was about two crowns more expensive, and if you wanted to save a few crowns, you could have a real Hungarian sausage with a shot of original Russian vodka, or enjoy a real Cuban cigar. Of course, those cigars could make you sick. I remember as a child smoking one of those strong cigars with my friends and feeling really sick. Well, if we had known how much they would cost one day, we might have smoked more of them despite the health problems.

The group of Mariáš players consisted of Josef, Jiří, Vláďa, and Olda. Mariáš can be played with any number of players. When I was a child and my friends didn't come, the two of us played a game called lízaný mariáš. Well, it wasn't much fun. Karel Poláček wrote that it is good for retired old married couples or for convicts spending their last night before execution with their guard. On the one hand, this is apt, but on the other hand, I would probably spend my last night differently, but who knows. Neither my group nor I grew fond of four-player mariáš. It is based more on chance, and gamblers say with a certain contempt that it can be played successfully on a train to shorten the journey. That leaves mariáš for three, which has a chosen or bid variant. We chose the chosen mariáš, although die-hard gamblers and mariáš lovers usually prefer the bid variant and say that the chosen one is boring because it is not possible to influence the game significantly. I read somewhere that it's like stripping a blossoming tree of its entire crown and leaving only a bare stump. And the fact that there were four players didn't matter at all, because it's popular to play with three, with one player always taking a break and getting a moment's rest.

Josef was the son of a general in the socialist army and inherited his love of the military from his father. He was named Josef after Joseph Stalin. This was certainly influenced by the fact that he was born shortly after the end of the war, at a time of general euphoria. Today, this may seem absurd to us. Stalin is usually considered a negative figure, a criminal, but in the post-war period, things were different. He was spoken of as a genius, a great leader, a military commander, and an inspirer. He was seen as the successor to Marx, the leader of the Great October Socialist Revolution, the founder of the world's first socialist state, and the victor over fascism in World War II. He was seen as the liberator of our homeland and the best friend of our people, the savior of our nations from extinction, the man who brought us independence and freedom. The atmosphere of the time was reflected in the construction of the Stalin Monument in Prague's Letná Park, which was the largest group sculpture in Europe and reportedly the largest Stalin monument in the world. It was the most expensive and perhaps also the most bizarre sculpture in Europe. Construction began in 1949, but the actual work did not start until 1952. The sculpture was fifteen and a half meters high, twelve meters wide, and twenty-two meters long, and was completed and ceremoniously unveiled in 1955. Similar to the construction of the National Theater, stones from all regions and historically important places, such as Ležáky, the basilica in Velehrad, and Říp, were brought to the foundations. We used to walk around the monument on our way to football matches at Letná until 1962, when it was demolished. The architect of the design was Jiří Štursa, who also worked on the project for the T. G. Masaryk monument in the same place before the war. In this context, it should be noted that the history of building monuments on the Letná Plain has a long tradition. Even during the Austrian monarchy, Prague citizens were considering the idea of erecting a statue of the old monarch there. During the First Republic, a competition was held for a monument to President Masaryk. During the Second Republic, Letná was discussed as a suitable location for a monument to Hácha. It seems that efforts to build monuments to statesmen and politicians are quite widespread in our country.

Many men want to be something specific from an early age. Josef wanted to be a soldier or a military historian. For Christmas, he wanted tin soldiers, and his favorite toys were tanks and various aircraft, especially bombers. He also liked to dress up in military uniforms and march around the apartment in them, and especially in the garden, where he had more space. He spent his free time reading history books about various battles. He also tried to reenact some of the great battles at home. Josef's upbringing was strict, especially on the part of his father, who taught him discipline and obedience. Although he liked the army and military affairs and admired his father and uncle, who was also a soldier, Josef was more inclined towards history, but of course military history. He was used to obeying, so he joined the army on his father's orders. But I think that this fulfilled his lifelong dream. He graduated from military high school in Nitra and then joined a military unit in Písek. When he was not on duty, he would leave for Prague on Friday and return to Písek on Monday morning.

His father fought on the Eastern Front and made his way from Buzuluk to Prague. During the war, my uncle was in the RAF, the famous Royal Air Force, part of the British armed forces. So a military disposition was already in the family. Given their wartime involvement, his father had a solid career ahead of him, while his uncle faced difficulties. After the reorganization of the army in 1947, the number of troops was reduced and a number of units were disbanded. After February 1948, more than half of the officers were forced to leave the army, and soldiers began to be persecuted. In 1950, the army underwent a fundamental reorganization based on the Soviet model. So my uncle also left the army and made a living doing odd jobs.

"You're lucky," we said to Josef. "You have support because your father fought in the Soviet Union."

But Josef objected: "It may seem that being a soldier on the Eastern Front, in the Soviet Union, a friendly country, brings certain advantages. But that's not necessarily the case. Those who weren't there, or who collaborated with the Germans, may conspire against you because they can't admit their disadvantage. It's like when someone is smart, all the idiots gang up on him, and he has to hide the fact that he's smart and, on the contrary, make it clear to those idiots that they are smarter. It was said of Khrushchev that in order to survive under Stalin, he had to play the fool and even dance the Cossack dance. But then he got his revenge on Stalin with interest. Here's a lesson for when you start a new job. Don't show that you're too smart, or you'll make a lot of enemies. Pretend to be stupid, and everyone will love you. They'll write in your performance review, "He is popular among his colleagues." But of course, don't overdo it. When you come up with something clever, be modest, or emphasize that the team or your boss contributed to it, and so on. Above all, don't let your bosses know that you're smarter than they are. It doesn't hurt to pretend that you admire them and think they're geniuses.

Jiří also had a lifelong dream of pursuing a certain profession since childhood, in his case it was to become a railwayman. His greatest childhood experience was unwrapping a box of Christmas presents containing train tracks and a toy train. He was completely fascinated by it. From then on, he didn't want to do anything else. He was captivated by train rides. During his childhood, smoke billowed from the locomotives' chimneys and a cloud of sparks flew around, which was especially interesting during nighttime rides. In the past, vendors would run up to trains at stations and offer passengers beer, lemonade, hot dogs, and even sweets through the windows. He liked to watch them and hoped that his parents would buy him something. In the past, you could watch nature from the windows, and he liked to sit facing the direction of travel so that he could turn around if he saw something beautiful or interesting. Today, you look at ugly fences, which are horrible, and you wonder how much money they must have cost! In the compartment, you could chat and get to know people, and that's what people did. There was no television or internet back then, so Jiří looked forward to the stories told by older ladies, which sometimes had a touch of mystery and supernatural events. Or he could chat with the girls. Smokers in the smoking compartment could smoke in peace. And on longer journeys, there were great dining cars where you could have a drink in peace and watch the surrounding landscape. Later, as a student and then as a working man, when he left the dark pubs, which closed relatively early in those days, and still felt like having a beer, he liked to visit the third platform at the main station, where beer was served at a stand until very late. He and Josef shared a love of uniforms.

Jiří was a little older than the other card players, so he had already graduated from the University of Transport. During his studies, he spent his vacations working as an engine driver. He loved driving the speeding locomotive and watching the surrounding landscape. He would have loved to do it for the rest of his life, but his parents put a lot of pressure on him to go to college, promising that he could drive as much as he wanted afterwards. After graduation, he started working at a depot at one of Prague's train stations, where he repaired locomotives.

Vláďa and Olda were still studying at the time. That was great because the freedom that permeated society in the late 1960s also extended to higher education, with lectures and seminars being optional. The cafeterias served good, inexpensive food. There were enormous opportunities for travel. Unlike the two previous card players, they did not have a clear focus on any profession from childhood.

Vláďa basically followed in his father's footsteps and wanted to become a mechanical engineer. There was perhaps a certain analogy with Josef here, but in Vláďa's case it was more of a coincidence, and the location of the factory near his home outside Prague, where his father was also employed, certainly played a role.

II. 1960s

"And what about Dubček?"

III.The arrival of foreign troops and the end of studies

IV. In the army