Adventures with Czech George: The Story of a Very Special Friendship

© 2013 Mike Brown. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored on a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the copyright owner. Mike Brown is hereby identified as author of this work in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/02/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-8829-8 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Cover photograph: George and the author in Scotland.

CONTENTS

1 An accident at Lake Orlich

2 Our friend George

3 Things improve at Lake Orlich

4 August 1968

5 Czechoslovakia and Communism

6 Surviving the new regime

7 George and Zdena come to Britain

8 We 20 behind the Iron Curtaain

9 The Family Home at Hloubetin

10 Prague in 1970

11 A bit of Czech history

12 We make some trips to the country

13 Our second trip to Prague

14 The Years without George

15 Hard times in Czechoslovakia

16 The Velvet Revolution

17 Friends Reunited

18 Return to Czechoslovakia

19 Skiing in Trutnov

20 George in Britain

21 Teaching in Trutnov

22 Alone in Trutnov

23 Alone in Prague

24 Horsky Hotel

25 October 1998

26 An expensive lesson in almonds

27 Journey to Croatia

28 All Aboard

29 Monikas party

30 It’s twenty years since the Velvet Revolution

31 Some conclusions

Appendix A

Appendix B

Appendix C

Appendix D

Appendix E

For Alison

Who shared in the adventures

Just before the accident.

Zvikov Castle, Lake Orlich

1 An accident at Lake Orlich

THE OTHER EVENING, our friend George called from Prague. As usual, the phone made his Czech accent sound flat and unemotional. ‘Michael. I need to ask you. How is your knee?’

‘Oh, it’s terrible, George. Really painful.’ Then I relented. ‘No. Not really. It’s getting better all the time. Soon it will be one hundred percent.’

Privately, I was rather less sanguine. My knee was improving … slowly. But it was three months since the sailing accident on Lake Orlich, and it still bloody hurt!

July 27th, 2009. It wasn’t the best of starts to our sailing trip. First we had to carry all the provisions from the car to the boat down a steep and rocky bank. ‘We’ meant George, Monika, their four year old twins, myself and Alison, my wife. We then discovered that the recent rains had raised the water level in the lake, and the planks connecting the jetty to the bank had floated away. So it was off with shoes and socks, and a spot of uncomfortable wading. ‘Never had to do this before,’ George said. ‘Most unusual.’ So we were a bit late casting off, before heading south down the lake.

Probably I should have feared the worst when, the previous evening, George said, ‘Michael. This boat trip might be a little bit sporting’. After all, I have known George since 1968, and things have been known to go ‘a little bit wrong’ when we’re sharing an adventure. Usually, ‘little bit sporting’ is a Czech euphemism for ‘highly dangerous’. George forgets that I’m twelve years older than he is, and, at sixty seven, not nearly as agile as we both think I am. Years ago I could have coped with the sudden emergencies. Now it’s a bit more difficult.

Nevertheless, two hours later, when George, steering the twenty foot yacht towards the thickly wooded shore of Lake Orlich, ordered me to climb along the deck to the bow, I obeyed without question. Awkwardly clinging to a succession of ropes, I managed to step over the large obstacle of Ronnie, the golden retriever, and reach the front of the boat.

‘Tell me when we are at the bank,’ George shouted. Other than that I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing perched precariously on the prow

‘Ten feet,’ I called back. ‘Five feet.’ Then ‘Almost there.’

‘Now Michael. Jump. Quickly.’

I almost refused. The bank six feet below me was uneven, muddy and studded with rocks. But obedience to a George command is almost automatic. I jumped for the bank, caught my foot on the rail, twisted in mid air, and landed heavily on my back. There was a horrified shriek from Alison. A concerned ‘Oh Michael,’ from George.

For a moment, I thought I might be seriously injured. The twist had given my knee a savage wrench. There was pain. And shock. Mud on my back. And a cut where my arm had struck a rock. Slowly I got up, and gingerly tried to flex my knee. It hurt a lot. While the others moored the boat, I stood there feeling wounded, very stupid, and slightly sick.

I expected my knee to swell up like a balloon, and become completely immobile. Fortunately it didn’t, and I was able to limp my way around the tour of Castle Orlich with George, Alison and the twins. But today’s adventure wasn’t over yet. Not by a long chalk!

After the tour, George’s wife, Monika, joined us. We sat in the hot Czech sun on the terrace of the nearby restaurant, drinking Czech beer, and waving away the occasional wasp. Then the sky went dark, thunder crashed overhead, rain fell in torrents, and we took refuge inside. By now I was shivering with cold, and probably delayed shock. The only remedy was to order a massive plate of goulash and dumplings (Czech dumplings are white, circular and stodgy), and wolf it down.

Back at the yacht, I managed to inch my way up the ladder and along the deck. We sailed round the headland to find a mooring for the night. It was another rocky, steep and inhospitable place. Somewhere at the top of this long slope, with its thick vegetation of bushes and trees, and muddy, hardly discernible path, we would find the small hotel where Alison and I were booked in for the night, while George and his family slept on the boat.

To get to the hotel, we had to stagger up the slippery route with our overnight bags, and my stiffening leg. The first tree trunk we grabbed for support turned out to be protected by viscious hand-lacerating spikes. Not a good start. We got to the top eventually. But I was to spend much of the night wondering how I was going to make it down again in the morning.

The others joined us for the evening meal at the hotel. At one stage, as I was tucking into pork schnitzel and chips, washed down with Czech beer, Monika confided in me. ‘George only asked you to land the boat so you would have something to do.’ That didn’t really make me feel a whole lot better about my accident.

But then George made a mistake in his English, and that cheered me up no end. He told us there were ticks in the undergrowth of the Bohemian forest, and that it was very important for us to inspect each other at bed time. ‘Check Alison for tits,’ he said. When we’d finished laughing, we explained the difference

Then, with the rain pouring down again, they set off back to the boat in the dark. The twins had their own little nap sacks, and small torches strapped to their foreheads. We thought of them struggling back down the muddy path, and imagined how difficult it must have been. But I expect they took it in their stride. George has had six children altogether. Admirably, he has tried to teach them all the invaluable lessons of survival and self-reliance.

2 Our friend George

PERHAPS HALF A DOZEN TIMES A YEAR, George will ring us from Prague. The conversation always starts: ‘Hello, Michael. George speaking.’ On the phone, his carefully-controlled accent sounds stilted. It is a tone devoid of emotion, making it hard to tell whether he is happy or sad.

In the spring of 2005, one call was particularly memorable. ‘I am ringing to say the twins are now in this world,’ George said. ‘A boy and a girl.’

‘That’s wonderful, George.’ I knew that Alison would expect me to know all the important details. ‘How heavy are the babies?’

‘The boy is just over two thousand and five hundred grams.’

I wonder how many pounds that is. Desperately, as George continues, I start the mental calculations.

‘The girl is a little bit not so heavy.’

‘And what are their names?’

George tells me. Both the Czech names (Barbora and Borec) and the English equivalents. ‘You and Alison must come to see the babies soon.’

‘Perhaps later in the year,’ I reply. And I know that we will. Either in Prague. Or more likely, in Vienna, where George has been working recently.

I have to say that we have never had a boring holiday with George. His favourite word is ‘special’. In the early days he pronounced it ‘spatial’. He just has to say, ‘Tomorrow we make some special trip,’ and exciting stuff happens. It reminds me of the ancient Chinese curse: ‘May you live in interesting times.’ Or perhaps that humorous misquotation from Kipling. ‘If you can keep your head, while all around are losing theirs. Then the real seriousness of the situation has certainly escaped you.’

We first met George in August 1968, which makes him our oldest mutual friend. In Czech, his name is actually ‘Jiri’. But he introduced himself to us as ‘George’. I think it suits him. Saint George, the slayer of dragons, is well known in the Czech Republic, and one of George’s heroes is the

15th Century king, George of Podebrady, the leader of the protestant rebel Hussites. On one of our expeditions, we were taken on a detour through the town of Podebrady, just to see the statue of the king.

Since 1968, George and his country have gone through many dramatic changes. It has been a roller-coaster of a ride. George has been married twice. First to Helena. And now to Monika. Essentially he has fathered three separate families. Two girls were born in Communist Czechoslovakia. Two boys were born in Austria after George and Helena had fled to the West. The recent twins (one of each variety) were born in Austria, but now live with George and Monika back in the old family home in Prague.

Understandably, George hates the Russians and loves America. The only time I’ve seriously annoyed him was when I suggested that the USA does not always act from the purest of motives. George made it very clear that, in his opinion, if it hadn’t been for America, millions of people would still be living under the Soviet yoke in Europe. After the turbulence he has experienced in his own life I can quite understand his feelings.

3 Things improve at Lake Orlich

BACK TO JULY 2009. The next morning the sun was shining. Alison and I made it down the slope to the boat. Slowly. Painfully. But safely. Later, I found out that, just around the corner, there was a flight of stone steps leading up to the hotel. I did wonder why we hadn’t used them. But then George moves in mysterious ways. That’s part of the fun. And it always works out all right in the end.

George was cleaning up after the rain. He has a very busy life. Then he took the twins ‘swimming’ off the stern. Not so much swimming, as giving them a natural wash while they clung on to him and the rope. Ronnie went in too. He loves water. George had to haul him back into the boat. Ronnie is a very clean and well-kept animal. But he does smell of dog, and swimming tends to strengthen the aroma.

For the next two hours we sailed south. The sun came out. We ate breakfast. Drank beer. It was idyllic. For some reason, the wooded hillsides and deserted arms of the lake made me think of the New Hebrides, and early explorers like Captain Cook who were never sure if the forests might conceal hostile tribes. George put me in charge of the tiller. Another ploy to give me something to do? There wasn’t enough wind for the sails. So much of the time we puttered along on the engine.

Castle Zvikov stands on a high and narrow peninsula at the confluence of the Vltava and Otava Rivers. Before the Vltava was dammed to form Lake Orlich, the gorge must have been even more spectacular than it is now. In deference to my injury, George was going to drop us off here, before sailing on to find a mooring around the bend in the Otava.

As we approached the jetty where the regular cruiser docks, I stooped to put on my trainers. With a sudden jolt of pain, my lower back locked solid. A combination of yesterday’s tumble, struggling up and down the forest track, and steering the boat had taken its toll. To the curious gaze of a dozen Czech tourists on the steps above, I shuffled along the deck of the boat, and was helped by George and Alison on to the dock. I could hardly lift each leg

over the low rail. As George sailed away, I sank to my hands and knees, and attempted a few gentle cat arches, an exercise learnt at