Chapter 6: Who is Pavel?

Chapter 6: Who is Pavel?

The old man drank some water and looked up.

‘Pavel,’ he said. ‘I must ask you to look at this photo.’ He put his hand in his pocket and took out a photograph of a young woman. ‘Do you know this woman?’

‘Yes,’ said Pavel. ‘That’s a photo of my mother, Lenka.

She died when I was very young. But my grandmother had many photos of her, and we often looked at them.’

‘Did you live with your grandmother when you were young?’

‘Yes, I did. But how do you know all this?’

‘Because,’ said Josef, ‘Lenka was my wife.’

‘Dad, what are you saying?’ said Jan.

Josef looked at Jan. ‘My boy, don’t be angry with me. I didn’t tell you many things about your mother. Perhaps I was wrong. But I wanted to forget… not to forget your mother, only to forget that terrible night in 1957. Jan, this man Pavel is your twin brother. You can see that it’s true. Look at your faces.’

Pavel looked at Jan. ‘So, I have a brother,’ he said. ‘My grandmother never told me that.’

Jan smiled. ‘And my father - our father - never told me about a twin brother!’ He turned to Josef. ‘Dad, why didn’t you tell me?’

‘It’s a long story,’ said the old man. ‘It begins many years ago when a young man went to Prague University. He was there for seven years, and in his last year he met a beautiful young woman.’

His eyes turned to the photo.

‘She was so beautiful! Of course, the young man fell in love with her, and they got married in 1956. But things were difficult in Prague then. People were not happy and they were not free. Lenka and I, and a lot of our friends, wanted to change things. But it was dangerous work. The Russians knew about us and they watched us all the time. Then you two boys were born on a wonderful day in June 1957.’

‘But you went away,’ Pavel said angrily. ‘Your wife died, and you left the country. You went away to England and began a new life. You didn’t write, you didn’t telephone. You weren’t interested in me - your son!’

Josef’s face was very sad. ‘Pavel,’ he said. ‘I thought you were dead. Look. I must show you something.’ From behind the photo of his wife, he took out a letter, and gave it to Pavel.

The letter was old and yellow. Pavel opened it and began to read. The letter was in Czech, and it was his grandmother’s writing.

I write to tell you, Josef, that your wife is dead. On Christmas night, the guards shot her on the road at the border. She carried Pavel - your baby son, and my grandson - on her back, and the guards shot him too. Your wife, and your son, are dead. Your ‘friends’ came and told me yesterday.

You have Jan, and a new life in England. And what do I have? Nothing. You took one grandson away from me, and now my daughter and little Pavel are dead - because of you. Don’t write to me, and don’t come back to Prague. I never want to see you or hear from you again.

Stanislava

Slowly, Pavel put the letter down. ‘I understand now,’ he said quietly. ‘What a terrible letter! How could she do that to you… and to me?’

‘Stanislava loved her daughter very much,’ Josef said sadly. ‘She loved you, too, and didn’t want to lose you. I see that now. But she never liked me. And after that letter, how could I go back to Prague? You were dead, Lenka was dead…’ He put his face in his hands.

The room was very quiet. Then Pavel put his hand on his father’s arm. ‘Stanislava is dead now,’ he said. ‘You and I can begin again…’ He smiled. ‘And learn to be father and son.’

Josef’s face was wet with tears. He put his hand over Pavel’s hand and smiled back at him, but he could not speak. Now there were tears in everybody’s eyes.

After a minute or two Jan said, ‘Dad, I know it’s difficult for you. But can you tell us about that Christmas in 1957? How did it all happen? I’d like to know…’

‘Yes,’ said his father. ‘You, and Pavel, must know.’ He turned to Pavel. ‘But what did Stanislava tell you?’

‘Very little,’ Pavel said. ‘She never wanted to talk about it. She told me that my mother died in hospital. And you went away to England. That was all.’

‘I can understand that,’ said Josef. ‘Poor Stanislava! She lost her daughter, because of me. And she never liked our work for freedom, you see. She didn’t understand. She just wanted a quiet family life.’

‘Christmas 1957…’ said Jan.

‘Yes,’ said Josef. ‘In October and November of that year things got more and more dangerous for Lenka and me. Our friends told us: “Leave, before the Russians get you. Get away to Austria, and then to England.” We didn’t want to leave Czechoslovakia, of course; it was our home. But we couldn’t stay. Our friends helped us, and Jan and I got across the border on the day before Christmas, December the 24th. It was night. There was no moon, and we got to Austria all right through the fields and the snow. But the next night…’

‘December the 25th,’ said Pavel. ‘My grandmother told me the day. My mother died in a hospital bed in Prague, she said.’

‘Lenka died in the snow, on the road at the border,’ Josef said. ‘She was so near Austria… so near us… with you, Pavel, on her back…’

The old man’s voice stopped, and again, he put his head in his hands.