Lest We Forget, the Czechs liberated themselves on May 8, 1945

Posted on May 8, 2020 | Leave a comment

In tribute from my home in Italy this 75th anniversary, I say to the Czech nation, Bravo! Your fighting spirit won the battle (and the war for you), and you sacrificed so much for your freedom on May 8, 1945, which sadly lasted only three years, but you didn’t give up through 40 years of hell. You endured the Prague Spring crushing in 1968 and the worst years of communism after that. In 1989, you again emerged victorious, and I hope beyond hope that your democratic ideals not only survive, but flourish.

May 9th was the day touted as liberation day by the Soviets. The Red Army rolled into Prague on May 9th only to find that the Germans had unconditionally surrendered the day before and had signed a formal capitulation to the Czech National Council. Of course, once the Soviets took control of Czechoslovakia in 1948, that date stood for 40 years, until 1989 and the fall of communism.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

General Toussaint on his way to sign the capitulation, May 8, 1945

 

 

 

 

 

 

The capitulation signed by the CNC and General Toussaint

My late husband’s father, Prof. Otakar Machotka, was a vice-president of the Czech National Council, a conglomeration of three political parties that guided and lead the Prague Uprising from 3 May to 8 May, 1945.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CNC meeting. Otakar Machotka, second from right.

It was a bloody uprising with over 4,000 dead by the time it ended. Otakar was gone from the apartment those five days, planning, hiding, moving from building to building to avoid being captured. My husband remembers huddling with his mother and sisters in the basement of their apartment building as the fighting intensified in the their area. At one point a German tank blew a hole through the upper apartments, and to this day one can still see the outline of the hole in the plaster.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Otakar Machotka with Czech soldiers and partisans

The Czechs fought bravely and constructed huge street barricades to block the German tanks. They used cobblestones, rusted out cars parts, timber, wooden crates, huge spools of hoses, any material they could find.

Normally, my husband, Pavel Machotka, and I would be in Prague for this anniversary, as we have been at every anniversary since 1990 up until 2018. Our last May 8th celebration in Prague was in 2017, two months before my husband had a massive stroke that left him an invalid. He passed away last year on March 18, 2019. Sadly, even had he lived, we would not be able to be in Prague this year due to COVID.

Every time we went to Prague, we would visit the tomb where Pavel’s parents are buried in the National Cemetery at Vyšehrad. It is the tomb of Milada Horáková containing the remains of brave partisans and exiles from 1939-1945, and 1948-1989. Horáková was one of the bravest people in Czechoslovakia and was tried on trumped up charges of conspiracy and treason and hung for her bravery by the communists in 1950.

 

 

 

I miss you, Prague, on this day but celebrate with you in spirit!

 

 

 

 

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B&W photos are from Otakar Machotka’s book, The Prague Uprising 1945, the Protagonists’ Testimonies (Pražskě Povstání 1945, Svédectví Protagonistů), edited by Pavel Machotka, 2015. Originally published in 1965 without photos, Pavel edited the book, wrote his own chapter of memories, and re-released the book in 2015. The photos were published with the generous approval and permission of the Czech National Archives, Czech TV, and the collection of Mr. Čvančara, photographer.

 

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Unlockdown: “The Unbearable Lightness of Being”

Posted on May 5, 2020 | 11 comments

Probably one of the finest book titles ever created. I always imagined I knew how this felt; when I read the book, when I saw the movie, when I thought about the meaning. But now I really know the surreal floating, this strange being, the lightness one feels when emerging from the heaviness of isolation.

And though the lightness of emerging from two months of lockdown is liberating, it’s also terrifying, because we don’t know what awaits us out there. To go from the heaviness of responsibility (something that Beethoven insisted was necessary for his music) to the lightness of responsibility is dizzying.

When I ventured out during the lockdown to shop (once a week at most), my footsteps were heavy on the empty sidewalks, a certain duty and obligation had overtaken me. I  felt literally grounded to the pavement with a sadness of the reality. But it was real, finite if you will.

And now, to go out without getting stopped by the police between principalities, to walk into a bar (albeit with only 2 other customers at a time and you have to take your coffee outside), to venture into a park (with the proper social distancing and still wearing masks and gloves all the time) feels foreign, almost unbearable, because we’re in a liminal space, between one moment and the next. And we don’t know what’s going to happen. It’s that moment on the high dive just before you launch yourself; it’s exhilarating and scary as hell.

I find I still want to stay inside, stay safe, keep the doors and gate locked (as if that will keep the virus away), stay hidden, stay heavy with the weight of what has been our reality for over two months. And yet. I long to feel the joy of the lightness as it pulls and taunts, because it’s sensual and beautiful and liberating and amazing. And unbearable. It’s still too dark for the light, but I know we’ll get there.

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It’s a Brave New Self-World

Posted on March 19, 2020 | 6 comments

We’re facing a whole new world with the coronavirus. Everything is changing, including how we use the words self- (add your word here).

Self-quarantine started it off. If you become sick with the virus or test positive, you need to self-quarantine. Then self-isolate came in. If you think you might have the virus, or are afraid of contracting it, you need to self-isolate. Or, as I saw here in Italy about a little over a week ago, the paradigm shift in thinking that if you don’t self-isolate, you could infect others. That sea-change in thinking has probably helped more than any other persuasion to get people to stay home. And finally, a more comforting term, self-shelter, has appeared.

We already have a lot of self-words. Self-control: That’s a good one that we all hear from our parents. Self-harm: That’s not good. Neither is self-destruct. Too many rock stars in that arena. Self-pity: Ew, too much of that around. Self-exile: That conjures up visions of Siberia and endless deserts. Self-indulge: We know what that can lead to. Self-pleasure: Ah yes, we know what word that replaced. Self-induce: Hmmm, take your pick on that one. Self-denial: Some government leaders come to mind.

As we’re entering into the 10th day of self-stay-at-home-or-else here in Italy, some interesting things are happening. The need for social interaction is huge, and the Italians are hugely social. So, they’ve swung into action to ensure that “you are not alone” by singing their hearts out (or playing instruments) from windows and balconies all across the country. It’s heart-warming and giving everyone hope that we will get through this. Not to mention some amazingly fantastic singers and musicians who would otherwise never have been discovered.

Closer to home…here comes some self-disclosure. I’ve been in a quasi self-isolation for three years. My husband had a massive stroke in 2017 that left him an invalid. My whole world turned upside down…and inward. All of a sudden, everything out there was much less important than what was happening in the spare bedroom-turned hospital room downstairs. My whole life became focused on administering to, and caring for, my husband. 24/7. I had to go out of the house nearly every day, but it was only for doctor visits, the pharmacy, state disability, medical supplies, sanitary supplies, hospital trips, physical therapy sessions, legal affairs, endless paperwork filing. My social life disappeared. Oh, once in a while I would run up to Montone, my little town, wave at people as I rushed through the piazza, gulp down an espresso in 6.5 seconds, and then rush off for more rounds of bureaucratic crap. After two years of this, suffice it to say I was dangerously thin and exhausted physically, mentally, and emotionally.

Luckily, I had wonderful help. I never could have done it without our care giver, and she has since become one of my best friends in life.

So, self-isolation is nothing new to me. But this time, I’m on my own. My husband died last year on March 18, 2019. I spent yesterday and last night with a lot of memories, alone in my house with my three life-saving kitties. I’ve never been afraid of living alone (for some strange reason, I rarely get lonely). I lived alone for a long time before I met my husband. And it’s strange to say this after living with my husband for 35 years, but I like living alone.

This last year of being a widow (still choke on that word) has opened up an entire world of “self.” Basically, you have to “do it yourself”. I’ve learned a lot, and I do have great help for things I cannot do myself. But the weird part in all of this is that I have not been able to write for the last year even though I now have all the time in the world. Huh? “Be careful what you wish for” comes to mind. On the other hand, what I went through for three years probably has something to do with it; I’ve needed to do nothing (or just the minimum) to recover my strength, my health, my sanity, my heart and soul. Yesterday marked that time.

I’m thinking and feeling and realizing that this time alone has morphed into self-immersion, self-discovery, self-emergence. Ironic how it has taken a global, external threat, locking us inside our homes, for us to look inside ourselves and let those selves emerge in whatever way they can. Whether it’s singing out of windows to comfort others, talking on the phone again—not just texting—rediscovering talents and remembering those dreams, finding closeness with family because there is no escape, and knowing that even though we are alone, we’re not really alone. Out of this madness, it feels like a gift to return to my photography and to write again. It has been three years. Self-bloom! I wish it on everyone.

Stay safe, stay optimistic. We will get through this.

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Torn together

Posted on October 20, 2017 | 4 comments

I write about moments. Those fleeting windows of now…or never…or forever.

Those moments that change you, your loved ones, life.

A moment beyond our control. This one cruel, a rip in the fabric that can only be mended, never the same. Always visible. Always raw.

Followed by millions of moments that make no sense, have no cohesion, don’t add up to anything but chaos, fear, waiting.

Too torn to feel.

Seemingly too torn to heal.

Can’t reach out. No energy, no time, no space. So much darkness.

But out of the darkness, light must prevail. Is that not so?

My beloved ocean beckons me. Down to the sea I must go. Breathe in the salt air, hear the waves crash, become one with the timeless, relentless motion.

Go where you must. I’ll always be with you, no matter what form you take. It’s all right.

We’ll heal together.

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Mythical Magic

Posted on November 22, 2016 | Leave a comment

Photo Challenge: Magic. A little naiad (water nymph) guarding a tributary of the Vltava River, Prague.

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She took my mother with her

Posted on August 18, 2016 | 4 comments

My mother was of the Moon. Aren’t all women?

Each month, when the moon is full, my mother comes to visit. I know it’s her way of telling me that she’s still with me. And how lovely to know that we’ll see each other every month until I no longer inhabit the earth. Perhaps then I’ll be with her on our infinite journey.

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I usually photograph the rising moon or when it’s high in the sky. But this time, the first full moon after my mother’s death, I awoke early at 5:00 am and looked out the window. The moon was sliding down into her setting, and I said my final goodbye as the she took my mother with her.

The August moon is the most precious as my mom’s birthday is August 19th.

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Morning walk

Posted on August 6, 2016 | 4 comments

This week’s Photo Challenge: Morning. What better way to celebrate morning than by walking? Storks walking in a river in Vir, Czech Republic, 7 am.

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A Cornerstone No More

Posted on January 31, 2016 | 8 comments

It has been a long time since I’ve posted anything. I’ve had serious writer’s block as the past nine months have been challenging, full of emotion, a time to recast and reset patterns that have become destructive, a time to pull up every plant and look at the roots to see if they’re healthy for replanting or need to be tossed away.

I’ve been reading Elena Ferrante’s incredible tome of four books about a friendship that has lasted 60 years. And it’s hitting close to home. My “best” friend and I nearly made it, except that she died last year at 59. And we had had a terrible falling out five years ago. I’ve had a lot to think about and look back upon. A lifetime, in fact.

At 60 now, I finally feel like I can let go of a lot of shit, to put it bluntly. And that includes people who have been toxic for me. I’ve always been a giver, but after giving my entire life, I now know that I’ve chosen takers all too often, and as a giver, it’s time to set some boundaries because the takers won’t. One of the roles I’ve played, and am giving up now, is that of a cornerstone for people.

The problem with being a cornerstone in peoples’ lives is that they come to expect that you’ll always be there, strong and whole without chips or broken pieces, securely in place with cement all around, never worn down smooth from constant use over the years.

I admit I wanted to be a cornerstone for a lot of people. It brought gratification, acceptance, approval, love even. To be there always for someone gave us both strength. But it held huge responsibilities and guilt at times. When we moved to Italy 16 years ago, this same friend sobbed on the phone and said, “How can you move so far away and leave me? You’re my cornerstone.” Talk about guilt.

And when the cornerstone crumbles just a bit, changes position and becomes jumbled among other stones and bits of brick, who’s there to pick up the pieces? Where’s the cornerstone for the cornerstone? Not from the people to whom I’ve been one, apparently.

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My original post as I wrote it was full of details about this person or that, those who had “wronged” me with their selfishness, those who never called me to ask how I’m doing, those who have gotten pissed off at me if I don’t call even when I’m in a difficult phase of my life. Ahem.

I realized that it sounded whiny and that I was feeling sorry for myself. I’m not. On the contrary, after the horrible break with my life-long friend who accused me of all sorts of terrible deeds that I had done to her, it was the kick in the ass I needed to let go and change my behavior. It was actually a gift, though a painful one.

I’ve learned a lot about life from building fires every night in our wood-buring stove. If you keep messing with it, trying to make it light more quickly by fussing and trying to control it, it won’t light. The best thing to do is let it catch by itself and then watch it glow and eventually brighten into a beautiful, roaring fire.

So, the cornerstone has been put away in a safe place where even I can’t get to it. It can crumble on its own, wear down, eventually slip away. And I won’t have to take responsibility any more for making sure it holds.

And I truly appreciate even more the other two wonderful friends I’ve had for over 40 years. One I met in junior high, the other when we worked together in our late teens. We’re always there for each other even if we don’t talk or write for months. I know now it’s because we’ve never considered the other to be a cornerstone, rather we’ve been more like gentle wild grasses that bend in the wind, grow and die with the changing seasons, then come back greener than ever, breathing with life, sometimes with surprising gifts, caressing each others’ hearts with brilliance, color, and love.

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My mother’s hands – a symbol of love

Posted on July 11, 2015 | 9 comments

This week’s photo challenge is “symbol.” I don’t usually write much for these photo challenges because I think the photo should speak for itself. But we were also asked to tell the story behind the choice of our symbol.

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My mother’s hands. The last time I saw her. We were sitting on her patio in San Miguel de Allende, July 2010.

These hands held me, caressed me, bathed me, massaged me, wrapped around my face, and held me when I was learning to swim. They brushed my hair, cooked food, tended flowers in the garden, held our kitties, stroked our dogs, and cared for her beloved horses.

They held castanets and ballet positions when we danced together. And they played her piano. Beautifully. They were poetry in motion.

They never once hurt me. They were living symbols of love. And when she was dying, I held her hands in mine and gave her back as much love as I could.

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“I Shall Always Be With You”

Posted on June 27, 2015 | 4 comments

Our mothers didn’t die like this.

Today is the 65th anniversary of the death of a remarkable woman. Milada Horáková was arrested in Prague in 1949 and tried in the 1950 show trial that made the world stand still. She was condemned to death on trumped up charges of treason and being an enemy of the state.

The night before her execution, she was granted 30 minutes with her 16-year old daughter, Jana. After Jana left, Milada was allowed to write three letters: one to her husband, one to her sister, and one to Jana. The letter to Jana never reached her, but it survived. Jana first saw the letter in 1970 when it was published in some kind of underground paper. (I’ve quoted parts of the letter at the end of this blog along with a link to the entire letter.)

After spending the entire night writing her letters, Milada Horáková was brutally executed by hanging (the only woman to be hanged by the communists) in the early hours of June 27, 1950. She was 48 years old.

My connection to this historical figure—this incredibly brave woman, “mother, lawyer, social worker, humanitarian, enemy of dictatorship”—who sacrificed everything for her country, is through a book I’ve written about her colleague and friend who was also condemned to death in the show trials. His sentence was later reduced to 22 years hard labor in the Uranium mines, hence the reason I was able to meet him and write the book about him 50 years later. (The book will be published this fall in Prague, in Czech and English.)

But more important, my connection to her is through my husband’s father and through her only daughter, Jana Horáková Kansky, whom I have the privilege and honor of knowing. She spent many hours telling me the story of her parents, and her own story. The one thing she would not talk about was the content of the visit with her mother that fateful night.

My husband’s father and mother are buried in the Milada Horáková tomb in the National Cemetery in Prague, along with other brave souls who fought for a free Czechoslovakia. No one knows where Milada herself is buried. Jana told me that when she comes to Prague, she visits the tomb and three cemeteries with the hope that she’s visiting her mother.

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Having lost my own mother four years ago, this letter reaches more deeply into my soul than I ever imagined. I have no further words; the heartbreak is too profound. Here are some of Milada’s words to her only little girl Jana:

My only little girl Jana,

God blessed my life as a woman with you. As your father wrote in the poem from a German prison, God gave you to us because he loved us. Apart from your father’s magic, amazing love you were the greatest gift I received from fate. However, Providence planned my life in such a way that I could not give you nearly all that my mind and my heart had prepared for you. The reason was not that I loved you little; I love you just as purely and fervently as other mothers love their children.

But I understood that my task here in the world was to do you good by seeing to it that life becomes better, and that all children can live well. And therefore, we often had to be apart for a long time. It is now already for the second time that Fate has torn us apart. Don’t be frightened and sad because I am not coming back any more. Learn, my child, to look at life early as a serious matter. Life is hard, it does not pamper anybody, and for every time it strokes you it gives you ten blows. Become accustomed to that soon, but don’t let it defeat you. Decide to fight. Have courage and clear goals and you will win over life. Much is still unclear to your young mind, and I don’t have time left to explain to you things you would still like to ask me.

…Go through the world with open eyes, and listen not only to your own pains and interests, but also to the pains, interests and longings of others. Don’t ever think of anything as none of your business. No, everything must interest you, and you should reflect about everything, compare, compose individual phenomena. Man doesn’t live in the world alone; in that there is great happiness, but also a tremendous responsibility.

…You have to put down your roots where fate determined for you to live. You have to find your own way. Look for it independently, don’t let anything turn you away from it, not even the memory of your mother and father. If you really love them, you won’t hurt them by seeing them critically—just don’t go on a road which is wrong, dishonest and does not harmonize with life. I have changed my mind many times, rearranged many values, but, what was left as an essential value, without which I cannot imagine my life, is the freedom of my conscience. I would like you, my little girl, to think about whether I was right.

…And don’t forget about love in your life. I am not only thinking of the red blossom which one day will bloom in your heart, and you, if fate favors you, will find a similar one in the heart of another person with whose road yours will merge. I am thinking of love without which one cannot live happily. And don’t ever crumble love—learn to give it whole and really. And learn to love precisely those who encourage love so little—then you won’t usually make a mistake. My little girl Jana, when you will be choosing for whom your maiden heart shall burn and to whom to really give yourself remember your father.

I don’t know if you will meet with such luck as I, I don’t know if you will meet such a beautiful human being, but choose your ideal close to him. Perhaps you, my little one, have already begun to understand, and now perhaps you understand to the point of pain what we have lost in him. What I find hardest to bear is that I am also guilty of that loss.

…Janinko, please take good care of Grandfather Kral and Grandmother Horakova. Their old hearts now need the most consolation. Visit them often and let them tell you about your father’s and mother’s youth, so that you can preserve it in your mind for your children. In that way an individual becomes immortal, and we shall continue in you and in the others of your blood.

…I kiss your hair, eyes and mouth, I stroke you and hold you in my arms (I really held you so little.) I shall always be with you. I am concluding by copying from memory the poem which your father composed for you in jail in 1940…

[There followed a poem written by her husband about the birth of their daughter, and a reading list.]

For the entire letter, here is a link:

http://www.lettersofnote.com/2012/09/i-shall-always-be-with-you.html

For details of Milada Horáková’s incredible life, there are a number of websites. Here are two:

http://coldwarradios.blogspot.it/2010/11/i-leave-this-world-without-hatred.html

http://icv.vlada.cz/en/tema/27-june-1950-execution-of-milada-horakova-74600/tmplid-676/

 

 

 

 

 

 

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