The Infant of Prague

When he could not bear the pressure anymore, Cernan put on his overcoat and muffler and walked down three flights to the front door of the gray Ministry building and went outside.

It was strange that he found peace in the noisy clutter of Vaclavske Namesti. The streetcars ran back and forth full of shoppers going up to the main business streets at the top end of the broad avenue. What would they find today in the shops along the Narodni Trida or Prikopy? It was difficult to say, although things were not so bad in Prague anymore. Things had been much, much worse.

He shoved his hands deep into the overcoat pockets and started out along the street. It is called Wenceslas Square and there is certainly a statue of the great king astride his horse in the center. But it is a street, really, and not a square. Like everything else in Prague, Vaclavske Namesti was not exactly what it said it was.

Cernan frowned but did not realize he frowned. His face could frighten underlings in the Ministry when he was in this mood, and he took his solitary walks in moments like this because he had no wish to frighten anyone.

The spires of Prague were gilded in thin November sunlight and the city smelled old and closed for the coming winter. The sunlight glittered on cobblestones in the streets where the students had fought the tanks.

Cernan did not know where he was going — he was just walking to use up the frustration that had built in him — but he always followed the same path: down to the Charles Bridge, across the river and through the steep park up to the castles and cathedral on the Heights above the city.

On the Heights, the wind began and he felt chilled and that pleased him: Perhaps he would tire himself out this afternoon, perhaps he would sleep this evening.

Sleep had become the great difficulty in the three days since Anna Jelinak went before a television camera in Chicago and declared that she was an orphan and that she wanted to be given asylum in the United States because she had seen a miracle.

A weeping statue. It was incredible. It was so bizarre that Cernan could scarcely believe it was an accident. The agency had questioned Anton Huss in Chicago and the embassy had obtained the television tapes and even Cernan had seen them by now. But how could any of this happen? And how could Anna Jelinak suddenly declare that she was a misused, abandoned orphan when her mother was right here in Prague, living in the same house where she was born?

Cernan had gone to see Elena on the second day. Elena had been drunk on brandy. It was only noon and it had made Cernan angry. She said she had been visited by the police and then by two men from the Ministry. Cernan had not authorized that and later discovered the two men had acted on the authority of Cernan’s deputy. Elena was beside herself.

Cernan listened to her for a long time, to all the boozy self-justification he had heard before. Anna had everything, Elena had nothing. Elena’s youth and beauty had slipped away and all the years had been empty. Yes, yes, yes, Elena; Cernan nodded, felt uncomfortable, exactly as he always felt. But Elena knew and Cernan knew that he would not become impatient and tell Elena to stop blubbering and he would not walk out of the house. They both knew that Cernan must suffer.

The house was small and neat, which was extraordinary in that Elena was such a sloppy woman now and a heavy drinker besides. But something of what Elena had been showed itself in the four small rooms of the house in the Little Quarter.

“You will have to go to America. To get Anna back,” Cernan had said.

“Oh, my God, I can’t go there, I cannot even speak that language—”

“It will all be arranged. Anton Huss will be there. He is from the embassy in Washington, he can interpret for you and he will make the arrangements. They are holding Anna for court proceedings, to see if she can be granted defector status. It is important for you to be there and to claim your child.”