My Communist Summer

I waited on the Vienna-Bratislava train as it crossed the border. I sat alone in a seating compartment meant for six, the train itself was quiet. I started this eastward journey in Geneva, Switzerland, watching out the window as my train rolled toward Bratislava, Czechoslovakia, the neat industrially-groomed farmland of the West turned into the old fashioned hay bales of the Eastern Bloc. Clean sharp bright cities turn into cities covered in coal soot that smelled like burnt carbon. Perhaps it was my imagination, but the air and sky turned gloomy.

Suddenly, my quiet seating compartment was filled with three men in starched army colored shirts with rifles over their shoulders. They barked something at me in Slovak, and then German. I did not know the words but I stood up and stepped aside while the men searched the seating area. They looked under the seats, they stuck their fingers into the crevices between all the seat cushions and headrests, and one man, showing an impressive amount of arm strength, pulled himself up to he could look inside the ceiling down the length of the train car. They sternly assessed if I and my seating compartment were any threat to the foundation of their communist government.

Worried that my bags would be searched I did not pack anything that might be seen as controversial by the communist philosophy, no offensive newspapers or books. They searched the compartment and advanced to the next without searching my bag. I took this as an act of respect, that they did not hassle a woman traveling alone, giving me the benefit of the doubt, which is the highest honor in a land with a paranoid government. As they stepped away from me I no longer saw threatening guards, I saw three local guys earning a living.

Looking for adventure as a college senior I applied to IAESTE, an exchange program for technical students, requesting placement in the countries of my heritage, Ireland, Italy, France and Denmark, as well as some other Western European countries. They came back with Czechoslovakia - or nothing. I was floored, I had no connection with the country, didn't know the first thing about it. I hemmed and hawed about going, not knowing the language, going behind the Iron Curtain, and traveling alone.

But, I knew if I didn't go I would always wonder what I had missed.

The train arrived in the small Bratislava station where I needed to change my hard Western currency to the Czechoslovak Korona and buy a ticket for the next train to Zilina. Neither of these things could be done beforehand because their currency wasn't traded on the world market. I had US dollars, Swiss Francs, and Austrian Marks; I decided to use the Austrian Marks. I quickly found out that there was nowhere in the train station where I could exchange this money. I would have to go into town, which I would need their money to do. My only possibility was the information desk. I got in the long line and waited, nervously. Arriving at the front of the line I showed my Marks to the heavy woman with ultra modern blonde hair behind the desk. She was hassled and hurried, no time for someone who couldn't speak her language. She had no idea what I was saying and I had no idea what I needed her to do for me. When I thought all hope was lost, a Heaven-sent English speaking woman in line behind me translated for me. Lots of words in Slovak, my money went to a man behind the desk and he disappeared through a doorway in the back. She explained that they were changing on the black market, indicating I should get out of the way and let her conduct her business. I stood aside, thinking, bad, bad, this is bad, I have been in this country 30 minutes and I am already doing something illegal. Suddenly, in a woosh, the information lady handed me the money. "Thanks," I said. I didn't even know how to say djakujem yet.

Within 15 minutes I was standing by the window on a completely over packed and stifling hot train travelling north-east from Bratislava. I stood out as a foreigner among Slovakians who, most of which, had probably never crossed the border a few miles away. Gypsy families whisked through the car every now and then. An older woman brought them to my attention in an act of protection, motioning to me to keep an eye on them and watch my suitcase. I saw the countryside roll by, I saw gardens with small shacks in them, hand thrown hay stacks, and train stops with names of towns without nearly enough vowels. I read every one of them, hoping I didn't miss the one marked ZILINA. Standing three hours in a sweat box on the lookout for gypsies, I watched Slovakia rolled past my window. After three hours, the ZILINA sign came into view and I jumped off the train with relief.

This was seventeen years ago, and I remember arriving at that train station like it was yesterday, walking through the small musty building, and through the pedestrian tunnel under the street out front. I pulled my giant grey suitcase up the stairs to the bus-stop to take the #1 to the domovy (dormitories) as indicated on the map IAESTE sent me. In my exhausted haze I spotted a sign marked zmrzlina and people buying ice cream cones underneath it. I observed the system, the line, the 2 flavors they were returning with, and the cost, 1 Korona, and yes, the word for chocolate –  c'ocolada, and decided I was capable. I dragged my suitcase into the line with lots of looks from the locals for having such an unwieldy thing. At the front of the line the woman said something to me, and I said "Chocolada?" handed over my money, and I got my first Slovakian zmrzlina. Victorious.

The bus rattled up and I got on board with the giant suitcase and more glares. The system of payment on the bus was beyond me since coin machines were my experience and I saw none, none of these people on board looked like the bus police so I took advantage this one time and sat down next to the window. I followed the path the bus took on my map until we arrived at the large cement block building that I was to be staying in. I was shaky, hot, tired, dehydrated, and almost delusional. I desperately needed a glass of water and a rest. I pulled my suitcase up the hill to the entrance of the domovy. The glass doors were locked and I could see no one inside. Suddenly, I heard men hollering at me, I looked up. The tall building now had a vertical row of young military men poking their heads out their windows to shout at the 22 year old blonde American woman with the giant grey suitcase knocking on their front door. "Crap, this better be the wrong place," I thought, happy that I couldn't understand what they were shouting. I only knew one word and that point and the certainly weren't yelling "Ice cream!"

A man in his thirties, dressed in a nice shirt and slacks appeared out of nowhere, to save me. He couldn't speak English. He walked me into his office where he made some phone calls with information from my IAESTE documents. I didn't know the word for water was voda, but I saw a water-cooler in the office. "May I? please?" I shook involuntarily pointing at the water cooler. They got me a glass and at last, I could sit in a cool office and appreciate the simple things in life, water, a chair, and safety.

Eventually Peter, the IAESTE guide that sent me the information arrived.
"Hello Heather, welcome to Zilina! Didn't you get my notice that our address had changed? We're over on the other side of town. This is a military dormitory now."
"Military? I saw that."
He took me back onto the #1 bus, past the train station, and over to the other side of town to the dorm for IAESTE students. "Students?" I thought, this was the first I had heard that there would be more than just me. Peter brought me to the dormitory, and showed me my room where I freshened up for dinner.

After a few minutes I met Peter downstairs again where he introduced me to a student guide, George, and we all went to dinner. George was from Syria and lived in Zilina. He was all smiles behind his mustache and he laughed when I told them of my adventure getting there. Apparently, I should have contacted IAESTE so they could send a guide to meet me in the train station. George asked me how I changed my money and I quietly told them about my experience at the information desk. I was afraid to tell them because it was illegal, but they listened politely and asked me the exchange rate I got. "Sixteen Korona to a dollar? You were ripped off! You can get 42 Korona here in Zilina," followed by peels of laughter. I was embarrassed but relieved that the black market money exchange was taken so lightly by the citizens. They said that I should use my American dollars next time; they're worth more than the Austrian Mark. The control the government tried to maintain over commerce ironically produced a perfect example of a capitalistic market. It clearly illustrated the relative worth of their currency against the West. While the government tried to keep it closer to 10 Korona for a dollar, the western currency was so scarce that no one traded at that rate.

Saturday morning I met more students for our first excursion. After thinking I would be the only English speaking person with IAESTE that summer I ended up with a group of about twenty engineering and business students from countries such as: Denmark, Egypt, Spain, Greece, Germany, Norway, Sweden, Italy, Poland, Cyprus, Turkey, Finland, and Holland. I was the only native English speaker among a community of students who all communicated with each other in English. None of them could speak Slovak either and didn't seem worried about it.

We hopped onto the #1 bus and went back to the train station to meet the student guide that would be taking us on a day trip to Bratislava. The instant I met Ludo I was in love. He was a student from Zilina who joined IAESTE for the opportunity to practice English and show us his country. Blue eyes, dark blonde hair, perfect build, he was a 21 year old Paul Newman. He remained our guide for the entire six weeks of my stay. Within 24 hours of my train journey into Zilina I was back on the train and headed back. But this reverse three hour trip was delightful; we sat in a compartment for 6 people and shot the breeze the whole way.

For those six weeks we toured Slovakia, we spent a week in beautiful Prague, we coordinated cultural dinners amongst ourselves to share our different heritages, all while working internships in town. We had a Mediterranean night, a Scandinavian night, and several events to enjoy traditional Slovakian food. With contagious enthusiasm, Ludo acted as both our guide and our friend. He enjoyed showing us around, translating for us, coordinating parties, and general socializing. We learned about each other's cultures, sharing photographs, jokes, music, and stories.

I 'worked' at the Stredoslovenské energetické závody, the local power company. Another IAESTE student worked with me, Rafa a two meter tall Basque student who we nicknamed Tallguy. We became friends instantly. We shared an office with Edo and Eva, who cherished the opportunity to practice their English. We didn't do a shred of work in six weeks, and Edo and Eva were always finding reasons to take us on trips around the countryside. They would show us some electric power wires for an excuse to have the trip, and then we would go off and see all the sites.

The black market made me a rich person, though the Slovakians I met were so kind and proud that they never let me pay for anything. With the exchange rate of 42 crowns to the dollar and a full dinner at a restaurant costing 10 crowns I could easily pay for a group of people for a dollar or two, though they would never let me. Often they would ask to exchange money with me because they saved the hard Western currency, and they would never let me cut them a deal on the price. It was always 42 crowns for 1 dollar.

The biggest news came at the end of our summer.

As foreign students the communist leader of the university kept a close eye on us. We were not political; we laughed at the silly communist ways that slowed everyone down; but we weren't out to change the world. One day in August the business students in our group came back to the dorms speaking of how their printers were taken away from them at work that day. They didn't know why until the people in charge said that they didn't want them printing out propaganda. Propaganda? For what? And from that action of pre-censorship, we learned about the anniversary of the end of the Prague Spring, when in 1968 Russian tanks rolled into Prague to put a lid on the democratization movement of that year. People in the Czech Republic and Slovakia protested every year on August 20th. If the communist university leaders never took the printers away, we never would have known about the anniversary. It didn't seem to be our place to protest as foreigners, no matter how much we disagreed with the idea of communism.

Also, that summer there was a strange phenomenon on the roads. Lots of Polish families with their cars packed to the brim with their belongings headed through Slovakia to Hungary, where, the word was, there was a hole in the Iron Curtain. They drove south, then west into freedom by pretending like they were on a hiking vacation in the Tatry mountains. Edo explained to me about Lech Walesa's Solidarnosc movement, and how Poland was becoming free. He believed that would happen eventually in CzechoSlovakia, but not for ten years or more.

There was to be a big demonstration in Bratislava on August 20th; and my train ticket was reserved from Zilina to Bratislava on the 19th since my visa expired on August 21st. Edo and Eva warned me not to go because the police were expected to use water cannons to contain the crowd and they would probably be throwing people in jail volky-nevolky (willy-nilly). I heeded their advice and I left on the day before as planned. I had the quintessential European train departure. Ludo and his blue eyes came to the train station to see me and Tallguy off. He walked next to our car as the train rolled out of the station; we waved out the window as he disappeared into the distance. I cried, and even Tallguy got a little misty. I thought about how nice the Slovakian people were to me, and how beautiful their country was. I understood how people could handle living under a communist regime if that's what it took to maintain their rich cultural identity.

At home from August through October, Ludo and I wrote letters back and forth, always two letters passing in the middle, never one letter then the other, it was a constant volley of two conversations. I sent him newspapers from home, including one where the cover of the Boston paper was all about a Czech poet, Vaclav Havel, how he was imprisoned and recently released.

Then nothing. No word from Ludo. Quiet.

One morning getting ready for work I had turned on CNN, and there it was - people dancing on the Berlin Wall. Tears welled in my eyes as I sat staring at the television. Was I seeing what I thought I was seeing? a free East Germany?

And still, no letters from Ludo.

Then in November, my CzechoSlovakia had its Velvet Revolution. Thousands in Prague's Wenceslas Square protested with candlelight vigils. I picked up a Life Magazine with beautiful black and white photographs of the demonstrations in Prague, and I poured over the images of the people peacefully changing their government.

And finally, a giant envelope from Ludo.

In it were newspaper articles and photographs and a long letter explaining what had been happening. The photographs were distributed on the underground throughout the duration of the protests since their news media didn't carry these reports. The photographs were duplicated and passed around on the underground to prove to the citizens that yes, it was happening. This was it - their time to establish freedom. Some of the photographs Ludo sent me were taken by the same photographer that had photos in that issue of Life magazine. Different angles of the same crowd views, the same lines of riot police, the same students with candles. Ludo said he hadn't heard of Vaclav Havel before he saw the newspaper article I had sent, and soon, Havel became their president.

The following summer the Zilina IAESTE students and some of our friends met again in Greece, since for the first time our CzechoSlovakian guides were free to travel outside of their country. My roommate from Greece arranged everything for us on the island of Paros. Tallguy and his brother, our friend from Italy, I brought a friend from home, and Ludo hitchhiked down after earning some hard cash painting houses in Holland through our Dutch IAESTE friend.

And our romance began there, in Greece, just like in the movies.