1980s: The Decade That Rocked My World
All along the Iron Curtain, the Austrian citizens are relaxing and enjoying the midsummer dreams. Ironically, in the world's largest army barracks peppered along East side of the Curtain no soldier is allowed to fall asleep.
Only one exile in whole of Austria is aware of the sleepless ghost behind the Iron Curtain.
That’s what happens to exiles; they are scattered to the four winds and then find it extremely difficult to get back together again.
Isabel Allende
On 7 July 1980 I became the enemy of the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic. Whenever the 7 July comes around, I become a different person. I am moved by memories in a resentful way. I have no inclinations to go to work, nor to walk along Australian beaches, as is my usual custom.
No words can do justice to the fact that on 8 July I would stand before the mirror as if I were another person from the one I was on the previous morning. The Morava River tried to drown me yesterday. That was hard to even comprehend.
So this was supposed to be my happy morning. I began my new chapter in life by referring to myself in the third person, not ‘I’, but ‘he’.
You cannot help thinking of Shakespeare's tragedies when you stand across a mirror staring at a third person who looks like you. A person who was without doubt the unhappiest soul in the world. A gloomy, ravaged character who could only think he was just putty in someone else's hands.
Life imposed on me that I would feel strange and even stranger in the very depth of my being. I could not really think. I could only feel. Everything seemed surreal. I knew that I, the stranger, was one lucky bastard. I knew that. As July 7 unfolded in front of me in slow motion, I experienced how slamming the mirror with a bare fist feels. I, perhaps with some embarrassment, can still trace my first encounter in Austria with blood.
I suffered from a peculiar sense of distorrted time. While I planned revenge against Gustav Husak, everyone around me only knew one Gustav, Gustav Klimt. Klimt, the father of 14 illegitimate children, who, like me, feared voices in his head.
It is so ironic, but only when we lose something or are about to lose something do we realise how much we value it. When you catch a glimpse of death, it’s amazing how so many things you think vitally important aren’t even in the picture; and the things that you have been taking for granted, the things that you can’t buy, those are suddenly the things of matchless value. Mamka always left the lights on for me.
When at last I brought myself to look out the window, I was at first surprised. The village resembled an elegant album of nostalgic snapshots, Austrian workers in comfortable shoes with bags in their hands, a cluster of pastel stately homes on the hill. Beyond them lay the motionless Czechoslovak border. In the distance was the mysterious Devin Castle. It was there, at the confluence of the Danube and Morava rivers, where Slovak and Austrian citizens in 1948, separated by the infamous Iron Curtain, gathered to wave to family and friends on opposite sides of the border.
The sun mirrored the freshly starched and pressed pastures in the window panes. The grass fields rose behind the Morava River. I whispered good-bye in my heart. Although there were some gaps in my memory, I did not require a map to tell me where the splendid Austrian countryside ended and the Slovakian concrete slum began. I focused my gaze on the concrete barbed wire fences - a line that was drawn on our map in Kezmarok several hours ago.
After I had signed 14 pages of documents, they led me out of the detention center through a curious crowd to an unmarked four-wheel vehicle. Its driver gazed down at Bessie, and congratulated her for being the first and only dog ever granted political asylum. Within seconds, the car was speeding across the Austrian landscape, past ridges of black soil and sea-like waves of trees as we made the journey to Vienna. The inevitable suspicion of being in a strange dream became more obvious in daylight. I was certainly not in Vrbov anymore.
I was passing through new towns, heading for a big new city. I felt that Austria was much more like something from the next century than the present day. Anything I used to seeing before was conspicuous by its absence. I was seized by an urge to compare everything with my familiar world: the seats in the car were as soft as Tato's leather chair; the colour of the interior was the colour of Babka's cat, light grey; the voice of the driver sounded like someone who needed to clear the phlegm, a routine practice in Slovakia; the policemen 'Hans' looked like my Vrbov neighbour, Ferko Hrebenar; the road was the width of Vrbov's cinema screen.
I can remember being amazed by many things the first time I saw them: the Russian tanks, a naturist beach in East Germany, a disco in Krakow. But none made such an impact on me as Austrian highways. The first thing I noticed was the make of the cars - Mercedes, WVs, BMWs, which glided smoothly along well paved roads. Then the clean streets, neat gardens as well as the store windows with assortments of coffees and cakes. I saw mothers smiling at their toddlers.
And then we arrived in Vienna, a city that had long been held dear in my heart for its supposed beauty, I imagined I would arrive in different circumstances; but then youth tends to be romantic in so many ways. Despite my fatigue, I could still sense the magic of Vienna, brimming with promises. I stared at some of the writing on the huge advertising boards. I hoped that they would resolve into something I could understand. The capitalist guerrilla attacks of colour and effusion of energy, that weird screech echoing from a passing Coca Cola poster. As I promiscuously scan other posters of suggestive poses on the groundfloors of buildings, I am excited by strangely shaped breasts promoting handbags. Call me impressionable, but I thought nothing could beat those the magnificent colours on the posters. I saw one beautiful face on a poster, and then another and another, and I tried to find words for what this had meant to me, and I could not find any words that seemed to me worthy or as lovely as that sudden emotion. In 1980 some parts of the globe where meant to be unmentionable. We lived in a flat world of Communism. Despite my misery, I could hardly believe that I was here. Only I had no idea yet whether Vienna promised acceptance or rejection.
Dreams of Vienna are an old Slovak tradition. Slovaks, locked up for decades behind iron bars, in a country of suspicious glances, have developed images of Vienna as the golden symbol of freedom, standing on the border gates. I had read about Vienna since I was a young child, and finally I was emerging from masses of incomprehensible stories and the magic power of a Slovak imagination to the actuality. Only Slovaks like Andy Warhol could make a can of soup or a toilet seat the subject of high art.
The difference between Czechoslovakia's token economy and Austria's market economy was startling. I was struck by the change. How was it possible that Vienna, a city which at the beginning of this bloody century had more Czechs and Slovaks than any city except Prague and Bratislava, was surrounded by so much beauty? By such spine-warming aura? The contrast with the Czechoslovakian landscape was too stark.
I remember a strange tension as we headed for the city centre. I passed the endless circles of friends, dressed in so many different styles and colours, relaxing their souls and sunning their smiling faces outside dozens of solid stone cafes. Every cafe made a particular artistic statement. There were no grim-faced party apparatchiks, no soldiers on point duty with rifles at the ready, no regulated state businesses. So many newspapers. Banks so huge. The scenery along the avenues was majestic, particularly the sections above the cafes, where the charm of the past was projected by the massive balconies of the Ringstrasse. Ever since I was a kid I had always wanted to have a coffee in Vienna in this famous semicircle of avenues. In me Ringstrasse had a fascinated audience. I kept thinking, Rambacher, my amusing neighbour, was right Vienna was richer than any totalitarian God.Here I was, the first Imrich since 1948 to set his eyes on the Ringstrasse, the largest open air cafe in the world. I was getting used to something that my generation had never experienced: freedom. The psychology of freedom and its acquisition is a fascinating subject. No phrase can convey the idea of freedom as vividly as the size of my eyes as I watched Vienna walking past. Men moving with Vienna speed; it was only a matter of time before their shirts came out. A woman’s skirt caught in the summer wind revealed every paradox: the pleats stretched, flew, shrank and raced to mysterious angle. At the traffic lights, her determined face pretended that her cream knickers had never seen the light of the day. Never mind that my poetic heart glued the connection between shirts and knickers and the wind in the trees.
For my maternal grandparents, citizens of the multicultural world of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Vienna was where their parents bought the few precious pieces of furniture from well-known cabinet makers. The Imperial Vienna my parents treasured was made up of tales that became woven into mythology.
Vienna seemed only a short journey from the border. In summer, dead flat Vienna wore golden colours and blue skies, the Danube River a metallic-green, the masses of rooftops a velvet orange. The trams reminded me of Prague, as so many other things did. Like the girls who glided remote and vacant-eyed along avenues, stopping only to examine their reflections in the windows of shops. I imagined what in their life would prompt them to embrace escape to Czechoslovakia: stress of having so many shoes to choose from in the window of the shop, a lonely existence in the streets without undercover police to watch every move and mood, or maybe the worry of having every newspaper story and film uncensored. Their eyes, I fancied, spoke for escapees across the land, yearning for Communism and, yes, for the May marches.
So here I was peering through a half open window in a stationery car, when I notice three huge television sets turned on, propped way up on top of metal hooks inside a shop, and the song ‘Imagine’ was playing and John Lennon dressed in faded denims and white shirt depicting T.
Who in the right mind would have imagined that before the first Christmas of the 1980s Lennon would be shot dead or that before the last Christmas of the 1980s the Iron Curtain and the Berlin Wall would be no more?
1980s were all about tearing the world apart and putting it together again.
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Prague in Spring & Vienna in Summer: Know Too Much About History [ via
Strictly Iron Curtain]