We waited until he left, then burst out laughing.
“And to think when I was fourteen I could pass for local,” I said.
“Because your Czech was perfect! By the time you left you didn’t even have an accent.”
“All gone now, I’m afraid.”
“My parents were always very impressed by the way you tried to fit in.”
“Tried? Locals used to ask me for directions. Same in Budapest, Vienna, and Berlin. Now, of course, even the cabdrivers can spot me a mile away. I’m thoroughly Americanized.”
“Like half of Prague,” he said, clinking his glass to mine.
Up to then I’d given little thought to how I might broach the subject of finding Karel’s old address in a KGB report. I suppose I was counting on some sort of natural opening to occur. I was right, as it turned out, although I never would’ve guessed the nature of the opening.
“How are your parents?” I asked.
“My mother is very fine. She lives in the country with her dog and a vegetable garden, bad knees and all.”
“And your father?”
“Dead. Eleven years. No, twelve. His lungs. Probably from all that dust in his factory. And the smoking, of course.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. He was always very kind to me.”
Karel smiled like a wolf.
“Your visits made him very happy. You were like an extra income for him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He informed on you! To someone in the Interior Ministry. He would always do it the very next day, and tell them whatever you said.”
I set down my drink, incredulous.
“Jesus. Did everybody inform on me when I was a boy? Why didn’t you say something?”
“I never knew. He told me after you moved away. Being the son of a diplomat made you very interesting to them.”
I shook my head. So much for all those fond memories.
“He did ask me lots of questions.”
“Especially about your father. That was his assignment.”
“Great.”
“Each time he reported they gave him an American twenty-dollar bill. He would exchange it for a hundred and sixty Tuzex crowns, equal to eight hundred regular crowns, except you could spend them at those special shops for party officials. Remember when we saw him coming out of there once, with that bag full of soap and chocolate bars? You were so impressed.”
“Yes. I do remember.”
“It was as much money as a shop clerk would make in a month. He told me later that whenever you came through our door it was like a visit from Father Christmas.”
Karel laughed heartily, although I found it a bit hard to swallow. Litzi smiled sympathetically, the other family spy from my past. Well, I had my secrets, too, and now was the time to unveil them.
“Did your dad ever mention any code names?”
“ Code names?” Karel laughed. “Hey, I don’t think it was that official. He was just a metalworker with a big mouth.”
“So you never heard him mention the name ‘Fishwife’?”
Karel began to grow uncomfortable.
“Bill, why do you ask me this? What do you know?”
Litzi looked down at her drink.
“Well, I found your address in an old KGB report a few days ago. Along with the code name Fishwife, which they must have assigned to your dad. As a regular visitor to the Interior Ministry, it was probably routine.”
Now it was Karel’s turn to look shocked and deflated, and I felt a twinge of guilt for striking back so heedlessly.
“Relax, it was ages ago, the seventies.” The words seemed to bounce right off.
“A KGB report? You’re sure?”
Karel’s tone was grave. I suppose that even now, the idea of showing up on some ancient Soviet watchlist could pack a punch. He drained the last of the novelty cocktail, then peered into the empty glass as if deeply troubled.
“I’m going to need something stronger than this. Is that why you got in touch with me, just to ask me this?”
“No. Not the only reason. But that was part of it, yes. I saw the address on an old list of contacts, and it made me curious. It’s part of some research I’ve been doing, following up on old stuff from my dad’s life.”
“Ah. I see. You are revisiting all of your old haunts, then?”
“Yes. Like Antikvariat Drebitko. Remember all those bookstores my father went to?”
“How could I not? Bookstores were dangerous places for Czechs, especially if they were known to sell Western newspapers on the sly. My father always told me to stay away unless I wanted to get a bad name with the police. Of course now all the old secret policemen run security firms for bankers and businessmen. But I remember nothing of any KGB people at our house. My father would have been too scared. These were small things he was doing, to help us get by.”
“I’m in no position to judge him. That’s not what I’m trying to do.”
He nodded, but it was clear he wanted to move on to a more comfortable topic.
So we did, stiffly at first, and with the aid of a bottle of Frankovka-”a true Czech red,” as Karel said. The mood eased, but we carefully avoided any further mention of our fathers.
Later, when we were all a little tipsy, he walked us to our hotel. As we prepared to say good-bye I was convinced we’d weathered the storm. But my news must have still been preying on his mind. Just outside the entrance he stopped and raised a finger in the air.
“There is something I remember now.” His eyes widened as he recalled the moment. “A visitor to our house. It really shook up my father.”
“A Russian?”
He shook his head.
“And not a policeman, either. A foreigner. His Czech was terrible. I remember hearing him. My father sent me to my room, but I listened. No one else was home. He was a man who sold books. Or bought them, maybe. It wasn’t altogether clear, but I know he had a big bag of them. Old ones, like your father used to buy. He was young, dressed like a hippie. To me he looked stoned, which I remember really astonished me. He carried a cane, although he seemed to walk just fine.”
Litzi glanced at me. A coldness bloomed at the base of my stomach, turning all that wine into chilly slush.
“You never heard his name?”
“No.”
“What did they talk about?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t make out enough of the words. But the next day, when I wanted to go to your apartment, my father told me to stay away for a while. In a few more days, of course, things were normal again, and I never saw this man again.”
“His accent. Was it German?”
“Did you know him?” Karel looked surprised, even hurt, as if I’d been hoarding this secret from the beginning.
“I’m pretty sure his name is Lothar Heinemann. And if I had to guess, I’d say he’s in Prague right now. He might even be watching us.”
Karel wheeled around like a cornered bull, almost stumbling from all the wine. Litzi gave me a look that said I’d again been needlessly cruel, but our surroundings gave no cause for alarm. Drunken Scotsmen were still in abundance, along with an approaching phalanx of tourists lurching to and fro on Segways.
