Excerpt from "Summer in Prague" (Harper & Row, New York, 1973)

I liked copying the bass parts best. They usually use a single note for a whole bar, sometimes one for three, and a shortened version of the text. The sopranos are always the worst. Every composer assigns them the chatter-box role, with four times as many words as the original text. The sopranos make as much work as the building of Socialism, all talk and no meat. I had to write legibly so that even the illiterates could figure it out. I'm not trying to be snide or anything, either. It's just a fact that some of our people can barely read. They come from the heart of the folk, that is from the country, and turn into performing artists overnight. Most of them are all right, but some of them let it go to their heads and begin to put on the sort of airs formerly assumed by servant girls suddenly transformed into grand ladies. Needless to say these are the hardest to stomach. Of these, Ruzena Holenkova was surely at the top of the list. From the sound of her voice everyone would have had to love her immediately—she had a soprano like cream being poured from pitcher to pitcher. But that, unfortunately, was one of God's little slip-ups. Like giving a soul to a whiskbroom. For other than that, Holenkova was totally incapable of learning to read music; C Major, A Minor, it was all the same to her. God knows how many years now she'd been fruitlessly trying to get a High School diploma at the Workers' Night School. When I joined the chorus a diploma was no asset, in fact, quite the contrary; but suddenly it became quite the rage. Somebody gave a signal and they all began drilling in unison: A squared B squared, the same way they carried on before with Scipacev and Songs of Ancient China. Not that any of it sank in. Now they pored over all sorts of Review Books, studying excerpts of excerpts, compressing three years into one. They reminded me of instant-pickles. They wanted education like a hole in the head—not a drop of thirst for learning. Not that I had gone to High School to assuage acute gnawings of an under-nourished brain either. Like them I had studied to get a diploma, you won't get anywhere without a diploma, that's what I always heard at home. They were suddenly seized with fear of what the future might hold when this cushy job came to an end, when the Chorus began weeding out older members - in any event a diploma is a good thing to have, if only to raise one's consciousness for a little while. But even that brief moment of bliss eluded Holenkova. She simply didn't follow, A squared B squared, and she won't understand what a pronoun is to her dying day. But she did have a remarkable voice and the acting ability to go with it. A great talent.

In addition to these educationary spasms somebody in the Chorus administration had the brainwave that the Chorus needed education along the lines of dramatic expression as well. The singers didn't know what expressions to wear on stage and sang optimistic songs as if they were holding a wake. Nobody had ever succeeded in eliciting a consistently appropriate smile from the entire chorus. Vandracek smiled incessantly, even during serious songs about manual labour, jiggling his head all the while; Chramosta kept grinning from ear to ear but from a distance it looked like he was crying. They once tried to solve this problem by offering bonuses for facial expressions. Then everybody smiled like mad for the extra money but the joyous songs of celebration continued to sound insipid and uniform. So they decided to bring in a professional actor from the theatre to give us some coaching.
'I am yclept Vaclav Sourek,' declaimed the famous actor. None of us had ever heard of him. Probably some kind of comedian. We were sure to have some fun with him, after that promising introduction.
And so we did.
'Let us commence with facial miming, that's what you need most. Make your face express sorrow. How about you over there, Comrade?'
He pointed to Holenkova. She expressed it to perfection. 'Excellent. Now you, Comrade.'
Chramosta rolled his eyes, strained until his face was red and looked as if he'd just swallowed Little Red Riding Hood. Everybody laughed.
'That won't do at all, Comrades. Let us get some assistance from the text. What are you working on now?' 'Dear Tovarish Stalin,' spoke up the former object of his praise,
'Good. All of you sing it for me.'
We launched into the song of the Collective Farm workers who invite Comrade Stalin to their farm for a rest during which time he might see how well they run their Collective— the highest of all possible rewards.
'Excellent. The text is practically tailor-made for our purposes. What an enormous range it contains for the expression of love, devotion, and heart-felt emotion! We'll add the disappointment later. Please, Comrade, sing it again and concentrate on expressing love and devotion.'

Ruzena Holenkova began to sing. She had it all in her voice anyhow, she didn't even have to try, but what she did with her face deserved a state medal. She screwed up her eyes as if at the height of orgasm, not that she knew anything about that sort of thing — everybody knew she was frigid. She smirked in her most seductive, come-hither manner, head submissively inclined, eyes misty and full of holy devotion.

'Excellent. But now, listen carefully. Now imagine that Comrade Stalin accepted the Collective's invitation, promising to come, but circumstances of state prevent him from doing so. The workers are waiting at the station, banners in hand, you among them, Comrade, when suddenly instead of this Comrade a different Comrade steps out of the train and announces that a different delegation has arrived instead of Comrade Stalin. Act that out for me. Act out the disappointment and then the joy at having other guests arrive.'

Ruzena scored heavily again.
At that time Stalin was very sick and we were learning that song as a token of our longing for his recovery.
'Excellent,' Sourek praised Ruzena, 'that's just about the way it should be. Now you, Comrade.'
He was going in order. Next to Ruzena sat Milada Spackova, I'd say just about the most intelligent girl in the chorus. She had far too many defences to allow her to put on a fake sorrow act. She sang through Dear Tovarish Stalin as if it were Mary had a Little Lamb.

'Comrade,' said Sourek in a kindergarten-teacher voice, 'I watched you carefully throughout the song. You didn't move a muscle in your face the whole time. Try it again and think, Comrade, think!'
No good. She was thinking of other things and felt embarrassed.
'Not like that. That won't do at all. Say the text along with me, Comrade, and try to understand its contents. Do you know the meaning of the word contents?'
That must have really made Milada boil. But she said nothing.
'The contents is when . . . hahaha . . .' Sourek was enjoying his little joke. 'Isn't that right?' and several loyalists joined in laughing with him. Milada still said nothing, but her face grew a bit pink.
'No, now seriously.' He stopped laughing and the others did too. With a note of pedagogic condescension in his voice he proceeded to instruct her.
'The contents, after all, is what holds the words together and gives them their meaning. When I say "It's raining," it's different from when I say "It's raining on our love." Do you understand the contents of those words?'
Suddenly Milada had had enough.
'When you say "It's raining on our love" I understand the contents of those words to be the same as if you said "There's a hole in the roof, old girl." '
He didn't get it. A buzz went through the chorus. 'Silence, Comrades, we're not here to discuss literary theory. Sing it again, Comrade, and think. For God's sake think!'

Milada did think. She was always thinking, which is why the song sounded even icier this time. Unable to make the thick-headed Comrade comprehend the meaning of 'contents', Sourek launched a frontal attack upon her feelings. 'Comrade, at least try to bear in mind how much you love Comrade Stalin. At least express your love with your eyes, if you can't do it with facial mimicry.'

Milada took a breath and prepared to sing again. 'No, don't sing. Just look at me for a moment as if I were Comrade Stalin. Show it. Show how much you love him.' He straddled a chair in front of Milada, leaned his chin against the backrest and hypnotized her. Milada looked back at him, stared at him and then suddenly made a face and said: 'Why should I love him?'
Sourek practically fell over backwards.

'What?' he roared. He jumped up, grabbed a picture of the Marshall from the wall, and thrust it in front of Milada's face. A spider-web fluttered from the frame.
'Do you know who Stalin is, Comrade?'
'That's just it. I do know,' answered Milada calmly. At that moment we realized that this was no longer funny. A horrified rustle went through the Chorus.
'How can I love somebody I've never even met? A myth. It's as if you tried to force me to love Santa Claus.'
'Well! This is the last straw! What kind of ... how can you . . .a. person like that. . .' hopelessly he raked his hand through his thinning hair and staggered towards the piano scandalized beyond words. There, for a moment, he quite broke down, his hair standing on end from the raking, his chest heaving with emotion—all in all, a great act. Then he flung aside the piano stool sending it flying practically into our laps.
'This has got to be dealt with immediately!' He pointed a finger towards his feet, as if at a dog, and barked, 'You're coming with me to see Comrade Director this very instant!'

But even before Milada had a chance to react the door opened slowly and quietly and into the music room tottered Kolarik, then our Director, head hanging practically to his stomach, a broken, tragic figure on the verge of collapse. All of us froze with fear. Even Sourek.
Kolarik reeled to the centre of the music room, raised his head, and looked about at us with red-rimmed eyes. Then he let his head drop again and said in the trembling voice of the emotion-struck amateur actor:
'Comrade . . . Comrade . . . Comrade Stalin has just passed away.'
A thunderbolt. A sudden howling not unlike a most difficult vocal exercise, a wild flailing of arms, head covered with hands, a forward lunge, a mad dash for the door and slam! Ruzena Holenkova had made her grand exit. Out in the corridor the Ladies' Room door slammed.
To a man the girls fished out handkerchiefs from their pocketbooks. Alenka Fantova blew her nose loudest of all. She was undoubtedly chagrined that Ruzena had beaten her to the punch. Now it was too late. Everything had worked out beautifully for Ruzena, almost as if she'd been rehearsing for it at home beforehand. I bet she had worried that Stalin might not kick the bucket during working hours.

'Arise, Comrades,' Sourek uttered valiantly. 'Arise and let us observe three minutes of silence to honor the memory of the greatest genius of all times.'
We arose. From the benches came a conglomeration of sniffles and whimpers while the men cleared their throats manfully. Who was going to time those three minutes, I wondered. Hardly a minute had gone by according to my calculations before Holenkova reappeared in the music room, a handkerchief soaked with water from the tap in her hand, her eyes rubbed to a splendid red. She stood in the doorway and resumed her superb performance for a while.
When we had served our allotted time we were all dismissed for the day. That suited me fine. It probably suited almost everybody; nonetheless we maintained a most pious demeanour, at least as far as the trolley stop.
Milada Spackova was out on her ear within the hour. Sourek the Comedian came to coach us about two more times before he gave up.
Finally even the bonuses for expression were abolished and I the joyous songs of celebration went on sounding insipid and uniform.