Of Kafka's Prague

Of Kafka’s Prague

by Piotr Wesolowski

Prague, the capital of the Czech Republic, is one of Europe’s most beautiful cities.

It is also said that, once, it was a city of many nations, religions and of, at least, three different cultures: Czech, German and Judaic. To say nothing of the Gypsies.

The river Vltava divides the city in two: its historical part - Stare Mesto, and Prague’s crown jewel, the affluent and equally historical Hradcany. These two are connected by a magnificent bridge, Karluv most - Charles Bridge.

There is, of course, more to Prague than Hradcany, Stare Mesto and Karluv most – the bridge on the river Vltava, but in the past, this was where the three cultures, and their religions, thrived and left an impressively rich legacy.

Prazky Hrad, Prague Castle towers majestically above Hradcany; it is the city’s highest point, and along with the Gothic Cathedral of Saint Vitus situated nearby, has been dominating its landscape for over centuries.

Mala Strana, or Little Quarter, is set on the slopes of the Castle’s hill, and from here runs a network of narrow intricate streets replete with restaurants, souvenir stores, art galleries and, of course, not to forget, stores with puppets, Prague’s pride and a three hundred year old tradition.

Today, on a cold winter day, when frost shrouds trees lined in rows by both sides of the streets and snow sits heavily on the town’s gabled roofs, the sight is magnificent.

I walk along one of the street of Hradcany and reach Charles Bridge, one of the few cobble stone bridges in the world, this one dating back to 1357.

On top of it, in the middle, stands proudly a marble statue of Prague’s patron: Saint John of Nepomuk, the Czech martyr who was executed here by being thrown into the Vltava from the very same spot. Past the bridge, I’m back in Stare Mesto and its Jewish quarter, Josefov - a testimony of Prague’s Judaic culture. There are three synagogues here, a large Jewish cemetery – in fact the largest in Europe- countless cloistered courtyards with their narrow staircases and fine wooden balconies, all stetl-like and typical of Eastern European Jewish architectural style. Here amid the ‘… dark corners, the secret alleys, shuttered windows, squalid courtyards, rowdy pubs, sinister inns…’ as he himself described it, lived a man of all three cultures, Franz Kafka - a world renowned German Jewish Czech writer.

Perhaps no other writer, present and past, expressed better than Kafka man’s anxiety, solitude and psychological torment, and all this, Kafka sensed and saw and described here, in Prague’s Jewish quarter.

‘… the unhealthy old Jewish Town within us is far more real than the hygienic town around us.’ he said once in reference to man’s certain longing, longing towards ancient, primordial time, a world in its infancy, a time of innocence; and a glimpse of the town of his lost childhood may still be found here in Prague.

Meantime, the day has come to its end; it’s begining to snow again, but it’s not cold enough and the snow turns into drizzle. It is time to warm up, to rest in the bustle of the authentic Czech pub. I enter Pivovar u Fleků on Křemencova Street founded, it’s hard to believe, circa 1465.

Here in the pub, I conclude my hectic day in the country’s capital. I sit in the smoke and alcohol fumes. Someone sings and someone else plays the accordion. Music fills the crowded room with warmth and Czech folk music. A Polka’s followed by Rosamunde - a German song (during WWII, Prague was part of German protectorate); then comes Dark Eyes – a Russian Gypsy song, a ballad, or a romance spiked with Jewish sorrow. Here, once more, the three, or more cultures meet, and cross, and become one, like many streams that run into one river, like river Vltava which separates Stare Mesto from Hradcany, Judaism from Catholicism, broached together and made one by Karluv most - the magnificent Charles Bridge. Long live Jewish Prague, long live its Catholicism, long live its Germanic inheritance, long live Czech beer.

It is late when I leave the pub - beer smell, smoke and its hubbub. Drizzle, meantime, turns into snowfall; flakes sway in the air like feathers soon after a pillow fight and swirl round the gas lights like mad moths.

‘Dark Eyes’ still echoes in my head… yes, of course, we forgot the Gypsies whose presence and origin in Bohemia, and later the Czech Republic, is like so many things here, unknown and mysterious.

I am tired. I’ve seen so much so far, I want more though, and I don’t want to sleep yet. Bring on the Gypsies! Let the party go on!

It would be great to wander on, but having a famous guide, like Virgil, for instance, who guided Dante through hell. That would be brilliant, fantastic, I think as I contemplate the falling snow; my head's beginning to spin.

I stare into an empty street on a winter night in Prague and suddenly… it’s him. He stands in the dark circle by the lamp post. I can hardly see him but I can discern his features. He is here alone in his oversize coat wearing a long scarf and his bowler hat that is too large resting on his ears. Yes, I think I recognized him.

“Kafka?” I ask shyly “Is that you?”

“Yes,” he replies “But you can call me Franz.”