Karel Sikora

‘They locked up about eleven or twelve of us boys because of the military service. We soon became friends. We were all non-smokers, that was the first tell-tale sign, there was also a man who was over fifty years old. He was not imprisoned because of military service, it was because of some religious activity. His name was Karel Carbl. We, the young ones, would spend time around him after work. Carbl had Gospels written on cigarette papers, one with Matthew, a second one with Mark, a third one with Lucas, a fourth one with John. He hid them in matchboxes. For us it was encouraging, he would read us the gospels. It all went well for a while until one of the criminals informed on us. They put Carbl into a “correction unit”, and the rest of us were taken into various other labour camps. But Carbl was the worst off. The correction unit was this hole where you lay down on the ground. He was only allowed to get half the daily food rations every other day. He lost thirty kilograms in those thirty days. He was all skin and bones, barely survived it. Prison is about psychology in many ways. When you’re locked up, bad food and hard work aren’t the worst, the lack of freedom is. That you can’t leave. You can’t move at all. Carbl helped me a lot, he would console us. Once I was free, and he was too, I visited him, we both rejoiced. We were immensely grateful to him.’

‘I worked as a postman during the last years before retiring. I liked it, ’cause I was walking all the time, I had healthy legs. I befriended new people. Sometimes they would say: “What’s new, Mr Postman?” “Haven’t you read the news? A new one thousand crown note came out.” “What does it look like, what does it look like?” “The back has Jiřina Švorcová with a sickle in a clover field, the front has Gustáv Husák on it with a hammer stuck in his rear, but don’t tell anyone…” and I would name all the helpers. ’Cause we, the postmen, knew exactly who was with the helpers. First, they had the “Bezpečnost” (“Security”) magazine delivered for free, and second, every month they received invitations to an appointment where they had to report on their neighbours. The communists had all the residents under control. They knew exactly what everyone was like. If there ever was some sort of a war they would put all of us who were unreliable into labour camps. So I would always say my list of names: “Don’t say that in front of Ota Supík, Kobec, Adamec…” I always named each of those helpers.’