"I was spending my holidays in Raspenava where there were my parents as well, by chance, and we stayed in a Catholic vicarage. It was early in the morning, six or seven o'clock. I ran out and went to have a walk in the fields and meadows. I saw two Czech soldiers sitting by the road, crying. They were border guards who left their posting because the tanks were already pouring through. I learned about it from them. However, I wasn't fully aware what it meant. I ran back and turned on the radio where they reported on the events. Then the transmission went silent - meanwhile, they probably occupied the Radio building in Prague - and I decided straight away that I was going to Prague."
"In the morning, I phoned my colleagues and we ran towards the Faculty of Philosophy and to Old Town Square where we encircled the tanks. The tanks gave a really peculiar impression because they were marked with white crosses or white stripes. The soldiers were sitting on top of the tanks in silence. They were completely mute, not answering at all. We talked to them in Russian - as well as we could - asking what were they doing here and why they came. This is where we began applying our command of Russian. Then we went into a strike. We were in the top floor of the Faculty of Philosophy, and were directly targeted by a tank standing at the bridge. We slept up there in sleeping bags and could see the barrel through the window. Most likely, they wanted to scare us off, and so sometimes, the barrel was moving up and down. We hadn't gone out much. The bridge was full of armed soldiers. I passed through only once and it was a horrible sensation. We attended all the meetings. It all took place in the so-called blue auditorium. Guests were coming over. There was a student committee, which invited young workers over. We welcomed them and gave them an applause. I simply lived through those days in this way as part of the student movement."
"With one pound in my pocket, I set foot to England. It really wasn't easy. I hadn't understood a word. I recall that I had an address where I was allowed to sleep over for a while. Back then, it was still legal to leave the country, and so I couldn't have applied for emigration. I knew I wasn't allowed to stay in for so long. I was staying with an elderly couple. Someone gave me an address. Then I went to some snack bar and bought the newspaper. I hadn't understood a single word there. Nevertheless, I was going through ads for au pairs. I thought this was my only chance to get accommodation and food. I was able to find au pair. And to a degree, I repeated the history of my grandpa who came to Vienna without a penny and not knowing a word in German. I found an offer but wasn't able to phone there. I just went to the address indicated there and to my surprise, met an Indian family, which I considered as destiny. Already back then, I had India in my mind."
"Mum took me along because I was given a task to hand uncle a chalice. They were serving masses in the prison. It was a small golden goblet, just a children's toy. We used to have toys and home and were allowed to play with them during the mass. I was supposed to slip it under. I only recall a large open-air courtyard with long tables. The inmates were standing there, not allowed to sit the whole time. Each of them was guarded by a warden. Me and my mum sat across the table. As I recall it, my uncle looked like a completely sceletal young man. He seemed very sad. That image was really terrifying. My mum was very careful about what she was saying. The conversation took quite a while, at least in my memory. It may have been half an hour but perhaps a lot less. At the end, we were allowed to come to uncle and give him a kiss. On that occassion, I was supposed to hand him the chalice. And so I did - it was expected that a child would not be watched so closely."
"I was up on my feet immediately. I attended all the key-ringing at Wenceslas Square. But indeed, I had the experience from 1968. And so I always had someone to watch after my children. I thought it was possible that I wouldn't return. I told a neighbour or someone to look after my kids so that they wouldn't be left alone in the apartment. I wasn't scared. I used to feel deep fear during the interrogations that I underwent in the past. Here, I hadn't felt feared. My only fear was that the children would be left alone in the house."
Milena Slavická was born on 28 March 1949 in Karviná as the fifth child of the Ratay couple. Due to her father‘s job posting, she spent the first six years of her life in Hungary. Then the family returned to Czechia. Her upbringing was left to her mother since the regime wouldn‘t allow her father to work in Prague where they lived. Two of her mum‘s brothers were political prisoners. She attended an elementary school in Sázavská street and then the Wilhelm Pieck grammar school. In 1967, she enrolled at the Faculty of Philosophy, Charles University to study history and Russian language. In the second year, she swapped Russian for art history, and was also interested in indology. After the 21 August 1968 invasion, she took part in the student strike. Following the self-immolation of Jan Palach in 1969, she decided to leave the country. Still legally, she made her way to Great Britain but due to her parents‘ pressure returned the same year. She carried on with her studies and got married for the first time in 1971. In 1974, she gave birth to her first child. From 1975 until 1989, she worked in the National Gallery. This job brought her to Moscow where she met her second husband Viktor Pivovarov. Along with Jindřích Chalupecký, she organized visits of Russian underground artists to Prague. After the Velvet Revolution, she worked as editor-in-chief of the magazine Výtvarné umění and ever since the break of the millenium, she began teaching at the Prague Academy of Fine Arts. She organized several exhibitions and published two books of prose.
