had been protesters, dissenters, mostly young people demanding democratic reform. When she and Caroline arrived, they found themselves in a city in which the students had already set the stage. On November 17, 1989, the two girls joined a peaceful, officially sanctioned march to commemorate International Student Day, though everyone knew it was more than that; the true intent was to protest the oppressive Communist regime. The marchers wound down the hill from the cemetery at Vyšehrad, where they had visited the gravesite of a student who’d been killed fifty years before during a similar march protesting the Nazi occupation of Czechoslovakia.
Fifteen thousand strong, Caroline and Dana numbered among them, they moved along the bank of the River Vltava and up Národní Street, where they were met by antiterrorist squads in red berets and police in white helmets with shields and nightsticks. The students chanted and sang songs of freedom—
Svobodu!
Some carried flowers, and others placed candles along the streets and sidewalks. Now, Dana could hardly believe that she had been there.
After that November seventeenth demonstration, in which it was reported that several were beaten and one killed—though this death turned out to be a false account—the students were joined by actors, musicians, and eventually workers. By November twenty-third, the day before Dana left for home, four days before a national strike, the throngs had swelled to over a million. The red berets and helmeted police had disappeared, though plainclothes officers, easily identified in their polyester raincoats, observed without interfering, overwhelmed or simply understanding the inevitable. It had already happened in Poland, Hungary, and East Germany.
The Velvet Revolution
, Dana thought now as she continued toward Václavské námesti, where the original march had been destined to end. Today the streets were lined with holiday shoppers, along with businessmen and -women who worked in this busy, vibrant commercial section of Prague. She lingered several moments near the statue of St. Wenceslas, recalling how the area had once been carpeted with flowers, candles, and handmade signs, overlaid with peaceful, hopeful young voices.
Just before noon, she set off to have lunch with Caroline.
Again she crossed the bridge and pulled out the map she’d picked up at the hotel. Finding the street where the convent was located, she dug her address book out of her bag, checking numbers as she walked.
She approached a building, enclosed within an iron fence, set in a quaint little square with chestnut trees and stone benches, which was identified with brass numerals, though nothing announced it as a convent. Healthy green vines climbed the gray stone, sprouting small violet-colored buds reaching toward the midday sun. Dana unlatched the gate and walked up to the door, finding a handwritten notice tacked beneath a small peephole. A series of Czech words, which she could not decipher, appeared along with numbers that Dana guessed from the configuration must be dates.
She knocked. Nothing. She checked her watch. Her lunch date with Caroline was scheduled for noon and she was a few minutes early. She knocked again. Still, nothing.
For the first time since she’d left home, Dana felt ill prepared without her lifeline—her cell phone. She had a number for the convent, but no way to call. After another quick knock, a wait, she wondered if she should go back to the hotel to use the phone. She could slip a note under the door, but saying what? Didn’t they have a lunch date? She felt a trickle of irritation.
Sensing a shuffling of footsteps on the cobblestones, Dana turned. An elderly man made his way toward the convent gate, his steps, oddly, both quick and labored. He wore a tweed cap and a heavy wool sweater that hung at an odd angle as if he’d mismatched the buttons with the buttonholes. As he approached she noticed patches of whiskers, spots of chin missed in
Fifteen thousand strong, Caroline and Dana numbered among them, they moved along the bank of the River Vltava and up Národní Street, where they were met by antiterrorist squads in red berets and police in white helmets with shields and nightsticks. The students chanted and sang songs of freedom—
Svobodu!
Some carried flowers, and others placed candles along the streets and sidewalks. Now, Dana could hardly believe that she had been there.
After that November seventeenth demonstration, in which it was reported that several were beaten and one killed—though this death turned out to be a false account—the students were joined by actors, musicians, and eventually workers. By November twenty-third, the day before Dana left for home, four days before a national strike, the throngs had swelled to over a million. The red berets and helmeted police had disappeared, though plainclothes officers, easily identified in their polyester raincoats, observed without interfering, overwhelmed or simply understanding the inevitable. It had already happened in Poland, Hungary, and East Germany.
The Velvet Revolution
, Dana thought now as she continued toward Václavské námesti, where the original march had been destined to end. Today the streets were lined with holiday shoppers, along with businessmen and -women who worked in this busy, vibrant commercial section of Prague. She lingered several moments near the statue of St. Wenceslas, recalling how the area had once been carpeted with flowers, candles, and handmade signs, overlaid with peaceful, hopeful young voices.
Just before noon, she set off to have lunch with Caroline.
Again she crossed the bridge and pulled out the map she’d picked up at the hotel. Finding the street where the convent was located, she dug her address book out of her bag, checking numbers as she walked.
She approached a building, enclosed within an iron fence, set in a quaint little square with chestnut trees and stone benches, which was identified with brass numerals, though nothing announced it as a convent. Healthy green vines climbed the gray stone, sprouting small violet-colored buds reaching toward the midday sun. Dana unlatched the gate and walked up to the door, finding a handwritten notice tacked beneath a small peephole. A series of Czech words, which she could not decipher, appeared along with numbers that Dana guessed from the configuration must be dates.
She knocked. Nothing. She checked her watch. Her lunch date with Caroline was scheduled for noon and she was a few minutes early. She knocked again. Still, nothing.
For the first time since she’d left home, Dana felt ill prepared without her lifeline—her cell phone. She had a number for the convent, but no way to call. After another quick knock, a wait, she wondered if she should go back to the hotel to use the phone. She could slip a note under the door, but saying what? Didn’t they have a lunch date? She felt a trickle of irritation.
Sensing a shuffling of footsteps on the cobblestones, Dana turned. An elderly man made his way toward the convent gate, his steps, oddly, both quick and labored. He wore a tweed cap and a heavy wool sweater that hung at an odd angle as if he’d mismatched the buttons with the buttonholes. As he approached she noticed patches of whiskers, spots of chin missed in
Similar Books
