Atomic Bomb Dome

Following the dropping of an atomic bomb on Hiroshima in the Second World War, the city was left in ruins. Among those ruins close to the hypocentre only one structure was left standing - a domed exhibition hall designed by a Czech architect, Jan Letzel, born 140 years ago today. Following the end of the war, there was much debate over what to do with the ruined building, and it remained neglected for many years, until the early 1960s. Only then did the local authorities accept that it should be preserved as a peace monument. Decades later, it gained acknowledgement by Unesco as a World Heritage Site. But where is the diary connection? According to the Hiroshima Peace Media Center, the movement to preserve the ruined dome was inspired by a diary kept by a young student - a 15 year old girl who died of leukaemia having been exposed to the nuclear bomb fall when only one year old.

Letzel was born on 9 April 1880 in Náchod (Bohemia, now part of the Czech Republic) to a couple who ran a hotel. After being trained in civil engineering, he won a scholarship to study architecture, under Jan Kotěra (one of the founders of modern Czech architecture), at the School of Applied Arts in Prague. He undertook various study tours in 1902-1903, and was then employed by an architectural firm in Prague. He designed and built a sanatorium and a pavilion in the Art Nouveau style in Mšené-lázně. Further travels in Europe followed, and a stay in Cairo where he also worked for a while. 

By mid-1908, though, Letzel had landed in Tokyo, where he joined a firm of French architects. In 1910, Letzel and his friend Karel Hora founded their own architectural firm. Over the next few years, he designed some 40 buildings, many of them significant, including the Jesuit College, the German embassy, and a domed exhibition hall in Hiroshima. The start of World War I interrupted his practice, but, in 1919, after Czechoslovakia had become an independent country, he was appointed its commercial attaché to Japan. Many of his buildings were destroyed in the 1923 Great Kantō earthquake. Deeply disappointed, he returned to Prague in 1923 and died in 1925 still only 45. Some further information about Letzel can be found at Wikipedia, at Radio Prague International, and at this website.

Letzel is best remembered today for the Hiroshima exhibition hall, with its distinctive dome at the highest part of the building. The building underwent several name changes, before being known as the Hiroshima Prefectural Industrial Promotion Hall from 1933. It became famous after surviving the atomic attack of 6 August 1945 - indeed it was the only structure left standing near the bomb’s hypocentre. It was scheduled to be demolished with the rest of the ruins, but because the majority of the building was intact some wanted to preserve it. Thus, it remained neglected for many years. 

According to the Hiroshima Peace Centre, one factor that led to the structure’s preservation was a diary kept by a high school student, Hiroko Kajiyama. Having being exposed at the age of one, she died some 15 years later, from leukaemia. Significantly, she had noted in her diary: ‘Only the tragic Industrial Promotion Hall will forever continue to tell future generations of the catastrophic atomic bombing.’ This inspired other students to launch a campaign which, eventually led to the Hiroshima City Council passing a resolution requiring the dome to be preserved. In 1996, Unesco acknowledged the building as a World Heritage Site under the name Hiroshima Peace Memorial - though it is more generally known as the Atomic Bomb Dome. See also the Commemorative Exhibition for the 50th Anniversary of the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum and HuffPost.

The Czech Kindertransport man

Sir Nicholas Winton, famous for organising the so-called Czech Kindertransport which evacuated over 600 children from Czechoslovakia on the eve of the Second World War, was born 110 years ago today. He died recently - aged 106! - and only a year earlier, his daughter had published a biography of her father, partly based on some youthful diaries of his.

Winton was born in Hampstead on 19 May 1909 to a German couple who had recently immigrated to London. In doing so they had also changed their name from Wertheim and converted from the Jewish faith to Christianity to help with their assimilation into British life. Aged 14, he started at Stowe School, which had just opened, excelling in maths, rugby and fencing. He was apprenticed to a London bank, but then worked at different banks in Hamburg, Berlin and Paris before returning to London in 1931, fluent in French and German. There, he joined the London Stock Exchange as a broker. Despite his profession, he was a committed socialist, and became close to various members of the Labour Party, and to those on the Left concerned about Nazism and opposed to appeasement.  

Shortly before the end of 1938, Winton journeyed to Prague where his friend Martin Blake was working with the British Committee for Refugees from Czechoslovakia, helping refugees to flee from German occupation. Winton immediately established a Children’s Section of the committee, initially without authorisation, and began taking applications from parents, first at his hotel in Prague, and than at an office he opened. Thousands of parents lined up seeking a safe haven for their children. In London, Winton lobbied the Home Office for entry visas, but it responded slowly so he resorted to faking them. He raised money to fund transport and for the financial guarantee demanded by the British government (£50 per child). He also had to persuade The Netherlands to allow the children to transit, and to find British families willing to care for them on arrival. By day, Winton worked at his regular job, but devoted late afternoons and evenings to his rescue efforts. He is credited with saving 669 children, though he claimed many more could have been saved if other countries had followed the UK’s example.

After the outbreak of the Second World War, Winton applied successfully for registration as a conscientious objector, and later he served with the Red Cross. In 1940, he rescinded his objections and joined the Royal Air Force, at the lowest level, rising to the rank of war substantive flying officer by early 1945. After the war, Winton worked for the International Refugee Organization and then for the International Bank for Reconstruction and Development in Paris. There he met Grete Gjelstrup, a Danish secretary who he married in 1948. The couple settled in Maidenhead, where they brought up three children (though one died very young). In the 1983 Queen’s Birthday Honours, Winton was awarded an MBE for his work in establishing the Abbeyfield homes for the elderly in Britain.

Winton’s war rescue efforts went unnoticed for 40 years, until 1988, in fact, when Grete found a detailed scrapbook with lists of the children he’d saved. She gave the scrapbook to Elisabeth Maxwell, a Holocaust researcher (wife of media magnate Robert Maxwell), who then contacted some of the rescued children. Radio and TV exposure followed. In 2003, he was knighted in recognition of his work on the Czech Kindertransport. Winton lived until the age 106, and died in 2015. Further information is available at Wikipedia, BBC, Biography.com, the National Holocaust Centre, The New York Times or The Guardian.

In the year before Winton’s death, Matador published a biography written by his daughter, Barbara Winton: If it’s Not Impossible - The Life of Sir Nicholas Winton  (a few pages can be previewed at Amazon.) Winton, himself, provided a short preface: ‘I have discovered things from reading this book that I never knew about my own family, as well as rediscovering episodes long forgotten. I had questions myself about certain incidents in my past and I have found the answers here. It’s strange to realise that Barbara knows more about my life now than I do. Having a daughter write my biography may mean that it is not unbiased, but you would have to read it to find out!’

One of Barbara Winton’s sources was a diary her father kept while at school and for a short time after. It provides, she says, ‘a fascinating glimpse’ of his school life. She refers to the diaries intermittently in the early chapters, and occasionally quotes from them. The diaries provide information, she says, on his interest in rugby and fencing, but his dislike for cricket. At the back of the diaries, he made lists of letters he had received and sent, and of books he had read. He recorded his position in class on an almost weekly basis (maths was his best subject). All the boys, Barbara states, had to attend Officer Training Corps with a lot of marching about in uniform. Her father recorded before he started: ‘I don’t know what it will be like, I am dreading it.’ Later on, though, he described a tank demonstration as ‘ripping’ and commented, ‘I don’t think camp is so bad as I thought.’

Further diary snippets occur in Barbara Winton’s text as follows:

March 1929
‘We all went to a talkie film with the Hetheringtons. It has wonderful possibilities but I am not at all sure if it will catch on. The Americans are however making a large market by only producing these films and ceasing to produce a great number of the ordinary kind!’

***

Winton was involved with the setting up of the Stowe Club for Boys, also nicknamed the Pineapple Club after the pub, then defunct, where it was housed. On 28 January 1929, he noted: ‘Went to the Pineapple Club which is getting on very well. They have just had a boxing ring erected which they hope will stimulate interest in this sport! . . . At the club all went as usual. In other words both Leon and I went there with good intentions but found very little we could do especially as we have no experience of how a club should be run.’

***

Aged 19, Winton formed a relationship with a girl called Elizabeth. ‘Went to lunch and tea at Mr Sala’s. I danced with Elizabeth to their gramophone & Miss Anderson (her governess) did a few spiritualistic stunts in which she seems to believe.’

‘Out for tea with Eliz - I think she is pretty & certainly interesting.’

‘I went to Eliz for supper after which we went to the Empire to see one of the new talkie films. I shall be sorry to leave E as we have got very friendly in a very short time & 3 years of correspondence well - perhaps I can?’

***

Winton started work in a bank on 1 February 1927, and wrote in his diary, ‘BUSINESS!!’ The next day, ‘I worked very hard and feel that I am getting on well. I am beginning to understand the work. It is tedious sitting in a chair for 8 hours but work is work. Father explains all I do not understand in the evening.’

***

‘I had a 1/3½ lunch at Lyons. It is a cheap but dirty place and although you get served fast, one is uncomfortable.’

***

It is safe to say, Barbara Winton writes, looking at his diaries of 1929 and 1930 (the latter only filled in until May, and no further diaries written), ‘that he threw himself into life in Hamburg, mixing with a wide group of friends rather than a particular one or two’.

Hrdlička’s Alaska diary

Alois (later Aleš) Hrdlička, a pioneer of North American anthropology and evolution studies, was born 150 years ago today. While curator of physical anthropology at the U.S. National Museum (now the Smithsonian) he undertook many field studies, amassing a large amount of data on the migration of man to the New World. In his later years, his expeditions were mostly focused on Alaska, and his attempts to show how humans had arrived in North America via the Bering Strait. The very last book he published in his lifetime was, in fact, a collection of diary entries from these Alaska trips.

Hrdlička was born on 29 March 1869 in Humpolec, Bohemia (today in Czech Republic), roughly halfway between Prague and Brno. In 1882, he emigrated with his father to New York; other family members followed later. Hrdlička worked in a cigar factory to finance his studies at night school. Aged 19, he contracted typhoid, and by luck was attended by a Doctor M. Rosenbleuth who also subsequently helped him gain attendance to the Eclectic Medical College of the City of New York. Graduating with the highest grades in 1892, he began to practise medicine for several organisations on the East Side, but at the same time continued his studies at the Homeopathic Medical College. While working for a period at the Middletown asylum in Baltimore, he began to be interested in anthropology. Subsequently, he travelled to Europe to visit scientists and laboratories, before taking, in 1896, a post as Associate in Anthropology at the newly-organised Pathological Institute of the New York State Hospitals. That same year he married the German-American Marie Stickler.

In 1898, Hrdlička went to Mexico where he was involved with a medical and anthropometric project among the Indians; and on his return to New York he took up a new position as director of physical anthropology for expeditions sponsored by the American Museum of Natural History. Many field trips followed, to study the Indians of the southwestern US and northern Mexico, as well as many publications. In particularly, he became the first scientist to argue and document the theory of human colonisation of the American continent from east Asia, something he claimed had happened only in the last 3,000 years. In 1903, he became the first curator of physical anthropology at the U.S. National Museum (now the Smithsonian Institution National Museum of Natural History). Further anthropological expeditions followed, not least to Europe and the Mediterranean, and to South America, as well as to speak at international congresses. In 1907, he was made President of the Anthropological Society of Washington; in 1910, he was promoted to curator in the Division of Physical Anthropology; in 1918 he was elected to the American Philosophical Society, and the same year he launched the American Journal of Physical Anthropology. In 1918, his wife died, and in 1920 he married Wilhelmina Mansfield.

In 1927 Hrdlička published an article - The Neanderthal Phase of Man - in which he tried to prove that all races had a common origin. Among his published books are Physical Anthropology (1919), Anthropometry (1920) and Old Americans (1925). In trying to support his theory that Americans immigrated across the Bering Strait he organised and conducted ten expeditions, between 1929 and 1938, to Alaskan rivers, the Aleutian Islands and Kodiak and Commander Islands. His final years were spent in Washington where he was fully occupied with his vast collections, recording and publishing his experiences. He died in 1945.

According to a biographical memoir by Adolph H. Schultz (available online at the National Academy of Science website): ‘Hrdlicka’s outstanding and lasting contributions to anthropological knowledge are centered around his following three general interests: 1. The detailed investigation and tabulation of the ranges of normal variations in features of the outer body, the skeleton and the teeth among the different races of man, in the two sexes and, to a lesser extent, at different ages. 2. The collection and publication of reliable and adequate data on the somatic characters of the three large divisions of mankind in America, White, Indian-Eskimo and Negro, to provide basic standards for comparisons. 3. The compilation of precise information on all discoveries attributed to early man and critical examination of all evidence of the real nature and antiquity of these findings.’ The Smithsonian says his ‘contributions to American physical anthropology were great’ and that ‘his travels and field studies alone were impressive and important in his growth as an authority on the migration of man to the New World, human evolution, and the variations of man's physical form.’ Further information is also available at Wikipedia, Encylopedia.com, and SciHi Blog.

In the year before his death, Hrdlička put together a number of diary entries from several of his Alaska expeditions, and these were published as Alaska Diary 1926-1931 by The Jaques Cattell Press in 1944. According to Hrdlička’s own preface: ‘The following pages give a simple account of the more noteworthy experiences of the author and his companions on his 1926-1931 expeditions to Alaska. They have no pretense to any literary value, nor to any other virtue aside from reality. They are just brief but faithful records of what befell or was encountered by the writer and his coworkers in those far-away and lonesome, yet scientifically important regions, in quest of anthropological information. Perhaps a century or several centuries ahead, if a copy of these records survives, they might prove as interesting to the workers of that time as similar Russian notes on Alaska are to us, or would be if more of them existed, at this time.

The more formal scientific results of these expeditions are gradually being published elsewhere; nevertheless these notes contain numerous items that are more or less relevant to the scientific work proper, or complement it. And there are shown here views which will not be given in the scientific reports.

Considerable attention, throughout, will be seen to have been given to the weather, to food, and to transportation. This is because these factors in the work in the Far Northwest are constantly with one and not seldom prove of paramount importance. They can “make or break” an expedition or at least a part of it. They can thwart or make very difficult the best laid plans, or again facilitate them. Mind, health and physical strength, however necessary, are alone often powerless in these parts. Man is here against the elements, against want of things and means, and must repeatedly give way.’

And here are several of the diary extracts published.

8 June 1926, ‘Alaska’
‘Leaving Juneau. Has been raining here every day but one. They count rainfall here not in inches any more, but in feet. It is misting now, depriving of view of most of the coast. Wherever there is a glimpse of this it is seen to be mountainous, wooded below, snowy and icy higher up, inhospitable, forbidding.’

10 June 1926, ‘Alaska’
‘Arrive at Cordova, a former native and Russian settlement of some importance, now a pretty little town when the sun shines, protected by islands. Will stay here large part of the day and so go to see about Indians, old sites, burials, and specimens. The local forester takes me out along a lake some miles into the rugged volcanic back country, where there are still plenty of bear and mountain goat. After that Dr. Chase drives me to an old Russian and Indian cemetery nearer the town. There are numerous graves here, mostly Indians, but also few whites and even a Chinaman. Russian crosses still common. Hear of skulls and bones on a “mummy” island in Prince William Sound, but no chance now to visit.

See quite a few living natives in the outskirts of the town, but most appear mixed. Two adult men evidently fullbloods - Indian type of the short-headed form.

The ship makes three more stops before Seward, the main one at Valdez. These permit to see some fish canneries. They employ Japanese, Philippine, and Chinese labor, and I find it is quite a task to distinguish these one from the other, and to tell some of them from the coast Indians. The Chinaman can be singled out most often, though not always, the Japanese less so, while the Filipino in many cases cannot be told from the Indian even by an expert. A striking lesson in relationships.’

29 May 1929, ‘Yukon’
‘Skagway to White Horse, over mountain railway, skirting the famous tragic old trail to the Klondike region, which has witnessed vast human exertions and sufferings. Pass by one of the very sources of the mighty river that flows tor 2,700 miles from its source northward and then westward.

From White Horse, a pleasing little Canadian town, a neat river boat takes us to Dawson, where there will be change to a larger steamer. On the boat, after one bad night, must ask for a cabin well apart from my associate - what will it be when we must sleep closer!

Boat steams day and night, for nearly four days, with the current, through man-void wilderness. As we near Dawson see many caribou trails on steep slopes to the right. Have a bear steak for lunch, moose meat for supper - local specialties. And one day see a live full-sized black bear far on a great slope. Not much disturbed - too far for a shot - boat just whistles at him but he does not mind.’

21 July 1929, ‘Yukon’
‘(Evening). Visit the village, dispatch boxes, see Fathers once more - like them better and better, and admire, too.

After supper go with Walker to the old “Kozherevsky,” a site near the mouth of the Innoko River. Located about four miles above mouth of the latter, a short distance above and across the stream from the “new village.” Man clings to vicinities once adopted by his ancestors; yet the explanation is, I think, simple - the old-timers chose the best there was.

Site here, too, being washed away. A large potsherd on beach -  nothing further. Place, what remains of it, not large, overgrown as usual by rank grass and weeds, full of sharp-stinging mosquitoes. Must apply quantities of mosquito “juice,” with result, that some gets into the eyes and for minutes makes these burn so they cannot be opened. Walker goes ahead - in some ways is much like Lawrence - and soon locates five old graves, a child and four adults. I open three, M. one. Find good skeletons, three men and one woman (child left, fullbloodedness uncertain). All from Russian times already, though doubtless early, for all wood rotten, bones clean, above-ground graves typically Indian, no roofs or little houses, and bodies contracted.

Finish at 10, reach Walker’s again at 11 p.m. A sunset coloring in the west, though sun not yet seen and sky still full of clouds, but these lighter and higher. No rain, too, since 6 p.m., and so prospects for tomorrow brighter. An everlasting struggle with weather.

The Indian part of the river ends and that of the Eskimo begins between Holy Cross and Paimute. There is no line of demarkation either geographically or otherwise, but only linguistically. The average physique of the Indian here and the Eskimo differs in the main enough for a recognition of each, but the habits of the people and many physiognomies arc considerably alike. The latter is, it seems, only partly due to mixture of the two people, but largely to the fact that both proceed from the same general old racial source.

The present Indians of the Yukon are largely admixed with whites and somewhat with the Eskimo, but have escaped admixture with the Negro. They are in a transitional and partly demoralized state, due to Jack of adequate education, and to alcoholism. Alcohol like everywhere has a detrimental effect on the Indian. They make some crude liquor themselves, from cornmeal and other substances but they also get liquor from white trash. There is, too, considerable sickness among them and but little if any real help.

There is no possibility of estimating how long the Indians have been in this region. None of the still recognizable sites of their forefathers are ancient, but it is certain that many such places have been cut away by the river and all traces of them lost. The process is now going on in some localities. Nor is it possible to say as yet from what direction the river was originally peopled by the Indians. The skeletal remains now gathered should aid much in these directions.’

17 June 1930, ‘The Kuskokwim River’
‘Rain. cold, all night. Leaky roof in school, doors cannot be closed, floor sagging, walls also. A little cat-wash in a ditch - no water in school, no rain barrel. At 7 at Mrs H.’s house, breakfast with her and Miss Martin, an exceptionally good Indian teacher. Then pack, carry a good-sized box of specimens to my place - almost a mile - and then again patients. A lot of chronic conditions.’

20 May 1931, ‘Nushagak - The Peninsula’
‘A year ago this day I stood facing the frozen lake on the Yukon-Kuskokwim portage; today look wistfully over miles of bleak, slaty, forbidding mud flats. The ice was friendlier. And so were other things.

In an hour leaving on a tug for Naknek. No prospects here for the present - no boat, no help, no possibility to get farther up the river or into Iliamna Lake - the latter will not be free of ice before June 20. So must postpone work here and take other places first.

Cold, northwestern breeze from the ice fields. Depart on large tug near 10 a.m., when water sufficiently high. Trip four hours. Out in the bay somewhat rough but not bad. The tug brings me to the big ship Bering. Find a talkative interesting captain, but cold draughts everywhere, begin to get sore throat. Nice cabins on this boat, though but a few in number - used to be a Dutch freighter. At 8 p.m. descend on rope ladder to a “lighter” and start for Naknek. Have with me a poor Italian who is developing insanity - ran away from the cannery and frantically wants to “go home, go home” - by airplane, boat, any other way, only “go home.”

Arrive at the Naknek cannery 9:30 - cannot get to dock, water too low. Wait over half an hour, then considerable maneuvering with our barge, finally reach another barge in front of the dock and all rush out, climb high ladder, and are at the cannery. It is now nearly dark and raw cold.

Go to Superintendent’s house - have met him in San Francisco and so need no introduction. Sends me to sleep in a house that has not yet been fixed and has no heat. Go with the ill Italian to the doctor -  has no malted milk for him, no other needed things, and wants to know why the man has not brought with him his own blankets.

To bed - near 12 - room cold as ice box. No lights, but get smelly little lamp half filled with impure yellowish oil.’

30 May 1931, ‘Nushagak - The Peninsula’
‘Morning icy cold. Water so cold that cannot gargle with it. No means of making fire, stove “broke.” Outside cloudy all over. Breakfast at 7 in the “mess” - anxious again, no boats visible  - throat sore.

Have a talk with the Superintendent - “cannot help.” Introduces me to an old-timer, who gives some information. Pale sun coming out and mildly warmer but with snowy undercurrent. Walk two miles northward along left bluff of river to an old site at a creek. Find place, climb perilously along edge of high bluff. Locate two feet from surface half-rotten rafters, a nest of many burnt beach stones, fragments of plain pottery, bones of animals. Scanty remains, and nothing on beach indicating stone work; no specimens in fact whatever.

When I come back see “old-timer” again and want to tell him what I found, but find him in a grouchy, barking mood and with breath smelling liquor. House still cold. To shave must heat a little water above the lamp. Ask Superintendent where to get some wood for starting fire - tells me “there’s wood in the carpenter shop over there” somewhere, and when abashed I do not answer, repeats: “I say you can get some wood in the carpenter shop if you want it.” Has evidently no use for anyone not connected with fish.

Start, throat now very sore, about 1, for a cannery of another company, from the vice-president of which I have a good letter. Follow wrong trail - get far out on tundra and then have to cut across - difficult walking. The place is five miles away but make at least 8. A toe on left foot begins to hurt badly - old sprain. Reach after 4. Find Superintendent, Mr. Daly, in a shop. Show him my letter - and received real kindly. Offers me accommodation in his house, also aid in work, so decide to stay here, has his pleasant wife with him, and two boys, and all accept me almost as one of the family. How good it feels.

Shows me the whole cannery. And after supper we go, with his two lively boys, to look at a site I had been told of - but find nothing.

Return at nine. Cold now in nose, throat and head bothers, a little fever. Get something from doctor - all the larger canneries have to have one - and to a nice bed in a warm house soon after. A little after 12 the night watchman comes to get the Superintendent - “the Finns got drunk and raising hell.” Night feverish.’

Václav Havel as diarist

Václav Havel, the Czech political dissident and human rights activist who became his country’s first president in the post-Communist era, would have been 80 today. He was also a playwright of some distinction, and, as a young man, used his plays to criticise the Soviet-backed regime. A few years before his death, he published a memoir which included a diary he kept during 2005; and more recently the Václav Havel Library in Prague has announced the discovery of a diary Havel kept while in prison during 1977.

Havel was born in Prague on 5 October 1936 into an intellectual and wealthy family, though that wealth was stripped away after WW2 by the Communist regime. Disallowed from studying humanities because of his bourgeois background, he worked as a lab technician before enrolling in the economics faculty as the Czech Technical University, though he dropped out after two years. Following military service in the late 1950s, he found work as a stagehand for the Prague theatrical company, and soon began writing plays, such as The Garden Party (Zahradní slavnost) and The Memo (Vyrozumění). At the same time, he became an active member of the writers’ union, though his political aims were not so much to remove the prevailing Communist regime but to change it. In 1964, he married Olga Šplíchalová.

By 1968, Havel had risen to the position of resident playwright at the Theatre on the Balustrade. He made a brief trip to US, for a production of The Memo in New York, which established his international reputation. Back home, he was a prominent supporter of the liberal reforms taking place that year (known as the Prague Spring). But with Operation Danube and the Soviet clampdown in August, Havel’s plays were banned and his passport confiscated. He moved to live in the countryside where he maintained his political activities, largely on behalf of human rights in the country, being a co-founder of Charter 77, and continued writing plays. In 1978, he wrote one of his most well-known essays - The Power of the Powerless - which foresaw that opposition could eventually prevail against the totalitarian state. It was secretly but widely circulated at the time in Czechoslovakia and other Warsaw Pact countries. He was repeatedly arrested in the 1970s and 1980s, serving four years in prison, but resisted pressure to emigrate.

In late 1989, Havel, by then leader of Civic Forum, emerged as one of the leaders of the Velvet Revolution. By unanimous vote of the Federal Assembly in December, he was elected President; and the following year, in the first free national elections for over 40 years, he won a sweeping victory for Civic Forum and its Slovak counterpart Public Against Violence. He stepped down in 1992 because of tensions between the Czechs and the Slovaks, not wishing to preside over the country’s break-up, but was reelected as president of the Czech Republic in early 1993. His wife died in 1996, and the same year he was diagnosed with cancer, and underwent lung-removal surgery. He was re-elected president in 1998, though by this time, with most power vested in the prime minister’s office not the presidency, and many domestic controversies, he was more popular abroad than at home. He stepped down in 2003, by which time he had married Dagmar Veškrnová, a flamboyant actress who had once been filmed in the role of a topless vampire.

Havel turned to writing, producing a new play in 2008, which was enthusiastically received, and writing a memoir of his time as president. Paul Wilson translated the latter, which was published in English, also in 2008, by Portobello Books under the title, To the Castle and Back. He died in 2011, having received, from the early 1990s onwards, many state honours and many international awards. Further information is available online at the official Havel website, Wikipedia, Václav Havel Library, or Radio Prague, and from many obituaries, for example the BBC, The Guardian, The New York Times and The Telegraph.

Although Havel was not a committed diarist, or so it seems, he did keep a diary at different times in his life. Earlier this year, Radio Prague broadcast an interview with Michael Žantovský, the head of the Václav Havel Library, about some previously ‘unknown diaries’ kept by Havel when jailed in 1977. Žantovský explained that the library had decided to publish the diaries in their entirety as a facsimile (i.e. not retyped) because they ‘make a very interesting graphic’ alongside explanatory essays by experts. He also gave some information about the diaries:

‘The entries were written between January and July 1977 when the Charter 77 human rights initiative was launched and spearheaded by Václav Havel as spokesman and 14 days later he ended up in detention and then pre-trial custody where he spent the next four months. And he started making notes into a very ordinary scheduling diary which existed at the time and this disappeared after he was released in subsequent years and was only discovered in the garage of a close friend of his by the grandson of the friend, when his grandfather died and he was clearing up his papers.’

Otherwise, Havel also kept a diary during 2005 while working on his memoir, To the Castle and Back. The book is made up of three elements: substantial extracts from dated memos to his staff during his time in office as president, answers to a series of interview questions, and sometimes lengthy extracts from his 2005 diary - see below for two such extracts. (The book can also be previewed freely online at Amazon and Googlebooks.)

29 April 2005
‘I have been to two more “political dinners” at Madeleine’s; many important people were there, such as the former secretary of defense William Cohen; the director of PBS, Mrs. Pat Mitchell; Senator Barbara Mikulski; the Democratic leader in the House of Representatives, Mrs. Nancy Pelosi; the deputy secretary of state, Mr. Nicholas Bums; and many others. Many of them I had met on earlier occasions, others I had once been introduced to, but I had forgotten those earlier encounters. Madeleine, once again, moderated the discussion wonderfully; it was lively and spontaneous and exhausting, naturally. I had the constant feeling that I was speaking of things about which these people knew more than I did, and moreover I was doing so in a language I don’t know very well. Now that it’s over I’m glad I did it, and I’m grateful to Madeleine.

It’s paradoxical: every evening I meet with the most important people here, and then, during the day, I run afoul of banal American red tape. Yesterday, for example, we had to return our rental car and then turn right around and rent it again, even though we’d already paid for another month. I understand the thing itself - it’s an accounting matter. What I don’t understand is why the transaction consumed almost an entire, valuable American day. Standing at the window where all this took place, and where more and more complications kept surfacing, I found it hard not to lose my temper. My Czech pistoleer often uses a trick I don’t much like: he reveals who I am - if I’m not recognized, that is. But in this democratic country, favoritism is out of favor, and so the results are always the same: great delight that they’ve met me, great astonishment that I, of all people, have turned up here, of all places - and then an immediate return to the original situation. It doesn’t speed things up by even a minute. That was yesterday. I barely had time to change for dinner at Madeleine’s.

But that wasn’t the end of it; two unpleasant things happened this morning. The first was something I knew was bound to happen, that is, our Barnabas, Mr. Edler, was nowhere to be found, and so they wouldn’t let us into our parking spot. (Later the director of the Kluge Center had to sort things out himself at the entrance.) And the second thing was something I could not have known would happen, and which says something about the state of my memory. At the entrance to the library, where they put my bag through a scanner, they discovered a metal kitchen knife in it, which is not allowed. I expressed surprise and denied it, of course, because I’d completely forgotten that I’d put the knife in my bag that morning so I could spread jam on my roll. They searched the bag and I was caught red-handed. There was nothing to do but hope I wouldn’t be arrested, then go outside and toss the knife in the garbage. (Fortunately it was not made of silver.) I felt very silly.

I often can’t understand Americans when they speak, especially black Americans, and this is the source of many other embarrassing moments. Yesterday, for example, a young black man who was with me in the elevator told me how much he admired me and asked me for my autograph. Then he mumbled something I didn’t catch, though it was evidently a question. For the sake of simplicity, I replied, “Yes.” As soon as I’d spoken, I realized that he was asking me if I had written The Unbearable Lightness of Being. I couldn’t very well change my answer, and there was no escaping, so I had to remain in a state of embarrassment until the moment of liberation when our elevator arrived at the right floor. A truly Kunderian situation.’

28 November 2005
‘For the whole of September and October I never stopped. Yet what did I actually do? I visited several European countries, had a lot of meetings and visits and discussions, and made countless speeches - and all at a time of year when I’m usually under the weather. I’m quite surprised that I survived it all without any damage to my health. I’m at Hradecek once more, but there’s a lot of snow here now and the trees are beautifully cloaked in white. I’m really like a hermit here. (Hradecek is off by itself and my only neighbor is my friend Andrej Krob, who has a cottage nearby, but he’s not there now.) Yesterday I watched a thriller on television and then I realized that for the first time in my life I felt afraid here. The very thought that I might suddenly glimpse the movement of a human shadow gave me goose bumps and heart palpitations. I stopped getting the newspapers a while ago, and my news comes from television. I read the papers only when I happen across one. The last time that happened was several days ago on the plane from Budapest, when I discovered I was the subject of a scandal. The Czech media are up in arms because I have apparently supported our new prime minister. The whole thing obviously started a while ago, when he invited me for coffee, and as we were leaving we were waylaid by a journalist who asked me how I’d have gotten along with the current prime minister if I were still president. I said I thought we’d hit it off. By that I meant that I would not have been having constant public squabbles with the prime minister over how to interpret the constitution, as our current president does. I should have expressed myself more precisely or concretely, but still, why there should have been a controversy or even a scandal over this, I have no idea. But obviously I can’t understand everything.’

Writing for you, Sasha

It’s a year to the day since the death of Hana Pravda, a Czech-born actress who had lived and worked in Britain since the late 1950s. Although not a household name, she appeared in many much-loved British series, and directed plays in the theatre also. However, in recent years, she became better known thanks to an extraordinary diary she had kept during the Second World War, and which was only rediscovered in the 1990s and then published to much acclaim.

Hana was born in 1916 at her grandparents’ house in Prague, into a middle class Jewish family. Her father trained as a lawyer but joined the Austro-Hungarian army; her mother died while she was still at school. Aged only 17 Hana acted in her first film, and she then went to study acting under Alexei Dikii in Leningrad. On returning to Prague, she married Alexander (Sasha) Munk, a student activist at the time, and the two of them moved to a small town in eastern Bohemia where they thought they would be safe from the Nazi persecution of Jews.

In 1942, however, they were captured and interned in various camps. Hana survived the war, but Sasha died at Kraslice, only days before the Germans surrendered in May 1945. Subsequently, Hana returned to acting. She married George Pravda, and they emigrated first to Australia and then to the UK, where she appeared frequently in television dramas, such as Survivors, Danger Man, Z-Cars and Tales of the Unexpected. She also directed many plays at the Thorndike Theatre in Leatherhead, and continued to act for radio productions well into her 80s. She died on 22 May 2008, a year ago today, and was recognised by several of the British broadsheets with long obituaries - The Guardian, for example. Wikipedia also has a short bio.

All the obituaries mention her extraordinary diary, published to great acclaim in 2000 by Oxford-based Day Books - I Was Writing This Diary For You, Sasha. Here is how The Times describes the diary’s reappearance: ‘On Christmas Eve 1995 a parcel arrived at her London flat. It contained her wartime diary, barely legible, in its flimsy red notebook, and a photograph of Sasha. She had had to leave it behind in Prague in 1948. Attempts had been made to send it on, but it had been mislaid and forgotten for decades until a friend who had emigrated to Australia rediscovered it. After hesitating for fear of reviving old wounds she sent it on to Pravda, who initially ‘scrabbled on my hands and knees, reading snatches - I wanted to devour it’. ’

Day Books says: ‘Few diaries can have been written in more extraordinary circumstances than the one which a young Czech actress kept during the last few months of World War II. Not only was she on the run from the Nazis, following her dramatic escape from captivity: she was also searching desperately for her husband, whom she had last seen when they were prisoners together at Auschwitz.’ And it provides this quote from Hana’s diary: ‘One afternoon we saw a group of male prisoners walking past in the distance - too far away to talk to. They were clutching their grey prison blankets round their bodies, and all we could see of their faces were their huge staring eyes. They moved as slowly as ghosts. Would I recognise my Sasha among them? Would he recognise me? I think about him all the time.’

Other extracts can be found on Czech websites, such as Czech Radio.

20 November 1945
‘I am in Prague. It’s eight years since you kissed me for the first time, Sasha.
After my show tonight we went to the U Šupů Restaurant, but it was all closed up, and inside it was completely dark. Now I am sitting in our favourite coffeehouse, the Union, at our table in the middle room. I’m warming my hands on a cup of tea, just as I used to in the old days. The street hasn’t changed at all. You’re sitting opposite me. Your mother has just left us. You’re the only person for me in the whole world . . . The only one. The world is empty and I can’t stand it. I want to die.’

30 November 1945 (the diary’s last entry)
‘My dearest. My beloved. Ask God to forgive me. Pray for my soul - the soul I am losing. I don’t want to live with a shattered soul. Please help me to die.’

In recent years, Edward Fenton, who runs Day Books, has given a few snapshots of Hana in his blog - A Publisher’s Diary - on the Day Books website. Here’s a couple of entries:

4 January 2009
‘ ‘I did not succeed in killing myself,’ Holocaust survivor Hana Pravda wrote on 4 January 1996. A few days earlier, her lost diary had been sent to her by a friend in Australia, and memories had come flooding back to her. After the war she had been so distressed that she had seriously considered suicide, and the diary ends on that note. Such despair wasn’t typical of her; she was always a fighter. It was a privilege for me to be able to work with her, and to publish her diary - along with the epilogue which she wrote over 50 years later, on this day 13 years ago.’

1 February 2006
‘To Greek Street for Hana Pravda’s surprise birthday party in a little private room above a place called the Gay Hussar. Hana had been expecting to have a family dinner, and hadn’t known till the very last minute that so many of her friends would be coming to pay tribute to her. Her three granddaughters were there - and her grandson, who’d flown in from the US - and various friends from her long career, including Tom Conti, who was clearly the guest of honour as far as Mrs Pravda was concerned. But tonight she was the star. What an amazing life she’s had - and how amazing that she was there - still.’