chapter 1

Prague 1931 Childhood

Prague 1939 Adolescence

Prague 1940 Resistance

Prague 1931

Childhood

The flow of the Vltava comes into sight as I approach the bridge. It is murky and unrelenting, yet comforts me in a strange way. I rush up the slope under the tower and keep running ahead of Mother but stop by the second statue.

Before looking around I know she is spotting me with a stare that means come back now.

I like testing her limits. It’s a game we play. As Mother gets closer, I lean over the stone bridge wall.

“Stop that.”

This time Motherlets me gaze into the river below while a neighbor distracts her, then turns towards me. “There are egg yolks in the pillars.” I keep a blank face. “It strengthens the cement.”

Most things our neighbor tells me are unintelligible. Even sniffing the wall reveals no egg smell. When I spread both hands flat against the stone, it feels either damp or cold, but it’s not eggy.

Soon we are back in the family restaurant. I jump up the stairs two at a time, to the bedroom door that resists me. My bed takes up most of the space and blocks the door. This is where I enter the world, so my mother tells me. It is my haven, a place of security.

Downstairs we hear Granny, Ba-bisch-ka, telling everyone what to do. She grumbles at the waiters, smiles at the people eating, still finding time for Mirek as she calls me. Sometimes I have to grab onto her enormous pleated skirt to avoid the bustle of waiters. 

“Tak si bež,” she will say, “Off you go,” when I get in the way. 

My parents live in an apartment around the corner where there is a downstairs shop with cakes in the window. Some days or nights Mother is not home because she cares for sick people in the hospital. Babicka looks after me out-of-school hours, which means I am left on my own. This is time well spent when I try painting, mud cooking or making scenery.

Then Mother collects me. Sometimes she whispers her intimate secrets. “Always use your fingers to wash between your toes,” or “Don’t pick your nose in public.” So where do I put it? Under a table, on my trousers, in my napkin? She won’t let me pick my nose at home, only if she notices. I like to rub the soft goo between my thumb and two fingers until it is solid enough to flick somewhere. Then I look for it and never find it.

Mother’s passion is music. When she hums to Chopin, I copy her in secret, but the family piano is more fascinating. I pick out melodies on the white notes, then discover the black notes. She encourages me to play the piano, though I can’t sit still long enough for a complete lesson. I like to swivel around on the piano stool, while the teacher frowns at me, even though I hit the right notes.

‘He’s a bag of beans.” Mother’s eyes glance upward to the ceiling. “We all like Mahler in our family. He’s a favorite.” I make a mental note of the name. “I want him to know something of the great Czech composers, Dvorák and Smetana.” We listen to an orchestral suite. I continue tinkering on the piano and realize a piano alone does not make an orchestra. Then I stick my fingers between my toes as bedtime looms.

Mother apologizes to everyone for my boisterous behavior, though I don’t feel guilty at all. I love acting out a scene for the adoration of my friends or grown-ups. Mother understands. Sometimes we go to a party and watch Slavonic folk dancers in bright costumes. I imagine that I am one of them and dance my version around the table.

One weekend, Father takes me to the woods to pick mushrooms. He stoops down and looks me straight in the eyes with a kindly face. “Stay close. Don’t pick any poisonous mushrooms and don’t lick your fingers till we get home.” I know how to wash hands before supper, but lick fingers? I suppose he’ll tell me what poisonous mushrooms taste like. He strides ahead and I follow him, stepping into his footprints, bag in hand.

Here my thoughts distract me. I see twinkles of light darting around the trees in a forest that freezes me in my tracks. Someone or something is haunting me. The forest floor is alive. Is it the fox dressed in ghostly green? These thoughts send shivers down my neck. How can your imagination scare you in broad daylight? Father is the Gentle Giant to protect me while I’m on a secret mission. Then we go home for supper.

School lessons stop early on Friday afternoons. We hang around the gates until our mothers collect us. Often I wait for Mother to finish an endless conversation with Doubravka. She stares down at me with a grin that would worry any schoolboy.

“Why not take little Mirek to dance class?” I give her a blank stare, hoping Mother will ignore her.

That evening Mother announces we are to have a special night out with Doubravka and her husband. Father wears his brown jacket with a tie so I know it’s important. Mother puts on a long skirt and jacket under a red scarf. We rush down the road while Father stares at his watch.

“Maminka, stop walking so fast.” My breath glistens in the moonlight. A huge building towers above us, lit up like a palace with statues on top.

Inside the entrance, a swarm of people treads a bright red carpet in front of a golden staircase. They must be royalty, so I stand to attention next to my father. Soon Doubravka sees us, dressed in what must be a lace tablecloth. As they lead me into the Národní Divadlo, the Prague National Theatre, for the first time, I cannot keep my eyes off the ceiling. We find our seats, but the people in front blot out my view of the stage. Mother pulls a cushion out of her bag for me to sit on. I take another deep breath at being in such a wondrous place.

“I have to go to the toilet.”

Mother looks at Father, so Father takes me. As the lights dim, we get back in time, and a crescendo of music comes from somewhere below the stage. The curtain pulls up, and dancers jump around in a flood of light. People around me clap. My skin tingles again, and I lose myself in the spectacle. This is a new world for me. I want to be there. From then on, I need no encouragement. I have to dance. 

We filter through people in the foyer after the show. Doubravka still interrupts. She leans toward me in a sea of purple ruffles. “Isn’t it… osvěžující?” I nod in agreement, not knowing what she means by refreshing. “I’ll take you and your mother to see the ballet class with the dancers tomorrow. Do you know who Elisaveta Nikolska is?”

I can’t avoid her gaze and, being unsure, say nothing. Her words brush past my ears without stopping. The next day we sit trapped at the side of a vast studio with tall mirrors. Some dancers limber up in front of us. Doubravka leans across me with more words aimed at my mother. My nostrils itch with a fresh smell in the air. A more interesting question occupies me. Will she regain her balance between those enormous quivering breasts?

“Madam expects a high standard from her Czech dancers, you know.”

Mother nods and wiggles her bottom around on her seat. The lady called Madam faces all the dancers and seems to know everyone by name. Doubravka can’t stop chattering. “She knows Glazunov himself. Do you know one day he came to watch Madam’s production of Raymonda…”

“Who is Glazunov?” I decide I want to be part of the conversation.

Mother gives me one of her stares. “Sit still and watch.” I can’t. I have no idea who Glazunov is, nor that Madam teaches Russian ballet. At the end of class, she introduces herself. 

“Young Mirek can join the junior class.”

Mother turns towards me with a big smile, so I smile with her. I am in.

Madam Nikolska is the director of the National Ballet for the whole of Prague, the entire world for all I know. Mother tells me to call her Madam, so I look at her in silence, hoping she catches my gaze so I can say “Madam”.

“You know I charge weekly.” After a meaningful pause, “You can pay at the end of the month.”

Mother nods and wiggles in her usual way. I know what she is thinking. How many ballet classes can I go to? She takes my hand as we wander home past the cafe-bars where people smoke and giggle. Her eyes gaze up at the stars. She is planning something. My world changes forever that night. I rehearse the dance class on the movie screen in my mind, then tug at Mother’s hand.

“Maminka?” She gives me one of her stares. “I don’t want to go to football. I want to dance.” There is no need to worry. She will not force me. She seems to know ballet inspires me. Across the kitchen table, I eat my supper in silence, still tingling like a bag of beans.

Madam Nikolska takes me under her wing. She keeps strict discipline and has me three times a week for the junior ballet class. We can watch the company rehearsals and performances. Several weeks later and at a hundred crowns a week, my mother has to speak to Madam.

“The classes are too expensive.”

Madam Nikolska decides I must continue. “Mirek is boisterous, but he’s got talent.”

Mother beams with excitement and so do I.

“I need a good boy in the junior school to grow into the company.”

From then on Mother pays half price. She nods and wiggles her bottom on her seat. At last I focus on something achievable in my life. Most dance movements are easy for me, while other strange positions are difficult. Hard work begins. Madam calls it technique.

I soon get used to the routine of stretching, barre work, and floor exercises. My favorite is to jump in the air after speeding up across the floor. With constant practice, my thigh muscles grow larger compared to the upper body. My mind focuses on strength and posture.

A single pirouette I can achieve. Getting two in a row needs a lot of concentration. After six months I master three pirouettes to the right. The secret is to aim for four, so I get three. Turning to the left is far more difficult, though I don’t know why.

“To keep your center of gravity,” Madam explains, “you need perfect balance.”

The whole class pays attention as she walks towards me. “Pull yourself up on an imaginary string. Keep your calf muscles tight and tummy in. Your head goes last and fast…” Madam’s advice leaves me devoted to ballet. “Every movement has a secret. I can show you the way, but you must discover it for yourself.”

All my energies go into dance, though Mother insists on taking me to school. She lets me spend more hours at ballet than on schoolwork. This is a glorious time. Madam creates little dance sequences in front of the mirrors and we have fun by copying her. I go home thinking of the day’s steps, ready to fall into bed.

Most of all, I love to dance on the big stage. That is where I learn how to use space, to act and dance. We become performers, boys and girls alike, without worries. Daytime school complicates my life. My friends tell me how to talk to girls. Why make a big deal of talking to a girl? Dancing with a girl is so natural.

Nikolska Ballet School Performance on stage in Prague 1934

Father takes me to his office when there’s a day off school. It’s a drab building full of people in white coats called scientists. My father, Vendelin, does an important job for the government. He lets me see how to test metals on their big machines and how to record the results.

“Be precise and pay attention to detail.” He talks like the science teacher at school. I don’t mind. Then he lets me walk down the corridor to investigate the other rooms. Should I be a scientist like him, a doctor or a dentist, anything other than a dancer? Father does not discourage me from dance. Neither does he tell me what I should do.

At home one day, I find a collection of small bones tied together with wire, hiding at the back of a cupboard. Father laughs when he sees the look on my face. “It’s a foot,” he says, “all the bones in a foot. This is how it works.” He cups the base with one hand and levers the toes upward, then puts the working model into my hands.

“Why have you got bones in the cupboard?” To my astonishment, he roars with laughter.

Prague 1939

Adolescence

Sometimes I don’t like living in Prague. It’s too big a family. Who gets along with everybody in their family? Mother stops for a gossip in the Kavovy and buys bread. Then Father starts chatting as if time stands still on the clock in the Old Town Square. Where are my friends? How do I get away? Father assumes I am being rebellious, reluctant to listen, but he gives me tangible space. I wait outside.

Be a squirrel about to steal from the picnic. 

While the absurdity of this phrase occupies my brain soup, someone shouts my name from across the square. I turn towards Father while pointing in the rough direction of the voice. “I’ll come back later. My friends are here.”

Mother is paying for the bread, contemplating the cakes. We have eaten, so she can’t use that excuse on me. I wave goodbye and quicken my pace.

Stefan is Czech, not German and not Jewish. At school, we speak both German and Czech, though most of our classes are in our native tongue. We have to learn Russian, though I don’t know why. One of our teachers makes us speak Russian and German in his class. He thinks we’ll learn more by swapping words and phrases in a linguistic jamboree.

“как дела?”

“Gut, Danke.”

I find his classes entertaining, though I can’t make sense of identity. My family and friends remind me all the time: Once a Bohemian, always a “bohemian.” We talk politics more often in the classroom.

“Never trust a Russian.”

“Yes, but you know what the Germans are doing? I mean, in Germany.”

I make my contribution. “Our river is the Vltava, but Germans call it Die Moldau. They rename everything. It’s like they want to take over the world.”

Next morning I wake up to a commotion in the street. I hear Father clanking cutlery with Mother at the kitchen sink. 

“Oh shit.”

Father never swears, so I get out of bed still yawning, wondering what the fuss is about.

“Vendelin,” shouts a neighbor from outside, below the window. “It’s an invasion. German troops have marched across our borders during the snowstorm. They’re in Prague now.” There is bitterness in the cold air. We reach for our coats. I meet Josef in the street, my face still twisting with disbelief.

“German motorcycles are rumbling over the Charles Bridge.”

“How do we stop them?”

“We can’t. Our army isn’t strong enough and we don’t have allies.” The wind turns nasty so we retreat indoors. In the classroom, we discuss the unravelling of news with our teachers. Comments splinter across the corridor with more questions than answers. 

‘Why has Hitler invaded?”

“He already has the Sudetenland.’

“There will be riots.”

‘We have treaties, don’t we?’

‘Czechoslovakia will disintegrate.’

‘It’s the end of freedom and democracy.’ 

The classroom falls silent with grim faces. 

‘It’s called salami tactic.’ Sara the clever girl gives her view. ‘Adolf Hitler is slicing up Europe step by step, like cutting a salami and we are next on the plate.’

We all gape and listen. She’s right. The shock of reality put in her succinct way is a revelation. I leave for home disorientated.

Why do Germans bully their way into our lives, into our Lebensraum? I can see living space is precious, but so is our liberty. I remember reading it in our history class, or was it geography? The Czechs and Slovaks are small nations trapped between the heavyweight powers in the middle of Europe. We are buffer states.

I admire the English, yet what do they do? Our newspapers question why Britain’s Prime Minister meets Hitler. Total deception. Doesn’t everyone know this? Hitler marches into our country and the British don’t come to help us. Nor do the French.

At least once a week I sneak away at the end of class to go to the Prague Conservatory. Here I mingle with young musicians. Sometimes I play piano in one of the small padded rehearsal rooms. As a dancer from the National Theatre, they give me free access. Here I meet Beno Blachut, the tenor. He stimulates my interest in opera. I love the drama in his singing voice while rehearsing a section of Janacek. As I get to know him, he reveals a resigned attitude to the Nazis who will not let him travel. I will not let that happen to me.

I have two school friends who are Catholic German. We get along fine, though Dominik is a more devout German than Catholic. A lot of Czechs living in Prague are atheist at home, Protestant in the street. I try to avoid discussions of religion and politics by immersing myself in ballet. Perhaps it’s an identity crisis. For days I carry a dull pain in the pit of my stomach. I like to think I’m an adult, though I can’t be sure of anything. My head tells me not to sit on the fence. Leaving Prague is not an option at the moment.

‘Miroslav Zloch. Stop daydreaming.’

I close my mouth and shuffle the papers on my desk into an untidy stack.

‘Will you explain to the class why you are grinning out the window?’

‘Well, Miss, I’ve realised er… nobody can imprison my thoughts.’ There is a muffled groan from behind. ‘You can imprison my body but not my thoughts.’ I sit up straight, surprised at my verbosity. ‘So I’m forever free’, as I throw my arms up in the air. A chair squeaks behind me with more groans. 

History teacher stares at me. ‘Good point. Not relevant. We are discussing 17th Century Germanisation today, not the psychology of freedom.’

School studies are often boring, while a female teacher is a welcome distraction. Some have a way with words and hook you, so I pay attention. Others are uninspiring, so I withdraw into my world of imagination and dance. History class usually keeps me awake. Teacher lounges on her hips in a way that catches my attention. She adjusts her hair at the front of the class, sending a bolt of lightning through my loins. Men hold the balance of power in history, not women, so why is this lady teaching history? I yawn into my hand, then turn the page of the book when I see her watching me.

‘Why is Hradcany castle so well known in our history?’ She walks towards Sara, the favourite student. ‘Please read out loud from page 42.’

Brain soup interferes again. Why should I care what happens in 1618? Sara continues reading. ‘Protestant nobles throw Catholic officials from the castle windows.’ 

I take a while to understand the link. It leads to Catholic oppression of Czechs after 1618, Nazi oppression of Czechs today. Hitler proclaims a German Protectorate over our country and occupies Hradcany castle. All happens from a window in the same castle. Will he tolerate the Catholics? Of course not, though Hitler is Catholic from childhood. What of the Slavs and the atheists? What about me? Is he going to throw us out of the castle windows? Today’s history lesson slaps me in the face.

I have never seen Hitler in person. Newsreels do the job. Jiří says his hands and face twist like an overdosed spanner. I go with him to Wenceslas Square to protest with the crowds. We sing the Czech National Anthem because physical resistance is futile. Some of us throw snowballs at the German cars.

Our German school friends stay away. Opinions differ over the Germanisation of Czechs and Slovaks. Jiří takes care to remind us. ‘Most of the Sudeten Germans are Nazi supporters.’ He tells us more of the latest news.

‘Germans drive on the right.’

‘But we drive on the left.’

After days of chaos, the Nazis control the organs of state. Life changes on all levels. Some shops assert they are Aryan and place signs in the windows telling us so. People walk around with tense, sometimes blank faces. The speed of the takeover is unbelievable.

Jiří imitates a German news reporter. ‘All able-bodied Slavs to dig roads.’ The punchline he delivers mocking a heavy German accent, ‘because we Germans don’t know how to.’

I smile at his black comedy, though nobody laughs. The brittle horror of Nazi occupation sinks into our bones. Balconies flap with swastika flags, black uniforms police the streets. Worse still, suicides begin withour own people. We are not Slavs anymore. We are Slaves. And they are a bunch of thugs.

When you find a friend, it’s a relief. I am not a student at the medical school. One day I meet Jan in the coffee-shop. ‘Can you sneak me into one of your classes at the Charles University?’

‘You’re not enrolled.’

‘Yes, but a new face will not stand out in the crowd. Take me to the lecture hall, not a tutorial.’ I stir my black coffee, hoping he will say yes. ‘I can get you a ticket to the National Theatre if you want to see me dance.’

He doesn’t. He has never been to the National Theatre, let alone heard opera, so ballet is off the list. I know he enjoys discussing the human body, muscles and calcium salts, so I persist. ‘Dancers get all kinds of injuries to their feet, especially the tendons.’

Days later, Jan lends me a fat textbook from the university library. The chapter on the human skeleton has a section devoted to the mechanics of the foot. I take it home and jot down notes in my blue notebook on the kitchen table. Mother stops cooking and stares at me wide-eyed. ‘Mirek is studying…?’

Some days later Jan runs across the street towards me. ‘Yes… ok, I’ll get you into a lecture.’ Then I never see him again. Sylvie can’t console me. ‘The police may have arrested him. They even beat people in the street now.’ The bathroom mirror reflects a white tongue. I mustn’t be sick. My throat dries up. I must get back to ballet.

It is 28th October 1939. Many German SS and Czech police line the streets. They expect disorder today, our anniversary of 1918, Czechoslovak Independence. I want to be part of it. Mother worries me with her usual advice.

I reach the Old Town Square where a cascade of flowers pervades the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. We tread the red white and blue paper flags littering the streets. My Czech emotions ignite with the general hubbub. The crowds swell, and the chanting begins. ‘Get out Nazis, go home Hitler.’ 

I stick close to Jiří and Milan, as we quicken our pace down Železná Street, hands in leather jackets. German soldiers pour into Wenceslas Square. The crackle of bullets rings out, so we all run. I see a young man on his knees dragging a pool of blood. Jiří separates from me in Štěpánská Street.

Two hours later, I slouch on the couch as Mother comforts me. She reheats warm soup and vegetables, unaware of the shootings. How I hate hot soup.

Sylvie breaks the news. ‘Jan is in hospital, but it’s wise not to visit.’ Somewhere in Žitná Street, he takes a bullet in the stomach. To think we were so close to him in the next street, so unaware. My throat turns dry.

‘I must see him. How bad is he?’ Sylvie grabs my arm without looking into my eyes. ‘Jan has died.’ I stand there unable to move a muscle. Then I retch and bend over a burst of vomit.

There is more bad news over the next days. The Nazis get brutal after fresh demonstrations. They execute nine student union leaders. Then Reichsprotektor Neurath has his Chief of Police Karl Frank arrest hundreds of university students in their dormitories.

‘Why do they beat defenceless students?’ Jiří gapes at me, paler than a ghost. ‘The Nazis are catching any university students they find. Once arrested they go to Pankrac prison, then a camp near Berlin.’

I respond with a face equally drained. ‘So there’s no justice, no rule of law anymore?’

‘No, and it’s better to stay off the streets.’

My teenage world collapses around the German occupation. We are in survival mode. Faced with our history, we are helpless again.

‘Mirek, ne… prosim,’ Mother pleads. The next days of uncertainty stop me going out. Father agrees with Mother. 

‘Matka, I have to go to ballet.’

I step onto a tram with only two passengers inside. It breaks down, so I have to walk. Many Czechs boycott them for announcing tram stops in the German language. Most avoid driving cars around Prague. Some of my friends ride bicycles. I quickstep to the National Theatre and re-route down a side street. I don’t want the police to stop me.

‘Madam, I want to continue dancing in Praha.’ I share my fears in a private discussion. The pianist distracts her for a moment, then she begins her pronouncement in a scented voice. ‘I have a plan.’ She always speaks in short sentences.

Madam Elisaveta Nikolska is a clever lady. Dressed in fine fashion, her lean figure commands attention. Confident in political circles, she manoeuvres into the Nazi way of doing things. The daughter of a Russian General, both she and her mother escape Stalin’s Soviet Union. Now she has a ballet ready to impress the German senses. 

‘I am putting you in the ballet company as a trainee.’

Is that it? Well, ok. Then I realise it means I continue dancing. ‘Will I need a special identity card?’

‘Yes.’

She’s good at detail. The Special Trainee Department is the newly formed section of the National Ballet Company. I am to be a member of the National Ballet, my dream come true. This simple change protects her young dancers, in particular, male dancers.

‘One more thing, Miro. Dress smartly. Never forget you are an artist.’

That’s not all this lady does for me. She lets me train under an excellent German ballet teacher in the company. He speaks good Czech with an accent we all like to mock. I take advantage of the extra time after class to work on technique. Sometimes other boys practice with me the new choreography. We experiment with all kinds of athletic moves, such as the Russian folk step prisyadka. From a squat, we kick our legs out. It is hard to maintain momentum, excellent for building leg muscle.

Sometimes we try new steps in the Czech polka, taking turns to partner each other. Madam knows we stay in the studio after hours. Ubung macht der Meister, as the ballet master says in German. Practice makes perfect, so I practice until I get bored with seeing my image in the mirror. Dancers can get infected with narcissism. If you fall in love with your reflection, you can’t correct errors in the studio.

Prague 1940

Resistance

I slip sideways into an archway out of range of dull streetlights. My heart pounds. Apparent silence. The weight of breathing, the sort you think everyone can hear, won’t stop. I try holding my breath. Not a good idea.

Footsteps get louder. The flash of a swastika sharpens my wits. My legs tingle with adrenalin, but I must stay out of sight. The SS. Stay Still.

‘Hast Du Feuer?’

‘Ya, komm mal.’

Footsteps recede, leaving a vague smell of cigarette smoke. How nauseous it is to inhale the nasty breath of a Nazi. My thoughts clear with oxygen, so I poke my head around the archway. The two figures are distant enough. They weren’t looking for me. This is dirt and rubble espionage, the sort nobody admits to. You may lie forgotten in the gutter one day or live as a silent witness forever. Either way, you can be dead in an instant.

I ask Marek next morning what he thinks of the resistance in the city. ‘Are they like me?’ 

He clears his throat. ‘Prague is full of willing fighters and the Germans know it. The Nazis think we are minderwertig and treat us like shit. They imprison, torture or kill, even for pleasure. That’s what I think.’

He tells me not to spy-talk to anybody. ‘They got young Pavel. Nobody has seen him again.’

‘Was he tortured?’

‘If you know nothing, then you say nothing.’

I don’t believe him. ‘You can make up a story and lie.’

‘That’s worse.’ He taps out a cigarette and gives me the packet. ‘The Germans will lead you down a tunnel of lies to extract a confession. They can make a traitor out of you, even if you aren’t.’ We walk on. He gentles his voice. ‘Don’t talk to anyone about us.’ He breathes out. ‘I do the recruiting. The less you know the better.’

I can’t get the idea out of my head he is a teenager-turned-professor. He is right, I know there is no choice. To live on my wits means to be aware.

That afternoon I run up the stairway to the roof of the National Theatre with a renewed sense of purpose. We call it the observation tower. I count the number and type of planes flying overhead, the soldiers, trucks, tanks and any military police I can identify below. That includes the cars they drive, anything and everything to indicate their habits and movements. I use a tiny notebook to write the time and date, then hide it in a small inside pocket.

Focusing on the horizon leaves my eyes breathless. The river divides into a tidy city. If only I can get higher and spy from a spaceship. I love being here on top of the theatre, my panorama, my world of absolute freedom. Brain soup tells me freedom is relative, but I exclude its thoughts. I want the image to last. Prague is a blanket of red roofs and Gothic church spires. The buildings exude a permanent regality. I adore the soft polish of cobblestones, the scented freshness of morning dew.

Back to practicality. Spying is like fishing. I have to keep my head down in case I am reeled in. A bobbing fish on the roof attracts attention, so I find a position by the concrete base of a statue and crouch down. I can’t see anything except by peering upwards. Soon I get bored and leave. No planes to report today. I write it down.

Some actions are best taken on the ground, like strolling down a street. Marek wants me to observe, never run and never write notes in public. ‘You must have a reason to go from one street to another.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘So you have an excuse to be there in case a Nazi stops you in the street. Always have your papers.’ Then he whispers into my ear with a gravelly voice. ‘Pick out one of those police officers and track his route at a distance. Remember the time and place. Does he talk to a civilian for a long time? He may be an informant.’

Marek sends me to different parts of Prague for such work. I must be so careful because of informants. Sudeten Germans pretend to be Czech nationals. They speak fluent Czech, but they are Nazi sympathisers. It makes me sick to know there are even Czechs who inform on Czechs, or worse still children who inform on their family. The Nazis are an evil breed. He tells me if we break the informants then we disrupt the Nazi modus operandi.

‘Marek, what is modus operandi?’

‘The way of doing things.’

I follow the tramway lines, then turn left into the side street with another spring in my step. There is no point in waiting around. I have to drop this information in the rubbish bin on the corner. I pretend to smoke by sucking the cigarette without inhaling. An empty cigarette packet is standard issue. It contains my rolled up scraps of paper. I blow out smoke like a slow puncture and twist my head to glance behind. Nobody is following. I drop the crumpled packet and walk on at a brisk pace. It takes a while for my heartbeat to settle again. I must get back to dance class. I can’t stop thinking about the drop and feeling guilty. Is this real spying?

The next day I recognise the figure of a German officer buying salami from the butcher’s shop. He doesn’t salute like a Nazi, so I don’t think he’s SS. Marek tells me if his uniform is black, then he must be Schutzstaffel. Is there a difference between SS and a German officer? Marek doesn’t think there is.

‘They are all like Gestapo with different labels, different uniforms.’

As the German officer walks back to his car, his driver gets out to open the door for him. The engine keeps running. I make a habit of waiting near the butcher’s shop (another observation point). Then his visits stop. I never see him again.

Our President Benes is in exile somewhere in England. Marek gets the news from a secret radio set. After pleading with him, I spell it out. ‘I’m in the theatre, a perfect cover with papers and I speak fluent German.’ His eyes wander distant as he listens. He can’t avoid my gaze. ‘I am agile and…’ I pause on purpose. ‘You know I’m a good courier.’ Whether or not he admits it, I am the perfect undercover dancer. Malek can’t refuse me now.

After class, I find a spot to sit down by a leafy tree and observe the entrance to a building full of Germans and police. Uniforms go in and many plain clothes come out. I must not stay long, so I eat a sandwich and pretend to eat it again. In the safety of my bedroom, I write down what I can remember. Collecting these notes gives me a sense of purpose. I am a member of the club.

Marek sees me once a week, to check on me, encourage and warn me. I find out a month later that he doesn’t have a radio transmitter.

‘Where is it? How do you pass on the information?’ I don’t press him for an answer.

‘What did you do Monday?’

‘I had a long rehearsal so got home tired.’ We continue walking down the road. Once the clank of a truck subsides, he stops to face me. His baritone voice becomes gravelly again.

‘I want you to go to the Mala Strana district and walk around a few streets. Get to know the area.’ He speeds up his instructions. ‘There’s a restaurant on the corner of Nebovidska and Pelclova. Ask what’s on the menu for lunch tomorrow. Find out who the manager is, tall, short, fat, thin and remember how he talks. What’s his name? Be nonchalant. Well, try to be. How many Germans come in?’

He puts coins in my hand.

‘Take this for coffee. If he is chatty, why not talk about ballet to introduce yourself? Never directly ask about his business. Try to scout around the issue. For example, ask him if it is a family business then you can estimate the number of workers. Count the waiters in your head. Get the info, that’s what I want.’

He enjoys being my spy tutor. ‘Stand in front of a shop window and see who’s behind you in the reflection.’ His tone turns intimate. ‘Never make eye contact with the person you are following. Look down at the pavement and flick your eyes at the horizon. If you think he’s seen you, chat with a shop owner or a passer-by. Make up a question. Improvise.’

 Keeping a diary is foolhardy, so I stop writing and destroy it on his instructions. Marek drills me to be on guard in public. The resistance is a closed family. I am not sure what he means, but it sounds good.

My next mission is the luxury restaurant on Slovanský ostrov, the Slavonic Island. It used to be a thriving Jewish business. I must be careful. He leaves with his last words ringing in my ears, ‘být vědomi,’- be aware. At last, I understand what modus operandi means. He will give me the job, the key role once I am familiar with the target. He is preparing me for a bigger job.

We sometimes meet in the Cafe Tepna on Wenceslas Square. Marek’s advice provides me with basic spy training. I improvise and learn as I go along. I am grateful to him for making me aware of my identity, my country and my concept of freedom. Spying may be the blind leading the blind, though it has a purpose in Prague. Somebody mentions The Three Kings. I don’t know their real names and I must not know what they do. The resistance movement is second nature now. It’s like another facet of theatre. I’m not a spy. All I do is act out a part and get a dangerous buzz from it. Marek knows I am still dubious of the next level. To clarify my role, I need to get back to dance, to find balance again in my world. I know my life may end at any moment.