Critics Needed – Book Excerpt

Since some of you have been asking, I thought I’d post a little excerpt from the new book. Please bear in mind this is a working draft and therefore has not been extensively edited. Any comments or criticisms are welcome.

1.

“Get yourself ready! Stand up and say to them whatever I command you. Do not be terrified by them, or I will terrify you before them. Today I have made you a fortified city, an iron pillar and a bronze wall to stand against the whole land—against the kings of Judah, its officials, its priests and the people of the land. They will fight against you but will not overcome you, for I am with you and will rescue you,” declares the Lord.[1]

The sound of his footsteps echoed around him as Father Jeremiáš Láska trudged up the worn stone steps of the Riders’ Staircase in Hradcany Castle under the elaborate vaulted ceiling. In centuries past, knights on horseback used this entrance to the castle on formal occasions. The steps were wide, deep, and flat, with very little rise, to make it easier for horses to negotiate. Father Jeremiáš found it annoying though, struggling to gain some kind of rhythm to his stride as he mounted the stairs, a further annoyance that did not improve his mood. He was already nervous, and truth be told, a little put out by this preemptory summons by the President of the Republic.

At the top of the stairs, he stopped to unbutton his long black overcoat and shook it vigorously to dislodge the remaining droplets of the cold, January rain he collected on his short walk from St. Vitus Cathedral to the Hrad. He brushed his hand through his closely cropped black hair—turning prematurely grey—to dry his head. He had been going about the city bareheaded for weeks, having given the new black hat his mother bought him to a beggar in the market. At only twenty-four years of age, Father Jeremiáš looked older than his years. It wasn’t so much his appearance that gave this impression, but his eyes. He was quite tall, over six feet four inches, which made him dominate any room he entered. His shoulders were square, his physique lanky and well toned. His features were otherwise unremarkable. Yet it was his eyes, a steely grey-blue, which could alternately convey great gentleness and sympathy or fiery wrath depending on his mood. He could use them like a scalpel to slice away any pretense or triviality from the unwary interlocutor or cast them upon a suffering soul like cool water, extinguishing the heat of turmoil and pain. Underlying this great expressiveness though was a deep melancholy, which seemed always to weep for his fellow man.

Father Jeremiáš made his way down the hall and around a corner to arrive in front of a large, baroque desk slathered in gold gilt. Standing behind the desk was a thin, pinch-faced secretary in a somber grey suit, round spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He was studying a large appointment book. Without looking up, he consulted his watch.

“Father Láska?” he inquired.

“Yes, I am Father Láska.”

“You are five minutes late Father. I do hope you realize that the President is very busy. Please wait here.” And with that, the secretary turned on his heels and disappeared through a doorway. After a moment, he reappeared outside the door and motioned with his hand.

“President Masaryk will see you now Father.”

“Thank you,” said Father Jeremiáš curtly. He walked quickly past the punctilious secretary into a large paneled study, covered on two walls by floor to ceiling bookcases. Standing near one of the bookcases was the president, and father of Czechoslovakia, Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk. He was reading a very old looking volume, scowling as if he disapproved of what he read there. Father Jeremiáš stood quietly with his hands folded in front of him, waiting for the President to acknowledge his presence. After a very brief pause, Masaryk snapped the book closed, and looked up, the scowl vanishing from his face.

“Ah, Reverend Father, I’m so happy you could find the time to see me!” He approached Father Jeremiáš with hand extended, a warm smile on his face. They shook hands and Masaryk beckoned him to take a seat. Father Jeremiáš removed his overcoat and folded it over his arm. He moved to a group of large, velvet-covered chairs opposite the president’s desk and waited for Masaryk to join him before sitting down.

“I’ve ordered us some tea,” he said after closing the study door, “If you don’t mind, we’ll wait for Herr Beneš to join us before we commence our discussion.” Edvard Beneš was Masaryk’s right arm in the founding of Czechoslovakia after World War I, and served as Foreign Minister. Father Jeremiáš grew more nervous about what this all meant as he watched Masaryk sit down opposite him.

Masaryk adjusted the tails of his cutaway coat, and then leaned back in the chair in a relaxed manner. He smiled at Father Jeremiáš benignly from beneath his large, drooping walrus mustache. He wore gray trousers under his dark coat and waistcoat; a silver watch chain glinted in the lamplight, a somber burgundy tie with neat little spots knotted at his throat. Since this was the first time, he had seen him up close, Father Jeremiáš noted that Masaryk had a stern, but not unkind face, with sparkling dark eyes that looked directly at you when he spoke. He absent-mindedly toyed with a pince-nez that hung from a silken cord around his neck.

“I trust you weren’t too incommoded by the dreary weather this morning Father,” said Masaryk, trying to put his guest at ease.

“No sir. I was at the Cathedral this morning, in fact.”

“Were you saying your Mass?”

“No, but I did want to stop at the tomb of John Nepomucene before I came over.”

“Nepomucene indeed!” exclaimed the president, a wry smile on his face, “The martyr?”

“Yes sir. As you know, he was drowned in the Vltava by King Wenceslas because he refused to divulge secrets from the confessional.”

“My dear Father Láska, you have no idea how appropriate your visit to St. John was.” Just at that moment, there was a sharp knock on the study door. Without hesitation, the door opened and a smallish man with balding head and tiny mustache swept in. It was Minister Beneš. Following in his wake was the prim secretary bearing a tray with teapot, china, and a plate of digestive biscuits.

Father Jeremiáš stood as the Foreign Minister approached. He towered over him, but was immediately aware that Herr Beneš deferred to no man, except President Masaryk. From his chair, the President completed the introductions.

“Edvard, may I present Father Jeremiáš Láska. This is the young man I spoke to you about.”

Beneš took Father Jeremiáš’ hand and shook it with a slight bow of the head, but without a word of greeting, and then sat down next to Masaryk. Once they were all seated, the secretary, who up until now had remained respectfully in the background, came forward to lay out the refreshments. He quickly poured a cup for Masaryk, adding milk and two sugar cubes out of long practice.

“Minister?” he asked, looking at Beneš. Beneš waved his hand to indicate that he was far too busy for such trifles. Unperturbed, he turned to Father Jeremiáš, “Father, would you like a cup of tea?”

“Yes, thank you. No milk or sugar please.”

The rituals of hospitality out of the way, the secretary retreated, closing the door softly behind him. No sooner had the door closed than Masaryk put down his cup.

“Now for the reason I asked you here Father,” he said leaning back in his chair, “I asked Archbishop Korda? to recommend a man to take on a very delicate mission for the state. He recommended you. I asked the Archbishop because Doctor Beneš and I both feel that given the sensitivity of the job, a clergyman would be ideal…that is, if the right one can be found. The purpose of our meeting today is, primarily, to discover if you are that man.”

Father Jeremiáš took a sip of tea and then carefully replaced the cup on the saucer. He sat for a moment, head down, as if savoring the taste, and then put cup and saucer back on the table. Both Masaryk and Beneš watched him closely. Father Jeremiáš sat back in his chair, folded his hands in his lap and then, looking directly into the president’s eyes he said, “Mr. President, I have a job. No, more than that, I have a vocation. I am a priest. My duty is to God and to His people. I am not a politician, nor a bureaucrat. Neither do I wish to be.”

He reached for his overcoat, and then stood, “I am very sorry that we have wasted each others’ time this morning. It has been a great honor to meet you Mr. President, Minister Beneš.” He nodded at the small foreign minister sitting with a dumbfounded look on his face, a look that slowly turned to one of simmering anger.

“Father Láska! How dare you take such an insolent tone? I…,” spluttered Beneš, but Masaryk cut him off.

“Father Jeremiáš, I’m sorry my words upset you,” he said in a low calm voice, “I applaud your resolve and dedication. Those are precisely the characteristics the Archbishop lauded you for, and why we wished to meet you. You must forgive me for the clumsiness of our approach; the fault is mine entirely. We meant no disrespect, nor do we seek to interfere in your ministry. Will you do us the favor of listening to our problem? Certainly, there is no harm in listening?”

Father Jeremiáš felt an interior rebuke. He had been rude and he knew it. He nodded and sat down once more. Beneš sat forward in his chair, putting his hands on his knees as if to say something. Sensing that Beneš was about to launch into once of his characteristic lectures, Masaryk reached out his hand and rested it gently on Beneš’ shoulder. Beneš sat back. “Thank you Father,” said Masaryk quietly, “Perhaps you will let me provide some context for this meeting?”

Father Jeremiáš nodded, “Yes sir, of course.”

“As you know, Doctor Beneš and I have labored intensively for the past ten years to secure the creation of the Czechoslovak state. It is our profound belief that it is only through a strong and peaceful Czechoslovakia that our people may enjoy freedom and the fruits of democratic cooperation. It is also our wish that Czechoslovakia become a stabilizing force in central Europe, uniting east and west in meaningful political, cultural, and economic exchange.” Masaryk paused for a moment, then continued, “But, I’m sure you are also well aware that there are great challenges in the world today. There are those who do not see the promise of Czechoslovakia, but instead look to her with jealous eyes. They surround us. Poland and Hungary covet our territory, bolshevism has overtaken Russia,—although I can’t see that as any worse than the tsarist state—and fascism looms on our western border. Austria is weak and sick and can easily fall into the orbit of a strong fascist state.”

“Mr. President, I’m not oblivious to these things. I, like most citizens of our country, applaud you and Minister Beneš for your tireless work on our behalf. I simply don’t understand what it is you want from me.”

Masaryk stood slowly. Putting one hand behind his back, he began to pace the room, stroking his white mustache with the other. Reaching the bookcase, he stopped and pulled a volume off the shelf. He returned to the two men who were watching him intently. As he approached, he opened the book and flipped through the pages. Arriving at the passage he was searching for, he smiled and then read aloud.

“You may not recognize this quotation Father, but no doubt you will agree with it: ‘When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall, one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle.’ Edmund Burke, the great British statesman.” He closed the book, and resumed his seat. Speaking more earnestly now he said, “Father, Europe is at a crossroads: What happens in the next few years will either solidify the hard-won peace, or blow the continent—maybe even the world—to pieces. We recently signed a defense treaty with France. The Soviets are pressing us very hard to grant them de jure recognition of their new government, but in our estimation, to do so now would inflame the suspicions of Poland and Germany. Our only other friends in Europe are those of the so-called ‘Little Entente;’ Romania and Yugoslavia. In each case, there is a limit to what traditional diplomatic channels can convey. We need a reliable and unimpeachable person to take on certain unofficial embassies, and to counsel us on the ramifications of our policies. It is our hope that you would be that man.” The president sat forward in his chair. Minister Beneš looked on expectantly. Father Jeremiáš sat back heavily in his chair.

“With all due respect gentlemen, I am no diplomat as I said. I am a priest. A newly ordained priest at that! Why, I am only twenty-four years old! What possible service can I provide?”

“You can provide integrity and intelligence,” said Masaryk simply. “Please give us some credit for thoroughly vetting your background before approaching you on this matter. Archbishop Korda? told us of your high marks in languages, and canon law. He also spoke movingly about what he called, and I quote, ‘an almost supernatural wisdom, and maturity in one so young.’ Frankly Father, Herr Beneš, and I do not have time to go wool gathering.” The president’s expression changed from calm amiability to one of tired impatience. The sternness in his countenance presented itself.

“I would have to discuss this with the pastor of my church before…,” Father Jeremiáš began.

“It has already been discussed with him. I have the Archbishop’s leave to employ you however we see fit,” said Masaryk dryly.

“Then I have no choice in the matter?”

At last, Minister Beneš asserted himself, “I don’t see that you do. Further, it is your duty as a loyal citizen to aid your country in its time of need. You must now render to Caesar, Father.” He gave the smug smile of a man who has just checkmated his opponent in a grueling chess match.

“Very well,” said Father Jeremiáš submissively, “What is it that you want me to do?”

“For the moment, nothing,” said the president, rising from his chair. He walked to his desk and flipped open a red, leather portfolio. He selected a single sheet of paper that Father Jeremiáš could see contained a few lines of typed text. Masaryk retrieved a fountain pen from an inner coat pocket, unscrewed the cap, and scrawled something on the bottom of the paper. He replaced pen, picked up the sheet of paper, and delivered it to Father Jeremiáš. He read it outloud.

I hereby appoint, Rev. Jeremiáš Láska, Special Envoy, in the ministry of Foreign Affairs seconded to the Minister for Foreign Affairs. Said appointment to run concurrently with my own term as President of the Republic, or until such time as the appointment shall be terminated by me.

T. G. Masaryk

7 January, 1925

Handing the document back, he asked wearily, “Mr. President, may I know what the duties of a ‘special envoy’ specifically entail?”

Beneš answered the question, “It will require you to personally deliver or receive messages on behalf of the government, to attend meetings with foreign powers, to look and listen as instructed.”

“For the time being Father,” said Masaryk in a soothing voice, “all we wish you to do is attend some cabinet meetings and give us your impressions of the discussions. In fact, the first such meeting will be tonight at seven in the cabinet room. Doctor Beneš will meet you to show you where to go. Just come to the main entrance at six-thirty. Until then, thank you for coming, and I wish you a good day.” He stood and walked to his desk signaling that the meeting was over. Beneš stood and shook Father Jeremiáš hand stiffly, then walked him to the study door. Having shown the priest out, he closed the door to continue his consultations with the president in private.

Out in the hall once more, Father Jeremiáš donned his overcoat and nodded at the secretary who eyed him warily. He made his way out of the Hrad the same way he came in. Stepping out into the square, he felt the bite of the icy, January wind. The rain that soaked him on his way to the castle had turned to snow. Father Jeremiáš looked down at his shoes and cursed himself that he had neglected to put on his overshoes that morning. He turned up his collar against the wind, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. His last pair of gloves had lasted only a week. They, like his hat, were warming another poor beggar forced to live in the streets.

His mind awhirl from the events of the morning, Father Jeremiáš thought that the best way to make sense of it all was to go to the source. He turned toward the Archbishop’s Palace at the other end of Hradcany Square. The seat of Prague’s bishops since the 16^th century, the palace’s imposing Rococo façade loomed ahead of him as he leaned into the swirling wind and snow. Skirting the imposing double doors that made up the main entrance to the palace, Father Jeremiáš ducked around the side of the building and found the service entrance.

Once inside, he turned down his collar and stomped his feet to get some circulation back into them. He brushed the snow from his shoulders as he made his way to a back staircase. Using this unconventional route would allow him to bypass the office of the archbishop’s secretary and general factotum, Monsignor Skala. The monsignor was a formidable personage, by all accounts, more so even than the archbishop. The fact was that most people were afraid of him, but not Father Jeremiáš; he merely wanted to avoid the inevitable battle that would result from him dropping in unannounced, wishing to see the archbishop. It was true that Father Jeremiáš was a favorite of the archbishop, and frequently took liberties—so some thought—based on that relationship. He counted on that now.