The Czech version of my book was launched on Sunday, December 7 in Domažlice, Czech Republic. The Czechs have a tradition of sending a new book out into the world with a god father, a god mother, or both. My book has two Czech god parents, and the launch party included costumed folk musicians, Czech baked goods, a museum-quality exhibit of World War II artifacts, a standing room only crowd, a best-selling Czech author, a renowned Czech sculptor, the fulfillment of a promise made to a boy at the end of World War II, a Czech translator, laughter and tears, and beer brewed on the premise. I was overwhelmed by the love in the room, as well as the Czechs’ continued interest in my grandfather’s story. They sold out of my book, and by the time I signed the final copy, the event had gone on for over three hours.
The book’s god father is Amar Ibrahim, whose family owns the stately Hruška building on the city’s Medieval main square. Through yet another string of coincidences, my grandfather met Amar’s great grandfather, Arnost Hruška, at the end of World War II. When my grandfather arrived in Domažlice ahead of the rest of his division on May 4, 1945, he parked his jeep on the square, looked up, and saw the building in front of him was named “Hruška,” which was the same surname as his maternal grandmother. Of this surprise, grandpa wrote, “now I knew my past was really catching up with me!” But it wasn’t until after the war that my grandpa and Amar’s grandfather spent time together. On a beautiful June day in 1945, Grandpa drove his jeep from his post-war office in Pilsen to Domažlice to look for information about his grandparents. And he began his search by knocking on Arnost’s door. The two got along so well that grandpa had someone film the two of them walking down the square together. Grandpa had been toting a hand-held, 8 mm wind-up Kodak movie camera with him across Europe and had brought it with him on his trip back to Domažlice.
The god mother of my book is Jana Poncarova, a multiple best-selling Czech author. Back in 2013, Jana had arranged for me to perform on the main stage of the annual Liberation Festival in Pilsen, Czech Republic. The 800-seat theater was packed the night of the show with WWII veterans, their families, and Czechs who loved the fact that Pilsen had been liberated in WWII by the Americans, not the Soviets. At one point in the performance, I realized I was watching myself on stage from a viewpoint near the ceiling, an out-of-body experience that had never happened before, nor since. It was so strange I didn’t tell anyone about it for a couple of years. When I mentioned it to my acting coach, Josette Antomarchi, she said the same thing had happened to her a couple of times in her acting career. She convinced me I wasn’t completely crazy, so I included the experience in my book.
Jana visited my wife and I in Minnesota a few years ago, and then stayed at our beachside home in Two Rivers, Wisconsin for a writing retreat. We are good friends, and in October, 2024 she asked me to be the god father of a book she was about to release, a story with a strong American theme. Her book launch was in a chic restaurant in Prague, packed with her fans, and augmented with musicians and fancy appetizers. As I sat next to her and her publisher, not really understanding what was going on, but aware that I was right next to the center of attention, I felt a bit like Forest Gump. I had no idea being a book god father was such a big deal. At the appointed time, I was instructed to pour Coca-Cola over the book to make the christening official. Her many fans applauded, and then we ate and drank.
Back during my 2013 Czech tour, Jana introduced me to Amar right after a show I had done in a castle in the town of Horsovsky Tyn. Amar had not understood a word of the story (it was years before my Czech language titles), and wanted to know why a photo of his building was in my show. He owned an authentic World War II jeep and was more obsessed with the American liberation of his city than anyone else in Domažlice. Nevertheless, he seemed miffed at me for using his building without his permission. Amar, like all the other Czechs, didn’t know my grandfather’s story because the Moscow-backed communist regime had insisted for decades that the Americans had never set foot in Czechoslovakia. It wasn’t until the Czechs’ Velvet Revolution in 1989 that they could finally tell truth about the Americans, so grandpa’s story had been covered by the silt of 41 years of communist disinformation. But when it was explained to Amar, in Czech, the significance of his building to my grandfather’s overall story, we became instant friends, my Czech brother. Three years after that meeting, I showed Amar film that my grandfather had shot in Domažlice. About eight minutes in, Amar he shouted, “Arnost! Arnost!” and pointed out his great grandfather and my grandfather on their 1945 stroll down the main square.
My publisher, Vaclav Fiala, was the master of ceremonies at the launch. Vaclav is a published author himself, a great wit, and is known internationally for his sculptures, one of which, “Friendship Table,” graces the central park in my grandfather’s town of Two Rivers, Wisconsin. Like Jana, Vaclav and his wife, Silvie, who is an outstanding photographer, and their two children spent a week at our beach house in Two Rivers. Vaclav had to be in Two Rivers to install his sculpture, and was able to extend it into a family vacation. I have spent time with Vaclav and his family in what he calls “Hangar F,” his studio and home about 25 miles from Domažlice. Hangar F was built in the Soviet-era as a tank garage. So now a place that used to house weapons of war is where Vaclav brings art into the world, and raises his family.
I was a fan of Vaclav’s work before I met him. My translator, Slavka Spolwind, insisted on making a detour on the way to a Czech gig so I could see his monument to a US B-24 bomber that had crashed just outside of the town of Nepomuk, Czech Republic. The work includes a tilted and polished metal obelisk that reflects the forest around the plane crash crater. At first, I didn’t see the obelisk, as the mirrored surface makes the 15-foot high shiny pencil almost imperceptible. A Czech friend described the effect of first seeing it as, “discovering a crack in the space-time continuance.” The angle of the work makes it seem like a spear thrown from the sky that landed at the spot where ten American crew members had lost their lives in the cause of defeating fascism.
Vaclav has a repertoire of funny stories worthy of an evening of stand-up comedy. The Czech sense of humor, in my experience, is sly, and often layered. And while Americans will always make sure that you get the joke, often repeating a punchline or slapping you on the back, the Czechs are a bit more coy. My grandfather was 100% Czech–and spent every day of his life after the war trying to become even more Czech—and seemed to derive a perverse pleasure from people not understanding what he thought was funny. His kids and others in the family would groan and roll their eyes at what seemed to them to be his non sequiturs. And he wasn’t going to decode his madness for anyone. I include two examples of this in my show. First of all, his nickname for me was, “The Little Do-Do” because when I was three I’d point and yell “Do! Do!” at him to keep entertaining me. It was an odd nickname, but it made me feel special. It wasn’t until I was in my forties that I figured out it meant, “The Little Turd.” Secondly, his CB radio handle, “The Mushroom Picker,” caused everyone in the family to throw up their hands in bafflement. The adults in the family called him, “The Colonel.” So one understood why he’d name himself something so ridiculous. I solved that mystery on my first trip to the Czech Republic: mushroom picking is the country’s national pass time. Grandpa basically named himself, “The Czech,” and didn’t explain it to anyone.
In Domažlice, grandpa was posthumously made an Honorary Citizen, his image is cast in bronze relief, and his name is on a WWII monument created by Vaclav Fiala. The monument is a granite table with two stone hats: an American WWII helmet, and a traditional Czech farmer’s hat. Fiala emailed the designed and asked my opinion. I said it was wonderful and had two meanings. The first was the one he intended: a Czech and an American sitting at table together after the war, perhaps for a beer and a meal, united in peace. But the second meaning was personal, as the monument told my family’s story. My grandfather had worn the helmet in Domažlice in May, 1945, while his grandfather had worn the farmer’s hat in and around Domažlice prior to his departure for America. So when I was in town for the book signing, I sat at Fiala’s granite table for a little family reunion—the one who wore the farmer’s hat, the one who wore the helmet, and the one who wrote the book.
The event organizer, Lidka Brychová, asked me to bring an American chocolate bar for an older gentleman who had been promised chocolate by a US Army serviceman after the war. For 80 years, the promise went unfulfilled. The gift of chocolate was emotional for him, as he had lost family members during the war. I also brought a bag of Hershey kisses chocolates, and a bag of Snickers, Twix Twin Bars, Kit Kats, and other American candy bars for the rest of the book launch attendees. The afternoon was sweet and dreamlike, and held in a large second floor room in Domažlice’s lovingly restored 19th century brewery. And the after-party in the brew pub downstairs stretched the event past the four-hour mark. This perfect day was then capped with a concert of choir and orchestra in Domažlice’s magnificent Baroque church on the main square, a church my great great grandparents would have known.
Miluji te, Domažlice.
Leave a Reply