This article appeared
in Volume 20: No. 2 of the Orient
Express magazine.
Bohemian Rhapsody
HRH Princess Michael of Kent explores the Czech Republic’s
ancient cities and castles—remembering a previous visit when
she had to flee Prague as Russian tanks rolled in.
As a young refugee in Australia, when asked by my classmates where
I was born, I answered “Bohemia”. With looks of disbelief,
my tormentors would demand: “So where is your father from?” And
I would answer: “Silesia”. By now incredulity was plain
all around and to the question of my mother’s origin, I replied “Transylvania”.
The mere mention of the home of Dracula would lead to hysteria, and
when I admitted that I did actually descend from Dracula’s
half-brother, Drac the Monk, I would be called a liar. But it was
true. How to explain to schoolgirls in the 1950s the former divisions
of the Iron Curtain countries?
Since the collapse of the Soviet Union, the world has begun to learn
the names of the old territories. Transylvania is mostly in Romania
now, but my grandfather came from the Hungarian part. My grandmother
was Austrian, but her family had property in Bohemia, another slice
of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, now the Czech Republic. How I pity
today’s children studying European history.
I was born in western Bohemia at my Austrian grandmother’s
estate near Karlsbad (now Karlovy Vary). My family fled the country
when I was five months old—when we next returned in August
1968, I was in my early 20s. That was the year President Dubcek defied
his Russian Communist overlords and instigated the Prague Spring
reform.
That summer, my mother, aunt and I set off on a tour around the
country, eventually arriving at Tachov, near the German border, to
visit my grandmother’s residence. Sadly, this had been partially
destroyed by the Russians: slogans with hammer and sickle insignia
had been daubed on the walls, the parquet flooring had been lifted
to make fires in the centre of rooms and the corners used as latrines.
Police on motorcycles shadowed us and the atmosphere was sinister.
As we wandered around a wizened old man followed us.
We looked, marvelled and wept—still the old man followed.
Finally we approached him. He begged us to follow and reluctantly
we did, to an old barn, where he ushered us inside its dark interior. “Dangerous,” hissed
my mother, but we went in. When we grew accustomed to the darkness,
we saw a large shape under a tarpaulin. “Certain death,” whispered
my aunt and jumped back as the tarpaulin was pulled away.
We gasped. There, gleaming scarlet and silver, lovingly polished
and propped up on bricks, stood my mother’s 1930s Mercedes
convertible. She had loved that car and, as children, had told us
endless stories about it. She had thought herself very dashing driving
it and possibly regretted leaving it behind more than anything else.
The old man had rescued the car, sold the engine and kept it polished
for the day of her return. We all hugged him and gave him the jeans,
lipsticks and Mary Quant tights...everything we had brought to hand
out in Prague.
With sign language we managed to get some tyres and, after much
fiddling and beer drinking with some of his friends, we hitched up
and towed our prize to Prague. We parked it outside the French Embassy,
where we were the Ambassador’s guests. We spent an unforgettable
evening dining on the terrace and the main topic of our conversation
was the car. Would Mercedes-Benz build an engine to fit it? Could
we get new leather seats? Could I drive it? Should we keep it in
Vienna or drive it back to London? It was in a spirit of huge excitement
that we sat on the balcony that mid-August evening chattering and
listening to the sound of guitars playing in the streets—in
a Communist country! The future looked golden. Dubcek was the Man.
As we drank our coffee and spun our dreams on the terrace, the Ambassador
was called away. He returned looking grave, and said that we were
to pack and leave immediately and drive fast to the border. We did
as we were told and were obliged to leave the car at the embassy,
begging the staff to put it somewhere safe for our return. We sped
towards Austria, the wireless on. As we reached the border, we heard
that Russian tanks had rolled into Prague, guns blazing. Dubcek’s
Prague Spring was over. Retribution began and we never saw the car
again. Having survived the German invasion, the American invasion,
the Russian invasion and decades of Communism, it was most probably
confiscated by a Russian general and towed to Moscow. One day I might
find it there, who knows? I have the chassis number and if you hear
of an English princess in prison for tampering with a vintage Mercedes,
you know the story.
Since the fall of the Iron Curtain, I have often visited Prague
and the Czech Republic. Last winter I toured a number of estates
and castles restored to my relatives. Their majesty and contents
thrill. The renaissance castle of Nelahozeves, for example, belonging
to the Lobkowicz family, houses one of the most important private
museums in Europe. Its collection of paintings includes works by
Velázquez, Bruegel the Elder, Rubens, Canaletto and many more.
Lying in the shadow of the castle is the house where the composer
Antonín Dvorák was born and brought up, which offers
a display of his manuscripts and original musical instruments. Also
on show are manuscripts by Beethoven, Mozart (annotated by Dvorák),
Gluck and others. Before leaving Nelahozeves, visitors can quaff
Lobkowicz beer from what is one of Europe’s oldest breweries.
We also visited the beautiful medieval and renaissance castle of
Cesk´y Krumlov. We marvelled at its baroque theatre with its
wooden machinery that is still in perfect working order, hoisting
and lowering the original painted scenery, and its exhibition of
18th-century costumes.
In addition to the castle, visitors can roam the town’s narrow
streets, visiting churches, admiring old houses and exploring museums
and galleries such as the Schiele Centrum. This picturesque town
nestles within a dramatic curve of the Vltava river, and is the Czech
Republic’s most popular destination after Prague.
My friends must see this and more, I decided, and a plan formed
in my mind. For one of my charities, I would arrange a Winter Queen
tour—in honour of the English princess Elizabeth Stuart, daughter
of King James I. Her husband, Frederick of the Palatinate, was elected
King of Bohemia in 1619 but, in 1620, his army was defeated in the
Battle of the White Mountain by the Habsburg Holy Roman Emperor Ferdinand
V. Thus began the Thirty Years’ War. It is not enough to see
the magical city of Prague, the countryside beckons and drips history.
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