Behind the iron curtain
November 14th, 2024
Author Jadzia Prenosil’s memoir, My Childhood Behind the Iron Curtain (Island Blue Print $19.99) details her childhood in 1960s Communist Czechoslovakia, where everyday life was marked by restrictions, scarcity and isolation from the West. The Iron Curtain physically and ideologically divided them from neighboring Austria, making any attempt to escape perilous and life-threatening. Although life in the West was depicted negatively by the government, the people remained curious, catching rare glimpses of Western wealth and glamour through smuggled magazines or Austrian television broadcasts. Western goods like jeans, chocolate, and chewing gum were seen as rare treasures. Prenosil recalls her excitement at receiving her first pair of jeans from her aunt who lived in Vancouver at the time, a small luxury that felt like a bridge to another world.
Scarcity defined daily life. Fresh food was often unavailable, especially in winter, and luxuries like meat were a rare treat. Many families, including the author’s, supplemented their diets by raising small animals and growing vegetables. Practicality and durability were essential in clothing, which was often plain, limited in color, and shared among siblings or friends. Bartering became a way of survival, with people exchanging goods and favors to secure basic necessities.
Jadzia (front) with her mother and sisters, Hanka (left) and Nora (right) in 1956.
Prenosil’s parents had once known comfort and privilege before the Communist regime came to power, making the transition to a constrained life even more challenging. Yet, for the author and her sisters, Hanka and Nora, life was filled with simple joys—playing outdoors, learning household skills, and finding small ways to express creativity. These formative experiences, rooted in resilience and resourcefulness, would later help her adapt to a new life in Canada, where she could embrace the opportunities she had once only imagined. The memoir offers a poignant look at a childhood shaped by both hardship and strong family bonds, underscoring how these early lessons influenced her adaptability and outlook on life, through 45 linked stories.
Below is an excerpt from the chapter titled Ružbachy: A childhood paradise.
“I have always been a wanderer. I think my love for the unknown and the unpredictable must have started as soon as I could walk. People told me that I was a curious, independent child who loved exploring hidden and forbidden places. I often snuck out into the garden, where I strolled, murmuring to trees, flowers and birds… transforming them into my companions. At the age of six, seven I collected bundles of grass and dandelions for our rabbits, and live beetles for our chickens. Watching them eat these treats, which they could not find in the fenced yard, made me feel content and useful. I strolled up and down the well-kept rows of lettuce and tomatoes while munching on white peppery radishes that I pulled straight out of the ground. Everything was fascinating… as I poked at slimy earthworms, played with ladybugs, bit into unripe apricots and gathered flowers for Mama.
Jadzia (right) with her best friend, Eva, near their elementary school in 1966.
Each year I pushed the limits and ventured further from the house, exploring orchards behind locked gates, a cemetery with ancient graves, and ending up in a meadow to play with my friends. I rode my bicycle down gravel roads, alone or with my sisters, and went swimming with friends in a nearby lake, without supervision. I was allowed to be free and had no reason to fear anything. After spending hours outdoors, I came home starving, with my head full of impressions, a few scratches on me, but all in one piece. My head was full of memories of floating down a river with my best friend, Eva, in a leaking boat, talking to fishermen, observing my girlfriends’ fathers sneak into the pub right after their shift at the Matadorka rubber factory. Each day I gained a glimpse into a world that I could not learn about at home or at school. My outings fueled my imagination and my desire to travel far away.
Summer was the highlight for a hungry traveler like me. I could not wait for our annual summer holidays in Ružbachy, a small spa village in eastern Czechoslovakia, an eight-hour train ride from home. The ride alone was exciting, as it offered picturesque villages and the countryside, and a chance to meet people (boys of our age!) and feast on all kinds of snacks that were usually reserved for Sundays. Even today I can easily conjure up the taste of a delicious pork schnitzel squeezed between two pieces of dark rye bread, as well as the smell of freshly peeled hardboiled egg, slices of tomatoes and green pepper and Mama’s famous apple cake. I also remember being slightly embarrassed eating in front of young soldiers who often shared our compartment (why didn’t we offer them some of our food? I ask myself now).
Bunka [Prenosil’s maternal grandmother] had a special connection to this wonderful place, the spa in Ružbachy, set in a pastoral setting and famous for its mineral and thermal waters. It was frequently visited by Polish aristocracy.
In 1882, a relative of my grandmother, the count Jan Zamoyski, bought and restored the spa. Later he had a beautiful building built on the site for his wife, Isabel. It was built using local white limestone and was called the White House (Biely Dom). Inside, there was an elegant restaurant and a large ballroom. As a rare treat, Bunka would take us for a special lunch at the restaurant. Afterwards, we were allowed to stand at the entrance to the ballroom and observe couples dance to the sound of a live band.
Jadzia (second from right) by the pool, 1957.
Jan Zamoyski also had a hotel— the imposing Grand Hotel Strand— restored, which served as a spa and had a large outdoor swimming pool. The pool was filled with thermal waters, and at the center was a grassy round island with tall pine trees. I remember visiting Bunka’s cousin (also a descendant of Zamoyski) who still lived in the village. I was about five or six years old and remember feeling a little afraid of this tall woman with a deep, deep voice, big front teeth and a serious face. Every summer we rented the same room in a peasant’s house that was surrounded by a lush vegetable garden and had a fast-running creek behind the outhouse. And since Bunka, a lady of leisure in the past, never learned to cook, we ate our noon meals at a cafeteria, where each of us was allowed to choose one cheap meatless dish from the menu.
I still remember with fondness my two favourite ones… a vegetable schnitzel fried to perfection and golden buns (dukatove buchty) smothered in warm custard. For my sisters and I eating at a restaurant was a rare treat because for the rest of the year our family could not afford to eat out (also people in those days didn’t go out to restaurants). Thrilled by the novelty of this experience we were impressed by everything around us… the elegant waiters, with long white aprons, black bow ties and big leather wallets full of bills, and the way they carried dishes on the large silver trays on their shoulders. We were on our best behaviour as we whispered excitedly about the other people in the restaurant, criticizing their clothes while staring at their plates with envy. In the evening, we ate simple meals of eggs and potatoes and drank fresh milk from the cows that were kept in the stable attached to the house where we stayed.
During those long summer months in Ružbachy, my sisters and I became inseparable. In her letters to my parents, Bunka would describe our daily outings. “Ha-No-Ja are enjoying their holidays and becoming good hikers and swimmers,” she wrote. Away from home and our friends we encouraged each other to be brave and showed off our talents in front of new friends. “Hanka can whistle with her fingers,” or “Nora can do cartwheels,” one of us might say. One of them often introduced me with: “Jadzia is the clown in the family.”
The friendship we created while roaming the forests, going on hikes, picking wild blueberries and spending endless hours in the gigantic pool at the spa developed into a life-long bond. “One for all, all for one” from The Three Musketeers was our motto that summer. We became the heroines and villains of our own stories, our little lives full of secrets and whispers.
Most of our days were spent in the large, pleasantly warm swimming pool. We only came out of the water to eat. For the rest of the time, we crisscrossed the pool, stopping at the center island for a quick rest. We loved to dive from the three different diving boards, the highest being ten meters high. I recall standing up on top of it, looking down on the blue water and the people below for a long time, while I gave myself a silent pep talk. However, feeling overwhelmed by fear and with my stomach queasy, I could not make the next move. Embarrassed, I quickly climbed down the ladders and dove into the pool. Over the years I tried to jump from this highest diving board, but I never could summon my courage. I was very happy for Nora, who was the only one of the three of us who managed to do that. All this time Bunka, dressed in an elegant black dress and summer gloves, sat on a bench watching us. And although she tried to manage our days with her strict rules–no swimming for one hour after eating lunch; watch your manners, girls!–my sisters and I outsmarted her regularly. Once out of her sight we went wild, like horses bursting out of a gate to run free.
With our gang of new friends, we explored the forests, where we puffed on cigarettes, held hands with boys and where the older kids exchanged their first kisses. One day someone taught us how to faint. We were told to take a deep breath, and someone grabbed us tightly around the chest from behind, cutting off our supply of oxygen. I still remember the sensation of spinning down onto the pine-needle-covered ground and waking up a moment later. “Did you like it? What did you see?” They asked, happy to see me awake, “Stars, moon and fairies dancing around,” I whispered back. We all sensed that this trick was dangerous and stupid, but we loved the risk and craved the excitement.”
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