Apple Trees
1 was three years old when my mother and father diw)rced. We
left the ski lodge in the Krkonose Mountains and moved into a
single room in my mother s childhood home， the room overlook-
ing the tennis court.
That court was the last vestige of mv mother s family estate，
where she had lived when she was young， with a nanny to take
care of her. They once had thirty acres， stretching from lush fruit
arbors on the hillside to rich farmland along the Berounka River.
After the Communists took over Czechoslovakia in I948， my
mother s family lost ahnost everything except the red-clay tennis
court and the cement family home， which they now shared with
other people.
From our bedroom window， I could see the tennis court
falling into disrepair， later used mainly for our socccr games. And
from that same window， I could see a grove of fruit trees that had
once belonged to mv family.
1 have never told this to anybody before， but I used to sneak
across the street and take apples from the grove. I would eat as
many as I wanted and share the rest with my friends. I felt the
apples were part of my heritage. Almost all Czechs and Slovaks
felt we had suffered a loss from the takeover in i948， and my
mother s family had lost more than most. The least I could do was
recover some of the family apples.
Sometimes when 1 was little， I d see my mother looking off
into space with a sad look on her face and I would guess she was
daydreaming about the time when she was little， before the war.
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