PRAGUE was a good city to live in during those years. It was a good place in itself, and it was good to me. It never seemed a two-dimensional place—so many miles in one direction by so many miles in another—but always a city of three dimensions. That was due to the use we made of the hills which encircled it. They gave one a lofty point of view.

The expanding city was still moving beyond old boundaries, alive, growing, restless, warm. This was the city of which I was an integral part, for Prague was I and I was Prague. Winter came to us in November. Once the snow fell, it lay on the ground until February, though the city streets were always clean. In March the ice on the river went out with a roar, and after that spring was a fast, newborn miracle. Fountains began to play in the parks, bulbs came up in geometric beds, grass turned green and no one dreamed of stepping on it. Lawns were sacred in Prague and so were monuments; urchins never played around marble images of our great men, nor did young girls take each other’s pictures leaning against their feet. Such levity would have been unthinkable with us.

Summer meant boats on the river, rowboats, canoes, sculls, sailboats, motorboats and excursion steamers. Long rafts of logs from the Bohemian forests moved downstream with the current and pleasure craft wove patterns around them. Stout rafts bearing bathhouses were put out from the quais, and during hot week ends there was only the sound of splashing water along the Vltava and the swish of tires on pavements as motors carried city dwellers in all directions into the country.

Autumn brought a quickening pace to the city, a new lift to heads, a sudden resurgence of energy and determination. This was the time of year when one tended to remember old school days, to contrast them with modern institutions and countless social improvements of the past twenty years. Now we had fine new state schools, state hospitals, old-age pensions, unemployment insurance, free medical service available to every individual in the country, open-air theaters, free concerts. More and more we were welcoming representative groups of world-wide organizations who chose our city for their congresses and conventions. Prague was the color of copper-green roofs, stone walls heavy with purple shadows, yellow-haired girls with lifted heads and clear eyes, fine shops filled with expensive merchandise. It was the color of primroses and violets, lilacs and daffodils, sunshine and shade. It was the color of the mosaic tiles that formed our pavements, of the dolls dressed in Slovakian peasant costumes that were sold on corners, of our red, blue and white flag.

The texture of Prague was the texture of the rough native tweed of my jackets and my good worsted suits; it was the sharp, cool brittleness of a crystal goblet or a fine china plate. It was the brown crust of treated Slovakian cheese sold by vendors on Václavské náměstí, and the foam on a glass of cold Pilsner beer. It was also the feeling of river water parting to regular strokes, the sensitive wheel of a fine car under one’s hands, and the first breath of cool wind from the mountains after a hot day.

Prague smelled of overhanging gardens in Malá Strana, of costly and pervasive perfume on the wives of international celebrities, of coffee and sweet pastry, and Christmas Eve suppers traditionally composed of carp soup, wafers with honey, more fish and fruit and cake and wine. It was the clean smell of scrubbed floors and washed linen and spotless homes. It was the heavenly smell of lime trees in bloom along city streets, of chestnut and acacia blossoms and flowers in the carts of vendors in the spring.

The sound of Prague was the sound of skates ringing on the frozen river, of ancient bells tolling out the hours, of healthy footsteps along city pavements, feet always on their way somewhere. It was the sound of foreign-tongued visitors, of fountains playing in the parks, of new buildings under construction and constant repair of the old. More than anything else it was the sound of good nature in a quick response, of joking laughter, of smiles bursting into chuckles of pleasure. It was the sound of a happy people.

After a strenuous day Milada and I would get into my car and drive to Barandov. We loved this place above all others. To reach it we drove through Smichov, past sprawling villas on a climbing road, and eventually we came out near the crest of a hill which overlooked the river and the city. There we would sit on one of the terraces until the soft air and the night and the sound of carefree people had given us relaxation.

Barandov is unlike anything I have seen anywhere else in the world. It is a series of terraces cut one above the other on the side of this rocky hill that stands down the river from the Hradčany, opposite Vyšehrad. On these terraces were restaurants, a dance floor, orchestras, swimming pools, night clubs, a sports stadium, and wide promenades. From terrace to terrace one could look down to the levels below and watch dancers on warm summer evenings, games on a Sunday afternoon, swimmers playing in the pool to music, or simply pleasant people sitting at tables in the sunshine. Sometimes on a week-end one could see all these activities under way at once, and then look out to the boats on the river and beyond to Libuša’s Castle; backed by the forests of Bránik and Chuchle. Above all the terraces, on the crest of the hill, were the ateliers of Czechoslovakia’s thriving motion picture industry.

Milada and I had long talks at Barandov. It was the only place where we seemed able to forget the problems of the showroom. For eight years we had worked together, and because this work was my whole life, I was unable to imagine existence without her. Had it not been for my experience with Toni, I would have tried to persuade Milada to marry me, but I still felt the smarting effects of that early mistake. My career seemed sufficiently certain now to insure the future, but I had no life to offer anyone aside from my work, and in that Milada already shared.

I recall trying to say something of the kind to her one day at Barandov. She interrupted me before I could finish the halting words. “You mustn’t try to say such things. I know.” She looked across the river. “I’m not waiting for you to marry me. I can say it this once, but not again. From the day you first came into the little shop on Příkopy I’ve never had any other plans except to work with you. As long as you need me.”

I watched the calm serenity of her lovely face, the strength in the graceful fingers, the gracious poise of her head. “You always understand, don’t you Milada? You know exactly how selfish I am. And I can’t promise not to be . . . even with you.”

There was a twinkle in her eyes when she turned back. It was never any use to try to impress her with fine words, or to pretend that something was so because I wanted it to be. “You always give me more than you take,” she said. “You’ve opened my mind to a new way of looking at people, and the whole world. Let’s not talk about it any more. What time is it? You have an appointment at five.”

And so the subject was dropped. It was good simply to sit in the afternoon haze with empty cups on the table before us. These hours snatched from work-filled days were full of contentment.