About 2:00 PM I headed up to Prague for another ramble around. I wanted to try to find the grave of Czech author Franz Kafka (1883–1924). It’s not that I’m such a big fan of Kafka’s fiction — most of it is tough sledding for me — but he is a very significant figure in 20th century European literature, so I thought I might as well see where he’s buried.
He is not buried in the national cemetery on the Vyšehrad with many other Czech authors, artists, architects, and musicians. I’m not sure if that’s because he was Jewish, or because, at the time of his death, his major works were unpublished (he was an insurance clerk by profession), and he was little known and less appreciated (within Czechoslovakia, he did not become well-respected until the mid-60s), or both. In any case, he’s buried out in the “new” Jewish cemetery — part of the huge complex of Olšany cemeteries in Žižkov (east of downtown Prague). The first cemetery here was founded in 1679 for victims of the plague. The cemetery was expanded during the 19th century and now includes a Russian cemetery and a Jewish cemetery, where Kafka is buried (along with his father and mother who outlived him).
I asked for information at the office when I arrived, and a pleasant man who spoke very good English directed me “down the path to the end of section 21.” Many of the graves were overgrown with ivy, which was also climbing up the trunks of most of the trees. It was obvious from the tombs and grave markers that many of these Jewish citizens of Prague were prominent and prosperous middle-class or wealthy people.
I was interested to see the designation “Dr.” next to Kafka’s name on the gravestone. He did take an academic degree, but I did not know it was a doctorate. He never used it professionally (e.g., as a teacher). It is ironic that, if that was the most distinguished thing his family could point to at the time of his death (“Vanity, vanity,” says the Preacher. “All is vanity.”), it is now almost a distraction, given his reputation as an author. He is known to the world simply as Franz Kafka. Nothing more need be added.
From the Jewish cemetery, I crossed the street and walked down to the middle of the block and entered another huge section of Olšany cemeteries, walking west. There were a significant number of people visiting the graves (perhaps as it was a holiday and many people were off work). These cemeteries are such a contrast to what we are used to in Southern California, where more often than not cemeteries are fields of green grass with the graves marked only by a small flat plate in the ground. These are truly more like “cities of the dead.” In one section I walked by large crypts build in imitation of the pointed arch front door of a Gothic church. Remembering our dead is certainly a good thing, but one feels there is more going on here — for all the symbols of Christianity, they seem rather an attempt to secure an earthly immortality.
Leaving the cemeteries, I continued to walk westward down Vinohradská (I’d call it a “boulevard”). (By this time it was starting to drizzle lightly.) I passed by the large communication tower that is visible from all over downtown Prague, and noticed (as František has told me on Saturday) that up close you can see little figures of children crawling like ants up the tower. I didn’t quite get the full story of who put them there or why, but they are curious.
I was in search of a couple of churches that I had read about that were built in the early 20th century during the first Czech Republic, and were not neo-Gothic or neo-Baroque.
One is a Hussite church designed by Pavel Janák, built in the early 1930s. This building is as far from Baroque (where decoration becomes and end in itself) as can be imagined. But for the tall slim undecorated tower, it would be unrecognizable from the outside as a church. (Apparently, from what I read, there was once a copper chalice, the symbol of the Hussite movement, at the top of the tower, but it is no longer in evidence.) Beyond that the building looks like an office complex or a school.
The other church was more interesting (though in a very shabby state of repair). It is the Church of the Most Sacred Heart of Our Lord, set in the large grassy expanse of Jiřího z Poděbrad Square. This massive church was built in 1930, by architect Josip Plečnik. Those people who know about these things say it is a mixture of styles — “Byzantine, classical, secessionist and modernist all blended together.”
It’s most striking external feature is the broad tower at the east end of the building in which is set a huge transparent clock. Where St. Vitus has its beautiful “rose window,” this church reminds all who approach of the inevitable passing of time — or, for the secular-minded hurrying down the street, even those with poor eyesight can tell if they are late for their bus.
I was not able to get inside either of these churches. It would be interesting to see what the interior decoration (or lack thereof) is like. These churches would not draw most people (except, perhaps, for the architectural expert or historian) by any aesthetic attraction, but in the context of the “thousand spires” of Prague, they were an interesting contrast. Worth the walk.
(There was one other church mentioned in my book that is supposed to be in the same general neighborhood, but the directions were inadequate and it wasn’t marked with the typical “cross”-symbol indicating a church on my street map, so after some looking, I gave up on finding it and jumped a tram to get out of the rain.)
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