President of the Czech Republic Petr Pavel and his wife Eva officially moved into Lumbe’s Villa in Prague’s historic Hradčany quarter on October 27, 2023. Hidden in the Castle’s service grounds, the Villa is in Lumbe’s Garden inside a security zone with no public access. The west side backs onto a high stone wall separating it from a city street.
Lumbe’s Villa takes its name from the physician Karel Lumbe, who bought the building in 1852. In 1925, the state purchased the villa from Lumbe’s heirs. It was used by the employees of the Prague Castle as a warehouse. The Villa was falling into disrepair before President Václav Havel renovated it for use by official state guests. It has been used by a succession of Czech presidents.
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Bruno’s grandfather, Miloš Jiránek, studied at the Academy of Fine Arts in Prague. In 1905, he married Antonína Zedníková. They had twin boys in 1907, and in 1911, his daughter Milada, Bruno’s mother, was born only two months before Miloš died. Bruno’s grandmother became a single mother with three children at 27.
Miloš was not recognized by his generation, selling only 12 paintings in his lifetime. He supported his family by writing articles about art for magazines, often criticizing works by his teachers, which got him evicted from the Academy. The frequently broke young couple rented an old, decrepit little house in the Hradčany Quarter because it was inexpensive.
As a painter, Jiránek was a post-impressionist who professed a harmony of colour. His artistic compositions of unusual views of the nearby Prague Castle and portraits of the interior of the old building are beautiful and still appreciated. He was able to capture the atmosphere, the material of objects and the character of people in his sketches. Most of these paintings are now owned by the Czech National Gallery. Antonína and Miloš spent the last six years of Miloš’s life there, their best. He died when he was only 36 years old after a nervous breakdown. The family stayed in the place for another eight years.
According to Bruno’s mother, living in a small, run-down little house amongst the greenery was magical, and she remembered it fondly. Bruno’s grandmother, Antonína, remarried nine years later. She was a beautiful woman, dark-haired and with dreamy black eyes. Despite having three children already, she enchanted Jaroslav Císař, nicknamed “Báťuška,” a Czech diplomat who was 10 years her junior. After they wed, Báťuška was sent to the Czechoslovakian embassy in London, England. His assignment lasted nine years. They left the boys with relatives but took Bruno’s mother, Milada, with them.
Subsequently, she had a British upbringing, growing up in diplomatic circles, she met the leading politicians of the era and became a proud, self-assured, perfect lady that even the Czech communist goons could not break when they overran the country in 1948. Bruno remembers that the secret police wanted to debrief her in 1963 after she had visited England, where her parents, brother, uncle and cousins lived in exile, and were active dissidents. Milada declined to go to the police headquarters, saying they gave her the creeps and offered that she would be happy to invite the secret agent for an “afternoon tea” to her house instead. Surprisingly, he agreed. The agent arrived at the appointed time, and while she was brewing the tea, he searched through her bookcases. When she returned, he stood in the middle of the room holding an open book.
“Most of the books in your library are banned,” he said. “Of course,” Bruno’s mother replied with the proverbial aplomb of an English-bred lady, “what did you expect from me?”
All he could manage was to smile.
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The not-so-kind, turbulent winds of history blew Bruno to Canada in 1968, where he and his wife, Elsa, received political asylum. It did not look like he would ever see his mother again, but that changed in 1989. The new Czech democratic government cleared Bruno and Elsa’s political criminal records, and they started visiting relatives again. By this time, Bruno’s mother was 79, and she would lay horrible guilt on him, demanding that they come and see her more regularly. Mothers are very good at this, and the pressure increased after she reached 90. Bruno and Elsa did not mind; Europe, after all, is an interesting continent. While in the Czech Republic, they would take the mother out every other day for a trip somewhere. It was a special treat as otherwise she was housebound. She was frail, walked with a cane, and could not see well, but was still alert and mentally fit.
In 2002, when she was 91, she sheepishly asked if Bruno would take her to Prague, 200 km away, to see the old house on Prague Castle grounds where she was born. Bruno, did not mind driving 400 km in one day, a sure sign that Canada had seeped into his core. Mother perked up and guided them through Prague’s convoluted medieval streets with ease. They parked by the Hradčany Castle’s Riding School, which was converted into an art gallery, and leaning on her cane, led them across the terrace towards the vegetable gardens, the official access to the “cottage” she remembered. By the gate at the end of the terrace, they were stopped by heavily armed security guards. There was no arguing, no cajoling them. The mother’s age, her cane and her emotional story made no impression on them. Mother pulled Bruno back to avoid arguments, and they returned to the car.
She directed Bruno to the next intersection above the castle with a mischievous smile, turn left and then left again into the street U Brusnice. She said there would be a high stone wall on the left and a small door right behind the house that was never locked. Indeed, there was a door. Sure, Bruno thought, still unlocked after 85 years with strict security! The street was barely wide enough for two cars to pass, and very deserted as there were no buildings on the other side of the street. They stopped by the door, and Bruno went to open it, knowing how ridiculous a notion it was. The door opened with a groan, and the back of the little house was in front of him. It was still decrepit and was not inhabited. Some construction equipment and materials were lying around.
As his mother was leaving the car, the city police arrived and waved them on. It was a no-stopping zone. Bruno told the officer why they stopped, that the old lady with the cane was his mother in her nineties, who could not walk far and asked where he could park the car legally. Oddly, the officer was not concerned that some strangers were attempting to enter the high-security area through a door that should be locked. Her detail was parking control. She said that if they did not stay long and leave before 2:00 PM, when her shift ended, they could stay, and she would watch the car. That is the kind of police attitude we need here in Calgary!
When they made it to the front of the house, Bruno’s mother became a little girl again. She described the house layout from the outside and pointed out the balcony above the main entrance, which is featured in the paintings by her father that became the famous “Balcony series.” Looking out of the living room through the glass door of the balcony, she said, one could see huge, old chestnut trees that flowered so prettily in the spring, but they were gone now.
Memories flooded in, like the time they locked themselves out of the house, and Mother would be lifted on the roof of a lean-to on the side of the house and break in through the bathroom window. She used to play with friends nearby. Sometimes, the children would meet an old man wearing his signature army cap with a tricolour ribbon affixed above the visor, riding his horse. He was the first Czech President Masaryk, then over 70 years old. There was no end to her enthusiasm. When Bruno saw the twinkle in his mother’s eye, he was touched. It made the trip worthwhile.
Eventually, a fellow showed up, probably one of the gardeners. He was indignant when he saw them, but Bruno’s mother charmed him with her stories. He loosened up and mentioned that the building was being renovated. “When you leave,” he said, “close the door behind you.” Several months later, Bruno received clippings from the Czech newspaper by mail from his mother. He learned that the little old house is actually a historical Lumbe’s Villa, which was recently renovated for use by the Czech Presidents when they wanted to escape the hustle and bustle of their formal residence in the heart of the castle.
Peter Pavel is the third President to live in the Villa. Bruno speculates that the door behind the house is now either bricked over or permanently locked. Or maybe it is the President’s secret escape route when sneaking out incognito to have a beer in a pub nearby. It was mentioned that “the last renovations included construction of a new sandstone driveway from the street U Brusnice to the Villa.” Bruno hopes it is not so. He prefers to believe things are still the same as they were in 2002 or, better yet, in 1911 when his mother was born.
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With a chuckle, Bruno realizes that through the twists of fate, he is the only person with a painting of the Czech President’s balcony rendered from the inside of the residence hanging on the wall in his bedroom. What are the odds of that?
