PELHRIMOV, Czech Republic 鈥� A year after the Czech Republic recorded its first death from the coronavirus, the central European nation paused to remember all the citizens who lost their lives in the pandemic. By the end of the day, the number had surpassed 25,000.
Bells tolled across the country at noon last Monday to mark the anniversary of when the pandemic's first Czech casualty, a 95-year-old man, died in a Prague hospital. On March 22, 2020 and for some days to come, the Czech Republic reported daily COVID-19 deaths in the single digits. Few imagined then that the nation of of 10.7 million eventually would have one of the world's highest per capita death tolls.
But it's not just grim statistics that have torn the fabric of Czech life. There's always a personal story behind each life lost. And the deaths of some people affected entire communities.
Jaromir Vytopil's was one of them. Without him, the town of Pelhrimov won鈥檛 be the same.
As the country's longest-serving bookseller, Vytopil had served the town's readers for almost six decades. They came to his eponymous shop to buy books, maps and music, or just to have a chat with him when they passed by. Books and customers literally were his life: He got into the trade at age 15, studied at a special school for booksellers and worked in six different towns before settling in Pelhrimov in 1963.
He died at the age of 83 on Nov. 9, another grim day during the month that until Saturday was the Czech Republic's deadliest of the pandemic, Marie Vytopilova, says both of them likely caught the virus in the bookstore.
鈥淲e didn鈥檛 expect that to happen,鈥� she said of her husband's death. 鈥淗e was still full of life.鈥�
The Czech Republic was spared the worst of the pandemic in the spring only to see its health care system near collapse in the fall and again in January and March after the coalition government led by Prime Minister Andrej Babis repeatedly let down pandemic guards despite warnings by experts.
According to Johns Hopkins University, the Czech Republic has 240.7 cumulative deaths per 100,000 people, the world鈥檚 second-highest mortality rate after the microstate of San Marino.
Activists painted thousands of white crosses on the cobblestones of Prague鈥檚 Old Town Square this week for all of the people who died. They blamed the government for an inadequate response to the pandemic. One of the crosses
As the news of Vytopil's death spread in November, people placed flowers and lit candles in front of the bookstore, turning it into an impromptu memorial. About 600 mourners expressed their sorrow on the store's Facebook page.
鈥淎 legend has gone, the only citizen everybody knew in Pelhrimov," resident Petr Kostka commented.
鈥淧eople like him form the heart of the town,鈥� Milan Pavlicek added.
Vytopil used to leave his family's home in a nearby village on his scooter at 7 a.m. On the way, he stopped to have a coffee and to read newspapers. Then, he was ready to greet his customers.
鈥淲hat was shining from him was an appetite for life and an effort to give people what he knew well, and that was the books," Marie Vytopilova recalled. "He used to read a lot, really a lot, and over the course of the years, you accumulate knowledge.鈥�
U.S. poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti, who died last month at age 101, was among the bookseller's
鈥淢any times, I laughed and called him a walking encyclopedia,鈥� his wife said.
Vytopil鈥檚 mission as a bibliophile extended beyond his shop. He advised Pelhrimov鈥檚 public library on what titles to acquire, helped organize readings and book signings with authors, and once a year dressed up as a king to welcome children into the order of readers during a ceremony in which they received library cards, director Iva Rajdlova said.
鈥淗e was young at heart,鈥� Rajdlova said. 鈥淗e was interested in everything, and it was so nice to talk to him about anything, not just about books. He was interested in people and anything that was going on. Simply, he was a very good man.鈥�
Promoting books and literacy, however, could be a dangerous pursuit during the communist era of Vytopil鈥檚 country. Private ownership of bookstores was prohibited. After the 1968 Soviet-led invasion of Czechoslovakia that crushed liberal reforms known as the Prague Spring, the hardline regime banned numerous authors and ordered bookstores to purge their works from store shelves.
鈥淢y dad hid all the banned books he could, so when we attended high school, we were reading his
Martin Vana, who visited Vytopil鈥檚 bookstore for the first time in 1978, said he wasn't surprised by local reaction to his death. Vana, who works for the regional public radio station, approached Vytopil about 13 years ago to ask him to present new books on the air. For about 10 years, he had a popular show mixing the books and stories from his life.
鈥淗e was such a distinctive personality. We didn鈥檛 go to a bookstore, but instead we went to Vytopil鈥檚," Vana said. "In the course of his years in business, his name became synonymous with bookseller."
After the 1989 anti-communist Velvet Revolution, Vytopil finally could open his own family bookstore, which he and his wife did on July 1, 1991.
鈥淗e did exactly what he liked and did it right, no matter what it was,鈥� his wife said. 鈥淲hen we started, I remember his enthusiasm for the business. It was him who was carrying the weight of it.鈥�
Despite his age, he didn鈥檛 plan to retire, according to son.
鈥淭he bookstore was all his life,鈥� he said. 鈥淗e used to say he only wanted to be carried out of it. That wish turned true, in a way.鈥�
The family announced in January they were putting the bookstore up for sale because they realized they didn't want to run it 鈥渨ithout our dad, husband and its soul" any more.
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Karel Janicek, The Associated Press
