"It was all completed, the book went to press. Jirka had no money, he phoned me and said: 'Please, I need the money, hasn't it come yet?' Say that into a phone that's bugged, you moron. The next day there was a man there to see me and try to find out from me how the money from Germany was going through my hands to Jirka. Because the book, the connection didn't occur to them. The boys used to get money from the West when they could, when somebody came. So, according to that, State Security assumed that I was connected to supplying money to Czech intellectuals, at least to Jiří Dienstbier."
"We were wondering what to do now. Well, we'll go to work, hopefully we'll get there somehow. I think I took a tram, but we couldn't get over the bridge, we had to walk. We got together in the office and started to document what was going on in the streets. We had an editorial office on Národní Street and suddenly there was a tank with a cannon. The printing house was across the river in Smíchov and we found out that the trams didn't go over the bridge or if they did, the Russians were checking them, so we took the documents to the printing house by ferry."
"In the Sudetenland, it happened that the Czech population had to leave the Sudetenland within 24 hours. At that moment, men were mostly at the border ready to defend the country. So my mum had my three-year-old sister and me, I was one year old, and she had to leave the village where we lived. She took a carriage and loaded what she could and got on the train. She got good advice from Fibiger, a senior teacher, to go to Berounsko, to the town, that he knew a parish priest there who was willing to accommodate the refugees in a big hall. So my mother went with us first to Rakovník and then to Městečko, a beautiful place on the Berounka River."
When Jiří Dienstbier published a book under her name in the 1970s, it was immediately noticed by State Security
The family into which Želmíra Prchalová was born on 3 August 1937 was a typical result of the efforts of First Republic politics. Her Czech father, Josef Prchal, was called up for military service in Košice and later in Komárno. There he met Pavla Huděcová, a Slovak Sokol member, and brought her back with him to western Bohemia. Naturally, a Czechoslovak family could be formed. Thanks to relatives and historical events, Želmíra grew up in a multilingual environment. As a journalist, her knowledge of Slovak, German and Russian later came in handy. Her father, who worked as a teacher, moved around depending on where his job was, and so it happened that at the time of the Munich Agreement the family was living in the borderlands. Dad, as a soldier in the reserves, guarded the border, and Mum, after the German army seized the Sudetenland, fled inland alone with her two daughters. As an eight-year-old girl, Želmíra saw hundreds of families near Boží Dar, waiting with packed luggage to be deported to neighbouring Germany. After the war, she graduated from grammar school and began studying journalism at the Faculty of Philology at Charles University in Prague. Among her classmates were Jiří Dienstbier, Jiří Černý and Přemysl Podlaha. She first joined Czechoslovak Radio, and from 1967 she worked for the magazine Svět v obrazech(World in Pictures). In the 1970s, State Security became interested in her because of her contacts with Jiří Dienstbier, who was already part of the dissent. She lent her name to the book Šaty dělají člověka (Clothes Make the Person), written by Dienstbier. In the 1980s, she emigrated to the United States via Yugoslavia with her husband and two children. In San Francisco, she worked for organizations helping refugees. In 2024, she was living with her husband Miloš Živný in Oakland, in the same house they bought after several years in exile.