“Over there are flags of the Czech Republic and signs that say the Czech Republic is for Czechs only. But there are also signs concerned with employment and health care. Others with cruelty to animals.”

Standing on a concrete flower box is a man with a sign that says “Fuck Hope, Take Action.” For a moment, I think that it’s Eugene.

“What about the people dressed in yellow?”

“Ah,” says Oz. “The ones carrying the flags with an image of the sun.”

“Are they for the refugees or against?”

“Against,” says Oz. “They are dressing up like . . . slunickar. This is difficult to translate into English. Gullible. Naive. The people dressed in yellow are saying that anyone who supports the refugees is naive.”

At the top of the square, several men in masks are climbing onto a tiered monument. On the highest tier is a knight mounted on a horse, holding a lance.

“It is a bit of humour, all this yellow. Still, it is also serious.”

As I watch, two of the men reach the knight and take out a large piece of red cloth.

“But most of the people are here because it is a sunny day, and with such gatherings, a party is always a possibility.”

At first, I think it’s a flag of some sort. But then I see that it’s an enormous pair of red underpants.

“Are those underpants?”

“Yes, of course,” says Oz. “This is a protest against the president of the country.”

“Red underpants?”

“This is to indicate that he is in bed with the Chinese, that he is a man who is ashamed of nothing.”

At the top of the boulevard, just past the knight on the horse, a group of men stand in a tight bunch, surrounded by a wall of police.

“When the president supported the Russians in their harassment of the Ukraine, Czech activists pelted him with eggs.”

Several of the men walk around in circles, their cellphones to their ears.

“Eggs. Giant underpants. The people of the Czech Republic enjoy the drama of democracy. Everything is possible at a protest.”

“Who are those guys?”

Oz looks down on the square. “The men in suits with their noses pointed at the sky?”

“The ones behind the police perimeter.”

“Politicians,” says Oz. “Local and federal. They are sniffing the air, trying to catch the scent of popular opinion.” Oz raises his head and makes quiet snorting noises. “See how they stay away from windows.”

“Windows?”

“In Prague,” says Oz, “standing by a window can be dangerous. How is the cake?”

TOLMAR MADE A POT of coffee, and we sat in her backyard in the late afternoon sun.

“Why are you doing this?”

The question had caught me by surprise.

“Why talk to me?”

I explained that the interview was part of a larger three-part story about the role of social services in the bureaucratic “scoops” that had taken Native children from their families.