Stefan Heym

by The Eyes of Reason

  “Bricklaying.”

  “You should have called me, Karel!” He seemed to find the picture of Karel pasting a brick wall together a capital joke. “We could have driven over in my car and I could have laid bricks, too. Something very constructive about that! Seriously speaking—we can’t leave these brigades, and all these new gimmicks that catch the imagination of the public, to the Communists! Next time I’m here, and they have a brigade, will you let me know?”

  “I will....” Karel ran his hand through his hair. From being the confidant of the men he was now promoted to being Joseph’s ally. He would have to put a stop to it before he was unable to extricate himself.

  “Joseph, I came here because—”

  “You had a special reason?” asked Lida.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, come on out with it!” Joseph said jovially.

  “I came to suggest that you resign as National Administrator.”

  The slipper hung perfectly still.

  “Because it’s better for you, Joseph, and better for the Works and for the men.”

  “Is that so!” There was no longer any give to Joseph’s face; it was tight as a drum.

  “They have no confidence in you.”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “The men.”

  The tightness broke. “Who the hell cares whether or not they have confidence in me—as long as the Government has, and my Party has, and I have! You talked differently at the meeting! Who’s put you up to this? Who’s sent you here? The Communists?!”

  “I’ve come on my own.”

  “On your own...?” said Lida.

  “Yes, quite on my own!” Karel said sharply.

  “I believe you!” The memory of the meeting, of Karel’s defense plea, was still strong enough to make Joseph want to reason with him. “I believe you.” He sighed. “At least you think you’ve come on your own. My dear Karel”—he had regained complete composure and was acting the older brother—“I had hoped that you’d finally worked your way free of them. They’re very clever. They make you think you’re acting on your own while, in truth, you’re only fronting for them. They want to get rid of me, they tried it at the meeting, they didn’t succeed because you stopped them, so now they’re pushing you forward as their camouflage and their tool.”

  “Tool?” said Karel. Joseph was attributing his goulash soup tactics to the others. “I don’t believe I’m a tool.”

  “You aren’t?” Joseph rose and stood before him, accusingly. “You’ve pulled their chestnuts out of the fire ever since you discovered that Blaha had Grinder’s Hand.”

  For a moment Karel was doubtful. Joseph had brought up a point which he himself had considered often enough. But then he wiped all that off the board. What nonsense to demand that you should stand up only for an original idea of your own, separate, securely patented, and copyrighted! If something was just and right, it was just and right even if the Communists told you so—and they hadn’t told him.

  “I’d hate to have to be around, Joseph,” he said, “when you have no alternative, when the time comes that you must resign. It would be so much more gracious to do it now, and it would leave you with a lot more sympathy.”

  Joseph’s feet were icy, despite the warm slippers. And if there was some force to back up Karel’s warning? The very fact that Karel was proving himself to be a tool and a puppet, pushed forward by them to hide their own hand, made the hand evidence itself all the more clearly. You will not resign, Dolezhal had said, not under any circumstances! Resign—and give up his toehold in his Works, and give up Vesely’s? They’d have to beat him to death, first, as they might have done in the auditorium, after the fire.

  He smiled down at Karel. “Even if I wanted to—and I don’t want to—I couldn’t resign.”

  There was a pause.

  Then Lida said, “At that meeting, Karel—you didn’t really want to stop the men at all?”

  “I think I’d better go,” said Karel.

  Outside on the street, looking back at the one lighted window in the double-winged mausoleum that was his father’s house, he felt a sudden chill. Even the time for meaning well was past.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Rarely has a man who found the conditions surrounding him to his liking produced works which outlasted his own generation. Opposition is the thread that runs through most of the inspired philosophy and art conceived since the invention of the printing press. Scan their words, and you will find that even those who seemed to fit themselves smoothly into their society, who uttered no open protest, offer up strong indications of dissatisfaction and surreptitious kicking over of the traces.

  Such steady repetition of the same pattern permits the statement of a rule: That opposition, criticism, revolt are like the leaven in the dough without which the bread would turn out flat and tasteless. Prometheus, rising up against the power of the Gods, is the prototype of the creative person.

  Conversely: That when opposition, criticism, and revolt are forbidden and become unnecessary, the creative stimulus is choked or falls dormant. Since opposition cannot be legislated out of existence, since no church, no thought police ever succeeded in extinguishing the little, irksome flame that keeps the kettle of unruliness boiling, we need not be too concerned, historically speaking, with the ultimate effects of what the Germans call Verboten!

  But what if man should finally establish a form of society so rich, so equitable, so all-providing that opposition to it would have no purpose, would become foolish? The earth is so abundant! Our technical knowledge has made such strides! We need nothing more than the application of some horse sense, some organization, some work, and the elimination of those who want to monopolize that wealth and that knowledge for themselves—and the millennium is ours.

  And what a millennium! We’ll all be fat and outwardly happy; yet I’m afraid that anyone with an ounce of independent brain will be bored to death....—From THOMAS BENDA: Essay on Freedom

  THOMAS had chosen the small, dull Aurora hotel in the Vinohrady section because it was cheaper, because he could pass unnoticed there, and because he didn’t want to run into Joseph at the Esplanade. Against these advantages were set the abominable service and the mustiness of dilapidation which seeped out of the rugs at every step and permeated the hotel and every room in it.

  The elevator wouldn’t come, as usual. Impatient, Thomas decided to walk down the three flights to the lobby. The stair-well windows, greasy from the kitchen steam, opened on an enclosed courtyard in which the gray light of the morning was dimmed to nondescript dusk—no pleasant outlook on a day in which such pleasant things as publication dates and jacket designs and delivery of galley proofs were to be discussed! Ah, well—if Barsiny could swallow the Essay, what were a few ramshackle stairs?

  Barsiny hadn’t committed himself in his suave invitation to this morning’s conference; the railroad tickets, second class, had been enclosed. One couldn’t very well demand that a comprehensive opinion on so knotty a book as the Essay should be given in a publisher’s business letter. Barsiny might have his secret misgivings, he might even come out with them—but he would have to acknowledge the sweep and richness and novelty of ideas, and the quality of the writing—and, Thomas smiled, a contract was still a contract!

  “Mr. Benda!” The desk clerk, automatically reaching for Thomas’s key, smirked. “Lady waiting for you!”

  “Thanks,” Thomas nodded, and thought angrily: Kitty—she’s come after me. But Kitty was nowhere to be seen. A strange girl, reading a newspaper, sat under a faded picture of President Masaryk riding his horse.

  “Yes—that’s her!” said the clerk. “She came just a minute ago. I sent the elevator boy up to tell you—”

  “Must have missed me,” Thomas said offhandedly. “I walked down.” He frowned. Barsiny would have phoned if he wanted to postpone the appointment—so she was not a messenger from Humanita. But who else knew that he was in Prague and where he was staying?

  “She sure
was eager to get together with you!” As Thomas did not reply but: kept looking at the girl, the clerk withdrew his hand and grimaced. Tight, those bastards from the provinces.

  The girl was not conscious, yet, that she was being observed. Thomas saw her dark, severe hairline, the long lashes shading her eyes and hiding their color, the outline of her small breasts under her simple blouse, the heartshaped silver locket dangling between them.

  She was probably a reporter who had found out from Humanita that he was in town and at the Aurora. A reporter from one of those literary magazines, getting a pittance per line and trying to squeeze a short interview out of him so as to make some pocket money. He knew the type. They were gushy and full of open-mouthed adulation; they managed to have their knees brush against yours, and you practically had to write their story for them.

  All right, he felt good today—he didn’t mind giving her a break; but it would have to be later. He slipped the clerk a small bill. “Tell her I’ve gone out. I’ll be back sometime after lunch. Tell her to call me for an appointment.”

  “Very well, Mr. Benda,” said the clerk.

  When Thomas turned to go, the girl was no longer in her seat. She caught up with him at the door.

  “You’re Mr. Thomas Benda?” she asked, her tone urgent.

  “Yes,” he said, “But—”

  “My name is Vlasta Rehan.” She extended her hand, and he felt it in his, warm and confident.

  “You catch me at a bad moment. I’m afraid—” He stopped, startled by the intense gray of her eyes, the slate gray of a mountain lake after the rains. Then he fought the impression, and said, “I have to go to a conference.”

  “I’ll wait. May I wait here for you?”

  She was too tense for a reporter, even one writing for a literary gazette. Maybe she was a young actress and figured that he had a play up his sleeve. It wasn’t such a bad idea at that. He could do it in three months’ time. First act they meet. Second act they’re torn apart. Third act they get together again. Curtain. It might be a lot of fun after the Essay.

  “What do you want, Miss Rehan? Who are you?”

  “I’m a teacher,” she said apologetically. “To be exact, an instructor at the Declerques Institute.”

  “Yes? And?”

  The name apparently meant nothing to him. “I’m one of Petra’s tutors—your niece Petra—”

  “The Declerques Institute—of course. Forgive me. I did want to call on Petra—how is she?—but I arrived only last night—and this morning I’m in a rush, as you can see...”

  “It’s about Petra!”

  The urgency in her voice made him hesitate. He looked at his watch. He’d have eight minutes to get down to Humanita; he’d have to take a taxi; and God only knew if he would find one in this neighborhood.

  “Now listen, Miss Rehan—don’t you know that Petra’s father is right here in Prague, most of the week? He lives at the Esplanade, and I’m sure he’ll be only too glad—”

  “I know about Deputy Benda,” she said soberly.

  Some schoolgirl trouble, he thought, that had to be kept from Joseph. Money, in all likelihood. They probably reined these kids in. He sighed. “Come back in an hour or two, and wait for me. Good-by, now!”

  He didn’t hear her thank him. He found a taxi at the corner. Sitting gingerly on the broken springs of the rear seat, he had a fleeting notion that it might be nice to have a glass of wine with this Vlasta Rehan, in celebration of a dignified and attractive jacket design.

  “My dear Mr. Benda!”

  The publisher’s welcome was hearty enough, and his handshake was given with a fervor designed to make Thomas feel at home and comfortable. Yet, something in the overlaid voice made Thomas wary, much as he wanted to sit back and enjoy Barsiny’s compliments and listen to the publishing plans for his book.

  Dr. Egon Barsiny lounged against his desk. It was his way of establishing an atmosphere of ease.

  “I’ve read your essay twice, and I must say that the second time it impressed me even more. I discovered new beauties, new depths of thought, new and original ideas that, on first reading, I had not fully appreciated. You can be congratulated, and my associates agree with me in their evaluation of the book.”

  Thomas smiled.

  The months of study, the concepts set down and torn up, the ideas formed and remolded, the excruciating struggle with himself, the drive toward utter probity, to the point of self-destruction—they had paid off. The work was done, and recognized. The Spokesman had spoken, the voice would be heard, and his contribution to the body of thought of his people and his times would reach its audience.

  “It took me two years,” he said. “A little over two years, I think. The most difficult years of my life, Dr. Barsiny, I daresay, even including my years in exile.”

  The publisher nodded understandingly.

  “So you’ll forgive me, I hope,” Thomas went on, “if I’m in somewhat of a hurry now. We’re in the second week of January—I know there’s the question of paper and the problem with the printing shops—but this is a small book compared to the big potboilers you publish....Can you have it out this spring, say by the end of March or beginning of April?”

  Christ in Heaven! thought Barsiny. Hatching a little egg like that for over two years! If Benda had come with it a year ago, six months ago...Time rolls on, and the weather changes; the man should have enough sense to see what’s up, without my having to tell him....

  Thomas said, “Well, if spring is impossible—summer’s not such a good time—the early fall, then?”

  Even if Dolezhal makes a personal issue of it, Barsiny calculated, he can’t force me. Dolezhal isn’t sitting so pretty, any more. I’ve got a publishing house to look after, and I want Humanita to go on whether Dolezhal is in the Cabinet or not. There’s money involved, millions—he can’t make me risk it for that boy’s pipe dreams!

  “Dr. Barsiny!”

  “My dear Mr. Benda—this is as hard for me as it must be for you...We cannot publish the Essay.”

  Thomas did not move. He simply did not believe it.

  Barsiny spoke very fast. “I’d like to publish it, God is my witness, Mr. Benda. But there are considerations—you must have noticed that the political picture has changed quite a bit since we saw each other last and signed the contract. Oh, we’ll make some arrangement, don’t worry about that. Your advance, of course, is yours, and I’ve talked to my associates about a substantial sum over and above that, which we’ll be happy to pay you. And the rights revert to you—”

  “Dr. Barsiny! Why?”

  The publisher suppressed a sigh. He had hoped that all he had been saying would have blunted the shock. Authors are too damned sensitive and unrealistic. “You want me to be completely frank? Brutally frank?” He saw Thomas get out of the big chair and try to stand. Thomas was shaky. A book is a book, thought Barsiny. He can write another one. And he’ll find someone who can afford to risk printing his “Essay on Freedom.” Why should I be the fall guy? He’s a writer and can treat himself to the luxury of being uncompromising; I’ve got a big business to worry about.

  “I wish you would be frank, Dr. Barsiny. For two years of back-breaking work, I deserve at least that.”

  Poor fellow! Yet, he took it quite well, considering....

  “Your book, Mr. Benda, exciting as it is from a purely philosophical viewpoint, is no good for us. That does not mean that other publishers won’t take it. They’ll grab it up, if they have any sense—”

  “Why is it no good for you?”

  “Because it offends everybody, subverts everything, and fits in none of the known grooves.”

  “But that is Freedom!”

  Barsiny scratched his short-cropped, yellow skull. “Yes—I know!”

  “That’s what the book was supposed to be about!”

  Thomas was fighting, now—no longer for the publication, but for the idea of his book. “What kind of Freedom is it when a man cannot speak without fitting himself i
nto known grooves!”

  “My dear Mr. Benda—”

  “Don’t my dear me! I can’t stand it!”

  “I can give it to you any old way!” Barsiny grew hard. “When you wrote that advance statement on your essay, before the 1946 elections, you fitted yourself into a groove—Dolezhal’s. If your book had been like your statement, I could have defended publication—after all, we’re financed by his Party.”

  Thomas winced. He had known it all along, or most of it; but now it came like a blow below the belt. Dolezhal’s stooge, a paid stooge—that’s what he had been. He had no right to complain, to hand a mouthful of big words about Freedom to Barsiny, that hack...

  “Even so,” Barsiny continued, “publication would have been dangerous. As your book stands, you’re attacking not only our principles, whatever they may be, but the Communists’, too! Don’t you know what’s going on? I don’t want to be nationalized like your brother. I want to keep what I have, and I’m not going to provoke them.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to,” said Thomas. “May I have my manuscript?” Barsiny rang a bell, and his secretary showed her pretty face at the door.

  “The ‘Essay on Freedom,’” ordered Barsiny.

  The “Essay on Freedom”—what a travesty!

  Then Barsiny, with a regretful sigh, handed Thomas the volume. Its hard cover weighed in Thomas’s hands, and its solidity gave him enough strength to make a quiet, brave exit.

  If he walked slowly, it would take him a good half-hour to get back to the Aurora. Of course, he could just trudge through the streets and let himself get lost; but that would have been unbearable. He had to have some point of destination.

  He walked with his head to the ground, the fan-shaped mosaic pavement of the Prague sidewalks hazy beneath his eyes. People pushed him; he didn’t notice them. Streetcar bells clanged and the silent trolley-buses glided by, bicycles shrilled their warning and the hot-sausage vendors hawked, “Parky! Horké parky!” Snow-laden clouds drooped around the towers, and the wind drove hasty eddies of sharp dust around his ankles.