out on parole. That ’ s the power a scandal bestows over here. It ’ s you who ’ s been punished in the harshest way. Banning your book, prohibiting your publication, driving you from your country—what could be more burdensome and stupid than that? I ’ m glad you think well of my work, but don ’ t be polite about cher maît re ’ s situation, mon cher ami. What made what you wrote such a scandal? ”
The woman says, “ Zdenek, tell him. ”
“ What is there to tell? ” he says. “ A satirical smile is harder for them than outright ideological fanaticism. I laughed. They are ideologues. I hate ideologues. That is what causes so much offense. It also causes my doubt. ”
I ask him to explain the doubt.
“ I published one harmless little satire in Prague in 1967. The Russians came to visit in 1968 and I have not published anything since. There is nothing more to say. What interests me are these foolish reviews that I read in the library of your book. Not that they are foolish, that goes without saying. Il is that there is not one which could be called intelligent. One reads such things in America and one is struck with terror for the future, for the world, for everything. ”
“ Terror for the future, even for the world, I understand. But for ‘ everything ’ ? Sympathize with a writer about his foolish reviews and you have a friend for life, Sisovsky, but now that this has been achieved, I ’ d like to hear about your doubt. ”
“ Tell him about your doubt, Zdenek! ”
“ How can I? I don ’ t believe in my doubt, frankly. I don ’ t think I have any doubt at all. But I think I should. ”
“ Why? ” I say.
“ I remember the time before the invasion of Prague, ” he says. “ I swear to you that every single review of your work could not have been published in Prague in the sixties—the level is too low. And this in spite of (he fact that according to simplified notions we were a Stalinate country and the U.S.A. was the country of intellectual freedom. ”
“ Zdenek, he wants to hear not about these reviews—he wishes to hear about your doubt! ”
“ Calm down, ” he tells her.
“ The man is asking a question. ”
“ 1 am answering it. ”
“ Then do it. Do it. He has told you already that you have flattered him enough! ” Italy, Canada, now New York—she is as sick of him as of their wandering. While he speaks her eyes momentarily close and she touches the distended vein in her temple—as though remembering yet another irreversible loss. Sisovsky drinks my whiskey, she refuses even a cup of tea. She wants to go, probably all the way back to Czechoslovakia, and probably on her own.
I intervene—before she can scream—and ask him, “ Could you have stayed on in Czechoslovakia, despite the banning of your book? ”
“ Yes. But if I had stayed in Czechoslovakia, I am afraid I would have taken the way of resignation. I could not write, speak in public, I could not even see my friends without being taken in for interrogation. To try to do something, anything, is to endanger one ’ s own well-being, and the well-being of one ’ s wife and children and parents. I have a wife there. I have a child and I have an aging mother who has already been deprived of enough. You choose resignation because you realize that there is nothing to be done. There is no resistance against the Russifica t ion of my country. The fact that the occupation is hated by everyone isn ’ t any defense in the long run. You Americans think in terms of one year or two; Russians think in centuries. They know instinctively that they live in a long time, and that the time is theirs. They know it deeply, and they are right. The truth is that as time goes by, the population slowly accepts its fate. Eight years have passed. Only writers and intellectuals continue to be persecuted, only writing and thinking are suppressed; everybody else is content, content even with their hatred of the Russians, and mostly
The woman says, “ Zdenek, tell him. ”
“ What is there to tell? ” he says. “ A satirical smile is harder for them than outright ideological fanaticism. I laughed. They are ideologues. I hate ideologues. That is what causes so much offense. It also causes my doubt. ”
I ask him to explain the doubt.
“ I published one harmless little satire in Prague in 1967. The Russians came to visit in 1968 and I have not published anything since. There is nothing more to say. What interests me are these foolish reviews that I read in the library of your book. Not that they are foolish, that goes without saying. Il is that there is not one which could be called intelligent. One reads such things in America and one is struck with terror for the future, for the world, for everything. ”
“ Terror for the future, even for the world, I understand. But for ‘ everything ’ ? Sympathize with a writer about his foolish reviews and you have a friend for life, Sisovsky, but now that this has been achieved, I ’ d like to hear about your doubt. ”
“ Tell him about your doubt, Zdenek! ”
“ How can I? I don ’ t believe in my doubt, frankly. I don ’ t think I have any doubt at all. But I think I should. ”
“ Why? ” I say.
“ I remember the time before the invasion of Prague, ” he says. “ I swear to you that every single review of your work could not have been published in Prague in the sixties—the level is too low. And this in spite of (he fact that according to simplified notions we were a Stalinate country and the U.S.A. was the country of intellectual freedom. ”
“ Zdenek, he wants to hear not about these reviews—he wishes to hear about your doubt! ”
“ Calm down, ” he tells her.
“ The man is asking a question. ”
“ 1 am answering it. ”
“ Then do it. Do it. He has told you already that you have flattered him enough! ” Italy, Canada, now New York—she is as sick of him as of their wandering. While he speaks her eyes momentarily close and she touches the distended vein in her temple—as though remembering yet another irreversible loss. Sisovsky drinks my whiskey, she refuses even a cup of tea. She wants to go, probably all the way back to Czechoslovakia, and probably on her own.
I intervene—before she can scream—and ask him, “ Could you have stayed on in Czechoslovakia, despite the banning of your book? ”
“ Yes. But if I had stayed in Czechoslovakia, I am afraid I would have taken the way of resignation. I could not write, speak in public, I could not even see my friends without being taken in for interrogation. To try to do something, anything, is to endanger one ’ s own well-being, and the well-being of one ’ s wife and children and parents. I have a wife there. I have a child and I have an aging mother who has already been deprived of enough. You choose resignation because you realize that there is nothing to be done. There is no resistance against the Russifica t ion of my country. The fact that the occupation is hated by everyone isn ’ t any defense in the long run. You Americans think in terms of one year or two; Russians think in centuries. They know instinctively that they live in a long time, and that the time is theirs. They know it deeply, and they are right. The truth is that as time goes by, the population slowly accepts its fate. Eight years have passed. Only writers and intellectuals continue to be persecuted, only writing and thinking are suppressed; everybody else is content, content even with their hatred of the Russians, and mostly
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