President Novotny, who had ruled the
country for the fourteen years preceding 1968, sported the very same
barber-induced
97
gray
waves and had the longest index finger of all the inhabitants of Central
Europe.
When the distinguished emigre heard
from the lips of a painter whose pictures he had never seen that he resembled
Communist President Novotny, he turned scarlet, then white, then scarlet again,
then white once more; he tried to say something, did not succeed, and fell
silent. Everyone else kept silent until Sabina stood up and left.
It made her unhappy, and down in
the street she asked herself why she should bother to maintain contact with
Czechs. What bound her to them? The landscape? If each of them were asked to
say what the name of his native country evoked in him, the images that came to
mind would be so different as to rule out all possibility of unity.
Or the culture? But what was that?
Music? Dvorak and Janacek? Yes. But what if a Czech had no feeling for music?
Then the essence of being Czech vanished into thin air.
Or great men? Jan Hus? None of the
people in that room had ever read a line of his works. The only thing they were
all able to understand was the flames, the glory of the flames when he was
burned at the stake, the glory of the ashes, so for them the essence of being
Czech came down to ashes and nothing more. The only things that held them
together were their defeats and the reproaches they addressed to one another.
She was walking fast. She was more
disturbed by her own thoughts than by her break with the emigres. She knew she
was being unfair. There were other Czechs, after all, people quite different
from the man with the long index finger. The embarrassed silence that followed
her little speech did not by any means indicate they were all against her. No,
they were probably bewildered by the sudden hatred, the lack of understanding
they were all subjected to in emigration. Then why wasn't she
98
sorry
for them? Why didn't she see them for the woeful and abandoned creatures they
were?
We know why. After she betrayed her
father, life opened up before her, a long road of betrayals, each one
attracting her as vice and victory. She would not keep ranks! She refused to keep ranks—always with the same people, with the same speeches! That was why
she was so stirred by her own injustice. But it was not an unpleasant feeling;
quite the contrary, Sabina had the impression she had just scored a victory and
someone invisible was applauding her for it.
Then suddenly the intoxication gave
way to anguish: The road had to end somewhere! Sooner or later she would have
to put an end to her betrayals! Sooner or later she would have to stop herself!
It was evening and she was hurrying
through the railway station. The train to Amsterdam was in. She found her
coach. Guided by a friendly guard, she opened the door to her compartment and
found Franz sitting on a couchette. He rose to greet her; she threw her arms
around him and smothered him with kisses.
She had an overwhelming desire to
tell him, like the most banal of women, Don't let me go, hold me tight, make me
your plaything, your slave, be strong! But they were words she could not say.
The only thing she said when he
released her from his embrace was, "You don't know how happy I am to be
with you." That was the most her reserved nature allowed her to express.
5
A Short
Dictionary of Misunderstood Words (continued}
PARADES
People
in Italy or France have it easy. When their parents force them to go to church,
they get back at them by joining the Party (Communist, Maoist, Trotskyist,
etc.). Sabina, however, was first sent to church by her father, then forced by
him to attend meetings of the Communist Youth League. He was afraid of what
would happen if she stayed away.
When she marched
in the obligatory May Day parades, she could never keep in step, and the girl
behind her would shout at her and purposely tread on her heels. When the time
came to
country for the fourteen years preceding 1968, sported the very same
barber-induced
97
gray
waves and had the longest index finger of all the inhabitants of Central
Europe.
When the distinguished emigre heard
from the lips of a painter whose pictures he had never seen that he resembled
Communist President Novotny, he turned scarlet, then white, then scarlet again,
then white once more; he tried to say something, did not succeed, and fell
silent. Everyone else kept silent until Sabina stood up and left.
It made her unhappy, and down in
the street she asked herself why she should bother to maintain contact with
Czechs. What bound her to them? The landscape? If each of them were asked to
say what the name of his native country evoked in him, the images that came to
mind would be so different as to rule out all possibility of unity.
Or the culture? But what was that?
Music? Dvorak and Janacek? Yes. But what if a Czech had no feeling for music?
Then the essence of being Czech vanished into thin air.
Or great men? Jan Hus? None of the
people in that room had ever read a line of his works. The only thing they were
all able to understand was the flames, the glory of the flames when he was
burned at the stake, the glory of the ashes, so for them the essence of being
Czech came down to ashes and nothing more. The only things that held them
together were their defeats and the reproaches they addressed to one another.
She was walking fast. She was more
disturbed by her own thoughts than by her break with the emigres. She knew she
was being unfair. There were other Czechs, after all, people quite different
from the man with the long index finger. The embarrassed silence that followed
her little speech did not by any means indicate they were all against her. No,
they were probably bewildered by the sudden hatred, the lack of understanding
they were all subjected to in emigration. Then why wasn't she
98
sorry
for them? Why didn't she see them for the woeful and abandoned creatures they
were?
We know why. After she betrayed her
father, life opened up before her, a long road of betrayals, each one
attracting her as vice and victory. She would not keep ranks! She refused to keep ranks—always with the same people, with the same speeches! That was why
she was so stirred by her own injustice. But it was not an unpleasant feeling;
quite the contrary, Sabina had the impression she had just scored a victory and
someone invisible was applauding her for it.
Then suddenly the intoxication gave
way to anguish: The road had to end somewhere! Sooner or later she would have
to put an end to her betrayals! Sooner or later she would have to stop herself!
It was evening and she was hurrying
through the railway station. The train to Amsterdam was in. She found her
coach. Guided by a friendly guard, she opened the door to her compartment and
found Franz sitting on a couchette. He rose to greet her; she threw her arms
around him and smothered him with kisses.
She had an overwhelming desire to
tell him, like the most banal of women, Don't let me go, hold me tight, make me
your plaything, your slave, be strong! But they were words she could not say.
The only thing she said when he
released her from his embrace was, "You don't know how happy I am to be
with you." That was the most her reserved nature allowed her to express.
5
A Short
Dictionary of Misunderstood Words (continued}
PARADES
People
in Italy or France have it easy. When their parents force them to go to church,
they get back at them by joining the Party (Communist, Maoist, Trotskyist,
etc.). Sabina, however, was first sent to church by her father, then forced by
him to attend meetings of the Communist Youth League. He was afraid of what
would happen if she stayed away.
When she marched
in the obligatory May Day parades, she could never keep in step, and the girl
behind her would shout at her and purposely tread on her heels. When the time
came to
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