Present Tensions: European Writers on Overcoming Dictatorships 9786155211621

Table of contents :
Table of Contents
Introduction
“The generation affected will have to see it through.” Literary paths out of dictatorship
On the role of language in commemorating, working through and overcoming dictatorship
Sediments
Lesen in der Diktatur – Schreiben in der Diktatur. Eine persönliche Spurensuche
Reading and writing under dictatorships. A personal retracing
Report on my death
Banane verzi puse la copt pe dulapuri
Voids
Jak to bylo?
Odznak
Il cielo che prima non c’era
Time travels
Rock a Diktatura. Příspěvek k roli hudby v komunistickém režimu bývalého Československa
Rock and dictatorship. The role of music in the communist regime in Czechoslovakia
Alles Echos. Texte und Gedichte
Verniszázs
Che Guevara
Biographies

Citation preview

Present tensions

European writers on overcoming dictatorships

Present tensions

European writers

on overcoming dictatorships

Kristina Kaiserová/Gert Röhrborn (eds.)

Central European University Press in conjunction with University of Jan Evangelista Purkyně Ústí nad Labem FF, Department for Slavic-German Studies and Dresden Technical University, Chair for European Studies

© Kristina Kaiserová, Gert Röhrborn 2009 1st edition All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the permission of the Publishers. Published in 2009 by Central European University Press In conjunction with University of Jan Evangelista Purkyně Ústí nad Labem FF Department for Slavic-German Studies Brněnská 2, CZ-400 96 Ústí nad Labem Tel: (+42-0) 475 282 623 Fax: (+42-0) 475 282 623 E-mail: [email protected] Website: http://usgs.ujep.cz/ and Chair for European Studies, Dresden Technical University Distributed by Central European University Press Budapest – New York Nádor utca 11, H-1051 Budapest, Hungary Tel: (+36-1) 327-3138 Fax: (+36-1) 327-3183 E-mail: [email protected] Website: http://www.ceupress.com 400 West 59th Street, New York NY 10019, USA Telephone (+1-212) 547-6932, Fax: (+1-646) 557-2416 E-mail: [email protected] ISBN 978-963-9776-21-0 cloth Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Present tensions : European writers on overcoming dictatorships / Kristina Kaiserová, Gert Röhrborn (eds.). -- 1st ed. p. cm. ISBN 978-9639776210 (cloth : alk. paper)

1. Authors, European--20th century--Biography. 2. Authors, European--Political and social views. I. Kaiserová, Kristina, 1956- II. Röhrborn, Gert. PN453.P74 2008 808.8'0358--dc22 2008025538 Cover photos by Harald Hauswald – OSTKREUZ Agentur der Fotografen Printed in Hungary by Akadémiai Nyomda, Martonvásár

Table of Contents

Introduction KRISTINA KAISEROVÁ and GERT RÖHRBORN: “The generation

affected will have to see it through.” Literary paths out of

dictatorship ASTRID KÖHLER: On the role of language in commemorating,

working through and overcoming dictatorship

3

16

Sediments WOLFGANG TEMPLIN: Lesen in der Diktatur – Schreiben in der

Diktatur. Eine persönliche Spurensuche 29

Reading and writing under dictatorships. A personal retracing 38

ZSÓFIA BALLA: A képernyő imádása 47

Worshipping the screen 58

GABRIEL CHIFU: Relatare despre moartea mea 71

Report on my death 91

115

DENISA MIRENA PIŞCU: Banane verzi puse la copt pe dulapuri Green bananas left to get ripe on cupboards 131

Voids EDUARD VACEK: Jak to bylo? How all that happened? JIŘÍ DĚDEČEK: Odznak Badge

149

163

179

188

ALESSANDRO TAMBURINI: Il cielo che prima non c'era The sky that wasn’t there before

199

210

Time travels MIKOLÁŠ CHADIMA: Rock a Diktatura. Příspěvek k roli hudby v komunistickém režimu bývalého Československa Rock and dictatorship. The role of music in the communist

regime in Czechoslovakia LUTZ RATHENOW: Alles Echos. Texte und Gedichte All echos. Essays and poems GYÖRGY SPIRO: Verniszázs The Vernissage OLGA TOKARCZUK: Che Guevara Che Guevara Biographies

225

237

251

270

291

296

303

318

335

INTRODUCTION

KRISTINA KAISEROVÁ and GERT RÖHRBORN

“The generation affected will have to see it through.” Literary paths out of dictatorship “The professional human rights activist is not a politician,

he is more like a priest, an artist. […]

He is an artist, his field the violation of the law.”1

Is a violation of the law a work of art? Or must every work of art include a violation of the law in order to be recognized as an artistic act? 30 years ago, the Hungarian author and dissident Miklós Haraszti drew a totally different conclusion. For him, art is not political per se, or resistant according to a particular school of thought; it simply seeks out space for itself and nestles between the lines of any legislation, whether it be democratic or dictatorial. It pushes at boundaries of many and various types, boundaries whose violation always corresponds (in a secondary sense) with the violation of laws. Yet in the majority of cases artists are calculating lawbreakers, torn between desire for individual expression on the one hand and social recognition on the other. All regimes (and indeed some people) therefore feature an idealized conflict between the artist as a freely creative individual and what Haraszti calls a “corporate artist”. Artists’ identities are split into a number of fragments, and it is therefore with great effort that a number of them retrospectively portray earlier contradictory (alienating) expressions of their Self as a whole in the context of their Self and their environment.2 The European unification process has provided evidence over a number of decades of the great influence which can be exerted—even on entire societies—by the existence of the capacity to remember and shared memory. In a speech to mark the 60th anniversary of the liberation of the Buchenwald and Mittelbau-Dora concentration camps, the Spanish author Jorge Semprún voiced a heady claim: “One of the most effective ways in which a path can be cleared for the future of a united Europe—or rather the reunited Europe—is to share our past, our memory, with each other and to unite our memories, which have remained separate up to now.”3 Some authors even take the view that, without some type of reunification of history (or histories), the political unification of Europe cannot be successful.4 3

Given the manifold and overlapping experiences of grief, and in particular the experiences of the 20th century, we are drawn towards the human issue of reconciliation. Nonetheless, with the exception of the general realization that collective injuries and traumata need to be dealt with there is anything other than unity amongst opinions on the impositions which can be made on greatness and pride-oriented national remembrance associations. Shared memory needs common points of reference, and in a superficial sense the suffering of violence means an end to all communication unites all victims.5 If even a reasonably similar perspective is lacking, the same unholy spiral of dissociation and struggles to establish the supremacy of the respective sides’ interpretations will continue to unfold over and over again. Each and every human experiences violence as an individual, even if its use is mainly legitimized on the basis of collective characteristics and decisions. “All shots on target are orbiting in space. God ordains. Only the evil justifies.”6 To provide an example, it makes a great difference whether the history of Hungary as a culture-rich Central European nation is described against the backdrop of the annihilation of the European Jews (i.e., Hungary as the nation of the Arrow Cross Party), imperial Soviet oppression of the people of Eastern Europe (with reference to the events of 1956, for example) or crossborder migration (further to the Treaty of Trianon). Opposing national views of history have continued to provide hidden fuel to political conflicts in Europe in recent times, as amply illustrated not only by Hungary’s relationships with Romania and Slovakia, but also by the confrontations between Estonia and Russia, as well as those between Poland and Germany. Tangible economic and political conflicts of interest, cultural misunderstandings and lack of synchrony in the experiencing, processing and passing on of historical processes are further factors. Arrival at a common narrative despite changing perspectives is nonetheless not to be completely ruled out. Yet it is surely not just “better” alternatives—which the Europe-wide epoch-defining dates 1968, 1789/1989 or 1848/1948, celebrated at regular intervals and as a matter of course, could be taken for—to those mentioned above which are required.7 On the contrary, a central value must be sought which is able to represent a real point of intersection between the various perspectives. The unconditional protection of minority groups could take on this integrative role in today’s Europe: “It required an eventful and more-or-less accurately studied history spanning many thousands of years to gradually grasp the fact that diversity is not a cause for war.”8 We should therefore examine the role of culture in the processing of dictatorships and their legacies. Historical relationships are naturally not re4

stricted to the political sphere; they also thoroughly penetrate the public cultural sphere and daily life. The subject of history tends towards a niche existence in modern painting, both in terms of artistic production and public awareness. This notwithstanding, a close and resonant relationship continues to exist between history and sculpture, and particularly as an element of public memory—as illustrated by innumerable memorial sites and signs of remembrance. Theatrical and literary creation also have a significant influence on the sense of history and collective assessment of a period of history: there can surely be hardly a member of the audience at a puppet theatre play such as Das Lager [The Camp] by Pauline Kalker, Arlène Hoornweg und Herman Helle (in which prisoners are beaten to death over a period of several minutes while the fires of the crematorium burn incessantly in the background) that leaves devoid of emotion.9 Who was aware at the time and who is still aware today of Largo Desolato, which was played extensively across the political stages of Eastern Europe just a few years ago?10 This distinction goes beyond mere tenses, as James E. Young points out in reference to research into and literature based on the annihilation of the Jews: “Contrary to the view that the world and the way in which we portray it have absolutely no influence on one another, there has always been a reciprocal penetration of ‘life’ and ‘written life,’ of catastrophe and our reactions to it, therefore literature—even when expressing our practical reactions to the current crisis— nevertheless still recalls past devastation.”11 In addition to museums and exhibitions, the appeal of audiovisual media in particular has increased significantly. The rise and social dominance of the mass media has brought commercialization with it, and the role of the author and artist as a traditional communicator of culture needs to be redefined independently. Having previously been the defenders of inventories of priceless national traditions or the mouthpiece of dissident opponents, they have now been forced into sectioned-off areas where intellectual life concepts are to be played out. Yet it is just this development which brings an opportunity with it: a living, emotionally-gripping remembrance culture is based on the narration, uncovering and discussion of individual experiences in conscious dialogue with fellow human beings. A work of art initially establishes itself and then continuously re-establishes itself within the reader; it is digested individually, processed and passed on.12 It therefore encounters hidden layers which are broader than those encountered by the academic and cultural fraternities, as the latter’s professional dealings with history are conducted on a much broader front. György Konrád has summed up what it is that sets the special value of literature apart where European remembrance culture and shared social ex5

perience are concerned. In his view, the first factor is the century-old, crossborder pioneering spirit of European literature per se—a spirit which is far ahead of any political union. The second factor is the practical opportunity to actually make plurality a reality using the active assistance of innumerable translators, who Konrád would like to see respected as the “true weavers of Europe” alongside politicians and financiers. The third factor is the method of professional watching in the form of participative observation, which represents a “third view” that takes sides with victims when it would otherwise only be the victors who get to write history.13 In doing this authors do not simply assume the pose of the tragic Cassandra: “In a sense, as soon as we lay our hand on the pen, or the computer keyboard, we already cease to be the helpless victims of whatever it was that enslaved and diminished us before we began to write. Not the slaves of our predicament nor of our private anxieties; not of the ‘official narrative’ of our country, nor of fate itself.”14 The contributions included in this literary anthology are taken from the project “Overcoming Dictatorships – the Encounter of Poets, Artists and Writers”, which is being carried out under the supervision of the Technische Universität Dresden. Participants in the projects hail from Germany, Italy, Poland, the Czech Republic, Hungary and Romania—all countries which were subjected in their own specific way to 20th-century authoritarian or totalitarian dictatorships. The project sees them report on their experiences of life under dictatorships and the influence of the political change brought about by the fall of communism on their artistic activity. The variety of different generations, European countries and artistic directions from which they come has represented both an advantage and a challenge where the cooperation between them is concerned. Though their original motivation to take part may have varied from that of their fellow contributors—a biography of persecution, a feeling of personal historical responsibility or artistic curiosity—a unanimous desire to share and work together has emerged during the course of the project. Three-day workshops in the countries named above see the writers and poets read from their work, thereby making others familiar with the culture of neighbouring European countries. The artists are working on a joint travelling exhibition due to open in October 2008 at the University of Birmingham, Great Britain—a country which, despite not having witnessed dictatorships within its borders, created or actively supported authoritarian situations during its time as a colonial power. The transfer of culture is designed to explode prejudices and create better understanding between Central-Eastern and Western Europe. The primary cause of these prejudices is the insufficient processing of Europe’s dictatorial past—a past which has left deep 6

psychological scars and caused material and cultural loss in almost all countries across the continent.15 Encounters between counterparts from East and West therefore have a significant role to play. A wide spectrum of memory and digestion has been opened up not only to the public, but also to the participants in the project. The contributions which have taken shape over the course of the last few months bear not only the trademarks of their respective authors, but also signs of the reflections which have taken place within them as a result of their participation. Individual development has been clearly influenced by cooperative work on the topic at hand. Concrete problems with the politics of dealing with the past have not been at the forefront of the discussions which have gone on, though a notable exception has come in the form of the voicing by Eduard Vacek at a meeting in Ústi nad Labem of his stance on the compensation for and the prevention of injustice carried out under dictatorships. In Vacek’s view it is a question of decorum that the former opposition are these days no worse off than former perpetrators. His demand for the complete replacement of former leadership personnel and vehement support for common, decidedly anti-totalitarian history books provoked considerable protest. He insists on the necessity of reconciliation, including amongst the affected generations. The majority of his colleagues, on the other hand, attach greater importance to interhuman exchange and political education, though they also lament the insufficient resources made available for such measures. Fundamental disagreement regarding prevention ensued, the essence of which was formulated during the debate by the Dresden painter Ulf Göpfert, as follows: “The affected generation will have to see it through. Prevention is a matter for youth. Not our generation. For me, real prevention is becoming a European.” Compensation is therefore not an issue for discussion amongst literary figures due to the fact that it is a legal matter—and in any case one which is extremely complex. It is a form of dealing with the past which is conducted between governments or between governments and civil groups, and is based on the one-sided recognition of responsibility, the suffering of victims and an apology from the perpetrators. The primary aim of such voluntary gestures towards victims (global or individual restitution, reparations, etc.) is the balancing-out or annulment of losses suffered in the past. A further related issue is the display towards the victims of both respect and a desire for reconciliation. A risk of political orchestration and instrumentalisation does, however, exist, as the “political use of history is […] an important part of the self-image of societies with pluralist constitutions, and therefore an elixir of life for democracy.”16 It is also not possible to rule out negative impacts on 7

victims if gestures are not linked to efforts to create a modus vivendi—one which reconciles previously opposing group identities rather than perpetuating them, and gives rise to a shared, positive historical awareness despite the crimes of the past.17 Efforts towards retrospective legal security therefore mainly serve to counteract traumatisation based on severe experiences of helplessness which may attain exemplary interpretative sovereignty in the psyche of victims. It is here that literature and art are able to reach beyond the limits of legal processing and the consequences of the drawing of (necessary) new political boundaries and yet still avoid the partial exaggerations of academic and journalistic debate18: “De-traumatisation occurs both in dialogue and within each individual. Neither side is obliged to wait until it reaches the other side, and in waiting for one another the two sides may keep each other in their traumatized states.”19 It is the investigation of the lasting legacies of dictatorships which have marked both their lives and the lives of others which has fascinated and occupied the participants in the project to an ever-increasing extent. Fears that develop towards neurosis, disturbances in interpersonal communication and the debasement and misuse of societal resources have all proven to be of great significance. The work presented here is neither a new political history nor an economic analysis of recent times: a view of the flayed minion has been opened up.20 The fact that this view is extremely multi-facetted is also linked to the additional differentiation between remembered and remembering victim groups, with the Germans having recently (been allowed to) rejoin(ed) the latter on the basis of bombing tactics and forced migration.21 The suffering of victims may not—at least in an initial sense—be turned into new cultural capital, with every political-journalistic proxy war of the type conducted in Western Europe during the 1990s—and in particular amongst literary figures (as illustrated by the case of Peter Handke)—to be avoided.22 It is rather the development of an “ethnography of a past everyday life, one which is neither part of an agenda nor takes itself or its protagonists to be representatives of an era”23 which characterizes the contributions collected together in this volume. Authors and poets prefer to pose their own questions rather than answer questions posed by others.24 In reading between the lines one is continually confronted with the realization that inhumanity essentially reflects on its protagonists, and does not even spare their descendents. Remaining silent puts the future—which has been endangered by previous violence—completely at risk.25 In allowing grief and pain to exist the high moral tone of the feature pages is replaced. In cases where violence is explored in the contributions selected for this anthology barbarism is neither stylized nor stereotyped.26 8

The paths of reconciliation which have been taken and are being taken within the framework of this project can be illustrated using the example of an event which took place in Cracow in November 2007. The event saw the author Utz Rachowski (Reichenbach), the photographer Harald Hauswald (Berlin) and the poet Denisa Mirena Pişcu (Bucharest) take part in a joint discussion and reading. Time and again the texts of Utz Rachowski—whose ancestors originate from Sdunska Wola in Poland—bring suppressed biographical interweavings to light: his father’s National-Socialist and latterly socialist career; his grandmother’s atmospheric and war-atrocity-laced recollections of her youth; the dubious past of detested teachers. It is the heart and not the ear of his readers that is sought out by his composed, urgent voice, with each text similar to a poem. Having been arrested in 1979 as a result of his poems, 1980 saw him sold to the Federal Republic of Germany. Though he was able to settle in West Berlin for over a decade—and was therefore “protected” by the Wall— he had to admit to himself that he had not only been encaged in the GDR and its prisons, but also in his own poetry: “Notes, questions. The allencompassing reality which was to be adhered to lost all its power when I took up my pen and wrote. Without knowing it, I was practising a survival technique which would be of use to me both in the army and in prison: switching off, stopping time. I admit that I held this loss of consciousness, this impotence in the face of the bloodhounds against language, against this thing which could perhaps be called literature. In no way did I want to accept the facts that it let me become a victim despite me giving myself to it, that it was not omnipotent, that I had to suffer just as others did. The wound this left ran deep.”27 The photography of Harald Hauswald is not presented as a rough image of reality: it is a profound insight into it. He does not arrange shots, but fits elements together and looks for things that other do not see. He waits for the right moment before grasping little wonders, the pars pro toto of the bewildering crowds. His work is therefore consciously one-sided though certainly honest. He has always avoided celebratory photos, and is heavily rebuked for this by the same crowds he has been capturing on film for the last 30 years. Hauswald quotes an extreme example of this stance experienced by him at a well-frequented exhibition in Jena during the spring of 2007: “When you look at your photos you could come to the conclusion that we’d lived in a police state” was the comment of an indignant visitor, who continued “Where are the photos of our happy, smiling Pioneers?”28 When in the company of those who really want to listen, Hauswald recounts almost unbelievable stories of the little shards of freedom offered by the moment, 9

of the clever out-manoeuvring of dictatorial authorities despite oppression and a lack of any great deal of freedom. The photographer speaks openly about his pain, and remains exuberantly pleased about his successes and hidden coups. He not only confronts people who lived in the former GDR with what was going on at the time, but also with what was possible. And what the result of that situation is today. In his view, and as used in the title of a collaboration published by Hauswald and author and friend Lutz Rathenow, things have “gewendet” (turned)—a term which echoes the most popular description of the decline of the GDR.29 Vaclav Havel risked his neck as a dissident under dictatorship.30 George Soros shipped vast numbers of photocopiers to the Polish opposition. Now, in the age of the internet, users are presumed to be just a click away from great personal deeds. Modern indulgences are sold, politics commercialized. These seem to be the reasons why Denisa Mirena Pişcu feels like a stranger in the West. In her eyes, Prague appears to be mutating into a huge bazaar from which Eastern European history is flogged to fashion-conscious yet completely clueless Westerners. On the other hand, her description of a journey through crisis-ridden Moldavia—a journey she slipped away from a conference to undertake—reverts to a familiar tone of melancholic support: “Heads thrust out of the car, greetings, and locals taken aback, as yet unsure as how they’re supposed to react in the presence of freedom.”31 Perhaps there really is such a thing as a community of Central-Eastern European experience, one which could overcome old national entrenchments under the auspices of transformation as an adjustment to Western norms and behaviour. Central-Eastern Europeans would have a lot to say to each other— if they listened to one another. Pişcu started this process in Cracow. Her method was an attempt to appreciate how her audience heard her in Polish and English translations as she spoke simultaneously in Romanian. She later reported enthusiastically on how the experience of such a variety of and wrestling between languages had taken her into a trance-like state. This is an experience which no-one can take away from her, and one which she will hopefully pass on in her own way. Poets and authors are also people with firmly-set self-images and prejudices, however they are surely thankful to an above-average extent for the opportunity to carry out at least partial revision. The results of their crossborder dialogue have enriched the project organisers with important experiences and encouraged all involved to carry on along the path the project has taken. The publication of at least its written results is designed to allow a wider public audience in the countries in question to profit from these results. Multilingualism was therefore of importance to us. We wish to open up 10

routes towards a European culture, or to be more precise a post-nationalist community of communication. This is not a question of the creation of a political European public sphere, but rather the further civilisation and humanization of political culture. This, in turn, neither means that national politics are to be scrapped, nor that the creation of a constitutional European conception of history and remembrance canon is to be supported. In instances where legal protection is used to make truths into moral victories, the persuasiveness of the resultant victories is often questionable.32 It is the disappearance of the individual behind social and political attributions that this project seeks to overcome. The “exodus from the camp” of modernity is the appearance of a human being as a singular being, one whose life is unique and therefore to be protected unconditionally. A human being who, after the hecatombs have been sacrificed “in the name of the people,” only wishes—and is only able—to testify for themselves.33 It is only then that the conditions have been met which enable them to be judged in a valid way and, where necessary, condemned. Such a human being who no longer endeavours to distance themselves from the experience of their own being, desires and actions using ideological protective mechanisms and psychological defensive reflexes is better placed to engage in permanent development. Their role is not that of a “shining example” (carrying out “heroic” duties, following the “true” path, etc.), but rather that of a point of reference, a partner in the definition of one’s own path. A certain eschatological nature may be inherent in this train of thought, one which perhaps comes across as somewhat anachronistic. In her analysis of the totalitarian temptation of modernity, Hannah Arendt stresses that the social revival of (Christian) religion no longer represents a way out, and that it is no longer possible to expel evil from the world.34 Yet can we not see it as a higher form of humanity if the judgement of a human being as a singular being—formerly known as divine justice—does not just remain an otherworldly hope, but actually becomes a worldly opportunity for all? We recommend that readers keep in mind our editorial principles while browsing through this volume. Our top priority is the genuine representation of the diversity of the literary approaches and perspectives used and exhibited within the framework of this project. Each contribution is included both in its original language and in the form of an English translation. We have used slight amendments and annotations only in cases where it seemed to be in the best interest of international readers. The three sections into which this volume is divided (sediments, voids, time travels) have been chosen on an allegorical basis in order to facilitate an initial appropriation of the material. 11

We encourage all readers to reread and compare contributions in different orders after their initial reading. Readers with a sophisticated literary interest may consult the inspiring interpretations by Astrid Köhler. We would like to take this opportunity to extend our thanks to all the individuals and institutions that have made the publication of this book possible. First and foremost, of course, we would like to thank the contributors and partners who have taken part in our project, invested courage, time and joy and given their all in helping to define the path that our undertaking has taken. We are particularly indebted to the European Union for their general financing of the project (as part of the “CULTURE 2000” programme), as well as to the University of Ústi nad Labem for their generous contribution towards the book’s publication, which has been dealt with with prudence and competence by our colleagues at the Central European University Press. The printer’s copy was prepared by Helga Zichner. The vital role of the numerous and irreplaceable translators, assistants and documenters who facilitated personal exchanges between authors and poets at workshops, accompanied readings and collated contributions is also not to be forgotten. Though they are too many of them to mention in full here, we thank Eileen Schuldt, Justyna Smyka, David Tomiček, Susie Kerekes, Cristina Bordaş, Nellie Gilson and Barbara Lubich as representatives of their invaluable number. We hope that you, the readers of this book, will both sense and take away something of the unfettered sincerity which made each and every one of the meetings between the participants in this project an experience without comparison. (2008)

Translated by Peter Welchman

Notes 1 “Der professionelle Menschenrechtler ist kein Politiker, er ist vielmehr ein Priester, ein Künstler. […] Er ist ein Künstler der Gesetzesübertretung,” see Miklós Haraszti. “Zum Verrücktwerden. Kopfnoten eines Menschenrechtlers” [Enough to lose one’s sanity. Evaluations of a human rights activist], in Kursbuch 81. Die andere Hälfte Europas [Timetable. The other part of Europe], eds. Karl Markus Michel and Tilman Spengler, Berlin: Kursbuch, 1985, 25–33, 30f. 2 See Miklós Haraszti, The velvet prison. Artists under state socialism, New York/NY: Basic, 1987. 3 Quoted in Woran erinnern? Der Kommunismus in der deutschen Erinnerungskultur [What to remember? Communism within the German culture of remembrance], eds. Peter März and Hans-Joachim Veen, Cologne, Weimar, Vienna: Bühlau, 2006, 10.

12

4 See Dorothee Wilms, “Erinnerungskultur in Europa. Zu den Aufgaben von Literatur und Geschichtsforschung” [The European culture of remembrance. On the tasks of literature and historiography], Die politische Meinung, no. 448 (March 2007), 41–43; Gabriele Baumann and Nina Müller. Vergangenheitsbewältigung und Erinnerungskultur in den Ländern Mittelost- und Südosteuropas [Coming to terms with the past and the culture of remembrance in Central Eastern and South Eastern European countries], Berlin, Sankt Augustin: Konrad-Adenauer-Stiftung, 2006. 5 Cf. Hannah Arendt, The Origins of Totalitarianism, new edition, New York/NY: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1966, 460–479; see also idem, On Revolution, Harmondsworth: Penguin Classic, 1990. 6 Zsófia Balla, Grass (in this anthology). 7 Stefan Auer, “Das Erbe von 1989. Revolutionen für Europa” [The heritage of 1989. Revolutions for Europe], Osteuropa, no. 5–6 (2004), 31–46. 8 See György Konrád, Der dritte Blick oder Betrachtungen eines Antipolitischen [The third perspective. Meditations of an anti-political person], Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2001, 196. 9 See Martin Lhotzky, “Die Zonen der Erniedrigung” [Zones of humiliation], Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, no. 193, August 21, 2007, 35. 10 Václav Havel, Largo desolato. Schauspiel in 7 Bildern [Largo desolato. A play in 7 scenes], Reinbek bei Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1990. 11 James E. Young, Beschreiben des Holocaust [Writing and rewriting the Holocaust], Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1997, 18. 12 See Wolfgang Iser, Der Akt des Lesens [Act of reading], Munich: Fink, 1976. 13 See Konrád, Der dritte Blick, (op. cit. note 8), 211. 14 David Grossman, Writing in the dark. Adapted from The Arthur Miller Freedom to Write Lecture, delivered at PEN’s World Voices Festival on April 29, 2007 (http://www.pen.org/printmedia.php/prmMediaID/1490). 15 See Gerhard Besier, Das Europa der Diktaturen. Eine neue Geschichte des 20. Jahrhunderts, Munich: DVA, 2006 (English translation forthcoming); Exile and patronage. Cross-cultural negotiations beyond the Third Reich, eds. Andrew Chandler, Katarzyna Stokłosa and Jutta Vinzent, Berlin: LIT, 2006; Michal Kopeček, Past in the making. Historical Revisionism in Central Europe after 1989, Budapest, New York: Central European University Press, 2008. 16 Hans Günter Hockerts, “Zugänge zur Zeitgeschichte: Primärerfahrung, Erinnerungskultur, Geschichtswissenschaft” [Approaches to contemporary history: primary experience, culture of remembrance, historiography], Politik und Zeitgeschichte B 28/2001, 15–30, 22. 17 See Elazar Barkan, The Guilt of Nations: Restitution and negotiating historical injustices, Baltimore/ML: W. W. Norton, 2000; Richard Vernon, “Against Restitution”, Political Studies 51 (2003) , no. 3, 542–557; Michael Wolffsohn, “Geschichte als Falle. Deutschland und die jüdische Welt” [History, the trap. Germany and the Jewish world], in Geschichte als Falle: Deutschland und die jüdische Welt, eds. idem and Thomas Brechenbacher, Neuried: Ars Urna, 2001, 35–44.

13

18 See the extremely critical analyses in Young, Beschreiben (op. cit. Note 11), 7–20; Anne Fuchs, “From ‘Vergangenheitsbewältigung’ to generational memory contests in Günter Grass, Monika Maron and Uwe Timm”, German Life and Letters 59 (2006), no. 2, 169–186; Antonia Grunenberg. Die Lust an der Schuld. Von der Macht der Vergangenheit über die Gegenwart [Lust for guilt. How the past rules the present], Berlin: Rowohlt, 2001. 19 Bernhard Schlink, “Epilog: Die Gegenwart der Vergangenheit” [Epilogue: The presence of the past] in idem, “Die Bewältigung von Vergangenheit durch Recht”, in idem, Vergangenheitsschuld und gegenwärtiges Recht [The guilt of the past and contemporary law], Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2002, 145–156, 153; see Günter Jerouschek, “Straftat und Traumatisierung. Überlegungen zu Unrecht, Schuld und Rehabilitierung der Strafe aus viktimologischer Perspektive” [The criminal act and traumatization. Reflections on injustice, guilt and the rehabilitation of retribution from the victim’s perspective], Juristen Zeitung 55 (2000), no. 4, 185–194; Christoph Görg, “‘Verlust des Weltvertrauens’. Die Bedeutung von Rechtssicherheit für die Aufarbeitung von Traumata”, Mittelweg 36 10 (2001), no. 2, 77–90. 20 See Giorgio Agamben, Remnants of Auschwitz: The witness and the archive, New York: Zone Books, 2002. 21 See Aleida Assmann, “On the (in)compatibility of guilt and suffering in German memory”, German Life and Letters 59 (2006), no. 2, 187–200. 22 See Karoline von Oppeln, “Imagining the Balkans, imagining Germany: Intellectual journeys to former Yugoslavia in the 1990s”, The Germany Quarterly 79 (2006), no. 2, 192–210. 23 Thomas Anz, “Epochenumbruch und Generationenwechsel? Zur Konjunktur von Generationenkonstrukten seit 1989” [Transition and generational change? On the boom of generational concepts since 1989], in Schreiben nach der Wende. Ein Jahrzehnt deutscher Literatur 1989–1999 [Writing after the changes. A decade of German literature 1989–1999], eds. Gerhard Fischer and David Roberts, 2nd unabridged edition, Tübingen: Stauffenburg, 2007, 31–40, 35. 24 Cf. Richard Swartz, “Nachwort” [Epilogue], in Der andere nebenan. Eine Anthologie aus dem Südosten Europas [The other next door. An anthology from South Eastern Europe], ed. Richard Swartz, Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 2007, 333–337. 25 See Slavenka Drakulić, “Drei Monologe über die anderen” [Three monologues on the others], in Swartz, Der andere (op. cit. note 24), 87–100. 26 See Michael Wildt, “Sind die Nazis Barbaren? Betrachtungen zu einer geklärten Frage” [Are the Nazis barbarians? Meditations on a clarified question], Mittelweg 36 15 (2006), no. 2, 8–26. 27 Utz Rachowski, “Das Erschrecken über die eigene Sprache (1983)” [Frightened by one’s own language], quoted after idem, “Die Farben des Jürgen Fuchs” [The colors of Jürgen Fuchs], in idem, Red‘ mir nicht von Minnigerode. Erzählungen und Aufsätze [Don’t bother me with Minnigerode], Dresden: Thelem Universitätsverlag, 2006, 106–118, 114f.

14

28 Here: “Pioneers” is the translated short form for the GDR youth movement Junge Pioniere. 29 Harald Hauswald and Lutz Rathenow, Gewendet. Vor und nach dem Mauerfall: Fotos und Texte aus dem Osten [Turned. Before and after the fall of wall], Berlin: Jaron, 2006. 30 See Václav Havel, “Anatomie einer Zurückhaltung (1985)” [The anatomy of aloofness], in Dazwischen. Ostmitteleuropäische Reflexionen [In between. Central Eastern European reflections], eds. Frank Herterich and Christian Semler, Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1989, 34–64, 62. 31 Denisa Mirena Pişcu (in this anthology). 32 See Reinhard Kaiser, “Versiegelte Geschichte. Erinnerungsgesetze helfen nicht” [Sealed history. On the vanity of laws of remembrance] Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, no. 177, August 2, 2007, 33. 33 See Auszug aus dem Lager. Zur Überwindung des modernen Raumparadigmas in der politischen Philosophie [Exodus from the camp. On overcoming the spatial paradigm of modernity in political philosophy], ed. Ludger Schwarte, Berlin, Bielefeld: Transcript, 2007; Giorgio Agamben, “Bartleby, or On Contingency”, in idem, Potentialities. Collected essays in philosophy, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999, 243– 271. 34 See Hannah Arendt, “A Reply to Voegelin”, in Essays in Understanding, 1930–1954. Formation, Exile, Totalitarianism, ed. Jerome Kohn, New York: Harcourt, Brace & Co., 1994.

15

ASTRID KÖHLER

On the role of language in commemorating, working through and overcoming dictatorship “Every language which is allowed to function

on its own serves all human needs.

It serves reason just as it serves feeling,

It is communication and conversation, solilo quy and prayer,

It is request, order and oath.”

(Victor Klemperer)1

Central Eastern Europe, the history and present day of which is the primary focus of this project, was the stage for various dictatorships of various types during the 20th century. The project presented here is to be taken as a contribution to the process of working through these dictatorships both comparatively and historically. Comprehensive dialogue is required in order to achieve this aim. The participating artists and intellectuals who are engaged in dialogue with one another here have already fulfilled a fundamental prior prerequisite by establishing dialogue both with a wide, heterogeneous audience through their work and dialogue between times, places, and people within their work. In every case—whether it be in the encounters initiated by the project, in the encounter between the author and the reader or in the space between the lines on the page—the crux of the matter is the reciprocal illumination of memory and experience. The full recognition and productive assimilation of these two elements is a matter of transfer (i.e., exchange) and continuous movement. The language of literature provides an excellent medium for this transfer process. Even before the process of working through and overcoming memories of dictatorship as recorded here and elsewhere began, the language of literature had already had an immensely important role to play. This extends not only to known extreme examples such as the memorization by camp internees of poems, songs and even lengthy pieces of prose as a source of hope and means of everyday survival. Such a power accrues to the word in all closed societies, not only those of the 20th century. It is not for nothing—to stick with the experiences of most artists and intellectuals who have contributed to this project—that the former Eastern Bloc states adopted a variety of 16

ever-changing measures designed to force the work of authors and artists into a rigid overall cultural-political framework. “It was funny,” remarks György Spiró in Verniszázs [Vernissage], “how hard the authorities tried to put all the artists in various boxes in the old days.” They were in awe—and indeed fearful—of artists’ words and works, yet at the same time they were determined to channel the power of works of art exclusively for their own purposes. The relations described by Mikoláš Chadima in this anthology between the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic and rock musicians under its rule are roughly similar to those experienced by writers: with the aid of a complex system of patronage on the one hand, and restriction and punishment on the other, attempts were made to ensure that the subversive potential inherent in all literature and art (that is not merely hackwork) was blunted. The fact that, as Chadima shows, such tactics often had the opposite of the desired effect, can now be regarded with a certain amusement as one of the pleasanter effects of the cultural policies of ‘really existing socialism’—hence Spiró’s use of the word “funny“. Additionally, and as portrayed excellently by Wolfgang Templin in his contribution, the fact that some texts remained banned or unpublished “in the East” did not automatically mean that they did not exist there. In their attempts to erect an “invisible barrier” in the minds of readers, censors often achieved the opposite, namely a “symptomatic thirst for banned print.”2 The points made by Templin about the procurement and impact of explicitly political literature also apply to the so-called “belles lettres”. I can clearly recall how not only works such as Rudolf Bahro’s Alternative [The alternative in Eastern Europe] but also, say, Stefan Heym’s Fünf Tage im Juni [Five days in June], the poems of Rainer Kunze or the songs of Wolf Biermann (on privately-recorded audio cassettes) circulated among us students at the time. A comparison of the contributions of Templin and Chadima reveals that the emerging development (in the 1980s in particular) of the private-illegal Samizdat copying and distribution movement3 (самыздат = private printing) was both a crossborder and interdisciplinary phenomenon.4 Admittedly, the rootedness of literature in language gave literature a special, perhaps even ambivalent status in the societies dealt with as part of this project. Because of the lack of a functioning political and journalistic public sphere, literature was expected by many to fill the gap, providing a space for the dissemination of information and the formation of political opinion. It was through literature, for example, that many of us younger people first found out about the existence of the Gulag (and Stalin’s camps in general). This meant that many readers expected—and both petty officials and the holders of real power feared—that literature would give them information 17

about matters otherwise kept secret, furnish more or less explicit statements on topical political issues and offer the sort of criticism of economic anomalies and political and ideological doctrine which the media failed to provide. This encouraged the rapid spread on both sides of the celebrated technique of “reading between the lines,” which from time to time developed into “reading something into the lines.” One example often quoted from the history of GDR literature is the story of Der Tangospieler [The Tangoplayer] by Christoph Hein.5 “A rumour is going round about this practically unobtainable book,” wrote Christoph Dieckmann, continuing “people are saying that it describes the fate of someone who landed in prison because of the Prague Spring. In this instance the needs of the readers dictated a plot that has nothing to do with the story itself.”6 Apart from such relatively harmless individual cases, the over-politicization of literature was a widespread phenomenon. Not only large sections of the domestic readership, but also interested readers from the Western world read works for and judged them purely on the basis of their perceived current political content. No-one disputes that literary texts can—and perhaps even should—be a vehicle for such content, yet a bold political statement does not in itself constitute art. Genuinely subversive potential operates at a deeper level than is to be found in the kind of work that Spiró accurately defines as a “system of gestures,” linked to the (political) moment and liable to lose all significance with the passing of that moment (“Divorced from its original context,” says Spiró, “it’s totally incomprehensible”). Spiró’s entire text is a parable for the fate of such works (and their creators), here figured as a funeral that is as embarrassing as it is inevitable. The fundamentally literary component of literature has a more abiding effect. It goes far beyond simple documentation and discussion, whilst also intensifying both elements using aesthetic means. In one of his works of literary criticism, Walter Benjamin makes the distinction between the “material content” and the “truth content” of a text.7 Whereas at the time of a work’s creation the two are “congruent”8, with time—and each new generation of readers—they diverge more and more. For Benjamin it is the “truth content” which—over and above purely historical interest—is responsible for the continued existence of a work in cultural discourse. If this were not so, the works of a Shakespeare, Goethe or Dostoyevsky, or indeed of a Tschingis Aitmatov, György Konrád, Czesław Miłosz or Christa Wolf would be dead and buried. Not infrequently, complaints are heard to the effect that—to all intents and purposes—they are, and such views are also to be found in this anthology. Drawing on his own experience, Eduard Vacek concludes just how much the word (in its emphatic sense) has lost influence in present-day de18

mocracies. For this he (and others) blame the media overload in contemporary society and a phenomenon he describes in a cuttingly accurate manner as “economic totalitarianism”, whereby everything, including literature and art, are judged according to exclusively economic criteria. For those with recent experience of censorship and repression on the one hand and the strategies to circumvent these on the other, this is of course a bizarre reversal.9 Yet even if, as Vacek points out, “serious” literature is increasingly being displaced from the centre of reader’s interests, it is nevertheless still there and is not in danger of complete suppression—for the time being at least. Such literature and its authors still have an immensely important role to play, albeit under radically changed, though no less difficult circumstances. They are virtually predestined to refer our present to our past, to rally against forgetting in an era lived at an ever-increasing pace, and to cultivate the difficult art of remembrance. Furthermore they are valuable in bringing historical experience of dictatorships to bear in critical discussions of authoritarian and otherwise anti-humanitarian tendencies endemic also in established Western democracies. Remembrance of past occurrences is always directed towards the present. Thus the sensitivity developed by the authors of the period both to the potential ideological contamination of all sections of society and, within that context, to the manipulative, but also the informative and liberating possibilities of their particular medium—the word—can still be seen as a basis for lasting relevance and impact. What impact is it then that words have, especially when used by those who are intimately acquainted with them? Mikhail Bakhtin writes in Slovo v romane [The aesthetics of the word] that “Every word of a text extends beyond its own boundaries.”10 Such words are filled, as it were, with changing meanings and nuances of meaning which are contingent on time and space. They overlap, are connected to each other, and their emergence is dependent on their respective context. Words are characterized by the history of their usage. In day-to-day usage it is often forgotten that even a simple German word such as “ewig” [eternal] is not exactly innocent—or rather has not always been used in an innocent way and is thus also tarred with a residue of historical guilt. This process of shifts in meaning—a process which often occurs in the sphere of daily speech but is hardly ever noticed by the majority of language users—was documented under the so-called Third Reich by the distinguished Dresden academic Viktor Klemperer. In his impressive study LTI 11, he reconstructs in minute detail how an unprecedented impoverishment and brutalization took place during the course of those twelve years not only in the language of a Hitler or Goebbels, but also in the universal language of daily life—including that used by the victims of persecution. 19

And language is not only linked to thinking; it also “controls my sensations, guides my entire spiritual being; the more completely, the more unconsciously I give myself over to it.”12 The brutalization in the meaning of everyday and therefore apparently harmless words means that they are even today still historically loaded.13 This is admittedly an extreme example of the process of continuous historical language change, which operates in all of us, in every culture and society and between every culture and society, and which confers upon human language a complexity that far exceeds any identifiable structures. To return to Bakhtin, there is therefore dialogue between times, places and voices within each and every text, and indeed within each and every word.14 The language of literature exploits both these complex shifts of meaning and the dialogue between meanings. In fact it lives off them, and therefore exhibits dialogical—not to say polyphonic—characteristics. The language of totalitarianism and manipulation attempts to repudiate and eliminate this potential, as it itself exhibits monological characteristics. It is therefore not too far-fetched to define the latter as inherently dogmatic and authoritarian and the former as inherently democratic.15 In her 1995 lyrical essay “Fű” [Grass], Zsófia Balla goes in search of the complex meanings of the one simple word of the title. Life and death, ephemerality and timelessness, individual existence and shared identity/togetherness, the spectrum of forms, colours and scents: “Definition casts a wide net.” Nonetheless, the nonce meanings of the word are always linked to entirely specific places and situations in her life. Words, used with deliberate precision, therefore trigger a large number of questions: What is in them? What are their components? What is their history? Why, in whom and when do they awaken which associations? Made conscious by writers, these questions often constitute the first step towards working through previously unconscious aspects of our own implication in society and history. Denisa Mirena Pişcu’s cycle of poems Banane verzi puse la copt pe dulapuri [Green bananas left to get ripe on cupboards] can be seen as a further example of this. In one stanza she writes “Overripe bananas from the Carrefour hypermarket, / bananas for the lunch break, / banana diets for putting on weight…. / and my green bananas—not long ago—/ left to get ripe on cupboards / as if on some magic tree.” Using one small detail this extract contrasts and interconnects times and worlds. “Today” and “back then” are only a few years apart, could not be more different from one another and yet constantly refer to one another. Yet the lyrical “I” encounters in the people around her a massive reluctance to remember, or more precisely a retrospective projection: “it was much better before, / it was better.” Anyone who experienced Romania under Ceauşescu 20

for any period of time knows that considerable desperation is required in order to arrive at such a statement. In full awareness of the desperation behind this refusal (“The people on this tram / are so very poor / that ticket inspectors no longer bother to get on”), the lyrical “I” undertakes, as it were on their behalf, a highly sophisticated journey across the various levels of time that constitute her own life experience. These experiences, though, are always set against and compared with present-day events. Thus the poet weaves a complex web combining past and present and traces the points of intersection where the subject ultimately emerged. It is therefore possible for the conscious use of language to serve as a means of self-discovery. In becoming aware of how linguistic—and therefore cognitive—influences affect me, I am able to know myself more precisely: as a part of a societal whole and as one who, like it or not, takes up a position within that whole. The main protagonist in Olga Tokarczuk’s Che Guevara remarks that “It is a relief to be a collective being, to not belong to yourself, to lose your borders, even for just a moment.” At the same time, she is constantly concerned with reflections on and the analysis of her world and the place she occupies within it. She knows only too well what the unconscious dissolution of the individual in the masses can lead to, both in daily life and even more so in exceptional circumstances. It is only by becoming fully aware of my position in society that I am able to control it. In his poem Jocul de table [A game of backgammon] Gabriel Chifu illustrates two very different stages of such realization, those of father and son. Whereas the latter (“he is nine and a half, Andrej is, and the angels are flying all around him”) still believes that he is playing harmless games with his father, the former already knows only too well that nothing is harmless any more at that time (the action occurs in 1988) and in that place (“inside the monster’s widely-gaping mouth”). The respective perspectives, even on the dice they roll, could not be more different. This creates tension which is transmitted from the text to the reader. A no less interesting—though completely different—literary play with perspective is to be found in Lutz Rathenow’s 1981 poem leben [to live]: “To seek the isles of sanctuary / in order to sink them. / To ensure only one option for escape remains: / To persevere.” Two sharp turns take place here, each of them between two lines. In both cases, the alternatives to the status quo which are offered (“the isles of sanctuary” and “escape”) are rejected as bogus, and the status quo is accepted as a challenge. A fully conscious decision is made here to live in dissent. What complexity in these few lines! The expression of dissent was one of the trademarks of the “Prenzlauer Berg Scene”, a group of writers and artists active in East Berlin during the 21

late 1980s—with whom Lutz Rathenow was associated. Yet the texts created by this group are characterized much less by explicit political criticism than by a pronounced dissidence in matters of aesthetics. The group were engaged in a fundamental refusal of language or, to be more specific, a refusal to abide by not only official but also apparently quite “simple” day-to-day (i.e., normative) language conventions. Even if these texts could scarcely be understood by the censors, the impetus behind this kind of literary technique and the rebellious gesture implied most certainly did not escape them. Yet above and beyond this subversive dimension the texts also had their own “meaning,” though this was intentionally hidden to readers adopting a conventional approach. A movement away from ingrained structures of language inevitably entails a casting-off of ingrained structures of thought. Anyone who is unable or unwilling to participate in this process will find his access to the text denied. A real grasp of literature—and indeed of the world—can only be achieved through active analysis. This may come across as a truism, but in our context it has important implications. Zsófia Balla’s 2003 poem A képernyő imádása [Worshipping the screen] illustrates this using as it were a negative template: a television news piece providing allegedly neutral, unquestionable information. The numbers given for those killed during a war (“In that war / they killed—[...] 243877”) appear so exhaustive that they rule out any further thought of the dead, and are therefore devoid of any sort of human conscience. Against this, the lyrical voice sets her demands to the reader to look more closely (“Look around”) and to question further (“Find out where they were born”). In presenting every one of the dead as a son of Jesus and therefore of God, the voice of the poem admonishes its readers to engender in themselves something which the media discourse had left no space for: grief and reflection. Alessandro Tamburini’s short story Il cielo che prima non c’era [The sky that wasn’t there before] also takes war dead and human loss during wartime in general as its subject, and ends with a telling linguistic image: where a row of houses has just been, there is now sky. The subsequent comment that it has no business there and exposes the “naked” building to “indiscreet” glances conveys in its disjunctive perspective and laconic compactness, the whole horror and all the associated pain of the observer. That this image stays with the reader for longer and has a much more intensive effect than any news item—however high the number used in it—is hardly surprising. Tokarczuk too works backwards in a similar way: her last words put everything that has been said before into a new, sharper light. Gabriel Chifu seems to have a fondness for linguistic and intellectual disjunctions, and allows this fondness free rein in his 1984 poem Oraşul papa22

galilor [City of parrots]. The lyrical “I” of the piece becomes aware of a society of parrots around him which—and that is the interesting thing—are in his perception nonetheless capable of intelligent speech. His increasingly thorough grasp of the situation (“Oh heck, of all places, could it be that I’ve wandered into the city of parrots?”) culminates in the discovery that he himself is growing feathers, wings and a beak: thus, the lyrical subject has also turned into a parrot. His initial assessment of the intelligibility—and even originality—of the conversations he overhears turns out with hindsight to be a first sign of his imperceptibly adapting himself to his surroundings. The danger of the unconscious internalization of thought and value-systems laid down externally by others—and therefore of self-loss in general and the loss of one’s own critical intellectual capacity in particular—is a central theme— not only—in Chifu’s work.16 It recurs in various forms in all his pieces in this anthology. He always manages to find powerful and in places lurid images with which to elucidate and to defuse this danger. An author can only dare to hope for such an effect from his or her work because aesthetically lasting literature appeals to much more than the reader’s intellect and imagination: words are set down in such a way that they penetrate the deepest layers of thought, feeling and even experience. Such literature stirs the reader’s senses and creates a place for itself in their memories. Linguistic images, dated expressions, dialectic colour, stylistic characteristics, unexpected combinations of words and so forth—even the rhythm of a text—contribute to the overall effect. That is why it is for example possible that Balla’s phrase concerning “incurably green grass” will come upon us unawares and haunt our thoughts well after we have read it. We may even be suddenly reminded of the concentration camp in which her grandparents died each time we see a patch of lush green grass. We may also begin to see particular people in our own surroundings as parrots (and start to check whether or not we ourselves are developing into one). We may even discover in Pişcu’s Banane.... or Tokarczuk’s Che Guevara that memory and realization follow a rhythm which is both compelling and not in our control. A further literary practice which is significant in our context is intertextuality. In one sense this means the naming of other texts and authors in one’s own text. In her essay, Zsófia Balla mentions and quotes from authors who have influenced her literary development, and whose names she is therefore eager to maintain in the memory of the reader. Under censorship, authors (still) being published would occasionally sprinkle their work with names or encrypted descriptions of people who officially were not supposed to exist (anymore). Such references were naturally seized upon by resourceful readers. Very often, though, it is literary parallels rather than direct or indirect 23

naming which links one work to another. Thus even the title of Lutz Rathenow’s 1979 poem Erbe des Ikarus [The Heir to Icarus], for example, contains a reference to the 1976 ballad Ballade vom preußischen Ikarus [The Ballad of the Prussian Icarus] by Wolf Biermann, who had been expatriated from the GDR in November 1976.17 As Biermann’s chorus is “Dann steht da der preußische Ikarus / mit grauen Flügeln aus Eisenguß / dem tun seine Arme so weh” [So there he stands, the Prussian Icarus, / with grey wings of cast iron, / his arms causing him great pain] and Rathenow’s poem begins “So steht er da und hofft, / daß sein Arm ein Flügel werde” [So he stands there and hopes / that his arm will become a wing], the latter can be read as a continuative comment on the former. The next lines of the ballad (“Er fliegt nicht weg—er stürzt nicht ab / macht keinen Wind—und macht nicht schlapp / am Geländer über der Spree” [He doesn’t fly away—he doesn’t fall / he makes no fuss—and doesn’t wilt]) are recorded and commented upon, so to speak, in Rathenow’s poem, where he writes: “Man hat mit ihm geredet. / Man redet mit ihm. / Er sieht ein die Notwendigkeit, / nichts zu überstürzen. So stürzt er / sich nicht in die Luft.” [People spoke with him. / People speak with him. / He realizes the necessity / Of not rushing anything. / So he does not plunge himself into the air.]. Interestingly, Biermann’s “Der Stacheldraht wächst langsam ein / tief in die Haut, in Brust und Bein / ins Hirn, in graue Zelln” [The barbed wire becomes ingrown / deep in skin, breast and legs / in brain and grey cells] can in turn be read as a continuation of Rathenow’s piece. Rathenow’s text thus constitutes both part of a wider literary discourse and a literary work in its own right. The Icarus motif obviously stayed with him, as it returns in his much more recent poem Golden Gate (now set in San Francisco): “sieben jeden Monat / Stürzen sich von hier hinab und fliegen. / [...] das Sterben / als Gebet.” [seven each month / plunge off here, and fly. / [...] Death their prayer.]. The earlier piece featured non-flight and a decision not to throw oneself into the air based on indecision and opportunism; in the latter work, flight has become a desperate plunge into death. Klaus Schlesinger, one of Rathenow’s contemporaries, would probably have defined this as a comparison “between plague and cholera.”18 With his narrative piece Cesta [The fairy journey], Eduard Vacek not only alludes to numerous literary traditions (such as the fairy tale and the notion of life as a journey, which is widespread in world literature); he also invokes both popular models such as Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s adventures in wonderland, and the work of contemporaries such as Jan Werich (Fimfárum) or František Skala Jr. (Velké putování Vlase a Brady [The Pilgrimage of Vlas and Brada]).19 And Olga Tokarczuk manages to achieve a fresh literary effect from the almost worn-out literary motif of the madman as isolated seer. 24

Intertextuality, whether it refers to other works by the same author, to works of like-minded contemporaries or to the acknowledged greats of world literature, therefore makes it possible multitudinously to multiply that element of dialogue between times, places and people which is to be found in every single literary text. Thus what is added to the individual life experience of any reader of literature consists of innumerable experiences of others creating polyphony of various voices, that are sometimes in harmony, sometimes at variance with each other, sometimes overlapping and sometimes diverging. Buried memories are uncovered and revived, thoughts, feelings and sensations are set in motion, seemingly unquestionable elements are called into question and apparently fixed categories become malleable. There is no place in such heterogeneous processes for the monolithic dogma that forms the basis of all dictatorships. And even if it is specious to try to measure and weigh up the significance of the language of literature in overcoming dictatorships, it nonetheless cannot be ignored completely. “For the sake of the hopeless we are given hope,” says Benjamin.20 Literature is the vehicle of that hope. (2008)

Translated by Peter Welchman

Notes 1 Victor Klemperer, Lingua Tertii Imperii. Die unbewältigte Sprache. Aus dem Tagebuch eines Philologen, Leipzig: Reclam, 1946, 31 (English edition: Language Of The Third Reich: Lti, Lingua Tertii Imperii. A Philologist’s Notebook, transl. by Martin Brady, London: Continuum International Publishing Group, 2002). English quotations are translations by the author unless otherwise indicated. 2 Thus Siegfried Lokatis in his introductory speech at the conference entitled “Der heimliche Leser in der DDR” [The secret reader in the GDR], which took place in Leipzig between the 26th and 28th of September 2007. See: http://hsozkult. geschichte.hu-berlin.de/tagungsberichte/id=1747. 3 Templin not only read the products of the Samizdat movement but was also one of its editors. 4 Two contributions to the above-mentioned conference (see note 2) were dedicated to the history of the Samizdat press in Poland and the GDR 5 Christoph Hein, Der Tangospieler. Erzählung [The Tangoplayer], Berlin, Weimar: Aufbau, 1989. 6 Friedrich Dieckmann, “Christoph Hein, Thomas Mann und der Tangospieler” [Friedrich Dieckamnn, Christoph Hein, Thomas Mann and the Tangoplayer], in Chronist ohne Botschaft. Christoph Hein. Ein Arbeitsbuch. Materialien, Auskünfte, Biblio-

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graphie [Chronicler without a message. A workbook. Evidence, information, bibliography], ed. Klaus Hammer, Berlin, Weimar: Aufbau, 1992, 155 (first published in 1989). The eponymous hero really had been in prison for political reasons (albeit a trivial one), however the story portrays the period of readjustment he undergoes after his release. This period ends with him taking over a lectureship in history forcibly vacated by a colleague who had (unwittingly) failed to uphold the official view on the Prague Spring—a twist missed by many readers. 7 Walter Benjamin, “Goethes Wahlverwandtschaften” [Elective affinities], in idem, Allegorien kultureller Erfahrung. Ausgewählte Schriften 1920-1940 [Allegories of cultural experience], Leipzig: Reclam, 1984, 286-364. 8 Benjamin, Wahlverwandtschaften (op. cit. note 7), 286. 9 Spiró formulates this in the sentence “The old regime held too high an opinion of art altogether, while the present one (…) thought too little of it.” 10 Mikhail M. Bakhtin, Die Ästhetik des Wortes [The aesthetics of the word], ed. R. Grübel, Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1979, 352. 11 See footnote 1. 12 Klemperer, LTI (op. cit. note 1), 23-4. 13 Klemperer sums up: “When a Jewish eating utensil has become ritually unclean it is cleaned by burying it in the ground. Many words which were part of the Nazi vocabulary should be buried in a mass grave for a long time, and some of them buried forever” (ibidem, 24). He was of course aware of the impossibility of this procedure, otherwise LTI would not have had to be written and published in that form. 14 Bakhtin, Ästhetik des Wortes (op. cit. note 10), 352. 15 See also the entry on Mikhail Bakhtin in Metzlers Lexikon für Literatur- und Kulturtheorie [Metzler Encyclopedia of Literary and Cultural Theory], ed. Ansgard Nünning, Stuttgart and Weimar: Metzler, 1998, 32–33. 16 Another text included in this anthology, Jiří Dĕdeček’s Odznak [The badge], also revolves around this theme, which becomes the question posed by a son to his father. 17 Wolf Biermann, Preußischer Ikarus. Lieder / Balladen / Gedichte / Prosa [Prussian Ikarus. Songs / Ballads / Poems / Prose], Cologne: Kiepenheuer & Witsch, 1978. 18 Klaus Schlesinger, “Sehnsucht nach der DDR?” [Longing for the GDR], in Von der Schwierigkeit, Westler zu werden [On difficulties of becoming a Westerner], Berlin: Aufbau Taschenbuch, 1998, 11-14. 19 Eduard Vacek, Cesta. The Fairy Journey, Prague: Clinamen, 2003. 20 Benjamin, Wahlverwandtschaften (op. cit. note 7), 364.

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SEDIMENTS

WOLFGANG TEMPLIN

Lesen in der Diktatur – Schreiben

in der Diktatur.

Eine persönliche Spurensuche

Die Stichwörter „Lesen in der Diktatur – Schreiben in der Diktatur“ können ganz verschiedene Assoziationen wecken. Mit der Erfahrung und den inneren Wahrnehmungen von Menschen, die in einer Demokratie aufgewachsen sind, werden sich zahlreiche Fragen ganz anders stellen, als für diejenigen, welche geistige Unfreiheit und Einschränkungen in den verschiedensten Formen selbst erlebt haben. Biographische Vertrautheit mit dem geistigem Klima einer geschlossenen Gesellschaft, mit den Hürden, die den Zugang zu Informationen und Büchern behinderten, die den Prozess des Schreibens blockieren oder fördern konnten, lässt die Stichworte „Lesen in der Diktatur – Schreiben in der Diktatur“ zur persönlichen Spurensuche werden. Ausschnitte einer solchen Spurensuche sollen hier vorgestellt werden. Begrenzt auf den historischen Rahmen der DDR soll es um den Umgang mit Büchern, die besondere Wirkung einzelner Autoren und Ausschnitte des Weges, der vom Lesen zum Schreiben führt, gehen.

Vom Umgang mit Büchern und Texten Wenn in aktuellen deutschen West-Ost und Ost-West Diskussionen die Rede von Büchern ist, wenn die Namen von Autoren und Schriftstellern fallen, die über die Grenzen hinweg präsent waren, kommt von westlicher Seite häufig die erstaunte Frage auf: „Ja gab es die denn bei euch?“ Es gab sie in vielen Fällen natürlich nicht, im Sinne ihrer Präsenz in Buchhandlungen oder Büchereien, denn sie standen auf dem Index, waren verboten und nur in den „Giftschränken“ der großen Bibliotheken zu finden. Es gab sie aber sehr wohl, im Sinne ihres Vorhandenseins, der privaten Weitergabe und des häufig abenteuerlichen Zugangs dazu. So dicht die

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Grenzen zur Bundesrepublik und dem Westen insgesamt auch geschlossen wurden und so scharf die Personen- und Postkontrollen sein konnten—sie wurden immer wieder durchlöchert. Verwandte, Freunde und Besucher gingen bei ihren Einreisen zuweilen das Risiko ein, Bücherwünsche zu erfüllen. Eine Reise nach Warschau zur dortigen alljährlichen Buchmesse oder der Besuch bestimmter Buchhandlungen in der polnischen Hauptstadt konnte Schätze an Westliteratur erbringen, es galt nur, die Kontrollen bei der Rückreise heil zu überstehen. Dass von den westlichen Ausstellern häufig geduldete „Mitnehmen“ auf der alljährlichen Leipziger Buchmesse war ein beliebter, wenngleich nicht immer ungefährlicher Sport. Einmal im Besitz der verbotenen Literatur gab es verschiedene Typen von Lesern. Die einen sammelten und lasen privat, horteten und versteckten ihre Schätze. Sie wussten, dass nicht der Besitz, sondern die Weitergabe verbotener Literatur strafbar war und geahndet werden konnte. Die anderen sahen den Wert dieser Bücher als so hoch an, dass sie in möglichst viele Hände und Köpfe gelangen sollten und nahmen das Risiko auf sich. Gezielte und organisierte Weitergabe verbotener Literatur, gemeinsames Lesen und der Austausch darüber konnten zur Vorstufe oppositionellen Handelns werden und später ein wichtiger Teil dessen sein. Diese Art Lesen in der Diktatur zwang zur Schnelligkeit und Konzentration und förderte das Einüben von Memorierungstechniken. Notizen und Konspekte glichen bei erfolgreicher oder misslungener Konspiration häufig eher Chiffrierheften als ordentlichen Unterlagen. Was für Bücher galt, war bei kursierenden Manuskripten, Artikeln und Thesenpapieren nicht anders. Fehlende Kopiertechnik zwang zum Abtippen auf Schreibmaschinen, die maximal 5-6 Durchschläge zuließen. Für die Aufbewahrung und das Verstecken der Schreibmaschinen, vor allem für die Weitergabe der Texte, existierte ebenfalls ein System konspirativer Regeln. In diesem Bereich wurde irgendwann die Grenze zum organisierten Vervielfältigen und Drucken erreicht und überschritten, spielten die Samisdaterfahrungen der östlichen Nachbarn eine wichtige Rolle. Dies galt aber erst für die letzten Jahre der DDR, in deren alternativer, nicht-offizieller Lese- und Schreibkultur neben der geschmuggelten Westliteratur die eigenen Samisdattexte und Zeitschriften, die kultureller, publizistischer oder politischer Art sein konnten, eine immer größere Bedeutung erhielten.

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Biographische Anstöße durch Autobiographien Die mögliche Wirkung von autobiographischen Büchern und Texten unter den spezifischen Bedingungen der DDR soll an einigen Beispielen geschildert werden. Von 1970-1974 war es die Ostberliner Humboldt-Universität, an der ich als Student der marxistisch-leninistischen Philosophie eine entscheidende Ernüchterungs- und Desillusionierungsphase erlebte. Eine Zeit, die mich vom engagierten SED-Mitglied und studentischen Parteigruppenorganisator, der sich um ein Haar im Spinnennetz des Staatssicherheitsdienstes verfangen hätte, zum immer noch marxistischen Kritiker des Systems werden ließ, die nächsten Stufen geistiger Freiheit und meinen späteren Weg in die Opposition vorbereitete. Noch in dieser Zeit stieß ich auf Wolfgang Leonhards Die Revolution entlässt ihre Kinder und zwar auf einigermaßen ungewöhnliche Weise. Ein Freund, begeisterter Sammler und Stöberer, hatte den Band wortwörtlich auf einer Müllhalde gefunden. Er lag dort mit einer Menge anderer SEDLiteratur der fünfziger Jahre auf einem Haufen. Ein zufälliges Blättern förderte aus einem Deckumschlag, der Walter Ulbricht-Referate verhieß, die Dünndruckausgabe von Leonhards Lösungsgeschichte vom Kommunismus zutage. Wie der Tarndruck des Ostbüros der SPD—in hohen Auflagen in die DDR geschmuggelt—in die echte Parteiliteratur auf der Müllhalde geriet, bleibt ein Rätsel. Hatte ein mäßig pflichteifriger SED-Genosse den ganzen Stapel ungelesen im Schrank gehabt und sich irgendwann des Ballastes entledigt? Hatte ein vorsichtiger Abtrünniger die Tarnung genutzt, war verstorben und seine Familie entsorgte posthum die vermeintlichen ideologischen Überreste? Wie auch immer, Leonhard wurde für mich und einige meiner Kommilitonen zur Schlüssellektüre. Den Schicksalsweg eines überzeugten Jungkommunisten, durch die Moskauer Parteischule der dreißiger Jahre gegangen und als jüngstes Mitglied der Gruppe Ulbricht nach Deutschland zurückgekehrt, seine Zweifel, Konflikte und die letztendliche Lösung vom Ulbrichtsystem las ich nicht als historisches Dokument. Ich verschlang das Buch als Zeugnis eines existentiellen Konflikts, den ich selbst durchlebte, als mein Glaube an das Hoffnungsprojekt eines humanen Sozialismus immer brüchiger wurde. Entscheidend waren die Konsequenz und die Art, in der sich Leonhard löste: Sein Fluchtweg über Jugoslawien, der ihn nicht einfach die Seiten wechseln ließ; seine Ankunft in der frühen Bundesrepublik und seine Auseinandersetzung mit deren historischen Erblasten. Leonhard blieb als Demokrat ein unbequemer Zeitgenosse, der nicht zum Proselyten taugte,

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dessen Verurteilung der sowjetischen Herrschaftspraxis ihn nicht die Augen vor den Schwächen des Westens verschließen ließ. Sein Erinnerungsbuch half mir, die Auseinandersetzung mit unserer eigenen Situation zu führen. Spätere, kurze persönliche Begegnungen mit Wolfgang Leonhard, die Lektüre seiner „sowjetologischen“ Arbeiten und seiner späten Rückschau auf die DDR gehören in eine andere Zeit. Fast eine Rückkehr zu diesem weit zurückliegenden Leseerlebnis bedeutete ein unerwarteter Anruf der TAZ-Redaktion am 9. November 2006. Die Kollegen wollten dringend einen Nachruf auf Markus Wolf, der in der Nacht des Mauerfalls mit 83 Jahren gestorben war. Zum wichtigsten Moment dabei wurde für mich die biographische Verbindung zwischen ihm und Wolfgang Leonhard. Beide waren Absolventen der Moskauer Komsomolschule und kamen im Mai 1945 im Gefolge der Gruppe Ulbricht in Berlin an. Die Frage, warum es ein Wolfgang Leonhard schaffte, die Wirklichkeit der neuen Diktatur und seine Rolle darin zu erkennen und warum ein Markus Wolf ihr ein Leben lang diente und verfallen blieb, durchzieht den Nachruf. Eine ähnlich starke Wirkung übte das berühmte Buch von Heinz Brandt Ein Traum der nicht entführbar ist aus. Der Kommunist, NS-Widerstandskämpfer und langjährige KZ-Häftling Brandt wurde nach dem Krieg zum SED-Funktionär und blieb trotz wachsender Zweifel zunächst im Apparat. Erst der Schock des Jahres 1953 und die zum Scheitern verurteilten Versuche interner Kritik sowie folgende Parteistrafen und Zurückstufungen ließen Brandt 1957 den Entschluss fassen, mit seiner Familie die DDR zu verlassen. Es folgten die abenteuerliche Geschichte seiner Entführung in die DDR, wo man ihn der Spionage bezichtigte und der internationale Kampf um seine Freilassung. Als diese endlich gelang, blieb Brandt als Funktionär der IG-Metall dem Eintreten für soziale Gerechtigkeit verpflichtet. Auch bei Brandt waren es nicht die äußeren historischen Details, sondern die innere Spannung seiner Konflikte, das Ringen mit den frühen Hoffnungen und Irrtümern, die faszinierten und auf die eigene Situation zurückstießen. Ein noch einmal anderes Schicksal tat sich für mich in dem Weg des Antifaschisten und Literaturhistorikers Alfred Kantorowicz auf, festgehalten in seinem spanischen und später deutschen Tagebuch. Bei dem Spanienkämpfer, der nach 1945 eine Professur an der Humboldt-Universität innehatte, Herausgeber der Zeitschrift Ost und West wurde und an der Akademie der Wissenschaften noch die Herausgabe der Werke Heinrich Manns betreute, stand das Ringen um die Glaubwürdigkeit und Verantwortung der Intellektuellen im Mittelpunkt. In seinem Deutschen Tagebuch

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waren Arnold Zweig, Anna Seghers, Bertolt Brecht, Heinrich und Thomas Mann präsent—alles Schriftsteller, die im literarischen DDR-Schulkanon für die historische Lebenslüge des antifaschistisch-demokratischen Neubeginns instrumentalisiert wurden. Alfred Kantorowicz war nach seinem Weggang in die Bundesrepublik im Jahre 1957 mannigfachen Angriffen ausgesetzt, weil er nicht rechtzeitig die richtige antikommunistische Seite gewählt hatte, und lehnte es ab, sich vor ehemaligen Nazis und rechten Antikommunisten zu rechtfertigen. Er wollte keinem neuen Opportunismus verfallen und blieb ein isolierter Außenseiter. In seinem Deutschen Tagebuch beschreibt er den Opportunismus und die Lebenslügen zahlreicher Staatsintellektueller der DDR, darunter berühmter Künstler und Schriftsteller. Privat verachteten sie Walter Ulbricht, aber krochen öffentlich vor ihm, ließen sich durch Nationalpreise und Privilegien ködern. In den Werken und Erinnerungen von Hans Sahl, darunter die Memoiren eines Moralisten, auf die ich wesentlich später stieß, wurde das Dilemma eines Exkommunisten, der sich in den Grabenkämpfen und Lagerzuweisungen des Kalten Krieges eine eigene Position erhalten wollte und einen Lebensplatz suchte, zugespitzt deutlich. Als er Bertolt Brecht bei einer Begegnung mit dessen künstlerischer Lebenslüge konfrontierte, wollte der ihn hinauswerfen. Sahl sagte ihm, dass er lieber von selbst ginge, hinausgeworfen hätten ihn schon ganz andere Leute.

Renegaten und Dissidenten Die bisher genannten Bücher und Personen waren eng mit der Nachkriegsgeschichte Deutschlands verbunden und ragten biographisch zumeist auch in die DDR-Geschichte hinein. Die Werke, Biographien und Autobiographien der bekanntesten „Renegaten“ wurden zeitgleich und zeitnahe zum ebenso einschneidenden Leserlebnis. Arthur Koestler, Manès Sperber, Ignazio Silone, Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Czesław Miłosz und Leszek Kołakowski—um nur einige zu nennen—legten als Theoretiker, Publizisten, Philosophen und Schriftsteller ihre Erfahrungen in der Auseinandersetzung mit dem Jahrhundertphänomen der ideologischen und geistigen Verführungskraft des Kommunismus vor. Auf verschiedene Weise war jeder von ihnen über eine längere oder kürzere Lebenszeit mit der kommunistischen Idee und der kommunistischen Bewegung verbunden, durchlebte den Prozess des Zweifelns, der Rebellion, der Suche nach Alternativen und den Kampf um die eigene Unabhängigkeit und Souveränität. Von den Zurückgebliebenen, die sich aus Verblendung, Furcht, Opportunismus oder

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Karrierefixiertheit nicht aus dem Parteikontext und dem damit verbundenen ideologischen Gehäuse lösten, erhielten sie das Etikett der Abtrünnigen, der Renegaten, was irgendwann zum Ehrennamen wurde. Je nach Person und Schicksal spielten die Konflikte und Schicksale der Renegatenliteratur in den zwanziger, dreißiger, vierziger, fünfziger und auch noch sechziger Jahren des letzten Jahrhunderts. Sie spiegelten die Entscheidungskämpfe der totalitären Großsysteme wider, führten in die Katastrophen und Gräuel der Kriege hinein aber auch in die lähmende Erstarrung einer Nachkriegsordnung des Kalten Krieges. Arthur Koestler verarbeitete die Verratsorgien der stalinistischen Schauprozesse auf literarische Weise, Maurice Merleau-Ponty entwickelte die philosophischen Gestalten des Yogi und des Kommissars und Manès Sperbers Lebenserinnerungen und monumentalen Zeitromane schufen ein atemberaubendes Panorama mit zahlreichen europäischen Schauplätzen. Leszek Kołakowski widmete sich nach seiner „revisionistischen Phase“ souverän der Entstehung, Entwicklung und dem Zerfall der Hauptströmungen des Marxismus. Wahre Berge von bürgerlicher antikommunistischer Literatur konnten die Intensität dieser Erfahrungen und Erkenntnisse nicht ersetzen. Zahlreiche Nachgeborene, zu denen ich auch gehöre, mussten hier ihre Erfahrungen neu machen, erlagen zunächst den Heilsversprechungen der sozialistischen Utopie und stießen dann auf die Erfahrungen der Vorangegangenen. Literatur, die in der Demokratie zur Auseinandersetzung mit Geschichte herausfordert, sendete unter den Bedingungen der Diktatur ein viel stärkeres Signal aus. Sie provozierte die Frage nach der eigenen Entscheidung und drängte zum Vergleich mit den zeitnahen Erfahrungen in vergleichbaren Diktaturen. Neben den fast schon klassischen Werken der „Renegatenliteratur“ waren es die Texte, Bücher und Artikel der mittelosteuropäischen Dissidenten, welche in die DDR der sechziger, siebziger und achtziger Jahre hineinwirkten; in eine DDR, die sich hinter der Mauer und dem Normalisierungsversprechen einer scheinkonsolidierten Realität verschanzte. Gescheiterte Aufstände, zerstobene Reformträume und die in Ost wie West geteilte Annahme einer Stabilität der Teilungsordnung schufen ein Klima der Lähmung und Resignation. Hierhinein wirkten nun die Manifeste und Appelle der polnischen, tschechischen, ungarischen, aber auch der sowjetischen Dissidenten, welche die Werte der Demokratie und der Menschenrechte als unteilbar ansahen und keine Ordnung akzeptieren wollten, die diese auf Dauer verweigerte. Literarisch fanden diese Anstöße ihren Ausdruck in den Texten der Russen Andrei Sacharow und Lew Kopelew, Jacek Kurońs und Adam Michniks aus Polen und des Ungarn György Konrád und der unüber-

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hörbaren Stimme Václav Havels. Sie rissen falsche Gewissheiten ein, bereiteten auf kommende Konflikte und Herausforderungen, wie das Elementarereignis der Solidarność vor und gaben den Beteiligten der verschiedenen Länder das Bewusstsein ihrer gemeinsamen Situation. Am Beispiel Lew Kopelews erscheint mir vor Augen, wie sehr die politische Bedeutung bestimmter Bücher und Texte, die zu gemeinsamen Diskussionen und oppositionellen Schritten drängten, und ihre literarische Qualität zusammengehörten. Der russische Germanist büßte seine Weigerung, sich als sowjetischer Frontoffizier des Zweiten Weltkrieges am Terror gegen deutsche Zivilisten zu beteiligen und den Versuch, seine Kameraden davon abzuhalten, mit Jahren der Gulaghaft. In den Zeiten der Tauwetterperiode versuchte er die kulturelle Öffnung seiner Heimat und den Versöhnungsgedanken mit Deutschland über die Grenzen des offiziell Zugestandenen hinauszutragen. Eine Konsequenz, die ihn in der BreschnewPhase vom kritischen Intellektuellen zum Dissidenten werden ließ. Er teilte die Härte der Repressionen, die Ausgrenzung und Verfolgung mit den politischen Oppositionellen und wurde aus dem Lande getrieben. Sein spätes Exil in Köln und die dort entstandenen literaturwissenschaftlichen und autobiographischen Werke ließen Lew Kopelew, dessen Bücher und Texte in der ganzen DDR präsent waren, zum Symbol menschlicher Versöhnung und einer Überwindung der Auswirkungen totalitärer Ideologien werden. Kopelew schrieb über deutsche und russische Dichter, kannte und schätzte die polnischen Intellektuellen und Schriftsteller und trat als russischer Patriot für den Ausgleich mit allen Nachbarn ein. Seine Mahnung an die polnischen Dissidentenfreunde, bei der Ablehnung und Abwehr des großrussischen Chauvinismus und Imperialismus das andere, das demokratische Russland nicht zu vergessen, bleibt aktuell.

Vom Lesen zum Schreiben Nicht lange nach der Ausbürgerung Biermanns konnte man in der DDR eindringliche Leseerlebnisse neuer Art machen, in denen sich die Grenze zwischen der Aufnahme von Texten, dem Austausch darüber und dem Anstoß zu eigenen Schreibversuchen verschob. Der Psychologe und Schriftsteller Jürgen Fuchs, mir durch seine Thüringer Herkunft und seine Studienjahre in Jena verbunden, obwohl ich ihn erst sehr viel später persönlich kennen lernen sollte, hatte die beklemmende Atmosphäre seiner Vernehmungen und der nachfolgenden Untersuchungshaft Mitte der siebziger Jahre in Vernehmungs- und Gefängnisprotokollen festgehalten, die bei Rowohlt veröffentlicht wurden und uns aus dem Westen erreichten.

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Anders als der Berg von Memoiren und politischer Sachliteratur, durch den ich mich bereits gearbeitet hatte, rückte mit Jürgen Fuchs ein Altersgenosse in den Blick, der wie ich in die DDR der Honeckerjahre hineinwuchs und die Erfahrung von 1968 verarbeitete. Fuchs wurde SED-Mitglied aus dem Motiv, die eigene längst gewachsene Kritik innerhalb des Systems zu verarbeiten und hielt noch in den siebziger Jahren an der Hoffnung auf einen Sozialismus mit menschlichem Antlitz fest. Konflikte an der Universität, Relegierung vom Studium und Ausschluss aus der SED markierten Stationen meines eigenen späteren Weges. Entscheidend für die Intensität der Lektüre von Jürgen Fuchs war jedoch sein Blick auf die Belastungen und psychischen Zerreißproben, denen Andersdenkende ausgesetzt sein konnten. Mit psychologisch geschultem Blick, fotographischem Gedächtnis und nahezu quälender Intensität schilderte er den Ablauf seiner Vernehmungen, die Versuche der Vernehmer Unsicherheit und Angst zu erzeugen, seine Motivation in Frage zu stellen und seinen Willen zu brechen. Er beschrieb die eigene scheinbare Wehrlosigkeit und die Versuche, mit Angst und Verzweiflung umzugehen, nicht aufzugeben und sich nicht brechen zu lassen. Motive sarkastischen Humors kamen dazu, wenn es ihm gelang, den Vernehmer in die Ecke zu treiben oder die Beherrschung verlieren zu lassen. Vernehmungen, Verhöre und die spätere neunmonatige Haftsituation, die Fuchs mit ebenso detaillierter Genauigkeit beschrieb—für mich wurde sein unbestechlicher Blick auf die Gegenüber und sich selbst zur Rückfrage an den eigenen Umgang mit dem Erlebten. Jürgen Fuchs’ Anspruch Schriftsteller zu sein, sich auf Lyrik zu konzentrieren, angelegt noch vor den politischen Bewährungsproben, war nicht von vornherein mein Zugang, blieb aber ein Stachel späterer Auseinandersetzung mit Themen. Was mich faszinierte, war die Intensität, mit der hier die Härten einer vertrauten Realität erfasst wurden. Auf die großen Namen der Frühphase folgte eine Generation von jüngeren DDR-Schriftstellern, die von Christa Wolf, Volker Braun bis Günter de Bruyn reichte. Ihr Werk umfasste sowohl Prosa, Dramatik als auch Lyrik und übte sich zumeist in rätselhafter Sprache, historischen Analogien und Parabeln, bis hin zum Rückgriff auf die Antike. Dies gilt im Übrigen auch für ältere Zeitgenossen wie Stefan Heym. Anspruchsvolle Literatur, die ihr Publikum fand und den Ruf der DDR als Leseland mitbegründete; die aber bis auf wenige Ausnahmen vor einer bestimmten Realitätsgrenze hielt oder kapitulierte. Bereits die Frage, ob es einen „negativen Helden“ geben könne, löste einen Sturm im Wasserglas aus und rief ganze Parteikommissionen und Heerscharen ideologischer Literaturbeamter auf den Plan. Von einer Literatur, die sich in der Zone des

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Geduldeten bewegte, Lücken und Nischen suchte, weil sie jeden anderen Zugang für selbstzerstörerisch oder zu gefährdend hielt, konnte man letztlich nicht mehr erwarten. Mochten die Motive für solcherart Pendeln der schriftstellerische Selbstschutz, einfacher Opportunismus, Karriere- oder Privilegiensucht sein. Das existentielle Entscheidungsfeld, auf dem für mich Literatur im wichtigsten Sinne zustande kam, wurde damit nicht betreten. Jürgen Fuchs’ unbestechlicher, sezierender Blick, der auch vor der Brutalität und Menschenverachtung, dem Wehrmachtsgeist der Nationalen Volksarmee, in der er dienen musste, nicht halt machte, war hier ein Ansporn. Prosa ohne Schnörkel und Ausflüchte. Lutz Rathenow, ein Altersgenosse von Jürgen Fuchs, ebenfalls Thüringer und Student an der Friedrich Schiller Universität Jena, zeigte einen weiteren Weg literarisch gültiger Wirklichkeitsbewältigung in der Diktatur. Er lachte sich über die Absurditäten des Alltagslebens in der DDR, über all die Pannen im Betriebsablauf des bürokratischen Systems schier zu Tode und teilte dieses befreiende Lachen seinen Lesern mit. Während Jürgen Fuchs in der Bundesrepublik vom MfS als „Feindperson“ und „Agentenzentrale“ mit erbitterter Härte verfolgt wurde, spielte sein in der DDR verbliebener Freund und Verbündeter Lutz Rathenow mit den Häschern Katz und Maus. Er nutzte seine mittlerweile literarische Bekanntheit und die damit verbundenen internationalen Kontakte als Schutz und Bewegungsraum, unterlief und überschritt systematisch die Grenzen, an die sich die allermeisten seiner literarischen Kollegen hielten. Vitalität und Fantasie, die zu diesem nicht ungefährlichen Spiel notwendig waren, kamen auch seiner Literatur zugute. Politische Dissidenz, kulturell-alternative Lebensansprüche und alle damit verbundenen Werte gingen in den letzten Jahren der DDR eine Symbiose ein, deren literarische Zeugnisse bis heute nur zum Teil bekannt sind und ihrer Wiederentdeckung harren. (2007)

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WOLFGANG TEMPLIN

Reading and writing under dictatorships. A personal retracing

The words “Reading and writing under dictatorships” awaken various associations. The experiences and inner perceptions of people who have grown up in a democracy lead them to ask a number of related questions in a completely different way to people who have experienced various forms of intellectual bondage and restriction for themselves. Biographical familiarity with the intellectual climate in a closed society characterized by hurdles which blocked access to information and books, which barred (or permitted) the process of writing, allow the title “Reading and writing under dictatorships” to become a personal retracing of past events. This article is to present extracts from such a retracing process. Focussing clearly on the history of the GDR, the subjects to be dealt with are relations with books and texts, the particular impact of individual authors and insights into the path which leads from reading to writing.

On contact with books and texts When current German discussions of West-East and East-West turn towards books, and when this includes the naming of authors and writers who were present on both sides of the old border, western speakers often ask the following question in a surprised manner, “Oh, you had them over there too?” In many cases, of course, we did not “have” them in the sense of presence in book shops or local libraries—they were on the black list, were forbidden and were only to be found in the “poison cabinets” of the larger libraries. Yet they were most certainly there in terms of their existence, private distribution and often adventurous points of access to such unofficial chains of distribution. As watertight as borders with the FRG and the West tended to

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be, and as keen as checks carried out on people and mail were, a way through was always found. Relatives, friends and visitors occasionally took on the risk of fulfilling our desire for books by bringing them into the country personally. A trip to the annual Warsaw book fair or specific book shops in the Polish capital could also provide access to the treasures of western literature— one just had to make sure that one could get things back over the border safely. Often tolerated by western exhibitors, the “borrowing” of volumes from the annual Leipzig book fair was a popular sport—even if it was not always without its risks. There were different types of readers when it came to the possession of forbidden literature. Some collected and read in private, hoarding and hiding their treasures. They knew that it was not the possession but the distribution of forbidden literature which was criminal and could be punished. Others saw the value of their books as so high that they attempted to get works into the hands and minds of as many people as possible, and assumed the associated risk themselves. The targeted and organized distribution of forbidden literature, group readings and the exchange of related views had the potential to become a preliminary stage and later a real element of opposition action. This type of reading under dictatorships required speed and concentration; it also trained memory techniques. Whether conspiracy was successful or not, notes and synopses were more akin to encoded notebooks than orderly documents. The same things applied to books circulated in this way as to manuscripts, articles and theses. With modern mass-reproduction techniques not yet available, texts were typed upon typewriters which could create a maximum of 5–6 carbon copies per keystroke. A system of conspiratorial rules existed for both the storage and concealment of typewriters and in particular the distribution of texts, and it was in this area that the line between non-organized and organized duplication and printing was at some point crossed, with the Samizdat activities of the GDR’s eastern neighbours playing an important role. Nonetheless, this only applied to the final years of the GDR, which saw domestic Samizdat texts and magazines play an increasingly significant role alongside smuggled western literature in unofficial reading and writing culture.

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Biographical stimuli from autobiographies This section is to use a number of examples in order to outline the potential impact of autobiographical books and texts under the specific conditions in the GDR. From 1970 to 1974 I was a student of Marxist-Leninist philosophy at the Humboldt University in East Berlin, and it was during this period that I experienced a decisive phase of disappointment and disillusionment. It was a period which transformed me: having previously been a committed member of the SED* and an organizer of student party groups (who came within a hair’s breadth of becoming caught up in the spider’s web that was the Stasi**), I became a critic of the system (this despite retention of my Marxist convictions). This prepared the ground for my subsequent steps towards intellectual freedom and my later path into opposition. It was during this period that I stumbled across Wolfgang Leonhard’s Die Revolution entlässt ihre Kinder [Child of the Revolution]—and this in a quite unusual way. A friend—an enthusiastic collector and rummager—literally found the volume on a rubbish heap. It lay there with a great deal of other pieces of SED literature of the 1950s, and just happened to be one of the books he thumbed through. Its dust jacket was misleading, promising as it did Walter Ulbricht-Referate, when in fact it contained the thin paper edition of the story of Leonhard’s departure from communism. How this camouflaged book from the Eastern Office of the SPD—which was smuggled into the GDR in large quantities—had ended up in a pile or real party literature on a rubbish heap remained a mystery. Had an only moderately zealous SED comrade kept the entire collection gathering dust in a cupboard and at some point decided to jettison it? Or had a careful turncoat used the disguise, died and his family then posthumously disposed of this supposedly ideological section of his estate? Whatever the answers to the above questions may have been, Leonhard became a key piece of reading matter for my fellow students and I. I did not read this story of a convinced young communist who had gone through the Moscow Party School of the 1930s and returned to Germany as the youngest member of the Ulbricht group, his doubts, conflicts and eventual separation from the Ulbricht system as a historical document. I devoured it as an account of an existential conflict which I myself went through as my belief in the great white hope of a humane socialism became ever more fragile. The * Sozialistische Einheitspartei Deutschlands – East German Communist Party ** Acronym for Ministerium für Staatssicherheit (MfS) – East German State Security Service

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determination and the way in which Leonhard achieved his separation from the system he had been part of were significant: his escape via Yugoslavia, which did not let him simply switch sides; his arrival in the nascent FRG and his analysis of its inherited historic problems. Even as a democrat Leonhard remained an awkward individual unsuited to being a proselyte, with his condemnation of Soviet leadership methods not blinding him to the weaknesses of the West. His book of recollections helped me to carry out an examination of our own situation. Much later short personal encounters with Wolfgang Leonhard, the reading of his “Sovietological” work and his later retrospective of the GDR are for discussion at another time. An unexpected telephone call from the TAZ newspaper on November 9, 2006 meant a return of sorts to this reading experience long since passed. The caller needed an urgent obituary on Markus Wolf, who, at the age of 83, had died in the night on the anniversary of the fall of the Wall. For me, the biographical connection between him and Wolfgang Leonhard was the most important element. Both were graduates of the Komsomol School in Moscow, and arrived in Berlin as part of the Ulbricht entourage in May 1945. The core of the obituary was the question as to why it was that Leonhard was able to perceive the reality of the new dictatorship and his role within it, and why, on the other hand, someone such as Markus Wolf could remain convinced by it and remain faithful to it his entire life. Heinz Brandt’s famous book Ein Traum, der nicht entführbar ist [The search for a third way: my path between East and West] had a similarly strong effect. A communist, resistance fighter against National Socialism and longterm concentration camp internee, Brandt became an SED functionary after the War and initially remained part of the system despite his increasing doubts. First came the shock of 1953, then attempts at internal criticism doomed to failure were made; after subsequent demotion and punishment by the party, 1957 saw Brandt take the decision to leave the GDR with his family. Having achieved this, he was dramatically kidnapped and taken back to the GDR, where he was accused of espionage. An international appeal for his release ensued, and, after finally being returned to the West, Brandt remained a functionary at the IG-Metall industrial trade union, where he was committed to the promotion of social justice. Where Brandt is concerned, it was also not the outward historical details, but the internal tension of his conflicts and the way in which he wrestled with his earlier hopes and mistakes which fascinated me and led back to my own situation. I discovered another story in the form of the path taken by the antifascist literary historian Alfred Kantorowicz, which he documented in both

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his Spanish and later his German diaries. A combatant in Spain, the fight for credibility and responsibility amongst intellectuals stood at the centre of his work. He held a professorship at the Humboldt University from 1945 onwards, was the editor of the Ost und West journal and also supervised the publication of the works of Heinrich Mann at the Academy of Sciences. Arnold Zweig, Anna Seghers, Bertolt Brecht, Heinrich and Thomas Mann were present in his Deutsches Tagebuch [German diaries]—all writers who were used as instruments in GDR school literature in order to serve the purposes of the grand historical delusion that was the democratic, anti-fascist revival. After his 1957 departure to the FRG, Alfred Kantorowicz was subjected to manifold attacks due to his perceived failure to choose the anticommunist side at an earlier opportunity, as well as his refusal to justify himself in front of former Nazis and right-wing anti-communists. He did not wish to give in to a new opportunism, and remained an isolated outsider. In his Deutsches Tagebuch he describes the opportunism and grand delusions of numerous state intellectuals in the GDR, including both artists and writers. Their private disdain for Walter Ulbricht was juxtaposed by public toadying, whereby they allowed themselves to be enticed by national prizes and privileges. The works and recollections of Hans Sahl, including Memoiren eines Moralisten (a work I only encountered later), made the dilemma of an excommunist who wanted to keep his own place in the entrenched warfare and designated camps of the Cold War and find a space in which he could live his life clear to an overstated extent. On meeting Brecht he confronted him with his grand artistic delusions, and Brecht felt compelled to ask him to leave. In response, Sahl said that he would prefer to leave of his own accord, as he had already been thrown out by an entirely different group of people.

Renegades and dissidents If the books and personalities mentioned thus far were closely-linked to Germany’s post-War history (and for the most part also extended biographically into the history of the GDR), the works, biographies and autobiographies of the most renowned “renegades” also became similarly far-reaching reading experiences, both at the time and for a short period thereafter. Whether as theorists, publicists, philosophers or writers, Arthur Koestler, Manès Sperber, Ignazio Silone, Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Czesław Miłosz and Leszek Kołakowski—to name but a few—presented their experiences of the once-in-a-century phenomenon that was the ideological and intellectual attraction of communism. Each of them was connected to the communist idea

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and the communist movement in some way for a long or short period of their lives; they experienced processes of doubt and rebellion, the search for alternatives and the fight for their own independence and sovereignty. Those who did not remove themselves from the party context and its ideological structures due to fear, opportunism, career-mindedness or lack of insight were labelled turncoats and renegades, a term which at some point took on an air of honour. Depending on the respective person and their fate, the conflicts and destinies of renegade literature were set in the 1920s, 1930s, 1940s, 1950s and even the 1960s. They reflected the decisive battles of the major totalitarian systems and took in the catastrophes and atrocities of the wars that took place as well as the paralyzing rigidity of post-War order witnessed during the Cold War. Arthur Koestler dealt with the treason orgies of the Stalinist show trials in literary fashion and Maurice Merleau-Ponty developed the philosophical forms of the yogi and the commissar, whilst the recollections and monumental epic novels of Manès Sperber created a breathtaking panorama across a range of European scenes. After his “revisionist phase”, Leszek Kołakowski was supreme in his dedication to the rise, development and fall of the major Marxist movements. Mountains of conventional anticommunist literature would not be sufficient to replace the intensity of these experiences and insights. Numerous members of future generations (of which I am one), having initially succumbed to the heady promises of a socialist utopia before stumbling across the experiences of their predecessors, were forced in this way to rethink their experiences. Literature which provokes historical analysis when read in a democracy sends a much stronger signal under dictatorial conditions. It provokes questions about one’s own decisions, and pushes one towards comparison with contemporary experiences in comparable dictatorships. Alongside the almost classical works of “renegade literature” it was texts, books and articles written by Central Eastern European dissidents which filtered their way into the GDR of the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s—a GDR which entrenched itself behind the Wall and the promise of normalization that came from the pretence of a consolidated reality. Failed uprisings, shattered dreams of reform and the presumption shared by both East and West that the partition arrangement was stable created a climate of paralysis and resignation. From that point onwards, however, the manifestos and appeals made by Polish, Czechoslovakian, Hungarian and also Soviet dissidents were able to penetrate this mood. These dissidents saw democracy and human rights as inseparable, and did not wish to accept an order which refused the unity of the two.

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In terms of literature, these stimuli found expression in the texts of the Russians Andrei Sakharow and Lev Kopelev, Jacek Kuroń and Adam Michnik from Poland, the Hungarian György Konrád and the distinct voice of Václav Havel. They tore down false assurances, prepared for approaching disputes and challenges (such as the force of nature that was the Solidarność movement) and made participants across various countries aware of their common situation. The example of Lev Kopelev draws my attention to the extent to which the literary quality and political significance of particular books and texts, which urged common discussion and oppositional steps, belonged together. Years in the gulags was the way in which the Russian Germanist was repaid for both his refusal to participate in acts of terror against German civilians when serving on the front as a Soviet officer during the Second World War and his attempts to stop his comrades from carrying out such acts. During the political thaw period he strove to support the cultural opening-up of his homeland and the thoughts of reconciliation with Germany over and above the officially accepted level. As a consequence, the Brezhnev phase saw his status change from that of an intellectual to that of a dissident. He shared in the harshness of the repression, exclusion and persecution with which opposition politicians were faced, and was forced from the country. His Cologne exile, which came during the latter period of his life, and the literary and autobiographical works which he created there, allowed Lev Kopelev— whose books were present in the GDR—to become a symbol of human reconciliation and the defeat of the effects of totalitarian ideologies. Kopelev wrote on German and Russian poets, knew and appreciated Polish intellectuals and writers, and, as a Russian patriot, spoke up for reconciliation with all neighbours. His warning to Polish dissident sympathizers regarding the rejection and ungratefulness of Greater Russian chauvinism and imperialism—not to forget the other, democratic Russia—has retained its topicality.

From reading to writing Not long after the expatriation of Biermann it was possible to embark on powerful new reading experiences in the GDR, whereby the boundaries between the taking-in of the text, discussion of it and the impetus to write one’s own pieces shifted. The psychologist and author Jürgen Fuchs, with whom I share common ground due to his Thuringian origins and years of study in Jena (though I was only to make his acquaintance personally at a much later date), had captured the oppressive atmosphere of his interrogation and later detention in the mid-1970s in accounts of both his interroga-

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tion and prison experiences. These were published by Rowohlt, and reached us from the West. In contrast with the authors of the mountain of memoirs and political non-fiction I had already worked my way through, Jürgen Fuchs was one of my contemporaries—he too had grown up in the Honecker years and digested the experiences of 1968. The motive which drove Fuchs to become a member of the SED was a desire to process his own long-standing criticism within the system; even during the 1970s he retained his hope for a socialism with a human face. The disputes at, and expulsion from university, and exclusion from the SED which he experienced were to become stages in my own subsequent path. A decisive factor in the intensity of reading Jürgen Fuchs was his view of the burdens and psychological tests of endurance which dissenters could be subjected to. With his well-studied psychological eye, photographic memory and almost unbearable intensity he describes the course of his interrogation and attempts by his interrogators to engender insecurity and fear, question his desire and break his will. He depicts his own apparent defencelessness, how he attempted to deal with fear and despair and how he endeavoured to neither give up nor let himself be broken. Some themes tinged with sarcastic humour also crop up in situations where he was able to push the interrogator into a corner or make him lose his composure. Interrogations, hearings and his subsequent nine months of detention are described by Fuchs with similarly detailed accuracy—for me, his unerring view of both the person he was faced with and himself become an enquiry into how I myself dealt with things I had experienced. Fuchs had been an author with a focus on poetry before these acid tests of his politics; however this was not my approach to the problem. It did, however, provide a later spur towards further analysis of his themes and subject matter. What fascinated me was the intensity with which the harshnesses of a familiar reality were recounted. It was an intensity which also characterized the big names of the early phase of the following generation of young GDR authors—from Christa Wolf and Volker Braun through to Günter de Bruyn—as well as older contemporaries such as Stefan Heym, all of whose work included prose, drama and poetry and used a mostly cryptic language comprising historical analogies, parables and elements from classical antiquity. This was ambitious literature which found an audience and began the GDR’s reputation as a nation of readers, however there were only a few exceptions which did not stop or capitulate before reaching a particular dividing line where reality was concerned. Even the question as to whether or not it was acceptable to use “anti-heroes” brought about a storm in a teacup which called entire party commissions and hosts of civil servants responsible for ideological literature into action.

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In the end one was no longer able to expect literature which existed in the zone of the accepted, looking for gaps and niches because it took all other access to be self-destructive or too risky. Whether the motives for such oscillations in literary self-defence were born out of simple opportunism or a thirst for career opportunities or privileges, this did not enter the existential decision-making space in which literature in its most important sense opened itself to me. Jürgen Fuchs’ unerring, analytical examination of the People’s Army of the GDR (in which he also had to serve) was an incentive here, as it did not shy away from the brutality, contempt for human beings and desire to serve that he and others before him had witnessed in the Wehrmacht. Prose with no fuss and no excuses. Lutz Rathenow, a contemporary of Jürgen Fuchs, fellow Thuringian student at the Friedrich Schiller University in Jena, showed another way in which one could use literature in a valid way in order to come to terms with reality in a dictatorship. He laughed himself silly over the absurdities of daily life in the GDR and the glitches in its bureaucratic system, and shared this liberating laughter with his readers. While the Stasi were pursuing Jürgen Fuchs across the FRG, with embittered determination in a kind of “secret agent” and “enemy” scenario, Fuchs’ friend and ally Lutz Rathenow, who had stayed in the GDR, played cat and mouse with the bloodhounds. He used the literary familiarity he had achieved in the meantime, and the international contacts which came with it, to systematically dodge and exceed the boundaries which the vast majority of his literary peers kept to. The vitality and fantasy which he required in order to engage in this type of game was also to the benefit of his literature. Political dissidence, demands for an alternative cultural way of life and all related values experienced a symbiosis during the final years of the GDR, the literary accounts of which remain known only to a limited extent even to this day, and await their rediscovery. (2007)

Translated by Peter Welchman

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BALLA ZSÓFIA

A képernyő imádása

Fű „vagy vedd példának a piciny fűszálat: miért nő a fű, hogyha majd leszárad? miért szárad le, hogyha újra nő?” (Babits Mihály: Esti kérdés)

A makacs ártatlanság, az öntudatlan létezés ereje. Kihívó és életre ítélt. Mindig megidézi a halált. Minden fűszálnak egyetlen élete van, akárcsak nekem. Mégis: ha rágondolok, a végtelen, a rengeteg és az időtlen, a mindenhol mindenkor létező fű beszédem tárgya. Hol nyers, hol lankadt színe hullámokban csapódik a szemembe. Mint a kamillás, kakukkfüves nyár, úgy tolul az orromba. Aztán széna ő, illatozik, dicsőül a jászolban. Éles fűcsomó a sziklás tengerparton. Tengeri fű, Seegras a karosszékekben, a matracokban. Fű az ereszcsatornákban, járdarepedésben, fészkekben, árokszélen. A Sétatér őszülő gyepe a fényes gesztenyegolyókkal, sustorgó levéltörek. Egy díszpark nyírott pázsitja. A mezők felhőnyomta térségei. Földselyem, puhazöld. Fűszál lóg a tehénszájból. Teafüvek. Az alávetettség apoteózisa, a Föld simogatása, a széttaposhatatlan, gőgös alázat. A meghatározás markolni próbál. Világértésem oszlopa a fű. A görög ligetekben—a fák közt—rövidszálú, sűrű, tömött. Nagy, füves tereken pásztorok, nimfák hemperegnek—így gondolom. Mohaszín ágytakaró a délutáni, mézszín fényben. Smaragd fű, opálneonos fényben kápráztató vakzöld: kiégeti a télben ázó retinát. A régi Kolozsváron, a Főtéri Templom körül finom fű gömbölyödött. Az Agronómia kertjében is: ott vártam, kisgyerekként, anyámra. Ő fűzött először gyermekláncfűből koszorút a fejemre. A pitypang szárából láncot a nyakamba. Szétterült mező szoknyája, felette sötét virág hajladozik, az édesanyám.

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Brétfű—mond egy varázsnevet, egy városrész nevét, apám. Anyám piros masnit köt a hajamba, kis selyemszoknyát ad rám, elköszön. Elindulunk. Apám markában elbújik a kezem. Ő elköltözött tőlünk ugyanis, Brétfűre. Oda mentünk. Kamaszkirándulás. Zöld fűnyomok a halásznadrágomon. Akkor még kimoshatatlan. Csikóhempergés zöld gyepen. Gyeptéglák a 60-as években a Malomárok partján. Még nem fedte beton. A fűzfák alatt tanulunk-forma. Füvön, könyvvel a szívben, szerelmesen. A fű a legokosabb. Tavasszal—ezen szüntelen ámulok—minden fűszál egyszerre merészkedik elő. Még hideg van, mégis. Honnan tudják, hogy itt az idő? S hogy a szomszéd is éppen akkor fog kibújni? Az egész banda, ijesztő, micsoda program ezekben a cérnuka számítógépekben! A legzöldebb gyep 1975 májusában nőtt a kolozsvári Rádióstúdió körül. Harsány diszkózöld, tele sárga napocskákkal. Abban az évben, amelyben a gyermekem meghalt, s az én életem is fél órán múlt—igazi életbenmaradás és feltámadás után ez a pázsit mutatta: a világ él, és én is élek benne. Ilyen színű az, ami zöld, így süt a Nap, így fénylik a pitypang, ilyenek a nyírfák ebben a szélben, kint, szemközt az íróasztalommal. Minden nap újra sarjadok ezután. Fűleves. Ez jut eszembe. Visky András édesanyja főzte, miután hét gyermekével kitelepítették a Duna-deltába. Fűleves. Fűcigaretta. Fűbe harapni. Füvet enni. Apám sírján dühösen tépdesem a füvet. A Házsongárd tetején fekszik, betonlap fedi. A fedél alól kilóg az inda, a szál, kinő, apám anyagaiból nő, kis szakáll-bajusz a beton körül. Hiába tépem, inas a november, gyökeres. Seprek, irtok, gyújtogatom a gyertyákat. Születésnap van. Apám novemberi. Helyette a szél fújja ki a lángokat. Fűirha lepi el a sírt kajánul. A zsidó temetőben akár be is nőhetné, ott nem szokás megtépázni a föld arcát. S halált hozó fű terem / gyönyörűszép szívemen. A lelkiismeret kitéphetetlen gyomjai: nem szeretek temetőbe járni. Én nem itt tanultam diákkoromban, hanem a Botanikus Kertben. Ott aztán volt fű, mit mondjak, rogyásig. Az más, az füvészkert, fűmúzeum. Fű, fa, füst. Verssorok és könyvek az otthonaim. Walt Whitman könyvcímbe emelte: Fűszálak. És megmagyarázta értelmüket. „Nem kizárni s elkeríteni vagy kiszemelni a rosszat félelmes tömegéből (vagy akár csak megmutatni), Hanem hozzátenni, keverni, növelni, kiteljesíteni— És ünnepelni a halhatatlant és a jót.” (Lator László fordítása)

48

Igen, vannak terek, amelyek otthonosak: a tisztás Bálványoson a gombák boszorkányköreivel. Az a kis füves fennsík Uzonkafürdőn, a dinnyenagy óriáspöfetegek fehér labdáival. Az a füves domboldal, ahol borókát szüreteltünk, rózsagyökeret ástunk. Nem tudom eldönteni, mit jelent a fű parktalanná, füvetlenné koszolódott és sivárult szülővárosomban. Egyszerre mutat életet és halált. Egy pohár fűben mindkettő benne van. Negyvenhárom évesen jártam először azon a helyen, ahol a nagyszüleimet meggyilkolták. Oswiečimnek hívják a gondtalannak látszó lengyel falut. Hogyan bírtak, hogyan bírnak itt civil emberek élni?—ez lüktetett a félelmemben. Féltem a tábortól. Aztán bementem, és jártam. És néztem. És megiszonyodtam. És nem bírtam szólni: elképesztett, milyen kicsiny, milyen kisstílű. Arrébb, a gyűjtőláger, Birkenau, hatalmas; ez itt nem. Csak ember-méretű, igen, a gonoszságnak ilyen a mérete. Kézi szövésű apokalipszis. Házi sütés. Nem tudtam sírni. Megértettem, csak most értettem meg, minden film és könyv ellenére: mi és hogyan történt. Most értettem meg onnan megmenekült anyámat, a történeteit, a beszédfordulatait, haláltól való félelmetlenségét. A szemem ugrálva kapaszkodni próbált: ezek a fák nem lehettek akkor itt, túl vékonyak még. Nem látni, nem szagolni. Aztán, már a tábor kívül, minden kapun túl, egy gyepágy láttán öntött el a zokogás: ez a fű! nem lehet, hogy ez a fű él, Ők meg itt, szerteszórva, por és kavics! És hol vannak, hol van-nak... térdeltem, tépdestem a földdel keveredett zöld szálacskákat, gyűrtem a zsebembe: elviszem Őket, elviszem, az enyém. Ez a gyógyíthatatlan zöld fű az enyém. Brahms Német Requiemjének II. tételének sötét, a mélységek fölött megnyíló kórushangja énekli: Denn alles Fleisch,

es ist wie Gras,

und alle Herrlichkeit des Menschen

wie des Grases Blumen.

Das Gras ist verdorret

und die Blume abgefallen.

(Mert minden hús akár a fű, és az, mi emberben nagyszerű, akár a fű virága. A fű mind leszáradt és a virág szertehullott.)

49

Ez a mélyből sarjadó hang tudatja, húsba itatja semmiségünket. De a hangtest, amely ezt mondja, a zenekar és a kórus tömött muzsikája fölszárnyaltatja a füvet és virágját. A pillanatnyi lét, a megszólaltatás gyönyörűsége örök lenyomatként virít és lobog ebben az áradatban. Buborék a zene borostyángyantájában, fű. Tolnai Ottó, a Szerbiában élő író, egyik feledhetetlen estjén mesélte el, hogyan próbált—Amerikából hazatérvén—valahol a párizsi, majd a ferihegyi repülőtéren a hazai földre hajolni, megcsókolás céljából. Hálából, hogy van Európa, azaz van haza. De a csupasz betonra valahogy nem akaródzott leborulnia. Később, már a háborús időkben, a magyar és a szerb határ két sorompója közti senkiföldjén, ahol egy ízben órákat kellett, mindenünnen kizárva, eltöltenie, egy poros fűcsomóra lelt, amelyet végre hazaként ölelhetett magához. Arra a fűcsomóra gondolok. Azt a füvet ölelem, csókoltatom. Élet és Irodalom, 1995, december 22.

50

A képernyő imádása (2003) Ott, abban a háborúban

Megöltek—

kétszázhetvennégyezer ötszázhatvannyolc

krisztust öltek meg.

Vonjunk le ebből

harmincezer hatszázkilencvenegyet—

azokat, akik maguk is öltek.

Marad

kétszáznegyvenháromezer nyolcszázhetvenhét,

azaz 243877.

Nézzetek szét.

Tudjátok meg, mikor születtek.

Az mind Karácsony.

Az Úr

sokszülött fiát—

istentelenül sok fiát

adja értünk.

51

A harmadik történet (2003) Gyanús minden utókor. A csend is csupán

gyanús mellékútja a tagadásnak.

Az ókori regék s a Biblia után

e pusztítás füstjeit látod szent írásnak.

Mi történt? Megtudnod két ezredév kevés.

Csontig felrótta Jób. Örökölték a holtak.

Az éterben kereng minden talált lövés.

Isten elrendel. Csak a gonosz indokolgat.

Ők mérik súlyodat, akik megsemmisültek.

Szerelmed keserű só. Nincs szabadság

a más testben—soha nem teljesülhet

szorongásban szenvedély: virrasztani kell

meztelen tükörként, hogy ne takard el

álmoddal létüket. Jelük ne vétsed el.

Te sem menekülhetsz, hiába vagy utód.

Ha bűntelen, tudod, az vak szerencse.

A botrány sík olaj—eláraszt és befen.

Csak róluk, mindegyre róluk beszél velem

az Isten. Életét adná, hogy a halált elejtse.

52

Kígyóvers (1991) Itt nem lakik már senkisem mondhatná az ki lakna itt ki már nincs ott megmondaná hogy hol lakik

53

Ahogyan élek (1971) Újra, csak újra megtérek,

nem akarok más lenni,

(félek)

mint ami lenni szeretnék.

Ahogyan élek, az a hazám.

54

Könyv a vízben Régebben, gyermekkoromban, azt hittem, a Kárpát-medence olyan, mint egy strand: mindenféle népek fürödnek benne. Később rájöttem: a Kelet-és Közép-Európai népek egy része úgy van odavetve ebbe a dézsába, mintha egy Zeus-méretű tímár hagyta volna őket a csersavas famedencében, a pácban. Úgy vagyok Duna-menti nép, hogy Szamos-menti vagyok; és mégis. A Duna-menti népek életét meghatározza, hogy kertjeik alatt folyik a lomha, nagy víz, azon küldözgetik le-föl a hajóikat, az áruikat, a halaikat, a könyveiket, a háborúikat, a követeiket, a ciánt. Az ország, amelyben születtem, Románia, Duna-menti ország. Ma is őrzök néhány fekete-fehér képeslapot, amelyen az egykor török lakosságú Ada-Kaleh szigete, egy mecset és egy lakóház belseje látható. Ezt a dunai szigetet a hatvanas években, a román-jugoszláv vízierőmű építése miatt elsüllyesztették. Mintha mindannak, ami később következett be Romániában, ez lett volna a jelképes nyitánya. Más falvak is víz alá kerültek, a Dunától jóval északabbra, a Keleti—és Déli Kárpátok karéjában, amikor újabb duzzasztógátak épültek. A városokat pedig transzparensek, betonemlékművek: a nemzeti-kommunista frazeológia—a nélkülözés és a romlás szennyvize árasztotta el néhány évtizedre. Most mintha levonulóban volna az ár, de még sok időbe telik, amíg a hátrahagyott iszapot fölszárítja a nap, még sok munkába telik, amíg az emberek kitisztítják a kutakat, kitörölik a szemüket, kiöblítik a szájukat. Ahol most élek, Magyarország, Budapest, szintén a Duna mentén fekszik. Itt élt Jókai Mór, a Monarchia magyar klasszikusa, akinek Az Aranyember című regénye a Vaskapunál és a Duna szigetein, épp Ada-Kaleh-n játszódik. Honnan ismeri Jókai a románokat?—csodálkoztam diákkoromban, a regényeit olvasván, Kolozsvárt. Ugyanis én leginkább Szamos-menti nép vagyok, kolozsvári. A Fekete Tengerhez a Szamos-Tisza-Duna mentén ereszkedhetnék le. De most arrafelé rossz a járás, „sír az út előttem, bánkódik az ösveny”, csak a ciánmérgezés jár arra. Ebben a múló században már ölt a cián, a ciángáz. Embert. Azt remélhettük, hogy ezután csupán poloskairtásra fogják használni. De influenzagazdag korunk arany-lázába a folyók halnak bele. Szeretném, ha a halak, a füvek, az ürgék, pockok és rétisasok is kaphatnának védőoltást. Romániában a Deltában találkoztam először a Dunával, ott, ahol a Fekete-tengerbe torkollik. Én boldog első éves egyetemista voltam, ő meg bárkákkal, hajóval, hálóval, madarakkal, szigetekkel megrakott, felelősség-teljes folyó. Száraz lábbal keltünk át rajta, koldusszegény, nagyszakállú lipován halászok csónakjain.

55

Akkoriban nem is léteztek lipován halászok. Legalábbis a hivatalos újságokban mindenki „ukránul (vagy törökül, vagy magyarul, vagy szászul, vagy szerbül) beszélő román”-ként szerepelt. A ponton-hidaknak mostanság népeket, társadalmi rétegeket kell összekapcsolniuk; eltérő, sokszor harcias hagyományokat, történelmi tudatokat. Nehéz munka a hídverés a másképp beszélőktől a másképp gondolkodókig. Az 1989-et megelőző néhány évtized menekülőinek nem mindig sikerült száraz lábbal átkelniük a Dunán: sokan voltak, akik a folyó déli szakaszát átúszva, a Nyugatnak számító Jugoszlávián keresztül próbáltak kimenekülni az „aranykorszak” poklából. Románia ötvenes-évekbeli gulágjai, kényszermunkatelepei az épülő Dunacsatorna mentén húzódtak. A táborokat és rabfalukat a nyolcvanas évekre lebontották, a helyüket felszántották. A kitelepítettek és a rabok vérét és könnyét, az ütéseket és a csontokat elmosta a csatornákba zúduló víz. Minden csöppjüket a Nagy Vízbe vitte, ott örvénylenek a mélyben, mint a zúzott üveg, fehérlenek és piroslanak, emelkednek és porladnak a Fekete-tenger homokórájában. A folyók halála és emlékműve a tenger. Tőlük árad és apad, vonaglik a földrészek között. Ki-kilépek a medremből. Nyaldosom a partot. Ahol a part szakad. Én is máshonnan eredek. A Duna is egy szál folyócska, amíg fel nem táplálja saját vizével, amíg belé nem hal a többi folyó. Az Isar, Inn, Enns, Rába, Tisza, Morava, Száva, Dráva, Olt. Kék vér. A fő-, és mellékfolyók erei behálózzák a szárazföldet. A költők a Dunát nézegetik, erős, boldog országokról álmodnak. Csapkodnak a vizen az evezősorok, úsznak a dinnyehéjak, az uszályok. Az országok perlekednek, tülekednek. A költő ugat, a hajókaraván halad. 1993 óta Budapesten lakom, a Dunához közel, két utcányira. Nagyobb ünnepekkor a folyó felett petárdákat eregetnek. A szél befújja a tűzijáték robaját. Olyan, mint a gépfegyverropogás. A II. világháború idején hosszú sorokban lőtték a Dunába a zsidókat a nyilasok. Újvidéken előbb a Duna jegére sorakoztatták az összefogdosott lakosokat. A német irodalom neves budapesti professzorának, Széll Zsuzsának az apja az egyik ilyen sorban egy félelemtől reszkető, ismerős öregasszonnyal helyet cserélt. A férfi meghalt, a sortűz a nénihez érve abbamaradt. Ő beszélte el a családnak. Akik életveszélyes időket éltek, tudják, milyen kivételes erőt kíván, hogy ne sodródjunk az árral. A folyam elmozdul, minden cseppjében változik és megújul, mégis ő maga a megismételhetetlen állandóság, folyamatos memento, egy lefektetett, vízszintes láng. Amelyet nem fog a víz. A Duna lángja elolthatatlan.

56

Mi sétálni járunk a gyönyörű, piszkos, szellős Dunához. Nyári éjszakákon néha végigkocsizunk a két rakparton, nézzük a hidakat, a fényeket. A város sötéten ragyog, elérhetetlen távolságok után sóvárgunk. Elmúlt és ismeretlen emberek és dolgok után, akik már nincsenek vagy még eljöhetnek. A jégtáblákkal zajló folyó, a parti fecskék és sirályok szárnyával kefélgetett-fényesített víztükör nélkülünk is él. Hömpölyög, van: a Duna a teremtett világ ember-nélküliségét mutatja. Házak, hajók, székesegyházak, hidak között toporgunk, nézzük, hogy egy könyvet visz a víz. A lapjai eláztak, olvashatatlanok, mégsem merül el. Egyszer nekieredtem a világnak. Ne kérdezzék, hogy miért hagyja el az ember a házát, a folyóját, az életét. A folyótól sem kérdi senki, miért nem gyűl tóvá ott, ahol ered. Azzal az emberfolyóval úsztatok, amely időnként más vidékekre, más országokba folyik át. Zsidó őseim Galíciából ereszkedtek a mai Magyarország és Románia területére. Megőrizték azt a hitet és szokásrendet, amely elűzetésük és a kényszerű vándorlás megkezdése óta, kétezer éve, önazonosságuk tengelyében áll. És vitték-sodorták magukkal a nyelvet, nyelveket, amelyeket a hosszú együtt-lakozásban megtanultak. Németalföldről hozták a kaftános viseletet és az ófelnémet (jiddis) nyelvet, Lengyelországból a zenét, a zenekart, bizonyos ételeket. Apai nagyapám anyanyelve már a magyar. Az író sem a nyelvek és vizek fölött lebeg. Bárhová menjen, magával menti a szokásait, a nyelvét, az otthoni kenyérből egy darab kovászt. Régebben az emberfolyamok hol Amerikába zúdultak, hol száműzetésbe mentek. Az utóbbi évtizedekben Európa keletibb feléből kisebb-nagyobb patakok iramodtak nyugati irányba. Ezeknek, akárcsak a nagy folyóknak, nehéz gátat vetni. Szépen folyok, folydogálok Kolozsvárról Budapest felé, Bécs felé, ár ellenében, elhagyom Passaut, csorgok Regensburg iránt. Körülnézek, megszagolom, merről fúj a szél, visszafordulok, ereszkedem, a Duna-kanyarnál nekidőlve szürcsölöm a látványt. Valamivel a budapesti Lánchíd előtt kiszállok. A könyv fölszáll a vízről—csattogtatja a lapjait, majd elhúz a Gogol utca irányába. Donauwelten, Regensburg, 1999.

57

ZSÓFIA BALLA

Worshipping the screen

Grass or let’s take the tiniest leaf of grass, for example: why does it grow, if its fate is to wither? and why does it wither, if it is to grow anew? (Mihály Babits: An Evening Question)

It wields the power of stubborn innocence, of unconscious existence. Defiant and sentenced to live. It forever reminds us of death. Like myself, every leaf of grass has only one life to live. Yet, whenever I talk about it, the image that fills my mind is that of the infinite, vast and timeless grass, which is abundant always and everywhere. Its colour, now raw, now languid, hits my eyes in waves. The fragrance of grass overpowers me, like the summer smell of chamomiles and thymes. Then there is the freshly cut hay, filling the barns with its glorious scent. And the sharp blades of grass growing on the rocky beaches. The seagrass that fills the armchairs and the mattresses. Grass growing in the gutter and in the cracks of pavement, in the birds’ nests and along all the ditches. The autumn turf of the Promenade, with the shiny horse chestnuts and the brittle leaves that rustle under your feet. The carefully mowed lawn of the public gardens. The spacious fields, with their skies laden with clouds. The silk shirt of the earth, with its soft green hues. A leaf of grass sticking out of a cow’s mouth. Tea leaves. The apotheosis of subjugation, the Earth’s gentle stroke; haughty in humility, impossible to tread down. Definition casts a wide net. Grass is the pillar of my worldview. In the Greek meadows, between the trees, it is short and thick. On the grass of the spreading pastures, shepherds and nymphs lay—or so I picture. A moss-green bedspread basking in the honey-coloured, afternoon light. The emerald grass, glittering in the opales-

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cent light of blind green: it burns out the retina, which is moist from the winter. In old Kolozsvár, a fine grass covered the Main Square around the Church. It was the same in the garden of Agronómia: as a small child, I was waiting there for my mother to arrive. She was the first to laurel my head with a wreath made of dandelions. She also made me a necklace, using the stems. Above the skirt that spread out like a field, a dark flower was swaying: my mother. Brétfű—my father utters the magic world, the name of one of the town districts. My mother ties a red ribbon into my hair; she puts a small silk skirt on me and says goodbye. We are off. My hand disappears in my father’s palm. After he left us, he moved to Brétfű. That is where we are now headed. Going on hikes as a teenager. The marks of green grass on my pedal pushers. At that time, grass marks were still unwashable. Rolling in the grass, like colts do. An image from the sixties, of the blocks of sod covering the banks of the Millcreek. Back then it had still not been asphalted. Studying under the willow trees. Lying in the grass, completely absorbed in a book, and blissfully in love. The grass is the wisest of them all. It never ceases to amaze me that, come Spring, all the grass leaves pop up at the same time. It doesn’t bother them that the air is still quite cold. How do they know that the time is ready? The whole gang, springing up together! The sophisticated software these teeny-weeny computers have is quite scary! The greenest grass I have ever seen grew around the Kolozsvár Radio Studio in May 1975. It came in a loud, disco-green colour, with lots of yellow discs of miniature suns sprinkled over it. It was the year when my newborn baby died, and when I, too, came within an inch of my life—after my literal survival and resurrection, this lawn proved to me that the world, and me in it, was alive. This is how green should be, this is how the sun should shine, the dandelions should look, the birches should blow in the wind outside, as I watched them from behind my desk. After this, I am going to grow new shoots every day. Grass soup. I just remembered. András Visky’s mother made it, after she and her seven children had been forcibly resettled in the Danube Delta. Grass soup. Grass cigarette. Bite the grass. Eating grass. I am furiously pulling up the grass on my father’s grave. He is laid to rest at the top of the Házsongárd cemetery, under a slab of concrete. Sticking out from underneath the slab, there is a stalk growing out from my father’s remains: a small goatee around the slab. This is a birthday. My father was born

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in November. It is the wind, not him, that blows out the candles. Insolent grass grows over his grave. In a Jewish cemetery this would not be a problem, since people there are not in the habit of shaving the Earth’s face. And poisonous grass will start to grow on my beautiful heart. The ineradicable weeds of a guilty conscience: I loathe going to the cemetery. When I was a student, I preferred to study in the Botanic Garden, not here. Now there you had tons of grass, literally. That was different: that was a botanic garden, a museum of grass. Grass, wood, smoke. Books and lines of verses make up my home. Walt Whitman wrote a book entitled Leaves of grass. And he explained their meaning. “Not to exclude or demarcate, or pick out evils from their formidable

masses (even to expose them),

But add, fuse, complete, extend—and celebrate the immortal and the good.”

(translated by László Lator) Yes, there are places where I feel welcome: one is the clearing at Bálványos, with the witch-circles of mushrooms. Then there is the grassy plateau at Uzonkafürdő, with the white balls of the giant puffballs that came in the size of watermelons. And the grassy slope, where we harvested juniper berries and dug up rose bushes. I try to make sense of the fact that the parks have become grassless and desolate in my hometown. This could equally mean life and death. Both are encapsulated in A Cup of Grass. I was forty-five, when I first visited the place where my grandparents had been murdered. Oświęcim is the name of the seemingly carefree village. The question of how civilized people could continue living there was pounding inside my head. I was afraid of the camp. Then I went inside and walked. And I looked. And I got nauseated. And I could not speak: I was amazed how small, and how small-minded, it was. Not far from it was Birkenau, the main concentration camp, which was huge: this one wasn't. This was human-sized; yes, this was the scale of evil. Hand-woven apocalypse. Home-baked. I could not cry. I finally understood, despite all the books I had read and all the films I had seen, what really had happened here and how it had happened. Then I understood my mother who had survived all this: her stories, her turns of phrases, and her lack of fear of dying. My eyes jumped around, as I was trying to hold on to something, anything: these trees could not have been here then, they are far too slender! Try

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not to see, try not to smell! Then, when I was outside the camp, with all the gates already behind me, the sight of a grass bed made me burst into uncontrollable sobs. This grass! It cannot be that this grass is alive, when they are still here, scattered around, all dust and pebbles! Where are they?! Where are they?! I knelt down and pulled out the green leaves of grass, putting them into my pocket: I am going to take them with me; they are mine! This incurably green grass belongs to me. Soaring above the dark abyss, the choir’s singing in the 2nd movement of Brahms’ German Requiem opens up with the following words: For all flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of grass. The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away. Rising from the abyss, this voice enunciates the nothingness of the flesh. But the full-bodied voice uttering these words, along with the densely woven music of the orchestra and the choir, extols the grass and its flower. Like an age-old fossil, the joy of fleeting existence, along with the pleasures of musical rendering, glows and blazes in the sweeping movement. A capsule in the amber of music: grass. In one of his unforgettable public readings, Ottó Tolnai, the Hungarian writer born in Serbia, told his audience how, on his return from the United States, he had once tried to kiss the ground, first in Paris, and then again at Ferihegy Airport in Budapest. He meant this gesture as an act of gratitude, thanking that there was still such a thing as Europe, a place that he could call his home. Nevertheless, he was disinclined to go down on his knees on the airport’s runway made of concrete. At a later time, when the war was already in full swing, he was once forced to spend hours in no man’s land that stretched between the Hungarian and the Serbian border. Being kept out of both countries, he discovered a dusty patch of grass that he at last was able to embrace as his homeland. My mind is on that patch of grass.

That grass I caress and kiss.

Élet és Irodalom, December 22, 1995.

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Worshipping the screen (2003) In that war they killed— two hundred seventy four thousand five hundred and sixty eight Christs. From that number we should deduct thirty thousand six hundred and ninety one the number of those who themselves killed. We are left with two hundred forty three thousand eight hundred and seventy seven, or 243877. Look around.

Find out when they were born.

Every one of those days is a Christmas.

The Lord

has given us some of his sons—

God only knows

how many of his sons.

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The third story (2003) All posterities are suspect. Silence is merely

another suspicious way of denial.

After the ancient myths and the Bible,

you mistake the smoke of destruction for a sacred writing.

What happened? Two millennia were not enough to learn.

Job inscribed it on bones. The dead inherited it.

All shots on target are orbiting in space.

God ordains. Only the evil justifies.

Those who are weighing you are the ones who have perished.

Your love is bitter salt. There is no freedom

in the body of another—passion is never consummated

in anxiety: you need to keep vigil

as if you were a naked mirror, so as not to screen

their existence with your dream. Follow their sign!

Being a successor won’t save you, either.

If you are sinless, put it down to blind fate.

Scandal is slippery oil—it besmears you and taints you.

When God speaks to me, it is always of them.

To hunt down death He would give his life.

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Snake poem (1991) No one lives here anymore one could say, if one lived here the one who could tell me where he lives is not there

64

The way I live (1971) Again and again, I come to see the light,

I don’t want to be anything else,

(I fear)

other than what I would wish to be.

My country is the way I live.

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Book in the water As a child, I always thought that the Carpathian Basin was a giant sink, in which people could swim. Later in life I discovered that the manner in which the peoples of Central and Eastern Europe were thrown into this vessel was almost as if a giant tanner, the size of Zeus, had placed them in a barrel full of tannic acid: a pretty pickle, indeed. Even though I was actually born in a town by the River Szamos, I declare myself a Danubian. So there! The life of the Danubian nations is basically determined by the fact that this vast and lazy water flows at the bottom of their back gardens: they are sending their boats, goods and fish, books, wars, envoys and cyanic acid up and down the river. Romania, the country in which I was born, is home to a Danubian nation. To this day I have in my possession a few black-and-white picture postcards, which show the island of Ada-Kaleh, with the interiors of a minaret and a dwelling place. This Danubian island is now completely under water, having fallen victim to the construction of a dam, a joint Romanian-Yugoslav project completed in the 1960s. We could look on this act as the symbolic overture to all that later befell Romania. More villages became flooded eventually, as more dams were being built further up north, in the semi-circle of the eastern and southern Carpathians. As for the towns, they became inundated with political placards and monuments made of concrete: the nationalist-communist phraseology, the sewage water of destitution and decay. It seems that the tide has now subsided, but it’ll be a long time before the Sun dries up the mud that the tide left behind; and a great deal of work will have to be done before people can stop clearing their wells and unclogging their mouth. Budapest, the place where I live now, is situated by the River Danube. Jókai Mór, the classic Hungarian author of the Monarchy, once also lived here. Much of the storyline of his novel A Man of Gold takes place either in the vicinity of the Iron Gate or on some Danubian islands, one of which happens to be Ada-Kaleh. How Jókai came to know so much about the Romanians was a question I often asked from myself, when I was reading his books in Kolozsvár. I was born in Kolozsvár, so I guess that would make me more of a Szamos-valley person. If I wanted to make my way to the Black Sea over water, I would have to sail down the rivers Szamos, Tisza and Danube. However, right now that journey would be a highly unpleasant one—“the

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road in front of me cries, the trail despairs”—nowadays the only thing that passes through these waters is cyanic pollution. In this old century, which will shortly be behind us, cyanic gas already killed. It killed people. One hoped that in future it would only be used to exterminate insects. But its latest victims were the fish in the rivers, as they perished in the gold rush of our influenza-prone age. Now I am all for vaccinating the fish, the grass, the field mouse, the gopher and even the eagle. My first encounter with the Danube was in the Romanian Delta, where the river runs into the Black Sea. I was a happy university student in my first year; she was a highly respectable river, complete with barges, boats, fishnets, birds and islands. We managed to get across the river without getting our feet wet, thanks to some heavy-bearded and extremely poor Lipovan fishermen. Back then, there were no such people as Lipovan fishermen. In the official newspapers they were invariably described as “Ukrainian-speaking Romanians (or Turkish-speaking, or Hungarian-speaking, or German-speaking, or Serbian-speaking)”. In our age the function of pontoon bridges is to link peoples and social classes: in other words, to reconcile different, and sometimes extremely militant, traditions and historical consciousnesses. Erecting bridges between peoples of different tongues is almost as hard as it is between peoples of different worldviews. For all those people, who tried to escape from the country over the decades before 1989, it was not always possible to cross the Danube without getting their feet wet: many of them tried to flee the hellish conditions of the so-called “golden era” by swimming across the southern section of the river, to Yugoslavia, a country then considered to be part of the “West”. In the 1950s Romania’s labour camps, the gulags, were situated along the Danubian canal, which was under construction at the time. By the 1980s, all the camps and villages where people had been interned were demolished and the places were ploughed up. The water surging into the canal washed away the blood and the tears of the displaced persons, along with all the beatings and the bones. Every drop of their blood and tears ended up in the Great Water; these are now swirling in the deep, like ground glass, white and red, rising and sinking in the giant sand watch of the Black Sea. The sea is a death memorial for the rivers; they cause the sea to swell and to subside, and to convulse between the continents. Now and then I flood my banks. I cascade down the levee. At the point where the dam gives way. I, too, originate from another place. Why, the great Danube itself is but a little stream, before the other rivers feed it, or are devoured by it. The Isar, the Inn, the Enns, the Rába, the Tisza, the Morava, the Sava, the Drava, the Olt.

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Blue blood. The land is webbed with the veins and the arteries of rivers. Gazing at the Danube, the poets are dreaming of strong and happy countries. The rows of paddles splash into the water, as the barges and the melon skins float by. The countries get embroiled in legal disputes and scuffles. The poets bark, the convoy of ships moves on. My Budapest flat, where I have lived since 1993, is just two blocks from the Danube. To celebrate the major holidays, there are firework displays over the Danube. The wind blows in the crackling noise of the firework. It resembles machine gun fire. During the Second World War, members of the Arrow Cross Party, who were the Hungarian fascists, were shooting the Jews into the Danube in long files. In Újvidék, once they had rounded up their victims, they ordered them to form lines on the frozen Danube. Zsuzsa Széll’s father, a distinguished professor of German literature at the Budapest University, took the place of a frightened and trembling old lady, a former acquaintance. The man died, but the gunfire stopped before reaching the old lady. She told the story to her family. Those who have lived through life-threatening situations know what extraordinary force of character is required from anyone who does not want to swim with the tide. The river is in perpetual motion: every drop of it keeps changing and renewing, yet the river itself is the paragon of constancy: a continuous memento, a horizontal flame. No amount of water can put it out. The flame of the Danube is inextinguishable. Sometimes we take long walks along the beautiful, dirty and breezy Danube. On summer nights we occasionally drive along the two riverside drives, watching the bridges and the lights. Enveloped in the dark radiance of the city, we dream of distant places and exotic journeys. Of people and things either long gone or not yet seen. With its ice jams breaking up, and its surface being polished by the wings of swallows and seagulls, the river is alive even without us. It undulates and breathes: the Danube demonstrates the dehumanization of the created world. As we are tottering between houses and boats, and between cathedrals and bridges, we see a book float by. Although its pages are soaked through and became unreadable, it refuses to sink. Once I decided to spread my wings and see the world. Please do not ask me why anyone would decide to leave behind one’s home, one’s river and one’s life! You never ask a river why it won’t gather into a lake right next to where it originates. I am swept along by the human river, which occasionally wanders into foreign lands. After leaving Galicia, my Jewish ancestors resettled in the terri-

68

tories of today’s Hungary and Romania. They kept the faith and the customs, which had, for the past two thousand years since their exodus and forced migration, made up the core of their self-identity. And they took with them the language, or languages, which they had learned during the long cohabitations with other peoples. From the Netherlands they had brought their caftans and the Yiddish language. From Poland they brought the music, the band and certain dishes. My grandfather on my mother’s side already spoke Hungarian as his native language. The writer is not one to hover above the languages and the waters. Wherever she goes, she takes with her the customs and the language, along with a piece of leaven from the home baked bread. In the old days, these human rivers either converged on America or ended up in exile. During the past few decades, streams of various sizes from the eastern half of Europe have headed for the west. As with the great rivers, it is difficult to stem their tide. Leaving behind Kolozsvár, I am slowly making my way towards Budapest; then I proceed to Vienna, going upstream, eventually reaching Passau and getting almost as far as Regensburg. I look around, sniff out the direction of the wind, then turn around and start my way back on the river, stopping briefly at the Danube Bend to take in the view. I get out just a short way before the Chain Bridge. The book takes wing and rises above the water—it flaps its pages and disappears in the direction of Gogol Street. Donauwelten, Regensburg, 1999. Translated by Ervin Dunay

69

GABRIEL CHIFU

Relatare despre moartea mea

Îndărătnicul (1985) El urcă după mine seara în tramvai.

Cu înfăţişarea lui de pensionar absolut cumsecade

se aşază pe banchetă alături. Îmi şopteşte: Hai, spune da,

nu-ţi mai smulge vocea din cor, spune şi tu da.

Nu, îi răspund eu, nu.

El vine după mine pe câmpul pustiu,

unde rătăcesc cu inima toamnei stingându-se-n mine.

Ca un copil aleargă umil înapoia mea,

în genunchi mă roagă: Hai, spune da,

nu-ţi mai smulge vocea din cor, spune şi tu da.

Nu, îi răspund eu, nu.

El răsare când citesc, când e tăcerea mai mare,

Când se aude aerul cum roade cerneala literelor din carte.

Este ameninţător, tună şi fulgeră, răvăşeşte

totul în cameră, mă ameninţă,

bate în o mie de tobe, suflă în o mie de goarne,

poruncindu-mi: Hai, spune da,

nu-ţi mai smulge vocea din cor, spune şi tu da.

Nu, îi răspund eu, nu.

El se strecoară în somnul meu, în sentimentele mele, în vise,

scapără, învie acolo şi-mi injectează mesajul:

hai, spune da,

nu-ţi mai smulge vocea din cor, spune şi tu da.

Nu, îi răspund eu, nu.

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Oraşul papagalilor (1984) În staţia de tramvai zăresc

doi papagali stând de vorbă (ce surpriză, de mult

n-am mai văzut papagali): poartă o conversaţie

atât de inteligentă!

Curând apare încă un papagal—

şi el are idei originale.

Plouă mărunt. Este seară.

O seară pe care vântul o leagănă

ca pe o cămaşă umedă pusă pe sârmă,

la uscat... Soseşte tramvaiul.

Din el coboară o mulţime de papagali.

Strada se umple de papagali.

Au ieşit de la cinema sau de la şedinţă.

Toţi vorbesc tare, îşi comunică veseli atâtea

şi atâtea idei noi, profunde,

papagaliceşte...

Fir-ar să fie, te pomeneşti că am nimerit

tocmai în oraşul papagalilor din ţara papagalilor?

Mă uit cu luare aminte şi observ că, într-adevăr, aici

fiecare lucru nu este lucrul însuşi,

ci o copie la indigo a lui;

mingtea gândeşte şi becul luminează după cum

ordonă o bandă de magnetofon.

La dracu, e chiar oraşul papagalilor şi sunt vârât

până peste cap în lumea lui! Simt

cum îmi cresc pene colorate, aripioare şi cioc,

în vreme ce inima şi creierul îşi iau tălpăşiţa

chicotind „Paiaţă, nu mai ai nevoie de noi!”

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Jocul de table * (1988) După-amiază, acasă: citesc zâmbind Personismul lui

Frank O’Hara, iar fiul meu Andrei citeşte

cucerit Contele de Monte-Cristo

(are nouă ani şi jumătate Andrei, îngerii zboară

în jurul său

ca în jurul unui tărâm de lumină).

Apoi jucăm o partidă de table (blândă desfătare

balcanică, nevinovată). Zarurile se ciorovăiesc

naiv şi-n acest timp casa noastră (ca fiecare casă)

stă în gura deschisă a monstrului

(eu ştiu asta, fiul meu încă nu).

Da, locuim în respiraţia monstrului.

Monstrul îşi ţine cumplitul ochi lipit de

coastele trupurilor noastre şi ne urmăreşte neclintit

tresăririle inimii şi ale gândului,

nimic, nimic nu-i putem ascunde.

Fulgerele mor, diamantul se preface în cenuşă.

Plouă cu pietre invizibie—se năruie temple

în cer şi în creier. Ah, uneori

viaţa—ce formă perfectă de moarte!

Şi zarurile se rostogolesc (5-3, 1-1): cu totul

altă valoare are jocul nostru de table

(deloc inocent, subversiv—eu ştiu, fiul meu încă nu),

din moment ce se petrece

în gura deschisă a monstrului

ori pe retina ochiului său nemuritor, otrăvit.

*

poezie citită la Radio Europa Liberă în anul 1988

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Elegie pentru o farmacistă * (1989) Ulcerotratul, acele pastile cafenii,

brusc a dispărut din farmacii.

Cum piere o ploaie repede înghiţită de pustiul fierbinte.

Milioane de pastile luate după masă, cu puţină apă,

în milioane de case. Gastrite şi ulcere

pe fond nervos, fir-ar să fie, în vremurile noastre

mai e cineva care să fi scăpat de asta?

De-ar fi sociolog câte ar înţelege farmacista

după cantitatea de medicamente vândută

şi, mai cu seamă, după cantitatea cerută.

Şi câte ar putea ea să spună. Dar nu este.

Este doar farmacistă.

Stă însingurată la ghişeul ei,

tricotează şi plânge.

Lacrimile ei sunt invizibile. Puloverul împletit

e de abur, un pulovăr

pentru o fantasmă care bate la uşă

în fiecare seară, târziu, după ora închiderii.

Invizibil croşetează şi plânge.

Vântul intră în farmacie, răstoarnă flacoanele,

sticluţele goale, pe rafturi. Ca rădăcina măslinului

în pământul Eladei,

pătrunde în pieptul ei toamna şi creşte,

răvăşindu-i nervii. Nişte foarfece uriaşe

taie oraşul în panglici lungi, cenuşii.

*

poezie citită la Radio Europa Liberă în anul 1989

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Marele păpuşar (1989) Picioarele mele se mişcă

mânuite de marele păpuşar. Braţele mele, şi ele.

Propriile mele cuvinte îmi apar pe buze

numai după ce au depus cerere la el

şi au căpătat aprobare.

Inima mea bate sau nu bate după cum vrea el:

şi aşa e umplută cu paie, şi aşa nu contează.

E tare marele păpuşar. Ţine bine în mână hăţurile

hahalera. Controlează surâsuri şi lacrimi.

Întunericul şi lumina. Fumul din coşuri.

Gemetele femeii care naşte.

E tare. Mă mir cum nu se încurcă în atâtea

fire. Şi mă întreb, mă înteb aiurit

unde vrea să ajungă.

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Fuga* La fel se întâmplase şi când fugise din ţară, hotărâse într-o clipă acest pas teribil, de viaţă şi de moarte, hotărâse fără pregătiri minuţioase, fără premeditare, cum ar fi fost firesc. Era în zori, după banchet. Oraşul arăta bine la ora aceea, încă adormit, tăcut, cu străzile aproape pustii, aerul era respirabil, împrospătat de răcoarea nopţii. Gaşca lor de zurbagii (veselichercheliţi-fără griji, doar absolviseră înalta şcoală şi se pregăteau să plece în sate şi oraşe, acolo unde îi chemau patria, partidul!...), gaşca lor, adică Dora, Mona, Albert, Cornel, iubitul ei de atunci, şi, desigur, Ana însăşi, aşadar gaşca lor spărgea strident liniştea perfectă, neverosimilă; la ora aceea, pe străzile Bucureştiului, ei semănau cu o pată de culoare roşie ce se mişcă brambura pe o imensă foaie albă. Cornel desfăcuse o sticlă de vin spumos care ţinea loc de şampanie, şi-o treceau din mână în mână, se ameţiseră toţi. De fapt nu erau bucuroşi că au luat examenul de licenţă, aşa cum păreau, ci voiau să bea ca semn că-şi bagă picioarele în tot ce avea să urmeze, nicio perspectivă n-aveau în ţară, lucrurile se împuţiseră rău de tot, Ceauşescu înnebunise de-a binelea, iar cei din jur, ca să-i facă pe plac, supralicitau, se comportau de parcă ei ar fi fost de zece ori mai nebuni decât el. Cineva, Mona parcă, a propus cu glasul ei de vrăbiuţă alergată de un uliu: Omenire, ce ziceţi de o baie în mare?!... Cornel, adolescentul întârziat, care-şi lăsase barbă ca să pară mai matur, sa mirat inocent: Dar în Bucureşti nu există mare! Ana-Cristina l-a fixat cu o privire dojenitoare: frumuşel, zvelt, bine crescut, inteligent, dar previzibil, cu o gândire mult prea terre-a-terre. De aceea n-avea nicio şansă cuplul lor, Ana-Cristina ştia că nu va rămâne cu el, aşa cum îi cerea Cornel cu insistenţă, nu va rămâne, căci se va plictisi cumplit. Ce păţise cu el până să-l convingă să facă dragoste şi apoi sex oral şi toate libertăţile imaginabile între trupul unei femei şi al bărbatului său, el spunea că o iubeşte sincer şi ţinea morţiş să aştepte până după căsătorie. Ana-Cristina a râs, ah, râsul ei melodios, formidabil, aproape material, ca o vietate pură ce vibrează în văzduh, râsul cu care parcă îi hipnotiza pe bărbaţi, aşa cum îi hipnotiza, îi transforma pe loc în sclavi smeriţi ai săi, şi cu sânii săi ce se întrevedeau perfect prin bluzele de vară transparente, conturându-se vii, fremătători, tari şi de o formă care părea întocmită după planuri neomeneşti, aşa cum îi cucerea cu ochii ei de culoarea curmalei coapte, aşa cum îi cucerea cu fundul ei monumental, ca o colină răsărită neaşteptat în mijlocul unei câmpii * Două capitole din romanul Relatare despre moartea mea

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verticale, aşa cum îi cucerea cu picioarele sale lungi şi cu gleznele sale subţiri— părea o căprioară rătăcită în lumea dâmboviţeană imundă. Aşadar Ana-Cristina a râs şi apoi a ironizat cu farmec lipsa de imaginaţie a lui Cornel: Cornel, dragul meu, dar există trenuri care ne duc chiar acolo, la mare şi există o Gară de Nord unde poţi urca în aceste trenuri şi gata, s-a rezolvat problema...! Ceilalţi au bătut din palme, câştigaţi de soluţia oferită de Ana-Cristina. Dora a băut din sticlă, nu prea le avea cu alcoolul, dar se străduia să facă faţă cerinţelor găştii, altfel ar fi fost expulzată cât ai zice peşte, băutura spumoasă a curs stropind-o pe faţă, arăta nostim şi provocator aşa, cu vinul şiroind pe obrazul său pistruiat. Albert a certat-o: risipeşti bunătate de spumos, habar nai cât m-am chinuit să fac rost de el... Zis şi făcut. Vor merge la Costineşti să înoate în mare. Şi-au dat întâlnire peste două ceasuri în gară. Între timp se va duce fiecare acasă să-şi ia costumul de baie şi cele trebuitoare. Ana-Cristina propusese să plece chiar aşa, cu ce au pe ei, în ţinuta festivă de la banchet, dar ceilalţi n-au fost de acord. Albert locuia foarte aproape de Ana-Cristina. Era un şvab blond, ca o prăjină, cu faţa ştearsă, purta ochelari. Dar insignifianţa chipului ascundea o minte ascuţită şi un caracter puternic. Ana-Cristina şi Albert au luat acelaşi tramvai. Stăteau alături pe bancheta de plastic roşu, tramvaiul circula aproape gol la ora aceea. Albert s-a întunecat deodată, aşa cum se înnegurează uneori cerul în zilele de vară cu furtună. Ce e cu tine? l-a iscodit ea, care sesizase, nici nu era greu, schimbarea de mină. În loc să mergem la Costineşti, n-ar fi mai bine s-o pornim noi spre Orşova, să facem o baie în Dunăre? Ana-Cristina a ridicat sprânceana nedumerită (Ah, şi sprânceana, şi ovalul chipului, şi nasul drept, şi buzele mari desenate cu simetrii şi rotunjimi, şi ele, ca atâtea alte elemente care compuneau corpul magic al acestei fete, şi ele îi subjugau instantaneu pe bărbaţi!...): cum adică la Orşova, nu pricep?! a zis ea. La Orşova, a precizat el, să trecem Dunărea, mulţi fac asta. Să scăpăm din căcatul ăsta. Iha, a exclamat ea. Atât. Interjecţia asta neclară a fost singurul comentariu. Dar vlăjganul de Albert a înţeles că o convinsese. N-au mai deschis subiectul. Au mers în tăcere. Între timp, tramvaiul începea să se populeze. Orice făptură de genul masculin care urca în tramvai, când dădea cu ochii de Ana-Cristina, avea aceeaşi reacţie: rămânea mută / nu-şi mai putea desprinde privirea / îi cădea

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faţa. Albert urmărea amuzat spectacolul. Cred că mă-njură-n gând toţi ăştia, mă văd cu tine şi au impresia că sunt fericitul care s-a pricopsit cu o asemenea comoară, cum dracu a pus plătuga asta laba pe asemenea bucăţică, precis spun ei în gând, a observat Albert cu voce egală, placid. Ana-Cristina l-a apucat de braţ, luase fraza lui ca pe un compliment reuşit şi a răspuns oarecum sibilinic: poate nu se înşeală. Coborâseră din tramvai, erau aproape de casă, când Albert a avut explicaţia ce însemna propoziţia scurtă a Anei-Cristina Poate nu se înşeală. Ea ia cerut s-o însoţească, s-o aştepte să-şi facă bagajele. Albert a privit-o contrariat. Ea a găsit de cuviinţă să precizeze: la ora asta mama a plecat deja la slujbă, nu e nimeni acasă. (Vai, Ana-Cristina copilul care suferise strângând din dinţi, amarnic, căci fusese o fetiţă doar cu mamă, nu-şi cunoscuse tatăl, fără tată, tatăl fusese totdeauna marele absent, mama ei refuzase cu încăpăţânare să-i dezvăluie cine e. Poate întreaga sa existenţă fusese o cursă nemărturisită ca să-şi afle într-un târziu tatăl, ca să suplinească într-un fel absenţa lui...) În casă era un aer încărcat cu miros de lucruri vechi: cărţi vechi, draperii vechi, mobile vechi, totul era vechi în casă. Ana-Cristina l-a îmbraţişat pe Albert, apoi l-a îndepărtat încetişor şi l-a trimis să facă un duş. Vin şi eu imediat a adăugat ea. Albert s-a arătat deodată stânjenit: şi Cornel? Cornel n-are nici o legătură cu asta. E darul meu pentru tine, e semnul meu de apropiere, e felul meu de a-ţi spune că vreau să înot în Dunăre, nu la Costineşti. Du-te. Ana-Cristina s-a ţinut de cuvânt: a apărut în baie, goală puşcă, strălucitoare. Albert era plin de spumă. Zâmbind, ea a desprins din suportul său duşul mobil şi, cu jetul cam anemic, l-a curăţat de săpun pe vlăjgan, penisul lui devenise brusc puternic, ea zâmbea în continuare, s-a aşezat în genunchi în faţa lui, a observat: e o frumuseţe sexul tău, nu mă aşteptam, a deschis gura şi a cuprins firesc, cu tandreţe acel membru al bărbăţiei sale, începând să-şi mişte buzele sacadat, catifelat, înainte şi înapoi. La ora fixată, s-au reunit toţi în Gara de Nord, în faţa Biroului de informaţii. Ana-Cristina i-a anunţat senină pe ceilalţi că ea şi Albert nu mai merg la Costineşti ci se duc la Orşova, să înoate în Dunăre. Fetele au pufnit în râs, ca şi când tocmai ar fi auzit o glumă reuşită. Cornel a rămas cu gura căscată. Ce sminteală i-a mai trecut Anei prin cap? Curând s-au convins că ei doi vorbiseră serios. S-au despărţit: de-o parte—Mona, Dora şi Cornel, au plecat sau n-au mai plecat la Costineşti, de cealaltă parte—ea şi Albert, hotărâţi să-şi vadă de drum. Ana-Cristina l-a îmbrăţişat pe Cornel, cu drag nu cu dragoste, ca pe un frate şi l-a sărutat, tot aşa, frăţeşte, pe obraz. Să ai noroc, i-a urat ea. Apoi, împreună cu Albert s-a

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suit în rapidul de Timişoara. Cei trei rămăseseră pe peron, aiuriţi, credeau că au halucinaţii. Ana-Cristina şi Albert n-au coborât la Orşova, ci au mers la Timişoara. Acolo avea Albert un unchi, căruia la o adică i-ar fi putut cere ajutorul, să-i pună în legătură cu o călăuză, cică sunt tipi care se ocupă cu chestii de-astea periculoase, le dai bani, bani mulţi şi te trec frontiera, noaptea, ştiu ei drumuri ascunse... (De unde să am eu bani, şi-ncă mulţi?! se-ndoise Ana-Cristina de aplicabilitatea planului. Nu trebuie să ai tu, am eu, nu bani ci un medalion de aur cu smarald, mi l-a lăsat bunică-mea, Dumnezeu s-o odihnească, a lămurit Albert lucrurile.) Într-adevăr, l-au găsit pe unchiul lui Albert, îl chema Hans şi n-avea mutră de şvab, de neamţ, ci de grec, brunet, cu nasul coroiat, arăta ca o cioară care căpătase brusc chip de om, „Mein Gott, Mein Gott!” s-a lamentat el când a auzit ce gânduri le încolţiseră în minte bieţilor copii, dar e primejdios, zău! a exclamat. Dar tot el s-a schimbat, a întors-o, zicând: În fond, vă dau dreptate, sunteţi tineri, aveţi tot viitorul în faţă, iar aici, în rahatul ăsta (Ana-Cristina a observat că unchiul din Timişoara caracterizeze situaţia din ţară cam în aceeaşi termeni ca şi Albert—rahat...) nu e nimic de făcut, în fond, acum, când sunteţi în putere, trebuie să riscaţi şi pe urmă, gata, libertatea, trăiţi ca oamenii, nu ca nişte cârtiţe prăpădite, vă întemeiaţi şi voi o familie (Albert i-o prezentase pe Ana-Cristina ca pe logodnica sa...), copii, casă, o curte cu flori, baie cu faianţă italiană, vacanţe pe Coasta de Azur sau în Grecia, viaţă, viaţă adevărată, nu nechezol ca aici, cu descreieratu ăsta... Şi unchiul Hans i-a condus la un tip, om de încredere, sârb cu obrazul parcă tăiat în gresie, Vlada, au bătut palma, la noapte, la doişpe fix, ne-ntâlnim în faţă la teatru, zis şi făcut, la ora convenită, Vlada, taciturn şi hotărât, a apărut din umbra unui gang, le-a strâns mâna celor doi, s-a mirat că fata era îmbrăcată total nepotrivit, purta o rochiţă de vară, parcă se pregătea să meargă la bal, asta e smintită de-a binelea, şi-a spus el în gând, dar n-a comentat cu voce tare, nu era treaba lui, treaba lui era să-i ducă într-un punct anume şi apoi să-şi primească plata. I-a îndrumat pe o străduţă lăturalnică unde-i aştepta o Dacie roşie. Au urcat toţi trei în rabla aia şi au pornit spre Moraviţa. Cam pe la două şi jumătate au ajuns într-o pădure, Vlada a ascuns maşina printre copaci, iar ei şi-au continuat drumul pe câmp, printr-un lan de porumb. Frunzele porumbului o loveau pe Ana-Cristina peste faţă, niciodată nu suferise frunzele de porumb, tăioase, parcă nu aveau consistenţă vegetală, parcă erau nişte lame ascuţite, de hârtie pergaminată sau chiar de oţel subţire. La capătul lanului, Vlada s-a oprit. Gata, până aici ne-a fost înţelegerea, unde vedeţi luminiţa aia e Serbia, le-a arătat el o căsuţă, la vreo cincizeci-şaizeci de

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metri mai încolo. Albert i-a înmânat călăuzei medalionul cu smarald moştenit de la bunica lui şi s-au despărţit. Sârbul a făcut cale întoarsă, dispărând în lanul de porumb. Au rămas ei doi. Le era frică. S-a auzit un ţârâit de greiere: era asurzitor şi cumplit. Imediat s-a auzit o bufniţă: şi sunetul acesta era groaznic. Apoi s-a instalat liniştea apăsătoare, ca o lespede de mormânt ce ţi se fixează pe piept, te acoperă pentru totdeauna. Până la căsuţa din Serbia trebuiau să traverseze un spaţiu descoperit, ca-n palmă. Au hotărât în şoaptă să meargă târâş, prin ierburile şi bălăriile care năpădiseră locul. Înaintau încet, atent, de-a buşilea, mai aveau puţin, se considerau ca şi scăpaţi când, din senin, a răsunat din mai multe piepturi aceeaşi ameninţare, Stai, stai că trag! Apoi răcnete, buşituri, tropăieli şi s-au văzut înconjuraţi de o grupă de soldaţi cu lanternele şi cu armele îndreptate spre ei. Ana-Cristina le simţea izbitor mirosul de transpiraţie, le auzea respiraţia şuierătoare, dar şi inima bătând tare şi, prin întuneric, le vedea sticlind ochii de ţărănoi vicleni, înspăimântaţi şi ei, depăşiţi de situaţia nouă în care nimeriseră, hotărâţi să nu se lase cu una cu două şi să apese pe trăgaci la o adică. Militarii le-au pus cătuşele. I-au dus la pichet. Acolo aveau curent electric. Şi au văzut-o, în fine, pe Ana-Cristina, li s-au bulbucat ochii ca la broaşte, le-au căzut plombele, au înţeles pe cine arestaseră, ce minunăţie, ce nebunie de femeie, ea, în rochia ei vaporoasă, de vară sfâşiată în crengile de pe câmp şi pătată de pământ negru şi de ierburi, era şi mai frumoasă decât de obicei, ochii săi de culoarea curmalei coapte luceau nefiresc exprimând nu teamă, ci indiferenţă sfidătoare, fie ce-o fi, nu-i pasă de ei şi de ce o să se întâmple cu ea, nu-i pasă de nimic. Toată atenţia răcanilor imberbi, cu bocanci din care răzbătea un miros insuportabil ce te poate ucide, s-a strâns asupra tinerei femei. Vlăjganul spălăcit nu făcea doi bani, nu prezenta pentru ei niciun interes. I-au ars pe spinare vreo două-trei lovituri cu patul armei şi l-au împins într-un beci, l-au închis acolo. În schimb, pe Ana-Cristina au întrebat-o cum o cheamă şi au invitat-o să se spele dacă doreşte sau să fumeze o ţigară. Ea a refuzat. Gore, caporalul, l-a tras într-un colţ pe Milu, sergentul, comandantul grupei şi i-a propus: să-mi bag pula, nenicule, eu aşa muiere n-am văzut nici în filme. Hai s-o facem poştă, cu o asemenea ocazie nu ne mai întâlnim noi a doua oară-n viaţă. Corect, aşa e, are dreptate Gore, ar merita s-o futem toţi, a gândit Milu, sergentul, dar consecinţele?... El nu uita că mai avea câteva săptămâni de armată, şi pe urmă venea liberarea, dacă-l reclama careva, s-o pată tocmai acum la sfârşit, să se înece ca ţiganu la mal?... Nu, bă, Gore, nu e regulamentar, a răspuns el răstit, îngroşându-şi glasul, ca să sublinieze că e şef. Raportăm superiorului. Drept care a pus mâna pe telefonul de campanie, de-ăla cu manivelă, antediluvian, a-nvârtit cu convingere de mânerul din ebonită şi a răcnit în microfon: să trăiţi toa’ăşe comandant, raportez.

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Şi a raportat. Şi curând şi-a făcut apariţia toarăşu comandant. Avea ochi gri, un gri-argintiu lichid, pupilele lui semănau cu două grămăjoare de mercur care, în mod ciudat, i se cuibăriseră în orbite. Ana-Cristina a observat că obrazul său e fin, iar în colţul gurii are întipărit un zâmbet subţire, ironic. Arăta ca un intelectual şi era un bărbat bine, dacă l-ar fi întâlnit pe stradă l-ar fi luat drept profesor de fizică sau muzician, în niciun caz n-ar fi crezut că e ce e, ofiţer de grăniceri, care păzeşte fruntariile patriei ameninţate de tot felul de duşmani dinăuntru şi dinafară. Comandantul a măsurat-o din cap până-n picioare. S-a aşezat pe un scaun de lemn, la un birou vechi şi scorojit, iar pe ea a ţinut-o în picioare. Apoi a tăcut minute în şir: se uita când la ea, când, total ilogic, la un teanc de foi albe pe care le-avea în faţă. Soldaţii, stăteau şi ei nemişcaţi, aproape nu respirau, ca să nu-l supere pe şef. Într-un târziu, ofiţerul a catadicsit să zică: Domşoară, trebuie să dai o declaraţie. Pauză, apoi, către sergent: Gore, ia-ţi grupa şi plecaţi în misiune de patrulare. Eu rămân s-o anchetez pe tovarăşa. Ce anchetă a urmat! Probabil i-ar fi fost mai uşor cu întreaga grupă de soldăţoi decât cu ăsta care sub masca lui spilcuită era un apucat. Trei zile şi trei nopţi a chinuit-o. Pe urmă, contrar aşteptărilor ei, i-a dat drumul. Pe Albert l-au arestat, l-au întors în ţară, săracul de el, cine ştie ce s-a ales de viaţa lui, iar pe ea a făcut-o scăpată ofiţerul cu faţă de muzician sau de fizician. A făcut-o scăpată, dar cu ce preţ! Anne Wellington se instală la hotelul Formula 1, ca şi personajul său. Petrecu acolo o săptămână încheiată. Ghidându-se după însemnările domnului N. şi consultând la tot pasul harta Parisului, o luă de la capăt: încercă o reconstituire cât mai fidelă a traseelor acestuia. Era o femeie care nu-şi refuzase de-a lungul vieţii senzaţiile tari. Şi astăzi rar o mai dezmorţea ceva, aproape totul era deja văzut, încercat, trăit. Ei bine, jocul acesta de-a şoarecele şi pisica, balansul acesta între, pe de o parte, promisiunea unei întâmplări reale care să conţină în ea viaţa unui om şi, pe de altă parte, dezamăgirea unei înscenări pure făcute doar din cuvinte aveau darul s-o captiveze, îi pompau năvalnic sânge în vine, îi făceau inima să bată tare-tare, adevărat. Să-l descopere pe autorul misivelor de pe internet şi să se convingă cine e de fapt, care este realitatea lui, care este ecuaţia lui dincolo de disimulări deveniseră marea sa preocupare, principala sa miză. Când îşi recapitula viaţa, ajunsese să înţeleagă şi să recunoască: sub aparenţa ei de femeie puternică, de succes, ea ratase pe cel puţin două planuri. Intelectual, se alesese praful de vocaţia ei scriitoricească, dacă va fi fost. Adam Wellington o transformase dintr-o mişcare în păpuşa sa de lux, în minunata, neasemuita sa păpuşă vie, în maşinăria sa sexuală sofisticată şi

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perfectă, în carafa lui cu tinereţe fără bătrâneţe şi ea consimţise fără vreo împotrivire (ba chiar păruse că agreează, că-şi dorise rolul acesta!...), ea îi venise în întâmpinare vârstnicului său partener de viaţă, căutase să se confunde cu modelul din mintea lui, se lăsase dusă de valul de confortbunăstare-plăcere-splendoare-fast, se scufundase în luxură abandonându-se, cum tot abandonându-se se scufunda în apa de o limpezime înmărmuritoare a Meditaranei, de fiecare dată când Adam o ducea la vila lui de la Antibes. Iar, mai apoi, toate „libertăţile” ei (acele derapaje ale sale cu alţi bărbaţi, derapaje pe care tacit Adam le îngăduia) erau pentru el o formă perfidă de a o stăpâni, de a o ţine legată de el, atunci când puterile lui ca bărbat slăbiseră. Şi intelectul ei, cu el ce s-a întâmplat în tot acest timp, mintea sa care reprezenta o promisiune atunci, în anii de studenţie, ea, mintea, n-a dat semne de rezistenţă, de răzmeriţă, nu şi-a cerut plata, hrana, s-a atrofiat, s-a dat învinsă aşa, pur şi simplu? Nu, nu, dar hrana pe care Anne i-o oferise propriei sale minţi nu fusese hrana de care aceasta avea nevoie, ci un surogat. Un surogat jalnic: Anne îşi folosise toată inteligenţa nu pentru creaţie, pentru ceva înnoitor şi înălţător, cum naiv sperase cândva că va face, ci o folosise ca să-şi ascundă originea, ca să se comporte impecabil în noua lume, cu noua identitate, ca să nu se simtă vreo diferenţă între ea şi ceilalţi, cei care compuneau universul select al lui Adam, ca să nu se observe nici o diferenţă de accent când vorbeşte englezeşte sau franţuzeşte şi ca să nu facă nicio greşeală de limbă, de comportament, de folosire a tacâmurilor la dineurile pretenţioase, nici o greşeală de discurs sau de ţinută vestimentară la banchetele de binefacere, unde Adam se întâlnea cu alţii ca şi el, aparţinând unor familii cu genealogii de sute şi sute de ani. Pentru nimicurile astea, ca să întreţină futilitatea asta îşi consumase ea toată bruma de minte. O prostie, o mare prostie aprecia ea acum. De fapt, într-o propoziţie, ea consfinţise la o existenţă de tip kitsch, era o victimă a acestui kitsch, un kitsch cât toate zilele. Cum o uriaşă prostie fusese şi fuga ei de trecutul său românesc, dorinţa ei să-şi ascundă numele, să se lepede de fiinţa ei de altădată aşa cum te-ai lepăda de o haină ponosită, în care ai cunoscut umilinţe fără număr. (Mereu folosea comparaţia asta când voia să exprime raporturile ei cu patria-mamă şi cu sine însăşi, cea de atunci!...). Toată această încercare nefericită constituia al doilea mare eşec al său. Acum îşi dădea seama cu claritate că rădăcinile sale româneşti nu pieriseră, cum îşi închipuise ea, nici nu aveau cum să piară. Doar rămăseseră îngropate pentru o vreme, nu se mai văzuseră o vreme, atât, însă existau acolo, în adânc şi crescuseră tot mai puternice. Iar acum izbucneau la suprafaţă, în viaţa ei, ca un arbore imens, care ajunge să însemne totul.

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Obsesia ei pentru povestea de pe internet a românului reprezenta şi asta— recrudescenţa trecutului său românesc, căruia nu mai era nici capabilă, nici dispusă să-i stea stavilă. După acea săptămâna petrecută la Paris exact în condiţiile enunţate de personajului misterios, Anne Wellington s-a întors la Toronto hotărâtă să continue căutarea domnului N., bizarul său camarad de pe internet. Să-l găsească pe el era totuna în capul său cu a se reîntâlni cu sine însăşi, cea de care se despărţise stupid la plecarea din ţară. Raportul întocmit de Adrian Fornea pentru clienta sa, doamna Anne Wellington 1. Stimată doamnă Anne Wellington, După fix şapte luni, sunt în măsură să vă prezint concluziile finale ale anchetei mele privind persoana domnului N., alias domnul Naumescu. De la bun început, cu bruscheţe, chiar dacă poate părea ineelegant, doresc să vă curm orice iluzii: nu, sub numele Tiberiu Naumescu nu se ascunde cine, aşa cum îmi sugeraţi la început, aţi fi sperat dumneavoastră să se ascundă. Persoana respectivă nu este nici acel profesor de care aţi fost îndrăgostită în liceu. Traiectoria sa după ruptura de dumneavoastră este cu totul dezamăgitoare: a divorţat şi a părăsit oraşul din cauza unei aventuri cu o studentă şi ulterior, ajuns profesor de liceu undeva la Galaţi, a avut o altă relaţie cu o elevă, fiind silit să plece din învăţământ; actualmente este translator la o firmă mixtă în nordul ţării şi are considerabile probleme cu alcoolul. Şi, din nefericire, Tiberiu Naumescu nu este nici tatăl dumneavoastră (dacă dispuneţi, eu pot începe, fără niciun onorariu, cercetările pentru aflarea identităţii tatălui dumneavoastră; va fi o muncă anevoioasă, fiindcă puţini apropiaţi se mai află în viaţă, dar vă asigur că vom ajunge la rezultate concludente!). Şi atunci, cine este domnul Naumescu? Domnul Naumescu există şi este chiar un autor de proză şi eseuri, care are un handicap loco-motor şi se deplasează în scaunul cu rotile. Atâta doar că personajul, aşa cum şi eu şi dumneavoastră ne aşteptam, este unul complicat, are mai multe straturi. Cel mai bine el ar putea fi rezumat prin metafora măştilor succesive, care se cer înlăturate pe rând până să ajungem la adevăratul său chip. (De fapt, între aceste măşti, între aceste chipuri de împrumut, nici nu mai ştim dacă există un chip adevărat sau totul este măsluire, înscenare, contrafacere...) Încerc să sintetizez ce-am descoperit. Prima mască ar fi cel pe care l-aţi numit „domnul N.”, românul rămas la Paris, personajul care apare în povestirea trimisă prin mail. Acesta este chiar

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un personaj de ficţiune, Naumescu nu se descrie prin el decât indirect, oarecum vag, transfigurând foarte liber propria sa experienţă. Acele episoade pe care le-aţi primit prin mail sunt fragmente dintr-o lucrare de ficţiune, dintr-un roman intitulat Relatare despre moartea mea, un fel de testament literar pe care domnul Naumescu l-a terminat şi l-a predat unei edituri şi care va fi publicat curând. Dacă vă interesează, când va apărea cartea, am să vă procur un exemplar. Pentru exactitate: domnul Naumescu a vizitat Parisul, aşa, în scaunul cu rotile, printr-o organizaţie de binefacere, dar cu un an înainte de momentul când plasează el evenimentele descrise. E de presupus că în acea vizită şi-a cules unele date pe care le-a folosit în paginile de proză şi care dau acel izbitor sentiment de veridicitate. Este, din câte mi-am putut da seama, o proză despre singurătate şi eşec. O altfel de singurătate şi un altfel de eşec decât ale lui. Ori, poate, aceleaşi. Aici îmi îngădui şi o altă dezvoltare, o altă explicaţie: poate, povestirea trimisă prin internet era o poveste capcană, voia să rejoace scena cu dumneavoastră, am anticipat, există, undeva în trecut, o scenă cu dumneavoastră şi cu el, laolaltă, voia revanşa, voia să vă cucerească a doua oară, suprem, subtil, prin puterea de a fabula, prin puterea minţii lui, dacă prima oară nu vă stăpânise decât prin violenţă. Poate. De unde îşi lua, mixându-le, detaliile atât de exacte? Cum precizam, dintr-o călătorie mai veche a sa la Paris. Se documentase, se pregătise atent, pentru a doua întâlnire cu dumneavoastră, îşi construise un migălos eşafodaj al verosimilităţii. Eu cred, îmi permit să avansez această ipoteză: ţelul său era şi să scrie o proză valoroasă, dar şi să vă atragă pe dumneavoastră, să vă silească să porniţi pe urmele lui şi într-un târziu, să-l descoperiţi, să staţi iar faţă în faţă, halucinant. Dar să nu anticipez, căci, repet, am şi anticipat. A doua mască ar fi reprezentată de Tiberiu Naumescu însuşi, autor de proze şi eseuri. Persoană reală. Şi atunci de ce, totuşi, o mască? Mă străduiesc să explic. După adresa lăsată de el la pensiunea din Sinaia, am încercat să-l găsesc. Locuinţa din Severin era goală şi mai nimeni în oraş nu-l cunoştea cu adevărat. Vecinii spuneau că apartamentul aparţine cuiva din Bucureşti, un profesor pensionar, un domn paralizat, săracul, care umblă în scaunul cu rotile. A cumpărat apartamentul prin 1999 şi nu a apărut pe acolo decât de două-trei ori în acest răstimp. Apropo de anul 1999. Este o dată importantă, m-am lovit de acest an ca de un zid. Naumescu este un personaj absolut liniar, banal, nemanifestânduse exterior decât discret şi neinteresant, însă este astfel numai în intervalul de timp din prezent şi, în urmă, până în anul 1999. Toate informaţiile despre el le-am obţinut din această perioadă. Înainte, nimic, nimic—parcă n-ar fi existat. Tiberiu Naumescu a avut grijă să şteargă cu minuţie toate legăturile

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dintre el şi trecutul său dinainte de acest an. Ajunsesem la exasperare, nu eram în stare să depăşesc acest prag. Şi totuşi, o punte fusese lăsată întreagă între el, cel de acum şi el, cel dinainte de 1999. (Acum mi-e limpede că aşa dorise el, că fusese lăsată această potecă spre trecul său cu bună ştiinţă chiar de el însuşi, astfel încât căutătorul foarte atent şi priceput să-l găsească în cele din urmă!...) Iar această punte este tocmai numele fetei sale. Cum deja ştiţi, Tiberiu Naumescu are doi copii: straniu, amândoi cu câte o deficienţă, mezinul—surdo-mut, iar fata, aceea care cânta tulburător pe aleile din Sinaia—oarbă. Ei bine, fata poartă alt nume de familie: Golam. Acest nume a fost puntea, el m-a ajutat să ies din impas, să-l descopăr pe Naumescu cel dinainte de anul 1999. Pe vremea aceea se numise Corneliu Golam. Am mai decupat un segment din viaţa lui, 1990-1999 şi am mai dat peste o mască a sa foarte diferită de cea pe care tocmai i-o cunoscusem: în aceşti ani fusese om de afaceri. Deţinea o firmă, Golex, având ca obiect de activitate o mulţime aiuritoare de lucruri, de la post de radio şi televiziune, până la fabricarea de mobilier, comerţ cu amănuntul, şcoală de manechine şi import-export. Dar firma nu fusese formidabil de activă. Asta la vedere. De ce am luat ca a doua bornă anul 1990? Fiindcă atunci Corneliu Golam îşi dăduse demisia din armată. Până în 1990 fusese ofiţer, cu grad de maior, comandant într-o unitate de grăniceri. O nouă mască! Da, nu greşesc, chiar şi aceasta e tot o mască, şi aceasta. Întrucât, chiar din şcoală, fusese racolat de servicii şi apoi nu mai scăpase. Era ofiţer de grăniceri, dar şi om acoperit al serviciilor (încă o mască!). Probabil aici fusese drama sa iniţială, nodul conflictual, întâmplarea care-l stricase pentru totdeauna. Era un copil foarte deştept, promitea mult, avea aceste certe înclinaţii literare care, iată, nu l-au părăsit niciodată şi pe care totuşi le-a dus, în felul său, până la capăt. Dar provenea dintr-o familie modestă. Tatăl său (lăcătuş-mecanic, muncea zdravăn, dar tot în sărăcie trăia, îşi vărsa amarul în băutură şi pe urmă, seara de seară, se certa cu nevasta pe tema banilor...) l-a dat la liceul militar. Corneliu, hipersensibil şi cu o minte sclipitoare, ura regimul cazon. La început, stătea noaptea treaz, întins în pat, în dormitorul comun, cu cincizeci de adolescenţi tembeli în jur, care dormeau buştean, iar el nu reuşea să închidă ochii, murmura versuri de Blaga şi plângea disperat, neputându-se împăca în niciun fel cu soarta. Apoi l-au recrutat. A început seria de compromisuri fără întoarcere. Şi a început să se schimbe. Avea avantaje, fiindcă era cu serviciile şi, în plus, fiindcă era deştept. Avantaje din ce în ce mai considerabile. A început să se joace, de fapt să-şi bată joc de tot, ca să se răzbune pentru această cale pe care fusese aruncat, datorită sărăciei şi prostiei lui taică-său. A început să încalce regulile, a început să nu mai ţină

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seama de bine şi de rău. Dacă el fusese azvârlit pe tărâmul răului, de ce să nu fie aduşi şi alţii în acelaşi loc?!... A început să facă rău, după răul nemăsurat care i se făcuse lui când fusese trimis în şcoala asta nenorocită, unde fusese agăţat, confiscat de servicii! Dacă tot i se stricase viaţa, atunci ce mai conta?! Fie, să domnească împărăţia răului! Iar răul e ca bulgărele de zăpadă, creşte, devine avalanşă, e de neoprit. E deajuns să te apropii de rău şi să faci rău cât un grăunte, că apoi răul să te copleşească, nu mai scapi de sub stăpânirea lui. Aşa s-a întâmplat cu Corneliu Golam. Măşti după măşti, şi un rău tot mai mare, toate nuanţele de rău, de la răul gratuit, ca spectacol, până la răul din convingere, cu ură. A devenit un maestru al răului, al disimulărilor şi al monstruozităţilor, a devenit o sursă a răului. După 1990 a făcut o disperată încercare să se elibereze, să mai salveze ce se putea salva. Şi-a dat demisia din armată. Dar nu a scăpat de ceilalţi, de cei nevăzuţi, din servicii, de cei cu care semnase legământul. Contractul cu ei era pe perioadă nedeterminată, definitiv. Ei l-au pus să-şi înfiinţeze o firmă, în care au turnat bani cu găleata. Câţi bani negri au circulat pe acolo, câte mizerii s-au derulat pe acolo, trafic cu petrol în Serbia şi trafic de armament. Golam era om de faţadă (îl deranja teribil rolul acesta!), alţii manevrau conturile şi-şi umflau buzunarele. Oricum, i-au lăsat şi lui destul. Chiar numai firimiturile reprezentau milioane şi milioane de dolari. Corneliu Golam se consola cum putea. Bogat, fără apăsările materiale care distruseseră viaţa părinţilor lui şi, în fond, chiar viaţa sa, se consola, se răzbuna pentru tot ce pierduse, dăruindu-se plăcerii, celei mai mari plăceri pe care o cunoştea— plăcerea răului, plăcerea perversă, labirintică a răului. Îşi dădea seama cu claritate că nu se mai putea repara nimic din existenţa lui, i se dusese de râpă viaţa, simţea că noroiul s-a întins peste tot şi avea o satisfacţie inegalabilă săşi vâre mâinile până la cot în mâzgă şi apoi să împroaşte unde nimerea, mai ales făpturile inocente. Oricum, ăia l-au băgat în toate evenimentele scârboase de după ‘90. Îl întâlnim în Piaţa Univerităţii, la Târgu Mureş, la mineriade, peste tot. Şi peste tot, din umbră, trage sfori, e în tabăra întunecată, se acoperă de lauri în ochii superiorilor săi îndeplinind cele mai abjecte misiuni. În toţi anii ăştia experimentează până unde se poate coborî. A ajuns la viol şi i-a plăcut, a ajuns la crimă şi i-a plăcut. După una sau alta din faptele acestea abominabile, se uita în oglindă şi constata cu surprindere, dar şi cu o indescriptibilă satisfacţie, că pe dinafară nu se cunoaşte nimic din mizeria aflată înăuntrul său, faţa lui are aceleaşi trăsături fine, atrăgătoare ca şi înainte de crimă, ochii lui au aceeaşi seninătate şi aceeaşi fascinantă culoare gri metalic, iar frazele din literatura pe care continua să o scrie nu s-au stricat nici ele, nu înregistrează nimic din abjecţie, din ticăloşie, dimpotrivă, parcă sunt mai puternice şi mai expresive, cameleonismul acesta literar îl umple de

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o rafinată plăcere, el nu se deosebeşte de oamenii obişnuiţi, nimeni nu poate ghici, privindu-l, cine este de fapt, cum este el de fapt. Are doi copii din două relaţii diferite, amândouă femeile mor suspect, până la urmă se stabileşte că moartea e provocată de sinucidere, dar eu am îndoieli, din păcate, suspiciunile mele nu sunt demonstrabile, nu sunt însoţite de dovezi... În 1999, a participat la ultima mineriadă. Atunci, când nu mai întrezărea nicio ieşire din hăţişul fără sfârşit, a venit foarte ciudat eliberarea sa. A fost rănit la un picior în schimbul de focuri de la podul acela de peste Olt. A rămas paralizat. Şi ăia l-au lăsat la vatră, nu mai aveau ce face cu el, l-au aruncat ca pe o jucărie stricată. I-ar fi luat şi viaţa, ca să cureţe ca la carte locul, ce rost avea să mai facă umbră pământului unul ca el?!... Însă el se pregătise pentru o astfel de eventualitate, strânsese şi el informaţii despre ei, lucruri urâte, care scăpate în presă ar fi fost devastatoare pentru ăia. Acesta era târgul, echilibrul fragil: el îi lasă într-ale lor, dacă ei îl lasă într-ale lui. A rămas în viaţă. Şi-a schimbat numele. Dar numele nou nu l-a ajutat să-şi spele memoria şi să se reînnoiască, uitând, lepădându-se de toată ticăloşia trăită, pusă în operă. „Eliberarea” sosise prea târziu, era convins. A devenit profesorul pensionar Tiberiu Naumescu, umbla în cărucior şi, în sfârşit, a ajuns să existe ca autor, scria, trimitea manuscrise la reviste şi la edituri şi a început să publice. Însă ocolul de patruzeci-cincizeci de ani fusese prea mare, mult prea mare. A fost lesne pentru el să priceapă că era târziu, prea târziu pentru el întoarcerea pe traiectoria aceasta unde îşi dorise de la început să se afle. A priceput deopotrivă şi că înzestrarea sa literară este strict limitată, nare cum să se depăşească, nu mai are timp, nu mai are energie, nu poate păşi decât până la un nivel dat, mai departe nu are cum să înainteze. Atunci, în prima tinereţe, poate nu ar fi realizat, nu ar conştientizat existenţa acestor limite şi faptul că stă sub dictatura lor. Dar acum, după ce trecuse prin atâtea, nu se mai păcălea singur şi nu mai avea naivităţi de doi bani. Ceea ce îi amăra şi mai tare inima întunecată. Vă mărturisesc, acest ins mă fascina, pe măsură ce aflam mai multe amănunte despre el. Poate trece drept lipsă de profesionalism faptul că-mi descriu propriile stări, propriile sentimente provocate de o anchetă ce mi-a fost încredinţată, dar vă cer permisiunea acestui ton excesiv de confesiv, a acestei abordări foarte implicate. M-am identificat cu cazul acesta, am pus pasiune, căutând totuşi să rămân cu simţurile treze, să nu-mi pierd luciditatea, m-am amestecat cu întâmplările, m-am confundat cu personajul. Atât mă apropiam de el încât, adeseori, aveam senzaţia că sunt un biolog care studiază în amănunţime o gânganie la microscop, o tot priveşte, o cercetează, o întoarce pe toate părţile, consternat de modul bizar, nemaiîntâlnit în care funcţionează, până când o învaţă pe de rost, o ştie deplin, o visează şi-n

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somn. Da, ajunsesem să-l visez pe acest monstru numit domnul N., sau Tiberiu Naumescu, sau Corneliu Golam, mă obseda, îmi bântuia imaginaţia şi ardeam de nerăbdare să-l întâlnesc în carne şi oase, să dau ochii cu el, să ne privim fix, cântărindu-ne unul pe celălalt, să-i simt respiraţia înceată, obosită, de făptură ajunsă la capătul drumului, de făptură hăituită de propriul său trecut, un trecut încărcat de mizerie, de întuneric, care acum era gata-gata să-l ajungă şi să-l strivească, să-l facă praf şi pulbere pe cel care-l iscase. Înainte însă de a face pasul următor, în prezentarea rezultatelor cercetărilor mele, abuzez de răbdarea şi îngăduinţa dumneavoastră şi vă solicit răgazul încă unei acolade asupra personajului. Când eram copil, am citit o biografie a lui Cristofor Columb, era o carte dinainte de ‘44, nu ştiu cum păstrată de tatăl meu, ferfeniţită, scrisă de un autor cu nume nemţesc, Jacob Wassermann şi tradusă de Ion Sân-Giorgiu. Cartea m-a impresionat în întregul său, prin datele personajului, Columb, nu e momentul să stărui aici asupra ei. Dar ceea ce ţin să spun e că se află în acel volumaş o frază (subliniată de cine ştie cine, unul dintre cei care o citiseră înaintea mea, subliniată cu creion de culoare albastră, ca şi alte fraze, de altfel...), o frază pe care am memorat-o şi la care m-am gândit repetat de-a lungul anilor. Fraza se referea la Columb şi suna aşa: „El nu ştia niciodată ce era, ştia numai ce voia să fie.” Aceste cuvinte i se potrivesc şi omului nostru, într-un fel, adaptate, îl pot explica. Prăbuşirea lui a început atunci în copilărie, în adolescenţă, când a fost obligat să se ducă la liceul militar. El ştia în acel moment cu precizie ce anume voia să fie, poet, scriitor, şi refuza situaţia de fapt, refuza să fie ce era, refuza uniforma şi spiritul cazon. Am certitudinea că această nepotrivire dintre ce se voia şi ce era silit să fie, acest episod dramatic a declanşat tot răul. Foarte repede, tânărul elev militar şi-a dat seama că se îndepărtează iremediabil de ceea ce voia să fie, iar ceea ce era şi ceea ce devenea reprezentau o pierdere de sine: trecuse fatal în tabara răului şi înţelegea că de acest stigmat nu poate să se elibereze. Nu mai avea de ales. Singura variantă care-i rămânea la îndemână era să se transforme el într-un agent al răului şi să exploreze până la capăt plăcerea, satisfacţia care se găsesc în rău... Aşadar ţineam morţiş să-l întâlnesc. Şi am ajuns la el. Locuia retras întrun oraş din Banat. Am sunat într-o seară la uşa sa dintr-un bloc oarecare. (Avea alt nume, altă mască, dar nu mai contează...) Mi-a deschis, o clipă a fost surprins, când a dat cu ochii de mine. Se aştepta să vadă pe altcineva, probabil pe dumneavoastră. Dar repede şi-a recăpătat calmul. A înţeles că, dacă am sosit la el, sunt trimisul dumneavoastră. Şi a mai înţeles rapid că dacă l-am găsit ştiu totul despre el. Sau aproape totul. Eventual, îmi lipsesc doar câteva piese,

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pentru ca puzzle-ul să fie întreg. A ridicat privirea spre mine senin, invitândumă să-l întreb, gata să-mi satisfacă orice curiozitate. El a zis doar atât: Ce scurtă e călătoria asta prin lume, ce uşor şi ce repede se deteriorează mecanismul omenesc, ce repede se strică, se trece (mi-aduc aminte exact, m-a izbit folosirea verbului „se deteriorează”, care în reprezentarea lui apropia organismul uman de un aparat oarecare, care ascultă de principiile mecanicii, ale fizicii stricte...). Nu l-am întrebat nimic, eram capabil să completez singur tabloul, cu câte informaţii deţineam despre el mi-era la îndemână. M-a invitat să stau pe un scaun. M-am aşezat. Îl deranja faptul că tăceam, că nu aveam nicio nelămurire, nicio curiozitate în legătură cu el. Cum îl deranja faptul că nu-l acuzam violent, că nu strigam la el revoltat de toate monstruozităţile pe care le aflasem despre el. Îl deranja. Proiectase altfel această scenă. Probabil cu dumneavoastră aflată în faţa lui, nu cu mine. Şi nu aşa, fără cuvinte, în tăcere, cu seninătate. Când eram copil, tatăl meu m-a rugat să mă străduiesc să-mi iubesc semenii ca pe mine însumi. M-am străduit. Dar n-am izbutit cu toţi. Unul a fost Sinescu, un ins din oraşul meu natal, pe care l-am displăcut profund, iremediabil. Au urmat şi alţii. Dar cel mai tare am dat greş cu acest domn, Tiberiu Naumescu sau Corneliu Golam sau cum l-o fi chemând. Adevărul e că aşa cum stăteam în faţa lui fără să-l las să zărească pe chipul meu ceva din sentimentele mele, eu nu numai că nu-l iubeam, dar chiar îl uram, îl judecasem de mult în sinea mea şi îl şi condamnasem irevocabil. Acest caz pe care mi l-aţi încredinţat mi-a schimbat viaţa. Din raportul meu v-aţi dat seama cu siguranţă cine este, de fapt, Corneliu Golam şi în ce împrejurări s-a încrucişat drumul dumneavoastră cu al său. În deceniul ‘80-‘90, fusese ofiţer pe frontiera de vest! Consider că nu se cade să insist asupra acestui episod pe care l-aţi trăit... (Oricum, ataşez la acest raport şi două fotografii ale sale, una recentă şi alta din perioada respectivă, ca să vă verificaţi supoziţiile.) Încă o dată reiau întrebarea: de ce v-a trimis dumneavoastră textul acela prin e-mail, fragmente din romanul său intitulat, premonitoriu, Relatare despre moartea mea? Am putea presupune că îl cuprinseseră nostalgia, regretul, remuşcările şi dorea să rescrie trecutul, întâlnirea cu dumneavoastră, am putea presupune că vă plăcuse foarte tare atunci, am putea presupune că în felul său chiar vă iubise şi acum, când presimţea sfârşitul, flutura batista, vă făcea semne!... Nu, din câte îl cunosc eu, nu acesta e motivul, aşa ar proceda o minte normală, nu el. Şi atunci, de ce? Poate, obosit, plictisit de viaţa sa şi conştient de ratarea sa, fixase momentul când să pună punct la tot şi, ludicironic-descreierat-lucid cum era, îşi alesese mâna care să pună punct la povestea nebunească. Mai degrabă. Poate malefic şi inteligent fără măsură, se

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jucase încă o dată şi voise să încarce pe altcineva cu istoria sa monstruoasă, să arunce în spatele altcuiva povara răului pe care îl comisese el. Fiindcă, dacă faci pe cineva să afle răul care e în tine, practic, acel rău nu moare, i-l transmiţi acelei persoane, răul acela, cunoscut şi de altul, de alţii, devine etern. Da, da, cel mai probabil asta a urmărit. Şi a şi reuşit. Mi-a aşezat mie în spate răul, povestea lui. Mai ales dacă acel care se întâmplă să primească nemeritata povară este un ins cu frica lui Dumnezeu, care-şi asumă nişte principii ale binelui împotriva răului, cineva care de mic a fost învăţat să-şi iubească semenii ca pe sine însuşi, mai ales într-un asemenea caz impactul asupra celui care primeşte povara este formidabil, imposibil de calculat, cum total imprevizibile sunt şi consecinţele acestui transfer, ca şi reacţiile celui ce se încarcă cu povestea despre rău. Acela care primeşte în felul acesta povara răului e în stare de orice reacţie, inclusiv să vrea să stopeze răul, nu? De pildă, îi poate trece prin minte să slăbească o roată de la căruciorul lui Tiberiu Naumescu sau Corneliu Golam şi seara, când acesta iese din casă şi se deplasează mânuind căruciorul său sofistificat până la magazinul din apropiere să-şi cumpere apă minerală sau pâine sau cine ştie ce altceva, roata să se desprindă, iar căruciorul să se răstoarne astfel încât neajutoratul pensionar să nimerească sub roţile unei maşini. Sau tot aşa, celui împovărat pe nedrept cu acest rău îi poate trece prin minte să-l urmărească pe pensionarul paralizat de la mijloc în jos care, în drumul spre casă, seara târziu, în căruciorul său, traversează podul metalic de peste râul aproape secat şi, la adăpostul întunericului, nezărit de nimeni, să-i facă vânt, iar acesta să sfârşească împotmolit, sufocat în mâlul scârbos, urât mirositor... E o datorie pentru fiecare dintre noi să stopăm răul. Dar ai dreptul să stopezi răul, comiţând tu însuţi un rău, de pildă, luând viaţa cuiva? O, nu, nu trebuie să te aşezi tu pe scaunul judecătorului şi al gâdelui. Şi dacă totuşi eşti pus în situaţia să te aşezi, curmând răul, luând viaţa celui locuit de rău, atunci nu se cheamă că tu însuţi eşti un învins, ai comis crima şi ai devenit chiar tu o casă a răului împotriva căruia crezuseşi că eşti menit să lupţi?! O asemenea faptă nu-ţi schimbă pentru totdeauna cursul vieţii, nu devii şi tu, dintr-un ins imaculat, senin, un ins cu grele vini şi cu somn întrerupt de coşmaruri? Ba da, mai cu seamă dacă, încă din copilărie ţi-ai propus, la rugămintea tatălui tău, să-i iubeşti pe semenii tăi ca pe tine însuţi. (2007)

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GABRIEL CHIFU

Report on my death

The contrary one (1985) He follows me into the tram each evening,

looking like a perfectly respectable pensioner.

He sits down next to me, whispers into my ear: “Do say yes,

stop trying to extricate your voice from the choir; do say yes like

everyone else.”

“Nay,” I reply, “I will not.”

He follows me into the empty field

where I roam, autumn’s heart fading away within me.

As meek as a child, he is skipping along in the rear,

Begs me on his knees: “Do say yes,

stop trying to extricate your voice from the choir; do say yes like

everyone else.”

“Nay,” I reply, “I will not.”

He springs up while I’m reading, when the silence is deepest,

when the air can be heard as it gnaws at the ink.

He is threatening now; he is huffing and puffing, upsetting

all things in my room, he is threatening me,

beating a thousand drums, blowing a thousand trumpets,

ordering me: “Do say yes,

stop trying to extricate your voice from the choir; do say yes like

everyone else.”

“Nay,” I reply, “I will not.”

He creeps into my sleep, into my feelings, my dreams,

flares up into life way down there, gives me a shot of his message:

“Do say yes,

stop trying to extricate your voice from the choir; do say yes like

everyone else.”

“Nay,” I reply, “I will not.”

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The city of parrots (1984) At the tram stop I see

two parrots having a chat (what a surprise, it’s been a long time

since I saw any parrots): they’re engaged in extremely intelligent

conversation.

They’re promptly joined by yet another parrot—

having original ideas of his own.

It is drizzling. It’s evening.

The kind of evening swaying in the wind

like some shirt hung out on the clothesline

to dry … There comes the tram.

Vast numbers of parrots get off.

The street’s swarming with parrots.

They must be coming from the cinema, or from some meeting.

They all talk in loud voices, cheerfully exchanging lots

and lots of ideas, profound and original,

parrot-like …

Oh heck, of all places, could it be that I’ve wandered into

the city of parrots? Is this parrot land, then?

I take a careful look and, sure enough, I notice all around that

Each little thing is not the thing itself,

but its own carbon copy;

the mind will think, the bulb will give off light in compliance

with orders recorded on tape.

Hell, no, this is the city of parrots and I’m up

to my ears in the thing … I can feel

I am sprouting coloured feathers, small wings and a beak,

while my heart and my brain hit the road

with a chuckle “Buffoon, you’ll have no need of us anymore.”

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A game of backgammon* (1988) An afternoon at home: I smile as I read Frank O’Hara’s

Personism, while Andrei, my son, is reading,

entranced, The Count of Monte Cristo

(he is nine and a half, Andrei is, and the angels are flying

all around him,

as if drawn to a realm of pure light).

Then we’re having a game of backgammon (this Balkan-style pastime,

both innocent and harmless). The dice are bickering

childishly, and all this time our home (like any other home)

rests in the monster’s widely gaping mouth

(I’m well aware of it, though not, as yet, my son).

Indeed, we make our home within the monster’s breath.

The monster’s peeping with its gruesome eye into

our very ribcage, it keeps unbroken watch

over the tremors of our hearts and thoughts;

there’s not one thing, not one, that we could hide from it.

Flashes of lightning die, diamonds crumble to ashes.

It’s raining invisible hailstones—temples collapse

up in the sky as well as in the brain. Ah, occasional

life—what an exquisite semblance of death!

And the dice tumble on (5-3, 1-1): now that’s an altogether

new dimension to our game of backgammon

(far from innocuous, downright subversive—I’m well aware, though not,

as yet, my son),

since it happens to take place

inside the monster’s widely-gaping mouth

or else on the retina of its immortal, venom-shedding eye.

*

Poem broadcasted in Free Europe Radio in 1988

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Elegy for the woman behind the pharmacy counter* (1989) Antacids, the familiar, coffee-brown tablets,

have vanished overnight from pharmacies—

the way rain will be gone in just one instant, gulped down by parched,

hot deserts.

Millions of tablets taken after meals, with just a little water,

in millions of homes. Psychosomatic gastritis and ulcer—

goddamn, is there anyone left still untouched

by that trouble these days?

Were she a sociologist, the woman behind the pharmacy counter

would figure out volumes by the amount of medicine she sells

and, to be sure, by the amount of medicine she’s asked for.

And oh the things that she might thus construe. Yet that is not the case.

She’s but a pharmacist—

sitting behind her counter all alone

and crying as she knits.

She’s crying invisible tears, the sweater she’s knitting

is made out of vapour, a sweater

to be worn by a wraith that knocks on her door

late every evening, well past closing hours.

She’s invisibly knitting and crying.

The wind sweeps through the pharmacy, knocks over the medicine

bottles,

the empty containers on shelves. Akin to the olive-tree root

in the earth of old Greece,

autumn’s forcing its way into her chest and spreads out,

wreaking havoc with her nerves. Mammoth-sized scissors

are shredding the city to long ashen strips.

*

Poem broadcasted in Free Europe Radio in 1989

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The grand puppeteer (1989) My legs keep on moving

operated by the grand puppeteer. And so do my arms.

My own words will be formed by my lips

only after submitting a written application to him

and being granted permission.

My heart goes on beating—or not—as he chooses:

anyway, it’s been stuffed up with straw, makes no difference at all,

anyway.

He’s tough, the grand puppeteer, he is. He’s got a firm grip on the reins,

the obnoxious bastard. Exercises control over smiles, over tears.

Over darkness and light. Over the smoke coming out of our chimney-

stacks.

Over the moans of the woman in childbirth.

He’s tough. I find it quite strange that he’s not getting tangled in his

zillion

strings. And I wonder, I do, as I fail to make sense of it all,

what he’s actually after.

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The dash for freedom* It hadn’t been any different when she’d made her dash out of the country. It had taken her but a moment to make up her mind before taking that awesome step, a matter of life and death, and she had made up her mind without any elaborate preparations, without premeditation, contrary to the course she ought to have normally taken. Daybreak it was, just after the banquet. The city looked good at that time of day, still sleepy, quiet, its streets almost deserted; the air was breathable, freshened by the cool of the night. Their boisterous gang (bright-and-breezy-tipsy-without-a-care-in-the-world—they were, after all, graduates on their way to the villages and towns they’d been assigned to at the call of the Motherland, the Party …), their gang, that was to say Dora, Mona, Albert, Cornel, her boyfriend at the time and, of course, Ana herself, their gang, in one word, were breaking the perfect, unnatural silence; out on the streets of Bucharest, at that time of day, they resembled a red blot travelling aimlessly across an immense sheet of blank paper. Cornel had uncorked a bottle of cheap fizz by way of champagne. They’d been passing it round till they all ended up tipsy. In actual fact they did not rejoice in the least about their newly acquired degrees, as they might have given the impression. Their deliberate drinking was rather a sign they couldn’t care less about whatever life had in store for them; things had taken a nasty turn for the worse, Ceauşescu had gone stark raving crazy, and his henchmen, in order to ingratiate themselves with the bastard, were acting as if they’d been ten times crazier. One of them, it could have been Mona, as suggested by her voice, reminiscent of a sparrow chased by a hawk: “Hey, guys, what about a dip in the sea?” Cornel, the late adolescent, who’d grown a beard in order to appear more mature, was sincerely puzzled: “But there’s no sea in Bucharest …” Ana-Cristina eyed him reproachfully: a pretty boy, slim, well-behaved, intelligent but oh-so-predictable, so unimaginative. That’s why they didn’t stand a chance as a couple, Ana-Cristina knew for a fact she wouldn’t stay with him as Cornel was constantly pleading with her, she wouldn’t stay with him because she’d be bored out of her flipping mind. It had taken her great efforts of persuasion to have him make love to her, and then oral sex, and generally take all the liberties imaginable between the bodies of a woman and her man; he went on and on about loving her with a pure love and was intent on waiting till after their wedding. * Two chapters taken from the novel Relatare despre moartea mea [Report on my death]

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Ana-Cristina just laughed her musical laugh, her redoubtable, almost material laugh akin to some pure life form vibrating high up in the air, her laugh seemingly hypnotising all men, just as she’d hypnotise them, transforming them into her abject slaves, with her breasts perfectly discernible through her transparent summer blouses, their contours spelling vividness, eagerness and firmness with shapes defying the laws of merely human design, just as she’d sweep them off their feet with her eyes the colour of ripe dates, as she’d sweep them off their feet with her monumental butt, like a mound suddenly rising at the very centre of a vertical plain, as she’d sweep them off their feet with her long, slenderankled legs—she appeared to be a gazelle lost in the sordid space of the Dâmboviţa. So Ana-Cristina laughed, and then addressed Cornel’s lack of imagination with good-natured irony: “Cornel, my dear, there are such things as trains that take you right there, to the sea, and there is such a place as the North Station, where you can get on those trains and, hey presto, your problem’s been taken care of …” The others clapped their hands, warming to the solution put forth by Ana-Cristina. Dora took a swig from the bottle, alcohol was not among her fortes, yet she did her best to live up to the expectations of the gang or else they’d have excluded her without a second thought, the sparkling liquid spilled all over her face, she looked funny and somehow brazen with all that wine trickling down her freckled cheeks. Albert rebuked her: “Wasting all that good fizz, you’ve no idea what a struggle it was to get it …” Long story short, they settled on going to Costineşti for a dip in the sea. They agreed to meet at the station within two hours. In the meantime they’d all dash home for their swimsuits and whatever bits and pieces might come in handy. Ana-Cristina had suggested they ought to have left as they were, in their banquet best, but the others differed. Albert lived practically next door to Ana-Cristina. He was a blond gangly German ethnic, unprepossessing, bespectacled. His unremarkable features, nonetheless, disguised an astute mind and a strong character. Ana-Cristina and Albert got on the same tram. They were sitting next to each other on the red plastic seat; the tram was almost empty at that hour. Albert’s face suddenly turned gloomy, the way the sky sometimes darkens on stormy summer days. “What’s the matter?” she queried him, having noticed, how else, his change of countenance. “Rather than go to Costineşti, shouldn’t we better make a move for Orşova and have a dip in the Danube instead?”

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Ana-Cristina raised a puzzled eyebrow (Oh, it was her eyebrow, too, and the oval of her face, and her straight nose, and her full lips carved with symmetries and curves, they too, like so many of the elements merged into the magic body of this girl, they too would bring men into instant submission …): “What do you mean ‘make a move for Orşova?’ I’m afraid you’ve lost me,” she replied. “At Orşova,” he expounded, “we can swim across the Danube. Lots of people do that. And we get away from all this shit.” “Y-ha!” she exclaimed. That was all. That ambiguous interjection was her only comment. Still, big man Albert understood she’d been persuaded. They did not dwell on the topic. They continued riding the tram in silence. It was getting populated. Each one of the males getting on, the moment they set eyes on Ana-Cristina, went through a similar set of reactions—gulped / goggled / gaped. Albert was watching the show with amusement. “I guess all these guys are cussing me under their breaths, they see me with you and jump to the conclusion I’m the lucky bastard who’s got blessed with such a gem of a girl. How the hell, they must be asking themselves, did that joker manage to grab himself such a nice piece of crumpet?” Albert placidly commented in a level voice. Ana-Cristina took hold of his arm, as a token of appreciation for his compliment, and replied almost cryptically: “They might not be too far from the truth.” They’d left the tram and were now approaching their respective homes when Albert was provided with an explanation for Ana-Cristina’s brief statement, They might not be too far from the truth. She asked him to accompany her, and wait for her while she packed her stuff. Albert watched her somehow intrigued. She went on to put him at ease: “Mom’s already left for work, and there’s no one home.” (Poor Ana-Cristina, the little girl who’d endured all throughout her childhood the secret misery of being a singleparent child, she’d never met her father, father unknown, her father had always been the great absent one, and her mother had adamantly refused to reveal his identity. Her entire existence might well have been an unacknowledged race to find out who her father was after all, to make up for his absence somehow …) The house was redolent with old things: old books, old curtains, old furniture—everything was old in that house. Ana-Cristina took Albert into her arms, then gently pushed him away and sent him to take a shower. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” she added. Albert suddenly appeared embarrassed: “What about Cornel?” “That’s got nothing to do with Cornel. It’s my thank-you present for you, my token of intimacy,

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my way of telling you I’d rather take a dip in the Danube than go to Costineşti. Off you go, now.” Ana-Cristina was as good as her word: she made her appearance in the bathroom, stark naked and resplendent. Albert was covered in soap suds. With a smile, she unhooked the shower from its rest, turned it on, and with its half-hearted spray washed the soap off the towering young man. As she went on smiling, she kneeled before him and commented: “You’ve got a beautiful body, haven’t expected anything like that.” At the appointed time they all met at the North Station, outside the Information counter. Ana-Cristina serenely announced to the others that she and Albert were no longer going to Costineşti but would go to Orşova instead, for a swim in the Danube. The girls started giggling, as if they’d heard a good joke. Cornel was nonplussed. What was this new crazy idea Ana had got into her head? Soon they all realized that the two had really meant what they said. They parted company. On one side, Mona, Dora and Cornel left for Costineşti, or maybe not. On the other side, she and Albert—all set to follow their course. Ana-Cristina gave Cornel a hug—a tender hug, not a loving one—as if he’d been her brother, and in the same manner gave him a sisterly kiss on his cheek. “Best of luck,” she wished him. Then, together with Albert, she got on the express train to Timişoara. The three were left behind on the platform in a state of bewilderment, believing they were suffering from hallucinations. Ana-Cristina and Albert did not get off in Orşova, but continued to Timişoara. That’s where Albert had an uncle whom they could turn to for help, if the case might be, to put them in touch with a guide; they say there are people doing that kind of dangerous things for a living—you give them money, lots of it, and they take you across the border at night, they know some secret routes … (“Where would I get the money, and lots of it, too,” Ana-Cristina had doubted the feasibility of the plan. “You don’t need it; I’ve got it, well, not the actual money, but a gold medallion with an emerald stone, an heirloom from my Grandma, may God rest her in peace,” Albert explained.) Indeed, they found Albert’s uncle, his name was Hans and he didn’t look a bit like a Swabian, a German, that is, more like a Greek he was, dark, hooknosed, resembling a crow suddenly-turned-human, “Mein Gott, Mein Gott!” he lamented on hearing what the poor children were up to, “But that’s dangerous, it is!” he exclaimed. Still he did change his mind, started playing a different tune, saying: “At the end of the day, I can see your point, you’re young, there’s a future for you out there, while in this here shit (Ana-Cristina

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noticed that the uncle in Timişoara described the situation in the country in terms no different from Albert’s—shit …) “there’s nothing left to do, after all’s said and done, it’s now when you’re still in your prime that you ought to take the risk and then it’s all over, you’re free to live like humans, not like some damned mole rats, you can start a family (Albert had introduced Ana as his fiancée …), children, a house with a nice garden around, a bathroom with Italian tiles, holidays on the Côte d’Azur or in Greece, something you can call life, real life, not the surrogate shit you’re getting here, locked in with that madman …” So Uncle Hans took them to some fellow, Vlada, a man they could trust, a Serbian whose face seemed chiselled in sandstone, they struck a deal, tonight, twelve o’clock sharp, I’ll meet you outside the theatre … And that was it, at the appointed time, Vlada, without saying a word, resolutely emerged from an inner court, shook hands with the two, was surprised to notice that the girl was wearing a light summer dress totally unsuitable to the purpose, as if she were headed for some party, that’s one crazy girl and no mistake, he thought to himself without voicing his comment, that was none of his business, his business was to take them to the agreed location and there get his pay. He guided them along a back street where a red Dacia car was waiting to pick them up. All three climbed into the jalopy and started for Moraviţa. At around half past two they reached a forest. Vlada hid the car behind some trees and they continued across the fields making their way through some maize. The maize leaves were slapping Ana-Cristina in the face, she’d always hated maize leaves, razor-sharp they were, as if they didn’t even consist of vegetable matter, like they were the cutting edges of stiff paper or even thin steel blades. At the end of the maize field Vlada came to a stop. That was it, that’s how far we’ve agreed to take you, where you see the little light over there, that’s Serbia, he pointed out a dwarfish house to them, some fifty-sixty metres away. Albert handed over to the guide the heirloommedallion with emerald stone and they went their separate ways. The Serbian retraced his steps disappearing into the maize field. They were left on their own. They were scared. They heard a grasshopper chirp: it sounded deafening and terrifying. As if on cue, an owl hooted: another frightening sound. Then oppressive silence took over, descending like a tombstone pressing against one’s breast, sealing one off for ever. To reach the house in Serbia they had to cross an area offering no covering at all. They exchanged whispers agreeing to crawl through the rank grasses and weeds growing all over the place. They advanced ever so slowly, cautiously, on all fours, they were almost there, they thought they’d made it when, out of the blue, a chorus of threats boomed out all around them, Halt, halt or I’ll fire! Then

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yells, thumps, heavy steps, and they found themselves surrounded by a group of soldiers carrying torch lights and rifles trained on them. Ana-Cristina could smell their pungent sweat, could hear their rasping breaths and their pounding hearts too and, in the dark, she could see the sparkle in their shrewd yokel eyes, they were just as frightened, taken aback by the new situation they’d found themselves in, yet determined to rise to the occasion and pull the trigger if needs be. The soldiers handcuffed them, took them to headquarters. They had electricity over there. And finally they could see AnaCristina, their eyes bulged out fit to burst, their tooth fillings popped out, it dawned upon them whom they had arrested, what a beauty, what dream of a woman, in her gauzy summer dress all torn and stained with dark earth and the grasses of the field, she was more beautiful than she usually was, her eyes the colour of ripe dates were alive with an unearthly shimmer expressing not apprehension but daredevil disregard, come what may, she couldn’t care less about the whole lot and what they were going to do to her, she just didn’t care. The attention of the unripe rooks, shod with boots giving off an unbearable, almost lethal stench, was all focused on the young woman. They didn’t give a hoot for the big washed-out joker, he was of no interest whatsoever to them. They cracked the butts of their weapons across his back a couple of times, shoved him into a basement, locked him up in there. AnaCristina, however, was given a different treatment. They asked her what her name was, and granted her permission to wash in case she wanted to, or smoke a cigarette. She declined. Gore, the Corporal, took Milu the Sergeant aside in a corner and advanced a proposal to him, since he was in command of the group: “Bless my dick, mate, I ain’t seen no wench like that ever, not even in the movies. Let’s give her a gang bang, that’s a once in a lifetime chance.” “Gore has a point here, it might be well worth fucking the bitch, the whole bunch of us,” Milu the Sergeant pondered, “yet what about them consequences? …” He was not so carried away as to forget that he only had a couple of weeks left till his discharge, and then he’d be a free man, what if someone reports him, should he get in trouble at the very end like a sucker?... “Nah, Gore, no way, mate, that’s against regulations,” he answered in a rough voice, with extra emphasis, so as to make it clear who was in command. “We’ll report to our superior.” Consequently he grabbed the field telephone, an antediluvian affair of the sort that needed to be cranked up, he gave a determined twist to the jet-black handle and bellowed into the mouthpiece: “Comrade Commander, requesting permission to report!” And he reported. And soon the Comrade Commander turned up. His eyes were grey, a liquid silver grey, his pupils resembled two tiny puddles of quick silver that had strangely enough come to rest in his eye sockets. Ana-

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Cristina did notice the exquisite line of his cheekbones, and the breezy, ironic smile twisting the corner of his mouth. He had the appearance of an intellectual and was a good-looking man, had she run into him in the street, she would have taken him for a physics professor or a musician, and couldn’t for the life of her have imagined him to be what he was, a border-guards officer guarding the frontiers of the motherland threatened by all sorts of enemies from both the inside and the outside. The Commander took his time sizing her up. He sat down on a wooden chair behind an old desk with the paint peeling off, while she was left to stand. Then he said not a word for minutes on end: with no apparent logic, his eyes kept switching from her to a sheaf of blank papers placed in front of him. The soldiers, in their turn, stood stock still, barely breathing, so as not to annoy their superior. At length, the officer deigned to address her: “Young lady, you’re to make a written statement.” A pause followed. Then he turned to the Sergeant: “Gore, take your group and go on patrol. I’ll stay behind to question the comrade.” And question her he did … She might have had an easier time with the whole group of rough soldiers than with this guy who, beneath his refined mask, was truly possessed. For three days and three nights he had his way with her. In the end, contrary to her expectations, he let her go. Albert was arrested, turned back into the country, poor lad, who knows what had become of his life, while she was turned loose by the officer whose face brought to mind a musician or a physicist. He turned her loose, but oh the price she had to pay … Anne Wellington checked into the Formula 1 Hotel, just like her character. She spent a whole week there. Following Mr N.’s notes and resorting heavily to the map of Paris at every step, she started from the very beginning: she attempted to retrace his route with the highest degree of accuracy. She was the kind of woman who had never in her life denied herself strong sensations, to the effect that these days she seldom found anything to get her ticking—she’d seen, experienced, lived through almost everything. Well, this particular instance of playing cat and mouse, of walking the tightrope between, on the one hand, the promise of an actual occurrence centred on a human life and, on the other, the disappointment brought about by what might have been a pure set-up consisting of nothing else but words, was endowed with whatever it took to captivate her, caused a mighty surge of blood in her veins, set her heart pumping with loud, genuine heartbeats. Discovering the author of the internet messages and figuring out who he actually was, what reality he was coming from exactly, what his equation was beyond dissimulation, had become her major concern, the highest stakes she was playing for.

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Taking stock of her life, she had come to recognize and own up to the following fact: behind the mask of a strong, successful woman she was wearing, she had messed up on two accounts at least. Intellectually, her calling as a writer, had she ever possessed such a thing, had gone down the drain. With just one touch, Adam Wellington had made her over into his luxury doll, into his wonderful, nonesuch live doll, into his perfectly sophisticated sex machine, into his fount of eternal youth, and she had consented to all that without a trace of resistance (actually appearing to enjoy the part, to have even desired it), she had risen to meet the expectations of her much-older life partner, seeking to conform to the model in his mind, she had allowed herself to be carried away by the wave of comfort-affluence-pleasure-splendouropulence, she had dived into luxuriousness with the same abandon with which she would dive into the Mediterranean whenever Adam took her to his villa in Antibes. And, later on, all her “liberties” (those escapades of hers with other men, escapades which Adam tacitly condoned) were for him a perfidious way of keeping her under his control, enthralled, when his strength as a man had started waning. And what about her intellect, whatever happened to it all that time, was it that her mind, which back in her student days was a highly promising asset, put up no sign of resistance, of rebellion, asked not for its due, for its nourishment, but atrophied, succumbed just like that? No, of course not, yet the stuff Anne had been feeding her mind on had not been the food it needed, but a surrogate. A pathetic surrogate: Anne had not been using her intelligence creatively, for something regenerating and uplifting, as she had naively hoped she would, but in order to conceal her origins, to behave impeccably in the new world, with her new identity, so that no jarring difference could be noticed between her and those who made up Adam’s select universe, no difference in accent when she spoke English or French, she’d been using her intelligence to avoid making language mistakes or committing any breech of etiquette when using the cutlery at high-class dinners, to avoid any discourse—or dress-related faux pas at the charity banquets where Adam came together with his kind, people belonging to families whose genealogies went back for hundreds and hundreds of years. On such trifles, on indulging such futility had she wasted what little mind she might have had. How stupid, how unutterably stupid, she finally realized. In fact, to put it briefly, she had consented to a kitsch-type of existence, she was a victim of that kitsch, and big-time kitsch it was, too. By the same token, how monumentally stupid her rejection of her Romanian past had been, her desire to hide her name, to discard her former being as she would discard a seedy piece of clothing associated with an endless series of humiliations. (She would always resort to that simile when

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attempting to give expression to her position vis-à-vis her motherland and the girl she used to be …). All those unhappy attempts at concealment were her second great failure. Now she could see clearly that her Romanian roots had not vanished, as she had imagined, nor could they have ever vanished. All they did was stay buried for a while, unseen, that was all, yet they went on existing deep down and had even grown stronger. And now they were breaking through to the surface of her life, like a huge tree ultimately standing for everything. Her obsession for the internet story of the Romanian fellow was also part of it all—the outburst of her Romanian past, which she couldn’t wouldn’t withstand anymore. After the week she’d spent in Paris to the exact specifications of the mysterious personage, Anne Wellington returned to Toronto determined to continue the search for Mr N., her bizarre internet pal. Finding him had become for her the same thing with having a renewed encounter with her own self, the woman she had so stupidly left behind on leaving her country of birth. The report drafted by Adrian Fornea for his client, Ms Anne Wellington 1. Dear Ms Anne Wellington, After exactly seven months, I’m in a position to present the final conclusions of the investigation I’ve conducted concerning Mr N., alias Mr Naumescu. From the very beginning, abruptly, though it might appear in bad form, I will have to put paid to any hopes you might have entertained: no, behind the name Tiberiu Naumescu you won’t find the one whom, as you were suggesting at the onset of the investigation, you hoped you would find. Nor is the person in question that particular high-school teacher you were in love with. The turn his life took subsequent to his separation from you is a bit of a disappointment: he got divorced and left the city in the aftermath of his escapade with a student winding up working as a high-school teacher in Galaţi, had an affair with a school girl, which forced his resignation from the profession; currently he is working as a translator for a joint-venture company in the north of the country and has considerable alcohol problems. Unfortunately, Tiberiu Naumescu is not your father either (if you so wish, I can embark without further fees upon investigations conducive to revealing the identity of your father; it’s going to be uphill work as few of your close relatives are still alive, yet I do assure you we’ll reach relevant conclusions).

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Well, then, who is Mr Naumescu? Mr Naumescu does, indeed, exist and he is, fancy that, an author—fiction and essays—physically disabled and thus confined to a wheelchair. The personage, nonetheless, as both of us have expected, is on the complicated side and there are several layers to him. He could be best summed up by the metaphor of successive masks which need to be removed in sequence if we are to come to his true face. (In fact, with all these masks, with all these assumed faces, we can hardly tell for sure whether there is a genuine face, or everything is fake, sham, counterfeit …) I will try to be concise in listing my findings. The topmost mask would be the one you called “Mr N.”, the Romanian fellow who defected to Paris, the character featuring in the story sent via email. This is an entirely fictitious character. Naumescu only describes himself indirectly and somewhat vaguely through him, taking great liberties with the transfiguration of his own experience. The episodes you have received via email are excerpts from a work of fiction, a novel entitled Report on my death, a literary testament of sorts which Mr Naumescu completed and submitted to an editor, and which is going to be published soon. In case you’re interested, I’m going to get you a copy as soon as the book comes out. For the sake of accuracy: Mr Naumescu did visit Paris in his wheelchair, with the help of a charity organization, yet that happened one year before the time when the events in his fiction occur. It can be reasonably inferred that during this visit he collected some of the data he made use of in his prose to create that striking feeling of authenticity. The piece is, as far as I can tell, dealing with solitude and failure. A different kind of solitude and failure than his own. Or, perhaps, not all that different. Here I take the liberty of construing a different line of interpretation, a different explanation: it could be that the story sent via the internet was meant to trap you by re-enacting the scene you feature in, I have to tell you beforehand there is a scene featuring you and him together some time in the past, he wanted to settle the score, to conquer you a second time, subtly, with sovereign ease, by his ability to confabulate, by the power of his mind, since on the previous occasion it had been by violence that he imposed his mastery on you. Probably. Where else could his accurate albeit distorted details come from? As I’ve been already suggesting, from an earlier trip to Paris. He had been informing himself, he had carefully prepared himself for his second encounter with you, he had put together in great detail a supporting structure of verisimilitude. I do believe and make so bold as to advance this hypothesis: his goal was to write high-quality prose, but also to attract you, to compel you to follow his tracks and at

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length discover him, find yourself face to face with him once again, in a trance-like state. Yet let me not get ahead of myself for, as I was saying, I’ve already done so. The second mask would be Tiberiu Naumescu himself, author of fiction and essays. A real enough person. Then why call him a mask, after all? I’m doing my best to explain. I tried finding him at the address he had given at the bed and breakfast place in Sinaia. The flat in Severin was empty and almost no one in the town really knew him. The neighbours would say the flat belonged to someone in Bucharest, a retired professor, a disabled gentleman, poor fellow, confined to a wheelchair. He bought the flat in 1999 and had only showed his face there a couple of times since. Talking about 1999. That’s a significant date. I’ve run against that year as if it were a solid wall. Naumescu is an absolutely predictable, banal character, both restrained and uninteresting on the outside, yet he is only so at present, and he’s been like that only since 1999. All the information I had on him came exclusively from that period. Before that, nothing—as if he hadn’t existed. Tiberiu Naumescu was careful to remove scrupulously all traces that connected him to his past prior to that year. I was on the verge of despair, unable to cross that threshold. And yet a bridge had been left intact between him, as he was in 1999, and the man he had been before 1999. (It is now obvious to me that he wanted it that way, that the path leading to his past had been left there deliberately, by the man himself, so that the accurate, able seeker might find him in the end…) The bridge in question turned out to be his daughter’s own name. As you already know, Tiberiu Naumescu has two children: strangely enough, both suffer for some form of impairment—the younger brother is deafmute, while his elder sister, the girl who used to sing so heartbreakingly in the streets of Sinaia, is blind. Well, the girl has a different family name: Golam. That name was the bridge. It helped me out of my plight by helping me discover the person Naumescu had been before 1999. Back then his name used to be Corneliu Golam. I thus unearthed yet another segment of his life, 1990-1999, and came across a further mask, quite different from the one I had just come to know: all those years he’d been a businessman. He owned a company, Golex, active in a mind-boggling variety of areas, from radio and TV stations, to furniture factory, retail, modelling agency and import-export. Yet the company hadn’t been all that active. At first sight, at least. Why I have taken the year 1990 as a second milestone, you might ask. Because at the time Corneliu Golam had asked to be discharged from the army. Until 1990 he had been an officer in the army, a Major in command of a boarder-guard unit. Yet another mask …

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Oh yes, I’m not mistaken, that too was a mask, even that—since as early as his school days he had been recruited into the secret services and subsequently unable to get out. He was a boarder-guard officer but also an undercover agent for the secret services (there’s another mask for you!). Probably that had been his original trauma, the tangle of conflict that had irreversibly ruined him. He was an uncommonly intelligent child, very promising he was, he had those undeniable literary gifts which, as we have seen, have never left him, and which, in his own way, he has pursued to the end. However, he’d been born in a poor family. His father (a fitter mechanic, was a hard worker, yet continued to live in poverty, he’d drown his sorrow in alcohol and then, evening after evening after evening, he’d argue with his wife about money …) sent him to cadet school. Corneliu, a highly sensitive boy with a brilliant mind, hated military life. In the beginning, he’d stay awake all night long, lying in bed in the barracks dormitory, surrounded by some fifty retards, all of them sound asleep while he, unable to catch a wink, would whisper Blaga’s poems to himself, desperately crying and refusing to become reconciled with his fate. At that point they recruited him. Thus started the series of compromises taking him to the point of no return. And he started turning into a different person. He enjoyed certain privileges on account of working for the services and, more to the point, because he was intelligent. His privileges were increasingly higher. He started playing a game of his own, playacting, more exactly, in an attempt to take revenge for having been pushed in that direction due to his father’s poverty and stupidity. He started breaking the rules, ignoring any notion of good and bad. If he had been cast into the realm of evil, why shouldn’t others be dragged there as well? He started practicing evil in accordance with the unspeakable evil perpetrated on him when he had been sent to that accursed school, where he had been approached, nay, hijacked, by the secret services. If they’d ruined his life for him anyway, what did the rest matter? Let evil reign, then. And evil is like the proverbial snowball—growing larger and larger as it rolls, triggering off an unstoppable avalanche. It suffices to get within a short distance of evil, to indulge in the tiniest act of evil, for evil to overcome you and nevermore allow you out of its sway. That’s exactly what happened to Corneliu Golam. A succession of masks and an ever-increasing evil, with all its facets, from the evil practiced for evil’s sake, as a show, to the evil practiced out of conviction, with hatred. He became a master of evil, a master of deception and monstrosity, he ultimately became a source of evil. After 1990 he made a desperate attempt to free himself, to save what could still be saved. He’d been discharged from the army, yet he couldn’t get away from the others, from the unseen ones in the secret services, the ones

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he’d signed the pact with. He had an indefinite contract with them, an irreversible contract. They asked him to start a company and poured cartloads of money into it. Oh the amounts of dirty money that got washed there, the shady deals that were done, smuggling petrol and weapons into Serbia. Golam was the front man (he didn’t take at all to that part) while others were manipulating the accounts and lined their pockets. Still, he received his own share and it wasn’t small either. Though he only got the crumbs, they amounted to millions and millions of dollars. Corneliu Golam took whatever comfort he could. Rich, free from the financial cares that had ruined his parents’ lives and, come to think of it, his own life as well, he’d find solace, take revenge for all he had lost, abandoning himself to pleasure, to the greatest pleasure he knew—the pleasure of evil, the perverse, labyrinthine pleasure of evil. He was clearly aware that his existence was totally beyond redemption, his life had gone to the dogs, and he could feel that the mire had spread everywhere and nothing could beat the satisfaction he felt in plunging his arms elbow-deep into that mire and then splashing it around indiscriminately, mostly upon innocent people. The unseen bastards had involved him anyway in all the sordid events taking place after 1990. We come across him in the University Square, in Târgu Mureş, in the miner rebellions, you name it. Wherever he is, he’s pulling strings from the dark, he’s on the dark side, of course, and wins the highest approval of his superiors by accomplishing the most abject missions. During all those years he was experimenting with how low man can sink. He sank to rape and enjoyed it, he sank to murder and enjoyed that too. After committing one or the other of those abominable acts he would watch himself in the mirror and was surprised, albeit immensely satisfied, to notice that the outside belied nothing of his inner squalor—his face kept the same exquisite, attractive features it had before the murder, his eyes were just as serene and possessed of the same fascinating metal-grey colour as always, while the sentences in the literature he continued to write were in no way impaired, they carried nothing of the squalor, the vileness he indulged in, on the contrary, they appeared more powerful, more expressive, that literary versatility filled him with subtle pleasure, he was in no way different from ordinary people, no one could guess, by simply looking at him, who he actually was, what he was actually like. He had two children from two different relationships, both women having died under suspect circumstances, it was finally proved it had been suicide, yet I do have my doubts; however my suspicions are unfortunately impossible to demonstrate in the absence of proofs. In 1999 he was involved in the last of the miner rebellions. At the point when he was unable to see any way out of the boundless meshes he was

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entangled in, his release came in a most peculiar way. He was wounded in the leg during the shooting at that bridge over the Olt. He was crippled for life. And the unseen ones had to discharge him, he was of no use to them anymore. So they discarded him like some broken toy. They’d have taken his life too, to be sure, to clean up right and proper after them, what was the point, anyway, in allowing someone like him to go on living on the face of the earth? Yet he had anticipated such a turn of events, he’d been gathering information on them in his turn, nasty things which, had the press got wind of, would have been devastating for the unseen ones. That was the deal, the delicate balance: he’d leave them to their own devices if they left him to his own devices. So he stayed alive. He changed his name. His new name, however, was no help when it came to cleansing his memory and thus renewing himself by forgetting, by renouncing all of the wickedness he’d put up with and also perpetrated. His discharge had come too late, he was sure of that. He became the retired professor Tiberiu Naumescu, moving about in a wheelchair, and finally came into existence as an author, he’d write, send his pieces to magazines, to publishers, and in due time saw himself in print. Yet the forty, fifty-year detour he’d taken had been too long, way too long. It wasn’t hard for him to figure out it was late, too late for him to return to the course he’d always wanted to take. He figured out with equal accuracy that his literary endowment was of a strictly limited nature, there was no way for him to go beyond those limits, he’d run out of time and of the energy it took, he couldn’t advance beyond a certain level, there was no further way open to him. Back then, when he was in his prime, he might have been unaware, he couldn’t have possibly construed the existence of such limitations, nor could he have realized he was under their dictatorship. But now, after he’d put up with such a lot, he was no longer fooling himself, nor did he indulge in cheap daydreams any more. This only added bitterness to his blackened heart. I have to confess, the more details I found out about him, the more the fellow fascinated me. It may seem unprofessional to be describing my own moods, my own feelings vis-à-vis the case entrusted to me, but I do beg for your permission to use this overtly confessional tone stemming from a passionately personal approach. I have identified with the case, gave it all I had, striving nonetheless to stay alert, to cling on to my lucidity, I allowed myself to flow with the events, I’ve merged with the main character. At times I was getting so close to him that I had the feeling I was some biologist studying a bug under the microscope, in great detail—watching it at length, exploring it, turning it on all sides, puzzled by the bizarre, unprecedented way it functioned, until I came to know it by heart, know it in depth, dream

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of it in my sleep. Yes, I had started dreaming of that monster known as Mr N., or Tiberiu Naumescu, or Corneliu Golam, I became obsessed with him, he was haunting my imagination and I was dying to meet him in the flesh, to set eyes on him, lock eyes with him as we sized each other, feel his slow, tired breath, the breath of a creature reaching the end of his journey with his own past in hot pursuit, a past rife with iniquity, darkness, a past on the point of catching up with him at long last and crushing him, pounding to smithereens the one who’d generated it. However, before taking the next step in presenting the results of my investigation, let me take advantage of your patience and goodwill in requesting a respite in order to open yet another light-shedding parenthesis concerning this personage. When I was a young boy I read a biography of Columbus, a book printed before 1944, kept I don’t know how by my father, it was falling apart, written by an author with a German-sounding name, Jacob Wassermann, and translated into Romanian by Ion Sân-Giorgiu. The book, on the whole, made quite an impression on me through the makings of Columbus, its central character, though this is not the time to go into related details. Suffice it to say that the slim volume contained a sentence (underlined by who knows who, one of the readers preceding me, I suppose, underlined in blue pencil, just like other sentences in that book), a sentence I memorized and repeatedly pondered upon throughout the years. The sentence referred to Columbus and went something like: “He’d never known what he was; he only knew what he wanted to be.” Those words aptly describe our man. With the necessary adjustments, they could somehow explain him. His collapse started back then, in his childhood, his adolescence, more precisely, when he was compelled to go to cadet school. At that point in time he knew exactly what he wanted to be—a poet, a writer—and consequently refused the situation he found himself in, he rejected being what he was, rejected the uniform and the military rigour. I am certain that the discrepancy between what he wanted to be and what he was being forced to become, the whole dramatic episode, triggered off all the subsequent evil. Soon enough, the young cadet realized he was irreversibly moving away from what he wanted to be, and what he was and what he was becoming amounted to a loss of self: he had fatally crossed into the camp of evil and understood there was no way he could free himself from that stigma. He’d been left with no choice. The only option still open to him was to allow himself to change into an agent of evil and explore to the end the pleasure, the satisfaction to be found in evil … As I was saying, I was dying to meet him. So I came to where he lived. He was living on his own in a town in the Banat.

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One evening I rang his doorbell in a nondescript block of flats. (He had a different name, a different mask, yet that doesn’t matter any more …) He opened, was surprised for a moment when he saw me. He expected to see someone else, probably you. Yet he was quick to regain his composure. He realized that, since I had reached him, I had to be your envoy. And he promptly realized that, since I’d found him, I knew everything about him. Or almost everything. I might be missing one or two pieces in order to complete the puzzle. He serenely lifted his eyes to watch me, in an invitation to ask him questions, ready to humour me in my curiosity. All he said was: “How brief our journey through the world is, how easily and how quickly the human mechanism deteriorates, how quickly it breaks down, it wears out” (I can perfectly remember I was shocked by his use of “deteriorates” which in his vision of things assimilated the human organism to some machine, subject to mechanical principles, to the principles of rigorous physics …). I didn’t ask him one thing, I was in a position to fill in the picture for myself, all the information I had on him made it quite easy. He asked me to take a seat. I did. He was annoyed by my keeping silent, by my having nothing to clarify, no curiosity left concerning him. Just as he was annoyed by the fact that I didn’t vehemently accuse him, that I was not screaming my head off at him in a rage for all the monstrosities I’d found out about him. He was annoyed by all that. He’d imagined the scene in a different way. Probably with you facing him instead of me. Not like that, without any words being spoken, in silence, in tranquillity. When I was a small boy, my father asked me to strive to love people like I loved myself. I did strive. But there were cases in which I failed. One of them was Sinescu, a man in my hometown, whom I deeply and irredeemably disliked. There were others, too. Yet my worst failure was with that gentleman, Tiberiu Naumescu, or Corneliu Golam, or whatever his name might be. The truth is that, as I was sitting opposite him, without allowing him to discern any of my feelings in my face, I was not only failing to love him, but hated him, I had long since had judged him in my mind and had passed an irrevocable sentence on him. The case you have entrusted me with has changed my whole life. My report has obviously made it clear to you who Corneliu Golem actually is and under what circumstances your roads crossed. During the decade 80’-90’ he used to be an officer on the western border. I feel I shouldn’t dwell on the episode you had to live through … (Anyway I enclose with my report two photos of him, a recent one, and one from the time referred to, so that you may check whether the suppositions are valid.) Let me reiterate the question: why has he e-mailed that text to you, excerpts from his novel, premonitorily entitled Report on my death? We might

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suppose he was ridden with nostalgia, regrets and consequently wanted to rewrite the past, his encounter with you. Why not assume he liked you a lot back then, why not assume he even loved you in his way and after all that time, sensing his end was near, he was waving, signalling to you … Well as far as I know him, that couldn’t be the case—that’s what a person possessed of a normal mind would do, but not him. So why, then? Perhaps, exhausted, fed up with his life and aware of having mucked up his chances, he had already decided on the moment when he was to make an end of it all and, since he had a feeling for the dramatic, being equally ironic, insane and lucid at the same time, he had already chosen the hand to conclude that tale told by an idiot. That’s more probable. Or perhaps, malefic and boundlessly intelligent, he’d decided to play one more game and wanted to burden someone else with his monstrous history, to let someone else carry the load of the evil he’d perpetrated. If you allow someone else to find out the evil residing in you, the evil in question goes on living to all intents and purposes, it is transmitted to that person and thus, imparted to one or more people, it becomes eternal. Indeed, that’s what, most probably, he was after. And he was successful in his intentions. He shifted his evil, his story, upon me. If the person happening to receive the undeserved burden of evil is a God-fearing man, assuming certain principles of good in order to fight evil, a man who’s been taught at an early age to love his neighbours as he loves himself, the impact of evil is, particularly under such circumstances, terrible, impossible to calculate, just as the consequences of such a transfer are unpredictable in terms of the reactions to be expected from the person who’s been inoculated with the story of that evil. The person thus receiving the burden of evil is capable of any reaction, the desire of putting an end to that evil included, right? For instance, he might get the idea of loosing some screws in one of the wheels of Tiberiu Naumescu’s or Corneliu Golam’s chair and, in the evening, when he manoeuvres his sophisticated wheelchair to the corner shop in order to buy mineral water or bread or what have you, the wheel comes away, and the chair rolls over in such a way as to plunge its helpless retired occupant under the wheels of a passing car. Or, by the same token, the one undeservedly burdened with that evil might come to the idea of following the retired man paralysed from his waist down as he rolls homewards, late in the evening, over the metal bridge spanning the nearly-dry river and, sheltered by the dark from everyone’s eyes, giving him a mighty push so that he ends up bogged down, suffocated by the slimy, foul-smelling mire …

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It is a duty for each and every one of us to put a stop to evil. Yet does one have the right to stop evil by resorting to evil oneself, by, say, taking someone’s life? No, no, no, one shouldn’t take the seat of the judge and of the executioner. And still, if one does find oneself in the situation to take that seat in order to end evil, to take the life of the one inhabited by evil, does this not mean that one is himself among the defeated? One commits the murder and thus becomes oneself an abode of the evil one believes one is meant to fight. Doesn’t such an act change one’s life course for ever; doesn’t one also turn, from an immaculate, pure man into a man weighed down by guilt, a man whose sleep is broken by nightmares? Oh yes, he does, particularly if, from an early age, one has taken it upon oneself, in response to one’s father’s urge to love one’s neighbour as oneself. (2007) Translated by Florin Bican

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DENISA MIRENA PIŞCU

Banane verzi puse la copt pe dulapuri

***

În tramvaiul acesta

oamenii sunt atât de săraci

încât nici controlorii nu mai urcă—

aş putea călători liniştită

fără bilet.

115

***

În fiecare dimineaţă,

femei greoaie cu batic pe cap şi fuste

peste pantaloni tricotaţi

se chinuie să urce

scara tramvaiului,

mult prea înaltă,

şi se roagă:

„trage-mă, mamă,

trage-mă şi pe mine!”

116

***

Şi în fiecare zi aud un murmur

cu „înainte era mult mai bine,

era mai bine!”

de parcă noţiunea de „bine”

nu se mai poate asocia

decât cu timpul trecut;

(să fie ăsta un simptom

al bătrâneţii?)

„era mai bine înainte…”

(de a te naşte tu)—

şi nu poţi accepta…

117

***

Zvonuri despre revoluţie şi

terorişti care trag în noi

în această zi în care

bunica

frământă aluat de cozonaci

fără să zică nimic;

noi, în jurul ei,

agitându-ne

pe la geamuri

aşteptând apariţia tancurilor pe stradă,

în oraşul nostru de graniţă,

celebrele tancuri ruseşti…

ce o să facem?!

ce o să facem?!

Şi bunica răspunzând calmă:

„o să mergem în beci—

fac cozonaci şi pâine

să avem ce mânca.”

118

***

Mergem „la bloc,”

de la şcoală la bloc,

pe străzile părăsite ale oraşului,

pe străzile panicate pe care

mama mă trage de mână şi-mi zice:

„să fugim!

să fugim, vin teroriştii”

(lângă noi, un bărbat cu ochi tulburi îşi încarcă pistolul)

iar pe mine mă doare

„într-o parte”

nu mai pot fugi iar

mama mă ceartă

„să fugim, hai, încearcă,

altfel vin teroriştii!”

119

***

Banane verzi puse la copt pe dulapuri.

Azi am gustat prima oară banana

„e ca untul, nu-mi place…”

Şi părinţii mei, dezamăgiţi:

„mai gustă, hai, mai gustă!”

învârtindu-se în jurul meu

ca în jurul unui secret.

120

***

Banane răscoapte de la Carrefour,

banane în pauza de masă,

cure de banane pentru îngrăşare…

şi bananele mele verzi—nu demult—

puse la copt pe dulapuri

ca într-un pom miraculos.

121

***

Cozi pentru lapte, cu noaptea în cap,

„hai, copile, scoală,

să mergem după lapte”

egalate, 15 ani mai târziu,

doar de cozile pentru paşapoarte—

împreună cu tata

de la 5 dimineaţa la 7 seara;

uşa poliţistului Vergiliu

închisă chiar în nasul nostru

la sfârşitul programului.

„Vă rog, domnule poliţist,

daţi-mi şansa de a vizita lumea…”

„Mai aveţi lapte?”

„Nu mai avem!”

O altă zi înghiţită în sec.

Lapte preţios prin venele mele de copil,

lapte plătit cu nopţi nedormite

şi varice la picioare.

Dar acum,

prin cartierul meu spaţios

lăptarul blocului îşi cheamă clienţii

cu sunet de talangă;

coborâm instantaneu,

noi, doritorii,

şi cumpărăm lapte, brânză, smântână…

Venele mele de om tânăr,

pline de lapte

(vândut în sticle de Fanta).

122

***

Pregătirea pentru Cântarea României

când am învăţat să dansez vals

cu un coleg mai înalt decât mine,

Victor,

căruia îi mirosea gura…

Şi acum dansez vals elegant,

la petrecerile festive ale prietenilor mei parfumaţi

cu Colgate, Blend-a-Med, Sensodyne.

123

***

Cehia,

cu nenumărate atracţii turistice

şi lebede albe;

cu suveniruri din ceramică veselă

şi reminiscenţe comuniste

scoase la vânzare:

stele şi steme,

tricouri şi căni şi căciuli

cu secera şi ciocanul

şi Kafka.

(şi adolescenţi vestici

îmbulzindu-se să le cumpere—

iar pe mine mă trec fiorii…)

124

***

Bunicul meu citind „Zori noi”

şi refuzând să vină „la noi, la bloc”

să vadă cum ne-am aranjat...

Ne petrece cu privirea,

când plecăm de la el

până în capătul străzii,

la cinema Flacăra

(unde cotim).

125

***

Cântece pioniereşti fredonate

în libertate

de dragul ritmului…

Un grup vesel de părinţi şi copii

vizitând nordul Moldovei

într-o maşină galbenă, semi-decapotabilă,

într-un exerciţiu de purificare…

Capete scoase din maşină,

saluturi,

şi localnici uimiţi, neştiind cum să reacţioneze

la libertate.

126

*** Azi am semnat primul protest public din viaţa mea de tânăr democrat „Petiţie împotriva lipsei de profesionalism a Centrului Naţional al Cinematografiei” care i-a acordat finanţare la trei secţiuni diferite numai (tot) lui Sergiu Nicolaescu— în detrimentul tinerilor regizori de succes pe care îi susţin din solidaritate artistică şi respect. Am fost felicitată în mod automat de autorul site-ului care găzduia petiţia— ale cărui precizări le-am citit pe nerăsuflate. Am fost felicitată pentru curajul de a-mi asuma public o opinie şi încurajată să donez „cel puţin 1$” pentru îmbunătăţirea site-ului şi susţinerea libertăţii de expresie. Realizez abia acum cât de greu mi-a fost să fac gestul semnării şi câţi ani am ezitat (în situaţii similare) din teama subconştientă de a nu fi “urmărită / persecutată” de a nu mi se înregistra opţiunea şi bifa, undeva, negativ, în detrimentul altor posibile libertăţi anulate inconştient. De unde acest „subconştient persecutat” al unei epoci pe care nu am apucat s-o trăiesc şi pe care nu o cunosc decât din auzite şi cărţi…?

127

*** Zile de martie la grădiniţă când n-avem bani deloc şi îi duc educatoarei un mărţişor frumos găsit pe stradă, pe jos. Numai atât? îmi rânjeşte şi mi-l dă înapoi.

128

*** La şcoală, în primele clase când eram îndrăgostită de Radu şi mâncam figurine roşii de zahăr ars vândute la poarta şcolii de ţigănci… Mă întorceam acasă, invariabil, cu flori de iris sau margarete rupte din zonele comune, cu tăbliţe mari „nu rupeţi florile! nu călcaţi iarba!” Dar eu abia învăţam să citesc...

129

***

Stăm la coadă, toţi copiii,

cuminţi,

cu mâinile pregătite pentru

expertiză.

Unghiile negre nu sunt acceptate

de Partid,

unghiile negre şi lungi,

periculoase

gheare

solitare…

Numai Partidul are voie

să poarte Gheare.

(2007)

130

DENISA MIRENA PIŞCU

Green bananas left to get ripe on cupboards

*** The people on this tram are so very poor that ticket inspectors no longer bother to get on— I could safely go for a ride without paying.

131

***

Every morning

large heavy women wearing headscarves and skirts

on top of knit trousers

struggle to climb

onto the step of the tram,

way too high,

and they plead:

“give momma a hand up, there’s a dear,

give us a hand up, do!”

132

***

Day after day there’s a murmur

going “it was much better before,

it was better”

as if the idea of “better”

could only be tied

to the past tense.

Could it be that’s a sign

of old age?

“It was better before …”

(you were even born)

and you just can’t accept that.

133

***

Rumors of revolution and

terrorists shooting at us

on this day when

Grandmother

kneads the Christmas-cake dough

without saying a word;

we’re rushing

past her

to the windows

waiting for tanks to roll into the street,

in our borderland town,

those famous Russian tanks.

What are we to do?

What are we to do?

And Grandmother calmly replies:

“we’ll go down to the basement—

I’m baking Christmas cake and bread

so we won’t have to starve.”

134

***

We’re on our way to “the block,”

from school to the block,

down the deserted streets of the town,

down panic-stricken streets Mom

tugs me along by the hand, telling me:

“let us run!

let us run, there’ll be terrorists coming”

(next to us, a bleary-eyed man is loading his gun)

and I’ve got this stitch

“in my side”

I can’t run any more and

Mom tells me off

“let us run, come, give it a try,

before the terrorists come!”

135

***

Green bananas left to get ripe on cupboards.

Today I’ve had my first taste of banana.

“It’s like butter, I don’t like this thing …”

And then my disappointed parents go:

“come on, give it a try, just one more try!”

as they keep puzzling over me

like the whole thing was some mystery.

136

***

Overripe bananas from the Carrefour hypermarket,

bananas for the lunch break,

banana diets for putting on weight …

and my green bananas—not long ago—

left to get ripe on cupboards

as if on some magic tree.

137

***

Queuing for milk at day break—

“come, child, do get up,

let’s go get some milk”—

can only compare, 15 years later,

with queuing for passports—

me and my Dad,

from 5 in the morning to 7 o’clock in the evening;

the door of policeman Vergilius

slammed in our face

at closing time.

“Please, Mister Policeman,

give me the chance to go visit the world …”

“Is there still any milk?”

“No, it’s out for today.”

Going without for yet another day …

Precious milk through my child veins,

milk paid for with staying awake all night long,

and with getting varicose veins.

However these days,

all through my ample-spaced quarter,

the milkman delivering milk to our block

summons his patrons

with the sound of a bell;

down we rush in an instant,

those of us who need anything,

and buy milk, cheese and cream …

My young veins fill with milk

(sold in Fanta bottles).

138

*** The rehearsal for Praising Romania when I learned how to waltz with a classmate taller than me, Victor, who suffered from bad breath … I can still dance an elegant waltz at the exquisite parties I go to these days where my friends flavour their breaths with Colgate, Blend-a-Med, Sensodyne.

139

*** Downtown Prague with tourist attractions galore and white swans, with souvenirs of cheerful ceramic and communist relics on sale: medals and stars, T-shirts and mugs and army caps with the hammer and sickle and Kafka. (and kids from the West jostling to buy them— and it gives me the creeps …)

140

***

Grandfather reading “The New Dawn”

and refusing to come to “the block”

and see what a life we’ve made for ourselves there…

His eyes follow us

as we leave

all the way to the end of the street,

where the “Flame Cinema” is

(that’s where we turn into another street).

141

*** Old pioneer songs hummed in freedom for the sake of their rhythm… A cheerful group of parents and children on a trip to the northern Moldavia in a yellow, semi convertible car, as an attempted cleansing ritual … Heads thrust out of the car, greetings, and locals taken aback, as yet unsure as to how they’re supposed to react in the presence of freedom.

142

*** Today I have signed my first public protest in my life as a young democrat “Petition against the National Cinematography Centre’s lack of professionalism” for financing only (as always) Sergiu Nicolaescu at three different sections— to the disadvantage of young successful directors whom I support out of artistic solidarity and respect. I was automatically commended by the one on whose site the petition was posted— I was commended for my courage to publicly stand for what I believed in and urged to donate “1 $ at least” for improving the site and supporting the freedom of expression. It’s only now that I realize how hard it was for me to go through the actual process of signing, and how many years I’ve spent hesitating (under similar circumstances) out of the subconscious fear of not being “followed/persecuted” of not having my option put on the record somewhere under the wrong rubric, to the effect of having other possible liberties cancelled unconsciously. Where does it come from, this “persecuted subconscious” belonging to an age I’m too young to have lived through, and which I only know from hearsay and from books?

143

*** Early March days at Kindergarten when my folks had no money to speak of so I presented the kindergarten attendant with a nice-looking March-charm I’d found lying about in the street. “That all?” she replied with a grin and returned it to me.

144

*** My early school days when I was in love with Radu and would munch on red candy sold outside the school gate by Gypsy-women … I’d come home, as a rule, with irises or daisies plucked from public spaces, where large boards would proclaim “no picking flowers! no walking on grass!” But I was just learning to read at the time …

145

***

We’re standing in line, all of us kids,

perfectly still,

hands ready for

inspection.

Dirty fingernails are not allowed

by the Party,

dirty, long fingernails,

dangerous

claws,

individual flaws ...

the Party alone is allowed

to grow Claws.

(2007) Translated by Florin Bican

146

VOIDS

EDUARD VACEK

Jak to bylo?

Moje první setkání s totalitou Narodil jsem se v roce 1947. Byl to jediný relativně svobodný rok v mém životě, až do přelomového roku 1989. Ani v tomto jediném svobodném roce, který jsem pochopitelně vnímal z pozice kojence, se však ve skutečnosti nejednalo o plnoprávnou svobodu, ale o období, jež bylo již zcela ovládané nadcházející totalitou. Všichni moji předkové z otcovy strany byli přesvědčenými komunisty. Nejvýznamnějším z nich byl můj pradědeček, senátor za socialistickou a později komunistickou stranu. Také jeho dcera, moje babička, stála při vzniku KSČ a byla její zakládající členkou v Hradci Králové. Komunistická idea pokračovala až k mému otci. Cítil jsem se proto stigmatizovaným a kladl si otázky o míře viny svých předků. Vliv komunistické ideje v naší rodině v poslední generaci poněkud zeslábl ve střetu s životními zkušenostmi otce mé matky, jenž byl obecním policistou a který tuto funkci získal jako trafiku po té, co se vrátil jako legionář ze sovětské Rusko. Svým politickým profilem byl dědeček sociálním demokratem. Jako malé dítě jsem byl přítomen ideovým střetům tohoto zkušeného muže znalého sovětských poměrů s mým otcem. Když byly rádiem přenášeny soudní procesy se Slánským a dalšími komunisty, dědeček sděloval mému otci nepříjemné myšlenky a nikdy jej neopomněl varovat: „Možná jednou přijde řada i na Tebe Edo, a oni tě taky tě pověsí.“ „Proč by mě měli věšet?“ bránil se otec znepokojivým myšlenkám. „Já jsem nikomu nic zlého neučinil.“ „Ani miliony jiných lidí neučinily nic Stalinovi, a přeci je nechal všechny povraždit,“ odpovídal dědeček. Slánský byl ještě včera nejmocnějším komunistou a dnes je vyvrhelem strany. Jeho smrt požadují dělníci a zemědělci, pacienti nemocnic i pionýři. Ti všichni budou podepsání na jeho rozsudku smrti.

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Komunisté nechtějí vraždit sami, přejí si podělit se o zodpovědnost za vraždy s celým národem a vybízejí jej proto k souhlasu s tím, co činí. Národ po hrozných válečných zkušenostech z války, poválečných zkušenostech s českým gestapismem se jistě rád přidá, protože je vhodné postavit se na stranu vítězů. Je dobré se přidat k těm, kteří odřezávají hlavy a nebýt mezi poraženými, kde řádí rudá trestní justice a kde si smrt vybírá své oběti. Bolševismus je však velice zákeřný a dovede dokonale mást všechny ty, kteří mu chtějí uniknout. Sahá taky mezi své stoupence a služebníky a vraždí a postihuje také je. Ano, když se kácí les, létají třísky, je výmyslem a heslem bolševiků. Otec poslouchal nerad svého tchána, zdálo se mu, že je zaujatý proti komunistům, bolševikům zvláště. Dědeček ale vycházel ze svých vlastních zkušeností. Na nekonečných ruských pláních zažil Stalinův hladomor, který kosil bez milosti celé vesnice a zanechával za sebou sta a tisícovky lidských obětí, na svých vojenských výpravách se potkal mnohokrát se smrtí a poznal, že pro bolševismus je zabíjení lidí přirozenou součástí jejích zvrácené politiky. Komunisté v Československu však tyto mrtvé nechtěli vidět. Vytěsňovali ze svých myslí a srdcí všechno, co nesouhlasilo s jejich představami o zemi, kde zítra již znamenalo včera. Zprávy, které přicházely z SSSR, považovali za nenávistnou protisovětskou propagandu. Ti fanatičtější z nich však neváhali přinést novým myšlenkám oběti, samozřejmě nikoli vlastní. Prodrali se do svazáckých a stranických funkcí a rozhodovali o tom, koho je třeba odněkud vyloučit, zavrhnout a zavřít. Tak se naplnil pojem stranickost, ve svém původním významu. Ano, tito lidé stranili tomu, co si osvojili a oblíbili ve svých srdcích, protože stranili tomu, co bylo podle jejich přesvědčení pro stranu a tím i pro ně samotné výhodné, neboť spojili své osudy s politikou strany. Mnoho z nich se připojilo zcela vědomě a odpovědně k programu ideového a fyzického ničení vnitřního i vnějšího nepřítele, tak jak jim to naplánovali jejich vedoucí straničtí funkcionáři. Byl to skutečný boj, boj na život a na smrt s veškerým arzenálem bojových prostředků, jaké jsou po staletí používány v kmenových, národních, ideových a občanských válkách. Byl to nesmiřitelný sociální konflikt, který měl směřovat k poražení a vyhlazení odpůrců a nepřátel. Záleželo pouze na tom, koho stranické vedení označí za nepřítele a stranicko-mocenský mechanismus také i jejich prostřednictvím dokončil své zhoubné dílo. Poslouchal jsem zaujatě hádky svého otce s dědečkem, než mě babička odvedla za ruku pryč, abych z toho neměl zlé spaní. Byla toho názoru, že se nemají dospělí před dětmi hádat. Pamatuji se, že na pozadí těchto diskusí ječel z rádia doktor Urválek hystericky svá obvinění. Citlivě jsem vnímal vzrušené hlasy soudruhů i hlasu ulice a má dětská duše byla zcela zmatená.

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Dítě touží po jednotě a harmonii, ale já jsem byl vystaven disharmonii z konfliktu mezi autoritou svého otce a dědečka a celé společnosti, která dštila negativní a nenávistné emoce. Dědeček byl pro mě velice přitažlivou osobností. Měl černou vojenskou truhlu naplněnou tlustými knihami. Ve vzácných chvílích vyňal některou z nich a ukazoval mi fotografie vojáků s bajonety, seřazených před vagonem stojícího vlaku. Někteří vojáci měli vysoké chlupaté čepice a vážně hleděli do objektivu kamery. Dědeček mi ukázal jednoho z nich. To jsem já, pravil hrdě. Dědečka postihla osobní tragédie. Onemocněl rakovinou prostaty a z důvodů nepřekonatelné bolestí se na dvorku zastřelil ze služební pistole dvěma ranami do hlavy. Totalita a její vliv prostřednictvím příbuzných a školy Otec spolu se svou matkou byli nadále osobami, které ovlivňovaly moji hodnotovou a politickou orientaci. Jejich působení bylo také posilováno vlivem školy, která prostřednictvím svých aktivních učitelů prosazovala stalinistickou hodnotovou orientaci. Přesto však na mě škola nepůsobila hodnověrně. Pamatuji se, že prestiž školy utrpěla především tím, že nás učitelé nutili začerňovat části textu či celé pasáže v učebnicích. Příčilo se mi to ze dvou důvodů. Jako dítě jsem byl vedený k tomu, že se do knih nesmí nic kreslit a nijak je poškozovat špatným zacházením. Začerňování pasáží bylo z tohoto důvodu barbarské. Druhým důvodem, který jsem si začal uvědomovat sice pozvolna, ale s o to větší intenzitou a který se odvíjel od dřívějších konfliktů mezi otcem a dědečkem byl konflikt mezi pravdou a nepravdou, zdravým rozumem a fanatismem. Dědečkova prožitá zkušenost vážila v mých očích víc, než otcův fanatismus. Vliv ideového působení ve škole měl na moji duši—duši dítěte, neblahé důsledky. Pamatuji se, že někdy ve druhé nebo třetí třídě základní školy nechala učitelka kolovat po třídě fotografie mladých sovětských hrdinů, udavače vlastních rodičů Pavlíka Morozova a také umučené Zoji Kosmoděmjanské. Nemohl jsem odtrhnout oči od visící mrtvé ostříhané ženy ve společnosti smějících se esesmanů. Byl to pro mě hluboký a otřesný zážitek, který však ve mně současně vyvolal podivné vnitřní psychické pochody, spjaté kupodivu se sexualitou. Myslel jsem na tuto zavražděnou mladou ženu a přál jsem si tento obrázek vlastnit. Myšlenka na Zoju ve mně vzbuzovala opravdové vzrušení. Když jsem jednou v neděli navštívil se svými rodiči babičku a jako obvykle jsem běhal po obědě po zahradě a hrál si, opět jsem si na Zoju vzpomněl. V mysli jsem se zabýval myšlenou na smrt

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oběšením. Bylo to stále silnější, až jsem dospěl k rozhodnutí, že je to třeba vyzkoušet. Nejprve jsem se věšel za ruce na větve stromů, ale bylo mi to málo. Vstoupil jsem do dřevníku, kde měla babička uskladněné věci na zátop, dříví, srp na trávu pro králíky a všelijaké předměty, které jsem často zkoumal. Našel jsem tu kus provazu, který jsem si vypůjčil a starou stoličku. Obojí jsem odnesl pod jabloň. Z provazu jsem vyrobil oprátku, kterou jsem přivázal na větev jabloně. Podle svých představ, které byly ovlivněné veřejnými procesy, jsem se odsoudil k oběšení a stoupl si na stoličku. Oprátku jsem si dal na krk a pokrčil nohy. Byl to zvláštní pocit, který měl bezpochyby také podivný sexuální podtext. Jednu chvíli jsem se rozkymácel a byla jen náhoda, že se stolička nezvrtla a že jsem se skutečně neoběsil. Nikdo by se nikdy nedozvěděl, že jsem jen napodoboval vzor, kterým byla Zoja Kosmoděmjanská. Dialektika existencialismu, či možnost existence několika vyvážených tzv. paralelních pravd byla pro mé myšlení a vnitřní cit pro spravedlnost nemyslitelná. V době mého dospívání mi otec nosil odněkud domů ke čtení sovětské válečné autory, od nichž jsem se naučil nenávidět válku a násilí. Četl jsem si příběhy o sovětských dětech, které chytali nacisté, aby jim brali krev pro krevní transfuze pro raněné německé vojáky. Z pozůstalosti po dědečkovi jsem si zase půjčoval knihy, které vypovídaly o historických zkušenostech z jiných období. Ve dvanácti letech jsem přečetl celého Sienkiewicze, a řadu knih od autorů—obrozenců. Byly to vesměs tlusté a rozvláčné knihy, které mě učily trpělivosti. Četl jsem pod dekou, ve svitu baterky, když mě matka zahnala spát. Začal jsem tušit a vnímat základní poznatky geneze lidské společnosti. Její konfliktnost a neuspořádanost, všudypřítomnost násilí a nespravedlnosti a malou schopnost lidstva úspěšně řešit své konflikty a problémy. Tyto zkušenosti mi nepřidaly na klidu. Zatímco o mém negativním postoji k tzv. fašismu (spíše nacismu) nemohlo být pochyb, neboť jsem byl průběžně seznamován s nespočtem válečných dokumentů, filmů, propagačního materiálu a knih, které byly nezpochybnitelnou argumentací, v případě komunistické totality to bylo nesporně složitější. Musím říci, že dědečkovy názory položily základ mému budoucímu přesvědčení a významně ovlivnily můj záporný postoj k sovětské totalitě, která zamořila společnost na mnoho let. Podvědomě jsem si vytvořil vnitřní hodnotový systém a ukládal v sobě vše, co mne ovlivnilo a co se mě v této věci dotklo. Byly to schůzky mého otce se soudruhy, kde se řešily závažné etické a mravní problémy doby. Byl jsem zvědavý a sledoval záležitosti, které byly intimními zpověďmi, vyjádřením pochybností, hledáním pravdy a nakonec přizpůsobení se stranické kázni, včetně disciplinovaných návratů k názoru vedení KSČ, jako jediné možné reakci.

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Nikdo si nepřál být renegátem, nepřítelem strany, upadnout v nemilost a přijít o obživu, případně být postižen. Tito lidé prožívali před mou dětskou duší svá rozpolcení osobnosti, svá lidská selhání, své osobní tragédie. Vnímal jsem to všechno velice silně a pociťoval totalitu jako cizí a nepřátelský prvek, který ničí lidskou individualitu a nutí lidi myslet si a činit věci, se kterými nejsou vnitřně srozuměni. Samozřejmě, to všechno za výhody, které strana svým členům poskytuje. Byl jsem přítomen politickému i profesnímu pádu svého strýce, který byl přesvědčeným marxistou a ekonomickým náměstkem významné továrny na lodní motory v Hradci Králové. Při kontraktu v Číně si přivezl malou brožurku Mao Ce-tunga a jeho portrét, které dostal jako rozlučku s čínskými soudruhy na letišti. Když přijel, ukázal to bezelstně jako raritu několika spolusoudruhům na vedení podniku. Byl za to pranýřován na KV KSČ a v důsledku ideové odchylky odvolán z funkce ekonomického náměstka. Neunesl to a během krátké doby zemřel na infarkt. Všechny peripetie jeho dramatu jsem sledoval bezprostředně, neboť je řešil s mým otcem za mé přítomnosti. Když jsem do věci jako dítě vstupoval se svými názory, byl jsem označen jako malý idiot, který nerozumí politice. Měl jsem však pravdu já, nikoli dva dospělí lidé zaslepení ideologií. Na jeho pohřeb přijeli všichni ti, kteří jej udali i s těmi, kteří jej vyloučili a zbavili místa. Všichni přivezli honosné věnce a spoustu drahých květin. Pamatuji se, jak postupně přistupovali k mé tetě, třepali ji rukou a kondolovali ji. Všichni mluvili o tom, že podnik i strana pociťují odchodem důležitého člověka velikou ztrátu. Ve skutečnosti mu však nabídli místo v dílně, kde se lodní motory před expedicí balily do beden. Po mnoha letech jsem se snažil na toto téma s otcem promluvit. Nepamatoval se na to, všechno buď zapřel, nebo vytěsnil ze svých vzpomínek. Nevěděl nic o zvěrstvech stalinismu, slepě věřil vedení strany a neměl žádné výčitky svědomí. Jak je možné, že si má dětská paměť tyto věci uchovala v tak ostrých obrazech? Byl můj otec spoluviníkem, nebo obětí doby? Vpád spřátelených vojsk do republiky v roce 1968 Další významnou etapou ovlivňující můj postoj k totalitní moci byl rok 1968. Vpád vojsk Varšavské smlouvy a okupace Československa sovětskými vojsky, dobrovolná smrt Jana Palacha, který se upálil na Václavském náměstí na protest proti nastupující normalizaci. Toto období mne zastihlo při základní vojenské presenční službě v Chebu. Velitelství západního okruhu bylo zpočátku nakloněné bojovat proti agresorovi, ale v armádě brzy převážil

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vliv Svobodova komunistického vedení a armáda, tak jako mnohokrát předtím, rezignovala na obranu své vlasti. Byl jsem tehdy velmi ovlivněn skupinou spisovatelů kolem Literárních novin a Listů, jako voják jsem podepsal 2000 slov a můj postoj vůči totalitě se upevnil. Komunisté počali ve společnosti upevňovat svoji moc velmi brutálním a nevybíravým způsobem. Rozhodli se prověřit a ponížit celý národ, respektive všechny osoby, které ve společnosti zastávaly nějaké významnější postavení. Ideové prověrky měly eliminovat ideové nepřátele a zbavit je jejich vlivu na společnost. Tisíce osob, které nebyly prostřednictvím komunistických komisařů prověřeny, musely opustit svá zaměstnání a nastoupily na nekvalifikovaná místa ve výrobě. V této etapě došlo k nejvýznamnějšímu zlomu v oblasti morálky a etiky v poválečné době. Z této doby se datuje můj druhý interní konflikt s mým otcem. Po svém návratu do civilního života jsem se rozhodl k emigraci. Pohrdal jsem národem, který se tak snadno a bez odporu nechal zglajchšaltovat. Cítil jsem ohromnou propast mezi obětí Jana Palacha a lidem, který jeho oběti nebyl hoden. Bolela mne zrada kulturních a intelektuálních elit, které se sklonily před mocí a přijaly bezvýhradně její diktát. Byl to konec, v jistém ohledu úplné odumření víry v budoucnost. Byl jsem stoprocentně přesvědčený, že toto území je místem duchů a rozhodl jsem se proto co nejrychleji odejít. Otec prožíval toto období s napětím, měl strach o svoji politickou pozici. Když jsem mu oznámil, že jsem připraven k emigraci, téměř se zhroutil. Vysvětloval mi, že pokud odejdu, bude vyhozen ze svého místa, které zastával bez odpovídající kvalifikace jako člen strany. Nedovedl si vůbec představit, že se vrátí k profesi ofsetového mistra do tiskárny, k profesi, kterou dříve tak miloval. Jednoznačně spojil mé rozhodnutí se svým vlastním osudem a činil mne zodpovědným za budoucí pohromu rodiny, pokud skutečně odejdu. Byl jsem citově vydírán. Podlehl jsem jeho tlaku a zůstal jsem, odstěhoval jsem se ale od rodiny do Prahy do dělnického prostředí vysočanské ubytovny. Při svých sporadických návštěvách rodiny jsem byl konfrontován se zkušeností přátel svého otce, kteří byli při prověrkách postupně vyhazováni a s pomocí alkoholu spolu s otcem probírali svoji situaci. Pamatuji se na vysoce postaveného policistu, který plačtivě naříkal a stěžoval si na nespravedlnost. Vzpomínal na své někdejší služby straně v padesátých letech, kdy vpašovával vybraným lidem do bytů různé předměty, aby mohli být zatčeni a odsouzeni. „A oni mě teď vyhodili Edo.“ Čekal jsem, že můj otec odsoudí jeho dřívější špatnost a řekne mu, že ho jen v mírné podobě dohnal osud, který připravoval jiným. Že by měl tuto ránu osudu chápat jako revanš za svou dřívější špatnost. Nestalo se tak, a já jsem si uvědomil, že je otec součástí totality, která decimovala zemi. Netrvalo dlouho, a také on poznal na vlastní kůži krutost

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svých vlastních soudruhů, když přišel o místo. Nebylo to proto, že by odsoudil vpád spřátelených armád, jak bych to od něj byl očekával, ale z nějakých interních stranických důvodů, nejspíš proto, že měl na jeho místo zálusk někdo z mocných. Nelitoval jsem ho a připomenul jsem mu, že jsem neemigroval ze země kvůli jeho kariéře, která byla nyní minulostí. Řekl mi jen, že jsem měl jít, byl jen smutným generálem po prohrané bitvě. Pokud bych ale tehdy skutečně odešel, činil by mne až do své smrti odpovědného za svůj politický pád. Otec se již nikdy z této rány nevzpamatoval a odešel do invalidního důchodu, byl to zlomený člověk. Na jeho osudu jsem si uvědomil hloubku tragedie v komunismus věřících slušných straníků. Mohu to takto říci, neboť jsem přesvědčený o tom, že můj otec nikomu osobně neublížil. Byl jen malou součástí totality, která mrzačila svět. Vina a nevina z mého pohledu Mezi členy strany nebyli a nejsou úplně nevinní. Nejčastěji jsou komunisté spoluviníky i oběťmi současně. Každý jednotlivý člen totalitní organizace jakou byla KSČ, nese svůj podíl viny na mnohaletém marasmu, bez ohledu na to, zda si svou vinu přizná, a nebo zda svoji minulost vytěsní ze svého svědomí, zamlčí ji a zaretušuje v představě, že nebude vzpomenuta a odhalena. Ti dogmatičtí ovšem vytrvají ve svém omylu až do samotného konce. Toto můj otec a mnozí další členové strany sloužící myšlence bolševismu odmítali pochopit, neboť jim jejich věc připadala svatá. V případě mého otce šlo také i o jakousi rodovou posloupnost, o světlo předávané z generace na generaci. S vyznávanou ideou se samozřejmě pojila současně i jejich osobní, politická a profesní kariéra. Tyto motivační vlivy nebyly nevýznamné. Rychlý kariérní růst členů politické strany byl a dosud je závislý na politické podpoře, která odvozuje svůj vliv od míry moci, kterou strana disponuje. Stranictví vytváří ze svého principu korupční a zároveň manipulativní prostředí, vyžadující disciplinu a kázeň. Stranickost je přirozenou součástí lidské povahy. Člověk si něco oblíbí, straní tomu, na druhé straně je proti něčemu. Sdružování jednosměrně vyhraněných osob je principem stranictví. Stranictví samo o sobě není pozitivní ani negativní, neboť je neutrální. Je to jen pouhé seskupení osob, kteří sledují společné cíle. Pokud však tomuto společenství chybí etika a morálka, nebo pokud společně vyznávají zvrácené hodnoty nebo dokonce pěstují myšlenky, mající negativní tvořivý potenciál, pak může jít o společenství osob (stranu), které mohou obecně škodit. To je právě případ

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strany nacionálně socialistické a komunistické, neboť v obou případech šlo zjevně o veřejně proklamované teze, které si kladly za cíl zničení dosavadního společenského řádu metodami využití státního násilí, jako prostředku k dosažení politických a mocenských cílů. Vyhubení nepřátel a zničení jejich rodin bylo z pohledu straníků jen malou daní za všeobecně prospěšný cíl. Teze deklarující společenské násilí byly zjevnou součástí jejich politických programů a nebyly proto neznámé. Pokud do takového společenského uskupení (politické strany) vstupuje svobodná osoba dobrovolně, tj. z vlastní vůle, stává se automaticky spoluviníkem na tom, jakým způsobem bude politika strany realizována. V případě míry viny jde o podíl moci a vlivu, kterým dotyčná osoba ve struktuře politické strany disponuje. Podíl na vině však nenesou pouze členové totalitní strany, ale elity státu, který umožní existenci a veřejné působení takových politických stran a poskytne jim legitimní a legální podporu. Získávání vlastních zkušeností Po odchodu od rodiny jsem prošel vším, co mohl komunistický režim nabídnout lidem na společenské periferii. Byla to skutečná bída a marasmus společnosti. Žil jsem v nedůstojných a primitivních podmínkách pražských dělnických ubytoven Vojenských staveb ve Vysočanech a poznal jsem, jak je to s dělnickou třídou, kterou se politický režim zaštiťoval, ve skutečnosti. Byla to hluboce třídní společnost, kde lidé na jejím okraji neměli žádnou možnost překonat své společenské postavení, které bylo stejně bídné jako postavení jejich souputníků kdekoli v kapitalismu. Kapitalismus byl ovšem pro tyto nelítostné postoje kritizován „pokrokovější společností“. Byl jsem vykořisťován, pracoval jsem v podmínkách, které neodpovídaly žádným normám, a nakonec jsem byl oloupen o příslib bytu a nenašel nikde dovolání. Nakonec jsem bydlel spolu s manželkou ve zdevastovaném zámku ve Zdibech u Prahy, v podmínkách, jako nyní bydlí někteří tzv. bezdomovci. Já i moje manželka jsme ale oba pracovali a neměli jsme žádné konflikty s lidmi, ani se stávající mocí. Když jsem odjel s představou lepšího života do pohraničí, setkal jsem se zde s neuvěřitelnou arogancí a zneužíváním moci lidmi, kteří byli komunisty. V Teplicích jsem byl v lednu v nejhorších mrazech spolu se svoji manželkou přinucen obývat opuštěný betonový bunkr, ačkoli jsem pracoval v Okresním podniku bytového hospodářství. Bytová komise neměla zájem na řešení mého problému, ačkoli ve městě byly stovky opuštěných a mnoho let nevyužívaných bytů. Poznal jsem nelítostný a krutý komunismus na vlastní kůži. V nejhlubší beznaději mi pomohli Svědkové Jehovovi, kteří mi pomohli opravit deset let neobývaný byt. I tento prostor,

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který jsem nelegálně s manželkou obsadil, byl příčinou konfliktu s ředitelem Okresního bytového podniku, jehož jsem byl zaměstnancem. Nikdo mi nic nemusí vyprávět o tom, co je komunismus, jaké má sociální cítění s lidmi. Jsou to mé osobní zkušenosti, které zcela vymezily můj postoj k totalitnímu režimu. Není možné, aby byl jiný, než je, totiž zcela negativní. Samozřejmě nešlo jen o základní fyziologické životní potřeby, které v hierarchii Maslowovy teorie hodnot tvoří základní existenční stupeň, tj potřeba přístřeší, přežití, jídla a pití. Po celou dobu své anabáze osmdesátými léty minulého století jsem pociťoval také i újmu v oblasti kulturní. Normalizační husákovské vedení vyplenilo všechna knižní nakladatelství, vydavatelství a veškeré kulturní instituce. Všude dosadilo své ideologické strážce, kteří dbali na to, aby vznikl monopol bolševických myšlenek. Během několika měsíců po invazi tzv. spřátelených vojsk vymizely z pultů obchodů a knihoven publikace obsahující jiné než komunistické myšlenky, které nerozvíjely demagogické učení Leninovo a jiných bolševiků. Z distribuce zmizely kvalitní filmy, galerie výtvarného umění ovládl socialistický realismus. Opět bylo možné všude vidět vzdělané, ale všehoschopné služebníky politického režimu, ochotné plnit jeho vůli. Totalita rozprostřela svůj banalizující všudypřítomný vliv na všechny oblasti života a neponechala nic nahodilosti nebo náhodě. Nová naděje prostřednictvím Charty 77 Světlým bodem této etapy bylo několik desítek neohrožených hlasů Charty 77. Nejprve jsem chtěl tento dokument také podepsat, neboť jsem s ním vnitřně souhlasil. Byl jsem však starším sboru Svědků Jehovových, a tato pozice vyžadovala úplnou apolitičnost. Později, po mém odchodu z církve z důvodů nekonformních postojů, jsem však již svůj podpis pod Chartu 77 nepřipojil. Důvodem byla, na můj vkus, přílišná názorová a ideová různorodost tohoto společenství. Zcela zde chyběli ti skuteční odpůrci režimu z padesátých let a jejich rodinní příslušníci. Mnozí z nich byli popraveni v politických procesech, další strávili ve věznicích dlouhá desetiletí. Byli tu naopak hojně zastoupeni bývalí aktivní svazáci a komunisté, kteří přišli o své stranické posty zejména ve stranických čistkách. Někteří členové Charty 77 působili v padesátých letech jako ideoví nepřátelé těchto skutečných odpůrců komunismu. Přesto jsem našel osobní vztah k některým členům Charty 77, zejména k těm mladším, kteří neměli s excesy v padesátých letech nic společného. Politický režim zaregistroval mé kontakty poměrně rychle. Byl jsem StB občas odchycen na ulici, nebo si pro mne přijížděli do zaměstnání a odváželi

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do své úřadovny. V rozhovorech jsem byl varován a zastrašován před svými kontakty. V případě zátahu na neoficiální undergroundový časopis Vokno, do kterého jsem občas přispíval, mi byla provedena domovní prohlídka. Patafyzické kolegium, jehož jsem byl členem, vydávalo pro osobní potřebu svůj sborník (10ks). Několik čísel toho sborníku si policisté při prohlídce odvezli. Později jsem byl jako jeho šéfredaktor zatčen a odsouzen k 12 měsícům do vězení, za „zjevnou neúctu ke společnosti, které jsem se měl dopustit tím, že jsem na veřejném místě (tiskem) zesměšňoval budovatelské úsilí pracujícího lidu.“ Stal jsem se zřejmě jediným patafyzikem na světě, odsouzeným za svoji protistátní činnost. Po svém propuštění z vězení jsem se stýkal pouze s lidmi, kteří byli v nemilosti režimu. Původně jsem nebyl žádným aktivním odpůrcem politického režimu, jen jsem mu odmítl prokazovat akt uctívání a také jsem nerespektoval jeho rituály. Právě toto mi bylo vytýkáno při vyšetřování jako pýcha a škodlivý intelektualismus. Tzv. reálný socialismus pro mne nikdy nepředstavoval vrchol usilování lidstva a nikdy jsem neměl sebemenší důvod, abych jej velebil nebo podporoval. Žil jsem vedle něj a uprostřed něj a přece nebyl jeho součástí. Nebyl jsem ani jednou u voleb, nečetl jsem noviny a nezajímal se o budovatelské úsilí pracujícího lidu. Registroval jsem pouze křeče a hysterii tohoto podivného společenského řádu a ve svém nevýznamném díle je podroboval persifláži, mystifikaci a komické dehonestaci. Přetvářel jsem je tak, že jsem odhaloval jejich skrytou komičnost a prostřednictvím patafyzických technik je proměňoval do přijatelné formy. Konflikty se státní bezpečností byly tedy především důsledkem mých nekonformních postojů, ale také psaní povídek a různých textů, které byly přepisovány a kolovaly v nemnohých opisech. Jako výtvarník jsem se také účastnil na mnoha nepovolených akcích, pořádaných kulturními aktivitami Ch77 a byl jsem dopisovatelem několika nezávislých revuí. Byl to uzavřený kruh, neboť mé problémy s totalitním režimem se nemohly neprojevit v mé literární a výtvarné tvorbě. Zhroucení totality Konec totalitního systému mne zastihl připraveného. Měl jsem za sebou několik účastí na nepovolených shromážděních, nezákonná zadržení státní bezpečností, připojil jsem svůj podpis pod rezoluci Hnutí za občanskou svobodu, podával jsem zprávy rozhlasové stanici RFE o ekologických demonstracích v Teplicích. Moje postoje byly po mnoho desítek let neměnné, neměl jsem za sebou žádné ideové přemety a neměl jsem důvod se stydět za svoji minulost, neboť jsem žil celý život v souladu se svým

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svědomím. Ihned po vzniku Občanského fóra jsem se aktivně zapojil do jeho vedení a v prvních svobodných volbách jsem byl zvolen jako poslanec do České národní rady. Zde jsem se stal místopředsedou výboru pro právní ochranu a bezpečnost a přijal funkci předsedy komise pro vězeňství. Bylo to období, kdy jsem zcela odložil své soukromé zájmy a věnoval se naplno společenským a politickým záležitostem. Nabyl jsem pocitu, že je třeba přispět svým dílem k zásadním společenským změnám. Téměř veškerý čas jsem věnoval rozsáhlým změnám ve filosofii a poslání vězeňství, byl jsem jmenován ministrem spravedlnosti jako vedoucí komise pro prověrky příslušníků SNV, o víkendech jsem navštěvoval věznice, kde z podnětu starých odstupujících kádrů SNV vznikaly vzpoury a byl rozdmycháván neklid mezi vězni. Spolu s dalšími členy komise pro vězeňství a ve spolupráci s vedením Vězeňské služby se podařilo všechny tyto problémy zvládnout a prosadit modernizaci vězeňství, které přijalo příslušnou legislativu dle OSN a Rady Evropy. Již brzy po pádu totality jsem však byl konfrontován s projevy nové moci, které v sobě měly nést zárodky budoucího selhání nadějí. V prvé řadě šlo o obrovské majetkové přesuny, které se vymkly kontrole státu. Byly zrušeny zákony, které chránily státní socialistický majetek před jeho rozkradením, aniž byly přijaté adekvátní odpovídající zákony, které byly potřebné pro nové poměry. Únor 1948 se svým znárodněním privátního majetku se opakoval ve své obrácené podobě. Někteří jednotlivci využili oba historické zlomy ke svému opakovanému obohacení. Majetek státu opětovně převzali a zprivatizovali komunisté ve funkcích ředitelů a náměstků bývalých státních podniků. Vedoucí funkcionáři KSČ se přelili do ekonomické sféry a upevnili svoji moc jejím prostřednictvím. Dodnes beru velmi úkorně, že jsem byl spolu s ostatními poslanci ČNR obelstěn ministrem spravedlnosti a že jsme na základě jeho ujištění o prověřené bezúhonnosti navržených soudců odsouhlasili tyto právníky do doživotních funkcí. Často šlo o soudce, kteří se podíleli na upevňování moci KSČ odsuzováním odpůrců režimu. Politické strany bez rozdílu neučinily opatření ke své očistě a do svých vedoucích funkcí jmenovaly bývalé členy KSČ. Komunistická strana a její členové, dokonce i ti, kteří cíleně porušovali v minulosti základní lidská práva, se stali v této zemi hájenými a chráněnými. Generální prokurátor odmítl stíhat trestné činy spáchané v době komunistické éry s poukazem, že by šlo o nepřípustnou legislativní retroaktivitu, pokud šlo o porušení i tehdy platných právních norem, pak tyto činy byly promlčené. Díky všem těmto a dalším selháním nové státní moci, která však stále byla v rukách komunistů, došlo k mravním a etickým důsledkům, které přinesly obrovské morální škody. Tyto škody podle mého názoru zcela vyrovnají zisk, který přinesl pád

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totalitarismu. To byly také hlavní důvody, které mne vedly k tomu, že jsem rezignoval na politickou kariéru a odešel z politiky. Selhání nového systému V čem nový demokratický systém selhal především? Jednoznačně musí být řečeno, že v morálce a etice. Nový systém přinesl svobodu, ale otevřel takřka neomezený prostor pro nemravné a nemorální osoby. Potvrdil také demokratický charakter zločinné komunistické strany. Zřejmě největší škody po pádu totalitarismu způsobily amorální elity. Díky odbornosti a vysoké kvalifikaci jsou škody způsobené elitami nesmírně rozsáhlé. Jde o poškození v oblasti ekonomické a morální. Takřka veškerý dřívější státní majetek se dostal pod jejich moc a nemajetní lidé (kteří jsou týmiž dřívějšími nemajetnými lidmi) jsou jejich rukojmí. Tyto elity podporované politickými silami vytvořily v zemi korupční prostředí, kde zcela vládne klientelismus. Státní instituce a úřady zaměstnávají na rozhodovacích funkcích takřka výhradně příbuzné a přátele mocných. Nejžádanější a jejich mnohdy jedinou kvalifikací je loajalita vůči vedení. Vliv Komunistické strany byl velmi posílen tím, že došlo k úspěšné změně její strategie. Touto strategií byla infiltrace jejích dřívějších členů do jiných politických stran. Paradoxem zůstává, že se během velmi krátké doby na území Česka vytvořila třídní společnost, proti které tito lidé prostřednictvím své ideologie tak usilovně bojovali. Komunistická strana je nyní tzv. demokratickou stranou, aniž by cokoli změnila na své dosavadní praxi. Její orientace je patrná především od jejího III. sjezdu, který se konal dne 26. června 1993, kde jednoznačně potvrdila své stalinistické pozice tím, že se oddělila od stoupenců tzv. demokratické levice. Poslanci KSČ zastupují českou republiku dokonce i v Evropském parlamentu. Nikdo v západní Evropě si nedovede představit, že by v berlínském Bundestagu zasedali poslanci nacionálně socialistické strany, která by spojovala svoji ideologii s Adolfem Hitlerem a dalšími nacistickými zločinci. V České republice je možné se hlásit k hromadným vrahům, jako byli V. I. Lenin, J. V. Stalin, nebo místní Klement Gottwald a další. Je to legální a legitimní. Pro mne osobně demokratický režim v České republice není plnohodnotným demokratickým systém, je pouhou tzv. demokraturou, která je mezistupněm mezi totalitou a demokracií. Právě proto stále usiluje o vytvoření tzv. tlusté čáry za minulostí. Podle některých vysokých politických činitelů má být vytvořen bod nula a má být odhlédnuto od historické paměti. Některé tendence na úrovni ministerstva školství dosahují dokonce vážných

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pokusů o zrušení dějepisu na školách a jeho nahrazení jiným předmětem. Paměť národa patří mezi jeho nejcennější poznatky. Často bývá vykoupená krví a lidským utrpením. Právě proto patřily dějinné poznatky mezi pilíře vzdělanosti a naopak v případě totalitních společností mezi nejvážnější pokusy o narušení její homogenity. Toto jsou otázky, které zajímají mnohé české spisovatele, sám patřím mezi ně. Musím však připustit, že vyřčené nebo napsané slovo ztratilo svůj vliv. Na počátku devalvace či ztráty vlivu slova možná stála věta, kterou vyřkl někdejší prezident Václav Havel : pravda a láska musí zvítězit nad lží a nenávistí. Tato věta dnes v Česku budí útrpný úsměv. Nebylo totiž řečeno kdy, jak a co je pro to třeba učinit. Byl to výkřik na poušti bez ozvěny. Na tuto větu nic nenavázalo, zatímco lež a nenávist si vybudovala své silné pozice. Pozice spisovatele v nové době Co může pro věc učinit spisovatel? Co mohu pro změnu učinit já sám osobně? Může si postesknout, že v době bezdějinného ticha ideologického totalitarismu bylo jeho slovo slyšet. Když bylo slovo vyřčeno, národ zpozorněl a o jeho slově přemýšlel. Spisovatel mohl někoho a něco ovlivnit. Ekonomický totalitarismus zašuměl prostor stupiditou všudypřítomné reklamy, politické strany se přidaly svými prolhanými volebními sliby a programy. Literaturu a multimedia zahltily mnohé zábavné proudy a vlivy, šarlatánství a pseudomesiášství, které vážnou literaturu vytlačují na periferii zájmu čtenářů. Společnosti se nedostává výchovných vzorů, na jejich místa jsou stavěny postavy, které jsou přinejmenším velmi rozporuplné. Příkladem může být politik Edvard Beneš, který přivedl Československo na mnoho desítek let do područí stalinismu a který byl paradoxně oceněn jako člověk, který se zasloužil o stát. V době všeobecného rozkladu společnosti chybí moudrá konstruktivní slova. Každé vydavatelství literatury musí být výdělečné, proto literaturu ovlivněnou filosofií a etikou vydává v omezeném nákladu. Možná by mělo vzniknout centrum evropské vzdělanosti, které by mělo uvažovat o podpoře významných národních projektů, které by se zabývaly obnovou tradičních hodnot, případně nápravou místními politiky způsobených škod. Jako příklad mohu uvést publikaci s tématem Evropské dějiny, na níž by se mohli podílet evropští spisovatelé a historikové a která by měla statut učebnice dějin ve všech evropských státech. Nadnárodní charakter takových aktivit by mohl kulturně a eticky ovlivnit budoucnost. Jako spisovatel menšinové literatury píšu to, co chci napsat, bez ohledu na to, jaká je čtenářská odezva. Jsem ve svém psaní svobodným. Literatura je

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pro mne očistným prostředkem a psychoterapií. Zároveň však mám vnitřní potřebu napravovat záležitosti světa, ale rád bych se při tom vyhnul něčemu, čím hluboce pohrdám a to je pseudomesiášství, jinak tendence činit soudy, napravovat svět, moralizovat. Rozdělil jsem tedy své psaní a konání na soukromé a společenské. Někdo může mít pocit, že to od sebe nelze oddělit, já tvrdím, že se mi to daří. Má knižní tvorba se týká mého vnitřního očistného procesu. Podílím se také na vydávání dvou časopisů, které mají stejnou obsahovou náplň, neboť jsou čtením pro patafyziky, především však pro malý okruh osob, které se tím baví. Má druhá polovina, snad ta lepší a společenská část, se zabývá kritikou a podněty k nápravě věcí lidských. Sem patří především publicistika, která mne také živí. Také mé svědomí při tom hraje svoji roli, neboť jsem inicioval a osobně se významně podílel na putovní výstavě pojednávající o násilných excesech na německých starousedlících v roce 1945 a 1946, které měly v režii ozbrojené síly ovládané komunisty. Upozorňuji, že nemám německé předky a z této činnosti nemám žádný osobní prospěch. Jsem však přesvědčený o tom, že obě totality, ať hnědá či rudá, způsobily neštěstí mnoha miliónům lidí, kteří se nechali svést ďáblem a uvěřili v to, co jim bylo slibováno. Nevidím valný rozdíl mezi oběťmi jedné i druhé totality a nevidím valný rozdíl mezi vinou komunistů a nacionálních socialistů, pokud se dopustili vědomého násilí, porušování lidských práv a dalších zločinů. Toto zlo mělo být nekompromisně potrestáno podle míry zavinění podle mezinárodního práva a z těchto událostí měly být vyvozeny důsledky. Restaurativní justice umí reparovat škody způsobené zločinem. Myslí na oběti, pachatele a okolí, které je zločinem zasaženo. Celý tento okruh účastníků, z něhož někdo byl pachatelem, jiný obětí, další pachatelem i obětí současně měl být spravedlivě vyřešen, ale nebyl. Mnozí politikové a úředníci v rozhodovacích funkcích se snaží o nastolení tzv. tlusté čáry, kterou osobně považuji za nemravnou. Také konsekvence a východiska této tragické doby nebyla spravedlivě a důsledně zhodnocena. Nebyli označeni viníci a pachatelé a nebyly napraveny škody na obětech. Tím je živena vzájemná nenávist. Co však považuji z hlediska spisovatele za velmi vážné, je skutečnost, že je celým generacím odepíráno seznámení se s jejich vlastní historií. Ministerstvo školství rezignuje na výuku historie a nahrazuje ji občanskou naukou a technologickými předměty, které mají mladé lidi naučit hmotně prosperovat. Škola rezignovala na etiku, morálku a výuku k tradičním hodnotám, jejichž aplikace vede k slušnému životu ve společnosti a k respektu k jiným lidem. Chci zde položit otázku: není právě toto cesta, která vede k intoleranci, nesnášenlivosti a násilí? (2007)

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EDUARD VACEK

How all that happened?

My very first encounter with totalitarianism I was born in 1947. Up until the turn of 1989, this year was the only “free” year of my life. However, neither this single year of freedom, which, of course, I perceived as a babe in arms, actually represented any full-fledged freedom but was a transient period fully managed by the on-coming totalitarian regime. All my relatives were devoted communists. Amongst them, the most significant was my great-grandfather, who was a senator for the socialist and later communist party. My grandmother, his daughter, assisted during the birth of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia and acted as its founding member in Hradec Kralove. The ideals of communism continued all the way up to my father. For this reason, I felt stigmatized as well as the need to question how much my ancestors were to blame. Over the course of time, the influence of communist ideals in our family waned in light of the facts of life and in particular with the case of my mother’s father, who as ex-legionary soldier in Soviet Russia had received the post of a municipal policeman. As for his political orientation, my grandfather was a social democrat. As a small child, I witnessed the ideological battles between my grandfather, who had first hand experience with Soviet conditions, and my father. When the trials of Slansky and other communists were broadcast, my grandfather told my father his unpleasant view of the situation and continually warned him: “Maybe, at some point in the future, it will be also your turn, Eda, and they will hang you as well.” “Why should they hang me?” my father shot back in response to the alarming words. “I have never hurt anybody.” “Neither did millions to Stalin, but he let them all be killed,” my grandfather replied. Yesterday, Slansky was one of the most powerful communists; today he is the Party renegade. Workers and farmers,

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patients in hospitals and red pioneers are all calling for his death. Their signatures will all be on his death sentence. Communists do not want to be the lone killers, they want to share the responsibility for the murders with the whole nation, and therefore they strive to acquire national consent for what they do. After a terrible war and postwar experience with the Czech Gestapo, the nation surely will follow them because it is always best to be on the side of the victor. It is better to join those cutting the heads, than the defeated, in a situation where the Red criminal justice system governs and is looking for victims. Bolshevism is however, very insidious and knows perfectly well how to fool all those who want to flee from it. Bolshevism does not even overlook its followers and servants, murdering and striking them down as well. Yes, the proverb “when you cut a forest, splinters fly” is one of the fabrications and slogans of the Bolsheviks. My father did not like to listen to his fatherin-law and felt that he was prejudiced against communists and the Bolsheviks in particular. But my grandfather's opinion was based on his own experience. On the endless Russian plains, he encountered Stalin's famine that relentlessly mowed through entire villages and left hundreds and thousands of human victims behind. Many times he met with death during his military operations and learned that, with the Bolsheviks, killing people was just a natural part of their perverted policy. But communists in Czechoslovakia turned a blind eye to the many dead. From their minds and hearts, they swept away everything that was not in harmony with their image of the country where tomorrow means yesterday. Such reports coming from the USSR were considered venomous anti-Soviet propaganda. In the pursuit of new ideals, the more fanatic did not hesitate to ask for sacrifice, though not of themselves of course. They pushed their way into both young and adult communist functions, and decided who should be excluded, repudiated or arrested. Thus the concept of the party spirit was completed within its original meaning. Yes, the Party members supported what they accepted and took to their hearts, because they inclined towards things that, according to their own conviction, were profitable for the Party, and therefore also for themselves, because they connected their fates with Party policy. Many of them, consciously and responsibly, and in line with the designs of the Party bosses, joined the program of ideological and physical liquidation of both internal and external enemies. It was the real struggle, a fight for life and death and involved the complete arsenal of weapons that for centuries have been used in tribal, ideological and civil wars. It was an implacable social conflict, which was aimed at the defeat and liquidation of their opponents and enemies. The

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Party had only to mark someone as an enemy and the executive branch then took care of the dirty work. I listened in rapt attention to the arguments between my father and grandfather until my grandmother took me away, so I wouldn’t have nightmares. She maintained the opinion that adults should not argue while children are present. In the background, I remember the hysterical voice of the prosecutor Dr. Urvalek yelling his accusations from the radio. I sensitively perceived the voices of both comrades and the people from the streets, and my childish mind was completely confused. A child longs for unity and harmony, but I was exposed to disharmony resulting from conflicts between the authority of my father, grandfather and an entire society that emanated negative and malignant emotions. My grandfather was, for me, a very interesting person. He had a black military case full of thick books. On rare occasions, he took some of them out and showed me pictures of soldiers arranged in front a wagon with rifles and bayonets. Some of them had tall fur caps and looked seriously at the camera lens. Grandfather pointed to one of them. That’s me, he said proudly. Grandfather was a victim of a personal tragedy. He fell ill and was found to have prostate cancer, and due to the intolerable pain he took his service gun, went to the yard and shot two bullets into his head. Totalitarianism and its influence in the family and the school My mother and father continued to be the people who most strongly influenced my values and political orientation. Their influence was further strengthened by the schools, where the teachers actively promoted the Stalinist value orientation. Nevertheless, I didn’t find the schools to be trustworthy. I remember that the school’s prestige suffered a serious blow for me when the teachers made us blacken out parts of our textbooks. This was abhorrent to me for two reasons: I was raised as a child never to draw in books or to damage them in any other way. For me, therefore, the blackening of the textbooks was a barbaric act. The second reason, which I began to realize slowly but more intensively, and which was a result of the earlier arguments I had overheard between my father and grandfather, was the conflict between truth and untruth, between common sense and fanaticism. In my eyes, my grandfather’s real experiences carried more value than my father’s fanaticism. Ideological influences in school had unfortunate effects on my childish mind. I still remember that at some point in the second or third year-class, the teacher distributed pictures of the young Soviet heroes, Pavlik Morozov, who denounced his own parents, and Zoya Kosmodemyanskaya, who had

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been tortured to death. I could not look away from the photo of the dead woman with the shaved head lying amongst the smiling SS guards. It was indeed a deep and shocking experience which, however, invoked a strange internal psychic process surprisingly connected with sexuality. I thought of this assassinated young woman and wished to posses her picture. The thought of Zoya induced real excitement. Once, when on Sunday my parents and I visited grandmother and I played and ran around the yard, Zoya was on my mind again. I began to think of death by hanging. The idea became stronger and stronger and finally I came to the conclusion that I needed to try it. At first, I hung from my hands from a tree, but it wasn’t enough. Then, I went into the woodshed where my grandmother stored wood for heating, the scythe to reap grass for rabbits and various other things that I liked so much to examine. I found a piece of rope, which I borrowed, and an old footstool. I took both things to the apple tree, where I made a noose and tied it to a tree bough. In compliance with my vision affected by public trials, I sentenced myself to death and climbed up on the footstool. I put the noose on my neck and bent my legs. It was a special feeling, undoubtedly connected also with a particular sexual undertone. At one moment I swayed and it was just by chance that footstool did not fall over and I did not in fact end up hanging myself. I never told anyone that I tried to copy the example represented by Zoya Kosmodemyanskaya. Dialectics of existentialism or the possible existence of several balanced, so-called parallel truths was inconceivable to me or to my personal sense of fairness. Over the course of my adolescence, my father brought me the works of Soviet war writers who actually taught me to hate war and violence. I read stories about Soviet children taken by the Nazis and used for blood transfusions for wounded German soldiers. On the other hand, my grandfather’s legacy enabled me to read books that taught me historical experiences from other periods. When I was twelve, I read the complete works of Sienkiewicz and numerous other authors—revivalists. These books were rather thick and prosy and taught me to be patient. I used to read under the blanket at night with a flashlight after mother had sent me to bed. I started to anticipate and perceive the fundamentals of the genesis of human society—its conflicts and disorders, omnipresent violence and injustice and the small capacity of mankind to resolve its conflicts and problems. Of course, this experience did not support my equanimity. While my negative attitude towards fascism (or rather Nazism) remained unquestioned due to my continuous familiarization with numerous war documents, movies and propaganda materials and books that represented undisputed arguments, in the case of the communist totalitarian regime, the

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situation was more complicated. I have to admit that my grandfather laid the foundations for my future opinion and significantly affected my negative approach to Soviet style totalitarianism, which contaminated society for many years. Those days I subconsciously built up an inner value system and stored everything that influenced and touched me. My father used to meet up from time to time with his fellow-comrades and they would attempt to resolve the serious ethic and moral problems of the time. I eagerly watched matters that represented intimate confessions, doubts, the search for truth, and finally conformity with the Party discipline, including obedient returns to the opinion of the leadership of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia as the only possible response. No one wanted to become a renegade, an enemy of the Party, to fall into disfavour and to lose his daily bread, or to be eventually persecuted. In front of my childish soul, these people bared their ambivalence, their failures as human beings, and their personal tragedies. All that I experienced very intensively and perceived totality as an alien and hostile element destroying human individuality, which forces people to think and act in such way that they internally do not agree. But of course, in return were the privileges that the Party granted to its members. I witnessed the political and professional fall of my uncle, who was a devoted Marxist, and worked as the financial deputy director at an important producer of ship engines in Hradec Kralove. After signing a contract in China, he brought back a small brochure written by Mao Tse-tung that had his photo, which he had received as a present from his Chinese comrades at his departure ceremony at the airport. Quite simple-heartedly, he showed this brochure as a curiosity to some fellow-comrades in the factory. During the session of the Factory Committee of the Communist Party, he was seriously denounced, and, by virtue of ideological divergence, removed from his post of deputy director. Unable to bear this, within a short period he was struck by heart attack and died. I watched all his troubles very closely, because he discussed them with my father while I was present. When I tried to contribute my opinion, I was labelled the little imbecile who does not understand politics. However, it was not the two adults, blinded with ideology who were right, but me. All those who denounced my uncle and deprived him of his occupation attended his funeral. They all brought showy funeral wreaths and masses of expensive flowers. I remember how, one by one, they came up to my aunt, shook her hand and expressed their sympathy. They all talked about the great loss that both the Party and factory suffered because of the passing of such an important man. In actual fact, they had offered him a position in the workshop where the ship engines were packed into cases before they were sent off.

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After many years I tried to talk about this topic with my father. He did not remember the case; he either denied it or displaced it from his memory. He did not know anything about Stalinist atrocities, blindly believed in the Party and did not suffer from any remorse. How was it possible that my childish memory preserved all these events in such a sharp picture? Was my father an accomplice or a victim of the era? The Soviet invasion in 1968 Another significant phase that influenced my attitude to the totalitarian regime was the year 1968, the invasion by the Warsaw Pact troops, the subsequent occupation of Czechoslovakia by the Soviet military forces and the voluntary death of Jan Palach, who immolated himself on Wenceslas Square in protest against the beginning “normalization”. During this period, I was doing my military service in Cheb. At the beginning, the Headquarters of the Western Military Department was willing to fight against the aggressor, however, the influence of the communist leadership under President Svoboda soon prevailed and the army, as it had many times before, retreated from its defence of the Motherland. I was then strongly influenced by the group of writers around the magazines Literarni noviny and Listy; as a soldier I had signed the declaration 2000 Words and my attitude against totalitarianism had become stronger. The communists began to fix their hold of power over society in a very brutal and indiscriminate way. They decided to evaluate and degrade the whole nation, respectively anyone who held a significant position. Ideological checks were made to eliminate ideological enemies and deprive them of any influence in society. Thousands of people, who did not pass the checks conducted by communist commissioners, had to leave their occupations and accept unskilled labour in factories. During this stage, the most important turning point since WWII took place in the areas of morality and ethics. It was also during this period that my second internal conflict with my father took place. After I returned to civilian life, I decided to emigrate. I despised a nation that, so easily and without any resistance, had allowed itself to be manipulated. I felt a huge gap between the sacrifice of Jan Palach and people who did not deserve his sacrifice. I suffered from pain caused by the treachery of the culture and intellectual elites who bowed before the power and implicitly accepted its dictate. It was the end, in certain respects the death, of my belief in the future. I was hundred percent sure that this territory was a place of ghosts and had made plans to leave as soon as possible. My father lived in stress and was afraid for his political position. When I told him that I was ready to emigrate, he almost collapsed. He ex-

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plained that if I left then, he would be removed from a post that he occupied, not because of his professional qualifications but, because of his Party membership. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like not to work as the offset foreman in the printing works, work that he loved so much. He unambiguously connected my decision with his own fortune and made me feel responsible for future family disaster, if I would really leave. I was emotionally blackmailed. I could not stand the pressure and stayed, however, I moved to Prague where I lived in a workers' boarding house in Vysocany. During my rare visits home, I was confronted by the experiences of my father’s friends, who one by one were fired from their posts and who, with the aid of alcohol, discussed the situation with my father. I remember a formerly high-ranking policeman, who tearfully complained of the injustice. He waxed on about all his former services to the Party, such as when he had smuggled various things into the flats of targeted people to facilitate their arrest. “And now they kicked me out, Eda.” I expected my father to condemn his former wickedness and tell him that he had only been struck moderately by the same fate that he had in the past prepared for others, that he should take his infliction as payment for his former nefariousness. But this did not happen and I realized that my father was a part of the totalitarian regime which decimated the country. Within a short period, he also personally experienced the cruelty of his own fellow-comrades and lost his job. Not because he condemned the invasion by allied troops, as I would expect, but for some internal party reasons—probably someone more forceful wanted his job. I did not feel sorry for him, remembering that I had not emigrated on account of his career, which was now history. He only frankly said that I should have gone; he was just like a low-spirited general after a lost battle. But if I had really left, he would have blamed me for his political fall till the end of his life. My father has never recovered from this shock, and as a crushed man retired on a disability pension. His fate helped me to realize how deep the tragedy was for decent and well meaning party members. I can say this because I am convinced that my father personally did not harm anybody. He was just a tiny part of a regime that crippled the world. Blame and innocence from my point of view There have never been any entirely innocent Party members. Most often, the communists were both accomplices and victims. Each individual member of a totalitarian organization, such as the Communist Party in Czechoslovakia, bears his or her part of the blame for the year after year morass, whether or not they admit it, whether they displace the past from their conscience, or

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keep it secret in hope that this blame will not be remembered and disclosed. The more dogmatic ones continued to blunder until the bitter end. My father, and many other Party members who served the idea of Bolshevism, failed to understand this fact, because their business seemed to be a holy one. In the case of my father, it was also to a certain extent a family thing, a light handed over from generation to generation. And of course, personal, political and professional careers were connected with the professed idea. These motivational influences were not insignificant. The quick career progress of Party members was—and still is— dependant on political support, which derives its influence from the amount of power that the Party holds. Party members, through their principles, create corruptive and at the same time manipulative environments, requiring discipline and subordination. The party spirit is a natural part of human character. A man takes a fancy to something and takes part in it, but on the other hand he is also against something else. Association of unilaterally focused people is the principle of the party spirit. The party spirit itself is neither positive nor negative; it is neutral. It is just a bunch of people following the same goals. However, if such fellowship lacks ethics and morality, or if people even profess perverse values or maintain ideals with negative creative potential, then such fellowship may represent a society (party) that can be generally harmful. This is evidenced in the cases of the NSDAP and Communist Party because, in both cases, these parties openly and publicly proclaimed that their object was the destruction of the existing social framework through violent measures as a means of achieving their political and power goals. From the point of view of members of these parties, the extirpation of enemies and destruction of their families represented just a small taxation for generally beneficial goals. A philosophy proclaiming social violence represented the apparent part of their political programs and was generally known. If a free person joins such social fellowship (political party) of their own accord, he or she automatically becomes an accomplice to the methods carried out to enforce the policies of the party. The size of the blame corresponds with the size of their personal power and influence within the structure of the political party. However, blame is not shared just by members of the totalitarian party, but also by the elites of the State that enabled the existence and public functioning of such political parties and provided them with legitimate and legal support.

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Acquiring my own experience After I left home, I experienced everything that the communist regime offered people living on the fringes of society. There was real misery and social morass. I lived in the undignified and primitive conditions of a Prague boarding house for the workers of Vojenske stavby* in Vysocany and learned the reality of the situation of the working class, which the political regime used as its ideological shield. It was a profoundly class-based society, where people living at its edge had no chance to overcome their social status, a situation just as bad as could be found in capitalist countries. However, because of these reasons on the part of “the progressive society” capitalism was exposed to strong criticism. I was exploited and worked under conditions that did not correspond with any established standards, and additionally, without any possibility to appeal to the authorities, the promise of an apartment was withdrawn. My wife and I finally moved into a devastated castle in Zdiby, near Prague, in conditions similar to that of homeless people today. Both of us held jobs and had no conflicts with anyone or the authorities. When we moved to the borderland, with the idea of finding a better life in mind, I encountered unbelievable arrogance and misuse of power by party communists. In Teplice, during the strong January frost, my wife and I were forced to live in a deserted concrete bunker, even though I was the employee of the regional office for housing. The housing commission was not interested in helping me find a flat although there were hundreds of free flats in the town, which had been empty for years. I experienced first hand the mercilessness and cruelty of communism. In the depths of despair, it was finally the Jehovah’s Witnesses who helped me, and assisted in the renovation of a flat for us that had been empty for ten years. This flat, which we actually seized illegally, became a point of conflict between me and the director of the office where I worked. No one needs to tell me about communism and its strong social appeal for the people. It was my personal experience that specifically moulded my feelings about the totalitarian regime. This kind of regime couldn’t be anything other than negative. Of course this was about more than just providing the basic necessaries of life, which in the hierarchy of Maslow’s theory represent the basic level of existence, that is, the need for shelter, survival, food and water. Throughout the whole period of my progression in the 1980s, I also felt the disadvantages in the field of culture. The policy of “normalization” under Husak’s leadership had robbed the publishing houses and cultural institu* Buildings on a military compound

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tions. Everywhere there were the appointed ideological protectors who took care of the monopoly of the Bolshevik ideals. Within several months following the invasion of our so-called allied troops, publications that contained ideas different from the communist ones, which did not develop the demagogic doctrines of Lenin and other Bolsheviks, disappeared from the bookstores. The same happened in the cinemas and art galleries, which were governed by socialist realism. Servants of the political regime, educated but also capable of anything, could again be found everywhere and eagerly carried out the will of the Party. Totalitarianism spread its banal and omnipresent influence over all spheres of life, leaving nothing to coincidence or chance. New hope through the Charter 77 One bright light in this period was the dozens of brave voices sounding out from the Charter 77. At first, I also wanted to sign this document because I agreed with it internally. But by then I was a board member of the Jehovah’s Witnesses and in this position needed to act entirely apolitically. Later however, after I separated from this church because of my nonconformist attitudes, I also did not sign the Charter 77. The reason for this was, from my viewpoint, the highly opinionated and broad divergence of opinions of the group. The real opponents of the regime from the 1950’s and their family members, were completely missing. Many had been executed following political trials, and the others had spent years in prisons. On the other hand, there were numerous former activists from former youth movements and communists who lost their posts during the Party clean-outs. Moreover, some signatories of Charter 77 had during the 1950’s acted as ideological enemies of the genuine opponents of communism. Despite this fact, I had built personal relationships with some of the signatories of Charter 77, especially the younger ones who did not have anything to do with the excesses of the 1950’s. The regime discovered my contacts very quickly. From time to time, members of the StB* stopped me in the street or picked me up at work and took me to the police station. During interviews, they warned me against my contacts. Following a raid on the unofficial magazine Vokno [The window], where I irregularly published, they also made a house search. The Pataphysical Collegium, of which I was a member, published a magazine (10 issues) completely for its own purposes and during the house search the police seized several copies. As the editor in chief, I was later arrested and sentenced to 12 months of imprisonment for “overt disrespect to society, in allowing the public ridicule * Státní bezpečnost – Czechoslovak State Security

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(in the magazine) of the creative efforts of the working class.” I was probably the only pataphysician in the world who was sentenced for his seditious activities. After I was released from prison, I maintained contacts only with those people who were in the regime’s disgrace. I was not initially an active opponent of the political regime; I just rejected its worship and failed to respect its rituals. Later, during the prosecution, the interrogators reproached me for exactly these features and classified them as pride and harmful intellectuality. The so-called real socialism has never represented the top of efforts of mankind for me, and I have never had even the slightest reason to praise or support it. Even though I lived beside and inside the regime, I never became a part of it. I never voted, I did not read the newspapers and I was not interested in the creative efforts of the working class. I only noticed its convulsions and the hysteria of this weird social order and I exposed it to ridicule and comic debasement in my insignificant work. I reshaped the regime in such way that I disclosed its hidden ridiculousness, and through the means of pataphysical techniques transformed it into an acceptable form. So I did come into conflict with the state security resulting from my nonconformist attitudes, but also from writing stories and other texts that circulated in a very small number of copies. As an artist, I also attended numerous illegal events organized through the cultural activities of Charter 77 and published in several independent reviews. It was a closed circle as my issues with the regime necessarily appeared in my literary and graphic works. The fall of totalitarianism The fall of totalitarianism struck me quite unprepared. Behind me was my participation in several illegal events and several illegal arrests by the state security police. I had signed the Civic Freedom Movement resolution, and I had forwarded information about ecological demonstrations in Teplice to Radio Free Europe. My attitudes were the same for dozens of years, I did not do any ideological somersaults and I had no reason to feel ashamed on account of the past because I have always lived in compliance with my conscience. Immediately after the founding of the Civic Forum, I actively joined its leadership and in first free election I was elected a member of the Czech National Council.* I was appointed Vice Chairman of the Committee for Legal Protection and Security and additionally I accepted the post of the Chairman of the Commission for Prisons. During this period I entirely quit * The Parliament

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my private interests and was fully involved in social and political matters. I was of the opinion that it is necessary to contribute to substantial social changes. I applied almost all my time to extensive changes in the philosophy and the mission of the prison system. The Minister of Justice appointed me head of a commission that carried out checks among the members of the correctional system. During the weekends, I visited the prisons where some of the outgoing officers had initiated disturbances and riots and supported tension among the prisoners. Together with the other members of the commission, and in cooperation with the management of the Prison Service, we successfully overcame these problems and enforced the modernization of the correctional system, in compliance with relevant legislation based on documents of the United Nations and the Council of Europe. However, soon after the totalitarian regime fell, I encountered the demonstrations of a ruling power that contained the rudiments of failure and wasted hopes. At first, it was the large transfers of property that took place, completely out of the control of the state. Laws that protected the property of the former socialist state had been abolished, without the necessary adoption of adequate legislation corresponding to the new conditions. February 1948 and the subsequent nationalization of private property was back—in a reverse form. Some individuals used both historical turning points for their repeated enrichment. The state properties were privatized by the communists, sitting in their posts of directors and deputy directors of the former state enterprises. Leading functionaries of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia then moved to the economic sphere and thus entrenched their positions. Up until this present day, I remember how I and other members of the Parliament were tricked by the Minister of Justice on the grounds of his assurance that the judges nominated by him had passed background checks and were trustworthy and upstanding, and who approved the appointment of lawyers to these lifelong posts. They were often judges who participated in fixing the power of the Communist Party through sentencing opponents of the regime. Political parties, without any exception, did not accomplish any steps to purify themselves and appointed former communists to leading positions. The Communist Party and its members, even those who in the past intentionally violated fundamental human rights, became protected persons. The General Prosecutor refused to prosecute crimes committed during the communist era with reference to irrelevant legal retroactivity; as regards acts of violations of the then applicable laws, they reportedly lapsed. Thanks to these and other failures of the state authorities, which were still governed by communists, ethical consequences occurred that resulted in enormous moral damage. In my eyes, this damage was entirely in balance

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with the benefits brought by the fall of totalitarianism. This was the major reason that I resigned from my political career and left the world of politics. Failure of the new system Where did the new democratic system fail in particular? It has to be unambiguously said that its failures were in the field of morality and ethics. On one hand, the new system brought freedom but, on the other hand, opened almost unlimited space for those without scruples to work. Moreover, it confirmed the democratic character of the outrageous Communist Party. Probably the biggest damage that occurred after the fall of the totalitarian regime was caused by amoral elites. Due to their proficiency and supreme qualifications, the losses caused by these elites have been quite extensive, particularly in spheres of economy and morality. They controlled almost all the former state properties and the greedy (now as it was before) became their hostages. These elites, supported by political entities, established an environment of corruption in the country, which is governed by a system of patronage. Decisive posts in the government and state institutions are almost entirely occupied by relatives and friends of those in power. The highest regarded qualification, and often the only one, is loyalty to leadership. Successful strategic changes in the policies of the Communist Party strengthened its influence. The new strategies actually included the infiltration of its former members into other political parties. Paradoxically within a very short period a class society emerged in the Czech territory, against which these people had so narrowly struggled by means of their ideology. Now the Communist Party became one of the democratic parties; but as for its practice—nothing has changed. Its orientation is evident especially since its 3rd Congress on June 23, 1993, which unambiguously confirmed the Stalinist approach and the Party separated itself from the followers of the so-called democratic left wing. Members of the Communist Party even represent the Czech Republic today in the European Parliament. No one in the West can imagine that members of the Berlin Bundestag would be the supporters of a party whose ideology is connected with Adolf Hitler or other criminals. But in the Czech Republic, it is possible to be a part of the same league as belonged mass murderers such as V. I. Lenin, J. V. Stalin or the Czech Klement Gottwald.* It is legal and legitimate. * Klement Gottwald, who became prime minister of post-war Czechoslovakia in 1946, led the communist coup d’état in 1948. He instigated a series of Stalinist purges.

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For me personally the democratic regime in the Czech Republic is not a genuine democratic regime, but simply what is known as a “demokratura”, that represents a halfway house between totalitarianism and democracy. For this reason it continues the attempt to draw a thick line with the past. According to some politicians in high places, a point zero should be specified and collective historical memory ignored. Some efforts in the Ministry of Education disclosed serious attempts in this direction, such as removing history as a subject in school and replacing it with something else. The memory of the nation is one of its most valuable attributes and was often redeemed with blood and human suffering. For this reason historical findings always belong among the traditional pillars of education, and belong on the contrary among the most serious attempts to violate the homogeneity of a totalitarian regime. Many Czech writers, including myself, are interested in these issues. However, I must admit that the spoken and written word has lost its influence. At the beginning, before this devaluation, were the words of the former President Vaclav Havel: truth and love must gain victory over untruth and hatred. In today’s Czech Republic, this sentence invokes just a compassionate smile. It has not been said what is necessary, when, and how, to accomplish, to reach this. It was just an outcry in the desert, with no resounding echo. No one has taken up this slogan, and untruth and hatred have built up strong positions. The writer’s place in the New Age What can a writer do about all of this? What can I personally do to change things? The writer can complain that during times of historical silence of ideological totalitarianism his or her word would not be heard. Earlier, when the word was spoken, the nation paid attention to it and thought about it. The writer had the chance to influence someone or something. Now economical totalitarianism has infected our environment with the stupidity of ubiquitous advertising and political parties have contributed with their deceitful electoral promises and programs. Literature and the multimedia are flooded with numerous entertainment streams and influences, charlatanism and pseudo-messianic ballast that drive serious literature towards the periphery of the reader’s interest. Society lacks educational patterns and the characters that replace them are, at the least, very inconsistent. As an example we can take the former president Edvard Beneš, who led Czechoslovakia into a long period of bondage to Stalinism and was paradoxically awarded as a person of merit by the state.

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There are no wise and constructive words in times of general social disintegration. Every publishing house must be profitable and therefore literature influenced by philosophy and ethics is published in limited printings. Perhaps some centre of European culture should be established that would support significant national projects dealing with the revival of traditional values or redress the damages caused by local politicians. As an example, I can mention publications dealing with the topic of European history, which would be worked on by European writers and historians and that would have the status of an historical textbook in all the European countries. The multi-national framework of such activities could culturally and ethically influence the future. As the writer of minority literature, I can write what I want to without thinking about the reactions of the readers. My writing is quite free. For me, literature is a cathartic instrument and a kind of psychotherapy. Simultaneously, I also have the need to reform the affairs of this world, but while doing so I would like to avoid the issues that I deeply despise—pseudoMessianic activities, the tendency to judge, correcting the world and moralizing. I therefore divide my writing and action into private and public activities. Some may say that this is impossible, but I say that I have been successful in it. My writing is related to my internal process of catharsis. I also publish work in two magazines with similar contents intended for a small community of pataphysicians who enjoy them. The second half of myself, perhaps the better and more social side, deals with criticism and instigations focused on the reformation of human issues. Namely publishing which is my livelihood. Also my conscience plays an important role, because I initiated and personally and significantly participated in the organization of a travelling exhibition that related to the violence that many of the old German residents fell victim to during years 1945 and 1946, carried out by the armed forces governed by communists. I have no German ancestors and therefore no personal benefit from this effort. Nevertheless, I am convinced that both totalitarian regimes—the brown and the red shirted ones—harmed millions of people who were deceived by the devil, because they believed in his promises. I cannot see any substantial difference between the victims of both regimes, nor can I differentiate between the actions of the Communists and Nazis, as far as they intentionally violated human rights and committed violence and other crimes. This evil should have been uncompromisingly punished according to the extent of its infliction and in compliance with international laws and the consequences should have been felt. Restorative justice contrives to redress damages caused by crimes and thinks of the victims, offenders and the environment affected by the respective crime. This circle of par-

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ticipants, where some are offenders, some are victims and some are even both, should have been rightly resolved, but it has not. Numerous politicians and high-ranking officials in decisive positions are still trying to draw the socalled thick line, which I personally consider as immoral. The consequences and bases of this tragic era were also not rightly and thoroughly assessed. The offenders and transgressors have not been specified, neither have the redressed victims. Thus mutual hatred is supported. What, from the point of view of the writer, I consider as very serious is the fact that whole generations are prevented from learning about their own history. The Ministry of Education has given up on teaching history and endeavours to substitute it with courses on civics and technological subjects that aim to teach young people how to be prosperous. School has given up on ethics, morality and the education of traditional values, whose application would lead to a decent life in society and respect for others. To them, I would like to pose the question: Is this not just leading the way again towards intolerance and violence? (2007) Translated by Otakar Michl

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JIŘÍ DĚDEČEK

Odznak

Občas směl Hynek otce doprovázet na nejrůznější armádní slavnosti. Zpravidla nesměle postával v koutě a záviděl těm velkým mužům uniformy, zbraně, holínky a bezprostřednost. Otec ho nerad viděl nesmělého, a tak se ho snažil podnítit k nějaké činnosti. „Jdi si támhle říct Sovětům o odznáček,“ ukázal na skupinku smějících se vojáků, jimž blyštivé holínky padly ze všech nejlépe. „Když já neumím rusky,“ bránil se Hynek. „Co neumíš? Máte přece ve škole ruštinu?“ Hynek přikývl. „No tak! Běž, nestyď se!“ postrkoval ho otec před sebou. „Ale tati! Když já nevím, jak se řekne odznak!“ plačtivě protestoval Hynek. Ale i kdyby to věděl, stud před sovětskými důstojníky byl tak strašlivý, že nedokázal ani pořádně zvedat nohy. „Jak—nevíš?!“ „To jsme ještě neměli!“ „Prosím tě, to vím i já—značok! Řekneš Dobrý den, tomu rozumí každej, a potom Pažalujsta, jesť u vas značok. Je to jasný?“ zeptal se otec velitelským tónem. Hynek vslzách přikývl. „Když to zvládneš, vezmu tě do kina.“ Otec věděl, jak děti milují sovětské válečné filmy. Hynek ale stále zarytě hleděl do podlahy. „Tak jak to řekneš?“ chtěl otec slyšet ruskou větu. „Pažalujsta, jesť u vas značok,“ vzlykl Hynek. „Výborně!“ zajásal otec. „Tak vidíš, tak běž!“ Lehce Hynka postrčil, takže ten se ocitl uprostřed halasné sovětské skupinky. Rudoarmějci zmlkli a překvapeně se zahleděli na hubeného, rudého chlapečka s odstávajícíma

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ušima, kterému tréma nedovolila podívat se vzhůru, natož pak promluvit. Když chvíle trvala neúnosně dlouho, nadzdvihl ho jeden z nich za límec flaušáku a postavil o pár metrů dál, aby nepřekážel. Otec vše zpovzdálí sledoval, skokem byl u Hynka, pevně ho chytil za ruku a předstoupil s ním před Rudoarmějce. „Eto muj syn,“ řekl nepříliš pyšně. „On chočet požalujsta značok. Požalujsta.“ Nejbližší z důstojníků neochotně sundal brigadýrku a obtížně z ní dloubal rudou hvězdu se srpem a kladivem. Jedna z příchytných nožiček se při tom ulomila, Hynek si v tu chvíli s nelibostí uvědomoval, že takový odznak mu nebude k ničemu, protože připnout se nedá a mezi kluky se poškozený necení. S pohledem upřeným do země převzal z generálovy ruky zmrzačenou hvězdu. „Řekni požalujsta, ty…!“ utrhl se na něj otec, který se zřejmě rovněž styděl. Uštědřil Hynkovi jemný pohlavek, aby soudruzi viděli, že vychovává tvrdě. Stydí se, že má syna takovým moulou, říkal si Hynek. Ale poděkoval správně Spasíba. Protože kino, to bylo něco jiného. Sedět vedle otce a sledovat napínavý příběh se šťastným koncem, nemuset vyvíjet žádnou aktivitu a ještě navíc být obklopen laskavou sálovou tmou! Hynek se těšil celý týden, otec se pro něho zastavil hned po vyučování, aby přišli včas. Posadil Hynka do první řady posádkového kina, do ruky mu vtiskl tatranku a řekl: „Vrátím se, až to skončí. Nikam nechoď, jo.“ „A kam jdeš, tati? Ty se nebudeš dívat se mnou?“ „Já už to znám. Tak čekat, jo?“ řekl otec a poplácal ho po zádech. „Tati, a o čem to bude?“ „Ale… o takovým psovi,“ odvětil otec váhavě už na odchodu. Ve dveřích si musel pospíšit, protože dovnitř se začínali valit vojáci základní služby. Otec se ztratil v davu a Hynek s obavami sledoval, jak se sál kolem něho bleskurychle zaplnil do posledního místečka. Ozývalo se bučení, drsný smích a spousta tak sprostých slov, že se Hynek jen dohadoval, co by asi mohla znamenat. Publikum páchlo. Bylo to skutečně o psovi. Film se odehrával v jakési gumové místnosti, kde byly jenom stěny, podlaha a strop. Postupně se v ní začal hromadit bojový plyn, snad to byl sarin, jak Hynek vyrozuměl z komentářů publika. Pes byl hezoučký německý ovčák s takovou milou, velkou hlavou. Vypadal unaveně ze všech pokusů, které na něm byly v zájmu zachování míru ve světě provedeny. Obecenstvo řvalo nadšením, odborný komentář nebylo slyšet, Hynek ničemu nerozuměl. Po chvilce trápení ovčák zdechl za zvuků Předehry k socialismu, vyrobilo studio ČAF.

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Celé promítání trvalo slabou čtvrthodinku. Hynek způsobně seděl, i když se v sále rozsvítilo, a čekal, až se rozdovádění záklaďáci seřadí a odejdou. Zůstal pak v první řadě sám a dlouho přemýšlel o tom, co viděl. Byl přesvědčen, že to není všecko. A skutečně—chvilku na to se do sálu nahrnula další várka halasících vojáků a film se promítal znovu. Hynek jej to odpoledne shlédl celkem pětkrát. Sál se naposledy vylidnil, nikdo nepřicházel a tatranka byla dávno snědena. Hynek se navzdory rozkazu zvedl a vydal se domů sám; naštěstí to nebylo daleko. Není pochyb o tom, že Haštal svou ženu miloval. Nikdy na ni například nekřičel a všechny situace, které zaváněly hádkou, řešil raději zarputilým mlčením. (Jednou, kdysi dávno před tím, než se jim narodilo první dítě, se Haštal doma rozčílil a křičel na ni, ale ona mu řekla, ať si tyhle způsoby schová do práce. Na pohrdání vojenským stavem, kterým její věta mimo jiné zazněla, rychle zapomněl, ale to ostatní si pamatoval dobře). Nekřičel ani na ženu ani na děti, pečlivě dodržoval všechny svátky a narozeniny a do příprav na domácí oslavu MDŽ záhy zapojil i syna. „Půjdeme spolu koupit mamince kytičku,“ říkal každý rok. „A jestlipak víš proč?“ „Protože dneska mají všechny maminky svátek,“ říkal způsobně Hynek. A vždycky dodával. „Ale ta naše nejvíc!“ A drželi se s otcem za ruce a šťastně se smáli. Haštal věděl, že kdyby mohl, koupil by jí všechno na světě. To vědomí ho smiřovalo nejen s vlastní nevěrou, ale také s chudobou, níž celá rodina, navzdory usilovné práci obou, po léta vězela. Kupoval jí často dokonce víc, než si mohl dovolit, byl schopen utratit veškeré peníze, které mu zbyly poté, co uhradil měsíční složenky, za „dárek pro maminku.“ Přestože ani jeden z nich nikdy nekouřil, nahromadilo se jim doma několik masivních popelníků z českého křišťálu. Později začal jako vyznání lásky kupovat užitečné věci „aby se maminka tolik Nenadřela“. Mixér, žehličku, kuchyňský robot. Ale jakkoli byly tyto přístroje na jeho poměry drahé, nepatřily zdaleka k nejdražším a k nejlepším: po několika týdnech používání se obvykle začaly porouchávat. Tehdy přicházela na řadu druhá fáze vyznání lásky, totiž drobné opravy. Miloval drobné opravy. Převíjel spálené elektromotorky, vypilovával do umělohmotných převodů nová ozubená kolečka a lepil prasklé kryty. Sklízel mlčky její obdiv a byl na sebe pyšný. Věděl, že pro ni dokáže opravit prakticky cokoli. Jeho opravy měly vlastně jedinou chybu—vždycky při nich něco jiného rozbil, takže původně jednoduchá práce tím několikanásobně nabyla na objemu. Vyměnil klínový řemen, ale přetrhl při tom kabel k rozdělovači… Vrcholem něhy byly rukodělné dary. Brával desetiletého syna na procházky do lesa, kde hledali „něco krásného pro maminku.“ Obvykle šlo o samorosty, které pak společně

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čistili a natírali bezbarvým lakem. Někdy dokonce sušili a zasklívali barevné podzimní listí. Haštal tento druh dárků také zpravidla doprovázel nějakou vlastní poezií, kde se rýmovalo maminka—malinká a rád—dát. Hynek si až po letech uvědomil, že jeho maminka byla ovšem zároveň tatínkova žena. Možná byl problém jen tom pojmenování. Možnost nevěry jednoho z rodičů Hynkovi připadala naprosto vyloučená. Ostatně v dětské lásce není pro takové představy místo. pubertě se musel vyrovnat se skutečností, že jeho rodiče spolu souloží (měli s Hanou pokojík hned vedle a vždycky sobě navzájem i jim předstírali, že spí a nic neslyší), v pozdějším věku pak příliš jasně viděl matčiny křečové žíly a otcovo tlusté, chlupaté břicho, a eventuální nevěru jednoho či druhého proto zavrhoval, i když s hlubokým soucitem a láskou. Doma však bylo zamčeno. Hynek nosil klíče od bytu na krku jako většina jeho vrstevníků, stačilo jenom se nahnout ke klíčové dírce a odemknout, aniž by snímal ze zad školní brašnu, ale dneska zámek zlobil. Hynek se narovnal a shodil tašku na schody. Znovu zasunul klíč do zámku, ale něco z druhé strany překáželo, nedal se ani pořádně zastrčit. Hynek několikrát udeřil pěstičkou do bakelitového krytu, potom popadl dveře za černou kliku a vší silou jí zacloumal. Utrhla se s hlasitým prasknutím a zůstala mu v ruce. A jak se na chvilku zastavil a zaposlouchal se do doznívající ozvěny, zdálo se mu, že uvnitř bytu slyší nějaké zvuky. Znovu zabušil a přiložil ucho ke dveřím. Tiché kroky. „Tati,“ křičel Hynek, aby zahnal rozpaky, „otevři, to jsem já!“ Kroky za dveřmi utichly. „Tati, tati! Já vím, že jsi doma, otevři!“ Hynek vztekle kopal do dveří. Bál se zvláštní pravdy, jejíž podstatu sotva tušil, ale na útěk bylo pozdě. Když už prozradil, že ví, musel to dotáhnout do konce. Dveře se náhle otevřely a na prahu stál otec v županu. Vůbec se nezlobil a voněl. „Co blbneš, takovej kravál?“ zeptal se mírně. „Kde jsi?“ křičel Hynek. „Měl sis mě vyzvednout v tom kině! Byli jsme domluvený!“ „No jo, vždyť já vím? To už to skončilo?“ „Už dávno!“ „Tak… chtěl jsem jenom osprchovat… Hele, ale to bylo nějaký krátký, ne?“ říkal otec a pořád zabíral celou šířku dveří, takže se Hynek okolo něho nedokázal protáhnout dovnitř. „Bylo to dlouhý a blbý!“ křičel Hynek. „Už s tebou nikdy do žádnýho kina nechci! A pusť!“ Násilím se procpal kolem otce a zabouchl se v pokoji. Otec za ním přišel a beze slova se posadil na pelest. Když z předsíně tiše klaply domovní dveře, řekl:

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„Tak abysme spravili tu kliku, než přijde maminka s Haničkou, co myslíš?“ Hynek si od svých sedmnácti osmnácti často kladl otázku, zda je vůbec možné, aby slušný a myslící člověk byl přes dvacet let v komunistické straně a nadto patnáct let v armádě jako důstojník ve službách totalitního státu. A přestože si jednoznačně odpovídal, že zejména v souběhu obou omylů to možné není, sám pro sebe vzápětí dodával, že jeho otec je právě tou výjimkou. Přes všechnu nenávist, kterou vůči němu občas pociťoval, přes všechny výčitky, které vůči němu v duchu vznášel, nemohl mu přívlastky slušný a myslící odepřít. Když ho viděl, jak obětavě se dokáže dřít pro rodinu, když pak dokázal ocenit jeho sebevražedný smysl pro spravedlnost, napadalo ho, že otec je vlastně docela fajn. Docela, jenom kdyby…jenom kdyby to nebyl můj otec, táhlo mu nakonec pokaždé hlavou. Bránil se té myšlence, považoval ji podvědomě za hříšnou, ale přesto se nejednou přistihl při obyčejné závisti, když poznal některé jiné otce, otce svých přátel, veselé, bodré, bohaté muže, které nikdo z práce ani ze strany nevyhodil. Haštal se právě chystal vejít na aranžovnu, kde dva studenti už od února vyráběli nástěnky k prvnímu máji. Vysokoškoláci mají vojnu jeden den v týdnu po dva roky, armáda pro ně vyčlenila prastaré uniformy z tlusté filcovaté látky zvané kopřiváky, v nichž každý musel chtě nechtě vypadat jako Švejk. Dva nebo tři se v tom duchu i chovají. Aspoň je sranda, i když oficiálně jim to trpět nesmíme. A jinak—napůl úlisní fízlíčci, kteří se už na školu dostali jako zakládající členové Leninského svazu mladých, pozdějšího SSM, napůl pak ztracenci, kteří bůhvíjak prošli bdělým přijímacím řízením a teď doufají, že se jim podaří dostudovat, aniž by si zadali s Husákovým režimem. Já vám to, pánové, komplikovat nebudu, když i vy mně vyjdete vstříc, uvažoval Haštal s rukou na klice. Ve dveřích ho dohnal náčelník. „Pohov, pohov, soudruhu kapitáne,“ přerušil Haštalův pokus o hlášení. „Podívám se tam s vámi, jak jsou s tím naši soudruzi daleko…“ Haštal měl zvláštní pocit, už když kladl nohu na práh. Když se dveře otevřely, užasl. Po očku zahlédl, jak náčelník těžce lapá po dechu. Jeden ze dvou švejků teatrálně srazil podpatky a podával hlášení: „Soudruhu podplukovníku, vojín Ondřej plus jeden při přípravě politicko-výchovného materiálu!“ Náčelník mlčel a zděšeně se rozhlížel dokola. Bílé stěny aranžovny byly všude pomalovány velikými rudými kosočtverci. Největší byl na stropě, ten ale neměl uprostřed svislou čárku, nahrazovala ji rudě přetřená zářivka, nyní perverzně blikající do ticha. Vtipné to sice moc nebylo, ale monumentální ano. Náčelník se pomalu vzpamatovával, Haštal to poznal podle způsobu, jakým se nadechoval a popotahoval při tom. Věděl, že začne ječet, bylo mu

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švejků líto, ale ze všeho nejvíc ho trápilo, že až náčelník skončí, bude řada na něm—seřvat je a příkladně potrestat. „Student Ondřej!“ zakvílel náčelník nekontrolovaně. „Zde!“ odpověděl mu stejně neartikulovaným zařváním bližší švejk. „Soudruhu!“ ječel náčelník a hlas mu přeskakoval, „takhle vy se odvděčujete straně, která pro vás tolik udělala!?“ „To byl jen nerozvážný žert, soudruhu podplukovníku!“ řval student. „Tohle je váš vděk, soudruzi!?“ „To byl jen žert, soudruhu podplukovníku!“ opakoval vojín. „To je váš vděk společnosti, soudruzi!? Co vám společnost udělala!?“ „Nic, soudruhu podplukovníku!“ zařvali pohotově oba studentíci, ale náčelník si té ironie nevšímal a ječel dál. „Takhle vy projevujete svou úctu k socialistickému zřízení!?“ Zločinci mlčeli. „To je ale soudruzi jenom tím, že vy jste nezažili válku!“ Náčelníkův tón se postupně mírnil jako vždycky, když došlo na druhou světovou. Tys toho asi zažil, říkal si Haštal v duchu. Když skončila, mohlo ti bejt tak čtrnáct, drogisto. Původní profese příručího v obchodě se nedala zapřít, za chvilku začne vemlouvavě šeptat. „Kdybyste ji totiž byli zažili, soudruzi, to byste si teprve dovedli vážit toho, co vám naše společnost dává! Práci a mír! Ale řekněte mi—co jí za to dáváte vy?“ Náčelníkovi se do řeči vkrádal vyčítavě štkavý tón. „Nic, soudruhu podplukovníku!“ řekl hlasitě Ondřej. „A vy, soudruhu?!“ obrátil se náčelník se smutným zájmem ke druhému studentovi. „Taky nic, soudruhu podplukovníku!“ „Správně, soudruhu! Nic! Jenom natahujete ručku a společnost vám do ní dává! A co za to? Akorát piči po zdech umíte malovat…“ Náčelník se už málem rozplakal, studenti mlčeli a Haštal věděl, jak obtížně potlačují smích. „Na to jsme vám, soudruzi, ten socialismus nevybudovali, abyste nám pak po zdech malovali piči,“ dodal náčelník vyčítavě. „Rozumíte!?“ „Vojín Ondřej! Rozumím, soudruhu podplukovníku!“ „Vojín Palán! Rozumím, soudruhu podplukovníku!“ Náčelník sebou trhl jako uštknutý a celým tělem se otočil ke druhému vojínovi. „Co jste to řekl!?“ „Vojín Palán, rozumím, soudruhu podplukovníku!“ opakoval překvapený Palán. „Aha, tak to jste vy,“ řekl náčelník už zcela klidně a zkoumavě si Palána prohlížel. „No dobře, jak chcete…“

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Aniž by vyčkal, až se oba vojíni zase odhlásí, vytáhl Haštala za loket před aranžovnu a zhluboka se mu zadíval do očí. „Co s tím uděláte, soudruhu kapitáne?“ „No…ještě jednou to s nimi ideově rozeberu a dostanou příslušný kázeňský trest,“ řekl opatrně Haštal, protože nevěděl, kam náčelník míří. „To nemyslím… Toho Ondřeje nechte, ale co s tím…s tím Palachem?“ Kristepane, je fakt tak blbej, pomyslel si Haštal, nebo to na mě zkouší, ale nahlas musel říci: „Palánem. Vojín Palán, soudruhu podplukovníku. Přísný kázeňský trest, soudruhu podplukovníku. Nebo…?“ Nechal konec věty viset ve vzduchu, aby si mohl ten trotl vybrat, co doplní, ale on jen pokýval hlavou a řekl: „No, rozvažte to soudruhu kapitáne, s tím Palachem je to teď jenom na vás…“ a odešel v lehkém předklonu příručího. Haštal za ním hleděl, dokud drogistovi nedošlo, že je náčelník, nenarovnal hřbet a nezačal řízněji dupat. Haštal se útrpně pousmál, protože samozřejmě nevěděl o svém osudu nic. Ale i kdyby, zrovna tahle informace by ho asi nezlomila. Ještě byl čas. Není vyloučeno, že ono dusno, v němž nebylo možné volně promluvit ani dýchat, vnesl do rodiny až Hynek svou pubertální nedůtklivostí. Někdy se mu zdálo, že rodina by bez něho fungovala dokonale a šťastně, jako by jen on byl jejím trápením a křížem, který musí za trest nést matka i otec. Ideální způsob, jak se vyhnout jakékoli konverzaci na intimní téma—nevypínat televizi. Tak aby blbost obličejů, které se na obrazovce objevovaly v souvislosti se sportem, politikou či takzvanou zábavou, postačila jako jediný a všeobjímající námět. „To jsou ale kydy,“ zavrčí Hynek při jídle. „Klidně to vypni,“ odpoví Hanka, „my se nekoukáme.“ Ale Hynek mávne rukou, jako by byl povznesen i nad dotek, který takové vypnutí přístroje vyžaduje. „Ať jdou do háje,“ řekne ještě. „To víš...“ doplní jeho projev mnohovýznamně matka a zvedne oči vzhůru. A tím je večernímu rozhovoru v rodinném kruhu učiněno zadost. Kdyby tu byl táta, bude s tím mediálním debilem spravedlivě polemizovat, pomyslí si Hynek. Ale dneska máme štěstí. Kde vlastně je? V hospodě? Hynek nikdy otce v hospodě neviděl, jako dospělý nikdy s otcem v hospodě nebyl. Je to vůbec možné, říkal si někdy překvapeně, nikdy jsme si spolu nesedli na pivo nebo jsme nezašli na večeři, abychom si jen tak popovídali. Neprobírat nic důležitého jsme se společně naučili tak dávno a vydrželo nám to až do smrti…

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„Přece ho nemohli jenom tak vyhodit!“ rozčiluje se Hynek. „Přece mu někdo musel říct nějakej důvod!“ Matka se jen smutně usmívá a pokyvuje hlavou. „To víš, copak Oni něco musejí?“ Žehlení jí umožňuje nedívat se Hynkovi zpříma do očí, on to považuje za zbabělost a útočí dál. „Tak ale jestli to neví, něco si o tom myslí, má na to nějakej názor, ne?“ „Vypadá to, že se zastal nějakýho kluka, kterej se bohužel jmenoval Palán,“ řekne matka a bezmocně pokrčí rameny—osud je osud. „Mělo bejt zrovna nějaký výročí toto upálení…“ „No a co!?“ křičí Hynek. „Já tomu nerozumím!“

„Ale no přece Palán, chápeš, to je skoro jako Palach.“

„Jo, ale jenom skoro…!“

„No právě…“

„Prosím tě, co je to za blbost, to má bejt nějakej fór?“

„Kdepak, měl o tom záznam ve svý složce, jeden kamarád mu ji ukázal.

Prej to bylo hrozný…“ Matce vstoupí slzy do očí. „Mami, prosím tě…! A co bylo hrozný? Vy mi nikdy nic neřeknete!“ „No hrozný bylo, co se tam všecko dočet, co tady s člověkem jde celej život, ani o tom neví…“ „A to jako kvůli takový kravině člověka vyhoděj z práce?“ „Kvůli tomu a kvůli všemu dohromady. Ale hlavně ten Palach, to mu dodalo…” „Palán!“ „…no právě… Prej tam toho měl spoustu, moc se s ním nebavili, jenom mu to řekli a konec.“ „To je fakt děsný… Ale proč mně to neřek? Furt je někde pryč… Kde je dneska, v sobotu se přece nedělá?“ „Něco shání, tak pořád lítá, to víš…“ Matka se soustředěně zabývá hranou poskládaného kapesníku. „Mami, ale to není dneska, to je pořád, přece to vidím, trvá to už nejmíň rok…“ „Nebo dva,“ šeptne matka. „Možná,“ přisvědčí Hynek. „Tak vidíš! On tady prostě není a nebyl tady, i když tu blbou práci měl. Není to náhodou nějaký divný?“ „Hynečku, to jsou vážný věci…“ Matka položila horkou žehličku na drátěný držák. „No a co? To jako že mi do toho nic není!?“ „Ale ne…ale…“ „Vždyť žiješ jak rozvedená, on se občas přiřítí, nají se rovnou z kastrólu, vymění žárovku a zase na tejden zmizí. Copak je to normální?“

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„Můžeme o tom mluvit, když teda chceš,“ řekne matka klidně a posadí se. Hynek se potí a je mu strašně, je mu na omdlení, s rodiči se o intimitách nemluví, jejich vztah je jejich, hlavně se do toho nesrat. Jenže už je pozdě. Matka se k němu nakloní a pokusí se ho vzít za ruku. Vytrhne se a zuřivě se na ni podívá, celá nešťastná a vzteklá pubertální synovská láska v něm vzkypěla. „Tak co je?!“ téměř zaječí, aby tu rodící se hrůzu v sobě přehlušil. Čeho se ale tak bojím, opakuje si znovu a znovu, tak se rozvádějí, je mi kurník už skoro osmnáct, snad to přežiju. Matka se smutně a s pochopením usměje nad tou divokou reakcí, skoro násilím vezme jeho ruku do svých a hluboce se mu zahledí do očí. Hynek nemá kam uhnout. Nezbývá než sedět a vyslechnout pravdu. Alespoň se celým tělem klátí a v předstíraném nezájmu vrazí volnou ruku pod bradu. Tentokrát ho ale nikdo nenapomene. „Táta pracuje pro jednu rozvědku,“ řekne matka naprosto klidným tónem. „Už jsi doufám dost velkej, abys věděl, že se o tom nesmí nikde mluvit.“ Hynek bez přemýšlení vybuchne: “Tak on je fízl! A proč by se o tom asi nesmělo mluvit, dělá to přece pro Ně, ne!?“ křičí na ni Hynek vztekle. „Takže ho odnikud nevyhodili, je to celý jenom jako?“ „Ale vyhodili, to je právě to…“ „Co zase, mami, já tady ničemu nerozumím—komunistickej fízl vyhozenej z armády a ze strany, copak to jde dohromady?“ „Právě. Zamysli se nad tím trochu.“ „A co teda?“ „Copak si myslíš, že to dělá tady pro ty naše potentáty?“ „A ne?“ „Pracuje… pro jednu zahraniční službu,“ řekne matka ztěžka, jako by se zbavovala břemene. „… Jo? A pro kterou asi?“ opáčí s ironií v hlase Hynek. „To je lepší nevědět, nemyslíš?“ „Mně je to fuk! Ale jak je teda možný, že nejsme bohatý?“ Hynek si vzpomíná na všechny špionážní filmy, které v životě shlédl. Matka smutně rozhodí rukama v bezradném gestu: „Copak neznáš tátu? Ten vždycky všechno dělá jenom z nadšení. Za dobrý slovo…“ Matka se zamilovaně usmála na prasklé držadlo napařovací žehličky omotané izolepou. Hluboce vzdychla a znovu se pustila do práce. (2007)

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JIŘÍ DĚDEČEK

Badge

Sometimes Hynek was allowed to go with his father to various military functions. Usually he stood around shyly in a corner and envied these men their uniforms, their weapons, their high boots and their easy confidence. His father did not like him looking shy, so he tried to push him into doing something. “Go and talk to these soldiers about their badges,” and he pointed to a group of laughing soldiers with the best looking gleaming boots. “But I can’t speak Russian,” Hynek said in self-defence. “What do you mean you can’t speak Russian? Don’t you learn Russian in school?” Hynek nodded. “Well then! Off you go. Don’t be shy!” and his father gave him a push. “But Dad! I don’t know the Russian for badge!” Hynek protested tearfully. And even if he had known, his shyness in the presence of the Soviet officers was so great that he could not even move his feet. “What do you mean—you don’t know?” “We haven’t had that word yet!” “Don’t tell me that, even I know it—znachok, a badge! Say good day in Czech, everyone understands that, and then Please have you a badge? Understand?” his father asked imperiously. Hynek burst into tears and nodded. “If you manage it I’ll take you to the cinema.” His father knew how much children loved Soviet war films. Hynek, however, continued to look obstinately at the floor. “Well, what are you going to say?” his father wanted to hear the Russian sentence. “Please have you a badge?” sobbed Hynek. “Splendid!” said his father triumphantly. “You see; now off you go!” He gave Hynek a slight push, so that he landed in the midst of the noisy group of Soviets. The soldiers went quiet and looked in surprise at the thin, red-faced

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boy with the sticking out ears, who was so nervous that he could not even look up, never mind speak. After an unbearably long pause, one of them picked him up by the collar of his fleece and put him down a few yards away so that he was not in their way. His father had been watching from a distance, he now leapt to Hynek’s side, took him firmly by the hand and went up to the Red Army soldiers. In his basic Russian, with no particular pride, he said, “This is my son. He would like an officer’s badge. Please.” The nearest officer reluctantly took off his peaked cap and with difficulty removed the red star with the hammer and sickle. In so doing one of the catches broke and at that moment Hynek realized unhappily that a badge in this condition would be of no use to him, because it couldn’t be pinned on and boys didn’t rate damaged goods. Staring firmly at the ground he accepted the worthless star from the general’s hand. “Say please, you…!” his father, equally embarrassed, flared up at him. He cuffed Hynek gently so that the comrades would see that he was bringing him up strictly. He’s ashamed he has such an idiot for a son, Hynek said to himself. But at the same time he thanked him correctly. Because the cinema was something else. To sit beside his father and watch an exciting film with a happy ending, not to have to do anything, and above all to be surrounded by the kindly darkness of the auditorium! Hynek looked forward to it all week, his father met him straight after school so that they would get there in good time. He settled Hynek in the front row of the garrison cinema, pressed a chocolate wafer into his hand and said: “I’ll be back when it finishes. Don’t go away, will you?” “Where are you going, Dad? Aren’t you going to watch it with me?” “I’ve seen it. Just wait, will you?” said his father and patted him on the back. “Dad, what’s it about?” “Well…it’s about this dog,” his father replied hesitantly from the exit. He had to be quick at the door because the conscripts were beginning to rush in. His father was lost in the crowd and Hynek watched fearfully as every last seat in the auditorium filled up with lightning speed. The place echoed with loud talk, coarse laughter and a lot of foul words whose meaning Hynek could only guess at. The audience stank. It was in fact about a dog. The film was set in a kind of rubber box where there were only walls, a floor and a ceiling. Gradually poison gas, possibly sarin as Hynek learned from the comments of the audience, began to build up in it. The dog was a German shepherd with a lovely big head. It seemed tired by all the tests, carried out on him in the interest of world peace. The audience

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roared enthusiastically, the commentary could not be heard. Hynek understood none of it. After a while the suffering dog breathed its last to the strains of The Overture to Socialism, produced by Czechoslovak Military Films. The whole performance lasted a scant quarter of an hour. Hynek dutifully remained seated even when the lights went up, and waited till the boisterous conscripts filed out and departed. He remained in the front row and pondered what he had seen. He was convinced there was more to come. And in fact there was—after a short time another batch of noisy soldiers surged into the hall and the film was shown again. That afternoon Hynek saw it five times in all. At last the auditorium was empty, no-one else came and his chocolate wafer was long gone. In spite of what he had been told, Hynek got up and set off for home; fortunately it wasn’t far. There was no doubt that Haštal loved his wife. He never shouted at her and he preferred dealing with any situation bordering on a quarrel by being determinedly silent. (Once long before their first child was born, Haštal had lost his temper at home and shouted at her, but she said simply he should keep that kind of behaviour for work. He soon forgot the contempt for the military profession that lay behind her words, among other things, but the rest he well remembered.) He never shouted at his wife or children, he was careful to remember every saint’s day and birthday and he soon involved his son in preparations for celebrating International Women´s Day at home. “We’ll go together and buy flowers for Mum,” he would say every year. “Do you know why?” “Because today is a holiday for every mother,” Hynek would answer dutifully. And he would add, “Especially our Mum!” And he would take father’s hand and smile happily. Haštal knew that if he could, he would have bought her every mortal thing. He reconciled this knowledge not only with his own infidelity, but also with the poverty the whole family had been stuck with for years, in spite of the hard work of both of them. Often he would even buy her more than he could afford, he would even spend all the money left after the monthly house bills on “a present for Mum.” Although neither of them smoked, several large Bohemian crystal ashtrays had accumulated in the house. Later, as a manifestation of love, he began to buy useful things “so that Mum would not have to work so hard.” A blender, an iron, a food processor. But however expensive these gadgets were relative to his means, they were by no means the most expensive of their kind: after being in use for a few weeks,

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they usually began to give trouble. Then it was the turn of the second phase of the manifestation of love, that is to say, doing small repairs. He loved small repairs. He would rewind the coils in a burnt-out electric motor, put new cogwheels into plastic gearboxes and glue cracked covers. He silently reaped the reward of her admiration and was proud of himself. He knew that she thought he could mend practically anything. There was only one thing wrong with his repairs—while repairing one thing he would always break something else, so that what was originally one simple job became many. If he changed a fan belt, he would accidentally snap the distributor cable. The manifestation of love reached its pinnacle in handmade gifts. He would take his tenyear-old son for a walk in the woods where they would look for “something nice for Mum”: usually some decorative bits of wood that they would clean together and paint with clear varnish. Sometimes they would dry colourful autumn leaves and put them under glass. With this type of gift Haštal would generally include some of his own poetry, in which plum would rhyme with Mum and glad with Dad. It was not till years later that Hynek realized that his Mum was of course also Dad’s wife. Perhaps the problem lay only in what they called her. To Hynek it seemed absolutely impossible that either of his parents could be unfaithful. In any case there is no room for such an idea in a child’s love. As an adolescent he had to come to terms with the fact that his parents had sex (their room was right beside Hynek’s and both he and they pretended he was sleeping and didn’t hear a thing), later he could see only too clearly his mother’s varicose veins and his father’s fat, hairy paunch, so he dismissed the possibility of either of them being unfaithful, even though he felt great compassion and love for them. At home everything was shut up. Like most of his contemporaries Hynek wore the house key on a string round his neck, all he had to do was lean over the keyhole and turn the key without removing his schoolbag, but today the lock refused to turn. Hynek straightened up and threw the bag on to the steps. Once again he put the key in the lock but something on the other side was blocking it and he could not get it in properly. Hynek thumped the bakelite cover several times then he grabbed the door handle and rattled it with all his might. It came off with a loud crack and remained in his hand. As he stood listening to the reverberations, he seemed to hear noises inside. He banged again and put his ear to the door. Quiet footsteps. “Dad!” shouted Hynek to cover his embarrassment, “open the door, it’s me!” The footsteps behind the door faded away.

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“Dad, Dad! I know you’re there, open the door!” Hynek kicked the door angrily. He was afraid his strange suspicions were right, but it was too late to escape. Now that he had given away the fact that he knew, he had to see it through. Suddenly the door opened and his father was standing on the threshold in his dressing-gown. He was not in the least annoyed and smelled fresh. “Why are you making such a silly noise?” he asked mildly. “Where were you? You were supposed to pick me up from the cinema! We had an agreement!” “After all, how was I supposed to know? It’s finished so soon?” “Long ago!” “Well…just wanted to have a shower…See, it was pretty short, wasn’t it?” said his father still blocking the entire doorway so that Hynek could not get round him to get in. “It was long and stupid!” yelled Hynek. “I don’t want to go to the cinema with you ever again! And let go!” He forced his way past his father and burst into the room. His father followed him without a word and sat down on the side of the bed. When the sound of the front door quietly closing was heard, he said, “We’ll have to see about mending the handle before Mum and Hanička come home, what do you think?” From the time he was seventeen or eighteen Hynek often asked himself the question, was it really possible that a decent, thinking man could be in the Communist Party for more than twenty years and for fifteen years an officer in the army in the service of a totalitarian state. And although he accepted unequivocally that it was not possible, especially if both these errors were concurrent, he immediately added in his own mind that his father was perhaps an exception. In spite of the hatred he sometimes felt for him, in spite of all the reproaches lingering in his mind, he could not deny him the attributes decent and thinking. When Hynek saw his father working hard and selflessly for his family and when he came to appreciate his suicidal sense of justice, he thought his father was actually quite nice. Quite, if only … if only he weren’t my father, he always finished up thinking. He struggled with these thoughts, considering them sins, nevertheless he caught himself feeling the usual envy when he saw some other fathers, the fathers of his friends, cheerful, jovial, well-to-do men, whom nobody ever dismissed from work or from the party. Haštal was just about to enter the workshop where, as early as February, two students were making banners for May Day. University students have to do military service one day a week for two years, the army kept ancient uniforms made of thick material in which they couldn’t help looking like Švejk. A few of them even acted like Švejk. At least it made for a bit of fun, even though

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officially we weren’t allowed to condone it. As for the rest, half were sycophantic snoopers who had got in to university by being founder members of Lenin’s Youth Movement, later the Socialist Youth Movement, and half lost causes, who, goodness knows how, had found their way past the vigilant admissions board and now were hoping to continue their studies without collaborating with Husák’s government. I won’t complicate things for you, gentlemen, if you meet me half way, thought Haštal with his hand on the key. At the door the commanding officer caught up with him. “At ease, at ease, comrade captain,” he cut short Haštal’s attempt to make his report. “I’ll look in with you to see how our comrades are getting on…” Haštal had a strange feeling the minute he stepped over the threshold. When the door opened he was astounded. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the commanding officer breathing hard. One of the two Švejks clicked his heels together theatrically and reported, “Comrade lieutenantcolonel, private Ondřej and one other preparing political-pedagogic material!” Aghast the commanding officer looked round without speaking. Crude drawings of female genitals had been painted by red paint all over the white walls of the workshop. The largest one was on the ceiling but it had no vertical line in the middle, in its place was a fluorescent tube painted red, perversely flashing in the silence. It was certainly not particularly funny but it was impressive. Haštal realized from the way he was having trouble breathing, that the commanding officer was slowly regaining his composure. He knew he would start shouting and was sorry for the Švejks, but what bothered him most was that when he had finished with them, it would be his turn—to bawl them out and find a suitable punishment for them. “Student Ondřej!” the commanding officer’s voice squeaked uncontrollably. “Sir!” the nearer Švejk answered in the same inarticulate screech. “Comrade!” bawled the commanding officer his voice breaking, “is this how you repay the party that has done so much for you?” “It was just a thoughtless joke, comrade lieutenant-colonel” the student shouted. “Is this how you show your gratitude, comrade?” “It was only a joke, lieutenant-colonel!” the student repeated. “Is this how you show your gratitude to society, comrade? What has society done to you?” “Nothing, comrade lieutenant-colonel!” bellowed both students promptly, but the officer was unaware of any irony and continued bawling. “Is this how you show your respect for socialism?” The criminals remained silent.

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“All this, comrades, is because you have not experienced the war!” The commanding officer’s tone gradually softened as it always did when the Second World War was mentioned. Haštal said to himself, I doubt you have experienced it yourself. When it finished, you were maybe fourteen, a message boy. The officer’s original career as a shop assistant couldn’t be denied and he began to whisper persuasively. “If you had been through it, comrades, you would have learned to value what our society gives you! Work and peace! But tell me—what do you give it?” A reproachful, tearful tone crept in to his words. “Nothing, comrade lieutenant-colonel!” said Ondřej loudly. “What about you, comrade?” the commanding officer sadly turned his attention to the other student. “Nothing, lieutenant-colonel!” “Exactly, comrade! Nothing! All you do is hold out your hand and society puts something in it! And then what do you do? Paint female genitals all, over the walls …” The commanding officer was nearly in tears, the students kept quiet, and Haštal knew they were having difficulty holding back their laughter. “Comrades, we have not built socialism for you to paint female genitals on the walls,” the commanding officer added reproachfully. “Understand?” “Private Ondřej, I understand, comrade lieutenant-colonel!” “Private Palán, I understand, comrade lieutenant-colonel!” The commanding officer started as if he had been stung and turned his whole body towards the second private. ”What did you say?” “Private Palán, I understand, lieutenant-colonel!” repeated Palán in surprise. “Oh, so you are the one,” said the lieutenant-colonel quite calmly giving him a searching look. “All right then, as you wish …” Without waiting till the two privates had been dismissed, he took Haštal by the elbow and pulled him in front of the workshop. He looked him straight in the eye and said: “What are you going to do with them, comrade captain?” “Well … I’ll discuss ideology with them again and they’ll be disciplined and suitably punished,” said Haštal carefully, because he did not know where the commanding officer was heading. “I don’t mean that … Forget that Ondřej, but what about that Palach?”*

* In January 1969, Jan Palach immolated himself in protest of the Warsaw Pact invasion of August 1968 and the subsequent of political reforms and return to authoritarian rule.

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Christ, is he really that stupid? Haštal thought, or is he just trying me out, but aloud he said, “Palán. Private Palán, comrade lieutenant-colonel. Disciplined and severely punished, comrade lieutenant-colonel. “Or …?” He left the rest of the sentence hanging so that the idiot could finish it as he pleased, but the latter simply nodded and said: “Well, think about it, comrade captain, it’s up to you what happens to that Palach …” and he went off with a slight bow like a shop assistant. Haštal watched him go, until the shop assistant realised he was an officer, straightened up and marched along with a firm step. Worried, Haštal gave a faint smile, because of course he did not know what his own fate would be. But even if he had known, this particular report would not have broken him … there was still time. It couldn’t be ruled out that that stifling atmosphere, in which it was not possible to talk or breathe freely, came into the family with Hynek’s adolescent, hyper-sensitivity. Sometimes it seemed to him the family would get on perfectly well without him, as if he were nothing but a worry and a cross for his mother and father to bear. The ideal way to avoid any conversation on a personal subject was to keep the television on. In that way the stupidity of those appearing on television in connection with sport, politics or other such entertainment, provided the only subject for general conversation. “What crap they are all saying,” growled Hynek over a meal. “Just turn it off,” said Hanka, “we’re not watching.” But Hynek waved his hand as if he was above doing what was required to switch off the set. “They can go to hell,” he repeated. “Of course …” ambiguously his mother completed his remarks and raised her eyes to heaven. And that effectively took care of conversation within the family circle for the evening. If Dad had been here, Hynek thought, he would have had a real argument with that idiot on the television. But today we’re in luck. But where is he? In the pub? Hynek had never seen his father in a pub, as an adult he had never been in a pub with his father. It is incredible, he sometimes said to himself in surprise, that we have never sat and had a beer together, we’ve never gone for a meal just to have a chat. It’s been so long since we learnt to avoid discussing anything important that that’s how it will be for the rest of our lives. “They simply couldn’t dismiss him just like that!” said Hynek angrily. “Somebody must have given him some reason!” His mother merely smiled sadly and nodded. “Why should They have to do anything?” Because she was ironing she could not look straight at Hynek. He thought this to be cowardly and continued on the attack.

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“Well, even if he doesn’t know the reason, he must have thought about it, he must have some opinion, hasn’t he?” “He seems to have spoken up for some boy who was unfortunately called Palán,” said his mother shrugging her shoulders helplessly—such is fate. “It just happened to be an anniversary of that immolation …” “So what?” shouted Hynek. “I don’t understand.” “Well, not really Palán, you see, it’s almost the same as Palach.” “Yes, but only almost …” “Well, that’s just it …” “Oh Mum, this is so stupid—surely it must be some kind of joke?” “No it’s not, there was a report in his dossier, one of the comrades showed me. They say it was terrible …” tears came in to his mother’s eyes. “Mum, please …! What was terrible? You never tell me anything!” “It was terrible, all that was in that dossier, here, in this country, it follows you all your life and you don’t even know it exists …” “And because of that rubbish he was sacked from his job?” “Because of that and everything else, but chiefly that Palach he spoke up for…” “Palán!” “… well that’s just it … It seems there was a lot in it, they weren’t very pleased with him, they just told him and that was it.” “That’s really terrible … But why didn’t you tell me? He’s always away somewhere … Where is he today, he doesn’t work on Saturdays?” “He’s looking for something, he’s always rushing about, you know …” His mother fixed her attention on the border of the last handkerchief. “Mum, it’s not just today, it’s always, and I’ve seen it happening for at least a year …” “Or two,” said his mother in a whisper. “Maybe,” agreed Hynek. “So you see! He simply isn’t here and wasn’t here even when he had that stupid job. Isn’t that a strange coincidence?” “Hynek dear, these are serious matters …” his mother put the hot iron down on the wire stand. “What’s it about? Do you think it doesn’t concern me?” “No …, no but …” “But you live as though you were divorced, he charges in occasionally, grabs a bite to eat, changes a light bulb and disappears for a week. How can that be normal?” “We can talk about it since you want to,” said his mother quietly and sat down. Hynek came out in a sweat, he felt terrible, almost ready to faint, you did not talk to your parents about intimate matters, their relationship was theirs

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alone, and after all he did not give a damn about it. Only it was too late now. His mother leant towards him and tried to take his hand. He pulled it away and looked at her angrily, all his raging, adolescent, filial love boiled up in him. “What is it then?” he was almost screaming, to stop his mother seeing his terror. I am so afraid they will divorce, he kept repeating to himself, but I’m nearly eighteen, perhaps I’ll get over it. His mother smiled understandingly at this wild reaction, it was almost with violence that she seized his hand and looked deep into his eyes. No escape for Hynek. Nothing for it but to sit still and listen to the truth. His whole body was shaking and with feigned disinterest he thrust his free hand under his chin. This time however no-one reprimanded him. “Dad is doing some secret work,” his mother said quietly. “I hope you are old enough now to know you must never talk about it.” Without thinking Hynek bursted out, “So he’s an informer! Why should it not be talked about, he’s doing it for Them, isn’t he?” Hynek shouted angrily at her. “So They haven’t thrown him out at all, it just looks as if They did.” “But they have dismissed him, that’s exactly the point …” “What is that supposed to mean, Mum, I don’t understand any of this—a communist snooper thrown out of the army and the party, how does that tally?” “Exactly. Think about it.” “So how?” “What makes you think he does it for these rulers of ours?” “And he doesn’t?” “He works for … for some foreign service,” his mother said heavily as if she were trying to throw off a burden. “… So? And which one might that be?” retorted Hynek ironically. “It’s better not to know, don’t you think?” “I don’t give a damn! If that’s the case, why aren’t we rich?” Hynek remembered all the spy films he had seen in his life. His mother sadly threw up her hands in a gesture of despair, “How is it you don’t know your father? Everything he does is always done out of enthusiasm. He does it for nothing.” His mother smiled lovingly at the broken handle of the steam iron that was bound up with sticky tape. She heaved a sigh and set to work again. (2007)

Translated by Elizabeth Morrison

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ALESSANDRO TAMBURINI

Il cielo che prima non c’era

“Ti dico che le cose cambieranno! Hanno già cominciato a cambiare” disse Riccardo, fermandosi per dare più peso alle parole. Toni si fermò a sua volta, con la testa incassata fra le spalle e le mani affondate nelle tasche dei pantaloni. “Io non ne sarei così sicuro” ribadì, e con la lingua si fece girare fra i denti un filo d’erba che si era messo in bocca poco prima. “Pensa solo che non c’è più il fascismo! Ti sembra poco?” insistette Riccardo alzando il tono di voce. “Veramente c’è ancora la Repubblica di Salò, e abbiamo i tedeschi in casa…” obbiettò Toni. “Arriveranno gli angloamericani, la guerra l’hanno già vinta, è solo questione di tempo…” “Sì, ma noi l’abbiamo persa” osservò Toni, e lui si infervorò del tutto, disse “La guerra sarà presto finita, è questo che conta! E tutto potrà ricominciare! Non capisci che cosa significa!?” Toni riprese a camminare e Riccardo gli mollò un gran pugno sulla spalla, in cui scaricò tutto il proprio disappunto. “Testone di un menagramo che non sei altro!” gli disse, e l’altro accusò il colpo, si massaggiò il muscolo del braccio indolenzito. Riccardo aveva a volte di quei moti di insofferenza nei confronti dell’amico. Toni era un ragazzo sveglio, gli piaceva parlare con lui proprio perché aveva sempre un modo suo di guardare le cose, diverso da quello della maggioranza. Però aveva la tendenza a vedere sempre il lato scuro, l’inganno, la fregatura, il verme che bucava anche la mela più bella. E quando prendeva una posizione non c’era più verso di smuoverlo di un millimetro. Si conoscevano da sempre, da quando portavano i pantaloni corti anche in inverno e condividevano i giochi dell’Oratorio di San Pietro: interminabili

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partite di pallone d’estate, sul campetto polveroso, e d’inverno calciobalilla, bilie e figurine, con don Ettore che con grandi ceste di brioches li attirava verso la Funzione e combatteva la quotidiana battaglia di dare loro almeno un’infarinatura di religione. A dodici anni avevano avuto in regalo tutti e due una bicicletta ed era stato in quelle lunghe pedalate e sudate che era maturata fra loro un’amicizia esclusiva, che non sarebbe più venuta meno. Poi si erano iscritti allo stesso liceo ed erano cominciate le uscite con le ragazze, con molti impacci e titubanze, seguite da ore di risate e di grande complicità fra loro due, a commentare e riepilogare le prime agognate e per lo più mancate conquiste. Già allora Toni manifestava la sua vena critica, smontando senza pietà i suoi furori romantici, e quel che è peggio più di una volta era capitato che le ragazze preferissero lui, che pure non si innamorava mai di nessuna. Riccardo si fermò nel punto in cui il sentiero che avevano percorso si affacciava sul primo slargo asfaltato, alla periferia della città. Rivolse un lungo sguardo ai tetti delle case, col rosso acceso dalla viva luce del mattino, poi prese dalla tasca il tabacco e si arrotolò una sigaretta. Toni fece segno che ne voleva anche lui e Riccardo gli porse il tabacco, mentre accendeva sfregando il fiammifero su un muretto. Poi gli accese la sigaretta con la sua, per non sprecare un secondo fiammifero che era una merce preziosa e diedero insieme le prime avide boccate. Era già da un po’ che avevano quel vizio, che risparmiavano su tutto per raggranellare i soldi necessari a mantenerlo, ma non si azzardavano ancora ad accendere la sigaretta in casa, in presenza dei genitori. Una volta che il padre di Toni lo aveva sorpreso per strada con una in bocca gliel’aveva fatta volare via con uno scappellotto che aveva lasciato il figlio tramortito per mezz’ora. Ma a diciassette anni compiuti erano e si sentivano grandi, specie quando si trovavano da soli, quando si sentivano la propria vita tutta fra le mani. Si erano dati appuntamento quella mattina di domenica, all’ora in cui un tempo andavano a messa, per una delle loro passeggiate fuori città, lungo il sentiero che costeggiava il fiume. Si erano fermati come al solito su un pontile di legno che si staccava dalla riva, nel punto in cui il fiume formava una specie di insenatura, a fumare e a chiacchierare. Prima avevano parlato di ragazze, anche se in quel momento non avevano niente di importante per le mani, ma sulla strada del ritorno i discorsi si erano portati sugli avvenimenti degli ultimi mesi, con le infinite congetture su quando sarebbe finita la guerra e cosa sarebbe accaduto dopo. “Io non credo che finirà tanto presto…” disse Toni, come se nella lunga pausa non si fosse mai staccato da quei pensieri. “L’Italia è lunga e i tedeschi stanno rendendo la vita dura agli Alleati. Dovrà passare almeno un altro inverno, stanne pur certo.”

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Lui fece il gesto di cacciare via quel tempo come un insetto fastidioso. Disse “Se deve venire un altro inverno, passerà anche quello. Il momento arriverà, e poi niente sarà più come prima!” Toni scosse la testa. “Cosa ti spetti che succeda? Saranno sempre loro a comandare…” “Loro chi?” “Quelli che hanno comandato sempre, con o senza fascismo, in guerra e in pace: i padroni delle industrie, delle banche, quelli che oggi hanno sulla tavola il pane bianco, la frutta, e sigarette buone a volontà…” “Non cambierai mai, devi sempre vedere il lato peggiore” sbottò Riccardo. “La guerra finita è un sogno e solo tu non riesci a vederlo. Io dico che faremo festa per un anno intero!” “Metterà fine a tante sofferenze, questo lo so bene” ammise Toni “ma sarà solo l’inizio, con tutto quel che bisognerà ancora fare dopo.” Erano arrivati all’incrocio che portava in Centro, al caffè dove erano soliti riunirsi la domenica a quell’ora. “La politica verrà quando sarà il suo momento” rispose lui. “Adesso pensiamo a mandare via i tedeschi e poi…” Gli si spezzarono le parole in bocca perché partì proprio in quel momento l’urlo della sirena, vicinissima visto che si trovavano a pochi isolati dal Comune. Subito i passanti che avevano attorno accelerarono il passo, qualcuno spiccava già la corsa e anche loro cominciarono a muoversi, pur senza ancora dirsi per dove. Toni scrutava il cielo guardando verso sud, mentre con un gesto istintivo lui ritirava il collo fra le spalle, come per ripararsi già dalle bombe. Disse “Da qualche giorno sembrava che ci volessero lasciare in pace.” “Sembrava…” rimarcò Toni, che subito puntò il braccio in direzione delle montagne e un istante dopo nell’azzurro terso del cielo balenò il luccichio di una carlinga, mentre si cominciava a sentire il rombo sordo dei motori. Adesso tutti correvano, in un vocio di grida e richiami che rimbalzavano tra le finestre e la strada. Persiane sbattevano e venivano chiuse, a due passi da loro cadde con gran fragore la serranda di un caffè e li fece sobbalzare come se si trattasse della prima bomba. Si misero a correre anche loro, ancora senza una direzione precisa, quasi saltellando e continuando a guardarsi per prendere in fretta una decisione. “I miei a quest’ora sono tutti a casa e in due minuti arrivano al Rifugio dell’ospedale!” disse Riccardo, col fiatone dell’ansia, più che della corsa. “Idem per i miei” fece l’altro “ma noi non ce la facciamo ad arrivare fin là. E’ molto più vicino il Rifugio di San Martino.”

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“Allora andiamo lì” disse lui, spiccando per primo una corsa vera e decisa, e subito si voltò per controllare che l’amico gli stesse dietro. Il rombo degli aerei ingigantiva sempre più, sembrava dovesse far precipitare il cielo e Riccardo correva avanti a testa bassa. Sapeva che c’era poco tempo, pochi minuti, forse solo qualche manciata di secondi. Sapeva che i velivoli andavano molto più veloci di lui. Altri correvano dietro e avanti a loro, quasi tutti nella medesima direzione perché il Rifugio di San Martino era meta comune. Lui si disse che sarebbero arrivati in tempo, che ce l’avrebbero fatta come altre volte, anche se ogni volta poteva essere quella che buttava giù la sua casa, o che faceva vittime fra le persone care. Bisognava non pensarci. Bisognava solo correre e sperare che il male fosse il più piccolo e il più lontano possibile. Correvano e divoravano isolati, il Rifugio era ormai a poche centinaia di metri e a Riccardo sembrò di averne già nelle narici il tipico odore di muffa e di terra umida. Ma mentre giravano l’angolo della farmacia di colpo Toni si fermò e lui dovette fare lo stesso, portando una mano alla milza che gli faceva male. “Dai che manca poco” disse, ma Toni non si era fermato per la stanchezza, gli era venuta in mente di colpo una cosa importante e la disse. “Silvestro è a casa con la caviglia rotta. Lui e sua madre potrebbero aver bisogno!” Riccardo tirò subito indietro, disse “E cosa vuoi che facciamo noi? Mica possiamo portarlo di peso fino al Rifugio!” Toni continuava a guardare lui ma aveva cominciato ad arretrare, come se avesse già deciso. “E’ meglio andare a vedere” ribadì. “Lo sai che vanno sempre in cantina! Si arrangeranno così anche stavolta!” provò a insistere lui, ma come c’era da aspettarsi Toni non intendeva recedere dal suo proposito, disse “Siamo lì in due minuti. Poi se mai scendiamo in cantina con loro.” “Due minuti un accidente” ribatté lui, mentre gli saliva dal petto un ansimare più forte di quando stava correndo. “Arrivano prima le bombe! Ti vuoi fare ammazzare! Dammi retta, andiamo al Rifugio!” “Non importa, vado io solo. Ci ritroviamo quando sarà finito tutto” concluse l’altro, e Riccardo fu attraversato da una specie di vertigine, in cui si mescolavano ansia e orgoglio, fedeltà e paura. Odiava Silvestro e la caviglia che si era rotta stupidamente un paio di settimane prima, e cercava di convincersi che non aveva bisogno del loro aiuto. Una voce gli diceva di non separarsi dall’amico, un’altra di riprendere la corsa verso il Rifugio e lui era come paralizzato, incapace di darsi il comando di scattare nell’una come

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nell’altra direzione. Ma la voce più forte fu quella del primo lungo fischio, di poco seguito da un boato che esplose ancora distante, ma mandò in pezzi i vetri delle case vicine. E come se avesse troncato di netto la gomena di un ormeggio, mentre Toni ancora esitava come per dargli un’ultima chance di seguirlo, Riccardo si lanciò a testa bassa in direzione del Rifugio, lungo la strada ormai quasi deserta, correndo a zig zag, dal riparo di un edificio a un altro, come se questo bastasse a evitare le bombe che da un momento all’altro potevano piovergli sulla testa. Alzò gli occhi per un istante e vide due aerei poco lontani, più bassi delle montagne, con i portelloni spalancati e i grappoli di bombe che roteando precipitavano giù. Respirava come un mantice e l’aria gli bruciava dentro dalla gola ai polmoni. Finché vide da lontano il Rifugio e proprio allora scoppiò sulla città l’inferno di fischi e boati, e a ognuno seguiva un frastuono di crolli e di vetri frantumati che piovevano sulla strada. In quel putiferio gli sembrò di non sentire più niente, e coprì l’ultimo tratto come un tuffo disperato. Un boato violento esplose vicinissimo e fece tremare la terra. Lui incespicò, solo per miracolo riuscì a tenersi in piedi e c’era quasi, vide la tozza volta che faceva da accesso al Rifugio e ci si tuffò dentro, quasi rotolò giù per i consunti gradini di pietra fino al portone massiccio che qualcuno aveva appena richiuso, ci si buttò contro prendendolo a pugni e il portone si riaprì, fu tirato dentro da dieci mani, finì accasciato per terra nel tramestio degli ultimi arrivati come lui, ancora assiepati nell’angusto ingresso. Per qualche istante rimase come tramortito, col cuore che gli batteva dappertutto e il sudore che gli colava a fiotti lungo la schiena. Poi tornò a essere presente a se stesso e subito si ritrovò davanti Toni e il momento in cui si era allontanato precipitosamente da lui. Era un verdetto senza appello. Era scappato, ci voleva almeno il coraggio di ammetterlo. Forse Silvestro aveva davvero bisogno del loro aiuto e comunque non doveva separarsi da Toni. Era stata la paura a paralizzargli il pensiero e a piegarlo al suo volere. Intanto cominciava a guardarsi intorno, in quel Rifugio che non conosceva. Ci era entrato solo una volta, per un inconsueto allarme pomeridiano che lo aveva sorpreso da solo da quelle parti. Era più grande di quello dell’ospedale, aveva i soffitti più alti, ma c’era lo stesso puzzo di marcio, la stessa aria umida, bagnata quasi, che adesso gli raffreddava il sudore negli abiti appiccicati. Si alzò in piedi e si fece largo fra quelli che si erano fermati nell’ingresso, e tremavano e si stringevano gli uni agli altri quando si udiva un fischio sibilare non lontano dal Rifugio e poi il boato della bomba che rintronava cupo e faceva scricchiolare le travi che puntellavano la volta.

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Aspettò un momento di calma ed entrò nell’ambiente più grande, una specie di galleria lunga quasi cento metri, con due file di panche lungo i bordi. Era piena di gente, gli uomini in piedi, i bambini sulle ginocchia delle madri, le vecchie col rosario stretto fra le dita e le labbra piegate in un’incessante giaculatoria. Cominciò a risalirla e intanto frugava con lo sguardo le persone per vedere se c’era qualcuno che conosceva. Al Rifugio dell’ospedale si ritrovava sempre fra amici e parenti e lì invece non vedeva che estranei, mentre in quel momento avrebbe scambiato volentieri due parole con qualcuno. Non si perdonava il proprio atto di viltà e non sopportava l’idea che potesse essere successo qualcosa a Toni, perché allora sì la sua colpa sarebbe diventata un peso schiacciante. Si spinse ancora avanti, solcando quella folla che come un unico corpo si contraeva e tratteneva il fiato quando risuonava il fischio di una bomba e dopo che era caduta riprendeva a respirare e ogni volta si sollevava un mormorio di sollievo e di commenti a bassa voce. Aveva anche lui paura delle bombe ma come le altre volte si sentiva abbastanza sicuro al Rifugio, anche quando le pareti tremavano e piovevano polvere e calcinacci dal soffitto. Arrivò ad affacciarsi sulle camerate che si aprivano ai lati nella galleria come cappelle di una chiesa, e dentro c’erano panche e materassi gettati sull’impiantito di legno e anche lì tanta gente seduta in fila, stretti come sul tram, e tutti che lo fissavano quando metteva la testa dentro per individuare qualche conoscente. Finalmente, tornato nella galleria centrale, vide di spalle una testa riccioluta su una figura che gli sembrò di riconoscere e in effetti era proprio lui. “Ciao Carlo, sei qui con tuo fratello?” gli disse affiancandolo. “No, ero da mia zia quando è suonato l’allarme e sono venuto qui con lei, ma adesso l’ho lasciata con le sue amiche” rispose quello, e gli mollò una pacca sulla spalla per mostrare che era contento di vederlo. “Tu invece sei fuori zona” soggiunse, e lui si limitò ad annuire perché in realtà si stava domandando se non poteva raccontare a Carlo della faccenda di Toni. Si rispose di no, perché se ne vergognava e non era abbastanza in confidenza con lui. Carlo era stato un suo compagno di scuola alle Medie ma avevano continuato a vedersi, anche insieme a suo fratello maggiore, che più di una volta aveva fatto gruppo con loro ed era simpatico, non si dava delle arie come facevano sempre quelli più grandi. Si sapeva che il loro padre aveva avuto dei problemi coi fascisti, ancora prima della guerra, e che erano andati a prenderlo a casa in piena notte. Riccardo si sentiva dire da sua madre che

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non doveva frequentarli perché erano teste calde, ma lui non le dava retta. Gli piacevano i ragazzi con cui si trovava bene a parlare e dopo Toni loro erano i migliori. Fischiò vicina una bomba e vide che tanti si prendevano la testa fra le mani in attesa del boato, che esplose e si rifranse come un tuono fra le pareti. Poi si sentirono le raffiche intermittenti della contraerea, Carlo lo tirò per un braccio, gli fece segno di sedere con lui in un angolo sgombro, fra due panche accostate alla parete. Ma non c’era abbastanza posto per entrambi e lui sedette sui talloni, a un palmo da una bambina minuscola, che con una mano si teneva aggrappata alla gonna della madre e nell’altra stringeva una bambola di pezza. Le sorrise e lei fece dondolare la bambola, ma senza mutare la sua espressione seria. “Bombardano sempre più spesso. Vuol dire che si preparano all’offensiva” disse Carlo, e lui annuì, disse “L’altra notte Pippo ha tirato sulla centrale elettrica e ha colpito anche la casa dei Rensi, che abitano lì vicino.” Cominciarono a scambiarsi notizie di amici e conoscenti e dei molti che erano sfollati, dopo il pesante bombardamento di un mese prima. “Lo sfollamento è un bene anche per chi resta” disse Carlo. “Prima qui si riempiva il doppio di adesso, si stava schiacciati come sardine.” Parlando ingannavano l’ansia e l’aria irrespirabile del Rifugio. Si zittivano come tutti e trattenevano il respiro quando partiva un nuovo fischio. Lui era contendo di aver trovato qualcuno con cui conversare. Rispondeva a tono ma era sempre concentrato su quando sarebbe finita e avrebbe potuto uscire fuori, rivedere Toni sano e salvo e allora non gli sarebbe importato più della propria ingloriosa fuga, era disposto anche a farsi prendere in giro e ad ammettere: sì, quando ho sentito fischiare la prima bomba mi ha preso la fifa, e avrebbero riso e tutto sarebbe tornato com’era. Era quello che desiderava con tutto se stesso. Un fischio più acuto e prolungato riempì di paura gli occhi delle persone che avevano attorno e fece alzare di tono la preghiera che una vecchia recitava col rosario fra le dita. “Vogliono tagliare i rifornimenti ai tedeschi” disse Carlo alzando gli occhi al soffitto, “poi avanzeranno, e allora dovremo fare qualcosa anche noi.” Lui pensava ancora a Toni e per una volta gli venne da rispondere come avrebbe fatto l’amico. “Verranno a liberarci, ma intanto ci buttano le bombe sulla testa” disse. “Ci ammazzano e alla fine dovremo anche ringraziarli.” Carlo replicò con un’espressione risoluta, poi abbassando la voce disse “Se mi arriva la cartolina per arruolarmi con la Repubblica io non mi presento, vado in montagna e rimango lassù.”

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“Sono da poco arrivate le cartoline per le classi ’24 e ’25” ricordò Riccardo. “I prossimi siamo noi…” Carlo piegò il capo verso di lui e abbassando ancora la voce mormorò “L’ha avuta anche mio fratello. E non si è presentato. È andato coi partigiani. E’ via già da cinque giorni.” Quelle parole ebbero un effetto potente su di lui. Non si aspettava che le cose fossero già a quel punto, che fosse così vicino il momento delle decisioni. “Coi partigiani…” ripeté. “E come ha fatto?” “E’ salito al paese dove hanno la casa i miei nonni. Gli hanno detto che lì avrebbe potuto mettersi in contatto. E infatti non è più tornato. Aspettiamo notizie. Mia madre è terrorizzata ma io dico che ha fatto bene.” Già da qualche mese si sentiva parlare dei partigiani. Molti di quelli tornati a casa dopo l’8 settembre si erano rifugiati in montagna per non farsi prendere dai tedeschi, ma nei primi tempi si erano limitati a nascondersi e a sfuggire i rastrellamenti. Poi erano arrivate le notizie delle prime azioni: un deposito di carburante fatto saltare in aria, una spedizione punitiva contro una spia e appena una settimana prima si era saputo di un’azione nella provincia vicina, un’imboscata tesa a una camionetta tedesca, in cui era stato ferito gravemente un ufficiale della Wehrmacht. Ma per Riccardo si trattava ancora di vicende lontane e fantasiose e non riusciva a immaginare di potersi davvero unire a loro, lui che non aveva mai preso in mano un’arma, e che non aveva ancora dormito una notte lontano da casa. Ne aveva parlato anche con Toni, e non aveva le idee molto chiare nemmeno lui. Però avevano concordato che indossare la divisa e andare a combattere di nuovo per il Duce non era giusto, anzi non era nemmeno da pensarci. Questo voleva dire che di lì a poco, mesi o forse meno ancora, qualcosa di ancora inconcepibile in un modo o nell’altro sarebbe accaduto. “Io non ho mai tenuto in mano un’arma in vita mia” mormorò per palesare solo uno dei tanti dubbi che aveva in mente, e pensò che per unirsi ai partigiani avrebbe dovuto migliorare, perché non avrebbero saputo cosa farsene di uno che al primo botto se la dava a gambe. “Te lo insegnano loro” disse Carlo. “Hanno quelle prese ai nemici nelle azioni. Poi ho sentito dire che gli Alleati fanno dei lanci dagli aerei e mandano giù viveri, armi, tutto quello di cui c’è bisogno.” Da qualche minuto erano finiti i fischi e gli scoppi e la gente cominciava a rumoreggiare e a scalpitare per uscire. Finalmente suonò la sirena del cessato allarme e la porta del Rifugio cominciò a risucchiare fuori quella piccola folla di persone ammassate. Lui e Carlo impiegarono parecchio a raggiungere l’uscita, e finalmente ritrovarono la luce del sole, che piegò loro lo sguardo

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dopo la penombra del Rifugio. C’era uno strano silenzio nell’aria, in fondo al quale finiva di spegnersi il fragore sordo dei velivoli che se ne tornavano da dove erano venuti. La gente defluiva ansiosa, accelerando subito il passo verso le proprie case per vedere in che stato erano ridotte, per ricongiungersi ai familiari da cui erano separati al momento dell’allarme, e loro fecero lo stesso. Camminavano su tappeti di vetri rotti ma a lui sembrava di non vedere grossi cambiamenti, anche se non era facile distinguere fra i danni dei precedenti bombardamenti e quelli dell’ultimo. E quasi subito gli si aprì il cuore nel vedere ancora da lontano il suo amico Toni, inconfondibile con le sue gambe magre e lunghe e il suo viso affilato che fendeva l’aria. Veniva avanti a grandi passi verso il Rifugio e appena lo vide il suo viso si rischiarò, gli corse incontro. Fu un abbraccio interminabile, accompagnato da suoni gutturali che non riuscivano a prendere la forma di parole. “Avevi ragione” disse poi Toni. “Silvestro era già in cantina e sono rimasto con lui e sua madre. A un certo momento i boati erano così forti che pareva la casa dovesse caderci sulla testa!” “Quali quartieri sono stati colpiti?” gli domandò ansiosamente lui, e Toni disse “Ho sentito che hanno preso di mira la stazione ma non sono ancora andato da quella parte. Prima volevo vedere la tua brutta faccia tutta intera,” e lui si sentì di colpo liberato da un peso. Forse non era stato grave come gli era sembrato, oppure Toni lo aveva perdonato e basta, non aveva importanza. Non glielo aveva fatto pesare e glie ne era immensamente grato. Ora camminavano di nuovo fianco a fianco, con Carlo che li precedeva di un passo e li guidava verso il Centro, dove dovevano passare tutti e tre per raggiungere le loro abitazioni. Riccardo era molto eccitato. “Il fratello di Carlo è scappato in montagna dopo che gli è arrivata la cartolina” mormorò in un orecchio a Toni senza rallentare l’andatura. “Quando ci arriva facciamo lo stesso anche noi!” Aveva ancora in mente le fantasie sui partigiani fatte al Rifugio, e l’essersi ricongiunto con Toni lo aveva incoraggiato ancor di più. “Mi fa piacere vederti deciso” disse Toni “ma ci sarà tempo per pensarci” e lo guardò con un’espressione indecifrabile. Ma lui lo conosceva abbastanza per sapere che, per quanto gli piacesse fare il bastian contrario, al momento buono sarebbe stato fra i primi a fare quel che andava fatto. E tutto diventava più verosimile al pensiero di poterlo fare insieme. Le strade si stavano rianimando, usciva dai portoni chi era rimasto nelle case, serrande venivano risollevate e fecero un salto quando azionando il campanello una donna chiese loro strada arrivando da dietro con la bicicletta. Ma girato l’angolo della GIL cominciarono a cogliere anche segni più marcati

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del bombardamento: cornicioni caduti, la strada seminata di pietre e una cortina di fumo e polvere che galleggiava a mezz’aria, si infittiva man mano che si avvicinavano alla ferrovia. E la gente formicolava e rimbalzava richiami concitati, un gruppetto stava intorno a un ferito steso a terra, di fronte a una parete butterata di schegge. Più oltre videro il primo edificio sventrato e anche gli altri intorno avevano le imposte mezze divelte e penzolanti. Avevano cominciato a correre, quasi senza rendersene conto, imitando quelli che avevano intorno, penetrando sempre più nello scenario di distruzione. In via Cavour i palazzi abbattuti erano più di quelli rimasti in piedi, tanto mal ridotti anche questi ultimi che Riccardo non riuscì a capire se era stata distrutta o no la casa dove abitava la sua maestra delle elementari, che ogni volta lo incontrava per strada si fermava a parlare. Volti terrei si aggiravano intorno a quello scempio e la gente correva o si fermava sbigottita fra i cumuli di macerie, intorno ai corpi riversi sulla strada. I tre amici si tenevano stretti per evitare lo sciamare delle persone. A momenti correvano e poi si arrestavano davanti a qualcosa, si guardavano atterriti e impotenti, riprendevano a correre. Tossivano, piangevano, gli occhi e la gola bruciavano per la polvere dei calcinacci e per il fumo degli incendi. “Prendevano di mira la ferrovia ma hanno fatto un macello!” disse Toni, e Carlo li spinse avanti. Era il più agitato di tutti e solo allora Riccardo ricordò che la sua casa era a pochi isolati dalla stazione. Era un crescendo di morte e desolazione. Di un caseggiato restava solo una quinta spalancata sul vuoto. Il palazzo a fianco si era accartocciato su se stesso come se avesse ricevuto un gigantesco pugno. Nella piazzetta ingombra di calcinacci, davanti alla fontana erano stese tre salme coperte da lenzuola. Passò un’autolettiga con la sirena spiegata, poi un sidecar con sopra due soldati tedeschi. Nei giardinetti diversi alberi erano stati sradicati. Nelle buche aperte dalle bombe la terra aveva il colore scuro dei campi appena arati. Le bombe avevano mutato il volto della città. Occorreva uno sforzo continuo per ricostruire la forma di edifici e angoli familiari, divenuti irriconoscibili. Ora si vedevano molte divise dei volontari dell’UNPA, che con pale e badili aveva cominciato a scavare intorno agli edifici crollati. I tre amici stavano passando accanto a uno di quelli quando si sentì uno scricchiolio, un fragore sordo che sembrava salire dalla terra, e in un turbine di polvere il mucchio di macerie cambiò forma mentre si alzavano alte le grida di quelli che gli stavano più vicino. Era il peggior bombardamento che si fosse mai visto. Dovevano esserci decine di morti, centinaia forse e loro passavano attraverso quel disastro

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ciascuno correndo con la mente ai propri cari, alla propria casa, costretti dallo spettacolo che avevano davanti a evocare le tragedie peggiori. Riccardo si ripeteva che i suoi dovevano per forza essersi messi in salvo al Rifugio dell’ospedale, che avevano avuto a disposizione più tempo di lui per farlo, che di lì a poco avrebbe potuto riabbracciarli. Ma bastava il pensiero del peggio per sentirsi mancare il terreno sotto i piedi, mentre si erano allontanati di colpo i pensieri sul futuro, sulla fine della guerra e sulle imprese dei partigiani a cui avrebbero potuto riunirsi. C’era bel altro prima. C’erano da scampare disgrazie irreparabili. Gli sembrava ridicola e quasi colpevole ora l’ansia provata al Rifugio, di rivedere Toni e liberarsi della vergogna per la fuga sotto le bombe. La strada fu bloccata per qualche istante da un’autolettiga che caricava un ferito, poi proseguirono sguazzando sulla carreggiata che grondava acqua, per qualche conduttura saltata. Erano ormai a un isolato dalla casa di Carlo che infatti si era staccato da loro e correva avanti. Accelerarono il passo ma lo raggiunsero solo quando si era già fermato, attonito, davanti a quello scenario incredibile. Si schermava gli occhi con la mano, per ripararli dalla luce abbacinante o forse per non vedere ciò che lo sguardo era incapace di accettare e comprendere. La casa di Carlo non esisteva più. Al suo posto un cielo che prima non c’era, e che mai avrebbe dovuto esserci, apriva spazi impudichi sugli edifici retrostanti, che sembravano rattrappiti per la vergogna di essere stati scoperti. C’erano dei volontari che scavavano intorno alle macerie e altre persone affannate intorno. Carlo si accostò tremante a una donna che si voltò, lo riconobbe, lo abbracciò e gli disse che i suoi erano salvi. Poi scoppiò in lacrime e aggiunse che invece erano rimasti là sotto gli anziani inquilini del primo piano, che come al solito si erano rifiutati di scappare al Rifugio. Carlo rimase per qualche istante immobile, paralizzato dalle emozioni che gli avevano suscitato quelle parole. Poi con uno scatto improvviso prese dalla tasca la chiave di quella che era stata la sua casa e la scagliò con rabbia contro il mucchio di rovine, contro lo scorcio di cielo nuovo e impossibile che si era aperto come un baratro nella sua vita. (2007)

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ALESSANDRO TAMBURINI

The sky that wasn’t there before

“I’m telling you that things are going to change! They’ve already begun to change,” said Riccardo, stopping to give more weight to his words. Toni stopped as well, with his head sunk into his shoulders and his hands dug into the pockets of his trousers. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” he responded, and with his tongue he toyed with a blade of grass that he had put into his mouth shortly before. “Just think that fascism is over! Do you think that’s nothing?” insisted Riccardo, raising the tone of his voice. “Well, but there is still the Republic of Salò, and we have the Germans here …,” objected Toni. “The Anglo-Americans are coming; they have already won the war, it’s just a matter of time …” “Yes, but we’ve lost it,” Toni remarked, and Riccardo, getting really animated, said: “The war will soon be over, and that’s what matters! And everything can begin again! Don’t you understand what that means!?” Toni walked on and Riccardo gave him a huge punch in the shoulder, releasing all his irritation. “You pig-headed jinx!” he said, and Toni, feeling the blow, rubbed the muscle in his sore arm. Sometimes Riccardo had those outbursts of intolerance towards his friend. Toni was a bright guy and he liked talking to him just because he had always his own way of looking at things, which was not like that of most people. Yet he had the tendency to always see the black side of things, the deception, the rip-off, the maggot that bores its way even into the most beautiful apple. And when he took a certain stand, there was just no way to move him, even by an inch.

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They had always known each other, ever since they had worn short trousers even in winter and had shared the games at St. Peter’s Youth Club: never-ending football matches on the dusty pitch in summer, and in winter table-football, billiards and picture-cards, with Father Ettore who, with huge baskets of croissants, enticed them to attend Mass and fought the daily battle of giving them at least a smattering of religion. When they were twelve, they were both given bicycles as presents, and it was during those long and sweaty cycle rides that an exclusive friendship had ripened, that would never dwindle. Then, they had gone to the same secondary school, and started going out with girls, with lots of embarrassment and wavering, followed by hours of good laughs and great complicity between the two of them, while they commented on and chatted about the first yearned for, and mostly missed, conquests. Even then, one could see Toni’s critical streak as he mercilessly shattered his friend’s romantic frenzy and, even worse, more than once it would happen that the girls preferred him, he who never fell in love with anyone. Riccardo stopped where the path that they had taken widened into an asphalt road, on the outskirts of the town. He cast a long look at the roofs of the houses, bright red in the vivid morning light, and then took the tobacco from his pocket and rolled himself a cigarette. Toni gestured he wanted one as well, and Riccardo handed him the tobacco while he lit up striking the match on a wall. Then he lit Toni’s cigarette from his own, so as not to waste a second precious match, and together they avidly took the first drags. They had had this vice for some time now and saved on everything to scrape up the money needed to keep it up, but they still didn’t dare light a cigarette at home in front of their parents. Once when Toni’s father had caught him on the street with a cigarette in his mouth, he had sent it flying with a slap which had left Toni stunned for half an hour. But now at seventeen, they were and felt grown up, especially when they were on their own, when they felt they had their own lives in their hands. They had arranged to meet that Sunday morning, at the time when they used to go to mass, for one of their usual walks outside the town, along the path that skirted the river. They had stopped as usual to smoke and chat on a wooden pier that parted from the bank, where the river formed a kind of inlet. First they had talked about girls, even though they had nothing serious going at that moment, but on the way back the conversation turned to the events of recent months, with the endless speculations about when the war would end and what would happen afterwards. “I don’t think it will end very quickly …” said Toni, as if in the long interval he had never detached himself from those thoughts. “Italy is long and

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the Germans are making life difficult for the Allies. It will take at least another winter, you can be sure.” Riccardo made the gesture of getting rid of that time as if it were a bothersome insect. He said: “If there is to be another winter, it will go by too. The moment will come, and nothing will ever be the same again!” Toni shook his head: “What do you expect will happen? They will always be in command …” “Who they?” “The ones who have always ruled, with or without fascism, in war and in peace: the owners of the industries, of the banks, the ones who these days have white bread and fruit on the table, and as many good cigarettes as they want …” “You’ll never change, you always have to see the dark side,” Riccardo spoke out. “The end of the war is a dream and only you cannot manage to see it. I say that we will celebrate for a whole year!” “It will bring an end to lots of suffering, I know that well,” Toni admitted, “but it will only be the beginning, with all that will have to be done afterwards.” They had reached the crossing that led into the centre, to the café where they usually met up on Sundays at that time. “Politics will come in due course,” he replied. “Now let’s think about getting rid of the Germans and then …” The words stuck in his throat because at that very moment the wail of the siren was heard, very loud since they were just a few blocks from the Town Hall. Immediately the people around them quickened their step, some were already running off and they too began to hasten, without knowing where. Toni peered at the sky, looking southwards, while with an instinctive gesture Riccardo hunched his shoulders, as if already sheltering himself from the bombs. He said: “For the last few days it seemed as if they wanted to leave us in peace.” “It seemed …” Toni remarked, and he immediately pointed to the mountains, and a second after in the clear blue sky, the twinkling of a nacelle flashed, while the dull rumbling of the engines could be heard. Everyone was running now, and the clamour of the shouts and cries echoed between the windows and the streets. Shutters slammed and were closed, a couple of steps away the rolling shutter of a café was pulled down with a great clang and it made them start as if it was the first bomb. They

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began to run too, still without any clear direction, almost skipping and keeping looking at each other to take a hurried decision. “My folks are all at home at this time and in two minutes they can get to the Shelter of the hospital!” said Riccardo, panting more because of anxiety than of the run. “Ditto for my folks,” said Toni, “but we won’t make it as far as there. The Shelter of San Martino is nearer.” “Well let’s go there” said Riccardo, setting off first with a real and determined run, and immediately turning round to check that his friend was following him. The rumbling of the aeroplanes got louder and louder, it seemed that it was going to pull down the sky and Riccardo ran on with his head down. He knew there was little time, a few minutes, maybe even only seconds. He knew that the aircrafts went much faster than he did. Others were running behind and in front of them, almost all in the same direction because the Shelter of San Martino was everyone’s destination. He told himself that they would arrive in time, that they would make it like the other times, even if each time could be the one when the house would be blown up or one of his nearest and dearest could fall victim. He must not think about it. He must only run and hope that the harm would be as little and as far away as possible. They ran, passing block after block. The Shelter was now just a few hundred metres away, and Riccardo felt as if he already had the typical smell of mould and damp ground in his nostrils. But as they were turning the corner of the pharmacy Toni suddenly stopped, and he had to do the same, placing a hand on his aching spleen. “Come on, we’re nearly there,” he said, but Toni hadn’t stopped because he was tired; something important had suddenly flashed into his mind and he worded it: “Silvestro is at home with a broken ankle. He and his mother might need help!” Riccardo immediately pulled back and said: “And what do you want us to do about it? We cannot possibly carry him bodily to the Shelter!” Toni kept on looking at him, but he had already begun to step back as if he had already decided. “It’s better to go and check,” he replied. “You know they always go down to the cellar! They’ll manage like that this time as well!” he tried to insist, but as expected Toni had no intention of backing out of his proposal, and said:

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“We’ll be there in two minutes. Then, if anything, we can go down into the cellar with them.” “Two minutes, you must be joking,” he retorted, while he felt the panting in his chest much stronger than when he was running. “The bombs will arrive first! Do you want to kill yourself! Listen to me, let’s go to the Shelter!” “It doesn’t matter; I’ll go on my own. We’ll meet up when it’s all over,” the other concluded, and a kind of dizziness swept through Riccardo, in which were mixed anxiety and pride, loyalty and fear. He hated Silvestro and the ankle that he had stupidly broken a couple of weeks before, and tried to convince himself that their help wasn’t needed. A voice kept telling him not to separate from his friend, another to run on to the Shelter, and he felt as if he were paralysed, incapable of ordering himself to set off in either direction. But the strongest voice was that of the first long whiz, shortly followed by a boom that exploded still far away, but that smashed the window-panes of the houses nearby into bits. And as if he had cut off at a stroke the hawser of moorings, while Toni was still hesitating as if to give him the last chance to follow, Riccardo dashed off headlong in the direction of the Shelter, along the road now practically deserted, zigzagging from the protection of one building to another, as though this was enough to avoid the bombs which any moment could pour down on his head. He raised his eyes for an instant and saw two aeroplanes quite near, lower than the mountains, with the hatches wide open and the clusters of bombs which rolled as they fell down. He was puffing and blowing, and the air was burning in his throat and lungs. Then he saw the far-off Shelter and right then infernal whizzes and rumbles exploded over the town, followed by the noise of collapsing buildings and shattered glass that poured down on the road. In that din he felt he couldn’t hear anything, and he desperately leapt over the last bit. A violent rumble was heard nearby and the ground shook. He tripped, and only by miracle did he manage to stay on his feet, and he was almost there, he saw the squat vault that was the entrance to the Shelter and he dived in, almost rolled down the worn stone steps to the heavy main door that someone had just closed, he threw himself against it and started thumping, and the door was opened again, he was pulled inside by a dozen hands, ended up slumped on the ground in the confusion of the last to arrive like himself, still crowded in the cramped entrance. He remained as if he were in a stupor for a few seconds, with his heart pounding and the sweat dripping down his back. Then he came back to his senses and immediately pictured Toni before him, and the moment when he had rashly separated from him.

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It was a verdict without appeal. He had deserted him; at least he should have the courage to admit it. Maybe Silvestro really needed their help, and anyway he should not have split up from Toni. Fear had paralysed his reasoning and made him behave as he did. Meanwhile he began to look around in that Shelter he didn’t know. He had been inside only once, because of an unusual afternoon alarm that had caught him by surprise on his own in that area. It was bigger than the one at the hospital, the ceilings were higher, but there was the same rotten stink, the same damp air, almost wet, that was now cooling down the sweat in his sticky clothes. He got to his feet and elbowed his way through those who had stopped at the entrance, and who trembled and held on to each other when they heard a hissing not far from the Shelter, followed by the rumble of the bomb that thundered deeply, making the beams propping the vault creak. He waited for a moment of calm and then went into the wider area, a kind of tunnel almost a hundred metres long, with two rows of benches along the sides. It was full of people, the men on their feet, the children on their mothers’ laps, the old women with the rosary beads held tightly between their fingers and their lips bent in an endless muttering. He made his way through it, his gaze sweeping around to see if there was someone he knew. At the hospital Shelter he always found himself among friends and relatives, but here all he saw were strangers, and in that moment he would really have liked to have a chat with somebody. He couldn’t forgive himself for his cowardly act, and he couldn’t cope with the idea that something might have happened to Toni, because then what he had done would really become a crushing burden. He pushed further forward, ploughing through the crowd that like a single body huddled together and held its breath when the whiz of a bomb sounded and, after it had fallen, began to breathe again and each time a murmur of relief and whispered comments arose. He was afraid of the bombs too, but like the other times he felt quite safe in the Shelter, even when the walls shook and dust and rubble fell down from the ceiling. He peered into the dormitories that opened off from the sides of the tunnel, like chapels of a church, and inside there were benches and mattresses thrown on the wooden floor, and lots of people sitting in rows, huddled together like on the tram, and everyone stared at him when he put his head in to see if there was anyone he knew. At last, when he got back to the main tunnel, he saw the back of a curly head and he thought he recognized the person, and in fact it was just him. “Hello Carlo, are you here with your brother?” he asked going alongside him.

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“No, I was at my aunt’s when the alarm went off and I came here with her, but now I’ve left her with her friends,” he replied and he gave him a slap on the shoulder to show he was happy to see him. “But you’re out of your area,” he added, and Riccardo just nodded because, in fact, he was wondering if he couldn’t tell Carlo about what had happened between him and Toni. He told himself he couldn’t, because he was ashamed and he wasn’t close enough to him. Carlo had attended Middle School with him, but they had continued to meet up, also with his older brother who sometimes was part of their group and was a nice fellow, he didn’t give himself airs as the older ones always did. Everyone knew that their father had had problems with the fascists, already before the war, and that they had gone to get him at home in the middle of the night. Riccardo’s mother said that he shouldn’t go out with them because they were hot heads, but he didn’t pay any heed. He liked the fellows he could talk to and after Toni, they were the best. A bomb whizzed close by and he saw many people holding their heads in their hands waiting for the rumble, there was the explosion and it echoed like thunder between the walls. Then they could hear the intermittent bursts of the anti-aircraft fire. Carlo pulled him by the arm and pointed to him to sit down with him in an empty corner, between two benches pushed to the walls. But there wasn’t enough room for both and so he hunkered down beside him, close to a tiny little girl, who with one hand held on to her mother’s skirt, and with the other grasped a rag doll. He smiled at her and she rocked her doll, but never changed the serious expression on her face. “They’re bombing more and more often. That means they’re preparing the offensive,” Carlo said; he nodded and said: “The other night Pippo fired at the power station and struck also the house of the Rensi’s who live nearby.” They began to exchange news about friends and acquaintances and about the many people who had been evacuated, after the heavy bombing the month before. “The evacuation is a good thing also for those who stay,” Carlo said. “Before, twice the number was filled here; we were packed like sardines.” Talking they held off anxiety and coped with the stifling air of the Shelter. They fell silent like everyone else and held their breath, when a new whiz was heard. He was happy to have found someone to talk to. He replied to the point but he was still concentrating on when it would all end and he would be able to go out, see Toni safe and sound, and then he wouldn’t care less about his

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inglorious flight, he was even ready to have his leg pulled and admit: yes, when I heard the first bomb whizzing I got scared, and they would all laugh and everything would go back to normal. That was what he wanted with all his heart. A shriller and prolonged whizzing filled the eyes of the people around with fear, and raised the tone of the prayer an old woman was reciting with her rosary beads around her fingers. “They want to cut off the supplies to the Germans,” said Carlo raising his eyes to the ceiling, “then they’ll advance, and so we’ll have to do something as well.” He was still thinking of Toni and for once he felt like answering as Toni would have done. “They might come to free us, but in the meantime they’re throwing bombs on our heads,” he said. “They’re killing us and in the end we’ll even have to thank them.” Carlo responded with a firm expression, then lowering his voice said: “If I get a call-up paper to join up with the Republic, I won’t present myself; I’ll go to the mountains and stay up there.” “The call-up papers for the contingents ‘24 and ‘25 have just arrived,” Riccardo reminded him. “We’re the next ones …” Carlo bent his head towards him and lowering his voice, murmured: “My brother got it as well. And he didn’t present himself. He went with the partisans. He’s been away for five days.” These words had a strong effect on him. He didn’t expect things to be at this point already, that the time for decisions was so near. “With the partisans …” he repeated. “And how did he manage it?” “He went up to the village where my grandparents live. He was told he could get in contact with them there. And in fact he has never come back. We’re waiting for news. My mother is terrorized, but I say he did right.” There had been rumours about the partisans for some months. Many of those who had come back home after September 8 had hidden in the mountains so as not to be caught by the Germans, but in the beginning they had just gone into hiding and escaped the roundups.* Then the news of the first actions had arrived: a fuel depot blown up, a punishment expedition against a spy, and just a week before they had learned about an action in the next province, an ambush aimed at a German truck, in which an officer of the * On September 8, 1943 Italy publicly declared an armistice with the Allied forces. The new government of Pietro Badoglio declared war on Germany on October 13, 1943.

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Wehrmacht had been seriously injured. But these were still distant and unreal events for Riccardo, and he couldn’t imagine joining up with them, he who had never held a weapon in his hands, and had still never slept a night away from home. He had also talked to Toni about it, and even he didn’t have very clear ideas. However, they had agreed that to wear the uniform and to go and fight again for the Duce wasn’t right, in fact it wasn’t even to be mentioned. This meant that within a short time, months or even less, something that still couldn’t be imagined would happen one way or another. “I have never held a weapon in my hands in my life,” he murmured to put into words just one of the many doubts going through his head, and he thought that if he wanted to join up with the partisans he would have to improve, because they wouldn’t know what to do with somebody who took to his heels at the first shot. “They teach you,” said Carlo. “They’ve got the guns taken from the enemy during the actions. Then I’ve heard that from the aeroplanes the Allies drop down arms, provisions, everything that is needed.” The whizzing and explosions had stopped now for a few minutes and the people had begun to make noise and were impatient to get out. At last the siren with the all-clear signal went off and the door of the Shelter began to swallow up the small crowd of people grouped together. It took Carlo and himself considerable time to reach the exit and finally they saw the sunlight again, which made them blink after the gloom of the Shelter. There was a strange silence in the air, at the end of which the dull rumble of the aeroplanes faded as they returned to where they had come from. The people streamed along anxiously, hastening their step towards their homes to see what condition they were in, to be reunited with their families from whom they had been separated when the alarm had gone off, and Carlo and he did the same. They walked on sheets of broken glass but he didn’t think he saw great changes, though it wasn’t easy to distinguish between the damage of the previous bombings and that of the last one. And almost immediately his heart leaped when he saw in the distance his friend Toni; unmistakable with his long thin legs and sharp features that seemed to rend the air. He was striding along towards the Shelter and as soon as he saw him, his face lit up and he ran to meet him. There was a never-ending embrace, with guttural sounds which didn’t manage to take the form of words. “You were right,” said Toni, “Silvestro was already in the cellar and I stayed with him and his mother. At a certain point the rumble got so loud that it seemed as if the house was about to fall on our heads!” “What areas have been hit?” he anxiously asked, and Toni replied:

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“I heard they targeted the station but I haven’t been there yet. I wanted to see your ugly face without a scratch first,” and all of a sudden he felt a weight lifted from him. Maybe it hadn’t been as serious as he thought, or else Toni had forgiven him and that was it, it didn’t matter. Toni hadn’t made a big deal of it and he was immensely grateful to him. Now they were walking once more side by side, with Carlo walking one step ahead and leading them towards the Centre, where all three of them had to go to get to their homes. Riccardo was very excited. “Carlo’s brother fled to the mountains after he got the call-up papers,” he murmured into Toni’s ear, without slowing down his pace. “When we get them, we’ll do the same thing!” His reflections about the partisans at the Shelter were still going through his mind, and being reunited with Toni had encouraged him even more. “I’m happy to see you so determined,” said Toni, looking at him with an inscrutable expression, “but there’ll be time to think about it.” But Riccardo knew him well enough to understand that, no matter how much he liked to be bloody-minded, at the right moment he would be one of the first to do what had to be done. And everything became more likely at the thought of doing it together. The streets were coming to life again, the people who had remained in their houses were coming outdoors, shutters were being rolled up, and they jumped when a woman on a bicycle came up behind them, ringing the bell to make way. But when they turned the corner of the GIL*, they began to notice even more obvious signs of the bombing: fallen cornices, the street strewn with stones, and a curtain of smoke and dust floating in mid air and getting thicker and thicker as they neared the railway. And the people swarmed around and agitated calls resounded, a small group was standing around an injured person stretched out on the ground, in front of a wall pitted with bullets. Further on they saw the first gutted building, and the shutters of the other buildings unhinged and hanging down. They had begun to run, almost without realizing it, imitating the people around them, entering deeper and deeper into the scenario of destruction. In via Cavour, there were more buildings knocked to the ground than left standing, and these latter were in such a bad state that Riccardo couldn’t manage to understand whether they had destroyed the house of his primary teacher who, every time they met on the street, would stop to talk to him. * Gioventù Italiana del Littorio – fascistic youth organisation in Italy during World War II

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Ashen faces were wandering around that havoc and people were running or stopping aghast among the heaps of rubble, around the dead bodies on the road. The three friends kept huddled together to avoid the swarming of people. Sometimes they would run and then stop in front of something, look at each other terrified and helpless and then start to run again. They coughed and cried, and their eyes and throats burned with the dust from the rubble and the smoke from the fires. “They were aiming at the station but they’ve wreaked havoc!” said Toni, and Carlo pushed them ahead. Carlo was the most worried of them all, and only then did Riccardo remember that his house was just a few blocks from the station. It was a crescendo of death and desolation. Of one block, only a wing remained gaping into the open. The building beside it had collapsed as if it had been struck by an enormous blow. In the small square cluttered with rubble, three corpses covered with a sheet were stretched out in front of the fountain. An ambulance with the siren wailing passed by, behind it a sidecar with two German soldiers on it. Many trees had been uprooted in the gardens. In the holes, blown open by the bombs, the soil was the same dark colour as fields just ploughed. The bombs had altered the look of the city. It took continuous effort to reconstruct the shape of the buildings and familiar corners, now unrecognizable. Now many uniforms could be seen of the volunteers of the UNPA*, who with shovels and spades had begun to dig around the collapsed buildings. The three friends were passing next to one of them, when a creaking was heard, a dull crash that seemed to come up from the ground, and in a whirl of dust, the heap of rubble changed shape, while the people nearest started screaming. It was the worst bombing that had ever been seen. There must have been dozens of deaths, hundreds maybe, and they were passing through that disaster, each with his own house and his dear ones fixed in his mind, forced by the scene around them to envisage the worst tragedies. Riccardo kept repeating to himself that his folks must have found refuge in the Shelter of the hospital, that they had had more time than him to get there, and that shortly he would be able to hug them again. But the thought of the worst was enough to feel the ground slipping from under his feet, while all of a sudden thoughts about the future, the end of the war, the feats of the partisans that * Unione Nazionale Protezione Antiaerea – National Association For Air Raid Defences

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they could join, faded. There was more to come first; there was irreparable trouble to escape. Now the anxiety he had felt at the Shelter about seeing Toni again and about his shame for his flight under the bombs seemed ridiculous, and he even felt a bit guilty about it. The road was blocked for some moments by an ambulance picking up someone wounded; then they went on, paddling along the road streaming with water from a pipeline that had been blown up. Now they were just a block from Carlo’s house, and in fact he had run on ahead. They speeded up but they caught up with him only after he had stopped, dumbfounded, in front of the incredible scenario. He was shading his eyes with his hand, to protect them from the blinding light, or maybe so as not to see what his mind could not accept and understand. Carlo’s house didn’t exist any more. In its place a sky that wasn’t there before, and that should never have been there, opened indecent views on the buildings behind, which seemed numbed by shame for having been unveiled. There were volunteers digging around the rubble and other people there frantic. Trembling, Carlo went over to a woman who turned round, recognised him, hugged him and told him his folks were safe. Then she burst into tears and added that instead, the old people on the first floor, who as usual had refused to flee to the Shelter, had remained there underneath. For some moments Carlo stood immobile, paralysed by the emotions those words had stirred. Then, with a sudden jerk he took from his pocket the key to what had once been his house and angrily hurled it at the heap of rubble, at the view of new and impossible sky that had opened like an abyss in his life. (2007)

Translated by Irene Diamond

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TIME TRAVELS

MIKOLÁŠ CHADIMA

Rock a Diktatura.

Příspěvek k roli hudby v komunistickém režimu

bývalého Československa

Je docela pravděpodobné, že kdybych měl na toto téma něco napsat před více jak deseti lety, podlehl bych doznívající porevoluční euforii. Napsal bych příspěvek, který by oslavoval rockovou muziku i její protagonisty jako jednu z hlavních příčin pádu diktatury. Naštěstí po mně tehdy nikdo nic takového nechtěl. Protože dnes si troufám tvrdit, že role rock ‘n’ rollu, kterou měl ve hře o svržení režimu byla jen minimální a zcela okrajová. S odstupem času jsem stále více přesvědčen, že hlavním důvodem pádu režimu, který se ve svém důrazu na růst a spotřebu od západní spotřební společnosti nelišil, byla právě jen a jen jeho neschopnost uspokojit spotřebitelský apetit občanů. Především pak spotřebitelský apetit nomenklaturních kádrů. Přes všechny výhody a speciální obchody si nomenklatura nemohla dopřát vše, co by chtěla. Zvláště to vadilo té mladší, zcela oportunistické generaci komunistické vrchnosti. Myslím, že právě neschopnost uspokojit spotřební hlad nastupující generace nomenklatury byla rozhodujícím důvodem, proč režim ztratil vůli k sebeobraně. Je pravděpodobné, že kdyby si všichni občané mohli volně zakoupit zboží, sekterým se mohli seznámit ve speciálních prodejnách (Tuzex), v pašovaných katalozích obchodních domů a prospektech zpoza železné opony, převrat by byl odložen na neurčito. Za prvé: Rock ‘n’ roll nejen bavil, ale přinášel i naději. Nejprve jen mládeži, ale později i starší generaci, která zestárla s oblíbenou hudbou. Pomáhal přežít dusnou atmosféru totalitního režimu. Ať již šlo v začátcích historie rockové hudby v Československu o dobu odeznívajícího stalinismu padesátých let, o dobu stále svobodnějších let šedesátých, o depresivní „normalizační“ Československo po násilném ukončení experimentu „Pražského jara“ v letech sedmdesátých, nebo o zahnívající diktaturu, kterou komunisté samotní nazývali „reálný socialismus“ let osmdesátých.

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Za druhé: Podle toho, jak velký měl rock ‘n’ roll prostor ve společnosti se dalo zcela neomylně určit, zda v historii československého totalitního režimu docházelo k utahování, nebo povolování šroubů. Za třetí: Rock ‘n’ roll byl důležitým nástrojem, který pomáhal rozbít všeobecný pocit ohrožení režimem a strachu z něj. Nejprve si však musíme přiblížit, v jakém organizačním prostředí se rock ‘n’ roll vlastně pohyboval. Představte si prázdný dům, spravovaný a hlídaný státem. Dům s nápisem Pop music na štítě, který nabízí ubytování. V horních patrech byty samý luxus a pohodlí. Směrem dolů k přízemí luxusu a pohodlí ubývá. O všechny byty je veliký zájem. Kdo totiž získá ubytování v domě, byť jen v přízemí, získá možnost prezentovat své umění veřejnosti a možnost kariérního vzestupu. Avšak zájemce o ubytování, pokud nechtěl jen načerno přebývat v nepohodlném a vlhkém sklepě, musel nejprve získat „vstupenku“. Jinak ho hlídači do domu nevpustili. Tou vstupenkou byl „zřizovatel“. Tím mohl být Závodní klub ROH (Revoluční odborové hnutí), nebo základní organizace ČSM (Československý svaz mládeže), potom krátce LSM (Leninský svaz mládeže) a nakonec SSM (Socialistický svaz mládeže). Dále třeba ČSPO (Československý svaz požární ochrany), SVAZARM (Svaz pro spolupráci s armádou) a další společenské organizace, které měly od státu oprávnění ke zřizování souborů ZUČ (Zájmové umělecká činnost). Teprve, když kapela našla zřizovatele, mohla uvažovat o „vstupu do domu“ a snít o další kariéře. Neboť bez zřizovatele by nebyla připuštěna nejen k legálnímu veřejnému vystupování, ale ani k jakýmkoliv zkouškám, které umožňovaly kariérní vzestup. Úlohou zřizovatele bylo být jakýmsi garantem, který měl ručit za to, že...? Že kapela zvládá základy řemesla, hudebníci nemočí z pódia, nesvlékají se na jevišti, neříkají sprostá slova, nepobuřují proti dobrým mravům, ani proti režimu a nedělají ani jiné nežádoucí věci. Možná, že původním úmyslem vynálezu „zřizovatele“ byla opravdu jen institucionální legalizace financování amatérských souborů ze strany závodních klubů, zájmových svazů a dalších institucí, které měly oprávnění zřizovat amatérské soubory. Avšak postupem času se stal ze zřizovatele jakýsi „rozvědčík“ první linie, který měl hájit vstupní dveře domu, jeho úkolem bylo odhalit všechny podezřelé nežádoucí živly a zabránit jim ve vstupu, který s sebou přinášel možnost legálního veřejného vystupování. Nejzřetelněji se tak stalo po porážce Pražského jara. Pokud udělal malér zřizovaný, měl malér i zřizovatel. Zřizování kapel hrajících nebylo bez rizika. Rockeři měli vždy, tedy i v dobách minulých,

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dosti kladný vztah k alkoholu. Když byli „pod vlivem“, zapomínali na realitu a mluvili na veřejnosti víc, než bylo třeba. Co na srdci, to na jazyku. To nebylo zrovna rozumné a přinášelo to problémy. Při všeobecné normalizační předposranosti nebylo divu, že se do zřizování rockových kapel a do případných malérů s tím spojených, jen málokdo hrnul s nadšením. Nález zřizovatele byl noční můrou většiny začínajících rockerů, ať již jejich ambice sahaly jakkoliv vysoko. Zřizovatelů byl zkrátka akutní nedostatek. Popišme si nyní obyvatele domu. V nejvyšších patrech byli „usazeni“ profesionální hudebníci a kapely, kterým byla hudba zaměstnáním. Volná noha!!! Nemuset vstávat brzy ráno do práce!!! Sen všech rockerů!!! Naprostý luxus v době zákonné pracovní povinnosti, kdy překročení třítýdenní hranice bez zaměstnání bylo přečinem a více jak dvouměsíční nezaměstnanost už trestným činem (§203 zák.č.140/1961 Sb.), který byl postihován i nepodmíněnými tresty vězení. Zaměstnavatelem šťastlivců na volné noze byla v případě populární hudby státem zřízená agentura. Např. PKS (Pražské kulturní středisko, Středočeská agentura a další.). Několik vybraných mělo celostátní působnost. Top agenturou byl Pragokoncert, který mohl umělce dokonce vyvážet do kapitalistického zahraničí. Aby se rocková kapela a její členové stali profesionálními hudebníky, bylo nutno úspěšně absolvovat tak zvané „přehrávky“. Koncem šedesátých let byly poměrně liberální. Kapela předložila přehrávkové komisi složené z hudebníků a produkčních agentury svůj repertoárový list. Komise si vybrala obvykle tři skladby k přehrání. Kapela zahrála, a pokud uspěla, byla ji udělena tzv. kvalifikační třída. Ta určovala výši honorářů hudebníků. Pokud si chtěl jednotlivý hudebník polepšit, mohl si udělat tzv.kvalifikaci osobní. Zahrál etudu a komisaři ho lehce proklepli z hudební teorie. Po roce 1970 bylo podstatně změněno složení komisí a přehrávky byly rozšířeny na tři části: část praktickou--vystoupení před komisí, část teoretickou--testy z hudební teorie a část politickou--„pohovor“ s politrukem. Ve středních patrech „bydleli“ hudebníci a kapely označovaní jako poloprofesionálové. Hudebníci se statutem „poloprofi“ mohli za svoji produkci pobírat honorář, ale nesměli se hudbou živit. Jinak by jim byl statut odebrán. Tzv. „poloprofi papíry“ mohly udělovat nejen některé výše zmíněné agentury, ale i vybrané zájmové organizace. Např. Svaz hudebníků. Přehrávky byly koncem šedesátých let podobné jako u profi. Kapela zahrála před přehrávkovou komisí obvyklé tři písně ze svého repertoárového listu. Potom šel kapelník na pohovor, jehož účelem bylo mimo jiné zjistit i to, máli nějaké teoretické znalosti. V každém případě však nebyly teoretické znalosti podmínkou pro možnost získat „poloprofi papíry“. Další možností byli tzv.kapelnické přehrávky, kdy přehrávkové zkoušky dělal kapelník a bylo

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jen na něm, koho si do kapely angažuje. Tato možnost po roce 1970 zmizela a podmínky pro udělení poloprofi statutu se kontinuálně přitvrzovaly a přehrávky byly stále více podobné těm profi. V přízemí se nacházeli úplní amatéři schovaní pod zkratkou ZUČ (Zájmová umělecká činnost). Hudebníci a kapely ZUČ mohli legálně vystupovat na veřejnosti, ale nesměli za produkci pobírat honorář. Potřebovali k tomu jen maličkost--zřizovatele. Až do poloviny osmdesátých let se obvykle uzavírala zřizovatelská smlouva na základě toho, že se zástupce zřizovatele přišel podívat na zkoušku. Často stačilo jen to, že kapelu doporučil někdo známý. Ovšem systém režimní kontroly nad veřejnými produkcemi se stále zdokonaloval a po roce 1970 byl počet organizací, které měly povolení zřizovat amatérské soubory stále redukován. Později začali zřizovatelé, kteří „přežili“ (obvykle OV SSM) pořádat dokonce přehrávky. Uchazeči o zřizování museli mimo jiné vyplňovat dosti nepříjemné dotazníky s otázkami na minulost rodičů, na jejich i své politické smýšlení, názorovou orientaci atd. Úplně dole ve sklepě, který byl zabydlen především po roce 1970, bydleli ti, kteří žádného zřizovatele neměli. Jejich vystupování probíhalo mimo legální rámec. Undergroundové kapely nemusely dělat přehrávky, nemusely vyplňovat žádné dotazníky. Výhodou bylo to, že mohly dělat to co chtěly zcela svobodně a bez kompromisů. Nevýhodou byla téměř k nule redukovaná možnost veřejného vystupování a daleko ostřejší dohled StB, než tomu bylo v overgroundu. Občas si zahrály v hospodském sále na soukromé akci, obvykle povolené jako svatba, nebo oslava narozenin. Někdy v úplném soukromí. Ve stodole, nebo v chalupě u kamaráda na venkově. Podstatnější nevýhodou, kterou se podařilo eliminovat až v druhé polovině osmdesátých let, byla téměř nulová možnost komunikace s nezúčastněným publikem. Čím blíže podzemí, tím menší možnost dostat se do médií, tím menší možnost prezentace na veřejnosti, tím menší možnost vydat desku. Všichni obyvatelé společně se však těšili neustálé, byť různě odstupňované pozornosti státních represivních orgánů. K pádu z vyšších pater až dolů do sklepa mohlo dojít během krátkého okamžiku. A pokud aktivita hudebníků neustávala ani po sestupech do nižších pater, tím víc se stávala reálnější i hrozba života bez rock ‘n’ rollu v některém z „nápravných zařízení“, rozuměj vězení. Paranoia československé diktatury přinášela, tak absurdní skutečnosti, že v západním světě vesměs buřičský a levicový rock ‘n’ roll, byl považován režimem za něco zásadně nebezpečného, zatímco nejameričtější z amerických hudebních stylů country music fungovala, dá-li se to tak říct, bez větších problémů. V sedmdesátých letech, kdy normalizace rockovou scénu

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nemilosrdně decimovala, se zcela vážně mluvilo mezi rockovými muzikanty o tom, že country přežívá normalizační čistky díky tomu, že šlo o oblíbený hudební styl syna tehdejšího normalizačního předsedy vlády. I když i to je v absurditě totalitního režimu možné, myslím, že to by samo o sobě nestačilo. Rock ‘n’ roll je spojen od svého vzniku s představou revolty, pohybu a nekonformity. Toho se bojí každý totalitní režim, který chce mít vše zarovnané tak, aby nic nevykukovalo a preferuje stejnokroje a uniformitu. A rockeři, ať již svými dlouhými vlasy, rozčepýřeným punk účesem, nebo dokonce kohoutem, vyčuhovali pořádně. Je zřejmé, že totalitní režimy, ať již používají pravou, levou, nebo náboženskou ideologii pro zdůvodnění své legitimity, jsou v podstatě zosobněním konzervatismu a proto jsou výše vzpomínané vlastnosti nežádoucí. Preferuje se optimismus, jednota, sentimentalita, zdravé jádro národa - prostý člověk! Toho všeho obsahuje country music dostatek a režim to vycítil a hodilo se mu to. Ale zpět do šedesátých let. Přes striktní odmítání na přelomu padesátých a v první polovině šedesátých let spojené se zákazy i snahou o kriminalizaci jeho aktérů, rock ‘n’ roll přežil. Přese všechna protivenství se tento nový hudební styl dál vyvíjel a objevoval nové a nové možnosti. Přejmenován na Big Beat zažíval koncem šedesátých let obrovský boom. Sevření totalitního režimu se tehdy poměrně kontinuálně uvolňovalo až k zákazu cenzury a z toho profitovali nejen občané, ale samozřejmě i rock ‘n’ roll. Stále více si nacházel cestu do médií, dokonce do východního i západního zahraničí! S otvíráním dlouhou dobu prakticky neprostupných hranic se zvýšila informovanost a domácí scéna s přísunem nových desek rychle vstřebávala aktuální styly. Rock ‘n’ roll infiltroval i hlavní proud pop music, který do té doby představovaly velké orchestry s množstvím zpěváků. Objevily se i první náznaky toho, že se rock ‘n’ roll začíná rozdělovat na komerční zábavní proud podřizující se pravidlům showbusinessu a nekomerční, proti pravidlům showbusinessu se bouřící proud s uměleckými ambicemi. Vše vyvrcholilo koncem desetiletí „Pražským jarem“ a masmédii sledovaným I. (1968) a II. (1969) Českým beatovým festivalem. Když si dnes člověk pouští a srovnává úroveň tehdejších domácích nahrávek s angloamerickými vzory, může směle konstatovat, že český rock ‘n’ roll, chcete-li „Big Beat“, patřil bezpochyby ke kontinentální špičce. Dá se říct, že měl za sebou historii velmi podobnou tomu, jaká byla historie rock ‘n’ rollu za Železnou oponou. Od počátečního odmítání, ať již z důvodů generačních, nebo politických a protiatakům, byť šlo o ataky rozdílné intenzity, až k postupné komercionalizaci a včlenění komerčního proudu rock ‘n’ rollu do mainstreamového proudu pop music. Násilné ukončení Pražského jara vojsky Varšavské smlouvy v srpnu 1968 však vývoj československého rock ‘n’ rollu podstatně změnilo.

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Z Československa se stal Absurdistan. Začala doba temna, a to nejen pro rock ‘n’ roll. Během několika následujících let byl postupně restaurován tuhý neostalinský režim. Z vedení státem zřizovaných agentur zabývajících se prodejem hudby, byly vyhození „pravicoví exponenti“ = podporou reforem Pražského jara zkompromitovaní úředníci. Rock ‘n’ roll se dostal znovu na index. Pravidla showbusinessu nahradila ideologie. Novému kolaborantskému vedení státu bylo jasné, že rock ‘n’ roll již zcela vymýtit nedokáže. Především šlo tedy o jeho vykastrování. Vyřadit „nežádoucí západní vlivy“ a ponechat jen ty, které nebudou navenek působit rušivě. Tedy působit tak, jako že jim nový režim vadí. O tom, kdo bude moci zůstat „ve světle reflektorů“ a mít vliv na „masy“, přestal rozhodovat mladý československý showbussines zrozený na konci šedesátých let. Místo něj začaly opět rozhodovat komise, které si za umožnění další profesionální kariéry vynucovaly alespoň vnějškovou loajalitu k okupací dosazenému režimu. V těžké situaci se ocitla celá tehdejší špička žánru, která neměla moc na vybranou. Kapely a hudebníci, kteří chtěli zůstat na výsluní museli držet hubu a krok. Se sebezapřením a vztekem museli režimu ponižujícím způsobem prokazovat loajalitu. V první fázi změnou dosud anglických názvů kapel, zkracováním délky vlasů, masovým přechodem z anglických textů na české, později podpisy pod prorežimními peticemi, účastí na akcích režim oslavujících, nebo „jen“ účastí na festivalech politické písně, které podporovaly pouze jednu, tu správnou pokrokovou ideu hlásanou stranickým vedením. Režim věděl své o „nadšení“, s kterým je podporován. Oč víc mu scházelo na legitimitě, o to víc byl paranoidní. Jeho ostražitost neměla hranic. Případné náznaky neloajality tvrdě trestal v samém zárodku, někdy dokonce preventivně. Stačil anonymní dopis se stížností na nevhodné chování účinkujících, náznak protestu, který fízl objevil v živém vystoupení, nebo cenzor v textu nahrávky písně. Následovaly dle míry „provinění“ odstupňované zákazy veřejného vystupování, zákazy vstupu do masmédií, zákazy nahrávání a vydávání desek. Pokud nebyl hříšník shledán napraveným, mohlo následovat až odebrání profesionální licence, což znamenalo odchod do výroby. A odchod do výroby z relativně svobodného způsobu života hudebníka na volné noze byl trestem nejobávanějším. Kdo se odmítl podřídit diktátu kolaborantského režimu a chtěl se vyhnout zostřenému dohledu, měl jen jednu možnost. Pokud chtěl zůstat profesionálním rockovým hudebníkem, nezbývalo mu, než emigrovat na západ a pokusit se uchytit tam. Kdo toto drastické řešení zvolit nechtěl a hodlal se nadále živit hudbou, a přitom se vyhnout obtížím s provozováním imperialistické hudby, které otravovaly i ty „ponechané“, mohl „emigrovat“ z rock ‘n’ rollu. Odešel do některé z doprovodných kapel, do té doby rockery

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většinou opovrhovaných pěveckých hvězd a hvězdiček středního proudu pop music. Navíc si finančně polepšil, neboť režim se staral o to, aby ani „prověřené“ rockové skupiny neměly příliš vysoké příjmy. V tomto případě bylo zajímavé, že okupační režim využil onu již zmíněnou počínající infiltraci rock ‘n’ rollu do mainstreamového proudu pop music a urychlil ji tím, že začal podporovat větší i menší pěvecké hvězdy, do té doby vesměs v angažmá u velkých orchestrů, aby si zakládaly malé doprovodné kapely v rockovém obsazení. Tím odčerpal hudebníky scéně rockové! Chytré! Tehdy si jen málokdo dovedl představit, jaké to bude znamenat pronásledování a šikanování. Násilným ukončením Pražského jara končí jedna éra československého rock ‘n’ rollu. Rocková scéna 60.let byla pookupačním kolaborantským režimem zcela zdecimována. Celý pogrom přežilo jen několik kapel. Zřejmě proto, aby nikdo nemohl tvrdit, že je na východě zakazována rocková hudba. Avšak kapely a jejich hudebníci museli za to, že mohou zůstat profesionály tvrdě platit. Západní demokratická společnost našla přijatelný způsob, jak pro diktaturu nežádoucí vlastnosti rock ‘n’ rollu, a pokud si nechceme nic nalhávat, tak od určitého okamžiku nežádoucí i pro ni, nenásilně usměrnit a zkrotit, aniž by většině konzumentů bylo zřejmé, jak moc jsou hudebním průmyslem manipulováni. Z mnohých rockandrollových buřičů a provokatérů udělaly nahrávací společnosti úspěšné byznysmeny a z většinového proudu revolty, jíž byl rock ‘n’ roll hlasatelem, se stalo jen bezzubé vnější gesto, které má už jen jediný účel. Podnítit zájem generačně se bouřících adolescentů o výsledný produkt! Businessu se zatím povedlo udolat i každý pokus o změnu daného stavu. Kdo se businessu nepodřídí, zůstává umělcem na okraji bez větší publicity a vlivu. O něco podobného, co se podařilo na západě showbusinessu, se v Československu pokusilo i kolaborantské vedení státu dosazené okupanty v roce 1970. Jenže to byl úkol jen obtížně řešitelný. Když ideologie nahradila pragmatismus, manévrovací prostor se téměř vytratil. Místo toho, aby byl rock ‘n’ roll alespoň neutralizován, normalizační politika nakonec vyráběla nepřátele režimu i z původně apolitických pouze po slávě a holkách toužících mladistvých rockerů. Úkolem stranou pověřených „Kulturtrégrů“ bylo „obnovení pořádku“. Jenže jak zkrotit rock ‘n’ roll, když v zájmu propagandy nechtěl být režim „zvenku“, myšleno ze západu, pranýřován za to, že zakazuje nějaký umělecký nebo zábavní styl? Vždyť podle propagandy byl tzv. „socialistický“ stát, tím nejsvobodnějším režimem na světě. Proto byla represe s vyjímkou exemplárních případů, které měly zastrašit ostatní, pečlivě skrývána. „Nedos-

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tatečná umělecká úroveň“, „nezvládnutí základů hudebního řemesla“, „neznalost hudební nauky“, „propagace ideologie NO FUTURE“ atd. To byla hodnocení, která rozhodovala o tom, zda skupina bude, nebo nebude zmizena do undergroundu. Až do roku 1970 ještě působila setrvačnost Pražského jara a na první pohled se zdálo, že situace nebude až tak špatná. Ale byla. Nový režim postupně ovládal „bitevní pole“. Nejprve začal oklešťovat možnosti koncertování. Zavíral místa, kde se dlouhá léta rock ‘n’ roll provozoval. Jedno za druhým. Příležitostí k hraní pomalu, ale jistě ubývalo. Kapely si ještě tu a tam mohly odjet vydělat do zahraničí, ale povolení, kterých k tomu bylo třeba, se dalo získat stále obtížněji. Ekonomická situace hudebníků se stávala stále napjatou. Jak jsem již řekl, mnoho rockových muzikantů bylo donuceno poohlédnout se po lepším živobytí. Československá rocková scéna šedesátých let se rozpadala, nejen pod tlakem politickým, ale i ekonomickým. Definitivní konec udělaly v roce 1970 tzv. „rekvalifikační zkoušky!“. „Normalizace“ se rozběhla naplno. Všichni do té doby profesionální hudebníci tzv. “lehkých žánrů“ museli předstoupit před odborné komise. Ze začátku byly ještě složené jako před okupací. Ze zaměstnanců agentury, publicistů a hudebníků. Ale neplnily svůj úkol dostatečně razantně a jejich rozhodnutí musela být rušena administrativními zásahy shora. To nevypadalo dobře a tak bylo složení komisí brzy obměněno tak, aby se z nich stal poslušnější nástroj režimu. Členové komisí byly nahrazení novými, „z krizového vývoje poučenými“ zaměstnanci agentur, o generaci staršími muzikanty dechové a vážné hudby, a nechyběli ani zaměstnanci Ministerstva vnitra. A aby si muzikanti moc nevyskakovali, „rekvalifikace“ se následující roky začaly pravidelně opakovat. Systém přehrávek byl neustále zdokonalován a rozšiřován. Netrvalo ani dva roky a již nestačilo jen hrát, byť virtuozně na zvolený nástroj. Uchazeči o profi statut se museli podrobovat nejen zkouškám z hudební teorie a při nich odhalovat chytáky, které do zkouškových testů vložili zamindrákovaní staříci z jiných žánrů. Museli se podrobit i „pohovorům“ s politruky agentury, kterými byli zakonspirovaní důstojníci Státní bezpečnosti. „Pohovory“ se staly nakonec nejdůležitější částí zkoušek. Jejich účelem bylo za pomoci zpravodajských technik výslechu odhalit, zda je muzikant jen apolitický pitomec, nebo skrytý nepřítel režimu. Popřípadě to, jak dalece je ochoten zapřít a skrýt své skutečné přesvědčení. Kapely a muzikanti, kteří však dokázali tuto tíhu unést, byli odměněni jednou nečekanou výhodou. Bylo jich málo, a co se týká přístupu do médií, do státem provozovaných nahrávacích studií a hudebních vydavatelství neměli prakticky žádnou přirozenou konkurenci!!!

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Přeživší profesionálové byli přesvědčeni, že nově vznikající amatérské a undergroundové kapely maří jejich úsilí a svými „provokacemi“ ohrožují a zužují prostor pro rock ‘n’ roll. Mylně se domnívali, že oni svými ústupky tento prostor rozšiřují. Amatéři zase podezíravě sledovali menší i větší úlitby režimu, které museli profesionálové vykonávat k udržení svého statutu. Přes všechny represe se ale začala v první polovině 70.let rodit nová rocková scéna. Byl tu však podstatný rozdíl. Jestliže až do roku 1970 tvořili špičku žánru profesionální kapely, po rekvalifikacích se výboje a inovace rock ‘n’ rollu na mnoho let přesunuly téměř výlučně do amatérského prostředí. A některé z amatérských kapel mohly v druhé polovině sedmdesátých let svou popularitou směle konkurovat těm zavedeným profesionálním, přestože možnosti jejich prezentace byly naprosto nesrovnatelné. Nástup a vzrůstající vliv amatérských kapel brzy zaznamenaly i represivní orgány státu. K ruce však měly daleko omezenější formy postihu, než tomu bylo u profesionálních kapel. Jestliže u profesionálů mohla StB účinně operovat se strašáky ztráty výhod, které sebou přinášel profesionální statut především „volná noha“, u amatérů zbýval jako účinný strašák už jen kriminál. To však nebylo z politických důvodů až tak jednoduché, a pokud se k tomu režim odhodlal, výsledky byly naprosto kontraproduktivní. A jak už bylo též řečeno, měl by v rukou i daleko účinnější nástroje, kterými mohl držet „zlobivé“ rockery na uzdě. Kdo z profesionalizovaných by se hrnul zpět k amatérům, zpět do výroby? Pro rozvoj československého rock ‘n’ rollu to však bylo dobré rozhodnutí, neboť nastupující generaci, i když po různě dlouhé době přesvědčil, že nemá cenu se snažit režimu podbízet a že jediné, co má smysl je tvorba samotná a že od režimu může stejně očekávat jen větší nebo menší formy šikany. Každá nová kapela, která se vynořila z anonymity a začala si získávat širší publikum, se nakonec ocitla v zorném poli StB. Někdy stačily i jen dva, nebo tři koncerty a rockeři byli předvoláni k výslechu. Většinou šlo jen o preventivní zastrašení, při kterém se „estébáci“ snažili ukázat jako síla, které neunikne naprosto nic a která má vše pod kontrolou. Ze začátku to trochu fungovalo, kapely zmírňovaly své texty, ale po dalších výsleších, kdy se důvodem k „výtkám“ staly třeba i zautocenzurované texty…? Člověk si zvykne na všechno. Výslechy se postupem doby stávaly běžnou, byť nepříjemnou součástí rockerského života s kterou se počítalo a na kterou byly nováčci v rock ‘n’ rollu od svých zkušenějších kolegů upozorňováni a připravováni. Neúčinnost režimního postupu se ukázala již začátkem druhé poloviny sedmdesátých let. Na úhoru, který vznikl po rekvalifikacích, vyrostla nová, zcela autonomní rocková scéna a věhlas některých jejích kapel byl až

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neuvěřitelně veliký, uvědomíme-li si, že tyto kapely neměly přístup do médií. Režim se zalekl a sáhl k osvědčené zbrani. Dlouhotrvající a tvrdé represi. První na řadě byly „obyvatelé“ sklepení. V roce 1976 poslal několik představitelů undergroundu do vězení. Režim předpokládal, že díky téměř dokonalému zamezení veřejných produkcí kapel undergroundu jejich tvorbu nikdo nezná a vše mu projde bez problémů. Svým způsobem měl pravdu, ale důsledky svého činu naprosto neodhadl. Rozjel sice tvrdou a lživou protiundergroundovou kampaň, ale ta zapůsobila jen na starší „spořádané“ občany, kteří konzumovali pouze to, co jim režim předkládal. Ti byli vyděšeni, nejen z exteriérů undergroundových vlasatců, ale i z toho, že na rozdíl od nich, si někdo dovolí režim a jeho nepsaná pravidla tak okatě posílat do řiti. Nutno říct, že „spořádaných“ občanů byla drtivá většina a že s tvrdým postupem proti „hašišákům“ plně souhlasili. Ale pro nemalou „neznormalizovanou“ část mládeže, která tvorbu kapel undergroundu znala, se zavření rockeři staly hrdiny hodnými následování, a před těmi dosud zcela apolitickými se režim svou kampaní demaskoval jako jasný nepřítel, jako prolhané a všehoschopné zlo. Nejen to. Útok režimu na underground vedl k široké mezinárodní solidaritě s uvězněnými a k založení jedné z nejslavnějších opozičních pospolitostí východního bloku - Charty 77. Z kapely zavřených rockerů se stal symbol neústupného protirežimního odporu a dnes se jedná o světově nejznámější československou, chcete-li českou rockovou skupinu. Po tom, co byla činnost undergroundu na čas paralyzována, se režim zaměřil na další amatérské kapely. I kapely tzv.alternativní scény, která existovala souběžně s undergroundem a které měly v době útoku na underground stále ještě možnost legálního vystupování, začaly být mezi mládeží neúnosně populární. Když nezabralo strašení StB, začali dozorci nad kulturou vytlačovat kapely z veřejného prostoru do undergroundu. Předpokládali, že by tam mohly být kapely likvidovány, aniž by to budilo větší pozornost. Rozjeli několik trestních stíhání. Vyvinuli silný tlak na zřizovatele a pořadatele, kteří byly ochotni alternativní skupiny zřizovat a pořádat pro ně legální koncerty. Především na Jazzovou sekci svazu hudebníků, která na Pražských jazzových dnech představovala alternativní kapely širšímu publiku ve velkých sálech. I v tomto případě byla snaha represivních orgánů nakonec úspěšná. Především zákaz Pražských jazzových dnů a další pořadatelské činnosti Jazzové sekce v roce 1980 vzal alternativním kapelám hlavní možnost veřejného legálního působení. Kapely se potom až do konce režimu potloukaly mezi podzemím a přízemím s rizikem z toho vyplývajícím. I když nejprve undergroundové a posléze i alternativních skupiny do konce sedmdesátých let zmizely z očí, z hlediska režimu šlo o Pyrrhovo

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vítězství. Nejen, že „padlé“ na legálních pódiích téměř okamžitě nahradili noví bojovníci, kapely tzv. „Nové vlny“ (1980-83), ale „padlí“ začali praktikovat, sice již známý, ale rozsahem dosud nevídaný způsob komunikace s publikem. Umlčené kapely začaly po stovkách kusů šířit své nahrávky v samizdatové distribuci! A protože z těchto kopií si pořizovali fanoušci další kopie, náklady některých titulů mohly dosáhnout i několika tisíc. Během první poloviny osmdesátých let se stalo samizdatové vydání běžným a přirozeným komunikačním kanálem celé amatérské scény. I když distribuci označoval režim za nezákonnou a trestal ji jako nedovolené podnikání dokonce nepodmíněnými tresty, nebylo to nic platné. Stát a jeho gramofonové firmy ztratily začátkem osmdesátých let definitivně svůj monopol a do svého pádu se jim ho už nepovedlo získat zpět. Režim sice stále mohl cenzurovat vydávané nahrávky, ale jen u těch skupin, které byly ochotny podrobit se cenzuře. A těch bylo stále méně. Přes všechna omezení a represi přibývalo skupin tak rychle, že režim začátkem osmdesátých let začal vydávat dlouhé seznamy zakázaných kapel a hudebníků. Do té doby pouze nedoporučoval, aby kapela mohla hrát, ale to přestávalo stačit úměrně tomu, jak se vytrácela vstřícná předposranost. V roce 1983 propadl režim panice a spustil poměrně neočekávanou kampaň, kterou odstartoval článek „Nová vlna s novým obsahem“ uveřejněný ve stalinisty vedeném týdeníku Tribuna. Tentokrát šlo o útok na všechna patra domu, který na několik let vývoj rockové hudby, byť ne zcela, tak přeci jen dost zmrazil. Po Tribuně se sice hodně rozšířilo hraní v soukromí a stále víc „majitelů stodol“, hudebníků, ale i zvukařů spolupracujících s profesionálními kapelami, bylo ochotno riskovat potíže s tím spojené, ale plnohodnotný koncertní provoz to nemohlo nahradit. Undergroundové, alternativní i novovlná rocková scéna byly zatlačeny hluboko do podzemí a StB se začala soustředit na horní patra. Hodně jejich obyvatel si konečně uvědomilo, jak mnoho pro ně dělaly v minulých letech kapely z pater spodních. Totiž, že zaměstnávaly StB tak, že jí na horní patra zbývalo jen málo energie a sil. Pravděpodobně díky tomu začala v druhé polovině osmdesátých let dosud oddělená ghetta postupně bourat své zdi u vědomí toho, že všichni jsou na jedné lodi, kterou režim pokládá za sobě nepřátelskou. Nehledě na to, jak negativní ohlasy vyvolávaly represe proti rock ‘n’ rollu v zahraničí, jim bylo jasné, že represe vyrábí nepřátele režimu jako na běžícím pásu. Situaci se pokusili zvrátit politikou „vlídné tváře“. V roce 1986 uspořádal SSM první ročník jednoho z největších rockových festivalů v Československu, Rockfestu. A pro konání nemohl SSM vybrat absurdnější místo, než jaké vybral. - „Palác kultury“, který byl postaven pro Komunistickou stranu Československa očištěnou od „pravicových exponentů“ pro

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potřeby sjezdů, byl dobyt rock ‘n’ rollem!!! Výběr účinkujících pokryl špičky žánru a na festivalu si mohlo zahrát i mnoho „problémových“ kapel. I když ne zcela všechny, jak se organizátoři chlubili. Přesto měl Rocfest obrovský význam. Po dlouhé kampani proti rock ‘n’ rollu byli najednou snaživí krajští a okresní dohlížitelé nad kulturou znejistěni. Nevěděli, co dělat, aby se zavděčili. Zakázat? Nezakázat? Často raději nedělali nic. Rockfest pomohl zejména mimopražským kapelám. Účastí na Rockfestu, navíc jestě v Paláci kultury, potvrzovaly před místními dohlížiteli svou legální existenci. Pokud však organizátoři mysleli, že tím zmírní negativní postoj kapel a mladých i starších fans rock ‘n’ rollu k režimu, spletli se. To by museli začít pořádat Rockfesty nejméně o deset let dřív. I tak však Rockfesty vyvolaly nový rockový boom a na veřejnosti se tu a tam začaly objevovat i kapely zahnané před lety do podzemí. Ke konci dokonce profesionální agentury bez přehrávek angažovaly i dříve zakázané kapely. Konec „diktatury proletariátu“ se blížil. Zvláštní doba. Jakoby jedna ruka režimu nevěděla, co dělá pravá. Z jedné strany tu byl Rockfest, z druhé strany opakované represe. S pokračující perestrojkou v Sovětském svazu však mizela předposranost a strach v Absurdistanu. Být rockerem, nebo pořadatelem a nebýt na výslechu na StB? Kdysi bylo předvolání „k podání vysvětlení“ důvodem k nezměrné panice. V druhé polovině osmdesátých let si už rocker nebo pořadatel, který na StB ještě nebyl, připadal jako méněcenný. Zrovna tak, jako kdyby neuspořádal koncert nějaké „zakázané“ kapely. Režim postavený na strachu, po tom co zůstal sám jako kůl v plotě opuštěn bývalým protektorem, se beze strachu pomalu začal hroutit. Co říci závěrem? Nevím. Snad jen to, že přese všechny ústrky a represe zažili rockeři v minulém režimu v podstatě krásné časy. Byly to časy, kdy byl o rock ‘n’ roll obrovský zájem. Sály byly plné a posluchači dokázali s nadšením přijímat i jeho okrajové výboje. Časy, kdy rock ‘n’ roll byl něčím víc, než jen pouhou zábavou. (2007)

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MIKOLÁŠ CHADIMA

Rock and dictatorship. The role of music in the communist regime in Czechoslovakia

Had I been asked to write something on this topic ten years ago I might, seduced by the heady euphoria of the post-revolutionary days, have written a paper celebrating rock music and musicians as one of the major factors in the fall of the dictatorship. Fortunately, nobody did ask me at that time: my opinion today would be that the role of rock ‘n’ roll in that fall was minimal and marginal. Observing events from a distance I believe more and more that the major reason for the fall of the regime was its inability to satisfy society’s appetite for consumption. The communist regime did not differ much from Western society in the importance it placed on growth and consumption—especially as regards the appetites of members of the Communist Party. Not even all the various benefits and special shops for the communist elite could give them what they wanted, and the younger communist generation of Communist Party members in particular minded this. It was this inability to satisfy the aspirations of the rising generation of party members which was, I would suggest, the decisive reason why the regime lost the will to defend itself. If all citizens had been able to buy freely the goods only available in special Tuzex shops or in shopping catalogues and leaflets smuggled from behind the Iron Curtain the fall of the old regime would have been put off till eternity. rock ‘n’ roll did indeed have a significant part to play in the “dictatorship of the proletariat” or “real socialism” as the communist establishment called its regime, but as has been suggested above the position of rock ‘n’ roll was not a particularly important factor in its fall. For a start: Rock ‘n’ roll was not just an entertainment—it brought hope. Hope not only for young people but as time went on for an older generation which had aged alongside its favourite music. Rock ‘n’ roll helped people survive the oppressive atmosphere of the totalitarian regime—both the first rock music

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during the fading Stalinism of 1950s and the more and more freely developed styles during the 1960s, through the depressing “normalization” of Czechoslovakia of the1970s on to the decaying dictatorship in the 1980s known by the Communist Party as “real socialism”. Second: The way the rock ‘n’ roll was regarded at any given period in Czechoslovakia was an index of the relative toughness of the regime. Third: Rock ‘n’ roll had a significant role in dissipating the all-embracing atmosphere of menace and fear the regime instilled. First we must characterise the organizational background against which rock ‘n’ roll had to operate. Imagine an empty house run and controlled by the state. This house, called “popular music”, offers accommodation. The upper-storey flats are all luxurious and comfortable. The lower the storey, the less luxurious and comfortable they are. There is an enormous interest in all the flats. Whoever gets accommodation in the house, either in the basement or anywhere else, gets an opportunity to present their art in public and opportunities for advancement in their professional career. However, any applicant for a flat must have an admission voucher—unless they want to live illegally in the uncomfortable and damp cellar. Without this voucher the doorkeepers will not let them in. The voucher here is the “grantor”. Every single band or soloist who wanted to work as an artist in communist Czechoslovakia and perform legally in public—even as a complete amateur—had to find their own “grantor” first. A grantor could be a Trade Union (then known as Revolutionary Trade Union or ROH), a Factory club or a founding organization of the ČSM (Czechoslovak Union of Youth)—later LSM (or Lenin Union of Youth), eventually SSM (or Socialistic Union of Youth)—or of the SVAZARM (or Union for Partnership with Army) or one of the other social organizations which were licensed by the state to set up specialist ensembles (ZUČ). Only when the band found its grantor could they consider entering the house and dream of a future career. Without a grantor the bands would not be allowed to perform in public or to take any examination which would allow them to perform. The duty of a grantor was to guarantee that the bands had mastered the basics of the craft of music; that the musicians did not piss onstage, did not strip off onstage, did not use foul language, did not transgress against good manners and did not do anything else unacceptable. Perhaps the original idea of having a grantor was to legalize institutionally the financing of amateur bands from factory clubs, special interest unions and other bodies which were allowed to set up amateur bands. However, gradually these grantors

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became advance snoopers who could keep an eye on the entry to the “house”. The grantor’s task was to provide information about any suspicious or unsuitable applicants and prevent them from entering the house. The most extensive development of this role came after the failure of Prague Spring. If the band got into trouble so did the grantor. Promoting bands was not without complications. Rockers always enjoyed alcohol—when they were under its influence they forgot where they were and spoke their mind in public more than was desirable. That was obviously not wise and often led to trouble. No wonder that at the time of the communist normalisation people were nervous and not many were keen to promote and vouch for rock bands if it meant risking possible trouble of various kinds. Finding a grantor was a nightmare for most rockers beginning their careers, whatever their ambitions—as explained, there was an acute lack of grantors. I’ll now describe the inhabitants of the house. The top storey is taken by professional musicians and bands. Freelance! No need to get up early mornings to work!!! The dream of all rockers!!! Utter luxury so long as they are legally employed—but being unemployed for more than three weeks was classified as an offence and being unemployed for more than two months was classified as a crime (Employment Act 1961) for which one could end up in prison. Freelance pop musicians employed by a state agency—e.g. Prague Culture Centre (PKS), Central Bohemia agency and others, were lucky. Some prominent musicians performed nationwide. The top agency was Pragokoncert, which sent artists to perform in “capitalist” countries. If a rock band and its members wanted to become professional musicians they had to pass a kind of exam. These exams were quite liberal at the end of the 1960s. A board composed of musicians and producers checked the band’s repertoire. The board usually chose three numbers to be performed for them—if the board liked these, the band received a sort of quality mark which indicated the fee the band would receive. If individual musicians wanted a higher fee they could apply for a personal license. They played a piece of their own and the board did a rough check of their knowledge of music theory. After 1970 the composition of these boards changed radically and the exams had three parts: a practical (performance before the board), a theoretical (musicology test) and a political part (an interview with a political specialist). In the middle storeys lived semi-professional musicians and bands. Musicians with a “semi-profi” status could get a fee for their performances but could not make a living by them—if they did, they would be deprived of their status. It was not only the agencies mentioned in the last paragraph

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which could grant a “semi-profi” mark, some selected special interest organizations—for instance the Musicians Union—could do so as well. The exams were similar to the exams at the end of the 1960s for professional musicians. A band usually performed three numbers from their repertoire for the exam board. Then the lead singer was interviewed. The point of the interview was to check their knowledge of music theory, but theoretical knowledge alone could not provide a “semi-profi” mark. Another way to get this status was for lead singers alone to take an exam on behalf of their whole band—it was then up to them whom they wanted to sign up. This practice was discontinued after 1970 and the conditions for getting “semi-profi” status gradually became more difficult, the exams closer to those required for obtaining professional status. On the ground floor of the house are those amateurs described as ZUČ (Special Interest Activity) musicians. ZUČ musicians and bands could perform publicly but were not allowed to accept fees. What they needed was just the small matter of the grantor. It was a common practice till halfway through the 1980s that a contract with a grantor was signed after observation of a rehearsal by the grantor’s representative. Often intervention from a friend would help to get the contract signed. However, the regime’s system of control over public performances became stricter and after 1970, the number of organizations entitled to promote amateur bands was reduced. Later the surviving grantors (mostly the Union of Socialistic Youth—SSM) introduced exams too—applicants had to answer detailed questionnaires about such things as their parents’ past, their parents’ and their own political stance, their worldview, etc. After 1970 the cellar of the “house” was largely inhabited by musicians without any grantor. They performed illegally. These underground bands did not have to take any exams and did not have to fill in any question forms. The advantage was they could perform whatever they wanted without any artistic compromise. But there was the disadvantage of restricted public performance and being under far closer surveillance of the state police than the “above-ground bands”. Sometimes they might perform in a pub at a private party, usually disguised as a wedding reception or a birthday party. Sometimes these performances were utterly private; in a farm barn, or a friend’s summer house. The total lack of any chance to communicate with the general public was a major disadvantage which was not eliminated until the second half of the 1980s. The nearer to the ground floor, the less the chance of being talked about in the media, the less the chance of appearing in public, the less the chance of issuing a recording. All the inhabitants of the underground were under

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constant (though varied according to how they were graded by the authorities) secret police surveillance. There might be a sudden and very quick fall from the upper storey of the house to the bottom—if musicians continued their artistic activity after such a fall they might end up living without rock ‘n’ roll, or in one of the “penitentiaries”—that is to say, in prison. Throughout the communist period in Czechoslovakia, with the exception of a couple of years at the end of the 1960s, the establishment dictatorship considered rock ‘n’ roll to be overtly dangerous; at the same period the western world considered rock ‘n’ roll to be rebellious and left wing. One particular absurdity was that Country Music, one of the most American music styles, was acceptable in Czechoslovakia without any problem. In the 1970s, when normalisation (the period of political conformity and political cleansing) mercilessly punished the rock music scene, rock musicians opined that American Country Music survived the political clearance because it was a favourite music genre of the then communist prime minister’s son. Even in an absurd totalitarian regime this would not have been a strong enough reason. From the very beginning rock ‘n’ roll was associated with rebellion, emotion and non-conformity. All totalitarian regimes are afraid of this. All totalitarian regimes want conformity, nothing standing out—they prefer uniforms and uniformity. Rock musicians with their long hair, punk frets or Mohawk hairstyles notably did stand out—clearly, to totalitarian regimes whether left or right wing, or religious, they are unacceptable because of what they represent. These regimes prefer optimistic values—unity, sentimentality and the healthy view of the man in the street! There are plenty of these qualities in American Country Music. The regime was aware of this and happy with it. To get back to the 1960s—despite the strict denial of legitimacy to rock music, and many bans and attempts to make rock musicians criminals at the end of the 1950s and at the beginning of 1960s, rock ‘n’ roll survived. In spite of all the obstructions this new music style flourished and found many new opportunities. It was renamed “Big Beat” and boomed towards the end of the 1960s. The strict totalitarian regime gradually loosened its grip and eventually abolished censorship. Both ordinary citizens and rock musicians benefited from this step. Rock ‘n’ roll penetrated the media in both eastern and western countries. Awareness of rock ‘n’ roll steadily grew as the borders, up till then firmly closed, opened—new LPs from abroad enriched the home music scene and their influence permeated contemporary music styles. Rock ‘n’ roll even infiltrated mainstream pop. The pop music of that time involved big orchestras and many singers. There were the first signs of the division of rock ‘n’ roll into commercial and rebellious non-commercial

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streams. The commercial stream was subjected to the regulations of show business, while the non-commercial protested, and rebelled, and had higher artistic ambitions. Everything culminated in the Prague Spring in the late 1960s and the Czech Beat Festival I (1968) and II (1969) which were well covered in the media. Within a couple of years the tough neo-Stalinist regime was restored. Czechoslovakia became an absurd country to live in. They were the Dark Ages—not only for rock ‘n’ roll. “Right wing exponents” were fired from music agencies. These alleged right wing exponents were officials who had supported the pro-reform Prague Spring. Rock ‘n’ roll was proscribed again. Conventions of show business were replaced by regulations based on ideology. The new collaborationist regime soon realized rock ‘n’ roll could not possibly be eradicated, so they tried at any rate to castrate it. They wanted to eliminate “ineligible western influences” and permit only those performers who would conform to the regime. The young Czech show-business people who had developed in the early 1960s could no longer determine who would stay in the spotlight and influence the public—the new exam boards arbitrated instead. The career of bands was determined by their loyalty— however superficial—to the new regime controlled by the Soviet enemy. The rock ‘n’ roll elite were in a difficult situation—they did not have many options. Bands and musicians who wanted to be in the spotlight had to conform. With inner fury they had to swallow their pride and show loyalty to the regime. In the first stage of the new regime they had to give up their English band names, have their hair cut short and translate their English lyrics into Czech; later on they had to sign various pro-regime petitions or take part in various festivals of political songs which promoted the correct progressive ideology of the communist establishment. The regime was quite aware that this loyalty was superficial. The less legitimate the regime felt the more paranoid it was. The regime’s vigilance never ceased. Any hint of disloyalty was punished severely from the very beginning. A single anonymous letter mentioning any misbehaviour, a hint of protest spotted by a secret agent in the performance or by a censor in the lyrics would be a reason for punishment. These disloyalties would be graded appropriately and bans on public performance would follow: from a ban on a mention in the written media to a ban on recording and issuing LPs. If defaulters had not clearly complied with these bans they could have their license to perform taken away—which would mean ending up as a worker in a factory. The transition from being a freelance musician to being a factory worker was the punishment most dreaded.

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There was only one way of escaping from this strict surveillance for those who refused to submit to the collaborationist dictatorship regime—if they wanted to be professional rock musicians they had to emigrate to the west and establish themselves there. Those who did not want to do so, but still wanted to earn their living by music while at the same time avoiding the punishment for playing “imperialistic” music could “emigrate” from rock ‘n’ roll. They could play with the supporting bands of mid-stream pop stars, at that time despised by rock musicians. These musicians earned more money by playing with these supporting bands as the regime did not allow the approved rock bands to earn much money. It is interesting that the regime made use of this new movement of rock ‘n’ roll performers into pop music and speeded it up by encouraging both big and small pop stars—who had, till then mostly performed with large orchestras—to set up their own supporting bands with rock musicians. This way the regime cunningly drew musicians away from the rock scene. Those who did not want to emigrate, but wanted to work freely and without artistic compromise, and realized that a career in the Bolshevik regime was impossible, had to accept that they could only perform nonprofessionally. Only a few could anticipate then how much persecution, bullying and vexation this would bring them. The violent ending of the Prague Spring ended one period in the history of Czechoslovak rock ‘n’ roll. The rock scene of the 1960s was completely devastated by the post-occupational collaborationist regime. Only a few bands survived the complete pogrom. These perhaps survived because the regime did not want to have the stigma of having banned rock music. However, these surviving bands had to pay heavily for being professional musicians. Western democracies found an acceptable way of regulating and nonviolently subduing the dangerous qualities of rock ‘n’ roll. They tried to hide from consumers the way the music industry manipulated rock music. Recording studios and producers turned many rock rebels into successful managers. The same people turned rock ‘n’ roll, once a manifesto of rebellion, into an impotent instrument of commerce—encouraging a rebellious younger generation to focus their attention on the final commercial product. In this way the music industry succeeded in defeating any attempt to change the status quo. Those who did not buckle under to the norms of the music business remained marginal artists without any influence. The Czechoslovak collaborationist establishment installed by the Soviet occupiers in 1970 attempted similar practices to those employed by western show business. However, this task proved to be very difficult. When pragma-

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tism was replaced by ideology, the political scope for action almost disappeared. Instead of neutralizing rock ‘n’ roll, the establishment policy ended by making the originally non-political young rockers, who were just interested in fame and girls, into additional enemies of the regime. Communist “promoters of culture” wanted to “restore order.” The question was how to regulate rock ‘n’ roll without being denounced by western democracies for banning certain types of art or entertainment. According to communist propaganda a self-proclaimed “socialist” country was the most liberal regime in the world—so repression (except when used as a public reminder for others) was carefully hidden. “Inadequate artistic standard”, “ignorance of elementary music craft”, “ignorance of music theory”, “propaganda of the ideology of NO FUTURE”, etc.—these were the labels which decided whether a band would or would not be sent to the underground. By the year 1970, there was still some momentum from the Prague Spring, and the situation did not seem that bad. However, it was. The new regime was in control of the battlefield. At first, it started by curtailing the number of concerts. Places with a long rock ‘n’ roll tradition were closed down one by one. There were fewer and fewer chances to give a concert. Some bands could give a concert abroad now and then, but permission to do so was more and more difficult to obtain. The economic situation of the musicians became dire. Many rock musicians were forced to look for betterpaid jobs. The Czechoslovak rock scene of the 1960s was collapsing not only because of political pressure but for economic reasons. The final blow was the introduction of “retraining exams” in 1970! “Normalisation” had reached its most highly developed form. All professional musicians in what were called “light genres” had to be examined by professional boards. At the beginning, these boards consisted of the same people as before the Soviet occupation: agency staff, journalists and musicians. However, later on they were felt not to be strict enough and their judgments were rescinded by administrative decisions at a higher level. This procedure did not look good, so the boards were reconstituted to be more obedient and loyal instruments of the regime. The members of the reconstituted boards had to take account of the “memorandum on the developing crisis” issued by the government— they were agency staff from an older generation of musicians from a classical and brass-band background, as well as Home Office staff of course. And in order to humiliate rock musicians the “retraining exams” had to be retaken every year. The “exam” system became more and more comprehensive and widespread. After two years playing before the board, even if they could play their instruments brilliantly, applicants for professional status had to sit music

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theory exams, and had to be wise to all the catches put there by old men trained in other genres and with inferiority complexes. They had to undertake interviews with the agencies’ political supervisors who were in fact officers from the secret police. Eventually these interviews became the most important part of the exams. The point of these exams was to judge by intelligence methods whether the musicians were just non-political idiots or latent foes of the regime, and to find out to what extent the musicians were willing to deny and hide their real political beliefs. Bands and musicians ready to face all these humiliating exams were rewarded with one unexpected benefit—there were so few of them that they had practically no natural competition in the state-run media, recording studios and music publishing houses!!! Until the “retrainings” began in 1970, all the streams and styles of Czechoslovak rock ‘n’ roll had been able to communicate easily with each other, as they were all part of the one world of pop music. This all changed with new the post-occupational regime and “normalisation”. The new regime violently interrupted the natural development of rock ‘n’ roll and killed concert life for several years. Especially in Bohemia and Moravia, where the repressions were far more severe than in Slovakia, the new rock scene consisted of isolated and mutually hostile ghettoes. Those professional musicians who had been able to survive thought that the new amateur and underground bands were spoiling the situation and with their “provocation” threatening and narrowing the living space for rock ‘n’ roll—they misjudged the situation and thought they themselves had been extending the living space by their concessions. On the other side of the fence, amateur rockers kept a suspicious eye on all the concessions to the regime—both big and small—which professional rockers were making in the hope of maintaining their privileged position. In spite of all the repression a new rock scene was born in the second half of the 1970s. However, there was an important difference. In 1970, the professional bands had been at the top of the scene, whereas after the “retraining” began, development and innovation in rock ‘n’ roll took place in the amateur sphere only. By the second half of the 1970s the popularity of some of the amateur bands was competing with that of the established professional bands, despite all the restrictions placed on their appearance in public. The repressive state bodies soon noticed the advent and influence of amateur bands. There were fewer tools of repression than with professional bands. State police could threaten professional bands with loss of benefits connected with professional playing: most of all being “freelance”; with amateur players the only effective threat was imprisonment. This threat was not

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that easy to apply, for political reasons, and if the regime did risk their imprisonment the results were totally counterproductive. The regime should have based its strategy on making amateur bands professional—since these amateur bands had the necessary qualities and importance. Instead the regime used repression. This was an ill-advised strategy. So long as the regime was dealing with professional groups it could at least effect some moderation, and be sure that any political activity would be moderated, even if it could not achieve open loyalty. As has already been mentioned, the regime could operate with far more effective instruments on the professionals than on the “naughty” rockers. What professional musician would want to go back to being an amateur again, or go back to factory work? So the regime’s strategy was good for the further development of Czechoslovak rock ‘n’ roll, since the new young generation sooner or later realized it had been pointless to court the regime. The point of all their striving was art itself, and the only thing to expect from the regime was bullying and vexation. Every new band emerging out of anonymity and gaining public attention sooner or later ended up being under surveillance by the state secret police. Sometimes just one or two concerts would be enough to be called for an interview. Mostly, this was just a preventive threat so that state agents could demonstrate their power—that nothing could escape their attention and that the police had everything under control. At the beginning this system worked—the bands moderated their invective against the regime in their lyrics: however, after a couple of interviews where the point of the interrogation was just to achieve self-censorship of a text, the rockers got inured to these situations. Interrogations gradually became a regular, albeit inconvenient part of the rockers’ life—newcomers to rock ‘n’ roll were warned and prepared by their more experienced colleagues. The inefficacy of the totalitarian strategy was obvious by the second half of the 1970s. Instead of a bare landscape after the introduction of “retraining exams”, there was a brand new autonomous rock scene, and the fame of some of its bands was incredibly huge, considering these bands could not appear in the official media. The regime grew alarmed and turned to a proven instrument—persistent and heavy repression. The inhabitants of the cellar were the first victims. In 1976 several representatives of the underground were put in prison. The regime thought a total ban on public appearances by underground bands would mean that the work of these bands would be unknown, and that the band could then be punished as the regime’s representatives liked. To some extent the communist authorities were right here, but they absolutely misjudged the consequences. The regime in-

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stigated a heavy-handed and mendacious campaign against the underground. However, this campaign scared only old “obedient and loyal” citizens who anyway consumed what they were fed with. These citizens were frightened by the appearance of the underground hippies with their long hair, and of the fact that there were people who dared openly to defy the regime and its unwritten rules. Admittedly, there was an overwhelming majority of these “obedient and loyal” citizens, and they absolutely agreed with the fierce punishment of these “hippies”. However, for the few non-normalized youth who were familiar with underground music, the rockers became heroes to follow. The non-political young saw through the regime’s campaigns and realized the true malign, mendacious and evil face of the regime. Not only that. The aggression of the regime towards the underground caused an international solidarity with those in prison and led to the founding of one of the most famous opposition institutions in the Eastern Bloc—Charter 77. The imprisoned rockers became a beacon of a determined resistance to the regime. Today, the fame of one Czechoslovak—or should we say Czech—rock band is world wide.* After paralyzing part of the underground, the regime focused next on amateur bands. The bands of the so called “alternative scene”, which existed simultaneously with the underground and which could still perform legally during the repression of the underground, became enormously popular among young people. When threats by the state police did not work, the regime started a policy of diverting them to the underground—their idea was that it would be easier to deal with them there, away from the public gaze. There were lawsuits, and pressure was applied to grantors and organizers willing to help underground bands with concerts. The greatest victim was the Jazz Section of the Musicians Union, which used to present alternative bands to the general public in big concert halls during the Prague Jazz Days. Eventually, the repressive sanctions were successful here as well. There was a ban on the Prague Jazz Days and some other Jazz Section activities in 1980. This meant no legal chance for alternative bands to perform publicly. From then to the fall of the regime the bands were just left hanging between the underground and first storey, with the associated adverse consequences. Even though the underground, and later on the alternative bands had disappeared from public view by the end of the 1970s, from the regime’s point of view it was just a Pyrrhic victory. The defeated bands were immediately replaced by new ones, members of the “New Wave” (1980-83) and the si* The progressive rock band Plastic People of the Universe were legally prosecuted and prohibited in 1976.

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lenced bands began to apply an innovatory but well-tested method of communication with the public—they began to spread their recordings through samizdat distributors! Circulation increased dramatically and in the end reached thousands as fans copied these recordings. During the first half of the 1980s the samizdat edition became a common and natural communication channel on the amateur scene. The regime declared this kind of distribution illegal and punished it quite severely, sometimes with imprisonment. However, it did not silence the alternative scene. The state and its recording studios lost their monopoly in the early 1980s and did not succeed in retrieving it until the fall of the regime. The regime censored recordings, but only of those who were willing to be censored—these were fewer and fewer. Despite the various restrictions and forms of repression the number of bands grew so fast in the early 1980s that the regime started issuing long lists of banned bands and musicians. At that time it was the usual practice just not to recommend a band for performance. But later on that practice waned, as more aggressive policies were employed. In 1983, the regime panicked and waged an unexpected campaign, spearheaded by a newspaper article entitled “A New Wave with a New Content” published in the Stalinist weekly magazine “Tribuna” (Tribune). This time it was an attack on all the storeys of the “house”, which effectively stopped the development of rock music for several years. After this article private performances at home became more common, and more barn owners, musicians and sound engineers working with professional bands were willing to risk their careers. However, this could not compensate for the lack of real concerts. The underground, alternative and New Wave rock scene was pushed deep underground, and the state police focused on the upper storey of the “house”. Many of the “above-ground” bands realized how much they owed to the underground bands for what they had done for them—since the state police had their hands full with the underground they did not have much time or effort left for tackling the above-ground. The result was that in the second half of the 1980s the ghetto walls gradually crumbled as the inhabitants realised they were all part of one house, once condemned as malign by the regime. The absurdity of this policy, which provoked unforeseen enormous resistance among younger and middle aged generations, woke up the SSM (Union of Socialistic Youth) and the more intelligent part of the Communist Party. Quite apart from the adverse response to the repression of rock ‘n’ roll from abroad, it was obvious that the repression was creating more foes for the regime and thus helping to enlarge the opposition. The regime tried to appease the situation by introducing a “friendly policy”. In 1986 SSM organized the

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first year of one of the biggest rock festivals in Czechoslovakia—Rockfest. The venue chosen could not have been a more absurd one—“The Palace of Culture”, which was the centre for the Communist Party members who were “clear”—that is, those who had survived the political cleansing. The very place specially designated for the communist rallies was shaken to its foundations by rock ‘n’ roll!!! The participants were the top of the genre and many proscribed bands performed there—though sadly, not all of them, as the organizers boasted. However, the festival was of enormous significance. After all the campaigns against rock ‘n’ roll, conscientious regional and district cultural supervisors were confused—they did not know what to do to please the regime. To ban or not to ban? Mostly they did nothing. Rockfest particularly helped bands outside Prague—participation in the Rockfest, actually held in the Palace of Culture, confirmed their legitimacy for local supervisors. If the organizers thought they would diminish the animosity of the bands and fans of rock ‘n’ roll, they were mistaken. The rock concerts should have been given ten years before—by now it was too late. The Rockfests boosted an interest in rock music and some of the banned bands from the underground started to reappear in public again. Towards the end of the regime, the professional agencies actually employed once banned bands without “exams”. The fall of the dictatorship of the proletariat was near. Those were weird times. It was as if one hand of the regime did not know what the other was doing. Yes, there were rock festivals but on the other hand there was repression. With Perestroika in the Soviet Union the fear, spinelessness and wimpishness was gradually diminishing in the Absurdist State. It was uncommon not to be interrogated by state police if you were a rocker or organizer. Once you would panic when summoned to interrogations, but not now—by the second half of the 1980s a rocker or organizer who had not been interrogated by the state police would be considered inferior. The same would apply if they had not given a concert for some banned band. The regime which ruled by fear, once it had been isolated and abandoned by its Soviet protector, started collapsing in a fearless atmosphere. How to conclude? I am not sure. Perhaps, despite all the restrictions and repressions the rockers of the old regime experienced great times. They were times when there was a huge demand for rock ‘n’ roll: music venues were full and fans greeted even marginal styles with enthusiasm; they were times when rock ‘n’ roll meant more than mere entertainment. Even the most nostalgic rockers, “too old to rock ‘n’ roll, too young to die,” would not want to return to those “great times”! (2007) Translated by Jaroslav Izavczuk

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LUTZ RATHENOW

Alles Echos. Texte und Gedichte

leben (1981) Die rettende Insel zu suchen

um sie zu versenken.

So daß für die Flucht

nur eine Möglichkeit bleibt:

auszuharren.

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Erbe des Ikarus (1979) So steht er da und hofft,

daß sein Arm ein Flügel werde.

Doch er altert nur

und hinkt schon ein wenig.

Man hat mit ihm geredet.

Man redet mit ihm.

Er sieht ein die Notwendigkeit,

nichts zu überstürzen. So stürzt er

sich nicht in die Luft,

wartet lieber auf den Windstoß,

der ihm die Entscheidung nimmt.

Hält das Beispiel wach und verhindert,

daß es als Beispiel wirkt.

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Bücherverbrennung, Jena (1983) Einem geschah nichts.

Damit ihm nichts geschieht,

steckte er das Buch in den Ofen.

Mein Buch.

Andere hinterher.

Er zerstört seine Vergangenheit,

um hier eine Zukunft zu haben.

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Das Versprechen auf einen gültigen Ort Jeder Platz hat seinen Platz. Doch dieser hier musste irgendwann geplatzt sein und verlor seine Gestalt in der Unübersichtlichkeit eines Raumes und er fand diese nie wieder. Der Platz wurde geflickt, es wurde an seinen Rändern abgebaut und angebaut und wieder ein Teil durch ein anderes Teil ersetzt. Und ein neuer Plan verlor sich in der Weite und machte ihn zum zerbauten Ort schlechthin. Bertram liebte diesen Ort, seit er Berlin liebte. Seit jener Nacht auf den Parkbänken auf dem und rund um diesen Platz. Er lief jetzt aus einer unüblichen Himmelsrichtung auf ihn zu, er hatte aus dem Geldautomaten vor der Bank noch ein paar Scheine gezogen. Die Straßenbahn wies den Weg Richtung Platzmitte. Von dieser Seite aus betrachtet, wirkte alles wie ein klug konzipiertes Kunstwerk. Mit einer Sichtschneise zwischen den beiden denkmalgeschützten langen, geschwungenen Bauten. Und dazwischen, dahinter stand der aus dieser Entfernung gar nicht so große Fernsehturm. Als würde er ideal passen. Viel Baustelle davor, aber das würde ja einmal aufhören, wenn es einmal aufhörte. Er eilte nun wie die anderen über die Straße. Langsamgehen hatte in dieser Stadt etwas Unanständiges. Langsam gingen Trinker, Lyriker und Taschendiebe—zumindest vor ihrer beruflichen Pflichterfüllung—und natürlich die Touristen. Die tappten einmal in die eine, dann in die andere Richtung. Gerade auf diesem Platz tanzten sie gern hin und her, auf der Suche nach dem, was sie suchten. Bertram schritt an einer Baustelle rechts vorbei, die beim letzten Besuch noch Straße war. Hier schlich er vor zwei oder drei Wochen mit einem Taxi entlang und hörte etwas von einem Bunker unter dieser Straße, der gerade bei den Erdarbeiten wieder entdeckt worden sein sollte. „Mein Opa baute da mit und war im Krieg öfter in den Luftschutzbunkern da oder da vorn“—der Fahrer gestikulierte in vier verschiedene Richtungen, die auf beträchtliche Entfernungsdifferenzen hinausliefen, bevor er sich trotz dichten Verkehrs zu Bertram umdrehte—„Bei einem Angriff wurde der Notausgang beschädigt, alle kamen noch raus, nur das Gold der Familie blieb drin. Vier, fünf Ketten, zwei Zahnkronen und sieben Münzen—in einer Büchse mit dem Tarnaufkleber Pflanzengift.“ Einmal sei er mit einem Freund runter und im falschen Bunker gelandet. Bald wolle er noch einmal, diesmal wüsste er den Einstieg von der Kanalisation her. Bertram schmunzelte, als er an den Fahrer dachte, der in ihm den möglichen Kumpan vermutete und sich immer jünger redete, während er

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ihm die Unterwelt lustvoll herbei fantasierte. Vielleicht kletterte der gerade unter ihm durch die Gänge auf der Suche nach dem lieben, bösen Gold. Da prallte Bertram auf einen Menschen, der sekundenschnell vom wütenden Blick auf kommunikatives Lachen umschaltete: „Siehst auch gut aus. Hab’s leider eilig. Man sieht sich.“ Bertram versuchte nach dem lockeren Abschiedsgruß sich gar nicht erst zu erinnern. Er kannte den Mann nicht. Wirklich nicht? Wer zeigte erste Anzeichen von Alzheimer? Dafür wusste Bertram noch die Bank, ungefähr an jener Stelle, an der heute ein Geldinstitut residierte. Heute galt es Bank und Bank nicht zu verwechseln, damals waren alle Banken zum Sitzen und Ausruhen da und halblinks von ihr müsste die Buchhandlung gewesen sein, die trotz ihres Namens Das Gute Buch so manches gute Buch nicht auf Lager hatte. Auf der Bank küssten sie sich zum ersten Mal. Er löste sich aus der erwartungsvollen Trägheit, aus der er sich so ungern verabschiedete. Schon eine Frau anzusprechen hieß, sich in eine riskante Wirklichkeit zu begeben, weg aus der Welt der Möglichkeiten, die er beherrschte. Doch Bertram hatte Jana längst angesprochen. Sie fuhr mit ihm in den Urlaub an die Ostseeküste oder soweit sie kommen würden ohne festes Quartier und ohne viel Geld. Natürlich besuchten sie erst einmal Berlin. Der Osten Deutschlands bot zwei Sehnsuchtsorte: die Küste und Berlin. Alle Wege führten nach Berlin und endeten oder begannen auf diesem Platz bei der neu errichteten Uhr. Sie verkündete die Zeiten aus jenen Teilen der Welt, die Bertram nicht bereisen durfte. Die Wege lockten zu jenem Brunnen, der sommers ein erfrischendes Bad verhieß, was aber unerwünscht oder verboten war. Je nachdem in welchem Grad der Ordnungsdurchsetzungswilligkeit sich die Vertreter der Staatsmacht befanden. Der Alex erinnerte an Möglichkeiten, die er vorenthielt. Er erfüllte Wünsche und weckte neue. Mit wie vielen Westberlinern verabredete Bertram sich später an dieser Uhr? Oder standen Brunnen und Uhr in jener Nacht noch gar nicht? Sondern ein paar Jahre darauf, als dieses Festival ablief, das sich nach Jugend, Welt und Spiele benannte? Und eine Menge Leute aus der Fremde hereinreisen ließ, die nicht nur diesen Platz belebten. Eines wusste Bertram ganz genau: da hinten, neben der Weltzeituhr hatte der verbotene Sänger damals zwei Lieder gesungen. Ohne Gitarre und ohne festgenommen zu werden. Es ergab sich so und alle um ihn herum klatschten. Aber stand die Uhr schon, als er mit seiner ersten richtigen Freundin auf der Bank saß und Kuss für Kuss in eine zum Liegen tendierende Position

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rutschte? Er lächelte den Polizisten erst einmal verwirrt an und ordnete das lange Haar mit einer Handbewegung. Dann zog er aus der Gesäßtasche seiner Jeans den Ausweis und Jana tat es ihm ohne ihre üblichen blödelnden Bemerkungen nach. Beide tappten widerspruchslos dem Ordnungshüter hinterher. Personenkontrolle, Verdacht auf—es gab eintrainierte Formulierungen. Ganz genau konnte sich Bertram nur an die Sprechfunksäule erinnern. Er sah genau diese kürzlich auf einem Foto in einem Bildband über jenes Berlin, das sein Berlin war. Ein Polizist stand auf dem Foto neben der Säule vor der Buchhandlung und gab, wie bei ihm damals, per Funk die Daten des Ausweises durch. Immerhin hatten beide einen richtigen und keinen Ersatzausweis. Immerhin war Jana schon 16, nicht von zu Hause weggelaufen und gegen beide existierte kein Berlinverbot. Es gab keinen Grund sie mitzunehmen. Der Polizist untersagte ihnen nur, weiter auf dieser Bank zu schlafen. „Was meinen Sie damit?,“ fragte Bertram, bei dem mit zurückgereichtem Ausweis auch die Lust zu kleinen Frechheiten wiederkehrte. „Bürger, folgen Sie der Aufforderung! Ich erteile Ihnen im Interesse der Aufrechterhaltung der öffentlichen Ordnung Alexanderplatzverbot für die heutige Nacht!“ Und Bertram und Jana zogen eine Bank weiter hinter oder vor den Platz. Sie muss bei der Kongresshalle gestanden haben. Dort befreite er sie vom Pullover und küsste und streichelte alles oberhalb ihres Bauchnabels. Bertram entschuldigte sich bei einem Mann, der ein Einkaufswägelchen aus Metall hinter sich herzog. Er hatte ihn angerempelt. Im Wagen lagen Dosen, Zeitschriften und Bücher—ob der Sachen verkaufen wollte oder längst Verkauftes wieder einsammelte? „War denn die Gestapo schon wieder da?,“ sprach der leicht gebeugt gehende Mensch undefinierbaren Alters mit unerwartet fester Stimme. „Aha,“dachte Bertram, wieder einer von den vielen, die diese Stadt anzog wie bestimmte Insekten das Licht und hörte die nächste Erkenntnis: „Wir brauchen Geheimdienste, um die Welt misszuverstehen.“ Der redete in Aphorismen, einer von jenen intelligenten Psychopathen, die sich weigern, ihre Medikamente zu nehmen. „Wenn wir uns schneller töten als die Terroristen uns töten können, dann haben wir sie ausgetrickst.“ Machte sie die Stadt verrückt oder fühlten die sich im verworrenen Gemenge dieses Ortes einfach geborgen? Schon schritt der andere mit kurzen mechanischen Schritten weiter. Bertram strebte einem Café entgegen. Er wollte sich in Ruhe erinnern. An eine der glücklichsten und schönsten Nacht seines Lebens, die auf diesem Platz begann und sich dort fortsetzte, wo jetzt der gigantische neue

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Einkaufstempel stand. Bis wieder ein Polizist kam, der sie wieder kontrollierte und zu einer Bank schickte, die nicht mehr in seinem Bereich lag. Bertram entschied sich für das kleine italienische Café unter den S-BahnBögen, als ihn ein Mann höflich nach dem Geschäft mit dem Polizeibedarf fragte. Aber Bertram kannte kein solches. „Ich brauche eine neue schusssichere Weste,“ gestand der Mann auf fast vertrauliche Art. „Ich kenne nur den Laden mit Berufskleidung am Strausberger Platz, zwei U-Bahn-Stationen weiter.“ Sie wechselten weitere Sätze und Bertram erfuhr, dass auch er jederzeit eine solche Weste bekäme. Gut, in einer Gesellschaft zu leben, in der Preisvergleiche zwischen schusssicheren Westen möglich sind. Ihm fiel ein Jägerladen knapp hinter dem Platz ein, der schon dort war, als in den Stockwerken darüber noch nicht die Akten eines nicht mehr aktiven Geheimdienstes verwaltet wurden. Wo es Jagdgewehre gab, könnten auch schusssichere Westen sein. Und der Fragende lief dankbar erleichtert in die Richtung jenes Geschäftes, das es schaffte, ohne Dekorationswechsel in der Auslage einen politischen Systemwechsel zu überstehen. Ob in den Räumen der Aktenverwaltungsbehörde darüber auch die Überwachungsfotos vom Alexanderplatz lagerten? Schön archiviert oder noch unausgewertet in Säcken? Also existierte noch einmal der Platz neben dem Platz aus lauter Aufnahmen der beständig laufenden Kameras und Fotografien der einzelnen oder in Paaren arbeitenden Observierungskünstler. Bertram setzte sich an einen Tisch, an dem schon eine Frau saß. Sie las eine Berliner Zeitung, die auch so hieß. Bei ihrem „Ja“ auf seine Frage, ob denn hier frei sei, blickte sie kaum auf. Ihm kam sie nur einen Moment bekannt vor, aber das bedeutete gar nichts. „In München musst du dich aufstylen, wenn Du ausgehst, in Berlin stylst du dich lieber herunter. Und in Schwarz halten,“ sagte eine junge Frau zu einer anderen am rechten Nebentisch schon im Aufstehen und Weggehen. So hörte Bertram die sicher interessante Entgegnung nicht. Er bestellte Espresso, dazu frisch gepressten Orangensaft und dachte an die dritte Bank, auf der er zum ersten Mal mit seiner Hand in ihrer kleinen dünnen Hose unter der Hose herumspielte. Dort war es fast so feucht wie in seiner Unterhose, als ihre Hand plötzlich aber zielstrebig an ihm herumzufingern begann. Auf eine Weise, die zumindest verriet, dass sie es nicht zum ersten Mal tat. Dort war es dann ein Polizeihelfer in Zivil, der sie störte. Und der hatte sogar einen guten Tipp. Die nächste Bank lag einen größeren Spaziergang entfernt, den sie streichelnd absolvierten, dafür wurden sie fast

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zwei Stunden gar nicht belästigt. Und er durfte sie ohne Hose erleben und ihre untere Körperhälfte kennen lernen. „Bin ich Dir süß genug?,“ fragte sie irgendwann und er ahnte mehr ihr Lächeln als er es in der Dunkelheit sah. Er nahm seinen Mut zusammen und machte mit dem Mund das, worüber er schon mehrmals etwas gelesen und wovon er in Jung-Männer-Gesprächen gehört hatte. Er fand, was er zu schmecken bekam bittersüß. Und hörte zum ersten Mal von einer Frau jene Geräusche, die das zwei Jahre zuvor von den Eltern geschenkte Buch „Mann und Frau intim“ als Begleiterscheinung eines Orgasmus beschrieben. Genauer: zum ersten Mal erzeugte Bertram bei einer Frau dieses japsende Stöhnen—ein tolles Gefühl. Als sie wieder zum normalen Atmen überging, zog sie ihn vollständig aus, ließ ihn sich auf die Bank legen und bewies noch einmal ihren Erfahrungsvorsprung. Bertram glaubte noch Tage danach, die Abdrücke der relativ dünnen Holzbalken auf und in seinem Rücken zu spüren. Die Frau vor ihm entschuldigte sich, weil sie Zucker neben statt in ihre Tasse geschüttet hatte. Ihre Stimme war angenehm, trotzdem störte es Bertram, aus der Erinnerung gerissen zu werden. Sie hatten noch zweimal die Bank gewechselt. Doch fehlten ihm die Bilder vom Rest der Nacht, obwohl der Mond völliges Schwarz verhinderte. Rechts neben ihm saßen jetzt zwei Männer und stritten über ein Buch mit grünem Umschlag. Bertram erkannte es wieder. Die beiden diskutierten. Der eine las plötzlich lauter vor: „Auf der Straße tätige Arbeiter, patrouillierende Polizisten. Oder Beamte in Zivil, die durch betont gleichgültiges Schlendern ein gleichgültiges Schlendern vortäuschen. Nach einem, der mit wechselndem Partner am Alexanderplatz läuft, halte ich bewusst Ausschau. Ein prägnant durchschnittlicher Typ. Manchmal spaziere ich suchend über den Platz. Bin beruhigt, wenn ich ihn sehe.“ Er schüttelte den Kopf und kommentierte: „Quatsch. Eitel und nur Behauptungen. Alle hatten sie Angst. Und jetzt die große Lippe riskieren.“ Da nahm ihm der andere den Band aus der Hand. Beide sahen aus wie Geschäftsleute oder Versicherungsvertreter. Der andere rezitierte freundlicher: „Lies doch weiter: ‚Einmal grüße ich versehentlich. Er errötet. Und spaziert hinterher, bis zur Mokkastube.’ Finde ich witzig. Nun gut, ich habe ja immer hinter den Kameras gesessen und hatte wenig Kontakt zu Menschen. Nur zu unseren Genossen. Hätte zur Abwechslung gern mal einen verhört.“ Bertram verfolgte fast amüsiert, wie sich zwei ehemalige Mitarbeiter des Überwachungsministeriums recht offen über einen für sie nicht gerade schmeichelhaften Text stritten. Ein gutes Zeichen, sie hatten verschiedene Meinungen und äußerten diese laut. Er wollte aber weiter an Jana denken

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und die allererste Bank. Stand sie genau dort, wo der Bekannte eines Bekannten bei Tiefbauarbeiten eine ganz alte Patrone fand und behauptete, die sei noch von den Barrikadenkämpfen 1848. Oder eher gegenüber dem Eingang zu einem längst nicht mehr vorhandenen Café, in dem er einmal in eine Protestaktion von Frauen geriet, die ganz in Schwarz gekleidet gegen ein Wehrpflichtgesetz anpfiffen und an die Tische flüchteten, als sie Männer vor den Glasscheiben festnehmen wollten? Bertram kannte eine von ihnen und aß gern ein Stück Quarktorte mit und saß zum ersten Mal neben einem richtigen Bischof, der herbeitelefoniert heraneilte und die Mitglieder der sonst in der Kirche tagenden Friedensgruppe erst beruhigte und dann auf den Alex zurückgeleitete. Ihn auch—wirklich, er wurde nicht festgenommen, nur ein paar Straßen weiter ganz zufällig kontrolliert. „Das hat gar nichts zu bedeuten,“ antwortete der Polizist auf seine Frage: Warum. Eine Antwort, die Bertram nicht oft hörte in seinem damaligen Leben in dem damaligen Staat, in dem eigentlich alles immer etwas bedeutete. Die am Nachbartisch schwiegen jetzt und lasen Zeitung. Die Frau vor ihm tippte eine SMS in ihr Handy und blickte auch auf bedrucktes Papier. Alle lasen hier alle Zeitung, wenn sie nicht Nachrichten in ihr Handy tippten oder lasen oder die viel zu kleinen Kuchenstücke in sich hineinlöffelten. Die waren dafür auch zu süß und zu teuer. Früher wäre es beim besten Willen nicht möglich gewesen, so lange in den damaligen Tageszeitungen zu lesen. „Bitte zahlen!,“ rief die Frau vor ihm und suchte schon in der Tasche nach einem Schein. Sie holte eine Brille hervor, setzte sie auf und schien es eilig zu haben. „Stimmt so,“ bekam die Bedienung zu hören, die ihr Glas und die leere Tasse mitnahm. Schon war die Frau im Gang des Bahnhofes verschwunden, sie hatten kaum ein pflicht-höfliches „Wiedersehen!“ ausgetauscht. Bertram orderte noch einen Espresso und wollte sich einreihen unter die Zeitungslesenden. Er griff nach dem von der Frau zurückgelassenen und noch nicht entsorgten Stapel Papier. Eine junge Dame lächelte ihn auf der Seite mit den bunten Meldungen dämlich an. Sie wies keinerlei Ähnlichkeit mit Jana auf. Wie würde die heute aussehen? Ihre Beziehung endete schon im Urlaub, als auf einem Bahnhof zwei Züge in entgegen-gesetzte Richtung fuhren. Warum eigentlich? Aber das war nicht so wichtig. Wichtig war diese Nacht hier gewesen. Später verabredete er sich noch ein einziges Mal mit einer Frau auf diesem Platz. Er wohnte noch nicht in der Stadt. Eine Telefonnummer von der Männertoilette vom Bahnhof Alex—sie kam wirklich. Es hatte ihr jemand einen Streich gespielt. Und sie ließ sich gern einen Streich spielen. Bertram flüchtete feige nach

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fünfzehn Minuten—wieder das angebliche Benutzen der Toilette als Vorwand. Nichts, woran sich einer gern erinnert. Er durchblätterte die abgelegte Zeitung und stieß auf aussortierte Blätter dazwischen: Rechnungen, Werbung, eine unbeschriftete Postkarte—und ihren Personalausweis. Neu, mit dem biometrischen Passbild und einem Namen, bei dem Bertram automatisch lächeln und den Kopf schütteln musste. Aber Jana hießen viele. Und der Name hinter dem Vornamen sagte ihm gar nichts. Der Geburtsort allerdings—so ein Zufall wäre in jeder Geschichte, in jedem Film als absolut unglaubhaft vermieden worden. Das Geburtsdatum dagegen ließ ihn wieder ratlos, war sie nicht ein Jahr älter gewesen? Er nahm sich vor, die Adresse gar nicht erst zu lesen. Bertram ging an den geschwungenen Tresen, lieferte den Ausweis ab und zahlte gleich. Es trieb ihn vor die Tür. Er wollte doch hier noch irgendetwas einkaufen. Er würde jetzt so lange herumlaufen, bis ihm wieder einfiel, was er brauchte. Jeden treibt es an diesen Platz zurück, dachte Bertram, der klebt an einem. Zwei traten vor ihm durch die Glastür aus dem Bahnhof hinaus, jeweils zwei Kugeln Eis in einer spitzen Tüte, der eine in der rechten, der andere in der linken Hand. Da sie die Zunge auf ähnliche Weise bewegten, lutschten sie sozusagen spiegelverkehrt an einer imaginären Riesentüte Eis zwischen ihnen. Da brüllte es links und beide schauten in diese Richtung. Aber Bertram kümmerte das nicht. Er wollte sich seine Wahrnehmungen nicht von anderen vorschreiben lassen. Er lief sehr langsam weiter, über den Platz, der ihm so vertraut war wie kaum ein anderer. Entfernte man sich von ihm, bedurfte es einiger Mühe, sich den Ort wieder richtig vorzustellen. Doch Bertram wollte ja hier etwas. Auch wenn ihm noch nicht wieder eingefallen war was. Vor der Mauer auf der Lauer Offenbar muss Geschichte alle paar Jahre neu entdeckt und in Nuancen anders erklärt werden, um weiter als Geschichte im Bewusstsein zumindest der interessierten Menschen zu sein. Das zeigt die Mauer-Diskussion prägnant. Nichts hat den Staat DDR so geprägt wie die Mauer—also das System von Grenzsicherungsanlagen, die verniedlichend mit „Mauer“ umschrieben werden: jener Mix aus Minenstreifen, Zäunen, Signalgeräten, Wachhunden. Als ich als DDRGrenzsoldat in Neuhaus-Schierschnitz bei Sonneberg (Thüringen) 1972/73 ein Jahr lang die vorgeschriebenen Wege abzulaufen und zu kontrollieren hatte, da galt ein Befehl ausdrücklich: auf eventuell entgegenkommende West-Alliierte Soldaten (also Amerikaner, Briten und Franzosen) durfte ich nicht schießen:

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Das Potsdamer Abkommen. Erst die russische „Rote Armee“ hätte uns dafür den Befehl geben können—das wäre vermutlich zur Vaterlandsverteidigung zu spät gewesen. Auch Hubschrauber des Bundesgrenzschutzes (West), die versehentlich oder absichtlich versehentlich über DDR-Gebiet schwirrten, durften nicht mit Warnschüssen bedrängt werden. Das zu der Frage, das wir als Grenzsoldaten eine Grenze gegen äußere Feinde zu schützen hatten. Unsere gut gefüllten Magazine in der MPi Kalaschnikow—eines schussbereit eingeführt, ein paar andere in einer kleinen Tasche am Gurt befestigt—wären für ein längeres Dauerfeuer ausreichend gewesen. Ihre Patronen waren nur, nur und nochmals nur für eigene Staatsbürger reserviert. Für die, die keine mehr bleiben wollten. Warum kam ich an die Grenze? Weil ich an sie wollte und das bei der Musterung sagte. Weil ich überzeugter Anti-Pazifist und für revolutionären Terror war. Meine Grenzdienstbereitschaft (man nahm gern künftige Studenten) war Feigheit gepaart mit der Unlust an militärischer Ausbildung. Der Grenzdienst würde dafür keine Zeit lassen, so hieß es: keine Eskaladierwand, kein Exerzieren, wenig Strammstehen. Eben nur auf Waldwegen bei Wind und Wetter acht Stunden spazieren und Leute bei Bedarf festnehmen (wenn jemand sehr dämlich gewesen wäre) oder erschießen. Denn die zu bewachenden Abschnitte waren groß. Wir wurden nicht als Scharfschützen ausgebildet, wir hatten keine Pistolen, sondern Maschinenpistolen, die bei größerer Entfernung auf Dauerfeuer gestellt werden mussten, damit ja keiner die DDR verlassen konnte. Die Vorstellung gezielter, nicht tödlicher Schüsse ist da ein Witz. Aber zuerst gab es ein halbes Jahr militärische Ausbildung, da konnte ich mich beim Arzt mit vielen Krankschreibungen gut über die Härten hinwegtricksen. Ich hätte nach der Ausbildung nicht an die Westgrenze gemusst. Denn da gab es für jeden das berühmte Abschlussgespräch unter vier Augen mit dem Zugführer—einem Leutnant. Schon vorher erzählten mir Altgediente, dass so vertraulich getestet werden sollte, ob einer schießen würde. Ein Bekannter sagte: Er werde das nicht tun und kam an die polnische Grenze. Dort wurde auf flüchtende DDR-Bürger definitiv nicht geschossen, es floh auch selten jemand Richtung Osten. Ich hätte mich geschickt herausreden können: Psychische Probleme, noch nicht die innere Reife, müsse an mir arbeiten. Vielleicht hätte ich es verbal so hingebogen, dass es nicht einmal die Studienzulassung gekostet hätte. Aber ich wollte die Armee an der WestGrenze hinter mich bringen. An den beiden östlichen Grenzen würde mehr schikaniert—so hieß es. An der Westgrenze sollte die Verpflegung besser sein—was stimmte. Wir wurden gemästet. Vor allem wollte ich nicht ins Wachregiment mit den nervenzerrüttenden 24-Stunden-Diensten. An der richtigen Grenze würde man in den Westen blicken, die Natur genießen,

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manchmal schlief man heimlich auf Wacht oder suchte Pilze oder briet am Reinigungsrohr der MPi Knackwürste. Im eigenen Fett, das ging besser als ich dachte. Natürlich alles illegal, aber kein wirkliches Problem, so lange keiner flüchtete und man zuverlässige Schießbereitschaft zeigte. Über das interne Signalsystem konnte sogar so ein technischer Trottel wie ich einen westlichen Rundfunksender hören, schlecht und natürlich nur kurz, aber alles Verbotene machte Spaß. Ich hatte als Grenzsoldat mehr Freiheiten bei der Dienstausübung als sonst bei der ekelhaften „Fahne“—wie wir die Armee nannten. Sie kotzte mich schon nach einem halben Jahr sehr an, aber der Grenzdienst schien von allen Unerträglichkeiten die Erträglichste. Und so sagte ich im entscheidenden Prüfgespräch dem jungen drahtigen Leutnant, was ich machte, wenn ich meine Freundin mit einem anderen abhauen sehen würde: „Na, dann knalle ich die ab, da hat sie es nicht anders verdient. Und ihren neuen Freund mit.“ Und wenn sie mit ihrer Mutter flüchten würde? „Genauso, Schweinerei, mich verlassen—ich erschieße gleich die ganze Familie, die soll nur kommen.“ Wir grinsten uns zynisch an, der Offizier zeigte sich hochzufrieden. Und während wir herumflapsten, fühlte ich mich wieder einmal so richtig mies. Aber jetzt ekelte ich mich nicht vor dem Dienst oder exerziergeilen Mitgenossen—sondern vor mir. Meine Freundin hatte gerade Schluss gemacht—wieso beschlich mich trotzdem das Gefühl, sie verraten zu haben? Ich kenne zahlreiche Leute, für die die Armee in der DDR der erste wirkliche Schock ihres Lebens war. Die Erfahrung einer sinnlos zerregelten Zeit, bei den Grenzsoldaten kam ein Leben in realer Tötungsbereitschaft dazu. Es war dann im Grunde alles so wie vorher beschrieben. Aber das DDR-Grenzregime mit seiner Kette von Absurditäten veränderte mich, während oder weil ich die gesamte Zeit der angepasste Soldat blieb. Zwei Episoden: ein Soldat neben mir—wir mussten immer zu zweit ausrücken, damit der eine den anderen erschießen konnte, falls der abhauen wollte—sagte plötzlich: “Es ist so langweilig. Käme endlich mal ein Flüchtling, da würde die Zeit schneller vergehen.“ Episode zwei: An einer besonders schwierig zu bewachenden Stelle der Grenze führte eine Straße direkt auf diese zu. Sperrgebiet, da kam nie ein Auto. Wenn eines kommen sollte, musste rasch darauf geschossen werden, damit es keinen Grenzdurchbruch schaffte. Neben offiziellen Befehlen gab es inoffizielle Gerüchte, sie hatten eine motivierende Funktion. Eines hieß: die Staatssicherheit würde ab und zu Kontrollfahrten machen, um die Wachsamkeit der Posten zu testen. Und diese gegebenenfalls anzuschwärzen. Also galt es, es diesen Kerlen von der Stasi mit gezielten Schüssen zu zeigen, wer zu treffen in der Lage ist. So kann Wut auf einen Teil des Machtapparates der DDR benutzt werden, um in einem anderen Teil des Apparates perfekter zu

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funktionieren. Im Grunde durfte ich auch als Soldat nicht direkt an die Grenze heran, dafür brauchte es spezielle Befehle und Genehmigungen. Viel zu sehr misstrauten sie unserem realen Patriotismus. Nein, ich dachte kein einziges Mal über eine Flucht nach—es wäre auch für mich schwierig gewesen. Ja, ich glaube mehrfach beim Betrachten der MPi über die Frage gegrübelt zu haben, in welches Körperteil ich mich mit ihr am leichtesten erschießen könnte. Oder bilde ich mir das doch nur ein, um eine nachträgliche Haltung in meine damalige Zerrissenheit hineinzudeuten? Wahrscheinlich wäre ein Amoklauf der wahrscheinlichste Ausweg gewesen, wenn sich mein Desaster weiter zugespitzt hätte. Auf jeden Fall ist mir der kalte, widerwärtige, schreckliche Gedanke noch bewusst, mit dem ich manchmal im Grenzdienst für eine Brise Schlaf die Augen schloß. Dann hielt der andere Wacht, man löste sich ab, das machte man nicht oft und nicht mit jedem—so der Gedanke beim Schließen der Augen: Wenn er dich jetzt erschlägt oder erschießt, um leichter abzuhauen, dann hast Du es verdient. „Auf Kinder unter vierzehn Jahren dürfen sie nicht schießen.“ So lautete eine der Erläuterungen zu dem Bündel von Anweisungen, die den Schießbefehl darstellten. Den gab es nicht als einen kompakten Befehl, sondern als eine Kette von Erläuterungen, Tipps und Drohungen. Im Zweifelsfall wäre es immer, immer und immer besser gewesen zu schießen als einen gen Westen ziehen zu lassen. Diese Botschaft war klar. Die tägliche Vergatterung vor dem Wachdienst in der Landschaft variierte sie. Grenzverletzer sind zu stellen oder zu vernichten—so lautete es an einer Stelle. Natürlich hätten wir ihn auch fangen können—nicht so leicht, bei der schweren Munition und unseren nicht gerade sportlichen Uniformen. Natürlich hätte er auch mit unserem Seitengewehr erstochen werden können—die meisten Soldaten waren ungeübte Messerwerfer. Bestreiten manche die Existenz des Schießbefehls, weil die Flucht auch anders verhindert werden durfte? Die Vergatterung vor dem Ausrücken stellte uns eine Lizenz zum Töten aus, die täglich bei Bedarf in den Erläuterungen variierten. Gruselgeschichten von überfallenen Grenzsoldaten würzten die Anweisungen. Die Botschaft war einfach: Töten oder getötet werden. Wir sollten in eine Art permanenten psychischen Ausnahmezustand versetzt sein und hörten oft von desertierten sowjetischen Soldaten. Die waren ja im Grunde schon tot. Die würden jeden killen, der sich ihnen in den Weg stellte. Der eine Soldat hatte sich mit Waffe in einer Gartenlaube verbarrikadiert—die „ruhmreiche Sowjetarmee“ schaffte eine Panzerfaust herbei und zerknallte die Laube. Bewusst wurden uns solche Pointen erzählt, damit wir jeden Abend aus Angst um unser Leben sofort schießen würden.

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Der Dienst an der Grenze raubte einem die politische Unschuld. Er sensibilisierte oder stumpfte ab. Es sollte eben nicht nur die Grenze zwischen zwei Staaten sein. Sondern die vor einem Zeitloch: da die düstere Vergangenheit (Westen), der künftige Kriegsbeginner. Und hier die bessere Zukunft der Menschheit. War es ein Wunder, dass die Erläuterungen zum Nicht-Schießen auf Kinder eine Hintertür zeigten? Ich erinnere mich sehr genau an die Sätze unseres Leutnants: „Wenn ein Kind aber älter als vierzehn wirkt, weil eine Zwölfjährige zum Beispiel zu stark geschminkt ist, dann gehen sie beim Gebrauch der Schusswaffe straffrei aus!“ Einmal wurde im Nachbarregiment der sechszehnjährige Sohn des Wirtes der Dorfkneipe erschossen. Man sagte uns, er sei alkoholisiert gewesen und hätte an den Metallzaun vor dem Minenstreifen gepinkelt. Die Posten hätten das aus beträchtlicher Entfernung als Fluchtversuch gedeutet. Da er nicht auf Anruf und Warnschuss reagierte, schossen sie. Im Dunkeln. Durch sein Verhalten habe er das provoziert. Für die Kompanie gab es eine Weile Ausgangssperre wegen der wütenden Dorfbevölkerung. Das tötende Postenpaar wurde sofort versetzt und wegen vorbildlicher Pflichterfüllung ausgezeichnet: Sonderurlaub und eine Geldprämie. Ich glaube, die Mehrheit in unserer Kompanie war nach dieser Mitteilung ein, zwei Tage stiller. Einer sagte: „Hoffentlich bekomme ich nie so einen Urlaub.“ Ich hatte mir ja vorgenommen, im Ernstfall deutlich vorbeizuschießen. Schon bei der Ausbildung produzierte ich schlechte Schießergebnisse. Aber das würde nicht helfen, wenn mein Mit-Posten traf. Ich würde auch ausgezeichnet werden. Und wäre ich sicher, nicht doch getroffen zu haben? Man muss gut schießen können, um glaubhaft schlecht zu feuern. Ich erlebte mich als potentiellen Mörder, für den jeder Tag der Tag X werden konnte. Der redet so, wie es mein Vater gesagt hat. Er kann gar nicht aufhören. Er wird nie loskommen von diesem Thema. Auch da hat Vater Recht, der sich manchmal genauso hineinsteigert, wenn er auf die Vergangenheitsaufklärer schimpfte. Die merken gar nicht, wie sie an ihren Kindern vorbeiquatschen. Da schaue ich ihn schon so verführerisch an, um ihn von seinem Text wegzulocken. So viele Frauen Mitte Zwanzig bekommt der nicht auf den Schoß gesetzt, jedenfalls nicht ohne Geld. Es ist alles wie von Vater vorhergesagt. Er lädt die junge schicke Frau—jetzt guckt er irritiert, weil ich lächle, also rasch wieder ernst—natürlich sofort ein auf einen Wein. In dem Alter macht das fast jeder Mann, wenn er eine Gelegenheit dazu hat. Das ist wohl so ein Instinkt wie bei Vampiren—die lechzen einfach nach frischem Blut. Als ob sie jeder Kontakt mit der Jugend selbst verjüngte. Sie wirke gehorsam—das haben ihr schon ein paar Mal ältere Herren gesagt. Umso besser. Schließlich braucht sie ein paar Mark zusätzlich, bis die zweite

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Ausbildung beendet ist. Von ihrem Vater ist nichts mehr zu erwarten, seit er nicht mehr Offizier sein darf. Hätte er sie nicht allein zu erziehen gehabt, wäre er ja längst zur Fremdenlegion gegangen. Höhnisch erzählte er das: die französischen Kolonien verteidigen. Haben die überhaupt noch welche? Und seit die Versicherungsgeschäfte nicht mehr richtig laufen, steckt sie eher ihrem Alten Geld zu als der ihr. Aber dass das Geschenke von Männern sind, braucht er nicht zu wissen. Obwohl er nichts mehr zu sagen hat. Der soll mal über seine Vergangenheit nachdenken. Und was der hier vor ihr alles erzählt, klingt doch etwas anders als aus dem Mund ihres Vaters. Und der Abend heute: Ein Zeitzeuge berichtet über das Leben als Grenzsoldat. Der hat sie schon beeindruckt. Eigentlich will sie diese Leute ja hassen, die ihren Vater unglücklich machten, weil sie ihm seinen Dienst und die Waffe wegnahmen. Ihr Vater macht es ihr vor, er ist nur noch wütend auf die neue Zeit und vor allem auf den einen, der unter ihm ein stinknormaler, langweiliger Soldat war und nun so tut als sei es ihm wer weiß wie schwer gefallen. Als habe er gelitten. Aber wenn sie ihn betrachtet wie er zwar lächelnd, aber manisch immer weiter erzählt: er hat gelitten. So wie ihr Vater heute unter der Gegenwart leidet. Sie sind sich beide ähnlich, in einem Alter, ihrer etwas sportlicher. Der kann gut formulieren, der vor ihr. Von sich aus hätte sie sich von ihm nie einladen lassen, ist wirklich nicht ihr Typ. In seiner aufklärerischen Besessenheit strahlt er aber etwas aus. Er ähnelt ihrem Vater. Die wissen gar nicht, wie ähnlich sie sich sind. Wenn der hier ahnte vor wessen Tochter er sitzt—dem Leutnant, den er im Dienst fast erschossen hätte. Sagt er heute. Der später bis zum Hauptmann beförderte hält das für Angabe, für Aufschneiderei. Er las ein paar Mal Artikel von ihm in der Lokalzeitung und besorgte sich dann sein Buch. Nur über die Grenzdienstzeit. Was hatte der schon erlebt? Ihr Vater hätte ein Buch schreiben können, aber wer wollte von einem DDR-Grenzoffizier, der alles richtig fand ein Buch lesen? Er hatte ihr ja gesagt, was der Kerl so erzählen würde. Die Zitate des Leutnants schmerzten sie aber. Sollte das ihr Vater gewesen sein? Vielleicht hätte sie unter anderen Umständen doch mit ihm geschlafen. Sie hörte schon früher immer den Märchen von Opa so gern zu. Sie mochte Erzähler, denen man einfach zuhören und zuhören konnte und die einen und eine in den Schlaf redeten. Aber heute ging es um anderes. Ihr Vater hatte sie bequatscht, diesen Kerl zu sich nach Hause zu locken. Vater war inzwischen umgezogen, er konnte die Adresse nicht kennen. Lange habe ich darauf gewartet, sagte ihr Alter, endlich. Sie würde ihn gleich einladen, er würde mitgehen und sehr überrascht sein. Ihr Vater wollte ihn nur mal richtig verprügeln—falls der das anzeigen wollte, könnten sie mit einer Anzeige wegen versuchter Vergewaltigung drohen. Ein prima Racheszenario.

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Nein, ein Mörder war ihr Vater nicht und würde es auch nicht werden. Warum hatte sie ihn eigentlich nie gefragt, wie viele er an der Grenze erschoss? Wenn überhaupt. Seit Minuten wollte sie seine Hand streicheln, um das Vorspiel hier abzukürzen. Warum tat sie es nicht? Ihr Vater hatte richtig gebettelt. Einmal brauchte er das, danach würde er sich wohler fühlen—Menschen wie dieser mit solchen Zeitzeugenabenden sein Geld verdienende Typen haben das ganze Land, ihre Zukunft, ja eigentlich die ganze Welt vermasselt. Wenn er sich einmal abreagieren dürfe, dann sei Ruhe. Er würde nie mehr über die Gegenwart jammern, versprach er. Da stimmte sie zu und fuhr los, um pünktlich zu der Veranstaltung zu erscheinen. Und nun. Folgte sie einem Reflex und sagte einfach: „Auf Wiedersehen! Geh mir nicht nach! Es ist besser so!“ Er glotzte sie an und sie folgte einfach ihrem Reflex. Der Stuhl scharrte beim Wegrücken. Jetzt einfach gehen und gehen und gehen. Und plötzlich taten ihr beide ehemalige Soldaten leid. Sich in ein Taxi setzen und in die nächste Stadt fahren. Sie kannte Cafés, wo man immer etwas fand zum Übernachten. Der hinter ihr rief noch etwas, sie wollte nichts mehr hören, wollte das traurige Gesicht ihres Vaters nicht sehen. Und schon gar nicht das hier an diesem Tisch, der mit jedem Schritt weiter zurücklag.

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Dorotheenstädtischer Friedhof, Berlin,

der Dichter Hilbig wird beerdigt

(9.6.2007) 1

Als ich den handtellervoll Erde in das Grab warf,

sah ich den Sarg nicht, nur Blumen Blumen Blumen,

frech farbig, kräftig funkelnd, als wollten sie

zu einer blühenden Sperre zusammenwachsen.

Vor dem Unten, das schrecklichschön immer

aus seinen Zeilen leuchtete—vor der Dunkelheit,

die bald darauf sich auf Blumen und Holz legt.

2

Er hat keine Angst und muss sich nicht verstecken

in einem stählernen Sarg. Da liegt er nun, endlich

zur Ruhe verführt. Der ewige Heizer in seinem Himmel

aus Erde, ein Stück Kohle begleitet ihn auf dem Weg

ins Unsichtbarsein.

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Berchtesgaden (7.10.2004) Der Weg in den Berg, himmelwärts.

Wo ein Wille ist, säumen ihn Leichen.

Hier aber arbeiteten sie freiwillig, bezahlt.

Der Tunnel. Der Aufzug—Kapitän Nemo

Lässt grüßen. Und weiter, höher: ein Haus

In den Wolken. Das Volk, unten, überall

steine (Sterne der Berge) zu deinen Füßen.

Geröll. Einer muss alles ordnen, bewegen.

Behauen. Dachte einer und dachte weiter

im Text: auch Steine verdienen kein Mitleid.

Geschrieben nach einem Besuch von Hitlers Bergfestung,

zufällig am ehemaligen Feiertag einer wegvereinigten

Republik.

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Golden Gate (2007) If you’re going to San Francisco... Keine Blumen im Haar, eine Träne will hinab zum Fluss. In diesem Moment liebst du jenes Land. Auf dieser Brücke von der einen zu der anderen Hoffnung. The American dream. Überall die Netze fangen den nicht ein: sieben jeden Monat stürzen sich von hier hinab und fliegen. Alle schauen Richtung Stadt, das Sterben als Gebet.

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LUTZ RATHENOW

All echos. Essays and poems

To live (1981) To seek the isles of sanctuary in order to sink them. To ensure only one option for escape remains: to persevere.

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The heir to Icarus (1979) So he stands there and hopes

that his arm will become a wing.

Yet it only ages,

and is already a little limp.

People spoke with him.

People speak with him.

He realizes the necessity

of not rushing anything.

So he does not plunge himself into the air,

waiting instead for the gust of wind—

which will take the decision from him.

He keeps the example alive

and prevents it being an example.

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Book burning, Jena (1983) Nothing happened to one of them.

He put the book in the oven

so that nothing happened to him.

My book.

Others after it.

He destroyed his past

to have a future here.

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The promise of a place to call our own Every square has its own place. At some point, however, this one must have burst and lost its shape in the confusion of a space, never to be found again. The square has been patched up, pulled down and newly developed at its edges, one element has replaced another. A new plan has lost its way in its wide expanse and made the square the epitome of a place made up of bits and pieces. Bertram had loved this place since he had loved Berlin, since that night on the park benches on and around this square. Now, he was walking from an unusual direction towards it—from a cash machine, where he had just withdrawn a few notes. Tramlines pointed the way towards the centre of the square. From this perspective, everything looked like a cleverly-conceived work of art, with the gap between the two sweeping, listed buildings acting like a thin frame open at the top. In that frame, behind the buildings, stood the television tower, which seemed not so very tall from this distance—as if it fitted right in. Alright, there was plenty of construction going on in front of it, but that would come to an end once it came to an end. Like the others around him, he hurried across the street: walking slowly has something improper about it in this city. It is drunks, poets and pickpockets—before carrying out their work, at least—who walk slowly, and tourists of course. They traipse one way and then the other, and on this square as much as any they take one direction and then the next, looking for whatever it was they are looking for. Bertram strode past a construction site to his right—it had still been a street when he had been here last. He had crawled along this stretch in a taxi two or three weeks previously, and heard something about a bunker under the street which had apparently just been rediscovered during excavation work. “My grandpa helped build them, and during the war he was often in the air-raid shelters over there or over there”—the driver gesticulated in four different directions, each of them a considerable distance apart, before turning towards Bertram despite the heavy traffic—“the emergency exit was damaged during an attack, the room is supposed to have been buried shortly afterwards but everyone got out. The thing is, they left the family gold in there—four or five necklaces, two tooth crowns and seven coins—kept in a tin marked weed killer, so as not to draw attention to it.” One time he and a friend had wanted to go down there, but they ended up in the wrong bunker. He wanted to try again soon, this time he knew how to get there from the sewers—and it’s no fun on your own.

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Bertram grinned as he thought about the driver, who had presumed him to be a potential pal and attempted to make himself appear younger and younger as he fantasized with gusto about the underworld. Perhaps, somewhere below the street he was now walking, the driver was creeping through subterranean passages in search of cherished, wicked gold. At that moment, Bertram bumped into a passer-by, who, within the blink of an eye, changed his look from rage to a communicative smile: “You’re looking good. Sorry, I’m in a rush. See you around.” After this casual goodbye, Bertram didn’t even try to remember who he had bumped into. He didn’t know the man. Was that really the case? Which one of them was showing the first signs of Alzheimer’s? Despite this, Bertram knew that the bench had been on roughly the spot where a financial institution had now taken up residence. The officious chairs of the bank’s waiting rooms and offices were not to be confused with the benches which had been there before—they had been there for sitting and relaxing. The bookshop Das Gute Buch [The good book]—which, despite its name, had lacked a number of good books in its inventory—must have been just to the left. They had kissed for the first time on that bench, tearing him from the expectant lethargy he left so unreadily. Even speaking to a woman had been to give oneself to a risky reality, away from the world of possibilities he controlled back then. Yet Bertram had spoken to Jana some time ago. She had taken a holiday with him on the Baltic coast—or as far as they could get without fixed accommodation and without much money. Germany’s East had had two places to be longed for on offer: the coast, and Berlin. All paths had led to Berlin, and ended or began at the newly-erected clock on this square. The clock had shown the time in the areas of the world where Bertram was not allowed to travel to. The paths led to the fountain which became a refreshing bath in the summer months, though this had been frowned upon or forbidden. That depended on the extent to which the representatives of the state on duty there felt obliged to apply the laws of the land. The Alex, as the square was and remains to be known, reminded him of the opportunities he had been able to grant or withhold. He fulfilled wishes and stirred up new desires. How many West Berliners had Bertram met at this clock in later years? Had the fountains and the clock not even been there that night? Had it been a few years later, when that festival named after youth, the world and games had taken place? That event saw a great number of people allowed in from the outside, and it wasn’t only this square they enlivened. Bertram knew one thing for sure: over there, beside the

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world clock, that banned singer had sung two songs. No guitar, no arrest. It just happened—and everyone around him had applauded. But was the clock there when he sat on the bench with his first proper girlfriend, sliding her kiss-for-kiss into a more horizontal position? When the policeman came he had first given him a confused smile and then sorted out his hair with a sweep of his hand. He then took out his identification card from the rear pocket of his jeans—Jana did the same, leaving out her normal facetious comments. They both followed the custodian of the law without protest. Identity check, suspicion of … there were standard phrases. The only exact memory Bertram had was of the pillar-like intercom system. He had recently seen a picture of that same system in a photo included in a book of photos of the Berlin which had been his Berlin. The photo showed a policeman standing next to the intercom in front of the bookshop and radioing in the details on the identification card, just as the policeman had with Bertram. In any case, both he and Jana had real identification cards, not fakes. After all, Jana was 16 and had not run away from home, and neither of them was banned from entering Berlin. There was no reason to take them away. The policeman simply ordered them not to continue sleeping on the bench. “What do you mean by that?” asked Bertram, who had rediscovered his urge to be a little cheeky following the return of his identification card. “Citizens, obey this order! In the interest of maintaining public order I am banning you from the Alexanderplatz for the coming night!” So Bertram and Jana went one bench further behind or in front of the square. It must have stood next to the Kongresshalle, and it was there that he had freed her of her pullover and kissed and stroked everything above her belly button. Until she … Bertram apologized to a man pulling a small metal shopping trolley behind him. Bertram had bumped into him. The man’s trolley contained tins, newspapers and books—did he want to sell something, or was he collecting things long-since bought? “Gestapo back again?” the slightly hunched man of indefinable age said in a surprisingly firm voice. Aha, thought Bertram, another one of the many that the city attracts like moths to a lamplight. He listened to the man’s next insight: “We need secret services in order to misunderstand the world.” He was talking in aphorisms—one of those intelligent psychopaths that refuse to take their medication. “If we kill ourselves faster than the terrorists can we’ll have outfoxed them.” Was it the city that made them crazy, or did they just feel safe in the

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confused mixture of this place? The other man walked on with short, mechanical paces. Bertram strode towards a café. He wanted to think back in peace, remember one of the happiest and most beautiful nights of his life, one which had started on this square and continued where the gigantic new temple of retail now stood. That was until another policeman came, rechecked them and sent them to a bench outside of his section. Bertram had decided to go into the small Italian café under the S-Bahn rail arches when a man asked him politely where the shop which sold police supplies was. Even Bertram didn’t know of such a shop. “I need a new bullet-proof jacket,” said the man in an almost-trustworthy way. “I only know the shop at the Strausberger Platz which sells work clothes, it’s two stops on the subway,” Bertram replied. They exchanged a few more sentences, from which Bertram learned that he too could also obtain such a jacket whenever he so wished. How good it is to live in a society where one can carry out price comparisons between bullet-proof jackets. If one is able to find a shop that sells them, that is. It occurred to him that there had always been a hunting shop just behind the square—including during the period when the floors above it had been where the files of a now defunct secret service had been managed. And where there were hunting rifles, there were sure to be bullet-proof jackets. Relieved and appreciative, the would-be jacket purchaser walked in the direction of the shop, which had been able to survive a change in political regime without even changing the decorations in its window display. Were the surveillance photos of the Alexanderplatz also stored in the rooms of the file administration authority? Had they been archived, or were they still lying unevaluated in sacks? That would mean that the square as it had been continued to exist alongside the square as it was then, documented in the form of genuine records taken by continually-operating cameras or of photographs snapped by the masters of observation who had worked there alone or in pairs. A lady was already sitting at the table Bertram sat down at. She was reading the Berliner Zeitung, a newspaper for the city and one which shared its name. She hardly looked up as she answered “Ja” to his question of whether or not the vacant space at the table was taken. For a moment he thought he recognized her, but that didn’t mean anything … “You have to dress up when you go out in Munich, but in Berlin it’s better to dress down. And stick to black,” a young woman said to another at the table to the right. As she and her friend were already getting up and leaving Bertram did not hear the response, though it would have interested him.

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He ordered an espresso and a freshly-squeezed orange juice, and thought about the third bench, where his hand had first wandered inside the small, thin panties she wore under her trousers. It was almost as moist in there as it was in his underpants after her hand had suddenly—but purposefully— begun to play around with him. She did it in a way which at least betrayed that it was not the first time she had done it. The next person to interrupt was a traffic warden in civilian clothes. And he even had a good tip for them. They walked to the next bench, fondling each other as they went. Though it was further away, they were undisturbed for two hours. And it was there that he was allowed to experience her without anything on and get to know the lower half of her body. “Am I sweet enough for you?” she asked at one point. The darkness meant that he was better able to imagine her smile than see it. He gathered his courage and did that with his mouth which he had read about numerous times and heard about in the types of conversations that young men have. The taste which met him was interesting and bittersweet. For the first time, he heard a woman make the sounds described as the indications of a woman reaching orgasm by the sex guide given to him by his parents two years previously. To be more precise, Bertram led a woman to make a gasping, moaning sound—a great feeling. As she returned to normal breathing, she took off all his clothes, laid him down on the bench and gave further proof of her greater experience. Days afterwards, Bertram still believed that he could feel the imprints of the relatively thin wooden slats on and in his back. The woman in front of him apologized, as she had wanted to pour sugar in her cup—but missed. Her voice was pleasant, yet Bertram was annoyed at being torn away from his memory. He had reached the moment where he and Jana had changed benches twice, yet he could not summon up images of the rest of the night—even though the light of the moon had held back complete darkness. Two men sat to his right and argued over a book with a green sleeve. Bertram recognized it. Both men were speaking. Suddenly, one of them read aloud: “Street operatives, patrolling police officers. Or officials in civilian clothes who feign normal behaviour by strolling in a deliberately casual way or by strolling in a casual way. I’m keeping a look out for one in particular. He walks across the Alexanderplatz with different partners. A perfectly average man. I sometimes walk over the square looking for him. I’m reassured when I see him.” He shook his head and commented “Rubbish. Vain and but allegations. Everyone was scared. And now they’re risking getting a fat lip.” The man sitting with him took the volume out of his hand. Both of them looked like businessmen or insurance agents. The second man’s tone was

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friendlier as he recited: “You need to read on. ‘I once greeted him by mistake. He turned red, and walked behind me until we reached the mocha café.’ I find that funny, but then I was always behind the cameras and had little contact with other people. Only our comrades. I would have liked to have interrogated someone, just for a bit of a change.” Almost amused, Bertram followed this conversation between two former security ministry employees, who were arguing openly over a text which was none too flattering where they were concerned. It was a good sign that they had differing opinions and expressed them for all to hear. Nonetheless, he wanted to keep thinking about Jana and the first bench. Was it on the site where a friend of a friend had found a very old cartridge and presumed it dated back to the street battles of 1848? Or was it opposite the entrance to a café which had long-since disappeared? The one where he had once ended up in the middle of a protest against a conscription law led by loud women dressed entirely in black, who fled to the tables when men came to arrest them in front of the café’s windows? Bertram knew one of them and was happy to sit and eat a piece of cake with her. It was there that he sat next to a real bishop for the first time—the man of the cloth had been called about the protest and rushed over to the members of the peace group, who otherwise met in his church. He first calmed them down and then accompanied them back onto the Alex, as did Bertram. Although he was not arrested he was, by complete coincidence, subjected to a spot-check a few streets further away. When he asked why he had been stopped, the policeman simply responded “It doesn’t mean anything.” This was a response which he did not hear often during his life in the city as it was at the time—a place where everything was really always supposed to mean something. The people at the neighbouring table were now silent and reading the newspaper. The lady in front of him was writing a text on her mobile phone whilst also looking at printed paper. Everyone was reading a newspaper— that is if they were not reading or tapping in a message on their mobiles, or eating one of the pieces of cake on offer, which were not only too small, but also too sweet and too expensive. In the old days it would never have been possible to read one of the newspapers printed at the time for such a lengthy period. “Bill please!” the woman in front of him shouted as she looked for some cash in her bag. She produced a pair of glasses, put them on and appeared to be in a hurry all of a sudden. The waiter who collected the glass and empty cup was told to “Keep the change.” The woman disappeared off into the railway station without so much as the obligatory, polite “Wiedersehen!” Bertram ordered another espresso and felt

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the urge to join in with the other newspaper readers. He reached for a pile of paper which had been left behind by the woman and not yet been cleared away. A woman with an idiotic smile beamed back at him from a page of adverts. She didn’t look a thing like Jana. What would she look like these days? Their relationship ended on holiday as two trains pulled away from a train station in opposite directions. Why exactly? That wasn’t really important now. It was the night here that was important. In later years there was only one other woman who he arranged to meet at the square. He hadn’t yet moved to the city, he called a telephone number left in the gent’s toilets at Alexanderplatz station—and she actually turned up. Someone had played a trick on her—and she enjoyed having tricks played on her. Bertram fled in a cowardly manner after fifteen minutes—the old one about needing the toilet. Not something he looked back on fondly. Lost in thought, he leafed through the abandoned newspaper and came across various documents in the middle: bills, advertising, an unwritten postcard—and her identification card. It was a new biometric one, and the name on it automatically made Bertram smile and shake his head. But there are lots of people called Jana. The name after the first name did not say anything to him. The place of birth, yes—but such a coincidence would be avoided in all books and films because it would be too obvious. He was at a loss where the date of birth was concerned—wasn’t she a year older than that? He decided to not even read the address. Bertram went to the curved counter, handed over the identification card and paid at the same time. This brought him outside. What was it that he’d wanted to buy? He settled on wandering around until he remembered. Something pulls people back here, he thought, one can’t tear oneself away. Two people walked out of the glass door and into the station before Bertram, both of whom were carrying two scoops of ice cream perched in a pointed ice cream cone—one carried theirs in their left hand, the other in their right. As they were both using their tongues in the same sort of way, their reflection in the glass seemed to show them licking a massive imaginary ice cream cone. Shouts came from the left and both looked in that direction. But that didn’t concern Bertram. He didn’t want to always have his perceptions dictated to by other people. He walked onwards at a very slow pace, crossing the square which was as familiar to him as any other in this world— his world. If one were to distance oneself from it remembering it correctly would require quite some effort. But there was something else that Bertram wanted. Even if he had not yet remembered what it was.

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On duty in the shadow of the wall It seems that history needs to be rediscovered and re-explained with different nuances every few years. This allows it to remain in the consciousness of at least those people who are interested. The Wall debate is a perfect example of this process. Nothing characterized the GDR more than the Wall—the harmless-sounding nickname given to a system of border security facilities featuring a mix of mine strips, fences, alarms and guard dogs. In 1972/73, when I spent a year pacing and monitoring the prescribed routes as a GDR border soldier in Neuhaus-Schierschnitz bei Sonneberg (Thüringen), one order applied explicitly: I was not allowed to fire on any soldiers I encountered who belonged to the forces of the Western Allies (i.e., Americans, British and French troops)—this ensured we kept to the Potsdam Agreement. Only the Red Army of Russia could have given us the order to shoot, but that order probably would have come too late for any meaningful defence of the Fatherland. It was also not permitted to fire warning shots at western Federal Border Guards in helicopters which, regardless of intent, had strayed into GDR airspace. This is all despite the fact that we, as border soldiers, were to defend a border against foreign enemies. The well-filled magazines of our MPi Kalashnikovs—one ready to be emptied, a few others in a small bag attached to our belts—would have been sufficient to sustain firing over a long period. The bullets they contained were reserved for our fellow citizens—and them alone. For our fellow citizens who did not wish to retain that status. How did I end up at the border? There are two reasons: firstly, I was anti pacifism and pro revolutionary terror, so I wanted to go there. Secondly, I indicated this desire at the physical examination. My readiness to serve at the border (future students were welcomed) came from a combination of cowardice and reluctance to follow a military education. Border service would leave no time for that, so there would be no climbing wall, no exercises and only a little standing to attention for me. Just eight hours of strolling along forest paths in all weathers, arresting people where necessary if someone had been really stupid. Or shooting them dead. You see, the sections we were to monitor were expansive. We were not trained as marksmen, and rather than hand guns we had submachine guns, which had to be set to sustained fire when firing over long distances to stop anyone from leaving the GDR. In our sphere, the idea of targeted, non-fatal firing was laughable. The first phase of border service, however, was half a year’s military training, during which I proved myself adept at arranging to avoid the real hardships by obtaining numerous sick notes from the doctor.

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It was not a foregone conclusion that I would arrive at the western frontier after my training—everyone on their way there was subjected to a final test, a one-to-one meeting with the platoon leader, a lieutenant. I had been told in advance by long-serving colleagues that it was a secret way of testing whether or not the serviceman standing opposite the lieutenant would be able to open fire. An acquaintance of mine said he wouldn’t, and ended up on the Polish border. Fleeing GDR citizens were definitely not shot at there, and few fled eastwards anyway. In my case, I could have used my meeting with the lieutenant to skilfully talk my way out of arriving at the border: psychological problems, a lack of mental maturity, a need for self-improvement. Perhaps I could have managed to do it with such verbal dexterity that it wouldn’t even have cost me my admission to higher education. Yet I wanted to put my military service on the western frontier behind me. It was said that there was more bullying at both the eastern borders, and the catering was supposed to be better on the western border. I can certainly confirm the latter—we were fattened up. Above all else I didn’t want to end up in the watch regiment with the nerve-shattering 24-hour shifts. On the right stretch of the border you could look into the West and enjoy the natural surroundings around you. Sometimes you could sleep in secret whilst on duty, search for mushrooms or roast short, fat sausages on the cleaning pipe of your MPi. Using the fat from the sausages themselves was easier than I had imagined. All of this was illegal, of course, though not a problem as long as no-one fled across the border at the same time and one exhibited a reliable readiness to open fire. Even someone with as little technical knowledge as me managed to pick up western radio stations over the internal radio system—reception was poor and you could only listen for short periods, but a forbidden pleasure is all the more pleasurable for being forbidden. As a border soldier I enjoyed more freedoms whilst on duty than in other sections of the horrible “banner”, as we called the army. Though I was fed up with the military after just half a year, border service seemed to be the most bearable element of the unbearableness. So when it came to my inspection interview, and the young, wiry lieutenant conducting it asked me what I would do if I saw my girlfriend fleeing over the border with another man, my response was “I’d take her out, you know. That’s all she deserves. Him too. I’d take both of them out.” The lieutenant expanded the fleeing group to include my mother, which drew a similar response from me: “Same difference. They can’t do that, they can’t leave me—I’d waste them all just like that. Just let them try.” We smiled at each other cynically—the officer appeared highly satisfied. As we continued our boorish conversation I started to feel really lousy again. Yet now it was not my duties or my parade-happy comrades I was disgusted

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by—it was myself. My girlfriend had just broken up with me, so why was there a feeling inside of me that I had betrayed her? I know that a great many people in the GDR experienced the army as the first real shock of their lives. It was a pointlessly over-regulated period, and border soldiers carried the added burden of living their lives in a state of total readiness to kill. It was basically as I have described it thus far. Yet the GDR regime and its chain of absurdities changed me, whether despite or because of the fact that I remained a conformist soldier for the whole period. Two anecdotes: a soldier next to me—we always patrolled in pairs so that one could shoot the other if they tried to run away—suddenly said: “It’s so boring. If only someone would try to escape in our direction, the time would pass so much quicker.” Anecdote two: a road led directly to a section of the border which was particularly difficult to guard. It was a restricted area—you never saw a car there. If, however, a car was to turn up, you were to open fire on it fast so that it didn’t make it over the border. Official orders were often supplemented by unofficial rumours, which had a motivational role. One of these rumours was that the Stasi occasionally carried out inspection runs in cars in order to test the alertness of sentries in the area. And potentially get them into a lot of trouble. You were supposed to fire targeted rounds to show these guys from the Stasi that you were in a position to take them out. In this way, fury at one section of the GDR apparatus of power was used in order to perfect another section of that same apparatus. As a soldier I was technically not allowed to access the border itself—you needed special orders and authorizations for that. Though real, our patriotism was viewed with far too much distrust. That is to say that no, I never contemplated escaping—and even for me it would have been difficult. I seem to think that I often deliberated the question of which part of my body I would target if I wanted to use my MPi to shoot and kill myself in the easiest possible way. Or am I just imagining that, in order to read retrospective composure into the conflict which went on inside me at the time. Running amok would probably have been the most likely end to it all—that is if my disastrous situation had got any worse. In any case, I can definitely still remember the cold, repulsive, terrible thought which flashed into my mind when I closed my eyes for a short snooze whilst on border duty. Your partner would keep a lookout, you would take turns, but this was not something which you did often or with any old Tom, Dick or Harry you were partnered with. If he’d battered you to death or shot you in order to get away more easily, you’d have earned it. “You may not open fire on children under fourteen years of age.” This was one of the notes amongst the bundle of instructions which outlined the

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situations in which you were to use your weapon. There was no one, concise order, just a chain of notes, tips and threats. In cases of uncertainty it was always better to shoot. Always. Better that than to let someone succumb to the pull of the West—this order was clear. The daily reminder of their duties which guards received whilst in the field varied. Would-be border crossers were to be captured or terminated—that was how it was put at one point. We would of course have been able to do the former, but it’s not that easy when carrying heavy munitions and sporting ungainly uniforms. Of course, we could also have used our bayonets to stab them to death—the majority of soldiers were not practised in the art of knife-throwing. Some doubt the existence of the order to fire because there were other ways to stop people escaping. The reminder prior to moving out each morning granted us a licence to kill, and varied from day to day where necessary. Horror stories of ambushed border soldiers spiced up our instructions. The message was simple: kill, or be killed. We were to be pushed into a state of permanent psychological emergency, and were often fed tales of Soviet deserters. They were effectively already dead, and would kill anyone who got in their way. One soldier barricaded himself in a summerhouse with his weapon, and the response of the “glorious Soviet army” was to fetch a bazooka and obliterate the summerhouse. Such stories were brought to our attention so that each evening would see us in a state of trigger-happy hysteria, ready to fire just to save our own skins. Serving at the border was to lose your political innocence. It either sensitized you, or it hardened you. The border we were positioned at was not only to be seen as a geographical boundary between two states. It was a line drawn in time, with the sinister past, the future warmonger on one side (the West), and a better future for mankind on the other side, our side. Was it a miracle that the notes on not shooting children offered a get-out clause? I remember the words of our lieutenant clearly: “If a child appears to be older than fourteen, for example if a twelve-year-old is wearing heavy make-up, you will not be punished for using your firearm!” On one occasion the sixteen-year-old son of the local pub landlord was shot and killed by a neighbouring regiment. We were informed that he had been drunk, and seen fit to urinate on the metal fence next to the mine strip. Apparently, and though a considerable distance away, the sentries determined that he was committing an act of escape. As a result of his nonreaction to their challenges and a warning shot, they opened fire. In the dark. The official line was that his behaviour had provoked this course of action. The company was placed under curfew for some time due to the anger of the local population, and the pair of sentries responsible for the killing were

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immediately promoted and decorated due to exemplary discharge of duties, which meant special leave and a financial bonus. I think the majority of our company was somewhat quieter for a couple of days after hearing this news. One of us said that he hoped he’d never be granted leave in those circumstances. Of course, I’d made my own decision to aim well off-target should I find myself in a similar situation—I’d been a poor marksman during my training, and this hadn’t changed in the meantime. But that wouldn’t help if the sentry with me was more accurate, and I’d be decorated along with him. In any case, could I be sure that I’d not been the one who fired the fatal rounds? You have to be good at shooting if you want people to believe you missed legitimately. I saw myself as a potential murderer, one who could turn that potential into reality at any given moment of any given day. He talked just like my father had described. He couldn’t stop, he’d never get away from this subject. Father was right about that too, but then it takes one to know one, and he was known to often get just as carried away when complaining and cursing about people who wanted to clear up the past. They just don’t see how little their message is being received by their children. So I looked seductively at the guy sitting across from me, and tried to entice him away from his sermon. By the look of him he probably didn’t have many women in their twenties sitting on his lap, at least not without paying. It was all going exactly how father had said it would: he had naturally used the earliest possible opportunity to ask the young, attractive woman (I smile, he looks irritated, I have to get back to looking serious) if she would like a glass of wine. Almost all men of his age do the same when they get the chance, driven by the same instincts as a vampire thirsting for fresh blood. It’s as if every contact with youth also makes them younger. The woman seems obedient—a number of old men have told her that. It’s a good thing, as she’ll need to earn a few more Marks on the side before her second apprenticeship comes to an end. She hasn’t been able to expect any money from her father since he was stripped of his rank as an officer. If he had not had to raise her on his own he would have left for the Foreign Legion long ago—to defend the French colonies, as he disdainfully put it. Do they even have any now? With the insurance business going down the pan, it was rather her that provided financial support to him than the other way around. But he didn’t need to know that she had come by the cash in the form of presents from satisfied men. But he no longer had a say in the matter. He should have a think about his past. The things she’s heard this evening have sounded a bit different from the things she hears from her father. The evening had been about a contemporary witness relating stories from his time as a border soldier, and she’d found it somehow impressive. She really wanted to hate these people

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who had made her father so unhappy by taking away his duties and his weapon. Her father had fooled her into thinking that he was purely mad at the new era—and in particular at the man who had been a totally normal, boring soldier below his own rank and was now making out like it had been difficult for him in some way, shape or form. As if he had suffered. Yet as she looked at that self-same man with her own eyes, she saw that though he was smiling, he appeared manic as he kept talking, and talking, and talking: he had suffered. Just as her father suffered in the present. They were similar to each other, though her father was a bit more sporty. The guy she was sitting with had a way with words. Normally, she would not have accepted his invitation—he wasn’t really her type. Yet his obsession with providing enlightenment meant that he had something about him. He was like her father—indeed, the two of them had no idea how alike they really were. What if the wine-offerer had had any idea whose daughter he was sitting with—the daughter of the lieutenant he had nearly shot and killed while on active service? Or so he says now. Her father, who was later promoted to captain, saw that as showing-off, as bragging. He read a few articles by him in the newspaper and then bought his book. It was only about his time on the border—the things he’d seen! Her father could have written a book, but who wants to read a book by a border service officer from the GDR? Especially one who saw everything as right and proper. He could have told her exactly what the guy would say. Yet the quotes that came from the lieutenant hurt her. Could that really have been her father? Perhaps she would have slept with this guy under other circumstances. She had always enjoyed listening to the fairy stories recounted by her grandfather. She liked storytellers you could just listen to forever, the ones who could talk you to sleep. But today was a different story. Her father had convinced her to lure this guy back to the house—he had moved in the meantime, and the guy had no chance of knowing his address. I’ve waited for this so long, her father said. She was to ask the guy back to her place straight away, he would then go with her and receive a surprise welcome. Her father just wanted to have the chance to really beat the living daylights out of him, and if the guy decided to press charges they could threaten to lay counter-charges of attempted rape. An excellent revenge scenario. Her father was not—and would never be—a murderer. So why was it that she had never asked him how many people he had shot and killed at the border? If there had been any at all, that is. She had felt the need to stroke the guy’s hand for a few minutes now, she wanted to forego all this foreplay. So why didn’t she do it? Her father had really begged. He had said that he just needed this one thing, and that he would feel better afterwards—after all, it was guys like this eye-witness-evening money-

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grabbing jerk who had screwed up not only the entire country and their future, but also the whole world. If he could lash out just once he would be able to find peace. He’d quit whinging about the present, that he promised. So she had agreed and left so she could be at the event on time. And now? She followed some reflex and simply said “Bye! Don’t come after me! It’s better that way!” He stared at her, but she stayed true to her instinct. The chair scraped on the floor as she stood up to leave. Just go, leave, get out of there, she thought to herself. All of a sudden, she felt sorry for both old soldiers. Get in a taxi, make it to the next town. She knew cafés where you could always find a place to stay. Behind her, the guy said something—but she didn’t want to hear it, whatever it was. She didn’t want to see her father’s sad face, and especially not in the man at the table she left further and further behind her with every step.

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Dorotheestädtischer Cemetery, Berlin, at the funeral of the poet Hilbig* (9.6.2007) 1

As I threw the palmful of earth in the grave

I didn’t see the coffin—only flowers, flowers, flowers,

brightly coloured, glistening brightly, as if they wanted

to grow into a blossoming barrier,

a barrier against the beneath which always shone bitter-sweet

from his words,

against the darkness which would soon settle on both flowers

and wood.

2

He knows no fear and needs no steel casket to hide in,

so he lies there, finally brought to rest.

The eternal stoker in his heaven of earth,

a piece of coal accompanying him on his journey

into invisibility.

* In his novel I ch [Ego]Wolfgang Hilbig, laureate of the renowned Georg Büchner prize in 2002, astonished his readers with a sophisticated perspective on GDR literary scene by depicting an unsuccessful poet who collaborates with the secret service.

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Berchtesgaden (7.10.2004) The path into the mountain, heavenward.

Where there is a will the way is lined with corpses.

They worked here of their own free will, paid.

The tunnel. The elevator—

Captain Nemo sends his best.

And further, higher: a house in the clouds.

The masses, far below, everywhere,

are stones (stars of the mountains) at your feet.

Detritus. One must bring order to all,

stir everything into movement.

Carve. One thought, developed further into detail:

even stones earn no sympathy.

Written after a visit to Hitler’s mountain fortress, which

happened to be on the former celebration day of a republic

that disappeared in reunification.

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Golden Gate (2007) If you’re going to San Francisco …

No flowers in your hair,

a tear wants to go down to the river.

In this moment you love this country,

on this bridge from one hope to the other.

The American dream: the nets everywhere

cannot catch it – seven each month

plunge off here, and fly.

All look towards the city,

death their prayer.

Translated by Peter Welchman

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SPIRÓ GYÖRGY

Verniszázs

Tízemeletes betonházak között állt az épület, a földszintjén nyugdíjasok kártyáztak és sakkoztak, egy szállodai portához hasonló pult mögött termetes asszonyság ücsörgött, ő igazította el az idegeneket, merre kell a pincébe lemenni. A pince valódi pince lehetett hajdan, fehérre volt most meszelik ve, a boltív közepén karnisféle sín húzódott, arra voltak felerősítve a lámpák, amelyek a vékony dróthuzalon lógó képeket megvilágították. Nem volt a keskeny, alacsony mennyezetű pincében sok kép, és nem is voltak valami nagyok, sőt egészen apró is akadt közöttük. Jó képek voltak, némelyikük nagyon jó. De hát mit jelent az, hogy jó kép? Valamilyen gyurmaszerű, talán gipszes-enyves anyag csorgása idézte elő a formákat, fodrozódtak, mintha hirtelen megdermedtek volna, ez az anyag olykor a képek keretére is ráfolyt, a keretek meg hol cirkalmasak, régiesek voltak, hol meg egészen egyszerűek. Rezignált nonfiguratív neoszecesszió, ha ez mond valamit, de nem mond. Némelyik kép élénk színekben pompázott, de a többség a szürke árnyalataival játszott, a legszebb a legkisebb kép volt, a legsötétebb tónusú, amely még ki sem talált, nem létező és talán nem is létezhető vallás ikonjára emlékeztetett. Jó képek, szép képek, lehet örülni, hogy a Festő tízévnyi teljes, önmegtagadó szünet után ismét festeni kezdett. Jelentésteli képek, épp e hallgatás miatt, de vajon mit jelentenek majd annak, aki a Festőt nem ismeri? De hát a megnyitóra idegent, véletlen látogatót nem vártak, és az a pár hét, amíg ezek a képek a szűkös pincében lógnak, szintén nem ígért kívülálló látogatót. Az ismerősök is rég látták a Festőt. Ramaty állapotban volt, évek óta betegségek gyötrik, hallani, hogy jó ideje bottal jár, el-törött a lába, és rosszul forrt össze, és hát, tudnivaló, a Festő hosszú évek óta iszik. Utoljára, a beavatottak tudják, tizennyolc éve állított ki egy kissé lejtős utcácska minden célra hasznavehetetlen földszinti üzlethelyiségében harmad-

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magával. A másik két művész közül az egyik, visszanézve immár elismerten a korszak legjobb grafikusa, megőrült, és nem csinál évek óta semmit, a másik meg írásra adta a fejét, és sok ezer oldalas könyveket ír tele vonzóan olvasmányos, de mégsem végigolvasható szövegekkel. A Festő mogorván ült opart-szerű masinériái között a kiállítás előestéjén, lélekben a művészettől búcsúzóban. Pár napig volt hármójuk kiállítása nyitva akkor, csaknem két évtizede, és kritika nem is jelent meg róla, csak azok emlékezete őrizte meg anynyira, amennyire, akik most, csaknem húsz év múlva, feltehetőleg eljönnek, hogy a Festő művészi feltámadását ünnepeljék. Margón lévő emberek voltak ők hárman egykor, akik e margóról nem is kívántak lemászni, az volt az ő nehezen kivívott helyük, a hatalom számára értelmezhetetlenek voltak, tehát ellenségek, és így is voltak kezelve. Mulatságos, hogy az a hatalom a művészeket mily gondosan osztogatta csoportokba. Túl sokat vélt az a hatalom a művészetről, ez meg, amely ezt az új kiállítást nem tiltotta be, túl keveset. Hogy miért rajzolták magukat visszataszítónaktizennyolc éve, miért festettek pompás színekben égő aktuálpolitikai jeleneteket újságképek alapján, s miért eszkábáltak össze kubusokat tiltakozás gyanánt, elmagyarázhatatlan annak a számára, akiben a margóra kívánkozás vágya nincs meg. Egész életet áldozni olyasmire, ami egy kétmilliós városban legföljebb másfél tucat ember érdeklődésére tarthat igényt, s akik közül jó, ha négy-öt érez valamit, és az is csak éppen abban a korban, és az is csak ahhoz képest, amit e művek nem akartak, alighanem abszurdum. Őket nem az hajtotta, ami a Nyugaton élő hasonszőrűeket, hogy majd egyszer egy galériás fölfedezi őket, és akkor nagy pénzt söpörhetnek be. Lehet persze e műveket, ha megvannak még valahol, ami kétséges, magyarázni, lehet a művészettörténet nagy áramaiba kötni, akár disszertációt is lehet írni róluk, annál jobb, ha már nincsenek is meg a művek, de mindez nem változtat azon a tényen, hogy az akkori kétmilliós város zárt köbmétereiből az a parányi üzlethelyiség, ahol kiállítottak pár napig, mérhetetlenül apró töredéket képviselt, pontosan anynyit, amennyit ez a mostani, tizennyolc évvel későbbi, fehérre meszelt keskeny és alacsony pince, ahol a hajdani ismerősök lassan, gyéren gyülekezni kezdtek. Beléptek az egykori ismerősök, és nem tehették meg, hogy ne üdvözöljék egymást. Így álltak bosszút egymáson a rég szét-szóratottak a kölcsönös árulásokért, amelyek megestek velük és közöttük. Volt, akit a többiek azóta faji alapon próbáltak a hon művészetéből kifúrni, volt, aki az eszmét árulta el a karrier kedvéért, volt, aki másik politikai csoportosuláshoz dörgölődzött, mások elváltak, a tartásdíjat nem fizették, szóval egymást az utcán már kevesek óhajtották volna felismerni és üdvözölni. Most kénytelenek voltak köszönni és visszaköszönni, legalább egy biccentés erejéig. E biccentéseket

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éppoly áruló módon cselekedték, amiképpen szintén áruló őszintétlenséggel elegyedtek, ha elegyedtek egymással oly beszélgetésbe, mely mintha a másfélkét évtizeddel korábbiak közvetlen és problémátlan folytatása lett volna, jöttek egymás gyűlölt árulói, egymás reménytelen szerelmesei megvénülve, roskatagon, felpuffadva, lefogyva, az Idő faragta meg őket ily förtelmesen, az egész közeget, mely a Festő szerelmetes ifjúkori közege volt hajdan, jöttek az egykori megveszekedett ellenzékiek, akik mára megint csak ellenzékiek lettek, elvégre ezen a tájon ritkán történik valami új, és ha megtörténik is, rögtön kiderül róla, hogy az csak a régi; jöttek az elváltak, a kényszerből, más híján egykor egymáshoz kocódottak, jöttek a rég tönkrement házasságokból időközben felcseperedett szőrös vagy begyes gyerekek, és jöttek az unokányi cseppségek ricsajozva, nem lehetett eldönteni, valódi unokák-e mind, vagy akad köztük, akit unokának a szülő közvetlenül, enspermájúlag és enpetéjűleg alkotott; jött a Festő rég elvált felesége, súlyos műtéten esett át nemrég, jött a Festő felnőtt lánya, nemigen volt a nézelődők közt, aki ráismert volna, és jött a Festő jelenlegi neje, akiről, így a pletyka, tudni lehetett, hogy mástól vár gyereket immár, és jöttek sokan, de a keskeny pincét így sem töltötték meg teljesen. Tekintetük állhatatlanul repdesett körbe, szemrevételezték, ki mindenki nem jött el. Nem jöttek el az öngyilkosok, ők igazoltan maradtak távol. A disszidensek se jöttek el, most már emigránsnak kellett őket hívni, istenkém, miért is pont erre a kiállításra jöttek volna el. Számosak voltak azonban az igazolatlanul hiányzók. Azok nem akartak részt venni a temetésen. Mert ez a verniszázs, és ezt a legfafejűbbek is meg kellett érezzék, temetése volt azon korszaknak, amidőn még volt értelme a margóra vonulni. A Festő tizennyolc éven át tartó hallgatásának ezen a margón komoly súlya volt. Másokhoz intézte meg-nem-festett képeit, és a közege, a közönsége úgy is értékelte hosszú művészi tétlenségét, ahogyan kellett: műértékű gesztusként. Meg-sem-született művek értékelésébe bocsátkozni köny-nyebb, mint megszületett s majdan elveszett művekébe. Másoknak szóló életet élt a Festő, amíg nem festett, csak alkalmi díszleteket fabrikált, hogy a napi fél liter meglegyen. Jelentésteli volt az önkorlátozása, s alighanem azért is bírta műalkotási ösztönét legyűrni ennyire huzamosan, mert így tudott a társakhoz a leghatásosabban panaszolkodni, s a társak nevében is följebb, a Történelemhez, amit valaminő Fejlődésistennek képzelegtek ők hajdanán. Arról panaszolkodott a Festő, amiről egyáltalán lehet: hogy itt nem lehet. Hogy ez itt a lelkek temetője. Panaszolkodott mindarról, amiről a társak, a hasonlóképpen érintettek nem tehettek, panaszolkodott háborúról, gyerek-

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ként megélt gettóról, méltatlan családról, ilyenekről. És agresszív volt a hallgatása, mert azt is jelentette: miattatok hallgatok művészként, ti barmok, gyávák, idióták, szemetek! mármint hogy az értő társak azok. És a társak értették, és elfogadták ezt. A Festő e hallgatása, e jelentésteli közlemény kényelmes volt, tagadhatatlanul. Neki magának a leginkább: én már csak ilyen vagyok, a pofátokba vágom. Ezt igen szívesen nyugtázták a társak. Mondta is a szitkokat, tőle lenyelték. Szúrós szavú alkoholizmusával tartósította a korábbi művészi tevékenységével kivívott helyét a margón, amely emlékezett mindenre, a Festő egykori szépségére (ez még ellenőrizhető, amatőrfilmek szalagjai őrzik), amit a Festő a maga eszkábálta roncsszoborban, ennen testében őrzött meg; egykori képeiben, amelyekből mára alig maradt valami; emlékezett a Festő soványságára, amelyből a puffadtság maradt, és kedvességére, amelyből csak a gonoszkodást őrizte meg végül. Kiállítási tárgyként funkcionált a Festő fizikuma, s abból a színházból, ahová a díszleteit gyártotta, nem annyira a vétségei miatt kellett távoznia, hanem mert a művészek, maguk is emlékezők, nem bírták tovább nézni a romlását, inkább elfordították a fejüket, ők még élni akartak, s nem a némasággal közölni az űrt, amely ott ásított valamennyiük alatt. Temetésre gyűltek hát össze azon lélekemelő alkalomból, hogy a hallgatásával tüntető s őket ezzel is messzemenően igazoló Festő ismét festeni kezdett. Azért gyűltek össze, hogy önmaguk emlékművét eltemessék gyáván, ahogy temetni egyáltalán képes az ember: úgy téve, mintha istenbizony újjászülethetnénk. Temetni jöttek a maguk legendáját, az ellenállás, a dicsteli mellőztetés, a néma s jeltelen panaszolkodás mitikus alakját, és ünnepelni jöttek a tetszhalottaiból magához térő, egyszerre tizennyolc évet fiatalodott alkotót, mintha az a tizennyolc év nem lett volna, mintha ők is mindent újrakezdhetnének; minden bajukért ismét a Történelemre háríthatják a felelősséget, most éppen azt képzelegve, hogy legyőzték, s így a Festő új képeit a folyamatos diadaltörténet dokumentumaiként értékelhetik hazugul. A Festőnek még mindig nem volt nyoma, pedig hat óra már elmúlt. Talán nem is jön el, suttogták. Páran feltűnően buzgón tanulmányozták a képeket, közel s még közelebb hajolva, még a szemüvegüket is a homlokukra tolva, nekik külön okuk lehetett, hogy a többiekkel ne álljanak szóba. Az volna a kényelmes megoldás, ha a Festő nem is jönne el, érződött. S az érzékenyebbek ebből megsejtették, hogy mégiscsak el fog jönni. El is jött. Puffadt volt az arca, bizonytalanul lépkedett. Odaállt a terem közepére, a lánya hanyagul melléje állt és a karja alá férkőzött, mintegy véletlenül, mintha nem arra ügyelne, hogy apja ne zuhanjon el. Az egyik régi barát felesége neki-

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látott, hogy felolvassa a megnyitó szövegét. Volt abban minden, művészet-és eszmetörténet főleg, világos volt, hogy a Festő közbe fog dumálni, meg is tette. Idétlen szóvicceket eregetett a Festő, a hallgatóság előzékenyen, még a vicc elhangzása előtt támogatólag nevetett, ez volt a kényelmes megoldás. Tizennyolc év tétlenségéből volt szőve az álldogálása meg a közbekotyogása, abból a kimerült és a kortól elszakítva érthetetlen gesztusrendből, amiből ezekkel a képeivel immár, szégyenkezve, kilépett, s melyek mibenvalóságát filológusi adatolással épp a művészettörténész barátnő elemezte pedánsan, hogy ugyanis ezek a képek egyenes folytatásai a tizennyolc évvel korábbiaknak, ámde mégis mennyire, de mennyire mások. A harmadik-negyedik közbekotyogáskor érezték meg, akiknek még maradt fülük a hallásra, hogy a Festő sem mer szembe-nézni azzal, ami történt, hogy ugyanis ezeket a képeket már nem másoknak mondta. Önmagát tisztelte meg velük, és a panaszolkodást abbahagyta. Ezt bevallani valóban nemigen tanácsos. Nem illendő bevallani, hogy az életünk végére értünk, már nem akarunk közölni senkivel semmit, csak csorgatjuk azt a masszát a vászonra, meg a keretre is olykor, és csak arra ügyelünk, hogy a kedvező pillanatban sikerüljön megdermesztenünk. A festékes anyag csorgatása közben magunk vagyunk és lehetünk bátrak. De bátorságunkat a közeg előtt hangsúlyozni egyet jelent a közeg végleges elveszítésével. Ők még nem tartanak ott. És ők nem csorgatnak festéket. Vigyázni kell hát velük. Eljátsszuk nekik az előző bolondot. Hátha nem haragszanak meg túlságosan, hogy a képeink pont ezt cáfolják. A Festő úgy tett tehát, mintha ő is csak a saját legendáját temetné, és nem az egész korszakot, amelybe bele voltak zárva mind. A képei azonban ott lógtak, és egyre agresszívabban lógtak ott. Nem is nézték akkor már a képeket a nézők, egymást nézték meg a Festőt, kihelyezett házibulivá lett a verniszázs, ahol a csontvázak ropják táncukat. Másoknak azok a képek semmit sem fognak jelenteni persze, tárgyak lesznek, történetesen hullámosak és színesek, habár, habár, habár az ilyen képekbe, ha soká nézi őket az ember, azt látunk bele, amit csak akarunk, és amit az ember akarhat...

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SPIRÓ GYÖRGY

The vernissage

The building was surrounded by ten-storey prefabricated high-rises. Its main entrance opened into a foyer, where a number of old-age pensioners were playing cards or chess. Sitting behind a counter that resembled a hotel’s reception desk, there was a formidable-looking woman, whose job was to direct visitors to the basement. It was quite possible that the basement had functioned as a real cellar once; now it was given a whitewash and had a railing fitted to the vaulted ceiling to hold the lamps that illuminated the pictures hanging on thin wires. Lined up under the low ceiling of the narrow basement were the paintings that were neither numerous nor large; in fact, they included a few that were decidedly small. The pictures were good—actually, some of them were very good. But what does it mean that a picture is good? The shapes and forms emerged from the act of dripping some tacky and paste-like substance on the canvases. They seemed like ripples that had suddenly frozen up. Sometimes the dripping did not stop at the picture frames that were either highly ornate and old-fashioned or strikingly simple. It was resigned, non-figural neo-Secession, if that tells you anything, but of course it doesn’t. While some of the compositions were ablaze with bright colours, the majority came in the various shades of grey. The most beautiful of all was the smallest of size and the darkest of tone: it looked like the icon of a non-existing faith, of a form of worship not-yet invented. They were good paintings, beautiful paintings even, which celebrated the fact that the Painter, after ten years of abstinence and self-denial, resumed painting. The gesture of silence invested the compositions with a special meaning, although what they would mean to someone who did not know the Painter was impossible to say. In truth, no outsiders or chance visitors were expected to turn up either at the opening or during the few weeks that the paintings were left hanging in the narrow confines of the basement.

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Even those who knew him well had not seen the Painter for a long time. He was in a dreadful condition. As well as suffering from various illnesses for years, he was now said to be able to walk only with the help of a walking stick, due to a broken leg that healed imperfectly; and it was common knowledge that the Painter had a drinking problem. As people in the know would tell you, eighteen years passed since his last exhibition. On that occasion he and two of his artist friends displayed a collection of paintings in a small ground-floor shop in a gently rising street, totally ill-suited to any purpose. Later on, one of the artist friends, who has since then been confirmed as the period’s greatest graphic artist, went off his rocker and did nothing for years; the other turned to writing, filling thousands and thousands of pages with eminently readable texts that were nevertheless impossible to read through to the end. On the eve of that previous exhibition opening, the Painter was sitting grumpily amidst his Op-Art-like machinery, already saying farewell to painting in his heart. The three-man exhibition, which stayed open for merely a few days, failed to elicit any critical reviews in the press, and the only people who could more or less remember it were probably the same ones who now, twenty years later, would come to celebrate the Painter’s artistic resurrection. Back in the old days those three were marginalized people who had no wish to change their marginalized position, which was their hard-earned place in society. Unable to make anything of their art, the authorities took a hostile view of it and treated the three accordingly. It was funny how hard the authorities tried to put all the artists in various boxes in the old days. The old regime held too high an opinion of art altogether, while the present one, which did not even bother to ban this second exhibition, thought too little of it. People who fail to see the attractions of being marginalized will never understand the three artists’ motives for portraying themselves in a repulsive manner at that exhibition eighteen years ago, or for depicting events from current politics in bright colours on the basis of newspaper photographs, or for fabricating cubes by way of protesting. To spend one’s entire life on doing something that would interest only less than two dozen people in a city of two million, and even then, only four or five out of that two dozen would sincerely respond to it, and even they would do so only during a specific period, and only in relation to what these works were opposed to, probably seems like an absurd idea. These three were not motivated by the same things that usually drove their Western counterparts: the chance of being discovered by some gallery owner and then cashing in big time. It would, of course, be possible to place these works (if they could still be found anywhere, which was highly unlikely) in the great movements of art history; it would even be possible to write dissertations

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about them (here their physical absence would even be helpful), but all this would not alter the fact that the small shop, where their works hang for a few days, represented an inconceivably small portion of the total floor area of a city of two million—just as small portion, in fact, as represented by this narrow, whitewashed venue for the second exhibition, for which the former acquaintances slowly began to gather under the low vault eighteen years later. As the old acquaintances wandered in, they simply could not avoid greeting each other. This was everyone’s way of taking revenge for the acts of betrayal they had committed against each other during the years of dispersion. There were some, whom the rest tried to expel from the bosom of national art on racial grounds; some betrayed their ideals in the interest of furthering their careers; others were too eager to ingratiate themselves with a political group; and still others got divorced and failed to pay alimony. In other words, very few of them would have cared to recognize and greet each other, had they happened to meet on the street. Now they were obliged to greet each other, even if only to the extent of a slight nod. These nods were performed with just as much insincerity as the conversations (if things ever got to that stage, that is). To all appearances, people picked up the conversation as if it had been the direct and straightforward continuation of the one they dropped fifteen or twenty years ago. There came the ones who hated and betrayed each other, along with those who were hopelessly in love with each other, all having grown old and rickety, with the only difference that some had filled out and others had become gaunt. Time had inflicted these ravages on them, and also on the entire milieu that used to be the scene of the youthful Painter’s love life. There came the implacable opponents of the old regime, who went on to become the implacable opponents of the new regime, also, confirming that nothing ever changed in this part of the world, or if something did, it more often than not turned out to be the same old thing in new disguise. There came the divorced, along with those who had tied the knot, either under the circumstances or for lack of anything better to do; there came the adolescents, with their new whiskers or bulging breasts, who were the products of long-wrecked marriages; and then there were the noisy toddlers, the grandchildren, although one could never be sure, which one of them was really a grandchild and which one was simply a late addition. There came the Painter’s first wife, who had just gone through a serious operation, along with the Painter’s grownup daughter, whom not many of the watchers were able to recognize; and there came the Painter’s present wife, who, rumour had it, was expecting a child from another man; and there came many others, but they still could not fill the narrow cellar. They were ceaselessly turning their heads, trying to take stock of all the persons who had failed to show up.

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The ones who committed suicide did not come, but they had a credible excuse. The dissidents (or émigrés, as people had to call them now) did not come, either, but why in God’s name would they turn up now, if they never turned up for anything before? Anyway, the number of unauthorized absences was high. People did not wish to take part in the funeral. Because—as even the dullest of the participants could not help noticing— this vernissage was a funeral: the funeral of the old days when it still made sense to be marginalized. And the Painter’s eighteen-year-long silence carried a great weight on that margin. The unpainted paintings were meant to carry a message, and the audience interpreted his long spell of artistic inactivity precisely as they should: an artistic gesture. The interpretation of artworks never painted was easier to do, than the evaluation of paintings completed and gone missing. Throughout the entire period that he abstained from painting (save the occasional stage designs to pay for his daily ration of liquor), the Painter lived a life that was addressed to others. His abnegation was heavy with meaning, which was probably the reason why he was able to suppress the artistic urge in himself for so long, as this was the most effective way to complain to the others, and through the others also to History, which they previously conceived of as the goddess of evolution. The Painter was more or less complaining about all the things one could complain about. That life was impossible here. That this was the graveyard of the souls. He was complaining about the things that the people around him, people similarly affected, could not be blamed for: about the war, about life in the ghetto as a child, about the unbecoming family, and suchlike. And his silence was aggressive, because what this silence also meant was this: I chose to remain silent because of you, you morons, you cowards, you idiots, you bastards—he was referring to his discerning audience. And the people around him understood and accepted this. The Painter’s meaningful silence was undoubtedly very convenient. It was certainly very convenient for the Painter: You know me, this is how I am, I tell it to you straight from the shoulder. And the people around him willingly accepted this. He kept cursing them, and they took it from him without a murmur. His alcoholic sarcasm helped him preserve the place that his earlier artistic activities had earned him on the margin. His coterie remembered everything:

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the handsome features of the young Painter (the amateur film recordings could still verify this), which he captured in a decrepit sculpture of his own creation—his own body; his old paintings, of which hardly any survived; his earlier slimness, which was in contrast with his present puffiness; and his former kindness of heart, of which only his impishness remained. The Painter’s physique functioned as an exhibit; and he eventually lost the occasional theatrical design work not so much for his misdemeanours at the theatre as for the fact that the actors themselves could remember him as he once had been; unable to watch his destruction, they decided to look the other way, because they still had an appetite for life and the idea of calling attention to the abyss that yawned underneath did not appeal to them. So it was for a funeral that people gathered on the uplifting occasion that the Painter, whose demonstrative silence was a resounding vindication for them, started to work again. It was their own monument that they came to bury, behaving as furtively as people do at funerals: pretending that resurrection was as certain as sunrise. They came to bury their own legend, a mythical figure of resistance and silent protest, who was able to glorify his own marginalization; they came to celebrate the artist who had just returned from the valley of the dead and suddenly shed eighteen years; as if that eighteen years had never happened, and as if they, too, were given a new lease on life. Once again, they could put all the blame on History, deluding themselves into thinking that they had defeated it, and thus deceitfully regarding the Painter’s new compositions as the documents of an unbroken march to victory. There was still no sign of the Painter, even though it was well past six now. Perhaps he is not coming, they whispered. Some people started to study the pictures in an ostentatious fashion, moving their heads right up to the canvases and pushing their eyeglasses high up on their foreheads: evidently, they had even more reasons than the rest not to talk to others. It would be for the best, if the Painter never turned up at all, people began to feel. And it was precisely for this growing mood that the more discerning people began to suspect that he would come. And come he did. He had a puffed up face and his stride was uncertain. When he stopped in the middle of the room, his daughter moved up to him and casually burrowed under his arm, trying her best to conceal that she was actually preventing her father from falling over. The wife of an old friend started to deliver a speech prepared for the exhibition opening. It was a concoction of many things, mainly from art history and the history of ideas, and it was clear from the start that the Painter would interrupt her, which he did. As he was making his idiotic puns, the audience responded with polite and supportive laughs, some-

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times even before he finished the joke: this was the most convenient way of handling the situation. His stance and his interruptions bore witness to eighteen years of idleness, of a system of gestures, which had been both entirely depleted and, divorced from its original context, totally incomprehensible. By displaying these paintings, which his friend’s art historian wife dissected with great philological pedantry, maintaining that the present compositions followed in direct continuation with the ones painted eighteen years earlier while at the same time they were entirely different, the Painter shame-facedly abandoned that old system of gestures. After the third or fourth interruption the more perceptive among the audience realized that even the Painter lacked the courage to face up to the fact that these paintings were no longer addressed to other people. By painting them, he honoured his own self and at the same time stopped whining. To make such a confession is hardly advisable. To admit that one has reached the end of the road and no longer has anything to say to other people is not at all a decorous thing to do. To communicate that all one cares about is dripping a viscous substance on the canvas, and occasionally even on the frame, and to focus one’s attention on timing the substance’s consolidation, is not becoming. While dripping tacky stuff on the canvas, one is alone and one can be brave. But emphasizing our courage in front of an audience is the same as losing the audience for good. This audience has not yet reached that stage. And they are not dripping paint. We should be careful with them. We should go on pretending that we are the same old fools. Then there is a chance that they won’t take it so badly, if our paintings say the opposite. So the Painter went along pretending that he, too, was burying only his own legend, and not the entire period, which encapsulated them all. Still, he had his paintings hanging in the background, and they were hanging there with growing hostility. Mind you, the audience seemed to have forgotten all about the paintings: they were too busy watching each other, and watching the Painter. The vernissage turned into an impromptu party on the spot, with skeletons dancing. Obviously, these pictures will mean nothing to outsiders; they will be nothing more than objects, wavy and colourful as it happens, although, although, although … if you watch them long enough, you will see in them whatever you want to see, and what people may want … Translated by Ervin Dunay

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OLGA TOKARCZUK

Che Guevara

Wszystko wtedy działo się w ciemnościach. Czy to możliwe? Dzień pojawiał się tylko na chwilę, a i wtedy był szorstki jak płócienna bielizna, jak wykrochmalona akademikowa pościel, jak sweter dziergany przez całą jesień z dywanowej sztucznej przędzy. Słońce—ogromna sześćdziesięciowatowa żarówka. Gdy wychodziło się ze szkoły, było już ciemno, a potem robiło się jeszcze ciemniej i ciemniej. Mdło oświetlone puste sklepy rzucały żółte plamy na mokre chodniki. Półmrok w tramwajach, półmrok zza zasuniętych firanami okien mieszkań na Nowotki. Początek grudnia. Warszawa. Było mi cały czas zimno. Na przystankach marzyłam o puchowej kurtce, ale ona nie istniała w tym wymiarze. Takie rzeczy były z kosmosu, z jakiejś zagranicy, ze świata, który nie dawał się nawet wyobrazić. W barze mlecznym przy uniwersytecie, barze zwanym przez wszystkich „Karaluch,” zamawiałam pół porcji warzyw i naleśnika. Potem czułam się oszołomiona z przejedzenia. Czy jeszcze wykosztuję się na pączka? Kiedy będę już pracować—marzyłam—gdy będę dojrzałą, ustawioną w życiu kobietą, kupię sobie całą tacę pączków—na Marchlewskiego—bo tam robią najlepsze. Będę je jeść spokojnie i systematycznie, zacznę od tego, który leży na szczycie piramidy. Wolontariusze na jednym z zebrań w auli dostali specjalne przepustki ze strajku, więc mogłam wychodzić, byłam uprzywilejowana. Z dumą zbierałam ze stołu do spania swoje rzeczy i schodziłam na dół, gdzie dyżurny sprawdzał moje nazwisko na liście, a potem kluczem otwierał mi drzwi. Stawałam w mroźnym powietrzu, w nagłej ciszy, w niezdecydowanym świetle, które kryło tajemnice instytutowego parku. Znikał gwar rozmów, dźwięk pingponga, monotonnie uderzającego o laminaty stołów, głuchy brzdęk gitary gdzieś zza ścian. Znikał kłąb wysuszonego powietrza inkrustowany kurzem, który wszyscy mieliśmy w gardłach. Oddychałam mrozem. Moi pacjenci byli moimi wybawicielami; uwalniali mnie. Z daleka, z Pragi dawali mi roz-

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grzeszenie, które jak anielski list leciało przez Wisłę nad miastem i lądowało na Stawkach nad moją głową. Ognik Ducha Świętego. Byłam wybrana. Szłam do przystanku autobusu 111 i już przy Pomniku sztywniałam z zimna, ale potem, gdy autobus przyjeżdżał, rozgaszczałam się w nim jak w domu—stopy opierałam na drążku pod siedzeniem, poły płaszcza zawijałam szczelnie wokół ud i bioder, stawiałam kołnierz i w komforcie własnego oddechu, który mnie grzał, sunęłam przez miasto, jak oko, jak czysta ciemna źrenica. Gdy tylko autobus opuszczał Plac Teatralny i wjeżdżał na Krakowskie Przedmieście, strajk na Uniwersytecie obwieszczał się czerwono wypisanymi transparentami wiszącymi w poprzek budynku Wydziału Filozofii i na bramie uniwersyteckiej. Ruch, podniecenie, dziwna euforia, wianuszki ciemnych sylwetek ludzi, kramiki z samizdatami i przed filozofią zawsze dwóch chłopców z pudełkiem, do którego przechodnie wrzucali papierosy, rzadziej całe paczki, częściej pojedyncze sztuki. My tam, na Stawkach, byliśmy od tego entuzjazmu, gwaru, światła i ciepła oddzieleni. Zaparzaliśmy się w ponurym budynku, gliwieliśmy. Byliśmy strajkiem prowincjonalnym. Nie pomagał Bob Marley grany na okrągło jak rodzaj rewolucyjnej katarynki, jak młynek modlitewny. Cała historia działa się tu, na Krakowskim Przedmieściu. Widziałam z okien autobusu popołudniowy ruch na Nowym Świecie— zawsze jest coś do załatwienia, zawsze coś do zobaczenia, instynkt stadny w chwilach historycznych nasila się. Wysiadałam na Nowym Świecie albo jechałam dalej przez ciemną, obojętną Wisłę na Saską Kępę. Tam miasto cichło, śnieg skrzypiał śmielej, jak na wsi. Wchodziło się w ulicę jak w objęcia opiekuńczej kobiety. Miałam pod opieką troje dorosłych ludzi. Mój szef, M., mówił o nich „klienci”. Ja też mówiłam „klienci”. Zdradą byłoby powiedzieć „pacjenci”—to by znaczyło, że stoi się po tamtej stronie, po stronie konformizmu, hipokrytów, po stronie systemu. M. mówił także „wariaci”, „szaleńcy”, co podobało mi się najbardziej, brzmiało bowiem rustykalnie i swojsko, jakby się tym słowem wracało do samych źródeł, do lnu, bawełny i czarnego prostego chleba; nie pobrzmiewało w nich oszustwo, nie było w nich czczego wymądrzania się, żadnych „psychoz maniakalno-depresyjnych”, żadnych „schizofrenii paranoidalnych” ani „borderline”. Prostym słowom można było ufać. Taka jest prawda—ludzie wariują, dzieje się tak od zawsze, mówił M. Dlaczego tak jest? Po to macie studia, na wykładach ustalicie, czy to geny, wychowanie, subtelne przemiany cząsteczek, enzymy, demony, czy odwieczny rytuał. Ludzie wariują, nie ma dwóch zdań. Zawsze tak było. Zawsze byli wariaci i byli normalni, a gdzieś pomiędzy nimi—my, cierpliwi pomagacze.

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M. dowodził nami z drugiego piętra kamienicy na Tamce, ale rzadko go widywałam. Porozumiewałam się ze starszymi wolontariuszami, którzy mieli nad nami pieczę. Było hierarchicznie, ponieważ należałam do sieci. Rozbiegaliśmy się codziennie po południu jak członkowie tajemnego zakonu, jak ezoteryczne pogotowie, jak komiwojażerowie psychicznego zdrowia. Kiedy czasem traciłam głowę, wyobrażałam sobie, co on by zrobił na moim miejscu. M. brodaty i wielki, zawsze w kraciastej flanelowej koszuli, oparty o parapet okna, z którego widział całe miasto. Myśl o nim uspokajała mnie. Jego przekaz był jasny, choć nigdy nie wypowiedziany wprost, nawet gdy piliśmy u niego w mieszkaniu po zebraniu—ludzie cierpią, tak bowiem jest ustawiony świat. Ale czasem cierpią bez sensu, składają ofiarę z siebie, choć nikt od nich tego nie wymaga i nikt tego nie rozumie. Naszym zadaniem jest po prostu być z nimi. Wierzymy, że to im pomaga. Nie wiemy dokładnie jak. Miałam swoje dwa punkty—Saska Kępa, kilka zacienionych drzewami ulic i Nowy Świat, tuż przy Alejach w kawiarni „Amatorskiej”. Tutaj przy stoliku w kącie, w tej knajpce zadymionej i ciemnej nawet w krótkie jak mgnienie zimowe południa, paląc papierosy i pijąc herbatę, czekałam na Che Guevarę. Siadałam zwykle przy stoliku tuż przy oknie, przez które widziałam kawałek ulicy z fragmentem sklepu z odzieżą, zawsze świecącego pustkami. Kobiety w kraciastych, bezkształtnych płaszczach polowały ze sznurkowymi siatkami na dostawę towaru. Mój pacjent wchodził, głośno tupiąc, strzelając oczami, w pełnej gotowości teatralnej, obwieszony menażkami, obwiązany pasami imitującymi taśmy z nabojami, w swoim długim do ziemi szynelu, w hełmie, pod którym miał ciepłą wełnianą czapkę. „Heil Hitler!” krzyczał od drzwi. Albo: „Cześć pracy, rodacy!” albo coś równie niedorzecznego, a ludzie powoli odwracali ku niemu głowy i uśmiechali się ni to kpiąco, ni pobłażliwie, mniej lub bardziej serdecznie. Czasami ktoś odkrzyknął: „Cześć, Che Guevara!” I potem wracał poprzedni gwar. Zanim do mnie doszedł, zaczepiał jeszcze kilka osób, recytował im jakiś wierszyk i potem żartował z kelnerką, gdy parzyła mu cienką herbatę bez cytryny, ale za to słodką jak ulepek. „Czeka na mnie,” obwieszczał wszystkim, wskazując na mnie palcem. Gdy wreszcie siadał i zdejmował hełm, ukazywała się spod niego siwa, ostrzyżona na jeżyka fryzura, a ja miałam wrażenie, że oto znalazł się w garderobie swojego teatru. Schodził ze sceny, gasił światło i oddychał z ulgą. „Zimno,” mówił spokojnym głosem i grzał dłonie herbatą. Uśmiechał się. Jego gładka, blada dziecięca twarz nie znała grymasów. „No i jak?” pytałam, a on odpowiadał: „dobrze” albo „niedobrze”, ale to chyba nie miało żadnego znaczenia, bo co to znaczyło dobrze-niedobrze? W

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jego życiu wszelkie oceny chodziły własnymi drogami, ułożone według indywidualnego wzoru. Tak samo nie było sensu namawiać go do brania przepisanych leków, bo nie chciał tego robić. „Nie jestem sobą, gdy łykam pigułki,” mówił. M. mówił, że szaleństwo bywa swoistym, dziwacznym przystosowaniem się do świata. Nie ma w nim nic złego. Tylko żeby nie cierpieć bez sensu— dodawał to swoje ulubione zdanie, a myśmy potem zastanawiali się, kiedy cierpi się z sensem. Byle nie dać się spacyfikować—to też było jego ulubione słowo—spacyfikować lękowi. Chodziło więc o to, żeby w odpowiednim momencie odwieźć Che Guevarę do szpitala, właśnie wtedy, gdy cierpienie gwałtem opuszczało swoje bezpieczne rozlewisko, gdy stawało się groźne dla życia, całkowicie nie do zniesienia. Gdy świat nagle zaczynał szczerzyć kły, potworniał i obnażał swoje prawdziwe oblicze—zawsze był przeciwko ludziom. Chodziło o to, żeby zamknąć mieszkanie, przechować klucze, potem odwiedzać na oddziale i po wypisaniu znowu zainstalować w życiu na powrót. I wtedy stać się znowu jeszcze jednym widzem Che Guevary, przyglądać mu się, gdy zaczepia ludzi na ulicy, gdy zatrzymuje swoim przebraniem całe rodziny, starsze panie w kapeluszach i nicianych rękawiczkach, mężczyzn na delegacji w stolicy, którzy uciekają przed nim, oganiając się teczką. Bywało, że żegnałam się z nim, ale potem jeszcze szłam za nim Nowym Światem i Rutkowskiego, a jego przyczepione do pasa menażki dzwoniły i przeganiały zdezorientowane gołębie. Niektórzy traktowali go jak żebraka i wciskali mu w dłoń parę groszy. Brał i nie wyglądał na zawstydzonego. Widziałam też, jak przyłączał się do demonstracji. Błaznował. Maszerował. Krzyczał „Hände hoch!” albo „Gestapo!”, odtwarzając tym samym jakieś nagrania z wojny, których miał całą głowę—jego pamięć nie wychodziła w przyszłość poza czterdziesty piąty rok. Ignorował teraźniejszość i może dlatego mógł czuć się bezpieczny—był nieaktualny. Mimo to bałam się, że stanie mu się coś złego. Rewolucje nie lubią wariatów, bo same są śmiertelnie poważne. „Możemy pójść do klubu,” proponowałam, mając na myśli pralnię przerobioną na świetlicę, gdzie przychodziliśmy z podopiecznymi na herbatę, warcaby czy ping-ponga. „Nie lubię tam chodzić.” „Dlaczego?” „Bo mają mnie tam za wariata.” „Robisz wszystko, żeby cię mieli za wariata.” „Wiem.” „Przebierasz się za partyzanta, wykrzykujesz na ulicy, zaczepiasz ludzi, gadasz głupoty...”

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„Wiem.” „To powiedz mi dlaczego. Dlaczego to robisz?” „Nie wiem. Może i jestem wariatem.” „Może i jesteś.” Wieczorem, na strajku, oba telefony były oblegane i ustawiała się do nich ogromna kolejka. Mama powtarzała, jak zaczarowana, wciąż to samo: „Wracaj do domu. Wsiadaj w pociąg i wracaj do domu.” Ojciec wyrywał jej słuchawkę i mówił: „Przywieź mi jakieś materiały.” Właziłam w śpiwór i czytałam, leżąc na stole, przy kaloryferze. Obok mnie, na sąsiednim stole, mieszkała para z wyższego roku, ale jakoś nie wiedziałam, jak mogłabym się do nich odezwać. Byli całkowicie zajęci sobą. Niekończące się zebrania w auli, postulaty poddawane pod głosowania, przewodniczący komitetu postukujący drewniakami po betonowej podłodze, pozostałej od czasu, gdy w budynku psychologii mieściło się gestapo. Wtedy, z minuty na minutę, udzielał mi się ten podniosły nastrój rewolucji. Rozkoszne poczucie bycia tylko trybem w maszynie, drobiną piasku, maleńkim fraktalem, płatkiem śniegu, który ma świadomość, że jest częścią zawiei śnieżnej. To ulga—być bytem zbiorowym, nie należeć do siebie, stracić granice, choć na chwilę. Paliliśmy papierosy przy wypełnionych po brzegi popielniczkach w korytarzu prowadzącym do auli. Wianuszki palących falowały, zmieniały się, co chwilę ktoś przychodził i odchodził. A potem nagle ogarniało mnie zmęczenie i potrzeba samotności była tak wielka, że zamykałam się w ubikacji na drugim piętrze i siedziałam tam, wpatrując się w płaty łuszczącej się farby olejnej. Wstrzymywałam oddech, gdy ktoś nagle szarpał za klamkę, a potem zajmował miejsce w sąsiedniej toalecie. Wracałam zawstydzona na swój stół, czytałam po raz kolejny Grę w klasy, tym razem według innego klucza, z innej strony. Odkrycie, że sekwencja zdarzeń nie musi być stała i że może tak samo jest w życiu—wydarzenia tasują się przed moimi oczami i układają w przypadkowe konfiguracje— poruszyło mnie. Schodziłam na dół, stawałam w kolejce do telefonu, żeby ją zaraz porzucić i iść do bufetu, i stamtąd znowu do kolejki, i jeszcze raz powtórzyć ten wzór. I potem na stół i do ubikacji, i do auli, i do telefonu, na stół, do bufetu... Potem miałam już wrażenie, że inni też tak robią, że eksperymentują z porządkiem i chaosem, i stąd bierze się ten niespokojny ruch w budynku, grupki ludzi na ulicach, trzepoczące flagi pozatykane wszędzie, gdzie się da, ta nagła nieprzenikniona ciemność w połowie dnia. Miasto za szybą ciemniało, szkliło się. Znad kaloryfera, ze stołu przykrytego śpiworem, wydawało się miejscem, gdzie nie było już żadnych ludzkich, przyjaznych przestrzeni, jakby ten czas pozdzierał miękkie tapicerki świata i obnażył jego ostre, szpetne szkielety. Małpki z eksperymentu—dano

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im do wyboru dwie makiety matek: jedne były miłe i miękkie, ale nie miały mleka; drugie, druciane i zimne, ale za to z ich sztucznych sutek pokarm płynął do woli. I małe małpki wybierały rozkoszną miękkość głodowej śmierci. Słabiutkie tuliły się do sztucznego futerka. Przed snem modliłam się za wszystkie istoty z eksperymentów. Także za ludzi. Potrzebowałam wtedy miękkości. Moje dłonie mimowolnie wędrowały do pluszowych zasłon w kinach i restauracjach, tęskniły do niemożliwych szenili i welwetów, wygłaskiwały do wyłysienia sztruksowe spodnie, miętosiły spraną jedwabną apaszkę. Łaknęłam miękkości łagodnego, wilgotnego wiosennego powietrza, słońca, piasku, prawdziwej kawy, pachnącego mydła. Bolały mnie kości od spania na stole, a szorstki golf mojego swetra zostawiał na skórze szyi czerwoną obręcz. Miałam też pod opieką Igora. Był mniej więcej w moim wieku, mieszkał z matką i ojcem w pełnym ozdóbek mieszkaniu na Szaserów. Uciekał im z domu, przesiadał się z pociągu na pociąg, bez biletu, skromny, spokojny, zawsze w dobrym humorze. Radził sobie w czasie tych podróży—ludzie częstowali go kanapką, jabłkiem, landrynką. Umiał robić dobre wrażenie. Znikał na całe miesiące. Wracał brudny i zmęczony. Jego matka w jakiejś furii odwoziła go wtedy do szpitala, ale go szybko wypuszczali. Listonosz przynosił mu rentę i Igor znowu wyruszał w ciąg kolejowy. Pijany podróżą, parciem przed siebie, dokądkolwiek, nie dawał znaku życia, aż po jakimś czasie przywoziła go milicja albo karetka pogotowia z jakiegoś Ełku czy Suwałk. Próbowaliśmy zasadzić go w jednym miejscu jak krzew, próbowaliśmy przytrzymać go. Chodziłam z nim do klubu, gdzie monotonnie i do znudzenia grało się karty, w chińczyka i rozwiązywało krzyżówki. Podsuwaliśmy mu na tacy wszystkie ewentualne pasje—kolekcjonowanie znaczków, klejenie modeli samolotów, hodowlę skalarów, zbieranie minerałów. Uśmiechał się łagodnie i wracał do tematu pociągów. Prosił mnie, żebyśmy przespacerowali się na dworzec—przez most, potem Jerozolimskimi. I tak wędrowaliśmy oboje peronami patrząc, jak na elektronicznych tablicach zmieniają się stacje przeznaczenia. Stawał tuż przy czerwonej linii, żeby dokładnie przyjrzeć się wjeżdżającemu pociągowi. Liczył wagony. Wiedział, że w tym będzie jeden sypialny, a w innym tylko kuszetki. „O, Wars,” mówił z nabożeństwem. „Nie możesz się włóczyć po Polsce,”powtarzałam mu, jakby był dzieckiem, a ja jakąś ogólną, powszechną matką. „Wiem,”odpowiadał jak dorosły. „To niebezpieczne, nie można tak żyć. Potem znowu wylądujesz w szpitalu.” „Czy nie dałoby się załatwić, żebym został kolejarzem?”

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„Dałoby się, musiałbyś iść do szkoły.” „A bez szkoły nie można?” pytał rozczarowany. Mówił na mnie „Królowa Polski”. Kilka lat potem odwiedził moich rodziców. Musiał zapamiętać nazwę miasteczka z naszych rozmów. Przyjechał z samego rana, porządnie ubrany, grzeczny. Powiedział, że jest moim znajomym. Mama poczęstowała go śniadaniem i gwarzyli sobie we trójkę. A gdy tylko Igor poczuł się bezpieczny, rozsnuł przed nimi wizję kosmosu połączeń kolejowych, lokomotyw, dworców i kolejarzy, wszechświata w ruchu, w wiecznym pośpiechu, w przesiadkach, w obłokach buchającej pary, zgrzycie zwrotnic, gwizdów i pohukiwań, monotonnym huku, wysiłku tłoków i tłumów wędrujących przez oszklone nawy na podesty peronów, ku ołtarzom kas biletowych, gdzie wspólnota kapłańska zawiadowców odprawiała swoje rytuały, a konduktorzy stawiali się w mundurach na swoje rekolekcje. Święte stacje docelowe, mistyka miejsc przeznaczenia, zbawienie przez podróż, przez podróż, przez podróż. „I córka państwa, Królowa Polski, Caryca Psychologiczna, Drewnicka Bogini, niech będzie tutaj pochwalona, niech jej się wiedzie w życiu i po życiu, w śmierci i po śmierci, zaklinam na wszystkie ćwierci.” Nad miasteczkiem świeciło majowe słońce, przez okno zaglądały do kuchni gałęzie modrzewia. Sąsiad zamiatał chodnik przed domem. Kęs zatrzymał się nagle w gardle mojej mamy. Znieruchomiał papieros w ustach mojego taty. Na strajku był Cyryl. Dziwny, wysoki chłopak z pryszczatą twarzą pokrytą nierównymi kępkami zarostu. Wyjątkowo zdolny i choć autystyczny, przyjęty na studia w drodze wyjątku. Sunął ponury korytarzem, a ci, których mijał, milkli nagle zmieszani, zażenowani swoim paplaniem, odwracali wzrok do pomalowanych olejną farbą ścian, gasili papierosa albo nagle zaczynali czytać ogłoszenia. W czasie burzliwych zebrań w auli on stawał w kącie i patrzył w podłogę, kilka metrów od czubków swoich butów. Wędrowaliśmy za jego wzrokiem mimowolnie, szukając na podłodze jakiejś skazy, papierka, grosika. Ale on patrzył w nic. Z daleka opiekowała się nim B., uwielbiana przez studentów. Przypominała nam nieustannie o konieczności tolerancji, o tym, że jesteśmy wyjątkowi, że będziemy leczyć tych na zewnętrz, że zmienimy świat, że wszyscy ludzie są równi i godni miłości, że pojęcie choroby psychicznej należy do systemu represji. A gdy Cyryl zabierał głos, mówił składnie i logicznie, choć powoli—słuchaliśmy go w napięciu, oczekując jakiegoś wybuchu dziwaczności, znaku, piętna. Gdy kończył, przez chwilę panowała cisza. Potrzebowaliśmy czasu, żeby się otrząsnąć. Zwyczajny gwar powoli wracał do swojego natężenia.

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Niby nic się nie zmieniało. Niby wszystko mogłoby tak trwać i trwać, życie na biegu awaryjnym; może strajk jest normalnym stanem świata, oczywistym, może jest najbliższy ludzkiej naturze, nie zaś tamten skrzepły duszny porządek. A jednak gdzieś pod podszewką wszystko robiło się nie do zniesienia. Cyryl któregoś wieczoru oszalał. Biegł korytarzem i odbijał się od ściany do ściany, ryczał strasznie, nieludzko. Jego potworny głos w nagłej ciszy, w murach dawnej komendy gestapo, na źle oświetlonych półpiętrach grzmiał złowróżbnie, budził nas brutalnie ze snu głosowań, list postulatów, idei strajku rotacyjnego. Przestraszeni przywarliśmy do ścian. Za nim biegła B., próbowała go uspokoić, przygarnąć do siebie, utulić. Wyrywał się. „Cyryl, Cyryl”, powtarzała monotonnie, jakby chciała go uśpić. Wreszcie pozwolił się zatrzymać, a ona i jeszcze kilka osób z klinicznej zabrali go do jakiejś sali. Profesor od psychologii humanistycznej kazał się nam wszystkim rozejść. Więc próbowaliśmy się rozproszyć w długich korytarzach, w salach wykładowych, skąd i tak wciąż było słychać ten potworny ryk. Słyszałam głuche uderzenia—Cyryl walił głową w ścianę. W końcu zadzwonili po karetkę. Widzieliśmy, jak chwilę potem wyprowadzano Cyryla w kaftanie. Każdy by zwariował w tym zamknięciu, komentowaliśmy to zdarzenie między sobą, w tych dusznych, zakurzonych korytarzach gęstych od dymu, z jedynym widokiem z tutejszych okien—szare klocki bloków stojące między nagimi drzewami. Ziemia jest jak wojskowa panterka—zamaskowana zimowo—w brunatno-białe nieregularne plamy. Niech się to już skończy. Chodźmy do domu. Panią Annę miałam najbliżej—Nowy Świat, pierwsza brama za cukiernią Bliklego, wielkie podwórko, kamienice ustawione w złamany kwadrat. Piaskownica, dwie ławki, betonowe śmietniki, kilka drzew—klonów, krzaki śnieguliczki. Mieszkanie pani Anny mieściło się na czwartym piętrze, wysoko, i dlatego tak niechętnie je opuszczała. Korytarzyk, pokój i kuchenka. Okno balkonu wychodziło na ulicę. Pani Anna patrzyła na Nowy Świat zawsze przez firankę—musiała widzieć ulicę zamgloną, nieostrą, poznaczoną geometrycznymi wzorami. Dwa razy w tygodniu schodziła na dół, robiła jakieś marne zakupy w pustych delikatesach, a potem szła do „Amatorskiej” na lampkę koniaku. Z kawy już dawno zrezygnowała. Tam czasem się z nią umawiałam. Bywało, że przez jakiś czas siedziałyśmy przy tym samym stoliku z Che Guevarą, ale wtedy to jej się nie podobało. Patrzyła na jego miny i wygłupy z dezaprobatą. „Niechże się pan opanuje!” sykała na niego. Podnosiła swój kieliszek do ust. Dopiero gdy Che odchodził, podzwaniając menażkami i łuskami po nabojach nanizanymi na sznurki, mówiła:

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„Jest coraz gorzej. Piję ciepłe mleko, rozgrzewam stopy termoforem, ale i tak mi się nie udaje. Nie śpię całą noc, tylko czasami zapadam na kwadrans w jakieś majaki, w jakieś półsny, rozwlekłe, bez znaczeń, męczące. Ach, moje dziecko, co robić, co robić?” pytała mnie dramatycznie i ściskała chudymi palcami moją rękę. „Może za mało świeżego powietrza?” pytałam naiwnie; grałyśmy w tę grę od dawna. „Ach nie, drogie dziecko, wietrzę co wieczór przynajmniej pół godziny” odpowiadała. „Może je pani coś ciężkostrawnego” próbowałam dalej. „Nie, nie, kochana, ostatni posiłek zjadam o piątej.” „Możemy poprosić o pastylki.” wypowiadałam wreszcie. Ona wtedy odsuwała się od stolika i zamierała na sekundę w pozycji pełnej oburzenia. „Do tego nie mogłabym nigdy dopuścić, nigdy,” wysapywała wreszcie. „Stałoby się wtedy coś strasznego, nie wiem co, ale coś strasznego.” „Chodźmy na spacer, pani Anno.” Tylko to mogłam jej zaproponować. Szłyśmy przez Foksal i Kopernika, a potem Świętokrzyską wracałyśmy na Nowy Świat. Albo w drugą stronę, w stronę rzeki; za nią otwierały się kuszące przestrzenie, które nas pewnie obie kusiły, choć nigdy nie mówiłyśmy o tym. Przejść w nadrzeczne zarośla, iść wzdłuż rzeki zgodnie z jej odwiecznym ruchem, opuścić miasto, zagłębić się w skute mrozem pola, przemierzać polne drogi, przekraczać miedze poznaczone wierzbami. Może dotrzeć do morza, a może odwrotnie—iść na południe, przez góry, a potem na wielką równinę. Porzucać najpierw nasze czapki, potem rękawiczki, w końcu na skraju winnicy zostawić zimowe palto. Zagłębiać się w coraz dłuższy dzień, dawać się obmywać światłu. Drżała, bez względu na pogodę. Zagryzając wargi, uważnie oglądała każdy metr chodnika, poręcze barierek, schody, sprawdzała czubkiem buta krawężniki. Czasem znajdując jakąś dziurę, niedoskonałość, kawałek rdzy, pat rzyła na mnie porozumiewawczo i smutno. Szłyśmy obok siebie, opatulone. Kazała mi uważnie patrzeć. Widziałam miasto, zawsze szare, w różnych odcieniach szarości, miasto nieprzyjemne w dotyku, chłodne, spierzchnięte, rozpękłe na pół, z raną rzeki pośrodku. Rzadkie autobusy bezgłośnie sunęły przez mosty i zaraz wracały. Ludzie podwójnieli, odbijając się w wielkich, pociemniałych szybach wystawowych. Z ich ust, jak niezdecydowane dusze, ulatywały białe oddechy. Kiedyś zapytała mnie, gdzie mieszkam i usłyszawszy odpowiedź, że na Zamenhofa, z przerażenia zakryła usta.

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„Nie powinni byli budować domów na cmentarzu. Powinni byli odgrodzić ruiny getta od reszty kraju i zrobić prawdziwy cmentarz, muzeum. Zresztą tak trzeba było zrobić z całym miastem. Mogli odbudować Warszawę gdzieś koło Częstochowy, w bliskości Najświętszej Panienki, albo nad Narwią, tam jest tak pięknie. Wynieś się stamtąd, drogie dziecko.” Wiele razy obiecywałam jej, że to zrobię i odprowadzałam ją do mieszkania, wysokiego, wąskiego, jak ptasia budka. Strzepywałam z jej palta śnieg, parzyłam herbatę madras w białym porcelanowym czajniczku i nastawiałam ziemniaki. Ponaglała mnie: „Mów do mnie, pytaj, opowiadaj, zmęcz mnie, niech usnę, na pewno usnę, jak pójdziesz.” Więc coś paplałam. Opowiadałam jej o strajku, o zmianach, które muszą nadejść, o ludziach, ale w gruncie rzeczy było to dziwne mówienie. Świat z mieszkania pani Anny wydawał się nierealny, niepokoił brakiem życia. Tam na dole nic się nie działo—hasła z tej wysokości były już nieczytelne, odgłosy każdej manifestacji gubiły się w labiryntach podwórek i powtarzały się jedną wyblakłą frazą już bez znaczenia. Miasto zbudowane było z dachów, anten i kominów—dla ptaków i dla obłoków, dla wiecznie zachmurzonego nieba, dla ciemności. Nie dla ludzi. „Widzisz, moje dziecko, to już koniec. Widzisz, jak przy horyzoncie obraz rozmazuje się, widzisz?” „Zawsze tak jest przy takiej pogodzie,” uspokajałam ją. Chyba wszyscy wtedy braliśmy niechcący udział w jakiejś kosmicznej wojnie. Może zmagały się ze sobą planetarne wpływy? Tak, musiało coś takiego być. Ludzie zasadzali się na siebie, strzelali do siebie z bliska—do papieża, do Reagana, do Lennona. Wszystko wyglądało tak, jakby za chwilę miało się zmienić w coś zupełnie innego, jeszcze nie rozpoznanego. Rzeczywistość falowała. Iluzja z deziluzją przepuszczały się w przejściu. Furkotały w słonecznym wietrze zasłony mai. „Śnię świat,” mówiła pani Anna, zmywając oszczędnie w zlewie nasze filiżanki po herbacie, starannie wycierając łyżeczki ścierką. „Śnię go, ale mam kłopoty ze snem. Nie jesteś w stanie mi pomóc,” dodawała. „Nikt nie jest. Po prostu przychodzisz tu i rozmawiamy. Świat ginie, to już koniec.” Nie wierzyłam jej, ale zrezygnowałam ze sprowadzania jej na ziemię. Dlaczego mielibyśmy wszyscy stać na ziemi, mówiłam sobie. To nic złego sądzić, że utrzymuje się świat w istnieniu, że niesie się go na swoich barkach, jak Atlas. Że się go zbawia, że się za niego umiera. W pewnym sensie to prawda. Patrząc z pewnego punktu widzenia, to wielka prawda. Ontologia pani Anny była taka: wierzyła, że jej sen ratuje świat. Że w czasie jej snu świat—już nadpsuty, podniszczony, zużyty—regeneruje się.

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Że śpiąc, ratuje wszystko od śmierci. Nikt o tym oczywiście nie wie— ludzie są przecież tacy żałośnie dwuwymiarowi („jak kartka papieru”, mówiła), tylko ona, ja i jej lekarz, znaliśmy prawdę. Nawet córka pani Anny, znana twarz z telewizji, nie domyślała się tego. Ona tylko odwoziła ją do szpitala, gdy przygnębienie i bezsenność wtrącały panią Annę w wielomiesięczne depresje. „Dlaczego pani?” zapytałam ją na pierwszym spotkaniu, a ona kazała mi ciąć wypełnione krzyżówki na kwadraty z literami. Robiła z nich gigantyczne układanki. Dopiero po chwili podniosła tylko tajemniczo palec i gestem Jana Chrzciciela wskazała niebo. Lecz jakże ma ratować ten świat, skoro cierpi na bezsenność? Pokazywała mi wzrokiem tłoczących się w kolejkach ludzi, strajkowe transparenty na uniwersytecie—wszystko to działo się z powodu bezsenności pani Anny Topiel, emerytowanej nauczycielki języka polskiego, odwiecznej mieszkanki Nowego Światu. Mówiła, gdy piłyśmy tę niedobrą herbatę madras z jej pięknych złoconych filiżanek—że świat potrzebuje około ośmiu godzin jej snu. To nie za wiele. Ale, mówiła, ona śpi godzinę, dwie, i to niespokojnie nad samym ranem. Przez ten słaby sen słyszy, jak świat trzeszczy w posadach. Wprawdzie lekarz przepisał jej tabletki na sen i na lepszy nastrój, ale nie może ich brać. Nie można manipulować prawami rzeczywistości za pomocą prymitywnej farmakologii. Zgodziłam się z nią. Rozdałam karty do wista— najbardziej nudnej gry karcianej. Aplikować jej nudę, sączyć na nią strużkami spokój, rozwlekać słowa, nigdy nie dochodzić do puenty, rozżarzać ciszę, rozcieńczać herbatę wodą, jakby to był lek homeopatyczny, mruczeć pod nosem kołysanki. To były moje czary. Kiedyś widziałam, jak usnęła. Spała na fotelu z głową przechyloną na bok i ze spokojną piękną twarzą. Mimowolnie podeszłam do okna—musiałam to sprawdzić. Zza niskich, pędzących jesiennych chmur wyjrzało słońce i rozpłynęło się po dachach kamienic. Przyjechałam do niego po południu w sobotę tramwajem tylko po to, żeby szybko sprawdzić, czy wszystko w porządku. Strajk się zamienił w rotacyjny, jutro miał być wielki wiec na uniwersytecie, a jeszcze dzisiaj jakieś wieczorne zebranie. Che Guevara długo nie chciał mi otworzyć drzwi. Słyszałam jego oddech zza drzwi wyklejonych gazetą, szelest rzęs przy otworze judasza. „Hasło?” powiedział. Wymówiłam powoli pierwsze słowo, jakie przyszło mi do głowy, już nie pamiętam, co to mogło być—niebo, liść, menażka, i wtedy, po krótkiej chwili wahania, zamek szczęknął i drzwi się otwarły.

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Wyglądał niedobrze. Pozbawiony swoich cudacznych atrybutów, tych granatów przy pasie, hełmu i wojskowych insygniów, w samym szarym dresie z anilany zdawał się być nagi. Drżał na całym ciele—zabiedzony, drobny staruszek—teraz wyszła o nim na jaw cała prawda. Nie był wcale dzieckiem ani nawet rozdokazywanym młodzieńcem. Był chudym, przedwcześnie postarzałym staruszkiem bez dzieciństwa i bez dorosłości. Od razu z niemowlęcia zamienił się w starca. Teraz musiał nadrabiać tamten stracony czas. Sunąc w za dużych kapciach, poprowadził mnie w głąb zasypanej gazetami kawalerki. Okna były zasłonięte starymi kocami i na dodatek jeszcze pozawieszanymi na karniszach ręcznikami. Szczękał zębami ze strachu czy z zimna. Para wypływała z naszych ust jak dymek w komiksach. Powiedział, że obserwują go od rana. Powiedział, że najpierw z ulicy, ale teraz wdrapali się na drzewo i zaglądają przez lornetki i teleskopy prosto przez okna. Dlatego je zasłonił. Już chciałam zapytać—kto, kto go obserwuje, kto czyha na twoje życie, biedny wariacie, ale nie zapytałam. Ugryzłam się w język. Każde wyjaśnienie dokładałoby się do tej szalonej wizji; każde słowo, każda próba określenia prześladowcy czyniłaby ten obraz potężniejszym. Więc nie odezwałam się; wzięłam się za gotowanie białego barszczu z torebki. Patrzył na mnie z nadzieją, że coś powiem, dygotał coraz bardziej. Włączyłam elektryczne słoneczko. „Czy chcesz do szpitala?” zapytałam go, gdy piliśmy gorącą zupę z kubków. Odpowiedział, że już jest za późno. „Zadzwonię po pomoc,” powiedziałam. Przypadł do drzwi i zaparł się o nie. „Nie ma mowy. Nie możesz stąd wyjść. Wpadłaś w kocioł. Zaraz się zaczną dobijać do drzwi.” Niezdecydowanie ruszyłam w jego stronę i zrozumiałam, że będzie musiała się odbyć walka. Że mnie nie wypuści. Umiał czytać w moich myślach. Złapał mnie za rękę i ścisnął. Obojgu zbielały nam palce. Pomyślałam w nagłym, gorącym odruchu paniki, że nie wiem, co mam zrobić, że muszę działać sama, że muszę stać się dla tego oszalałego ze strachu mężczyzny spokojnym i pewnym punktem odniesienia. Ogarnąć jego rozedrganie, usidlić jego strach, uspokoić go. Położyłam mu rękę na plecach, przykryłam go kocem. Przytuliłam go. Poczułam, że mój strach znika jak dym. Oto staję się szeroką i płaską równiną, niewzruszonym fragmentem krajobrazu. W porządku, obiecałam mu, że nie odejdę, dopóki sam nie zechce. Przypomniałam sobie panią Annę, że ona nie śpi i że jedynym ratunkiem dla świata jest sen, jej sen i nasz sen. Wtedy dopiero dojdziemy do siebie, nasz sen zaceruje wszystkie dziury, przez które dostaje się na wierzch samo zło, nieprzenikniona ciemność.

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„Spać, Che Guevara, spać. Idziemy spać,” powtarzałam. Wymieniałam monotonnie przedmioty, które szykują się do snu, jakbym odmawiała specjalną litanię—zasypiają przystanki i drogowskazy, lampy uliczne i schodki przy wejściach do sklepów, samochody i kominy na dachach, drzewa, krawężniki, rowery, barierki na moście, szyny tramwajowe i kosze na śmieci, papierki po cukierkach i pety, zużyte bilety i puste butelki po piwie. I wszystkie ulice na Saskiej Kępie—Francuska, Obrońców i Walecznych, Ateńska i Saska, a także w innych dzielnicach, w końcu same dzielnice miasta i same miasta. Katowice i Gdańsk. Wałbrzych i Lublin. Białystok i Mrągowo. Sen sunie tuż przy ziemi, jak grzmot, jak ciemny, ciepły dym. Spowija cały kraj dziwnym odrętwieniem. Ludzie wszędzie podnoszą ręce do twarzy i przecierają senne oczy. Na drodze pod Kaliszem samochody stają na poboczu, a kierowcy kładą się przy drodze do snu, prosto w śnieg. Zatrzymują się pociągi i drzemią w polach, statki na redach kołyszą się monotonnie, do snu nawołuje portowa syrena. Zasypiają stocznie i zatrzymują się taśmy w nocnych fabrykach. Ziewa spiker w telewizji i za chwilę układa się do snu przed oczami sennie zdumionych ludzi. Tuliłam go tak, jak tuli się dzieci i nie było w tym nic nieprzyzwoitego, nic wbrew regule, bo oboje byliśmy tak samo drobni, tak samo mali. Unosiliśmy się w tej małej, pełnej papierów kawalerce z własnym elektrycznym słońcem jak oderwany wszechświat o przezroczystych kruchych ścianach, bańka mydlana nad wielkim mroźnym miastem. Powolne obroty wokół niewidocznego centrum. Poczułam, że jego ciało wiotczeje i staje się ciężkie, jakby dojrzało i miało opaść na ziemię, żeby odtąd z niej czerpać dobrą siłę, która nie pozwoli mu już dać się zwiać jak papierek po cukierku. Wydawało mi się, że otworzyły się między nami śluzy—ze zgrzytem, z namaszczeniem, wielkie rzeczne wrota, że tym kołysaniem uruchomiliśmy potężny mechanizm, nacisnęliśmy guzik. I nie da się już teraz go zatrzymać—rzeki zlewały się w jedno, jego i moja, napotykały siebie, żeby się połączyć i wymieszać, i przez chwilę miałam radosne wrażenie, że tak właśnie ma być, że wezmę na siebie jego lęk i rozpuszczę go w sobie jak grudkę lodu w ciepłej wodzie, że w gruncie rzeczy, gdyby to wszystko dało się zważyć i wyliczyć, gdyby dało się zmierzyć ilość jego strachu i mojego spokoju, wyszłoby na moje; jestem od niego rozleglejsza, jest mnie więcej. Moja rzeka jest cieplejsza, wypasiona na równinach, nagrzana słońcem. On—to zaledwie mały strumyk, lodowaty i niespokojny. I kiedy tylko to pomyślałam, przestraszyłam się, bo zaczęłam tracić kontury. Mały strumień wzbierał i burzył się, wpadał z impetem, wyrywając dno. Niósł z sobą jakieś szlamy, mętniał, atakował z rosnącą furią. Ale wszystko to działo się pod spodem i nie mogło być widoczne. Che Guevara zamknął oczy i westchnął. Wydawało mi się, że zaraz uśnie. Ale

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tam pod spodem zaczęła się walka, napieranie na siebie, gwałt, inwazja. Pod spodem ten niewinny staruszek rozpychał się, zmuszał mnie do oddychania jego panicznym rytmem. Ze środka, jak koła na wodzie, zaczynały płynąć do mnie fale paniki. Małe lodowe odłamki zamieniły się w drżenie, które powoli ogarniało całe moje ciało. Jeszcze próbowałam uciec przed tym czymś strasznym, wyszczerzonym, potwornym, ale już wiedziałam, że żadna ucieczka nie jest możliwa. To był bowiem stan ostateczny, stan podstawowy. Wszystko inne tylko nam się zdawało. I nagle zrozumiałam, że on, Che Guevara, ma rację—jak to możliwe, że nie przyszło mi to przedtem do głowy?—obserwują nas, siedzą na drzewie, szykują najgorsze gabinety tortur, wiedzą o nas wszystko. Jacyś rozmazani ludzie, ciemne postaci udziergane z cienia, lecz połączeni śliskimi pępowinami z ciemnym środkiem ziemi. Właśnie, dlaczego nie mieliby siedzieć na drzewach, skoro przecież, wiadomo, oni zdolni są do wszystkiego? Dlaczego nie mieliby obserwować nas przez lornetki z topoli przed oknem? Jak mogło wydawać mi się to absurdalne? Dziesiątki mężczyzn w ciemnych prochowcach przemykających zaułkami; ukryte w podwórkach milicyjne suki; ciche trzeszczenie radiostacji; szypułkowate oczy noktowizorów wycelowane w każde okno. Mają w swoich tajnych siedzibach całe tony sprzętu, o jakim nam nawet się nie śniło. Trzymają rękę na pulsie każdego z nas. Dyrygują historią, pociągają za sznurki, robią nam wodę z mózgu, każą widzieć to, co chcą—i my to widzimy. Podtykają nam pod nos gotowe zdania—i my je wypowiadamy. Drukują fałszywe gazety, w których opisują świat tak, jak się im podoba. Zmuszają nas, żeby wierzyć w coś, co nie istnieje i zaprzeczać temu, co oczywiste. I my to robimy. Podszywają się pod naszych przyjaciół, a nawet— tak, tak—nigdy nie mogę być pewna, czy ten, kogo widzę w lustrze, to naprawdę ja. Zerwałam się i poprawiłam zasłony z ręczników w oknach i na wszelki wypadek zakręciłam główny kurek gazu. Na palcach sprawdziłam, czy drzwi są zamknięte na wszystkie zamki. Wodził za mną wzrokiem kogoś, kto wie. „Widzisz? Widzisz? A nie mówiłem? Nie mówiłem?” mamrotał. Siedzieliśmy do rana na posłaniu z gazet, przytuleni. W mojej głowie rozkwitały przez całą noc dziwne pomysły podobne do tych mdłych białych roślin, które wyrastają w mroźne noce na szybach okien. Mazałam je, ale one dalej rosły, choć z godziny na godzinę coraz słabsze. Może przeganiał je nadchodzący świt. W końcu musiałam usnąć, bo obudził mnie jego głos i bulgotanie wody w czajniku. Stał przy kuchence gazowej i przypinał sobie do pasa pustą tekturową kaburę. Zasłony były już ściągnięte, przez okna wpadało metaliczne zimowe światło.

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„Już po wszystkim,” powiedział. „Poszli. Ale wrócą.” Byłam oszołomiona, jakbym wypaliła paczkę papierosów, jakbym zemdlała i jakby mnie ocucono. Z niedowierzaniem oglądałam mieszkanie. Podejrzliwie przyjrzałam się gałęziom drzew. Czytałam tytuły porozrzucanych wszędzie gazet. Miałam atak lęku, miałam epizod psychotyczny, myślałam. Zaraził mnie, dałam się zainf ekować, zahipnotyzował mnie, uległam sugestii. „Che, jedziesz do szpitala. Idę zadzwonić.” Nie sprzeciwiał się i zaczął zbierać swoje rzeczy. Gdy wyszłam na ulicę, moje myśli powoli wracały do siebie, otrząsały się niczym mokre psy. Zbierały się do kupy, przybiegały na zbiórkę. Ustawiały się w szeregach, formowały szyk. Zaczynały kolejno odliczać. Na ulicach było pusto, ale przecież była niedziela. Dzisiaj jest wiec. Numer pogotowia. Pani Anna— zadzwonić do niej i spytać, czy może chociaż ona spała tej nocy dobrze. Weszłam do budki i kilka razy wykręcałam numer, ale telefon był chyba zepsuty. Nie przyjechał żaden tramwaj. Szłam mostem na drugą stronę miasta, aż w Alejach zobaczyłam sunącą z grzmotem kawalkadę opancerzonych samochodów. (2001)

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OLGA TOKARCZUK

Che Guevara

Back then, everything took place in darkness. Is that possible? Daylight would appear only for a moment, and even then it felt coarse, like linen underwear, or starched dormitory bed sheets, or a sweater knitted all autumn long from synthetic carpet yarn. The sun—a huge sixty-watt light bulb. It was already dark by the time schools let out and then it just got darker and darker. The feebly lit, empty stores cast yellow stains on the wet sidewalks. Semi-darkness in the trolley cars, semi-darkness behind the drawn drapes of apartment windows on Nowotko Street. Early December. Warsaw. I was always cold. At bus stops I would wish for a down coat, but that was like something from another dimension. Things like that were from outer space, somewhere abroad, from a world that wasn’t even imaginable. At the state-run university milk bar, known to everyone as the “Roach,” I would order a half-portion of vegetables and a crepe. Then I would feel dazed from overeating. Should I splurge on a doughnut? When I get a job— I would dream—when I’m a mature woman, when I’ve got my life arranged the way I want it, I’ll buy a whole tray of doughnuts—on Marchlewski Street—that’s where they make the best ones. I’ll eat them calmly and systematically, starting with the one at the very peak of the pyramid. At one of the meetings in the lecture hall, volunteers received special passes to leave the strike, so I could come and go, I was privileged. I would gather my things with pride from the table I slept on and go downstairs where the man on duty would check my name against the list and then unlock the door for me. I would stand there in the frosty air, in the sudden silence, in the uncertain light that shrouded the mysteries of the institute park. The hubbub of voices, the sound of ping-pong balls, monotonously bouncing off the laminated tables, the dull strum of a guitar somewhere on the other side of the wall would all fade. The clouds of dried out, dustclogged air that filled our throats would disappear. I would breathe in the

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frost. My patients were my saviors; they freed me. From afar, from Praga, they gave me absolution, which flew across the Vistula and over the city like a letter sent by an angel and came down here on Stawki Street right above my head. The flame of the Holy Spirit. I was chosen. I would head for the stop to catch Bus 111 and would be stiff with cold by the time I got to the Monument, but then, when I finally got on the bus, I would make myself at home—I would prop my feet on the bar under the seat, tuck the sides of my coat tightly around my hips and thighs, put my collar up and, warmed by my own breath, I would coast through the city, like an eye, like a pure, dark pupil. As soon as the bus left Theater Square and turned onto Krakowskie Przedmieście Street, the strike at the University announced its presence with its red-lettered banners hanging from the building of the Philosophy Department and over the main gate of the University. Motion, excitement, a strange euphoria, circles of people in dark silhouette, crates with underground publications and, in front of the Philosophy Department, two boys with a box, into which passers-by would drop cigarettes, rarely a whole pack, more often just one or two. Over on Stawki Street, we were separated from that enthusiasm, noise, light, and warmth. We percolated in our gloomy building, fermented. We were a provincial strike. Even Bob Marley, played constantly like some revolutionary barrel organ, like a prayer wheel, didn’t help. History was happening over here, on Krakowskie Przedmieście. From the windows of the bus I could see the afternoon bustle and traffic on Nowy Świat Street—there’s always something to take care of, always something to see, the herd instinct intensifies during historical moments. I would either get off on Nowy Świat or keep riding on across the dark, indifferent Vistula to Saska Kępa. There the city grew quiet, the snow crunched more boldly, like in the country-side. Entering a street was like walking into the embrace of a protective woman. I had three adults to look after. My boss, M., called them “clients”. I used the word “clients”, too. It would have been a betrayal to say “patients”—that would have meant being on the other side, the side of conformism, of hypocrites, the side of the system. M. would also say “madmen”, “lunatics”, which I liked even more, because they sounded rustic and homespun, as if by means of these words you were returning to the very origins, to linen, wool, and simple, black bread; they held no sense of deception, no empty smartaleckiness, no “maniacal-depressive psychoses”, no “paranoid schizophrenia” or “borderline”. You could trust simple words. That’s just the way it is—people go crazy, it’s always been that way, M. would say. Why is it like that? That’s what you’ve got universities for, your seminars where you try

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and figure out whether it’s in the genes, the upbringing, or a subtle transformation of particles; whether it’s enzymes, demons, or some age-old ritual. People go crazy, no question about it. It’s always been that way. There have always been madmen and there have been normal people, and somewhere in between them there’s us, those who patiently help out. M. directed us from the third floor of a townhouse on Tamka Street, but I rarely saw him. I communicated with him via the senior volunteers, who were responsible for us. I belonged to a network, so everything had to be hierarchical. We would all head off in different directions every afternoon like the members of a secret sect, like an esoteric rescue service, like door-todoor sellers of psychic health. Whenever I lost my head, I imagined what he would do in my place. M., tall and bearded, always wearing a checkered flannel shirt, leaning on the window sill from which he could see the entire city. Thinking about him calmed me. His directions were clear, though never expressed explicitly, even when we would gather in his apartment for a drink following a meeting—people suffer, that’s the way the world runs. But sometimes they suffer for no reason, they sacrifice themselves, though no one demands it of them and no one understands it. Our task is simply to be with them. We believe this helps them. We’re not exactly sure how. I had two rendezvous points—a few tree-shaded streets over in Saska Kępa, and the Amatorska Café on Nowy Świat, right near Aleje Jerozolimskie. In this smoke-filled café, which stayed dark even during the short blink of the winter noon, I would wait at a corner table for Che Guevara, smoking and drinking tea. I usually sat at the table right next to the window from where I could see a section of the street and part of a clothing store, which never had anything for sale. Women in checkered, shapeless coats prowled with net-string bags for any deliveries of goods. My patient would come in, stamping his feet loudly, shooting glances all over the place, in full theatrical costume, decked out with mess cans and wrapped in ammunition belts, wearing a floor-length overcoat and a helmet, beneath which he had on a warm, woolen cap. “Heil Hitler!” he would call from the door. Or: “All hail to labor, countrymen!” or something equally absurd, and people would slowly turn their heads towards him and smile half-mockingly, halfindulgently, but more or less warm-heartedly. At times, someone would call back “Hello, Che Guevara!” and then normal conversation would resume. Before he made his way over to me, he would accost a few more people, recite some poem to them and then joke with the waitress, while she made him weak tea with no lemon, but sweet as syrup. “She’s waiting for me,” he would announce to everyone, pointing his finger at me.

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When he finally sat down and took off his helmet, his gray, crew-cut hair would be revealed, and I would have the impression that he now found himself in the changing room of his theater. He would come down off the stage, dim the lights, and breathe with relief. “It’s cold,” he would say in a calm voice and warm his hands with his tea. He smiled. His smooth, pale, child-like face had never known a grimace. “Well, how are you?” I asked, and he would answer “good” or “not good”, but it probably meant nothing, because what could “good/not good” mean? In his life, all judgments pursued their own logic, were established according to an individual pattern. For the same reason, it made no sense to persuade him to take his prescribed medicine, since he refused to do so. “I’m not myself when I take pills,” he would say. M. used to say that madness is a kind of strange adaptation to the world. There’s nothing wrong with it. As long as suffering is not meaningless—he would add his favorite sentence, and then we would all wonder in what circumstances suffering would be meaningful. As long as you don’t let the pills pacify you—that was also a favorite phrase of his—don’t let the medication pacify you. The trick, then, was to get Che Guevara to the hospital right when the suffering rapidly began to overflow its safe tidal pool, when it began to threaten his life, become completely unbearable. Whenever the world suddenly begins to show its fangs, turn monstrous, and reveal its true features, then it will always turn against people. The trick was to close up his apartment, store away the keys, visit him in the ward and then, following his discharge, install him back into life. And then become once again just another spectator of Che Guevara, observe him as he accosted people on the street, when the sight of his costume caused whole families to stop and stare, halted elderly women in hats and knitted gloves, men on business trips to the capital, who fled from him, fending him off with their briefcases. Sometimes I would say good-bye to him and then follow him as he walked up Nowy Świat and Rutkowski Streets, the mess cans on his belt ringing and startling off disoriented pigeons. Some people treated him like a beggar and pressed coins into his hand. He accepted them without looking ashamed. I also saw him join demonstrations. He would clown around. March. Cry out “Hände hoch!” or “Gestapo!” and repeat in the process some recording from the war. His head was full of them—his memory reached no further into the future than 1945. He ignored the present and maybe that’s why he was able to feel safe in it—he was out of date. Nevertheless, I was afraid that something bad might happen to him. Revolutions don’t like madmen because they themselves are deadly serious.

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“We could go to the club,” I would suggest, meaning the laundry room that had been converted into a recreation room, where we would come with our charges for tea, checkers, or ping-pong. “I don’t like to go there.” “Why?” “Because they all think I’m crazy there.” “You do everything you can to make them think you’re crazy.” “I know.” “You dress like a partisan, you scream on the street, you bother people, you talk nonsense…” “I know.” “Then tell me, why do you do that?” “I don’t know. Maybe I am crazy.” “Maybe you are.” Evenings at the strike, both telephones would be under siege and a huge line would form for them. My mother would repeat again and again, as if under a spell: “Come home. Get on a train and come home.” My father would grab the receiver from her and say: “Bring me some materials.” I would crawl into my sleeping bag and read, lying on my table by the heat register. On the next table over slept a couple who were a year or two ahead of me in their studies, but somehow I couldn’t imagine starting up a conversation with them. They were too occupied with themselves. Endless meetings in the lecture hall, postulates submitted for a vote, the committee chairman tapping his wooden clogs on the cement floor, which dated back to the time when the Gestapo had been housed in the psychology building. Then, minute by minute, the lofty mood of the revolution would infect me. That delightful feeling of being just a gear in a machine, a grain of sand, a tiny fractal, a snowflake that knows itself to be part of a blizzard. It’s a relief to be a collective being, to not belong to yourself, to lose your borders, even for just a moment. We would smoke cigarettes at ashtrays filled to the brim in the corridor leading to the lecture hall. The circles of smokers would undulate, change, someone was always coming or going. And then suddenly, fatigue would seize me and the need for solitude would be so great that I would close myself in a bathroom stall on the third floor and sit there, staring at the flakes of peeling oil paint. Whenever someone would suddenly try the handle, I would hold my breath while they entered the stall next to mine. I would go back to my table ashamed, I was reading Hopscotch yet again, this time using a different formula, from a different perspective. I was moved by the discovery that a sequence of events need not be constant and that maybe life is the same way—events shuffling before my eyes and arrang-

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ing themselves in chance configurations. I would go downstairs, stand in line for the telephone, only to step out of line right away and go to the buffet counter, from there back to the line, and then repeat the pattern once again. And then to my table and then to the bathroom, and then to the lecture hall, and then to the telephone, to my table, to the buffet… Then I had the impression that others were doing the same thing, that they were experimenting with order and chaos, and that this was the origin of the restless motion in the building, the small groups of people in the streets, flapping flags stuck up wherever possible, that sudden impenetrable darkness in the middle of the day. The city beyond the window pane darkened, gleamed. It seemed, from above the heat register, from my sleeping bag on the table, to be a place that no longer held any human, friendly spaces, as if the times we lived in had torn the soft upholstery off of the world and revealed its sharp, hideous skeleton. Baby monkeys in an experiment—they were given the choice of two different mannequins as mothers: one was nice and soft, but it didn’t give milk; the other, made of wire, was cold, but sustenance flowed from its artificial nipples to the heart’s content. And the little monkeys chose the delightful softness of death by starvation. Frail, they cuddled up against the synthetic fur. Before going to sleep, I would pray for all beings in experiments. For people, too. I needed softness back then. My hands involuntarily wandered to the plush curtains in movie theaters and restaurants, they longed for impossible chenilles and velvets, they stroked my corduroy pants until they were worn bare, they crumpled my faded, silk neckerchief. I craved gentle softness, moist spring air, sun, sand, real coffee, perfumed soap. My bones hurt from sleeping on the table, and the coarse turtle-neck on my sweater had left a red collar on my skin. I also looked after Igor. He was more or less my age, he lived with his mother and father in an ornament-filled apartment on Szaserów Street. He would flee their home, transfer from train to train without a ticket, humble, calm, always in good humor. He did pretty well for himself during these journeys—people shared sandwiches with him, apples, candies. He knew how to make a good impression. He would disappear for months at a time, then return dirty and tired. In a fury, his mother would take him to the hospital, but he would be quickly released. The mailman would bring him his pension and Igor would once again head out on his rail journeys. Drunk with traveling, with forging on ahead in any direction whatsoever, he would give no sign of his whereabouts, until after a while the militia or an ambulance would retrieve him from some distant place like Ełk or Suwałki. We would try and plant him in one spot, like a bush, we tried to hold him back. I would

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go to the club with him, where we played cards, Chinese checkers, or solved crossword puzzles, monotonously and to the point of boredom. We presented to him, as if on a tray, all the hobbies we could think of—stampcollecting, model airplanes, angelfish, minerals. He would smile gently and return to the topic of trains. He would ask me if we could take a stroll over to the train station—across the bridge, then down Aleje Jerozolimskie. And so, the two of us would wander up and down the platforms, watching as the destinations changed on the electronic timetables. He would stand as close to the red line as he could in order to get a good look at a train as it entered the station. He would count the cars. He would know which trains would have a sleeping car and which ones would only have couchettes. “Hey, there’s a restaurant car,” he would say with awe. “You can’t just roam all over Poland,” I would repeat to him as if he were a child and I were some abstract, universal mother. “I know,” he would say, like an adult. “It’s dangerous, you can’t live like that. You’ll end up in the hospital again.” “Do you think we could fix it so I could be a railway worker?” “Sure we could, you’d have to go to school.” “I couldn’t do it without the school?” he would ask, disappointed. He called me “Queen of Poland”. A few years later, he visited my parents. He must have recalled the name of the town from our conversations. He showed up early one morning, welldressed, polite. He told them he was a friend of mine. Mom made him breakfast and the three of them chatted. And as soon as Igor felt safe, he unfolded before them a vision of the cosmos of train travel, locomotives, stations, conductors, a universe in motion, in eternal haste, in ceaseless transfer, the clouds of billowing steam, the grating of switches, the whistles and clangs, the monotonous roar, the action of the pistons and the crowds of people wandering down glass-walled naves onto the platform landings, to the altars of the ticket windows, where the community of priestly stationmasters performed their rituals and the conductors stood at attention in their uniforms to collect their offerings. The holy final stop, the mysticism of destination, salvation by travel, travel, travel. “And your daughter, Queen of Poland, Tsaress of Psychology, Ancient Goddess, may her name be praised, may she have fortune both in this life and in the afterlife, in death and after death, thus do I invoke in the name of the four quarters.” A May sun was shining above the town, larch branches were peering into the kitchen. A neighbour was sweeping the sidewalk in front of his house.

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The bite Mom had just taken lodged in her throat. The cigarette between my father’s lips grew still. Cyryl was at the strike. A strange, tall boy with a pimply face covered with uneven tufts of facial hair. He was unusually able and, though he was autistic, an exception had been made for him and he had been accepted to studies. He coasted gloomily along the corridors and those he passed would suddenly fall silent, confused, embarrassed by their chatter, they would turn to look at the oil-painted walls, put out their cigarettes, or suddenly become interested in the announcement postings. During the tumultuous meetings in the lecture hall, he would stand in the corner and stare at a point on the floor, a few meters beyond the tips of his shoes. We would inadvertently follow his gaze, searching for something on the floor, a scratch, a piece of paper, a coin. But he would be staring at nothing. B., who was adored by the students, looked after him from a distance. She would always remind us of the necessity of tolerance, about the fact that we were exceptional, that we were going to heal those on the outside as well, that we would change the world, that all people were equal and deserving of love, that the concept of mental illness belonged to a system of repression. And when Cyryl took the floor, he would speak coherently and logically, though slowly—we would listen to him tensely, waiting for some explosion of strangeness, a sign, a mark. When he finished, silence would reign. We needed time to recover. The usual hubbub would gradually return to its previous level. It seemed as if nothing was changing. It seemed as if all of this could just go on and on, life in emergency mode; maybe being on strike was the normal state of the world, self-evident, maybe it was closer to human nature than the clotted, suffocating, old order. And yet, somewhere beneath the lining, everything was becoming unbearable. Cyryl went mad one evening. He ran up and down the corridors throwing himself against the walls and screaming horribly, inhumanly. In the sudden silence his monstrous voice echoed ominously within the walls of the old Gestapo headquarters, on the poorly lit stair landings, it awakened us brutally from the dream of voting, the lists of postulates, the idea of the rotating strike. Terrified, we pressed up against the walls. B. ran after him, trying to calm him, hold him, hug him. He would break free. “Cyryl, Cyryl,” she repeated monotonously, as if trying to put him to sleep. Finally, he permitted himself to be stopped, and she and a few people from the clinical section took him off to some room. A professor of humanist psychology ordered us all to break up. So we tried to disperse throughout the long corridors, the classrooms, from where the awful yelling was still

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audible anyway. I could hear a dull thudding—Cyryl was banging his head against the wall. In the end, they called an ambulance. Moments later, we saw Cyryl being led out in a straitjacket. Anyone could have gone crazy in that confinement, we said as we commented on the incident among ourselves, in those stifling, dusty corridors, thick with cigarette smoke, with the only view from the building being the gray blocks of apartment buildings standing among bare trees. The earth had donned military camouflage—winter coloration—brown and white with irregular spots. Let it all be over. Let’s all go home. My nearest patient was Mrs. Topiel—she lived on Nowy Świat Street, the first gateway past Blikle’s Patisserie, a large courtyard with the townhouses built in an uneven square. A sand box, two benches, some cement garbage bins, a few maple trees, snowberry bushes. Mrs. Topiel's apartment was on the fifth floor, high up, and for that reason she was reluctant to leave it often. A tiny entryway, a single room, and a kitchen. The balcony window faced the street. Mrs. Topiel always looked out on Nowy Świat Street through her sheer curtains—things must have always seemed blurred to her, out of focus, crisscrossed by geometrical patterns. She went out twice a week, did some meagre shopping in the empty delicatessens, then she would go to the Amatorska Café for a glass of cognac. She had given up coffee long ago. Sometimes I arranged to meet her there. There was a time when we would sit occasionally at a table with Che Guevara, but she didn’t care for that. She watched his antics and the faces he made with disapproval. “Get a hold of yourself!” she would hiss at him. She would raise her glass to her lips. Only when Che left, his mess cans and threaded ammunition shells ringing, would she say: “It’s getting worse. I drink warm milk, I warm my feet with a hot water bottle, but it still doesn’t help. All night long I can’t sleep, at best I fall into phantom visions for a quarter of an hour or so, half-dreams, prolonged, without any sense, tiring. Oh, my child, what shall I do, what shall I do?” she would end dramatically and squeeze my hand with her thin fingers. “Perhaps you need a bit more fresh air?” I would ask naively; we had been playing this game for a long time. “Oh no, my dear child, I air the apartment out every evening for at least half an hour,” she would answer. “Perhaps there’s something too heavy in your diet?” I would attempt again. “No, no, dear, I eat my last meal at five.” “We could get you some sleeping tablets,” I would finally say.

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She would draw back from the table at this point and hold still for a moment in a position full of indignation. “I could never let it come to that, never,” she would finally manage. “Something awful would happen then, I don’t know what, but something awful.” “Let’s go for a walk, Mrs. Topiel.” That was all I could offer her. We would cross Foksal and Copernicus Streets, then take Świętokrzyska Street back to Nowy Świat. Or we would go in the other direction, towards the river; beyond the river tempting spaces opened up, which undoubtedly tempted both of us, though we never spoke of it. If only we could cross over into the brush on the river bank, walk along the river guided by its immemorial motion, leave the city, go deep into the frost-covered fields, travel country roads, step across willow-lined property boundaries. Perhaps reach the sea, or maybe the other way around—head south, over the mountains, then onto the great plain. Throw off our hats, then our gloves, finally leave our winter coats on the edge of a vineyard. Move ever more deeply into the longer days, let the light cleanse us. She was always trembling, no matter what the weather was like. Biting her lips, she would carefully examine every meter of sidewalk, the railings, the steps, she would check the curbs with the tip of her shoe. Sometimes, when she found some hole, some imperfection, some bit of rust, she would look knowingly and sadly at me. We would walk beside each other, bundled in our coats. She always made me observe carefully. I saw the city, always gray, coloured in various shades of gray, a city unpleasant to the touch, cold, chapped, cracked in half, with the river a wound right down its centre. From time to time, buses coasted soundlessly over the bridges, then came right back in the other direction. People were doubled by their reflections in great, dark display windows. White puffs of breath drifted from their lips like indecisive souls. Once she asked me where I lived and, upon hearing Zamenhof Street in reply, she covered her mouth in horror. “They shouldn’t have built houses on the cemetery. They should have separated the ghetto ruins from the rest of the country and made it into a true cemetery, a museum. Actually, that’s what they should have done with the whole city. They could have rebuilt Warsaw somewhere near Częstochowa, nearer the Holy Virgin, or on the Narew River, it’s so beautiful there. You must get out of there, my dear child.” I promised her many times to do so and would lead her back to her own apartment, as high up and narrow as a bird-house. I would brush the snow

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off her coat, brew her some madras tea in her white porcelain teapot, and put the potatoes on to boil. She would urge me: “Talk to me, ask me questions, tell me stories, wear me out, maybe I’ll fall asleep, I’ll definitely fall asleep that way, as soon as you leave.” So I would babble on about something. I would tell her about the strike, about the changes that would have to occur, about people, but essentially everything I said seemed very strange. The world from Mrs. Topiel’s apartment seemed unreal, its lack of life was cause for concern. There was nothing happening down there—from this height the banners were illegible, the sounds of the demonstrations were lost in the labyrinth of courtyards, echoing as a single, fading phrase without meaning. The city seemed built of roofs, antennas, and chimneys—a place for birds and clouds, for the eternally overcast sky, for darkness. Not for people. “Do you see, my child, it’s the end. Do you see how everything is blurred on the horizon?” “That’s the way it always is in this kind of weather,” I would comfort her. Back then, probably each and every one of us was taking part in some cosmic war. Maybe planetary influences were in conflict with one another? Yes, it must have been something like that. People lay in wait for one another, they shot at each other—at the pope, at Reagan, at Lennon. Everything seemed as if it were about to change in the next second into something else, something still unknown. Reality rose and fell in waves. Illusion and disillusion made way for each other in passing. The veils of Maya fluttered in the sunny wind. “I dream the world,” Mrs. Topiel would say, using water sparingly to wash our teacups in the sink and carefully wiping the teaspoons with a dishtowel, “I dream it, but I have trouble sleeping. There’s nothing you can do to help me,” she would add, “No one can. You just come here and we talk. The world is dying, it’s the end.” I didn’t believe her, but I had abandoned the idea of bringing her back down to earth. Why should we all have our feet on the ground, I asked myself. There’s nothing wrong with thinking you maintain the world in its existence, that you carry it on your shoulders like Atlas. That you are saving it, that you are dying for it. In a certain sense, it’s true. When seen from a certain point of view, this is an important truth. Mrs. Topiel’s ontology was like this: she believed that her sleep saved the world. That while she slept, the world—gone slightly bad, shabby, used up— regenerated itself. That by sleeping, she saved everything from death. Obviously no one knew about this—people are so pathetically two-dimensional (“like a sheet of paper,” she would say), only she and I and her doctor knew

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the truth. Even Mrs. Topiel’s daughter, a known TV personality, suspected nothing. She only drove her mother to the hospital when dejection and insomnia sent Mrs. Topiel into month-long depressions. “Why you?” I asked her at our first meeting and she had me cut up some finished crossword puzzles into little lettered squares. She used to make gigantic jigsaw puzzles out of them. It was not until a moment later that she raised her finger mysteriously and gestured towards heaven like John the Baptist. But how could she save the world if she suffered from insomnia? With glances she would indicate the people standing in crowded lines, the strike banners at the University—all of this was taking place because of the insomnia of Mrs. Anna Topiel, a retired Polish language teacher and long-time resident of Nowy Świat Street. As we drank bad madras tea from her beautiful, gilded teacups, she would explain that the world needed around eight hours of sleep. That’s not a lot. But, she would say, she could sleep no more than an hour or two, and at that not until just before dawn. She slept so lightly she could hear the world creaking in its foundations. It was true that the doctor had prescribed her pills that would help her sleep and improve her mood, but she couldn’t take them. You can’t manipulate the laws of reality with the aid of primitive pharmacology. I agreed with her. I dealt out the cards for a game of whist— the most boring of all card games. Administer boredom to her, trickle calmness down onto her in streams, lengthen my words, never arrive at the point, heat the silence until it glowed, dilute the tea with water as if it were a homeopathic drug, hum lullabies under my breath. Those were my charms. Once I saw her fall asleep. She was sitting in her armchair with her head leaning to the side, her face calm and beautiful. I went over to the window in spite of myself—I had to check. The sun had come out from behind the low, racing autumn clouds and spilled onto the roofs of the townhouses. I took the trolley to see him one afternoon just to check in and see if everything was alright. The strike had been changed into a rotating one, a large demonstration was scheduled for the next day at the University and another meeting was to take place yet that evening. For a long time, Che Guevara refused to open the door. I could hear his breath on the other side of the newspaper-covered door, the brush of his eyelashes against the peephole. “Password?” he asked. I slowly uttered the first words that came into my head, I don’t remember now what they were—sky, leaf, mess can, and then, after a moment’s pause, there was a rattle in the lock and the door opened.

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He didn’t look well. Dressed only in a gray, acrylic tracksuit, he seemed naked without his peculiar garb, the grenade belt, the helmet, and the military insignias. His entire body was shaking—a gaunt, little old man—the entire truth about him was now revealed. He wasn’t a child at all, or even a romping youth. He was a thin, prematurely aged old man with no childhood and no adulthood. He had gone straight from infancy to old age. Now he had to make up for lost time. Shuffling along in slippers that were too big for him, he led me into the interior of his newspaper-filled, one-room apartment. The windows were covered with old blankets and towels had been hung over them in turn from the curtain rods. His teeth were chattering either from fear or cold. Our breath spilled from our mouths like speech balloons in a comic strip. He told me they had had him under surveillance since morning. He told me they had first been watching him from the street, but now they had climbed a tree and were peering at him right through his window with binoculars and telescopes. That’s why he had covered them up. I was about to ask him who, who was watching him, who could possibly want to ambush you, you poor lunatic, but I didn’t ask. I bit my tongue. Any explanation would have only added to his insane vision; each word, each attempt to define the persecutor would have made the image all the stronger. So I didn’t say a word; I got started cooking some instant soup. He watched me, hoping that I would say something, he was shaking even more. I switched on the electric heater. “Do you want to go to the hospital?” I asked him, as we drank the hot soup from mugs. He told me it was too late. “I’ll call for help,” I said. He rushed to the door and blocked it with his body. “Out of the question. You can’t leave here. You’ve fallen into their trap. They’ll be knocking the door down any second.” I moved hesitantly in his direction and understood that I had a battle on my hands. That he wouldn’t let me out. He read my thoughts. He grabbed my hand and squeezed it. Both our fingers turned white with effort. In a sudden, hot rush of panic I realized I didn’t know what to do, I was on my own, I had to make myself into a calm and steady point of reference for this fear-crazed man. I had to overcome his quivering, reign in his fright, settle him down. I put my hand on his back, covered him with a blanket. I hugged him. I felt my own fear disappear like smoke. I felt like I was becoming a wide and flat, open plain, an unshakeable element of the landscape. Alright, I promised him, I wouldn’t leave until he

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was ready for me to go. I recalled Mrs. Topiel, that she couldn’t sleep and that the only salvation for the world is sleep, her sleep and our sleep. Only then would we regain our senses, our sleep would mend all the holes through which evil rises to the surface, impenetrable darkness. “Sleep, Che Guevara, go to sleep. Let’s get some sleep,” I repeated. I listed monotonously all of the objects that were getting ready for sleep, as if I were reciting a special litany—the bus stops and the road signs, the street lights and the steps in front of store entryways, cars and the chimneys on the roofs, trees, curbs, bicycles, the railings on the bridges, trolley tracks and garbage cans, candy wrappers and cigarette butts, ticket stubs and empty beer bottles. And all the streets in Saska Kępa—Francuska, Obrońców and Walecznych, Ateńska and Saska—and in the other districts as well, and finally, all the districts of the city, then the cities themselves. Katowice and Gdańsk. Wałbrzych and Lublin. Białystok and Mrągowo. Sleep is coasting in right above the ground, like a thunderclap, like dark, warm smoke. It is wrapping the entire country in a strange numbness. People everywhere are raising their hands to their faces to rub their tired eyes. On the road near Kalisz, cars are pulling over and their drivers are lying down to sleep on the side of the road, right in the snow. Trains are coming to a stop and dozing in the fields, ships are rocking monotonously at anchor in their roadsteads, the port siren is calling all to sleep. The shipyards are falling asleep and so are the assembly lines in factories. A TV anchor yawns on air and a moment later lies down to sleep before the eyes of the somnolently surprised viewers. I hugged him the way you hug children and there was nothing improper in it, nothing against the rules, because we were both equally tiny, equally small. We floated in that small, one-room apartment, full of newspapers, with its own electric heater, it was like a torn-off piece of the universe with fragile, transparent walls, a soap bubble above a great, cold city. Slow revolutions around an invisible centre. I felt his body go limp and grow heavy, as if it had ripened and were about to fall to the earth, where it would then begin to draw on good energy and he would no longer be left to flutter like a candy wrapper in the wind. It seemed as if locks, great river gates, had opened between us with a creaking, with solemnity, as if we had set a great mechanism in motion with our rocking, as if we had pushed the button. And now nothing could stop it—the rivers were flowing into one, his and mine, they came together in order to unite and mingle, and for a moment I had the joyful impression that this was the way it had to be, that I would take his fear into myself and dissolve it within me like a lump of ice in warm water. And that, if all could be weighed and counted, if the difference between his fear and my peace could be measured, I would come out ahead; I was vaster than

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him, there was more of me. My river was warmer, well-fed by the plains, heated by the sun. His was barely a small stream, icy and restless. And as soon as I had had that thought, I started to grow afraid, because I began to lose my contours. The small stream gathered itself and grew stormy, crashed with force, tearing into the riverbed. It carried with it a kind of sludge, it grew cloudy, attacked with growing fury. But all of this was happening down in the depths and couldn’t be seen. Che Guevara closed his eyes and sighed. It seemed as if he were on the verge of sleep. But down below, the battle had begun, the advance, violence, invasion. Down below, the innocent old man was pushing back, forcing me to breath in time to his panicked rhythm. Waves of panic began to flow from him to me, like ripples on water. Little shards of ice brought with them a trembling, which slowly overcame my entire body. I was trying to fend off something awful, monstrous, something with bared fangs, but I knew that no escape was possible. For this was the final state, this state was fundamental. Everything else was an illusion. And I suddenly understood that Che Guevara was right—how could I not have realized it before?—they are watching us, they’re sitting in the tree, they’re preparing their worst torture chambers for us, they know everything about us. Those indistinct people, dark figures made of shadow, but somehow connected by a slimy umbilical cord to the dark interior of the earth. Exactly. Why shouldn’t they be sitting in the tree, since, as we all know, they’re capable of anything? Why shouldn’t they be observing us through binoculars from the poplar by the window? How could I have thought such things merely absurd? Dozens of men in dark jackets stealing down alleyways; militia dogs hidden in courtyards; the soft crackling of radios; the stalk-like eyes of night-vision cameras aimed at every window. They’ve got tons of equipment in their secret bases that we’ve never even dreamed of. They’re keeping watch on all of us. They direct history, pull the strings, turn our brains into mush, force us to see what they want us to see—and we see it. They prepare readymade opinions for us and shove them up right up in front of our noses—and we repeat them. They print false newspapers in which they describe the world the way they feel like it. They force us to believe in something that doesn’t exist and to deny what is obvious. And we do it. They impersonate our friends and—yes, yes—I can never even be certain whether the image I see in the mirror is really me. I leaped up, pulled the towels and curtains tighter over the windows and, just to be on the safe side, turned off the main gas line. I ticked off on my fingers all the locks on the door to make sure they were all bolted. He was staring at me with the eyes of someone who knew. “See? See? Didn’t I tell you so? Didn’t I tell you so?” he babbled.

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We sat there until morning on a makeshift bed of newspapers, holding one another. All night long strange ideas blossomed in my head, like those pale white flowers that bloom on the window panes on frosty nights. I would rub them out, but they kept growing back, though hour by hour they were smaller. Perhaps the coming dawn was driving them away. In the end, I must have fallen asleep, because his voice and the bubbling of water in the teapot woke me up. He was standing by the gas stove buttoning an empty cardboard holster to his belt. The curtains were already open, a cold, metallic light shone into the room. “It’s all over,” he said. “They’re gone. But they’ll be back.” My mind reeled like I had just smoked a whole pack of cigarettes, like I had passed out and someone was trying to bring me around. I looked around the apartment in disbelief. I looked with suspicion out at the tree branches. I ran my eyes over the headlines of the scattered newspapers. I’ve had an anxiety attack, I thought, I’ve had a psychotic episode. He infected me, I let myself get infected, he hypnotized me, I succumbed to his suggestion. “Che, you’re going to the hospital. I’m going to call right now.” He didn’t object and began to gather his things. Once I got out onto the street, my thoughts slowly began to return, shaking themselves off like wet dogs. They came running in for roll-call, began to regroup. They stood straight in rows at attention, got into formation. Each of them began to count off. The streets were empty, but it was Sunday. There’s a demonstration today. The emergency number. Mrs. Topiel—I should call her and ask her if she had at least slept well last night. I got to the telephone booth and dialled the number a few times, but the telephone must have been broken. No trolley cars were running. I crossed the bridge to the other side of the city when, on Aleje Jerozolimskie, I saw a cavalcade of armoured cars coasting along like thunder. (2001)

Translated by Chris Caes

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Biographies

Zsófia Balla was born in Cluj-Napoca in 1949. She attended the Music Academy of her home town and worked as editor for Hungarian music and literature at the Hungarian language department of Radio Cluj. From 1978 to 1982 she directed the literature circle “Gaál Gabor” of Cluj Lit­ erature Society. Between 1980 and 1982 she served as head of Music Cir­ cle in Dej. Both circles were prohibited. Balla was not allowed to leave Romania throughout the 1980s. Her journalistic activities were limited to issues of industry and agriculture while the publication of her works was partially proscribed. After the Romanian Revolution she was employed as an editor for literature by several journals (until 1994). In 1993 she reset­ tled in Budapest, where she has been living as a freelance writer ever since. Prizes: Life-Work Award of the Soros Foundation (1995), Attila Jozsef Prize (1996), Palladium Award (2003), Babérkoszorú [Wreath of Laurels of the Hungarian Republic] (2008). Publications: Schönes, trauriges Land [Beautiful, dolorous country] (1998, Suhrkamp), Spirituoso (1999, Magyar Lettre Internationale), Schwerkraft und Mitte [Gravity and centre] (2001, Berlin Artists-in-Residence programme). Mikoláš Chadima was born in Cheb in 1952. He has been a protagonist of the Czech alternative rock music scene since the 1970s and one of its most creative and nonconformist artists as leader of the band MCH. He was persecuted by Czechoslovak secret police due to his political activity (signatory of Charter 77). Chadima played at innumerable concerts (offi­ cial, nonofficial and also illegal gigs). Prizes: Band of the Year (1981), Album of the Year (1991), Žlutá motorka [Golden motorbike] (1998). Selected works: MCH Band, MCH Band 1982–1986 (1992, Tom K), MCH Band Karneval (1999, Black Point), Tagesnotizen [Daily annotations], MCH Band, Mikoláš Chadima & Jürgen Fuchs (2002, Black Point). Gabriel Chifu was born in Calafat in 1954. He studied automation and computers. In 1972 he made his debut as a poet. His poems and half a

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dozen novels received international acclaim. Chifu is the secretary of the Writer’s Union of Romania and editor in chief of Ramuri review. He is the author of: Angels and Gods (1992, The Poetry Miscellany), Povestirile lui Cesar Leofu [The stories of Cesar Leofu] (2002, Cartea Românească), Visul copilului care păşeşte pe zăpadă fără să lase urme sau Invizibilul descriere amănunţită [The dream of the child who steps on snow without leaving footprints] (2004, Polirom), O sută de poeme [100 poems] (2006, Ramuri). Jiří Dědeček was born in Karlovy Vary in 1953. The songwriter, poet and translator studied library sciences at Charles University (1975) and screenplay and dramaturgy at FAMU Film University (1985) in Prague. Dědeček is President of the Czech Center of International P.E.N. His most known works are: Měsíc nad sídlištěm [The moon over the housing estate] (1987, Středočeské nakl. a knihkupectví), Písničky [Songs] (1992, Konvoj), Reprezentant lůzy [Populace representative] (1994, Orbis), Bát se a krást [Fear and steal] (2005, Galen). Kristina Kaiserová was born in Varnsdorf in 1956. She studied history and Czech language at the Charles University in Prague. The former archivist of Děčín District Archive has been a member of the Institute for SlavicGermanic Studies at the University of Jan Evangelista Purkyně in Ústí nad Labem since 1990. She was promoted director of the institute and selected for the vice deanship for science and foreign relationship of the new established Faculty of Philosophy in 2006. Kaiserová is a member of various academic associations, such as the Society for History of Germans in the Czech lands, the Historic committee for the Czech Lands and the Czech- German Committee of Historians. Her long-term research interests comprise regional centers of Germans in the Czech lands and confessional questions, including those of academic institutions. Astrid Köhler was born in Elgersburg (Thuringia) in 1965. From 1983 to 1989 she studied German at the Friedrich Schiller University of Jena where she was an active member of the student reform group in 1989/1990. After finishing her PhD at the Free University in Berlin in 1994, she worked as DAAD-Lektorin at the University of Cambridge, and since 1995 she has taught at Queen Mary and Westfield College, University of London. Selected publications: Salonkultur im klassischen Weimar. Geselligkeit als Lebensform und literarisches Konzept [Salon Culture in Classical Weimar. Sociability as Life and Literary Concept] (1996, Metzler) and Brückenschläge. DDR-Autoren vor und nach der Wiedervereinigung [Bridging the Chasm. East German Writers Before and After ReUnification] (2007, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht).

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Denisa Mirena Pişcu was born in Rădăuţi (district of Suceava) in 1980. She studied literature at the University of Bucharest. The journalist and translator managed various cultural projects in Bucharest. In 1992 she published her first selection of poems. In 2003 she was awarded the prize for the best poetry debut by the Association of Writers in Bucharest (ASB) and the Writer’s Union of Romania, Braşov branch (USR) for her book of poems Pufos şi mecanic [Fluffy and mechanical] (2003). Here texts appeared in: Antologie Generaţia 2000 [Generation 2000 anthology] (2004), Cenaclul Euridice [Euridice literary circle] (2004), Al doilea top [The second top] (2004), Douămiismul poetic românesc [Generation 2000 in Romanian poetry] (2007). Lutz Rathenow was born in Jena in 1954. He trained as a German and History teacher. He was head of the local literature and lyrics workshops until its prohibition in 1975. Rathenow was arrested and relegated from university in 1977. A subsequent arrest following the publication of his Mit dem Schlimmsten wurde schon gerechnet [The worst was already reckoned with] in West Germany provoked international pressure and led to swift release. 15,000 pages of State Security Service documents are proof of his dissident activities. He is the author of many books: Sisyphos. Erzählungen [Sisyphus. Stories] (1995, Berlin Verlag), Ost-Berlin—Leben vor dem Mauerfall [East Berlin—before the fall of the wall] (2005, Jaron Verlag, coauthor Harald Hauswald), Ein Eisbär aus Apolda [A polar bear from Apolda] (2006, Leiv), Gelächter, sortiert. Neue Gedichte [Laughter, sorted. New poems] (2008, Verlag Ralf Liebe). Gert Röhrborn was born in Erlabrunn in 1979. The political scientist, analyst and moderator is coordinator of the project Overcoming Dictatorships – the Encounter of Poets, Artists and Writers at Dresden Technical University. Among his various political and civic activities during the last 10 years is the vice presidency of the European network Citizens of Europe. His major research interests are dissidents in Central Eastern Europe, the European Union with its regions and citizens, as well as education and migration. Spiró György was born in Budapest in 1946. A dramatist, essayist and novelist, he studied Russian, Serbo-Croatian and Hungarian literature at the Eötvös Loránd University. He worked as radio journalist and editor in Corvina Publishing House (1971–1976). A long-standing lecturer at the Eötvös Loránd University in Budapest, he also held the position of artistic and managing director at the Szigligeti Theater in Szolnok (1992– 1995). Spiró was awarded a number of prizes, among them: Hungarian Artist's Union Grand Prix for Literature (2003), Republic of Hungary's Officer

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Cross (2005), Kossuth Prize (2006). Selected works: Az ikszek [The X-es] (1981, Mozgó Világ); Fogság [Captivity] (2005, Magvető); Messiások [Messiahs] (2007, Magvető). Alessandro Tamburini was born in Rovereto in 1954. He works as Literature and History teacher in Trent. Tamburini wrote screenplays for cinema and TV, and collaborated with various magazines and newspapers. He was awarded the Ginzane Cavour Prize for L’onore delle armi. He is the author of many books depicting life in fascist Italy, like: L'onore delle armi [The honour of arms] (1997, Bompiani) and Bagaglio leggero [Light luggage] (2006, Pequod). Among his other recent books are Due volte l'alba [Two dawns] (2002, Marsilio) and Uno sconosciuto alla porta [A stranger at the door] (2008, Pequod). Wolfgang Templin was born in Jena in 1948. He studied philosophy at Humboldt University in Berlin from 1970–1974, as well as in Poland in 1976/1977. His committed political activities (e.g. co-founder of the Initiative for Peace and Human Rights) resulted in various arrests and a temporary deportation to West Germany in 1988. During the fall of communism he was a member of the Round Table and co-founder of Bündnis 90/Grüne [Green party]. Templin is known as the author of several books on Eastern Europe: Die Emanzipation der DDR und die hilflose westdeutsche Linke [The emancipation of the GDR and the forlorn West German left] (1989, Klartext Verlag); Gesamtberlin—eine Fiktion? Ostberliner Erblasten im Vereinigungsprozess der deutschen Hauptstadt [United Berlin—just fiction? East Berlin‘s legacy for the unification process of the German capital] (1999, Nicolaische Verlagsbuchhandlung); Fraß die Revolution von 1989 ihre Kinder? [Did the 1989 Revolution devour its children?] (2001, Akademische Verlagsanstalt); Farbenspiele—die Ukraine nach der Revolution in Orange [Play of colours—Ukraine after the Orange Revolution] (2007, fibre). Olga Tokarczuk was born in Sulechów in 1962. She is the most acclaimed and successful Polish writer of the young generation. Tokarczuk studied psychology at the University of Warsaw and published her debut novel Podróż ludzi księgi in 1993. Since 2004 she arranges the Festival of Short Stories in Wrocław. Various prizes account for her lasting popularity: Award of Kościelski’s Foundation (1997), Paszport POLITYKI (1997), NIKE Literary Award (2002, audience award). The most known works by Tokarczuk are: Podróż ludzi księgi [The journey of the book people] (1993, Przedświt); Prawiek i inne czasy [Primeval and the other times] (1996, Wydawnictwo Literackie); Dom dzienny, dom nocny [House of day, house of night] (1998, Ruta); Bieguni (2007, Wydawnictwo Literackie).

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Eduard Vacek was born in Hradec Králové in 1947. He worked as an electrician in research and development for numerous enterprises. In 1982 he founded the Pataphysics Council and has been the editor of the Pataphysics magazine Clinamen since 1994. Between 1990 and 1992 he was a deputy of the Czech Parliament. Later on Vacek studied social education at the College of Pedagogy in Most and worked in the Cabinet of Documentation and History of the National Prison Service. His most known works are: Občanský prukaz prosím [Your ID, please] (1986, Vokno); Svinodas [The swine devils] (1999, Nonlibri); Cesta [The fairy journey] (2003, Clinamen); Rozumím svým deviantùm [I understand my deviants] (2004, Clinamen).

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