Christ Almighty! Every day, he came into the houses of the workers, spoke to their kids, kids of all ages, including Petra’s. They had no such problems!...Or did they?
“Look here, Petra, I know you’re not really a child any more. But if I concede that you’re grown-up, I must consider myself old, and I don’t like the idea.”
It fell flat.
“You’re in love,” Petra said dully. “You love Kitty.”
“Of course I love Kitty! And I love Thomas, and your father, and your mother, and you, too. And I love the few friends I have. Maybe your trouble is that you don’t try to love the people you should love!”
“My father and mother don’t love me,” she said in the same dull voice. “They don’t know what’s inside of me and what I want. I’m so alone, Karel.”
At the thought of her loneliness, her voice clouded and her shoulders fell and she became very much the child.
“Sit here, Petra.” He led her to the big chair and made her sit down in it.
He walked up and down, the table between her and him, trying to conceal his compassion, trying to find a constructive approach. How could he straighten her out without treating her as a grownup? How could he treat her as a grownup, without acknowledging her right to her feelings?
“People grow and develop,” he began hesitantly, “and as they do they go through certain crises. When I was your age, my mother—your grandmother Anna—died. And your grandfather Peter Benda, after whom you were named, was a difficult man. Well, I had my brothers, so I wasn’t so alone. But you know how different we are from each other, your father, and your Uncle Thomas, and myself. The best thing I ever did was to leave home and go to Prague to study. I had to fight for it, too; because your grandfather Peter was against it. In Prague, I met people my own age who shared my interests, and I made friends, and all the problems that I thought I’d never master suddenly became clear and simple. If I had stayed in Rodnik, I believe I would have grown up to be a very unhappy man—”
“Do you want me to go to school in Prague?” she asked, with apparent interest.
“We could think about it.”
“And you would tell my father to send me?”
“I would—if you wanted me to—”
She dropped her sensible manner. “You want to get rid of me!” she said with deep bitterness.
“You would find friends—” he said. “Girls your own age—”
She jumped up. “I don’t want girls my own age!” She snatched up her coat and kerchief, and threatened, “If you tell my father to send me to Prague—I’ll never forgive you....”
“Petra!” Karel caught her hand and held it. “Get hold of yourself!”
“Take me home,” she said, “please.”
“She gave us some fright!” Joseph said.
Karel nodded slowly. “I wanted to telephone you, but it just wasn’t possible.”
“We weren’t home, anyhow,” said Joseph. “You don’t know how badly I feel about this. Just imagine if something had really happened to her—but she’s a big girl, she should know how to take care of herself. I always forget. I always see her as she was years ago, such a cuddly little thing....What got into her? Why did she come to you?”
Karel sipped his drink.
“Refill?” asked Joseph.
“Yes, thanks. That’s good brandy!”
“The best.”
“There is nothing seriously wrong with her. The only thing wrong is that she had to come to me. She’s alone too much.”
“I know.”
“She’s not a baby, Joseph. In this day and age, they grow up fast, they need someone to help them.”
“I don’t understand it,” Joseph said glumly. “When we were that young, we had friends. We weren’t particular. But the girls she meets in school seem to leave her cold. Maybe they’re a different class of girls, maybe it’s because she was away from Rodnik for so long....If I’m elected, I’m going to take her with me to Prague.”
Karel thoughtfully fingered the line of his jaw. If you tell my father to send, me to Prague, I’ll never forgive you, Petra had said.
“If you’re elected,” he argued. “And if you’re not? And meanwhile? May is a long way off....Petra is your child. But what are you doing? What’s Lida doing?—Business, business, politics!”
The planes on Joseph’s face appeared hollow. He was overworked, harassed—and now this. “I love the kid,” he said, “but I’ve got so little chance to show it to her. I was a stranger to her when I came back from England, and I’m afraid that I’ve become more of a stranger to her since.”
“You have to give up something, Joseph. Suppose you succeed and become a big man and get all the power you want—and your child breaks up in the process?”
Lida entered quietly. “I’m all in,” she said. “That was the last straw.” She sank into a chair and accepted a brandy from Joseph. “Why did she run away? Did she tell you, Karel?”
“No, she didn’t,” he lied. “And I don’t think you can call it running away. She paid me a visit—she even cleaned my house!”
“I wish she’d do that around here sometimes!” remarked Lida. “She could have told the maid where she was going, couldn’t she? She’s an intelligent child, she must have had an idea of what we would feel when we came back and found her gone!”
Joseph set his glass down, hard. “How is she now? Do you think I should go up and kiss her good night?”
“I kissed her good night,” said Lida. “She lay down and turned over and fell asleep.”
“Exhaustion,” said Karel.
“I felt her forehead,” Lida observed, “it was cool.”
Karel looked at her. “There’s no fever. Nothing physical.”
“She’s too young to have a case of nerves,” Lida stated categorically.
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” replied Karel. “I’ve just told Joseph that I thought it best if he devoted some of his electioneering time to his child.”
Lida sat up. “That’s your medical opinion?”
“Yes, that’s my medical opinion. And my opinion as Joseph’s brother, and as someone who loves Petra.”
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that your friend Professor Stanek announced his candidacy, today?”
“He did?” Karel ruffled his hair and studied her for a moment. “Lida, I don’t see how a woman of your business acumen can be so stupid outside her office. Don’t you love your child?”
She stared at him with hostile eyes. “Who brought her up? You, Karel? You, Joseph? I’ll take care of her. That’s my job. But I refuse to have her silly notions interfere with what Joseph has to do.”
“I guess it is your job.” Karel got up. “I’d like to look in on her before I leave.”
Petra was sleeping and sighing in her sleep. She lay curled up, her thin body looking more like a child’s than ever.
CHAPTER TEN
In the struggle against brute oppression, the complexion of Freedom necessarily gains a rosy hue which pales, once oppression is removed. A closer inspection shows the gaunt head of Responsibility peering over the shoulder of Freedom. Like two who are married they constantly clash; but also they complement one another.
An investigation into the problem of Freedom, therefore, must lead us to an examination of the question of social order. This train of thought is not my discovery. It has pursued the ideological leaders of our nation for centuries, perhaps because the Czech people, cruelly suppressed for the larger part of its history, has dreamed of freedom more fervently than any other.
And I have derived a kind of consolation from the fact that many minds before me were caught in this conflict between the ideal of freedom and the necessity of responsibility. Some could not arrive at solutions; those who did, do not agree.
In the Labyrinth of the World, which our great educator John Amos Comenius published in 1623, I came on the following passage:
The world, ever perverse, grasping a shadow
in place of the truth, imagines that liberty consists in being free, in serving no one. A Christian acts far differently: for he, after fortifying well his own heart that it may preserve its freedom in God, employs all else in ministering to the needs of his fellows.
How much more this is than the grudging, “Render unto Caesar!” For your fellow man, especially if organized in society, can be a very exacting customer....—From THOMAS BENDA: Essay on Freedom
HERE he was in Prague, and all the arrangements had been made for him. Though he would never say it aloud, Thomas felt that the world owed him the smoothing of his road. Egon Barsiny, Doctor of Philosophy, Chief Editor and part owner of Humanita Publishers, had done just that. Dr. Barsiny had written a most flattering, most enthusiastic letter. Miss Elinor Simpson had mentioned the Essay to him. Would Mr. Thomas Benda come to Prague, all expenses paid, to discuss the book and to sign a contract?
The whole affair was simple and beautiful, and there was the kind of money in it which Thomas needed. But once in Prague, Thomas’s mood changed and his doubts returned. It was true that Humanita, before the war, had published his novel; but the men who had staffed the house then, a somewhat lackadaisical, tolerant, bohémien crowd with a flair for the extraordinary, were gone and dead. Dr. Barsiny was a new man, an unknown quantity; his publishing program, from the catalogue enclosed in the letter, was all-inclusive and tending to the popular, and its tone had been too aggressive for Thomas’s taste.
Also, there was a question of ethics. He could well imagine Elinor’s sales talk on the “Essay on Freedom.” Elinor had sold Dr. Barsiny Elinor’s idea of the book. Barsiny should be told the truth before he bought and paid. Only what was the truth in this case?
The train came in shortly after noon, and Thomas felt too tired to call Barsiny and see him that same day. He checked in at the Aurora Hotel, far removed from the heart of town and from the Alcron where Elinor was staying. He wanted to rest, but sleep would not come; so he went out to visit some of the coffeehouses he had frequented in pre-war Prague. They had changed. A mob of youngish, pimple-faced people with long hair filled the first one. They wore sloppy clothes, shouted terms he did not understand, and perused small printed sheets which, at first, he could not identify. A sleazy waiter offered him a table; Thomas sat down but postponed ordering. After a while, it came to him that these young people were discussing horses, and that this coffeehouse, once the haunt of the literati, had become a hangout for good-for-nothings who made their living by betting on French horse races.
He went to the next coffeehouse. No one of the theatrical clique he’d known before the war was there. Only a few tables were occupied; they seemed to have been chosen with a view to creating a no man’s land between each cluster of guests. Thomas noticed that everyone examined him furtively as he came in. He sat down near the wall and reached for the day’s papers which hung in light wooden holders on a hook above him. Eventually the customers, satisfied that he was not out to disturb them, resumed their whispered conversations.
Thomas, a glass of ersatz tea before him, observed them over the rim of his paper. They were men of all ages, even the older ones a little flashy in appearance, and they had endless time. Often, they would cease talking altogether, and stare into space, or jot down something on the cardboard coasters that were served with their beers. Suddenly, they would lean deep over their table, their hands would go under it, and they would sit up again, lean back, and smile. Then one of them would get up and leave, while the other remained until new people entered and came to his table.
Thomas was so fascinated by this pattern and by the puzzle of what they might be doing, that he started when the man spoke to him. The man had been standing next to him for a while, hands in pockets, softly rocking back and forth on his rubber heels.
“Would you have a light?” asked the man.
A box of matches was stuck on the ash tray on Thomas’s table, as it was on every other table in the coffeehouse. “Why, certainly!” said Thomas, struck a match, and held it up to the man.
The man sat down facing him. He pulled out a pack of American cigarettes and pushed it over to Thomas. “Help yourself!”
“Thank you!” Thomas took one and lit it with the match he had offered. The man was not smoking.
“What do you want here?” the man said calmly.
Thomas pointed at the orange-colored fluid in his glass. “The tea....I want to drink my tea.”
“Where are you from?”
The man’s whole approach, his questions, his insolence reminded Thomas of the gangster movies he had seen in America. The waiter stood at the far end of the room, studying the empty air.
“I’m from Rodnik.”
“Ah—from out of town?”
“Yes, out of town.”
“Do you want to buy dollars?”
Thomas smiled. He felt a lot easier, but also disenchanted. “I’m not interested, thank you.”
“Do you want to sell dollars?”
“I haven’t got any.”
“That’s too bad.” The man rose. “I could have given you a decent rate. Well, next time you come around, maybe we can do business.”
“Yes,” said Thomas, “next time.” He called the waiter and paid for the tea, though he had not touched it, and left.
The rest of the afternoon, he walked through the streets, unmindful of the slush on the pavements. The crooked old houses, each one with its own history, the passageways leading him through ancient courtyards surprisingly from one quarter to another, failed to intrigue him. He was thinking of freedom, and of the money-changers and race-track touts who were part of that freedom, too. And the more he thought about that, the less he felt like confronting Dr. Barsiny, today, tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow.
That night he attended the concert of the Moravian Teachers’ Chorus, and had himself moved to tears by the clear, simple sound of their a cappella voices, by the naïveté of their songs; there was even something touching in the way these solid, elderly men with their starched white shirt fronts and their black tails opened their mouths wide and gave themselves to the spirit of their music.
He stuck to his room most of the next day, but in the evening he went to the National Theater where they were giving E. F. Burian’s new opera Marysha. He knew of it. Burian had taken a play based on a folk theme and had set it to music, using the drama’s text as his libretto.
It was always difficult for Thomas to find his way to modern music, but some of Burian’s melodies emerged above the atonal and held him. What struck him as most remarkable was that the true hero of the work was an almost inarticulate man—who attained stature and whose full voice burst from him only in the last five minutes of the final act. It was an artistic surprise, and he admired Burian for having seen the operatic possibilities in the role and for having carried out musically the original conception of the character in the play.
“Thomas! Thomas Benda!”
He shrunk. The crowd in the lobby, piled around the wardrobe desks for their topcoats and wraps, still kept Elinor hidden from him; but she was pushing through. She came toward him trailed by a bevy of men in tuxedos whom she proceeded to introduce.
He was grateful for that; it eliminated having to apologize for being in Prague and not yet having called on her.
He did not catch any of the names, and only some of the titles. One of her entourage was an official of the American Embassy; the other a Czech editor; a third was a character actor in the motion picture studios on the Barrandov. It was exactly as it had been in America—Elinor and her stable; and the memory twinged, for he had been part of it.
“Of course you all have heard of my dear friend Thomas Benda,” said Elinor. “Thomas, you absolutely must join us. It was mean of you not to call me, but I’ll forgive you if you come with us. Wasn’t the opera something? Sam here”—she pointed at the pale-blond American—“says he never heard anything quite as much like caterwauling. But he knows nothing about music, he’s a diplomat,
aren’t you, Sam? Is Kitty with you? No? Then what are you waiting for?”
They left the theater, Elinor taking Thomas’s arm. Across the quay, the Möldau River lay sluggish under a partial cover of ice; the cold air hit Thomas’s forehead. He wanted to say that he preferred going back to his hotel; but knowing that this would not help him and that fate had pounced on him, he gave up.
*****
He was awakened by the hammers that were beating at his temples. He lay on a strange sofa, in a strange room, clad in a pair of silk pajamas much too wide for him. He tried to massage his cheeks and withdrew his fingers, disgusted by the stubbles.
Slowly, the room became familiar; he recognized the chrysanthemum wallpaper and the yellow chair. A great number of ash trays stood around, filled with innumerable cigarette butts, and on a low table in the corner were half-empty bottles and used glasses.
He groaned and sat up. How had that happened? And what had happened? Nausea slowly rose from his stomach. Oh my God—the same thing all over again! As on the night train from St. Louis to Kansas City....
He tried to remember. There had been a lot of talk and a lot of witticism and a lot of hot political information. All of this had been bandied about, and everybody had acted as if he were on the inside of everything. Thomas had tried to follow, but much of what was said had been allusion; he had understood only half and had become bored. And his boredom had given way to depression—all these voices, all this empty motion, books that were discarded with a few words, ideas that were ridiculed with a gesture....
So he had kept on drinking.
His jacket and pants hung over a chair; his underwear, folded, lay on an end table next to it. He stood up shakily and got a whiff of his own smell; he reeked of stale liquor and perspiration. His head was popping.
He maneuvered his bare feet between the ashes on the rug to the chair and the end table. He stumbled and crashed against the chair as he tried to hold himself upright.
The door opened.
Elinor, fresh and trim, her face pink, her silver-gray hair carefully brushed, eyed him with amusement and said, “Good morning, Thomas! There’s a pot of black coffee, real coffee, in my bedroom. Would you like to take a cold shower, first?”
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