“Yes, it can be done differently,” confirmed Joseph, moving his hands slightly. “And if I still owned the Works, I’d have it done. I’d save myself money. I’d have the furnace going after a few days. And if something went wrong, I would take the blame. But as it is, I’m only an employee. I can’t take any risks.”
Kravat sensed that from behind the wall of his smugness Joseph was trying to feel him out.
“The trouble is, you misunderstand me,” shrugged Joseph. “After that meeting in the auditorium, you think I’m a sonofabitch.”
Kravat did not answer.
“I am, but not by choice. I wish I could be open and aboveboard; but if I were, you fellows would trample all over me.”
Still Kravat said nothing.
Joseph seemed to make himself ready for a plunge. “I’ll tell you, Kravat—if I look at this furnace, it feels to me as if I look at a piece of myself. I cannot get accustomed to the idea that it no longer belongs to me. But if I act on my impulse, if I say, Let’s try and repair it over the week end, you’re going to call me a slave driver. If I order the men to rip up the opening under the grate and to go inside the furnace while it’s still burning hot, they’ll reply: Go to hell! This isn’t the old times! Who’s this Joseph Benda that he wants us to scorch our hands and our eyes and our lungs! He doesn’t care what happens to us as long as he gets that furnace back in shape for the elections!”
So it’s the elections, thought Kravat. But he said quietly, “We happen to feel that the furnace belongs to us.”
“I built it!” said Joseph.
“We built it. With our hands.”
Joseph watched Kravat and gauged to what extent the man had lost his reserve. “Let’s not quibble,” he said. “Let’s admit that you and I and all of us feel the same about the furnace.”
“The same,” said Kravat, “and not the same.”
At that moment Joseph reversed himself again. “No,” he said, “a quick repair won’t be possible.”
“And why not?” Kravat asked, his suspicion once more alerted by Joseph’s fast switch.
“Because of your socialism, Kravat! Because you’ve wished on us regulations and restrictions and official interferences—and a Works doctor. And I know my brother Karel! He once saw a man die under a furnace grating, in this very hall. Matjey was his name; it was before your time. And since then, Karel has soaked up the wisdom of the universities, where they think it’s impossible for a man to work in a temperature of three hundred degrees centigrade. What do they know in their laboratories about how much a Czech glassworker can take...”
Kravat no longer listened closely. All this talk of Joseph’s about a personal relation to the furnace was hogwash. There was only one thing for which Joseph had feeling—his profits. And those had been crimped. Joseph was delighted with a legal excuse for cutting out six weeks’ production!
“Don’t underestimate Karel!” Joseph went on. “He’s got connections. And he’d never give his permission for the kind of emergency repairs you and I have in mind. Or if he gave it, he’d insist on checking every man and his lungs and his heart and what not, and by the time he was through, we wouldn’t have a dozen men left for the job, and the furnace would be dead and cold, and it would take us weeks to get it going again. All I can say, Kravat, is that you’re skidding in your own mess.”
Now Joseph was hiding behind Karel. In the back of Kravat’s mind the angry voice sounded again, My responsibility is the health of the workers! It was Kravat’s responsibility, too, but there was a greater one: production, the future. And as opposed to the books and the laboratories was the fact that glassworkers had stepped into glowing hot furnaces when the professors at the universities still preached that the sun circled around the earth.
Kravat rose. Whatever arguments Joseph was spinning for or against, whatever snares he was laying, had probably to do with the elections or some other underhanded plot that would defeat itself before long. But here was the empty platform around the furnace, and here was the work waiting to be done! Kravat called over the foreman, the melter, and the masters.
“Mr. Benda and I,” he said, “feel that we should try to repair the furnace without tearing it apart, unless we find on further investigation that the damage is too heavy.”
The men nodded and mumbled that they agreed.
“In that way we won’t lose more than a few days of work.”
The approval became distinct.
“You all have previous experience in jobs of this kind?”
The men said they had, and some of them claimed to have participated any number of times in repairing a hot furnace.
A shadow glided over Kravat’s face. “We’ll be very careful, though! Anybody who’s got trouble with his heart or his lungs will be excused.”
Joseph looked at the scene. His despondency was gone completely, and he had the indifferent expression of a bystander. There would be no attack on him over the breakdown of the furnace, now or in the future. Kravat and the men were identified with him. The group, the committee, the council had always been the weapon of his enemies; he had wrested it from them and bent it to his own purposes.
“We can’t start this job on Sunday,” Kravat continued, “because that’s election day. So get everyone to report on Monday at five in the morning. I’ll join you myself.”
Joseph, hands in his pockets, stepped among the group. “I’d like to say that I agree absolutely with Kravat’s proposals. And if you men will let me, I’ll come around here sometime on Monday and take a fling myself at going into the furnace.”
“I’ll be God-damned,” said Kravat, “if you’re not still electioneering!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE SECOND-CLASS carriage on the evening local from Prague had only one passenger detraining at Rodnik—Elinor Simpson. Few people were traveling on that Saturday before the elections; almost everyone was staying close to his home and polling place. The propaganda of all four political parties had stressed the urgency of voting in this first regular election after the war, and the people took their duty seriously, particularly because in the years under the Nazis they had been deprived of this right.
The conductor, pleased by the presence of the interesting foreigner on his usually boring run, and expecting an ample tip, handed her baggage through the window to the Rodnik station dispatcher. The dispatcher carted the bags across the tracks to the ticket window before returning to the side of the train and signaling the engineer to pull out. As the train chugged off and rattled into the distance, he turned to Elinor and said, “My compliments, gracious lady!” and asked her with unconcealed curiosity where she was headed.
She did not answer. What little Czech she had picked up was not sufficient to understand the dispatcher’s colloquial question; besides, she had hardly heard him because she was fascinated by a huge poster slapped on the side wall of the station. It showed the upper half of a tall man in silk hat and formal attire, one large, fat hand grabbing a moneybag, the other choking the throat of an ill-fed, ill-clad, and generally unhappy-looking worker. The strange thing about the poster was that while the face under the silk hat was a pig’s, it had, on closer inspection, certain unmistakable characteristics of Joseph Benda—his high cheekbones, his heavy-lidded eyes, his cleft chin. Somebody had done an excellent and devastating caricature. Elinor could well imagine Joseph’s slow burning anger on seeing it the first time. She was able to translate the slogans splashed across the sheet. Do you want this back again? was printed on top; and underneath, over the stomach of the man with the pig’s face: If you don’t—Vote Communist! Vote for Stanek!
“Where do you wish to go, madame?” the dispatcher repeated, this time in German.
Haltingly, she explained that she would like a taxi to take her to the residence of Mr. Joseph Benda.
The dispatcher inclined his head toward the poster. “Poor Mr. Benda!” he said regretfully. “What they don’t do to such a good and kind man!...Shall I phone for the t
axi?”
She said thank you, and he went to his official telephone behind the ticket window, cranked the handle endlessly, and finally got through his message. Then he came out again.
“What do you think?” asked Elinor. “Will he win?”
The dispatcher made a rapid mental calculation of the tip she was likely to give, and how far she would increase it if he told her what she probably wanted to hear.
“There are many bad people around here,” he said carefully, “bad and stupid people. Mr. Benda is shrewd, though, and the nice folk like him.”
“But do you believe it will be an honest election?”
The dispatcher shrugged expressively. “Ah, the crooks!” he exclaimed.
“There are always crooks. One must watch them like a hawk!”
“I don’t mean crooks. I mean political pressure. Terror!”
The man creased his face and lowered his voice. “I don’t know....”
‘“You mean you can’t tell?”
“I just don’t know! Madame, I am only a poor official of the State Railroads—”
“Thank you,” she said, “you’ve told me enough.”
The taxi drove up.
“Thank you very much,” she said and slipped the dispatcher a bill.
He touched the shield of his cap, “My very best compliments, gracious lady!” Then he stowed the bags in her cab, closed the door of the car behind her, and looked at the bill.
It was a hundred crowns. Fools, those foreigners!
“How nice of you to come, Professor Stanek,” said Thomas. “Please, sit down.”
Stanek settled on the couch in Thomas’s study and replied courteously, “How nice of you to invite me!”
Thomas smiled diffidently; it had taken a lot of self-persuasion to issue the invitation, and even so, he had hardly believed that Stanek would accept.
Kitty came to the door with a bottle of Melnik wine which was a little vinegary but the best that could be had. The Professor stood up. “Come in, Kitty,” said Thomas, taking three glasses from the decanter set in his cabinet. He poured the wine and passed the glasses around. Stanek raised his, “To your very good health, madame!”
“Thank you!” Kitty drank. On the evening before election, she felt she should have toasted her guest’s success; she could not make herself do it. She knew Joseph’s shortcomings, and Karel had told her of the conflicts that tore family and country; yet, it was awkward to her that Thomas, who was supporting Joseph publicly, should spend tonight with Joseph’s opponent. But Thomas seemed not to be conscious of the incongruity, or if he was, he did not care.
The invitation, this much she was sure of, was directly connected with the bulging envelope he had received from Stanek the previous day; Thomas must have been stirred by its contents, because she had heard him pace his room and mutter to himself.
“I was the most surprised man, Professor,” said Thomas, “when you let me know that you would be free tonight....”
Stanek twirled his pince-nez. “This is like before an examination. Don’t you recall, Thomas Benda, I always advised my students not to cram the last night, but to go out and amuse themselves—moderately—and get the cobwebs out of their heads?”
“Yes, so you did.” Thomas picked up his glass. “To the old days!”
Stanek slowly shook his head. “To the new times!”
Thomas laughed. “All right. To the new times, whatever that means!”
For a while they sat quietly, following their own thoughts.
“May I ask you a question?” Thomas said finally. “What made you send me this transcript of your speech at the auditorium? All things considered, my role is presumably that of the Spokesman for everything you stand against....”
Stanek rubbed the saddle of his nose. “I thought you would ask me that. Frankly, I had several motives.” He paused.
Kitty was not certain whether Thomas wanted her to stay on, but Stanek appeared to be addressing her as much as him.
“I remembered Thomas Benda—one of my most gifted students. I remembered Thomas Benda who had worked with me—and with Joseph and Karel—in a group which later became a cell in the underground. More essential, I remembered that your statement on freedom, which was to be the basis for that debate in the auditorium, was only the announcement of a forthcoming book.”
Thomas felt the affectionate interest that spoke from the Professor. The old man was giving him more credit than Karel, his own brother, had granted him. “I have read your speech,” he said cautiously, “and I will read it again. Perhaps it can help me to clarify some ideas I’ve been developing.”
Stanek’s face brightened. “I’d be glad if it helped you!” he said, and to Kitty, “I don’t measure the success of a meeting by the size of emotions evoked, or by the volume of applause.” He pushed his starched cuffs back into place and added smilingly, “Mr. Joseph Benda is a difficult man to debate against, don’t you agree with me?”
“He knows what he’s after,” Thomas said impatiently. He wanted Stanek to return to the book; he had been so alone at his desk and with his papers; whether Stanek was for or against the book, at least he could discuss it intelligently.
“I listened to your brother,” said Stanek, “and when he was through, I knew I could not compete with his—well, his superficial approach. He was very good, very successful—”
Thomas frowned. Surely Stanek hadn’t come to talk about Joseph and to solicit a couple of votes for himself.
“I have no children,” Stanek said suddenly. “I don’t believe in life after death, in paradise, or hell, or the transmigration of souls.”
A draft came through the open window and stirred his thin, white hair.
“And yet, I don’t want everything I learned and lived for to die with me....” He laughed his high-pitched old man’s laugh.
Kitty was puzzled and even disturbed by the Professor’s mention of children, though it was a most natural thought for him to have in this beautiful, well-appointed little house with only two young people in it.
“One must have the long view, don’t you think so?” said Stanek. “Your brother hasn’t. That’s why I decided, after he had finished, that I would pick my audience. You and your statement had been the stone that set the whole thing rolling. I picked you.”
“That’s very flattering,” said Thomas, “but I’m hard to convince. I don’t know whether I want to be convinced. I like to come to my own conclusions.”
Stanek nodded. “I did not expect anything different of you. I said as much to my friends. The best I can hope for is that you will take my viewpoints under consideration.”
“Your friends?” questioned Thomas.
“Yes, of course!” said Stanek, fitting his frayed tie back on to his collar. “I don’t proceed on impulse and I don’t work alone. Before I made up my mind to send you the transcript, I discussed the matter with some of my friends.”
“Political friends?” asked Thomas, the lines on his forehead deepening.
“Yes.”
“And they gave you their permission?”
“I will be quite open. They had their doubts as to the wisdom of my move. Some said you were just your brother’s brother, others were even harsher—”
Thomas started angrily, but controlled himself. “What did they say?”
“What difference does it make? I’m here, tonight.”
“They said I had sold out, didn’t they?” Thomas’s mouth had become thin, his hands were gripping one another. He had sold out; his contract with Barsiny of Humanita had been his price; except he was going to make certain that the matter didn’t end there.
Stanek observed the reaction. Dispassionately, he continued, “I told them I could understand you better than they could. I told them I was an intellectual like you—after a fashion....”
He smiled.
“I said that we were exposed to temptations they seldom, if ever, encountered—nothing that had to do with money or with the ordinar
y ways of corruption. I tried to explain to them about the horror of loneliness from which one can escape by compromising; about the seduction by sentiments and big, popular words; about the comfort that lies in failing to pursue ideas to their final consequence; the lure of the easy way out; the fear of choosing sides, of throwing oneself into battles....”
He cleared his throat.
“More wine?” asked Kitty. She was beginning to like the old man very much, because he was fatherly and had compassion, and because, for the first time, she heard expressed the troubles besetting Thomas which she had sensed but had been unable to define and grasp. Karel had that kind of understanding.
Thomas was under the same spell; he forced himself, however, to remain wary. “So you conferred with your friends,” he said, his voice even. “You’re not a free agent, Professor?”
Stanek sipped the wine and moistened his tongue and his lips and asked peacefully, “Why am I not?”
“Because you have to ask permission! Because you didn’t have the stomach to come to me when, as, and if you like!”
The sudden onslaught caught Stanek without an answer.
“Freedom! Is that freedom?” Thomas grew excited. “That’s just what I’m worried about—that if you ever succeed in fully establishing the kind of society you dream of, every one of us will have to ask permission on what to write and with whom to consort and where to go! What do your friends know about you, about me, about our work? Who are those people who do, or do not, give permission?”
Stanek let his pince-nez fall down to his vest. His hand shot out, and for a moment the blue concentration camp tattoo showed above his meager wrist. “You and I,” he said, “you and I, Thomas, we are those people!”
“But this is the most blatant nonsense! We will be the objects of decision!”
Kitty had followed the argument tensely. She was getting another, deeper glimpse into what freedom and Thomas’s book and Thomas’s problems were about, and how difficult every hour of his work must be; and she felt a weight on her heart. Parts of what Stanek and Thomas had been saying seemed vaguely reminiscent; she wondered if Karel had touched on some of it that evening in his flat. No one point that she could remember exactly—perhaps he had not dealt with these things at all, perhaps he had not developed them their way; or was it that at times the rational meaning of his words slipped past her because an inner ear deep inside her was tuned to his voice, to the fact of being within sound of him? I must stop thinking about him, she said to herself. I must find something else.
Stefan Heym Page 24
