“Nice—your skin...” Petra offered shyly.
“How can it be nice—at this ungodly hour!”
Petra picked for words in her limited English vocabulary. “Father said—get up. Election start—eight o’clock.”
Elinor stuck her feet out of the bed and threw a lacy pink robe around her shoulders. Petra noticed that her feet were small and perfectly shaped, and that her toenails were painted an exciting purple red.
Elinor observed her expression with amusement. “Sit down on the bed, Petra,” she ordered. Then she squatted on the floor and took off Petra’s shoes and stockings. “Reach me that bottle, will you?—no, not that one—the little one over there—thank you—and that cardboard box! She picked tiny cotton pads from the box and shoved them between Petra’s toes. With amazed eyes, Petra watched Elinor take out of the bottle an infinitesimally fine brush, which was attached to the stopper, and move it over her toenails; one after the other, they gleamed up at her, a bright and shining red.
Elinor cocked her head and appraised her work. Satisfied, she patted Petra’s ankle. “Let them dry for a few minutes, child, and don’t show them to your mother. I don’t want to be accused of corrupting your rustic simplicity.” She disappeared into the bathroom and when she emerged her face was scrubbed and she smelled of dentifrice. Petra was still sitting on the bed, her knees unbent, her toes spread.
“Now put on your shoes and stockings!” said Elinor. And run off and tell your father that I’ll be down presently. You don’t expect me to show you all my secrets?”
Petra got up and walked out gingerly, for fear of scratching the paint on her toes.
Joseph was seated at the head of the breakfast table, an unfinished cup of coffee before him, a half-eaten roll on his plate. The Sunday papers, with their final election appeals, stood propped against the coffeepot; he was reading a front-page editorial.
Petra slid into her chair, reached for a slice of bread, and sat back, quietly daydreaming. Soon it would be summer, and they might go swimming where the Suska River was dammed up and became a little lake, and her feet, as small and as well-formed as Elinor’s, would look beautiful with the paint on the toes, and Karel would notice them and be fascinated.
Without looking up from his paper, Joseph asked, “Would you like to live in Prague, Petra?”
She dropped her bread. “Why?”
“I might be elected, Petra, and spend a great deal of time there. You’re old enough for a better education than you can get here in Rodnik. And furthermore, here you’re shut in too much with yourself.
He glanced at her over his paper. She was pale. What a radiant spring it was outside, the birds singing through the open window! And she was pale and pinched.
The whirlwind of thoughts tearing through Petra’s mind settled into the one: He has betrayed me; he wants to be rid of me; he has told my father to ship me off to Prague!
“I won’t go!” she said, her voice choking.
Joseph, who had expected no such resistance, put down his paper. Was she heading into another of her tantrums? And what for? “But think how nice it will be, he cajoled. “Just you and I—in the big city. And you will have friends....”
Lida came in. She had heard Joseph’s last words, and cut in, “So you’ve told her? And I asked you not to! You’re counting your chickens before they’re hatched!”
“I won’t go!” Petra said sullenly.
“You will go whenever and wherever your father says, Petra.” Lida’s voice was firm under its thin coat of kindliness. “You’re a grown girl now, but you aren’t so grown-up that you can decide for yourself what’s good for you! She turned to Joseph, Of course, I’m only a woman, so I’m superstitious. Why couldn’t you wait with telling her until you were sure of being elected and going to Prague—”
Joseph deliberately buttered the rest of his roll. “It is a perfectly sound idea, and I’ve been thinking about it a long time, and I felt it wise to prepare Petra for the eventuality. On the basis of our Party analyses my chances are very good. All we need is some seventy-five thousand votes—”
“There we go again!” said Lida. She was angry, because she had poured too much milk into her coffee and caused it to spill over, and now she had to pour it back from the saucer into the cup. “There we go again! I hope and pray that you’re right—but if you ride so high and mighty in the morning, how will you feel at night?”
“You won’t win!” Petra said suddenly. “You won’t win because I don’t want you to win!”
“Petra!” Lida said flatly. “Apologize!”
But Petra had jumped up. Her chair clattered backwards. She was fleeing toward the door, and was crying shrilly, “You won’t win! You take me to Prague—you won’t win!”
In the door, she collided with Elinor, pressed past her, and ran upstairs to her room.
At a glance, Elinor took in the situation—the bulging veins on Joseph’s forehead, the downward curve of Lida’s mouth. “A victorious good morning!” she said and, laying her hand on Joseph’s shoulder, kept him from rising. “My dear Joseph—at the beginning of what we hope will be a distinguished political career, let me give you a tip: Don’t permit your personal troubles to get into your public hair. And vice versa. Why let the child upset you? She’s a sweet kid, and I like her.”
She took her place, opened her eggs, dropped the yolk and the white in a cup and salted and peppered and stirred them. “Don’t spoil my last days in Czechoslovakia! I came back here from Paris especially to watch your elections. That’ll be my final story—and then back to New York!”
“It strikes me you could have seen more in Prague,” remarked Lida, resenting the interference in her domestic affairs.
Elinor helped herself to a generous spoonful of her eggs and swallowed. “You should eat eggs, too!” she said. “Protein! Good for your complexion!...No, Lida, every second-rate stringer will be in Prague for this election, therefore, it will be conducted on the up-and-up. But here, in these small towns—that’s where the story lies!”
“I don’t see it,” said Joseph.
Elinor stared at him. “Wake up, man! Those Communists are full of tricks! They won’t suspect that an American correspondent is coming to Rodnik of all places—”
“You mean, our elections won’t be fair?” Joseph laughed. “This isn’t Russia, Elinor! Or Rumania, or Yugoslavia! We’re a civilized country!”
“What’s civilized about confiscating your Benda Works?”
Lida chimed in. “Joseph is naive. And much too optimistic. He forgets that things aren’t as they were before the war, when he would have won hands down.”
“My Party has watchers in every polling place. There won’t be any intimidation.”
Elinor clucked her tongue. “I saw that poster! All I can say is that in America a man of your standing simply couldn’t be lampooned the way you have been. The companies that control the billboard advertising wouldn’t permit it.”
Joseph smiled. “In America, it wouldn’t be necessary for me to go into politics!”
“And then this ridiculous business of proportional representation, here!” Elinor went on. “Without that, your Communists would never have gotten to first base. The whole idea—stupid, time-consuming, and complicated! First you count all the votes, then you divide the total by the number of seats in the Assembly, then you apportion the seats in the districts so that every deputy represents the same number of people; then comes a second count and the left-over votes are distributed, and you end up with all the bad elements sitting in Parliament. If Dolezhal and your other friends had an ounce of brains, they would have introduced our election system. It’s safer.”
“Your system is safer,” he said good-naturedly, “as long as you’re certain of a majority. But suppose the Communists in Rodnik won a majority—then all my votes would be lost. You wouldn’t want that to happen, would you?”
Elinor didn’t like the irony behind his explanation. “You Europeans have let matters get
out of hand,” she stated unequivocally. “Probably, the Communists not only have a chance of winning a majority, but they’ll rig the whole election to swamp you.”
“How can they rig it? I know almost every man and woman over eighteen in this town, I know how most of them will vote, and they know each other and know how they will vote. They got their ballots delivered to their homes weeks ago and have studied them and talked the whole thing over among themselves—” He shook his head. “Things are pretty bad, here; but I'm afraid your last story on Czechoslovakia will be that we had an honest election.” And, thoughtfully, he added, “By God, I almost wish I could tell you differently.”
He looked at his watch. “Have you finished, Elinor? I’d like to be at my polling place when it opens.”
The polling place at which all the Bendas were to vote was located in the high school, a buff three-story building in need of a paint job, with high windows and a small clock tower from which the flag fluttered.
A considerable number of people were about, although it was not yet eight. Some wore the insignia of their Party in their buttonholes; all of them had on their Sunday best; a subdued holiday spirit was in the air. They stood in small groups, talking; at times their voices rose in argument, only to sink again to the level of measured conversation proper for such a civic occasion. Sergeant Ruziczka, the policeman on duty at the school gate, yawned. As long as the people talked outside, it was all right; once they had crossed the threshold of the polling place, he would permit no more electioneering. It would be an easy day, probably; the pubs would be closed until evening, and there would be no drunks to be picked up as on other Sundays.
“How do you do, Mr. Benda?” he said, nodding gravely.
That was Thomas Benda, the great writer, and his pretty wife, come down from St. Nepomuk. In all likelihood, they would meet Mr. Joseph Benda, the candidate, right here and go in together. Mr. Joseph Benda would want to be the first one to vote this morning—get it over with, you know, early—and then sit and wait and fret all day. The trouble was that Professor Stanek, too, would vote at this polling place—it was his high school, after all!—and there would be a question as to who was to throw the first ballot into the box. As if it mattered!
Here came the other Benda brother, the doctor. Sergeant Ruziczka felt a slight pain in his left groin. That was silly, of course; when there was no doctor around, there was no pain; it was really the doctors who made you think of being sick; but perhaps on his next day off he should drop into Dr. Benda’s office, just for a check-up.
“All right! All right!” he said, stepping down from the stairs of the entrance gate onto the sidewalk. “Let’s make some room here, folks!” Joseph Benda’s big black car rolled down the street, slowed up, and was being parked in front of the school. He could have come on foot, thought Ruziczka; it would have been less trouble, and the people would have liked it better. But maybe he wants to do some traveling today, drive to the other towns in the district and take a look.
Somebody hooted. The policeman looked up sternly. The hooting ceased. Then there was scattered applause as Joseph Benda got out of his car and held the door for his wife, and their bony daughter with the big eyes, and for a woman who looked foreign, laughed loudly, and carried a large pigskin pocketbook.
“Good morning, Mr. Benda!” said Sergeant Ruziczka, and opened the school gate. It was exactly eight o’clock.
Joseph was just about to enter the classroom in which the voting was to take place, when Professor Stanek came shuffling down the corridor. Thomas saw him first, saw him hesitate, and then turn back and disappear around a corner.
Elinor must have noticed him as well, for she shot a vicious glance at Thomas and said, “Doesn’t dare show his face, does he?”
“You know the man?” Joseph asked Elinor. “That was my great opponent...” He smiled. “Very nice of him not to create a scene. But we were here first.”
“He could have beaten us to the punch,” said Thomas. “He’s got the keys to the school. He’s probably been in his office for hours.”
“Are you apologizing for him?” Lida bristled. Without waiting for an answer from Thomas she followed Joseph, who had pushed ahead into the classroom. Her superstitions were again aroused: Stanek had come on them like an apparition; why had he materialized in the corridor if not to cast some kind of evil eye on them, or at least to act as if he could do it?
Thomas found Lida’s question too stupid to bother with. He was occupied with his own thoughts. Although Stanek, last night, never had asked him about his vote, the question had existed, and it was brought to the surface by the Professor’s appearance in the corridor. Thomas had wanted to vote for his brother, and still wanted to. Even if Joseph had campaigned for 10 per cent beer, or against the obligation for men of the better classes to wear neckties, Thomas would have wanted to vote for him. It was a matter of family pride; it was a kind of tribute to Joseph’s courage in getting up and exposing his big chest to the fists of all sorts of people.
Something that was more decisive than Thomas suspected must have happened last night, if his mind tampered with a most natural and obvious routine today.
Kitty tapped him, “You’re next!”
Startled, Thomas stepped forward. Joseph had already voted and was patiently leaning against a school bench. Lida, whose place had been ahead of Thomas, had gone into the booth; only her sturdy tan shoes and part of her nyloned legs stuck out from under a closed coarse curtain which screened off a corner of the classroom.
Thomas was faced by four men who sat at the large, square, ink-spotted teacher’s desk.
“Mr. Thomas Benda?” the first one demanded.
“Yes, sir.”
“Your voter’s card, please.”
Thomas fished through his pockets and brought out the small card which, along with his ballots, had been delivered to him by Sergeant Ruziczka.
The second man asked, “You are Mr. Thomas Benda of the house registered under Number 247 on St. Nepomuk Hill?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re thirty-one years of age, correct?”
“Correct.”
The third man handed him a cheap envelope, and the fourth said, “You’ve got your ballots?”
“Yes,” said Thomas, touching his coat pocket.
“You will select one of your five ballots, put it in the envelope, seal the envelope, and drop it into the slit of the box which you will find behind the curtain. You may take your time.”
Thomas nodded. “I think I know the procedure.”
The fourth man smiled. “We have to explain to every voter. It’s the law.”
Lida parted the curtain and emerged. Her face, worried before, was now broad with contentment. She had struck a blow, even if only a small one, in the right direction.
Thomas, passing Lida, felt her gaze: You’re on our side, her eyes seemed to say, I hope....Then he was alone; somebody behind him had pulled the curtain closed.
It was stuffy and smelly in this primitive cell—God knows from where they had taken the material for the curtain. The sharp light of the morning was shut out, and the dimness made it difficult to distinguish the printed matter on the ballots. After a few moments, however, Thomas was able to discern and read them. All five sheets had identical headings—the name and the number of the Limberk election district and the date, and, roughly stamped in the corner, the number of this polling place in Rodnik. Underneath the headings, each ballot was different. Four of them carried the name of a political party and the number assigned to it, and the slate of its candidates in the district, in the order of their preference. The fifth ballot was blank except for two heavy black lines crossing each other diagonally; this was the protest ballot for voters who liked none of the parties and wanted to say No to all of them.
Thomas scanned the ballots and chose the one of Joseph’s Party. Dolezhal’s name appeared first on its district slate. Evidently, the party organization had felt sure of electing at least one man
in the Limberk district, and so had reserved the safe seat for its Minister and leading member. There followed another name, and then: JOSEPH BENDA. Rodnik. National Administrator.
Thomas toyed with the ballot. It was such a trifle—fold it once or twice, shove it into its envelope, drop it, finished. That’s what freedom had boiled down to: the choice between some sheets of paper, every few years. After that you went home and had your dinner, and on Monday started work again as usual, leaving the power granted by your consent to the men on this list and to men who might not even have their names printed on it. There was good and sufficient reason for draping a curtain around you, so that those on the outside could not see you blush at the absurdity of the act.
He picked up the protest ballot with its diagonal bars, and studied it speculatively. Perhaps this was the answer. Fool Joseph, fool Stanek, fool them all, show up the folly of the whole rigmarole!
He folded the protest ballot and put it in the envelope and was just about to lick the cheap glue when he stopped. No, if the thing meant so little, why even trouble using it to satisfy a peeve? Why not give the vote to Joseph as you hand a coin to a beggar?
He changed ballots, sealed the flap, felt for the slit in the dark green wooden box, and let the envelope glide through. As he came out from behind the screen, holding it apart for Kitty to enter, he tore up his remaining four ballots and threw them into a wastebasket.
Elinor walked up to him, “Well, have you proved your independence?” Her tone was so belligerent that Joseph stirred from his pose.
“In there?” Thomas pointed at the curtain and shrugged. “Listen, I came here as a favor to Joseph—”
Joseph joined them. “What’s up between you two?”
“Nothing!” Elinor poised her pencil to her notebook. “I wanted to know if Thomas voted for Stanek.”
“Thomas? Are you joking?” Joseph put his arm around Thomas’s shoulders. “Thomas is my boy. We may have our disagreements—haven’t we?”—he smiled—“but his is one vote I can count on. If he didn’t vote for me, I’d rather give up the race!”
Stefan Heym Page 26
