Stefan Heym

by The Eyes of Reason

  Karel looked at the covered heap on the stretcher and back at Joseph He had no feeling of hate for his brother; he had no feeling for him at all.

  Second Book—FREEDOM

  CHAPTER ONE

  “THE CHAIR recognizes Deputy Benda!”

  Joseph got up from his seat in the back rows of the Chamber. He had had ample time since his election—a year and a half, it was now—to prime himself for this day and this hour. Deliberately, he collected the papers on his desk. He was well documented—he had statistics on the frequencies of industrial accidents and other causes of disabilities, budgetary estimates, letters from unions, a treatise on job retraining prepared by the Institute for Occupational Diseases of the Medical Faculty at Charles University. When he was sure that all of his material was in order, he walked down the aisle toward the rostrum.

  In passing, he saw the half-empty benches of the House, the golden tone of their blond wood speckled with the blacks and grays and dark browns of the backs of his fellow deputies; and he smiled at his own tenseness. There was no need for it. The deputies sat in varying attitudes of relaxation or boredom behind their small, slanted desks so like the children’s benches in school. Some of them had before them a printed copy of the bill he was going to submit; they knew it was a routine social measure covering a relatively small aspect of the field; and they were probably hoping that in moving the bill he would not indulge in too much rhetoric so that they could get out in good time for lunch.

  Joseph knew the feeling; he had shared it when one of them rose to speak on measures and motions most of which were unlikely to shake the earth. Not that he had become a cynic—the game of politics was too fascinating to permit him to develop the sense of aloofness necessary for cynicism; but he had learned to hold his horses. In the beginning, it had been difficult. His maiden speech had been a verbal onslaught of major proportions, and his chagrin had been great when he discovered that his oration, far from propelling the world or even his own country toward the high purposes of his Party and himself, had netted only a few lines in his Party’s press; the other papers disregarded it completely. Teaching him patience and discipline and the rules of procedure had taken a lot of coaching from Minister Dolezhal and from the foxy Deputy Feldstyn, who was unofficial head of the Party’s parliamentary club and its whip on the floor.

  Now Joseph was a seasoned parliamentarian, known in the Chamber as a close henchman of Dolezhal’s, though with a freshness of approach and some independent ideas that set him apart from the run-of-the-mill hacks. There was absolutely no reason for him to be tense. It was ridiculous; but it was always that way with him—despite all the coaching, he never had been able to get rid of the idea that from this bare rostrum, almost monastic in its simplicity, he was addressing the whole nation.

  To reach the podium, he had to parade by the elevated row of seats reserved for the Cabinet. Only the Minister of Posts was present—probably got through early selling stamps, thought Joseph, laughing nervously to himself—and the Minister of Social Welfare, who would have to administer the provisions of the bill if it ever became law, and who therefore was interested. The Speaker gave Joseph a slight, indifferent nod. Then Joseph found himself at the lectern from which he was to address the House.

  He looked upwards, beyond the Speaker, at the Czech lion, its raised claws, its split tongue thrust out. Truth Will Prevail, it said underneath the heraldic animal. Joseph Benda turned, shuffled his papers, spread them out, and faced the Chamber.

  “I want to talk to you of a man who is now dead,” he began.

  The trembling of his fingers ceased, and he observed that his unusual opening had taken effect. The stenographers were paying attention, and the heads of some of the deputies were being raised.

  “His name was Otakar Blaha, and if, as it sometimes happens, the name of a man should be attached to the bill I have the honor to submit, then I wish that it carry his. Because he was a worker, a simple worker, in the plant of which I am the National Administrator.”

  The mention of the fact that the dead man had been a worker caused a slight stir on the Left. It was somewhat unusual that a member of Dolezhal’s Party should stress that angle.

  Joseph had counted on that.

  “If the death of a man makes any sense,” he went on, “it is that we, the survivors, learn from the lessons of his life. Do you know what Grinder’s Hand is? Well, let me explain it to you....”

  Joseph worked out his speeches carefully. The rule of the House was that speeches, except for quotes from documents and tables, were not to be read; so Joseph rehearsed his in front of the full-length mirror in his room in the Esplanade, watching and studying his facial expressions, and forcing himself to use his hands sparingly because he didn’t want to have it said that he was aping Dolezhal’s short, pointed, stabbing motions. Once his words began to roll, his address unraveled itself almost automatically, and part of his mind was set free to supervise his delivery, to gauge the reactions of his audience, and occasionally to go off on dreams of its own.

  As he explained the effect of Grinder’s Hand, as he told of the hardships suffered by men who, through no fault of their own, could no longer exercise the skills they had perfected in years of training, the face of Blaha rose before him: wrinkled prematurely by the strain of concentrated work; the near-sighted, ineffectual eyes; the horribly shrunken mask it had worn in death.

  In a way I’m paying a debt, Joseph thought. He wanted no glory out of this bill, and it wasn’t the kind of bill that would help him or his Party to attain their ends—though it might provide a minor argument for the next elections. It was a humanitarian, noncontroversial measure due to receive the blessings of the Right as well as the Left; something which everybody could feel good about and which was really needed.

  He went on to outline that a man incapacitated on his job must be enabled to find another with equal pay, and that the society for which he had worked owed him the differential between his old scale and the wages he would receive while learning his new craft.

  He quoted his statistics and outlined the methods for financing the proposition. Part of the social insurance taxes could easily be diverted to pay this differential, particularly since the worker, once his full earning capacity was restored, would contribute by his higher taxes a proportionately larger amount to the general fund.

  With the reading of his figures the human interest he had touched off began to die down. Only the Minister for Social Welfare was making casual notes, probably so as to be able to make some sort of additional recommendation.

  Joseph himself was bored with this part of his speech, but he had to cover the financial angle. No bill involving expenditures could be submitted without the proponent stating exactly how much money would be needed and from where the funds were to come. This rule eliminated a lot of demagogic appeals to special-interest groups; on the other hand, it made for a certain dryness of debate.

  “Annual Appropriation,” he read, “First Estimate: seventy-eight point six million crowns for the budgetary year of 1948, to be reduced by three point one million crowns during 1949 and 1950, with proviso for general revision of needs for the budgetary years 1951 and following...”

  It was the idea of this bill, he thought, which had led him into this Assembly and brought him to this rostrum. He remembered the day exactly—how he had stepped into Lida’s office at Vesely’s and had found Kravat there, and Karel, and Blaha of the crippled hands, who now was dead; how he had blunted the edge of Kravat’s threats, and fended off Karel, and begun to speak in terms of this new welfare ideology which was a millstone on the neck of every businessman but necessary to prevent worse to come; and how, all of a sudden, he had seen that Dolezhal’s suggestion that he get into politics had been no whimsy. If Blaha, God rest his soul, had not for fifteen years leaned on his elbows, no Deputy Joseph Benda would be standing up here in the white, glaring light of this high-ceilinged, illustrious hall which once had been the stock exchange.

&n
bsp; He was through with the arithmetic now, thank goodness. Shoving his papers together, he stole a secret glance at his wrist watch. Ten minutes to twelve—it could not be said that he was unduly imposing on his colleagues.

  He lifted his face and looked squarely at the benches.

  “And so I urge you, honored fellow members, to uncover the possible weaknesses in this proposed bill for the payment of Government subsidies to workers incapacitated on their job and the financing of their training for a new one. Improve the bill wherever possible, by all means—because nothing is perfect—”

  He stopped for a second. Deputy Feldstyn, his sharp, pockmarked face stretched forward bird-like as always, had come rushing into the Chamber and was beginning hasty whispered conferences with some of the key members of Dolezhal’s Party.

  It confused Joseph. Obviously, some emergency had arisen; otherwise Feldstyn would have delayed the disturbance until a speaker from another Party was addressing the Assembly. Joseph burned to know what it was, but it was his duty to go on as if nothing were happening.

  He forgot about Blaha, and he did not succeed in reviving the mood of broad humaneness which he had wanted to re-establish after the reading of the lifeless figures.

  “I urge you to consider this bill with sympathy for those whom it will benefit, and to pass it so that our country may become a better one to live in.”

  He received some applause, not as much as he had expected, and conspicuously weak from his own section of the benches. Feldstyn was still shuttling from seat to seat, buttonholing members of the Party, instructing them. Joseph greeted him on his way back to his own seat, and hesitated in the hope that Feldstyn would talk to him. But Feldstyn seemed absorbed in his conversation with a fat deputy who came from one of the districts near Bratislava and who was famous for his cloakroom stories.

  “The Chair recognizes Deputy Professor Stanek!”

  With a frown, Joseph watched Stanek’s short-stepped gait. The very fact that the Communists had picked a deputy from his own district to speak on his motion could only mean that they were going to oppose it; and he couldn’t see why on earth they would object to his Lex Blaha.

  If anything, Stanek had grown more peculiar in the year and a half since the election. He had become more dilapidated, and Joseph, who made it a point to shake hands with him whenever he ran into him, was regularly appalled by the amount of dandruff on the old man’s shoulders.

  “I, too, knew the worker Blaha,” Stanek was saying. “I knew him very well indeed, because—and this makes it so odd that he should be used by my distinguished fellow member from Rodnik in support of his motion—because Blaha was a Communist!”

  The pince-nez waved in the air.

  Joseph heard subdued laughter on the Left, and an embarrassed coughing in his own ranks. The heavy lids of his eyes came down. Blaha, little, meek Blaha who owed him everything, had risen from the grave to slap him in the face.

  He was on his feet and, before Stanek could go on, said loudly from his seat, “I do not care to what party Blaha belonged. It seems to me Professor Stanek’s remark proves that this bill transcends all party lines!”

  “Order! Order!” said the Speaker.

  Stanek pushed his cuffs back into his sleeves and smiled. “Be that as it may, I wish to announce that my Party and I, excepting minor technical modifications, are in favor of the bill proposed by Deputy Benda and will so vote.”

  He bowed toward the Speaker and the Ministerial bench and left the rostrum, pinching his pince-nez back on his thin nose.

  Feldstyn raised his hand.

  The Speaker said, “I have two other names on the list, Deputy Feldstyn. Do you wish to speak on the motion?”

  Feldstyn, half-leaning over his desk, shoved out his Adam’s apple. “Mr. Speaker, I believe a motion to table precedes further discussion?”

  The Speaker’s colorless voice came back, “Do you wish to so move, Deputy Feldstyn?”

  “I do.”

  “Is the motion supported?”

  The fat member from near Bratislava seconded.

  Joseph was deadly white. His own Party was stabbing him in the back. After all the preparatory work he had done, after eighteen months of patient waiting for his Party’s permission to present his bill, after he had corralled the necessary signatures and wangled concurrence from his Party’s parliamentary club, and after even the Communists had been forced to concede—a motion to table. He reached for the carafe on his desk. He knew its design. It was made by Benda.

  “All those in favor—” called the Speaker.

  Feldstyn had done good work. The hands of the deputies around Joseph came up solidly. Feldstyn was looking at him. He had dark, narrow-set, piercing eyes, and there was no escape from them.

  Joseph tilted the carafe and poured water into his glass.

  “All those in favor—” the Speaker said again.

  Feldstyn was still staring.

  Slowly, slowly, Joseph’s hand crept up, too.

  Since none of the other parties had any reason to oppose postponement of the discussion on the bill, and since the noon recess was so close, the motion was carried.

  Councilor Novak walked up the stairs of the former Nobles’ Club. The Club had been converted into a series of intimate meeting rooms and a comfortable restaurant where official guests could be entertained. He favored this restaurant not for its food—food was uniformly bad wherever he went—but for these stairs, whose narrow risers made mounting them a pleasant experience. It was as if the stairs carried him up. Framed by wide marble balustrades, they had been built for portly people, not for his kind—skinny and hard-working and tough. He saw nothing, however, compelling him to shun the comforts of the fat now that the skinny were getting into power.

  On the second floor, he let the attendant help him out of his overcoat. He tucked the empty left sleeve of his jacket back into his pocket. “Has anybody asked for me?”

  “No, sir,” said the attendant, “not yet.”

  Novak went into a smallish room off the foyer. He liked this room for its warm purples and grays, the old-fashioned, faded designs of its wallpaper, its heavy carpeting. It was lavishly furnished with large period chairs and graceful end-tables. Ah, how those people had lived! He always felt a bit wicked on using these facilities, and this feeling of wickedness was a little joke he enjoyed.

  Sinking into a chair, he picked up a magazine. Its lead article was one of those unctuous surveys of the year now about to end. He dropped the damned thing.

  It hadn’t been the kind of year that lent itself to self-congratulation. He was glad that it was almost over, and he wished devoutly that the next one would be luckier. Later historians of his country, if they devoted a chapter to the year 1947, would probably call it the year of the drought, when the wheat shriveled on the fields before it could ripen, when the rivers became brooks and the brooks became nothing at all, and the cattle had to be slaughtered for lack of feed. If they were wise, the historians would say that the drought contributed immeasurably to the sharpening of all conflicts and to the speed with which the country moved toward new decisions. They would bemoan the body blow which the scorching sun and the lack of water had delivered to the people’s efforts at reconstruction; they would comment on the shrewdness with which certain forces had used the general misery to argue for a return to the good old times when the stores bulged with goods and the bread was whiter and sweeter and the corner dairies sold butter at ten crowns the pound.

  But historians—that was their nature—looked at things from the outside in. He was on the inside. It was too bad, he thought, that those on the inside never had enough leisure to write history—unless they were retired, in which case they were either too old or had too big an ax to grind to do a reliable job.

  He was on the inside, and he knew that, drought or no, the conflicts would have become razor sharp and the speed of development breathtaking, because economics have their own laws and compromises can perhaps retard, but never
stop, the inevitable course of motion.

  The die, he told himself, was really cast when the Marshall Plan was refused despite the country’s bitter needs. Even if one chose to believe in the improbable supposition that the Americans were the kind of angels who tied no strings to their offers, acceptance would have meant subordination to a capitalist economy and ultimate abandonment of the socialist sector of one’s own. Dolezhal had fought like a tigress defending her pups; he had spoken glowingly of the turbines, the generators, the mining machinery, the freezing plants, the tractors and trucks and road-building equipment which would come from across the sea; he had painted mouth-watering pictures of bacon and canned beef and sugar and flour and butter and powdered milk; and his Party’s newspapers had risen to the occasion.

  It had almost worked. Without bitterness, but rather with wry humor, Novak remembered how close he had come to being eased out of his job, because, from his official files, he had supplied the data which proved that the country was able to pull itself up by its own bootstraps.

  After it was over, after a rationing system had been worked out which Dolezhal had to defend in public—and it couldn’t have been pleasant for him a state of armed truce had come into being between Minister and Councilor. But the point was that, except for the title, Dolezhal and himself now were operating on the same level of power.

  It couldn’t last, Novak knew. With the next crisis, with the next slight push at the balance, the fight would be renewed and one of them would be finished.

  He leaned back, relaxed. He still could be objective about his chief. Dolezhal was an able citizen, and Novak wished he had him on his side. It wasn’t a matter of personalities, anyhow; if it were, he would resign today. The truth was that in this situation, the clash had to express itself in and through personalities, and there was no office, no institution, no enterprise any place in the country where men could escape from the part that history had assigned them.