She stopped. She was no match for Vlasta. Vlasta was clever and independent; Vlasta was bad for her.
“I’m glad you came,” said Vlasta. There were shadows underneath her eyes, and her face was drawn. She pulled a strip of newspaper from between the pages of the book. “This is why I’m here.”
Vlasta R., Kitty read: Urgent you communicate with Thomas B. at Hotel Aurora. She handed the clipping to Karel.
“I didn’t know whether to come here or not,” Vlasta said, latching her fingers nervously. “But he’s always been good to me. And then, as I sat here reading his book, I began to feel that he’d be better off alone....Dr. Benda—he didn’t believe what Petra’s mother said about me?”
“Of course not!” He leaned forward, his eyes tense and troubled and sympathetic. “But I’ve got to ask you something else, Vlasta. Do you love him? This is very important to Mrs. Benda and to me. I want you to be absolutely honest with us and with yourself.”
Vlasta’s fingers crept up to her silver medallion. She gazed at Karel, and she thought that he should be able to understand.
“Sometimes I feel as if something in me had been scorched out, like land after a bombing,” she said. “I once loved a man. They killed him. They made me watch how they killed him. I could save him, they said, if I told them what they wanted to know. I knew it was a lie; they would have killed him anyhow, after I talked. At least that’s what I keep repeating to myself....”
For a while, no one spoke. Then Kitty said, “I wish I could sink into the ground. I feel so ashamed—for myself—for my family—“ She wanted to ask if Vlasta needed anything and what the Bendas could do for her, but she sensed it would sound as if she were trying to pay a debt which could not be weighed in any currency.
Vlasta seemed to have read her thoughts. “I have a job,” she said. “Machine operator. I’m learning. It makes me feel useful to feed some material into a machine and to see a practical thing come out that people need. Also I’ve been marching with my new colleagues. That’s good, too. My back and my feet may ache; I prefer that to pains in my head or my heart.”
She had been speaking with calm self-sufficiency, hardly raising her voice. Now her tone gained warmth and became wistful, “How has Petra been taking it? You have seen her, Dr. Benda?”
“The last days,” he admitted uncomfortably, “were quite crowded, even in Rodnik.”
Her eyes grew darker, and she said quickly, “Of course. Only I like Petra. She’s got the makings of something very fine in her, and I wouldn’t want that to get lost in the shuffle.”
“We will look after her,” said Karel, “as soon as we’re back in Rodnik. We’ll look after Thomas, too.”
“Then you think I can go?”
“Yes, Vlasta,” he said gently. “It would be better if Thomas didn’t find you here.”
He helped her into her coat. She shoved the book into the coat pocket and, turning once more to Kitty, said, “I don’t know what you feel about your husband, and I have no right to advise you, and wouldn’t be sure what to tell you if I had. But please believe me—if I felt anything for him, it was the feeling one ill person has for another—”
She pulled her beret over her tight, black hair and walked out.
“What a family we are!” said Karel. “Whatever we touch turns sour.”
He eased himself into the chair Vlasta had vacated. The whole day fell upon him—the trip and the search after Thomas and the giant demonstration on Wenceslas Square, the fact that the Revolution was over and that he would have to pick up the shards of his and Kitty’s and his brothers’ lives and make new adjustments and see what could be pasted together—and the end of the day was not yet.
“Aren’t you hungry, Kitty?” he asked from under his hand which half-covered his face.
“No.”
“You should eat something, though.”
“I couldn’t, Karel.”
“Well,” he sighed, “neither could I, come to think of it.” He looked at the overly ornamented clock above the clerk’s counter. “The last train home is just pulling out. Do you—do you want to sleep in Thomas’s room?”
“Should I?” She tried to find in his face a hint as to what he wanted her to say or do, but she saw only how tired he was. “Somebody ought to stay with him—perhaps....”
He did not answer. He got up and went to the clerk’s desk and asked for two rooms; but the clerk stated that with most of the Works Council Convention delegates still in town, he had only one room available—however, there was a couch in Mr. Thomas Benda’s room, and since it was all in the family....He blinked meaningfully toward Kitty.
“I’ll take that room,” said Karel. He showed the clerk his identification pass and Kitty’s, and registered. The clerk gave him a key chained to a fist-sized wooden ball with the room number scratched on it.
“This is the only thing they had,” Karel explained as he handed the contraption to Kitty. “Why don’t you freshen up and stretch out?”
“Not yet.” She tried to smile. “I can’t bear being alone just now. Karel—”
“Yes?”
“What are we going to tell Thomas?”
“Everything.”
“About Vlasta? About us?”
He took her hand and, holding it firmly, said, “Now listen, Kitty. When a child is to be born, we can alleviate the mother’s pain, but not the child’s. The little thing probably suffers horribly, but it forgets. This case is similar....” He shrugged. “We’ve got to get him out of the womb in which he’s been hiding—his mother’s, yours, Elinor’s, Vlasta’s, God knows whose.”
“But does it have to be today? We have time, Karel, you and I—a whole life’s worth of time. We must consider the shape he’ll be in. Vlasta said he was ill. I don’t know about medicine as you do, but I know if you open a boil before it’s ripe, it comes back. Can’t we wait till we have him in Rodnik, till he feels better, till he’s able to build up some resiliency?...”
“This particular boil should have been opened long ago,” he said acidly. He saw her anguish, and conceded half a point. “But he must be told about Vlasta.”
“Must he? And why now?”
“Because—” he stopped.
“He’s only been living by hopes,” she said. “If you take away all his doubts, you take away all his hopes.”
And if you take away his wife...he continued her thought. That he was taking something Thomas himself had thrown in the ash-can, unfortunately mattered little to her. To her, falling in love with another man was sin, regardless of how real the love was, how justified her feelings, how big the provocation. And if the other man was her husband’s brother, and if she’d never loved her husband, the sin became monstrous. She wasn’t concerned about the furies that might pursue Thomas; she had her own to worry about.
And he, himself—toward whom did his duties and loyalties lie? Toward her, who had to live with her conscience? Toward Thomas, who would either face up to life or recede into the twilight of complete emotional childhood? Or toward himself, who was an interested party and whose right to pass verdict was doubtful?
“Have it your way, Kitty,” he said heavily. “But you should be clear about this: You’re sparing him not for his sake, but for your own.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m glad you know it, too.”
Thomas came into the lobby.
Kitty jumped up.
He saw his wife and his brother. “Karel!” he said, “Kitty...! How nice of you!”
Then his expression changed. His inflamed eyes winked shrewdly, “The rescue squad, I presume? Well, there isn’t much to be rescued. I’ve been hunting for freedom. It’s blossoming out all over—so many different sorts I don’t know which to pick. Up on Hradcany Hill, I saw the most disappointing sight of my life: A bunch of students, shouting Freedom, and running away from the first and only shot.”
“You weren’t on Wenceslas Square?” said Karel.
“No.”
“
You might have felt more optimistically.”
“I might,” said Thomas, throwing himself into a chair. “I don’t know. I’ve had a very exciting visit to Prague. I’ve learned that I don’t belong anywhere, although at moments I had the greatest feeling of belonging I’ve ever had. That’s kind of sad, isn’t it? A time has come to which you have to say either Yea Yea or Nay Nay, but I find one-syllable words uninteresting. I’m thirty-four years of age, and have outlived my time. You haven’t heard anything from Vlasta, have you?”
Neither Karel nor Kitty spoke.
“How could you have!” Thomas went on. “They drove her out of Rodnik. They said terrible things about her. I tracked it down. Elinor started it, and Lida carried it through. There’s a conspiracy on, I tell you, to drain the sap of life out of me—”
He regarded Kitty long and thoughtfully, and his voice rose out of its listlessness. “Poor Kitty—so much patience, so much loyalty. Why don’t you give up? Don’t you ever get sick and tired of me? My book won’t be printed, either; I have it from Villner himself. So the reflected glory of being Mrs. Thomas Benda is quite passé.”
She bit her lips.
“Sorry,” he said, “sorry.”
“Thomas, let’s go home,” she pleaded.
“Home?” he asked. “Where is my home? With you? In Rodnik?”
“Obviously it is,” said Karel, “until you make other arrangements.”
“And Vlasta?” said Thomas.
Karel glanced at Kitty. She did not speak up. Karel said, “You’ll have to wait until she comes to you, Thomas. If she loves you, she will. If not—”
“If she loves me?” Thomas smiled knowingly. “She doesn’t. That’s the hell of it. She never did. I built myself another dream. After what happened with Lida, wouldn’t she have come to me first thing, instead of running away? All right, Karel, you’re a doctor, you’ll say it was shock. Is she the kind of person who shocks that easily? But even assuming there was a momentary loss of her facility for reasoning—it couldn’t have lasted, and she knew where to find me. It’s not she who is lost—it’s I. Lost and buried.”
He wrapped his coat tighter about him, as if he felt exposed. Kitty’s moist eyes sought Karel’s. Karel reached into the pocket of his vest and pulled out a small envelope. Ripping it open, and dropping two tiny pills into Thomas’s hand, he said, “This will put you to sleep. Kitty will take you to your room.”
Thomas obeyed wordlessly and followed Kitty to the elevator.
Karel saw the door close after them, saw the dim light of the car float upwards, and the cable unwind. Then he sat down, elbows on his knees, his face in his hands.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
JOSEPH was having a nightmare. He choked and gasped and struggled to wake up.
Lida stood over him. In the glare of the ceiling light, he saw her gray-streaked hair hanging stringy over her shoulders.
He was not sure whether it was still part of his horrible dream; then he heard the bell.
“They’re at the door!” Lida shook him. “Get up!”
The bell sounded again, long, urgently. The insistent ring was real; Lida, ugly, frightened, was real. The choking sensation of his dream took hold of him once more. He swallowed hard, and shivered.
“Put on your robe,” he said, his feet mechanically fishing for his slippers, “and give me mine.”
His legs buckled as he stood up; he held on to the footboard of his bed. He thought of the braces worn by people who had suffered infantile paralysis. He pushed himself to the door. If it was the police, it was better not to be afraid, or at least not to show it. And they had nothing on him, nothing at all, absolutely nothing.
He walked down the stairs to the ground floor, slowly, step by step, tying the belt of his robe as he went. He was still short of breath, and his heart beat in his throat. He cursed his weakness. Then his anger turned on the men who were at the bell again. It was scandalous—in the middle of the night, just like the Nazis! Who did they think they were? He would tell them off; he had to; in cases like this you must take the initiative and keep it. He was still a deputy. They had robbed him of everything, but there was one thing he wouldn’t allow them to take, ever: His dignity, as a man, as a citizen.
He tore open the door and shouted into the dark, “What in the devil’s name—”
There was only one man, who said, “Good evening, Benda. What kind of soft pillows do you sleep on, eh? Letting me stand out here and ring....”
“Minister Dolezhal! I thought it was—”
Dolezhal stepped through the door, took off his black Homburg and his coat and hung them neatly on the wardrobe stand. He turned, rubbing his hands. “Close the door, man!” Then he discovered Lida coming down the stairs. “I’m deeply sorry to disturb you at this hour, madame. But the matter couldn’t wait, I assure you.” He walked up to her, kissed her hand, and rambled on genially, “I won’t keep you up long. I’ve got to talk to your husband.”
“I’m so relieved it is you,” said Lida. She became acutely conscious of her appearance and wanted to retreat. “A drink?” she asked. “Coffee?”
“Anything, madame—just anything!”
Dolezhal was his old self, master of the situation. His mustache bristled over his lip, and his large-featured, regular face was benign and controlled. Once the decision had been made in Prague, even though it was against him, he had regained his elasticity and spirit.
“Joseph, my friend!” he said. “Where can we sit and have our little conference?”
Joseph led him to the living room and switched on some lamps. Lida, her hair combed, her face powdered, her lips showing a touch of color, returned with a bottle and glasses and a tray full of cookies. Joseph motioned her to leave; but Dolezhal caught the gesture and stabbed his little white hand in her direction, “Please stay, madame. This concerns you just as much as it does your husband.”
She smiled with what had remained in her of feminine charm.
Dolezhal, however, was already addressing Joseph. “You weren’t in Prague, these days, I noticed.”
Joseph frowned. “I didn’t feel well. I even saw the doctor—we have one right in the family....” He laughed. “Heart trouble.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?”
“Not too—”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Dolezhal, pleasantly. “For what you’ll have to do, a bad heart wouldn’t be too helpful.”
Obviously he doesn’t believe me, thought Joseph. It didn’t matter. Dolezhal had resigned, and they had taken his resignation and made him eat it. No more Mr. Minister. What you’ll have to do....I’ll have to do nothing, not a God-damned thing, unless I’m good and ready and willing to do it.
“Actually,” Dolezhal went on, “your presence in Prague was not required. As events unfortunately developed, you could not have helped, either.”
Joseph nodded. He had a good idea of why Dolezhal was offering the rationalizations which he, Deputy Joseph Benda, a reputedly loyal member of the Party, should have supplied.
“We’ve been soundly trounced!” Dolezhal clapped his hands as a well-slept, happy man does before starting his morning’s work at a clean desk. “We relied on too many uncertain forces, we underestimated the strength of the enemy, and when we struck and resigned, we laid ourselves wide open to a counter-maneuver we should have anticipated. Now, what are we going to do?”
It was a rhetorical question, and it was asked, Joseph knew, to make him feel the thrill of co-initiating the new line.
“You’re asking me?” he said. “What did you lose—an office chair? I lost my Works, Mr. Dolezhal, and my wife’s factory—everything!”
“We’re poor,-’ said Lida, who suddenly was hit anew by the magnitude of the disaster. “We’re poorer than the dirtiest worker in the plant. He has his pay envelope coming, at least. We’ll have to give up the house and...” Her voice, caught in its own emotion, gave out for a moment. “I’ve been poor before. Under the Nazis I starved and I brought
up my child in one little back room in Prague. I don’t mind it—but then I had hope....”
“Hope!” Dolezhal’s hand struck out sharply. “That’s it! That’s why I borrowed a car and drove out here at night! Hope, yes! If you lie down and give up that easily, you might as well call up your local church to arrange for your funeral. I’ve always known you as a sensible woman, Mrs. Benda—a woman who sees things and acts on them. Tell this man of yours not to go blaming me! We tried, and we tried hard, and with every means at our disposal. So we’ll try all over again. You go along with that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Lida, and her eyes grew sharp. “We must. There’s no other way. You know, they came, with their Action Committee—they came into my office, into the house my father built, and threw me out.”
“They would!” said Dolezhal.
“And Joseph let them.”
“Please...” Dolezhal smiled. “At this point we can’t afford recriminations. Your husband probably chose the wisest course under the circumstances. But that does not mean that we’ll stay out forever. We’re going to leave and we’re going to come back, and next time we’re going to stick.”
“Leave?” said Joseph.
“Don’t tell me you never considered it!”
Joseph gulped down his drink and motioned Lida to refill his glass. Elinor, the American visas....Of course, he’d thought of it.
“What are we going to do?” Dolezhal repeated his rhetorical question. “We gave up our positions, and what we didn’t give up, we lost. From where are we going to operate? Pankrac Prison? There’ll be no more freedom here for anyone who doesn’t submit.”
“The people—” Joseph said vaguely—“there must be people....”
“People are stupid and cowardly,” Dolezhal stated. “February 1948, in Czechoslovakia, will go down in history as the prize example of that fact.”
People were stupid and people were cowardly; Joseph agreed to that. But how were you going to get back into power without them?
Stefan Heym Page 53
