‘I think you exaggerate,’ I said with a smile. ‘Put that way, it sounds absurd. If things were really as bad as you make out, there wouldn’t be any departments of modern languages – or philology, if you prefer – at our universities. But there are, and Western languages are even taught in schools. At my own school, for example, French –’
It was so neat, this latest manoeuvre. I’d come so close! But Freddy cut in again, and again my path was blocked.
‘I think,’ he observed, ‘you can’t have listened carefully to what I said. Did I say that the state forbids the teaching of forreign languages, that it persecutes Frrench, rreprresses English, trries to stamp out German? Surely not. I merely asked what you imagined it’s like to work in a field where the subject of study belongs to a world that our People’s Rrrepublic of Poland, and the Party that watches over us with such benevolence, trreats with suspicion and dislike – as an evil empire, a hostile power longing only for the chance to leap down our thrroats, to destroy us.’
‘I understood you perfectly well, I assure you! It just seems to me that your description of the state of affairs is a little exaggerated, or perhaps . . . perhaps a little out of date. Of course, I don’t deny that’s how things used to be, under Stalinism, and when you were at university. But now, today? The Cold War is all but over. The struggle against imperialism is more a kind of ritual than something actively pursued – at least in the cultural sphere. Western books get translated, Western films are screened, Polish jazz musicians travel all over the world. I can’t imagine they’d make problems for someone working on Racine, or Pascal, or Rochefoucauld, or similar classics. And anyway, how? What would they do? And what on earth for?’
‘How and what for!?’ He gave a great hoot of laughter. ‘No, honestly, your naïveté is disarming.’ He rolled his eyes heavenwards. Then his face suddenly stiffened: some invisible muscle seemed to pull on his upper lip, for it narrowed and tightened in a sort of spasm. At the same time something pulled the corners of his mouth downwards, and his lower lip was thrust out in a grotesque sneer. ‘For your information,’ he said, ‘I work on Racine. I work on Pascal and Rochefoucauld. And I have prroblems all the time. At every turrn.’
‘Why?’ I asked. I was genuinely surprised. ‘What kind of problems?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. I see we’ll have to start with the basics.’ He sighed. ‘Your eyes have evidently yet to be opened to some elementary trruths. It’s time you came down to earth and saw what it’s like. Forgive me, but you sound as if you’ve been living on another planet, instead of in the reality of our “prrogrressive system’’.’
He leapt energetically to his feet. Then he entwined his arms behind his back, so that his right hand was wedged in the crook of his left elbow, and in this curious posture, his head now lowered, now tilted up towards the ceiling, began a slow diagonal pacing of the room. His steps were soundless, muffled by the thick, geometrically patterned, claret-coloured carpet. In this way he silently paced back and forth two or three times.
Wer den Dichter will verstehen, Muss in Dichters Lande gehen (Freddy’s Story)
‘What does one need,’ he said at length, ‘what do you think is the one thing that’s absolutely essential if one wants to study, and rreally get to know, a nation’s culturre – its language, its habits, its way of thinking? Clearly,’ he pursued, without waiting for an answer, ‘one needs to have dirrect contact with that country: its climate, its florra, its people, its monuments, its national trreasures. Wer den Dichter will verstehen,’ he chanted, ‘Muss in Dichters Lande gehen. Do you know what that means, and who said it?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘It’s Goethe. “If you want to understand a poet, you must go to his country.”’
‘Corrrect.’ He spoke like a pedantic old schoolmaster. ‘Of course, Goethe was talking about the Orrient, but it makes no difference. What’s important is that little word muss. If you want to understand, you must – you must!’ he cried with a sort of sob, ‘go and see the land where the poets lived and were born. Otherwise the whole thing’s pointless: you’ll know as much as a blind man knows about colour. You’ll be a prrovincial amateur, all your knowledge drawn from books, like a schoolboy. Now, in the case of Rrromance languages, that means going to Frrance. And did you happen to notice, by any chance, where Frrance is located? That’s rright – in the West. Behind the Iron Curtain.’ He halted in front of my chair, stooped slightly and glared at me. ‘Do you understand what that means? “Polish jazz musicians travel all over the world”! . . . Do you have any idea what that actually involves? The things you have to do before you’re allowed to leave? Do you? Besides, a jazz musician isn’t quite the same as a scholar studying a forreign culture, especially a forreign language. We’re not exactly popular in our People’s Rrrepublic. They watch us like hawks, and they keep us on a tight rein. Can you imagine what it’s like to work in such conditions? Not verry prropitious for the free flow of ideas, let alone for access to forreign sources. Would you like to know what it’s rreally like here? What I had to go thrrough when I went to the West?’ Before I could express any desire one way or the other, he said magnanimously, ‘All rright, I’ll tell you,’ and resumed his diagonal pacing across the carpet.
The monologue on which he now embarked lasted a good half hour, perhaps longer, and was the sort of impassioned tirade one typically hears from people with an obsession. In Freddy’s case the obsession was with his superiors. He was in permanent, bitter conflict with every figure in authority he encountered, from the dean to the chairman of the department. He particularly loathed the director of the university Office of Overseas Co-operation, to whom he referred as ‘our own dear little police grass’.
Life in the department was intolerable (‘and it’s like that everywhere’). Mediocrities were promoted and genuine scholars passed over; every decision was the result of intrigue and power play; you had to be ‘in’ with the right people in order to get anywhere or to get anything done. Scholarship, intelligence, general culture were irrelevant. The only things that counted were enough gall to bulldoze your way through to what you wanted and faithful submission to the regime: services rendered when required, Party membership, connections at the ministry. Without that you didn’t have a chance; you’d be reduced to being a provincial schoolteacher or drudge. And you didn’t have to make a fuss or show contempt in order to be cut out of a share in the distribution of goods and privileges; it was enough if you were independent and went your own way, especially if your work was good. In fact, this last by itself was sufficient to isolate you. Did I want an example? Certainly, there were plenty. Voilà – here’s one:
About three years earlier Freddy had written, in French, an article about Racine’s Phèdre. He had sent it off to a certain Professor Billot in Strasbourg, one of the world’s greatest Racine scholars. In reply he had received an extremely friendly letter, full of praise for his discours excitant, and an offer of publication in the prestigious journal Le Classicisme français. Naturally, he had accepted. The article was published, and a few months later came an invitation to a conference at Tours. His article had been very well received among French scholars in the field; they wanted to meet this unknown author from Poland, talk to him, exchange ideas with him, even collaborate with him on projects of mutual interest. The colloque, which was to take place in a beautiful château in Tours, was a perfect opportunity for this. Hence the earnest plea that he accept the invitation and let them know as soon as possible the title of his talk. All his expenses would of course be met: hotel, local transportation and full board, along with the return train fare from Poland (first-class sleeper). He needn’t worry about a thing: it would all be taken care of.
He needn’t worry about a thing! If you didn’t know the French really believed this, you might think it was some kind of cruel joke. For what did this stroke of wonderful luck involve in practice? What kind of trials did it condemn one to?
Never having been abroad, and being therefore unfa
miliar with the procedure and the many formalities required, Freddy sought advice from his friend Professor M., an old humanist of the pre-war school. Professor M. was an independent man with an ironic outlook on life and just a touch of cynicism: he observed with perfect equanimity and stoic calm the multilayered absurdities of the socialist regime, but at the same time refused to be ignored or shunted aside. He read the letter of invitation from Tours, shook his head sadly and explained succinctly what Freddy could do with it.
The best thing would be to frame it and hang it on the wall, because from an official point of view it was worthless. No government functionary, no official at the passport office would even glance at it. For one thing, it was in French. If an invitation was in a foreign language, the first thing you had to do was get it translated into Polish. And not just by anyone: it had to be by a notarised translator. In this case, however, obtaining such a translation would be a waste of time and money, for the invitation lacked literally every single basic requirement: it had no stamps or endorsements, no corroboration of any kind from the French préfecture of police, the Polish consulate or other vital organs of state. It was a completely worthless scrap of paper, good only for the bin. It’s written on the official stationery of the University of Tours, you say? So what? Everyone has access to university stationery; it doesn’t come in numbered sheets. What? It’s signed by the conference chairman and by Professor Billot? What’s that to us? Who are these people, anyway? Do they really exist? He might have invented them. How is the passport office supposed to know? The passport office can believe only what it’s told by the appropriate organs of state administration, namely the police of the country issuing the invitation and the consulate of the People’s Republic of Poland. Nothing else will make the slightest impression upon them. So if this sweet, carefree little billet-doux was to be of any use to him, he must apply at once to its sender for the appropriate endorsements from the Polish consulate and from the French préfecture. And this, of course, takes time and money. But since the hosts seem so eager to have us, let them pay – let them pay! It’s only through paying that they can prove the sincerity of their interest in us.
In this case, however, Professor M. advised against such a move. For even if Freddy were to explain to Professor Billot the demands of the Polish passport authorities, and even if Professor Billot then obtained the required endorsements, the trip remained highly doubtful. In fact, Freddy probably wouldn’t even get as far as the application stage. Why? For the simple reason that a passport application also had to be endorsed at one’s place of work. This meant, in effect, that Freddy would have to obtain leave (paid or unpaid) for the duration of the conference. And who was going to give him that? The chairman, with whom he was at loggerheads? His superior, the envious professor who held the chair in seventeenth-century literature? Not likely. How’s that? Just for a week, even less, a mere five days? Oh, but unfortunately that was just the time when his presence would be essential. Quite indispensable, in fact.
Was there no solution, then? Was there nothing to be done?
Oh, no, it wasn’t that bad. There were things one could do. They were made possible by the Office of Overseas Cooperation, the administrative section of the university created for that very purpose. Before grasping at this hand of assistance, however, one had to be aware of certain principles governing ‘exchanges abroad’.
It must be stressed, first of all, that it is not up to the West to decide who is to represent our People’s Republic. That would be a deplorable interference in our internal affairs. The duty of the West, if it desires a Polish presence, is to supply grants, send invitations to lectures and conferences and request experts in the field. But the choice should belong to us. We’re the ones who know best who the appropriate candidates are; only we can decide who it’s safe to send, who we can rely on not to embarrass us. How on earth is the West supposed to know things like that?! Of course, there are ‘special cases’: people who can be trusted, reliable people who are politically mature. Those kinds of people can receive invitations in their names. But that’s a different story. The point is that this simple system has a loophole, a tiny little crack, and this crack can be widened into a tunnel which may, if you dig in the right direction, get you through to the other side.
The loophole exists because the West is petty and mean, and deplorably stingy with its invitations and offers of collaboration, which come extremely seldom. As a result, the smallest grant, the tiniest subsidy, even for just a few days’ visit, is worth its weight in gold. That’s because people who are trustworthy and politically mature long to go to the West: a trip to the West is their most cherished dream, and if they don’t get it they are inconsolable. It’s just how they are. Out of concern for their welfare, therefore, our sensible People’s government has worked out a clever compromise: it will agree to let out the people on whose presence the West, for obscure (and generally suspicious) reasons of its own, seems to have set its heart, in exchange for a second invitation, with the understanding that this time the choice of who is to have the honour of representing Polish learning is to be left to us. This is a splendid arrangement, beneficial to all concerned: the wolf (i.e., the West) is sated – it gets its dinner, and more than it asked for. And the lamb (i.e., ourselves) is safe – we send someone who really needs and deserves it (a trustworthy and politically mature individual), and the West’s protégé (a suspicious and quite unreliable individual) gets invaluable support in the form of a guardian angel.
In other words, if Freddy wants to go to Tours he must write at once to Professor Billot and explain the situation in a suitable way, the suitable way being, in this case, to set out the basic truths: namely, that Poland is a subjugated country and a police state where a professional trip beyond the Iron Curtain can be made only in the company of a ‘guardian’. Then some purely technical instructions on how to word the invitation to the conference, what kind of information to include (the amount of the per diem and the promise that all expenses will be met), and to what address to send it (Warsaw University, Department of Romance Languages).
A letter of this kind cannot be sent by post in the ordinary way, of course: our correspondence, especially our foreign correspondence, is watched and controlled like everything else. The consequences for Freddy if such a letter got into the hands of the secret police did not bear thinking about. He could say goodbye once and for all to trips abroad, maybe even to his university post. No, a confidential letter like this must be sent through ‘reliable channels’ by a ‘courier’. The diplomatic bag would be the best solution.
If Freddy wanted to avail himself of Professor M.’s help, the latter was at his disposal. He had the appropriate contacts. He could also help in the crucial matter of how to word the invitation, for he had a tried and tested model: it fulfilled all the requirements and also precluded the possibility of manipulation. For Freddy should be aware that such a transaction was complex and delicate. The invitation must contain no hint of blackmail (blackmail would never succeed anyway, for reasons of principle), but it must be made quite clear that it was addressed to one specific person and to that person alone. This was essential, for otherwise the ‘other’ might go without you or, worse still, in the company of someone else entirely.
It was all very difficult. Western academics, with their fine ideas and their heads in the clouds, hadn’t a clue what it was like, and in their innocent naïveté they could cause trouble. God knows it had happened often enough: the conditions hadn’t been spelt out clearly or firmly enough, the necessary provisos had been missing, and the person who had ended up going was someone entirely different from the person intended, and specified by name, in the invitation. So one had to be very careful. And the best way of making sure that the instructions got across was . . . simply to dictate the invitation, word for word.
Well, that was the picture. Now it was up to Freddy to make up his mind.
He struggled all night. Write the letter? Or just forget about it? It was
a nightmare, a disgusting, humiliating, degrading process. On the other hand, if he didn’t write it he wouldn’t go to Tours. Was that not, in the end, too high a price to pay? What would he gain? Only the knowledge that he had submitted to principle, the satisfaction that he had asked nothing of anyone, the pride of having shown he didn’t care. Cold comfort. Moreover, it wasn’t entirely honest: he did care. And what would he lose? Invaluable experience, the chance to meet and exchange ideas with inspiring people, access to books and sources, a chance of furthering his career. Quite a lot to give up. Wouldn’t it be a pity? After all, let’s not exaggerate. The task before him – explaining to the French ‘in a suitable way’ what they must do to enable him to fulfil their wishes and lecture in Tours – wasn’t so horrendous. It wasn’t an abomination. He wouldn’t be doing anything contemptible, denouncing anyone or selling out. He had only to provide a few instructions. The circumstances, after all, were such as they were; he wasn’t responsible for them. And when they were being created the West hadn’t lifted a finger. Who had sold off Poland at Yalta? Who had washed his hands of Poland like Pontius Pilate? Let them see what they’ve condemned us to!
He wrote the letter.
Professor M. helped him as promised. The letter was whisked off to France in the diplomatic bag and shortly found its way to its intended recipient. The answer was not long in coming. Yes, they understood, they would do everything required. There was just one problem: their budget was limited. Consequently they begged Freddy’s indulgence, but he must understand that since there were now two people coming instead of one, they were unable to offer the same conditions as before. The train could unfortunately no longer be first class – alas, the budget would not even run to a couchette; there would be one double room at the hotel, and the per diem would have to be split between the two of them.
Madame Page 15
