The JOKE (15 page)

It wasn't long before I came up with a scheme. Honza's escape plan had never been discovered by the commander. The fence still had an imperceptible gap in it, and
the
arrangement with the miner who lived in the cottage nearby merely needed renewing. Of course, the camp was heavily guarded, and escape by day was impossible. Even at night there were
the
searchlights and the dog patrol, but it was all more for effect and the commander's gratification than from suspicion of a break on our part; attempted escape meant the possibility of court-martial, and that was much too risky. Precisely for this reason I told myself that my scheme had a good chance of succeeding.

It only remained to find a suitable hideaway for Lucie and myself, preferably not too far from camp. Most of the men living in the area worked in the same mine as we did, and it wasn't long before I found someone (a fifty-year-old widower) who was willing to lend me his place (for three hundred crowns). The two-story gray house was visible from camp; I pointed it out to Lucie through the fence and told her my plan; she was not delighted; she begged me not to take any risks for

her sake, and she agreed in the end only because she didn't know how to say no.

The appointed day arrived. It began rather oddly. Right after we got back from our shift, the boy commander had us fall in for one of his frequent talks. Usually he tried to scare us with the war about to break out and the hard days ahead for all reactionaries (by which he mainly meant us). This time he introduced some new ideas: the class enemy had wormed its way into the Communist Party itself; but let spies and traitors take note that enemies who hid behind masks would be dealt with a hundred times more severely than those who said what they thought, because an enemy who hid behind a mask was no better than a mangy dog. "And we have one such mangy dog here in our ranks," said the boy commander and ordered the boy Alexej to step forward. Then he pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and thrust it in his face. "Have you seen this letter before?" "I have," said Alexej. "You're a mangy dog. And also an informer and a sneak. But a dog's yelp can't reach heaven." And before his eyes, he tore the letter to shreds.

"I have another letter for you," he added, handing Alexej an unsealed envelope. "Read it out loud." Alexej took a sheet of paper out of the envelope, skimmed it—and remained silent. "Read it out loud!" repeated the commander. Alexej remained silent. "Are you going to read it or aren't you?" asked the commander, and when Alexej still remained silent, he barked out, "Hit the dirt!" and Alexej flung himself into the mud. The boy commander stood over him for a moment, and we knew what was coming: up! down! up!

down! Alexej would have to pick himself up, fling himself down, pick himself up, fling himself down. The commander, however, did not proceed with his orders but turned away from Alexej and started walking slowly along the front rank; he carefully inspected the men's equipment, reached the end of the rank (it took him several minutes), and then walked slowly back towards the soldier lying flat on the ground. "Now read it," he said, and Alexej lifted his muddy chin, stretched out his right hand (it was still clutching the letter), and, lying there on his stomach, read out loud, "This is to inform you that on September 15, 1951, you were expelled from the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia.

Signed on behalf of the Regional

Committee by ..." Then the commander ordered Alexej to retake his place in the ranks and handed us over to a corporal for drill.

After drill there was political instruction. At about six-thirty (it was dark by then), Lucie was standing by the wire; when I went up to her, she indicated with a nod that all was well, and left. Then came supper, cleanup, and finally lights out; I waited in bed until the corporal in charge of our bunkroom was asleep. Then I pulled on my boots and slipped out just as I was, in white longjohns and nightshirt; I walked down the hall and into the yard, feeling quite chilly in my nocturnal attire. The opening in the fence was just behind the infirmary; it couldn't have been better placed: if anyone stopped me, I could say I was feeling sick and on my way to wake the medical officer. But no one stopped me; I skirted the infirmary and crouched down in its shadow; the searchlight idled on one spot (clearly the sentry in the tower no longer took his job very seriously), and the space I had yet to cross lay in darkness; my only problem now was keeping clear of the dog patrol; it was quiet (dangerously quiet: I was unable to perceive any source of danger); I had been standing there for about ten minutes when finally I heard a dog's bark; it came from behind, from the other side of camp; I jumped up and dashed across to the fence (a distance of no more than five yards), to where, thanks to Honza's handiwork, the wire didn't quite touch the ground; I dropped on my stomach, crawled under, and ran the last five steps to the wooden fence of the miner's house; everything was just as we'd planned it: the gate was open, and across the tiny courtyard a light was burning in a window behind a curtain. I tapped at the window, and a few seconds later a giant of a man opened the door and noisily invited me in. (I was terrified at the volume of his voice; I couldn't forget I was a mere five yards away from camp.)

The door led straight into the room; I stopped for a moment in the doorway, disoriented by what I found: sitting around a table (with an open bottle on it) were five other men; when they saw me, they burst out laughing at my outfit; they said I must be cold in that nightshirt and poured me a glass; I took a taste: it was ethyl alcohol, scarcely diluted; they told me to toss it right down; I did, and had a coughing fit; this again provoked a burst of fraternal laughter, and they pulled up

a chair for me; they asked how I'd managed to "cross the border," again made fun of my ridiculous getup, and called me Runaway Longjohns. They were all miners in their thirties and probably got together there regularly; they'd been drinking, but they weren't drunk, and after my initial surprise their carefree presence relieved my anxiety. I let them pour me another glass of their unusually strong and pungent drink. Meanwhile the owner of the house had gone into another room and come back carrying a dark suit. "You think it'll fit?" he asked. He was nearly a head taller than I was and considerably broader, but I said, "It'll
have
to." I pulled the trousers on over my longjohns, but I had to hold on to them to keep them from falling. "Anybody got a belt?" asked my benefactor. No one had.

"How about a piece of string?" I said. A piece of string was found, and just about kept the trousers up. When I put the jacket on, the men decided (I'm not quite sure why) that I'd look just like Charlie Chaplin if I had a bowler hat and cane. To make them laugh, I put my heels together and pointed my toes out. The dark trousers rippled down over the insteps of my boots; the men loved it and told me no woman would be able to resist what she saw in the twinkle of my eye. They poured me a third glass and accompanied me outside. The owner assured me I could knock on the window at any hour of the night to change clothes again.

I stepped into the dimly lit suburban street. It took me more than ten minutes to get to the house where Lucie was waiting. I had to circle the entire camp and pass directly in front of the brightly illuminated gates; my fears turned out to be completely groundless: the civilian disguise worked perfectly, the guard looked right through me, and I reached my destination safe and sound. I opened the outside door (it was lit by a solitary streetlamp) and made my way by memory (I had never been in the house and knew it only from the miner's description): staircase to the left, up one flight, door straight ahead. I knocked. A key turned in the lock and Lucie opened the door.

I took her in my arms (she'd arrived around six, when the miner had left for the night shift); she asked if I'd been drinking; I said I had, and told her how I'd got there. She said she'd been trembling, afraid something would happen to me. (It was only then I noticed she

actually was trembling.) I told her how much I'd looked forward to seeing her; I held her in my arms and felt her trembling more and more. "What's the matter?" I asked her.

"Nothing," she answered. "Why are you trembling, then?" "I was afraid for you," she said, and twisted lightly from my embrace.

I looked around. It was a small, austerely appointed room: a table, a chair, a bed (a bed with slightly soiled sheets); over the bed there was a religious picture; against the opposite wall, a cupboard with jars of fruit preserves along the top (the sole more or less intimate detail in the room); above, hanging from the ceiling, a single unshaded light bulb burned, glaring disagreeably and brutally illuminating my body, whose sadly comic appearance instantly pained me: the enormous jacket, the trousers belted with string, the black boot tips, and on top, my cleanshaven skull shining like a pale moon in the bulb's incandescence.

"Forgive me for looking like this, Lucie, please," I said, and explained once again the necessity for my disguise. She assured me it didn't matter, but (carried away by an alcohol-induced impetuosity) I declared that I couldn't possibly stand there in front of her like that, and threw off the jacket and trousers; underneath I was wearing a nightshirt and those awful army-issue longjohns, a much more ridiculous outfit than the one I'd just shed. I went over and switched off the light, but no darkness came to my rescue: the streetlamp shone right into the room. And since I was more ashamed of being ridiculous than I was of being naked, I tore off the rest of my clothes. I put my arms around her.

(Once more I felt her trembling.) I told her to undress, to remove everything that stood between us. I caressed her everywhere, repeating my plea again and again, but Lucie told me to wait a little, that she couldn't, that she couldn't right away, that she couldn't so soon.

I took her hand and we sat down on the bed. I laid my head in her lap and rested it there for some time;, suddenly I realized the incongruity of my nakedness (faintly luminous in the dirty yellow of the streetlamp); it occurred to me that everything had turned out the opposite of what I'd dreamed: instead of a naked girl serving wine to a fully dressed man, a naked man was lying in the lap of a fully dressed woman. I saw myself as the naked Christ taken down from the cross

and placed in the arms of a compassionate Mary, and I was horrified by this vision, because I hadn't come to Lucie for compassion and consolation, I'd come for something entirely different, and again I forced myself on her, kissing her (her face and dress) and trying surreptitiously to undo her buttons.

But I met with no success: once again Lucie twisted away from me; I lost my initial impulse, my confident impatience, I had exhausted my supply of words and caresses. I remained there stretched out on the bed, naked and motionless, while Lucie sat over me stroking my face with her rough fingers. Little by little I was overcome by bitterness and anger: I reminded Lucie, mentally, of the risk I'd taken to meet her; I reminded her (mentally) of the punishment I might yet have to face. But these were only superficial reproaches (which was why I could tell her about them—even if only mentally); the true source of my wrath lay much deeper (and I would have been ashamed to tell her): I was thinking of my own misery, the pitiful misery of a failed youth, the misery of endless weeks of frustration, the humiliating eternity of unfulfilled desire. I was remembering my vain courtship of Marketa, the ugliness of the blonde on the tractor, and again my vain courtship of Lucie. And I felt like crying out: why must I be adult in everything, sentenced as an adult, expelled, branded a Trotskyite, sent to the mines as an adult, why only in love am I forbidden to be adult and forced to swallow the full humiliation of immaturity? I hated Lucie, hated her all the more knowing she loved me, because that made her resistance all the more absurd, incomprehensible, infuriating. And so after half an hour of sullen silence I launched a fresh attack.

I rolled over onto her; using all my strength, I managed to pull up her skirt, tear off her brassiere, and put my hand on her naked breast, but Lucie resisted more furiously and (possessed by the same blind force as I was) finally struggled loose, jumped off the bed, and backed up against the cupboard.

"Why are you fighting me?" I shouted at her. Unable to answer, she told me not to be angry, to forgive her, but said nothing by way of explanation, nothing logical. "Why are you fighting me? Don't you know I love you? You must be crazy!" I shouted. "Then throw me out,"

she said, still pressing up against the cupboard. "That's what I'll do, I'll throw you out, because you don't love me, because you're making a monkey of me!" I was giving her an ultimatum, I shouted. Either she gave herself to me, or I never wanted to see her again.

Once more I went up to her and put my arms around her. This time she didn't try to stop me, but she was limp, as if all the life had gone out of her. "What's so special about your virginity? Who are you saving it for?" She was silent. "Say something!" "You don't love me," she said. "I don't love you?" "No, you don't. I thought you did, but you don't. . .."

And she burst into tears.

I got down on my knees, I kissed her feet, I begged her. But she went on crying and saying I didn't love her.

Suddenly I was seized by an insane rage. I felt there was a supernatural force standing in my way, constantly tearing out of my hands everything I wanted to live for, everything I desired, everything that was mine; I felt it was the same force that had robbed me of my Party, my Comrades, my studies at the university, of everything, and always senselessly and for no reason. I understood that the same supernatural power was now opposing me in the person of Lucie, and I hated her for having become its instrument; I hit her across the face, because it wasn't Lucie I was slapping, it was that hostile force; I shouted that I hated her, that I didn't want to see her, that I never wanted to see her, that I never wanted to see her again.

I threw her brown coat at her (it had been lying on the chair) and shouted at her to get out.