生命不能承受之轻-第23章

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　would　certainly　come　tumbling　down。　For　that　edifice　rested　on　the　single　column　of　her　fidelity；　and　loves　are　like　empires：　when　the　idea　they　are　founded　on　crumbles；　they；　too；　fade　away。
And　now　she　had　an　image　before　her　eyes：　a　rabbit　scampering　along　a　furrow；　a　hunter　with　a　green　cap；　and　the　belfry　of　a　village　church　rising　up　over　the　woods。
She　wanted　to　tell　Tomas　that　they　should　leave　Prague。　Leave　the　children　who　bury　crows　alive　in　the　ground；　leave　the　police　spies；　leave　the　young　women　armed　with　umbrellas。　She　wanted　to　tell　him　that　they　should　move　to　the　country。　That　it　was　their　only　path　to　salvation。
She　turned　to　him。　But　Tomas　did　not　respond。　He　kept　his　eyes　on　the　road　ahead。　Having　thus　failed　to　scale　the　fence　of　silence　between　them；　she　lost　all　courage　to　speak。　She　felt　as　she　had　felt　when　walking　down　Petrin　Hill。　Her　stomach　was　in　knots；　and　she　thought　she　was　going　to　be　sick。　She　was　afraid　of　Tomas。　He　was　too　strong　for　her；　she　was　too　weak。　He　gave　her　commands　that　she　could　not　understand；　she　tried　to　carry　them　out；　but　did　not　know　how。
She　wanted　to　go　back　to　Petrin　Hill　and　ask　the　man　with　the　rifle　to　wind　the　blindfold　around　her　eyes　and　let　her　lean　against　the　trunk　of　the　chestnut　tree。　She　wanted　to　die。
29
Waking　up；　she　realized　she　was　at　home　alone。
She　went　outside　and　set　off　in　the　direction　of　the　embankment。　She　wanted　to　see　the　Vltava。　She　wanted　to　stand　on　its　banks　and　look　long　and　hard　into　its　waters；　because　the　sight　of　the　flow　was　soothing　and　healing。　The　river　flowed　from　century　to　century；　and　human　affairs　play　themselves　out　on　its　banks。　Play　themselves　out　to　be　forgotten　the　next　day；　while　the　river　flows　on。
Leaning　against　the　balustrade；　she　peered　into　the　water。　She　was　on　the　outskirts　of　Prague；　and　the　Vltava　had　already　flowed　through　the　city；　leaving　behind　the　glory　of　the　Castle　and　churches；　like　an　actress　after　a　performance；　it　was　tired　and　contemplative；　it　flowed　on　between　its　dirty　banks；　bounded　by　walls　and　fences　that　themselves　bounded　factories　and　abandoned　playgrounds。
She　was　staring　at　the　water—it　seemed　sadder　and　darker　here—when　suddenly　she　spied　a　strange　object　in　the　middle　of　the　river；　something　red—yes；　it　was　a　bench。　A　wooden　bench　on　iron　legs；　the　kind　Prague's　parks　abound　in。　It　was　floating　down　the　Vltava。　Followed　by　another。　And　another　and　another；　and　only　then　did　Tereza　realize　that　all　the　park　benches　of　Prague　were　floating　downstream；　away　from　the　city；　many；　many　benches；　more　and　more；　drifting　by　like　the　autumn　leaves　that　the　water　carries　off　from　the　woods—red；　yellow；　blue。
She　turned　and　looked　behind　her　as　if　to　ask　the　passersby　what　it　meant。　Why　are　Prague's　park　benches　floating　downstream？　But　everyone　passed　her　by；　indifferent；　for　little　did　they　care　that　a　river　flowed　from　century　to　century　through　their　ephemeral　city。
Again　she　looked　down　at　the　river。　She　was　grief…stricken。　She　understood　that　what　she　saw　was　a　farewell。
When　most　of　the　benches　had　vanished　from　sight；　a　few　latecomers　appeared：　one　more　yellow　one；　and　then　another；　blue；　the　last。

PART　FIVE
Lightness　and　Weight

1
When　Tereza　unexpectedly　came　to　visit　Tomas　in　Prague；　he　made　love　to　her；　as　I　pointed　out　in　Part　One；　that　very　day；　or　rather；　that　very　hour；　but　suddenly　thereafter　she　became　feverish。　As　she　lay　in　his　bed　and　he　stood　over　her；　he　had　the　irrepressible　feeling　that　she　was　a　child　who　had　been　put　in　a　bulrush　basket　and　sent　downstream　to　him。
The　image　of　the　abandoned　child　had　consequently　become　dear　to　him；　and　he　often　reflected　on　the　ancient　myths　in　which　it　occurred。　It　was　apparently　with　this　in　mind　that　he　picked　up　a　translation　of　Sophocles'　Oedipus。
The　story　of　Oedipus　is　well　known：　Abandoned　as　an　infant；　he　was　taken　to　King　Polybus；　who　raised　him。　One　day；　when　he　had　grown　into　a　youth；　he　came　upon　a　dignitary　riding　along　a　mountain　path。　A　quarrel　arose；　and　Oedipus　killed　the　dignitary。　Later　he　became　the　husband　of　Queen　Jocasta　and　ruler　of　Thebes。　Little　did　he　know　that　the　man　he　had　killed　in　the　mountains　was　his　father　and　the　woman　with　whom　he　slept　his　mother。　In　the　meantime；　fate　visited　a　plague　on　his　subjects　and　tortured　them　with　great　pestilences。　When　Oedipus　realized　that　he　himself　was　the　cause　of　their　suffering；　he　put　out　his　own　eyes　and　wandered　blind　away　from　Thebes。
2
Anyone　who　thinks　that　the　Communist　regimes　of　Central　Europe　are　exclusively　the　work　of　criminals　is　overlooking　a　basic　truth：　the　criminal　regimes　were　made　not　by　criminals　but　by　enthusiasts　convinced　they　had　discovered　the　only　road　to　paradise。　They　defended　that　road　so　valiantly　that　they　were　forced　to　execute　many　people。　Later　it　became　clear　that　there　was　no　paradise；　that　the　enthusiasts　were　therefore　murderers。
Then　everyone　took　to　shouting　at　the　Communists：　You're　the　ones　responsible　for　our　country's　misfortunes　（it　had　grown　poor　and　desolate）；　for　its　loss　of　independence　（it　had　fallen　into　the　hands　of　the　Russians）；　for　its　judicial　murders！
And　the　accused　responded：　We　didn't　know！　We　were　deceived！　We　were　true　believers！　Deep　in　our　hearts　we　are　innocent！
In　the　end；　the　dispute　narrowed　down　to　a　single　question：　Did　they　really　not　know　or　were　they　merely　making　believe？
Tomas　followed　the　dispute　closely　（as　did　his　ten　million　fellow　Czechs）　and　was　of　the　opinion　that　while　there　had　definitely　been　Communists　who　were　not　completely　unaware　of　the　atrocities　（they　could　not　have　been　ignorant　of　the　horrors　that　had　been　perpetrated　and　were　still　being　perpetrated　in　postrevolutionary　Russia）；　it　was　probable　that　the　majority　of　the　Communists　had　not　in　fact　known　of　them。
But；　he　said　to　himself；　whether　they　knew　or　didn't　know　is　not　the　main　issue；　the　main　issue　is　whether　a　man　is　innocent　because　he　didn't　know。　Is　a　fool　on　the　throne　relieved　of　all　responsibility　merely　because　he　is　a　fool？
Let　us　concede　that　a　Czech　public　prosecutor　in　the　early　fifties　who　called　for　the　death　of　an　innocent　man　was　deceived　by　the　Russian　secret　police　and　the　government　of　his　own　country。　But　now　that　we　all　know　the　accusations　to　have　been　absurd　and　the　executed　to　have　been　innocent；　how　can　that　selfsame　public　prosecutor　defend　his　purity　of　heart　by　beating　himself　on　the　chest　and　proclaiming；　My　conscience　is　clear！　I　didn't　know！　I　was　a　believer！　Isn't　his　I　didn't　know！　I　was　a　believer！　at　the　very　root　of　his　irreparable　guilt？
It　was　in　this　connection　that　Tomas　recalled　the　tale　of　Oedipus：　Oedipus　did　not　know　he　was　sleeping　with　his　own　mother；　yet　when　he　realized　what　had　happened；　he　did　not　feel　innocent。　Unable　to　stand　the　sight　of　the　misfortunes　he　had　wrought　by　not　knowing；　he　put　out　his　eyes　and　wandered　blind　away　from　Thebes。
When　Tomas　heard　Communists　shouting　in　defense　of　their　inner　purity；　he　said　to　himself；　As　a　result　of　your　not　knowing；　this　country　has　lost　its　freedom；　lost　it　for　centuries；　perhaps；　and　you　shout　that　you　feel　no　guilt？　How　can　you　stand　the　sight　of　what　you've　done？　How　is　it　you　aren't　horrified？　Have　you　no　eyes　to　see？　If　you　had　eyes；　you　would　have　to　put　them　out　and　wander　away　from　Thebes！
The　analogy　so　pleased　him　that　he　often　used　it　in　conversation　with　friends；　and　his　formulation　grew　increasingly　precise　and　elegant。
Like　all　intellectuals　at　the　time；　he　read　a　weekly　newspaper　published　in　three　hundred　thousand　copies　by　the　Union　of　Czech　Writers。　It　was　a　paper　that　had　achieved　considerable　autonomy　within　the　regime　and　dealt　with　issues　forbidden　to　others。　Consequently；　it　was　the　writers'　paper　that　raised　the　issue　of　who　bore　the　burden　of　guilt　for　the　judicial　murders　resulting　from　the　political　trials　that　marked　the　early　years　of　Communist　power。
Even　the　writers'　paper　merely　repeated　the　same　question：　Did　they　know　or　did　they　not？　Because　Tomas　found　this　question　second…rate；　he　sat　down　one　day；　wrote　down　his　reflections　on　Oedipus；　and　sent　them　to　the　weekly。　A　month　later　he　received　an　answer：　an　invitation　to　the　editorial　offices。　The　editor　who　greeted　him　was　short　but　as　straight　as　a　ruler。　He　suggested　that　Tomas　change　the　word　order　in　one　of　the　sentences。　And　soon　the　text　made　its　appearance—on　the　next　to　the　last　page；　in　the　Letters　to　the　Editor　section。
Tomas　was　far　from　overjoyed。　They　had　considered　it　necessary　to　ask　him　to　the　editorial　offices　to　approve　a　change　in　word　order；　but　then；　without　asking　him；　shortened　his　text　by　so　much　that　it　was　reduced　to　its　basic　thesis　（making　it　too　schematic　and　aggressive）。　He　didn't　like　it　anymore。
All　this　happened　in　the　spring　of　1968。　Alexander　Dubcek　was　in　power；　along　with　those　Communists　who　felt　guilty　and　were　willing　to　do　something　about　their　guilt。　But　the　other　Communists；　the　ones　who　kept　shouting　how　innocent　they　were；　were　afraid　that　the　enraged　nation　would　bring　them　to　justice。　They　complained　daily　to　the　Russian　ambassador；　trying　to　drum　up　support。　When　Tomas's　letter　appeared；　they　shouted：　See　what　things　have　come　to！　Now　they're　telling　us　publicly　to　put　our　eyes　out！
Two　or　three　months　later　the　Russians　decided　that　free　speech　was　inadmissible　in　their　gubernia；　and　in　a　single　night　they　occupied　Tomas's　country　with　their　army。
3
When　Tomas　came　back　to　Prague　from　Zurich；　he　took　up　in　his　hospital　where　he　had　left　off。　Then　one　day　the　chief　surgeon　called　him　in。
You　know　as　well　as　I　do；　he　said；　that　you're　no　writer　or　journalist　or　savior　of　the　nation。　You're　a　doctor　and　a　scientist。　I'd　be　very　sad　to　lose　you；　and　I'll　do　everything　I　can　to　keep　you　here。　But　you've　got　to　retract　that　article　you　wrote　about　Oedipus。　Is　it　terribly　important　to　you？　
To　tell　you　the　truth；　said　Tomas；　recalling　how　they　had　amputated　a　good　third　of　the　text；　it　couldn't　be　any　less　important。　
You　know　what's　at　stake；　said　the　chief　surgeon。
He　knew；　all　right。　There　were　two　things　in　the　balance：　his　honor　（which　consisted　in　his　refusing　to　retract　what　he　had　said）　and　what　he　had　come　to　call　the　meaning　of　his　life　（his　work　in　medicine　and　research）。
The　chief　surgeon　went　on：　The　pressure　to　make　public　retractions　of　past　statements—there's　something　medieval　about　it。　What　does　it　mean；　anyway；　to　'retract'　what　you've　said？　How　can　anyone　state　categorically　that　a　thought　he　once　had　is　no　longer　valid？　In　modern　times　an　idea　can　be　refuted；　yes；　but　not　retracted。　And　since　to　retract　an　idea　is　impossible；　merely　verbal；　formal　sorcery；　I　see　no　reason　why　you　shouldn't　do　as　they　wish。　In　a　society　run　by　terror；　no　statements　whatsoever　can　be　taken　seriously。　They　are　all　forced；　and　it　is　the　duty　of　every　honest　man　to　ignore　them。　Let　me　conclude　by　saying　that　it　is　in　my　interest　and　in　your　patients'　interest　that　you　stay　on　here　with　us。　
You're　right；　I'm　sure；　said　Tomas；　looking　very　unhappy。
But？　The　chief　surgeon　was　trying　to　guess　his　train　of　thought。
I'm　afraid　I'd　be　ashamed。　
Ashamed！　You　mean　to　say　you　hold　your　colleagues　in　such　high　esteem　that　you　care　what　they　think？　
No；　I　don't　hol