Peter Nadas - A Book of Memories

I couldn't control my anxiety. Prém and I caught each other's eye, but he didn't have much to grin about either. I could go on vehemently denying everything, but it wouldn't help. I felt as if I were perfectly transparent. As if anybody could read my thoughts. As if I couldn't hide myself, not even behind myself. I don't want to bore anyone with an in-depth analysis of this state, but I would like to say something about the useful experience I gained while in this situation.

If someone has to be afraid of his own thoughts, because he must fear other people's thoughts, then he'll try to substitute his own evidently dangerous thoughts for those of others. But no one is capable of thinking with somebody else's brain, for the thoughts thus produced are merely his own brain's assumptions about how others may think about the very same thing. So not only must he eliminate the telltale signs of his own thought process and pretend to be second-guessing somebody else's thoughts on the subject, and then substitute these for his own, but he must also eliminate the uncertainty that this substitution is based on a mere assumption. And if one is forced to make one's brain play this game long enough, one will no doubt learn a great deal about the mechanism of thinking, but the real danger is that one can no longer distinguish between one's assertions and assumptions.

At least an hour and a half went by. When my name was called, I felt utterly unprepared. Still, I was glad I could spring up and at last go somewhere. Just then, Klement threw another piece of candy into his mouth. The janitor was standing in the doorway. But Klement, while shifting the candy with his tongue and smacking his lips, said to me, "You, Somi Tot, you can really count yourself out." I was crushed by his comment. It implied that I couldn't possibly have had anything to do with the terrible crime, of which he of course had full knowledge. Yet the pitying tone of his comment couldn't have implied that I was therefore off the hook. It couldn't have, even if there was something vaguely encouraging and even kind about it, an acknowledgment of my high standing in the class. He smashed to smithereens the system of assumptions I had constructed during the past hour and a half. I felt the way I had in the hospital when the nurse, out of sheer kindness, mentioned my mother. In the ruins of my system of assumptions and defenses, there was no other assumption to cling to. Besides, there was no time to go over all my calculations in the light of the new data provided by Klement. All things considered, my feet were carrying me rather steadily. Like those of a fleeing animal, through the only possible opening, straight into the trap.

We passed through the empty teachers' room, and when the office attendant threw open the door to the principal's office, nothing could have topped my astonishment. The razor-sharp blade of the guillotine had already chopped off my head. I died. But my eyes were still peeking out of the sawdust-filled basket, I could see that what was waiting for me on the other side was not horrible but rather bright, festive, and friendly. An alfresco breakfast. Picnic on the hillside. A stag party with the smell of fine Havanas.

The moment I entered I was addressed in Russian.

The door behind me closed, but all the doors of the principal's apartment, adjacent to his office, were wide open. Through these huge, elaborately ornamented, brown double doors you could see all four connecting rooms of the spacious flat with its heavy furniture and thick carpets. It was much later that I got to know the works of Hans Makart, a Viennese court painter, but his crowded interiors, filled with draperies, statues, plants in deep reds and browns, always reminded me of this improbable moment. We knew from Livia, the janitor's daughter, that the former principal, who had been summarily dismissed and later deported from the capital, had to leave all his possessions behind. In the farthest room two young girls, our current principal's daughters, were playing on the carpet. The rooms were brilliantly lit by the morning sunshine and its rays reflected from the snow outside. For a second I even caught a glimpse of the principal's graceful wife flitting across the flood of light. Somewhere a radio was playing, I heard very fine, very soft music.

A bright-faced young man sitting behind a large carved desk in the shadow of oversize philodendrons and potted palms asked me how I was. From his appearance and accent I could tell he was addressing me in his native tongue. The other gentlemen were sprawled out comfortably, in jolly disarray, in easy chairs and straight chairs that had been kicked away from their regular spots. The principal, as if indicating that he wasn't really part of this group, was leaning against the warm tile stove with a forced little smile on his face. Enveloped in the undulating cloud of smoke, they had wineglasses in their hands, some were munching on canapés or enjoying coffee and cigarettes. None of this would have suggested an official visit if it hadn't been for a few ominously strange-looking sheets of paper lying on the table, on shelves, and even on the floor near the chairs.

In answer to the question, a single Russian word came to my lips. I even remembered that I had come across this expression in one of Tolstoy's fables. I didn't just say, I'm fine, thank you. I said, Thank you, I feel splendid. This made some of them laugh.

What a smart lad you are, said the man who had first addressed me. Come closer, let's have a little chat.

A straight-backed upholstered chair was waiting for me in front of the desk. I had to sit down, which meant that now all the others in the room were behind me.

I didn't know what might happen. I had no idea what sort of examination this was. But while he was asking his questions and in my blissful ignorance I kept answering them without difficulty, I felt I was on the right track. Yes, the track was right, but where was it leading me? Suddenly it got quiet, a tense silence. Their satisfaction made it very tense.

I was already sitting when the bright-faced Russian asked me if it was snowing today.

I answered that it wasn't snowing today, the sun was out, but yesterday quite a bit of snow fell.

Then he asked me about my grades and acknowledged my reply with a satisfied nod. Then he asked what I would like to be when I grew up.

A soldier, I said without hesitation.

Splendid, the Russian shouted, kicked his chair out from under him, rounded his desk, and stopped in front of me. He is our man, he said to the others, and then holding my face between his two hands, he told me to laugh. He wanted to see if I could laugh.

I tried. But probably didn't do a great job, because he let me go and asked if somebody in the family spoke Russian, from whom I could have learned it so well.

I said my father had learned to speak it, but then I got stuck, because I shouldn't have said that.

Your father? He looked down at me inquiringly.

Yes, I said, but I never knew him. I learned from books.

He thought he didn't hear me right. What was that, I didn't know him? he asked, amazed.

All my resolve, my dissemblance, and my hope got caught in my throat. I was still trying to smile, at least that. He died, I said, and managed not to burst out crying.

And then, in the silence behind me I heard a slight stir, the rustling of paper; somebody was evidently turning the pages of a book or notebook; of course I didn't dare turn around, though the Russian was also looking in that direction.

The principal came over, holding our open grades book in his hand, and with his finger pointed to something he apparently had already shown to the others. In little black boxes next to our names our class origins were noted in red letters.

The Russian cast a fleeting glance at the rubric, returned to the desk, sat down, and with the desperation of a disappointed lover buried his face in his hands. What was he to do with me? he asked.