Seriously speaking, it was not easy to leave the old man, his people, and his village. “You obviously repressed the fact that he was actually your torturer. You developed a Pavlovian reflex ,” said Evelina. She learned about that at school, I guess.
“This is why even today you start dancing whenever you hear the godoulka or any other kind of music playing.” She was talking about a recent event when she had brought her iPod and let me listen to some rock music. I started to dance with the iPod in my paw and the headset on. It was grotesque, I know, but the urge to dance was stronger than my will to resist it. She was saddened by this episode, and so was I. Indeed, I think that she might be right. A hot-metal training plate had been installed in my brain forever. This might be the reason why I don’t think that I can fully understand and appreciate the new freedom I enjoy. Besides, every freedom has its limits. But I am an old bear; there is no salvation for old bears trained to dance even when no one is yanking their chain.
As if that diagnosis were not enough, Evelina concluded that I had probably developed the “Stockholm syndrome” as well. This is when a victim identifies with his captor, and even feels grateful to him. The young man from Free Bears Now! was definitely right. In that respect, I surely represent the Bulgarian people from the time of socialism. Except, perhaps, for the Gypsy Roma people, who never really fit into that system. They were indifferent to the government ideology, they just got used it—and I respect them for that. By the way, I noticed that Angel and his family have not been saved by anyone so far. There are not many—in any case, not enough—special organizations I know of that protect the rights of Gypsies Roma, even if they are the most discriminated against minority in Europe today. Unlike us, they are humans, and they are supposed to integrate into the society. But as Angel once said to me, “What if I don’t want to integrate? What if we want to go on and live the way our people have lived for thousands of years? Who is going to protect our right to live as we want?” Today, when I know more about the outside world, I could tell him: not many. You have to protect your rights yourself, because you Gypsy Roma, it seems to me, are a kind of modern-day wild bear. And the hunt is on.
IV
THE CAT-KEEPER IN WARSAW
(Letter to the State Prosecutor)
Sir,
I am addressing your office and you personally in connection with case No. PT/2875/2008-09, regarding the defendant whom I, for reasons of my own, will address only as the General here. As you are well aware, in the autumn of 2008 the Institute of National Remembrance, investigating Nazi- and Communist-era crimes, brought in an indictment against a total of nine persons. Now the eighty-six-year-old General, who headed the Military National Salvation Council, created on December 13, 1981, stands accused, among other things, of leading this “criminal organization”—for which he could get up to ten years in prison.
I will abstain from any comment about this institute and its methods in conducting the lustration process—perhaps it is enough to mention that I have heard some humans call it the “Ministry of Truth.” But, on the other hand, I do not go out in the streets of Warsaw very often, and it could be that I am missing some valuable information.
I am appealing to you because I believe it is extremely important to bring the case of the General urgently to an end. I will try to explain why.
Sir, you rightly might ask who am I to take it upon myself to address you at all? Therefore, please allow me first to introduce myself. My name is Gorby. I am a female of feline origin—what you humans call cats. Being born in the house of the General’s daughter, I have been living in the General’s household for almost ten years now. His whole family loves animals; the General himself, unfortunately, favors horses the most. No wonder. He is an officer, after all. Let me explain our relationship: I am considered to be the General’s pussycat, although I take a somewhat different view of this myself. From my standpoint I was nice enough to choose to live in his home, and to allow him and everybody else to believe just the opposite. It is perhaps too banal to say that I picked him up, since it is well known that we cats are free spirits, unlike dogs, of course. But I have to share the house with his dog, Napoleon. This is because Napoleon Bonaparte is the person the General admires the most. Not a good choice of a name, because Napoleon is a big, dumb mongrel. The only certain thing about his lineage is that he evidently belongs to the shallow end of a gene pool. Of course, his favorite activity is playing with a ball! The poor thing shows no sign of intellectual activity whatsoever, and I can tell that he bores the General. Who wouldn’t be bored by throwing about that round object again and again? But I have some use for him; he brings me news and information from the outside world—as my courier, you might say.
I, on the other hand, am never either bored or boring. You are arrogant, I’ve heard Napoleon say about me more than once behind my back, but it is not my intention here to gossip about him. I just want to stress the fact that it was my choice to live with the General. To choose is a very important verb for me. I have no problem with freedom, since I did not live in that allegedly inhuman period of human history called Communism. I have often heard this adjective—by “inhuman” humans mean “animal-like.” Let me take a chance here to express my total disagreement with this use of the word; it should be corrected! Needless to say, we animals rarely exercise your bloody habit of killing each other within the same species. With the exception of fighting dogs, but those gladiators are beyond contempt, I am afraid.
Going back to my relationship with the General, I cannot say that he is my butler, although it is very close to the truth; it would offend him if I were to claim that. The General is very much a person of the old times. By that I mean that he is truly sensitive to class differences, maybe even more so because he was born into a noble family. Noblesse oblige! So, let’s just simplify things and state here that the General is my keeper.
With this introduction, I would like to move to the purpose of my letter and offer you some of my feline reflections.
Let me tell you, Sir, that I have two reasons for submitting this appeal to you. The first one is strictly personal. Right now, the General is in the hospital with a severe case of pneumonia and various other ailments that I don’t want to bother you with. This is not the first time; his age and the stress of this trial are wearing him out. Pneumonia can cause the death of an old and frail person. Considering his poor health throughout his whole life, I am seriously worried that he might not ever make it to hear the sentence when it is given out. Especially because I know that in this country such trials can drag on for years. Indeed quite some time elapsed from the first indictment to the beginning of his trial… I would hereby like, as his friend—indeed his confidant—to submit this appeal for you to take matters into your own hands and bring a quick decision in whatever direction you see fit.
My second reason is of a more general nature, though. I see the young generation of Poles: for them Communism is something that died twenty years ago, before they were even born. It is passé! But although this young generation might not be very knowledgeable or even interested in the events of the past, they should be responsible for how they deal with their past now. Therefore, the trial of the General is a very important example for them.