Yes, it's a very nice method, said Tomas, but would you mind telling me who gave you the idea I'd agreed to go along with it?
S. shrugged his shoulders, but the smile did not disappear from his face.
And suddenly Tomas grasped a strange fact: everyone was smiling at him, everyone wanted him to write the retraction; it would make everyone happy! The people with the first type of reaction would be happy because by inflating cowardice, he would make their actions seem commonplace and thereby give them back their lost honor. The people with the second type of reaction, who had come to consider their honor a special privilege never to be yielded, nurtured a secret love for the cowards, for without them their courage would soon erode into a trivial, monotonous grind admired by no one.
Tomas could not bear the smiles. He thought he saw them everywhere, even on the faces of strangers in the street. He began losing sleep. Could it be? Did he really hold those people in such high esteem? No. He had nothing good to say about them and was angry with himself for letting their glances upset him so. It was completely illogical. How could someone who had so little respect for people be so dependent on what they thought of him?
Perhaps his deep-seated mistrust of people (his doubts as to their right to decide his destiny and to judge him) had played its part in his choice of profession, a profession that excluded him from public display. A man who chooses to be a politician, say, voluntarily makes the public his judge, with the naive assurance that he will gain its favor. And if the crowd does express its disapproval, it merely goads him on to bigger and better things, much in the way Tomas was spurred on by the difficulty of a diagnosis.
A doctor (unlike a politician or an actor) is judged only by his patients and immediate colleagues, that is, behind closed doors, man to man. Confronted by the looks of those who judge him, he can respond at once with his own look, to explain or defend himself. Now (for the first time in his life) Tomas found himself in a situation where the looks fixed on him were so numerous that he was unable to register them. He could answer them neither with his own look nor with words. He was at everyone's mercy. People talked about him inside and outside the hospital (it was a time when news about who betrayed, who denounced, and who collaborated spread through nervous Prague with the uncanny speed of a bush telegraph); although he knew about it, he could do nothing to stop it. He was surprised at how unbearable he found it, how panic-stricken it made him feel. The interest they showed in him was as unpleasant as an elbowing crowd or the pawings of the people who tear our clothes off in nightmares.
He went to the chief surgeon and told him he would not write a word.
The chief surgeon shook his hand with greater energy than usual and said that he had anticipated Tomas's decision.
Perhaps you can find a way to keep me on even without a statement, said Tomas, trying to hint that a threat by all his colleagues to resign upon his dismissal would suffice.
But his colleagues never dreamed of threatening to resign, and so before long (the chief surgeon shook his hand even more energetically than the previous time-it was black and blue for days), he was forced to leave the hospital.
5
First he went to work in a country clinic about fifty miles from Prague. He commuted daily by train and came home exhausted. A year later, he managed to find a more advantageous but much inferior position at a clinic on the outskirts of Prague. There, he could no longer practice surgery, and became a general practitioner. The waiting room was jammed, and he had scarcely five minutes for each patient; he told them how much aspirin to take, signed their sick-leave documents, and referred them to specialists. He considered himself more civil servant than doctor.
One day, at the end of office hours, he was visited by a man of about fifty whose portliness added to his dignity. He introduced himself as representing the Ministry of the Interior, and invited Tomas to join him for a drink across the street.
He ordered a bottle of wine. I have to drive home, said Tomas by way of refusal. I'll lose my license if they find I've been drinking. The man from the Ministry of the Interior smiled. If anything happens, just show them this. And he handed Tomas a card engraved with his name (though clearly not his real name) and the telephone number of the Ministry.
He then went into a long speech about how much he admired Tomas and how the whole Ministry was distressed at the thought of so respected a surgeon dispensing aspirin at an outlying clinic. He gave Tomas to understand that although he couldn't come out and say it, the police did not agree with drastic tactics like removing specialists from their posts.
Since no one had thought to praise Tomas in quite some time, he listened to the plump official very carefully, and he was surprised by the precision and detail of the man's knowledge of his professional career. How defenseless we are in the face of flattery! Tomas was unable to prevent himself from taking seriously what the Ministry official said.
But it was not out of mere vanity. More important was Tomas's lack of experience. When you sit face to face with someone who is pleasant, respectful, and polite, you have a hard time reminding yourself that nothing he says is true, that nothing is sincere. Maintaining nonbelief (constantly, systematically, without the slightest vacillation) requires a tremendous effort and the proper training-in other words, frequent police interrogations. Tomas lacked that training.
The man from the Ministry went on: We know you had an excellent position in Zurich, and we very much appreciate your having returned. It was a noble deed. You realized your place was here. And then he added, as if scolding Tomas for something, But your place is at the operating table, too!
I couldn't agree more, said Tomas.
There was a short pause, after which the man from the Ministry said in mournful tones, Then tell me, Doctor, do you really think that Communists should put out their eyes? You, who have given so many people the gift of health?
But that's preposterous! Tomas cried in self-defense. Why don't you read what I wrote?
I have read it, said the man from the Ministry in a voice that was meant to sound very sad.
Well, did I write that Communists ought to put out their eyes?
That's how everyone understood it, said the man from the Ministry, his voice growing sadder and sadder.
If you'd read the complete version, the way I wrote it originally, you wouldn't have read that into it. The published version was slightly cut.
What was that? asked the man from the Ministry, pricking up his ears. You mean they didn't publish it the way you wrote it?
They cut it.
A lot?
By about a third.
The man from the Ministry appeared sincerely shocked. That was very improper of them.
Tomas shrugged his shoulders.
You should have protested! Demanded they set the record straight immediately!
The Russians came before I had time to think about it. We all had other things to think about then.
But you don't want people to think that you, a doctor, wanted to deprive human beings of their right to see!
Try to understand, will you? It was a letter to the editor, buried in the back pages. No one even noticed it. No one but the Russian embassy staff, because it's what they look for.
Don't say that! Don't think that! I myself have talked to many people who read your article and were amazed you could have written it. But now that you tell me it didn't come out the way you wrote it, a lot of things fall into place. Did they put you up to it?