“Maybe our terror is not a great terror,” Mr. Trąba flared up, “but it’s still terror. Better that than nothing. Better a sparrow in the hand than Mao Tse-tung on the roof. Yes, OK, I intended to do something for humanity, but after all, if I do something for Poland, I will have done it for humanity too. Of course I would prefer a great deed on a global scale. Of course I would prefer, as I explained to you,” Mr. Trąba raised his shoulders, “of course I would prefer to tighten my tyrannicidal fingers around the neck of Mao Tse-tung. A person would get to see a little of China in the process. But we don’t have the resources for such a long journey,” Mr. Trąba sighed regretfully, “and a short trip is out of the question for reasons of ambition. You can’t expect me to humiliate myself with quasi-foreign trips around the block of the People’s Democracies. Oh no, not that, no. I certainly won’t go to Sofia to lie in ambush for Comrade Zhivkov. Nor to East Germany in order to administer justice to Walter Ulbricht. Please don’t even try to persuade me.”
“And what about Khrushchev?” Mother unexpectedly spoke up, neither asking nor quite proposing, from above an already considerable stack of potato pancakes. “Have you considered Khrushchev?”
“Khrushchev,” Mr. Trąba seemed to ignore the absolute astonishment with which Father and Commandant Jeremiah looked at Mother, “Khrushchev may be removed at any moment. It isn’t worth the effort. I go to Moscow, which, however you look at it, is also a good hike, and on the spot I discover that changes have just then taken place at the highest level of the CC CPSU, and I’ll look like a boob.”
“And if, Comrade Trąba,” Comrade Jeremiah’s voice suddenly became warmer, “and if. . of course these are absolutely not our methods,” he suddenly stipulated in a panic, “and if, and if it could be, we could even, not so much help, that’s too strong a word, but, let’s say, we could not know about certain things, uh, even a passport, any time — and if it could be the Bloody Dictator of Fascist Spain?”
“Caudillo Bahamonde Franco is one of Europe’s greatest statesmen,” Mr. Trąba said with distinct pity. “I remind you: I wish to do something for humanity, not against it.”
It might have seemed that it was not steam that was departing from the Commandant’s drying uniform, rather it was the furies departing from the man himself.
“Never. We will never,” he panted heavily, “we will never come to terms, Comrade Trąba. Be my guest — kill, kill whomever you wish. Yes,” the Commandant suddenly seemed to discern a deeper meaning in what he was saying, “yes, kill whomever you wish. Kill anybody at all. After all, that too will bring the decline of your life into order. Go out into the street, kill whomever, and you’ll see in just what implacably logical scheme of events you’ll find yourself. You won’t do much for humanity, but you will do something for yourself. And after all, if you do something for yourself, it’s as if you’d also done something for humanity. Don’t you agree?”
“What do you do for yourself by killing just anyone?” Father asked in a strangely high voice.
“One’s life becomes definitively ordered, especially the disorderly life, and your life, comrade,” the Commandant stretched out his hand to Mr. Trąba in what was almost a welcoming gesture, “is an unusually disorderly life. A person kills, becomes a murderer, and by being a murderer he disperses doubts and does away with choices. Being a murderer is the guarantee of a highly stable identity. First, if you should decide to go into hiding, comrade, you’d be a murderer in hiding. Then, if they should arrest you, you’d be an arrested murderer, then a judged one, then a condemned one, and then,” the Commandant suddenly stopped, as if he had realized that he was about to say something tactless. He finished in a more peaceful voice, although it still vibrated with rage: “Let’s save our breath. Be my guest. Go ahead and kill, comrade, kill whomever you like.”
“This is painful, painful to listen to,” Mr. Trąba said with a sadness that tore your heart to pieces. “Please, Mr. Commandant, don’t make me into the posthumous child of existentialism’s precursors. I wouldn’t even consider killing just anyone. I haven’t the least intention of joining that godless philosophical current. I intend to join the murky circle of the great tyrannicides of human history: Peter Pahlen, Gavrilo Princip, François Ravaillac, Jeronimo Caserio, Józef Trąba. . Not a bad list of names,” he said, falling into dreaminess, but he immediately roused himself again.
“And besides, what do you mean by ‘whomever?’ There aren’t any whomevers here. Whom am I supposed to kill? Małgosia Snyperek? Grand Master Swaczyna? Mrs. Rychter? Perhaps I’m supposed to raise my sacrilegious hand against Pastor Potraffke, or Station Master Ujejski? Sexton Messerschmidt? There aren’t any ‘whomevers’ here. There aren’t any accidental passersby here. Everybody knows each other here, and knows each other as intimately as, if I may say so, you and I, Commandant. .”
“In that case, why don’t you choose someone by lottery, or even better,” an almost genuine note of sudden desperation and readiness to bear the greatest sacrifices sounded in the Commandant’s voice, “or even better, why not me? Yes, why don’t you kill me?”
“You? Absolutely not.”
“Why? Why absolutely not me?” The Commandant was not able to check the reflexive disappointment and almost injured ambition in his voice. “Why absolutely not me?”
“Because I don’t intend to acquire the reputation of an anti-Semite in my old age.”
“Mr. Trąba. .” The Commandant’s voice suddenly broke. Everything was now clear. It was as clear as day who would remain standing, who was already the victor in this seemingly evenly matched duel. Everything was so unyielding that I didn’t even feel like recording the final word, which would be declared any minute. I only formulated it in my thoughts.
“Mr. Trąba, I’m an atheist.” The Commandant was as pale as ashes, and drops of oily and icy sweat broke out on his forehead.
“Fine.” Mr. Trąba danced around his staggering opponent with the murderous lightness of a triumphant heavyweight boxer. “Fine. Just utter this one phrase without hesitation: ‘I’m not a Jew, I’m an atheist.’ Say it, toss out this stylistic pearl, and I will answer you, just as the Chief sometimes answers me.” Mr. Trąba bowed in Father’s direction. “Then I will answer you: ‘A beautiful phrase and worthy of reward.’”
Father, like a golem set in motion by a magic spell, stood up from behind the table, went up to the cabinet, and did what he always did: he extracted a bottle and glasses. Mother was carrying a tureen full of potato pancakes in sour cream. Thunder resounded, and black rains came crashing down with redoubled might. Mr. Trąba grew gentle and glanced thankfully to the heavens. Father continued filling glasses with juniper berry vodka in the fever of his robotic motions.
“Basically,” Mr. Trąba now continued in a conciliatory and almost amicable tone, “basically, it’s not a question of whether you deny it or not, Commandant. Don’t be angry, but, putting it in other terms, whether you had denied it or not — this is a trifle. Too many ties, ties of another sort, link us. As you correctly say, we are old friends, and I wouldn’t be wrong if I said that a step here, a move there, one gesture and you would join the conspiracy.” Mr. Trąba lifted up his hand and, without superfluous words, stilled the Commandant’s silent and, to tell the truth, none-too-distinct resistance. “Yes, you would join us, but that’s not the issue, nor is it a question of your Jewishness or of your Communism: don’t be angry, but, to tell the truth, those Jews and those Communists were quite different from you, Commandant. It is a question of general, as well as universal, truths. Of what Jews sensu largo are up to, and just what Jews they are!”