Four Fateful Fables for Today

A Silent Hero

One Afternoon, when I looked out of the window, I saw a funeral moving down the street. A simple coffin on an austere hearse drawn only by one horse. Behind the hearse walked the widow, clad in black, and three other people, probably relatives or friends of the deceased.

The modest cortege would not have attracted my attention were it not for the fact that the coffin was covered with a red banner bearing the inscription Three Cheers.

Intrigued, I left my flat and joined the procession. Soon we reached the cemetery. The deceased was buried in a far corner among a group of birch trees. I kept myself in the background during the burial rites, but afterward I approached the widow to offer my condolences and to inquire about the identity of the deceased.

I learned that he had been a civil servant. Moved by my interest in her late husband, the widow volunteered some information about his last days. She complained that her husband had exhausted himself by undertaking unusual voluntary work: he spent all his free time writing memoranda and letters describing new methods of propaganda. Just before his death his sole aim seemed to be to translate propaganda slogans into action.

My curiosity was aroused and I asked to be allowed to see some of her husband's writings. She agreed readily and gave me two sheets of yellowing paper, covered with a precise, somewhat old-fashioned handwriting. That is how I came to read his memorandum.

"Let us consider flies, for instance," was the opening sentence. "After dinner I often watch flies circling round the lamp and this stimulates various thoughts in my head. Would it not be wonderful, I think, if flies could share in our social consciousness. Then, if you caught one of them, pulled off its wings, dipped it in ink and let it loose on a clean sheet of paper, it would move about, writing Support the Air Force or another slogan."

The spiritual profile of the deceased became clearer to me as I read on. He must have been a sincere man, deeply concerned with the idea of placing slogans and banners whenever and wherever possible. Among his most original ideas was the sowing of special clover.

"Through the cooperation of artists and biologists," he wrote, "it should be possible to breed a special kind of clover. At present, this plant has flowers of one color, but if the seed were suitably prepared, the flowers could grow in the likeness of one of the leaders or a hero of labor. Just imagine a whole field of clover at flowering time! Of course, one would have to guard against mistakes. It would be most unfortunate if, through the mixing up of seeds, a leader's face, which is normally devoid of mustache and spectacles, should appear in flower form with both. The only remedy would be to mow the whole field and sow again."

The ideas of the old man were more and more intriguing. After having read his memorandum I came to the conclusion that the slogan Three Cheers had been placed on his coffin at his own expressed wish. In this way, even during his last journey, the selfless inventor and fanatical propagandist wished to demonstrate his enthusiasm.

I was curious to discover the exact circumstances of his death and made inquiries. It was no surprise to be told that he had fallen victim of his own eagerness. On the occasion of the National Day he took off all his clothes and painted his body in seven vertical stripes of various colors. Then he went out on his balcony, climbed on the balustrade and tried to do what is known to some physical-exercise enthusiasts as "the crab" -- a backbend in which the arched body rests on the subject's hands and feet. In this way he wished to create a living picture of a rainbow--the symbol of hope. Alas, the balcony was 30 feet above ground level.

I went to the cemetery to have another look at his last resting place. Though I searched for a long time, I could not find the group of birches among which he had been buried. In the end, I decided to follow a passing band returning from a tattoo. It was playing a gay march.

A Trial

At long last the aim has been achieved and a tremendous amount of work and effort has borne fruit. All the authors have been put into uniform and awarded suitable ranks and distinctions. In this way chaos, lack of criteria, unhealthy artistic tendencies and the obscurity and ambiguity of art have been removed once and for all.

The design of the uniforms had been worked out centrally; the division into districts and formations, as well as the system of ranks to be awarded to individual members, were the result of long preparatory work in the Supreme Council of the Writers' Association. From then on, every member had to wear a uniform consisting of wide mauve trousers with piping of a different color, green jacket, belt and peaked hat. Thus the basic uniform was simple, but it allowed for a great variety of rank. Members of the Supreme Council wore two-peaked hats with gold braid, but members of regional councils were entitled only to silver braid. Chairmen wore swords, vice chairmen stilettos.

All the writers were assigned to appropriate formations according to their genre. Two regiments of poets were set up, three divisions of practitioners in prose and one firing squad composed of various elements. The greatest changes took place among the literary critics; some of them were banished to the salt mines and the remainder incorporated into the gendarmery.

Everybody was given a rank within a scale ranging from private to marshal. The deciding factors were the number of words published by each author during his lifetime, the angle of his ideological spine in relation to the floor, his age and his position in local or national government. Flashes of different colors distinguished the various ranks.

The advantages of this new order were self-evident. First of all, it was clear to everybody what he should think of any author; a writer-general could not possibly write a bad novel and, obviously, the best novels had to come from the pen of a writer-marshal. A writer-colonel might make mistakes but, even so, he must be much more talented than a writer-major.

The work of editorial offices was greatly simplified; it was easy to calculate quickly and accurately how much more suitable for publication was the work of a writer-brigadier than that of a writer-lieutenant. In the same way the question of fees was settled automatically.

It became impossible for a critic-writer-captain to commit to paper any adverse views on the work of anyone holding the rank of writer-major or above and only a critic-writer-general could find fault with something coming from the pen of a writer-colonel.

The advantages of the new order were not confined to the literary profession. Before the reform, processions and public ceremonies were marred by the dreary appearance of the writers who compared unfavorably with the sportsmen. Now the writers' detachment presented a gay and colorful spectacle. The glitter of gold and silver braid, the multicolored flashes and piping, the peaked hats, all this appealed to the crowd and led to a great increase in the popularity of the writers among the people.

It must be admitted that certain difficulties were encountered in connection with the (Continued on page 125) Four Fateful Fables (Continued from page 67) classification of one eccentric writer. Though he wrote prose, his works were too short to be described as novels and too long for short stories. Moreover, rumor had it that his prose had a poetic quality and a satirical bent, and that he wrote articles which were indistinguishable from stories and also bore the characteristics of critical essays. It was thought improper to assign this writer either to a prose or to a poetry detachment and it was clearly impracticable to create a special formation for one man only. There were suggestions that he would be expelled, but in the end a compromise was reached; he was given orange-colored trousers, the rank of a private and was left to his own devices. The whole country could thus see that he was really a blot on the profession. Had he been expelled, this would not have been without precedent. At an earlier stage several writers who, because of their build, did not look well in uniform had been removed from the association.

Within a short time the country discovered that leaving the eccentric in the ranks of writers had been a serious mistake. It was he who was the cause of a scandalous affair which undermined the beautifully simple principles of authority.

One day, a well-known and respected writer-general was taking a walk along a boulevard in the capital city. Approaching him from the opposite direction was the eccentric writer-private in orange trousers. The writer-general threw him a contemptuous glance and waited for the private's salute. Suddenly he noticed on the private's hat the insignia of the highest rank, a small red beetle, which only writer-marshals were entitled to wear. Respect for authority was so deeply embedded in the writer-general that, without pausing to consider the unusual nature of his discovery, he immediately adopted a most respectful attitude and saluted first. The astonished writer-private returned the salute, and as his hand went up to his hat, the large ladybird that had been sitting there opened its wings and flew away. Gripped by anger because of this humiliation, the writer-general immediately summoned a patrolling critic who took away the private's fountain pen and escorted him to the guardroom in the House of Literature.

The trial took place in the marble hall of the Palace of the Arts. Judges and other dignitaries sat behind a large mahogany table, their glistening epaulets and golden insignia reflected in the dark, mirror-like surface.

The eccentric writer-private was accused of illegally wearing insignia to which he was not entitled by his rank. However, luck was on his side. On the eve of the trial, during a meeting of the Council for Culture, strong criticism had been voiced of the soulless attitude to the artist and of the way art was being administered. Echoes of this debate could be heard the following day when the critic-writer-marshal himself rose to speak during the trial.

"We must on no account," he proclaimed, "adopt a bureaucratic attitude to this case. Our task is to get to the very bottom of this affair. Without doubt the case we are trying here today concerns the violation of those rules which, in spite of some mistakes, have led to an unprecedented flowering of our literature. The question we must ask, however, is this: 'Is the accused a conscious and active criminal?' We must probe deeply in search of the answer, we must expose not only the effects of this act but also its causes. Let's consider first of all who brought the accused to his present sorry condition. Who has depraved him, who has exploited his initial lack of social consciousness? What sort of creative atmosphere could have led to this crisis? To whom must we mete out punishment so as to prevent similar trials in the future?

"No, comrades. It's not the accused who is mainly responsible. He was only a tool in the hands of the ladybird. There can be no doubt whatsoever that the ladybird, motivated by hatred of our new hierarchy, incensed by the achievement of our system of absolutely precise criteria and by the perfect organization of our association ... the ladybird with treacherous deliberation alighted on the hat of the accused and imitated a marshal's insignia. It's the ladybird who has tried to undermine our hierarchy. Let's punish the hand and not the blind tool."

The speech was greeted as a profound exploration of the very roots of evil. The writer-private was rehabilitated and a proper indictment was prepared against the ladybird.

A platoon of critics found the ladybird in a garden, sitting on a lilac leaf and plotting. When the ladybird realized that it had been unmasked, it offered no resistance.

The new trial took place in the same marble hall. All those present were straining their eyes to see the little red spot on the shiny table. Under a glass saucer, which prevented its escape, the ladybird sat still and unrepentant in its crime, preserving a disdainful silence to the very end.

The execution took place at dawn the following morning. Four thick and well-bound volumes of the latest novel by the writer-marshal of literature were the chosen instrument. They were dropped one by one from the height of four feet. It is reported that the condemned did not suffer long.

When the writer-private in orange trousers heard about the verdict, he cried and asked that the ladybird be set free in a garden. This brought him under suspicion once more of having been at least an accomplice in this crime; his attachment to the ladybird was thought to be highly suggestive.

A Drummer's Adventure

I Loved my Drum. I carried it suspended from a wide strap across my shoulders. It was a big drum. I used oak sticks to strike its matte, yellow membrane. With time the drumsticks had acquired a polish from my fingers, testifying to my zeal and diligence. I carried the drum along roads white with dust or black with mud; the world on either side was green, golden, brown or white according to the season. Wherever I went the landscape reverberated with a rat-a-tat-tat, for my hands did not belong to me but to the drum and when the drum was silent I felt ill. Thus one night I was drumming gaily when the General came up to me. He was incompletely dressed in his uniform jacket, which was unbuttoned, and his long underpants. He greeted me, hemmed and hawed a little, praised the Government and the State, and at last said casually: "And you just go on drumming, do you?"

"Yes, sir," I shouted, striking the drum with redoubled force. "To the glory of our country."

"Quite right," he agreed, but somehow his voice sounded a little sad. "And how long will you go on?"

"As long as my strength lasts, sir," I shouted back gaily.

"Good boy," he said. "And will your strength last much longer?"

"To the very end, sir," I said proudly.

"Well, well ..." The General sounded surprised. For a while he seemed to be deep in thought and then he went off on a tangent.

"It's late," he said.

"It's late for the enemy, never for us," I shouted back. "The future belongs to us!"

"Very good, very good ..." said the General, but he sounded cross. "But I meant that the hour was late."

"The hour of battle has struck! Fire the guns, ring the bells!" I shouted with the enthusiasm becoming a true drummer.

"Oh, no, not the bells," he said quickly. "I mean, let the bells ring, but only from time to time."

"Quite right, comrade General," I agreed with passion. "We don't need bells if we have our drums. Let the roll of my drum silence the bells!" To underline my point I struck a loud roll.

"Never the other way round? What?" asked the General. He sounded uncertain of himself and he was covering his mouth with his hand.

"Never, sir," I shouted back. "You can rely on your drummer, sir. He'll never allow his drum to go silent." I was carried away by a burning wave of zeal.

"Our army can be proud of you," the General said without enthusiasm. A cold fog had come down on our camp and he was shivering. All I could see in the gray mist was the top of the General's tent. "Yes, proud," he went on. "We shall never stop, even if we have to march day and night, even if ... Yes, each step ..."

"Each step will be an endless victory roll," I interjected, drumming for all I was worth.

"Well, well," murmured the General. "Yes, just that ..." and he went toward his tent. I was left alone. Solitude stimulated my desire for self-sacrifice and my sense of responsibility as a drummer. You've gone, General, I thought, but your faithful drummer is alert. With your brow furrowed you're working on your strategic plans, placing little flags on the map to mark the road to our joint victory. Together, you and I shall conquer the future and I shall announce the victory with a roll of drums.

I was overcome with tenderness toward the General, and with such a will to give myself to the cause that, if it were possible, I would have drummed even louder. In the depth of the night, fired by my youthful enthusiasm, animated by our great ideal, I devoted myself to my honorable task. From time to time, in between drumbeats, I could hear from the direction of the General's tent the creaking of mattress springs as if somebody, unable to sleep, were tossing in bed. At last, about midnight, a white figure loomed in the mist by the tent. It was the General in his nightshirt. His voice was hoarse.

"I say, so you're going to continue drumming, are you?" he asked. I was really moved that he should have come to me in the middle of the night. A true father to his soldiers!

"Yes, sir. Neither cold nor sleep will defeat me. I'm ready to go on as long as my strength lasts, obedient to the call of my duty and the cause we're fighting for. My honor dictates it. So help me God!"

In saying these words I was not motivated by a desire to appear as a stickler for my duty or by a wish to suck up to the General. This was no empty boast on my part, calculated to bring promotion or any other reward. It never even crossed my mind that such an interpretation could have been put upon my attitude. I have always been a sincere, straightforward and, damnit, let me say it, a good drummer.

The General gnashed his teeth. I thought he was cold. Then he said: "Good, very good," and went away.

A few minutes later I was arrested. The patrol assigned to this task surrounded me silently. They took my drum away, they removed the drumsticks from my cold and tired fingers. Silence filled the valley. I could not talk to my comrades who surrounded me with their rifles pointing at me, that was not allowed by regulations. They led me out of the camp. On the way one of them whispered that I had been arrested on the General's orders. The charge was treason. Treason!

Dawn was breaking. A few pink clouds floated in the sky. They were greeted by healthy snoring which I heard as we passed the General's tent.

A Citizen's Fate

Let us be frank. In the remote corner of the country with which this story is concerned, they have the same weather as in the capital. Seasons follow one another, rain falls, winds blow, the sun shines exactly as in the big city. From the point of view of the climate you could not tell the one from the other. All the more surprising, even frightening, was the initiative of the authorities. In the full knowledge of the circumstances, they decided to set up a meteorological station in this remote corner. It was not a big affair, just a small rectangle of ground surrounded by a white fence, with a box of instruments in the middle, standing on thin long legs.

Next to the station was the manager's house. Apart from looking after the instruments, his job consisted of writing accurate reports on the state of the weather so that, should questions be asked, the authorities would have the necessary information at hand.

The manager was a most conscientious young man. He wrote his reports in a neat, legible hand and always truthfully. If it rained he would not rest until he had described the rain from every possible angle: when, how much, for how long ... If the sun was shining he would also spare no effort to describe it accurately. He was quite impartial. He knew that the State was working hard to get the money for his salary and he felt that he had to apply himself to his job. There was never any shortage of work because in his district there was always weather of one kind or another.

Toward the end of the summer, storms became frequent and they brought rain with them. Truthfully he described them in detail and sent his reports to the head office. The storms continued.

One day he had a visit from an old and experienced colleague who, having watched him at work, remarked casually: "I wonder, my friend, if your reports aren't a bit on the depressing side."

"What do you mean?" The manager was surprised. "You can see with your own eyes that it's pouring with rain."

"Yes, yes. Of course, everybody can see that. But you do understand, don't you, that we must approach the problem consciously. Scientifically. Mind you, it's none of my business. I just mentioned it out of friendship."

The old meteorologist put on his galoshes and went away, still shaking his head. The young manager was left alone and continued compiling his reports. He gazed at the sky with some anxiety, but he went on writing.

About that time he received an unexpected summons from his higher authority. Not the highest one, but still an authority. He took his umbrella and went to the town. The authority received him in a lovely house. Rain was drumming on the roof.

"We have summoned you," announced the authority, "because we are surprised by the one-sided nature of your reports. For some time now they've been dominated by a pessimistic note. The harvest is on the way and you keep on talking about rain. Don't you understand the responsible nature of your work?"

"But it keeps on raining ..." said the manager.

"Don't prevaricate." The authority looked angry and his fist landed with a bang on a pile of papers on his desk. "We have here all your recent reports. You can't deny them. You are a good worker but you are spineless. I want you to understand that we shan't tolerate any defeatism!"

After the interview, the meteorologist returned to his station with the folded umbrella under his arm. In spite of this show of good will he was soaked to the skin, caught a cold and had to stay in bed. However, he would not admit that this was because of the rain.

The following day the weather improved. He was delighted and immediately wrote his report:

"The rain has stopped completely and it has to be admitted that it has never rained very much. Just a few drops now and again. But now, what sunshine!"

Indeed, the sun had broken through the clouds, it became warm and the earth was steaming. Humming gaily, the manager went about his duties. In the afternoon, clouds began to gather once more, driven by a cold wind. He went inside, afraid of catching flu. The time for his next report came and he wrote: "The sun behaves as usual. Already Copernicus has demonstrated that the setting of the sun is only apparent. In reality it always shines, only ..."

At this point he broke off, feeling very unhappy. When the first lightning struck, he shook off his opportunism and wrote simply: "17.00 hours. Thunderstorms."

Next day brought another storm. He reported it. The day after, no storm, but hail. He reported it. A strange calm, even a feeling of satisfaction, came over him. It lasted until the postman brought him another summons. This time it was from the Central Authority.

When he returned from the capital there were no doubts in his mind. For several days running he reported bright, sunny weather. Occasionally his reports struck a dialectical tone. For instance: "Occasional showers of short duration have caused certain flooding, but nothing can break the fighting spirit of the sappers and rescue detachments."

More reports followed with descriptions of fine weather. Some of them were even written in verse. However, some two months later he wrote a report which must have puzzled the authority. It said: "Blasted cloudburst." Underneath, hastily written in pencil, was the following sentence: "But the baby boy who was born to the widow in the village is doing well, though nobody thought he would last long."

An investigation disclosed that he had written the report while under the influence of alcohol purchased with money obtained from the sale of his meteorological instruments.

Thereafter nothing disturbed the sunny weather in his district. He was killed by lightning while walking round the fields, with a miraculous bell from Lourdes in his hand, trying to dispel the clouds. Basically he was an honest man.

from behind the iron curtain comes the new voice of a polish fantasist whose macabre miniatures illuminate his world