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We　haven't　forgotten　what　you　wrote　for　our　paper；　said　the　editor；　smiling　at　Tomas。
Yes；　sighed　Tomas's　son　with　an　alacrity　Tomas　may　have　missed。
I　don't　see　how　my　name　on　a　petition　can　help　your　political　prisoners。　Wouldn't　it　be　better　to　have　it　signed　by　people　who　haven't　fallen　afoul　of　the　regime；　people　who　have　at　least　some　influence　on　the　powers　that　be？　
The　editor　smiled。　Of　course　it　would。　
Tomas's　son　smiled；　too；　he　smiled　the　smile　of　one　who　understands　many　things。　The　only　trouble　is；　they'd　never　sign！　
Which　doesn't　mean　we　don't　go　after　them；　the　editor　continued；　or　that　we're　too　nice　to　spare　them　the　embarrassment。　He　laughed。　You　should　hear　the　excuses　they　give。　They're　fantastic！　
Tomas's　son　laughed　in　agreement。
Of　course　they　all　begin　by　claiming　they　agree　with　us　right　down　the　line；　the　editor　went　on。　We　just　need　a　different　approach；　they　say。　Something　more　prudent；　more　reasonable；　more　discreet。　They're　scared　to　sign　and　worried　that　if　they　don't　they'll　sink　in　our　estimation。　
Again　Tomas's　son　and　the　editor　laughed　together。
Then　the　editor　gave　Tomas　a　sheet　of　paper　with　a　short　text　calling　upon　the　president　of　the　republic；　in　a　relatively　respectful　manner；　to　grant　amnesty　to　all　political　prisoners。
Tomas　ran　the　idea　quickly　through　his　mind。　Amnesty　to　political　prisoners？　Would　amnesty　be　granted　because　people　jettisoned　by　the　regime　（and　therefore　themselves　potential　political　prisoners）　request　it　of　the　president？　The　only　thing　such　a　petition　would　accomplish　was　to　keep　political　prisoners　from　being　amnestied　if　there　happened　to　be　a　plan　afoot　to　do　so！
His　son　interrupted　his　thoughts。　The　main　thing　is　to　make　the　point　that　there　still　are　a　handful　of　people　in　this　country　who　are　not　afraid。　And　to　show　who　stands　where。　Separate　the　wheat　from　the　chaff。　
True；　true；　thought　Tomas；　but　what　had　that　to　do　with　political　prisoners？　Either　you　called　for　an　amnesty　or　you　separated　the　wheat　from　the　chaff。　The　two　were　not　identical。
On　the　fence？　the　editor　asked。
Yes。　He　was　on　the　fence。　But　he　was　afraid　to　say　so。　There　was　a　picture　on　the　wall；　a　picture　of　a　soldier　pointing　a　threatening　finger　at　him　and　saying；　Are　you　hesitating　about　joining　the　Red　Army？　or　Haven't　you　signed　the　Two　Thousand　Words　yet？　or　Have　you　too　signed　the　Two　Thousand　Words？　or　You　mean　you　don't　want　to　sign　the　amnesty　petition？！　But　no　matter　what　the　soldier　said；　it　was　a　threat。
The　editor　had　barely　finished　saying　what　he　thought　about　people　who　agree　that　the　political　prisoners　should　be　granted　amnesty　but　come　up　with　thousands　of　reasons　against　signing　the　petition。　In　his　opinion；　their　reasons　were　just　so　many　excuses　and　their　excuses　a　smoke　screen　for　cowardice。　What　could　Tomas　say？
At　last　he　broke　the　silence　with　a　laugh；　and　pointing　to　the　poster　on　the　wall；　he　said；　With　that　soldier　threatening　me；　asking　whether　I'm　going　to　sign　or　not；　I　can't　possibly　think　straight。　
Then　all　three　laughed　for　a　while。
All　right；　said　Tomas　after　the　laughter　had　died　down。　I'll　think　it　over。　Can　we　get　together　again　in　the　next　few　days？　
Any　time　at　all；　said　the　editor；　but　unfortunately　the　petition　can't　wait。　We　plan　to　get　it　off　to　the　president　tomorrow。
Tomorrow？　And　suddenly　Tomas　recalled　the　portly　policeman　handing　him　the　denunciation　of　none　other　than　this　tall　editor　with　the　big　chin。　Everyone　was　trying　to　make　him　sign　statements　he　had　not　written　himself。
There's　nothing　to　think　over　anyway；　said　his　son。　Although　his　words　were　aggressive；　his　intonation　bordered　on　the　supplicatory。　Now　that　they　were　looking　each　other　in　the　eye；　Tomas　noticed　that　when　concentrating　the　boy　slightly　raised　the　left　side　of　his　upper　lip。　It　was　an　expression　he　saw　on　his　own　face　whenever　he　peered　into　the　mirror　to　determine　whether　it　was　clean…shaven。　Discovering　it　on　the　face　of　another　made　him　uneasy。
When　parents　live　with　their　children　through　childhood；　they　grow　accustomed　to　that　kind　of　similarity；　it　seems　trivial　to　them　or；　if　they　stop　and　think　about　it；　amusing。　But　Tomas　was　talking　to　his　son　for　the　first　time　in　his　life！　He　was　not　used　to　sitting　face　to　face　with　his　own　asymmetrical　mouth！
Imagine　having　an　arm　amputated　and　implanted　on　someone　else。　Imagine　that　person　sitting　opposite　you　and　gesticulating　with　it　in　your　face。　You　would　stare　at　that　arm　as　at　a　ghost。　Even　though　it　was　your　own　personal；　beloved　arm；　you　would　be　horrified　at　the　possibility　of　its　touching　you！
Aren't　you　on　the　side　of　the　persecuted？　his　son　added；　and　Tomas　suddenly　saw　that　what　was　really　at　stake　in　this　scene　they　were　playing　was　not　the　amnesty　of　political　prisoners；　it　was　his　relationship　with　his　son。　If　he　signed；　their　fates　would　be　united　and　Tomas　would　be　more　or　less　obliged　to　befriend　him；　if　he　failed　to　sign；　their　relations　would　remain　null　as　before；　though　now　not　so　much　by　his　own　will　as　by　the　will　of　his　son；　who　would　renounce　his　father　for　his　cowardice。
He　was　in　the　situation　of　a　chess　player　who　cannot　avoid　checkmate　and　is　forced　to　resign。　Whether　he　signed　the　petition　or　not　made　not　the　slightest　difference。　It　would　alter　nothing　in　his　own　life　or　in　the　lives　of　the　political　prisoners。
Hand　it　over；　he　said；　and　took　the　sheet　of　paper。
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As　if　rewarding　him　for　his　decision；　the　editor　said；　That　was　a　fine　piece　you　wrote　about　Oedipus。　
Handing　him　a　pen；　his　son　added；　Some　ideas　have　the　force　of　a　bomb　exploding。　
Although　the　editor's　words　of　praise　pleased　him；　his　son's　metaphor　struck　him　as　forced　and　out　of　place。　Unfortunately；　I　was　the　only　casualty；　he　said。　Thanks　to　those　ideas；　I　can　no　longer　operate　on　my　patients。　
It　sounded　cold；　almost　hostile。
Apparently　hoping　to　counteract　the　discordant　note；　the　editor　said；　by　way　of　apology；　But　think　of　all　the　people　your　article　helped！　
From　childhood；　Tomas　had　associated　the　words　helping　people　with　one　thing　and　one　thing　only：　medicine。　How　could　an　article　help　people？　What　were　these　two　trying　to　make　him　swallow；　reducing　his　whole　life　to　a　single　small　idea　about　Oedipus　or　even　less：　to　a　single　primitive　no！　in　the　face　of　the　regime。
Maybe　it　helped　people；　maybe　it　didn't；　he　said　（in　a　voice　still　cold；　though　he　probably　did　not　realize　it）；　but　as　a　surgeon　I　know　I　saved　a　few　lives。　
Another　silence　set　in。　Tomas's　son　broke　it。　Ideas　can　save　lives；　too。　
Watching　his　own　mouth　in　the　boy's　face；　Tomas　thought　How　strange　to　see　one's　own　lips　stammer。
You　know　the　best　thing　about　what　you　wrote？　the　boy　went　on；　and　Tomas　could　see　the　effort　it　cost　him　to　speak。　Your　refusal　to　compromise。　Your　clear…cut　sense　of　what's　good　and　what's　evil；　something　we're　beginning　to　lose。　We　have　no　idea　anymore　what　it　means　to　feel　guilty。　The　Communists　have　the　excuse　that　Stalin　misled　them。　Murderers　have　the　excuse　that　their　mothers　didn't　love　them。　And　suddenly　you　come　out　and　say：　there　is　no　excuse。　No　one　could　be　more　innocent；　in　his　soul　and　conscience；　than　Oedipus。　And　yet　he　punished　himself　when　he　saw　what　he　had　done。　
Tomas　tore　his　eyes　away　from　his　son's　mouth　and　tried　to　focus　on　the　editor。　He　was　irritated　and　felt　like　arguing　with　them。　But　it's　all　a　misunderstanding！　The　border　between　good　and　evil　is　terribly　fuzzy。　I　wasn't　out　to　punish　anyone；　either。　Punishing　people　who　don't　know　what　they've　done　is　barbaric。　The　myth　of　Oedipus　is　a　beautiful　one；　but　treating　it　like　this。　。　。　He　had　more　to　say；　but　suddenly　he　remembered　that　the　place　might　be　bugged。　He　had　not　the　slightest　ambition　to　be　quoted　by　historians　of　centuries　to　come。　He　was　simply　afraid　of　being　quoted　by　the　police。　Wasn't　that　what　they　wanted　from　him；　after　all？　A　condemnation　of　the　article？　He　did　not　like　the　idea　of　feeding　it　to　them　from　his　own　lips。　Besides；　he　knew　that　anything　anyone　in　the　country　said　could　be　broadcast　over　the　radio　at　any　time。　He　held　his　tongue。
I　wonder　what's　made　you　change　your　mind；　said　the　editor。
What　I　wonder　is　what　made　me　write　the　thing　in　the　first　place；　said　Tomas；　and　just　then　he　remembered：　She　had　landed　at　his　bedside　like　a　child　sent　downstream　in　a　bulrush　basket。　Yes；　that　was　why　he　had　picked　up　the　book　and　gone　back　to　the　stories　of　Romulus；　Moses；　and　Oedipus。　And　now　she　was　with　him　again。　He　saw　her　pressing　the　crow　wrapped　in　red　to　her　breast。　The　image　of　her　brought　him　peace。　It　seemed　to　tell　him　that　Tereza　was　alive；　that　she　was　with　him　in　the　same　city；　and　that　nothing　else　counted。
This　time；　the　editor　broke　the　silence。　I　understand。　I　don't　like　the　idea　of　punishment；　either。　After　all；　he　added；　smiling；　we　don't　call　for　punishment　to　be　inflicted；　we　call　for　it　to　cease。　
I　know；　said　Tomas。　In　the　next　few　moments　he　would　do　something　possibly　noble　but　certainly；　and　totally；　useless　（because　it　would　not　help　the　political　prisoners）　and　unpleasant　to　himself　（because　it　took　place　under　conditions　the　two　of　them　had　imposed　on　him）。
It's　your　duty　to　sign；　his　son　added；　almost　pleading。
Duty？　His　son　reminding　him　of　his　duty？　That　was　the　worst　word　anyone　could　have　used　on　him！　Once　more；　the　image　of　Tereza　appeared　before　his　eyes；　Tereza　holding　the　crow　in　her　arms。　Then　he　remembered　that　she　had　been　accosted　by　an　undercover　agent　the　day　before。　Her　hands　had　started　trembling　again。　She　had　aged。　She　was　all　that　mattered　to　him。　She；　born　of　six　fortuities；　she；　the　blossom　sprung　from　the　chief　surgeon's　sciatica；　she；　the　reverse　side　of　all　his　Es　muss　sein！　—she　was　the　only　thing　he　cared　about。
Why　even　think　about　whether　to　sign　or　not？　There　was　only　one　criterion　for　all　his　decisions：　he　must　do　nothing　that　could　harm　her。　Tomas　could　not　save　political　prisoners；　but　he　could　make　Tereza　happy。　He　could　not　really　succeed　in　doing　even　that。　But　if　he　signed　the　petition；　he　could　be　fairly　certain　that　she　would　have　more　frequent　visits　from　undercover　agents；　and　that　her　hands　would　tremble　more　and　more。
It　is　much　more　important　to　dig　a　half…buried　crow　out　of　the　ground；　he　said；　than　to　se