Birds of the Sky

/, Literature, Blesok no. 24/Birds of the Sky

Birds of the Sky

21. The chain of witnesses

In the tube station, lots of people, vociferation.
Two ‘militia’ men are trying to immobilize a man. Two more ‘militia’ men turn up. They grab him, hit him, drag him away. The man tries to pull himself out, shouts, he is hoarse.
He clutches the metallic edge of the balustrade and holds tight. He blows it with his fist, probably to warn people around, to seek help.
He seems completely lost, bewildered, fearful, hopelessly panicked. The ruffled hair of the eternally sacrified. A broken lip.
The ‘militia’ men pulled him away; they drag him to the end of the corridor. They disappear.
Tofana is asking:
“Where have they taken him? Have you seen his desperate face?”
“Yes. I’m going to see what’s happening.”
“Hurry up, help him, don’t leave him there, poor man. He should know at least that there is one witness.”
I ask an officer what has happened. He answers that the man is riotous and that she knows nothing else.
“But where did they take him?”
“To the subway police station, at the end of the corridor.”
I’m on my way there. The officer, solidary to the ‘militia’ men tells me:
“Stay away! Mind your own business. It’s dangerous to interfere.”
I find the ‘militia’ station. Underground. I’m not a brave person; therefore, I enter there with a tug at my heartstrings. Darkness, rocks. A typical space of terror. A 40 watt bulb, a door. The officer on duty stops me. I show him my journalist card. I’m thinking: “I’ve seen such blockhouses only in the German films.”
I say categorically, just to take courage:
“Press!”
“What do you want? Say, comrade, what do you want?”
“You sequestered a man a few minutes ago. I want to know what is going on.”
“This case is none of Press’s business.”
“I know what the press business is. Please, don’t tell me what the press assignments are. I’ve been working as a journalist for ten years.”
“Go away, comrade, I don’t have time to waste on you.”
“Please…”
“Leave now if you don’t want to get into trouble.”
My hearts is bouncing. I’m not a hero, of course. These people won’t get intimidated by my card. Nor will my physiognomy convince them. On the contrary. In their eyes, my beard plunges me into the category of priests or of non-conformists. In their eyes, hair means either a cleric or a revolted person.
Even for the large masses of people hair has the same meaning; but masses avow these two categories. One day, on a bus, a gentleman I did not know whispered to me: “Do you know what significance I give to the fact that a lot of intellectuals are bearded? National mourning!”
In conclusion, my facial aspect makes me a suspect for the ‘militia’ men.
Another ‘militia’ man came in. He looked at my card, turned it upside down again and again.
I draw their attention to the mention written on it:
“The owner of this card shall enjoy all the rights and legal facilities in front of the party and state bodies.”
I recite the two lines to them stressing the words “party and state”, the mystical words of our times, the secret of subordination and general stupidity.
Party and state – this sanctified fright is my only aid in the darkness of the subway ‘militia’ station. I say:
“Call the head of the station, please.”
He refuses. He says:
“Show me your authorization for investigating this case in particular.”
That’s absurd. A written authorization for investigating a case that occurred three minutes ago!
I say calmly:
“My card is worth three authorizations. You have read I am supposed to enjoy the facilities and the aid offered by the party and state bodies… Besides I’m not here to investigate the case but to stop that captured man’s physical maltreatment.”
Meanwhile, I hear muffled sounds coming from a room next door. Somebody was beating someone else. I shiver.
Cadenced steps. A lieutenant comes in.
I introduce myself, I thrust my card into his eyes. I show him the magic formula: “the party and the state”.
He says:
“I’ll ask you to leave immediately. Who gave you the right to come in here? Nobody is allowed to! You have broken a law!”
I say:
“I represent the press and you are breaking a law you are not aware of. I won’t leave before you let the Press see what is happening to the sequestered person. If he is charged with anything, surrender him to the justice. But don’t ill-treat him, don’t mutilate him.”
“We don’t brutalize anyone. We don’t sequestrate people. We just retain people for investigations. Leave this place at once.”
“Tell me your name and the name of the detainee.”
He utters something about my mother. I frown and say:
“I will inform the Press Division about this case. Good-bye.”
I am about to leave.
He turns from a severe into a permissive person. He might have thought that still… I might be backed up by someone… and I might be only the spear peak… and you never know how long the spear might be – that spear backing up a man who dares to enter the darkness. So he finally says:
“Let me explain to you.”
He gives me some formal explanations. He says that the man is a provoker, that he has aggressed the order, which is a crime and that he seems to be drunk, but “we shall investigate all these details.”
The head of the ‘militia’ station knows that he will have to get out of the subterranean station one day. He is an officer, he has steps to climb.
“I would like to see the condition of the sequestered person.”
“That’s all! You exceed your assignment. Good-bye!”
On the platform, Tofana is waiting for me. She is pale.
She is glad to see me. The train had just left the station clearing the platforms; the station seemed larger. I noticed a civilian watching me, without trying to hide.
Tofana asks:
“Could that man see you?”
“No, I was not allowed.”
“It would have been great for his tonus. If only he could have seen you. So that he might know that someone caught a glimpse of his condition. That he is not alone, in the hands of those beasts. This is the most terrifying thing: they isolate you away from any witness, any sight. The ultimate torture is not that they kill you but the fact they kill you in a terrible isolation”.
“Yes, they isolate you. They bury not only your body, but your deeds too. If a victim is killed under the eyes of the people, death is an offering. Priest Popieluszko had a useful posterity as they failed to rob him of his fame!”
Yes, modern times do no longer crucify victims under the eyes of the crowds. This is the subtlety of the crime: to rob the victim of the exemplary title of martyr. Thus, modern times add a new cynicism to the old cruelty.
“It’s good that at least the ‘militia’ men know there is a witness who will keep an eye on them, says Tofana. I was thinking that one day something similar might happen to me… adds Tofana. If they grab me and I am alone… no witness… and they will squeeze me into a subway gallery or in a subterranean hole… into these labyrinths… into a cellar… with no one knowing about me. I’m so afraid of it. I’ve always been afraid of it. I wish I could flee from here. Escape. Leave. Go away.
She started crying and cried on and on.

AuthorVasile Andru
2018-08-21T17:23:40+00:00 January 1st, 2002|Categories: Prose, Literature, Blesok no. 24|0 Comments