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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 send petitions to a president。
He knew that his words were incomprehensible； but enjoyed them all the more for it。 He felt a sudden； unexpected intoxication come over him。 It was the same black intoxication he had felt when he solemnly announced to his wife that he no longer wished to see her or his son。 It was the same black intoxication he had felt when he sent off the letter that meant the end of his career in medicine。 He was not at all sure he was doing the right thing； but he was sure he was doing what he wanted to do。
I'm sorry； he said； but I'm not going to sign。
15
Several days later he read about the petition in the papers。
There was not a word； of course； about its being a politely worded plea for the release of political prisoners。 None of the papers cited a single sentence from the short text。 Instead； they went on at great length and in vague； menacing terms about an anti…state proclamation meant to lay the foundation for a new campaign against socialism。 They also listed all the signatories； accompanying each of their names with slanderous attacks that gave Tomas gooseflesh。
Not that it was unexpected。 The fact that any public undertaking （meeting； petition； street gathering） not organized by the Communist Party was automatically considered illegal and endangered all the participants was common knowledge。 But it may have made him sorrier he had not signed the petition。
Why hadn't he signed？ He could no longer quite remember what had prompted his decision。
And once more I see him the way he appeared to me at the very beginning of the novel： standing at the window and staring across the courtyard at the walls opposite。
This is the image from which he was born。 As I have pointed out before； characters are not born like people； of woman； they are born of a situation； a sentence； a metaphor containing in a nutshell a basic human possibility that the author thinks no one else has discovered or said something essential about。 But isn't it true that an author can write only about himself？ Staring impotently across a courtyard； at a loss for what to do； hearing the pertinacious rumbling of one's own stomach during a moment of love； betraying； yet lacking the will to abandon the glamorous path of betrayal； raising one's fist with the crowds in the Grand March； displaying one's wit before hidden microphones—I have known all these situations； I have experienced them myself； yet none of them has given rise to the person my curriculum vitae and I represent。 The characters in my novels are my own unrealized possibilities。 That is why I am equally fond of them all and equally horrified by them。 Each one has crossed a border that I myself have circumvented。 It is that crossed border （the border beyond which my own I ends） which attracts me most。 For beyond that border begins the secret the novel asks about。 The novel is not the author's confession； it is an investigation of human life in the trap the world has become。 But enough。 Let us return to Tomas。
Alone in his flat； he stared across the courtyard at the dirty walls of the building opposite。 He missed the tall； stooped man with the big chin and the man's friends； whom he did not know； who were not even members of his circle。 He felt as though he had just met a beautiful woman on a railway platform； and before he could say anything to her； she had stepped into a sleeping car on its way to Istanbul or Lisbon。
Then he tried again to think through what he should have done。 Even though he did his best to put aside everything belonging to the realm of the emotions （the admiration he had for the editor and the irritation his son caused him）； he was still not sure whether he ought to have signed the text they gave him。
Is it right to raise one's voice when others are being silenced？ Yes。
On the other hand； why did the papers devote so much space to the petition？ After all； the press （totally manipulated by the state） could have kept it quiet and no one would have been the wiser。 If they publicized the petition； then the