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evening　when　Tomas　came　back　from　Zurich；　they　were　estranged　and　had　a　long　way　to　go　before　they　could　touch　and　kiss。　Physical　love　gave　them　pleasure　but　no　consolation。　She　no　longer　cried　out　as　she　had　in　the　past；　and；　at　the　moment　of　orgasm；　her　grimace　seemed　to　him　to　express　suffering　and　a　strange　absence。　Only　at　night；　in　sleep；　were　they　tenderly　united。　Holding　his　hand；　she　would　forget　the　chasm　（the　chasm　of　daylight）　that　divided　them。　But　the　nights　gave　him　neither　the　time　nor　the　means　to　protect　and　take　care　of　her。　In　the　mornings；　it　was　heartrending　to　see　her；　and　he　feared　for　her：　she　looked　sad　and　infirm。
One　Sunday；　she　asked　him　to　take　her　for　a　ride　outside　Prague。　They　drove　to　a　spa；　where　they　found　all　the　streets　relabeled　with　Russian　names　and　happened　to　meet　an　old　patient　of　Tomas's。　Tomas　was　devastated　by　the　meeting。　Suddenly　here　was　someone　talking　to　him　again　as　to　a　doctor；　and　he　could　feel　his　former　life　bridging　the　divide；　coming　back　to　him　with　its　pleasant　regularity　of　seeing　patients　and　feeling　their　trusting　eyes　on　him；　those　eyes　he　had　pretended　to　ignore　but　in　fact　savored　and　now　greatly　missed。
Driving　home；　Tomas　pondered　the　catastrophic　mistake　he　had　made　by　returning　to　Prague　from　Zurich。　He　kept　his　eyes　trained　on　the　road　so　as　to　avoid　looking　at　Tereza。　He　was　furious　with　her。　Her　presence　at　his　side　felt　more　unbearably　fortuitous　than　ever。　What　was　she　doing　here　next　to　him？　Who　put　her　in　the　basket　and　sent　her　downstream？　Why　was　his　bed　chosen　as　her　shore？　And　why　she　and　not　some　other　woman？
Neither　of　them　said　a　word　the　whole　way。
When　they　got　home；　they　had　dinner　in　silence。
Silence　lay　between　them　like　an　agony。　It　grew　heavier　by　the　minute。　To　escape　it　they　went　straight　to　bed。　He　woke　her　in　the　middle　of　the　night。　She　was　crying。
I　was　buried；　she　told　him。　I'd　been　buried　for　a　long　time。　You　came　to　see　me　every　week。　Each　time　you　knocked　at　the　grave；　and　I　came　out。　My　eyes　were　full　of　dirt。
You'd　say；　'How　can　you　see？'　and　try　to　wipe　the　dirt　from　my　eyes。
And　I'd　say；　'I　can't　see　anyway。　I　have　holes　instead　of　eyes。'
And　then　one　day　you　went　off　on　a　long　journey；　and　I　knew　you　were　with　another　woman。　Weeks　passed；　and　there　was　no　sign　of　you。　I　was　afraid　of　missing　you；　and　stopped　sleeping。　At　last　you　knocked　at　the　grave　again；　but　I　was　so　worn　down　by　a　month　of　sleepless　nights　that　I　didn't　think　I　could　make　it　out　of　there。　When　I　finally　did　come　out；　you　seemed　disappointed。　You　said　I　didn't　look　well。　I　could　feel　how　awful　I　looked　to　you　with　my　sunken　cheeks　and　nervous　gestures。
T'm　sorry；'　I　apologized。　'I　haven't　slept　a　wink　since　you　left。'
'　You　see？'　you　said　in　a　voice　full　of　false　cheer。　'What　you　need　is　a　good　rest。　A　month's　holiday！'
As　if　I　didn't　know　what　you　had　in　mind！　A　month's　holiday　meant　you　didn't　want　to　see　me　for　a　month；　you　had　another　woman。　Then　you　left　and　I　slipped　down　into　my　grave；　knowing　full　well　that　I'd　have　another　month　of　sleepless　nights　waiting　for　you　and　that　when　you　came　back　and　I　was　uglier　you'd　be　even　more　disappointed。　
He　had　never　heard　anything　more　harrowing。　Holding　her　tightly　in　his　arms　and　feeling　her　body　tremble；　he　thought　he　could　not　endure　his　love。
Let　the　planet　be　convulsed　with　exploding　bombs；　the　country　ravished　daily　by　new　hordes；　all　his　neighbors　taken　out　and　shot—he　could　accept　it　all　more　easily　than　he　dared　admit。　But　the　grief　implicit　in　Tereza's　dream　was　something　he　could　not　endure。
He　tried　to　reenter　the　dream　she　had　told　him。　He　pictured　himself　stroking　her　face　and　delicately—she　mustn't　be　aware　of　it—brushing　the　dirt　out　of　her　eye　sockets。　Then　he　heard　her　say　the　unbelievably　harrowing　I　can't　see　anyway。　I　have　holes　instead　of　eyes。　
His　heart　was　about　to　break；　he　felt　he　was　on　the　verge　of　a　heart　attack。
Tereza　had　gone　back　to　sleep；　he　could　not。　He　pictured　her　death。　She　was　dead　and　having　terrible　nightmares；　but　because　she　was　dead；　he　was　unable　to　wake　her　from　them。　Yes；　that　is　death：　Tereza　asleep；　having　terrible　nightmares；　and　he　unable　to　wake　her。
19
During　the　five　years　that　had　passed　since　the　Russian　army　invaded　Tomas's　country；　Prague　had　undergone　considerable　changes。　The　people　Tomas　met　in　the　streets　were　different。　Half　of　his　friends　had　emigrated；　and　half　of　the　half　that　remained　had　died。　For　it　is　a　fact　which　will　go　unrecorded　by　historians　that　the　years　following　the　Russian　invasion　were　a　period　of　funerals：　the　death　rate　soared。　I　do　not　speak　only　of　the　cases　（rather　rare；　of　course）　of　people　hounded　to　death；　like　Jan　Prochazka；　the　novelist。　Two　weeks　after　his　private　conversations　were　broadcast　daily　over　the　radio；　he　entered　the　hospital。　The　cancer　that　had　most　likely　lain　dormant　in　his　body　until　then　suddenly　blossomed　like　a　rose。　He　was　operated　on　in　the　presence　of　the　police；　who；　when　they　realized　he　was　doomed　anyway；　lost　interest　in　him　and　let　him　die　in　the　arms　of　his　wife。　But　many　also　died　without　being　directly　subjected　to　persecution；　the　hopelessness　pervading　the　entire　country　penetrated　the　soul　to　the　body；　shattering　the　latter。　Some　ran　desperately　from　the　favor　of　a　regime　that　wanted　to　endow　them　with　the　honor　of　displaying　them　side　by　side　with　its　new　leaders。　That　is　how　the　poet　Frantisek　Hrubin　died—fleeing　from　the　love　of　the　Party。　The　Minister　of　Culture；　from　whom　the　poet　did　everything　possible　to　hide；　did　not　catch　up　with　Hrubin　until　his　funeral；　when　he　made　a　speech　over　the　grave　about　the　poet's　love　for　the　Soviet　Union。　Perhaps　he　hoped　his　words　would　ring　so　outrageously　false　that　they　would　wake　Hrubin　from　the　dead。　But　the　world　was　too　ugly；　and　no　one　decided　to　rise　up　out　of　the　grave。
One　day；　Tomas　went　to　the　crematorium　to　attend　the　funeral　of　a　famous　biologist　who　had　been　thrown　out　of　the　university　and　the　Academy　of　Sciences。　The　authorities　had　forbidden　mention　of　the　hour　of　the　funeral　in　the　death　announcement；　fearing　that　the　services　would　turn　into　a　demonstration。　The　mourners　themselves　did　not　learn　until　the　last　moment　that　the　body　would　be　cremated　at　half　past　six　in　the　morning。
Entering　the　crematorium；　Tomas　did　not　understand　what　was　happening：　the　hall　was　lit　up　like　a　film　studio。　Looking　around　in　bewilderment；　he　noticed　cameras　set　up　in　three　places。　No；　it　was　not　television；　it　was　the　police。　They　were　filming　the　funeral　to　study　who　had　attended　it。　An　old　colleague　of　the　dead　scientist；　still　a　member　of　the　Academy　of　Sciences；　had　been　brave　enough　to　make　the　funeral　oration。　He　had　never　counted　on　becoming　a　film　star。
When　the　services　were　over　and　everyone　had　paid　his　respects　to　the　family　of　the　deceased；　Tomas　noticed　a　group　of　men　in　one　corner　of　the　hall　and　spotted　the　tall；　stooped　editor　among　them。　The　sight　of　him　made　Tomas　feel　how　much　he　missed　these　people　who　feared　nothing　and　seemed　bound　by　a　deep　friendship。　He　started　off　in　the　editor's　direction　with　a　smile　and　a　greeting　on　his　lips；　but　when　the　editor　saw　him　he　said；　Careful！　Don't　come　any　closer。　
It　was　a　strange　thing　to　say。　Tomas　was　not　sure　whether　to　interpret　it　as　a　sincere；　friendly　warning　（　Watch　out；　we're　being　filmed；　if　you　talk　to　us；　you　may　be　hauled　in　for　another　interrogation　）　or　as　irony　（　If　you　weren't　brave　enough　to　sign　the　petition；　be　consistent　and　don't　try　the　old…pals　act　on　us　）。　Whatever　the　message　meant；　Tomas　heeded　it　and　moved　off。　He　had　the　feeling　that　the　beautiful　woman　on　the　railway　platform　had　not　only　stepped　into　the　sleeping　car　but；　just　as　he　was　about　to　tell　her　how　much　he　admired　her；　had　put　her　finger　over　his　lips　and　forbidden　him　to　speak。
20
That　afternoon；　he　had　another　interesting　encounter。　He　was　washing　the　display　window　of　a　large　shoe　shop　when　a　young　man　came　to　a　halt　right　next　to　him；　leaned　up　close　to　the　window；　and　began　scrutinizing　the　prices。
Prices　are　up；　said　Tomas　without　interrupting　his　pursuit　of　the　rivulets　trickling　down　the　glass。
The　man　looked　over　at　him。　He　was　a　hospital　colleague　of　Tomas's；　the　one　I　have　designated　S。；　the　very　one　who　had　sneered　at　Tomas　while　under　the　impression　that　Tomas　had　written　a　statement　of　self…criticism。　Tomas　was　delighted　to　see　him　（naively　so；　as　we　delight　in　unexpected　events）；　but　what　he　saw　in　his　former　colleague's　eyes　（before　S。　had　a　chance　to　pull　himself　together）　was　a　look　of　none…too…pleasant　surprise。　How　are　you？　S。　asked。
Before　Tomas　could　respond；　he　realized　that　S。　was　ashamed　of　having　asked。　It　was　patently　ridiculous　for　a　doctor　practicing　his　profession　to　ask　a　doctor　washing　windows　how　he　was。
To　clear　the　air　Tomas　came　out　with　as　sprightly　a　Fine；　just　fine！　as　he　could　muster；　but　he　immediately　felt　that　no　matter　how　hard　he　tried　（in　fact；　because　he　tried　so　hard）；　his　fine　sounded　bitterly　ironic。　And　so　he　quickly　added；　What's　new　at　the　hospital？　
Nothing；　S。　answered。　Same　as　always。　His　response；　too；　though　meant　to　be　as　neutral　as　possible；　was　completely　inappropriate；　and　they　both　knew　it。　And　they　knew　they　both　knew　it。　How　can　things　be　the　same　as　always　when　one　of　them　is　washing　windows？　How's　the　chief？　asked　Tomas。　You　mean　you　don't　see　him？　asked　S。　No；　said　Tomas。
It　was　true。　From　the　day　he　left；　he　had　not　seen　the　chief　surgeon　even　once。　And　they　had　worked　so　well　together；　they　had　even　tended　to　think　of　themselves　as　friends。　So　no　matter　how　he　said　it；　his　no　had　a　sad　ring；　and　Tomas　suspected　that　S。　was　angry　with　him　for　bringing　up　the　subject：　like　the　chief　surgeon；　S。　had　never　dropped　by　to　ask　Tomas　how　he　was　doing　or　whether　he　needed　anything。
All　conversation　between　the　two　former　colleagues　had　become　impossible；　even　though　they　both　regretted　it；　Tomas　especially。　He　was　not　angry　with　his　colleagues　for　having　forgotten　him。　If　only　he　could　make　that　clear　to　the　young　man　beside　him。　What　he　really　wanted　to　say　was　There's　nothing　to　be　ashamed　of！　It's　perfectly　normal　for　our　paths　not　to　cross。　There's　nothing　to　get　upset　about！　I'm　glad　to　see　you！　But