The Twelve Little Cakes (33 page)

“But that's not fair!” I protested.

“Oh, so you're talking back to me now?” Mrs. Vincentova said. “That's a detention right there! I'll have a word with Comrade Humlova and you can stay behind after school. Now get going! The later you return, the worse it will be for you.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but then thought better of it. My sister had often complained about Mrs. Vincentova's deliberately making things difficult for her, and I really didn't want to have to stay behind after school and write sentences on the blackboard. I walked halfway up the hill and found a patch of dewy grass, which I used to clean my sandals. Then I ran back to school with a change of heart. I had planned to tell Comrade Humlova that I wouldn't be able to recite at the Red Cross reunion, but I realized that the poetry group would save me from detention. I was sure that Comrade Humlova would prefer me to leave school early with the rest of her group rather than stay behind for talking back to the caretaker. I ran up the steps, showed Mrs. Vincentova my clean shoes, and dashed into the classroom.

“Does anybody know where I can borrow a Pioneer uniform?” I whispered, walking from one bench to the other. “Can anyone lend me a blue shirt and a red neckerchief ?”

At lunchtime, Comrade Humlova and Mrs. Vincentova had a talk in the hallway. From a distance I could tell that Mrs. Vincentova was not very happy about Comrade Humlova's decision. When the bell rang at two fifteen, I joined the other girls in the poetry group, and we walked across town to the National Committee Building. The National Committee had requisitioned the nicest villa in Cernosice for its headquarters, and while I had often admired this lovely old villa, I had never actually been inside. I looked up and down the street, terrified that I would see my dad's yellow Skoda, and then dashed up the driveway and into the bathroom to change into Romanka's old Pioneer uniform. The other girls wore white stockings and crisply ironed uniforms, while Romanka's blue shirt was several sizes too big and made me look like a scarecrow. Comrade Humlova had bought herself a new dress, and her hair was freshly permed. She took us through a quick rehearsal, waving a wooden ruler like an orchestra conductor's baton, and then she sent us behind the stage as the guests started to fill the main room. After a few minutes, the head of the Cernosice Red Cross Unit introduced us:

“Comrades men and women, it is a great pleasure for me to present to you Comrade Teacher Humlova and her poetry reciting group!” he said.

Comrade Humlova pushed us onto the stage and we formed a half circle around the microphone. The room was full of flags and old people wearing Red Cross armbands. They sat at their tables as if they were at a pub, and drank lemonade and ate little cakes and sandwiches. It was obvious that they were more interested in the food than they were in our poetry, but they applauded politely after every poem. When it was my turn, I stood on the tips of my toes but was still too small to reach the microphone. I filled my lungs with air and recited loudly:

 

A wave of applause almost swept me from the stage. The head of the Cernosice Red Cross Unit was so moved by my performance that he got up and pinned a Red Cross badge to my Pioneer shirt. He complimented Comrade Humlova on being an excellent teacher and invited us to join him at his table while the reunion continued with a demonstration of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Two nurses climbed up on the stage carrying a stretcher with a plastic doll, and for the next hour they invited people to blow air into the doll's mouth, making her balloonlike breasts go up and down. Comrade Humlova reached across the table and patted me on the head.

“You made me very proud today,” she smiled. “I'd like you to recite at the Great October Socialist Revolution parade.”

After my success at the Red Cross reunion, Comrade Humlova invited me to represent the school by reciting poetry at firemen's balls, antifascist conferences, and people's militia reunions. She bought me a Pioneer shirt with her own money, and Comrade Richmanova decorated me with a Pioneer badge (a pin shaped like an open book on fire) in front of the whole class. I was something of a celebrity at school and Mrs. Vincentova had to endure my dirty shoes without comment. But I wasn't too proud of myself. November 7 was approaching, and my father had always said that the people who carried lampions in the Great October Socialist Revolution parade were cowards and collaborators. I didn't want to be a collaborator. I only wore Comrade Humlova's Pioneer uniform to stop Mrs. Vincentova from making me stay behind after class, and I was torn by the conflicting emotions every collaborator must have felt. I liked being a celebrity at school, but I didn't like having to lie to my parents. I hid my Pioneer uniform at school and always asked to read first so that I could leave the recital early and not arouse my parents' suspicions. I made up Pioneer jokes and told them to my sister, and agreed loudly with my dad whenever he complained about the National Committee.

Looking back, I think I must have known that I was going to be caught. Reciting poetry at an antifascist conference or a militia reunion was pretty safe, because the people who went to these functions were the kind of people who went out of their way to avoid my parents. But the Great October Socialist Revolution parade was a public event. It was held in November, because at the time of the Revolution in 1917, the Russian calendar was different from the Western one, and it was first and foremost a children's parade. At school, we would make lanterns to carry in the evening, and after dinner the participating families would gather at the town hall and parade across Cernosice to the Rotten pub. The big room in the back, where the Friday and Saturday night discos took place, would be transformed into a banquet hall, and there would be beer for the parents and lemonade for the kids. It was an interesting example of civic socialism at work. Year in, year out, the Communist families of Cernosice staged an October parade in November, endured the usual speeches, sent their children home early, and then settled down to the important business of drinking. It was through nights of drinking that the town's status quo was maintained. A lot of townsfolk who privately deplored the bad roads and poor public works overseen by the National Committee felt compelled to turn up at all the Communist functions for the simple reason that they didn't want to be excluded. Gossip was rife, and the last thing you wanted was the people in town to start discussing your affairs. My family could be counted on to not attend these parades, but a lot of our neighbors would be there, and the word would quickly spread that Furman's daughter had recited Communist poetry.

I was going to get into a lot of trouble.

As the day of the parade drew nearer, I started willing myself to fall sick. I'd come down to breakfast, complaining of headaches and dizziness, but my mother was impossible to fool. She would take my temperature and put an extra orange in my lunch box, and send me down the hill. I sat in class, glaring at the posters of workers, and was quite rude to Andula Thatcher, whose dad was a policeman. Comrade Humlova must have sensed that something was wrong, because she called me up to the front of the class.

“You seem restless, my dear,” she said. “Are you nervous about tomorrow's parade?”

“I'm very nervous!” I replied. “And I think I might be catching a cold! My head hurts and I feel dizzy all the time!”

“You should eat more fruit,” Comrade Humlova smiled. “But right now, I'd like you to do me a favor.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“We need some cardboard for tomorrow's lanterns, and the art department has run out. Would you be a dear and run to the shop for me? We need ten sheets of orange and ten sheets of purple. You can tell Mrs. Seidlerova to put it on our account.”

“Okay!” I said, cheering up immediately.

I went to Mrs. Vincentova and got her to unlock the cage so that I could get my shoes. She was preparing to go out herself, and grumbled and groaned the whole time. I changed out of my slippers and left the schoolyard, walking up the main road to the local shops. There was a newsagent and stationery shop around the corner from the train station, and I felt very important asking Mrs. Seidlerova to give me some cardboard on the school account. She rolled the cardboard up in a tube of butcher's paper and sealed it with sticky tape, and I headed back to school. As I was walking past the long row of notice boards outside the station, a large poster caught my eye. It was a new poster with an old slogan—THE SOVIET UNION: TOMORROW IS YESTERDAY ALREADY!—and it made me remember the parade and reciting Comrade Humlova's poems in front of the whole town. My sister was right. Reciting poetry was stupid, especially since no one believed what the poems were saying. I looked around me at the potholes in the roads and the peeling paint on the buildings and the line of rusting Skodas in front of the town hall, and I realized the poster was right—tomorrow was yesterday already. I snatched it off the notice board and threw it in the bin. I walked back to school and gave Comrade Humlova her cardboard, then I slumped down in my bench and concentrated on my headache. I was definitely coming down with a terrible cold.

A few minutes before the end of the class, Comrade Richmanova made an announcement through the public address system, asking Comrade Humlova to come to her office. The second she left, the classroom erupted into the usual chaos, and for once I joined in. I was out of my seat, helping Honza Tucek throw poor Petr Halbich's slippers around the room, when Comrade Humlova appeared at the door. Mrs. Vincentova was standing beside her.

“To your seats! To your seats!” Comrade Humlova clapped her hands. “Furmanova. Come with us please.”

I had no idea what was going on, but the look on Mrs. Vincentova's face made it clear that she had scored some kind of personal victory. I followed them up the stairs to the headmistress's office. The door was open and Comrade Richmanova was standing near the window. This time she wasn't smiling. Sitting on her desk was the crumpled-up poster I had thrown in the bin.

“Would you care to explain this?” she asked me quietly.

My chin started to tremble. How could I possibly explain something so simple and yet so complicated? The conflicting emotions of the past month came flooding back to me, and my eyes filled with tears.

“I saw her with my own eyes!” Mrs. Vincentova hissed. “Willful destruction of state property! That's a serious offense!”

“Thank you, Comrade Vincentova,” the headmistress said curtly. “I'd like to hear what Dominika has to say.”

“I'm sorry.” I sobbed. It was hard to get the words out.

The headmistress's office was very hot. Comrade Humlova pulled out a handkerchief and started to mop her ample bosom.

“I don't understand,” she said. “Dominika is one of my best students. She's reciting at tomorrow's parade. This might just be nothing more than a simple case of nerves.”

“She knew exactly what she was doing,” Mrs. Vincentova snapped. “Her sister was a troublemaker, and her father has well-documented anti-Socialist leanings!”

The tears were spilling down my cheeks.

“I think I've heard enough, Comrade Vincentova,” Comrade Richmanova said. “Would you please excuse us?”

The caretaker narrowed her eyes. “As a committed Socialist, I demand to know what you intend to do about this,” she said.

Comrade Richmanova walked to the door and pulled it open. Her eyes were very unfriendly. She spoke slowly and her pronunciation was chillingly precise.

“I will punish the girl, Comrade Vincentova,” she said. “You've done your duty reporting this matter. You can be assured that we will deal with it appropriately. Thank you.”

Once Mrs. Vincentova had gone, the other two women relaxed. Comrade Richmanova handed me a tissue, and asked again why I had thrown the poster in the bin. All I could whisper was “I'm sorry.” Comrade Richmanova pulled a detention slip from her desk and sighed as she filled it in, while Comrade Humlova, with real emotion in her voice, told me that I would no longer have the privilege of reciting at the Great October Revolution parade.

“A good Pioneer must never steal or destroy other people's property!” she said, and as punishment, I had to stay after school and write this sentence one hundred times in my exercise book.

I was sad and ashamed, but secretly relieved as well.

Later that afternoon, sunbeams stroked the windows as I sat in the third-grade classroom and refilled my pen with ink. My fingers were dark blue and my eyes were red from crying. I could hear the sound of children outside in the yard. I ground my teeth together, because the nib of my pen was very scratchy on the paper. Every ten minutes, I stopped and counted the sentences. Fifty-five. Fifty-six. I looked at the clock on the wall and watched the minute hand move to a quarter past four. I was thinking about how if I died, Comrade Richmanova and Comrade Humlova would be so upset that they would punish Mrs. Vincentova for pushing me over the edge. My father would rush to the school and yell at the caretaker and maybe even break her broom across his knee. Sixty-six. Sixty-seven. The minute hand moved to half past four, and then the classroom door opened and Comrade Richmanova was standing there, looking in at me.

“You're still here?” She sounded genuinely surprised. “Poor little thing.” She handed me a tissue and I blew my nose. “How many have you written?” she asked.