The JOKE by Milan Kundera

any letters there; she said she had. From whom? they asked. She said her mother had written to her. Anyone else? Oh, a friend now and then, she said. Can you tell us his name? they asked. She gave them my name. And what did Comrade Jahn write about? She shrugged her shoulders, not wanting to quote my card.
    Did you write to him? they asked. I did, she said. What did you write? they asked. Oh, nothing much, about the training course, that kind of thing. Are you enjoying the course?
    they asked her. Oh, yes. I love it, she answered. And did you write that to him? Yes, I did, she answered. And what was his response? they went on. His response? Marketa said, hesitating, he's a little odd, you have to
    know him. We do know him, they said, and we would like to know what he wrote. Can you show us his postcard?
    "You're not angry with me, are you?" said Marketa. "I had to show it to them."
    "You don't have to apologize," I said. "They knew all about it before talking to you; otherwise they wouldn't have called you in."
    "I'm not apologizing," she protested, "and I'm not ashamed of having given them the card.
    That's not what I meant at all. You're a Party member, and the Party has a right to know exactly who you are and what you think." She had been shocked by what I had written, she told me. After all, everybody knew that Trotsky was the archenemy of everything we stood for, everything we were fighting for.
    What could I say? I asked her to tell me what had happened after that.
    After that, they read the card and were horrified. They asked her what she thought of it.
    She said it was disgraceful. They asked her why she hadn't brought it to them of her own accord. She shrugged her shoulders. They asked her if she knew what it meant to be vigilant, on guard. She hung her head. They asked her if she knew how many enemies the Party had. She said yes, she knew, but she would never have believed that Comrade Jahn .. . They asked her how well she knew me. They asked her what I was like. She said I was a bit odd, I was a staunch Communist all right, but there were times I would come out with things a Communist had no business saying. They asked her to give an example.
    She said she couldn't remember anything specific, but that nothing was sacred to me.
    They said that was obvious from my postcard. She told them we often argued about things. And she told them again that I said one thing at meetings and another when I was with her. At meetings I was all enthusiasm, while with her I made a joke of everything, made everything seem ridiculous. They asked her if she thought a man like that should be a Party member. She shrugged. They asked her if the Party could build socialism when its members went around proclaiming that optimism was the opium of the people. She said the Party would never build socialism that way. They told her that was enough. And that she not tell me anything for the moment, because they wanted to see what else I would write. She told them she never wanted to see me again. They replied that would be a mistake on her part, and she should keep writing so they could find out more about me.
    "And then you showed them my letters?" I asked Marketa, turning bright red at the thought of my sentimental effusions.
    "What else could I do?" said Marketa. "But I couldn't go on writing after what had happened. I couldn't write just to trap you. So I sent you one more card and quit. The reason I didn't want to see you is I was forbidden to tell you anything, and I was afraid you'd ask me and I'd have to lie to your face, and I don't like telling lies."
    I asked Marketa what had inspired her to see me today.
    She told me it was Comrade Zemanek. He had met her in a university corridor the day after the fall term began and taken her into the small office of the Natural Sciences Party Organization. He told her he had heard that I had written her a postcard with some anti-Party statements. He asked her what they were. She told him. He asked her