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ers　and　officers　in　compromising　situations。　The　Russians　did　not　know　what　to　do。　They　had　been　carefully　briefed　about　how　to　behave　if　someone　fired　at　them　or　threw　stones；　but　they　had　received　no　directives　about　what　to　do　when　someone　aimed　a　lens。
She　shot　roll　after　roll　and　gave　about　half　of　them；　undeveloped；　to　foreign　journalists　（the　borders　were　still　open；　and　reporters　passing　through　were　grateful　for　any　kind　of　document）。　Many　of　her　photographs　turned　up　in　the　Western　press。　They　were　pictures　of　tanks；　of　threatening　fists；　of　houses　destroyed；　of　corpses　covered　with　bloodstained　red…white…and…blue　Czech　flags；　of　young　men　on　motorcycles　racing　full　speed　around　the　tanks　and　waving　Czech　flags　on　long　staffs；　of　young　girls　in　unbelievably　short　skirts　provoking　the　miserable　sexually　famished　Russian　soldiers　by　kissing　random　passersby　before　their　eyes。　As　I　have　said；　the　Russian　invasion　was　not　only　a　tragedy；　it　was　a　carnival　of　hate　filled　with　a　curious　（and　no　longer　explicable）　euphoria。

24
She　took　some　fifty　prints　with　her　to　Switzerland；　prints　she　had　made　herself　with　all　the　care　and　skill　she　could　muster。　She　offered　them　to　a　high…circulation　illustrated　magazine。　The　editor　gave　her　a　kind　reception　（all　Czechs　still　wore　the　halo　of　their　misfortune；　and　the　good　Swiss　were　touched）；　he　offered　her　a　seat；　looked　through　the　prints；　praised　them；　and　explained　that　because　a　certain　time　had　elapsed　since　the　events；　they　hadn't　the　slightest　chance　（　not　that　they　aren't　very　beautiful！　）　of　being　published。
But　it's　not　over　yet　in　Prague！　she　protested；　and　tried　to　explain　to　him　in　her　bad　German　that　at　this　very　moment；　even　with　the　country　occupied；　with　everything　against　them；　workers'　councils　were　forming　in　the　factories；　the　students　were　going　out　on　strike　demanding　the　departure　of　the　Russians；　and　the　whole　country　was　saying　aloud　what　it　thought。　That's　what's　so　unbelievable！　And　nobody　here　cares　anymore。　
The　editor　was　glad　when　an　energetic　woman　came　into　the　office　and　interrupted　the　conversation。　The　woman　handed　him　a　folder　and　said；　Here's　the　nudist　beach　article。　
The　editor　was　delicate　enough　to　fear　that　a　Czech　who　photographed　tanks　would　find　pictures　of　naked　people　on　a　beach　frivolous。　He　laid　the　folder　at　the　far　end　of　the　desk　and　quickly　said　to　the　woman；　How　would　you　like　to　meet　a　Czech　colleague　of　yours？　She's　brought　me　some　marvelous　pictures。　
The　woman　shook　Tereza's　hand　and　picked　up　her　photographs。　Have　a　look　at　mine　in　the　meantime；　she　said。
Tereza　leaned　over　to　the　folder　and　took　out　the　pictures。
Almost　apologetically　the　editor　said　to　Tereza；　Of　course　they're　completely　different　from　your　pictures。　
Not　at　all；　said　Tereza。　They're　the　same。　
Neither　the　editor　nor　the　photographer　understood　her；　and　even　I　find　it　difficult　to　explain　what　she　had　in　mind　when　she　compared　a　nude　beach　to　the　Russian　invasion。　Looking　through　the　pictures；　she　stopped　for　a　time　at　one　that　showed　a　family　of　four　standing　in　a　circle：　a　naked　mother　leaning　over　her　children；　her　giant　tits　hanging　low　like　a　goat's　or　cow's；　and　the　husband　leaning　the　same　way　on　the　other　side；　his　penis　and　scrotum　looking　very　much　like　an　udder　in　miniature。
You　don't　like　them；　do　you？　asked　the　editor。
They're　good　photographs。　
She's　shocked　by　the　subject　matter；　said　the　woman。　I　can　tell　just　by　looking　at　you　that　you've　never　set　foot　on　a　nude　beach。　
No；　said　Tereza。
The　editor　smiled。　You　see　how　easy　it　is　to　guess　where　you're　from？　The　Communist　countries　are　awfully　puritanical。　
There's　nothing　wrong　with　the　naked　body；　the　woman　said　with　maternal　affection。　It's　normal。　And　everything　normal　is　beautiful！　
The　image　of　her　mother　marching　through　the　flat　naked　flashed　through　Tereza's　mind。　She　could　still　hear　the　laughter　behind　her　back　when　she　ran　and　pulled　the　curtains　to　stop　the　neighbors　from　seeing　her　naked　mother。

25
The　woman　photographer　invited　Tereza　to　the　magazine's　cafeteria　for　a　cup　of　coffee。　Those　pictures　of　yours；　they're　very　interesting。　I　couldn't　help　noticing　what　a　terrific　sense　of　the　female　body　you　have。　You　know　what　I　mean。　The　girls　with　the　provocative　poses！　
The　ones　kissing　passersby　in　front　of　the　Russian　tanks？　
Yes。　You'd　be　a　top…notch　fashion　photographer；　you　know？　You'd　have　to　get　yourself　a　model　first；　someone　like　you　who's　looking　for　a　break。　Then　you　could　make　a　portfolio　of　photographs　and　show　them　to　the　agencies。　It　would　take　some　time　before　you　made　a　name　for　yourself；　naturally；　but　I　can　do　one　thing　for　you　here　and　now：　introduce　you　to　the　editor　in　charge　of　our　garden　section。　He　might　need　some　shots　of　cactuses　and　roses　and　things。　
Thank　you　very　much；　Tereza　said　sincerely；　because　it　was　clear　that　the　woman　sitting　opposite　her　was　full　of　good　will。
But　then　she　said　to　herself；　Why　take　pictures　of　cactuses？　She　had　no　desire　to　go　through　in　Zurich　what　she'd　been　through　in　Prague：　battles　over　job　and　career；　over　every　picture　published。　She　had　never　been　ambitious　out　of　vanity。　All　she　had　ever　wanted　was　to　escape　from　her　mother's　world。　Yes；　she　saw　it　with　absolute　clarity：　no　matter　how　enthusiastic　she　was　about　taking　pictures；　she　could　just　as　easily　have　turned　her　enthusiasm　to　any　other　endeavor。　Photography　was　nothing　but　a　way　of　getting　at　something　higher　and　living　beside　Tomas。
She　said；　My　husband　is　a　doctor。　He　can　support　me。　I　don't　need　to　take　pictures。　
The　woman　photographer　replied；　I　don't　see　how　you　can　give　it　up　after　the　beautiful　work　you've　done。　
Yes；　the　pictures　of　the　invasion　were　something　else　again。　She　had　not　done　them　for　Tomas。　She　had　done　them　out　of　passion。　But　not　passion　for　photography。　She　had　done　them　out　of　passionate　hatred。　The　situation　would　never　recur。　And　these　photographs；　which　she　had　made　out　of　passion；　were　the　ones　nobody　wanted　because　they　were　out　of　date。　Only　cactuses　had　perennial　appeal。　And　cactuses　were　of　no　interest　to　her。
She　said；　You're　too　kind；　really；　but　I'd　rather　stay　at　home。　I　don't　need　a　job。　
The　woman　said；　But　will　you　be　fulfilled　sitting　at　home？　
Tereza　said；　More　fulfilled　than　by　taking　pictures　of　cactuses。　
The　woman　said；　Even　if　you　take　pictures　of　cactuses；　you're　leading　your　life。　If　you　live　only　for　your　husband；　you　have　no　life　of　your　own。　
All　of　a　sudden　Tereza　felt　annoyed：　My　husband　is　my　life；　not　cactuses。　
The　woman　photographer　responded　in　kind：　You　mean　you　think　of　yourself　as　happy？　
Tereza；　still　annoyed；　said；　Of　course　I'm　happy！　
The　woman　said；　The　only　kind　of　woman　who　can　say　that　is　very　。。。　She　stopped　short。
Tereza　finished　it　for　her：　。。。　limited。　That's　what　you　mean；　isn't　it？　
The　woman　regained　control　of　herself　and　said；　Not　limited。　Anachronistic。　
You're　right；　said　Tereza　wistfully。　That's　just　what　my　husband　says　about　me。　

26
But　Tomas　spent　days　on　end　at　the　hospital；　and　she　was　at　home　alone。　At　least　she　had　Karenin　and　could　take　him　on　long　walks！　Home　again；　she　would　pore　over　her　German　and　French　grammars。　But　she　felt　sad　and　had　trouble　concentrating。　She　kept　coming　back　to　the　speech　Dubcek　had　given　over　the　radio　after　his　return　from　Moscow。　Although　she　had　completely　forgotten　what　he　said；　she　could　still　hear　his　quavering　voice。　She　thought　about　how　foreign　soldiers　had　arrested　him；　the　head　of　an　independent　state；　in　his　own　country；　held　him　for　four　days　somewhere　in　the　Ukrainian　mountains；　informed　him　he　was　to　be　executed—as；　a　decade　before；　they　had　executed　his　Hungarian　counterpart　Imre　Nagy—then　packed　him　off　to　Moscow；　ordered　him　to　have　a　bath　and　shave；　to　change　his　clothes　and　put　on　a　tie；　apprised　him　of　the　decision　to　commute　his　execution；　instructed　him　to　consider　himself　head　of　state　once　more；　sat　him　at　a　table　opposite　Brezhnev；　and　forced　him　to　act。
He　returned；　humiliated；　to　address　his　humiliated　nation。　He　was　so　humiliated　he　could　not　even　speak。　Tereza　would　never　forget　those　awful　pauses　in　the　middle　of　his　sentences。　Was　he　that　exhausted？　111？　Had　they　drugged　him？　Or　was　it　only　despair？　If　nothing　was　to　remain　of　Dubcek；　then　at　least　those　awful　long　pauses　when　he　seemed　unable　to　breathe；　when　he　gasped　for　air　before　a　whole　nation　glued　to　its　radios；　at　least　those　pauses　would　remain。　Those　pauses　contained　all　the　horror　that　had　befallen　their　country。
It　was　the　seventh　day　of　the　invasion。　She　heard　the　speech　in　the　editorial　offices　of　a　newspaper　that　had　been　transformed　overnight　into　an　organ　of　the　resistance。　Everyone　present　hated　Dubcek　at　that　moment。　They　reproached　him　for　compromising；　they　felt　humiliated　by　his　humiliation；　his　weakness　offended　them。
Thinking　in　Zurich　of　those　days；　she　no　longer　felt　any　aversion　to　the　man。　The　word　weak　no　longer　sounded　like　a　verdict。　Any　man　confronted　with　superior　strength　is　weak；　even　if　he　has　an　athletic　body　like　Dubcek's。　The　very　weakness　that　at　the　time　had　seemed　unbearable　and　repulsive；　the　weakness　that　had　driven　Tereza　and　Tomas　from　the　country；　suddenly　attracted　her。