be, however left-wing and fervent in her dreams of world revolution, however slavish in her devotion to the French communists and outspoken in her support of movements of national liberation throughout the world, the fact remained that she was connected with existentialism. And existentialism, from the Marxist point of view, was a ‘nihilist’, ‘fundamentally bourgeois’ and even ‘fascist’ doctrine. (After all, Martin Heidegger – ‘Hitler’s right-hand man in Nazi higher education’ – had been one of its co-founders!) Marxism, of course, as ‘the only truly scientific system’, had long ago exposed, with childish ease, the intellectual poverty and moral rottenness of this ‘pseudo-philosophy’. Nevertheless it continued to proliferate, as weeds do, and to poison people’s minds. It was still necessary, therefore, to oppose it.
After 1956, opposition to existentialism assumed a new form. During the early years of the Cold War it had been simply taboo; with the ‘thaw’, however, it was allowed some expression, although mainly in order that it might be ridiculed and condemned. That, at least, was the official ritual, and numerous journals, magazines and academic conferences acted accordingly. This being the case, what could one expect from an MA thesis, especially an MA thesis supervised by someone with such a sinister name?
Surowa-Léger: the name was not just sinister but dubious. The woman had connections with bourgeois France! She had probably married a Frenchman. So she must be interested in trips abroad. And that meant she must be ideologically untainted – or at least very careful. She must have seen to it that Simone de Beauvoir’s famous ‘emancipated woman’ turned out to be ‘incorrectly’ or at best ‘superficially’ emancipated.
‘Do you know how I could get in touch with Dr Surowa-Léger?’ I asked.
‘Dr Léger,’ replied the Senior One, neatly omitting the first barrel of the name, ‘left the department a long time ago.’
‘She’s at the Academy, I suppose?’ I asked in tones of respectful gravity.
‘She left the country,’ the other secretary hastened to explain. ‘Five years ago. She went to France. For good.’
‘Oh, I see . . .’
My head began to spin with new questions. Gone! Left for good! Stayed in the West! It was like some kind of malevolent curse. People who went to the West and stayed there were considered ‘traitors’ or ‘renegades’; at best they were seen as people with no ‘moral fibre’, so tempted by Western trinkets – clothes and cosmetics, cars and nightclubs – that they succumbed to the shameful lure of consumerism. Of course, Dr Léger had probably left in order to join her French husband – but perhaps she had planned the whole thing in advance, in cold blood? Perhaps Magdalena Surowa had married M. Léger not for love or even because of a common interest in things French, but only because she hoped that sooner or later, through him, she would get to the West? In any event, that wasn’t the important thing. The question was who she was while she was still in Poland. An ideologically pure Marxist, critical of existentialism and other Western novelties? Or someone who approved of it, even admired it, along with other forms of Western decadence?
On the answer to these questions depended the interpretation of Madame’s final mark. What was the significance of that A? Had it rewarded a devastating critique or a sympathetic analysis? Or perhaps the thesis was no more than a pretence at criticism, a mask, assumed in order to wallow safely in forbidden ideas? How on earth was I to find out?
‘Where could I find out more about these people?’ I asked, gesturing towards the open file.
‘Which people, exactly?’ inquired the Senior One, an edge of impatience in her voice.
I almost said, ‘Well, for example, about Miss . . .’ but at the last minute I thought better of it. I began leafing nonchalantly through the file, as if the choice were a matter of complete indifference to me, until I came to 1959 again.
‘Oh, well, let’s say these, for instance,’ I said offhandedly, ‘the ones from ’59.’
‘Fifty-nine,’ the Other One repeated, ‘let me see, whom have we there?’ She got up and came over to look at the list. Once again I was on the verge of supplying Madame’s name as an example, and once again I held my tongue. The Other One went down the list of names with her finger. About halfway down she stopped.
‘There you are!’ she cried in a joyful voice, ‘Dr Monten. He’d be perfect for you. He’s a lecturer in our department, in seventeenth-century literature.’
Monten, Monten . . . wasn’t that the name of my mountain cicerone, the man who had taken me to the Tatras, the friend of my parents’ from before the war? Could it be the same man? Could this 1959 graduate of Warsaw University and possessor of that seldom-found combination of first names, Frederick Bonaventure, have any connection with my friend? Was he perhaps a relative, even his son?
I knew there was a son, but I had no idea what his name was, how old he was or what he did. Somehow we’d never talked about it, and I had never met him. Now, excited by this extraordinary coincidence, which might turn out to be priceless for me, I feverishly began to calculate whether it was possible.
Indeed it was. My guide had been around sixty when he took me to the mountains; he could easily have a son of thirty-two. All I needed now was some confirmation.
‘Would that be the son of Professor Constant Monten?’ I inquired, knowing full well that my Tatras guide possessed no such title.
‘Professor Monten?’ asked the Senior One. ‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘But surely,’ I insisted, ‘surely you know who I mean? That famous geologist – you know. And he’s a well-known mountaineer, too.’
‘I’ve no idea, I assure you,’ she said, shrugging, and cast an inquiring glance at the Other One. The Other One just goggled.
‘Well, never mind,’ I said lightly, then added, poker-faced, ‘On the other hand, it would be quite simple to check.’
‘You could just ask,’ said the Other One, her tone clearly implying that if it was so important to me I could take the trouble of going to the source and inquiring about it myself.
‘Oh, there’s no need to bother him with questions,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t we just check the name?’
‘What name?!’ snapped the Senior One, barely controlling her impatience.
‘His father’s,’ I explained equably. ‘If it’s Constant, he must be the one. It’s not a very common name.’
‘And where do you expect us to check it?’ inquired the Other One, equally impatient.
‘Surely you must have a record of it somewhere? In this country you have to give your father’s name on every form you fill in.’
‘We’d have to call administration . . .’ mused the Other One, half to herself and half to her superior.
‘Yes, why not do that?’ I agreed enthusiastically.
‘Yes, all right, but what’s it got to do with anything, anyway?’ said the Senior One, giving way to her irritation. ‘What’s the purpose of all this? What does it matter whether Dr Monten is or isn’t the son of this professor of yours?’
‘Oh, but it does, it does,’ I sighed enigmatically, ‘it matters a great deal. You have no idea how much depends on it!’
The Senior One cast a martyred glance at the heavens, reached for the telephone and began to dial. ‘It’s me again, from the dean’s office,’ she announced. ‘Could you please check Dr Monten’s first name for me?’
‘His father’s name!’ I hissed desperately at her.
‘I mean, Dr Monten’s father’s name,’ she corrected, drumming her fingers on the desk. There was a pause, during which I shut my eyes and crossed my fingers. ‘Thank you, thank you so much,’ I finally heard her say, and the receiver came down with a crash. ‘Yes, his name