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That was an excellent joke！ The Two Thousand Words was the first glorious manifesto of the 1968 Prague Spring。 It called for the radical democratization of the Communist regime。 First it was signed by a number of intellectuals； and then other people came forward and asked to sign； and finally there were so many signatures that no one could quite count them up。 When the Red Army invaded their country and launched a series of political purges； one of the questions asked of each citizen was Have you signed the Two Thousand Words？ Anyone who admitted to having done so was summarily dismissed from his job。
A fine poster； said Tomas。 I remember it well。 Let's hope the Red Army man isn't listening in on us； said the editor with a smile。
Then he went on； without the smile： Seriously though； this isn't my flat。 It belongs to a friend。 We can't be absolutely certain the police can hear us； it's only a possibility。 If I'd invited you to my place； it would have been a certainty。
Then he switched back to a playful tone。 But the way I' look at it； we've got nothing to hide。 And think of what a boon it will be to Czech historians of the future。 The complete recorded lives of the Czech intelligentsia on file in the police archives！ Do you know what effort literary historians have put into reconstructing in detail the sex lives of； say； Voltaire or Balzac or Tolstoy？ No such problems with Czech writers。 It's all on tape。 Every last sigh。
And turning to the imaginary microphones in the wall； he said in a stentorian voice； Gentlemen； as always in such circumstances； I wish to take this opportunity to encourage you in your work and to thank you on my behalf and on behalf of all future historians。
After the three of them had had a good laugh； the editor told the story of how his paper had been banned； what the artist who designed the poster was doing； and what had become of other Czech painters； philosophers； and writers。 After the Russian invasion they had been relieved of their positions and become window washers； parking attendants； night watchmen； boilermen in public buildings； or at best—and usually with pull—taxi drivers。
Although what the editor said was interesting enough； Tomas was unable to concentrate on it。 He was thinking about his son。 He remembered passing him in the street during the past two months。 Apparently these encounters had not been fortuitous。 He had certainly never expected to find him in the company of a persecuted editor。 Tomas's first wife was an orthodox Communist； and Tomas automatically assumed that his son was under her influence。 He knew nothing about him。 Of course he could have come out and asked him what kind of relationship he had with his mother； but he felt that it would have been tactless in the presence of a third party。
At last the editor came to the point。 He said that more and more people were going to prison for no offense other than upholding their own opinions； and concluded with the words And so we've decided to do something。
What is it you want to do？ asked Tomas。
Here his son took over。 It was the first time he had ever heard him speak。 He was surprised to note that he stuttered。
According to our sources； he said； political prisoners are being subjected to very rough treatment。 Several are in a bad way。 And so we've decided to draft a petition and have it signed by the most important Czech intellectuals； the ones who still mean something。
No； it wasn't actually a stutter； it was more of a stammer； slowing down the flow of speech； stressing or highlighting every word he uttered whether he wanted to or not。 He obviously felt himself doing it； and his cheeks； which had barely regained their natural pallor； turned scarlet again。
And you've called me in for advice on likely candidates in my field？ Tomas asked。
No； the editor said； laughing。 We don't want your advice。 We want your signature！
And again he felt flattered！ Again he enjoyed the feeling that he had not been forgotten as a surgeon！ He protested； but only out of modesty； Wait a minute。 Just because they kicked me out doesn't mean I'm a famous doctor！
We haven't forgotten what you wrote for our paper； said the editor； smiling at Tomas。
Yes； sighed Tomas's son with an alacrity Tomas may have missed。
I don't see how my name on a petition can help your political prisoners。 Wouldn't it be better to have it signed by people who haven't fallen afoul of the regime； people who have at least some influence on the powers that be？
The editor smiled。 Of course it would。
Tomas's son smiled； too； he smiled the smile of one who understands many things。 The only trouble is； they'd never sign！
Which doesn't mean we don't go after them； the editor continued； or that we're too nice to spare them the embarrassment。 He laughed。 You should hear the excuses they give。 They're fantastic！
Tomas's son laughed in agreement。
Of course they all begin by claiming they agree with us right down the line； the editor went on。 We just need a different approach； they say。 Something more prudent； more reasonable； more discreet。 They're scared to sign and worried that if they don't they'll sink in our estimation。
Again Tomas's son and the editor laughed together。
Then the editor gave Tomas a sheet of paper with a short text calling upon the president of the republic； in a relatively respectful manner； to grant amnesty to all political prisoners。
Tomas ran the idea quickly through his mind。 Amnesty to political prisoners？ Would amnesty be granted because people jettisoned by the regime （and therefore themselves potential political prisoners） request it of the president？ The only thing such a petition would accomplish was to keep political prisoners from being amnestied if there happened to be a plan afoot to do so！
His son interrupted his thoughts。 The main thing is to make the point that there still are a handful of people in this country who are not afraid。 And to show who stands where。 Separate the wheat from the chaff。
True； true； thought Tomas； but what had that to do with political prisoners？ Either you called for an amnesty or you separated the wheat from the chaff。 The two were not identical。
On the fence？ the editor asked。
Yes。 He