The Sympathizer

Foot, you should be revolution’s symbol, not the hand holding hammer and sickle. Yet we keep you hidden under the table, or shod in a shoe. We abuse you, as the Chinese do, by binding you. Would we ever inflict such an injury on the hand? Stop prodding me, please, I beg of you. I recognize that humanity poorly represents you, except for when we spend copious amounts of money in dressing you, because you, of course, cannot represent yourself. Foot, I wonder why I never thought about you before, or hardly ever. The hand is free to do whatever it pleases. It even writes! No wonder more words have been written about the hand than the foot. We share something in common, foot. We are the downtrodden of the world. If you would only stop keeping me awake, if only—


This time the hand nudged me. Someone tugged at my hood, loosened it and raised it above my ears, but kept it on my head. Then the hand pulled the muffs away and yanked the plugs out and I heard the shuffling of sandals, the scraping of a chair or a stool on cement. You idiot! the voice said. I was still in darkness, hands and feet still bound and encased, body naked and damp. Water was poured down my parched throat until I gagged. Didn’t I tell you not to come? It came from far above me, somewhere in the ceiling, his voice, I was sure of it even in my agonized state. But how could I not come back? I blubbered. Mama told me the bird always returns to its nest. Am I not that bird? Is this not my nest? My origin, my place of birth, my country? My home? Are these not my people? Are you not my friend, my sworn brother, my true comrade? Tell me why you’re doing this to me. I wouldn’t do this to my worst enemy.

The voice sighed. Never underestimate what you can do to your worst enemy. But so far as this goes, what was it that priests like your father always said? Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. That sounds good, but things are never that simple. The problem, you see, is how to know what we want to have done to us.

I have no idea what you’re talking about, I said. Why are you torturing me?

Do you think I want to do this to you? I am doing my best to make sure worse things don’t happen to you. The commandant already believes that I am being too gentle with my pedagogical methods, with my desire to hear your confession. He is the kind of dentist who believes toothaches can be treated by removing all of one’s teeth with pliers. This is the situation you have gotten yourself into by doing exactly what I told you not to do. Now, if you have any wish of leaving this camp with your teeth intact, we must play out our roles until the commandant is satisfied.

Please don’t be angry with me, I sobbed. I couldn’t take it if you were angry at me, too! He sighed once more. Do you remember writing that you forgot something, but that you couldn’t remember what it was? I told him I didn’t remember. Of course, he said. Human memory is short, and time is long. The reason you are here in this examination room is for you to remember what you forgot, or at least forgotten to write. My friend, I am here to help you see what it is you cannot see on your own. His foot nudged the base of my skull. Here, at the back of your head.

But what does that have to do with not letting me sleep? I said. He laughed, not the laugh of the schoolboy who had enjoyed Tintin comics, but the laugh of someone perhaps just a bit mad. You know as well as I why I cannot let you sleep, he said. We must access that safe hiding the last of your secrets. The longer we keep you awake, the better chance we have of cracking that safe.

But I’ve confessed to everything.

No, you haven’t, the voice said. I am not accusing you of deliberately withholding, though I gave you many opportunities to write your confession in such a way as to satisfy the commandant. It is you who bring this on yourself, no one else.

But what am I supposed to confess to?

If I told you what to confess to, then it would not be much of a confession, the voice said. But take comfort in knowing that your situation is not as impossible as you think. Do you remember our exams, when you would always score perfectly and I would miss a few points? Even though I read and memorized as feverishly as you, you always outdid me. I just couldn’t get the answers to come out of my head. But they were there. The mind never forgets. When I looked at our textbooks again, I thought, Of course! I knew them all the time. In fact, I know you know the answer to the question you must pass in order to finish your reeducation. I will even ask you that question now. Answer it successfully and I will free you from your bonds. Are you ready?

Go ahead, I said, swelling with confidence. All I ever needed was a test to prove myself. I heard the rustle of paper, as if he was thumbing through a book, or perhaps my confession. What is more precious than independence and freedom?

A trick question? The answer was obvious. What was he looking for? My mind was swaddled in something soft and clammy. Through it I could feel the hard, solid answer, but what it was I could not tell. Perhaps the obvious was indeed the answer. At last I told him what I thought he wanted to hear: Nothing, I said, is more precious than independence and freedom.

The voice sighed. Almost, but not quite. Almost, but not right. Isn’t it frustrating when the answer is right there but one doesn’t know what it is?