eam of being marched around a swimming pool with a group of naked women and forced to sing cheerful songs with them while corpses floated just below the surface of the pool。 Tereza could not address a single question； a single word； to any of the women； the only response she would have got was the next stanza of the current song。 She could not even give any of them a secret wink； they would immediately have pointed her out to the man standing in the basket above the pool； and he would have shot her dead。
Tereza's dream reveals the true function of kitsch： kitsch is a folding screen set up to curtain off death。
11
In the realm of totalitarian kitsch； all answers are given in advance and preclude any questions。 It follows； then； that the true opponent of totalitarian kitsch is the person who asks questions。 A question is like a knife that slices through the stage backdrop and gives us a look at what lies hidden behind it。 In fact； that was exactly how Sabina had explained the meaning of her paintings to Tereza： on the surface； an intelligible lie； underneath； the unintelligible truth showing through。
But the people who struggle against what we call totalitarian regimes cannot function with queries and doubts。 They； too； need certainties and simple truths to make the multitudes understand； to provoke collective tears。
Sabina had once had an exhibit that was organized by a political organization in Germany。 When she picked up the catalogue； the first thing she saw was a picture of herself with a drawing of barbed wire superimposed on it。 Inside she found a biography that read like the life of a saint or martyr： she had suffered； struggled against injustice； been forced to abandon her bleeding homeland； yet was carrying on the struggle。 Her paintings are a struggle for happiness was the final sentence。
She protested； but they did not understand her。
Do you mean that modern art isn't persecuted under Communism？
My enemy is kitsch； not Communism！ she replied； infuriated。
From that time on； she began to insert mystifications in her biography； and by the time she got to America she even managed to hide the fact that she was Czech。 It was all merely a desperate attempt to escape the kitsch that people wanted to make of her life。
12
She stood in front of her easel with a half…finished canvas on it； the old man in the armchair behind her observing every stroke of her brush。
It's time we went home； he said at last with a glance at his watch。
She laid down her palette and went into the bathroom to wash。 The old man raised himself out of the armchair and reached for his cane； which was leaning against a table。 The door of the studio led directly out to the lawn。 It was growing dark。 Fifty feet away was a white clapboard house。 The ground…floor windows were lit。 Sabina was moved by the two windows shining out into the dying day。
All her life she had proclaimed kitsch her enemy。 But hadn't she in fact been carrying it with her？ Her kitsch was her image of home； all peace； quiet； and harmony； and ruled by a loving mother and wise father。 It was an image that took shape within her after the death of her parents。 The less her life resembled that sweetest of dreams； the more sensitive she was to its magic； and more than once she shed tears when the ungrateful daughter in a sentimental film embraced the neglected father as the windows of the happy family's house shone out into the dying day。
She had met the old man in New York。 He was rich and liked paintings。 He lived alone with his wife； also aging； in a house in the country。 Facing the house； but still on his land； stood an old stable。 He had had it remodeled into a studio for Sabina and would follow the movements of her brush for days on end。
Now all three of them were having supper together。 The old woman called Sabina my daughter； but all indications would lead one to believe the opposite； namely； that Sabina was the mother and that her two children doted on her； worshipped her； would do anything she asked。
Had she then； herself on the threshold of old age； found the parents who had been snatched from her as a girl？ Had she at last found the children she had never had herself？
She was well aware it was an illusion。 Her days with the aging couple were merely a brief interval。 The old man was seriously ill； and when his wife was left on her own； she would go and live with their son in Canada。 Sabina's path of betrayals would then continue elsewhere； and from the depths of her being； a silly mawkish song about two shining windows and the happy family living behind them would occasionally make its way into the unbearable lightness of being。
Though touched by the song； Sabina did not take her feeling seriously。 She knew only too well that the song was a beautiful lie。 As soon as kitsch is recognized for the lie it is； it moves into the context of non…kitsch； thus losing its authoritarian power and becoming as touching as any other human weakness。 For none among us is superman enough to escape kitsch completely。 No matter how we scorn it； kitsch is an integral part of the human condition。
13
Kitsch has its source in the categorical agreement with being。
But what is the basis of being？ God？ Mankind？ Struggle？ Love？ Man？ Woman？
Since opinions vary； there are various kitsches： Catholic； Protestant； Jewish； Communist； Fascist； democratic； feminist； European； American； national； international。
Since the days of the French Revolution； one half of Europe has been referred to as the left； the other half as the right。 Yet to define one or the other by means of the theoretical principles it professes is all but impossible。 And no wonder： political movements rest not so much on rational attitudes as on the fantasies； images； words； and archetypes that come together to make up this or that political kitsch。
The fantasy of the Grand March that Franz was so intoxicated by is the political kitsch joining leftists of all times and tendencies。 The Grand March is the splendid march on the road to brotherhood； equality； justice； happiness； it goes on and on； obstacles notwithstanding； for obstacles there must be if the march is to be the Grand March。
The dictatorship of the proletariat or democracy？ Rejection of the consumer society or demands for increased productivity？ The guillotine or an end to the death penalty？ It is all beside the point。 What makes a leftist a leftist is not this or that theory but his ability to integrate any theory into the kitsch called the Grand March。
14
Franz was obviously not a devotee of kitsch。 The fantasy of the Grand March played more or less the same role in his life as the mawkish song about the two brightly lit windows in Sabina's。 What political party did Franz vote for？ I am afraid he did not vote at all； he preferred to spend Election Day hiking in the mountains。 Which does not； of course； imply that he was no longer touched by the Grand March。 It is always nice to dream that we are part of a jubilant throng marching through the centuries； and Franz never quite forgot the dream。
One day； some friends phoned him from Paris。 They were planning a march on Cambodia and invited him to join them。
Cambodia had recently been through American bombardment； a civil war； a paroxysm of carnage by local Communists that reduced the small nation by a fifth； and finally occupation by neighboring Vietnam； which by then was a mere vassal of Russia。 Cambodia was racked by famine； and people were dying for want of medical care。 An international medical committee had repeatedly requested permission to enter the country； but the Vietnamese had turned them down。 The idea was for a group of important Western intellectuals to march to the Cambodian border and by means of this great spectacle performed before the eyes of the world to force the occupied country to allow the doctors in。
The friend who spoke to Franz was one he had marched with through the streets of Paris。 At first Franz was thrilled by the invitation； but then his eye fell on his student…mistress sitting across the room in an armchair。 She was looking up at him； her eyes magnified by the big round lenses in her glasses。 Franz had the feeling those eyes were begging him not to go。 And so he apologetically declin