Otesánek

A Czech Parable of Fascism

Once upon a time there was a small village, and in that village lived a humble farmer and his wife. And to this couple one happy day there was born a son. They named him Otesánek. The farmer and his wife were very happy. Otesánek was a fat, healthy baby with small black eyes. All the townspeople came by to congratulate them. Look at those arms, said the tailor. Look at those legs, said the cobbler’s wife. What a healthy baby, they all said. Just look how he eats!

Otesánek ate and ate. He ate like no other baby had ever eaten before, and he grew like no other baby had every grown before. The cow couldn’t give enough milk. The chickens couldn’t lay enough eggs. Otesánek’s mother and father ran all around the village buying food. Otesánek’s father carved him an extra-large spoon to eat with. But it wasn’t enough. Otesánek would eat whatever they put in front of him and scream for more.

Otesánek grew and grew. Soon he was bigger than his father. Soon he was bigger than a cow. He grew so big that he couldn’t fit into his parents’ little house anymore. He had to sit outside in the yard. One day a chicken wandered by, pecking at the dirt. Quick as a flash, Otesánek grabbed it and stuffed it into his mouth. The family goat came next, and the pigs, and the dog with the pink tongue. Otesánek ate the sheep in their hot, wooly coats. He ate the white geese that walked by the pond, and the carp that lived under the lily pads.

Soon he was bigger than a house. When he ate the plow horse, his mother and father came out to plead with him. Otesánek, please, they said, we will have nothing if you keep this up. When will you stop? Quick as lightning, Otesánek grabbed his mother and father in each of his huge, pudgy hands. When there is nothing more to eat, he croaked, and stuffed them head-first into his mouth.

Otesánek ate the whole town: the cobbler and the cobbler’s wife, the tailor and the carpenter, the shopkeeper and the teacher and all the little children. There was nothing to do. There he sat, his dimpled knees arched across the road, his single tooth as big as a dictionary, his eyes like black holes. To plead for mercy was useless. There would be no mercy here. He was the force that consumes, and he’d keep on until the world was a grave under the sun.

And so it might have been except for a little girl who he’d swallowed as she sat at her sewing holding a pair of rusty scissors. Down she went, down into the hot red room of his stomach. When she looked up she saw her people dying all around her, gesturing like swimmers fifty fathoms deep. The children turned slowly, uncomprehending, their schoolbooks paging in the hot tide.

Suddenly a quick flash of inner pain passed over the monster’s face. Something sparked on the white wall of his skin, like a diamond birthing itself from his heart — a tiny blade, spotted and fine. He clawed at his stomach, thrust his own fist down his throat in agony. There was nothing he could do. He was as big as the sun, but he couldn’t stop it. To get at what was killing him, he’d have to tear himself open.

Out came the cobbler and the cobbler’s wife, the tailor and the carpenter, the shopkeeper and the teacher and all the little children. Out stepped the plow horse and the goat, the chickens and the geese. Out jumped the dog with the pink tongue. And out came Otesánek’s mother and father. They were happy to be alive. They danced and sang and carried the little girl around on their shoulders.

And they all lived happily ever after.