Judge On Trial

by Ivan Klíma

  I stood up. Ritual prayer remained something foreign to me. I had no humility, and my awareness that the God I addressed was not listening always made me feel I was acting the fool. This time I offered the prayer as never before. My voice became clearer, beseeching God to hear, entreating, repenting and speaking of love.

  For the rest of the meeting, I could think of nothing but how I was to gain her company. I was already getting on for seventeen but I was backward as regards women. To my mind they were different creatures: unattainable, noble, refined and unapproachable. Their proximity or admiration could only be earned by some outstanding feat.

  I had the right to shake her hand again as she was leaving (my palms became embarrassingly moist) and I asked her whether she had enjoyed her evening with us. She told me it had been fine and she would be happy to come again the following Thursday. She left, lasciviously wobbling her breasts.

  I realised that I had to do something astounding. On the way home I was already dreaming of a series of lectures on the great world of figures of the Reformation and the next day rushed to tell the minister of my plan. He seemed taken by the idea; his only fear was that it would be hard to find so many lecturers. I assured him that I would prepare the lectures myself.

  A girl who had just arrived in Prague from a little village near Jihlava would hardly have any interest in Chelčický and Hus, let alone Luther, Calvin and Melanchthon, but I determined to win her through my intellect, my oratory and my admirable breadth of knowledge. With the help of the minister I got hold of at least ten books (the number seemed to me so considerable at the time that I felt I had been exalted to the status of scholar). My knowledge of history was so meagre I could barely understand a fraction of what the books contained. But my age and ignorance emboldened me. Besides, I could hear in the books the familiar voices of staunch battlers for truth and justice. I was astonished to find that life had not really changed since those days. Immorality, lies, violence and hypocrisy remained. People continued to be divided into rich and poor, powerful and powerless, sinful and saintly. I realised that the founders of Protestantism were calling to me. Only now did I understand the clown’s warning long ago that the struggle for truth is the only meaning of life. Therefore, faithful Christian, seek the truth, hear the truth, love the truth, speak the truth, defend the truth unto death, for the truth shall set you free.

  I had scarcely come home and had my meal before I was rushing to my desk and starting to write. I would compose long sentences with many dependent clauses whose complexity delighted me. I drew simplified sketches of my subjects, dressed them up in period costume and gave them real names.

  Not for an instant in the course of my writing did I forget about her. I was writing for her, recounting to her the story of the just man’s desperate struggle against the sleek and powerful. I guided her steps to Constance to peer with me into the dank martyr’s cell. (I know what it means to be thrown into prison and await a merciless judgement. Don’t cry!) And at the last I squeezed her hand among the mute witnesses to the fiery execution. I could feel her hand tremble, feel her shoulder touch mine imperceptibly and her magnificent breast come slightly nearer. I trembled with longing. I had to see her, to be close by her if nothing else.

  The Augustas lived across the river, on the first floor of a villa looking out on Petřín Park. I used to steal over beneath their windows and I can still picture the place I was making for: several thick honeysuckle bushes and the smooth trunk of a mighty plane tree that concealed me from the possible gaze of passers-by.

  My hopes of catching sight of my heart-throb were very slim. One of the windows that I could see into opened on a passageway (in which she appeared briefly from time to time as she moved between rooms), the other seemed to belong to Brother Filip’s bedroom. But I went on waiting and had to endure watching Brother Filip mooch around the room, bite into an apple, scratch his head, read something, gawp at the canary cage and even – the hypocrite – light a cigarette (obviously he was home on his own) and after every puff go over to the window to blow out the smoke.

  Once in the course of my secret, faithful vigil, my patience was rewarded. She came and played a game of billiards with him. The window was open, so from time to time I could hear tantalising snatches of her voice, and of laughter that filled me with a desire to see her better as she frisked around the table; as, in her effort to reach the ball, she sensually edged up against her cousin (who, to my consternation, did not budge but stood there stupidly pressed against her until she dashed away again); as her breast pressed against the green baize of the table; and at that moment I realised there was no greater delight than to be near her. I would hesitate no longer, I would ask her for a date immediately after my talk on John Hus. My lecture suddenly appeared to me as a love poem that was bound to enthral her, a grand exploit that could not leave her unmoved.

  The night before the meeting I was to deliver my lecture at, my thoughts revolved around a single moment. The lecture would end, my audience would get to their feet; she would too. She would make for the clothes hooks. What if someone were to speak to me at that moment, or ask me something? They would delay me and in the meantime, she would leave! No, I’d tear myself away. I would have to catch up with her – the staircase would be the last chance. But what then – how would I address her? Sister Augustová? Sister Anna? Should I suggest a visit to the cinema (or was that too bold for the first date), a walk in the park, or just ask if I could walk her home?

  And what if she refused? I would no longer have any hope of being near her. The most I could hope for then would be to wait trembling in the bushes for the chance of catching sight of her now unattainable face, and choking with desire and despair. Everything depended on how I framed my proposal, how I managed to eliminate in advance any possibility of refusal. Sister Augustová, I noticed your interest in the fate of John Hus. If you like I could tell you more about him. This ploy had the advantage that it was cloaked in authority. It would be hard for her to say she did not want to learn more about the Master. Victory was mine and there she was already walking by my side while I described to her the conditions in Gottlieben Castle and above all the final atrocious scene. Each of us had to be prepared for something similar in the fight for truth. Even I? she would ask. Yes, I would reply. I was amazed at my own determination, the dauntless way I offered my body to the flames. I assumed that she too would be astounded and realised that I would have to do something straight away that would bridge the difficult gap between my readiness to die for the truth and my love. I would tell her that my death would be even crueller and harder to bear, since I would be deprived for ever of the sight of her.

  I rehearsed that brilliant transition again and again. She would ask why the sight of her was so important, and I would reply: Because from the moment I set eyes on you, I have never stopped thinking of you, because I love you. I love you as the butterfly loves the flower. No. As the bird loves the heights. No – more: as John Hus loved the truth! I was convinced that my words could not but germinate within her like sprouting seeds. That very night they would put forth roots and she would realise that she loved me too.

  I rose next morning captivated by my own plans as by a night of passion, unable to think of anything else.

  Many guests assembled that evening, even some adults, as the minister had announced my lecture from the pulpit the previous Sunday. But the only thing that mattered was that she had come, that she had sat down in her flaming red sweater not far from me. My love. My great love was watching me.

  I have no idea how the usual programme of prayer and bible study went off. Then I took out my text and started to read: but I was totally estranged from the words I was speaking. The sentences I had written were too long and complicated, apart from which my mouth had separated from the rest of my body and went prattling on by itself while my brain tried desperately to perfect a different sentence: Sister Augustová, no, without the title; excuse me, but I couldn’t help noticing . . . no: it stru
ck me . . . no: I had the feeling you might be interested . . .

  I became aware of someone whispering at the other end of the table; someone else failed to suppress a giggle – of course it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with me. But she was listening, her heavenly gaze fixed on me as she sat there motionless, following my words. Meanwhile I toiled through the thicket of theological texts, and as I came nearer to Constance, I gradually raised my voice. The drama of the fateful moment had apparently affected them at last. Even the whisperer now desisted. I could feel the blood rush to my head. I looked at her and at that moment she smiled at me, really smiled; I noticed you smile at me; you have no idea what it meant to me – you see I might become a preacher. And I raised my voice still further. I was just reading an extract from the testimony of Peter Mladenitz. It was truly effective, sadly and terrifyingly effective; it was the crowning glory of my talk: ‘Then they made to attach his neck by some sooty chain; gazing upon it and smiling, he saith to his myrmidons. . .’ Now absolute silence reigned and suddenly I noticed that she was looking at her watch and in that absolute silence she carefully pushed back her chair and tiptoed to the door. ‘But before they set light to the pyre, Reichsmarschal Hoppe von Pappenheim approached him . . .’ and I thought I would never manage the few remaining paragraphs. But I must go after her! My throat was burning. I started to stutter, skipped several sentences and read the very last one.

  It was the end. I sat down. Someone congratulated me and it occurred to me she must be at home, quite simply she had had to go home; I had overshot the usual finishing time for our meetings. I would ring the doorbell at the villa and say I needed to speak to her. But about what? My carefully thought-out sentences subsided, leaving behind a yawning void.

  Dusk was only just falling as I stood once more in that ignominious spot in the honeysuckle patch and this time I saw her immediately. One of the doors on to the passage had been left open; the one to the bathroom. She was standing in front of the mirror arranging her hair. Then she made a couple of circular movements around her mouth: she must have been painting her lips. The light went off and a moment later I spied her going out of the front gate. I still had a chance of running and stopping her. I could do anything; but at the same time I sensed that the most I could do would be to follow her at a distance, like a detached shadow, lost and forgotten.

  At about the fourth street corner, someone was waiting for her, leaning on an acacia trunk. He came over to her and I instantly recognised the slightly rusty hue of an American army uniform. I don’t know why, but it struck me as preposterous, impossible that anyone should have beaten me to it. Maybe I was wrong, maybe they had bumped into each other by chance. They walked along side by side, he with a rocking gait, she with tiny steps. Then he suddenly slipped his arm round her waist (she didn’t flinch or protest); now all doubts were dispelled, now I could turn and run off home. But instead I trailed behind them as they slowly zig-zagged across the park and ended up on a deserted bench where he coiled his vile lecherous arm round her shoulders.

  I felt betrayed: alone and abandoned on that footpath in the park, just a few steps away from her. A wild desire for revenge flared up within me. I’d go to her home. I’d drag Brother Filip and his father here to see this loathsome hussy who let herself be dragged off by the first fellow who asked her. At the next meeting I would call her out in front of the minister and ask her where she was this evening, what she had been up to when everyone else was pondering the death of the martyred Master, and then, because she would be bound to lie and deny it, I would reveal the truth to them. Because it was my duty, my holy duty, to speak the truth, love the truth, defend the truth. I stayed long enough to see him clasp her to him, and his fingers touch those wonderful, gorgeous breasts, now lost to me for ever, and then I turned and fled. Before I reached home I decided that I never again wanted to enter that hall where she would be also sitting and where she would actually smile that friendly smile at me, feigning innocence and purity; where she would insincerely declare her devotion to God, where they all lied about their dedication to God, while their thoughts were turned entirely to their lascivious bodies.

  The following day I wrote the minister a letter informing him that, due to unforeseen circumstances, I wished to resign my post and regretting that I would not be attending our fellowship meetings for some while.

  Since then, I have been in various churches from time to time but never our own, and whenever I bumped into any of my former brothers and sisters, my hostile expression would preclude any more than a simple greeting. But Sister Augustová I never met again; apparently she fled the country with her parents shortly afterwards.

  Chapter Three

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  1

  MAGDALENA WAS WAITING at the tram stop by the Chotek Gardens. Her hair-do was meticulous, and she must have had it dyed as well. A rinse in her own shade to hide the coming grey. Shoes with thick heels – it could well be the fashion now, but to his eyes they made her look gawky.

  Oldřich bowed and kissed her hand. ‘I think I have some good news for you, dear lady. Admittedly I am not yet apprised of the details of the case, but in principle the necessary intervention could be obtained, so long as your husband’s case does not fall outside local, or at the very most regional jurisdiction.’

  Magdalena blushed.

  ‘I’m sorry to say thai: the comrades’ moral standards are in serious decline,’ Oldřich continued. Meanwhile they had crossed the tram tracks and turned into a broad avenue where cars whizzed past in an unbroken stream beneath mighty chestnut trees. ‘There was a time when they were motivated by ideals such as class justice, revolutionary principle or human betterment; nowadays their motives are entirely materialistic.’

  She remained silent. Apparently she had not understood what Adam’s friend had in mind.

  ‘What Oldřich is trying to say,’ said Adam with distaste, ‘is that getting help might cost something.’

  ‘But I don’t have any money with me,’ she said, taken aback.

  ‘That doesn’t matter, dear lady. So far, we’re only at the discussion stage. Maybe it won’t even be to your advantage to accept help.’

  ‘And how much will they want?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s one of the things we’re here to discuss.’ They halted in front of a large three-storey art nouveau villa.

  ‘It might assist matters,’ Oldřich suggested, ‘if the lady conducts the negotiations on her own. The point is that from their side only madam comrade will be present. Let me put you in the picture: madam herself holds no official post, but her husband works in the education department.’

  Adam noticed that a curtain at one of the first-storey windows had moved to one side very slightly but he could make out no face. He had never done anything illegal before, or more accurately nothing dishonourable. Even what he was doing now was not for his own benefit. That would hardly constitute a mitigating circumstance in law, though.

  The door was opened by a fat, red-faced woman wearing an apron. He was not yet sure whether she was the one they had come to negotiate with, or only the maid. From the kitchen there came a smell of freshly baked buns and burnt oil that made him feel queasy. ‘I’ve been expecting you,’ the woman said. ‘My hubby is sorry he can’t be here. You know what it’s like during the holidays. He’s having to do the work of three.’ She attempted a smile; her top teeth were entirely gold.

  She led them down a passage. Antlers stuck out absurdly from the walls and baroque statues of saints stood on shelves between crossed swords. In the sitting room they sat down on impractical chairs covered in flowered print. Beneath their feet soft carpets were piled deep. A bust of an author fifty years dead crowned a small bookshelf of collected works. A bulldog dozed in an armchair at the table. It raised its head lazily as they came in, bared its crooked teeth and then fell asleep again without making a sound.

  Oldřich said: ‘You have a lot of fine things here, dear lady.’
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  ‘My brother-in-law got hold of ’em for us. He always used to bring a little something when they were closing down a monastery. Them days it’d’ve all gone for scrap or on the bonfire, anyhow. But nowadays,’ she indicated an inlaid bureau, ‘you couldn’t get it for love nor money. Everybody wants to get their mitts on it. Even people who don’t know the first thing about it. Once you’ve got it it’s yours for good. It’s safe from reforms, it’s safe from everything. Except maybe woodworm.’ And she offered them coffee.

  He watched Magdalena clasp the handle of the coffee cup in her plump fingers and stare doggedly at the carpets in front of her. Her cheeks flushed. He recalled seeing it happen to her once before. Then, she had said: ‘I feel so ashamed.’ He could no longer remember the reason for her shame; most likely himself or something he had said or done.

  ‘Last week one of my friends offered me a pewter plate for eight hundred crowns,’ the woman remarked. ‘They must think we’re made of money! And now I’ve got to lay out a thousand for Ben here. As if there was anything wrong with wanting the best for mum’s best friend.’ She got up and heaved the bulldog on to her lap. The dog went on sleeping and she went on complaining. How she had had to cough up for her daughter’s co-op flat, help out her poorly old mother and pay the builders at their country place. About the reason for the visit she said nothing.

  After a quarter of an hour or so, Oldřich got up and he followed suit.

  He waited alone in front of the house. His friend apparently had another similar meeting to see to that afternoon. He ought to get him something for his services too. At least a bottle of something, or some flowers for his wife, perhaps. He was getting more and more embroiled. It was a mistake to have offered to help Magdalena. So many had lost their jobs that no one would ever know the exact figure; all of them would have to find themselves a living doing something other than the work they had been trained for, or had a vocation for. Magdalena’s husband would get over it too. The problem is that I’ve not been thrown out. I hand down verdicts in the name of the Republic and in return collect my salary in two instalments every month. My services aren’t badly rewarded, considering.