Judge On Trial

by Ivan Klíma

  In olden times they fed a single sow, the trough’s a lot more crowded than that now, Russian proverb.

  Magdalena appeared half an hour later. She linked her arm in his – as in olden times.

  ‘How did you get on?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m supposed to think about it all. She explained to me that about five people have to get something. At least three thousand each. She swore that they wouldn’t get a penny out of it, that they were doing it as a favour to your friend and for the sake of justice.’

  ‘But you’re not going to line their pockets with fifteen thousand!’

  ‘I don’t know. I feel out of my depth.’

  She said it as if he wasn’t. Could she really think he’d sunk so low?

  ‘We don’t even have that much. I don’t know where we’ll get it from.’

  ‘Do you think it’d be worth it?’

  ‘What else can we do? He loves his work. He enjoys teaching. He’d go mad working as a warehouseman or a book-keeper somewhere.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have to do it for ever. The present climate won’t last long.’

  ‘Long enough to see all of us buried. And then our children would suffer. They always hound the children when they’ve hounded the parents. I no longer want to spend my life just waiting for things to change.’

  ‘You’ll be waiting for it to happen anyway.’

  ‘No, I don’t mean to wait for anything any more.’

  He had ten thousand saved up. He was keeping it by in case some unexpected disaster befell him, though he had no idea how such a small sum might save him. Maybe for precisely the kind of situation Magdalena and her husband now found themselves in. Only he would never use it to that purpose on his own account. And what if Alena got herself into this situation? He had to regard half the sum as her property.

  ‘I could lend you some money. Or you could have it as a gift,’ he quickly corrected himself.

  ‘Why should you? I’ve not existed for the past thirteen years as far as you’re concerned, so why, all of a sudden . . . I’m sorry, forgive me, I’m upset. But I could never take anything from you.’

  Suddenly something came back to him from the distant era when he was still visiting her flat, the single room where they sat, slept and made love, where he so often perused the books on the shelves, though he had no time to read any of them however much he would have liked to. ‘I’m sure you used to have loads of old books.’

  ‘Dad left me them when he emigrated. I could hardly sell them, even if I had a mind to.’ A moment afterwards she added, ‘Who’d buy them from me? We live in a small town. The people there buy refrigerators and television sets, not books.’

  ‘You could sell them here.’

  ‘I wouldn’t get anything for them anyway.’ He noticed she had tears in her eyes. ‘I wish I were home already. I need to ask Jaroslav what he thinks.’

  ‘We can drive there if you like.’

  ‘That’s out of the question. I live near Jihlava.’

  ‘When we were in America we would sometimes drive that far for supper.’

  ‘This isn’t America.’

  ‘You can have a word with your husband and come back in the morning. Or you could come straight back with me if you wanted. There’s plenty of time till morning.’

  They drove through Prague and turned on to the motorway. ‘Dad died two years ago,’ she remarked out of the blue. ‘It was completely unexpected. I didn’t even manage to get to the funeral. He’d been living in Germany, but over near the French border. He remarried. He left everything to his new wife. I never met her.’

  ‘I never saw your father either.’

  ‘Those books are my only memento of him. I realise they’re only things. People go their separate ways, so why should one hang on to things?’

  Darkness fell. When they arrived he would most likely have to go into the flat with her. For a cup of tea, at least. She’d introduced her husband Jaroslav. What did he look like? he wondered. He didn’t care, anyway. And she would introduce him as well. This is Adam. The judge I was in The Hole with. He managed to find someone who can pull some strings for us, so you might be able to keep your job at the school. Don’t start feeling grateful: it’ll cost fifteen thousand . . . No, it’s not for him, only for the go-betweens. Will it be criminal? There’s no need to worry on that score if he’s the intermediary.

  He glanced at her. She seemed asleep. Would this really help her? Rather than aiding one victim wouldn’t he be helping her instead to spin a web that would entangle several others?

  We commit crimes, or at least we acquiesce in them, so we can go on leading normal lives. But we can never live normally again once we are implicated.

  ‘Adam,’ she said suddenly, ‘I know you don’t like doing it, and I’d never ask it of you if it weren’t that I haven’t the strength to go through it all again. To move on to yet another Hole. You know what I mean. It’s not happiness I’m looking for any more,’ she went on. ‘There’s not much happiness left in life for me now, but I would like some peace and quiet. And Jaroslav’sz a kind man. When I met him I was completely alone. He helped me.’

  Now they were driving along narrow lanes through a landscape of dark forests, but from time to time they would come out into open country and he would make out gentle slopes bathed in moonlight.

  ‘I loved you in those days, Adam,’ she said. ‘More than even I supposed; more than you knew.’

  ‘I loved you too.’

  ‘No, really, you don’t have to. I knew that you couldn’t love me to the same extent. It might not even have been your fault you weren’t capable of it.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘They hurt you when you were still a little boy. You couldn’t be like other people afterwards.’

  ‘Was I worse?’ It was a surprise that she thought of him in those terms.

  ‘You were different.’ He waited for her to go on, but she said no more.

  2

  It must have been gone midnight. He had been fast asleep – he had no idea how long the ringing had been going on – and then when he started to come to his senses, it took him a few moments to identify the troublesome sound and decide to get up.

  ‘Is that you, bro?’ He recognised the familiar voice.

  ‘Where are you calling from?’ His brother had been away for three years now and in that time they had only exchanged letters.

  ‘Where d’you think I’m calling from? From here, of course! But the university’s paying, in case you’re worried about the bill. We can chat as much as we like. I didn’t wake you did I?’

  ‘I’d only just dropped off. In trouble?’

  ‘What trouble could I be in? It’s ages since I last heard you, but your voice is the same. What’s new your side?’

  ‘Nothing in particular,’ he said evasively. ‘I’m sure you have a fair idea if you read the papers.’

  ‘Precisely. It looks a fucking mess to me.’

  ‘There are fourteen million or so people living here.’

  ‘There are countries with a lot more inhabitants, and it’s still a fucking mess.’

  ‘Listen, are you drunk?’

  ‘I’ve had a couple. So what?’

  ‘There are some things one can’t discuss over the phone.’

  ‘You’re right there,’ his brother agreed. ‘Are you playing any tennis?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Is your second service still as bad as ever?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘You should practise more. I don’t play much here either. It costs too much, and anyway . . . Any mushrooms in the woods yet?’

  ‘A few maybe.’

  ‘The park’s the only place you might get some here. The forests have got barbed wire all round, like . . . you know what I’m talking about. The point is there’s hardly any forests here anyway. They just left a couple for the lords and their jolly old foxhunting. I prefer to stay in and do me sums. And
what about you? Not kicked you out of your judgeship yet?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘Hang in, then! Even if it’s not exactly a respectable occupation over there.’

  ‘And you didn’t choose it either.’

  ‘No I didn’t, thank God! Over here, though, judges are highly respected. They wear wigs and they have to be forty or there-abouts before they’re allowed to judge at all. But when they’ve made it nobody’s allowed to interfere with them.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that; there’s no need to give me a long-distance lecture.’

  ‘Mother wrote and told me to come home. It’s a daft idea, isn’t it?’

  ‘You know Mother,’ he said, desperately trying to evade a reply. ‘She wants to have us all together.’

  ‘But what do you think?’

  ‘You know you’re duty-bound to return, otherwise . . .’

  ‘For God’s sake stop drivelling like a Party speaker, I’m asking you as a brother. Or can’t you even tell your brother what you think over the phone any more?’

  He was aware of his inadequacy. He, who was supposed to decide on others’ guilt or innocence, was too scared to give a straight answer to a question from his own brother. He couldn’t help being scared because if they were unlawfully monitoring his conversation, they could with equal unlawfulness see to it that he lost his job. And there was no court he would be able to appeal to afterwards.

  ‘Mum says I ought to take a leaf out of your book,’ Hanuš went on. ‘Meaning that you came back too. But things were different then, weren’t they?’

  ‘To other’s word or other’s deed it is best to pay no heed!’

  ‘You don’t want to talk about it, do you?’

  ‘There’s no sense me going into details – you know the score perfectly well. You must remember the times we used to go off together to try and earn a few quid?’

  ‘Yeah, it was great being poor then. There was that time we cut down those trees and they wouldn’t pay us anything. Those woods: do you remember? That’s something I really miss sometimes, the chance to wander through the woods. D’you think things would go the same way for me as they did for Dad?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. But what guarantee can I give you? As a general rule people can never believe that the worst will happen. It was the same during the war.’

  ‘But I’ve got to make up my mind one way or the other. Isn’t there any advice you could give me?’

  ‘No there isn’t, really.’

  ‘And there was the time we sat at the fire with the gypsies. But I was allowed to study in the end.’

  ‘None of that’s ever coming back – you were sixteen then. The most important thing is to decide what really counts for you in life. Do you get me?’

  ‘So I’m not going to get any advice from you?’

  ‘No one will give you any. The important thing is what matters to you most. For some people it’s money, for others it’s freedom. Some people want to be close . . .’

  ‘And you’ve no regrets?’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘You’re saying that on their account?’

  ‘No, but it’d take me a long time to explain. When you come back I’ll try and explain it to you.’

  ‘And what if I don’t come back?’

  ‘Then you’ll come round to it yourself in time.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing!’

  ‘Everyone has different priorities. Some people are incurably homesick, others can’t live without freedom . . .’

  But there was no one on the other end any more. Either they’d been cut off or his brother had hung up.

  He held the mute receiver for a few moments longer; his hand was shaking. Not so long ago a telephone call like that wouldn’t have bothered him. Or at least not so badly that he’d feel afraid. Either things had taken a turn for the worse or he had. Both, most likely. His fear was beginning to exceed admissible bounds. He was fearful for his position, not so much because it mattered to him per se, but because he expected that this time his fall would be final. Most likely he would end up in a boilerhouse, a nightwatchman’s hut or a trailer; what options would he have left then?

  Except that to bring him down they didn’t need to listen in to his conversations, they didn’t need anything at all. And should they need an excuse they’d always find one. Besides which they had already set a trap for him: it was called Karel Kozlík, and he knew full well what would happen if he failed to convict him as the powers that be demanded. And if he did what was required of him? Then they would set him another trap. There was no escape – that he knew: he had been through it before.

  Before going back to bed he drank another glass of water; his hands were still unsteady. What sort of life was this? Damn it, he ought to have given his brother some sort of answer. Told him something of his worries; people over there tended to forget the relentless, debilitating pressure that usually ended up crushing one.

  Maybe his anxiety about his job also stemmed from his constant worry about what use he could still hope to put his mind to, what might conceivably remain to lend some meaning to his life. He still had his family, of course. On the other hand, his parents were now old and batty, his brother was elsewhere, his wife was increasingly avoiding him, and it was hard to penetrate the darkness that enveloped her.

  What was she doing now? he wondered. Sleeping, of course – a great distance away, along with the children. Somewhere in this city Magdalena lay sleeping too; once there was a time she was the person closest to him, though he had never made up his mind to acknowledge her to the world as his wife. And somewhere else in the city slept Karel Kozlík, the bait they had prepared for him. But maybe he too was awake; sleep came hard to one expecting to be condemned to death.

  I too was condemned to death, but they didn’t manage to carry out the sentence. How did I sleep in those days? I’ve already forgotten what happens in the souls of the sentenced; what dies or comes to life in their souls during sleepless nights. I used to get up – that I do remember – and creep to the closed and blacked-out window, to catch a glimpse of God’s sign, a glimpse of hope.

  Now the window is open and uncurtained, and as I look out, the most that gleams in the darkness beyond is the light from a passing car. Hence my fear.

  3

  The books on the desk top (he had put them down next to the folder of case notes) gave off a peculiar smell of musty paper and mildew that brought to mind the two rooms that he alternated between when he lived in The Hole.

  He opened the first book. Circulis Horologi Lunaris et Solaris authore Wenceslae Budowec, Barone a Budowa. Anno MDCXVI. The author’s name surprised him. He had known it solely in connection with the executions that had taken place below the windows of the house of his birth, long before he was born there. In fact he had never known anything about the man except that he was one of the twenty-eight. (Or was it twenty-seven?) So he had written books. A sad fate for a writer. How much would a prospective buyer pay for a 356-year-old book by one of the executed nobles? And where would he find such a buyer before tomorrow? He’d have to call Oldřich again.

  Alžběta Vlková, born Nový Bydžov 6.6.1903; domiciled in Prague at 884/14 Mlandenicova Street:

  I know Karel Kozlík only by sight, but would certainly recognise him as he lived in the next door flat at Mrs Marie Obensdorfová’s and I often bumped into him there. On Monday 3rd April at about half past ten at night it must have been as the television news had just finished I heard someone coming up the stairs. As I wanted to see who it was coming in so late I had a look. I used the spy-hole for the purpose and saw Karel Kozlík. On my way out of the lobby I heard a loud noise from the next door flat and the sound of breaking glass. I also heard some cursing going on. The said cursing I could hear through the wall. I could recognise the voice of Mrs Obensdorfova. Among other things I heard the words: you make my life an absolute misery, you scoundrel. You fiend, they should never have let you out. Then I heard the voice of Karel Kozlik
shouting abuse. For instance I heard the words: you mean old cow, I’ll smash your face, kiss my a . . . etc. Then the row calmed down. Later I heard someone opening the door of Mrs Obensdorfová’s flat. I went to see who it might be, because it must have been at least midnight. For that purpose I first used the spy-hole and then a chink in the door and I identified Karel Kozlík, who was going down the stairs dressed in his coat and his checked cap. I had no trouble recognising him, but I don’t think he saw me as he was already several steps below me. Then I went off to bed.

  Testimony of another tenant at 884/14 Mladenicova Street:

  On 4th April this year I was coming home from work just before three o’clock in the morning as our train was a few hours late. As I came up the stairs I could already smell gas. I dashed into our flat frightened in case my wife had forgotten to turn off the gas. As soon as I made sure there was no gas escaping in our flat I went back out into the passage and discovered that the gas was coming from Mrs Obensdorfova’s flat and I started banging on her door without delay. As soon as I realised that no one was coming to open up I went down to the cellar and turned off the gas at the main. Then I went straight off to phone the police. But as none of the telephone booths in the area were working and all the pubs were closed by then I walked to the casualty post on Koniev Avenue. All that took me about twenty-five minutes. I immediately phoned from there and then the doctor drove back with me in the ambulance, where, with the police officers who had meanwhile arrived, the door was broken in. When asked by the police officers if I recognised the deceased I replied . . .