Judge On Trial

by Ivan Klíma

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said nonplussed. ‘It didn’t occur to me that he might not see you.’ In fact, she had never even thought about the rules that were supposed to govern Adam at work. There was a time when he used to give her his articles to read, but they had not related to the legal code or judicial practice. Or if some of them might have done, she had forgotten them long ago anyway.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll agree with me that it’s not necessary. What I want to tell you has no direct connection with the deed, only with him as a person. I admit that what I say is a bit contradictory, but only in so far as our judicial system is.’

  He told her that, as a clergyman, he himself had been sentenced to thirteen years’ imprisonment, and tried to describe the dreadful prison conditions. Then he turned once more to the case of the young man whom he had met inside. Apparently his first spell in prison had been for a few minor misdemeanours, but that had not worried anyone, nor the fact he was blind in one eye. They had forced him to work, and when he failed to fulfil the norm they had stopped his spending allowance, forbidden him visits and finally placed him in a punishment cell. The cell was below cellar-level. It was cold and the floor was wet. He had received hot food only every other day and had only one blanket to sleep under, and most of the time a worn one at that. But that youngster had been one of those people that could not be broken or humbled. He had spurned his gaolers and everything they represented. He had returned from that punishment cell determined not to let them force him to do anything again. He had refused to work, abused them and fought with them. So they had sent him back underground again and again and each time he had re-emerged weaker and more dejected, but also more obstinate.

  Prisoners who didn’t allow themselves to be broken were dangerous, of course. What could be done with them? Violence could be increased only to a certain point; after that it could only be repeated ad nauseam. Recalcitrants demonstrated that even that level of violence could be withstood, and such demonstrations harboured the threat of revolt for the gaolers. But not only were the tormentors at risk, the souls of the tormented were even more so. They became gradually deformed and filled with incurable hatred, contempt and delusions of superiority.

  The telephone rang.

  ‘Alena, is that you?’

  ‘I’ve got a visitor, Honza,’ she said.

  ‘I need to talk to you. It’s important!’

  ‘But I can’t just now.’ The man opposite her stood up and went over to the window, as if trying to move out of earshot.

  ‘When will you be free?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll call you later.’

  ‘OK. But count on this evening . . . Could you be free this evening?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ And suddenly it seemed to her that all her worries of recent days had been trivial compared with the things she had just been hearing. ‘I’ll call you later.’

  ‘I’ll be brief, Dr Kindlová.’ He returned to his chair. ‘It was my ninth year there. They must have known about my innocence by then and were anticipating an order for my release. I had come to be trusted with office work and from time to time the prison chief would deign to speak to me. I took the opportunity to suggest that he transfer myself and Karel to a small cell where I could look after him.

  ‘He accepted my suggestion. It was certainly not on my account, but they were already at the end of their tether. That fellow was storing up trouble for them. And for my part, I did not make my offer out of any wish to make their job easier. I was sorry for someone they would end up destroying. And whom they did end up destroying anyway, as you can see. First of all they transferred me and then, a month later, him as well. When they brought him to my cell, he was in such a wretched state that he hardly looked human any more. All he could think about was that he was hungry and that he was determined not to give in to the people he hated.

  ‘Naturally, he didn’t trust me. When they brought the food that first evening, I gave him my portion, and then, after supper, I took his dirty shirt and washed it for him. It sounds trivial, by now it sounds petty even to me: washing someone else’s shirt and fasting for an evening. But inside, you are in a wilderness inhabited by wolves. He didn’t say anything to me, of course, but I noticed he’d become wary, because the first reaction in places like that when someone treats you in a friendly fashion is suspicion: “He’s given me his bread ration twice: maybe it’s because they feed him something more filling. He washed my shirt: maybe he did it because they offered him a special reward for winning my confidence.” Prison is terrible not because it deprives you of your freedom but because it destroys your belief in other people. Maybe I was helped by the fact he knew my vocation. Not that he believed in God, but because happily those who had remained Christ’s shepherds even in that place enjoyed the reputation of being incorruptible.

  ‘While he was at work I would ponder on him. His soul was seized by a spasm. To ease the spasm it was necessary for him to accept that he was not alone in his cause; that he was not the only one whose suffering was out of proportion to his guilt. I recounted to him how they had arrested me many years before because some man had been caught on the borders with my name in his notebook. I told him how I had suffered months of tortures and interrogations, how I had lost the will to live, and how at that moment I had been helped by the words of Ecclesiastes which I would whisper to myself: “All things come alike to all: there is one event to the righteous, and to the wicked; to the good and to the clean, and to the unclean . . .”

  ‘I tried to explain to him that one came into the world to save one’s soul and – if one had the strength – to begin to understand life. But that was something one could achieve only when one freed oneself from the ambitions and passions which darkened one’s horizon. If one could achieve this, no tormentor could harm one, because one was dependent no longer on the world they inhabited.

  ‘Then we discussed our situation together. The weak could never defeat the stronger by physical strength, only through the power of their spirit, by eroding cruel and brutal force and rendering it unnecessary, helpless or desperate.

  ‘During that period he started to wonder whether his resistance might achieve anything apart from self-destruction, and whether self-destruction wasn’t actually another form of defeat. He started to learn humility and derive satisfaction from his ability to control himself at moments when previously he had been accustomed to indulge in blind resistance. We shared the same cell for scarcely three months, and over that time we managed to talk about a lot of things, including how he was going to live once he was out among people again. He had the best of intentions. I would even go so far as to say that his soul opened up at that time and was open to good. Then I was released. As far as I know, for the remainder of his stay he managed to avoid all confrontations. Even after he left prison. We kept in contact for a while. His home conditions were lamentable and he proved incapable of organising his family life.

  ‘Don’t imagine that I seek to condone that dreadful deed, if he did commit it. But ever since I heard about it, my thoughts have turned again and again to the lad. What was the extent of his guilt and the guilt of those who killed the man within him and impregnated his soul with hatred? The idea that they might now kill him I find appalling.’

  He opened his briefcase and drew out some sheets of paper. ‘I have taken up your time, Dr Kindlová. And now I am taking the liberty of burdening you: I’ve brought some letters that Karel wrote me after his release.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She took the papers from him.

  ‘You will find my address on the envelope,’ he said. ‘As soon as you, or maybe even your husband, have had a chance to read them, you need only call me and I will come and fetch them. Or should there be anything else I might be able to assist you with.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said once more. ‘I will pass it on to my husband.’

  He stood up and bowed.

  It was already four o’clock. She picked up the receiver and dialled his number. �
��It’s me, Honza. What was it you wanted before?’

  ‘I’ll come over to you.’

  ‘I’ve just been hearing something dreadful.’

  ‘I’ll come over to you.’

  ‘No, don’t. I’ve got to go home.’

  ‘You can’t go home today. I’ll come over to you and explain.’

  ‘But I have to go home.’

  ‘There’s a concert on. Alena. You’ve not heard anything like it. And they’re playing just outside Prague.’

  ‘And you want to go?’

  ‘Alena, it will be a tremendous experience. I know the band. I’ve been going to listen to them for three years already. I’ve been at all their concerts.’

  ‘But I’ve got to go home.’

  ‘Alena, I’d like you to share this experience with me.’

  ‘But what about the children? I’ve got to get their supper.’

  ‘Can’t he?’

  She saw them as soon as they got on the bus: long-haired, bearded youngsters, lots of army surplus jackets, girls in jeans and well-worn flannel shirts smelling of sweat and tobacco smoke. Then there was an entire hall full of them in the country pub. On a smoke-veiled stage amidst wedding decorations, several youngsters, identical to the ones assembled in the room, were stretching out cables and adjusting microphones. An enormous drummer was setting out his drum-kit. He had a pale, almost white, face and long blond hair.

  She had called Adam to say she felt like going to a concert (fortunately the connection was bad, she had an excuse for not saying much) and had only heard about it at the last minute from colleagues at work. Amazingly enough, he had made no objection. He had promised to give the children something to eat and put them to bed, and didn’t even ask what kind of concert it would be and when she would be home; as if he was pleased he wouldn’t see her.

  More and more people were piling into the hall; some of them knew Honza and he introduced them to her. It had never occurred to her that he sometimes moved in such circles; she had tended to believe rather too much in his total solitariness.

  They sat not far from the stage in a corner opposite the door: he on one side, and on the other a ruddy-faced youth with a broken nose and powerful shoulders. His shirt was painted with enormous flowers and he had a skull embroidered on his tie. She felt conspicuous in her off-the-peg clothes. It must have been obvious to everyone that she didn’t belong. She also noticed a girl wearing a wreath of myrtle in her hair. It must have been her who had got married: she had a bouquet of white roses in front of her on the table.

  An obtrusive smell of hot dogs came from the kitchen. She didn’t feel at ease there. She was sure Adam would only give the children a piece of bread and salami and no vegetables. And he’d let them rush around the flat until ten o’clock or later. She ought to call him again.

  At that moment they started to play. The torrent of sound deafened her. She watched the pale drummer rocking his enormous body back and forwards as he furiously pounded his two drums. His long hair flashed across his face.

  The music seemed to her wild and unfamiliar, with complex harmonies, and there were moments when it verged on the atonal. She didn’t know what to compare it with. She loved music, though she had no great musical understanding; she had never properly learned to read it and for that reason had been obliged to give up the piano. Bach’s compositions both thrilled her and filled her with calm and rapture, and she loved folk songs because they aroused in her a nostalgia for the lost past, when, it seemed to her, relationships were all more sincere and feelings more genuine.

  The first piece came to an end. She was deafened by an explosion of shouts, whistles, stamping and applause.

  ‘How did you like it?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. Give me time.’ (He asked like Adam. Men demanded constant congratulation for things they took to be their achievement.) ‘I’m not used to it yet.’

  Her reticence seemed to disappoint him. ‘They’re fantastic,’ he declared and squeezed her hand.

  A singer in jeans stepped up to the microphone; his shirt was open at the chest. She was unable to understand the words and was aware only of the melody. The singer fell silent for a moment, but his body went on moving in rhythm, and then the guitars fell silent too and the enormous drummer seemed to grow bigger still, his arms flickered and his eyes stared somewhere into the void over the heads of the audience. She sensed the flash of the sticks and the drumbeats deep within her; she was swaying from side to side unconsciously, losing awareness of her body; she was flooded by an ecstasy that she had known only at rare moments of total abandon during lovemaking.

  Suddenly silence fell. She glanced at him but his eyes didn’t register her. Were he to get up and take her out, somewhere nearby where she could still hear the sounds from the hall, they could make love there to the sound of the drums.

  He leaned over to her. ‘Look!’ he exclaimed.

  She turned round and caught sight of blue uniforms thrusting their way into the hall through the open door: just like frantic beetles; terrifying messengers from a half-forgotten world. She hadn’t yet realised what was happening. The hall suddenly filled with shouts, and the banging and scraping of chairs. Someone stepped up to the microphone and shouted to the audience to stay calm. The performance had been properly announced and permission obtained.

  She turned back to him. He was pale, as pale as the time she took him by car to the hospital. But a bluish vein stood out on his forehead. ‘I’ll kill them; I’ll kill the bloody bastards!’

  ‘Don’t let yourselves be provoked.’ It was now the turn of the singer in the open shirt. ‘Don’t let. . .’ He fell silent. Maybe they had switched off his microphone.

  And suddenly she found herself in the world she had been hearing about that afternoon. There they were, ready to drag him off to a dark cell without windows or light.

  He was capable of fighting, as, clearly, was everyone else in the hall.

  ‘You’re staying with me,’ she said in sudden panic and gripped his hand. ‘You brought me here and you’ll take me away from here!’

  She dragged him to the window. She looked out into the darkness. But before she could make out who the dark silhouettes outside were, she was blinded by the light of a torch. She covered her eyes and could feel her panic give way to a feeling of bitter resentment. How dare they? And why should they?

  Someone tugged roughly at her shoulder from behind. She turned round. A small, freckled face – wisps of ginger hair sticking out from beneath a police cap – was staring at her with little blue eyes, above which the eyebrows were almost invisible. ‘Your papers,’ it said in a shrill tenor voice.

  She dug her nails into the palms of her hands in her effort to control herself. ‘I would ask you to be civil, or I shall report you!’ she said.

  His tiny blue eyes with no eyelashes gazed at her in amazement. And then he, too, maybe, noticed she was different from the rest and was slightly at a loss for a moment. ‘Show me your papers, please!’ he ordered. ‘And don’t waste my time!’

  She opened her handbag with trembling fingers; she was unable to control their shaking. What did those letters actually contain? What if they took her away and confiscated that envelope containing letters whose content she didn’t even know? She watched him laboriously copy out her name. ‘What have I done wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘Why were you trying to escape through the window?’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to escape through the window!’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ he said returning her papers. ‘You may leave this way.’ He indicated the door to the kitchen.

  She still had time to notice the bride take her flowers out of their vase, bow to one of the uniformed men and present him with one of the roses. He had apparently received no instructions for such an eventuality and so accepted it. The bride bowed to another policeman, but her flowers were torn off her from behind.

  She made her way between the kitchen tables. On a wide work-top lay finely chop
ped onions and a tall pile of salami slices, alongside enormous jars of gherkins, pickled mixed vegetables and mustard. There were cooking pots giving off steam. She looked back again. He was following her.

  Would they send a report about her to the library? What if she was dismissed because of it?

  They left through the back door. In the narrow street, which was painfully bright from floodlights, she saw two rows of uniformed men. Vehicles were parked at the end of the street: two dark buses and several cars which were obviously intended for the transport of prisoners.

  What if they arrested them now? Adam would probably not know what had happened to her. In fact he didn’t know where she had gone. No one knew. She could disappear into the depths somewhere, somewhere deeper than the cellars and no one would find out.

  And what would happen to the children? She was seized by the horrifying thought that They might arrive at the flat as unexpectedly as they had arrived here, pour in like a relentless tide and take away her children. She would never set eyes on them again. She would be cruelly punished for having betrayed them, for having abandoned the family home, for not standing by them when they needed her.

  She walked between the rows of police unable to make out individual faces; instead they merged into a single, unreal, scowling waxwork figure. ‘I want to go home,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Oh, Lord, let me get home.’

  Before we drink from the waters of Lethe

  1

  The faculty building stood on the embankment and from the windows of the west wing there was a view of the Castle and an even clearer view of the torso of the monstrous monument that grew there during the course of my studies and which they knocked down shortly after I graduated. The south wing almost joined on to the conservatoire and on warm summer evenings when the windows were open, we could hear endless repetitions of piano studies as well as the bellowing of trombones, interspersed with choral singing. The next street to the east marked the beginning of the Jewish Quarter with the cemetery and the Old-New Synagogue, which I was aware of but never set foot inside in all the four years.