Judge On Trial

by Ivan Klíma

  Hanuš had grown up before him. Or at any rate he had not shared the childish willingness of immature students and political preachers to turn the world upside down, to improve it and make it conform as rapidly as possible to their own vision of perfection. Hanuš certainly hadn’t believed he was destined for something like that, let alone felt a vocation to judge others. He had chosen the most abstract occupation possible – one that nowhere obliged him to interfere in other people’s lives and impose his own attitudes. And if anyone started to force their ideas down his throat he would start to lash out.

  The world we inhabit is becoming less and less adult. Most people have so little work to do, know so little of suffering and are answerable for so little, that they cannot recognise the essential moment when they move from an area in which they are led, into one in which they have to move according to their own free will, one in which they are required to take charge and protect, instead of demanding care and protection.

  Criminals too are mostly immature even when they pretend to be acting entirely according to their own wills. Just as children regard themselves as the centre of the world, criminals accuse others of failing to provide what they long for.

  The ones they accuse are terrified of them. They detest criminals, while at the same time having an interest in them which sometimes verges on fascination, and are susceptible to being moved by their life stories.

  For his part, when he was required to judge real criminals, their life stories did not move him at all. People who wanted to judge the crimes of others had to avoid being moved by the cruel or tragic circumstances that led up to those crimes. They had to accept that tragic circumstances form part of most people’s lives, and only certain individuals succumb to them. That was the essence of their fateful choice, their transgression or their inability to cope with circumstances. And someone who was unable to resist the temptation to take another’s life disbarred himself from human society. That applied as much to those who committed crime as to those who fought it. During his life he had come across more murders committed by those claiming to fight crime than homicide committed by non-uniformed and unorganised criminals.

  He was already hungry, but he enjoyed wandering the gloomy lanes. His head was clear and for the first time in a long time he felt a lightness of spirit that uplifted him. All his anxieties, worries and longing were gone from him – for that short while at any rate. He passed the courthouse where he worked. It was only a short step from here to that house, that cosy haven where he had spent so much time in recent days. An uneasy thought crossed his mind. He dispelled it immediately, but continued in the direction he was now used to taking.

  He had concluded that the death penalty was unacceptable more in order to save himself from temptation and the innocent from arbitrary decisions than out of any compassion for criminals and the cruel circumstances of their unsuccessful lives. As for protecting the innocent, he shouldn’t fool himself. It was a well-known fact that the moment tyranny overruled the law, innocent people started to die at the executioner’s hands, even if, only the previous day, judges had weighed up a thousand times the circumstances of a proven murderer’s action. Tyranny was not balked by any tradition. Tyranny had no scruples; that was what made it tyranny. On the contrary, the moment it started to limit itself it ceased to be tyranny. The moment a hangman became a mere gaoler, an acceptable state of affairs was on its way back.

  This was his first murder trial. There was something so reminiscent of his own life about the manner of the crime and the nature of its victims that he was pleased he did not have to work up sympathy to counterbalance his own bias. If this particular case was also to be his last one – and sadly, it seemed increasingly likely – then paradoxically it would consummate his childhood experience: his experience of mass gassings. Perhaps it would be such a total consummation that his experience would leave him, in the same way it had left his brother’s memory, and he would be able to heave a sigh of relief.

  He stopped in front of the house in Vyšehrad. The door of the small shop next door was barred and most of the windows were shining in the darkness.

  He tried the handle of the front door and found it unlocked. He hesitated a moment, but there was no reason why he should not enter, now he had come this far. He went down the few steps into the backyard. The small area was bare apart from four dustbins just behind the door; one of the bins lay on its side giving off a reek of decaying refuse. He skirted it and walked to the wall opposite where he turned and looked upwards, to the two – very familiar – small windows right in the roof. The first was in darkness, the second emitted a faint purple glow.

  He left the yard again, closing the door quietly behind him. A drunk was staggering along the opposite pavement while from the neighbouring park came the scent of rotting leaves. Come to think of it, what is a to the power of zero? What sort of silly idea was it anyway? One – that’s one I still do remember. What’s a to the power of one? A, Dad. So what are you making such a fuss over then, Adam? What do you get if you raise a to the power of infinity, when a is greater than one?

  Infinity, Dad.

  Good. So what will a to minus infinity be, then? You don’t know? I’ll help you then. How much is a raised to infinity if a is less than one? You don’t know that? You mean you don’t know something as simple as that? Hanuš, come here. This little child will know! Hanuš, pay attention! If you raise some number less than one to infinity – a half, for instance – what do you get?

  You can’t get anything, Daddy.

  Did you hear that, Adam? Zero! The same goes for all numbers less than one. And stop crying; that won’t help you!

  He had a feeling that something hopeful had happened today, though, after all. Yes, of course: he might be be seeing his brother soon.

  3

  He arrived home; the children were still awake. Martin was in bed already, his daughter was finishing her homework, Alena was darning stockings. He had found his family in its proper place and for a moment could enjoy the illusion that things were going on just as they should.

  His wife looked at him expectantly. Whenever he had returned in recent days she had given him the same expectant look. Where had he been? Who had he been with? With that other woman. When would he finally begin to talk it all over with her?

  But he always eluded her gaze, and acted as if he didn’t even notice it. And when he did speak, it was only to say something unimportant. ‘I was with my father,’ he said, opening the refrigerator and taking out butter and cheese. ‘Hanuš wants to come home and Dad’s annoyed.’

  ‘It’s good news he wants to come back, isn’t it?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. Throughout this period he had felt intense pity in her presence, though he could not explain it. He pitied her for not being equal to her own notions about life. He pitied her incompetence in getting embroiled with some immature, hysterical youngster. He regretted he was unable to love her as he had done before, partly because she had lost her ingenuous innocence, or rather he felt sorry for himself for having lost his image of her as an ingenuous innocent. ‘Good for whom, do you think?’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘My feelings are neither here nor there.’ He chewed his bread slowly. Pity and love had a lot in common. He would have gladly got up and stroked his wife’s hair and said something nice to her. Nothing, however, could be more humiliating than to receive expressions of pity in place of expressions of affection. If someone were to treat him that way he would be horrified and covered in shame.

  He glanced through Manda’s Czech homework and then yielded to her plea for him to play a game of draughts with her. Amazingly, he actually concentrated on the game and this time did not surprise his daughter by losing.

  Oddly enough, he felt a soothing sense of peace beginning to pervade him. It might be the first presage of death – but he had received that long ago. Maybe familiar home surroundings were soothing him. But he did not have a genuine sense that he had r
eturned here. Rather he felt estranged from everyone and everything; it merely remained for him to take a final bow on all sides: live your lives in peace and wish me peace also: and to jingle his bells in farewell.

  ‘Where are you off to, Daddy? Are you going out somewhere?’

  ‘Just to my room.’

  He had only just got to sleep when he was awakened by an insistent ringing.

  ‘Adam, Adam. Are you asleep already?’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘There’s someone at the door!’ Alena was standing in the doorway.

  ‘All right, I’m going.’

  ‘I’ll go if you like. What if it’s the . . . I could say you weren’t home.’

  He quickly pulled on his shirt and trousers. They’d only come at this time of night if he had really committed some heinous crime. And they’d make a lot more noise about it. It suddenly crossed his mind that it might be her: ‘the other one’, Alexandra. Something had happened to her. It had all got to Oldřich’s ears and he had kicked her out. Or she had caught sight of him in the yard when he was looking up at the window, and had now rushed over here to explain everything.

  But it was only his friend Petr with a large leather case.

  He showed him into his room. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Do you think it’s safe to talk here?’

  ‘It makes no odds. Go ahead.’

  ‘There’s no need to worry; I wasn’t followed.’

  ‘I’m not worried. And I don’t even see why anyone should be following you.’

  ‘They’ve arrested Matěj. Haven’t you heard?’

  He hadn’t. Yesterday he had gone to the cinema with his children, this afternoon he had been discussing his brother’s situation with his father and this evening he had wandered through the Old Town lanes and been to check on his mistress’s fidelity.

  They had confiscated some books, letters and documents from Matěj’s flat. So far no indictment had been issued, which might be regarded as a good sign, but Petr was anticipating further searches. ‘Adam, I know it won’t be nice having the case around, but at least they won’t be coming to your place.’

  ‘So long as no one saw you coming here with it.’

  ‘No one did, Adam. I’ve been racking my brains for half the day trying to think where to take it. There’s my mother-in-law, but she’d go out of her mind with worry, besides which she’d blow the gaff somewhere. Apart from her, everyone I know is in the same boat as me.’

  ‘Except me.’

  ‘It’s awkward for someone in your position, I realise.’

  ‘My position has got nothing to do with it.’

  ‘It’s so bloody ludicrous. The day they finally come to write about it, it’ll seem so funny.’

  ‘No one will ever write about it, that’s for sure. People will have other things on their minds. Give me a rough idea of what’s in the case, anyhow.’

  ‘That’s what’s so damned silly about it, Adam. Nothing at all. Just old papers. Articles of mine that were published in magazines, a couple of books, and a few letters. Strictly personal. The case is unlocked and you can have a look through it if you agree to take it.’

  ‘I’m hardly going to look in your case.’

  ‘There’s nothing in there, Adam, I swear to you. It would just be a shame to lose them, that’s all. But see for yourself.’ He knelt down and opened the catches.

  ‘There’s no need! What about Matěj if they don’t release him?’

  ‘Surely they won’t be able to hold him. He hasn’t done anything. Apart from typing out a few of his own articles or a couple of poems by other people. It would be a disgrace – for them, Adam!’

  ‘The two are incompatible: power and a sense of disgrace. You spoke about it yourself.’

  ‘I know. But one likes to delude oneself that it won’t turn out like that in reality. I don’t know what we could do to help him. Get up a petition? We’d get some signatures, but only from people who are in the same boat as Matěj, and no one would give a damn. Adam, there’s not much left we can do. It’s more up to people like yourself.’

  ‘They’re not going to give me the job if they charge him.’

  ‘I don’t mean that. But you could have a word with the high-ups; they’ll listen if it comes from you.’

  ‘They’ve never been known to listen.’ He felt increasingly uneasy. People were starting to count on him again, to assign him a role. He didn’t mind them bringing him cases to hide, but he didn’t want people telling him how to behave, what action he should take, how and where to box clever and when to go in for cloak and dagger.

  ‘But you know from your own experience,’ Petr said, ‘they’re only prepared to talk to people whom they regard at least slightly as one of theirs.’

  ‘Thanks very much.’

  ‘No offence intended, Adam. They’re the only kind who’ll be able to bring about a change for the better again one day.’

  It was a marvellous idea, but he’d neglected to ask whether Adam still had any urge to change the world. He liked his friends but at the same time he wished at long last to belong to no one but himself and decide accordingly.

  It was past midnight when Petr left. He went with him right down to the street door and then returned to the flat with the abandoned suitcase. Petr was wrong: there was no one who would still rate him as being ‘slightly one of theirs’, someone who might therefore stand a chance of being heard. One would have to make a much greater effort. It was a bit much to expect him to start going in for horse-trading when all he had to offer was his conscience and his honour.

  If he made no effort, his career in court would come to a speedy conclusion and they would replace him, naturally, with someone who was prepared to make the effort. But what concern was it of his? ‘Why should he pretend to feel greater responsibility for the post he occupied than for himself? Alternatively: how could one be answerable for one’s post when one wasn’t answerable for oneself?

  He could scarcely lift the suitcase. It weighed almost fifty kilos. He laid it on the settee and hesitated a moment before opening it. On top lay some books: Trotsky, Djilas, Orwell. A thick binder of Reportér magazine from the sixties and alongside it a box of letters without a lid. He could see that the topmost one was written in Matěj’s hand. Some of it was underlined and he couldn’t help noticing the words: ‘What does it matter, how many masters there are? There is only one slavery. Whoever refuses it is free, though the lords be legion.’ It was a quotation from old Seneca. Where had that old philosopher hidden his books and manuscripts? He hadn’t got away with it anyway and they’d forced him to commit suicide in the end, like Socrates. But apparently he’d died as he had taught: a free man.

  How was he going to die? Maybe it would also be up to himself.

  4

  On Mondays, he usually had his office to himself. It suited him. There were only ten days left before the Kozlík trial and he wanted to be left in peace to weigh up the whole case.

  If the truth were told, he would like to have had some conclusive proof that the man he was to try for murder had really committed it. Such proof was hard to come by, however. Usually nobody actually sees a murderer commit the deed, and one only had circumstantial evidence or expert testimony to go on.

  He had received enough circumstantial evidence. However, Kozlík had provided not a single fact in support of his revised statement.

  I started to get one of my headaches and went to my bedroom and sat there for a long time in the dark. On account of I was thirsty I went to the kitchen for the purpose of having a drink. Mrs Obensdorfovd was already back in her bedroom on the other side of the kitchen where she always left the door ajar for fear of someone stealing something from the kitchen. But I could hear she was asleep. That is when the idea came to my head that if I turned on the gas and went away people would think she had done it herself because it wouldn’t have been the first time and at her age she didn’t always know what she was doing . . .

  Wh
y did he confess anyway?

  Normally it was difficult to force people with his sort of life experience and thickheadedness to make any sort of statement, let alone make a false confession and sign it.

  From what he knew of Kozlík, he would have expected him to deny it even if they beat him up. They could not have extracted a confession out of him even with lengthy pressure. He had been scarcely two days on remand and there he was making a full confession. What had induced him to do it? Mental derangement? What could have deranged him to that extent? Maybe only the fact that when he had got over the fit of rage which powered his action, he suddenly realised what he had done. Or had something happened to him that night? Something he had not mentioned in his statement?

  It would be as well to make the effort to consider the second statement, briefly at least, as if it were truthful. Kozlík came home from work during the afternoon. He knocked down the shelf and was told off by his landlady, from whom he subsequently took the savings book. He had been too agitated to notice whether there was anyone else in the flat. Shortly afterwards he had left to go and meet his fiancée, taking the savings book with him.

  Shortly after, Mrs Obensdorfová junior arrived with her daughter. She didn’t notice the shelf had been knocked down in the front hall and her mother-in-law didn’t mention it to her either. It was conceivable; she had obviously been in a hurry and they had certainly exchanged only a few words.

  Kozlík went to see an Italian comedy and then walked his fiancée home. About that time, someone had turned on the gas in the flat. Because Kozlík was still with Libuše Körnerová – though not even she had confirmed that, of course, and now she would be unlikely to confirm or deny it – it would have to have been someone as yet untraced and unsuspected. That person was then seen by the neighbour through her spy-hole. Either she had really seen the person and took it to be Kozlík, which one might concede, since she had assumed in advance it was him, or the person did not exist at all and she had concocted the story for some unknown reason. In that case it would have had to be Kozlík’s landlady herself who turned on the gas. But all the experts’ reports and other testimonies did not tally with such a hypothesis.