Judge On Trial

by Ivan Klíma

  Whoever it was who had turned on the gas, Kozlík could have had no idea what had happened in the flat. Why had he not returned home, then? Libuše Körnerová had stated that she was in a hurry. Not even he maintained he had spent the night with his fiancée. The cinema performance ended around ten, so Kozlík must have been back at the tram stop by eleven o’clock at the latest. If he had wanted to return home he had had the chance to do so. Clearly he had not intended to go home. It was also possible that his landlady had thrown him out for breaking the shelf. But if she had thrown him out, she wouldn’t have given him her savings book.

  He could have stolen the savings book, of course, then left the flat and spent the night at the home of someone he did not wish to name.

  But it was unlikely that he would have missed the chance to prove his presence at someone else’s that night. After all, Protectorate laws no longer applied. It would not endanger the person who had sheltered him, so long as he or she knew nothing about his criminal action. Particularly if he had not committed any crime, or at most was in possession of a stolen savings book with a paltry amount in it.

  The individual elements of Kozlík’s second statement might have held water, but as a whole it did not present a credible picture. There was no sense in dealing with his second statement. He had withdrawn his confession for understandable reasons. He had nothing to lose; the only chance he had was to start denying his action.

  But even if he had committed the murder, he must have spent the night somewhere. He was clearly covering up for someone. And he had already been covering up for them when he made that first lengthy confession.

  Could he have gone back to his common-law wife and wanted to spare her needless investigation? It was not his impression that Kozlík displayed a particularly considerate attitude towards women. Besides, he had named her. There was no reason for him to state that he had only gone to her place the next morning instead of saying that they had not parted at all the previous evening.

  When I almost went blind which I didn’t report as a protest against my treatment a fellow-prisoner in my cell whose name I don’t recall started to teach me philosophy and English and he explained to me that real strength is doing good . . .

  Only now was he struck by the inconsistency of those details. Kozlík had obviously been referring to the clergyman who had been to see Alena and shown her Kozlík’s naive and vainglorious letters. His name’s Pravda. Even I remember that.

  Kozlík had clearly lied in his first statement when he had said he could not remember the name of the person to whom he had sent almost filial letters. He had lied in the middle of a statement in which he was almost amazingly frank. It was possible, for instance, that he had not named him because he was the person who had given him shelter that night. The thought so fascinated Adam that he had to tell himself off for starting to play the investigator, something he detested in himself.

  Even if Kozlík had spent the night there, there was no reason for him not to name him. Unless he had confessed to him what he had just done. He might have been afraid that Pravda had failed to report what he had told him and thereby been guilty of a criminal offence. However, that would be to assume that he had come to him and stated: ‘I’ve just turned the gas on in my landlady’s kitchen and here I am. What do you think about it?’

  It was hardly likely that a third person, let alone a former clergyman, would listen to such a statement and do nothing. After all, the landlady might still have been alive. If Kozlík had come to see him that night and confided in him, his friend would have made him go straight back there. And most likely would have accompanied him. They would have taken a taxi and driven straight to that apartment house in Žižkov. But what if they had seen the police car or ambulance already parked outside and realised there was nothing they could do to put things right?

  What advice would Pravda have given Kozlík? Would he have lent him some money and sent him away to try to find a hiding place? Or, and this was likelier, said: Clear off, I don’t want to hear any more about you! Or: Go and report what you have done and make a full admission, that’s the only hope you have left. In the eyes of your fellow-people and of God. Or he could have just turned away from him and abandoned him without saying a word, and, in the knowledge that he had been spurned by the only person he still clung to, the murderer could then have observed from a distance as they carried the lifeless bodies out to the ambulance. He could almost picture him suddenly running off and then wandering aimlessly through the streets until the next morning when he made his way to the place where they would inevitably find him, until he reached the place where there was no longer any point in trying to defend himself or to lie, not even to avoid punishment.

  The telephone rang. His boss wanted to see him.

  ‘Kozlík buggering you about?’ he enquired as Adam came in.

  ‘No, not particularly. Why?’ He had no desire to discuss the case with him.

  ‘But he withdrew his statement, didn’t he?’

  He shrugged. ‘He didn’t introduce any new facts.’

  ‘As far as I know,’ his boss said, ‘the prosecution will be pushing for the rope.’

  ‘And they expect me to play along?’

  ‘What did you expect? After all the bastard did away with a child.’

  ‘It’s possible he really didn’t know about the kid.’

  The Presiding Judge stared at him without any sign of emotion. ‘I don’t get you, Adam. You act as if you didn’t understand anything. Do you think I enjoy hearing nothing but complaints about you?’

  ‘Are there any complaints about my work?’

  ‘I’m not talking about your work.’ He went over to the window and gazed fixedly at the wall of the building opposite. He clearly preferred not to look Adam in the eye. ‘We’ve all of us had to weigh up our recent attitudes and draw the conclusions. You’re the only one who goes around as if it didn’t concern you: when the plain fact is that it concerns you most of all. But you’re running out of time, Adam, there’s no way you can sit on the fence.’

  ‘The only place I try to sit is on my own chair.’

  ‘These chairs,’ his boss said pointing at one, ‘aren’t yours. They belong to the state.’

  ‘What is the state? I don’t know the colour of its eyes and guessing what it thinks is completely beyond me.’

  ‘I’ve a fairly good idea what you think about me, but that’s your business. I reckon you’ve got nothing to complain about as far as I’m concerned. I’ve kept you on here. I want to have people here who know what they’re doing. You must realise you’d have been out on your ear long ago, otherwise. With a background like yours. And with the company you keep! Hanging around flats where they read out illegal texts!’

  He was extremely well briefed. It wasn’t hard to guess by whom. ‘There were no illegal texts,’ he corrected him pointlessly.

  ‘I put you on the Kozlík case so you’d have a chance to show willing a bit. I could have given you something that would be far less acceptable to you. You must be able to see that. You’ve got a transcript of his new statement?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘I’d like to have a squint at it.’

  ‘As you wish. I’ll bring you the file.’

  ‘And think about what you’re doing, Adam! I’d hate to lose you. It’s up to you entirely.’

  That was a patent threat.

  Anyone who, by force, by the threat of force, or by the threat of any other serious injury, obliges another to do, neglect to do, or to suffer anything will be liable to imprisonment for up to three years. Paragraph two hundred and thirty-five, sub-paragraph one, of the Penal Code.

  5

  The chapel was situated in an ordinary apartment house, the only embellishment being the front door in the shape of a neogothic arch. She watched from a short way off as some old ladies emerged from neighbouring streets, as well as some families in Sunday best with well-behaved children. People shook hands and exchanged smiles. They al
l knew each other. Only she knew no one.

  She had been invited there by the clergyman with the revivalist name. The last time she had visited him in his warehouse, he had talked to her at great length. He had also lent her a book about the Christian family and finally invited her to attend one of their assemblies for worship. She had asked if it mattered that she wasn’t a Protestant. He replied that people were not born members of a church, they only became members in time, and it made no difference whether she believed or not. No one could declare with certainty that they believed, in the same way that they could not be sure that their soul was forever cut off from grace.

  The stream of chapelgoers started to tail off and she could hear from inside the sound of an organ. Someone else preceded her in and through the gap in the door she could make out a hall full of pews. The minister was already at the pulpit.

  The door closed slowly and she had time to slip through. She sat in the last pew but one, which was empty. Happily, the rest of the congregation paid no attention to her and went on leafing through their hymn-books before starting to sing straight away. She tried to follow the words of the hymn but the meaning eluded her. However, the tune seemed to have an ancient reverence and she was moved by the unaffected harmony.

  If only the miracle could happen and her faith be restored. Perhaps then she would have the strength to endure what lay in store for her.

  She shut her eyes and did her best to ward off the horror. Maybe not, she said to herself. Maybe not!

  The hymn ended and everyone stood up. The minister in his long black robe read from the Bible.

  The Scripture reading was about the pharisee and the tax-collector entering the temple. Whereas the pharisee boasted of his virtue, the tax-collector stood at the back, not daring even to raise his eyes to heaven. He only repeated: God have mercy on me, a sinner.

  She had the impression that the minister was speaking about her. She did not know precisely the meaning of the word pharisee but the tax-collector was herself sitting on her own at the back, and for that they promised her redemption.

  The minister finished reading and everyone sat down again.

  After the next hymn, the minister went up to the pulpit at the side of the chapel. After reading a further passage from the Bible about the blind man whose sight was restored merely by the word of Jesus he started his sermon. We live in a world in which many people are stricken with blindness. They look at things but fail to see their neighbour. Likewise they are submerged from morning till night in a welter of words, but they fail to hear the real Word.

  What would Adam say if he knew she was sitting in church? Nothing, most likely. Or he might try to persuade her she was wasting her time, since there was no God. She needed him next to her now. And most of all she needed him to be waiting for her outside their house afterwards. No, she didn’t need it really. She was glad that no one was here with her: neither of them.

  The other one would be only too happy to be sitting here with her. He would come after her wherever she was, if she let him, if she ever wanted to meet him again. He was always phoning her. Most of the time she did not even reply but would hold the receiver for a few moments, letting his passionate declarations of love and promises never to stop loving her pour out of it, and then hang up.

  He had been ill. This she had overheard before taking the receiver from her ear. He had a fever and was all alone at home, scarcely able to get up and make himself tea. His voice was muffled and weak. Perhaps he really was ill. Whatever he had done to her, she could hardly refuse to come at such a moment.

  She had bought him milk, butter, rolls and a piece of smoked fish. He had come to the door, his head wrapped in a wet towel, his eyes deep-sunken and feverish. She had led him back to his bed and gone to prepare him something to eat. Then she brought him the food on a dark red tray they had eaten off together a few weeks before. But to her surprise she felt nothing: neither love for him nor regret, nor pity. And it did not even occur to her at that moment that she ought to let him know where she had been at the beginning of the week. He would be bound to think it concerned him in some way. But it concerned her alone, and if anyone else, then only the creature which it now seemed sure had been conceived in her body.

  She stood up for the prayers: ‘We thank You, Lord, that You have once more allowed us to meet and hear Your word which is a light in our darkness, announcing Your promise . . .’

  She realised with a start that the time was getting on. In a moment the service would be over and she still had a good walk ahead of her. Oh God, I ought to have prayed, paid heed to the sermon, asked for mercy instead of turning over the same old thoughts all the time.

  People stood around in small groups on the pavement outside. She took another look round but her friend wasn’t there.

  She walked to the next corner. There was no one about and the sun lit up the walls of the houses. She took the visiting card and the street plan from her handbag.

  The only gynaecologist she knew was the one she had attended at the clinic. She had been to see him there but had not dared say anything in front of the nurse. She had merely asked him in a whisper whether he might see her privately.

  He had displayed not the slightest surprise. Taking a visiting card from his desk drawer, he asked her if Sunday afternoon suited her.

  At last she found the street on the plan. She had never been able to estimate distances on maps, but it struck her that she should be able to get there on foot easily enough. She therefore set off through the deserted streets, the smell of Sunday lunch wafting from windows as she passed. The smell of food, which on other occasions she wouldn’t have even noticed, made her feel queasy and almost nauseous. She realised all too well the cause and went sweaty all over.

  The doctor lived in an old apartment house that reminded her of the one where she was born, even down to the park on the opposite side of the street.

  He answered the door himself. He was dressed in a boilersuit. He had always struck her as looking more like a butcher or a delivery man, and now, without his white coat, she didn’t recognise him straight away.

  He shook her hand and led her to a small cubicle: it was wallpapered and covered from floor to ceiling with pictures. He sat her in a white armchair while he himself squatted on a small stool: ‘So we’ve been a bit careless, have we, Mrs Kindlová?’

  She nodded.

  ‘When was your last period?’

  ‘Six weeks ago yesterday, Doctor.’

  ‘There was no need to think the worst then, was there? Are your periods ever late?’

  ‘No. Two or three days at most.’

  ‘You haven’t got yourself upset or anything in the recent period, have you?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I have, Doctor,’ she said with sudden hope. Then she added: ‘And I also suffered mild coal-gas poisoning.’

  ‘So what are you making such a fuss for, my dear! Six weeks doesn’t mean a thing.’

  ‘I’m starting to have attacks of nausea, Doctor,’ she protested.

  ‘You all start having those. I’ll give you an injection and you’ll be right as rain.’

  ‘Do you think so, Doctor?’

  ‘If it’s due to stress,’ he said. ‘Or from inhaling coal-gas.’

  Her hopes quickly dissipated. ‘And what if the injection doesn’t work?’

  ‘We’ll give it a bit more time, my dear. You could have given it a bit more time yourself. Nobody could tell you anything after just six weeks. Except a fortune-teller, maybe.’

  ‘I was afraid of coming too late.’

  ‘Have you told your husband about it?’

  ‘I’ve not told anything to anyone, Doctor.’

  ‘Give it another fortnight, my dear,’ he told her. ‘You still have plenty of time to apply to the board.’

  ‘Doctor, I can’t apply to the board.’

  ‘You can’t?’

  ‘No.’ Then she corrected herself. ‘I wouldn’t be able to go through with it!’


  ‘How many children do you have, Mrs Kindlová?’

  ‘Two,’ she whispered.

  ‘Well then. So long as this latest wasn’t from within the marriage, the board won’t turn you down.’

  ‘But I don’t want to!’ She shook her head violently. ‘I don’t want to go before the board.’

  ‘The father needn’t even come in person,’ he said, ‘if that’s what’s worrying you. It’s enough if he lends you his identity card.’

  She went on shaking her head. She was unable to utter a single word. What if he refused her?

  ‘It’ll cost a lot more to have it done privately. A lot more.’

  ‘I know. I’m allowing for that.’

  ‘It seems a shame to throw away three thousand crowns when you could see the board.’

  ‘I thought you might be able to, Doctor. If the need arose. I don’t know anyone else and I can’t go before the board.’

  He stood up. He reached into a little white cupboard and took out a small polythene bag with a syringe and an ampoule. Even as the injection went into her buttock she knew it was pointless: she was pregnant, it had already taken root in her and was clinging to her: a new life.

  ‘How much do I owe you, Doctor?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you in a fortnight’s time.’

  Before we drink from the waters of Lethe

  1

  Once, when I was just starting to go to school, my mother sat me on her lap and wanted to know what I thought about the idea of our leaving the house where we lived and going to live a long way away. How far away? Over the sea; but it was such a little sea that they only called it a channel. (And as the word in Czech is the same as for a drain, for years afterwards I imagined us having to jump over a narrow gully covered with lots of iron grilles.) Mother also showed me a picture of brick houses and strange, half-raised bridges over a river. A job was already waiting for Father in the city of Liverpool and in the front hall an enormous sea-chest with shiny locks stood yawning open (it still stands covered with an old tablecloth in a corner of the flat in the Old Town Square). I couldn’t grasp why we would have to move. Father therefore tried to explain to me that our country was going to be invaded by an enemy who could come and kill us. And wouldn’t he get us in that country over the drain? No, that country was on an island and no enemy had ever conquered it.