Judge On Trial

by Ivan Klíma

  The next week, she had withdrawn all her savings. The money had been put aside for Christmas presents (but what was the point of presents in a home where love and togetherness had been lost?). But she had not had enough and she had been obliged to sell two of her jumpers at work, as well as her prettiest dress, one she still had from America.

  She got up again, picked up her bag and left the office. From the window opposite there peered the gaunt, ginger face of her ex-lover: still the father of the child which was not yet born, but which she had also not yet killed. He came out to meet her:

  ‘Alena!’

  ‘You know very well I’ve asked you not to wait for me.’

  ‘But I have to tell you something.’

  ‘You are always having to tell me something. There’s no point. I explained it to you, after all.’

  ‘It’s something else this time. Something completely different. Alena!’

  ‘But I’m in a hurry. You can see for yourself I’m on my way out.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you then, Alena.’

  ‘No, there’s no point. I don’t want you to walk with me.’

  ‘Just to the tram. Alena, the thing is I’ve got a girlfriend!’

  ‘You’ve found a girlfriend?’

  ‘Yes, Alena. I was desperate. I didn’t know what to do. Being on my own, I couldn’t help thinking about you all the time.’

  ‘And then you met her?’

  ‘It was at a concert, Alena. She’s a music-lover like you. She’s got hair like yours too. Sometimes when I see her from a distance I have the feeling that it’s you. I’ll show you her photo if you like.’

  ‘You carry it around with you?’

  ‘I got it today. So what do you think, Alena?’

  ‘I don’t know, she strikes me . . . she’s quite young, isn’t she?’

  ‘It’s an old photo. She’s eighteen already, and she’s so like you, Alena. Just as kind and gentle. She knows how to make other people happy. Would you like to meet her?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think she’d be too pleased.’

  ‘Oh, but she would, Alena. I’m always telling her about you. I told her you’re the most wonderful woman I’ve ever known. I told her I loved you. And she wants to meet you. Alena, are you cross with me?’

  ‘There’s no earthly reason why I should be cross with you.’

  ‘You look at me as if you hated me. Alena, I thought you would be pleased. I really thought you would. You always told me you’d be happy if I found myself a girl.’

  ‘I am pleased you’ve found a girl. But I have other things on my mind.’

  ‘If only, Alena, if only . . . if only you could still love me . . .’

  ‘I don’t want to hear anything of that sort!’

  ‘Anyway if it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t be capable of loving her. You taught me to, Alena. Are you angry with me? Do you think we could now be friends?’

  ‘Maybe. At this moment I have so many things on my mind that I’m not able to think about what will happen next.’

  ‘Have you got trouble with your husband? Isn’t there anything I could do to help?’

  ‘There’s no way you could help.’

  ‘I really am sorry, Alena, I really would like to help you if someone was making you suffer.’

  ‘All right, Honza. But here’s my tram coming. Thank you for seeing me to the tram stop. I hope you’ll be happy.’

  ‘Thanks, Alena. I hope you’ll be very happy too. You’re bound to be . . .’

  The doctor let her in himself. ‘You haven’t had second thoughts, my dear?’

  ‘No, Doctor!’

  They stood facing each other for a moment, and then he told her to come with him in that case, and she followed him to his cubicle. While he was drawing the curtains, she placed an envelope with the money on the table.

  ‘You could have left that till afterwards,’ he said. But he retained the money and went to wash his hands.

  ‘Should I undress?’

  ‘Yes, that will be necessary, my dear. I’m afraid I can’t give you an anaesthetic like in hospital. I hope you’re not going to yell too much.’

  ‘No, I won’t, Doctor.’

  The white armchair had been spread open like a couch and covered in a white sheet. A towel had also been placed on the sheet.

  ‘Did you come alone?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, Doctor.’

  ‘And nobody will be coming to meet you afterwards, either?’

  ‘No, Doctor. Do you think I won’t make it home on my own?’

  ‘I’m sure you will. Or I’ll call you a taxi.’

  Then she lay naked on the couch. The doctor brought from somewhere a basin with sterilised instruments and a small portable tape-recorder. He switched on a tape, filling the room with soulless music. ‘That’s on account of the neighbours,’ he commented. ‘It’s an old house but there are new tenants.’

  She could hardly hear him through the barrage of noise.

  She closed her eyes. The music assailed her from all sides, and then she heard the clink of something metallic. ‘Now you’ll have to be a bit brave,’ he told her, ‘and grit your teeth. And not cry out. You know what people are like, don’t you?’

  Yes, I do. And he actually had to come to me and tell me how he’d fallen in love. He would have killed me, poisoned me like a mouse, and then he comes a few days later and tells me how happy he is. The bastard.

  At that moment a pain went through her, a far worse pain than she had imagined. As if they were burning her insides with a red-hot poker. It occurred to her that he had forgotten to cool his instruments; he hadn’t noticed they were still red hot, and she cried out, maybe to let him know the instruments were red hot, or just to let him know it hurt, just for relief. And she went on screaming louder apd louder as he went on cutting, slicing away her body, and all the while her own blood gushed hot down her thighs.

  She opened her eyes slightly and glimpsed a sweat-soaked brow and strong bare hands that were spattered with blood. Then suddenly her breath gave out, everything went stiff, even the face in front of her froze and the hands went rigid and she realised she was dying.

  Oh Lord have pity on me, receive my soul and that soul, if it already had a soul, forgive me my trespasses, all my trespasses, I know I was proud.

  It was not the best moment for prayer, and God, if He existed, and even if He existed and was merciful, would surely turn away from her in disgust.

  She could feel her forehead going clammy. She was not breathing.

  ‘All right then, my dear,’ the doctor broke in, ‘it’s all over. I think we’ve made a good job of it.’

  She tried to move her head, at least, but was unable to.

  ‘There’s no rush,’ he admonished her. ‘It might need a bit of Eucoran.’ He turned off the tape-recorder and washed his hands once more. Then he came back to her. ‘We’ve got our colour back again, I see,’ he announced. ‘The main thing is it’s behind us now.’

  She moved her lips. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’

  ‘It’s hot in here,’ the doctor said. ‘It could do with some ventilation.’

  At last she sat up and he handed her a package of cotton-wool, saying in his off-putting, non-committal, matter-of-fact way: ‘The bleeding will continue normally, but apart from that everything as for a confinement. Refrain from intercourse, naturally.’ He placed next to her two small packets of tablets and ordered her to take one very six hours.

  ‘Thank you, Doctor.’

  ‘How do you feel, my dear?’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll manage to walk?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Doctor.’

  ‘Or should I call you a taxi?’

  ‘No, there’s no need, Doctor, thank you.’

  ‘I don’t like calling them from the flat, but there is a public phone box at the corner of the street. Do you have a coin for the phone?’

  ‘Yes, Doctor.’

  ‘Take this tablet be
fore you go.’ He handed her a pill and a glass of water. ‘Swallow it straight away. No bath when you get home, just a shower. At least two days’ rest. Stay in bed tomorrow. No cleaning or cooking.’

  ‘No, Doctor.’

  ‘Come and see me at the surgery next week. If you have any pains or a temperature come and see me straight away.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Doctor. Thank you very much.’

  Outside she was surprised to find total darkness. A moist spring-like breeze was blowing; dried leaves rustled as they blew about in the small park on the other side of the street. The clouds scudded across the sky and between them the moist and almost complete disc of the moon appeared and disappeared again.

  Her legs were so weak that she was obliged to hold on to the wall for support. An elderly woman with a dog was approaching her from the opposite direction. As they passed, the woman said to the dog: ‘The shameless creatures you see nowadays. Almost too drunk to walk.’

  She freed herself from the wall and crossed the street. The ground beneath her feet shook so much she could scarcely keep her balance. There was a bench just at the edge of the park, so she could sit down for a moment. She rested her head on the back of the seat and stared straight upwards. Immediately above her head a mighty, five-fingered branch stretched out, with several large dry leaves rustling at the end of it. The moon lit up the branch with a greyish light. For a moment she had the impression that the branch had come to life and was reaching out for her with its gouty claws. Then she noticed that the edge of the cloud then approaching the moon had become iridescent and swelled into a kind of crater from whose depths a glow emerged.

  It was a golden, almost unreal light, which amazingly went on becoming brighter until its flames started to lap over the edge of the crater and out of the flames she could see a misty vapour rise up full of coloured reflections, peel away from the flames and descend towards her.

  Only as the mists came nearer did she realise that they were endowed with an inner capacity of shape, and at the same time she felt a sudden, almost dizzy blissfulness and she knew that something celestial and undefiled was approaching. Then it came to rest in the space between herself and the branch and gazed at her.

  ‘Are you an angel?’ she asked.

  ‘I am myself.’ And she understood the reply though it was not spoken.

  ‘Have you come from Him?’

  ‘I come from Him who sent me.’

  ‘He heard me, though I did that awful thing?’

  ‘Did you feel remorse?’

  ‘I wanted to die!’

  ‘Whoever feels sorry for another shall not die. He is merciful to all whose hearts have not been hardened by pride.’

  ‘I seem to know your face.’

  ‘My face is of another essence.’

  ‘You have the face of a friend who died. Tell me, was He merciful to her?’

  ‘He is merciful to all whose hearts are not hardened by pride.’

  ‘She couldn’t have been proud, she was only a child.’

  ‘So she dwells in me.’

  ‘And what about it? What will happen to it?’

  ‘The unborn cannot know pride. They become angels straight away.’

  ‘What would its face be like?’

  ‘I cannot tell, its face is still of another essence.’

  ‘Tell me, can it forgive me?’

  ‘It can forgive everyone. It is in a state of grace.’

  ‘And what am I to do now? I am alone.’

  ‘But you are no longer alone. You will never again be alone.’

  ‘Will you stay with me?’

  ‘No, I cannot remain on this earth. I am of another essence. But what I bring you will stay with you.’

  ‘What have you brought me?’

  ‘I have brought you faith. Whoever believes cannot remain alone. You will become a companion of the angels.’

  ‘Will you tell me more?’

  ‘Be good. Go and sin no more!’

  ‘Don’t leave me yet!’

  ‘Be meek.’

  ‘Stay with me. It feels good to have you near.’

  ‘Only the meek may rise to love. You always longed for love but asked for something in exchange. The meek ask for nothing in exchange.’

  ‘Are you going already? Tell me who you are?’

  ‘Look at me!’

  ‘I am!’

  ‘I am the light of your soul. The rain of your aridity. I am the one who conquers nothingness.’

  ‘You smell sweet.’

  ‘No, I have only freed your breath.’

  ‘You shine.’

  ‘No, it is you who sees at last.’

  And suddenly it shot upwards and lost its shape and brilliance. She felt a burning in her throat, but she breathed freely and she was so light she could not feel her body. She stood up and set off as in a stupor, up the dark, deserted street.

  Before we drink from the waters of Lethe

  1

  A few days after Martin was born, I received the verdict of a secret tribunal that had dealt with my rebellion. First of all it instructed my party organisation to issue me a reprimand and a warning, and then, on its instructions (it was still the same old beast, the same tormentor of prisoners), my superiors informed me that I would have to leave the institute. However, they had no objections to my returning to legal practice whether as a judge or in some other function. No mention was made of my article. No one contested my views on the death penalty, no one reproved me for anything.

  I felt slighted. Not one of my colleagues had taken my part. Oldřich alone consoled me and prophesied an imminent change in the status quo and my subsequent advancement.

  My presence at the institute was no longer required – or desired. I could sit at home or in the library, and could study, think or write. But what would be the point of any of it if I was to end up being shunted off somewhere and silenced?

  I was supposed to be looking for a job, but I was unable to make up my mind. Maybe subconsciously I was expecting salvation to arrive from elsewhere as so often in my life already, and I would be liberated from my bleak, hopeless fate.

  At that time I was also visited at home by a youngster who introduced himself as Petr Fiktus and told me that he and most of his colleagues at our faculty, where he was in his first year as a lecturer, sympathised with me and commended both my attitude and my action, as well as the fact I had not recanted any of my opinions.

  I was surprised to discover that they had even heard of my dispute.

  We had a short, stilted chat about the death penalty (someone, after all, was ready to talk to me about that issue) and about the penal system. Then he talked to me enthusiastically about his colleagues who were determined to restore the dignity of jurisprudence, and the status of our profession in society. He also quizzed me on my views about the principle of elective judges and the possibility, in our society, of achieving the independence of the judiciary from the other organs of power.

  I realised that he looked on me not so much as an academic as a moral authority. It gratified and even reassured me.

  It struck me that there was a further dimension to our actions, one which I – as one brought up in the strictly utilitarian world of my father – had not so far perceived.

  Then at last fate intervened, as I had earnestly hoped it would. The address on the envelope had been amended several times. The letter was from the President of Michigan University. He had apparently heard about my work from his friend Allan Nagel and learnt of my fate; he had also read some translations of some of my articles, particularly the study of capital punishment (after they had refused to print it I had actually sent that article, in a fit of defiance, to my learned colleague in Massachusetts) and he was both pleased and honoured, on behalf of the law school of his university, to offer me a visiting fellowship for the period of the next academic year. He was sure that my stay would be mutually beneficial and agreeable. The university would pay travelling expenses for myself and my family.<
br />
  It took me several days before I decided to reply. I wrote that the invitation had come as a pleasant surprise and if I managed to obtain permission to travel – which would not be easy in view of my present situation – I would be happy to come with my family.

  When I sent the letter that evening, I imagined myself standing somewhere on the shores of Lake Michigan. The mist was rising above that huge expanse of water and a light canoe manned by Indians was nearing the shore.

  2

  The town we were to live in was quiet and superficially resembled the world I had come from. Spread over a long range of hills either side of the River Huron (whose very name conjured up memories of my childhood reading), it even reminded me of my native city.

  And indeed my life there was not too different from the life I had led while still employed in the institute. Three times a week, I would go into the university and attend lectures on American law (on the pavement of the bridge which I had to cross, someone had painted a huge hammer and sickle and the slogan: ALL POWER TO THE WORKERS) and spend some time in conversation with my colleagues. Occasionally I would visit the library. Most of the time I studied and wrote. What was different from my home was the atmosphere in which I was suddenly able to live and work. I didn’t have to worry whether the topic I was studying was acceptable, whether the literature I was reading was admissible as a source, or whether the ideas that came to me could be voiced directly, or only hinted at, or were taboo.

  It was there that I realised for the first time that lack of freedom harms people not only by blocking their path to knowledge and curtailing what they can say and where they can go, but also by damaging the very core of their being and enslaving them by switching their attention to themselves alone. I realised how much energy I had been wasting trying to express in a complicated way and through allusions something which people there didn’t even bother to express as they took it for granted. And all the effort I had lavished on finding authoritative quotations to validate the simplest of ideas. I had been obliged to study banalities and regurgitate them, and had I failed to do so I would have aroused suspicion and been excommunicated before anyone even had a chance to hear me. And it had been precisely in that desperate striving to slink around obstacles and deliver in public at least one sentence of my own, even though the words gradually lost their meaning on the way (sometimes totally), that I had finally started to lose myself.