In the audience a few people talked to each other or read newspapers until the magistrate entered and court was called to order. “You are here for an arraignment,” Max was told, but he didn’t pay much attention. “An arrangement,” he mumbled. While the magistrate told him what the charges were against him and informed him of his right to counsel, Max’s eyes wandered to the front row where an old man nodded in sleep.
The magistrate and an assistant district attorney conferred and then everyone looked at Max. “I already confessed,” he said. The magistrate shrugged his shoulders and the officer led him back to the little room where the detective met him and took him back to his cell.
The next day, after lunch, a guard, a friendly, gray-haired man, came to tell Max he had a visitor. On the way to the visiting room where Clara waited, the guard talked about what he would do when he retired until Max broke away and hurried to where she sat. “Fifteen minutes,” the guard said.
“What are they doing to you, Max?” Clara cried, pressing her face against the partition that separated them.
“They’re not doing anything to me,” he said, taking a seat on his side of the table.
“I heard on the radio this morning this crazy thing. When I heard your name I fainted. I had to send Arnold out to get a paper. I thought it must be another Max Friedman, but it was your picture. I came right down, but visiting hours are only in the afternoon and I had to tell them we were engaged before they would let me see you. Even then they made an exception. Was it all right to tell them that?”
Max searched for an answer. “I’m glad you came,” he said.
“I’ll find a lawyer. Don’t worry. We won’t let them get away with this.”
Max wanted to cry. She never even asked him if he did it. A real friend. He leaned his head on his fists and spoke softly to her. “Didn’t it say in the paper I confessed?”
She looked up. “You confessed?”
“It must have said in the paper.”
“It said, but who believes?”
“You have to believe,” he said, shouting and wondering why he was shouting so much lately.
Tears started down her cheeks. While she cried, Max silently cursed Holtz and the boy both and the girl for being a whore and Golden Gate Park and San Francisco.
“We were going to be married,” Clara said, shaking with tears.
Max cursed himself most of all.
“How could you do such a thing?” she said, angry for the first time. But then she shook her head and said, “No, I don’t believe it.”
“You must believe it,” he said. “Now, go away before you get mixed up in something you don’t understand.” In another minute he would not be able to hold back his own tears. He looked to the guard for help and the guard understood. “Time’s up,” he said, taking Max away. Just before they went back through the door to the cells, Max turned and saw Clara resting her head on the table. She looked as if she were asleep. He did not envy her.
The next morning the guard announced another visitor.
“Clara?” Max asked. “The woman?”
“No,” the guard said. “A lawyer.”
On the way to the Attorney Room, the guard told Max about his son who was a lawyer. “He lives in Seattle now,” the guard said, “or I would have asked him to take your case.”
“But I don’t need a lawyer,” Max told him. The guard showed him into the Attorney Room where a young man waited, sitting on the edge of the table and clutching a briefcase.
“Do what he says,” the guard whispered, shutting the door.
“I’m Frank Martin, your lawyer,” the young man said, getting up and pulling a chair out for Max. “You of course are Max Friedman?” Max nodded.
The lawyer took a seat across the table from Max, then suddenly got up and reached across the table to shake hands.
“Excuse me,” Max said, “but I didn’t ask for a lawyer. Who sent you?”
The lawyer fished a paper out of his briefcase and examined it. “Mrs. Clara Axelrod,” he said, putting the paper away again when Max nodded.
They waited for each other to begin. Finally, Martin, his voice a deliberate baritone, said formally, “Anything you tell me is of course privileged. That is, I will not reveal anything you say to me without your permission so you may feel perfectly free to talk.” He took off his glasses and chewed on the end. A lock of brown hair hung down over his forehead, creeping as if alive towards his eye until with a sudden jerk of his head he flipped it back where it immediately began creeping down again.
Max considered telling him that he did not need a lawyer, but Clara would be hurt so he said, “What do you want me to tell you?”
Martin put his glasses back on. “Was your confession voluntary? If you were coerced in any way we can fight it.” He leaned eagerly over the table.
“No, it was voluntary,” Max said, and realized that his decision was irrevocable now. The cold feeling seized him again, nailing him stiff to his chair.
“No one threatened you or told you what to say?” The cold seemed to melt, leaving Max more peaceful than he had ever been before. He held his hand in the air and marveled at how still it was.
“No one threatened you?” the lawyer prompted.
“No,” he answered, a feeling like joy mysteriously rising in him.
Martin looked disappointed.
“I’m—.” He was going to say he was sorry, but he was not sorry, somehow he was anything but sorry.
For several minutes a heavy silence hung between them. Max wondered if that was all, if he should go back to his cell. Finally, Martin opened his briefcase and took out a folder. “I’ve spoken to the police about your case,” he said, “and I’ve seen the confession. In addition to the confession they now have a witness. He looked in the folder, “I believe it’s your landlady who remembers that you were in the park on the night of the murder. Of course by itself that isn’t much, but if you don’t repudiate the confession, even her testimony is more than they need.”
Good old Mrs. Thompson, Max thought. He remembered watching television with the Thompsons the night after the murder and that Mrs. Thompson asked about his being in the park. But thinking of that he also remembered Mr. Thompson slicing the air with his imaginary knife and winking obscenely. “What happens next?” he asked the lawyer.
“Next step is the preliminary hearing and then, if you insist on pleading guilty, a hearing to determine punishment. The sentence will depend on whether they find you guilty of voluntary or involuntary manslaughter. I will represent you at the hearings of course and considering your age, the fact that you have a clean record, and the circumstances of the case, I think you have a good shot at involuntary. Given the publicity, however, the D.A. could go for murder two.”
Martin brushed the hair back from his forehead and smiled. Max did not know what to say so he said “Thank you.”
In court on Friday the lawyer told Max the D.A. wanted voluntary manslaughter. Max nodded. He looked at the people sitting behind him. Clara was there, but he did not get a chance to talk to her. The Magistrate read the charges and asked him how he pleaded. The deputy district attorney swallowed a yawn and Max considered not answering right away in order to bring some suspense into the man’s life, but he decided the poor man probably got all the suspense he needed at trials; a little more and he looked like ulcers would swallow his stomach. So he started to say that he was guilty when his eyes locked with the gray tweed eyes of his own lawyer and again Max hesitated, considering this time whether to plead not guilty after all and give Martin the trial he wanted. Just that morning Martin had advised him to recant his confession and he was thinking that a trial might be interesting at that, but then he remembered that Holtz was still in jail. Martin told him that just before the arraignment proceedings began.
“Guilty or not guilty?” the judge asked.
“Guilty, your honor.” Martin told him that too. Always say “your honor” when addressing the judge. What did it hur
t? Now they would take him back to his cell and a week later they would bring him to court again to hear sentence pronounced. When he confessed he did not expect all this parading back and forth from cell to court. So what’s your hurry? he asked himself, reflecting that in Germany it would not have taken so long.
The Judge was speaking to the clerk and Max thought, Perhaps now at least they will let Holtz out so he can tell everyone how rotten the Jews are. And what will that Nazi think when he learns I have confessed and saved him? But Holtz is innocent he will think I really am guilty! What do you think of those old Jews, raping innocent young Aryans? You should have let us kill him when we had him in the concentration camp. Now see what he has done!
“Come on,” the guard said. His lawyer had been speaking to him. Or was it the judge? Thank God she wasn’t German.
The next day Clara came to see him. “You shouldn’t have come,” he said, taking his seat.
“You pleaded guilty.” She was not accusing him of the crime, only of his plea.
“I had to. I told you.”
“I talked with the lawyer. He says as long as you don’t retract the confession there’s nothing we can do.”
Max leaned across the table. “You shouldn’t have gotten a lawyer for me, Clara. I’ll pay him and tell him to forget the case.”
“He’s trying to help you, Max.”
“The lawyer is like a little boy who finds that someone has already made a house for him out of his blocks. He doesn’t care whether it’s a good house or not, he only wants to build it himself. But these are my blocks, Clara, and it has to be my house.”
“I’m trying to help too,” she said, as if she had not heard anything he said.
“I know. I’m sorry. I mean, I can’t help it.”
They both sat quietly, their hands folded on the table. Max smelled pickled herring on her breath and he wanted to lean forward and kiss her. Instead, he ransacked his mind for something to say. “How is Arnold?” he said at last. She told him about Arnold, how well he was doing in school and how he didn’t believe Max could have done it. “Don’t laugh at me, Max. The other day I sent him out to the park to see if he couldn’t find something that would prove you were innocent. All he found was a candy wrapper. I thought maybe the murderer left it, but Arnold says he doesn’t think so.”
“Someone probably left it there yesterday. The police already searched the place. Besides, I have already confessed. Let Arnold stay home and do his homework.”
“Max!”
“You must get used to the idea, Clara. I’m guilty. I did it.”
There was another long pause. Clara took a little handkerchief out of her purse and wiped her eyes. “I left something with the sergeant for you,” she said, her voice lower than it had been. “Just some store-bought because I didn’t know if they allowed. Next time I’ll bake a cake.”
“I wish you wouldn’t go to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble.” Then, leaning closer and lowering her voice still more she whispered, “Should I put a file in the cake?”
“A file in the cake?”
“To saw through the bars.” She made a sawing motion with her hand. “It’s a joke.” She laughed a little.
“Yes,” Max said. “I see.” He laughed with her.
The guard tapped Clara’s shoulder. “Time’s up.”
They said goodbye and Max saw Clara wiping her eyes with the little handkerchief as she went out the door. Then he let himself be taken back to his cell, but he wished that whatever was going to happen would happen quickly.
21
Increasingly, Max found his mind turning back to the barbed wire days of the concentration camp. One morning as he lay on his cot after breakfast, he remembered a peculiar incident: the Kommandant himself had come to the barracks with two of the guards and they dragged from his bunk a man who had been in the camp only a few days. Without a word, the two guards holding the man in a kneeling position on the floor, the Kommandant shot him through the head and the guards carried the limp body away. Afterwards, a rumor spread through the camp that the man was not a Jew at all but a Catholic priest pretending to be a Jew.
All day long Max thought about the priest and in the night he dreamed about him, waking up just as he was going to get a good look at his face. Fog drifted past the cell window. His head was splitting and perspiration dripped from his face. A guard came. Max wanted to ask for aspirin but the guard was new, a stone mountain of a man with a face painted lightly on the peak, and Max flinched and was afraid to ask for anything.
“Your lawyer’s here to see you,” the mountain said.
Max sent word that he had a headache and did not want to see anyone. While he was eating breakfast, the new guard returned and told Max to get ready for a trip to court.
“Are they going to sentence me?” Max asked.
“My job is to see you get to the courtroom,” the guard said, “not to give no legal advice.”
When Max stepped out of the cell, the guard slapped one end of a pair of handcuffs on him, the other end already attached to his own wrist, and simply started walking. Max stumbled, was pulled a few steps, and then trotted alongside. He was given a chance to wash and shave and then he was manacled again and led to a little cell next to the courtroom. Not until someone knocked on the door did the guard unlock the handcuffs.
Max took a step into the courtroom and was paralyzed by what he saw. This looked exactly like the courtroom in which Holtz had been tried. He was led to the defense table. Martin looked up briefly and then returned to his papers. “I’m sorry,” Max said to him. The lawyer shrugged. “I had a headache,” Max explained. Photographers started snapping his picture and each burst of light blinded him momentarily. He turned away from the cameras and saw a flickering light in the ceiling above the judge’s chair.
Max looked at the witness box, half expecting to see Holtz’s arrogant face and then, turning again to face the audience, he blinked and immediately spotted Clara in a new dress with a little green hat and a veil. Next to her, Arnold stared back at him. The seats were almost all taken, but just coming in the door was his cousin Morris and as he looked around he saw Shmuel sitting with Dr. Resnick and in front of them were Mr. and Mrs. Thompson. The chatter of the audience seemed to grow louder, like a hundred typewriters all taking down his confession, and for one mad moment he thought he saw Sarah sitting in the back of the room. Everything in him tightened up and he wanted to run to her, but then he saw it was a stranger. “Sit down,” his lawyer said, but Max remained standing. He was distracted by Clara who was waving at him and nudging Arnold who finally looked up and nodded. Max felt faint. Clara’s mouth was moving but he couldn’t hear what she said and then he saw that Shmuel was trying to say something too, but just then the judge came in and the clerk asked everyone to rise.
“What’s going on?” Max whispered to his lawyer. “I thought they were just going to pass sentence. Why are all these people here?”
“The judge will pass sentence today,” Martin whispered as they took their seats, “but first there is a hearing to determine punishment. I told you.”
“I don’t remember.”
“In this case it will be largely a formality.”
Max was aware of his headache again. The pain beat a broken rhythm over his right eye and he could not look back at all those people. He tried to listen to the clerk announce the hearing, but the voice seemed to come from some other world and when the assistant district attorney came over to consult with Martin, Max seemed to see them through a telescope.
The prosecutor handed Martin a paper. Martin looked it over and then showed it to Max. On the night of June third …, he read. He recognized his confession and curious to know what he had said he adjusted his glasses and bent closer just as Martin handed the paper back to the prosecutor who in turn took it to the judge.
Max was bored. The prosecutor was describing the crime to the judge, but Max couldn’t get over the feeling that he was liste
ning to the hearing on the radio, or over a loudspeaker suspended from a lamppost.
The shrill voice swept the streets clean in the Jewish district: “Behind this murder stands the hate filled power of our Jewish foe, a foe to whom we had done no harm, but who none the less sought to subjugate our German people and make of it its slave.” Max ran from store front to store front, pursued by the voice. From a few blocks away came the cheers that punctuated Hitler’s remarks and as soon as the speech was over and Max was running for his house a band struck up and Max could hear it coming towards his street. Shivering with fright, Max climbed the stairs and silently entered his house. His parents, peeking out the window, did not hear him come in and when he called out his mother jumped.
“Why do they hate us?” Max asked. “Why do they hate the Jews?”
His father, holding his mother’s hand and leading her to a chair, said: “Ask your grandfather.”
Max looked for his grandfather, but Mordecai had gone to the store for the last time.
Martin stood up and asked Dr. Norman Resnick to come to the stand.
“Dr. Resnick?” Max asked. “What for?”
The doctor was sworn in and then Martin, leaning with both hands on the rail of the witness box, demanded the doctor’s name and profession. Resnick shifted his chair back an inch or two and identified himself as the psychiatristinchief at the agency where Max worked.
“And does Max Friedman-” Martin thrust his hand out behind him, in the general direction of the assistant district attorney “-work at that agency too?”
“Yes,” Dr. Resnick replied softly. “That’s what I just said.”
Martin, clearly at a loss for words, stared hard at the doctor until the judge, who had been polishing his glasses, looked down, coughed, and said, “Pardon me, Mr. Martin, but this is a hearing, not a trial, and the doctor is your own witness.”
“Yes,” Martin said, backing away from the witness box. “Yes, of course.”
The Kiss of the Prison Dancer Page 16
