The Sonderberg Case

by Elie Wiesel

  On the fourth day, I describe my impressions of Sonderberg to Paul.

  “He’s someone who is engaged in a struggle, and I don’t know against whom or what.”

  “Against fear?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “If he’s guilty, he could get the death penalty or, at minimum, life imprisonment. That’s a good enough reason to be afraid, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. But there’s something else; I sense it. Put it down to the kind of intuition that theater teaches you to cultivate. At a certain point, he looked at a woman in the jury. I caught his gaze. And his fleeting smile. As though he thought that if the twelve members of the jury had been women, his sentence would have been to make love to each of them.”

  “A swaggering smile?”

  “I don’t know. I think he was trying to destabilize her. But, for a second, he succeeded in destabilizing me.”

  Paul, lost in his thoughts, says nothing.

  ——

  To my amazement, the readers seem to like what I write. I see the hearings as a series of acts in the course of which the characters come onstage one after the other. Each session begins with the curtain going up; each adjournment is like an intermission. When the clerk tells the public to rise, it is like stage business; all the participants play their part and I play mine.

  In this kind of production, any plot development is theoretically possible—and for journalists, desirable—up until the final scene. Let me remind you of the law: if just one jury member has doubts about the defendant’s absolute guilt, the defendant is immediately acquitted.

  Here again, my grandfather is right: in ancient Judea, it was more practical, though no less complicated. In the Sanhedrin, as I said earlier, if just one jury member ruled in favor of the defendant’s innocence, the guilty verdict of the majority prevailed. The defendant no doubt prayed that if one sage out of the twenty-three judges believed in his innocence, he would join the others and support a unanimous guilty verdict, so that his innocence could triumph.

  I look around the courtroom. As earlier, I continue to familiarize myself with the surroundings and the ambience. The judge, the prosecutor, the attorneys, the defendant, the clerk: each makes his presence known in his own way, depending on his personality. As for the jury members, their part seems to be that of a mute choir: ill at ease, as if wondering why they’re here instead of at work in their offices or spending the day with their family. What would my uncle Méir say if he were on the jury? Or my grandfather?

  True, the judge explained to the winners of this lottery that they were performing their duty as citizens, for every individual has the right to be judged by his peers; however, the judge can’t stop their minds from wandering.

  His peers? Does Werner see them as such? I remind myself that they include a distinguished-looking black woman who is a university professor; a Puerto Rican taxi driver; a woman who is a department store employee; a grandmother of Irish descent; a black man who works on Wall Street (banker, stockbroker, consultant?). They have no names, just numbers. They will sit in the same seats every day, in an order established by the court clerk. With time, they will each adopt a distinctive behavior and body language, and display individual character traits. But initially they form a tight-knit group. They move in unison, turning their heads to the right or to the left, to follow what is going on before the judge, or to scrutinize the defendant’s impassive face.

  The prosecutor, Sam Frank, is a former marine officer. Tall, slender, a steely look in his eyes, jerky in his gestures, he approaches the trial as if it were a military operation. Werner is the enemy. He is to be unmasked, crushed, and rendered harmless forever in a dark, stifling cell.

  Nothing remains here of the old British traditions whereby the different sides wear wigs and caps and question one another with feigned, excessive courtesy, exchanging titles and compliments as they aim their poisoned arrows all the more skillfully. In our courtrooms, no one feels intimidated in expressing himself.

  Alternately addressing the judge and the jury, Frank presents the prosecution’s case forcefully and with conviction. For him, there are no possible grounds for doubt: Werner Sonderberg is guilty of the murder of his uncle Hans Dunkelman.

  “This will be demonstrated to you in the course of this trial, which, we hope, will not be too drawn out. To me, it seems the situation could not be clearer. The young Werner Sonderberg and his elderly uncle Hans Dunkelman leave Manhattan and check into a quiet hotel in the Adirondacks. For one week. Presumably to talk to each other and rest. Did they quarrel? Yes. A chambermaid will confirm the fact. She heard their shouts. The night porter as well. The following day they were seen leaving the hotel together. For a walk. To breathe the cool mountain air. What happened up there in the mountains? What did they say to each other? At which point did their words become unduly violent? Which one struck the other first? Who pushed whom? There’s only one possible answer to that last question, since it was the uncle’s body that was found by the police. What more do you need? Isn’t that enough for you? Very well. His nephew, the defendant, went back to the hotel. Alone. And a short time later, he was alone, at home, in his Manhattan apartment.”

  He breaks off. A dramatic pause. Turning to the jury, he gives them a meaningful look. “The prosecution feels there is nothing to add. Besides, you heard him: he admitted he was guilty. So you know who Hans Dunkelman’s murderer is. He is here before you. He should be judged in your soul and conscience. Give him the punishment he deserves.”

  As though obeying him, the jury members look at Werner. So do I. He is sitting upright, head held high; he doesn’t react. What are his feelings? What does he see right now? His uncle? He wears a mask of indifference on his face, as though he didn’t care about anything. As though his future had fallen apart, his hope had vanished in a final act of violence, along with the life of an old man who had been part of his family.

  For a second, I think I see a flutter in Werner’s eyes; he seems to be looking for someone in the public. It lasted only a second, and I really have no way of knowing if it was an involuntary movement or a signal directed at a specific person. But thanks to that twinkling of the eye, I located one young woman who is intently watching him with an expression that is hard to define. Later on, I will find out that her name is Anna. I don’t know why, but I’m immediately interested in her. So different from Alika. She is attractive, but not in the same way; you look at Alika and you feel like hearing her talk. Not this woman; you gaze at her as if she were a work of art, and it’s sufficient. Elegant, haughty in spite of her youth. A sober charcoal gray suit. A blue scarf. A beautiful oval face, tinted glasses, long dark hair that cascades down her back.

  “The counsel for the defense may now speak,” says the judge.

  Michael Redford stands up. Everything about him seems exaggerated. A heavy head on sturdy shoulders. Long arms, large hands. Puffy lips, bushy eyebrows. After greeting the court, he turns to the jury and scrutinizes them silently for a moment, as if to warm them up or prepare them for what they are about to hear.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, at the start of this trial I have very little to say to you, except this: Werner Sonderberg has pleaded not guilty for the simple reason that he’s innocent. He didn’t kill his uncle; he didn’t kill anyone. He is incapable of killing. We intend to prove this to you. To begin with, our purpose is to demonstrate to you that the prosecution has no tangible proof on which to base their case. Its argument is built on hazy assumptions. Now let me ask you to stop looking at me. Instead, look at my client, Werner, who came to America to build a future for himself. He is not known to have enemies, whether at the university or elsewhere. A superior student, absorbed in his work, his life plan did not include murder, no matter what the prosecution says: it sees him as guilty and would like to make him pay the price. He went to the mountains to spend a few days with a man who introduced himself to him as his uncle. One morning, they went for a walk. Werner Sonderberg came back to the hotel
alone. That very night he returned to his studio apartment. Did his uncle, who stayed behind, fall to his death? Did he commit suicide? We have no idea, nor do the police. In fact, they should have conducted more of an in-depth inquiry before making an arrest. In a democracy like ours, we don’t arrest an innocent man just because we have no other suspects. Werner Sonderberg has no business being here. That’s our deep conviction.”

  Slowly, imperceptibly, he moves closer to the young defendant, no doubt in order to establish a kind of complicity between them, as though they were one. Bravo, maestro. He knows his job and, as far as I can tell, is performing it to perfection. The twelve members of the jury keep their eyes riveted on him as he returns to his seat. Some of them seem intrigued, others interested. Two among them, however, have to struggle not to show their boredom.

  What if I were one of them? What if the fate and honor of this young German were in my hands? A dangerous, dishonest thought: it would lead me where I won’t allow myself to tread. Like that other bizarre thought that crosses my mind: could I possibly be the one in the dock? Could I be, as he is, the murderer of an old German, a witness to those horrible times? A participant even? I quickly dismiss the thought. I’m not Werner Sonderberg. Or his double.

  I’m me.

  I keep thinking about my grandfather and his memories: What would he have advised me? What opinion would he have had of that young German? He’s far away but I wish he were present. I learned so much from him. I didn’t realize it at the time, but now I do, so much so that it makes me suffer.

  I think of my father, too. I’d like to know what he thinks of Werner Sonderberg.

  One day, when I was still very young, I was feeling a sadness verging on depression, and talking to no one because a friend had betrayed my trust. My father invited me into his study. As usual, he was bent over a dusty book. I stood behind him so I could read what he was pointing to.

  “It’s a text by the great Rabbi Kalonymus ben Aderet. He lived in Barcelona and later in Fez. He was the contemporary and friend of One-Eyed Paritus and translated some of his poems into Sanskrit. Here he makes us reflect on man’s secret powers: man did not light the sun, but it is he who measures everything by its light; he did not invent the darkness of night, but it is he who fills it with his nostalgic songs; he did not vanquish death, but it is he who stands up to it with each breath and each prayer. A speck of dust, he knows how to rise above the stars in order to get near to his Creator’s creation.”

  My father went on, without changing his tone of voice. “Remember, my son. It’s not me talking to you right now; it’s this great poet and visionary, close to Don Itzhak Abrabanel, who had to leave Catholic Spain in 1492 because he wanted to remain true to our alliance with God. It is he who is telling you not to despair.”

  My father read a few passages in silence before speaking again with the same gentle and solemn tone, and the same slow and melancholic rhythm.

  “And Rabbi Kalonymus ben Aderet also has this to say to you: ‘Today, on the eve of the Sabbath, I am strolling under the blue and tender sky of Italy. We have found a land of welcome here. We live among ourselves in the ghetto and study the Law of Moses so that it will guide us to Jerusalem step-by-step. True, we are not free, but we dream of true freedom; we are not happy, but our souls sing of the joy of being able to remember the sunlit times of David and Solomon, and Isaiah’s and Jeremiah’s heartrending appeals to justice and generosity. In spite of everything we have been through, we are still capable of gratitude here; our most beautiful texts are those expressing our gratitude.’ Follow me on my path: look at that Jewish man and that boy; it is a father taking his son to school; look at that woman and her smile; her mind is on all those of whom she is the descendant; look at that old man: he is smiling, in the distance, at the adolescent he used to be, the adolescent who accompanies him to a future whose promise is a ray of sunshine. How can we see all this and not cry out: Thank you, Lord, for having created a world where human happiness is close to divine grace.”

  I love my father. I want him to know that. For all time.

  Alika and I went to Long Island for a few days, to the home of her friends Alex and Emilie Bernstein, who are both movie actors. We needed it. Our relationship has become increasingly tense and strained. If it seems like we still understand each other, it’s because we hardly speak to each other. As soon as I utter a sentence I know it will be misunderstood. I need only give an opinion for it to trigger in my wife a reaction that’s not only offended but offensive. This isn’t her fault or mine. It’s life. Passionate love is for adolescents. We’ve outgrown that phase.

  The first day begins without incident: the gods are protecting us. We take our meals together, and Emilie, curious by nature, asks what we have on our minds these days.

  “The politics of the American administration,” Alex proclaims. “It’s appalling. The whole world is against us. You need only go to Europe to become aware of it.”

  “Whereas for me, it’s the theater, of course,” Emilie says.

  “Whereas I’m troubled by both these things,” Alika replies.

  “Whereas for me,” I say, “I deplore the fact that the two are linked. The politics of theater is as sickening as the theater of politics.”

  “There, that’s who I have to live with,” Alika replies, “a punster.”

  They all laugh. And we change the subject. I withdraw into my shell.

  At dinner, we are joined by an Anglo-French couple. We talk about journalism. Is it useful to a democratic society? Honest or corrupt like everything else? A reliable source of information, a necessary tool for forming an opinion? Emilie and I stand up for the media, primarily because they represent an indispensable element in protecting individual and collective liberties. Alika is our most violent opponent. I’ve rarely seen her as fierce in her opinions. For her, even the best daily papers disgrace their readers. And she goes on to quote and appropriate the remark of a big British press baron concerning a well-known magazine: “It isn’t what it used to be … and actually it never was.” And this applies to all publications, she tries to convince us, with no exceptions. Alex agrees with her. So do their guests. Emilie and I valiantly stand up to them. Alika flares up.

  “How can the two of you stick up for all those miserable newspapers and weeklies? I’m prepared to think you don’t read them! Even the cultural pages are overpoliticized. As for the literary supplements, what do they tell us except ‘long live the buddy-buddy network’? What kind of moral rectitude is that? And what about the right to truth?”

  I admit I’m surprised. I didn’t expect this flow of haughty words from her mouth. Clearly we’re not in the same camp anymore.

  Calm and resolute, Emilie pursues her counterattack and cites the facts: Can we really suspect such and such a writer, at such and such a newspaper, of dishonesty? And can we honestly question the integrity of such and such a professor, who writes in such and such a journal?

  Without the slightest compunction, Alika answers with a shrug of the shoulders. “Yes we can. And we should.”

  “In other words,” Emilie says, “they’re all guilty until proven innocent, is that it?”

  “No,” Alika concedes. “I wouldn’t go that far. But I maintain that, as a reader, I have the right to wonder about their conception of ethics.”

  After the meal, we retire to our bedroom. It is late. I feel like sleeping. But I know I won’t get to sleep. Alika is angry. If I understand correctly, she feels I shouldn’t have challenged her views.

  “You allied yourself with Emilie. You make a lovely couple.”

  “Don’t be silly. Are you jealous?”

  “No … Yes … I resent you for ruining our stay here.”

  “Because I’m of the same opinion as Emilie about one specific point?”

  “No, because you’re closer to her than to me.”

  “To her? Of course not. Only to some of her ideas.”

  “In the past we used to agree on every subject.
”

  “There were some we had never talked about. Proof is …”

  “In the past, you loved me.”

  “And now?”

  “Now you love me less. And differently.”

  “Don’t tell me you think I’m in love with Emilie!”

  “No. I just think you could be. And that you don’t love me the way you used to.”

  A pregnant silence. A restless night. We each stay on our own side of the bed.

  ON THE SUBJECT OF JEALOUSY …

  Enter the beautiful and fearsome Kathy, one of the secretaries from the cultural pages: a svelte, lithe brunette in her early thirties, with wavy hair and gleeful eyes, she is outspoken and a malicious gossip. She is a workaholic who loves to complain of being treated as a slave (by herself?). According to rumor—a rumor she believes, perhaps rightly—half the men on the editorial staff are madly in love with her. And she loves to joke around about it.

  “Oh,” she often sighs, “all these broken hearts …”

  I’ve been one of her favorite targets for a long time. She never ceases to provoke me, perhaps because I’m not in her circle of suitors. She calls me the “ascetic,” and I have neither the courage nor the desire to set her straight.