by Elie Wiesel
One evening, I return from the trial and think I’m alone in my office. I set to work on my article when I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Kathy. She’s come from upstairs where the editors are preparing the layout for the literary supplement.
“Tell me you’re in love with me.”
“I hate lies.”
“Well, then, tell me you love me a little.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I could use it.”
I could reply that I could use someone saying that to me, too, but I prefer to cut the conversation short.
“I have to finish this piece. Afterward I’ll tell you whatever you want to hear.”
“I have time. I’ll wait for you.”
I know that Alika will be coming home late tonight: she’s attending the rehearsal of a play directed by a girlfriend.
“I’m working on my third draft. I’m afraid I’ll still be at it for a good hour.”
“Show it to me.”
Still standing, she grabs my pages, frowns as she reads them, picks up a pen, makes a few corrections, and hands them back.
“Here’s your article. Now it’s good.”
She’s right, of course.
“As a reward, let’s get a cup of coffee.”
“Okay. Where should we go?”
“Well, what about my place?”
I look at her, stunned.
“You know full well that I’m not free, that I’m married.”
“There’s nothing I don’t know about you. But don’t be afraid: I don’t intend to take your virginity.”
“Too bad,” I say.
We burst out laughing. I’m embarrassed; she’s impertinent. Then we leave the editorial offices. Her apartment isn’t very far away. We walk there.
It’s a spring evening, calm and bright. The sidewalks are congested with students in shirtsleeves. The restaurants and a number of shops are still open. What would Alika say if she suddenly encountered us? It’s best not to think about it. Besides, we’ve arrived.
“I live on the sixth floor. Should we wait for the elevator? It’s pretty slow.”
“Let’s walk up.”
Kathy is more energetic than I am. I struggle as I follow her up. Hers is a modest apartment, tastefully furnished. Living room, kitchen, and bedroom. I flop down on the couch, out of breath. I ask her if she knows the story about Sarah Bernhardt; she lived on the ground floor when she was young and on the fifth floor when she was old. “I’ve always wanted a man’s heart to race when he comes to see me,” she used to say.
“I’m not old yet,” says Kathy. “And if your heart is thumping, let me hear it.”
“You’re not a physician, as far as I know.”
“But I might be a healer.”
She brings us coffee and sits down next to me.
“What are you thinking about? Your article?”
“No. I’m thinking about Werner.”
“The murderer?”
“The young man accused of murder.”
“Why are you thinking about him right now and not about me?”
“I’m wondering whether you would make love to him if you saw him smile.”
“A weird question. People often say there’s an erotic component in every act of murder. If you want, if I have the opportunity, I’m prepared to experiment, as we used to say in college. And I’ll get back to you with the results.”
“In this particular instance, theory will do. I’m not interested in the practical applications.”
Kathy puts her cup down on the table and, while scrutinizing me at length with an amused look, sharply cross-examines me in a mocking tone.
“We’ve known each other for quite some time, my friend. You’ve never courted me; you avoid me. Actually, you’re not my type; don’t worry: I’m not trying to seduce you, but I find you interesting. I look at you. I observe you. You intrigue me. You live in your own world; strangers are not welcome. Agitated, nervous, tormented: you’re never satisfied, never happy. Why do you remain so closed, stubborn, insensitive to warmth and the beauty of the world? Why do you turn down simple pleasures? Why do you reject what is offered to you? Why do you cling to your solitude? It’s as if you see danger, or an enemy, in every woman. And betrayal in every moment of joy. Why? I’d like to understand.”
What could I answer?
I didn’t expect this verbal avalanche with solemn overtones coming from Kathy. Usually she expresses herself more flippantly and insouciantly. Does she ever speak this bluntly with other colleagues on the paper? Is she doing me a favor? To tell the truth, even if I don’t want to admit it to myself, I was prepared for something completely different, the beginning of a flirtation perhaps, even if it meant warding her off as far as possible. Yes, I was ready for that. Am I disappointed? By her analysis of my personality, or by her saying that I wasn’t her type? After all, Kathy is attractive. And sensual. Should I have made the first move?
“Why do you behave as though you care about me?”
“Because you’re remote,” she replies, “and remoteness attracts me. Because you’re a stranger—at any rate for me. A strange stranger.”
Suddenly I think of Alika, who would soon be coming home. I look at Kathy, a gaze fraught with remorse.
“All your questions, I can’t answer them. Besides, this isn’t a good time.”
“You mean you’ll answer some other time?”
“Maybe.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. I have to get home. But before I go, do you know the touching story of the two drops of water …”
I cut myself off.
“Two drops of water?” She urges me on.
“That talk to each other. One says: How about going off to seek adventure and discover the immensity of the sea? ‘Let’s go,’ says the other. An eternity later, they meet on my table. You understand? For them, a glass of water is the ocean.”
I head toward the door. She walks over and opens it. And there, on the threshold, driven by the desire for forbidden fruit, I kiss her. Will she try to detain me? If she makes the slightest attempt, will I join her? And make Alika wait? And punish her?
Kathy lets me leave. True, I’m not her type. End of episode? Unless fate decides to add another chapter. But is she my type? And what about Alika? Let’s not think about it anymore. As the proverb my grandfather liked to cite goes: What reason fails to accomplish, time will accomplish.
Actually, when it comes to women, I don’t have an easy time. Like children choosing a future profession, for a long time I suffered from chronic indecision. I used to flit from one woman to another, without their realizing it. One day the woman of my dreams was blond; the next, she was dark-haired. Sometimes somber, sometimes sensual. Arrogant in the morning, seductive in the evening.
I have to confess, or at least wonder: if Alika and I have stayed together for so long, perhaps it’s because, as she’s in theater, she manages to incarnate all women, even women who don’t resemble her in the least.
And now, has the time come to change the part, the play, or the tableau? To bring down the curtain? Deep down, I know the answer: we’re only at intermission. I’m very attached to Alika. I’d like to get old by her side. She doesn’t like my articles on the trial, but she’ll come to accept them.
To tell the truth, for the first time in years, I feel good in my new position. Thanks to the trial, for the last few days my name has been on the front page. People talk about me. They’re interested in my opinion. Colleagues, both unfamiliar and familiar, acknowledge me as one of them. Suddenly I’ve become—for how long?—a “member of the brotherhood,” a key player. Has the newspaper taken the place of my wife in my life?
Back in the courtroom. Jury and lawyers, prosecutor and witnesses: the entire dramatis personae are present. Elisabeth Whitecomb, the receptionist in the Mountain Hotel, a chubby but pretty woman, clearly glad to be the center of attention for so many onlookers, describes her brief contacts with the def
endant in a prudent and solemn tone of voice. He was wearing a dark gray suit. He seemed more like a young teacher than a student. He looked intelligent, calm. Not very talkative, but courteous.
The prosecutor: “He was alone when you saw him?”
Elisabeth Whitecomb bites her lips in order to better concentrate. “Not at the beginning of his stay. He was with an older man. Someone who looked like a senior official or an industrialist. Wealthy, you could see that from his suit. It was Hans Dunkelman. His uncle. Polite, mannered.”
“How did you know he was the defendant’s uncle?”
“The defendant told me.”
“How did it come up?”
“He requested two rooms. One for himself, one for his uncle.”
“What did you think of him?”
“He made a good impression on me. Friendly. Cultured. Good manners.”
“And the uncle?”
“Impatient. Withdrawn. He let his nephew do the talking. He kept his mouth shut.”
“You showed them their rooms?”
“Only the uncle’s. The nephew wanted to be sure he liked it. For his own, he just took the keys.”
“When did they arrive?”
“I told the inspectors: May twenty-eighth.”
“In the morning or in the afternoon?”
“In the early afternoon. They were hungry. I told them to hurry because the restaurant would be closing.”
“Did they go there?”
“Not right away. They went to freshen up first.”
“Did they come downstairs together?”
“No. The nephew … excuse me, the defendant came downstairs in about five minutes, his uncle a bit later.”
“Did you chat with the defendant?”
“Yes.”
“What about?”
“About the weather, of course. That’s the subject that all our guests are interested in. Without exception.”
“Did you ask him where he was from?”
“I already knew. From New York. Manhattan.”
“How did you know?”
“I read his form, of course!”
“And his uncle’s, too?”
“Yes.”
“What did it say?”
“That he lived in Germany.”
Methodically, the prosecutor guides his witness to the conclusions he wants to reach.
“For how long had they intended to stay at the hotel?”
“The room was booked for a week. That’s our rule. You can’t book for shorter stays.”
“And how long did they stay? The entire week?”
“No. Only three days.”
“And then?”
“Then what?”
“When did you see them for the last time?”
“Together? On the thirty-first. In the morning. They went for a walk in the mountains. I told them to be careful. There are dangerous spots. You can slip and fall into the ravine.”
“How did they respond?”
“The nephew … excuse me, the defendant thanked me.”
“And then?”
“They probably didn’t take my advice. Next thing you know, the uncle is dead.”
“Could you please repeat what you just said?”
“All of it?”
“Just the last sentence, concerning the defendant.”
“Well, the uncle is dead.”
“Murdered.”
“Yes, murdered.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s what you just said.”
“Did you see the defendant again?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“On the same day. A few hours later. He came to get his luggage.”
“You must have been surprised.”
“At the time I thought his uncle had probably decided to continue his walk on his own. They had taken sleeping bags and food with them. I had a feeling they planned to spend the night in the mountains. Students sometimes do that.”
“And the defendant didn’t talk to you?”
“He went straight up to his room. He looked calm.”
“Though his uncle was already dead.”
“I didn’t know that yet.”
“But he did,” the prosecutor shouted. “His behavior didn’t surprise you?”
Michael Redford, the lawyer for the defense, stands up and objects. “Your Honor, the prosecutor is out of bounds! He is soliciting the witness and dictating her remarks …”
The judge rules in his favor. The prosecutor has to take back his question.
“Very well. So, the defendant came back alone. Did he talk about his walk?”
“No. He just asked me for the bill. He added that he had to shorten his stay and return to Manhattan.”
“He didn’t explain why?”
“No. He paid with his credit card, got a taxi, and left.”
“Did you notice anything strange about his behavior?”
“He seemed in a hurry to leave.”
“Was he less courteous? Nervous? Anxious? Troubled?”
“Just as polite as before. But eager to leave.”
“That’s what you thought at the time. But now, knowing the charges brought against the defendant, does anything come to your mind? A detail? An unusual move on his part? A sign? A comment that could suddenly have another meaning?”
Aware of the importance of the question, the receptionist reflected for a long time before saying, “I thought he looked sad.”
“Sad? What do you mean, sad?”
“Sad and disoriented. Like a lost child far away from home.”
“It’s normal for a man who has just committed a despicable crime to feel sad—is that what you’re trying to imply?”
“No. What I mean is when I found out about all this, all the charges against him, I remembered that he looked like a child filled with great sadness. Crushed by an obscure sadness, you could say.”
“Well, I maintain that’s exactly what a well-educated young man, from a good family, feels when he’s discovered he’s a murderer.”
Satisfied with his conclusion, the prosecutor turns to the jury and says, “I have no more questions for this witness.”
He walks back to his seat and whispers a few words to his assistant, sitting to his left. She nods her head and smiles while the judge turns to the defense.
“And what about you, sir? Do you wish to cross-examine the prosecution’s witness?”
“Yes, I would, Your Honor. With the court’s permission I’d like to …”
“Not now,” the judge interrupts him. “After lunch.”
During this entire scene, Yedidyah kept watching the defendant, who never betrayed any emotion. Did the young German appreciate the way he had been portrayed by the receptionist from the Mountain Hotel? Was he annoyed by the prosecutor’s accusations, as though the magistrate were speaking not about him, Werner, but about someone who had usurped his identity and taken over his entire person? But how could such role substitution be imagined? It is conceivable only in an actor. How would I have done it? Yedidyah wondered. Napoleon, when incarnated onstage, uses the actor just as the actor uses the emperor. Could Descartes be wrong? The “I” who thinks is not necessarily the “I” who is. And then who is Werner Sonderberg? Where is he right now, now that his life hangs in the balance? To what distant place, or dark region, do his thoughts lead him?
After all, though this courtroom has become the center of the world for everyone assembled in it, Werner Sonderberg, the defendant, would have a perfect right to turn his back on us, as an expression of his disdain or despair, while outside, far away, life follows its unchanging course. Storms in Chicago. Fires in Arizona. Car accidents and holdups. Deadly conflicts in Asia, Africa, and the Middle East, as though they had been programmed since the world’s creation.
Guilty or innocent? Is Werner Sonderberg playing with words when he says he is “not guilty but not innocent”? What does he mean? That he’s innocent but also a b
it guilty? Can a person be both at the same time? How could reason accept such a thing? Could God not exist? Could it be that the angel of death no longer exists? Can he die? In the theater, who could incarnate him to make him visible? A clown maybe? Or an object? How could a director, no matter how brilliant, be able to present him in a way that would arouse in the public the terminal anguish and desperate appeal to a faith that refuses to be extinguished?
Yedidyah was saying to himself that he would have liked to interview the defendant. It suddenly seemed urgent and essential to meet him. Just as he used to make a point of questioning the character he was playing when he was studying dramatic art, he was convinced that, in order to do a good job describing the trial, he had to speak to the person who, more than anyone else, held the key to the truth. But the rules are rigid. No one can talk to the defendant while the trial is in progress, except his defense attorney.
A rush visit to the editorial offices. Kathy offered him her cheese sandwich.
“As an hors d’oeuvre,” she said with a malicious wink.
“Thank you. But I prefer it at the end of the meal.”
“One day, you’ll be entitled to both. But first, drop by to see Paul Adler. He’s waiting for you.”
The editor in chief, in shirtsleeves, was on the phone. He hung up as soon as he saw Yedidyah.
“So,” he said, laughing, “you’re not too mad at me yet for the burden I placed on your frail shoulders?”
“And what about you, you’re not too mad at me for having accepted?”
“Up to now, you’ve been doing well.”
The two friends joked for a few minutes, then Paul became his usual serious self. “This trial has already lasted a week. Do you think it will go on much longer?”
“At the beginning, the experts said it would last about five days or so. Hard to say for certain when the curtain will come down.”
“But the fellow … is he convincing? Where does he belong according to you? In a Greek tragedy or a Shakespearean drama?”
“Hard to say. Is he guilty of what he’s accused of? I have no idea. Is he innocent? I mean, did he play no part in his uncle’s tragic death? I have no opinion. In fact, I’m completely in the dark.”
