Joseph Roth - Confession of a Murderer

He told me everything — everything, my friends! There is no longer any point in my telling you all that he said. But it did me no good when I reported our conversations. For punishment was meted out, not to the young Prince Krapotkin, but to the completely innocent Jew, Komrover.

I can still see how they came in and hammered the chain and ball around his left leg. He went to Siberia. But the young Prince vanished one day, quicker than he had come.

Every statement that the Prince had made to me had been attributed to young Komrover.

Such was the practice in those days, my friends!

I was with him in the cell during his last night. He cried a little, gave me a few notes to his parents and friends and relations, and then said: “God is everywhere. I do not fear. Neither do I hate. No one! You were my friend and a friend in need. I thank you!”

He embraced me and kissed me. Still today his kiss burns on my face.

And at those words Golubchik raised a finger and stroked his right cheek.

Some time later I was transferred to St. Petersburg. You cannot know what such an appointment meant. In St. Petersburg one acted under the immediate orders of the most powerful man in Russia, the head of the Ochrana. On him depended the safety of the Czar himself. My superior was none less than Count W., a Pole; even today I dare not mention his name. He was an extraordinary man. Everyone of us who served under him had to take a special oath in his room. An enormous silver crucifix stood between two yellow wax-candles on his black desk. Black curtains covered the doors and windows. Behind the desk, on a disproportionately high black chair, sat the Count, a little man with a bald head covered with freckles, with pale watery eyes which reminded one of dried forget-me-nots, shrivelled ears like yellow papier mâché, prominent cheekbones, and a perpetually half-open mouth which revealed his great strong teeth. This man knew everyone of us employed in the Ochrana; he watched over our every step, although he never seemed to leave his office. He seemed to us uncanny, and we were far more afraid of him than the country was of us. We had to swear a long oath in front of him, in his mysterious room, and before we left him, he said to each one of us: Now, beware! Child of Death! Is your life dear to you? To which we answered: Yes, Excellency! — and he dismissed us.

One day I was summoned by his secretary, who informed me that there was a special job on hand for myself and several of my companions. The great Parisian dress-designer, Monsieur Charron — that was the first time I had heard the name — had been invited to Petersburg. He was proposing to give a display of his latest models in the Petersburg Theater. Several grand dukes were interested in the mannequins. Several ladies in the highest society were interested in the dresses. Now arose the question — so said the secretary — of arranging a special form of surveillance. For who knew what undesirable characters there might not be among Monsieur Charron’s mannequins? Might they not hide weapons or bombs under their clothes? And how easy that would be for them! They would naturally have to change every five minutes, go from the stage to their dressing rooms and back again, and an accident might easily happen. Monsieur Charron had announced that he was bringing fifteen girls with him. So we needed fifteen men. The job might necessitate transgressing the ordinary laws of decency. But we would have to be prepared for that. Would I make all arrangements and take charge of the case, the secretary asked me?

This unusual, even fantastic duty pleased me greatly. I see now, my friends, that I cannot avoid making mention of even the most intimate things in my life. So I must confess to you that up till that time I had never been really in love, as is usually the case with young men. Except for the gypsy whom my friend Lakatos had introduced to me, my experiences with women had been limited to the few occasions on which I had possessed and paid for a girl in one of the so-called houses of pleasure. Although my profession necessitated my knowing the world and also gave me every opportunity of doing so, I was still young enough to imagine that I would simply have to watch these Parisian mannequins during the actual shows, and that I had been selected to spy upon these exquisite ladies in all their entrancing nakedness, and even, perhaps, to “possess” them. I immediately said that I was ready to take on the job and set about choosing my fourteen co-workers. They were the smartest and youngest fellows in our division.

The evening on which the Parisian dressmaker, together with his mannequins and innumerable trunks, arrived in Petersburg, brought us no small amount of worry.

We arrived at the station, fifteen in number, and yet it seemed to each of us as though we were only five or even two. Our supreme chief had instructed us to be particularly on the alert; and all this simply because of a dressmaker. We mingled with the crowds who had come to meet their relatives at the station. At that time I was convinced that I had been entrusted with a particularly arduous and important duty. I had no less a task than, for all I knew, to save the life of the Czar.

When the train steamed in, and the world-famous dressmaker descended from his carriage, I saw immediately that our thief had made a mistake. This was not the sort of man who could be even remotely suspected of plotting an assassination. He looked well-fed, vain and harmless, and showed himself extremely anxious to attract the greatest possible amount of attention. To put it briefly: he was certainly not a “subversive individual.” He was a fairly tall man, but in consequence of his curious attire he gave the impression of being smallish or even short. For his clothes flapped about him, instead of simply covering him, and they made no pretense of fitting, in fact they might have been presented to him by a casual acquaintance. But he had designed them himself and therefore he seemed to us, or to me at any rate, to be, as one might say, doubly clothed. I was amazed that the Czar’s court could summon such a ridiculous creature all the way from Paris to Petersburg; and then, for the first time, I began to have doubts — doubts as to the safety of the fine gentlemen, of the great noblemen, to whose company I would so gladly have belonged. Up to that moment I had believed in their infallibility. How, therefore, could they have invited to Petersburg such a comedian as this, who was to dictate to their women-folk what fashions were to be worn in Russia? It was incredible! But now I saw it with my own eyes. The dressmaker arrived with a large retinue, and not only a feminine one, such as we had expected. No! — he had also brought several young men with him, evidently the last word in Parisian manhood, complete with silk cravats and abundant gestures. They hopped gaily out of their compartments, not unlike dressed-up sparrows — in fact the illusion would have been complete had they suddenly started twittering. To me, indeed, the noisy and light-hearted way in which they began chattering among themselves as soon as they had arrived seemed like a cheerful confabulation between human birds or partially feathered humans.

They waited for a while outside the carriage, then stretched out their arms and received the twelve girls who began to emerge after them. They caught them so carefully and delicately, and with such anxious faces, that they might not have been simply stepping down on to a platform but plunging into a fearful abyss. Among the girls who got out, one in particular caught my attention. Like all the girls whom the dressmaker had brought with him, she was wearing a number. For each of them bore a number, embroidered in red on a neat blue satin square, which was pinned over the left breast. And it looked exactly as chough these numbers had been branded on, as one brands horses or cattle. Although the girls were all so merry, I felt extremely sorry for them; I pitied them all, especially the one who had attracted me at first glance. She bore the Number 9, and was called, as I discovered later, Lutetia. But in the passports, which I shortly after inspected in the passport office, her name was given as Annette Leclair, and — I do not know why — this name moved me deeply. Perhaps it is unnecessary to assure you again that I had never really loved a woman before; indeed, I had had very little to do with women. I was young and well-built, and in no way indifferent to their charms; but my heart was far from ready to obey my senses. And strong as was my desire to “have” them nearly all, it was more than counterbalanced by my conviction that I could never be in a position to monopolize even one of them. And yet, as must be the case with every young man, I yearned for the one woman — or rather, for one of the ones — who could forever satisfy my longings and still my restless discontent. At the same time, I suspected that such a woman could probably never exist, and yet I waited anxiously — as is also the way with young men — for the miracle to happen. And the moment I set eyes on Lutetia, Number 9, it seemed to me that the miracle had indeed arrived. When a young man, such as I was then, is full of expectation, he is only too ready to believe that the desired object has entered his life.