Joseph Roth - Confession of a Murderer

There lived in Petersburg at that time a certain police informer by the name of Leibusch. He was a tiny little man, scarcely four foot in height, not even a dwarf, but the shadow of a dwarf. He was a highly valued ally of those in our profession. I myself had only seen him once or twice, and then only for a few seconds. But to tell the truth, although I had, as they say, been washed by many waters, I was more than a little afraid of him. There were many unscrupulous blackguards and traitors in our company, but none smarter or more unscrupulous than he. For example, at a moment’s notice he could produce proof that a confirmed criminal was as innocent as a lamb and that an innocent man had prepared a plot to assassinate the Czar. But I, although I had already sunk so low, still cherished the conviction that I did not do evil from innate wickedness but because fate had condemned me to it. Incredible as it may seem, I still considered myself a “good man.” I at least was still conscious that I acted evilly and that I must therefore justify myself to myself. Vileness had been forced upon me. My name was Golubchik. Every right which I had, from my birth onwards, had been taken away from me. At that time, my misfortune seemed, in my eyes, a totally undeserved disaster. To a certain extent, therefore, I had a fully documented right to be evil. But the others, who practiced evil upon me, had certainly no such right.

Well, I sought out our informer, Leibusch. In the first moment, when I stood before him, I was suddenly conscious of the terrible thing I was proposing to do. His yellowish skin, his red-rimmed eyes, his great pock-marks, his tiny inhuman figure almost shook my firm belief that I was a judge and an instrument of justice. Several times I hesitated before bringing myself to broach the purpose of my visit.

“Leibusch,” I said, “here is a chance for you to prove your ability.” We were in the anteroom of our chief, sitting side by side on a bright green plush sofa, and it seemed to me as though it were already the dock; yes, I was sitting in the dock at the very hour when I had taken it upon myself to judge and to condemn.

“What more do you want me to prove?” said the little man. “I’ve proved enough already!”

“I need,” I said, “material against a certain person.”

“Someone important?”

“Of course.”

“Who is it?”

“The young Krapotkin.”

“Not difficult,” said the little man. “Not at all difficult!”

How easy it was! The little man was in no way astonished that I needed material against Krapotkin. So they had long been collecting material against him! I almost thought myself magnanimous for not having known that before. What I intended was hardly a base piece of treachery, it was almost an honorable duty.

“When?” I asked.

“Tomorrow, at the same time,” said the little man.

He possessed really wonderful material. The half of what he brought would have been sufficient to condemn an ordinary Russian to twenty years in Siberia. We sat in the quiet back room of a restaurant whose owner I knew, and examined the material. It consisted of letters to friends, officers and highly placed personages, to well known anarchists and suspect writers, and a number of extremely convincing photographs. “This one,” said the little man, “and this one and this one, I forged.”

I stared at him. His little face, in which there was scarcely space for his eyes, nose, and mouth, and whose thin cheeks were sunken and hollow, was emotionless. In that face the features had no room to alter their expression. He said: “I forged that.” And: “I forged that.” And: “I forged that.” And not a flicker or change in his expression. It was plainly a matter of indifference to him whether the pictures were real or forged. They were just pictures. More than pictures — they were proof. And since he had learned in the course of many years that forged pictures could prove just as much as genuine ones, he had completely forgotten how to distinguish between the two; and with almost childish simplicity he believed that the forgeries, which he himself had made, were no forgeries at all. Yes. I believe that he no longer knew what was the difference between a forged photograph and a real one, or how a real letter differed from one of his own forgeries. It would have been wrong to have regarded this Leibusch, this tiny man, as a criminal. He was a lost soul, far worse than a criminal, fouler even than I, my friends

I knew exactly what I had to do with the letters and the pictures. My hatred had a purpose. But this little man was no hater and no judge. Everything that he did was purposeless; the Devil simply commanded him. He was as stupid as an ox, but brilliantly clever in doing difficult things whose sense and purpose he could not understand. He never even demanded a small earthly reward. He did it all to oblige others. He asked me for no money, no promise, no pledge. He handed over to me the whole of that valuable material, without a change of expression, without asking why I needed it, without demanding anything in return — without even knowing who I was. He had received his reward elsewhere, so it seemed.

Well, what had that got to do with me? I took what I needed; I did not ask where it came from, nor from whom. I simply took it from the little man.

Less than half an hour later I was in the presence of my immediate superior. And two hours later young Krapotkin was arrested

He did not remain long under arrest, my friends, not at all long. Three days in all. On the third I was summoned by our chief and he spoke to me as follows:

“Young man, I thought you were cleverer than that.”

I said nothing.

“Young man,” he began again, “explain your extremely stupid action to me.”

“Highness,” I said, “I have probably been stupid — because you yourself say so. But I cannot explain my action.”

“Very well,” he replied—“then I shall explain it to you. You are in love. And I am going to take this opportunity to make a few philosophical remarks. Pay attention to what I have to say. A man who wishes to make something of his life is never in love. But, more especially, a man who has the good fortune to work for us has no feelings whatsoever. He may desire a certain woman — good, I can understand that. But when someone greater stands in his way, he must repress his desire. Listen to me, young man. All my life I have only had one desire: to become great and powerful. I have succeeded; today I am both. I watch over His Majesty himself, our Czar — God grant him health and happiness. And why am I in a position to do that? Because never in my long life have I loved or hated anyone. I renounced every pleasure — and for that reason I have never known real suffering. I was never in love; so I know no jealousy. I never hated; so I have no desire for revenge. I have never spoken the truth; so I have never known the satisfaction that comes from a successful lie. Young man, model yourself on me! — I must punish you. The Prince is powerful, he will never forget the affront. For the sake of a ridiculous little girl you have ruined your career. And for me, too, you have earned a severe and unpleasant reprimand. I have considered carefully what punishment you deserve. And I have decided to inflict on you the severest of all punishments. You are hereby condemned to follow this ridiculous woman. I condemn you, in a manner of speaking, to eternal love. You will go to Paris as our agent. On the day you arrive, you will go to our Embassy and report to S. Here are your papers. God be with you, young man. That is the hardest judgment I have ever pronounced in my life.”