Ivan Klíma - Judge On Trial

The stream of chapelgoers started to tail off and she could hear from inside the sound of an organ. Someone else preceded her in and through the gap in the door she could make out a hall full of pews. The minister was already at the pulpit.

The door closed slowly and she had time to slip through. She sat in the last pew but one, which was empty. Happily, the rest of the congregation paid no attention to her and went on leafing through their hymn-books before starting to sing straight away. She tried to follow the words of the hymn but the meaning eluded her. However, the tune seemed to have an ancient reverence and she was moved by the unaffected harmony.

If only the miracle could happen and her faith be restored. Perhaps then she would have the strength to endure what lay in store for her.

She shut her eyes and did her best to ward off the horror. Maybe not, she said to herself. Maybe not!

The hymn ended and everyone stood up. The minister in his long black robe read from the Bible.

The Scripture reading was about the pharisee and the tax-collector entering the temple. Whereas the pharisee boasted of his virtue, the tax-collector stood at the back, not daring even to raise his eyes to heaven. He only repeated: God have mercy on me, a sinner.

She had the impression that the minister was speaking about her. She did not know precisely the meaning of the word pharisee but the tax-collector was herself sitting on her own at the back, and for that they promised her redemption.

The minister finished reading and everyone sat down again.

After the next hymn, the minister went up to the pulpit at the side of the chapel. After reading a further passage from the Bible about the blind man whose sight was restored merely by the word of Jesus he started his sermon. We live in a world in which many people are stricken with blindness. They look at things but fail to see their neighbour. Likewise they are submerged from morning till night in a welter of words, but they fail to hear the real Word.

What would Adam say if he knew she was sitting in church? Nothing, most likely. Or he might try to persuade her she was wasting her time, since there was no God. She needed him next to her now. And most of all she needed him to be waiting for her outside their house afterwards. No, she didn’t need it really. She was glad that no one was here with her: neither of them.

The other one would be only too happy to be sitting here with her. He would come after her wherever she was, if she let him, if she ever wanted to meet him again. He was always phoning her. Most of the time she did not even reply but would hold the receiver for a few moments, letting his passionate declarations of love and promises never to stop loving her pour out of it, and then hang up.

He had been ill. This she had overheard before taking the receiver from her ear. He had a fever and was all alone at home, scarcely able to get up and make himself tea. His voice was muffled and weak. Perhaps he really was ill. Whatever he had done to her, she could hardly refuse to come at such a moment.

She had bought him milk, butter, rolls and a piece of smoked fish. He had come to the door, his head wrapped in a wet towel, his eyes deep-sunken and feverish. She had led him back to his bed and gone to prepare him something to eat. Then she brought him the food on a dark red tray they had eaten off together a few weeks before. But to her surprise she felt nothing: neither love for him nor regret, nor pity. And it did not even occur to her at that moment that she ought to let him know where she had been at the beginning of the week. He would be bound to think it concerned him in some way. But it concerned her alone, and if anyone else, then only the creature which it now seemed sure had been conceived in her body.

She stood up for the prayers: ‘We thank You, Lord, that You have once more allowed us to meet and hear Your word which is a light in our darkness, announcing Your promise…’

She realised with a start that the time was getting on. In a moment the service would be over and she still had a good walk ahead of her. Oh God, I ought to have prayed, paid heed to the sermon, asked for mercy instead of turning over the same old thoughts all the time.

People stood around in small groups on the pavement outside. She took another look round but her friend wasn’t there.

She walked to the next corner. There was no one about and the sun lit up the walls of the houses. She took the visiting card and the street plan from her handbag.

The only gynaecologist she knew was the one she had attended at the clinic. She had been to see him there but had not dared say anything in front of the nurse. She had merely asked him in a whisper whether he might see her privately.

He had displayed not the slightest surprise. Taking a visiting card from his desk drawer, he asked her if Sunday afternoon suited her.

At last she found the street on the plan. She had never been able to estimate distances on maps, but it struck her that she should be able to get there on foot easily enough. She therefore set off through the deserted streets, the smell of Sunday lunch wafting from windows as she passed. The smell of food, which on other occasions she wouldn’t have even noticed, made her feel queasy and almost nauseous. She realised all too well the cause and went sweaty all over.

The doctor lived in an old apartment house that reminded her of the one where she was born, even down to the park on the opposite side of the street.

He answered the door himself. He was dressed in a boilersuit. He had always struck her as looking more like a butcher or a delivery man, and now, without his white coat, she didn’t recognise him straight away.

He shook her hand and led her to a small cubicle: it was wallpapered and covered from floor to ceiling with pictures. He sat her in a white armchair while he himself squatted on a small stool: ‘So we’ve been a bit careless, have we, Mrs Kindlová?’

She nodded.

‘When was your last period?’

‘Six weeks ago yesterday, Doctor.’

‘There was no need to think the worst then, was there? Are your periods ever late?’

‘No. Two or three days at most.’

‘You haven’t got yourself upset or anything in the recent period, have you?’

‘As a matter of fact I have, Doctor,’ she said with sudden hope. Then she added: ‘And I also suffered mild coal-gas poisoning.’

‘So what are you making such a fuss for, my dear! Six weeks doesn’t mean a thing.’

‘I’m starting to have attacks of nausea, Doctor,’ she protested.

‘You all start having those. I’ll give you an injection and you’ll be right as rain.’

‘Do you think so, Doctor?’

‘If it’s due to stress,’ he said. ‘Or from inhaling coal-gas.’

Her hopes quickly dissipated. ‘And what if the injection doesn’t work?’

‘We’ll give it a bit more time, my dear. You could have given it a bit more time yourself. Nobody could tell you anything after just six weeks. Except a fortune-teller, maybe.’

‘I was afraid of coming too late.’

‘Have you told your husband about it?’

‘I’ve not told anything to anyone, Doctor.’

‘Give it another fortnight, my dear,’ he told her. ‘You still have plenty of time to apply to the board.’

‘Doctor, I can’t apply to the board.’

‘You can’t?’

‘No.’ Then she corrected herself. ‘I wouldn’t be able to go through with it!’

‘How many children do you have, Mrs Kindlová?’

‘Two,’ she whispered.

‘Well then. So long as this latest wasn’t from within the marriage, the board won’t turn you down.’

‘But I don’t want to!’ She shook her head violently. ‘I don’t want to go before the board.’