Ivan Klíma - Judge On Trial

‘I do worry, because I know you too well. You’re like your father — always wanting to save the world.’

‘Don’t be upset — it’s ages since I wanted anything of the kind.’ At most he wanted to save himself — but how? Which was the path of salvation? What was the country, where was the place where you would know you were alive?

He could see the black harmonium in the corner. The brick floor still covered in dirt, the warm light shining in through the narrow dormer window and forming a sharply edged cone; a girl, her face hidden in the darkness, gently touching the keys and he in an unprecedented ecstasy escaping upwards to where he would be able to live according to his soul’s needs.

He marvelled at how long this longing had been in him: to be alone, in a place he could rise out of by his own willpower, and escape heavenwards up the shafts of light. And now he was gazing high through the narrow dormer window at the distant heavens, which had not yet heard the groans of his friends, the kindly heavens which gave off a scent of lime blossom and rejoiced in the divine presence. It occurred to him that he knew, that he had some inkling what he would see there: he was looking forward to that familiar face.

His father came in and sent his mother off to make some tea. Then he started to ask him about the state of the world.

He answered his father and listened to gloomy predictions without abandoning his vaulted private space.

5

Alena sat by the open window, a writing-pad on her knee. In front of the house, her niece Lucinka was yelling something at her son, from the kitchen came the clamour of a transistor radio and the smell of mushrooms.

Dear Honza,

This is my third day here (the children are with me, along with my sister-in-law and her children, who share the cottage’s other room), but I slept the first two days, because I spent the whole night before we left packing.

At this point she ought to write: ‘I’m with you in spirit’, but the statement seemed indelicate to her, disloyal to Adam and even shameful. Compared with actions words have the disadvantage of carrying within themselves the seeds of judgements.

I live with the children in a room with a view over the brook. It’s a narrow brook and its water is too cold for bathing, but in the still of the night I listen to its murmur and remember a room with a view of the Danube.

And again she could see the river whose waves were about to close over her head, and as on many occasions since then could feel once more that dread of being unable to reach the bank and dying amid the torrent. That time, the night had made the bank seem even more distant, the current carried her with it and the waves were already washing over her head. She had probably shouted out, though sure she was completely alone and no one had followed her. At that moment he had appeared at her side. Nothing more. He hadn’t rescued her, it was unlikely he would have had the strength; he had just swum at her side, and this had calmed her enough to make the bank on her own. Then they had both lain down on the deserted beach. A cold breeze had been blowing but she hadn’t noticed it, and from the distance had come the hooting of a train or a river boat. It had taken her some time to realise she was shivering uncontrollably and he was kneeling over her, stroking her face and uttering soothing words. Then he had taken her hand and they had walked back along the river bank. She had felt weak and had had to stop from time to time. Once she had rested her head on his shoulder. He had stood motionless and even his breath had been inaudible. Back at the hotel, he had brought hot tea to her room and sat on a chair by her bed talking about himself while she had succumbed to the onslaught of sleep. She had woken up to find him still sitting by the bed looking at her and been dismayed to discover that someone so much younger could have fallen in love with her. Her first thought had been how incongruous it was, and that she ought to send him away and avoid him. She was a married woman, after all, and had children. But when all was said and done there was nothing wrong with his sitting there looking at her.

From that moment he had been constantly at her heels like a puppy. He would touch her hand in the dark and relate the events of his life, curled up at her feet.

She had been moved by what he told her, especially that he had grown up constantly yearning to be understood, in search of some divine or at least human authority, and had found nothing of the kind. And it occurred to her that that was why she attracted him. He had discovered in her both understanding and authority, and it would therefore be cruel and insensitive to rebuff him.

If he were to turn up here now (but what would she say the children — and Sylva?) they would sit together on the overgrown hillside opposite. And he would talk about himself. Nothing else. And it would be marvellous if nothing else needed to follow it.

Familiar steps could be heard in the passage. She thrust the letter under the blanket, gathered up the children’s dirty tights and opened the wardrobe.

Her son pushed open the door. ‘What are you doing there, Mummy?’

‘What do you think I’m doing? Clearing up after you.’

He was about to sit on the bed just where she had hidden the letter. She managed to stop him in time. ‘How many times have I told you not to sit on the bed in your outdoor clothes!’

‘Mummy, when will Daddy come?’

‘Is that why you have to come and bother me?’

‘I didn’t know it bothered you when you’re tidying up. Do you think he’ll come this evening?’

‘No, Daddy is very busy at work.’

‘Do you think he’ll buy me a bike if he comes?’

‘Martin, if you’ll go off and play now like a good boy I’ll take you both on a lovely walk afterwards.’

‘Why can’t you come now?’

‘I can’t just now. I’ve still got something to do.’

‘I’ll wait here with you, then.’

When she had finally succeeded in getting him to go outside and taken the letter out from under the blanket she found she hadn’t the strength to continue writing.

It’s all left me terribly tired. I feel I need a few moments’ peace, some moments to myself. To be entirely alone. Write soon, Honza, love.

She hid the envelope in her skirt pocket (it was an unsightly skirt that Adam had once brought her from somewhere; he always brought her back things that were totally unsuitable, a touching gesture rather than a pleasant surprise). The post office was down in the village, so at least her walk would be to some purpose.

They were walking along a forest path: Look, a frog. No, that’s not a cep. What d’you think that rock looks like? I think it looks like a bear stretching its paw out. Who wants a feather? No, it can’t fly right up to the sun, otherwise it’d burn up; a bird would burn up too. That’s lucerne. No, they don’t bake bread from it. How about if we had a look in the chapel? We’ve never been in it before!

It was an ordinary little chapel from the days when the Jesuits roved the countryside and when they also burned books. Nowadays books didn’t get burnt; banned books were withdrawn from circulation on the basis of secret lists and were either stored in special departments or carted off to be pulped and made into new paper. And it was her job, when she went into some library, to make sure that none of the banned ones had remained on the shelves by mistake.

The stations of the cross had most likely been painted by the local chaplain or parish priest, and the statue of the Virgin Mary resembled a target in a shooting gallery. The air inside was full of the scents of dried flowers, wax, incense and old wood. She sat down in one of the pews and motioned to the children to do likewise. She shut her eyes. The sunlight shone in through the window above the altar and she sensed it as a red warmth on her eyelids. She had not believed in God since He went and got lost during her childhood, when He abandoned His cloud. But suddenly — for the first time in how many years? — she felt herself part of an eternal order, as if she had been suffused by an awareness of the countless weddings, christenings and masses for the dead that had taken place here, as if she were cradled by a protracted litany of ever-repeated prayers, genuflections and exhortations; she was among the Sunday throng slowly dispersing in festive mood after standing a while to ask after someone’s health or express sympathy or condolences. She was overcome with a sense of belonging, belonging to something firm and unchanging there was no running away from or abandoning: the security she always reached after; real love. Love which had its own order and grandeur: qualities which exalted it above mere lovemaking.