Ivan Klíma - Judge On Trial

On 3rd April last I came home at about half past ten after I had been to the pictures with Libuše and because she had taken out the fuses again I tripped and accidentally pulled down a shelf that Mrs Obensdorfová used to have different things on like mirrors, bottles of perfume and face powder. She came out shouting that I was drunk. I told her calmly that I wasn’t and that it was her fault for taking out the fuses. Then she started screaming at me even more telling me to clear out that she wasn’t going to live with a jailbird any more. I told her to stop shouting at me but she told me again to pack my things and clear out by morning. I started to get one of my headaches and went to my bedroom and sat there for a long time in the dark. On account of I was thirsty I went to the kitchen for the purpose of having a drink. Mrs Obensdorfová was already back in her bedroom on the other side of the kitchen where she always left the door ajar for fear of someone stealing something from the kitchen. But I could hear she was asleep. That is when the idea came to my head that if I turned on the gas and went away people would think she had done it herself because it wouldn’t have been the first time and at her age she didn’t always know what she was doing. I also put a kettle of water on the stove. I swear there was no way I could of known that her granddaughter Lucie Obensdorfová was staying with her that night because I never had anything against any of her relations and she didn’t make a practice of staying overnight. I also remembered that she kept her savings book in the dresser and she had in it the money she wrongfully took from me for rent so I took it with me which I had never done before and I regret my action. Then I left the kitchen because it was full of gas.

I declare that I would never have committed this act if she hadn’t told me to leave the flat by the next morning as I had nowhere to go. I left the flat immediately with the intention of going to some licensed premises. I felt like going to the Srdíčko wine bar but then I realised I didn’t have any cash and I was frightened to go to the Main Post Office on account of I was frightened of being recognised. Consequently I went to the station where I remained for a time as it was cold outside…

Kozlík’s mention of the station reminded Adam that he ought to go and meet his wife. He closed the file and put it back in the drawer.

Involuntarily a phrase from his childhood came back to him: ‘she was gassed’. For a moment he was overcome with a revulsion verging on nausea.

4

He was early getting there: punctual, though this time his punctuality was the product of anxiety and impatience rather than eagerness exactly. But he was looking forward to his wife’s arrival. He looked forward to hugging her here on the station and then cuddling her in the car. In his imagination she always seemed more seductive and passionate than she was in reality. He only hoped that she would not take too long telling him her news and that the kids would get off to bed without any bother. She was bound to be tired after the journey, and if she was tired she would flake out and scarcely curl up in his arms before falling asleep like a baby, however much he might desire her.

The rest of her behaviour seemed childlike to him too — occasionally he found it irritating but most of the time it was touching.

Amazingly, the train arrived on time and he soon caught sight of her among the crowd of arriving passengers, first by her yellowish hair above her high, never tanned forehead. She was flanked by two young men, the one on her right moon-faced like a photograph of Marx. An odd-looking girl was clearly in the group as well, walking barefoot on the incredibly filthy station tiles.

He raised his arm but it didn’t look as if Alena had seen him. He realised that, unusually for her, she wasn’t wearing her glasses. Without them she could scarcely see more than a few yards.

‘You’ve come to meet me,’ she exclaimed, as he made his way over. ‘This is Adam,’ she said before he’d had a chance to do or say anything. ‘And this is Jean,’ indicating the barefoot girl. The bearded one was called Jim. They had both come all the way from Texas and were stopping over in Prague tonight.

He couldn’t understand where she’d bumped into her companions. He doubted if they’d come all the way from Texas for a librarianship refresher-course. Most likely she had met them in Bratislava, or even in the train. It irked him that he would not be left alone with her straight away. But perhaps they might take Petr’s list of books with them.

‘And this is Honza,’ she said, introducing the other youth, a bespectacled young man with a Jewish nose. ‘He lives out in Vokovice, do you think we could fit him in too?’ and she blushed unexpectedly.

He picked up her cases and headed for the car.

‘How are the children?’ she asked, when they were all fitted in.

‘Fine. They can’t wait to get away!’ Only now he noticed that his wife’s eyes were red from lack of sleep.

‘You didn’t even write to me,’ she scolded. As if there was any sense in writing when she was only away four days. ‘Which route will you take?’ she asked. ‘Do you think you could stop in the Old Town?’

He threw her a reproachful glance, but apparently she didn’t notice, she was chattering in a loud excited voice with the barefoot girl; the cramped interior of the car was full to bursting with her shouts. They crawled along in the direction of the square where he was born. Surprisingly, he managed to find a place to park. The barefoot girl trod gingerly on the hot paving stones. Her feet were covered in dust, which he found repellent. ‘This is the Old Town Square, and here’ — he pointed — ‘stood the Town Hall. They burnt it down on the last day of the war. It would probably have been saved if the Americans had come; they had been stationed just outside Prague for several days. But they didn’t come. By then it had been decided that this country would belong to the other camp.’

They fell quiet for a moment, unsure whether to take it as a personal criticism or a historical comment.

‘Three hundred and fifty years ago they executed twenty-eight Czech nobles on this spot,’ he said, as always seized with doubt whether it had really been so many. Fortunately, it was immaterial; a few more or less made no difference when you thought of the total number of people executed in the course of history and anyway he was sure his two listeners had no idea what that execution had brought to a close and what war it had begun. ‘Now it’s used for rallies, demonstrations and ovations.’

Most of the houses looked tatty, but some had been renovated recently (including the house where he was born). And even the indifferent way they let superb buildings slide into ruin could not subdue the charm of the place.

The visitors were clearly impressed. There was more he could have told them. He could have pointed out the curve round which the No. i tram used to clatter as it squeezed its way through the gorge of Celetná Street, showed where Stanislav Kynzl the cooper used to have his yard, described how he had ogled the books in Storch’s in the days when there were still good books to buy: a fact which he had been incapable of appreciating at the time, and therefore had not valued it as he should or taken advantage of it either. He could have shown them the Kinský Palace and told them that Mr Herrmann Kafka used to have his business there, taken them into Týn Court and asked them to close their eyes and imagine small shops with junk and enamelled pots and wooden two-wheeled carts that were marvellous as see-saws. But he hated giving tours of anything that related at all to himself or his own past.