Ivan Klíma - Judge On Trial

If you were to return, dear brother, for my part I would be only too pleased. I miss you, but that’s not the point at the moment. You want to be told what would be best for you to do, what you can expect here. Well: first of all, they’ll put you through political screening. They’ll ask you why you came back at all; it’ll seem to them such a daft thing to do that you’ll find yourself under suspicion. They’ll want you to tell them who you associated with there, and if you do tell them they won’t believe you anyway; they’ll think you’ve concealed something or someone of importance from them. Then they’ll start wondering whether a suspicious character like you, who returns home after three years abroad and then conceals matters of substance from them, could really be a useful member of society and be allowed to go back to where he worked in the past. Mind you, I concede that a mathematician might be thought just slightly less suspicious than a lawyer. For the fact is, dear brother of mine, that we are all under suspicion and cases against every one of us are being drawn up day and night, as one Prague lawyer and writer wrote recently, although I don’t suppose he meant it entirely literally. Evidence against us is amassed constantly, the only question being whether we’ll live to see them complete the preliminary proceedings. As a mathematician you might not. But on the other hand, as a mathematician you have plenty of opportunities where you are. It strikes me, for once, that mathematics has no homeland. Of course, what I say about mathematics need not apply to mathematicians. We do still have the forests you mentioned, as well as the rivers and fires of yesteryear, and even words that got caught in the cracks in the wall or maybe in the drain-hole covers, and those you’ll only overhear if you happen to pass by. The question is how much you want and need to hear them…

He shuddered. He had almost dropped off to sleep at his desk. It was time he went.

He had arranged to meet Magdalena at four thirty in the park. He stopped on the way at a milk bar and had a cup of cocoa and a bun. What time did they knock off at the animated film studio? he wondered. During the day he had been tempted once or twice to call up his friend’s wife, but he had not done so, not knowing what to say to her. Unless he invited her out for dinner. He ought to, in fact, as a way of thanking her for selling the books for him. Only he wasn’t free that evening: he’d promised to go to Petr’s.

He made another stop at the flower-stall in front of the technical university to buy a bunch of carnations. Magdalena was waiting on a bench right next to the statue of a woman writer whose name he could never remember; she was wearing a rather old-fashioned suit. He sat down too and handed her the flowers.

‘That’s sweet of you,’ she said, and laid them on her lap.

He opened his briefcase. ‘I’ve got the money for you and I can give you back a couple of the books. We only needed to sell half of them.’

‘You drove such a hard bargain?’

‘It was a woman friend of mine who sold them.’ He took a look around him, no one seemed to be paying them any attention. Anyway, he had the money in a big opaque envelope. He could hand it over without fear. ‘The fellow who bought them makes films for television,’ he explained, feeling he ought to tell her something about the buyer. ‘Today he brought me the second instalment of money. He can’t be over thirty. Apparently, he makes anything they commission from him.’

‘And why does he do it?’ she asked, and he realised she was only asking out of politeness. No doubt she had long ceased to worry about the details. Besides, she was probably in a hurry to pass on the money.

‘Because they pay him for it.’ He also gave her the packet of remaining books. ‘That’s what almost all of them are like nowadays. No ideals, just making a living.’

‘You were different, weren’t you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You had ideals and you certainly didn’t make a decent living. Do you remember that barn you lived in all that time? Every other day you would treat yourself to goulash in the pub until you completely ruined your insides.’

He remembered all of it.

‘And you were incorruptible. And you weren’t the only one. What hope could they have, the people you took it in your minds to destroy? Sorry, I’m upset. What if this plan doesn’t help? Our principal is a monster. He makes a habit of doing the rounds of the village on his bike every weekend to find out which of the teachers and the kids have been to mass. Jaroslav’s a Catholic, which is why he wants to put paid to him. What if he gets his way?’

‘You mustn’t be afraid of him,’ he said. ‘People like that generally only go out of their way when they think someone will praise them for it.’

‘You don’t know him; you’ve no idea about people like him. His sole reason for living is to wreak revenge on those who believe in anything.’

‘The world isn’t only made up of people like your principal.’

‘I agree. There are also people who might possibly shout them down — for a consideration. But for how long?’

She spoke to him as if he were someone in a different — more hopeful — situation. More and more people were beginning to regard him as someone who had survived, and hence was part of the establishment.

What if they were right?

She stopped as they were leaving the park. ‘I’m talking the most awful rubbish. I’m very grateful to you. Everyone else only assured me I had their sympathy.’

‘You still have time to change your mind.’

‘My mind’s made up! It would cost even more in a year’s time.’ She smiled at him and shook his hand. ‘We should have gone abroad,’ she said. ‘We’ve only ourselves to blame.’

2

Petr was planning to give a reading from his latest work to a group of friends. He had told Adam the title, but it had gone from his head. Naturally, it would be better for him not to associate with some of the people who would be going. Nor did he fancy attending a lecture.

He was making excuses for himself; he wanted to avoid any unpleasantness. He wouldn’t like to lose his friends, but on the other hand, he wouldn’t like to be the next for the chop. Probably the best policy would be to call on them but not take part in larger gatherings. The trouble was they would soon notice and stop inviting him altogether.

Petr opened the door to him wearing an apron and with his sleeves rolled up. His hairy forearms contrasted curiously with his almost bald head. ‘I’m glad you’ve come early, Adam; there’ll be a horde of people arriving in a moment and there’s a small favour I’d like to ask of you.’

He didn’t tell him what exactly, so Adam took a seat. ‘What’s new?’

‘There are lots of rumours going round, but the only one that sounds at all credible is that they’ll adopt that new law about compulsory explanation. It’s a shitty piece of work, don’t you think?’

He shrugged. ‘You surely didn’t expect any decent legislation now of all times.’

‘No, but I don’t like the thought of sitting around,’ Petr said brandishing a knife, ‘and watching them make off with the remnants of my freedom.’

He would have liked to say that there was probably no alternative, that he’d already seen it all once before: the slow, inexorable slide. There was no telling when it would stop or where, nor how deep was the abyss people would sink into. But Petr would probably take it as a sign he was beginning to knuckle under. It is hard to come to terms with losing control of one’s destiny, and with the realisation that, while one admittedly still had a voice left to shout for help, there was no one to heed the call.