Ivan Klíma - Judge On Trial

‘It’s the truth I’ve been telling you, your honour.’

‘Do you have a child, Kozlík?’

‘I’ve been paying her maintenance regularly, your honour!’

‘That’s not what I asked. What sort of feeling do you have for your child?’

‘She’s not my child, your honour.’

‘So why do you pay maintenance for her?’

‘The court ordered me to!’

‘The court ordered you to, even though it isn’t your child?’

‘That sometimes happens, your honour!’

‘So you have no feeling for the child?’

‘No, your honour.’

‘And haven’t you ever seen her?’

‘I’ve seen a photo of her.’

‘Why did her mother name you as the father?’

‘She had to name someone. She went with lots of men.’

‘But why did she choose you in particular? Do you think you’re such an ideal father?’

‘I don’t know, your honour.’

‘And you have no feeling for the child’s mother?’

‘Not any more, your honour.’

‘But she has a feeling for you. She would like you to come back to her.’

‘You mustn’t believe her, your honour. She’s a liar. She was always making things up.’

‘And you have never made anything up?’

‘No, your honour! I’ve always told people the truth. Everyone could believe me.’

‘One would think you were a saint to listen to you.’

‘I mean it sincerely, your honour. If one could trust people more, everything would be different.’

5

Whenever the telephone rang or someone grasped the handle of her office door she held her breath. She was frightened it might be him, but also pleased when it was. He called her several times a day. As soon as they removed the plaster he started dropping in. He had only to cross the courtyard. He would sit on a chair and gaze at her, talking to her or saying nothing. He wanted nothing and asked for nothing. He just waited.

This time, she picked up the receiver to hear an unknown male voice. ‘Vlastimil Pravda here. My name won’t mean anything to you, Dr Kindlová, but I would be grateful if you could spare me a few moments. It’s a personal matter.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ she said in alarm, ‘but where are you calling from?’

‘I happened to be passing the library.’ The voice was sweet with almost a wheedling tone. ‘I’m downstairs in the entrance hall. I wouldn’t want to put any pressure on you if you’re busy.’

‘If you wouldn’t mind coming upstairs.’

It was not clear to her how someone whose name she had never heard before could speak to her about some personal matter. ‘Vlastimil Pravda’ sounded rather like a pen-name from the period of national revival. Then it suddenly dawned on her who this was coming to see her: a blackmailer. Someone had found out about her scandalous relationship, realised that she had managed so far to keep it dark, and was hurrying here to make a deal with her.

She got up from her desk. She did not know what to do. She’d never had to deal with a blackmailer. When Adam talked to her about such people they always seemed unreal to her: both the people and the business they were involved in. Maybe she oughtn’t to receive him at all. But if the man was intending to blackmail her he would track her down. Next time he would come unannounced or would go to the flat and she would only live in a constant state of apprehension.

The only thing that would save her would be to call Adam straight away. But she wouldn’t have the time to tell him anything. She’d call him as soon as the man left. She should have done it long ago. In fact she had wanted to but had not yet found the time or the opportunity.

Finally a knock at the door.

It was an elderly man with a gaunt, sallow face and thinning grey hair. And he also wore spectacles with thick lenses — his vision could not have been good. Although it was a hot day he was wearing a black jacket and beneath it a knitted jumper.

‘Dr Pravda.’ He announced himself with a bow. ‘Dr Kindlová?’

‘That’s right.’

‘May I be sure I’m not disturbing you?’

‘I have no idea what it is about,’ she said. ‘Take a seat, please!’

‘You have a lovely office,’ he said, looking out of the window. ‘Peace and quiet, and a grapevine. In one of the places whence Czech learning first emerged. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say: learning in the Czech lands. Because the first Dominican schools used Latin. But then, any other learning was out of the question in those days.’

She couldn’t follow him. She had the impression that when he talked, he opened his mouth wider than was the custom. As if he were on the point of singing.

‘I don’t really know where to start. I should really have gone to see your husband and not you, of course.’

‘Yes, I see that.’

‘But it wouldn’t be proper. You husband probably wouldn’t receive me anyway, when he’d heard what it concerns. He is legally bound, whereas you are not. Perhaps you might be able to let him know something of what I will try to tell you. Should you think it seemly, of course.’

She was still confused, but nodded.

‘It concerns Karel Kozlík. I don’t know whether you have heard about him.’

‘No,’ she said with sudden relief. ‘Do sit down, I beg you. May I make you a coffee?’

‘No thank you. In that place I completely lost the habit of drinking coffee and I never acquired it again.’ He sat down. ‘Your husband is due to try Karel Kozlík for a murder which the fellow may have committed. I know nothing about the offence, of course, but I do know something about Karel.’

‘But it might be better for you to go and see my husband, all the same,’ she said. ‘I don’t know much about his affairs.’

‘Do you think he would see me?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said nonplussed. ‘It didn’t occur to me that he might not see you.’ In fact, she had never even thought about the rules that were supposed to govern Adam at work. There was a time when he used to give her his articles to read, but they had not related to the legal code or judicial practice. Or if some of them might have done, she had forgotten them long ago anyway.

‘I’m sure you’ll agree with me that it’s not necessary. What I want to tell you has no direct connection with the deed, only with him as a person. I admit that what I say is a bit contradictory, but only in so far as our judicial system is.’

He told her that, as a clergyman, he himself had been sentenced to thirteen years’ imprisonment, and tried to describe the dreadful prison conditions. Then he turned once more to the case of the young man whom he had met inside. Apparently his first spell in prison had been for a few minor misdemeanours, but that had not worried anyone, nor the fact he was blind in one eye. They had forced him to work, and when he failed to fulfil the norm they had stopped his spending allowance, forbidden him visits and finally placed him in a punishment cell. The cell was below cellar-level. It was cold and the floor was wet. He had received hot food only every other day and had only one blanket to sleep under, and most of the time a worn one at that. But that youngster had been one of those people that could not be broken or humbled. He had spurned his gaolers and everything they represented. He had returned from that punishment cell determined not to let them force him to do anything again. He had refused to work, abused them and fought with them. So they had sent him back underground again and again and each time he had re-emerged weaker and more dejected, but also more obstinate.

Prisoners who didn’t allow themselves to be broken were dangerous, of course. What could be done with them? Violence could be increased only to a certain point; after that it could only be repeated ad nauseam. Recalcitrants demonstrated that even that level of violence could be withstood, and such demonstrations harboured the threat of revolt for the gaolers. But not only were the tormentors at risk, the souls of the tormented were even more so. They became gradually deformed and filled with incurable hatred, contempt and delusions of superiority.