Ivan Klíma - Judge On Trial

The telephone rang.

‘Alena, is that you?’

‘I’ve got a visitor, Honza,’ she said.

‘I need to talk to you. It’s important!’

‘But I can’t just now.’ The man opposite her stood up and went over to the window, as if trying to move out of earshot.

‘When will you be free?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll call you later.’

‘OK. But count on this evening… Could you be free this evening?’

‘I don’t know.’ And suddenly it seemed to her that all her worries of recent days had been trivial compared with the things she had just been hearing. ‘I’ll call you later.’

‘I’ll be brief, Dr Kindlová.’ He returned to his chair. ‘It was my ninth year there. They must have known about my innocence by then and were anticipating an order for my release. I had come to be trusted with office work and from time to time the prison chief would deign to speak to me. I took the opportunity to suggest that he transfer myself and Karel to a small cell where I could look after him.

‘He accepted my suggestion. It was certainly not on my account, but they were already at the end of their tether. That fellow was storing up trouble for them. And for my part, I did not make my offer out of any wish to make their job easier. I was sorry for someone they would end up destroying. And whom they did end up destroying anyway, as you can see. First of all they transferred me and then, a month later, him as well. When they brought him to my cell, he was in such a wretched state that he hardly looked human any more. All he could think about was that he was hungry and that he was determined not to give in to the people he hated.

‘Naturally, he didn’t trust me. When they brought the food that first evening, I gave him my portion, and then, after supper, I took his dirty shirt and washed it for him. It sounds trivial, by now it sounds petty even to me: washing someone else’s shirt and fasting for an evening. But inside, you are in a wilderness inhabited by wolves. He didn’t say anything to me, of course, but I noticed he’d become wary, because the first reaction in places like that when someone treats you in a friendly fashion is suspicion: “He’s given me his bread ration twice: maybe it’s because they feed him something more filling. He washed my shirt: maybe he did it because they offered him a special reward for winning my confidence.” Prison is terrible not because it deprives you of your freedom but because it destroys your belief in other people. Maybe I was helped by the fact he knew my vocation. Not that he believed in God, but because happily those who had remained Christ’s shepherds even in that place enjoyed the reputation of being incorruptible.

‘While he was at work I would ponder on him. His soul was seized by a spasm. To ease the spasm it was necessary for him to accept that he was not alone in his cause; that he was not the only one whose suffering was out of proportion to his guilt. I recounted to him how they had arrested me many years before because some man had been caught on the borders with my name in his notebook. I told him how I had suffered months of tortures and interrogations, how I had lost the will to live, and how at that moment I had been helped by the words of Ecclesiastes which I would whisper to myself: “All things come alike to all: there is one event to the righteous, and to the wicked; to the good and to the clean, and to the unclean…”

‘I tried to explain to him that one came into the world to save one’s soul and — if one had the strength — to begin to understand life. But that was something one could achieve only when one freed oneself from the ambitions and passions which darkened one’s horizon. If one could achieve this, no tormentor could harm one, because one was dependent no longer on the world they inhabited.

‘Then we discussed our situation together. The weak could never defeat the stronger by physical strength, only through the power of their spirit, by eroding cruel and brutal force and rendering it unnecessary, helpless or desperate.

‘During that period he started to wonder whether his resistance might achieve anything apart from self-destruction, and whether self-destruction wasn’t actually another form of defeat. He started to learn humility and derive satisfaction from his ability to control himself at moments when previously he had been accustomed to indulge in blind resistance. We shared the same cell for scarcely three months, and over that time we managed to talk about a lot of things, including how he was going to live once he was out among people again. He had the best of intentions. I would even go so far as to say that his soul opened up at that time and was open to good. Then I was released. As far as I know, for the remainder of his stay he managed to avoid all confrontations. Even after he left prison. We kept in contact for a while. His home conditions were lamentable and he proved incapable of organising his family life.

‘Don’t imagine that I seek to condone that dreadful deed, if he did commit it. But ever since I heard about it, my thoughts have turned again and again to the lad. What was the extent of his guilt and the guilt of those who killed the man within him and impregnated his soul with hatred? The idea that they might now kill him I find appalling.’

He opened his briefcase and drew out some sheets of paper. ‘I have taken up your time, Dr Kindlová. And now I am taking the liberty of burdening you: I’ve brought some letters that Karel wrote me after his release.’

‘Thank you.’ She took the papers from him.

‘You will find my address on the envelope,’ he said. ‘As soon as you, or maybe even your husband, have had a chance to read them, you need only call me and I will come and fetch them. Or should there be anything else I might be able to assist you with.’

‘Thank you,’ she said once more. ‘I will pass it on to my husband.’

He stood up and bowed.

It was already four o’clock. She picked up the receiver and dialled his number. ‘It’s me, Honza. What was it you wanted before?’

‘I’ll come over to you.’

‘I’ve just been hearing something dreadful.’

‘I’ll come over to you.’

‘No, don’t. I’ve got to go home.’

‘You can’t go home today. I’ll come over to you and explain.’

‘But I have to go home.’

‘There’s a concert on. Alena. You’ve not heard anything like it. And they’re playing just outside Prague.’

‘And you want to go?’

‘Alena, it will be a tremendous experience. I know the band. I’ve been going to listen to them for three years already. I’ve been at all their concerts.’

‘But I’ve got to go home.’

‘Alena, I’d like you to share this experience with me.’

‘But what about the children? I’ve got to get their supper.’

‘Can’t he?’

She saw them as soon as they got on the bus: long-haired, bearded youngsters, lots of army surplus jackets, girls in jeans and well-worn flannel shirts smelling of sweat and tobacco smoke. Then there was an entire hall full of them in the country pub. On a smoke-veiled stage amidst wedding decorations, several youngsters, identical to the ones assembled in the room, were stretching out cables and adjusting microphones. An enormous drummer was setting out his drum-kit. He had a pale, almost white, face and long blond hair.

She had called Adam to say she felt like going to a concert (fortunately the connection was bad, she had an excuse for not saying much) and had only heard about it at the last minute from colleagues at work. Amazingly enough, he had made no objection. He had promised to give the children something to eat and put them to bed, and didn’t even ask what kind of concert it would be and when she would be home; as if he was pleased he wouldn’t see her.