Ivan Klíma - Judge On Trial

Yes, of course, that was how it always started. Everyone yearned for perfection and purity. As if there existed some collective creative spirit that soared ever higher and higher. However, it soon found itself far above the earth and got lost in the clouds, whereupon it forgot why it had set out in the first place and where it was bound. At that point it could see only itself and became fascinated by its own image. It actually became bewitched by its own face, its own proceedings, its own words, its own form, its perfect logical judgement. That was when concepts of pure reason and justice emerged, along with theories about the absolute norm in art, philosophy and jurisprudence. Whither the spirit then? Where could it soar to now? Then all of a sudden, the spirit would plunge to the depths, where crass, commonplace passions seethed, where teeming crowds consumed rissoles with enthusiasm, and therefore had no time — or, alternatively, were so hungry that they did not have the strength — to register anything of that fallen beauty. There was nothing wrong with my striving for absolute justice if it tickled me to, but I should never delude myself it was attainable. Unless I wanted to assist a further decline, I had always to remember that in reality there was no such thing as justice or the law. What was there, then? All there was was compromise with the rulers as they decreed a greater or lesser degree of injustice — a degree dictated by their self-confidence not their conscience, he stressed.

And on another occasion, when he knew me better and could talk more openly, he said that many intellectual disciplines might vegetate in our country, but two could not exist at all: philosophy and law. I waited for him to explain, but he either considered the statement self-evident or simply intended it as an aphorism. He merely added that law was superb as a code. And the more perfect and logical a code was, the more magnificent it was. But this was at the cost of increased artificiality, rendering it less capable of existing in reality. Hence the opportunity to study and reflect on law offered the greatest satisfaction while the requirement to implement it was the saddest or most painful fate that could befall one. The practice of law led either to cynicism or madness. We could see examples of the former all around us, and as for the latter, suffice it to recall Kafka, who, though few realised it, was a Prague lawyer. I didn’t know who he was talking about and was ashamed to ask.

I hung on his lips; I was grateful for his noticing me and for his efforts to enlighten me. Only years later did it occur to me that his words during our meetings were first and foremost a skilful and poignant apology for his own degradation.

5

My mother and brother accompanied me to the station. Mother asked me to tell Father, if I got to see him at all, that she was still thinking of him all the time but was in no fit state to undertake such a long journey. She was also afraid that the agitation might kill her. Moreover we couldn’t afford so many tickets. But in all events we would soon be seeing each other again; after all, the lawyer had written to say that we could expect Father home as soon as the trial finished. My brother gave me a statuette he had made out of wire, screws and coloured tin cans. I expected that Father would never be allowed to take something like that back to his cell if he was convicted, while if he was released it would be pointless dragging a sculpture to the other end of the republic, but I took it just to please my brother. I also took a kilo of oranges from Uncle Gustav, as well as a cake and a strudel from Mother. I took for myself an Edgar Wallace thriller to help shorten the day-long journey. I well remember standing on the open platform of the stopping train, my briefcase between my knees, avidly devouring the gruesome details of the ill-contrived story while the train bore me onwards towards a real-life adventure.

The old fortified town lay in flat terrain on the River Morava. Autumn was just beginning. I roamed along the rounded cobblestones. In the park, begonias and dahlias bloomed in the flowerbeds and two old ladies in folk costume sat on a bench. The defence lawyer had the face of a genial Mickey Mouse. He invited me to the local coffee-house and repeated the joyful news he had already sent us: that the prosecutor would only be indicting Father under ‘para 135’ which virtually guaranteed his release (though he was sure he didn’t need to explain that to me). The maximum penalty possible was three years’ imprisonment and my father had already served twenty-two months on remand, but the court was unlikely to exceed half the maximum. That’s what he was hoping to achieve; after all my father was a first offender and moreover he had resistance activity to his credit. Every so often, the defence counsel would glance over to the neighbouring table though it was as yet unoccupied. Even so, he lowered his voice until he was scarcely audible. He started to complain, telling me how things were difficult for him here, sometimes as many as twenty cases a month. He had received the brief for Father’s case only a week ago: all nine hundred pages of it! But it was a blessing that the times had improved. It was not so long ago that sentences of ten and even fifteen years were handed down for things like this. What did he mean by ‘things like this’? He smiled at my question.

I said I knew my father, and it was inconceivable to me that he might fail to fulfil his duty, let alone deliberately neglect it. My father was a remarkable man and no one could even imagine just how much he loved his work and how much time he devoted to it… I realised how trite my words were and how shallow my portrait of Father; they could have fitted anyone. At that, the counsel leaned over so far that his mouth almost touched my face and whispered: But my dear colleague, you know very well that what you say is totally immaterial. How can one talk about innocence or guilt in the present climate!

The next day I got up at about five, slipped out of the hotel and made for the prison. The streets were empty. Beyond a high wall rose the grey, gloomy walls of the prison itself. I had no idea which was the window of Father’s cell, and that wasn’t what mattered. His could be any one of them. Suddenly I realised the complete absurdity of Father being there. I strained to catch any sounds from inside but the windows were too far away for any to reach my ears.

I entered the still empty courtroom and sat down on the rearmost bench. Then it occurred to me that I would be better occupied finding the defence counsel and trying to have another chat with him, to plead with him to do everything in his power. But what power did he have? It would make more sense to go and see the judge or the prosecutor, or whoever it was who decided on the actual level of sentence. I stood up, but at that moment several strangers came in and sat down on the bench in front of mine, and then I caught sight of Father. He was coming through the door escorted by two warders. I was still standing while the rest were seated, so he noticed me immediately. I raised my hand in a small wave and gazed at my father’s pale features. He seemed to me incredibly small and slight, almost lost in his best suit, the black one with the blue stripe. He nodded to me too: just a motion of the head, like the one he made the day they took him away, and smiled. One of the guards said something to him and Father nodded and now looked the other way, so that he was staring at the wall, or at the portrait of the President, to be precise; he was not allowed to look at the son he had not seen for two years. But I looked at him. That slight, gaunt man with his high forehead and still thick head of hair had fathered me in a moment of love, had engendered me in a moment of freedom and delight, and now here he was sitting like a trapped rabbit, not for the first time in his life. Why? And there was I sitting just a few yards from him and not allowed to speak to him. And why not? I wasn’t doing anything to help him — what kind of son was I? And I felt tears welling up in me. Then the judge entered and at last I was able to hear Father’s voice after so long. The prosecutor read out the indictment: a list of absurd offences that Father had not committed. I found it impossible to follow however hard I concentrated. So this was justice, I could not help repeating to myself, when one person was trapped between two guards and was not allowed to turn his head towards his own son; this was justice: one was the defendant — why? — one was the judge — why? — and one was the warder — why? Why, when their roles could be switched around and reallocated? The defendant would be the judge, the judge would be only a warder and the warder would be the defendant, or the warder could be the judge, the defendant the warder and the judge would be on trial — all of that would be equally conceivable, and that was how it had certainly been on so many occasions, and it would still be justice. I tried to discover something from the judge’s face. He too must know it, I thought to myself, the same thought must have struck him too, he must have realised at some time the arbitrariness of what he was doing, this pretence of being a model individual judging a malefactor. And for a moment I actually managed to delude myself that the judge would have to acknowledge Father’s integrity and conclude that he was incompetent to pass judgement on a man who had suffered so much in his life, who knew so much and had worked so hard for the good of others. Once more I heard Father’s voice saying no, he didn’t feel guilty, and then they ushered us out of the room, having declared, contrary to the spirit of the law, that the entire hearing would be held in camera.