Youth Without God (11 page)

“You were still on the rock?”

“No—”

“Where, then?”

“I’ve—forgotten.”

He smiled. It seemed impossible to drag anything further from him. He didn’t remember.

“Well, where does your memory pick up again?” was the President’s next question.

“I went back to the camp and wrote in my diary that I’d had a fight with N.”

“Yes, that is the last entry. But you left that closing sentence unfinished.”

“The teacher interrupted me.”

“What did he wish to see you for?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Well, no doubt he’ll tell us.”

On the table in the court-room lay the diary, a pencil, and a compass. And a stone.

The President inquired whether Z recognized the stone. “Yes.” He nodded.

“And to whom does the pencil belong—and this compass?”

“They don’t belong to me.”

“They belonged to poor N,” said the President, glancing at his notes. “No—wait—only the pencil belonged to N. Why didn’t you say that the compass belonged to you?”

Z blushed.

“I forgot,” he murmured.

Z’s counsel rose.

“Perhaps the compass really doesn’t belong to him, your honour.”

“What do you imply by that?”

“I wish to imply that this fatal compass, which wasn’t N’s property, might not have been Z’s either, but might have belonged to a third person. Would your honour be so good as to ask the accused if there was not actually a third person on the scene?”

He sat down again. Z threw him a baleful look.

“There was no third person there,” he said firmly.

The defence sprang up at that.

“How is it that he remembers that fact so definitely when he has quite forgotten how, when, and where the crime took place?”

The prosecuting lawyer too had now got to his feet. His tone was full of irony.

“Apparently my learned friend wishes to infer that it
was not the accused who committed the murder, but a Mysterious Unknown—”

“Isn’t there”—the defence turned to him—“isn’t there a certain wanton girl, the leader of a robber band, to be considered? Even supposing there is no further element, she can hardly be labelled a Mysterious Unknown.”

“It wasn’t the girl. She’s been sufficiently questioned, in all conscience. We shall hear what the magistrate who examined her has to say. Let alone the fact that the accused made a very plain confession—and the fact that he made it without delay speaks somewhat in his favour. The attempt on the part of the defence to make it appear that the girl committed the crime, and that the accused is shielding her, is on the verge of being fantastic.”

“The case isn’t finished yet,” smiled the defence. He turned to Z.

“I see there is an entry in your diary which reads, ‘She took a stone and threw it at me—and if it had hit me, I shouldn’t be here now.’ ”

Z quietly met his gaze. Then, with a negative gesture:

“I was exaggerating. It was only a small stone.”

Suddenly a tremor shook him.

“Don’t defend me, sir. I want to be punished for what I’ve done.”

“And what about your mother?” cried his counsel. “Have you thought of your mother, and what she’s suffering? You aren’t aware of the harm you’re doing.”

Z lowered his head.

Then—searchingly, almost—he glanced at his mother.

She was the object of every eye. But none could pierce those heavy veils.

BEFORE THE WITNESSES WERE CALLED, THE court adjourned for lunch.

It was midday. Slowly the court-room emptied. The accused was led away. Defending and prosecuting counsel exchanged glances equally confident of victory.

I went out for a stroll in the gardens surrounding the Law Courts.

A dreary day, dank and cold.

Leaves falling—yes, it was autumn now.

Turning a corner, I stopped short. For a moment. Then I went on.

On one of the benches sat a still figure. Z’s mother.

I noticed that she was a woman of medium height.

My automatic greeting was not returned.

She did not seem to see me.

She seemed far away.

The time is past now when I believed there was no God.

To-day I believe in Him. I can still see Him as I saw Him in the camp, when He spoke to little R and gazed at Z.

His eyes must be piercing, cruel, and cold, very cold. No. He is not a good God.

Why does He let Z’s mother sit there like that? What has she done? Can the guilt of her son’s crime be laid at her
feet? Why does He condemn the mother, if He damns the son? No, it is not just …

I felt in my pockets for my cigarettes.

Silly of me, I must have left them at home.

I left the gardens and went in search of a tobacconist’s.

I found one in a side street. A tiny shop kept by a very old couple. It took a long time for the old man to open the packet and for his wife to count out ten cigarettes. They got in each other’s way, but took it all with a kindly good humour.

The old woman gave me too little change, and when I brought it smilingly to her notice, she cried out in alarm:

“God preserve us!”

If God preserves you, I thought, then you are indeed secure.

She had no more small change and went across to the butcher’s to get some.

I stayed behind with the old man and lit a cigarette.

He asked whether I were from the Law Courts. Most of his customers were legal gentlemen. And he began to talk about the murder trial: it was a strange and most interesting case, this, for you could clearly see the hand of God at work in it.

I looked up quickly.

The hand of God?

“Yes,” he went on, “for every one connected with the case seems to be guilty. Even the witnesses, the sergeant, the teacher—and the parents too!”

“The parents?”

“Yes. It’s not only the young people—their parents as well don’t trouble about God nowadays. They act as if He didn’t exist.”

I looked out onto the street. The old woman came out of the butcher’s shop and turned right towards the baker’s. So the butcher had no change either!

The street was empty. And I was troubled by a sudden disturbing thought: it was not by mere chance that the butcher had no change. Chance alone did not keep me waiting here.

I looked up at the tall grey houses.

“If only one knew where God lives!” I said.

“He lives everywhere—everywhere where He is not forgotten,” came the old man’s reply. “He dwells here with us, that’s why we never quarrel!”

I caught my breath.

What was that?

Still the voice of the old man?

No, not his, but another voice.

Who was speaking to me?

I did not turn my head.

Again the voice came:

“When you are called as witness and name my name in the oath, do not conceal the fact that it was you who broke open the box.”

The box!

No, for then I shall only be punished because I shielded the thief.

“Do this!”

But I shall lose my work, my daily bread.

“Then you must lose it, rather than bring about a new injustice!”

But my parents? I am their only support.

“Shall I show you your childhood?”

My childhood?

My scolding mother, my angry father, for ever quarrelling. No, You did not dwell here, You only passed by—Your coming brought no joy …

I was close to tears.

“Tell them,” the voice came once more. “Tell them it was you who broke open the box. Do my will and grieve me no more.”

THE TRIAL WORE ON. THE COURT HAD PRACTICALLY finished with the witnesses now. The woodsmen, the police, the local magistrate, the sergeant, had all testified. The baker N, too, and his wife Elizabeth, had told us all they knew. It amounted to nothing.

The baker hadn’t been able to resist mentioning the opinion I had voiced about the negroes. He threw out dark hints against my seditious beliefs, while the President watched him doubtfully—though not daring to interrupt him.

Z’s mother was the next to be called. She left her place and went into the box. The President explained to her that she was entitled, if she chose, to decline to testify. But she wished to.

She had removed her veil.

Z was a quiet, but at times a violently tempered child, she told the court, in her rather unpleasant voice—and it was from his father that he had inherited his temper. He had had no illnesses—apart from the harmless ailments that children usually go through. Nor was there any trace of mental disease in the family, either on his father’s side or hers.

“Your honour,” she interrupted suddenly. “May I ask my son a question?”

“Certainly.”

She went over to the table, took the compass, and turned to Z.

“How long have you had a compass?” she asked, and her voice trembled with scorn. “You’ve never had one. We had an argument about it before you went to camp, because you were saying everybody had one. ‘I’m the only one without a compass,’ you said, ‘and I shall get lost without one.’ So how did you come by this one?”

Z stared at her.

She turned to the President in triumph.

“It isn’t his compass. Whoever lost this compass is responsible for the crime.”

A murmur went through the court-room.

“Do you hear what your mother says?” the President asked Z.

The boy was still staring at her.

“Yes,” came the slow answer. “My mother’s lying.”

The defending counsel sprang up.

“I propose the appointment of a commission to examine the accused’s mental condition.”

The President reassured him that the court would take up the question later.

Z’s mother returned to the boy’s side.

“I’m lying? You said—?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not lying. I’ve never in my life told a lie, but you’ve always lied, always. I’m telling the truth, and only the truth, but you still want to shield this strumpet, this prostitute—”

“She’s not—”

“Hold your tongue,” shrieked the mother, hysterical by
now. “You think of nothing but that poisonous wretch, you never think of your mother, your poor mother.”

“The girl’s worth more than you are!”

“Quiet!” cried the President, condemning Z to two days for insulting a witness.

“Unprecedented!” he deplored. “The way you treat your mother! It reveals a lot.”

Z lost control of himself, and the temper that he had inherited from his father broke out.

“She isn’t a mother! She isn’t. She’s never bothered about me, only about her servants. Ever since I’ve been born, I’ve heard her hateful voice nagging at the maids in the kitchen.”

“He always takes the girls’ side, like my husband, your honour.” She laughed shortly.

“Don’t laugh!” roared Z. “Do you remember Thekla?”

“And what of Thekla?”

“She was fifteen, and you wore her down as nobody else could. She had to go on ironing till eleven at night and be up in the morning at half-past four—and nothing to eat, either. And she ran away. Do you remember?”

“Yes, she used to steal!”

“So that she could get out of it all. I was six then, I can still remember Dad coming home and telling me that the poor girl had been caught. She was sent to a reformatory. And it was your fault, only yours.”

“Mine?”

“My father said so.”

“Your father said a great many things.”

“But he never lied. You used to have terrible quarrels and he wouldn’t sleep at home. Do you remember? And
Eve’s another one like Thekla—near enough. No, mother, I’ve no love for you now.”

When the outburst had finished, it was very quiet in the court-room.

“Thank you, madam,” said the President.

MY TURN NOW.

It was already a quarter to five.

I was sworn as a witness. I swore by God to tell the truth to the best of my ability, and to conceal nothing.

Nothing.

I noticed a certain tension in the room.

I turned round and caught sight of Eve.

She was sitting beside the wardress. Once, I had wanted to see her eyes. When I’ve told them everything, I thought, I’ll look. I can’t now. I must turn my back to her, for before me I saw a crucifix: His Son.

I glanced at Z.

He was smiling. Was she too smiling, behind my back?

I answered the President’s questions. He touched upon the negroes again—yes, we understood each other. I gave good characters to N and to Z too. The President was discharging me from the witness-box when I interrupted him.

“One moment, your honour—if I may.”

“Please.”

“That box, in which Z kept his diary. It wasn’t N who broke it open.”

“Not N? Who was it, then?”

“Myself. I opened the box with a piece of wire.”

My words produced an immense effect. The President
dropped his pencil, counsel jumped up, Z stared at me open-mouthed, while his mother screamed and the baker’s hand flew to his heart, his face as pale as dough.

And Eve?

I don’t know what she did.

I was aware only of a general uneasiness behind me. Amid murmurs and whispers, the public prosecutor rose as if hypnotized, slowly raising his finger in my direction.

“You?”

The word took him a long moment to pronounce.

“Yes,” I answered, amazed at my own calm, and inexpressibly relieved. I told the court everything now—why I had broken open the box and why I hadn’t admitted as much to Z immediately. I told them I had been ashamed to—and not only ashamed, but too much of a coward in the bargain. I told them why I’d read the diary and why I had not informed the police about the theft—because I wanted to frustrate those plans, if I could.

Now I noticed that the prosecutor was beginning to take my words down, but I went on, unhindered. I omitted nothing. Adam and Eve, the dark clouds, the man in the moon, all—and when I’d come to a close, the prosecutor stood up.

“I should like to impress upon the witness that he must be fully aware of the grave consequences of his interesting testimony. The prosecution retains the right to accuse him of misleading the authorities, and of being an accessory to theft.”

I made him a slight bow.

“I swore to conceal nothing,” I said.