Every Man Dies Alone (70 page)

Quangel looked hard at the distinguished-looking gentleman above him. “Yes!” he said.

“Disgusting!” yelled the judge, and spat over his shoulder. “Disgusting! And that sort of creature calls itself German!”

He looked at Quangel with deep contempt, then turned to Anna Quangel. “What about you, woman?” he asked. “Are you as common as your husband or not? Are you another loathsome traitor? Are you set on disgracing the memory of your son who fell on the field of honor? Yes or no?”

The worried-looking, grizzled attorney quickly got to his feet and said, “Your Honor, may I have the court’s permission to note…”

The judge struck him down with his beak. “I warn you, attorney,” he said, “I warn you not to speak unless I ask you to! Sit down!”

The judge returned to Anna Quangel. “Well, what about it? Can you summon up some last shred of decency in your breast, or are you intent on matching your husband, who, as we have heard, is a common traitor? Did you betray your people in their hour of need? Had you the heart to let down your son? Yes or no!”

Anna Quangel looked timidly across at her husband.

“Look at me! Not that traitor! Now, yes or no?”

Quietly, but distinctly, “Yes.”

“Speak up! We all want to hear it, a German mother who feels no shame in staining the heroic death of her son with filth!”

“Yes,” said Anna Quangel loudly.

“Unbelievable!” cried Freisler. “I have sat through many sad and hideous experiences, but I have never witnessed a disgrace like yours! It seems to me hanging would be too good for you; you should be quartered, like beasts!”

He was addressing the spectators more than the Quangels, as he took over the role of the prosecutor. Then he recovered himself (he wanted his day in court). “But my heavy duty as judge obliges me not to be contented with your confessions. However loath I am to undertake it, and however hopeless it might appear to be, my duty obliges me to examine whether there might not be some grounds for clemency in your case.”

So it began, and it went on for seven hours.

Yes, sensible Dr. Reichhardt had been mistaken, and Quangel with him. Never had it occurred to them that the highest-ranking judge in Germany would conduct the trial in a spirit of such bottomless, mean-spirited malice. It was as though the Quangels had offended him, Judge Freisler, personally, as though this unforgiving, rancorous little man had had his honor besmirched and had now set himself to wound his enemy to death. It was as though Quangel had seduced the man’s daughter, so personal was it all, so infinitely wide of any impartiality. No, the two of them had made a colossal mistake. This Third Reich kept springing new surprises on its antagonists; it was vile beyond all vileness.

“Accused, witnesses—your law-abiding coworkers—have stated that you were driven by a positively squalid avarice… For instance, how much did you make in a week?” the judge asked.

“Latterly, I was taking home forty marks a week,” Quangel replied.

“I see, forty marks, and that was net of tax and medical insurance and contributions to the Winter Relief Fund?”

“Yes, net.”

“Doesn’t that seem a decent sum for an older couple like yourselves?”

“We got by on it.”

“No, you didn’t get by on it! You’re lying again! You managed to save regularly! Is that correct or not?”

“That’s correct. Most of the time we managed to put something by.”

“How much would you say you were able to put by in an average week, then?”

“I couldn’t tell you. It varied.”

The judge lost his temper: “I said in an average week! Average! Do you understand the meaning of the word,
average?
And you call yourself a foreman! Can’t even do basic arithmetic! Wonderful!”

Judge Freisler didn’t seem to think it all wonderful, however, because he looked at the accused indignantly.

“I’m over fifty years old. I’ve worked for twenty-five years. There were good years and not-so-good years. I was unemployed for a while. My son was ill. I can’t give you an average.”

“Oh? You can’t, can’t you? I’ll tell you why that is! It’s because you don’t want to! That’s your filthy avarice, from which your decent colleagues recoiled. You’re afraid we might find out how much you managed to scrape together! Well, how much did it come to? Or can’t you tell us that either?”

Quangel struggled with himself. The judge had found his weak spot. Not even Anna knew how much they had saved. But then Quangel mastered himself. He got over it. There was so much he had got over in the course of the past few weeks, why not this too? He broke with the last thing that tied him to his old life, and said, “It was 4,763 marks!”

“Yes,” drawled the judge, and leaned back in his high-backed judge’s chair. “It was 4,763 marks and 67 pfennigs!” He read the figure from a file. “And are you not ashamed to fight a state that allowed you to save such a sum? To oppose the commonweal that cared for you to that degree?” He raised his voice. “You don’t know the meaning of gratitude. You don’t know the meaning of honor. You’re a disgrace, a blot. You need to be blotted out!”

And the vulture’s claws closed, opened, closed again, as though ripping at prey.

“Almost half the money I saved before the Nazis came to power,” Quangel said.

There was a laugh in the auditorium, but it froze under a furious glare from the judge. A sheepish cough was all that remained of it.

“Silence in court! Absolute silence! And you, accused, if you think you can be insolent, you will be punished. Don’t think you’re safe from additional punishment, you’re not! You’ll take whatever I give you!” He looked piercingly at Quangel, “Now, tell me, accused, what were you saving for?”

“For our old age.”

“Your old age? You don’t say. How sweet that sounds! But it’s just another lie. From the time you began writing your postcards you must have been damned sure you weren’t going to experience any old age! You confessed yourself that you were always aware of the consequences of what you were doing. But even so, you carried on putting money aside and depositing it in the bank. What for?”

“I reckoned I would get away with it?”

“What do you mean, get away with it? Be acquitted?!”

“No, I never thought that. I thought I wouldn’t be caught.”

“You see, you were wrong to think that. But I don’t believe that’s what you did think anyway. You’re not so stupid as you like to pretend. You can’t possibly have thought you could go on committing your crimes year after year.”

“I wasn’t thinking about year after year.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t think it’s going to go on much longer, your Thousand-Year Reich,” said Quangel, inclining his sharp bird’s head toward the judge. The attorney shuddered.

There was another laugh in the listening gallery, followed by an ominous murmuring.

“The bastard!” someone yelled.

The guard behind Quangel adjusted his cap, and with his other hand reached for his holster.

The prosecutor had jumped to his feet, brandishing a piece of paper.

Frau Quangel was smiling at her husband, nodding enthusiastically.

The guard behind her grabbed her shoulder and squeezed it viciously.

She bit back the pain and didn’t cry out.

An assistant judge was staring at Quangel open-mouthed.

The judge jumped up: “You, criminal! Idiot! Cretin! How dare you…”

He stopped, mindful of the impression he was creating.

“Take the accused away, Sergeant! Get him out of here! The court will come up with a suitable punishment…”

A quarter of an hour later, the trial resumed.

It was widely noticed that the accused seemed to have difficulty walking. People thought, They will have given him a good going-over. Fearfully, Anna Quangel thought the same.

Judge Freisler announced: “The accused Otto Quangel is sentenced to four weeks in solitary on bread and water, with enforced fasting every third day. In addition,” Judge Freisler went on, by way of explanation, “the defendant has had his suspenders taken from him, since, during the interval, he was seen behaving suspiciously with them. There is a view that he may have intended to attempt suicide.”

“I only had to be excused.”

“Silence, accused! He might have attempted suicide. The accused will have to get along from now on without suspenders. He has no one to blame but himself.”

There was a further outbreak of laughter in the court, but this time the judge shot an almost grateful look at the gallery, evidently pleased with his own little joke. The accused stood there looking cramped up, having to keep one hand on his trousers to stop them from sliding down.

The judge smiled. “Now, let’s get on with the case.”

*
Roland Freisler was the president, or chief justice, of the People’s Court (Volksgerichtshof), which was set up outside constitutional authority and was often the venue for show trials. Although possessor of a brilliant legal mind, Freisler was famous for screaming at defendants and personifying the Nazi concept of “blood justice.” He represented the Reich Ministry of Justice at the Wannsee Conference, where the “Final Solution” for the extermination of Jews was devised.

Chapter 62

THE TRIAL: PROSECUTOR PINSCHER

If Judge Freisler’s proceedings suggested to an unprejudiced viewer those of a bad-tempered bloodhound, the prosecutor played along as a little yapping terrier, only waiting to give the bloodhound’s quarry a nasty little nip in the calf while his big brother had him by the throat. Once or twice in the course of proceedings thus far, the prosecutor had tried to get in a yap, only to be silenced by the bloodhound’s barking. What need was there for his yapping, in any case? The judge had assumed the duties of the prosecution from the first minute; from the first minute, Freisler had violated the basic duty of any judge, which is to establish the truth. He had been utterly partisan.

But following a break for lunch, during which the judge had eaten a large and rich meal requiring no ration cards and including wine and schnapps, Freisler felt a little tired. Why go to so much trouble? The pair of them were dead anyway. In any case, it was the wife’s turn—and from a judicial point of view, certainly, women were of no great interest to him. They were stupid and did what their menfolk told them. Other than that, they were only good for one thing.

So Freisler was indulgent, and allowed Pinscher to come forward and yap a little. With half-closed eyes, he leaned back in his judge’s chair, head propped on his hand, giving the appearance of listening, when in reality he was entirely busy with his digestive processes.

“Accused, is it true you were fairly advanced in age when your present husband married you?”

“I was almost thirty.”

“And before that?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t play the innocent: I want to hear about your relationships with men before your marriage. Out with it!”

The crudity of the question made Anna Quangel first blush, then turn pale. Seeking help, she looked over at her aging defense attorney, who got to his feet and said, “Please your Honor, the question is not relevant to the case!”

To which the prosecutor: “My question is highly relevant. We have heard it claimed that the wife of the accused was the mere accomplice of her husband. I will prove to you that she was a deeply immoral person in her own right, raised in the gutter, and capable of any crime.”

The Judge, bored, gave his opinion: “The question is allowed.”

Pinscher yapped again. “Well, how many men did you sleep with before your marriage?”

All eyes were on Anna Quangel. A few of the students in the listening gallery licked their lips, and someone gave a mock groan of pleasure.

Quangel looks at Anna in some concern—he knows how sensitive she is about such matters.

But Anna Quangel has made her mind up. Just as Otto dropped all his anxiety about the money he had saved up, so she is now willing to face these shameless men with utter shamelessness herself.

The prosecutor asked, “Well, how many men did you sleep with before your marriage?”

And now Anna Quangel replies, “Eighty-seven.”

Someone in the gallery explodes into laughter.

The judge awakens from his slumbers and looks down with something approaching interest at the little working-class woman, with her red cheeks and full bust.

Quangel’s dark eyes had lit up; now, the lids have fallen almost shut. He doesn’t look at anyone.

The prosecutor, though, wholly confused, stammers, “With eighty-seven? Why eighty-seven?”

“I don’t know,” says Anna Quangel coolly. “I suppose because that’s all there were.”

“I see,” says the prosecutor sullenly, “I see!”

He is thoroughly annoyed, because he has suddenly turned the accused into an interesting person, which was in no way what he intended. Also, like most of those present, he is convinced that she is lying, that it was only two or three lovers, and quite possibly none at all. It might be possible to haul her off for making fun of the court. But who could prove her intention?

Finally he settles. Unhappily, he says, “I am quite sure you are exaggerating, accused. A woman who has had eighty-seven lovers would hardly be able to remember the figure. She would say a great many. Your reply demonstrates the depths of your degradation. You rejoice in your shamelessness! You are proud to be a whore. And from having been a whore, you became what all whores eventually become, you became a procuress. You procured for your own son.”