Every Man Dies Alone (72 page)

THE TRIAL: THE DEFENSE TEAM

Anna Quangel’s attorney, the grizzled, careworn, elderly man appointed by the court to defend her, who had a habit of picking his nose at moments of excitement and who was thoroughly Jewish-looking (but against whom nothing could be proved, because his papers proclaimed him a purebred Aryan), rose to make his plea.

He said it was much to his regret that he was forced to speak in the absence of his client. Certainly, her outbursts against such pillars of the Party as the SA and the SS were regrettable…

“Criminal!”—an intervention from the prosecutor.

Yes indeed, his colleague for the prosecution was perfectly right, such outbursts were criminal. But as could be seen from the brother, his client could not be described as wholly compos mentis. The case of Ulrich Heffke had been further, living proof of religious mania in the family. Without venturing to second-guess the medical experts, he was sure that this was an instance of schizophrenia, and as schizophrenia was a genetic condition…

At this point the grizzled defense attorney was interrupted for a second time by the prosecutor, who asked the court to make him come to the point.

Judge Freisler instructed the attorney to come to the point.

The attorney objected that this was the point at issue.

No, it wasn’t. This was about high treason, not schizophrenia and madness.

Again, the defense attorney objected: If the prosecutor was entitled to make the case for the moral turpitude of his client, then he was as entitled to speak about schizophrenia. He asked the court for a judgment.

The court withdrew to consider the defense attorney’s petition. Then Judge Freisler announced: “Neither during the preliminary investigation nor in today’s hearing have there been any indications of mental frailty in Anna Quangel. The behavior of her brother Ulrich Heffke cannot be used in evidence, as the court has no medical reports on the witness’s condition. It is quite possible that Ulrich Heffke is a dangerous faker, who hopes to give his sister some assistance. The defense is instructed to stick to the matter of treason, which is the issue before the court today…”

Triumphant look from Prosecutor Pinscher at the worried defense attorney.

Meek look back from the attorney.

“As the high court prevents me,” Anna Quangel’s lawyer began again, “from speaking of my client’s mental state, I will pass over all those points that bespeak her diminished responsibility: her fury with her own husband following the death of her son, her often eccentric, almost deranged behavior here…”

Pinscher yaps, “I protest in the strongest terms against the way the counsel is circumventing the instruction of the court. While claiming to pass over his points, he brings them up repeatedly. I demand a ruling!”

Again, the court withdraws, and when it reconvenes Judge Freisler angrily announces that the attorney is sentenced to a fine of 500 marks for disregarding a prohibition of the court. In the event of any repetition, he will be barred from taking further part in the trial.

The grizzled attorney bows. He looks anxious, as though troubled by the question of where to come up with those 500 marks. For the third time, he begins to speak. He endeavors to describe Anna Quangel’s youth, her years as a housemaid, and then her marriage to a man who was a cold-blooded fanatic: “Nothing but work, worry, self-denial, subjugation to an implacable man. Then all at once this man starts to write highly treasonable postcards. The proceedings have clearly established that this was the husband’s idea, not the wife’s. All claims to the contrary on the part of my client during preliminary inquiries should be seen as a misguided self-sacrifice…” He
cries,” What was Anna Quangel to do against the criminal desire of her husband? What could she do? She had a lifetime of service behind her, she had learned nothing but obedience—never resistance. She was a creature of her husband, a cipher, she was besotted…”

The prosecutor sits there with ears pricked.

“High Court! Criminal action, or being accessory to such action, cannot be laid at the door of such a woman. You don’t punish a dog for catching rabbits on someone else’s land on his master’s instructions: this woman is not fully responsible for her role. For which reason also, she throws herself upon the mercy of Paragraph 51, Subhead 2…”

The prosecutor interrupts. The defense has once again disregarded the orders of the court, he yaps.

The defense denies this.

The prosecutor reads from his notes. “According to the stenographer’s records, the defense spoke as follows: ‘For which reason also, she throws herself upon the mercy of Paragraph 51, Subhead 2.’ The words ‘For which reason also’ make clear reference to the alleged insanity in the Heffke family. I invoke the judge’s ruling!”

Judge Freisler asks the defense attorney what the words “For which reason also” were intended to refer to.

The attorney explains that the words referred to arguments yet to be elaborated in his plea.

The prosecutor yells that no one can base an argument on things he hasn’t said yet. A reference can be made only to something already existing—it is absurd to claim that one might refer to things yet unsaid! The defense attorney’s words are mere prevarication.

The defense protested against the charge of prevarication. Furthermore, one might very well refer in the course of an argument to something still to be said; that was a widely used rhetorical ploy—Cicero, for instance, in the third of his
Philippics
says…

Anna Quangel had been forgotten; Otto sat there open-mouthed, looking from side to side at this Ping-Pong match.

A heated dispute was in progress. Greek and Latin quotations were bandied back and forth.

Finally, the court withdrew once more to consult, and Judge Freisler returned to announce to general surprise (for in the course of the learned argument, most people had forgotten what it was actually about), that on account of repeated violations the defense attorney was now barred from further speaking. The role of official state-appointed defense was transferred to Assistant Ludecke, who happened to be among those present.

The grizzled defense attorney bowed and left the court, looking more worried than ever.

Assistant Ludecke, who “happened to be among those present,” now got up and spoke. He didn’t have much experience, hadn’t been listening very closely, was intimidated by the court; moreover, he was in love at the time, and so was powerfully distracted. He spoke for three minutes, asked for mitigating factors to be taken into consideration (didn’t say what they were, and in case the court disagreed with him, he asked that his plea be disregarded), and then sat down, looking hot and flustered.

It was now Otto Quangel’s designated defense attorney’s turn to speak.

He got up, very blond and full of himself. He had not spoken in the trial thus far, had not taken a note, and the table in front of him was empty. During the hours and hours of the hearing, he had busied himself by rubbing together and examining his pink and beautifully manicured fingertips.

But now he spoke, his gown half open, one hand in his trouser pocket and the other economically gesturing. This attorney could not stand his client, he found him loathsome, stupid, ugly, and generally repulsive. And Quangel had done everything in his power to heighten the man’s revulsion by ignoring Dr. Reichhardt’s urgent advice and withholding all information from him—he needed no attorney.

So now Defense Attorney Stark spoke. His nasal drawl was in stark contrast to the words he used.

He said, “Rarely can we who are assembled here have been presented with such a specimen of human degradation as we have had before us today. Treason, prostitution, procuring, abortion, miserliness—is there a vice anywhere that my client does not exemplify or has not participated in? Gentlemen of the court, you see me unable to defend such a criminal. In a case like this one, I am obliged to lay aside the role of defender and join ranks with the prosecution, for whom I raise my voice: I say, let justice take its natural course. Varying the famous sentence, I say,
Fiat justitia, pereat mundus!
No mitigation for this criminal, who doesn’t deserve to be called a human being.”

With that the defender bowed and, to general surprise, sat down, carefully pulling his trouser creases up over his knees. He looked down attentively at his fingertips and began rubbing them together gently.

After a short pause, the judge asked the accused if he had anything to say for himself. If so, then he advised him to keep it short.

Clutching his pants with both hands, Otto Quangel said, “I have nothing to say in my favor. But I would like to thank my attorney for his defense. At last I understand what the law is for.”

And Quangel sat down amidst a general uproar. The attorney interrupted his fingertip-rubbing, got up, and added casually that he was personally and professionally finished with his client, who had once more given proof of what a hardened criminal he was.

It was then that Quangel laughed for the first time since his arrest, the first time in a very long time. He laughed with wholehearted gusto. The preposterous comedy of this gang of criminals branding everyone else as criminals was suddenly too much for him to take.

The judge attacked the accused for his unseemly mirth, and considered imposing further punishments on him, but then he remembered he had already burdened him with everything in his power. The only remaining thing he could do was banish him from the courtroom, and that struck him as counterproductive. He therefore opted for temporary leniency.

The court withdrew to consider its verdict.

Long interval.

As at the theater, most people went out to smoke a cigarette.

Chapter 65

THE TRIAL: THE VERDICT

According to standard practice, the two guards who were now in charge of Otto Quangel should have taken him down to a little waiting cell during the break in proceedings. But the court had almost completely emptied, and moving the prisoner up and down many corridors and flights of stairs—and he with his trousers forever slipping down—was a cumbersome process, so they took it upon themselves to disregard standard practice, and let him stay where he was, while they stood chatting a few feet away him.

The old foreman propped his head in his hands and sank into a doze. The seven-hour-long proceedings, during which he had remained riveted in concentration, had exhausted him. Shadowy images played in his head: the clawlike hands of Judge Freisler opening and closing; Anna’s attorney with his finger up his nose; the little hunchback Heffke trying to fly; Anna, pink-cheeked, saying “Eighty-seven,” her eyes as merry and serene as he had ever seen them; these and many others…many…others…

His head weighed more heavily in his hands—he was so tired, he simply had to sleep, even if only for five minutes…

So he dropped his arm on the table, and his head on his arm. He drew a deep breath. Five minutes of deep sleep, a little spell of oblivion.

But he awoke again with a start. There was something in the courtroom, still, that disturbed his longed-for rest. He stared all round the room, and his eyes came to rest on Judge Fromm, who was standing beside the railing of the public gallery, apparently gesturing to him. Quangel had noticed the old gentleman earlier—nothing seemed to have escaped his attention—but on such a crowded day he had paid little heed to his former neighbor from the house on Jablonski Strasse.

Now the judge was standing by the rail, motioning to him.

Quangel darted a look at the two guards. They stood about three paces away from him, engrossed in a lively conversation. Quangel picked up the words, “And so I grab the guy by the throat…”

The foreman stood up, snatched up his trousers, and shuffled across the courtroom toward the judge.

The latter stood by the rail, his eyes lowered now, as though he didn’t want to see the prisoner slowly drawing nearer. Then—Quangel at this stage was only a couple of steps away—the judge rapidly turned on his heel and walked down the aisle to the exit. But he had left behind on the railing a small white package a little smaller than a spool of thread.