Youth Without God (12 page)

And the baker roared out:

“My son’s death lies at his door—his only!”

A sudden heart attack necessitated his being helped from the court-room. His wife raised a threatening arm.

“Beware of God!” she cried to me. “Beware of God!”

But I had no fear now of God.

I recognized the aversion, the loathing, around me. All eyes were charged with it—save two that rested on me, two eyes as still as the dark pools in the little woods of my homeland.

Eve …

EVE WAS NOT PUT ON OATH.

“Do you know what this is?” asked the President, holding out the compass.

“Yes,” she answered. “That shows the direction.”

“Do you know to whom it belongs?”

“It’s not mine.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying. I’d like to tell the truth like the teacher did.”

Like me? The public prosecutor smiled ironically. The counsel for the defence watched Eve every second.

“Go on, then,” ordered the President.

“When I found Z near our caves, N came along too.”

“You were there?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you only tell us that now? Why did you keep lying throughout the examination? You said you weren’t present when Z struck N.”

“He didn’t strike N.”

“He didn’t? Who did?”

The tension grew even greater. Every one in the room leaned forward, as if they would drive her into the earth.

Z’s face was chalk white.

“Z and N were having a terrible struggle. N was stronger. He threw Z down off the rock. I thought, He’s done
for now, and I got mad, and then it struck me he’d seen the diary and knew everything about me. I picked up a stone, that one there, and started after him. I wanted to get him on the head—yes, I wanted to right enough, but suddenly another boy, I didn’t know him, sprang out of the bushes. He took the stone off me and went on running after N. I saw him catch up and speak to him. They were just by a clear bit. He’d got the stone in his hand all the time. I hid. I was afraid they’d both be coming back. But they didn’t come back, they went off another way, N a couple of steps in front. Suddenly this other boy lifted up the stone and caught N on the head with it from behind. N fell down and didn’t move again. The other boy bent over him close, then he dragged him away. Into a ditch. He didn’t know I’d been watching. I ran back to the rock and found Z there. The crash hadn’t hurt him, his coat was a bit torn and his hands were scratched.”

The defending counsel was the first to recover his speech.

“I propose that the charge against Z be dismissed.”

“One moment, Doctor,” the President broke in, turning to Z, who was still staring at the girl like a ghost. “Do we know that she is telling the truth?”

“She is,” murmured Z.

“Then did you too see this other boy striking N?”

“No, I didn’t see it.”

“Well!” The public prosecutor breathed again and leant back reassured.

“So it was you who struck him?” observed the defence.

The girl spoke quite calmly.

“It wasn’t me.”

“We’ll come back to that,” said the President. “I’d like to
hear now why you’ve concealed this until to-day, if you’re not guilty. Well?”

Both Z and the girl were silent for a moment. Then it was she, again, who spoke.

“Z took it on himself, because he thought it was me that’d killed N. He couldn’t believe it was somebody else.”

“And are we to believe that?”

She smiled again.

“I don’t know. That’s how it was, though.”

“And would you have sat quietly by and seen Z sent to prison?”

“Not quietly, sir. I’ve done enough crying. But I was so afraid of the reformatory again—and now I’ve told you he’s not guilty.”

“Why only now?”

“Because the teacher told the truth as well, I think.”

“Remarkable!” from the prosecutor.

“And what if the teacher hadn’t?” inquired the President.

“I thought,” came a sarcastic observation from the defending counsel, “I thought you loved Z. That’s very different from real love!”

There was a smile at this.

Eve faced the lawyer who had evoked it.

“No,” she said quietly. “I don’t love him.”

Z jumped up.

“I’ve never loved him,” she said, her voice a little stronger. Then she lowered her head. Z sat down again slowly, and looked at his right hand. He wanted to shield her, but she didn’t love him. He wanted to go to prison for her …

What was Z thinking of now? Of his forfeited career—as an inventor, or a mail pilot? Everything had happened amiss. Soon he would hate Eve.

“NOW,” CONTINUED THE PRESIDENT, AS THE examination of Eve proceeded. “You admit to having followed N with this stone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you wanted to kill him?”

“But I didn’t.”

“What did you do instead?”

“I’ve already said. A boy I hadn’t seen before came up, knocked me down, and went off after N with the stone.”

“Can you describe this boy in any way?”

“He went so quick I couldn’t—”

“Aha! The Mysterious Unknown!” interpolated the prosecutor.

“Would you recognize him again?” asked the President deprecatingly.

“Perhaps. I’m not sure—only I remember now he had bright round eyes, like a fish.”

I sprang up and repeated the word.

“What—what is it?” I heard from the President.

Every one was equally astounded.

I asked myself—what?

I was thinking of that illuminated death’s head. Cold times are coming—the Age of the Fish. The soul of man is
hardening till it will be like the face of a fish. Two bright, round eyes stared at me. Unblinking, lustreless.

T’s eyes.

I saw him standing at the open grave—and in the camp, too, with that same quiet, supercilious smile of scorn. Had he known all along that it was I who broke open the box? Had he too read the diary? and spied? and run after Z and N?

That strange, fixed smile.

I remained calm.

“What is it?” came the question, a second time.

Should I tell him that T was in my thoughts? Absurd. Why should T strike N dead? No motive.

“I’m sorry, your honour,” I said. “My nerves are a little on edge.”

“Understandable enough,” grinned the President.

I left the court. I knew they would acquit Z and sentence the girl. But I knew too that in the end, everything would come right.

The next day, or the next, proceedings would be instituted against me. For withholding information, and for being an accessory to theft. My position as a teacher would be suspended. I’d lose my bread and butter. The thought didn’t trouble me.

I might not have enough to eat.

It was comical how little anxiety I felt.

I thought of the bar where I could find Julius Caesar. It was cheap enough. But I didn’t get drunk there. I went back to my room and lay down. The fear of my room had quite gone.

Was this His dwelling now?

THERE IT WAS, IN THE MORNING PAPERS.

Z, convicted on a charge of being an accessory to theft, had, in view of mitigating circumstances, received only a short sentence. But the public prosecutor had instigated criminal proceedings against the girl, the charge being first-degree murder.

“The wanton creature obstinately maintained her innocence,” wrote the crime reporter, “but it is doubtful whether anyone present was convinced in the slightest degree by her screams. It is a notorious fact that whoever lies once will lie again. Z, the accused, did not even go so far as to offer her his hand when towards the end of the proceedings she tore herself from the wardress and rushed over to him, imploring his forgiveness for having never loved him.”

Ah, he hates her now, I thought. And now she is utterly alone—still crying? Don’t cry now, Eve: I believe you. Wait, I’ll hook the fish.

I didn’t quite know how to go about it, but it seemed to me that the sooner I got in touch with him, the better.

The post that morning brought me a letter from the authorities to the effect that I must keep away from the high school until the proceedings against me had been satisfactorily concluded. I supposed I had seen the high school
for the last time, since I obviously stood a scanty chance of acquittal; and in my case there were no mitigating circumstances. But all that meant nothing to me now: until I found him, I should constantly hear Eve’s cries.

A little shyly, my landlady brought in my breakfast. She’d read my testimony in the paper, and the city echoed with my name. The reporters were busy. “
TEACHER AIDS THEFT
” ran one of the headlines—and in one paper I found myself accused of moral guilt for the crime. No one was on my side. A good day, this, for Mr. N, the master-baker—provided the devil didn’t come for him last night.

Midday found me near the school. I dared no longer enter, waiting for the morning lessons to finish. It seemed ages before the boys came out. Some of my colleagues were among them. They looked away. And here was T, by himself. As I slowly crossed the road in his direction, he caught sight of me and hung on his step. For a moment—then he greeted me with a smile.

“I’m so glad I’ve run into you,” I said. “I’ve got several things we can talk over.”

“By all means, sir.”

He nodded politely.

“There’s not enough quiet out here in the street—can I invite you to have an ice with me somewhere?”

“Thank you, sir.”

We took our places in a café, where my companion ordered a lemon and strawberry ice. Even as he was eating it, the smile seemed to remain on his face. And suddenly I began.

“I wanted to have a word with you over the trial.”

Unperturbed, he dug his spoon into his ice-cream.

“D’you like it?” I murmured.

“Yes.”

We paused.

“Tell me,” I went on, “do you think it was the girl who murdered N?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So you don’t think that another boy could have done it?”

“No. She only invented that to wriggle out of it.”

And we paused again—until he put down his spoon for a moment and looked up at me doubtfully.

“What do you really want of me, sir?”

I spoke slowly, into those round eyes.

“I thought you might have an idea as to who the boy was.”

“Me? Why?”

I risked it.

“Because I know that you’re always spying,” I said.

“Yes,” he replied quietly. “I have observed—various things.”

He smiled again. Had he known all along about the box?

“Have you read the diary?” I asked.

He met my eyes.

“No. But I watched you, sir, when you slipped out of the camp and eavesdropped on Z and the girl.”

I felt very cold under his stare.

“You touched my face. I was standing behind you. You were terribly frightened, but I wasn’t at all.”

He took up his spoon again.

And suddenly it occurred to me that he wasn’t relishing my confusion. From time to time he threw me a thoughtful glance, as if he wanted to learn something from me.

Curious—I thought of a hunter watching with infinite patience, and then, when certain of his mark, pulling the trigger. A hunter who found no thrill in his sport.

But why should T turn hunter?

“Were you on good terms with N?” I asked.

“Yes. Very good terms.”

How dearly I should have liked to ask him why he had struck N and killed him!

“You’re speaking to me, sir,” he told me suddenly, “as if I were the other boy—as if I’d killed N. Although you’re aware that no one knows what the other boy looks like—if he exists at all. Even the girl can only say he had eyes like a fish—and I haven’t. They’re more like the eyes of a doe, my mother and everybody says so. Why do you smile, sir? I should say that rather than me, it’s you who’ve got eyes like a fish—”

“Me?”

“Don’t you know, then, sir, the nickname you’ve got in school? Haven’t you ever heard it? It’s ‘the fish.’ ”

He nodded as he smiled.

“Yes, really, sir—because you always have such an expressionless face. One never knows what you’re thinking—or whether you really trouble about anyone. We always say the teacher just looks on, a man could be run over in the street, and he’d just watch him lying there and he wouldn’t do a thing, even if the other fellow were dying—”

He came to a sudden stop, as if he’d said too much, and for a fraction of a second there was fear in his eyes as he glanced at me.

Why fear?

Ah, you almost had the hook in your mouth, but you didn’t bite, for you saw the line, and you swam down into
your depths again. But if you aren’t hooked, you’ve given yourself away and I’ll catch you yet …

He got up.

“I must go home now, sir, my lunch will be waiting. If I’m late, I’ll get into a row.”

With a word of thanks for the ice, he left me. I watched him out of sight, and could hear the girl crying.

ON WAKING NEXT MORNING, I SEEMED TO emerge from a mist of amorphous and forgotten dreams.

The Greatest Plebeian’s birthday meant a holiday today, and the town was decked out with flags and streamers. Through the streets marched the young girls who had searched for the lost airman, the boys who would have left the negroes to die, and their parents, who believed the lies inscribed upon their banners. Even the sceptical joined in the march and kept time with the rest—spineless divisions under an idiot’s command. As they marched, they sang—of a bird fluttering upon a hero’s grave, of a soldier suffocating in the fumes of poison gas, of brown girls and black girls who lived on filth, of an enemy that only existed in their minds. With their songs, the liars and the debased celebrated the day on which the Great Plebeian had been born.

From my window too, a flag was waving. I noticed it with a certain gratification: I had hung it out the night before. For if you are ruled by the lawless and the debased you had better adopt their methods or they might flay you alive. You must drape your home with flags—even if you’ve a home no longer. When submissiveness is the solitary trait in the human character that those who rule will tolerate, truth flies away and lies creep in—the lies that engender
sin. But don’t wait—hang out the flags. Better bread than death.