Alone in Berlin (Penguin Modern Classics)

62

The Trial: Prosecutor Pinscher

If Judge Feisler’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, Feisler 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, Feisler 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 Feisler 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 ageing defence attorney, who got to his feet and said, ‘Please your Honour, 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.’

And now Pinscher has got his teeth into Anna Quangel.

‘No!’ cries Anna Quangel, and raises her hands imploringly. ‘Don’t say that! I never did anything like that!’

‘You never did that?’ yaps Pinscher. ‘So what do you call it when you put up the so-called fiancée of your son overnight not once, but on numerous occasions? Do we take it you took your son to bed with you on those occasions? Eh? Or where did Trudel sleep? You know she’s dead now, don’t you? Otherwise that harlot, that whore who helped your husband commit his crimes, would be here in the dock with you!’

The mention of Trudel, though, gives Frau Quangel fresh courage. She says, not to the prosecutor, but to the court at large: ‘Yes, thanks be to God that Trudel is dead, that she isn’t alive to witness this degenerate…’

‘Watch your language, accused, I warn you!’

‘She was a lovely, decent girl…’

‘Who aborted her five-month-old baby, because she didn’t want to give the government any soldiers!’

‘She didn’t abort it at all, she was miserable after it died!’

‘She admitted it herself!’

‘I don’t believe you.’

The prosecutor screams, ‘Do you think we care what you do or don’t believe! I warn you to change your tone, accused, otherwise you will experience something extremely unpleasant! Frau Hergesell’s statement was taken by Inspector Laub. A Gestapo inspector does not tell lies!’

Pinscher glowered menacingly round the courtroom.

‘Now I ask you again to tell me, accused: Did your son have relations with the girl or not?’

‘I’m not a snoop. That’s not what a mother does.’

‘But you had a duty to care! If you tolerated your son’s immoral behaviour within your four walls, you were making yourself guilty of procuring; that’s what the law says.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that. What I do know is that there was a war, and there was a chance my son would die. In our circles that’s the way it works: if a couple are engaged or as good as engaged, and there’s a war, then we might turn a blind eye.’

‘Aha, so you admit it, accused! You knew about the immoral relations, and you tolerated them! And then you call it turning a blind eye. The law calls it procuring for immoral purposes, and a mother who tolerates such a thing deserves our condemnation!’

‘Oh, does she? Then I should like to know,’ says Anna Quangel quite fearlessly, and with a steady voice, ‘what the law has to say about the goings-on at the Bubi-drück-mich-verein?’^∗

General laughter…

‘And what the SA get up to with their girls…’

The laughter dies.

‘And the SS – we hear the SS violates Jewish women before shooting them…’

Deathly silence…

And then pandemonium breaks loose. People start yelling. Some of the spectators clamber into the dock to assault the accused.

Otto Quangel has jumped to his feet, ready to run to the aid of his wife.

His guard and his missing braces hinder him.

The judge stands and motions wildly for silence.

The assistant judges talk among themselves.

The prosecutor Pinscher is yapping away, but no one can hear a word.

Finally, Anna Quangel is dragged out of the court, the noise abates, and the judges withdraw to consult.

Five minutes later, they return.

‘The accused Anna Quangel is excluded from participation in the trial against her. She will remain shackled from now on, and under solitary confinement until further notice. A regimen of bread and water, and only every other day.’

The trial continues.