Alone in Berlin (Penguin Modern Classics)

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 holding 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 Feisler 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 neighbour 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.

Quangel took the last few steps, reached out, and grabbed the little package, concealing it first in the palm of his hand, then in his trouser pocket. It had a firm feeling. He turned round and saw that the guards hadn’t remarked his absence. A door shut at the back of the public gallery, and the judge was gone.

Quangel started to wander back to his place. He was excited and his heart was pounding. It was so unlikely that this adventure was going to end well. What had seemed so important to the judge that he had risked so much in slipping it to him?

Quangel was only a few yards from his place when one of the guards finally noticed him. He gave a jump, looked in confusion at Quangel’s seat as though to confirm that the accused wasn’t actually sitting in it, and then he almost shouted in alarm, ‘What are you doing wandering around?’

The other guard spun round, too, and stared at Quangel. They both stood there, rooted to the spot in bewilderment; it didn’t even occur to them to lead the prisoner back.

‘I want to be excused, officer!’ said Quangel.

But while the guard growled, ‘Well, kindly ask, the next time! You don’t just go shuffling off by yourself!’ – while the guard was still talking, Quangel suddenly thought that he didn’t want to be any better off than Anna. Let them announce their verdict without the presence of the two principals – it would spoil their fun. He, Quangel, wasn’t in the least curious; he knew what was coming. But he was curious to learn what the judge had slipped him.

The guards had come up alongside Quangel and taken his arms, while he held up his trousers.

Quangel looked at them icily, and said, ‘Fuck Hitler!’

‘What?’ They were stunned, didn’t believe their ears.

And Quangel, very fast and very loud, ‘Fuck Hitler! Fuck Göring! Fuck Goebbels, you piece of shit! Fuck Streicher!’

A punch on the jaw prevented him from continuing with this litany. The two policemen lugged the unconscious Quangel out of the court.

And so it came about that Judge Feisler ended up passing sentence on the two accused in absentia. In vain had he ignored Quangel’s insulting behaviour to his defence attorney. And Quangel was right: Feisler didn’t enjoy passing sentence without being able to look into the faces of the accused. He had thought up such fine insults.

Feisler was still speaking in court when Quangel opened his eyes in his cell. His chin hurt, his whole head hurt, he could barely remember what had happened. His hand slid into his trouser pocket. Thank God, the little package was still there.

He heard the footfall of the sentry in the corridor, and then it stopped, and there was a quiet scraping sound from the door: the peephole cover being slid aside. Quangel shut his eyes and remained stretched out as though still unconscious. After a seemingly endless interval, there was a second scraping sound, and then the renewed footfall of the sentry…

The peephole was shut; the sentry wouldn’t be looking in for another two or three minutes.

Quangel reached into his pocket and pulled out the little package. He slipped off the thread that tied it and unfolded the piece of paper to find a glass vial. On the paper was a typed note: ‘Cyanide, kills painlessly in seconds. Hide it in your mouth. Your wife will be similarly provided for. Destroy this note!’

Quangel smiled. The good old man! The lovely old man! He put the note in his mouth, chewed it until it was sodden with spittle, then swallowed it.

He gazed curiously at the vial, with its clear contents. Swift, painless death, he mused. Oh, if they knew! And Anna provided for as well. He really does think of everything. Good old man!

He put the glass vial in his mouth. After trying various places, he found he could best lodge it in his cheek beside his jawbone, like a plug of tobacco – many of the workers in the furniture factory had chewed. He felt his cheek. No, there was no bump there. And if they did spot something, he would crunch the glass and swallow before they could take it from him.

Quangel smiled again. Now he felt really free. Now they had no more power over him!