The Library Paradox

by Catherine Shaw

  ‘I have,’ I said, surprised at the sudden change of topic. ‘I remember reading an exquisite story by her in Woman’s World. Why do you mention her?’

  ‘Because she is the writer who has best expressed what I’m trying to tell you. Have you read her novel Reuben Sachs? No relation – except for the race.’

  ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘I didn’t realise she was a Jewish writer.’

  She laughed bitterly. ‘She isn’t any more,’ she said. ‘She committed suicide, and no wonder. And that’s why I want to become a writer. I only wish I could express, in my writing, something of what she did. Read what she wrote, Vanessa. I have her book at home; I’ll give it to you. You have to know what it’s like. I’m telling you this because you have to understand why, when Jonathan came to King’s three years ago and heard about Professor Ralston, the famous anti-Semite history professor, he started going to his lectures. And he came to believe that Professor Ralston was the anonymous witness.’

  ‘How did he find out?’ I asked, reluctant to know, reluctant to hear the answer.

  ‘I don’t know exactly,’ she replied. ‘He went to several lectures; he became familiar with the professor’s library, and figured it out somehow. He told me over a year ago. He said that he didn’t have any proof, but felt certain.’

  ‘Amy – he hadn’t promised your uncle to take revenge, had he?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said desperately. ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t believe my uncle would ask him to do that! And if he had – if he had, I’m sure Jonathan would have told me.’ But her voice shook with doubt.

  ‘Do you know why I was looking for Rebecca Gad and her mother?’ I asked. ‘Because I thought that one of them might have killed the professor. And do you know why? Not because of their grievance against him. That would hardly explain why the murder should happen now, ten years later. Of course, the identity of the witness might have only just been discovered, but it seems too much of a coincidence that this would happen just when Baruch Gad was about to be freed. It occurred to me that someone who loved him, knowing he would be out of prison in another month, may have wished to prevent him from taking justice into his own hands, avenging his brother and, as a consequence, returning for the rest of his life to the prison cell from which he had only just emerged. That is why I was looking for Britta and Rebecca.’

  ‘I didn’t do that!’ cried Rivka, starting out of her chair. David, who was listening silently, took her hand reassuringly.

  ‘No – she’s asking if that is what Jonathan did,’ said Amy.

  ‘I am asking you if you know the answer,’ I said. ‘Who killed Professor Ralston?’

  ‘How can I know? It couldn’t have been Jonathan, and it wasn’t me – I don’t know. I don’t know!’ Rivka said desperately.

  ‘I don’t know either,’ whispered Amy. ‘Vanessa – I have asked myself about Jonathan, honestly, I have. Yet – he’s my brother! I’m five years older than he is, I’ve known him since he was a baby. He can’t have done it. It’s impossible.’

  ‘Have you really asked yourself about him?’ I said. ‘Have you asked yourself exactly what he was doing, why he was going to the professor’s library on that day? I saw him this morning, and I asked him, but he refused to say.’

  ‘I have thought about it. I have wondered. But I think it must have been a coincidence,’ she said after a moment’s hesitation. ‘I told you that he went there sometimes, because he tried to frequent anti-Semitic circles, in order to seek … for …’

  ‘To seek for the identity of the witness,’ I completed. ‘But you told me he knew it already over a year ago. Why go to the library now?’

  The two girls faced me silently.

  ‘Did Jonathan tell his uncle that he had discovered the witness?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, he did, right away. My uncle thought of nothing else. He lived for that; he pressed him at each visit,’ said Amy. ‘Jonathan told him as soon as he was sure.’

  ‘What do you think your uncle would have done when he came out of jail, if the professor had not been killed?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know, how can I know? I have not seen my uncle since I was a child. I can’t say I know him any more. I don’t know what he would have done,’ said Amy with anguish.

  ‘Our family is not made of murderers!’ exclaimed Rivka with a fury that sat oddly, and rather tragically, on her sweet features. ‘And anyway, whatever he would have done, he didn’t do it!’ Standing up, she took the baby back from me and hugged it defensively.

  ‘If Jonathan intended to – or thought he would – do something – for Uncle Baruch, then surely Uncle Baruch would know it,’ said Amy. ‘If only we could ask him.’

  ‘Perhaps I can ask him. I am going to see him tomorrow,’ I said, remembering it suddenly. ‘I meant to ask him where Britta and Rebecca were, but I don’t need to ask him that now.’

  ‘Tell him what has happened to Jonathan!’ exclaimed Rivka. ‘Ask him, ask him if he knows anything at all about all this. I don’t know what he asked Jonathan to do, or why Jonathan was going to see Professor Ralston, but Uncle Baruch may know. And if he knows that Jonathan has been arrested, he will tell us!’

  ‘I will ask him,’ I said. ‘But it is awkward. Prison visits are overseen by a guard who listens to every word. In fact, how could Jonathan ever tell him about the witness? That was very risky, wasn’t it? Even if your uncle did not care about his own life any more, should he have attempted anything at all against the professor later on, Jonathan’s words would have been recalled and Jonathan would undoubtedly have been arrested as a party to the murder.’

  ‘Of course. They both realised that. They had a code word,’ Amy told me. ‘And they never used names. That was the rule.’

  ‘What was the word?’ I said quickly. ‘I will need to use it. I cannot ask him anything directly, in front of the guard.’

  ‘They always referred to the witness as “the black dog”,’ she said. ‘They talked about him as though it referred to a dog that my uncle cared about, and he wanted to know what had become of it. And sometimes they referred to Professor Ralston as though he was the owner of the dog.’

  ‘So for instance, I can tell him that the black dog is dead?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Amy. ‘He is certain to understand that. But how can you tell him that Jonathan has been arrested? How can you tell him that Jonathan was visiting the black dog and we need to know why? How will you ever make him understand? The black dog isn’t enough! How will you refer to Jonathan?’

  ‘Call him “Yoni”,’ said Rivka quickly. ‘Our uncles always called him that when we were small. It’s short for “Yonatan”, the Hebrew form of Jonathan.’

  ‘Yoni,’ I said. ‘That will be useful. You’ll see, I will manage to ask him, by hook or by crook.’

  ‘But he won’t know the answer,’ said David, intervening in the conversation warmly and unexpectedly. ‘Because there isn’t anything to know! Jonathan didn’t kill that monster of a professor. I can’t guess what happened that day, or what he was doing there, but it wasn’t for the reason you think. You girls are blinded because you’re so afraid for him. But I know that Jonathan is not a murderer. He does not have the temperament, the spirit of a killer. Trust me, the truth is something different. We’ll see Reb Avrom on Purim – and we’ll find it out from him!’

  London, Wednesday, March 18th, 1896

  I awoke with my mind full of anxiety about the coming visit with Baruch Gad, a visit whose goal had been entirely modified by yesterday’s discovery. Looking at the clock, however, I remembered suddenly that before that, I was scheduled to meet Bernard Lazare at the Savoy.

  I dressed with extra care, partly in order not to feel shamefully out of place in such a grand place as the Savoy, and partly in the hopes of impressing the prison officials with a sense of my distinction, so as to avoid any possibility of a last-minute refusal. After some hesitation, I even took the gold locket containing miniatures of Cedric and Cecily – a
jewel I never leave behind and yet very rarely wear, so precious is it to me – and tied the black velvet ribbon around my neck. Thus protected, I descended, relieved to perceive that it was not exactly raining, although the air was damp with a tiring grey fog. Making my way to the Strand, I entered the imposing doors somewhat nervously. The grand entrance, the sumptuous decor, the elegant guests and the discreet but observant footmen impressed me greatly, but the consciousness of the locket and the rich but sober dark-grey stuff of my dress aided me to remain as dignified as though I were used to such places. I worried that my boots were muddy, although I had scraped them conscientiously on the mat before entering, but as they were entirely invisible in any case, I tried to forget about them, and stood scanning the area for those I had come to meet.

  I saw Mr Lazare almost at once, hurrying towards me with his quick, lively step, holding his cane but not using it. He transferred a folder containing a sheaf of papers from one hand to the other as he approached, and shook mine vigorously.

  ‘How are you, how are you?’ he said eagerly. ‘I have received a message from Professor Taylor. Unfortunately, he will not be able to join us here after all. His wife is unwell. It is a shame. Still, let us talk without him. Come here, to one of these little tables.’

  Some half-conscious scruple caused me to hesitate for the briefest moment. To meet a distinguished London professor and a well-known journalist in the public foyer of the Savoy for an important discussion was one thing, whereas to have a rendezvous alone with a mysterious foreigner in a place where I was acquainted with no one was another. Already I feel often enough that I am treading on the very edges of what is considered proper – tea alone at Zoedone’s, taking four-wheelers across London by myself (although not hansoms – those two-wheelers are really suggestive beyond even the most permissive bounds of propriety), dropping into Scotland Yard … but as long as no one is explicitly observing or reproaching me, I tend not to bother about it. Now, however, I wondered what Mr Lazare would think of the situation. I did not want our conversation to be rendered awkward by disrespect for the social conventions. However, he was smiling and beckoning me forward with no sign of being ill at ease, and I really had no intention of cancelling our meeting, so I pushed my scruples aside and followed him into the inner part of the foyer. He is a Frenchman anyway. It is all probably entirely different over there.

  ‘Let us settle here,’ he said, drawing me towards one of the many low tables surrounded by armchairs which filled the immense, luxuriously chandeliered and carpeted area. We sat down, and taking his large folder upon his knee, he began to undo its clasps with eager fingers.

  ‘I have brought some things to show you,’ he said, opening it, but then he covered the contents quickly with his hand, as a feather-light step sounded near us and a smooth voice enquired if we wished for tea.

  I felt that Mr Lazare wanted no interruptions, but I really wanted a cup of tea, so I intimated as much to the waiter discreetly, then composed myself again to seriousness.

  ‘I first want you to have a look at these,’ he said when silence had returned. ‘They are copies of the letters that Dreyfus has written to his wife since he has been incarcerated.’

  ‘I have seen them already,’ I said, glancing at the first one.

  ‘Ah, is it Professor Taylor who showed you the copies I gave him?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, he showed them to me. He is deeply moved by them,’ I said.

  ‘Professor Taylor is a very interesting person and a valuable ally,’ he said. ‘Although he believes in Dreyfus’s innocence and even wrote an article or two in the early days of the conflict, he has not joined our group, nor does he openly take any action now. Yet I feel that he follows the story with a deep personal concern. I do not know exactly why, but I am glad to keep in contact with him. I feel that the day may come when he may be of great help to us.’

  ‘Yes,’ I murmured, wondering suddenly.

  ‘And you?’ he continued. ‘Are you also on our side in the Dreyfus affair?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ I said resolutely, even though I had not explicitly asked myself the question until that very moment. ‘If you mean, do I believe that he is an innocent victim of error, yes, I have come to believe that now. I don’t know if there is anything I could do to help your cause, though.’

  ‘The intention is enough. I shall be happy if I am able to help you, in your own cause. Would you like to ask me any particular questions?’

  ‘I have two questions to ask you,’ I said. ‘The first concerns a certain folder I found in Professor Ralston’s study, bearing the initials B.L.’

  ‘Ah, my initials,’ he said with a small smile.

  ‘It was well used,’ I continued, ‘and had clearly once held a rather thick sheaf of papers, but it had been emptied out. Only one paper had remained inside, having become caught on the inner part of the clasp. I copied it here.’ Opening my notebook, I showed him the list of ritual murder cases. He scanned it with an air of open disgust which overlay something less visible but equally present: sadness.

  ‘What can I tell you about this?’ he said finally. ‘Even though I did not know that Ralston had done research on these things, I am not at all surprised by it.’

  ‘I have discovered that he was interested in these cases for a more practical reason than just research,’ I said, wondering how much I ought to tell him about the professor’s participation in the Gad trial, if he were not in fact aware of it.

  ‘Is that so?’ he replied.

  ‘You don’t know anything about it?’ I asked him. ‘I thought you might, because of the initials B.L., which made me think that the folder contained material that had something to do with you. The same initials appeared on the folder containing your correspondence with him. He was a very organised man. In fact, he seemed to preserve and classify all his papers very carefully, so I am not sure why he emptied out this one particular folder. I really hoped you might know something about it.’

  ‘I have no idea, and cannot explain why my initials should be there. It is most strange – and even rather offensive, if I may say so,’ he exclaimed indignantly. ‘Could it not simply have been an old folder affected to a new usage?’

  ‘I really don’t think so,’ I said, ‘all the folders were labelled with care, and there were some whose labels had been modified, but this one bore its original inscription.’

  ‘I cannot explain it,’ he said again. ‘Perhaps he saw the Dreyfus affair as being a case of this type, although it is not really comparable. Yet if that were so, he would probably have added it to the list.’

  ‘He was actually particularly interested in this last case, the James Wilson one,’ I told him. ‘I don’t suppose there could be some connection between the two cases?’

  ‘They are both cases of victimisation of Jews,’ he said, ‘but all of the ones on this list are blood libel cases. Even the biggest stretch of the imagination cannot make the Dreyfus affair into a blood libel case. The man is accused of treason, not murder.’

  ‘Oh!’ I exclaimed suddenly, as his words sank in. ‘What did you call these cases?’

  ‘What? What did I say?’

  ‘These cases here – these ritual murder cases. What did you call them? Blood libel?’

  ‘Blood libel; that is a common term to describe such cases,’ he said, looking at me in surprise. ‘Have you never heard the words before?’

  ‘Maybe I have,’ I said, wondering if I had not heard those words from Rivka yesterday. ‘But I didn’t pay attention. Usually I have seen them referred to as ritual murder,’ I said. ‘Blood libel – I just noticed those words.’

  ‘Ah – I see what you mean.’ He looked at me with sudden understanding. ‘It is an unpleasant association with my initials,’ he added with a disgruntled air. ‘I never thought of it before. It is not at all pleasing. However, the observation appears to have answered your question. The B.L. on the folder containing this paper is unlikely to have referred to anything else.’

&
nbsp; ‘I am afraid so,’ I said with a sigh. ‘That means that the folder bears no relation to you whatsoever.’ Another clue gone, I thought sadly. ‘Well, I must put that idea aside, then, and ask you my second question. I told you yesterday that Professor Ralston appeared to have been in the process of writing to you when he was killed. I want to examine the possibility of whether the letter you sent to him, or the information it contained, had any bearing on his death. I do know that he published a number of virulently anti-Dreyfus articles in the British press. He hadn’t done so in many months, but I presume that the document you wrote to him about, that you mentioned in your lecture of yesterday, might cause the case to be reopened, and therefore might also have made him begin his public activities again?’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ he replied. ‘From everything I have been able to learn – my knowledge is not yet as detailed as it should be, for information only reaches me through several layers of leaks from within the department of secret services of the Army – still, it appears to be certain that the document that has been discovered is of great importance, not only for Dreyfus himself, but for our national security, since the traitor appears to be continuing his activities. I intend to leave no stone unturned until I find out everything there is to know about it.’

  ‘So you believe that it is really serious, and you communicated this feeling to Professor Ralston in your letter, and it seems as probable to you as it does to me that he was going to fight it.’

  ‘More than probable. It is certain. On the day he received my letter, instead of replying to me at once, he dashed off a letter to a person in Paris who is especially concerned with attempting to obtain a revision of the Dreyfus trial.’

  ‘Who was it?’ I asked quickly.

  ‘The chief rabbi of France, Zadoc Kahn. He is an extraordinary man, as he should be, for it is not easy to be a chief rabbi nowadays. We have the same problem in France that you have here in England; massive immigration from the East. Large waves of Jews have arrived in the last ten or twenty years. Rabbi Kahn has formed a massive organisation to relocate them in friendlier countries: Argentina, Brazil, Canada.’