The Library Paradox

by Catherine Shaw

  ‘I call this witness for the defence,’ he said formally to the magistrate. I had the impression, however, that he looked rather taken aback. Obviously he had no idea what role the rabbi played in the tale unfolding before us. He glanced quickly at Jonathan. I followed his look, and saw that Jonathan’s face had lit up with eager hope.

  There was a slightly embarrassing pother while the rabbi was sworn in. A Bible was produced and hastily put aside. The magistrate had a Torah brought out, and the swearing took place.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ was Sir Morris’s first question.

  ‘I speak some English,’ was the quiet reply.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Moyshe Avrom.’

  ‘Your age?’

  ‘Seventy-nine.’

  ‘How long have you been living in this country?’

  ‘For six years now.’

  ‘Where did you live before?’

  ‘In Poland.’

  ‘Why did you emigrate?’

  ‘Life was too difficult, and the danger of pogroms was too great.’

  ‘Did you bring your family with you?’

  ‘Yes, I came with my wife, two sons, one daughter, and their nine children.’

  ‘Where do you presently reside?’

  ‘Brick Lane, in the East End of London.’

  ‘What is your occupation?’

  ‘I am a Hassidic rebbe,’ he said quietly.

  There was a pause, as Sir Morris seemed to decide that the time had come to broach the question of the man’s involvement in the case presently before the court.

  ‘Do you know some fact or some piece of information concerning the death of Professor Gerard Ralston of King’s College?’ he finally asked, point-blank.

  ‘Concerning his death, I know nothing. But I was with him briefly on the evening of March 6th,’ replied the rabbi calmly. ‘I have heard that he died immediately after my departure.’

  A murmur ran around the crowd.

  ‘Are you able to tell us exactly at what time you saw the professor, how much time you spent with him, and at what time you left the library?’

  ‘I arrived at about a quarter to five. I left at five o’clock exactly.’

  ‘How can you be so certain of the precise time of your departure?’

  ‘I looked at my watch as I walked away.’

  ‘Did you see anyone on your way out of the library?’

  ‘I remember passing a young man, who was coming in at the street gate just as I was going out of it.’

  ‘Were you acquainted with that young man?’ asked Sir Morris.

  ‘No. I do not know who he is.’

  ‘Do you see that young man in this room now?’

  The rabbi looked slowly around the assembled lawyers and witnesses before raising his eyes to the dock. ‘He is there,’ he said finally, pointing to Jonathan with quiet poise.

  Sir Morris then took a deep breath.

  ‘When you left Professor Gerard Ralston at five o’clock,’ he enunciated clearly and purposefully, ‘was he alive and well?’

  An infinitesimal flicker of time passed before the rabbi responded,

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Are you aware that when Jonathan Sachs, the young man sitting in the dock over there, whom you saw entering the gate, reached the library and went inside, he found the professor dead, shot through the heart?’

  ‘I had heard only a rumour of this fact. I do not know precisely what occurred. But that rumour is what made me come here today.’

  This answer caused a stir of approval among the assembled listeners. Sir Morris took advantage of it immediately.

  ‘You were not summoned by the police?’

  ‘Certainly not. I have had no contact with the police.’

  ‘That answer corresponds with what we heard before,’ said Sir Morris with satisfaction. ‘Indeed, the police have shown themselves to be singularly incapable of discovering this witness, and even shed doubt upon his existence.’ He smiled and looked around to see the effect of his words, but nobody else was interested, because they were merely impatient to hear the continuation of the rabbi’s story.

  ‘Can you tell us exactly why you went to see Professor Ralston, and what occurred during your visit?’ was the next question.

  The tension in the room increased considerably. There was a little buzz.

  ‘I had heard that Professor Ralston was a well-known anti-Semite,’ said the rabbi. ‘I had been told that in reaction to the discovery of a new document, he was preparing to renew his attacks against Captain Dreyfus, a French Jew wrongly convicted of treason. A French colleague of mine close to Captain Dreyfus asked me if I could attempt to persuade the professor to cease his attacks against our community. So I went.’

  ‘You wished to persuade him to stop his anti-Semitic activities?’

  ‘Yes. In particular those he was preparing against Dreyfus.’

  ‘Did you expect him to listen to you?’ said Sir Morris, visibly surprised.

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘And he did listen?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  Emily squeezed my hand, containing her excitement with difficulty. ‘Of course, he had to listen,’ she whispered into my ear.

  ‘And how did he react to your suggestions?’ asked Sir Morris.

  ‘He was very angry,’ said the rabbi, causing a small commotion.

  ‘I can imagine that,’ said Sir Morris, ignoring it. ‘And how did your interview end?’

  ‘When I had finished telling the professor what I wanted to tell him, I said goodbye and left,’ said the rabbi simply.

  ‘You left? You walked away?’

  ‘Yes. I walked out of his study and down the path and out of the gate and down the street and took the omnibus home.’

  ‘You saw no one, apart from Mr Sachs there?’

  ‘No one at all until I reached the street.’

  ‘And you had no idea the professor lay dead behind you?’

  ‘No. Otherwise I should not have left, but remained to aid the dying man.’

  ‘Too brazen!’ murmured the woman sitting near me. ‘And Sir Morris is helping him. Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’ She aimed a vinegary sneer in my direction but I ignored her wrathfully.

  ‘There was no one in the library? Are you sure? No one else in the professor’s study?’

  ‘No one. Both rooms were absolutely empty. If they had not been, I would not have spoken to the professor.’

  ‘Did you hear anything in the room behind you after you left it?’ insisted Sir Morris. ‘Voices or cries?’

  ‘I believe I heard the professor shouting something after me as I walked out,’ he replied. ‘But I am somewhat hard of hearing. I did not catch the precise words.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘We appear to be at a standstill,’ observed the magistrate dryly.

  ‘Let me cross-examine, my Lord!’ cried Mr Andrews.

  ‘Are we ready to proceed to cross-examination?’ enquired the magistrate of Sir Morris.

  Sir Morris wiped his forehead and sighed.

  ‘Yes,’ he said wearily.

  ‘Are you acquainted with the accused?’ said Mr Andrews aggressively, pointing a crooked finger at the dock.

  ‘No. I have never met him.’

  ‘I put it to you that you are acquainted with him, or at least with relatives or friends of his, and that they organised your appearance here today in order for your testimony to exonerate him. I put it to you that you were never at Professor Ralston’s library.’

  ‘That is false,’ said the rabbi.

  ‘I put it to you that you are an accomplice of the accused and your purpose here today is to give him an alibi.’

  ‘That is false,’ he said again.

  ‘Then tell us how you come to be here today?’

  ‘I heard about the arrest of a young man for the murder of Professor Ralston, and learnt that the murder had occurred just after I was with him. I did not know exactl
y how my testimony could be useful, but I felt it a duty to present it here. I meant to arrive at the beginning of the proceedings, but I had some difficulty in finding my way here. I do not go about much in London.’

  ‘Yes, but who told you? Who told you about it? Who told you it was here? Who told you to come?’ persisted Mr Andrews.

  ‘A young woman unknown to me,’ replied the rabbi.

  ‘A young woman unknown to you,’ repeated Mr Andrews sarcastically. ‘Can you tell us what she looked like?’

  ‘She was veiled,’ he replied.

  ‘A mysterious veiled young woman! Well, well. And under oath, you swear that you do not know who she was.’

  ‘Yes. I did not know her at all. I do not know who she was, nor how she was able to guess that I was the rabbi seen coming out of the library. This is as mysterious to me as it is to you.’

  ‘Fishy, rather than mysterious, I would call it,’ said Mr Andrews. ‘I put it to you that you were nowhere near the library on March 6th, and had never heard anything about it, and that the young woman, some friend of the accused in the dock here, came to persuade or bribe you to say that you were, in order to get him out of trouble.’

  ‘That is false.’

  ‘Can you prove it?’

  ‘The young woman spoke to me in front of a large number of witnesses, in front of a room full of people, in fact, who can describe to you exactly what she said.’

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘She told the story of the murder, the rabbi seen coming out of the library by the young man going in, the young man discovering the body and then being himself arrested. She told me that the case was to come before the court on this day, at this time, in this place. All of this was said in public.’

  Mr Andrews turned suddenly and sharply towards Jonathan.

  ‘Who was she?’ he barked.

  Almost involuntarily, Jonathan glanced up towards me. Mr Andrews looked up, following his gaze. I stood up.

  ‘It was I,’ I said.

  ‘And who are you?’

  ‘Wait, wait,’ said the magistrate. ‘If this young woman is a relevant witness, we must have her called and sworn in.’

  An usher came to fetch me and led me downstairs and along corridors to enter the courtroom by the door used for witnesses. The rabbi was sent to sit on the witness bench, and I was sworn in. The Torah, which was lying on the clerk’s desk next to his hand, was mistakenly offered to me for use instead of the Bible. I said nothing and swore by it quietly.

  Under Mr Andrews’ sharp questioning, I explained that I was a private detective who had been called in to investigate the murder. I said I had been employed by Professor Taylor and Professor Hudson, omitting any mention of my personal acquaintance and friendship with Jonathan. I then proceeded to explain how, with the aid of ‘friends in the East End’, we had traced back the telling of the Peretz tale in order to discover the rabbi. I took care to avoid any allusion to the relationship between Rivka and Baruch Gad and Jonathan, for I knew that if this fact came out, my own testimony would become highly suspect. But my apparently objective involvement spoke for me. The magistrate appeared to accept my testimony as truth, which more or less obliged Mr Andrews to reluctantly do the same. Disgruntled, he sent me to sit down upon the witness bench, and called up the rabbi once again.

  ‘There is another question I would like to ask you,’ he said. ‘I want to know exactly what arguments you presented to the professor to induce him to cease those anti-Semitic activities of his that you disapproved of so highly. You say that he was angry at what you told him. What did you say to make him angry? Why did he not simply dismiss your arguments with a laugh?’

  The rabbi did not say anything.

  ‘Answer the question,’ said the magistrate.

  ‘He cannot answer it,’ said Mr Andrews. ‘There is no answer. It’s all a put-up job. This man ought to be arrested as an accomplice.’

  ‘Will you answer the question?’ said the magistrate again, a little more sharply.

  ‘I cannot,’ he said.

  He would not speak of his daughter!

  Yet there was someone else here who knew the truth. I stared anxiously at the man I took to be Professor Ralston’s father. He, of all people, must know what the rabbi had come to tell his son – must he not? Why did he not speak? To my surprise, his face was blank and weary and showed no sign of recognition nor of understanding. What was happening? Was this some other man, not the professor’s father? Or was my idea that the rabbi’s daughter was the professor’s mother entirely wrong? Or could it be that he simply did not recognise his wife’s father? Why, of course! They had probably never met! The rabbi would not have frequented the home of the Christian man who had stolen his daughter, either before or after their marriage. He would never have wanted to see him. The rabbi was almost certainly unaware that he stood facing that very man at this moment, only a few yards away. And Professor Ralston’s father was equally unaware that he was vaguely staring at his own father-in-law. Of course he knew that he had married a Jewish girl, but he probably did not imagine that anyone else could know of it.

  ‘This man should be arrested!’ said Mr Andrews again.

  I felt that I must intervene. Only the full truth could elucidate what had really happened! Because of his refusal ever to mention his errant daughter, the rabbi would not explain what he had said to the professor, and what had passed between them.

  The magistrate was becoming impatient. Turning rather coldly to the rabbi, he said, ‘Your silence is most suspicious, and your story is subject to doubt.’

  ‘They are accomplices. Do not allow them to go free by swearing to a story in which each of them provides an alibi to the other!’ said Mr Andrews shrilly.

  The rabbi’s stubbornness was too much for me. He may not have fully realised his own danger, but I did. At this rate, he was certain to be arrested the moment he left the courtroom. I rose to my feet.

  ‘I can tell you what he told Professor Ralston!’ I cried loudly.

  Everyone in the courtroom gasped. The magistrate banged his gavel out of pure reflex, then looked at me.

  ‘Put this woman back on the stand,’ he said.

  I joined the rabbi on the stand.

  ‘The rabbi told Professor Ralston that he was his grandfather. His daughter was the professor’s mother,’ I said concisely, trying to remain poised and hoping that I was not making a gigantic mistake based on a dream and a vague photographic similarity. My words caused the greatest commotion in the public gallery that had been heard yet.

  ‘How can that be?’ said the magistrate, looking at me as though I must be insane. But the elderly gentleman next to Mr Upp was slowly rising from the bench.

  ‘I am Gerard Ralston’s father,’ he said. ‘I have something to say.’

  ‘Call this witness to the stand,’ said the magistrate with annoyance. ‘I wish to have all these witnesses confronted.’

  I sat down, and the professor was sworn in.

  ‘I call Professor Ralston senior, father of the deceased,’ said Mr Andrews, ‘in order to confront his statement with that of the witnesses previously heard. Is this rabbi your father-in-law?’

  ‘I never met my wife’s father,’ said the grey-haired professor, scrutinising the rabbi. ‘But his name was Moses Abraham, and he lived in the Polish village of Dembitsa. Are you he?’

  ‘I am he,’ replied the rabbi. The two men stared at each other, each with the memory of ineradicable suffering.

  ‘Surely Moses Abraham is not the name you gave when I asked for your identity,’ said Mr Andrews angrily, and turning to the stenographer, he added, ‘Please read out the witness’s declaration of identity.’

  ‘What is your name? Moyshe Avrom,’ read out the stenographer.

  ‘It is the same name, spoken with the Ashkenazi accent in Yiddish,’ said the professor. ‘I did not recognise it.’

  ‘So this man is the father of your wife, the grandfather of your son, the deceased Pro
fessor Gerard Ralston?’ said the magistrate, not troubling to conceal his intense surprise. And indeed, the contrast between father-in-law and son-in-law was such as could easily astonish.

  ‘It seems so,’ was the simple reply. ‘But my son was never aware of his mother’s origins. She died when he was only six.’ Whispers and murmurs were to be heard, as the public became aware that the notorious anti-Semite Gerard Ralston was, without knowing it, the grandson of a Hassidic rabbi.

  ‘I wish to ask Rabbi Abraham once again what he went to tell Professor Ralston on March 6th,’ said Mr Andrews. ‘I ask him, specifically, if he informed him of the fact that his mother was Jewish.’

  ‘I did,’ replied the rabbi simply.

  ‘And he was previously unaware of the fact?’

  ‘He knew nothing of it,’ confirmed the elderly professor.

  ‘And he had no idea that his grandfather had arrived in London? You had no contact with him, your own grandson?’

  ‘When my daughter left our home in Poland to marry a Christian, she died for me,’ said the rabbi with a look of rigid bitterness that seemed to have remained undimmed over the forty-odd years that had elapsed since. ‘I knew nothing of her life, of her husband, of her child, not even their names. I did not know when they left Poland to live in England. My wife, however, remained in contact with my daughter until her death. I did not know it; we never spoke of her. I forbade the family to speak of her. I have not mentioned her for more than forty years. I was not aware that she had had a son. Nearly three weeks ago I received a letter from Rabbi Kahn of France, in which he spoke to me of this Gerard Ralston and of his anti-Semitic writings. He asked me if there was anything I could do to influence him to stop leading the fight against Dreyfus in England. I talked to my wife about the letter from Rabbi Kahn. And that is when my wife told me that Gerard Ralston was the name of our daughter’s child. She confessed to me that she had never obeyed my command to forget our daughter, that she had continued to see her daughter after her marriage, and to write to her after she came to live in England, until she died. I knew nothing until that day of the existence of my daughter’s son. And now that I know, what can I say? Such a son was a punishment for her sin.’