I, Dreyfus

by Bernice Rubens

  The children were doing their homework in the study, so they would not be disturbed. Lucy led him into the kitchen, where Sam set out the cups for coffee.

  ‘Matthew is living here,’ she said, as they sat down. ‘Unofficially, of course. He visits his boys most days but he found it impossible to stay with Susan. And though I’m very sad about what happened, I’m glad he is with us.’

  Sam Temple was glad too. He couldn’t tell Dreyfus, of course, but he could at least report that his brother was well.

  ‘I’m seeing your husband this afternoon,’ Sam said. ‘What news can I bring him?’

  ‘There is no bad news,’ she said. ‘I think we have managed to keep quiet about our move and I’ve seen no reporters for some time. Tell him too that the children are doing well with their tutor. Jean has made drawings for her father. You could even take them to him for her.’

  ‘They will lift his spirits, I’m sure,’ Sam said.

  ‘Would you like to look at the apartment?’ she asked, ‘so that you can tell Alfred about it?’ She led him into the dining-room.

  ‘That’s a lovely menorah,’ Sam said. ‘Is it new?’

  ‘My parents gave it to me,’ she said, ‘when Alfred and I were married. I’ve never put it out before. Same with the mezzuzah. I decided to put them where they rightfully belonged. I think it was because Susan denied us.’

  Another piece of news, Sam thought, that he couldn’t carry to Dreyfus. But he could tell him about them without divulging the reason for their sudden exposure.

  ‘I gather that the Home Secretary is looking at the trial papers,’ he said.

  ‘We must not hope for too much. When there is a petition for an appeal, it’s a formality to look again at the papers. Or at least make a show of perusing them. But it is something. I just pray that Alfred is not setting his hopes too high. Matthew is optimistic but he never despairs. He’s a wonderful support. He won’t let us lose hope.’

  ‘Is your husband kept informed?’ Sam asked.

  ‘The governor of the prison is informed. He decides what to pass on to Alfred.’

  ‘Then I shall say nothing,’ Sam said.

  Lucy rose from the table. ‘I’ll get the children,’ she said.

  Sam poured himself some more coffee. He was happy to feel at home in this place. He felt that whatever he reported to Alfred regarding his family, would carry a certain authenticity.

  The children rushed into the kitchen. Jean laid a large sheet of paper on the table. A crayoned drawing depicted three monkeys in a cage. ‘That proves we went to the zoo,’ she said, ‘and Papa can hang it on his wall.’

  ‘In his cage,’ Peter added. But he said it without a smile. ‘Let me look at you both,’ Sam said. ‘Really look at you, so that I can give your father a true picture.’

  They stood side by side, stiffly, as if facing a lens.

  ‘You’ve both grown since the zoo,’ Sam said.

  ‘I’ve lost another tooth,’ Jean said. ‘Tell him he owes me five pence. And give him a kiss from me,’ she whispered.

  But Peter did not send a kiss. He was like his father, his upper lip stiff to dam his tears.

  ‘There’s a fair at Battersea Park,’ Sam said. ‘Shall we go to that?’

  ‘Yes. Please, please,’ Jean said.

  ‘Then I’ll come early and we can all paint our faces for the parade. Your mother and Uncle Matthew too.’ It would be a wonderful opportunity to disguise themselves, Sam thought, with no fear of the shadow of reporters.

  ‘Can Tim come?’ Peter asked.

  ‘Who’s Tim?’

  ‘My friend.’

  Sam looked at Lucy who was smiling. Peter had a friend at last. It was the best news he could take to his father.

  ‘Of course,’ Sam said. ‘We’ll paint his face too.’

  Sam felt heartened as he made his way towards the prison. He had news, the simple domestic kind that would raise his friend’s spirits. But when he saw him he wondered whether domestic news and two drawings from his children would revive him. Sam was appalled at his loss of weight. He noticed an untouched lunch tray on the table and he was surprised at the sudden sadness that overcame him.

  ‘Alfred,’ he said, daring to embrace him, ‘you mustn’t give in. You simply mustn’t. We must hope for an appeal. And proof of your innocence. It will come. I know. You just … must,’ he stammered, ‘for your own sake, for Lucy and the children. For Matthew.’ Then he paused. ‘And for me,’ he added. In that moment Dreyfus ceased to be his client. He needed him as a friend.

  They moved towards the cot. Sam settled Alfred down, propping the pillow behind his head. Then he dragged over the chair and sat beside him. ‘I’ve brought these from Peter and Jean,’ he said. ‘They want you to put them on your wall.’

  A hint of a smile crossed Dreyfus’s face, a smile deeply out of practice. Sam passed him Jean’s drawing.

  Dreyfus studied it for a while. ‘How are they looking?’ he asked. What small smile there was had now completely disappeared.

  ‘Very well. I’ve just seen them.’ Sam was about to say that they were growing up fast. But he held his tongue on that information, for it would have underlined the sadness of their father’s absence.

  ‘They’re growing up without me,’ Dreyfus said.

  There was nothing Sam could say to contradict him. ‘They miss you as much as you them,’ he said. ‘They have a lovely new apartment,’ he went on quickly, and proceeded to describe the layout of the home he had just left. But Dreyfus seemed not to react. He kept staring at his children’s pictures. After Sam’s tour of the apartment, Dreyfus placed the pictures side by side on the cot.

  ‘I’ve been writing about my parents,’ he said. ‘About how they died.’ He looked up at Sam for the first time. ‘I find it has shaken me,’ he said.

  Again Sam was at a loss for words, but he understood now the cause of his friend’s depression.

  ‘That’s natural,’ he said. ‘I lost my parents some years ago. You think that time has healed, and then you relive it once more and it’s like it happened yesterday. Then we start mourning all over again. Your cot is the equivalent of a low stool.’

  Dreyfus smiled, grateful for mutual recognition.

  ‘It will pass,’ Sam went on. ‘Time does heal but we have to give time, time. That’s the rub. Some of us need to hang on to our sorrow. Make a cult of it almost.’

  ‘It’s tempting to do exactly that in my present circumstances.’

  ‘But it can be dangerous,’ Sam said. ‘It can lead to lethargy and despair. They’re working for you on the outside, Alfred. Matthew is so optimistic.’

  ‘Dear Matthew,’ Dreyfus said.

  Sam allowed a silence before enquiring as to the progress of the book.

  ‘It was going well until my parents died,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Then it seemed as if there was nothing more to say. By writing about my fall I felt that they would somehow hear of it. Not only do I not want to write about it, I don’t want to think about it either.’ He looked Sam squarely in the face. ‘Perhaps I’d better give the money back,’ he suggested.

  Sam laughed. But nervously. Dreyfus’s sudden reticence was no surprise. But it had to be overcome. ‘You owe this book to Lucy and the children. To Matthew and his family. Above all Alfred, you owe it to your parents. To them above all. Dreyfus is their name as well.’

  That reminder seemed to unlock him. ‘I’ll try to start again tomorrow,’ he said.

  Sam reached for the lunch tray and put it before him on the cot. ‘Try and eat a little,’ he said. He reached for his briefcase and brought out a small flask of whisky. He handed it to Dreyfus. ‘Medicinal,’ he said.

  Dreyfus smiled and took a tentative sip. Then he picked up his spoon and sampled the cold food.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to hear Peter’s got a friend,’ Sam said. His name’s Tim. I’m taking them all to the Battersea funfair.’

  ‘Why are you so good to us?’ Dreyfus asked.

  ‘
I’ve already told you. I believe you’re innocent.’ He watched as Dreyfus picked at the food. He ate very slowly, but in time he managed to clear the plate.

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ he said.

  Sam took the tray and put it back on the table.

  ‘Do you hear from Mr Wallworthy?’ Dreyfus asked.

  Sam laughed. ‘Every day. He wants to see what you’ve written.’

  ‘What d’you think?’ Dreyfus asked.

  ‘It’s up to you. Personally I would show him a little something. Just to convince him that you can write. Then I think he’ll be satisfied. He won’t ask for more. He’s not much of a reader anyway. He’s just a publisher.’

  ‘I’ll give you what I’ve done,’ Dreyfus said, ‘and I’ll leave it to you.’

  Sam did not expect such an easy ride and he was grateful. He was anxious to get Wallworthy off his back.

  Dreyfus went to the desk and gathered up a sheaf of papers, and handed them over.

  ‘I’ll copy them as before,’ Sam said, ‘and return them to you.’

  ‘I’d like you to go now,’ Dreyfus said suddenly. ‘I feel like writing.’

  ‘Then you must promise me to eat,’ Sam said. ‘Not even Tolstoy could write on an empty stomach.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ Dreyfus said again. ‘You connect me.’

  Back in his office, Sam copied the manuscript then settled down to read. He was more than pleased with what his friend had written and he thought that Wallworthy would be satisfied too, so he selected a piece and sent it over to the publisher. He knew that Wallworthy would read it right away and telephone before the day was done. Which he did. And Sam answered immediately.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked.

  ‘Well he can certainly write,’ Wallworthy said, ‘but don’t you think it’s a bit too … er … er …’

  ‘Er what, Mr Wallworthy?’ Sam asked, though he guessed what the hesitation was about.

  ‘Er … well, you know, a little bit … er … too Jewish.’

  Sam allowed a pause. Then very firmly, and with little respect, he said, ‘Mr Wallworthy, I don’t know whether you are aware of it, though it has been headlined in every newspaper all over the world, but Alfred Dreyfus is indeed a Jew. He was tried as a Jew, he was found guilty as a Jew, and he was sentenced as a Jew. And as a Jew he is in prison writing his side of the story. Did you expect it, Mr Wallworthy, to be a little bit … er … Muslim?’

  ‘Very funny, Mr Temple,’ Wallworthy said. ‘Although they are known as the People of the Book, they are not great buyers of our products.’

  ‘Are there statistics to prove that?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Well, everybody says so,’ Wallworthy answered weakly. When one’s argument is weak, one recruits, Sam thought. ‘Who is everybody?’ he persisted.

  ‘You know as well as I,’ Wallworthy said without saying anything.

  Sam let it rest.

  ‘But you’re pleased with it?’ he said. ‘You’re satisfied now with your investment?’

  ‘Yes,’ Wallworthy said. ‘I’m pleased with it.’ And, after a pause, ‘And you can tell him so.’

  ‘He’ll be delighted,’ Sam said, sure of Dreyfus’s pleasure because, for a writer, praise from any quarter was a bonus indeed. He wrote straightaway to Dreyfus enclosing the original manuscript and expressing his own and Mr Wallworthy’s praise. He hoped that it would be encouragement enough. But he was nervous about how his friend would progress. The recall of his parents’ deaths had been burdensome enough. Sooner or later he would have to recount the story of his fall from grace and Sam wondered if he was strong enough to withstand its telling.

  Part Two

  Chapter 12

  And now begins my fall.

  The collapse itself was sudden, terrifyingly so, but its overture was slow, leisurely even, and cunningly polite. This is in hindsight, for I was not aware of it at the time. I have to state here and now that I know myself pretty well. I am both timid and arrogant, simply flip-sides of the same coin. I need acknowledgement – don’t we all? – and at times I feel grossly inadequate, though I am at pains to conceal it. I am all of these things, but I am not paranoid. Yet the moment I set foot in my new school, the establishment that was the symbol of my great ambition, I sensed a ripple of hostility. I could not pinpoint it, but I knew for certain that it was there. And it took me almost a whole term to discover its source.

  There was a headmaster’s house in the school grounds and this is where we lived, Lucy and I and the children. The children were enrolled at local schools. Lucy was obliged to no specific duties but, as headmaster’s wife, she was expected to entertain visitors and the occasional foreign academic studying the methods of English education.

  Our house was Elizabethan and its character had been strictly maintained. The modern bathrooms, kitchen, and central heating were inconspicuously installed. We moved into our new quarters shortly before the beginning of the Christmas term. Matthew and Susan came down one weekend. It was a happy time for all of us. I recall that time with joy and blind myself to those as yet unseen shadows that would becloud my future and the lives of my family. But those shadows are now known, and have been ever since my fall, and it is hard to dwell in the joy that was, without sensing that lurking darkness.

  But there were no shadows when my first term began, and I looked forward to a reign of benign control until my legitimate retirement.

  The term began on a Wednesday, and I decided to hold a cocktail party the evening before our start. The day saw the staggered arrival of staff and pupils. I kept myself indoors during that time, as I did not want to be seen to favour any arrival. From my curtained window, I viewed the cars as they Rolls-Royced up the driveway. On the whole they were impressive. There were many uniformed chauffeurs, and it was a relief to spot a battered Deux Cheveaux as it screeched to an arrogant stop in their midst. In that sea of wheeled wealth, that filthy jalopy was a refreshing eyesore. I was not surprised to see Fenby, the music master, unfold his equally battered self from out of its chassis, and drag an equally battered rucksack after him. He viewed the building he had not seen for a while and seemed to find it good, for he smiled with approval. A few boys greeted him. One of them offered to carry his rucksack, an offer which Fenby refused, but he ruffled the boy’s hair, acknowledging his courtesy.

  Lucy was nervous and so, frankly, was I. We were not practised hosts. Our occasional get-togethers were for family and close friends. And we had never given a cocktail party. But we had been invited to many, so we knew the form.

  Lucy had excelled herself. The dining-table groaned with canapés catering to all tastes. I had decided against champagne, fearing it would be too ostentatious. Instead red and white wines were at the ready. Lucy had refused help from outside and insisted that I pour the wines and she herself would offer the savouries. Our guests were due at 6.30. It was only six o’clock and Lucy was pacing the room in some agitation. I insisted she take a glass of wine to calm herself and I joined her for I was none too composed myself. We toasted each other and she wished me luck. And then she said a very strange thing. Strange because it was so uncharacteristic.

  ‘Somehow,’ she said, ‘I feel – I feel very alien.’

  I laughed it off though she had exactly defined my own feelings. She did not elaborate and I was grateful for that and we both sat together in silence waiting for our guests to arrive.

  They were early and came almost in a bunch, and by 6.30 all were present. They were a jolly lot, warm, gossipy and friendly and they welcomed me, teasingly wishing me well. I remembered many of their faces from that High Table gathering that had passed for my audition. But I had to reacquaint myself with their names and the subjects to which those names were attached. Fenby of the battered Deux Cheveaux, was memorably music, Smith, I recalled, was geography and Turner one of the sciences. I did the rounds together with Lucy and we introduced ourselves to everybody. Between us, after the party, we
could perhaps summon up an authentic roll-call. I noticed that Eccles, head of the history department, was standing apart from the others. He seemed to be viewing the scene with some disdain. In my generosity, I ascribed his aloofness to shyness, though as I came to know him over the weeks, it was indeed disdain that he felt, nurtured by his sense of superiority. But at the party I singled him out for conversation, hoping to melt his shyness. He was polite but unforthcoming. I told him I looked forward to dropping in on one of his lessons, as I intended to do in all departments. His look was one of horror.

  ‘I know it has not been the practice hitherto,’ I said, ‘but I wish for more contact with the academic aspects of the school. I have no intention of restricting myself to administration.’

  I sensed his hostility as I sensed my own annoyance, so I moved away and left him with his disdain. I heard later from Fenby, who became a close friend, that Mark Eccles had fully expected to be appointed headmaster, which explained his hostility towards his usurper. ‘He’ll have to learn to live with it,’ Fenby had said. I asked if he was popular with the boys. ‘On the whole, yes,’ Fenby had told me. ‘He has a cluster of fans, sort of groupies. About a dozen of them. They take tea in his rooms. They seem to adore him. But I wouldn’t worry about that,’ Fenby had said. ‘I do the same, though I don’t have so many fans. The odd music student sometimes comes and we play sonatas or something. Nothing sinister,’ he laughed. ‘I’m afraid, Sir Alfred, you’ll find this school virtuous to the point of boredom.’