I, Dreyfus

by Bernice Rubens

  The magistrates’ court was reached through an underground tunnel that led from the station so I was not obliged to appear on the street. But even from the inside I could hear the hum of the crowd. And it was a hostile hum, a lynching hum, and I was afraid. I was handcuffed once again and led into the court. The sudden light blinded me and I could not at first see the faces of the crowd, but after a time of adjustment, I noted that the court was filled to capacity. I looked among the faces for Lucy and Matthew, but I could not spot them. The magistrate and his two side-kicks took their seats on the bench.

  Will the prisoner stand?’ somebody said.

  I obeyed, and as I did so I identified a number of my pupils in the front row and wondered who had given them permission to leave the school. I felt that I had already lost my headship, and I could not help but think that it was Eccles who had given them leave. Behind them, I caught sight of Lucy and Matthew and I thought that they had come to take me home.

  ‘Sir Alfred Dreyfus,’ the magistrate said, ‘you are charged with the murder of George Tilbury. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?’

  ‘Not guilty, my Lord,’ I said, as I had been instructed. It was, in any case, the truth. Simon asked for bail, but it was refused as he had expected. The case against me was presumably so strong that the magistrate feared I might abscond. I was sentenced on remand to remain in prison until my appearance for trial at the Old Bailey. Then I was led down. I looked back at Lucy and Matthew, and Lucy blew me a kiss. Matthew mouthed something; I think it was ‘courage’. Then I was once more handcuffed and led to the court door that opened on to the street. Without my permission, my head was draped with a blanket and I felt myself suddenly in the open air, guided by two strong hands. It was only a few steps to the waiting van but in that short transit I heard catcalls and shouts of ‘murderer’. And, as I was driven away, there were angry shouts and bangings on the side of the van. I had been charged with murder. I had not been tried. I had not been found guilty. Yet the mob had made up their minds.

  Their verdict had been fuelled by rumour. Rumour that I was a Jew. At the time, I wondered at its source. Now I know that it was one of Eccles’s men who dropped that explosive word into the crowd, and it had spread like delicious wildfire throughout the throng.

  They vented their spleen on glass and stone. That night the nearest synagogue, some twentymiles away, was partially destroyed by fire. And the Jewish cemetery, not far distant, was vandalised. Swastikas were painted boldly on the tombs.

  I don’t know what prison I was taken to. It wasn’t this one. That I know. I know that it was on the outskirts of London and I think it was a makeshift place because of prison overcrowding.

  It was a waiting time and I resigned myself to it. For I still lived in hope. I couldn’t imagine on what evidence I could be found guilty. But those outside had already given their verdict. Matthew, I heard, had been made redundant with a suitable pay-off. Lucy and the children had been obliged to move out of the school house. Dreyfus was already a cursed name. The site of young George’s burial had become a magnetic attraction, and cars pulled up outside our parents’ cottage and disgorged their gaping sightseers. In the tourist trade our childhood village now ranked with Canterbury Cathedral.

  But what broke my heart, and what I shall never never forgive, was what those vandals did to my parents’ last resting-place. Despite the Jesus that protected them, their tombs fared no better than those of their kind who were buried according to the Mosaic law. For like those, they were swastika-daubed, and the protecting arm of Jesus was chopped off at the elbow. As a finishing touch, red paint had been smeared on the stone wound.

  The lie that my father and my mother had lived all their lives had now, once and for all, exploded.

  Part Three

  Chapter 22

  I digress. I postpone. My mind wanders and my hand follows into a nightmare sketch of my trial. I fool myself into thinking that a drawing will set the scene for what I have now to write, that it will facilitate the flow of words. I am setting the scene so that I know where I am. But I hoodwink myself. I know exactly where I am and the terrifying purpose of my being here. Nevertheless, I set the scene. And not only that. I must dress for the part. I put on the suit that Matthew has delivered to the prison. I must look respectable. Above all, I must look innocent. But for God’s sake, that is what I am, suit or no suit. I must speak loud and clear and convey to my audience a belief in myself. So I practise, ‘Not guilty, My Lord’, as I pace my cell and then I wonder why I am pleading innocence at all, since no one has any reason to accuse me of guilt. Nevertheless, I must look at the jury without fear and I practise that look on my four bare walls.

  I am preparing for my trial. I am setting the scene. I arrange the props. I dress for it, and I invent stage directions that have nothing to do with anything at all. Anything, sooner than put it down in words that I cannot find. So I turn on my radio as a further means of postponement. I hear of yet another suicide bomb in Tel Aviv. Four more people killed and countless injured. Many children amongst them. And suddenly I cease to pity myself.

  Enough of these doodlings and digressions. I pick up my pen and I hold it firmly, because I know how anxious it is to slip my grasp. But I master it and go in search of those words that are so fearfully hidden.

  They came for me as the prison clock struck eight, and I recalled that not so very long ago that same bell tolled the hanging of a poor prisoner who might well have been innocent. I shivered. They took away my untouched breakfast tray. They watched me as I shaved. Although I shaved daily, I rarely studied my face in the mirror. But that morning I looked at myself very carefully, and for the first time in my life I saw how Jewish I appeared. Why that morning, of all mornings, did I acknowledge those features that all of my life I had ignored, in the hope that the beholders would do likewise? And had I gone through life masked, would I still have been rumbled? Did my feet look Jewish? My hands? These thoughts troubled me. And on this morning of all mornings, I knew why. They were simply the pith and marrow of my trial and the nub of the verdict. I put on my suit of innocence and I was ready.

  Once in the van, I noticed the time-honoured blanket at the ready and I wondered whom last it had shielded and whether it still smelt of his guilt or otherwise. When the van drew up outside the court, I heard the hissing verdict of the crowd and I was glad of the blanket-cloak. I stumbled into the building like a guilty man.

  I had to wait in the basement cell for a while. Simon was already there, and once again he recapped on the charges against me. He smiled a lot, and even offered a few jokes, but I knew they were ruses to cover his pessimism. He rehearsed me again in my ‘Not Guilty’ plea which, by now, so over-practised, sounded meaningless in my ear. I refused to rehearse it further. We sat silently together. Simon seemed to have run out of advice and it was a relief when the guards came to fetch me.

  ‘See you in court,’ he said, as if I had an alternative choice.

  I stood between the two guards who each held me by the elbows. I noted that their touch was gentle and I thought that perhaps they were on my side. A desperate man will clutch at any straw. We were faced with a long and narrow corridor. At the end of it, I could see the beginning of a flight of steps. I knew that they led to the courtroom and the dock wherein I would be charged and I suddenly saw them as steps to a scaffold, and I tripped in fear. I felt a tighter grip on my elbows.

  ‘Come along now,’ one of the guards said. His tone was kindly, and having no choice I obeyed him. But I tripped again as we mounted the steps. My body pulsed from head to toe with a floundering fear. Again they gripped me, less kindly this time, and I had to be dragged to the top steps and the small platform that led into the dock. It was not a happy entrance. My reluctance to appear already marked me as guilty and my over-rehearsed plea sounded hollow in my ear. I straightened myself as I took my place in the dock but I felt that it was already too late to offset my appalling debut with the stance of innocence. I looked at the rail
in front of me. I daren’t look anywhere else. I did not trust my face. I did not trust its expression which I feared was beyond my control. In my eye-line I saw the belly of the courtroom and the public gallery, and a sea of indistinguishable faces. I did not want to catch sight of anybody I knew. I was tempted to shut my eyes tight in the childlike hope that I would be invisible. I saw them all stand and I knew that the judge had entered, but I kept my eyes fixed on the rail. I knew I had to be bold. My timid stance, my lowered gaze, indicated an abundance of shame and remorse. But I felt neither, nor had reason to. So I straightened my back, looked directly at the bench, then at the clerk of the court as he read out the arraignment.

  ‘Sir Alfred Benjamin Dreyfus,’ he boomed my name into the courtroom.

  I was relieved to hear that I was still titled but that relief was quickly soured by the sound of that middle name of mine, one that I had never had reason to use and had almost forgotten. Benjamin. A name which in Hebrew means ‘son of my right hand’. A beautiful name, I thought, though so undeniably Jewish. Whereas ‘Alfred’ was a count-me-in name, one could hardly get away with Benjamin. I was tempted to look at the jury to gauge their reaction, but again, I didn’t trust my face.

  The voice of the clerk of the court interrupted my thoughts and I could not help but hear his arraignment.

  ‘You are charged that on April the fourth last, or thereabouts, you did murder George Henry Tilbury. How do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?’

  I dried. They say that practice makes perfect. It is not true. God knows I had practised my plea often enough. But the words had gone. Gone from my mind and even I feared, from my heart. For suddenly I didn’t know how I should plead. The charge was so preposterous that neither plea would have given it credence. Once again, the clerk repeated his question and again my throat was dry. I looked at Simon who was staring at me, bewildered. Then, like a stage prompt, he mouthed my reply. Not guilty,’ I repeated out of Simon’s mouth, and ‘not guilty’ again, to make up for the plea I had missed on the first cue. I was not doing myself any good, I knew. What with my feeble entrance, and my plea-hesitation, things did not augur well for my defence. I saw Simon wipe his brow. I had let him down.

  The clerk of the court, having dealt with me according to his office, now turned his attention to the jury. I was glad to take the opportunity to look at them for the first time in the safe knowledge that they wouldn’t be looking at me, for they were paying attention to the clerk’s instructions. They were a grim gathering, one mindful of their heavy responsibility. I was glad to see two black faces amongst them, a man and a woman and I drew a measure of hope from their presence. After all, they too belong to a persecuted race and have been ever since white was the colour of power. And in a way, I thought, their lot was even worse than that of my own tribe, for there was never a remote possibility of their pleading ‘count me in’. As I studied them I listened to the clerk’s words.

  ‘Members of the jury,’ he was saying, ‘the prisoner at the bar is charged with the murder of George Henry Tilbury on or about April the fourth last. To this indictment he has pleaded not guilty. It is in your charge to say, having heard the evidence, whether he be guilty or not.’

  At the end of his little speech, they all turned to look at me and I turned my head away, although I knew it was a mistake and I pitied Simon for the uphill task that I was preparing for him. I was told that I could sit down, and I was grateful because I was tired, worn-out with fear. I watched the counsel for the Crown, the chief prosecutor, as he rose to his feet. He took his time. It was not that he had difficulty standing. His slow timing was made for effect. He did not stand but rose, as befitted the dignity and power of his office and throughout that movement he kept his eyes on me. This time I did not turn my head. I stared at him with a look of challenge. Perhaps that was a mistake too, but it seemed that whatever I did or however I behaved was neither in nor out of my favour. Once again a sense of helplessness overcame me and I felt my shoulders drooping in translation of my mood.

  After the rising was over, the crown prosecutor took an equal time to assume his stance. I could not see his feet, but I imagined that he stood with his legs slightly apart for before speaking he practised one or two swivels, to his right in line with the jury, to his left to face the judge and then in his centre balancing to lay his beady eye on me. I was beginning to hate him.

  His first swivel was to the jury. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘this case as we all know, has attracted a great deal of publicity both in the press and on television. I want you to put all that publicity out of your minds. It has nothing to do with justice. We are here to grant the accused a fair trial. The case shall be tried on the evidence alone and on that evidence alone, you will give your verdict.’

  He now swivelled towards the bench. ‘May it please you, My Lord,’ he said, ‘in this case, I am instructed for the Crown together with my friend and colleague, Derek Chambers. The accused, Sir Alfred Benjamin Dreyfus, is represented by my friend and colleague, Simon Posner, who is assisted by James Windsor.’

  I was not happy to hear that Simon was my accuser’s friend, but I passed it off as a turn of phrase and hoped that there was no truth in it. His final swivel landed in my eye-line.

  ‘The charge against the accused,’ he said, ‘is that on or about April the fourth of this year he did murder George Henry Tilbury, and bury his body in the garden of his cottage in Kent.’

  He paused to take a drink of water. I knew he wasn’t thirsty. The gesture was in line with his affectations of rising and swivelling and, while he was slaking his non-thirst, I took the opportunity to slide my eyes around the public gallery. It was Lucy whom I saw first, flanked by Matthew and Susan. They smiled at me, all three of them, though there was no hiding the alarm that dimmed their smiles. I could see none of my staff from the school and I presumed that they were being called as witnesses. I tried to search out some pupils but could find none, until my eyes rested with relief on young David Solomon, who gave me a smile of that same quality that my family had donated.

  The prosecutor returned his glass to the table. ‘The case for the prosecution is as follows,’ he said. Now he swivelled once more to the jury. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ be began, ‘this is the most tragic case. A young boy, young George Tilbury, was viciously stabbed to death. He was of a mere fourteen years, and was never to reach manhood. Was never to enjoy his undergraduate years, was never to fall in love, was never to marry, was never to father children. It is contrary to the natural order of things, ladies and gentlemen, that parents should survive their children, and here we have a heartbroken mother and father whose grief is inconsolable.’ Here he paused, which gave time for the jury, the audience and myself to agree with every word that he had said. He now swivelled towards me with an accusing stare. ‘Sir Alfred Dreyfus,’ he said, ‘this man whom you see in the dock, stands accused, and in the opinion of the Crown Prosecution, stands rightly accused, of George Tilbury’s murder. Now why, you may ask, should anyone want to murder a young and innocent child? The answer in this case is simple greed, self-aggrandisement and overweening ambition. Hardly enough, you might think, to justify murder. But if you add to all these reasons the spur of evil, evil incarnate, and nothing less my friends, you will understand, with equal amounts of sorrow and horror, how this tragedy came to pass.’

  He slaked his non-thirst once more, though this time I may have been wrong. It is more than possible that he was thirsty. His natural flow of saliva was not sufficient to irrigate his outburst of histrionics. He drank deeply, as if he really needed to, and I could swear that all the court drank with him in sympathy.

  ‘Sir Alfred Dreyfus, the accused,’ he went on, ‘is a highly educated man who has achieved honours in his field and who has been awarded a knighthood by the Queen for his services to education. He has served as master and headmaster in fine schools, the finest of all being that of his present incumbency. Indeed he has reached the very peak of his profession. Yet this ma
n, this accused man, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this forty-eight-year-old man, has lived a lie every day of his life. Not a lie by commission, ladies and gentleman, but one rather more heinous. He has lived a lie of omission. In other words, he has hidden the fact that he is a Jew. Now you might well say to yourselves, "What is wrong with that? If a man chooses to pass as a Gentile, that is a pity, but it is his business, and there is nothing criminal in his intent." And you would be right, members of the jury. But if he fails to disclose his identity, and indeed finds all means at his disposal to hide it in order to achieve the headmastership of the finest school in the land, of a Church of England establishment, if he conceals an identity which would be unacceptable in such a renowned school, if, I repeat, he is at such pains to hide it, pains to the point of murder, then I think ladies and gentlemen, that we are here dealing with a monstrous crime. He is a cunning man, the accused, and his subterfuge was so arch, so manipulative, that he might well have got away with it were it not for the bewildered, innocent and God-fearing George Tilbury who, on discovering the disguise, decided to bring it out into the open. And paid the ultimate price for his faith.’

  I could not help but admire the man, and I was clearly not alone. I dared to take a look at the jury and I found them all gazing at him with reverence. I forbore to look at the spectators, and I certainly dared not glance at Simon for I feared he could in no way match his adversary’s oratory.

  Another glass of water for my accuser. The slow swallow, the clear relish, and the dramatic laying down of the glass. Now, my Lord,’ he turned to the bench, ‘I call upon my first witness. Mr James Turncastle.’

  Chapter 23

  I must stop now. I cannot write further. I cannot bear to hear in my heart the echo of the tissue of lies that came out of a mouth of one I had looked upon as a son. I cannot bear it. Moreover, I feel ill. Seriously ill. My heart pumps and my head throbs to its rhythm. And although I have nothing to look forward to in my life, except for its miserable duration in this wretched abode, I still am anxious for my health. I don’t want to die. My innocence forbids it. I want no posthumous pardon.