I call the guard. I shout for him. I am frightened. They bring me the doctor. He is a kindly fellow who, I dare to hope, believes in my innocence. He orders me to the prison hospital. ‘For observation,’ he says. ‘You’ll be in a ward with others,’ he whispers to me. He thinks I am suffering from abject loneliness, and maybe he is right.
As soon as I am put into a bed, which lies between two other prisoners, I feel slightly better. But I am wired up to a heart-machine, my blood pressure is taken, my pulse and my temperature. I lie in that bed for three days, under constant observation, and at the end of it my rage subsides. I do not want to go back to my cell. The writing awaits me there and I am not sure that I am ready for it. I have grown used to company, to the sound of others’ voices, others’ groans, others’ sighs, and even to the occasional exchange of words. The man on the right-hand side of me is a lifer too. He tells me his name is Martin. He knows mine.
‘You’re famous,’ he says.
I don’t have to ask what he’s in for. A lifer is almost always a murderer. I wonder whether, like me, he is innocent. But I don’t ask him. Having been in solitary for so long, I have never learned the prison jargon, nor its etiquette. I know there are some questions that must never be asked and I imagine that the question of innocence or guilt is one of them. But on my second day of observation, Martin volunteers.
‘I killed my wife,’ he says.
‘Why?’ I ask, because I sense that some reaction is expected of me.
‘She was getting on my nerves,’ Martin says.
I don’t know why, but I want to laugh. In everybody’s life there must be numerous people who get on one’s nerves. Hardly enough to justify murder.
‘D’you ever feel sorry?’ I ask.
‘No. never,’ he laughs. ‘Didn’t start living till I came to this place. Never ’ad so many mates. Right old social club in ’ere. I’ll miss them.’
‘Are you being released?’ I ask with a touch of envy.
‘In a way, I s’pose I am.’ He laughs again. ‘No mate,’ he goes on, ‘I’m kicking the bucket. Got cancer. A couple of weeks they give me. You got to accept it. Life just isn’t fair.’
Well it certainly wasn’t fair to his poor old wife, I think. But despite everything, I feel sorry for him.
‘Just not fair,’ he says again. ‘Copped a rotten judge, I did. Just my luck. One of your people ’e was.’
I let it pass. The man was dying. There is no point in arguing with him. He will not be a threat for much longer.
‘What did you do outside?’ I ask, hoping to change the subject.
‘I was a brickie,’ he says. ‘My boss was one of yours too,’ he says. ‘Jesus, they’re everywhere, aren’t they.’
‘Not too many of them here,’ I cannot help saying and that shuts him up a bit, but he leaves my pulse throbbing. I know that in this man’s company it’s not likely to subside. I look at him and I see that he has gone to sleep, and I marvel at how innocent he looks and I wonder how I look when I am sleeping. A distant clock strikes eight. It is already past my prison bed-time. The nurse comes and again he takes my pulse, my blood pressure and my temperature. He gives me something to help me sleep and I am grateful. I take the night drink and feel already drowsy. Martin is groaning in his sleep, and now he looks less innocent. He seems restless. His hands grope at nothing outside the sheet, and I note that his feet shiver under the covers. I turn my back to him and lie on my side and in the morning I wake in exactly the same position. I have slept so deeply that it takes me some time to remember where I am, and why I am there. I turn around to see if Martin is awake. His bed is empty. And stripped. And I know that he has died in the night while my Jewish back was turned. I cannot help but mourn his passing. In the old days, he would have been hanged. And perhaps that would have been kinder. Instead he was condemned to a very loose noose, and a drop of painfully slow descent, until in a final spasm he could legitimately bite the dust.
Despite my distress, I eat a large breakfast and when the doctor comes later that morning he pronounces me well enough to return to my cell. And I am ready. The writing is waiting for me. With Martin’s death, the world is minus one anti-Semite. But that is no cause for celebration. There will never be a shortage of Martins. But as he said, ‘Jesus, they’re everywhere,’ I must go on writing to prove that the likes of Martin are right. We are everywhere. And what’s more, we are not going to go away.
Chapter 24
I watched as James took the stand. I thought of Lucy and wondered what she must be thinking but I knew that she shared with me all the regrets for the affection and care we had shown to this sadly deprived boy. His very presence in the box as a witness for the prosecution testified to his gross abuse of that affection and to his ingrate disloyalty.
In view of his youth, the Judge did not oblige him to take the oath. He asked him if he knew the difference between right and wrong, between a lie and a truth.
James nodded.
‘Say yes or no,’ the Judge said.
‘Yes,’ James said firmly. ‘I know the difference.’
After the formal declaration of his name and residence, which latter James gave as his Devonian toe-hold, the prosecutor asked him to describe in his own words his relationship with the accused.
‘We were very close,’ he began. ‘He treated me like a son. He took me into his family. I was friends with his children. I looked upon him as a surrogate father.’
So far, so truthful, I thought. But ominous. For his was a preamble that heralded a woeful change.
‘When was it that you first had doubts about the accused?’ the prosecutor helped him along. ‘You may take your time,’ he said, assisting him further.
‘I was staying at his house one weekend,’ James said. ‘We were going for a walk and it was very cold. I wanted to go back up to the school to fetch a jumper. But Sir said I could borrow one of his, and he told me where to find one. I went to the drawer and in among the sweaters I found a piece of silk. I pulled it out to look at it. It was white with blue stripes and there were silk tassels on each end. I knew what it was. I’d seen it in films. It was a Jewish prayer-shawl and I wondered what it was doing in Sir’s drawer. I didn’t mention it to Sir, but it worried me a bit.’
It was true that I had a prayer-shawl, but James could never have seen it for it was locked in a chest. When I had first found it after my father’s death, I was bewildered. And deeply moved. I had never seen my father wear it. Indeed he had no cause, since to my knowledge he had never entered a synagogue. I presumed that the prayer-shawl had belonged to my grandfather and that my father, as a boy, in his flight from France, had stuffed it into his meagre luggage. A prayer-shawl is not an item one can easily abandon, for such desertion is tantamount to a premature burial of its owner.
‘Why did it worry you?’ I heard the prosecutor say. ‘Because I suspected that maybe Sir was a Jew and I wondered what he was doing as headmaster at our school.’
‘Why should a Jew not be a headmaster of your school?’ the prosecutor fed the response.
‘Because it is a Church of England school and it is not the custom to employ a non-Christian. And certainly not as a head-master.’
Was there anything else that aroused your suspicions that the accused was of the Jewish faith?’
‘Yes, sir,’ James replied. ‘One Sunday morning when I was staying at his cottage, I was going to the bathroom and I passed Sir’s bedroom. The door was slightly open. I heard murmuring in a language I couldn’t understand. I peeped through the crack in the door. I know I shouldn’t have, but I was curious and I saw Sir bobbing up and down and praying. He had a little box on his forehead and his arms were bound with strips of leather.’
I couldn’t help smiling. I have never in my life seen a set of phylacteries except in pictures of old engravings, and they were attached to young post-bar mitzvah boys in a seminar, or to old Rabbis in a stetl. I assumed that young James, at someone’s prompting, had studied a book on Jew
ish ritual and I wondered what he would come up with next.
‘And were there any other indications which led you to believe that the accused was a Jew?’ the prosecutor said.
I fully expected James to trot out the prayer fringes that I supposedly wore and I was right in my assumption.
‘Another weekend,’ James said, ‘and again it was a Sunday. It was very hot and Sir suggested a swim in the lake. While we were undressing at the lake’s edge, I noticed that he was wearing a sort of silk belt with fringes hanging down. I thought it was odd for a man to wear such an accessory, and I said nothing about it. But I found out later what it was, and by that time I knew for certain that Sir was a Jew.’
‘Could you explain to the court what these things were? You could start with the little box on the forehead.’
‘They’re called phylacteries,’ James said. ‘The box contains texts from the scriptures and Jews put them on every morning to pray. Except on their sabbath.’
‘And the fringes?’ The prosecutor’s tone was deeply friendly.
‘They are an essential garment for orthodox Jews and they are worn from birth.’
Our James had certainly done his research, I thought. He had handed out three undeniable proofs of Jewish identity.
‘Thank you, Mr Turncastle,’ the prosecutor said.
I caught sight of Lucy. She was shaking her head in emphatic denial. Matthew’s face wore a look of abject disgust and Susan’s head was lowered as if she had seen and heard enough.
‘Did your relationship with the accused change after your discoveries?’ the prosecutor gently prodded.
‘Yes,’ James said. ‘But I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to tell him that there was nothing wrong in being Jewish but he ought to come out with it. I knew that he would be dismissed if it were known to the school, but it seemed to me to be an unfair deception.’
‘Did you ever try to talk to him about this?’
‘I was afraid,’ James said. ‘I knew what it would cost him to come clean.’
‘So you kept all this to yourself.’
‘No,’ James said. ‘That’s the terrible thing. I confided in George. George Tilbury.’ His voice broke convincingly on the dead boy’s name, and I thought what a consummate liar James had turned out to be. He had never to my knowledge been George’s friend. Indeed, apart from the encounter outside my office, I had never seen them together. I wondered who had prompted James in his testimony. Who had rehearsed him over and over again. Who had suggested the pauses in his evidence, the break in the voice, the look of sorrow. I thought that if only I could pinpoint his mentor, I could find the key that would unlock all this deception and prove my innocence once and for all.
‘Take your time,’ the prosecutor was saying. ‘I know this must be very painful for you. Tell us what George said when you told him.’
‘He was horrified. Just like me,’ James said. ‘But he didn’t want to talk to Sir either. But like me, he thought it should be known. So he said he would tell his father and his father would deal with it.’
‘Then what did you do?’ the prosecutor asked. ‘And take your time.’
‘I was very fond of Sir,’ James said. ‘He’d been like a father to me.’
Again a voice break. The boy was undoubtedly a star.
‘I thought I’d better warn him. It was the least that I could do. So I went to his study and I suggested that he resign or it would all come out anyway. George would see to it.’
Now James started to cry. I don’t know how he made those tears, but they were pretty convincing.
‘I think,’ he blubbered, ‘that if I hadn’t mentioned George, he would still be alive. It was all my fault.’
And then he broke down completely.
At this point the Judge intervened. He called for an adjournment for lunch and ordered the court to reassemble at two o’clock.
When he had left, I was taken down and confined to a small cell. A lunch tray was brought to me, and shortly afterwards Simon arrived.
‘How are you feeling?’ he said.
‘How d’you expect me to feel? The boy’s a liar.’
‘He’ll break, don’t worry,’ Simon said. ‘I’m going to break him if it’s the last thing I do.’
‘What more can he come up with?’
‘I don’t know,’ Simon said. ‘I don’t know what my learned friend has up his sleeve. But no one’s going to believe a word of it.’
I wished that Simon sounded more confident. He could not conceal the lacing of doubt around his words.
‘Eat your lunch,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you in court.’
He was clearly in a hurry to get away and I had no questions with which to detain him. Or rather, I had too many questions. Far too many. But I knew that they were all unanswerable. I dreaded going back into the court. I dreaded further allegations and raked-up evidence. For I was powerless. I could only shake my head in enraged denial.
But soon enough they came to fetch me and I stood once more in the dock. I feared that I had lost my legitimate look of innocence and that one of fear had taken its place, and that that fear could only point to culpability.
When the court was reassembled, James once more took the stand.
‘Mr Turncastle, do you feel able enough to continue with your evidence?’ the prosecutor asked kindly.
‘I do, sir,’ James said.
I realised that James had never once looked at me during his testimony. I hoped for his glance to see how long he could sustain it, together with the stream of lies that he was pouring forth. So I stared at him, willing him to turn, and to be appalled at his gross betrayal. But he was too much of a coward for that. He kept his eyes fixed on the prosecutor, with occasional glances at the jury to convince them of his integrity.
‘You were talking to the accused in his study, you were saying,’ the prosecutor went on. ‘What day was this?’
‘It was April the second. I remember because it was my seventeenth birthday.’
It was the first piece of honest testimony that he had given. April the second was indeed his birthday. But not a single card or present. No acknowledgement from any quarter that he had ever existed. But Lucy had remembered. She had given him a leather-bound Shakespeare as a present. No mention of that of course. James’s memory had been brainwashed.
‘April the second,’ the prosecutor repeated. ‘And you warned the accused that George Tilbury would tell his father. You begged him to resign. What happened then?’
‘He said there was no need for it,’ James answered. ‘He said that everything would be all right as long as I kept my mouth shut. And then I said, "What about George?" And he said again that it would be all right. I reminded him that George’s father was a cabinet minister, and he said that there was nothing to worry about.’
‘How did he look when he was saying these things? How did he behave?’
‘He seemed nervous,’ James said, ‘and he told me to leave. He said that he had things to do.’
‘What things?’ the prosecutor asked pointedly.
‘I don’t know,’ James said.
‘What did you do then?’
‘Nothing,’ James said. ‘I tried not to think about it. I saw George later on, but I didn’t tell him anything. I hoped it would all die down and solve itself somehow. The next morning I saw George at breakfast, but I still didn’t say anything. After breakfast, George went to his classes and so did I. I missed him at lunch because I was late. I had to do some work for Mr Eccles. Then after lunch, at about two o’clock, I passed Sir’s house and I saw him walking towards the car. And to my surprise, I saw that George was at his side. Sir’s arm was around George’s shoulder. They were talking and it seemed to be friendly enough. So I wasn’t worried. I thought Sir was going to explain things to him. Then they both got into the car and drove off.’
‘This was at two o’clock on April the third, you say?’ The prosecutor was anxious to stress time and dates.
‘Yes,’ Jam
es said. Then after a pause, ‘I never saw George again.’
I waited for the voice-break, but this time it was not forthcoming.
‘Would you like a rest?’ the prosecutor asked kindly.
‘No,’ James said. ‘I want to get it all out.’
‘We come now to the next day. April the fourth. What happened then?’ the prosecutor asked. ‘And you may take your time,’ he added, for he knew what was coming.
‘It was very early in the morning. My room overlooks the driveway of Sir’s house. I was woken by the sound of tyres on gravel. I looked at my watch. It was three o’clock. I went to the window and I saw Sir getting out of his car and going into his house.’
‘Was he alone?’
‘Yes,’ James said.
‘You had last seen him leave his house with young George at two o’clock the previous afternoon. And you saw the car return without George at three o’clock the following morning.’
‘That is true, sir,’ James said.
The prosecutor turned to the jury. ‘So the prisoner was absent from the school premises for thirteen hours.’ He hoped that they would draw their own conclusions, having gauged the return journey to Kent. The prosecutor swivelled once more, this time coming to rest at Simon’s stand. ‘Your witness,’ he said and there was no hiding the contempt and pity in his tone.
Simon rose quickly. His tempo was going to be very different. No swivelling for him. No glasses of water. No histrionics. Neither would he allow them in his witness. He came straight to the point.
‘Let’s talk first about the prayer-shawl,’ he said. ‘And then let us talk about the phylacteries. And then let us talk about the fringes. Are you aware Mr Turncastle, that you have picked upon the most salient symbols of Jewish orthodoxy?’
I, Dreyfus Page 14