I, Dreyfus

by Bernice Rubens

  ‘That was a turn-up for the books,’ he said. ‘But as you know, I’d had a breakdown. But for some reason, after that visit, I started to get back on my feet again.’

  Rebecca could have told him the reason and she thought that she might with some justification send his therapist a bill for her services.

  ‘And what are you doing now?’ she asked.

  ‘I have lots to do,’ he said. ‘That’s why I’ve come to see you.’

  Rebecca thought he might have come to see if she could get him employment of a sort. ‘Are you looking for work?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing like that,’ he said. He paused for a while. ‘I have unfinished business.’

  She wanted to ask him if it was Dreyfus business as she fully expected but she was still afraid of the name.

  ‘Oh, it’s all so complicated,’ he said.

  ‘Start at the beginning,’ Rebecca urged him. ‘I have time.’

  ‘I heard you were working for an appeal,’ James said. ‘That’s why I’m here.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Now it’s out,’ he said. You’ve no idea how often I’ve rehearsed that line.’

  ‘You have great courage,’ Rebecca said. ‘And all my respect.’ She could not wait to get home and tell Matthew, for it looked as if young James was about to come clean, and was about to blow the whistle on the conspiracy.

  ‘Suppose I take you out to eat?’ Rebecca suggested. ‘I know a very quiet place, not far from here. Italian. That suit you?’ James smiled. ‘I love Italian,’ he said.

  It was a lengthy supper. She wined and dined him as her ears tingled to his tale. Every single word confirmed Ronnie Cope’s findings. But his personal contribution to the dire conspiracy was astonishing. He seemed relieved when it was all told.

  ‘I want to testify at the appeal,’ he said. ‘I have to do it. Then I can start living again.’

  Rebecca asked him if he would come back in the morning and tape a statement of what he had told her. James was more than willing to do all that he could to clear his own troubled conscience. She watched him walk away from her and she thought she heard him singing.

  ‘Now you can tell Alfred,’ she said to Matthew when she reached home. ‘And I shall work on the papers to send to the Home Secretary. At last,’ she said, ‘we have reason to hope.’

  As he had promised, James turned up early the following morning, and taped his statement. And Matthew went to visit his brother.

  Chapter 31

  I don’t know how to begin. There have been many times when I have found it hard to pick up my pen. My despair forbade it. Now, at that moment, after Matthew’s visit, the pen still resisted me, but now it was prompted no longer by despair, but by simple joy. I wanted to dance and sing, and indeed I did so continually, since Matthew had left. I was intoxicated with the smell of my possible freedom. I was ready to forgive. I was ready to forfeit my rage. But I knew I had to guard against both for a time. There was yet one more hurdle to clear: the Home Secretary’s go-ahead. But Matthew had said that the evidence of a conspiracy was so telling, so undeniable, so multi-witnessed, that a refusal was unthinkable. But the Home Secretary was a Jew. I would prefer him to be a Gentile. I could not help recalling that it was a Jewish judge who sent the Rosenbergs to the electric chair. Another ‘count me in’ Jew. God help me, but we are a crazy people.

  I waited. I can’t remember how I spent the next few weeks. Matthew visited often, but simply to report that they were still awaiting the Home Secretary’s response. He was optimistic, as always. So was Lucy who had been so careful not to raise my hopes. I wanted to talk to them about what I would do when I was free, but Lucy refused that topic.

  ‘I have to tell you something,’ Matthew said.

  I feared for a moment that there was some hiccup in the proceedings, that there was a delay or a hint of a refusal to an appeal. I must have paled, for Matthew hastened to add, ‘It has nothing to do with the appeal. It’s about me and Susan. She left me shortly after the verdict. She changed her name and Adam’s and Zak’s as well.’

  ‘I think I must have known,’ I said, and I was relieved that Matthew had finally told me. I made to embrace him with my sympathy. ‘I’m very sorry,’ I said.

  ‘There’s no need,’ he told me. ‘I see the children regularly and I’m living with Rebecca. Have been for the past year. We’re very happy together.’

  ‘And how is Susan?’ I asked, though in my heart I didn’t care how she was.

  ‘Angry,’ Lucy donated.

  We were silent then, and in our silence, Susan was exiled from the family.

  When they had gone, I started once more on my story, but I could not find the words for waiting. There were days when my hopes were so high, I simply bided my patient time to my release. But there were days too when I was so full of despair, that I resigned myself to my cell for the rest of my natural life. And so I wavered between these two extremes, and while dwelling in the one, I could never envisage the other.

  It was during this time, this uncertain time, that Sam came to see me. It had been almost a month since he had last visited and I had missed him. He had warned me that he was going to America for a while so I shouldn’t wonder at his absence. Yet I did. I couldn’t understand why he had to leave me, and sometimes I was angry with him. But I was overjoyed to see him again.

  He came into my cell and made himself at home on my cot. That’s what I liked about Sam. My cell had never offended him. I think, God forbid, given some misfortune, he would have made a comfortable prisoner. He was full of graphic stories of his American visit but first he had to talk about the possible appeal. Matthew had filled him in on the latest developments and he was bursting to share with me his joy and his hopes.

  ‘The book gets longer,’ he said with a sly smile. ‘It will have chapters we only dared dream about.’

  Then I realised that I had entirely forgotten about the book. It had been a useful and sometimes happy time-filler but soon, hopefully, its purpose would no longer be feasible. Sam must have read my mind.

  ‘The book has a larger purpose now,’ he said. ‘With luck it is no longer therapy. It is a protest against injustice, against prejudice, corruption and persecution. All of those things. And they go beyond the Dreyfus case. They have a universal compulsion. You have to finish it, whatever the outcome of the appeal. You owe, my friend.’ He smiled then, and told me how excited the American publishers were, and how they looked forward to the finished manuscript.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ I told him. Then he felt free to tell me about New York. I had been there only once, in my halcyon days, when on a lecture tour. As he was speaking, I made plans to revisit New York as soon as I was free. And in my mind I plotted my itinerary. And so engrossed was I in my own arrangements that slowly I ceased to hear Sam’s stories. Until he asked me a question relating to his tale, and I had to confess that my mind had been elsewhere.

  ‘You’re planning your freedom,’ he said.

  There was a note of warning in his voice and it depressed me. ‘I can dream, can’t I?’ I said.

  ‘Know them as dreams,’ Sam told me. ‘Just for the time being.’ Then, after a pause, ‘I’ve come to be read to,’ he said.

  I had written much since Sam’s last listening visit, all through the days before Matthew brought me that still half-believable news. In those days I had often wished for Sam’s listening ear, for I was still uncertain whether my words lay in the realm of fiction or truth. Now, as I read to him, I knew them for nothing but the truth, every syllable of them, for in my mind was the stubborn prospect of freedom. And because of that prospect I no longer found that truth unbelievable. For if freedom were a possibility, it had to have entailed imprisonment.

  When I had finished reading, Sam expressed himself pleased with the work and I think he knew as well as I that I no longer needed a listener.

  ‘We are almost up to date,’ he said, ‘and with luck your final chapter will deal with the appeal. And even if that is disallowed,’
Sam went on, ‘you have to write about all the new evidence.’

  ‘I can’t believe it will be disallowed,’ I said.

  He put his arm around my shoulder. ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘But don’t dream of your freedom. Dream instead of your confinement, for I think you are close to waking.’

  When he had gone, I picked up my pen once more. But, try as I would, I could not find the words for waiting. I sat and stared at my manuscript and soon enough I started to dream. Not of my freedom, as Sam had advised, but of my cell and the bars on its window. And it was a nightmare.

  The days passed, with their daily press-ups and toe-touching, the lonely meals and the waiting. Then one morning I awoke with the current date fixed in my mind. May the twenty-first. I don’t know how I knew it. I barely noted the change of seasons, leave alone the number of the day or month. It puzzled me, this waking thought, this May the twenty-first that kept ringing in my ear, and I knew that for whatever reason, it was an auspicious day. I knew that something was about to happen. I felt it in my bones. I felt it in my toes as I touched them, in my shoulders as I raised them from the floor. I hurried with my exercises that morning. I did not want to be occupied when whatever was about to happen, would be known. Likewise I hurried with my breakfast and when the tray was removed, I sat and waited. But I could not hurry my waiting. May the twenty-first, I kept saying to myself and I didn’t know why. I tried to read, but I couldn’t concentrate. I was tired but I was afraid to close my eyes in case I fell asleep and missed out on whatever was about to happen. I stood on my cot and looked out of the barred window. Perhaps I expected to see a fire, or a riot, any event that would make that date memorable. There was nothing untoward to view, yet the date throbbed in my mind.

  Once more I sat on my cot and tried to read. My ears were alive to every sound and the silence deafened them. Then suddenly I heard footsteps along the aisle outside my cell and I knew that they would stop at my door. They were the heavy tread of a guard, but those treads muffled another’s, treads less rhythmical, shoed rather than booted. I watched my door open and I held my breath. I saw the boots and the black-trousered legs of the guard, then looked up to his grim face as he held the door for the governor’s entrance. Although the governor occasionally dropped in to see me, his visits usually occurred in the evening, before lights out. So I knew that this was a special visit and that it had taken place on the twenty-first of May. I heard my heart thumping. He nodded to the guard who withdrew and I rose, trembling, to my feet. I saw the governor’s face break into a smile.

  ‘Good news,’ he said. ‘I was informed this morning that the Home Secretary has allowed the appeal.’

  I wanted to embrace him. I wanted to embrace the world. He put out his hand, and taking mine, he shook it vigorously.

  ‘I’m happy about it, as you must be,’ he said. ‘And I wish you all the very best.’ He went to the door. ‘Try to be patient,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve waited so long,’ I told him, ‘I have learnt patience.’

  That afternoon, I had three visitors. Lucy, Matthew and Rebecca. I had met with Rebecca once before when she had come to interview me regarding my trial. But this was the first time that I had seen her with Matthew and their pairing pleased me. ‘The governor told me,’ I said, as soon as I saw them. We hugged each other. We couldn’t find words. We had used them all in our desperate waiting.

  We were in the visitors’ room as a change from my cell. The governor had suggested it. It was clear that the other men knew of the change in my fortunes for they viewed me with even more suspicion and envy. One of them passed by our table.

  ‘Trust you lot to fix things,’ he hissed.

  I smiled at him and he reddened with rage.

  We held each others’ hands across the table and after a while I dared to ask when the appeal would begin.

  ‘It will take about a month,’ Rebecca said. ‘A date will be fixed and then subpoenas will be delivered to all those who witnessed against you.’

  ‘What about Eccles?’ I said. ‘He spoke up for me.’

  ‘That was his cover,’ Rebecca said. ‘Eccles too. Especially Eccles.’

  ‘Any others?’ I asked.

  ‘A surprise one,’ Matthew said. ‘Old John Coleman from the village.’

  ‘I can’t wait to question him,’ Rebecca said.

  We laughed together, children’s laughter. That of innocence while the men around us sniggered and burned with envy.

  As Rebecca had predicted, the date of the appeal was set for five weeks hence and the waiting was almost a pleasure. I risked the mess-hall again for my meals and noticed that my table companions were considerably less friendly. They suspected that I was not one of them after all. But I did not risk the exercise yard. I did not want to hobble injured into the courtroom. I wrote diligently during that waiting time and when Sam came to see me, overjoyed with the news, he knew I did not need to read to him.

  The evening before the appeal, Matthew came to the prison to deliver my suit. He had not brought the one that I had worn for that terrible verdict. He had brought the suit I had worn on my lecture tours, a reminder of happier days and perhaps those that were to come. I had neither lost nor gained weight, but I had added a little muscle. Nevertheless the suit sat perfectly upon me.

  Matthew had news. ‘We’ve lost a witness, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Eccles?’ I asked.

  ‘No. Eccles is subpoenaed. He’ll be there. It’s John Coleman. He disappeared overnight. He’s done a bunk, it seems. His cottage in the village is up for sale. Nobody saw him go, and nobody knows where he is.’

  ‘I suspected that man from the very beginning,’ I said. ‘Nothing very special. I just didn’t trust him. That day when he came to tea, he must have been planning my fall.’

  ‘Not you personally,’ Matthew said. ‘You just happened to be the right target at the right time.’

  He embraced me. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘We all will. We’re all so hopeful. Even Lucy. She almost bought a new hat. Almost.’

  I didn’t sleep much that night, but I had a fitful dream that my suit didn’t fit me. It was much too tight, and I woke up as the buttons burst from their moorings.

  My breakfast was brought and I noticed an extra slice of bread on the tray. I was allowed a bath, and the guards watched me as I shaved and donned my new suit. ‘Very smart,’ one of them managed to say, and ‘Good luck,’ came from the other, those same two guards who had borne silent and indifferent witness to my playground beatings. But I forgave them, wondering whether it was still too soon for forgiveness. There was some time left before I would be taken to the court and I was not surprised to receive a visit from the governor.

  ‘I came to wish you well,’ he said. He handed me a copy of the day’s paper. ‘Something to read while you’re waiting,’ he said.

  I scanned the headlines with a sudden and delicious appetite for news, when my eye caught a title that stunned me: ‘ENGLISH PUBLIC SCHOOLMASTER FOUND DEAD.’

  I knew who it was without reading further. The news excited me, and without one shred of regret or remorse, I confess to reading the report with a certain pleasure: ‘The body of Mark Eccles, head of the history department at one of England’s finest public schools, was found late last night in his room at the Hotel de la Mer, Marseilles. Foul play is not suspected.’

  It occurred to me that Eccles’s suicide might well be advantageous to my trial, but above all I was satisfied that at least in one area justice had been seen to be done.

  When eventually they came to escort me to the Court of Appeal, I was in a state close to exhilaration.

  Wish me luck, Mr Wallworthy.

  Part Five

  Chapter 32

  It was a long time since I’d last seen that blanket. I wondered whether it was the same one, oozing the sweat of fear, and contemplated how many innocent or guilty men it had shrouded into court. But this time I would not make use of it. Whatever the banners shrieked outside the Cou
rt of Appeal, whatever causes their bearers espoused, I would walk into that courtroom with my head high, as innocent now as I was before. But infinitely less afraid.

  As the van slowed down and its engines purred, I heard slogan voices in chorus. And as we came to a stop I heard the words of their chant. ‘Free Dreyfus, free Dreyfus.’ As I slipped out of the van, I caught sight of several placards declaring my innocence. I shivered with gratitude.

  I was led into the chamber. I recalled my trembling gait at my first court appearance, when despair prompted my every faltering step. Now I almost ran into the courtroom. I felt I was about to attend a piece of theatre, assured of the star part and the best seat in the house. I dared not give a thought to its dénouement. For the moment the drama itself would have to do.

  Rebecca was waiting there and for the first time in many years I thought about Simon Posner, my erstwhile lawyer, who had so ineptly pleaded my case. Matthew had never mentioned him and I presumed that their friendship had ceased. Rebecca welcomed me. She seemed as excited as I.

  ‘We’ve lost Eccles,’ she said.

  ‘I know. I read about it in the paper this morning.’

  ‘It’s no loss,’ she told me. ‘His suicide could be seen as an admission of guilt. It’s to our advantage.’

  ‘Did he have a family?’ I asked. I felt suddenly sorry for him. ‘None,’ she said. ‘Just friends. So-called friends. Some of them will be in court.’

  Again I sensed that I was going to a theatre. I already knew the plot and most of the cast, but the bit-players, the extras and the walk-ons were all unknown. I could not wait to take my front-row seat.

  Once more down a long corridor, but this time I almost skipped despite the two grips on my elbows. I was taken to a seat at the side of the court. Though fenced, it was less of a dock than before. Less isolated, less quarantined, and I regarded it as a rehearsal for my freedom. The chamber seemed small and intimate. In my cell-nightmares the courtroom at the Old Bailey had assumed colossal proportions, bursting at its seams with lies and prejudice, and echoing with the baying for my blood. This room was comfortable, a cosy theatre in the round. The spectators were a neat gathering in the stalls. They were looking at me with a certain curiosity and I returned their gaze unafraid. We all stood for the entry of the three judges and I expected the lights to dim so that the play could begin.