As the external pressure was building, so was the volcano inside Zola. Sitting before me, with cheeks puffing in an attempt to catch his breath, he said, “How can so many ignorant men be so antipathetic to speaking the truth?”
“You have answered your own question, Émile. Ignorance.” My own concern arose, not just for the travesty we were discussing, but I feared that Zola would break an artery in his heart.
“This idiot,” Zola said, referring to Esterhazy, “was broke! He took to gambling! He had connections linking him to the espionage.”
“Yes, and the handwriting recognition.” I regretted I’d let this comment slip for I knew it would fuel the fire. I softened my voice. “But then we don’t know all the specifics.”
“Nonsense, Charles!”
“Émile,” I paused for effect, “the impact this is having on you isn’t healthy.”
He slammed a fist down on the table, “How can they sleep at night?” Patrons at nearby tables of the bistro we were at turned toward him.
Lowering his tone, he said, “I would like to scream at them,” meaning the army in particular, “to wake up and take back their dignity.” He moved his head across the table and in a whisper said, “Lying, unethical, deceitful bastards.”
In an attempt to calm him, I patted his arm. In past conversations, where he had been discreet and concerned about not being heard, he was now too emotionally driven to continue safely. Attracting attention while discussing an anti-military stance in defense of Dreyfus was dangerous. If the wrong ears overheard him, the consequences were unthinkable.
Understanding my body language, he switched the topic. With the edge still in his tone, he said, “I have become aware that my writing has inspired Gustave Charpentier to begin work on a libretto for an opera.” His dull eyes lightened. “It seems that my words on French naturalism are reaching wider than your ears.”
“Every day, reality is making headway. Not to denigrate romanticism, but I prefer subjects that are down to earth.”
“That’s because you are an engineer,” he smiled.
I was relieved to see him look amused. It was a mood that was not to last long.
When lovers kiss on the cheeks, it is because they are searching, feeling for one another’s lips.
Émile Zola
Chapter Eight
As rumors continued to leak and the word spread, the division in France widened. Far exceeding the personal injustice of Alfred Dreyfus—his guilt or innocence—the issues took on a national perspective. The anti-Dreyfusards, as they came to be known, were against reopening the case. They saw the consideration of Dreyfus’s innocence as a threat to national security. It was seen as an endeavor by the country’s enemies to dishonor the army and as a global threat from international socialism and Jewry infiltration, or as a direct assault on France from Germany. Those in favor of Dreyfus’s exoneration saw its suppression as a gross affront on the principle of freedom of the citizen—citizens subjugated by military rule in the name of national security. Those who were pro-Dreyfus were fighting for liberty, justice, and equality under a humane and civil France.
As the word spread and Mathieu Dreyfus continued to tirelessly campaign for his brother’s retrial, Lucie Dreyfus came into public focus. Working along with her brother-in-law for the revision of the miscarriage of justice levied against her husband, she also met with Auguste Scheurer-Kestner.
Lucie Hadamard Dreyfus was born to a devout Jewish family, her father a wealthy diamond merchant and her mother a mild-mannered quiet woman who tended to her children. In 1889, only a few years before the debacle involving her husband, she and Alfred met at her parent’s home. They were married the next year by the head rabbi of France in the main synagogue in Paris. Their first child, Pierre, was born in 1891. Two years later, a daughter, Jeanne, followed. A family devoted to each other, they enjoyed a peaceful, comfortable, and wealthy life.
By a stroke of uncanny circumstance, Zola ran into Auguste Scheurer-Kestner dining with Mathieu and Lucie. In a bistro the next day, he relayed to me how taken he was with her beauty—a petite woman with a charming face. “Her deep brown eyes, slightly up-turned nose, and full lips, expressed a thousand tons of sorrow.” She moved him, and went straight to the place in his heart where reason is thrown to the wind.
“Be careful of getting emotionally involved,” I told him.
“One cannot help it. When I looked into her eyes I wanted to weep. She tried to disguise her feelings but anyone with compassion couldn’t miss her agony. She holds the pain for all of us. So does the brother. It’s a sad state of affairs.”
“Yes,” I nodded.
“They mentioned compiling the data into a request for a retrial. And…” Zola’s expression shifted inward with a troubled look.
“What?” I questioned.
“Auguste asked me to sit with them, but Lucie had to go home to tend to her children and Mathieu left with her.”
“Perhaps they were uncomfortable discussing the matter with you present?”
“Yes, of course, that may well be.”
“Why that look,” referring to his squinting eyes.
“Auguste is concerned that the calamity will not escape the army’s clutch, that it may claim it’s a matter of national security and suppress any data it has. And be damned with the facts.”
“The army has already shown that to be the case, hasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“What about the evidence that has accumulated?” I asked.
“What about it? It was there when the original trial took place. Apparently it was withheld from Dreyfus’s attorney.”
When he sprang this on me, I was dumbfounded. Was I so naïve to think this whole affair couldn’t possibly get any worse? “What!” I lowered my voice, “And you think it can all be suppressed?”
“History is a predictor of what will come, isn’t it?” Zola looked away at something that caught his attention. After two men passed by us, he continued, “But at least now Dreyfus has some of the liberals on his side. There was another disturbing comment.”
I held my breath and waited.
Zola pursed his lips, and spoke hardly above a whisper when he said, “Auguste suggested that if the attempt to gain a retrial fails, I could write something. He feels that my reputation is lofty enough that it would be published and may be another option for an inroad.”
“Are you joking?”
“Afraid not.”
“You know what you’d risk if you took that on?” I didn’t expect an answer.
“God only knows.” He pensively looked out the window. The silence between us remained.
One forges one’s style on the terrible anvil of daily deadlines.
Émile Zola
Chapter Nine
True to form in his typically foolhardy though well-calculated manner, Esterhazy demanded a court-martial to clear his name. Once again he gambled, knowing the odds were in his favor since the army would support him to protect itself. The precipitous military court was held in secret. Just as Esterhazy had speculated, the military maneuvered the proceedings to both his and their mutual advantage. All the facts showing Dreyfus’s innocence and Esterhazy’s culpability were suppressed, resulting in a predictable acquittal for the guilty man. It was the fastest court-martial in France’s history. I don’t understand how men can live with themselves and sleep at night when they commit these unconscionable actions.
When the news came to the Dreyfus family, they consulted with Scheurer-Kestner. He suggested that perhaps the way to go was to have the press print the story, facts included.
Although Zola was not surprised at the audacity of the court, he was agitated by it. He appeared at my door, fit to be tied. “Where has decency gone?” he shouted, storming past me as I let him in to talk.
I knew when he cut back on his wine consumption and drank milk instead that he was developing a peptic ulcer from his preoccupation with the Dreyfus situation. Walking to my kitchen, I sa
id, “I will make some chamomile tea. Go and sit down and relax.”
“Relax,” he grumbled, “not likely!”
“Émile,” I said as I handed him the cup, “I’m uneasy with how you look, worn and tired, with an acid stomach, I’m assuming.”
“Yes, you’re right, Charles, but it seems I am about to be invited to get involved.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’ve been offered to Lucie Dreyfus.”
“What does that mean?”
“She’s going to ask me to write about the…”
Interrupting, and alarmed, I said, “You can’t be serious. Would you even consider it? You can’t take this on.”
“If not me, then who?”
“Then you’re going to do it?” I nervously tapped my spoon against the cup.
“I haven’t decided that yet. But I’m upset about the court-martial.”
Confused, as I hadn’t yet heard of the Esterhazy trial, I cocked my head and asked, “What are you referring to?”
He jolted up straight in the chair. “You haven’t heard that Esterhazy asked for a court-martial? It must have lasted all of three minutes.” Throwing his arms up in the air, “Now that’s real justice for you!”
Concluding the decision was bad news, I said, “You saw the court record?”
“Heavens no! It will be locked up in perpetuity. What I know is that he asked for a court-martial to clear his name. Smart move for an imbecile, and one with no conscience. It’s doubtful if he has any redeeming qualities.”
“Zola,” it was how I referred to him when I was in my fatherly mien, “you can’t take this on. It will ruin you.”
“Charles, I told you I don’t know what I plan to do. She,” referring to Lucie Dreyfus, “hasn’t approached me yet. It might not even happen.”
Zola kept me abreast of his involvement with Dreyfus’s wife. Alas, my hope that he would…or could…stay silent on the matter was dashed in short order. The next day Lucie Dreyfus made contact with Zola (through a mutual friend) that she wanted to meet with him. He set up an appointment to see her the following day. That night he slept fitfully, swirling in indecision as sweat poured from his nightshirt. Knowing he would be called upon to help, he contemplated the best way to make known the facts surrounding the Dreyfus injustice. His thoughts went to communications he had had with the president of France, Felix Faure. President Faure was reputed to be a reasonable and fair man, and a person of high esteem with whom Zola had good rapport.
Zola told me he knew what he had to do and with whom he wanted to consult—his friend Georges Clemenceau—before attempting anything with Faure or meeting with Lucie Dreyfus. Clemenceau had served in politics, having been elected five times to the National Assembly. When not involved in public service, Clemenceau did journalistic work. He was a stellar, fearless advocate for truth and justice, as was Zola.
It was fortuitous for Zola that Clemenceau had been defeated for his chamber seat in the 1893 election and had restricted his political activities to return to journalism. By the end of 1897, he was owner and editor of the Paris daily newspaper L’Aurore, and had immense respect for Zola’s writing. Their friendship and journalistic work was a collectively powerful voice for fact and sound reason. If Zola was determined to make a public statement about this Dreyfus injustice, at least he had a well-respected colleague beside him and a reputable newspaper to publish his work. But would either be enough to protect him?
The truth is on the march and nothing will stop it.
Émile Zola
Chapter Ten
Before his meeting with Lucie Dreyfus, Zola consulted with Clemenceau. Zola had an idea for how to approach exposing the mountain of information. I remember him telling me that was when the word “libel” came up. Interestingly it had the opposite effect of discouraging him; it motivated him. I recall the conversation he had with Clemenceau very well.
“You risk libel.”
“Yes, and so do you, my friend,” said Zola.
“It is our fallback position.” They both understood that if Zola wrote the article and Clemenceau published it in his newspaper, nothing might come of it. If one or both were sued for libel, however, then the contents of the article would be admissible in the trial, opening the door for the court to request the full record of Esterhazy’s court-martial. To expose Esterhazy’s misdeeds would exonerate Dreyfus.
“Are you willing to risk that the burden will most likely fall on you?” Clemenceau asked.
“It is the cost of freedom of the press. It is the cost for maintaining my soul. In taking up this cause, as with all my writing, I pledge to tell the truth, in full—the truth about Dreyfus’s trial, about the real traitor, and the evil cover-up. Vindictive hatred must be exposed!”
“Then write your article and let me see it.”
“First I have an appointment with Lucie Dreyfus.”
“Are you going to tell her about what you plan to write?”
“No. No one can know but us, and perhaps my confidant Charles, whom I trust like a father. To speak to anyone about this is to risk suppression, even imprisonment on some trumped-up charge.”
“True.”
That Zola entrusted this information to me heightened the bond between us, an honor to last for the rest of my days. The words “like a father” nourished me.
When we arrived at the quiet place in the French countryside not far from the city, Lucie Dreyfus and her brother-in-law Mathieu were already waiting at a table. Zola asked me to come along to listen to what he might miss and give my perspective.
When Mrs. Dreyfus’s downcast eyes met Zola’s, they lit up with hope. In her hand was a piece of paper with handwriting on it and I wondered if they were notes she had brought to discuss with Zola. Mathieu stood and extended his hand to us. When the introductions were finished I took a closer look at the paper and caught sight of a very personal, “When will I be able to kiss you?” My heart grew heavy as I realized she carried a love letter from her husband, like a good luck charm. She was calm when we began speaking. “Thank you for coming today, Mr. Zola.” Taking in a deep breath, she appeared at a loss for where to begin.
Mathieu looked at Lucie’s eyes welling with tears then to what she held in her hand. Visibly straining to stay composed he held his torso high and said, “I have come with my sister-in-law because of our great respect for you, Mr. Zola. You have shown honor and integrity in your writing.”
Zola, in his wise and sensitive way, nodded and remained silent, inviting what they needed to communicate.
When Lucie finally spoke, my body lightened. In her voice was what I recognized as a great love that would sacrifice all. “Mr. Zola, the evidence has come to us that proves my husband’s innocence.” Tears running down her cheeks, she continued, “But the courts will do nothing about it.”
When she reached for her handkerchief, Mathieu interjected, matter-of-factly, “The army.” Clearly cautious of finding his footing with Zola and not to denigrate the military, he lowered his voice. “We are at a great disadvantage against its might.”
For the first time in many minutes, Zola said impassively, “I understand.”
I sat quietly observing the tension in Mathieu’s face, his taut lips and pulled-tight forehead. They must have held back an ocean of anger and frustration.
Lucie’s shoulders relaxed as Mathieu continued. She intently listened and when he was finished said she felt this was their last-ditch effort. “If not you, Mr. Zola, then who? Who would take up our cause?” she asked. They both felt there was no one else with the ethics and strength, the popularity of voice, as well as respect from people in political positions. “You are a man of honor, Mr. Zola, like my husband,” she said, caressing the love letter.
“I will consider what you have told me today and your request.” Zola patted Mathieu’s arm, saying, “I will get back to you with my decision.”
As we walked out of earshot, he asked, “What do you think, Charles?”
That was the point at which I knew what Zola would do, not just for righting the injustice done to one Jewish military officer, but for the most fundamental utilitarian reasoning—one man’s action impacts all of us. This is how Zola lived, and how his thinking worked. In spite of my own discomfort, I knew then that there was nothing I could do to dissuade him. Would I live to regret never trying?
Let us seek and we shall find.
To Live Out Loud: A Novel Page 3