It was all I could do to contain my temper from speaking out or taking an action. I wanted to yell from the top of my lungs that this was a hall of justice where facts should be heard and citizens be judged on the truth, not on gossip. I couldn’t help thinking that the two trials of the century, dividing France, were nothing more than rumormongers’ sensational cover-ups. They were vulgar displays of the hatred that lived in their anti-Semitic hearts. That kind of hatred is the vilest, for it is not content with mere gossip between the simpleminded, but spreads like infection unable to be contained, sullying what it comes in contact with. Yes, I wanted to scream SHUT UP! but I knew I would continue to keep my moral outrage to myself. My reticent nature causes me shame in comparison to Zola. I hide in his shadow, hold my tongue, and dare to do no more than offer him support. He tells me that I am courageous to stand by him. Zola sees altruism in me that I do not see in myself. When I look at men like him—true heroes who act magnanimously—I see that am in need of valor.
Feeling nauseated and intolerant of the pettiness, I went inside. Unrest filled the room as we waited for the judge to appear. Once he was at the bench, a hush came over the attendees. The silence was a welcome change from the earlier repugnant chatter.
The questions presented to the first witness, a military officer, were concerning the transfer of Lt. Colonel Piquart away from Paris. Whatever the trumped-up reason, the truth was that Piquart, a man of great integrity was exiled because he wanted to exonerate Captain Alfred Dreyfus. Nothing of significance surfaced for the record; stories and lies were all that came forth.
Volleying between the attorneys and judge continued. When Du Paty de Clam took the stand, he instantly defended himself as a man of honor who was dragged through the mud with false claims against him for his part in the cover-up. I thought it a sure sign of guilt that he should defend his innocence when nothing was even asked of him. His use of the words “French honor” made me sick.
When the judge responded with, “But there have been no questions,” I wanted to laugh. Du Paty de Clam was a clown act.
More of the same nonsense continued. Witness after witness had nothing Labori deemed important to be admitted into the record. Zola’s lawyer stated each time a useless witness wasted the court’s time, for official documentation, “I never before saw an assize court like this. All means are sought here to prevent the light from being thrown on any important point of questioning. Therefore, answers are not forthcoming!”
Toward midafternoon, testimony came up about how Mathieu Dreyfus had lodged a formal complaint with the Minister of War accusing Esterhazy of being the author of the bordereau. The witness was given a complete file with documented handwriting samples, among other accusatory information. Finally, the bundle of documents that Scheurer-Kestner brought up could be introduced.
The Attorney General objected.
I learned forward in anticipation for the judge’s decision.
Again this was not entered into the official record. To my deepest respect and amazement, unscathed Labori, in a calm, intelligent, determined manner, continued hammering questions at witnesses. Despite his brilliant attempts, the judge countered with, “Say nothing of Dreyfus” to one witness after another for twelve days, and didn’t stop until the testimonies ended and summations began. The documents introduced by Scheurer-Kestner never made it into the final transcript.
On day thirteen, February 21, 1898, Attorney General Van Cassel started with, “Gentlemen of the jury, a man well-known in letters goes in search of a militant newspaper, comes to an understanding with it, and publishes an article which shows either irresponsibility or shamelessness. He declares that a Council of War has rendered a verdict in obedience to orders. ‘Let them prosecute me in the assize court, if they dare,’ Zola writes. Well, here we are,” he pointed a finger at Zola. “But where are your proofs, those precise and irrefutable proofs that the Council of War has rendered a verdict in obedience to orders? During the twelve sessions that you have just passed through not once has this question, the only one before us, been posited. You have attempted no proof.”
What the blazes is he talking about? My mind was a blank with the illogic of his argument. But then, with the pertinent evidence of collusion withheld, I knew he didn’t need to say much to make his point and win over the jury. Zola’s head followed Van Cassel’s movement as he continued with, “The experts in the Esterhazy case worked separately, and arrived by different methods at identical conclusions.”
It was all I could do to stay in my seat listening to this maddening diatribe of drivel. I wanted to pull at my graying hair and protest to the gentlemen of the jury, What about honest facts and justice? You all heard that everything was thrown out! I knew that although their ears took in the inadmissible truth, there sat before us twelve men, with puffed out, proud French chests ready to defend the good of the country—the military. Who was Zola to them? Surely not a symbol of what was right and decent, the best of the human condition. I just prayed that the truth would win out in the end, whenever that might be. It certainly didn’t seem to be heading in that direction.
Just when it appeared the bottom had been reached, stealing any thread of hope, hell opened up, and from Van Cassel out came, “Alfred Dreyfus alone was in a position to procure the documents concerning the national defense that are enumerated in the bordereau. General de Pellieux and General Gonse are in a position to know more about that than anybody else. After what they have told you, it is impossible to doubt. But I shall say no more about the Dreyfus case. It would be a violation of the authority of the subject being judged.”
What the defense attorneys had been attempting for days on end, to enter Dreyfus’s case into the record, was alluded to, naked and bare of any facts. And if that wasn’t enough, Van Cassel threw in, “Dreyfus belongs to a rich and powerful family, which continues to keenly feel the deep sorrow of having seen one of its members convicted of high treason. Their campaign has been carefully prepared. It began in the press before ending in parliamentary incidents and judicial proceedings.” Van Cassel’s calculating tonal indictment of the Dreyfus family as manipulative was a ploy to make Zola look like their puppet, further discrediting him.
The coffin was nailed shut and it didn’t matter what Labori or the Clemenceau brothers brought before the jurors, for in their summations they were not allowed to include the Dreyfus case. The twelve men walked to the room of decision and returned to the court in thirty-five minutes, wearing expressions of pride and dignity. Deluded beliefs filled their empty heads, as the foreman rose and said, “On my honor and my conscience, the declaration of the jury is: As concerns Perrenx, yes, by a majority vote. As concerns Zola, yes, by a majority vote.”
Cries of, “Long live the army, long live France, down with the insulters, to the door with Jews, and death to Zola!” broke out in the room.
Zola slumped in his chair and sadly lamented, “These people are cannibals.”
The court then retired to deliberate upon the sentences. Returning a few minutes later, it condemned Mr. Perrenx, the gérant of L’Aurore, to an imprisonment of four months and the payment of a fine of three thousand francs. Upon Émile Zola it inflicted the maximum penalty of one year in prison and a fine of three thousand francs.
Zola took his sentencing quietly as a few supporters surrounded him. He was secretly removed from the court and taken to a friend’s house, where he spent the night.
Alone with my thoughts, I pondered where we were when this debacle started. Back then I hadn’t envisioned that “our” France would be so cold-hearted. What would it take for her to thaw?
Civilization will not attain its perfection until the last stone from the last church falls on the last priest.
Émile Zola
Chapter Seventeen
Disheartened, I walked with Labori away from the boisterous commotion coming from the courthouse. The symbol of justice for all had become a pathetic parody. Hatred lived in the fading voices we distanced
ourselves from. The day was crisp and clear with an after-rain freshness lingering in the air. When the sun broke through the clouds, we didn’t feel the usual invigoration from such a beautiful day. It was tainted by the ugliness of the words yet echoing in our minds—“Death to Zola!” and “Lock him away with the Jew traitor.” If that wasn’t bad enough, the vileness expanded in more than one person with, “Kill the Jews who are polluting our beloved France!”
The irony of hearing the word beloved in the same sentence with kill the Jews made my skin crawl. “Where does this hatred come from?” I asked Labori, not really expecting anything to be said in response to my rhetorical question.
Labori mumbled, “Clerical influence.”
“Excuse me?” I questioned.
The shadow lines on his handsome face darkened. “The roars that started with the publication of J’Accuse…” he didn’t finish the sentence.
Tilting my head, I squinted to avoid the direct sunlight and gave him a look. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
Responding to my puzzlement, he said, “When over three-hundred-thousand copies of the paper went out that day, the uproar in the streets wasn’t the only violent protestation. The few papers that reprinted the letter infuriated the bulk of the press who opposed Dreyfus. The men of the cloth threw off their disguises and had the papal nuncio’s henchman call formally for the government in the Chamber of Deputies to put a stop to the attacks on the honor of the army. That is what prompted our friend’s prosecution.”
Sinking into myself, I looked at the ground as we continued to walk. Labori went on, “The blood of two men,” referring to Zola and Dreyfus, “wasn’t enough for them. The Archbishop of Paris suggested that all members of the Dreyfus family and Jewish leaders who were fueling the schism of France also be indicted.”
“For which,” I said, “Zola and Perrenx became the heads on a pike.”
“Yes. The situation was inflamed by the riots in parts of France where priestly cause had strong influence: Lyons, Marseilles, Notre Dame de la Garde, and especially Nantes, which had sent the anti-Semitic Pontbriand as a representative in parliament.” His dry throat cracking, Labori continued to tell me that the extent of anti-Semitic hatred was seen in the violence in French Algeria where Jews were beaten, wounded, and killed. “Their houses and shops were ransacked and burnt.”
My legs felt heavy and I slowed my motion. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”
Labori looked back to me and said, “That gives you an idea of the acrimony we are facing. Because many high-ranking in the army were called as witnesses, the bitterness intensified.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Overwhelming portions of officers in the French army belong to devout Catholic families, often aristocratic and royalist with great influence. There was prejudice and sizeable resentment against Alfred Dreyfus from the beginning of his enrollment in the War College. But then the animosity was talked about behind closed doors.”
I was still reeling from the shock of recent events surrounding the trial. What Labori had just said shook me to my core and I began to realize how dangerous this undertaking was. I felt embarrassed over my ignorance. How could I be deluded into believing any good could come from Zola writing his letter and going against the army? And the Catholic Church?
That day in the library several weeks back, when I tried to gain an understanding about the anti-Semitism in France, I thought I had grasped it. I couldn’t have been further from comprehending what prejudice and persecution do to the hearts of men fighting for a cause that they fervently believe in. Where was the love I had learned from the nuns? My heart tells me it is the love of God.
I felt ill. The only mitigation to this horrible situation was Zola’s friends who would protect him. One friend, Jacques, remained at Zola’s side with a six-shooter in readiness should anyone try to harm him. Police were also on guard.
Undeterred, Labori filed for a review with the appeals court. The days leading up to his appearance were tense, and once again as the citizens of Paris slept, Zola paced. He relived the stressful events daily, endured more rock-throwing through the windows of his home, and welcomed the increased police protection. The painful irony was that Esterhazy walked the streets a free man, continuing his debauchery, and gambled away his available funds, all under the protection of military might.
I often wondered if the turmoil was worth it. Zola told me it was. Knowing now how this has progressed, I don’t know that I would have advised him to enter into the peril in the first place. I doubt I’ll ever stop wondering if the price Zola paid, and most likely will continue to pay, was worth defending an innocent man. Will my dear friend ever be able to walk with his head held high in this country for which he has given so much of himself? For a man who has clung to the ideal of justice so loyally, will she ever so cling to him? God help Zola. God help Dreyfus. God help France. God help us all.
If I cannot overwhelm with my quality, I will overwhelm with my quantity.
Émile Zola
Chapter Eighteen
Crowds continued to gather outside Zola’s residence and I was happy to see that the police warded them off. Shouts of “Down with the Jews” came from demonstrators in front of liberal newspaper offices. I continued to be repulsed by the abundant hypocrisy and cowardice that existed in certain political and bourgeois circles. The exceptions were educated critical thinkers like Zola, who were disgusted with the Esterhazy court-martial. For the first time, members of the Institute of France, professors at the Paris faculty of medicine, provincial faculty members, and many other reputable scientists and literary men declared they were in favor of a revision of the Dreyfus case, adding to the already existing support. As the balance of power slowly shifted, Jew-haters, the army, and the clergy pursued means of suppressing anything to shine a light on the facts that could ultimately free Alfred Dreyfus.
It wasn’t enough that the German Foreign Secretary declared that no relationship existed between Dreyfus and Germany (with similar declarations from the Italian and Austrian governments). Even diplomatic agents of France abroad shared that view, but nothing could check the absurdity of French chauvinism and stubborn government vanity. No matter how many times I heard the same arguments against our case, they still shocked me as insane and grossly unjust. It served Zola well that the courts and chancelleries of Europe knew of Esterhazy’s guilt and that the foreign press shared that view. Compassion for Zola began to pour in from all over the world and he was grateful for the support. But it still felt like a slap in his patriotic face that he wasn’t supported close to home, where doll figures of him hanging from a noose were burned in effigy and verbal manure was slung at him from every corner, including garnering him the label “the Italian.” I wanted to take down those dolls and throw them in the garbage.
§ § § §
The documents from Zola’s first trial were sent to the appeals court. They were slimmer than if more witnesses had come forth to testify. While we waited, Zola reminded me that nearly a hundred witnesses—ministers, officers, senators, diplomats, journalists, and handwriting experts—were summoned, with great and successful efforts to scare them off from attending. Their names were published in newspapers with threatening letters sent to them should they show up at the trial. For the ones that did appear—speculation included members of the jury—revenge would follow them were they to acquit “the Italian.”
“What does that all mean with regards to the appeals court?” I asked Zola.
“Hopefully they will overturn Judge Delegorgue’s decision. That’s why Labori kept repeating for the record the excuses given by so many witnesses. His protestations of unfairness and the disallowing of entering things into the record have been documented. The transcript presented to the Court of Cassation should add up to an unfair trial.”
“That would be a great relief,” I replied. “If the court turns in your favor, let us hope that the noise outside your home here settles down.”
“I can live with the noise if justice is served,” said Zola.
As the case was moving up in the calendar of the Court of Cassation, nationalists and clerical leaders continued large-scale demonstrations to foil any of our attempts at justice for Dreyfus, Zola, or Jewish sympathizers. These anti-Semitic men congregated en masse around the court to protest, virtually unobstructed. Friends of Zola and Dreyfus volunteered to offer more protection. In addition to Jacques, others carried guns, putting the police on edge. I had my uncomfortable moments with Jacques and his compatriots carrying firearms. But for the most part I felt relieved that Zola was protected as these were tough times and the nationalists were surely armed.
The army hierarchy, clergy, and anti-Semites did not relent in their battle to reinforce their story, one the populace already believed: Dreyfus was guilty of treason. Anyone who begged to differ was faced with overwhelming contradicting voices. As the days grew closer to the date set for the appeals court to review the case, tensions continued to escalate. Zola was at his wits’ end. It was not safe to be out in the streets, but he insisted he needed fresh air and a change of scenery. He went for a ride, accompanied by an armed entourage and me. He needed to get out of his carriage, and, as he told me, feel the earth beneath his feet. Courageous and defiant, it proved to be a foolish and near fatal move. Although surrounded by his friends, a group of men overtook him, lifted him to a parapet above the Seine, and were about to toss him in when we rescued him. After that, Labori insisted that Zola travel in a coach, accompanied by police on bicycles. Even then, he continued to be pursued by hostile mobs.
To Live Out Loud: A Novel Page 6