The Singing Forest

by Judith McCormack

  Ace, king, queen, jack. The girl studies their faces, the king of spades with his curling moustache, the skeptical queen of diamonds, the jack of hearts so pleased with himself and his yellow hair.

  Surprisingly, she is good at this game, she is astonished how good she is. She wins and wins and wins and wins.

  Look at that, says her aunt fondly. A genius.

  The girl accepts this — who would know better than her aunt? Someday, she and the jack of diamonds — not as vain as the jack of hearts — will go off together, the two of them and her genius. Travelling around, finding roller coasters to ride, eating raspberry pie for breakfast.

  Why raspberry? says her aunt.

  He likes red things, she says, willing to make this sacrifice for him.

  Today the cards are not co-operating, though.

  Her aunt deals again.

  Nothing, says her aunt, rearranging her hand. Look at that, I’ve got nothing again. A handful of nisht. You must have all my cards.

  The game goes on and on, round after round, neither one able to gin.

  The girl looks accusingly at her hand, the king of diamonds sitting there smugly, the haughty queen of spades. These double-headed cards, a face at either end. Why are they suddenly such loners, why no friends and relations?

  Another round. Nisht. Nada. Zip.

  I must be losing my touch, says her aunt.

  ···

  Later, as she grows older, a whisper of doubt about her card-playing genius begins to surface in the girl’s mind. Not a suspicion, too quiet for that, merely a rustle in the back of her mind. Only enough to know this: she should avoid playing cards with anyone else.

  ···

  The investigator is circling the two witnesses like an irritable sheepdog. They are sitting in the front row of seats in the courtroom, waiting for the case to start, and he moves restlessly from one to the other. The courtrooms around them have been cleared out, their case the only one listed here. This isolation is one of the security measures; they were given the location only yesterday, the room has been swept with equipment, they were searched and searched again, their briefcases rifled. Additional officers are posted in the halls, in the courtroom itself, a throng of dark blue. But what could they do if there was an explosion? she thinks. Perhaps they are there as a defiant gesture — we will not allow ourselves to be intimidated — something to ward off the edginess that has settled over the room, as if it has drifted up out of the air vents. Even the court clerk seems nervous.

  Her task for now: ensure that all is in readiness, that all will go as smoothly as possible. She has laid out their materials on the counsel table — the books of authorities, the notes, the tabbed exhibits — with almost geometric precision, the edges of the papers lined up with the edges of the desk. If only these things are perfectly straight, the case will go well. The journalists are keeping their distance for now, a group of alert, harassed people, deprived of their coffee cups at the door. Louis has worked out an arrangement with them, they will have interviews with the witnesses after the hearing. And of course, with their lawyer. She can see from his posture, his gestures that he is working hard to conceal his suppressed excitement. He is sharp enough to keep this under control, to keep his wits about him, only a tiny, gleeful leak every now and then.

  Raised voices. She glances around. Behind her, in the first row of seats, the doctor is insisting on something with the investigator, a stream of Belarusian. He tries to quiet her, patting the air down with his palms.

  What is it? she says to them. What’s the problem?

  Nothing, says the investigator hastily. Nothing, nothing.

  He tell me money, says the doctor in English.

  The travel money, says the investigator loudly.

  No, not the travel money, the money for to be a witness.

  Leah stares at the investigator.

  Fifteen hundred rubles, says the doctor.

  All rise, says the clerk.

  ···

  Opening statements. Louis at his best, painting the outline of the case in long, lean strokes, describing the evidence to come with effortless fluency. He describes the natural — almost inevitable — outcome to this case, how right it is, how preposterous any other result would be — exuding a kind of seductive reason. He sounds as if he is confiding these things to his listeners candidly, letting them in on the real story of the case. But she is barely listening, she is too busy trying to unscramble her thoughts.

  The doctor was paid. The music teacher too, likely. Paid. Of course, this doesn’t mean their evidence is untruthful. Not at all, witnesses are paid for many things — travel, accommodation, meals, even attendance. But most of those things have already been paid for here — this fifteen hundred rubles is merely to testify.

  She must talk to Louis about this, he must be told. But Owen is there, and Louis would insist that he be insulated from something like this. If there are any sins to be committed, this is their job.

  If there are any sins. No, the witnesses are telling the truth, she is convinced. Their stories are too detailed, they have the grainy feel of fact. And there is something rough, unmistakably genuine underlying them. Then she sees the music teacher’s second of hesitancy again, the small sitting room, the investigator nodding at him. What about the identification of Drozd? Was that true as well? But the investigator was only reassuring him, making it clear it was safe for him to talk.

  Then why did the investigator lie about it — only travel money — when she asked before? Because he knows it might taint their evidence? Or at least that it might be seen that way. A fine line, but still a line.

  No, no, say the spiders, groaning. Just this once. Just this once, make sure someone like him gets what he deserves.

  But she is so haunted by this case now herself that the idea of it collapsing, of this man eluding any form of reckoning is unthinkable.

  Then Louis is coming to the end of his opening, moving into a lower key. A few sentences later, and he is finished. He sits back in his chair while the other lawyer begins lumbering through his own opening, paragraphs of canned words pasted together.

  She tears off a scrap of pleadings, writes on the back: The doctor was paid by the investigator.

  Louis glances at it, crumples it up.

  Obviously he needs time to think about it, how to handle it. Undoubtedly he will ask for a break. He will wait until the other lawyer is finished, he will request a brief recess. He will get to the root of this, he will sort it out — what it means, what effect it has.

  As the other lawyer drones on, though, Louis does nothing, unperturbed.

  Eventually the man comes to a halt and Louis is still not moving.

  Call your evidence, says the judge.

  Another note. More urgent. Fifteen hundred rubles. About eight hundred dollars.

  He looks at her warningly, and crumples this one up as well.

  The doctor, the court interpreter — a man with an acerbic face and a deep voice — are sworn in. The evidence given by you touching on the matters in question.

  The doctor begins her testimony, speaking tensely but steadily, as if she is walking along a narrow ridge of facts. She is wearing a dark green jersey dress with a cowl neck today, her grey-streaked hair tied in a bun. A sobering presence, a spare dignity of her own. The resonant voice of the court interpreter becomes her voice, carrying them along — even the journalists are engrossed.

  The mushrooms. The shots, her mother. The barbed wire. A foot sticking out of the sand.

  Her words seem to expand, become taller, fuller. The room is unnaturally quiet and still. There is no coughing, no rustling, no creaking. Even the noises from outside are muffled, all that matters is in this room, her voice. No sounds of movement, no murmuring, no clearing of throats. They are all listening, transfixed.

  This moment, thinks Leah. A
moment without any warning. When fragments of leftover history spill into the present. When a living story falls out of the past, redrawing the lines of understanding. A moment that alters the bargain with time.

  The other lawyer shambles up to the lectern, robes flapping around his legs, and begins his cross-examination. He is surprisingly capable at this, darting into the corners of the doctor’s story, sniffing out uncertainty, collecting whatever he can find. He may not be much of an orator, but he is clever enough. And he harps on the doctor’s age, her memory, how long ago it was. She is giving up very little, though, she is determined to deliver her evidence, determined to have it believed. Her black eyes become even darker, they seem to absorb the questions into their depths and then reflect the answers back. He slogs away for an hour, doing what he can to fluster her.

  As he nears the end, Leah starts to relax slightly, to unclench her jaw. Is it possible the doctor, her testimony will make it through without too much damage? She straightens out the papers on the table in front of her, aligning their edges again.

  He has almost finished now, scratching the back of his head with one hand while he leafs through his notes one last time.

  You’re a long way from home, he says finally.

  She nods.

  Have you received any inducement to testify, has anyone promised you anything?

  Objection, says Louis instantly, almost before the end of the question. A witness is entitled to be paid a reasonable allowance.

  Overruled, says the judge. Save it for argument.

  Go ahead and answer, says the other lawyer.

  Only the witness money, she says.

  How much was that?

  Fifteen hundred rubles.

  And that’s that, says the lawyer, closing his binder.

  ···

  A reasonable allowance?

  Look how far she had to come, says Louis. Look how old she is. Look how many days she had to spend here.

  ···

  A break for lunch. The bomb threat, momentarily forgotten, looms up again. More security, more searches. A swift meal of paninis and espresso in a cafe, the doctor visibly relieved, the music teacher swivelling his head most of the time, intrigued by the meal, the place. And then back to the courtroom and their next witness, the music teacher. After him, two researchers who work in the War Crimes Section will testify.

  And may I say that you’ve made them very happy, says Owen.

  The investigator, she says. He was the one who found them.

  The music teacher is nervous, twisting in his seat, rubbing the backs of his knobby hands. What is he so worried about? She has gone through the questions with him several times now. But his testimony is coming out in streams, he is almost gabbling, and the court interpreter is having difficulty keeping up.

  A weakling, says Drozd scornfully. A Jew.

  A weakling? A man who survived what he has survived? No, this is a hardy man, a tenacious man — an enduring man.

  But she knows he might be more vulnerable here, out of his element, that he might become tied in knots more easily than the doctor. Or that he might become belligerent, flaring out at a questioner. And she can see that Louis is having difficulty keeping him on track; he is deliberately slowing down his questions, trying to set a pace for the man.

  He pauses now, to allow a small break in the current of words.

  But this pause is suddenly too long. She looks up at him sharply, dismay flooding her. There it is again. The empty look in his eyes, the lack of recognition, as if he has been cut loose from himself, as if even the chairs, the desks were unfamiliar things, unknown objects. He shakes his head, as if he has water in his ears.

  She tries to collect herself, leans over to Owen. An adjournment? she whispers, indicating Louis with her head.

  No, he says quickly. No adjournments. We need to get this case over, over and done.

  A recess? she says desperately.

  No, you pick it up, you go ahead.

  Go ahead? After the last time? Could he have forgotten how badly it went?

  Go ahead, he says.

  She stands up stiffly, moves to the lectern. The journalists, sensing something, lift their heads. She feels her throat starting to close, her tongue starting to swell.

  And then all at once her breath comes back to her in a gasp. She realizes that she has gone over and over these questions, that she knows them inside out, that she knows this witness better than Louis. She gathers the remnants of her confidence, pulls them up around her. At least try. Take a crack at it. Be bold.

  She smiles at the witness, as if it were just the two of them, as if this were just another preparation session. He looks at her, puzzled, and then smiles back, his creased face lighting up. For a moment, he seems almost mischievous, as if this were a game that only the two of them were playing.

  Then she begins going back over what he has said, slowing him down, breaking the questions into smaller parts. She feels oddly calm, her panic is muffled, remote. She can hear it circling the edges of her being, but it stays there, going no further. And she is too intent on what she is doing, too busy to be surprised at herself.

  The man is less nervous now, listening carefully to the questions as he unwinds his story.

  The arrest. The prayer shawls, the books, the sheet music. The packed cell, the smell. The interrogation, the beatings, the broken fingers. The pits, the shooting, the dirt.

  This is good? he says through the investigator at the mid-afternoon break, before his cross-examination.

  Good, good, she says, a little too heartily. But we’re not allowed to talk to you about it at this point in the case.

  He looks disappointed.

  More rules. A thicket of constraints, designed to keep evidence as pristine as possible. How pristine is that? Memory — so wily, so brittle. So corruptible. But what else is there?

  She smiles at the music teacher in what she hopes is a reassuring way. Then Louis is there beside her, restored now, entirely normal. More than normal, he is bantering with Owen, chatting with the witnesses, skilfully keeping several balls in the air. As if nothing had happened, as if his dazed moment was nothing more than a bout of absent-mindedness.

  You really have to do something about this, she says to him silently.

  About what? he says.

  ···

  The music teacher is more loquacious in cross-examination, running the other lawyer over with words.

  Just answer the question, says the lawyer in a petulant tone.

  I am answering the question, the teacher says indignantly. It requires a big answer.

  She is tempted to laugh at the lawyer’s predicament, the way the witness is swamping him. This small man, this elderly man, shrunk with age and circumstance, but getting the better of the lawyer on his own ground. Bravo.

  Although this spate of words is dangerous for them, too — the man might blurt something that could undermine his story. What could that be? Anything. Lying, deception, duplicity, these get all the attention — the glib fakers, the masters of deceit are the ones usually in the spotlight. Ignored are all the people who tell the truth badly, who can make a fact, solid as a truck, disappear simply by talking about it. The wrong intonation, too much hesitation, a hurried sentence or two, a shifty look for no reason. Some people are born with question marks in their throats, she thinks.

  But this man — voluble as he is — is not one of them. No, his downfall might be to drop an innocent fact into the wrong place, some unlucky spot that gives it a damaging meaning, some shadow. She notices that even Louis is gripping his pen more tightly than usual.

  Another hour is gone, though, before the lawyer surrenders.

  One last question:

  And were you paid to testify as well?

  Objection, says Louis.

  We’ve done this, says
the judge.

  ···

  Still no bomb, no explosion.

  ···

  The next day, Louis takes the two researchers through their documents, the admission of one record after another. They are skilful witnesses, expert, tidy. One — a purist — manages to get snarled up in cross-examination briefly, but he recovers after a minute or two.

  And then they are done.

  Counsel? says the judge, turning to the other lawyer.

  No evidence, says the lawyer.

  No evidence? Drozd is not testifying?

  After all his outrage, his fury, he is not willing to swear to his story under oath? To expose it to cross-examination?

  You coward, she says to him. You odious coward.

  What did you think? he says. That I would serve myself up to you like a piece of meat on a plate?

  ···

  Final arguments. Louis, in superb form, casting out lines of thought, opening them up, then reeling them in. He is agile, sure-footed, he knows his way around these arguments, knows their twists and curves. And he lures the judge down one pathway and onto another, weaving the words around him. Hold him responsible . . . the fabric of justice . . . right the balance . . . the ethical imperative . . . escape the consequences . . . the suffering of his victims . . . meaning . . . terrible acts made up of small parts.

  On he goes, eloquent, his voice climbing and falling, gripping and then releasing. He speaks so easily, so unselfconsciously that his sentences have a natural elegance to them. He talks about justice and morality — these unwieldy ideas — as if they are everyday thoughts, as if they can be taught to sit and stay.

  Is that an unfamiliar note in his voice, something new? Yes, there is something else, something beyond his usual verbal skill. His voice sounds throatier, thicker. He does fall for his cases, but not like this, this is different. This case must matter to him, must matter in some indefinable manner.

  Or perhaps not so indefinable. So many of them Jewish.

  But then he is finished and the other lawyer begins.

  A low-paid clerk, a proxy . . . a stand-in for the crimes of NKVD officers . . . political purposes . . . satisfy the demands for prosecution . . . witnesses unreliable . . . too long ago . . . paid to remember things that never happened . . . his youth, his circumstances . . . shaky evidence . . . a blameless life . . . send an old man back to a country he has not seen in decades . . . cut off from his wife, children, grandchildren.