The Judges Page 5

  What a strange character, this judge, this master of mine; on some days he inspires horror, on others worship. Ever since I’ve been in his service, ever since he saved me— that is to say, over the course of twenty years, according to my reckoning, or ten days, according to his—I have sometimes viewed him with gratitude, sometimes with hatred, but never with indifference.

  I remember the night his last human cargo arrived. That night he surpassed himself in his manipulations. As he’s doing now, he played on the emotions of his “guests” as he might on a diabolical musical instrument that only he knew how to play.

  Little by little, step by step, he bent them to his will by inspiring in them both fear and hope, solidarity and resignation. As tonight, he set himself up as the Judge, taking on the role of God himself, in the way he doled out punishments and rewards.

  I could have intervened. Perhaps I should have. I didn’t dare. I feared his violence. I fear it even more today. He’s capable of the worst. The only transcendence is in evil is his favorite aphorism. This throws light on his “philosophy,” his concept of social ethics—strange words, when applied to him, but he adores big words. He revels in them. As for me, he couldn’t care less about whatever I might long for, love, or possess. Whether I dance with joy or cry with shame is all the same to him. Sometimes I tell myself—or, rather, I repeat what he tells me—that I only exist for him, and I only exist through him.

  I know very little about his past, and he knows everything about mine. He knows how that totally banal and stupid accident happened. How my family died. How I attended no funeral. It was the Judge who told me all about it.

  In one sense, I’m no more than an extension of him. I am his secretary, bodyguard, messenger. His whipping boy as well? That too. I am also his jester. I could certainly denounce him. But to whom? And what could I say, having lost the right to speak? Should I run away? Where to? By what means? Who would be willing to take me in? Who would want a poor, grimacing cripple who barely knows how to communicate and then with only one man? Besides, don’t I owe him my life?

  Ah, careful. I must stop and take tea in to our guests. They can’t see me, but I see them and I hear them, all thanks to the wonders of modern technology.

  Our prisoners are shivering; they’re tired. What we ought to be offering them is a good glass of whiskey or brandy. That’s what I take when I feel bad or when I’m scared. One evening the Judge forced me to drink. When my mouth stopped swallowing I no longer knew what it was saying. By the fifth or sixth glass I heard myself shouting, “Here’s to you, God, who created man in ecstasy!” Yes, that’s what we should be offering our guests: a drink and a bed. I like the cold, myself. I like the transparent silvery flakes as they swirl and sing their beautiful, elusive melodies. I like to watch them as a friend, I like to observe them falling softly, prettily, quietly; they look as if they were coming down toward the earth in an embrace, to caress it and melt into it. I like swallowing them, feeling them in my mouth. For me the true paradise is without doubt made from ice. And, who knows, perhaps from love as well.

  What frightens me is fire. It saps my courage. It makes me go back in time—toward agonies that, given half a chance, made me topple into unconsciousness. By no coincidence does fire inhabit hell. But then why does God demand that man’s offerings should come to him through fire? God and I are clearly not on the same wavelength. The Judge is. I know perfectly well what he’s doing, even if I don’t know why he’s doing it. Once, at the very beginning, I asked him. He shrugged his shoulders in reply. “Don’t try to understand. Do you know why you breathe? Why you close your eyes at night? Life belongs to man, but the meaning of life is beyond him.” However, I’m still seeking. He doesn’t know, but I’m seeking. Sometimes I wonder if this man isn’t the adversary of God. That would explain many things, but I don’t know which.

  “Are you feeling better?” asked the Judge, his voice neutral but slightly tinged with irony. “No complaints?”

  His guests seemed to be relishing their tea. George swallowed his in rapid mouthfuls; Bruce sipped. Yoav was waiting for it to cool. Claudia stroked her mug almost sensually. The Hunchback observed her with a pounding heart. Razziel too was watching her.

  “I now have the following point of order to announce to you,” said the Judge in official tones.

  What new scheme is he going to dream up for tonight? the Hunchback wondered. I know quite a few of his routines, yet each time he surprises me. I shall end up believing the only thing that interests him is shocking me—me, his servant.

  “We shall now move on to secrets,” declared the Judge.

  Ah, good, thought the Hunchback. I might have guessed. The Judge loves secrets. His own life is full of them: his own, mine (which he says he reads in my eyes), those of everyone who passes through his house. He is nourished by them the way his heart is nourished by the blood that runs in his veins. Reassured, the Hunchback made his way into the adjoining room, where he could observe the prisoners thanks to a cleverly concealed camera.

  “Yes, you heard what I said,” the Judge continued. “Secrets. I want each of you to recount to me an episode that marked a turning point in your existence. If you are embarrassed to do this in front of the others, write it down. But I warn you: All cheating and all concealment will be severely punished.”

  “Tell me, Your Honor,” said Bruce, with fake hilarity, “may we make things up?”

  “Do whatever comes easiest to you,” said the Judge, bristling. “Lie, if that’s what you feel like doing. But consider the consequences.”

  Once again, that menacing tone. What were the evidently disastrous consequences he was alluding to?

  On his screen the Hunchback could make out the prisoners with perfect clarity. Razziel appeared to be the most uneasy, Claudia seemed pensive, Yoav distracted, George agitated. Bruce, however, who was generally the most irritated and the most irritating of them all, seemed to be enjoying himself.

  George was the first to satisfy the Judge’s curiosity.

  “I remember a beautiful night in summer,” he began.

  Somewhere in California. A meadow drenched in a sea of fragrance. His girlfriend, Betty, and himself, both students at the same university. She dreamed of becoming a doctor or a nurse, he a physicist. They were in love, their first real love. Warm intimacy. Mutual trust. They swore to be open and true. Shared ecstasy. With their arms around each other between two tides of passion, they had spoken about their lives: his immigrant parents, her illness at the age of ten, her elder sister who had become infatuated with a roving adventurer. . . .

  “Yes, it was beautiful, that summer night long ago,” George said with a nostalgic smile. “I still remember the stars, the luminous, serene sky.”

  Then the world collapsed. At the moment of their deepest union, Betty cried out with passion and called him by a name she had never uttered before: “Ronnie . . . I love you. . . . Don’t ever leave me, Ronnie.”

  Bruce chuckled but said nothing. Claudia was waiting for what was to follow. When it did not come she asked, “Did you ever learn who Ronnie was?”

  In lieu of a reply, George rubbed his eyes. To erase the memory?

  “Maybe it was me,” said Bruce.

  Nobody laughed.

  Claudia spoke about her own first love, her first separation; a turning point. Every meeting was an adventure, every parting was a crossroads. Yet by next morning you’ve come down to earth, ready to begin again in another bed, another consciousness. Why on earth can’t people live alone? Why do our bodies have need of another body to be happy? But these were ephemeral conquests, too episodic, too fleeting, common to too many young girls hungry for love.

  She described her first experience of theater. She must have been seventeen, in her senior year. Her class went to see Sophocles’ Antigone and then a play by Tennessee Williams. For several hours the stage became her magic universe; for several hours language reigned supreme. And she, Claudia, felt liberated at last from time and place
, detached from the forces clamoring for her to love or to kill the love within her. She belonged to herself. Outside herself, everything ceased to exist. Her schoolmates, their teachers, her parents—all were thrust aside, forgotten. Hypnotized, she followed the unfolding of the drama, the biting dialogue. She felt the tensions between the characters in her own flesh. It was as if the actors’ glances were signals addressed to her alone. It was then she decided to work in the theater.

  The next day in class the English teacher, Mrs. Fein, who was a literary critic for a local daily paper, devoted the whole morning to the plays they had seen. She talked about Williams’s concept of theater and his attitude to sexuality, about the director’s unusual interpretation, and about the quality of the actors’ performances. Talking about the latter, she said that their profession was a thankless one, actors give themselves to the public, but their gift is of limited duration. They give the public words written by others, and that is all the public will remember. But what remains of their eloquence and their gestures? Even if some of the spectators are impressed, they are mortal and so is their memory. A person who did not see Sarah Bernhardt playing the part of Phèdre will never be able to appreciate, or even talk about, the breadth and power of her art.

  At one point Claudia raised her hand. “Do you have a question?” asked Mrs. Fein. “No,” replied Claudia. “I have a statement to make. You have described an injustice to us, and I propose to correct it.”

  Claudia the magnificent. What hubris! She thought she could right wrongs, rehabilitate the victims of social or natural injustice. Did she not know that only God can do this? But she was young, Claudia, and naïve: an idealist.

  “My story is not so grand,” said Bruce, “nor so refined.”

  A young theology student returns home unexpectedly. To look for a lost notebook? To give his beloved mother a kiss? Or, quite simply, to have a square meal, given that for priests earthly nourishment is in more meager supply than words of heavenly wisdom. But never mind. One fine day he returns home. The house is deserted; nothing surprising in this. His father is surely at the office, his mother doubtless visiting a neighbor, his young sister at school. He decides to wait for them. But what’s that strange noise coming from the bedroom? Moaning. Mother is ill! he thinks to himself. Alarmed, he rushes upstairs, opens the door, and is rooted to the spot. A man and a woman (his mother’s best friend) are on the floor, half naked, making love with a passion that cuts them off entirely from the outside world. His father does not even notice that the door is open. Or that someone, already a hostile stranger, his hand over his mouth, is staring at him, incredulous, ready to howl at the couple, to vomit on love, if indeed that was human love.

  Bruce now seemed less aggressive. And Claudia’s eyes clouded over with sadness for a moment. The Judge only nodded.

  “You have done well to confide in us,” he said. “We are here to find out the truth before passing sentence.”

  Bruce recovered his verve and insolence at once. “Sentence? What sentence? What do you take me for? A defenseless vagrant picked up by the police? Or a man on trial? Who gives you the authority? How dare you?”

  “I have told you: I am a judge.”

  “Judge whomever you like, but not me. You very kindly picked us up at the airport: thanks. You offered us hospitality: thanks again. But your kindness does not give you the right to sit in judgment on me. Is that understood?”

  “The court takes note of it.”

  And the Judge conscientiously scribbled a few words on his pad.

  Brutally a picture came to Razziel’s mind, ripping aside the veils that obscured it. In a faint glow he saw—or saw again—a child on a horse-drawn sleigh, his hair flying in the wind. The child was happy. He was happy because it was snowing. It was snowing in paradise where all is snow.

  Yoav was absentmindedly listening to his traveling companions’ accounts; they did not move him. Men’s petty betrayals had never much interested him, nor had their daily disappointments. Each man was his own executioner and his own victim.

  Brooding on the illness that dwelled inside him and sapped his strength, he was trying to imagine not only his own death but how and by whom it would be told.

  He was also thinking about Carmela, his childhood sweetheart, beautiful and mischievous, the younger daughter of his neighbors, a couple who were government officials. From their first encounter at the village’s kindergarten, she had loved to tease him, to make fun of him and rebuff him in order to attract him. How old was he when he dared to grasp her hand? Five? Eight? They were on the way home from school as usual. The bus stopped beside their two houses. Yoav and Carmela were the only ones to get off. Suddenly Carmela slipped, and Yoav stretched out his hand to catch her. He only let her go after a good while. After that, every day he waited for her to stumble again.

  She will be unhappy, thought Yoav. She won’t show it, it’s not her style to parade her emotions, but she will experience the pangs of mourning, for sure. When he had told her of his illness, without revealing its gravity, she had heard him out to the end with a thoughtful air. Then she had silenced him by kissing him, quite gently at first, then with blazing passion. And as she did each time she wanted to conquer the sadness of his memories of war, she had given herself to him. Together, joined to each other in abandon and plenitude, they would be able to withstand the howling beasts without and all the inner demons within.

  Of course, Yoav knew very well that sooner or later he would have to make Carmela understand that love, too, is powerless against this deadly disease. She had the right to know, but Yoav had never found it easy to translate his feelings—or even his thoughts—into words. Instead of explaining himself he would retreat into silence. Was it because the soldier in him, accustomed to giving orders, confined himself to brief remarks? He suffered from a shyness that sometimes made him seem hostile. He trusted actions more than words. A raised eyebrow or a shrug of the shoulders is often more eloquent than an elaborate statement. And yet gestures can also be inadequate, even ludicrous, when called upon to express things as simple as illness and death. But Carmela had understood. She could often read the thoughts of the man she loved. “Don’t say anything, not a word; leave it to me.” How often had she whispered these words to him, like a litany, to calm his anxiety, either before he went off on a mission or on his return? Thus she would always contrive to restore his peace of mind, except for one occasion. . . .

  A memory. It is dark. The silence is oppressive. A moonless night, strewn with obstacles and deadly traps. Seven men with lowered heads are advancing in silence into enemy territory. All their senses on the alert, they walk slowly, as if over a minefield. The darkness must not be disturbed. The grass must not be stopped from growing, the foliage from resting. Death has a thousand eyes, which attract life in order to extinguish it. To elude their power you must conceal and clothe in death everything that resembles a living body. Down below, the Arab village appears asleep. It is from there that their prey will emerge: two terrorists, covered in explosives and disguised as peasants on the way to Jerusalem to spill Jewish blood. No guard posted around the village. The guys from military intelligence have done their job well; this spot is ideal for a lookout.

  At a sign from Yoav, his second in command, Shmulik, climbs a tree. With his infrared field glasses he scans the horizon. The next moment he is back on the ground. “Nothing,” he whispers. “Nothing at all.” Yoav touches his shoulder. “It’s early yet. Their rendezvous with the agent is scheduled for one hour before sunrise. You’ve got time to go back up again. Just keep an eye on things.” “And if it goes wrong?” asks Shmulik. “You’ll know what to do,” says Yoav. Shmulik nods; if there’s any snag he will be in a good position to use his machine gun.

  They have no need to spell things out to understand one another, Yoav and Shmulik. They have been together since the start of their military service. They are more than brothers in arms. They are bound to one another, inseparable. No wonder that Carmela, witho
ut ever admitting it, sometimes feels a little jealous.

  In a low voice, Yoav briefs his men on their stations and gives them precise instructions: radio silence, no smoking, no fire until the Arab terrorists will have left their guide.

  They all settle down into the night, following a tried and tested strategy, seeking to make themselves invisible in the darkness. Members of an elite unit, they have taken part in more than one operation of this kind. Their team spirit, their almost organic cohesion and quick collective reflexes insure their unequaled place in Israel’s heroic legend. Logically, the ambush should proceed without a hitch. Besides, as Shmulik says, “I wonder why we’re taking so many precautions. Quite apart from the element of surprise, we’re seven against two: What risk is there?”

  But that night events took a different turn. They had fallen into a trap. Dug in well in advance, the enemy was waiting for them. And when, shortly before dawn, the two terrorists appeared, accompanied by a third Arab, Yoav and his unit had no time to rally; shells were falling on all sides and machine guns were crackling, spitting deafening and hateful fire in their direction. “Yoav!” cried Shmulik. “What the . . . ? Yoa-a-av. . . .”

  Two helicopters came to the rescue of what was left of the unit. The next day Yoav took part in his friend’s military funeral. And for weeks thereafter he kept seeing Shmulik in his dreams, doubled up in pain, dying with his name on his lips. Carmela stayed by his side, she kept murmuring, “Let it all come out. . . . I’m here, look at me. . . .”

  He looked at her, and what he saw was Shmulik, covered in blood, his right arm torn off, close beside his knee, a grotesque and useless object. Always the same image: A gentle wind gathered up a few clouds, then began blowing them into the distance, dragging Shmulik along behind them, like a shroud. An odd notion haunted Yoav’s mind: If I die who will tell Lidia the truth about Shmulik’s death, and the truth about Shmulik the man?

  His friend’s death continued to obsess him. Strangely, he did not remember the noise of the bullets that had filled the valley that night. It was as if Shmulik had died in total cosmic silence. He remembered having murmured, “Shmulik’s dead.” Then, in a louder voice, “Shmulik is dead!” In the end he imagined he had shouted, “Listen, everyone, my friend Shmulik is dead!” as if he needed to convince himself. He did not completely believe it. Something in him refused to accept that a man like Shmulik, who had so often looked death in the eye, could be snuffed out like a candle in the wind. Deep inside him he still saw Shmulik not as dead but as having gone far away, to a place where true reunions happen, true bonds, eternal ones, are forged.