Читать книгу The Sealed Verdict - Lionel Shapiro - Страница 4

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The small, almost empty courtroom was dimly lighted by a single electric bulb that dangled from a strand of wire stretched across the ceiling. Even the commission in Reschweiler was not excepted from the town major’s stern warning against the use of full lighting when it was not essential.

Under the dull brassy glow the courtroom looked like a country church interior when the crimson of twilight begins to merge with dark of night. The fourteen rows of seats were deserted save for a motionless person here and there.

At the head of the center aisle a low gate led into the well of the court. The bench of justice consisted of a long dais, newly constructed, behind which stood nine armchairs. Above the bench was a clock, and under the clock a huge American flag was tacked flat against the wall. To the left of the dais two park benches, ludicrous in faded green paint, marked the prisoners’ dock, and adjoined in singular contrast were seven small desks for defense counsel.

Below the dais and slightly to the right stood a massive mahogany table. At this table there was a single chair and in it, facing the slumbering courtroom, sat Major Robert Lashley, the American prosecutor.

Me felt like a schoolmaster supervising a few laggard students as they completed their examination papers. These were people who awaited the verdict with as much patience—or was it impatience?—as he. Idly he counted them. There were nine; ten with himself.

Three military policemen, their white lacquered helmets pulled over their eyes, sprawled in the back row. He could not see their faces but he recognized the flashes on their sleeves. They were part of the MP detail assigned to guard the defendants in the basement cells of the courthouse.

Halfway down the aisle the Burgemeister’s wizened wife sat primly beside her grown daughter. Lashley could guess why they persisted in remaining in the deathly silent room. They and the Burgemeister were the only Germans who counted for anything in Reschweiler and they liked to demonstrate their privileged position by sitting where only Americans were usually allowed to sit.

Far on the left, sitting beneath the high windows which admitted the last glimmer of daylight, was Captain Jacques Gribemont. Unaware that he was under scrutiny, he popped a biscuit in his mouth and munched it sadly. Lashley watched him with amusement. Gribemont was a ceremonious fellow, as behooves a French staff officer who finds himself living among Americans, and he played heavily on the gray solemnity of his appearance which was, as far as Lashley was concerned, his only asset as official French observer at the trial.

The Czech, Rodal, and his pitiful little companion, Maria, sat in the second row almost directly facing Lashley. He understood the implacable calm with which they waited out the awkward hours. Rodal had been his best witness, and empty-eyed Maria his most poignant exhibit. They sought vengeance. He hoped they would get it soon. The panel of judges had been in closed session three hours now.

The ninth person was the Delisle woman.

Lashley wrinkled his forehead suddenly and fiercely, and the creases ran down the channel between his black full eyebrows. His precise mind rebelled against her presence. He could not bear not fully understanding anyone and anything that came within the range of his work. He had been like that in Harvard Law School, and before that during his undergraduate days at Ohio State. He had even been bothered by things mysterious and beyond his reach before he graduated with honors from high school. It was one of the qualities which contributed to his success as a lawyer, but took away from his happiness as a man.

He did not understand Thémis Delisle: neither her character, nor her background, nor the pull she exercised on his attention. Not that she appeared to demand or want attention.

During the past days he had had plenty of opportunity to study her. His eyes were familiar with every curve of her graceful body. She was not a tall woman, but a slender one, so well proportioned that she seemed taller than she was. Most of the time she sat motionless, but whenever she moved Lashley found his attention drawn to her. There was something exciting to him about the way she raised her arms to adjust the tilt of her hat, about her long narrow fingers holding a gold-encased lipstick. The economy of her motions fascinated him. Most women, he thought, were awkward when they crossed one knee over the other. Most women should never cross their knees.

She sat in the front row. One hand was tucked under her chin, the other swung her brown leather purse in a short arc. Lashley could not divine what her eyes were seeing. They were looking at him now, he thought, but they were not seeing him. Their green depths seemed to close over their own secret. The inward curve of her face between cheekbone and jaw was white against her brown hair and dark fur collar. She had a wide, mobile mouth. In the course of the trial Lashley had seen on it briefly the flicker of a smile, a sudden look of determination, a reflection of sheerest innocence, a disdain, a supreme obliviousness. It was, he told himself now, the mouth of a sensitive, high-strung but finely balanced woman. Perhaps it was that about Thémis Delisle which piqued him whenever his glance fell on her. She did not look what his reason told him she was.

Roughly he pulled up his chair and drummed his long square fingers on the table. To his ears the noise was like a rumble of thunder in the deadly quiet room and he was content to hear it. The dimness, the silence, and the brooding people were too much for his tired mind. He sought by drumming his fingers to break the collusion. He was a trifle light in the head, he conceded. There could be no doubt that he was exhausted. This was the forty-third day. It had not been an easy case. Seven Germans on trial simultaneously presented a multitude of technical problems, of which the most annoying was the need for translation. The pause after each sentence, so the interpreter could echo the words in German, distressed him and bored him, for he was fluent in German. But he understood why it was necessary, and whenever he understood he could practice great forbearance.

Lashley turned his head to look at the clock.

Five past five. They couldn’t be much longer. There was so little leeway for discussion, even on penalties. He had proved guilt in each case. Old Colonel Macklin was probably giving his colleagues a short course in law. Macklin knew his law; before the war he had been an outstanding jurist and had earned respect for his sound opinions. The others were not qualified, Lashley thought; especially the artillery captain who had sat blankly on the right of the bench for forty-three days. A year after the war the army was still full of men like that, detailed to odd jobs while waiting for sailing orders; odd jobs like deciding whether seven Nazis should live or die.

His eyes swung back to the woman in the front row. They caught and rested on the bronze arrow piercing the crown of her brown hat.

The arrow reminded him of Ginny, who had a piece of costume jewelry like that which she wore on her lapel or sometimes in her berets. He began comparing the two girls in his mind—Ginny with her wide blue eyes and deceptively innocent expression and this expensive-looking Frenchwoman whose green eyes told him nothing.

He’d been going around with Ginny ever since sophomore year in high school, although when he went away to college he forgot all about her. Then there was that picnic the summer after he finished law school, when he had taken her out in a canoe and discovered her all over again. Well, that was some time ago, and as soon as this filthy job was over he’d go back to Erie and ask her to marry him.

There was nothing unpleasant or mysterious about Ginny, he mused, none of that sullen, explosive quality he found in the French girl. Perhaps “bitchy” was the best word for it.

He remembered Ginny as he had last seen her, saying good-by to him in the Union Station. It was at the end of his embarkation leave. She was laughing cheerfully, telling him to get the job done fast and come back soon. Then all at once she was crying, the train was pulling out, and he was kissing her self-consciously.

He’d taken it for granted, of course, that she’d be waiting for him.

Lashley smiled a faraway smile. He stretched his shoulders and returned to reality.

Through the open doors he saw people gathering and talking in the brightly lighted corridor. He flicked his sleeve and looked at his wrist watch. It was five twenty-five. Macklin and his judges had been out nearly three and a half hours.

People were trickling in now. Three GIs whose uproarious laughter preceded them through the doors became inordinately quiet as they walked down the aisle and took seats in the third row. A tall gray colonel, extremely erect, came in with a Red Cross girl who walked as though she had stilts instead of legs. Two second lieutenants, escorting a pair of awe-stricken USO girls, slipped into the back row.

Van Tyne of AP and Gubbins of UP ambled importantly through the enclosure into the well of the courtroom and took their seats in the press section. Lashley’s eyes followed them. He wondered why it was that newspapermen are the only people in the world who can amble importantly. The slender girl from the New York Times seemed to skate in after them, nodding primly to Lashley as she sat down.

Captain Lance Nissen, sandy-haired and of athletic build, came through the gate and walked to a desk on the defense side. Lashley smiled at him briefly. Poor Lance! he mused. Mostly because he was junior in grade he had drawn the bitter end of the assignment. For nearly two months they hadn’t spoken to each other except across the well of the courtroom. Without discussing it they had tacitly agreed it would not look well, nor would it sit well on their minds, for the American prosecutor and the American defense liaison to be seen together. He missed Nissen’s acid humor, and he relished the imminent end of the trial for the promise it bore of a renewal of their evenings together.

The big hulk of Kinsella, captain of the courtroom guard, trundled out of the door leading to the chambers and leaned over Lashley.

“About ten minutes, Major,” Kinsella said. He smelled of sweat and bad cognac. “They’re taking the last ballot now.”

“Thanks, Captain,” Lashley murmured without looking up.

“And, Major, don’t worry about one little thing. I’ve got twelve men inside the room and eighteen in the halls. Nobody’s gonna start a rumpus here.”

Lashley said sharply, “I’m not worrying, Kinsella.”

“Swell, Major. I just thought you looked worried.” He wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. His ruddy flesh squeezed out of his tight collar like shaving soap from a tube. “Also I wanted you to know. We’re letting about forty krauts in for the show. Frisked ’em all outside, checked ’em all too. No relatives.”

Scowling, Lashley looked up. “Very well.”

Kinsella leaned closer. “Just one more thing, Major. The old man wants me to see that the French sweetie pie gets on the train for Paris in the morning. You know, the one sittin’ there in the front row——”

“Talk to Nissen about her. She’s his witness.” Lashley turned away his head and looked toward the courtroom. The bright lights were being turned on and the benches were almost filled.

“Don’t be that way, Major,” Kinsella purred. “I just wanted you to know I’m taking that job on myself. Not bad, huh?” He winked.

Lashley whirled around. Kinsella backed away, grinning. “Okay, Major, okay. Just wanted a laugh on the job. I always say if you can’t have laughs on the job it ain’t worth workin’ at.” He guffawed all the way to the door.

Lashley studied the woman once more. He felt an intense curiosity to know what transpired behind her eyes. She had a generous face, a compassionate face. He suddenly felt he would like to have seen her when she was happy.

It was not that she made any difference in the case. He was sure of that. The trial had gone well before she came. For thirty-nine days he had raised his structure of guilt brick by brick with the sureness of a builder who knows he works from a perfect blueprint. He could see the lines of conviction set in Macklin’s face. And Macklin was the only one who counted on the bench.

She had arrived four days before the end. The trial continued well, just as well, he thought, after her appearance. Her testimony had been worthless. It would take more than her strange little story to break his case against Steigmann. She had testified that he saved a French Jew from execution—in 1944—when Steigmann was deputy town commandant in Paris. Her story was so vulnerable. Lashley recalled the zeal with which he approached her for cross-examination. He had wrung from her an admission that she had known Steigmann when he was stationed in Paris. That was all. He hadn’t pressed the point. It was a nice bit of courtroom strategy. He had left it to the imagination of Macklin and his fellow judges how well she had known Steigmann. She was beautiful and that was enough. He recalled how deliberately he had smiled when he motioned her abrupt dismissal from the stand. And then he called the Czech, Rodal, in rebuttal; Rodal with the discolor of suffering on his sunken face in devilish contrast with the chic beauty of the young woman. Rodal was magnificently effective. He had been a prisoner in the foreign workers’ camp in Reschweiler when Steigmann was made commandant later in 1944.

Not for a moment did a misgiving, legal or moral, cross Lashley’s mind. It was only that the woman was an enigma, the one enigma, in an otherwise straightforward case. She created a tiny rebellion in the ordered ranks of his thinking. She presented him with a mystery, and this he could not long abide. Why had she come from Paris to testify? Because she loved Steigmann? Lashley rejected that. It was too simple an answer. It didn’t ring true. It couldn’t be so. Not Steigmann and this poised, sensitive woman.

Lashley twisted his knuckles against the wood of the counsel table. Why?

Then he relaxed. It was a superficial question with a thousand possible answers. He caught himself shrugging his shoulders and he looked around self-consciously.

Kinsella’s white lacquered helmet gleamed under the lights. He walked with ludicrous precision across the well of the court, like a lonesome overgrown boy playing soldier by himself. At the railing he stopped.

“The commission!” he shouted. Then he turned about and stood facing the bench, his chunky legs spread apart, his hands locked behind him.

As he rose to his feet Lashley glanced across the well toward the defense desks. Six of the German lawyers wore black robes. One, the gray-haired patriarch who was Steigmann’s lawyer, wore purple. Their arms dangled disconsolately from their sagging shoulders. Nissen stood by their side. He was wistful to the point of sadness. Behind them the prisoners’ dock was empty.

A military policeman opened the door behind the bench and the judges came through in the order of their seating. They looked aloof and wise. All except Macklin, who was fifth in line. His mouth drooped sternly at the corners. He leaned forward, glanced left and right to see that his colleagues were properly placed, then nodded toward the courtroom. Amid a vast shuffling of feet the crowd settled itself.

This was the moment, Lashley told himself. He must remember it. He had prosecuted cases before, but not a capital case like this. It was something to recount someday. He felt good. He enjoyed the exhaustion of work accomplished.

“Gentlemen,” said Macklin quietly, “it is customary——”

“Meine Herren——” began the interpreter.

Macklin waved a finger at him. “No, no, Sergeant. This is not part of the record. I am merely arranging something with opposing counsel.”

Lashley and Nissen looked inquiringly toward the bench.

“It is customary, gentlemen,” Macklin resumed in a low voice, “for the verdicts and possible sentences to be announced to each defendant in the alphabetical order of his name. I propose to change the procedure slightly for the purposes of convenience. The—uh—journalists attending this trial have explained to me their anxiety to have the verdict on the defendant Steigmann as promptly as possible because of his—uh—prominence as a figure of public interest and because of certain technicalities connected with the dispatching of their reports to America. I intend to accede to their wishes in this matter. We will deal with the defendant Steigmann first and proceed with the others in alphabetical order. Uh—Captain Nissen, I wonder if you would be good enough to explain this to counsel for the defendants. There is nothing irregular about it. It is merely a change in customary procedure for purposes of convenience. Have them understand that perfectly.”

The German lawyers looked confusedly at Nissen. He stepped into their midst and held a whispered conference. Then he turned to Macklin.

“They understand, Mr. President, and they have no objection.”

Macklin turned toward Lashley. “I assume the prosecution has no objection.”

Lashley shook his head.

There was a brief silence as Macklin arranged the documents in front of him. Without lifting his head he said, “Captain of the guard, bring in the defendant Otto Steigmann.”

Kinsella clicked to easy attention and marched up the aisle. The courtroom was noisy with whispers. Macklin, apparently still deeply concerned with his documents, tapped lightly with his pencil. The whispering subsided.

The clatter of shoes on marble was heard in the corridor. Flanked by two military policemen, Steigmann marched into the courtroom. Kinsella followed behind, his jowls shaking in counterpoint to the thump of his boots.

Inside the well of the court Kinsella murmured, “Halt.” He stepped forward, grasped Steigmann by the arm, and led him to a point six feet in front of the bench. Then he stepped aside smartly and stood at ease. The sergeant interpreter took his place on the other side of the prisoner.

Lashley glanced briefly at the young woman. Her purse had stopped swinging, but her manner was unchanged. Her face retained the vast emptiness of a desert by starlight. She was not looking at Steigmann.

Standing alone in the glare of lights, Steigmann looked shorter than Lashley’s fixed impression of him. When he had sat in the dock and the witness box these last weeks Steigmann had held his solid frame defiantly erect.

Lashley now realized that he was a full head shorter than Kinsella. Long body, short legs. Not like most Germans, he thought. His hair was sparse and stringy and even careful combing did not conceal a growing baldness. Lashley saw through the thin strands beads of perspiration making highlights on his scalp. But the shape of his head was pure German. And his eyes, blue and small, were German. So was his nose: straight but too slight for the size of his head. The nose, Lashley figured, would have looked pretty on the woman.

Macklin turned his eyes on Steigmann with the bored expression of a man reading a newspaper in a streetcar.

“As president of this commission ...” He paused.

“Als Präsident dieses Gerichtshofs ...” the interpreter shrilled in a voice that lacked timbre because it lacked calmness.

“... it is my duty to inform you ...”

“... ist es meine Pflicht sie davon in Kenntnis zu setsen ...”

“... that the commission in closed session ...”

“... das der Gerichtshof in Geheimer sitzung ...”

“... and upon written ballot ...”

“... und in urkundlicher Geheimer Abstimmung ...”

“... two thirds of the members present at the time the vote was taken concurring in each finding ...”

“... bei Übereinstimmung von zwei dritteln der Abstimmung anwesenden mitglieder ...”

“... find you of the specifications and charges guilty.”

“... sie der tat Gemäss der Anklage in allen Punkten schuldig findet.”

Steigmann’s eyelids fluttered. There was no other reaction. He continued to look squarely at Macklin.

“And again ...”

“Und ferner ...”

“... the commission in closed session ...”

“... das der Gerichtshof in Geheimer sitzung ...”

“... and upon written secret ballot ...”

“... und in urkundlicher Geheimer Abstimmung ...”

“... two thirds of the members present at the time the vote was taken concurring ...”

“... bei Übereinstimmung von zwei dritteln der zur zeit der Abstimmung anwesenden mitglieder ...”

“... sentence you to be hanged until you are dead.”

“... sei zum Tode durch hängen verurteilt.”

The interpreter’s chin quivered as he spoke the last words. He gulped, glanced at Steigmann, and quickly looked away.

Kinsella moved a step toward the German and half extended his arm in readiness.

It was unnecessary. The prisoner’s legs were steady. He appeared paralyzed in a posture of attention. Only his fingers were outstretched as though making ready to grasp the thighs in case his legs failed him. His mouth and chin were rigid. His face was drained of color until it attained the gray depth of fine marble. His eyes continued to stare straight ahead.

Macklin had turned unconcernedly to his papers and was rearranging them.

Kinsella moved quickly behind Steigmann, grabbed his arms above the elbows, and twisted him around. The prisoner’s shoes might have been soled with ball bearings, so mechanically did he turn.

“March,” grunted Kinsella.

Steigmann took a few steps. He stopped and jerked his head from side to side. It was as though the action of his legs had released him from a hypnotic spell. He looked confusedly toward Lashley, realized he had lost his sense of direction, and turned his head toward Nissen. The American apparently knew what Steigmann intended. He darted to the prisoner’s side. They whispered a moment. Lashley could not hear what they were saying.

“Mr. President!” Nissen’s deep voice cut through the sullen atmosphere. Macklin looked up inquiringly.

“Mr. President. The defendant would like to make a statement.”

“You mean the prisoner, Captain,” Macklin said dryly. “Tell him he must be brief.”

Steigmann nodded impatiently to indicate he understood the instruction. He walked to the gate at the head of the aisle and turned toward his counsel. Lashley saw that he stood almost directly in front of the Delisle woman. The German did not look at her. His head was turned toward the bench. She was watching him intently but without visible emotion.

His words came fast, as though rehearsed from a prepared manuscript.

“Ich winne den letzten Sieg!” he declaimed in a voice pitched high with excitement, almost exultation. “I win the last victory. The pattern of my life is complete. I lived without pity and without fear. Now I die without regret. Quick and full! Quick and full! That is the pattern of my life. Only battle and decision count in life! Even in death I am forcing a loathsome decision upon these reluctant victors——”

Macklin’s dust-dry voice interrupted. “That will be enough,” he said with vast unconcern. “Captain, remove the prisoner.”

Kinsella held open the gate and pointed along the aisle.

Steigmann twisted his head down and looked at the Frenchwoman. She met his glance. Her lips moved though no sound came from her. Lashley could read in her face neither love nor hate. It seemed to him that her voiceless gesture was one of recognition touched with pity.

The German moved to go, then paused. Still looking at her, he said in a low voice, “I am not afraid.”

“Captain, remove the prisoner,” Macklin ordered sternly.

Kinsella grasped Steigmann by the arm. The German tried to hold his ground, but two military policemen grabbed his elbows and roughly propelled him along the aisle. For a brief moment he resisted, then marched in quickstep. As he neared the door he turned his head once more.

“Leb’ wohl, Liebling!” he cried.

His words echoed in the corridor.

Van Tyne of AP and Gubbins of UP darted unobtrusively up the aisle. They broke into a run when they reached the door.

The shattering silence that ballooned in the wake of the German’s words was pricked by Macklin’s nondescript voice.

“Captain of the Guard. Bring in the defendant Johann Bacher.”