seventh heaven: he had just read a book annotated by One-Eyed Paritus. The latter referred to a manuscript titled “The End of Time” dating from the age of the Prophets in Judea. “Look,” my father said, jubilantly. “Look at what he says about anger burning the heart whoseashes wait for hatred before being wiped out: ‘God alone has the right to feel it; not his creatures.’ Or envy, look at what the same Paritus has to say about it: ‘Be wary of those who seek to arouse envy: you, reader and student, envy another person’s virtues, but not the power or gold he might possess; what shines today will be dust or ashes tomorrow.’”
IT IS BECAUSE OF Werner Sonderberg that, one fine spring day, I found myself in court, in the bosom of the justice system. Not as a lawyer, as my mother had wished, but as an interested observer. And above all as a drama critic.
This was the boss’s idea. Rather original, not to say harebrained. To tell the truth, I had tried to dissuade him.
“I haven’t studied law, Paul, as you know. I’ve never attended a trial, and never set foot in a courtroom. Do you want me to make a fool of myself? My area of expertise is theater!”
“That’s just it. Trials are
like
theater. All those who participate in them are playing a part. In England, the judges wear wigs. In France it’s robes. When the lawyer says, in his client’s name, ‘we plead guilty or not guilty,’ it’s as if he himself were guilty or not guilty, too. It’s theater, I tell you. In a criminal trial, especially with a jury, there’s always suspense and drama. That’s why the readers are interested in it.”
“And the defendant, Paul?” I replied. “Is it a game, for him, too?”
“It’s up to you to tell us.”
That’s how, from one day to the next, the aforementioned Werner Sonderberg, nephew of Hans Dunkelman, burst into my life.
I remember: a Sunday, late afternoon. I return from the theater and find a meeting of the editors. They’re preparing the layout. The Middle East is on the front page as usual, as well as a speech by the president at a midwestern university. Then the secretary of state’s televised statement on the subject of bilateral negotiations with Moscow on nuclear disarmament. I listen with only half an ear. My thoughts remain focused on the hapless actors who had to perform in an avant-garde comedy that never took off. Thank God, it won’t have a long run. But how can I express this without being nasty? I’m lost in these considerations when I hear voices getting louder. It’s Paul losing his temper.
“The trial of the year, as they say, starts next week and we are unprepared?”
“Our two legal reporters are away,” says Charles Stone, the old-timer in charge of the metropolitan desk. “James is on vacation and Frederic is getting married.”
“Couldn’t he pick a better time?”
“Maybe he could have,” Charles says, “but not his fiancée.As she sees it, happiness is much more urgent. She’s not a journalist.”
Contrary to what everyone feared, Paul did not explode. Head bent down, hiding his anger, he started to search in his mind for someone who might fit the bill, and I had no trouble figuring out why he was hesitating. No one appealed to him. So-and-so wrote too slowly; another lacked precision and sparkle; another really had to be kept in his assigned job. And suddenly his eyes met mine.
And that’s how I found myself spending hours delving into the archives of our newspaper, looking for material I could use in my first legal column. And after that? Tomorrow is another day. God is great.
Werner Sonderberg is a young German of twenty-four. Born in a town near Frankfurt, he moved with his mother to France, where he attended secondary school. After his mother’s death, he came to the United States to get a master’s degree in comparative literature and philosophy at New York University. Intelligent, hungry for knowledge, as an uprooted person he made a
IT IS BECAUSE OF Werner Sonderberg that, one fine spring day, I found myself in court, in the bosom of the justice system. Not as a lawyer, as my mother had wished, but as an interested observer. And above all as a drama critic.
This was the boss’s idea. Rather original, not to say harebrained. To tell the truth, I had tried to dissuade him.
“I haven’t studied law, Paul, as you know. I’ve never attended a trial, and never set foot in a courtroom. Do you want me to make a fool of myself? My area of expertise is theater!”
“That’s just it. Trials are
like
theater. All those who participate in them are playing a part. In England, the judges wear wigs. In France it’s robes. When the lawyer says, in his client’s name, ‘we plead guilty or not guilty,’ it’s as if he himself were guilty or not guilty, too. It’s theater, I tell you. In a criminal trial, especially with a jury, there’s always suspense and drama. That’s why the readers are interested in it.”
“And the defendant, Paul?” I replied. “Is it a game, for him, too?”
“It’s up to you to tell us.”
That’s how, from one day to the next, the aforementioned Werner Sonderberg, nephew of Hans Dunkelman, burst into my life.
I remember: a Sunday, late afternoon. I return from the theater and find a meeting of the editors. They’re preparing the layout. The Middle East is on the front page as usual, as well as a speech by the president at a midwestern university. Then the secretary of state’s televised statement on the subject of bilateral negotiations with Moscow on nuclear disarmament. I listen with only half an ear. My thoughts remain focused on the hapless actors who had to perform in an avant-garde comedy that never took off. Thank God, it won’t have a long run. But how can I express this without being nasty? I’m lost in these considerations when I hear voices getting louder. It’s Paul losing his temper.
“The trial of the year, as they say, starts next week and we are unprepared?”
“Our two legal reporters are away,” says Charles Stone, the old-timer in charge of the metropolitan desk. “James is on vacation and Frederic is getting married.”
“Couldn’t he pick a better time?”
“Maybe he could have,” Charles says, “but not his fiancée.As she sees it, happiness is much more urgent. She’s not a journalist.”
Contrary to what everyone feared, Paul did not explode. Head bent down, hiding his anger, he started to search in his mind for someone who might fit the bill, and I had no trouble figuring out why he was hesitating. No one appealed to him. So-and-so wrote too slowly; another lacked precision and sparkle; another really had to be kept in his assigned job. And suddenly his eyes met mine.
And that’s how I found myself spending hours delving into the archives of our newspaper, looking for material I could use in my first legal column. And after that? Tomorrow is another day. God is great.
Werner Sonderberg is a young German of twenty-four. Born in a town near Frankfurt, he moved with his mother to France, where he attended secondary school. After his mother’s death, he came to the United States to get a master’s degree in comparative literature and philosophy at New York University. Intelligent, hungry for knowledge, as an uprooted person he made a
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