“... At the Prosecutor’s request, the accused Rubashov now proceeded to describe his evolution from an opponent of the Party line to a counter-revolutionary and traitor to the Fatherland.
In the presence of a tense audience, the accused began his statement as follows:
‘Citizen Judges, I will explain what led me to capitulate before the investigating magistrate and before you, the representatives of justice in our country.
My story will demonstrate to you how the slightest deflection from the line of the Party must inevitably end in counter-revolutionary banditry.
The necessary result of our oppositional struggle was that we were pushed further and further down into the morass.
I will describe to you my fall, that it may be a warning to those who in this decisive hour still waver, and have hidden doubts in the leadership of the Party and the rightness of the Party line.
Covered with shame, trampled in the dust, about to die, I will describe to you the sad progress of a traitor, that it may serve as a lesson and terrifying example to the millions of our country. ...
The porter Wassilij had turned round on the bed and pressed his face into the mattress.
Before his eyes was the picture of the bearded Partisan-commander Rubashov, who in the worst sort of mess knew how to swear in such a pleasant way that it was a joy to God and man.
“Trampled in the dust, about to die. ...”
Wassilij groaned.
The Bible was gone, but he knew many passages by heart.
“... At this point the Public Prosecutor interrupted the accused’s narrative to ask a few questions concerning the fate of Rubashov’s former secretary, Citizen Arlova, who had been executed on the charge of treasonable activities.
From the answers of the accused Rubashov, it appears that the latter, driven into a corner at that time by the watchfulness of the Party, had laid the responsibility of his own crimes to Arlova’s charge, so as to save his head and be able to continue his disgraceful activities.
N.
S.
Rubashov confesses to this monstrous crime with un-ashamed and cynical openness.
To the Citizen Prosecutor’s remark:
‘You are apparently quite without any moral sense,’ the accused answers with a sarcastic smile:
‘Apparently.’
His behaviour provoked the audience to repeated spontaneous demonstrations of anger and contempt, which were, however, quickly suppressed by the Citizen President of the Court.
On one occasion these expressions of the revolutionary sense of justice gave place to a wave of merriment—namely, when the accused interrupted the description of his crimes with the request that the proceedings might be suspended for a few minutes, as he was suffering from ‘intolerable toothache’.
It is typical of the correct procedure of revolutionary justice that the President immediately granted this wish and, with a shrug of contempt, gave the order for the hearing to be interrupted for five minutes.”
The porter Wassilij lay on his back and thought of the time when Rubashov had been conducted in triumph through the meetings, after his rescue from the foreigners; and of how he had stood leaning on his crutches up on the platform under the red flags and decorations, and, smiling, had rubbed his glasses on his sleeve, while the cheerings and shoutings never ceased.
“And the soldiers led him away, into the hall called Praetorium; and they called together the whole band. And they clothed him with purple and they smote him on the head with a reed and did spit upon him; and bowing their knees worshipped him.”
“What are you mumbling to yourself?” asked the daughter.
“Never mind,” said old Wassilij, and turned to the wall.
He felt with his hand in the hole in the mattress, but it was empty.
The hook hanging over his head was also empty.
When the daughter had taken the portrait of Rubashov from the wall and thrown it in the dust bin, he had not protested—he was now too old to, stand the shame of prison.
The daughter had interrupted her reading and put the Primus stove on the table to prepare tea.
A sharp smell of petrol spread over the porter’s lodge.
“Were you listening to my reading?” asked the daughter.
Wassilij obediently turned his head towards her.
“I heard it all,” he said.
“So now you see,” said Vera Wassiljovna, pumping petrol into the hissing apparatus.
“He says himself that he is a traitor.
If it weren’t true, he wouldn’t say so himself.
In the meeting at our factory we have already carried a resolution which all have to sign.”
“A lot you understand about it,” sighed Wassilij.
Vera Wassiljovna threw him a quick glance which had the effect of making him turn his head to the wall again.
Each time she gave him that peculiar glance, Wassilij was reminded that he was in Vera Wassiljovna’s way, who wanted to have the porter’s lodge for herself.
Three weeks ago, she and a junior mechanic at her factory had put their names down together in the marriage register, but the pair had no home; the boy shared a room with two colleagues and nowadays it often was many years before one was assigned a flat by the housing trust.
The Primus was at last alight. Vera Wassiljovna put the kettle on it.
“The cell secretary read us the resolution.
In it is written that we demand that the traitors be mercilessly exterminated.
Whoever shows pity to them is himself a traitor and must be denounced,” she explained in a purposely matter-of-fact voice.
“The workers must be watchful.
We have each received a copy of the resolution in order to collect signatures for it.”
Vera Wassiljovna took a slightly crushed sheet of paper out of her blouse and flattened it out on the table.