UMBERTO ECO : THE PRAGUE CEMETERY

  It was amusing to think of the poor rascal wandering around Paris looking for an abbé and a notary who never existed, for a Satanist and a Palladian whose bodies lay in a forgotten sewer, for a Bataille who, even when sober, would have nothing to tell him, and for a bundle of francs that had ended up in the wrong pocket. Reviled by the Catholics, viewed with suspicion by the Masons, who had every right to fear another about-face, perhaps also heavily in debt to his publishers, not knowing which way to turn.

  But, thought Simonini, that charlatan from Marseilles deserved it.

  26

  THE FINAL SOLUTION

  10th November 1898

  It is now a year and a half since I rid myself of Taxil, Diana and Dalla Piccola. If I was ill, I am recovered. Thanks to autohypnosis, or to Doctor Froïde. And yet I have been feeling anxious over recent months. If I were religious, I'd say it was guilt and that I was being tormented. But remorse for what, and tormented by whom?

  The same evening on which I had the pleasure of hoaxing Taxil, I celebrated in happy tranquillity. I was sorry only that there was no one with whom I could share my victory, but I am quite used to my own company. I went to Brébant-Vachette, frequented by the diaspora of those who used to eat at Magny. With all I had earned from the Taxil debacle, I could afford anything. The maître recognized me, but more importantly I recognized him. He held forth on the salade Francilion, created after the triumph of the play by Alexandre Dumas fils — good God, how old that makes me feel. The potatoes are cooked in stock, cut into slices and, while still warm, dressed with salt, pepper, olive oil and Orléans vinegar, plus half a glass of white wine (Château d'Yquem if possible) and chopped fines herbs. At the same time, some very large mussels are cooked in a court bouillon with a stick of celery. Everything is combined and lightly tossed, and covered with thin slices of truffle cooked in champagne. This should be done two hours ahead to allow the dish to cool to just the right temperature before serving.

  Yet I am not at ease, and feel I must resume this diary to clarify my state of mind, as if I were still under Doctor Froïde's care.

  Disturbing things keep occurring and I live in a state of anxiety. In particular, I'm anxious to know who the Russian is down there in the sewer. He or they — perhaps there were two — was or were here, in these rooms on the 12th of April. Has one of them been back since? On several occasions I have been unable to find something — a small object, a pen, a bundle of papers — and then have found it in a place where I could have sworn I had never put it. Has someone been rummaging around, moving things, looking for something? What?

  "Russian" can mean only Rachkovsky, but the man's a sphinx. He's been here twice, always asking me for what he describes as new, unpublished material inherited from my grandfather. And I have been playing for time, partly so that I can finish putting together a satisfactory dossier, partly to whet his appetite.

  Last time he said he couldn't wait any longer. He wanted to know whether it was simply a question of price. "I'm not greedy," I told him. "The truth is my grandfather leftme some papers that recorded in full what was said that night in the Prague cemetery, but I don't have them here with me. I have to leave Paris to get them."

  "Go then," said Rachkovsky, and he made a vague comment about some trouble I might have from developments in the Dreyfus affair. What does he know about it?

  The fact that Dreyfus had been packed offto Devil's Island had done nothing to calm the controversy. A campaign had been launched by those who thought he was innocent — the Dreyfusards, as they were called — and graphologists have come forward to challenge Bertillon's evidence.

  It all began near the end of '95, when Sandherr retired from service (apparently suffering from progressive paralysis, or something of the kind) and was replaced by someone called Picquart. This Picquart turned out to be a busybody and immediately began reexamining the Dreyfus affair, even though the case had been closed several months earlier. Then, last March, he found in one of the embassy wastepaper baskets (once again) the draftof a telegram to be sent by the German military attaché to Esterhazy. Nothing compromising, but why was this military attaché in contact with a French officer? Picquart investigated Esterhazy, looked for samples of his handwriting and realized that the major's writing was similar to that of Dreyfus's bordereau.

  I came to hear about it when the news was leaked to La Libre Parole, and Drumont took exception to this meddler who wanted to reopen a case that had been so happily resolved.

  "I understand he went to report the matter to Generals Boisdeffre and Gonse, who were fortunately not interested. Our generals are made of sterner stuff."

  Around November I met Esterhazy at the newspaper offices. He was very nervous and asked to speak with me. He came to my house accompanied by a Major Henry.

  "It is rumored, Simonini, that the handwriting on the bordereau is mine," Esterhazy said. "You copied it from one of Dreyfus's letters or notes, didn't you?"

  "But of course. The sample had been given to me by Sandherr."

  "I know, but why didn't Sandherr call me to that meeting as well? Was it to make sure I couldn't check the sample of Dreyfus's handwriting?"

  "I did what I was told to do."

  "I know, I know. But it's in your interest to help me sort out this mystery. If, for some obscure reason, you've been used as part of a plot, someone might think it's a good idea to get rid of a dangerous witness like you. Which means you're involved as well."

  I should never have allowed myself to get mixed up with the army. I wasn't at all happy. Then Esterhazy explained what he wanted me to do. He gave me a sample of a letter from Panizzardi, the Italian military attaché, and the text of a letter I had to produce, addressed to the German military attaché, in which Panizzardi referred to Dreyfus's collaboration.

  "Major Henry," he explained, "will be responsible for finding this document and passing it on to General Gonse."

  I did my job, Esterhazy paid me a thousand francs, and then I don't know what happened, but toward the end of '96 Picquart was transferred to the Fourth Fusiliers in Tunisia.

  However, at the same time that I was busy getting rid of Taxil, it seems that Picquart had managed to pull a few strings, and things became more complicated. It was, of course, unofficial news that somehow reached the press, but the Dreyfusard newspapers (which were few) took it as being certain, while the anti-Dreyfusard press talked of defamation. Some telegrams appeared, addressed to Picquart, from which it seemed he was the author of the infamous telegram from the Germans to Esterhazy. As far as I could understand, Esterhazy and Henry were behind it. It was a nice game of tit for tat, where there was no need to invent accusations because all you had to do was throw back at your opponent what he'd sent to you. Heavens above, espionage and counterespionage are far too serious to be leftin the hands of soldiers. Professionals like Lagrange and Hébuterne would never have made such a mess, but what can you expect from people who are good enough for the intelligence service one day and for the Fourth Fusiliers in Tunisia the next, or who pass from the papal Zouaves to the Foreign Legion?

  Most of all, this last move was of little use, and an investigation of Esterhazy was opened. What if, to put himself above suspicion, he were to say it was I who had written the bordereau?

  I slept badly for a year. Every night I heard noises in the house. I was tempted to go down to the shop, but was worried I might find a Russian there.

  In January of this year there was a trial behind closed doors, and Esterhazy was acquitted of all charges. Picquart was sentenced to sixty days' imprisonment. But the Dreyfusards are not giving up. A vulgar writer by the name of Zola has published an inflammatory article ("J'accuse!"), and a group of scribblers and supposed scientists have joined the campaign, demanding a review of the case. Who are these people — Proust, France, Sorel, Monet, Renard, Durkheim? Not the kind who frequent Salon Adam. Proust, I'm told, is a twenty-fiveyear-old pederast writer whose works are fortunately unpublished, and Monet is a dauber— I've s
een one or two of his paintings, which look at the world through gummy eyes. What have a writer and a painter to do with the decisions of a military tribunal? Poor France, as Drumont would say. If only these "intellectuals"—as Clemenceau, that defender of lost causes, calls them — kept their minds on the few things they knew something about.

  Zola was put on trial and, by good fortune, sentenced to a year's imprisonment. Justice still exists in France, says Drumont, who in May was elected as deputy for Algiers, ensuring that there will be a good anti-Semitic group in parliament, which will help to defend the claims of the anti-Dreyfusards.

  Everything seemed to be going in the right direction. Picquart had been sentenced to eight months in prison in July, Zola had fled to London, and I thought that no one would now reopen the case. Then a Captain Cuignet appeared, and demonstrated that Panizzardi's letter accusing Dreyfus was a forgery. How could he make such a claim when I had done the job so perfectly? In any event, the high command took it seriously and, since the letter had been found and passed on by Major Henry, people began to talk about the "Henry forgery." When put under pressure in late August, Henry admitted everything. He was taken to the prison at Mont-Valérien and slit his throat with a razor the following day. As I said, never leave certain things in the hands of soldiers: What? Arrest a suspected traitor and allow him to keep his razor?

  "Henry didn't commit suicide," claimed Drumont angrily. "He was forced into it. There are still too many Jews on the general staff. We shall open a public subscription to fund a campaign to clear Henry's name!"

  Four or five days later, Esterhazy escaped to Belgium, and then to England. Almost an admission of guilt. I didn't understand why he hadn't defended himself by throwing the blame on me.

  * * *

  "There are still too many Jews on the general staff."

  * * *

  A few nights ago, while I was turning these matters over in my mind, I again heard noises in the house. The next morning I found not only the shop but also the cellar in disarray, and the trap door to the sewer was open.

  Just as I was wondering whether I too should be making a run for it, like Esterhazy, Rachkovsky rang the bell at the shop door. Without troubling to come upstairs, he sat down in a chair that was for sale, had anyone ever wanted to buy it, and began immediately: "What would you say if I told the Sûreté that in the cellar there are four corpses, one of which happens to be a man of mine I've been searching for everywhere? I'm tired of waiting. I will give you two days to get the Protocols you've told me about and then I'll forget what I've seen down there. That seems a fair deal."

  It didn't entirely surprise me that Rachkovsky knew about the sewer. Sooner or later I would have to give him something, so I tried to extract other benefits from the deal he was offering me. "Perhaps," I ventured, "you could help me resolve a problem I have with the military secret service."

  He laughed. "You're worried they'll find out it was you who penned the bordereau?"

  This man clearly knew everything. He put his hands together as if to collect his thoughts, and began to explain.

  "You probably have no idea what's going on, and you're frightened that someone's going to blame you. Don't worry. It's important for the whole of France, for reasons of national security, that the bordereau is believed to be genuine."

  "Why?"

  "Because the French artillery is preparing its latest weapon, the 75-millimeter gun, and the Germans must continue to believe the French are still working on the 120-millimeter gun. The Germans had to find out that a spy was trying to sell them secrets about the 120-millimeter gun because they'd then believe this was the sensitive point. You, as a person of good sense, will see that the Germans should have said to themselves, 'Goodness gracious, if this bordereau were genuine, we ought to have known something about it before it was tossed into the wastebasket!' And so they should have seen through it. Instead, they fell into the trap. That's because no one in the secret service ever tells the whole story. Everyone thinks that the fellow at the next desk is a double agent, and probably each accused the other: 'What? Such an important piece of news had arrived and the military attaché didn't know about it, even though it was addressed to him? Or had he known about it and kept quiet?' Imagine the torrent of mutual suspicion — someone's head must have rolled for that. It was (and still is) vital for everyone to accept the bordereau as genuine. That was why Dreyfus had to be sent to Devil's Island as quickly as possible, to ensure that he wouldn't start defending himself, saying it was impossible that he'd spied on the 120-millimeter gun because, if anything, he'd have spied on the 75-millimeter gun. It seems, in fact, that someone gave him a pistol, offering him a chance to kill himself to avoid the humiliation that awaited him. In that way, all risk of a public trial would have been prevented. But Dreyfus was stubborn. He insisted on defending himself because he thought he was innocent. An officer should never think. What's more, I don't believe the wretch knew anything about the 75-millimeter gun. It's hardly likely that such things end up on the desk of a trainee. But it was always better to be cautious. Understand? If anyone knew the bordereau was your handiwork, the whole pack of cards would collapse and the Germans would realize that the 120-millimeter gun was a red herring — these Boche might be slow on the uptake, but they're not completely stupid. You'll tell me it's not just the Germans but also the French secret service who are in the hands of a group of bunglers. That's obvious. Otherwise these men would be working for the Okhrana, which is more efficient and, as you see, has informers in both camps."

  "But Esterhazy?"

  "That fine gentleman of ours is a double agent. He was pretending to spy on Sandherr for the German embassy but in the meantime was spying on the German embassy for Sandherr. He had worked hard in setting up the Dreyfus case, but Sandherr realized his days were numbered and the Germans were beginning to suspect him. Sandherr knew perfectly well he'd given you a sample of Esterhazy's handwriting. The object was to put the blame on Dreyfus, but if things had taken a turn for the worse, it was always possible to put the responsibility for the bordereau on Esterhazy. Esterhazy, of course, realized the trap he'd fallen into only when it was too late."

  "So why, then, didn't he name me?"

  "Because they'd have accused him of lying, and he'd have ended up in some fortress, or floating in a canal, whereas this way he can enjoy a life of leisure in London, on a good annuity, at the expense of the secret service. Whether they continue to say it's Dreyfus, or decide that the traitor is Esterhazy, the bordereau has to remain genuine. No one will ever put the blame on a forger like you. You're as safe as houses. I, on the other hand, will be causing you a great deal of bother over those corpses down there. So out with that information. You'll receive a visit tomorrow from a young man called Golovinsky, who works for me. You don't have to produce the original finished documents — they'll have to be in Russian, and he will deal with that. You have to provide him with new, genuine, convincing material, to flesh out that dossier of yours on the Prague cemetery, which by now is lippis notum et tonsoribus. What I mean is, it's fine for the revelations to originate from a meeting there, in the cemetery, but it mustn't be clear when the meeting took place, and the discussions must be relevant for today, not medieval fantasies."

  I had some work to do.

  I had almost two full days and nights to assemble the hundreds of notes and clippings I'd been gathering in the course of my visits to Drumont over more than a decade. I never imagined using them because they had all been published in La Libre Parole, but for the Russians it might be unfamiliar material. I had to make a choice. Golovinsky and Rachkovsky were certainly not interested in knowing whether or not the Jews were hopeless musicians or explorers. Of more interest, perhaps, was the suspicion that they were preparing the economic downfall of good people.

  I checked everything I had already used for the rabbis' earlier speeches. The Jews planned to take over the railways, mines, forests, tax administration and landownership; to control the judiciar
y, the legal profession and education; to infiltrate philosophy, politics, science, art and above all medicine, since a doctor gets closer to families than to a priest. It was necessary for the Jews to undermine religion, spread free thought, stop the teaching of Christianity in schools, take over the alcohol trade, control the press. Heavens above, was there anything else they could still want?

  There was nothing to prevent me from recycling all this material. Rachkovsky would have seen the version of the rabbis' speeches I had given to Glinka, which dealt entirely with arguments of a religious and apocalyptic nature. But I had to add something new to my previous versions.

  I carefully considered all the issues that might catch the interest of an average reader. I wrote it all out in the calligraphic style of half a century ago, on paper that was appropriately yellowed. And there they were: the documents my grandfather had given me, written down at meetings of the Jews in that ghetto where he had lived as a young man, translated from the Protocols the rabbis had recorded after their meeting in the Prague cemetery.

  When Golovinsky came to the shop the next day, I was astonished that Rachkovsky could have given such an important assignment to a flabby, shortsighted, badly dressed young peasant who looked as if he'd always been last in the class. Then, as we talked, I realized he was brighter than he seemed. He spoke very poor French with a heavy Russian accent, but he immediately asked how it was that rabbis in the Turin ghetto had written in French. I told him that all educated people in Piedmont spoke French at that time, and he accepted it. Later I wondered whether my rabbis in the cemetery would have spoken Hebrew or Yiddish, but since the documents were in French, the question was of no consequence.