Of course I did quite the wrong thing.
'Stop that drivel!' I said as insolently as I could. 'I don't know you.'
Soso, he giggled, soso.
'That's enough,' I shouted, and felt I was cutting an utterly ridiculous figure and the situation was so unbearable—out of pure helplessness I picked up some plaster object, at first only as a threat, but then I saw the lovely Julika's cool, calm face and her scarcely smiling certainty that I, her Stiller, would never dare to throw anything at her, and true enough, I didn't dare. I flung the plaster object at random, aware of the ridiculous figure I was cutting, as I have said, and furious at my own absurd behaviour (the others were behaving with impeccable dignity) I took the nearest thing, a head, and hurled it on the floor, where it merely rolled along without breaking in pieces; I felt a nightmare impotence, an unparalleled impotence, however hard I threw the things—and no one hindered me, even my counsel and Knobel just watched in amazement, but entirely convinced that I was the missing Stiller and therefore had the right to smash everything in this studio to pieces, only the little dog barked, and I felt paralysed by their misunderstanding, so that in some cases I could barely lift the things off their stands—so I kept to the smaller figures, flinging them at the wall, where some of them did shatter to bits after all, which delighted me, but I could already see the humiliating possibility that my rage would not be sufficient to smash everything, but only the smaller objects, while the larger works, because I couldn't lift them off their stands, would survive my fury. I felt I couldn't bear such a humiliation, which was all they were waiting for, and it was really fear of this humiliation that compelled me to go on wreaking havoc. It was some job! And nobody uttered a word, so convinced were they that at any moment I should give it up, only the little dog went on barking, and I was in despair at my own vanity which forbade me to stop this idiocy, this smashing of plaster objects that no one mourned, there seemed no end to it, until, armed now with an iron clamp, I had smashed all the plaster stuff in pieces or at least mutilated it beyond repair; now there remained the bronzes, of which there were not many, but some all the same, the first was so heavy that throwing was out of the question, but now I simply had to complete the job and finish off the bronzes as well, the bronzes especially; exerting all my strength I could just manage to lift it and drop it on the floor, I was the only one who laughed to see how little effect it had on the bronze to thud once or twice or ten times on the floor—then out of the window with it!
Now, of course, they jumped up, alarmed by the thought that there might be someone in the courtyard down below; the crash as it hit the corrugated iron roof was balm to my soul, oh yes, now my delight in this holocaust returned, so did my physical strength, Knobel seized me by the arm, but he was afraid I might simply drop a bronze on his foot and kept his distance, so that in spite of all appeals I reached the window with my next bronze, crash, the corrugated iron reverberated and a storm of voices rose from the courtyard, an alarm of curses, there was a cracking as though of shots, and dripping with sweat I looked round to see what was left and tore open cupboards; small objects flew out through the window in an arch, someone was ringing the bell like mad, although now only sketchbooks, spatulas, tins and suchlike were raining down; of the people in the studio I saw nothing. I was merely aware of their presence, and as long as I could still find something—the African mask, the banderillas, the Celtic axe-head—anything with which to enliven the corrugated iron roof, I felt at ease—at ease is not the right expression, I was free from the fear of doing the wrong thing, and once more myself. But the moment which seemed to me, although I was now satisfied with myself, the most miserable moment in my life—the moment when I could find nothing more on any sill or easel with which to make the corrugated roof rattle and scrape and echo, the moment when I could not imagine what was going to happen next, a moment that was quiet and rather empty and transient like every moment and for that very reason so wretched—came at last...
I was sweating. Knobel had gone out to pacify the people in the tinsmith's or plumber's workshop and tell them that the hail of bronze was now at an end. I tried to smile, and then, as I couldn't manage it, at least to laugh, and found myself alone with my laughter and too exhausted to laugh on my own. Now I saw Julika again, lovely Julika. She was the first to speak:
•What now?'
Julika was sitting holding on her lap the little fox terrier, which had been so terribly upset by my behaviour, but was now safe in Julika's arms. During the whole of my rampage, I don't think she ever stood up. She didn't shake her head, but mereiy looked at me as she would look at a man who had spilt wine or trodden on a lady's evening gown: it was pardonable but embarrassing. But pardonable. And I couldn't believe my eyes: her face with the great big beautiful eyes was so unchanged that I now asked myself what I had actually expected. She smoothed her red hair—unnecessarily, for Julika hadn't budged; I was the only one who had so heated myself with all my rampaging that I was now sweating from every pore, my shirt drenched, my hair in disorder, my tie crumpled, and for that very reason Julika smoothed her hair again, a gesture of embarrassment, understandable embarrassment. Was she waiting for me to apologize?
A loud buzz of conversation could be heard from the stairs; it seemed no one had been hit, otherwise there would have been silence. But there was a great deal of hostility and indignation, understandably, I could see that. Julika took out a cigarette, whereupon I offered her a light. Yes, she was right: What now? For a few seconds, as I looked at my Julika with the lighter still in my hand, I thought I should burst into scalding tears and the next moment fall on my knees with both hands over my face, until Julika freed my sobbing, ugly, ludicrous face. I should have liked to, but I didn't; it was as though the tears flowed inwards, and I stood there as unchanged as she. Her arrogance (her forbearance) was so stubborn and unshakable; she was smiling like a victress who couldn't help the fact that I always came off worst, or like a mother, more like a mother, who loved her incorrigible son in spite of everything, and her superiority seemed to me so immense, her innocuousness so incomprehensible, her imperturbability so murderous, her lack of response so idiotic, that I went on staring at Julika dumbfounded. And how beautiful she was, I shall never forget it—her red hair, her alabaster complexion, her girlish lips, her blue or possibly colourless eyes, oh, so big and so beautiful, as I have said, and so limpid and without a background, her aristocratic nose with the rather large nostrils, and her charming ear, and this noble and erect and slender throat with the really very gentle voice emerging from it. I shall never forget it! And the gracefulness of her wrist as she sat there smoking—for a moment I felt as though I was going to takejulika by the windpipe and throttle her. But I didn't do that either, naturally ... Then Knobel came back and informed my counsel of the approximate extent of the damage.
'God be praised,' said my counsel, 'at least no one's been hurt, at least that—!'
They had to explain to my stepfather what had happened; the noise hadn't escaped him and he wanted to know what it was all about, for after all he had been sent for personally, personally, as he emphasized several times.
***
P.S. Now, as I can see in full awareness of my impotence, is the moment to tell everything, to tell the truth. But what does this everything of mine amount to? As soon as I try to explain it, there is nothing left. Should I not otherwise have explained it long ago, this everything of mine, this experience of mine—?
What I can say is this:
About two years ago, I tried to take my life. The decision was an old one. I was convinced, as probably most suicides are, that once it was done everything would be over, lights out, end of the performance. About this I had no doubt, and therefore no fear. Failure was due to purely technical causes. The little firearm I found in the shingle hut ~ an old-fashioned thing that functioned after being throughly cleaned—had a much lower pressure-point than I was used to from my rifle, or perhaps none at all. The weapon probably went off
prematurely, so that the projectile (there was one single bullet belonging to this ancient weapon in the drawer with it) only grazed the skull without penetrating on the right above the ear. Later, they showed me the X-riy. I remember that my head was held by two hands as though by two clamps, above me was the face of Florence, the only person who had heard the shot, and then everything went blank—except for a round opening in the distance (as boys we used to crawl through a sewer, the distant hole filled with daylight seemed far too small for us ever to get out—it was just like that) and the condition was unbearable, yet not painful. More like a craving for pain. The feeling of being called and possessing no voice myself. Later, when I was already in the city hospital, I am supposed to have said something like this and to have begged for sleep. Looking back on it I think the terrible pain consisted in suddenly being unable to do anything more, unable to move either backwards or forwards, not being able to fall, no longer having any above or below and yet being still there, motionless without end, without death. Just as one knows in dreams that it is a dream, so I knew that this was not death, even if I now died. Put prosaically, I felt tremendously perplexed, rather as though I had jumped off a high wall in order to dash myself in pieces, but the ground didn't come, it never came, there was nothing but falling, a falling that was actually no falling, a state of total powerlessness accompanied by total wakefulness, only time had disappeared, as I said, time as the medium within which we normally act; everything stayed as it was, nothing passed away, everything remained like that once and for all. As I was told later, I was given injections at short intervals. It was probably these palliatives, restoratives, narcotics—no doubt necessary for my sensitive and injured body—which repeatedly brought me close to the terror that took on vivid form while I was in a coma and afterwards reverberated in my memory. That's what I think, at least; I've never talked about it to anyone. Can one talk about a thing like that? All I can say here is that it is this terror I call 'my angel'...
(Interrupted by the information that today's final hearing with judgement, originally fixed for 4 p.m., has been put forward to 10.30 a.m.)
***
As I said, I have never talked about this business to anyone—quite rightly: you can't make the incomprehensible comprehensible without losing it completely, and I notice now the way I involuntarily keep trying, as I set down this declaration, to sort things out and give everything a 'meaning'. Yet I have nothing to give. I have merely received the 'meaning'. And I have to preserve it...
Of the dreams that came to me in a never-ending stream during that period I remember little, since I could not tell them to anyone. (Once Florence, the mulatto girl, paid me a visit in the city hospital; I understood her very well, although I couldn't utter more than a word or two.) One of the dreams went like this:
Just as I am strangling Little Grey I realize that it is not the cat, but Julika, who is laughing in a way I have never known her to laugh, Julika is altogether quite different, gay, I strangle the cat with all my strength, Julika mocks me in front of an audience that is invisible to me, the cat doesn't defend itself, but afterwards jumps up on the window sill and licks itself, Julika was never my wife, it was all just my imagination...
Another dream:
Mother is lying in my bed, ghastly although smiling, a wax doll, hair like brush bristles, I am filled with horror, I try to switch on the electric light but can't, I try to ring Julika but can't, everything has been cut off, darkness through the whole house and yet I can see my wax mother perfectly clearly, utterly horrified I fall to my knees with a cry in order to wake up, suddenly I am holding in my hands an Easter egg as big as a head...
Other dreams I can remember even less clearly. They all seemed to be about the same thing, and they continued while I was in a coma, for instance...
(Interrupted by Dr Bohnenblust, my defence counsel, who gave me the same information orally. I am to hold myself in readiness.)
***
All I can really say is that I had a premonition. It is not shame that prevents me from laying my cards on the table, but sheer inability. I never felt ashamed of my action. I threw away a life that had never been a life. Even if the way I did so was ridiculous. I was left with the memory of an immense freedom: everything depended on me. I could decide whether I wanted to live again, but this time so that a real death took place. Everything depended upon me alone, as I have already said. I have never been closer to the essence of grace. And I realized that, certain of grace, I had decided in favour of life, by the fact that I began to feel a terrible pain. I had the distinct sensation that I was now being born for the first time, and with a certainty that need not fear even ridicule. I felt ready to be nobody but the, person as whom I had just been born and to seek no other life than this, which I could not cast from me. That was about two years ago and I was already thirty-eight. The day I was finally discharged from the city hospital...
***
(Interrupted again!)
***
The judgement of the court as expected: I am (for them) identical with the Anatol Ludwig Stiller, citizen of Zürich, sculptor, last address 11 Steingartengasse, Zürich, married to Frau Julika Stiller-Tschudy, at present domiciled in Paris, who disappeared six years, nine months, and twenty-one days ago, and is now condemned to various fines in respect of the box on the ears inflicted on a Swiss customs officer, in repect of all sorts of acts of culpable negligence including failing to apply for permission to leave the country (as a result of which a hundred and seven different reminders have now been addressed to Stiller by various government departments); further, discharge of debts in respect of government tax, military tax, old age, and dependants insurance; further, damages in respect of a Swiss army rifle; plus one third of the legal costs: total 9,361.05 francs, payable within thirty days of the signature of the present judgement. Moreover: after conclusion of these proceedings remand in custody is to continue until possible connexions with the Smyrnov affair have been cleared up in the course of subsequent proceedings, if no appeal is lodged against the present judgement.
I waived the right to a final speech.
I waived the right to appeal.
Frau Julika Stiller-Tschudy, as from today's date my legal wife, is now busy trying to console Herr Dr Bohnenblust, the counsel for the defence provided by the court. This man has done really everything he possibly could and deserves my heartfelt gratitude. I had intended to give expression to a kind of gratitude, but then forgot all about it. Herr Direktor Schmitz, the millionaire, was also in court; he has lodged an action for slander as from today's date. As regards the Smyrnov affair I shall very soon disappoint the federal police, who have now taken me over: assuming that the good Theo Hofer, my former comrade in Spain, a Czech, who later lived in the Bronx, New York, as a hairdresser and took me in when I first arrived in America, is still alive, it should be possible to produce my alibi for the relevant date, 18.1.1946, within a few days.
I have just heard Julika coming along the corridor—
My angel, keep me on the alert.
***
P.S. Wilfried Stiller, my brother, has volunteered to assume responsibility for the sum of 9,361.05 Swiss francs. I thank him!
Part Two
POSTSCRIPT BY THE PUBLIC PROSECUTOR
POSTSCRIPT
WE were sorry that Stiller, after writing the foregoing 'Notes in Prison'—reproduced here unabridged and of course unaltered, with the permission of those of the people involved who are still alive—did not follow them up with 'Notes in Freedom'. Our attempts to persuade him did not shake his resolve for a moment. Stiller felt no urge to continue his notes. Subsequently, we realized ourselves that it was a mistake to try and persuade him. His sudden loss of voice, if one wants to call it that, was in fact an essential, perhaps even the decisive step towards his inner liberation—a liberation which we could observe not only in our friend himself, but even more clearly in those nearest to him and in an almost imperceptibly slow but nevertheless real cha
nge in our relationship with him. It became possible to be his friend: Stiller had become free of the morbid impulse to convince.
***
The Smyrnov affair requires no further mention here. Stiller's alibi for the crucial date was irrefutable: long before 18.1.1946 he was in New York, where he stayed for the first few weeks with his Czech friend. Stiller could not prove this until he had given up denying his identity. His indifference towards this suspicion seemed to me genuine from the very first, more genuine than most of what he said and wrote while remanded in custody. On the other hand the authorities, lacking personal knowledge of the man, could not understand why Stiller denied his obvious identity so obstinately, and they felt obliged to examine any possible links with previously unsolved crimes, as indeed was their duty. Among the unsolved crimes which had to be considered were two Zürich murders; about these Stiller knew nothing. In evpry instance an unambiguously negative verdict was quickly reached, and his release took place the same month.