CHAPTER ELEVEN
ONCE HANNA admitted having written the report, the other defendants had an easy game to play. When
Hanna had not been acting alone, they claimed, she had pressured, threatened, and forced the
others. She had seized command. She did the talking and the writing. She had
made the decisions.
The villagers who testified could neither confirm nor deny this. They had seen that the burning
church was guarded by several women who did not unlock it, and they had not dared to unlock it
themselves. They had met the women the next morning as they were leaving the village, and
recognized them as the defendants. But which of the defendants had been the spokeswoman at the
early-morning encounter, or if anyone had played the role of spokeswoman, they could not recall.
“But you cannot rule out that it was this defendant”—the lawyer for one of the other defendants
pointed at Hanna—“who took the decisions?”
They couldn’t, how could they even have wanted to, and faced with the other defendants, visibly
older, more worn out, more cowardly and bitter, they had no such impulse. In comparison with the
other defendants, Hanna was the dominant one. Besides, the existence of a leader exonerated the
villagers; having failed to achieve rescue in the face of a fiercely led opposing force looked
better than having failed to do anything when confronted by a group of confused women.
Hanna kept struggling. She admitted what was true and disputed what was not. Her arguments became
more desperate and more vehement. She didn’t raise her voice, but her very intensity alienated the
court.
Eventually she gave up. She spoke only when asked a direct question; her answers were short,
minimal, sometimes beside the point. As if to make clear that she had given up, she now remained
seated when speaking. The presiding judge, who had told her several times at the beginning of the
trial that she did not need to stand and could remain seated if she preferred, was put off by this
as well. Towards the end of the trial, I sometimes had the sense that the court had had enough,
that they wanted to get the whole thing over with, that they were no longer paying attention but
were somewhere else, or rather here—back in the present after long weeks in the past.
I had had enough too. But I couldn’t put it behind me. For me, the proceedings were not ending, but
just beginning. I had been a spectator, and then suddenly a participant, a player, and member of
the jury. I had neither sought nor chosen this new role, but it was mine whether I wanted it or
not, whether I did anything or just remained completely passive.
“Did anything”—there was only one thing to do. I could go to the judge and tell him that Hanna was
illiterate. That she was not the main protagonist and guilty party the way the others made her out
to be. That her behavior at the trial was not proof of singular incorrigibility, lack of remorse,
or arrogance, but was born of her incapacity to familiarize herself with the indictment and the
manuscript and also probably of her consequent lack of any sense of strategy or tactics. That her
defense had been significantly compromised. That she was guilty, but not as guilty as it appeared.
Maybe I would not be able to convince the judge. But I would give him enough to have to think about
and investigate further. In the end, it would be proved that I was right, and Hanna would be
punished, but less severely. She would have to go to prison, but would be released sooner—wasn’t
that what she had been fighting for?
Yes, that was what she had been fighting for, but she was not willing to earn victory at the price
of exposure as an illiterate. Nor would she want me to barter her self-image for a few years in
prison. She could have made that kind of trade herself, and did not, which meant she didn’t want
it. Her sense of self was worth more than the years in prison to her.
But was it really worth all that? What did she gain from this false self-image which ensnared
her and crippled her and paralyzed her? With the energy she put into maintaining the lie, she could
have learned to read and write long ago.
I tried to talk about the problem with friends. Imagine someone is racing intentionally towards his
own destruction and you can save him—do you go ahead and save him? Imagine there’s an operation,
and the patient is a drug user and the drugs are incompatible with the anesthetic, but the patient
is ashamed of being an addict and does not want to tell the anesthesiologist— do you talk to the
anesthesiologist? Imagine a trial and a defendant who will be convicted if he doesn’t admit to
being left-handed—do you tell the judge what’s going on? Imagine he’s gay, and could not have
committed the crime because he’s gay, but is ashamed of being gay. It isn’t a question of whether
the defendant should be ashamed of being left-handed or gay—
just imagine that he is.