Puppet (13 page)

I ran back to the prison, thinking of all the news I had for Teresa.

THURSDAY, JUNE 21, 1883

The next morning, I washed the dishes and drew water before Teresa was satisfied she could do without me. By then she was as eager as I was to see me off. “Hurry along, girl, and don't forget a single thing they say!”

Mr. Eotvos was already cross-examining Morris by the time I got to the courthouse. I sat on the floor behind a pillar. I hoped that it would hide me both from Pa and Warden Henter. I could see what was going on if I craned around it. There was no sign of Pa, and the warden was at the other end of the hall, so I began to breathe more easily.

Morris was dressed in the same clothes as the day before. However, gone was any vestige of the shy, awkward boy. He stood up straight and spoke confidently.

“Yes, sir,” he said boldly in answer to a question Mr. Eotvos must have asked just before my arrival. “Yes, sir, I understand the charges against my father and the other defendants.”

“Tell us, boy how do your parents treat you? Are they good parents to you?” asked Mr. Eotvos.

Morris glanced in his father's direction before responding.

“Sometimes they're kind to me, but a lot of the time they yell at me and punish me. My stepmother doesn't take good care of me. She doesn't love me. She only loves my brother, Sam. She beats me sometimes and so does my father. Of course I haven't lived with them for fourteen months.”

Mr. Scharf jumped up from his seat.

“Morris, my son, how can you say such things? You've had nothing but love!”

Morris appeared transfixed by the painting of the Emperor that hung on the wall, but he did not answer.

“Counselor, warn your client to be quiet or I'll have him removed from the courtroom,” Judge Korniss thundered. “He'll have his opportunity to question the witness shortly.”

Mr. Eotvos walked over to Mr. Scharf, put his arm around the distraught father's shoulders, and whispered something into his ear. Mr. Scharf sat down. “My client regrets his outburst, Your Honor,” said Mr. Eotvos. “He assures me that it won't happen again.”

He turned back to Morris, smiling at the boy.

“I have a few more questions for you, boy. Who spoke
to Esther Solymosi and asked her to come into your house when you saw her pass under your window? Was it your father?”

“No, sir, it was me.”

“You called her into the house? Why?”

“My father told me to.”

“What happened after the girl moved your candelabra off the table?”

“The beggar Vollner, who was staying with us, asked her to accompany him to the synagogue. He told her that something had to be carried out of there.”

Vollner shook his head violently but remained silent.

“Let me change the topic, Morris,” Mr. Eotvos said. “You testified that you saw the murder of Esther Solymosi through the keyhole of the lock on the door of your synagogue?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“You testified that Braun and Buxbaum held down the victim while Solomon Schwarcz cut her throat and drained her blood into an earthenware pot. Is that correct?”

“It is,” Morris said warily.

“Who held the pot?” asked Mr. Eotvos.

“What do you mean?”

“Who held the container into which Esther Solymosi's blood drained?” repeated Mr. Eotvos.

The onlookers in the courtroom leaned forward, on the edge of their seats.

“Solomon Schwarcz held the pot,” For the first time, Morris sounded uncertain. “He cut the girl's throat with one hand while he held the pot with his other hand.”

“Once the victim's throat was cut, did the blood pour out smoothly into the pot or did it come out in spurts?” Mr. Eotvos's gory question was delivered in a confiding way, in the same tone he would use to discuss the weather.

Morris's face turned crimson.

“I don't remember,” he said.

“How can you not remember?” Mr. Eotvos shook his head, mildly puzzled. “You claim you were watching the murder through a keyhole. You must have seen how the blood poured out.”

“It flowed smoothly into the pot that Solomon Schwarcz was holding,” Morris said.

“Was the girl's clothing stained by the blood?”

“No, sir. Solomon Schwarcz was holding the pot very carefully.”

“That's strange,” said Mr. Eotvos. He walked up to the defense table and picked up a sheet of paper with writing on it. “This is an affidavit signed by three distinguished physicians,” he said, waving the paper in Morris's direction. “All three maintain that if a person's throat is cut, and the person expires as quickly as you claim that Esther Solymosi did, a major artery must have been severed. This must have caused the blood to gush out of her throat like a geyser, splattering everything in its path — the clothing of people standing close to the victim and the floor and the walls next
to the victim.” I felt faint. He was talking about Esther, my Esther, who loved her red-striped belt and the riverbanks and her mother and her sister and her brother.

“Explain to us how is it possible that Esther Solymosi's blood flowed smoothly into the container?”

“I just remembered. The blood was everywhere,” stammered Morris.

“That is an important detail to forget,” said Mr. Eotvos. One bushy eyebrow quirked.

“Well, I did forget it. I have a lot on my mind,” Morris said defiantly.

“Let's talk about what you do remember,” said Mr. Eotvos. “How long were you looking through the keyhole?”

Morris looked at Mr. Bary as if waiting for directions. Bary and Recsky stared back at him with impassive faces. Morris didn't answer.

Mr. Eotvos repeated the question. “How long were you at the keyhole?”

“Three-quarters of an hour to an hour,” stammered Morris.

“If you were standing there for an hour observing somebody being murdered, why didn't you call for help?”

Morris looked at Bary again before he replied.

“The street was empty. There was nobody I could call for help.”

“If you say so.”

Morris pulled his shoulders back and stuck out his chin.

“I do say so! I'm telling the truth!”

The atmosphere in the courtroom crackled with tension.

“Calm down, boy,” said Mr. Eotvos. “I have a few more questions for you. I'm certain that you, as well as I, want the truth to come out.”

“I already told the truth!” said Morris. “Solomon Schwarcz cut the girl's throat and Braun and Buxbaum held her down.”

“That's what you claim!” said Mr. Eotvos in a dry tone. “Miss Farkas, the sister of Tisza-Eszlar's magistrate, and young Elizabeth Sos told Mr. Bary that your little brother, Sam, claims that it was your father who called Esther Solymosi into your synagogue, where he held her head and you held her leg while Solomon Schwarcz cut her throat.”

“That's a lie! They bribed Sam with sweets. Sam is only five years old. He'll say anything for a piece of candy! Mr. Bary knows I'm telling the truth.”

“Ah, Mr. Bary and his truth!” said Mr. Eotvos.

“Counselor, be careful of your remarks or I'll have to hold you in contempt,” warned the judge.

“I'm sorry, Your Honor. I was carried away by the heat of the moment. No disrespect was meant toward my esteemed colleague. I have just a few more questions for the witness.”

He turned to Morris.

“You testified that after you witnessed Esther Solymosi's murder, you returned to your parents' house and found your father, stepmother, and brother eating lunch.”

Morris nodded.

“What were they talking about?” asked Mr. Eotvos.

“What do you mean?”

“What was your family talking about over their meal?”

“I don't remember,” said Morris sullenly.

“Your memory seems to be getting worse,” said Mr. Eotvos. “Did you tell your parents what you saw through the keyhole at the synagogue? Did you tell them about Esther Solymosi's murder?”

“I did.”

“What did they say?”

“My stepmother told me to be quiet. My father ordered me not to tell anyone what I had seen. I did as they asked me to until I decided to do the right thing and told Mr. Bary what I knew.”

“This concludes my examination of the witness,” said Mr. Eotvos. “Let the court note the witness's hostile behavior. I'd like to reserve the right to recall this witness for further questioning at a later date if need be.”

“The court agrees,” said Judge Korniss.

Mr. Scharf beckoned to Mr. Eotvos. Mr. Eotvos bent to confer with the prisoner. “My client, Joseph Scharf, would like to question the witness.” Mr. Eotvos squeezed the man's shoulder.

“The court grants permission,” said Judge Korniss.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Mr. Scharf as he approached Morris.

“Morris, you must look the defendant in the eye while you testify,” ordered the judge.

Father and son faced each other. Mr. Scharf's expression was full of sorrow and Morris's face was full of defiance. His eyes were fixed on his father's shirt collar. Mr. Scharf held out his hand. “Do you remember who I am, Morris?”

“Why do you ask me such a foolish question, old man?” snapped the boy.

“My son, I know you studied Torah, and it was my hard-earned money that paid for those studies,” said Mr. Scharf. “Tell me, my boy do you know the Ten Commandments?”

“I already told the judge that I do.”

“What is the second commandment?”

“‘Honor thy father and thy mother.’ We already talked about that,” Morris said sullenly. “Old man, what do you want from me? I have said everything I have to say. Indeed, I have to return to my home and finish the work my teachers have left for me.”

“How do you know such words as indeed?” asked Mr. Schwarcz. “You must have been coached in your testimony, my son. No one knows better than me that your Hungarian is not good.”

Morris snorted.

“I have not been coached! I studied hard and now I speak Hungarian fluently.

“Repeat to me what you told Mr. Bary when he asked you what happened to the girl,” said Mr. Scharf.

“I already told Judge Korniss what I saw. I don't want to have to say it again!”

“The law requires you to cooperate with your father,” said Judge Korniss.

“Your Honor, the witness isn't looking his father in the eye,” interjected Mr. Eotvos.

“You were already instructed to look at your father,” said the judge.

Morris lifted his gaze reluctantly and began his recitation: “On the first day of April in the year 1882, the Jews of Tisza-Eszlar congregated for their Sabbath prayers in their synagogue. There were some strangers among them -Solomon Schwarcz, the new ritual butcher, and the two other unsuccessful candidates for the ritual butcher's job …”

Not a single word of Morris's testimony differed from what he had originally told the court and what he had repeated to Braun and Buxbaum. The three testimonies were identical.

“Son, you speak as if you were reading your words from notes,” said Mr. Scharf “Tell me, where was I while you were observing this murder through the keyhole?”

“You were at home, eating lunch in our house.”

“Why didn't you come and get me? We live next door to the synagogue.”

Morris shrugged.

“I don't know why.”

“Why didn't you tell me of the crime you witnessed?” asked Mr. Scharf.

Morris looked at his father defiantly.

“I did tell you after I returned home, and you told me never to mention it to anyone ever again.”

Mr. Scharf stepped closer to him.

“My son, my son. Where is my son?” He began to tear his own hair. “What are you saying? What are you saying?” His words were little more than a whisper. Everyone fell silent as he approached the judges' table.

“Your Honors,” he pleaded. “Please help me! I beg you! First, my five-year-old Sam was bribed with sweets and frightened into telling lies. When he proved to be too young to be a reliable witness, the state used my poor Morris to attack me!”

Judge Korniss banged his gavel. “You're out of order! Keep your sickly imaginings to yourself or you'll pay dearly for it! You may question the witness, but that's all.”

Mr. Scharf turned back to Morris with a sigh.

“Aren't you ashamed, my son, that people spit in your eye when they hear your falsehoods?”

“I'm not lying. You might not want to hear what I say, but I'm telling the truth.” Only his heightened color revealed Morris's anger. “Those who spit on me will be punished!”

He addressed Judge Korniss.

“Judge, Chief Recsky Mr. Bary Mr. Peczely and Warden Henter will testify under oath they did not coach me.”

“I'll ask you once more — has anyone ever threatened you or beat you to get you to testify falsely?” asked the judge.

“Never, sir! Nobody has ever threatened me or laid a finger on me!”

“Oh my son, what have they done to you?” cried Mr. Scharf. “I begged them to let you go. I even asked them at least ten times to give you Passover food during Pesach.”

“I never wanted Passover food,” said Morris. “I don't want to be a Jew any longer! I want to be Hungarian! My country will take care of me. Warden Henter showed me a letter from the Minister of Interior of Hungary that ordered him to look after me once the trial is over. The state will pay for my apprenticeship.”

Mr. Scharf fell to his knees and began to beat his chest with his fists.