The afternoon crept on and the shadows moved slowly across the courtroom until there were only narrow strips of sunlight on the walls. There were no more than ten minutes to go before the day’s adjournment when the incident occurred.
Vukashin had almost completed his evidence and the Prosecutor was asking him a series of questions about the meeting of the Committee at which it had been finally decided to accept the armistice terms.
‘Minister Vukashin, what was the attitude of the prisoner when it was clear that the majority of the Committee favoured acceptance?’
‘As always, he attempted to obstruct the wish of the majority. He repeated all his former arguments, and when these were rejected again by the rest of the Committee, he said that he had had further discussion with the Anglo-American representatives and that something might yet be done with them.’
‘He gave the impression that he was making these proposals to them?’
‘He had always given that impression. But now in the heat of the moment he made a slip that revealed his true intention. He said that the Anglo-Americans were only waiting for the word and at the snap of his fingers they would come.’
At that moment a strange voice in the court said something loudly and sharply, and, in the dead silence that followed, the interpreter automatically translated it.
‘That is a lie.’
Deltchev had risen to his feet and was facing the witness box. His hands were still in his jacket pockets, but he was standing very straight.
Vukashin looked startled for a moment, then turned his head to the judges.
‘The prisoner objects to the truth.’
The centre judge leaned forward. ‘The prisoner will be silent.’
Deltchev took no notice. ‘I do not object to the truth,’ he said. ‘Nor do I object to the fantastic perversions of the truth that the court has been listening to today, for no person in his senses will accept them. I do, however, object to lies which attribute to me statements which I have never made.’
The judge shouted angrily: ‘Be silent. You will have an opportunity of speaking later.’
‘Will the Minister Vukashin be available to me for cross-examination?’
‘Your counsel may examine the witness if he wishes to do so.’
‘He does not propose to do so. He values his own skin too much.’
There was a commotion at this, and the thin, dark man whom I took to be Stanoiev began to make some sort of appeal to the judges. As several other people, including Dr Prochaska, were speaking at the same time, the interpreter became tongue-tied. One of the judges began to shout.
‘The presiding judges call for silence,’ said the interpreter.
Vukashin had been standing in the witness box looking on with a grim smile. Now he raised a hand and, as the noise subsided, spoke, ‘I have given my evidence. Let him say what he wants.’
Deltchev faced him again. There was complete silence now. The prisoner’s voice was light but very clear and precise.
‘Minister Vukashin,’ he said, ‘was it with the Committee’s knowledge that I made the proposal to the Anglo-American representatives in 1944 that we should fight a delaying action in the north?’
Vukashin hesitated a fraction of a second. ‘Be careful how you answer,’ Deltchev put in quickly. ‘The facts can be checked. The minutes of the Committee still exist.’
Vukashin made an impatient gesture. ‘I am aware of that.’
‘Then you see the need for caution. Will you answer the question, please?’
‘The reply is not as simple as you try to suggest. The Committee was aware that a proposal was made, but it was not aware that you hid instructions from your Anglo-American friends to make it appear that the proposal came from the Committee.’
‘Your answer is that I was authorized by the Committee to make the proposal.’
‘Yes, but…’
‘Let me continue, Minister. If the Committee authorized the proposal and if, as you say, the Anglo-American representatives wished it to be made, will you explain then why they did not immediately accept it?’
‘Do not please ask me to explain the actions of the Anglo-Americans.’
Laughter.
‘It is not the actions of the Anglo-Americans I am asking you to explain, but your own account of them.’
Vukashin turned angrily to the judges. ‘I am here to give evidence, not to answer political riddles. That is enough.’
‘You have been very patient. The court thanks you, Minister. The prisoner will be silent.’
Vukashin left the witness box and sat down. As he did so, Deltchev turned with a pale smile to face the courtroom. ‘The Minister is afraid to answer,’ he said.
It was at that point that Dr Prochaska made a foolish mistake. He had been standing there impotent and forgotten during this exchange. He was irritated. He was the Prosecutor and yet matters had been taken out of his, the responsible, hands, and an important battle of words had taken place without him. More serious still, the Minister, whom he should have protected, had had the worst of the battle. Now he saw his chance of retrieving not only his own dignity but that of the Minister as well. Never once since the trial opened had Deltchev taken his hands from his pockets, and Dr Prochaska had found the fact irritating. He suddenly thought he saw just how he might humiliate the prisoner.
‘Afraid?’ he exclaimed derisively. ‘The Minister is afraid to answer?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘It is not the Minister who is afraid. It is you, Deltchev! No wonder you seek to accuse and discredit the witnesses against you. You are in fear of your life. No wonder you tremble. No wonder you keep your hands in your pockets. Do you think we do not notice? Ah, but the people have eyes, Deltchev. You cannot deceive them for ever. You may disguise your fear in other ways, but your trembling hands you dare not let us see. Come, show us your hands, Deltchev. Or else be silent while justice is done.’
In the breathless hush that descended, there was one single quickly suppressed giggle and then no sound but the fluttering of the cameras. The Prosecutor had a hard, ugly little smile on his lips. At that moment he was not absurd. Vukashin looked down at his own hands, frowning. Deltchev stood quite still, his face expressionless. He was making up his mind.
Then he took his hands out of his pockets and held them out, palms downward, in front of him. They shook with a coarse tremor that must have been visible at the back of the court.
‘The prisoner’s hands are more truthful than his tongue,’ said the Prosecutor.
Without a glance in his direction Deltchev put his hands back in his pockets and raised his head.
‘I speak,’ he said loudly, ‘to the members of the Diplomatic Corps present here and to the representatives of the foreign press.’
There was another commotion in the front of the court, and the Prosecutor began to protest to the judges. The interpreter began to translate the protest and I took my earphones off. Others beside me were doing the same. Deltchev had spoken in German.
‘You may have formed your own conclusions,’ he went on, ‘about the quality of the evidence that will be given by the Prosecution in this court. In case you are in doubt, this demonstration will convince you. The evidence of my own hands has now been offered against me. I will explain what it is worth.’
With an elaborately satirical bow in the direction of the diplomatic and foreign-press sections, the Prosecutor abandoned his protest and stood, his arms akimbo and an unsuccessful attempt at a smile on his face, looking up at the ceiling.
‘I make no defence of myself in offering this explanation,’ Deltchev was saying. ‘My defence is in the safe hands of the prosecution.’ He smiled faintly. ‘But perhaps you will be interested in this fact. I give it to you merely as a point of interest.’