Free The Sonderberg Case by Elie Wiesel Page A

veteran court reporters.”
    “Let’s talk shop,” I say. “Every hearing reminds me of a theatrical performance. I try to bring to light the dramatic tension that will make the performance progress but at an unhurried pace. As in theater, I feel the tension must come from within and be devoid of obvious artifice.”
    “Except that in the theater,” Paul says in his low voice, “the actors and the audience go home, safe and sound, after the curtain comes down each day. In any case, I notice you’re interested in your new field of activity. Maybe even more than in the theater?”
    That evening I recount the conversation to Alika as we walk to a nearby restaurant for dinner.
    “Paul’s wrong,” I say to her.
    She doesn’t respond.
    “You don’t believe me? You have doubts about my loyalty?”
    “As I always do. You know me.”
    “Even in this instance?”
    “Even in this instance.”
    “And why?”
    “Because I’ve read your articles.”
    “And? What do they prove?”
    “They’re good. Better than your theater reviews.”
    “Thanks for the compliment. But let’s say that I work differently. I didn’t know anything about the judiciary world. I never thought about it. But, you know, you can feel attracted to something that’s foreign to you.”
    “That’s possible.”
    I don’t understand. Why is she so irritated?
    “Do you actually think that because I’m suddenly interested in the law I’m going to forsake the theater?”
    “I don’t know what to think anymore.”
    “Do you want me to give it up?”
    “It’s what you want that counts.”
    “Me, I want to understand why you’re annoyed at me. Am I a journalist or not? I have to go where my editors send me. Let’s say tomorrow I’m assigned to a local police station. I can’t just say no. The same goes for this trial.”
    Alika knits her brows, furious and seemingly hurt.
    “That’s completely different. In a police station, you’d do your work and you might even do it well, but you wouldn’t love it. Whereas as far as this trial goes, you enjoy attending it. Enjoy talking about it. Enjoy showing off your talent. And your new passion. That’s the point: we no longer share the same passion.”
    “You’re mistaken.”
    “Well, then, prove it to me: return to theater.”
    “How many times do I have to keep saying it? When I’m in the courtroom, that’s exactly where I am—at the theater!”
    “Really? Who’s the author of the play? The judge? The defendant? The public? Don’t tell me they’re improvising, all of them as long as they’re …”
    “Yes, they are, in a way.”
    “You’re out of your mind!”
    This is our first real quarrel. There will be others—more or less futile, more or less serious. In her opinion, I’m spending too much time away from home. My explanations—the fact that I’m no longer in control of my schedule because of the trial, the interviews with lawyers and spectators, my library research and editorial meetings—are useless. She criticizes anything I say. “Even when you’re here, which is increasingly rare, you’re miles away.”
    I don’t understand what’s happening to us. For the first time in ages, we’re getting on each other’s nerves. There are a lot of silences. Misunderstandings. Some discoveries: the little gestures that used to awaken or strengthen our love now dampen it. My way of buttoning my shirt. Her way of wiping her lips when she drinks her coffee. The magic is gone.
    Actually, Alika is not entirely wrong to be annoyed with me. I’ve undergone a change. Just a week ago, she occupied all my thoughts and filled my life, whereas, for the last few days, the trial has suddenly become the focus of all myattention. But she’s also mistaken: I haven’t forgotten my passion for the stage.
    In fact, after our quarrels, I set a rule for myself: to go to the theater at least once a week, though Alika goes almost every evening. And this while continuing her studies.