Free The Notebook + The Proof + The Third Lie by Agota Kristof Page B

How much are you paid for that?"
    "Nothing. We take wood to the priest's house to thank the housekeeper for doing our washing."
    "Is she nice to you?"
    "Very nice. She makes bread and butter for us, cuts our nails and hair, and lets us have baths there."
    "Like a mother, in fact. And the parish priest, is he nice to you?"
    "Very nice. He lends us books and teaches us a lot of things."
    "When did you last take wood to the priest's house?"
    "Five days ago. On Tuesday morning."
    The policeman walks up and down the room. He closes the curtains and turns on his desk lamp. He draws up two chairs and tells us to sit down. He shines the lamp in our faces:
    "You're very fond of the housekeeper?"
    "Yes, very."
    "Do you know what's happened to her?"
    "Has something happened to her?"
    "Yes. Something horrible. This morning, as usual, she was lighting the fire, and the kitchen stove blew up. It hit her full in the face. She's in the hospital."
    The policeman stops talking; we say nothing. He says:
    "You have nothing to say?"
    We say:
    "If something blows up in your face, you're bound to end up in the hospital, or even in the morgue. She's lucky she isn't dead."
    "She's disfigured for life!"
    We are silent. The policeman too. He looks at us. We look at him. He says:
    "You don't look particularly sad about it."
    "We're glad she's alive. After such an accident!"
    "It wasn't an accident. Someone hid an explosive in the firewood. A cartridge from an army rifle. We've found the case."
    We ask:
    "Why would anyone do that?"
    "To kill her. Her or the priest."
    We say:
    "People are cruel. They like to kill. It's the war that has taught them that. And there are explosives lying around everywhere."
    The policeman starts to shout:
    "Stop trying to be clever! You're the ones who deliver wood to the priest's house! You're the ones who hang around all day in the forest! You're the ones who strip the corpses! You're capable of anything! You have it in your blood! Your Grandmother has a murder on her conscience too. She poisoned her husband. With her it's poison, with you it's explosives! Admit it, you little bastards! Admit it! It was you!"
    We say:
    "We aren't the only ones who deliver wood to the priest's house."
    He says:
    "That's true. There's also the old man. I've already questioned him."
    We say:
    "Anyone can hide a cartridge in a pile of wood."
    "Yes, but not anyone can have cartridges. I'm not interested in your housekeeper! What I want to know is where the cartridges are. And the grenades? And the rifle? The old man has admitted everything. I've questioned him so well that he's admitted everything. But he couldn't show me where the cartridges, the grenades, and the rifle are. He's not the guilty one. It's you! You know where the cartridges, the grenades, and the rifle are. You know, and you're going to tell me!"
    We don't respond. The policeman hits us. With both hands. Right and left. We are bleeding from the nose and mouth.
    "Admit it!"
    We say nothing. He goes white, he hits us over and over again. We fall off our chairs. He kicks us in the ribs, in the kidneys, in the stomach.
    "Admit it! Admit it! It was you! Admit it!"
    We can no longer open our eyes. We can no longer hear. Our bodies are covered with sweat, blood, urine, and excrement. We lose consciousness.
     
     

In Prison
    We are lying on the hard dirt floor of a cell. Through a tiny barred window, a little light is coming in. But we don't know what time it is, or even if it is morning or afternoon.
    We hurt all over. The slightest movement makes us fall back into semiconsciousness. Our vision is fuzzy, our ears are ringing, our heads are pounding. We are terribly thirsty. Our mouths are dry.
    Hours go by this way. We don't speak. Later, the policeman comes in and asks us:
    "Do you need anything?"
    We say:
    "Something to drink."
    "Talk. Confess. And you'll have as much as you want to eat and drink."
    We don't answer. He asks:
    "Grandfather, do you want something to eat?"
    Nobody