Flowers in the Blood Read online

  Riding for the first time in my father's office jaun, I arrived at the High Court, an impressive Gothic building modeled on the town hall of Ypres, Belgium. My first surprise was the crowd of people waiting to enter, a throng that filled the square out to the statue of Lord Bentinck. The second was that, unlike at synagogue, I did not have to sit in a gallery with the women, but was permitted to remain at my father's side.

  Inside, the courtroom was almost filled. I recognized many faces from Sabbath services. There were a few gasps as I passed, then a buzz of words I could not quite make out as we made our way down the aisle. Instead I gripped my father's hand, wishing we could hurry to our places faster. Friends who had not seen him for more than six months greeted him cordially. He acknowledged them with a curt lowering of his chin. Most of my Sassoon aunts and uncles were already seated on the back benches on the right, with the eldest, Uncle Saul, on an aisle. My father sat directly in front of him. As I sat beside my father, I noticed that Aunt Bellore was behind me. Three seats to my right were empty until the proceedings were about to begin. My grandparents slipped in last. We had come in separate carriages.

  Since it was December, and by Calcutta standards relatively cool, only one punkah-wallah pulled the rope on his fan, which was directly over the officials and not the audience.

  There was a pounding sound. “Be upstanding!” a clerk cried. Everyone stood at attention. A small door behind a raised platform opened. Two men in black robes entered the room.

  “Who are they?” I asked Papa.

  “The justices.”

  “What is a justice?”

  “Hush, I'll explain later.”

  The two justices, one considerably older than the other, took their places against the wall. They were followed by two Indian guards resplendent in crimson uniforms and white turbans, each carrying an enormous black staff topped with a club-shaped silver ornament.

  I lifted my hand and pointed. “What's that? And who are they?”

  My father caught my fingers and placed them in my lap. “A mace. And they are chobdars—guards for the justices.”

  “What do they use those poles for? To hit someone?”

  “No, they are symbols of authority.”

  “Oh,” I replied, not really comprehending. I contemplated the unfamiliar array of people before me. Below the justices' table was another surrounded by men making notes. In the center of the area, at an even longer table, were more men. Some were wearing white collars, bands, and robes like the justices.

  My father seemed distracted by something, so I asked my grandmother, this time discreetly pointing from my lap. “Who are they, Nani?”

  “They are called barristers, Dinah. Those are the men who will try to make us believe that Mr. Sadka and Mr. Chachuk are innocent.”

  “But they are not.”

  “No, they are not, but it remains for the jury to decide that.”

  “What is the jury?”

  Nani tilted her head to an area enclosed by a balustrade. “Do you see the twelve men sitting there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Those men will listen carefully to what is said, then decide who is telling the truth.”

  “But . . .” My question faded as I recognized Uncle Nissim and another man being escorted into the room. They were led into an enclosed box opposite the jury box.

  A man in a robe rose and began to speak. This time Nani did not wait for my questions, but bent over and whispered, “He's the advocate-general. He presents the case for the crown. That means he wishes to prosecute the men who hurt your mother.”

  The man spoke for almost an hour, using the bulk of the time trying to dismiss the circumstantial nature of the evidence and the lack of witnesses. He concluded, “Let us assume the crime was both deliberate and planned. Would not the planning include elaborate measures to ensure that no eyewitness should be available to give evidence? Would not any criminal do his utmost to prevent anyone from knowing beforehand? Does this not suggest a devious mind? If, according to the defense, no punishment can be given if there is no positive evidence, that would therefore confer immunity on the worst transgressors.” His voice rose to the pitch of a fervent plea. “What a travesty it would be if the only criminals who could be punished were the less artful culprits whose offenses were unpremeditated, or committed under the duress of so great a passion as to be unaware of the presence of a witness!”

  I turned to where Nissim Sadka was standing. His accomplice, Chachuk, was looking off into the distance, but Uncle Nissim's squinty, narrow black eyes were focused directly at me. His thick hair had been greased back so purposely that the comb lines formed tracks on his scalp. Even though I looked at him squarely, his face appeared crooked, probably because his long nose had a twist to one side. Could there really be a connection between this man and my lifeless, rigid mother covered in sticky crimson?

  “Dinah!” Aunt Bellore whispered at the back of my neck.

  Transfixed by Sadka's stare, I did not turn around.

  She reached over and shoved my chin toward my grandmother, breaking the link. Nani clasped both my hands in hers and stroked them rhythmically, as if to the beat of a soldier's march. I leaned on my father's shoulder and was soon dozing as the proceedings droned on.

  I was awakened for a break in the trial. A luncheon was held in Kyd Street. Before Aunt Bellore had inherited the house as part of her dowry, it had been home to all her brothers. After her marriage she had lived in one wing, taking it over entirely on the death of her father. I ate in the nursery with Sultana, Abigail, and Lulu and would have been quite content to spend the rest of the afternoon there. Sultana ventured downstairs at one point and came back to report there was much shouting and unpleasantness in the dining room. I felt certain the animosity had to do with me.

  The Lanyados' ayah washed my hands and face, fluffed up my dress, and retied my sash. Even before the nurse was satisfied, my father appeared and said it was time to go.

  At the door, Aunt Bellore sided with the Raymonds. “Are you certain, Benu? Dinah may spend the day here. She would rather be with Sultana and the others.” My aunt patted my head. “Wouldn't you, Dinah?”

  I looked from brother to sister. “No.” I reached for my father's hand. “I'd rather be with Papa.”

  He did not reply, but I sensed his pleasure. He marched past his sister and my grandparents and lifted me into the office jaun, pulled by a large white horse. On the way, he explained what would happen next. “One of the two judges will now retell both sides of the story to the jurors. They may be confused by conflicting statements that have been said by the men who claim Chachuk and Sadka are innocent and the men who claim they are guilty. The chief justice will tell the jury they must decide.”

  “Will it be today?”

  “I do not think there is much doubt in the matter, so it should be over rather quickly.”

  “That's good,” I said, since I dreaded too many more hours of sitting quietly.

  “Very good,” he replied, though his meaning was far different from mine.

  As we approached the municipal buildings, I dared ask the question that most weighed on my mind. “Papa, what will they do to them?”

  “In the Bible it says, 'Eye for an eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot.' “

  A horrid image of extractions of teeth and eyes, of amputations—like the ones my grandfather performed for the lepers—nauseated me. “Will they cut off their hands and pull out their teeth?”

  My father smiled crookedly, but spoke in a dignified voice. “No, they will lose the privilege of their lives.”

  “The men in the robes, the judges, will one of them kill them?”

  “No, another official will do it.”

  “Oh!” I thought I had it now. The men with the heavy maces would beat the criminals. One or two blows should do it. Wanting confirmation, I asked, “How?”

  He hugged me close.

  “With the mace?”

  My father's grin
widened. “No, the gallows. They shall hang by their necks until they are dead.”

  Even without the transcript of the chief justice's summation, I can recall portions of his lengthy speech—it lasted almost four hours— because he enunciated so slowly, so carefully for the jurors, even I could follow what he was saying.

  He spoke of the necessity not to rush to simple conclusions in so complex a case. “I urge the jury to exercise caution in accepting the story created by the advocate-general, who has neatly developed a line of thinking that leads to the conclusion that these men collaborated to murder Luna Sassoon. Whilst this may be the very case, not all evidence follows in agreement. There are many controversial items to consider.”

  He went on to list the areas he felt the prosecution had introduced weakly: “. . . Mr. Sadka was at the Sassoon house that evening, but there is no certainty that it was he who returned to that place or he who made a final departure in the early-morning hours. . . . There is no proof to support that the dagger introduced as evidence was ever in the possession of the accused. Even the servant claims there was no one present when he found it and cleaned it.”

  A flurry of gasps rolled across the audience, visibly annoying the older judge. On my left, my father's spine stiffened; on my right, Nani's arm began to vibrate. My grandfather's lips twitched.

  “With regard to the chloroform . . .” My attention was riveted when I again heard that familiar word. “. . . Even if you were to consider there is some evidence the prisoners were anxious to acquire it, there is no positive connection with the murder, since there is no proof the chloroform vial, which was not found near the body, was used on Luna Sassoon.”

  “But—” I started to say. Aunt Bellore reached forward and put her finger over my mouth. Still determined to speak up, I rose to my feet. My grandfather pushed me down. Stunned into obedience, I muttered, “But the smell on my mother matched the doctor's vial. I'm sure of it. Why doesn't anyone care about what I have to say?”

  Angrily I sat back and listened as the younger judge spoke about a mysterious third man who had been identified by witnesses to have been with Sadka that evening and was definitely not Chachuk. At last the chief justice concluded his remarks. “Gentlemen of the jury, I must caution you in accepting the evidence of native witnesses. Most of the witnesses for the prosecution have been of the servant class, whose ignorance and loose ideas as to time—as well as the necessity for adhering to facts and circumstances as they actually occur—invest their testimony with a tenuous character. Further, one of these witnesses, the punkah-wallah, is blind, and we have no diagnosis as to which other faculties may be impaired.”

  When the summation concluded, the men of the jury left the room. As Papa turned around to confer with his brothers, their voices were muted, but their tone was outraged. Why had the younger judge twisted the facts in favor of the criminals? Why had he discredited the testimony of his trusted servants? How could he discount the bloody dagger, the ladder, the chloroform?

  “Could someone have paid him off?” Uncle Saul whispered hoarsely.

  Aunt Bellore's husband was aghast. “Bribe a judge?”

  “The decision hasn't been made,” Uncle Reuben reminded in a conciliatory tone.

  Since almost everyone else had dispersed outside, I walked around the perimeter of the courtroom. I was thirsty and wondered how much longer this would continue.

  In less than half an hour the jury members walked back into the room. The tableau of men, guards, and prisoners rearranged themselves rapidly.

  “See!” Aunt Bellore announced as the family took their seats. “Their guilt was irrefutable.”

  As I fastened my gaze on the prisoners' box, I felt a peculiar shudder in my chest. “Eye for eye . . .” The men would be dead soon. Under the earth with dirt in their eyes. Like Mama. Sadka and Chachuk stared straight ahead.

  “Not guilty,” said a soft voice.

  “Not guilty!” reverberated in the audience, “They won't die?” I asked. No one responded.

  My grandmother swooned, but I barely noticed it as my grandfather shot up from his seat. Straight and tall, without a tremble in his hand or a warble in his voice, he shouted, “Impossible! How could this be so?”

  Dr. Hyam raised his arms to restrain his mentor, but Grandfather Ephraim pushed him away with such force that Dr. Hyam twisted his foot and fell beside his seat. Grandfather Ephraim stepped over him and made his way to the platform, where a policeman halted him. I could not believe how sturdy, how healthy Grandfather—in the potency of his fury—appeared. He marched to the table where the stunned advocate-general stood and pounded his fist.

  “An outrage! How could this be? Where is justice?”

  Dr. Hyam finally caught up to him, and the prosecutor and the doctor assisted Grandfather out of the court.

  I turned to the men in the box. Moosa Chachuk had fallen and was being braced by a guard. Nissim Sadka was shaking so violently he had to clutch the rails for support. I thought an odd transference had just taken place: the weak had been given the strength of the murderer; the murderer had been blighted with the disease of his victim's parent.

  “Now they won't die, will they?” I asked my aunt.

  “Of course they will die, everyone does.”

  “Not for this, for what they did—”

  “No,” she gagged.

  “But Papa said they would hang.”

  “Well, they won't!” Noticing her face had turned purple, I tugged on her arm and her breath returned. She composed herself and pulled me along with her.

  “They will suffer,” I said as cruelly as I could. In the aisle of the noisy chamber, she could not hear me. She led me outside. This was a mistake, because Moosa Chachuk already was at the curb, getting into his barrister's closed landau. “Where is he going?” I shouted above the throng.

  “Wherever he wishes, Dinah. He is a free man.”

  “Not fair!” I screamed.

  “You should never have been brought here!” she seethed, and spun around to see who was watching this spectacle.

  I twisted away from her and began to run toward the street. She caught me and yanked me back so roughly my arm burned. My eyes burst with tears of pain and confusion.

  “There's nothing you or anyone else can do about it. At least it is finally over,” she pronounced in a tone that was too accepting for my taste.

  “It is not fair—to Mama,” I sputtered.

  “Your mother was a part of this, I'm sorry to say.”

  “Then it's your fault too.”

  “What?” Aunt Bellore stared at me as though I were crazed.

  “If it weren't for you, my mother would have married the Baghdadi doctor and had a different life.”

  As her grimace furrowed her firm high brow, she looked repulsive. “Dinah, we must get you home.” She tightened her grip on my shoulder while furiously searching for her family.

  “Stop him!” I screamed toward Chachuk's carriage, now stalled by the mob. “Make him come back!”

  “Hush. Don't shout. There is nothing we can—”

  “I can! I can do it.” I pulled away and went rushing to where the second carriage, with Sadka inside, was driving off. The startled driver jerked on the reins as I flew in front of the horse. A bystander tugged me to safety. Struggling, I looked up. Sadka's simian face leered from the window. “Make him stop,” I sobbed to the stranger.

  “Where is your father?” she asked.

  I looked around. The crowd of onlookers was multiplying, and nobody familiar could be recognized in the crush. Everyone's eyes focused on me.

  “At least she doesn't have her mother's face,” I heard someone say.

  “Have you looked closely at the eyes?” commented another.

  “In any case, she's not a beauty, but even if she was, who would have her now?”

  “Poor child, poor little girl.”

  “What will become of her?”

  “The family is ruined.”

  Aunt Be
llore whisked me to her. “Don't mind what people are saying, Dinah.”

  For the first time I felt soiled, dirty. I wanted to hide myself away.

  “Bellore! Here!” a voice called from a carriage as it drew closer.

  My aunt lifted me into the open gharry, where Dr. Hyam was riding with my grandparents. She rushed for the next, which held her husband and my father. We drove off as rapidly as possible through the crowd that had spilled onto the streets.

  I turned back and looked at the High Court Building. In the rising dust, the spire seemed to vibrate like strings on a harp.

  The core of my resentment burst like a rotten mango. “Not fair . . . not fair . . . not fair ...” I muttered in rhythm with the beat of the horses' hooves. If only they had listened to me! I knew more than they did about the shutters, the chloroform. Everyone in that courtroom had made an error in not paying attention to me. Somehow I would get back at all of them—especially Nissim Sadka—I vowed.

  No doubt most people in the crowd that day felt justice had not been served. Nevertheless, few concerned themselves with the matter for more than several minutes. If they remembered anything, they may have heard my protests ringing in the air. Others who have been wronged must have felt as passionately as I did that day. Many a child must have had romantic hopes of being able to right the injustices of the adult world. However, few would have the opportunity to carry out the retribution that I would be offered many years later.

  4

  Whereas I directed the barbs of my hate toward Sadka and Chachuk, my father's revulsion took a different turn. The next afternoon I awoke from a nap with a start to sounds of bumping, scraping, banging. The shutters! “Yali! Yali!” I screamed in terror.

  I could hear the slap of her sandals in the corridor. As she rushed into the room, her violet sari flew out behind her like dragonfly wings. She took me in her arms and stroked my hair. “Hush, Dinah-baba. You will see them soon.”