Chapter 4 Verses 11-17

Section 11 Since Hannah admitted that she wrote the report, the other defendants can easily play their cards.Anything Hannah could not handle alone, they said, she forced, threatened and coerced the other defendants to do it together.She took the baton in her hands.She writes and speaks, and she always makes the final call. In this regard, the villagers who testified could neither confirm nor refute.They saw that the burning church was guarded by many women in uniform, and the door was not opened.In this way, they dare not open the door themselves.When they set off the next morning, they met them again and recognized them among the accused.However, since they only met in the morning hole, they couldn't tell which defendant was the one giving orders, and whether any defendant was really giving orders.

"But you can't rule out that this defendant made a decision!" said another defendant's defense attorney, pointing to Hannah. They can't be ruled out, how can they be ruled out!Seeing that the other defendants were visibly older, more tired, more timid and more distressed, they did not want to rule that out either.Hannah, by comparison, is a boss.In addition, the presence of a leader also reduces the burden on the villagers.It is much better for them not to lend a helping hand in front of a group of stern, leading women than in a group of overwhelmed women. Hannah continued to fight, admitting what was right and refuting what was wrong.Her rebuttals, increasingly bewildered and testy, were quiet but with a level of force that surprised the court.

In the end, she gave up arguing and only spoke to her when asked.Her answers were short and to the point, sometimes even casual.As if to make it more obvious that she's given up, she now doesn't stand up when she talks.The presiding judge also noticed this in surprise.At the beginning of the court hearing, the presiding judge told her many times that she did not have to stand up, and that she could sit and speak.Sometimes I get the feeling that the court is war-weary toward the end of the trial and wants to get it over with, that everyone is distracted and wants to come back to reality after weeks of trialing the past.

I'm tired too, but I can't put things behind me.For me, the trial is not over, it has just begun.At first, I was a listener, and suddenly I was a participant, a player and a co-decision maker.I didn't seek out and choose this new role, but I got it, whether I wanted to or not, whether I took the initiative or the passivity. If I can do anything, I can only do one thing.I can go to the presiding judge and tell him that Hannah is illiterate and that she is not the protagonist and the main responsibility as others have said.Her speech and demeanor in court did not indicate that she was particularly opinionated, irrational, or brazen, but only that her lack of prior knowledge and knowledge of her accusation and the book was also the result of her lack of strategic and tactical awareness.This is extremely detrimental to her defending herself.Although she is responsible, the responsibility she bears is not as great as it seems.

Maybe my words cannot convince the presiding judge, but I will prompt him to think and investigate.The end result will prove me right.Although Hannah will be punished, her guilt will be mitigated.Although she will go to jail, she will be released earlier, and she will be free sooner.Wasn't that what she was arguing for? Yes, she fought for it, but she didn't want to expose herself as illiterate in order to succeed, she didn't want to pay for it.And she wouldn't want me to sell her out to save her a few years in prison.She could bargain for herself, but she didn't do that, which means she didn't want to.For her, a few years in prison was worth it for her self-worth.

But is it really worth it to her?What does she get out of this false self-worth that confines her, energizes her, and deprives her of her talents?Had the energy devoted to disguising true lies had been devoted to her studies, she would have learned to read and write long ago. At the time, I tried to discuss this issue with my friends.Just imagine, someone wants to destroy himself, deliberately destroys himself, you can save him, but will you save him?You imagine an operation where the patient takes drugs that are incomparable to anesthesia, but he is ashamed to tell the anesthetist that he has taken drugs. In this case, can you tell the anesthetist the truth?You imagine a court case and one defendant is going to be punished. He is left-handed, but he is ashamed of it.If he doesn't say he's left-handed and therefore can't perform a right-handed act, can you explain that to the court?You imagine someone is a homosexual, he would not behave in a certain way as a homosexual, but he is ashamed of being a homosexual and does not tell the truth.It's not a question of whether people should be ashamed of being left-handed or of being gay, you think about it, it's a question of the defendant being ashamed of himself.

Section 12 I decided to talk to my dad, not because we have everything to say to each other.My father was a man of few words. He could neither tell us children his feelings nor receive them from us.For a long time, I guessed that there were rich, untapped treasures behind this back-and-forth.But then I wondered if there was really anything there.Maybe he had rich feelings when he was young, but he didn't express them. After a long time, these feelings became withered and disappeared by themselves. However, it was precisely because of the distance that existed between us that I talked to him.The person I was talking to was a philosopher who had written about Kant and Hegel and who I knew was about moral issues.He should also be able to talk to me about my problems in the abstract, instead of giving empty examples like my friends did.

If we kids wanted to talk to my dad, he made appointments with us like his students.He works from home and only goes to college when he has lectures and seminars.Colleagues and students who wanted to talk to him came to the house.I still remember the students waiting in a long line against the wall of the corridor, some reading something, some admiring the cityscape pictures hanging in the corridor, and some students staring around blankly.They all fell silent until we kids greeted each other through the hallway with an awkward greeting back.Of course, we don't have to wait in the corridor for an appointment with our father, but we also have to talk at the agreed time, and we can only enter when we knock on the door and let us in.

I have seen my father's two studies.The window of the first study, the one where Hannah ran her fingers along the spine of the book, looked out onto the street and the houses opposite.The windows of the second study face the Rhine Plain.The house we moved into in the early 1960s was situated on a hillside, facing the city.My parents still lived there when we kids grew up.The windows of this house, like those of that house, are not protruding, but protruding, like a painting hanging in the room.In my father's study, books, papers, thoughts, pipes, and cigarette smoke mingled together enough to make a stranger feel oppressed in every way.I am both familiar and unfamiliar with them.

My father asked me to describe the problem in its entirety, both abstractly and with examples. "Something about the courtroom, right?" But he shook his head to signal to me that he didn't expect an answer, didn't want to push me and know things I didn't want to say myself.After this, he sat up in thought, with his head on one side, and his hands leaning on the arms of his chair.He didn't look at me, but I looked at him carefully, his silver hair, his always badly shaven beard, and his clear lines extending from the bridge of the nose to the corners of the mouth and between the eyes.I am waiting.

When he speaks, he first pulls the subject far away.He taught me how to treat people, freedom and dignity; he taught me to treat people as subjects and not allow people to be treated as objects. "Do you remember when you were a child, when your mother taught you to be good, and you got into a fit of rage? It's really a question of how far you let your children go. It's a philosophical question, but philosophy doesn't deal with children, philosophy leaves children to I have studied pedagogy, but the children are not well taken care of in pedagogy. Philosophy forgets the children." He looked at me and smiled, "forgot them forever, not occasionally, like I sometimes forget about you." "but…" "But in adults I see absolutely no reason for putting what other people think is good for them above what they themselves think is good." "Isn't that okay if they're happy about it afterwards?" He shook his head. "We're not talking about happiness but about dignity and freedom. You know the difference when you're a kid. You don't take comfort from your mother being right." Now I like to think back to that conversation with my father.I had forgotten about it until after he passed away and I began to search for my wonderful meeting with him and the wonderful experience and the beautiful feeling in my sleeping memory.When I found it, I thought about it with wonder, and it made me very happy.At the time, my father mixed the abstract with the figurative, which confused me at first, but, I eventually did as he said, I didn't have to talk to the presiding judge, I simply didn't allow myself Talk to him.I feel relieved. My father looked at me and said, "Do you like philosophy that much?" "It's ok. I don't know if people should act in the situation I described above. If people had to act and they weren't allowed to act, I think, I'd be very unlucky about it. Right now I feel..." I I don't know what to say.feel relaxed?Feel comforted?Feel happy?This sounds immoral and irresponsible.I feel good now, which sounds ethical and responsible, but I can't say I feel good, and it feels better than a weight off my shoulders. "Does it feel good?" my father asked tentatively. I nodded and shrugged. "No, there will be no happy solution to your problem. Of course, if the situation you describe is a responsible situation, people will have to act. If one person knows how to do it, it will be good for others , but he closes his eyes and doesn't see it, then one has to try to get him to open his eyes and look at it. One has to let him make the final decision, but one has to talk to him, to himself, Instead of talking to someone else behind his back." Talk to Hannah?What should I say to her?That I saw through her life lies?Said she was sacrificing her entire life for this stupid lie?Said it wasn't worth the sacrifice for this lie?That she should try to minimize her years in prison so that she can start more life when she gets out?What should I say?To what extent?How should she start her life again?Am I going to make her drop her life lie without showing her a vision of life?I don't know what her life vision is, and I don't know how I should confront her and what to say, that her short and medium term vision of her life after what she's done is that she should go to jail?I didn't know how to face her, and I didn't know what to say.I really don't know how to face her. I asked my father, "What are people going to do if they can't talk to him?" He looked at me suspiciously, and I knew myself that the question was off topic.It's not a moral question, it's a decision I have to make. "I can't help you." My father said and stood up, and I stood up too. "No, you don't have to go, I just have a backache." He stood bent, hands on his waist. "I can't say, can't help you, I'm sorry, I mean, when you ask me for advice as a philosopher. As a father, I can't help my own children, it's just unbearable. " I waited, but he stopped talking.I found him taking the matter lightly.I know when he should care more about us and how he can help us more.Then I thought that maybe he knew this himself, and it was really hard to bear, but anyway, I couldn't say anything to him.I was embarrassed and thought he was embarrassed too. "Okay, later on... "You can come anytime in the future." My father looked at me and said. I didn't believe him, but I nodded anyway. Section 13 In June, the judges traveled to Israel for two weeks.The hearing there took only a few days, but the judges and lawyers combined official duties with tours of Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, the Negev and the Red Sea.This is a public-private vacation, and the cost will naturally not be a problem.Still, I don't think it's normal. I planned to spend these two weeks entirely studying, however, things did not go as I had envisioned.I couldn't concentrate on my studies, I couldn't concentrate on listening to the professors, I couldn't concentrate on reading.Again and again my mind wandered off, and my imagination ran wild. I saw Hannah standing beside the burning church, her expression stiff, in her black uniform, with a riding whip in her hand.She drew little circles in the snow with her whip, and kicked them away with her boots.I saw how she had someone read to her, and she listened attentively, without asking questions or making comments.When the reading time was over, she told her readers that tomorrow she would be sent to Auschwitz.The thin, short-sighted Beloved, with black hair growing out of his head, began to cry.Hannah tapped her hand on the wall, and two female prisoners, also in striped clothes, came in and dragged the reader out.I saw Hannah walking along the camp road, entering the makeshift wooden houses where the prisoners lived, supervising their work.She does it all with the same hard expression, hard eyes, thin lips.The prisoners suddenly lowered their heads, stooped to work, hid by the wall, hid in the wall, wishing they could disappear into the wall.Sometimes the prisoners were assembled and ran back and forth, or practiced walking in formation.Hannah stood between them, calling out commands.When she shouted the password, her expression was ugly and ugly, and the riding whip in her hand made it even uglier.I saw the top of the church tower collapse on the roof of the church, and the flames burst into the sky.I heard women's desperate cries for help.I saw the burned church the next morning. In addition to this scene, I saw another scene.The Hannah in the kitchen in stockings, the Hannah by the bathtub with the towel, the Hannah on the bike with her skirts blowing in the wind, the Hannah in my father's study, the Hannah in front of the mirror The Hannah who danced, the Hannah who looked at me from the pool, the Hannah who listened to me, talked to me, liked me, loved me.It's worst when these scenarios are jumbled together in my head.There are also images of Hannah: the Hannah with the thin lips who loves me and the hard-eyed Hannah who listens to me in silence and the Hannah who taps her hand on the wall at the end of the reading, The Hannah who talked to me and the one who asked me to make faces.Worst of all were the dreams in which Hannah, who was ruthless, domineering, and brutal, actually aroused my sexual desires.I awoke from the dream with longing, shame and resentment, uneasy about who I was. I knew those fantasies had fallen into petty clichés, and it didn't do justice to the Hannah I knew and knew.Still, it was powerful, and it destroyed my image of Hannah, which always reminded me of Hannah in the concentration camps. When I think back on that time now, I see how few visual images concretized life and murder in the camps.We know about Auschwitz's inscribed gates, its multi-tiered wooden beds and piles of hair, glasses and rice.We know the gates, side corridors and train passages of the Birkenau concentration camp with its watchtower.We know that the Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp was discovered and photographed by the Allied Forces when they liberated the concentration camp.We know of the few reports written by prisoners, however, many were published shortly after the war.After that, it was only in the 1980s that such reports were published.During the period from the postwar period to the 1980s, such reports were not part of the publishing and distribution projects of the publishing house.So many books and films exist today that in this way the world of the concentration camps becomes part of the world we all imagine together, the world of the concentration camps completes the real world we all share.The world is full of imagination.Ever since the TV series "The Holocaust" and feature films like "Sophie's Choice" and especially the movie "Schindler's List", imagination has been active in the world, imagination is not limited to reality, but also Add branches and leaves to it.Before this time, the imagination was almost static, and the horrific crimes committed in the concentration camps were not considered fit for an active imagination.From photographs taken by the Allied forces and accounts written by the prisoners conjured up scenarios that in turn fettered the imagination, making them more and more rigid. Section 14 I decided to visit Auschwitz.If I made a decision today and could leave tomorrow, then I would go.However, it takes several weeks to get the visa.So I went to Strutthof in the Alsace region.That was the nearest concentration camp.I never saw a single concentration camp.I want to use the truth to drive out the preconceptions in my mind. I went there by car, and I still remember the driver drinking bottle after bottle of beer during the part of the truck ride; I also remember the driver of a Mercedes-Benz, he was driving with white gloves.After Strasbourg, I was lucky enough to take a car to Schermack, a small city not too far from Strutthof. When I told the driver exactly where I was going, he fell silent.I glanced at him, but I couldn't see from his face why he had suddenly fallen silent from a lively conversation.He was of middle age, with a slender face, a deep red birthmark or brand on the right temple, and a black hair flowing neatly to both sides.He looked as if he was concentrating on the road. The Folgosen Mountains stretched out in front of us as a mass of hills.We passed through a vineyard and came into an open, gently rising valley.On the slopes to the left and right are conifer and larch forests, occasionally passing a quarry, or a brick-walled factory shed with a folded roof, or a nursing home, or a large Villas - where many small minarets stand among towering trees.Sometimes we walked along the railway line, which was sometimes on the left and sometimes on the right. After a silence, he spoke again. He asked me why I wanted to visit Strutgow.I told him about the interrogation process and my lack of visibility. "Ah, you want to know how people can do such horrible things." His tone sounded a little sarcastic, but maybe that was just a local color of voice and language.Before I could answer, he went on to say: "What do you want to know? People kill sometimes out of fanaticism, sometimes out of love, or out of hatred, or for honor, or for revenge, you understand ?" I nod. "Sometimes you kill for wealth, sometimes you kill for power, in war or in a revolution, do you understand that too?" I nodded again: "But..." "But those who were killed in concentration camps didn't do anything to those who killed them, did they? Do you want to say that? Do you want to say that there is no reason for hatred and war?" I don't want to nod anymore, what he said is right, but the tone of his words is wrong. "You are right. There is no reason for war and hatred. The executioner hates the person he is going to kill. Kill him. Because he did what he was ordered to do? Do you think they did it because he was ordered Do you think I'm talking about orders and obeying orders now? About concentration camp guards getting orders and they have to obey orders? He laughed contemptuously, "No, I'm not talking about orders and obeying orders .The executioner did not follow any orders.He's doing his job, he's not killing people he hates, he's not taking revenge on them.Kill them, not because they stood in his way or threatened and attacked him.They didn't matter to him at all, they didn't matter to him so much that it made no difference whether he killed them or not. " He looked at me and said, "Is there no but? You said that one person can't be so indifferent to another person. Haven't you even learned this? Haven't you learned that you should always care about face? Consider people's dignity? What is life?" ?" I was irritated, but helpless.I was searching for a word, or a sentence, a sentence that would silence him. "Once," he went on, "I saw a photograph of Russian Jews being shot. The Jews were waiting in a long line, naked, and some were standing on the edge of a pit. Behind them were guns pointed at them. Soldier with a shot in the neck. It happened in a quarry. Above the Jews and the soldiers, an officer sat on a partition in the wall, with his legs crossed, smoking a cigarette. He looked a bit Glum, maybe the shooting didn't go fast enough. Still, he felt a certain contentment, even lightheartedness, maybe because the day's work was finally done and he was going to be off work soon. He didn't hate the Jews, he yes……" "Is that you? You're the one sitting on the shelf on the wall, and..." He stopped the car, his face pale, his temples throbbing. "Get off!" I got out of the car, and he turned the car in such a way that I had to dodge in a hurry.I could still hear him until the next few turns.Then everything calmed down. I was walking uphill and no cars passed me by.I could hear the birdsong, the wind in the trees, and sometimes the trickling of the stream.I breathed a sigh of relief.A quarter of an hour later, I arrived at the concentration camp. Section 15 I went there again not long ago.It was a sunny and cold winter day.After Shermak, the forest was covered with silver, and the earth was covered with snow.The concentration camp is a narrow and long site, located on a terraced slope descending a hillside, completely white under the dazzling sunlight.From there you can see the Ferguson Valley in the distance.The blue-gray wood on the two- or three-story watchtower and the one-story wooden house forms a harmonious contrast with the white snow.Of course, there was a gate surrounded by barbed wire, with the sign "Struterhof-Natzwale Concentration Camp" on it, and a double layer of barbed wire surrounding the camp.Among the remaining wooden houses, they used to be wooden houses lined up next to each other, very densely packed, but now, the ground is covered with white snow, and nothing can be discerned.It looks like a sledding slope for kids.It seemed as if the children were on winter vacation in a lovely log cabin with cozy lattice windows, as if they could be called in for cake and hot chocolate at any moment. The concentration camps were not open.I had to walk around in the snow around me, my shoes were soaked.I can see the whole picture of the concentration camp clearly.This reminds me of how I walked down the steps between the wall foundations of the demolished wooden houses when I first visited it.It also reminds me of the cremation furnace that was exhibited in a wooden room at that time and another wooden room that was once used as a single cell.It also reminds me of how in vain I imagined what a concentration camp full of prisoners would look like, what prisoners and guards looked like, and imagined concretely what suffering was like.I did try to imagine that I had looked into a board room, closed my eyes, and thought about going from room to room.I carefully measured a board room, worked out its occupancy from the measurements and imagined how crowded it would be.I heard that the steps between the wooden houses are also the place for the roll call. During the roll call, when you look from below to the end of the concentration camp above, you can see rows of backs.But all my imaginations were in vain.I have a pathetic, shameful sense of failure.On the way back, away from the hillside, opposite a restaurant, I found a small house that had been used as a gas chamber.It was whitewashed and the doors and windows were lined with stones.It looked like a granary, or a storehouse, or a servant's shanty.The house is also not open.I can't remember if I was in it at the time.I didn't get out of the car, sat in the car with the engine running, looked at it for a while and drove away. On the way home, I was initially apprehensive about wandering around the village in the Alsace region to find a restaurant for lunch.But my scruples were not born of a real feeling, but of a thought that one has after visiting a concentration camp.Realizing this myself, I shrugged.I found a restaurant called "To the Little Garden" in the village on the hillside of Ferguson.I can see that plain from my seat.There, Hannah called me "little guy". The first time I visited the concentration camp, I wandered around in it until it closed.Then I sat under the monument above the concentration camp, overlooking the concentration camp below.My heart was so empty, it was as if I was searching for intuition not in the outer world, but in the inner world, and I was empty inside. Then, it got dark.I waited helplessly for an hour before I got into a small open van, sat in the cargo seat, and went to the next village.I had to give up hope of getting a ride home that day, and found a cheap inn in the village to stay and eat a thin fried pork chop with French fries and peas in its restaurant. At the next table to me there were four men playing cards noisily.At this time, the door opened, and a short old man walked in without greeting anyone.He was wearing shorts and a wooden prosthetic leg.He ordered a beer at the bar and turned his back and his big bald head to the table next to mine.The card player put down his cards, reached into the ashtray, grabbed a cigarette butt and threw it at him, hitting him.The old man at the bar was slapping the back of his head with his hands as if trying to keep flies from landing.The owner served him beer, but no one spoke. I couldn't help but jumped up and rushed to the next table: "Stop!" I was so angry that my hands were shaking.At this moment, the old man limped up and fiddled with his leg awkwardly, and suddenly the wooden prosthetic leg was in his hands.He smacked the table with his prosthetic leg, and the cup and ashtray on it rolled and fell onto the empty chair.At the same time, his toothless mouth shrieked, and the others laughed with him, but it was a drunken laugh, "Stop!" They laughed and pointed at me, "Stop Teto That night the wind howled around the house.I wasn't cold, and the wind howling at the window, the rattling of the trees, and the occasional shop closing were not loud enough to keep me from sleeping, but I felt more and more restless until I His whole body also began to tremble.I'm afraid, though, not that something bad will happen.My fear is just a physical state.I lay there, listening to the howling of the wind.When the wind dies down and the sound of the wind becomes quieter, I feel lighter.However, I was afraid that the wind would pick up again. I didn't know if I could get up the next day, if I could make it back, and I didn't know how I would continue my studies, start a family, and have children. I wanted to both understand and condemn Hannah's crimes, but it was horrific to do so.When I try to understand, I get the feeling that crimes I feel reprehensible become less reprehensible.When I condemn as I deserve, there is no room for understanding.However, while condemning her, I still want to understand her. Not understanding her means betraying her again.I haven't reached the point where I can't.I want both: understanding and condemnation.However, neither works. The next day was another sunny summer day.Getting a ride was easy and I was home within a few hours.I walked through the city as if I had been away for a long time, the streets, the houses and the people there were foreign to me.However, it did not make me any more familiar with the strange world of the concentration camp.The impressions I had at Strutkow mingled and ossified with the rare scenes of Auschwitz, Birkenau, and Bergen-Belsen inherent in my mind. Section 16 I ended up going to the judge.I couldn't do it by going to Hannah, but I couldn't do it by standing by and doing nothing. Talk to Hannah why can't I?She had left me, she had lied to me, she was not the Hannah I knew, or fancied, and who was I to her?A little reader used by her?A little guy who sleeps with her and makes her have sex in bed?If she couldn't leave me, but wanted to get rid of me, would she also send me to the gas chamber? So why can't I even stand by and watch?I thought to myself, I must prevent a wrongful judgment.I must uphold justice, a kind of absolute justice that does not care about the lies of Hannah's life. It may benefit Hannah or it may not be good for her, but for me, this is really not a question of fairness and injustice.I can't let Hannah do and say what she wants.I had to influence her, if not directly, then indirectly. The presiding judge knows our group and is willing to speak with me after the next court session.I knocked on the door and was invited in.After greeting me he offered me a seat in a chair in front of the desk.He was wearing only a shirt and sat behind a desk.His judge's robes hang from the back and arms of the chair.He sat down on the robe, and let it slide to the floor.He looked relaxed, like a guy who had done his job for the day and was happy with it.Instead of the irritated and irritable expression of a court trial, there was that of an amiable, wise, kind-hearted government official who had masked himself in court.He chatted freely with me, asking me this and that, for example, what our group thinks about court proceedings, what our professor does with court memos, what grade are we in, how many classes have I taken? The semester is over, why should I study law, when do I want to take the exam, etc.He also said that it should never be too late to sign up for the exam anyway. I answered all questions.After that, I listened to him tell me about his study and exams.He did everything well, and he completed his academic credits with honors in time, and finally took his final exams in time.He liked jurists and judges, and if asked to do it all over again, he would still do it. The windows were open, and I could hear doors slamming in the parking lot and a car cranking its motor.I listened to the car drive away until its sound was drowned out by the din of traffic.Afterwards, I could hear children playing and clamoring in the empty parking lot, and now and again a name, a swear word or a shout could be heard very clearly. The presiding judge stood up and bid me farewell. He said that if I have any questions, I can come to him again, and I can also come to him if I need academic counseling.He also said that our team should let him know the results of the analysis and evaluation of the trial procedure. I headed for the empty parking lot and asked an older boy to show me the way to the train station.The group we were traveling with drove back immediately after the adjournment, and I had to take the train back.This is a slow-moving bus that stops at every stop and people get on and off.I sat by the window, surrounded by the laughter and the smell of other passengers.Houses, streets, cars, and trees pass by outside the window, and mountains, castles, and quarries can be seen in the distance.I can see everything but feel nothing.I no longer grieve over Hannah's abandonment, her deceit and use of me, and I don't have to exert any influence over her.In the process of attending the court hearing, I was numb to the horror.现在我注意到，这种麻木不仁在过去的几周里对我的感觉和思想产生了影响。如果说我完全解脱了的话，那么未免有些言过其词了，但是我认为这样做是对的，这样才有可能让我重新回到我的日常生活中去，并在这种生活中继续生活下去。 Section 17 六月底，宣布了审判结果。汉娜被判处终身监禁，其他人被判处有期徒刑。 法院大厅里像审判之初一样座无虚席，其中有司法部门的工作人员、我所在大学及当地大学的学生们、一组中学生、国内外的记者和那些平时总是在场的人。大厅里喧嚣不止。当被告被传叫送来时，起初没有人注意她们，但是随后大厅就变得鸦雀无声了。首先是在被告前就座的听众安静了下来。他们碰碰左右的邻居，然后转过身来对坐在后面的人低声地说道："注意看片于是后面的人开始向前看，并安静下来。他们再碰碰左右邻居，然后转向他们身后的男人低声说："注意看！ .这样，审判大厅终于变得鸦雀无声了。 我不知道是否汉娜自己也清楚她看上去是什么样子，也许她愿意看上去就是这个样子。她穿了一套黑色套装，配一件白衬衫。那套装的式样和衬衫的领带使她看上去就好像穿了一套制服。我从未见过为纳粹党卫军工作的女人们所穿的制服，但是我认为——所有其他的听众也都这样认为，我们眼前的这个制服就是纳粹党卫军的女式制服，这个女人就是穿着这样的制服为纳粹党卫军工作的，汉娜的所作所为就是她被控告的原因。 听众又开始小声嘀咕起来。很多人发出的愤怒的声音都可以听得到。他们认为审判过程、判决还有那些为听宣读判决结果而来的人都被汉娜嘲弄了。他们的声音越来越大，少数人向汉娜又喊又叫，清楚地说出他们认为汉娜是什么东西，直到审判人员步人大厅，审判长愤怒地看着汉娜宣布判决结果时人们才安静下来。汉娜笔直地站着，一动不动地听着。当宣读判决原因时，她坐了下来。我的目光一直没有离开汉娜的头和后颈。 宣判持续了好几个小时。当宣判结束后被告被带走时，我在等着，看汉娜是否会看我一眼。我坐在老位子上。但是，她目不斜视，看穿了一切。那是一种高傲的、受到伤害的、绝望的、无限疲惫的目光，一种任何人、任何东西都不想看的目光。