Nuremberg Part I
Posted on Mon May 25th, 2026 @ 5:11pm by Lieutenant Commander Corin Layal & Lieutenant Ezra Van Wijnbergen
Edited on on Tue May 26th, 2026 @ 11:33am
2,605 words; about a 13 minute read
Mission:
Episode 3 - The One Who Got Away
Location: Holodeck 6 - Deck 6 - USS Artemis
Timeline: MD002 1430 Hours
The courtroom was cavernous, wood-paneled and terribly solemn, its high windows catching the grey light of a late winter morning in Nuremberg. Ezra sat in the gallery, knees bent at a wooden bench that creaked slightly beneath his weight. He could feel the minute vibration of the building, or perhaps it was just the hum of the holodeck. Whatever it was, it lent the scene before him a strange authenticity. Around him the smell of polished wood and inked documents mingled with dust and wax.
The judges presided from a raised bench, three in full robes, the black fabric falling in unusually straight lines. Their faces were engraved with concentration: furrowed brows, lips pursed or pressed together, eyes scanning the proceedings attentively. One of them jotted notes–inaudible to Ezra from across the room, but somewhere inside his head, he thought he could hear pen’s quiet rhythm. Another adjusted his spectacles and leaned forward a little more, catching every word. Ezra’s own pulse throbbed in his ears.
In the center, standing at the witness box, was one Madame Marie-Claude Vaillant-Couturier. She was petite, her red hair pinned tightly at the back of her head, and her hands clasped in front of her as though if she separated them they might somehow allow the courtroom to fall into submicroscopic pieces. Her blue eyes darted briefly to the gallery as though checking for faces--faces that might understand just how significant the words she was about to speak would be.
She inhaled sharply before seating herself and Ezra felt it as physical tug, a deep tightening in the chest. He knew most of her testimony by heart, having returned to it over and over since his Academy days, but never once had it lost its edge.
French Assistant Trial Counsel Charles Dubost leaned forward over the podium, tall and angular, the cuffs of his sleeves peeking out--perhaps a little too much--from his dark jacket. He was a mostly bald man in his forties, a shadowy fringe of what remained of his hair at the back of his head. He tapped a pen against the papers before him, waiting for the lead judge to finish delivering the preamble.
Lord Justice Geoffrey Lawrence sat at the center of the bench, his robe not at all like the other judges--his robe seemed to billow more--its black fabric seemingly absorbing all of the light in the courtroom as if he might be garbed in a black hole. His face was long and lined and a thin moustache coiled above his thin upper lip. His hands rested lightly on the bench before him, fingers interlaced, yet almost like a viper, they appeared capable of decisive action, ready to call order when necessary.
“Would you stand up, please? Do you wish to swear the French oath? Will you tell me your name?” Lawrence asked, not waiting for a response.
Antiquated headphones were everywhere–every single person in the courtroom seemed to have both ears covered with them, or at least one--some had them draped around their collar as though they were an accessory. Ezra considered how even four hundred years prior, technology was being adapted to ensure smooth communication for those who were not fluent in all of Earth's languages. Quite amazing, he mused.
Ezra considered how the Nuremberg Trials were one of the first examples of real-time translation on Earth. Four languages being translated instantly by teams of interpreters--not as efficient as the Universal Translator, but still quite the well-oiled machine.
Marie-Claude stood almost immediately, whether from fear of incurring the court’s wrath or simply realizing being on her feet seemed more natural, Ezra could not tell.
“...Claude… Vaillant-Couturier.”
Lawrence continued. “Will you repeat this oath after me: I swear that I will speak without hate or fear, that I will tell the truth, all the truth, nothing but the truth.”
“Je jure de parler sans haine et sans crainte, de dire la vérité, toute la vérité, rien que la vérité.”
“Raise your right hand and say, ‘I swear.’”
Marie-Claude raised her right hand and regarded the judges solemnly. “Je le jure.” (“I swear.”)
The Lord Justice momentarily cast a glance down at a document before returning his look to Madame Vaillant-Couturier. “Please, will you sit down and speak slowly. Your name is?”
“Vaillant-Couturier, Marie-Claude, née Vogel.”
Prosecutor Dubost cleared his throat and turned to address the witness in soft but measured tones.
“Votre nom actuel est Madame Vaillant-Couturier?” (“Your real name is Madam Vaillant-Couturier?”)
“Oui.”
“Vous êtes la veuve de Monsieur Vaillant-Couturier.” (“You are the widow of Mister Vaillant-Couturier.”)
“Oui.”
“Vous êtes née à Paris le 3 novembre 1912?” (“You were born in Paris on November 3, 1912?”)
“Oui.”
“Vous êtes de nationalité française?” (“You are a French citizen?”)
“Oui.”
“Née de nationalité française.” (“Born a French citizen.”)
“Oui.”
“Parents eux-mêmes de nationalité française?” (“Your parents themselves are French citizens?”)
“Oui.”
Dubost absently scratched at his temple while quickly reviewing a document on the podium before him.
“Vous êtes député à l'Assemblée Constituante?” (“You are a deputy of the Constituent Assembly?”)
“Oui.”
“Vous êtes Chevalier de la Légion d’Honneur?” (“You are a Knight of the Legion of Honour?”)
“Oui,” she answered without any emotion.
“Et vous venez d’être décorée par le général Legentilhomme aux Invalides? (“And you have just been decorated by General Legentilhomme at the Invalides?”)
“Oui.”
Dubost adjusted his glasses and stared for an extra moment at the document on the wooden podium before returning his gaze to Madame Vaillant-Couturier.
“Vous avez été arrêtée et déportée. Pouvez-vous faire votre témoignage?” (“You were arrested and deported. Will you please give your testimony?”)
A man with a close-cut, salt-and-pepper beard nudged Ezra. He was holding out a set of earphones in one hand. “Here,” he said, voice low but insistent, “Might make it easier to catch every word. The translation isn’t perfect, but–well, it helps.” He extended the headphones across the bench, the leather-wrapped earpieces seemingly heavier than they appeared. Ezra reached out and took them carefully.
“Thank you.”
The man--likely a journalist--winked once and disappeared into the rear of the courtroom. Ezra examined the headphones for a moment before sliding them on over his ears. A man’s voice boomed through the headset:
“...arrested on 9 February 1942 but Petain’s French police, who handed me over to the German authorities after six weeks. I arrived on 20 March at Sante prison in the German quarter. I was questioned on 9 June 1942. At the end of my interrogation they wanted me to sign a statement which was not consistent with what I had said. I refused to sign it. The officer who had questioned me threatened me; and when I told him that I was not afraid of death nor of being shot, he said, ‘But we have at our disposal means for killing that are far worse than merely shooting.’ And the interpreter said to me, ‘You do not know what you have just done. You are going to leave for a concentration camp in Germany. One never comes back from there.’”
Ezra watched Dubost’s face carefully. He was controlled and calm, but Ezra could see something bubbling just beneath the surface of the French prosecutor. Perhaps it was the faint quiver in his jaw muscles.
“You were then taken to prison?” the translator’s voice came over the headphones.
Marie-Claude nodded. “I was taken back to the Sante prison where I was placed in solitary confinement. However, I was able to communicate with my neighbours through the piping and the windows. I was in a cell next to that of Georges Politzer, the philosopher, and Jacques Solomon, physicist. Mister Solomon is the son-in-law of Professor Langevin, a pupil of Curie, one of the first to study atomic disintegration.
“Georges Politzer told me through the piping that during his interrogation, after having been tortured, he was asked whether he would write theoretical pamphlets for National Socialism. When he refused, he was told that he would be in the first train of hostages to be shot.
“As for Jacques Solomon, he also was horribly tortured and then thrown into a dark cell and came out only on the day of his execution to say goodbye to his wife, who also was under arrest at the Sante. Helene Solomon Langevin told me in Romainville, where I found her when I left the Sante that when she went to her husband he moaned and said, ‘I cannot take you in my arms, because I can no longer move them.’”
There was a brief but audible intake of air from the gallery. Ezra could feel it.
“Every time that internees came back from their questioning one could hear moaning through the windows, and they all said that they could not make any movements.
“Several times during the five months I spent at Sante hostages were taken to be shot. When I left the Sante on 20 August 1942, I was taken to the Fortress of Romainville, which was a camp for hostages. There I was present on two occasions when they took hostages, on 21 August and 22 September. Among the hostages who were taken away were the husbands of the women who were with me and who left for Auschwitz. Most of them died there. These women, for the most part, had been arrested only because of the activity of their husbands. They themselves had done nothing.”
Dubost flipped over a piece of paper on the podium and looked back to Marie-Claude.
“Computer, freeze program,” Ezra called.
Everything in the courtroom paused in place–those in the gallery had been rendered stiff, the defendant’s box–a who’s who of bad people--were stuck with a mixture of bored or impassive expressions. Even the Soviet judge, Nikitchenko, was caught mid-sneeze.
Ezra’s hands rested lightly on his knees, but inside, his chest was a drum, pounding a rhythm that had nothing to do with his pulse. He could hear Marie-Claude’s words through the headphones, but the story–the terror, the injustice–was already riveted deep in him. He had read her testimony countless times, memorized every date, every name, every detail, but hearing it as if it were unfolding in real time made it visceral once more.
They took them because of who they loved. They suffered because of the choices of others. And still, she survived. Ezra thought of the survivors he had worked with about the Artifact–Romulan civilians and career officers alike, and while the circumstances were different, the echo was very much the same. It was a hollow wrenching, snaked with anger that just refused to settle. Of course, there was also the miniscule ember of hope--stubborn--that made them keep talking. Keep moving forward.
He closed his eyes briefly, letting the courtroom, the smell of the waxed wood–all of it–permeate his skin. He pictured the men and women in the Sante, the Fortress of Romainville, the ghettos, the trains, the endless corridors lined with pale faces and rank with fear. The details were almost unbearable. And yet, he had to see them. He had to feel it. To ignore it was to betray everybody who had lived… and those who had died.
Every name is a life. Every story a witness to cruelty. And if I don’t remember, who will?
Nearly four hundred years on, these events from Earth had left an indelible mark on Ezra. Of all the historical cases involving witness testimony he had studied, the Nuremberg Trials were the most powerful.
The Khitomer Massacre, the Cardassian Occupation of Bajor, the Xindi Attack on Earth, the Tarsian Purge–they were all equally repugnant events. In each, there was a reckoning. However, something about this trial continued to pull Ezra in, to remind him of why he studied law–and why he became a Victim Advocate.
“Resume program,” he said softly.
“When did you leave for Auschwitz?” asked Dubost.
Ezra sighed and placed the headphones in his lap, preferring to hear Madame Vaillaint-Couturier’s voice in the original French.
“Je suis partie pour Auschwitz le 23 janvier et arrivée le 27,” Marie-Claude replied, her words succinct and lacking emotion. (“I left for Auschwitz on 23 January, and arrived there on the 27.”)
“Vous faisiez partie d’un convoi?” (“Were you with a convoy?”)
“Je faisais partie d’un convoi de 230 Françaises. Il y avait parmi nou Danielle Casanova qui est morte à Auschwitz, Maï Politzer, qui est morte à Auschwitz. Et Hélène Solomon. Il y avait de vieilles femmes…” (“I was with a convoy of 230 French women. Among us were Danielle Casanova who died in Auschwitz, Maï Politzer who died in Auschwitz, and Helene Solomon. There were some elderly women…”)
The arch appeared inside of the holodeck and Layal walked in dressed for a workout, her knuckles wrapped in a red fabric similar to the command red color. She carried a small black shoulder bag, her boxing gloves hanging off of one side. She took one look at the courtroom set up and realized she was in the wrong place.
At first Layal thought she'd walked in on an actual hearing, but then she noticed the older fixtures and manner of dress. When she finally noticed Ezra, she felt even worse for barging in on someone else's program. She just couldn't seem to get things right with him lately.
"Aye," she replied, started at first. "Sorry, I guess I'm in the wrong place. Or it's the wrong time. I'm not sure. Sorry to interrupt..." She felt awkward, but tried not to show it.
Ezra rose without thinking.
The wooden bench creaked under him and his knees has stiffened from sitting for so long. He stood there in the gallery, tall and out of place among the dozen or so rows of coats and hats.
"Computer," he said loudly, "time."
A murmur descended throughout the gallery and one of the justice adjusted his glasses and fix Ezra with a baleful look.
"Sir," Lord Justice Lawrence said, his voice cutting across the chamber, "you will sit down or remove yourself from the courtroom."
A military police officer has already begun to rise.
Ezra blinked. "My apologies, your hon--oh, what the hell."
A louder murmur began to ripple throughout the room, coats rustling and chairs creaking. From the jurists' raised table, Henri Donnedieu de Vabres pursed his lips and his moustache twitched at the interruption.
"Computer, pause program."
Everything stopped. The MP froze halfway upright. Dubost stood with one hand resting on the edge of the podium. Madame Vaillant-Couturier remained seated in the witness chair, her hands still folded together neatly.
He let out a slow breath as he caught the lithe figure of Layal standing next to the holodeck arch, near the rear of the gallery.
"Computer, current time."
A Joint Post By
Lieutenant Commander Corin Layal
Judge Advocate General, USS Artemis
Second Officer, USS Artemis
Starfleet Criminal Investigations Unit
Lieutenant Ezra Van Wijnbergen
Victim Advocate Counselor, USS Artemis
Starfleet Criminal Investigations Unit
RSS Feed