The Day of the Lie

by William Brodrick

  The Day of the Lie

  William Brodrick

  For Gerard J. Hughes

  Head of the Department of Philosophy

  Heythrop College, University of London 1974-1988

  Master of Campion Hall, University of Oxford, 1988-2006

  A great teacher

  After the Day of the Lie gather in select circle

  Shaking with laughter when our real deeds are mentioned.

  Czesław Miłosz, ‘Child of Europe’

  Prologue

  An autumn sun lit the beads of dew upon the pink tiles of Larkwood Priory, the seventeenth-century manor that had once belonged to a king’s trumpeter. For services rendered — belting out pomp for the Reformation — he’d been given a Benedictine monastery in Suffolk which he’d briskly demolished to the benefit of the local building trade, holding back enough stone and timber to erect a residence of more secular appeal. All that remained of the former abbey was a line of soaring, broken arches, the white limestone speckled with lichen and charged with the memory of cowled voices that had sung while the world lay sleeping.

  With a troubled humph, Father Anselm Duffy, jazzman, beekeeper and brooder upon life’s conundrums, put the phone down and turned away from the calefactory window that faced the glistening, tangled rooftops.

  ‘You want a lawyer?’ he complained, entering the cloister, still hearing his friend’s anxious tone.

  After the trumpeter had blown himself out — and following a noisy inheritance dispute that triggered three hundred years of real estate trade — a group of monks had returned to the quiet valley divided by a fast-flowing stream. Penniless and footsore, they’d taken a boat from Calais after the First World War, a motley band of men from different shattered nations with eyes on a wider horizon. By then the manor had crumbled from a prized asset to a maintenance headache that could only be resolved by donation to a cause deemed worthy. The monks — Gilbertines this time — had solemnly accepted the title deeds only to mislay them within a week. Far from the concerns of ownership, their minds had wandered elsewhere, slowly restoring the tiles, the thatch and the chant, helped by passers-by and well-wishers: anyone with a mind for the value of reflective living. In time, a deep music had pervaded the surrounding countryside, its pulse reaching as far as the holding cells of the Old Bailey where Anselm, then a restless barrister, made a living explaining the difference between justice and mercy.

  ‘So you don’t want a monk,’ he mumbled, with a frown.

  He opened the door that led to the reception area and paused to glower at Sylvester, Larkwood’s timeless Watchman. White—haired and ascetically thin, his bones almost pushing through his soft flesh, the old man had never fathomed the relationship between a telephone and the noise it makes to announce an incoming call. In fairness there was a large console, flashing lights and three internal lines, each with their own receiver, but Sylvester would have been baffled by anything more complex than two tins linked by string. And even then …

  ‘Sorry, Anselm,’ said the Watchman, scratching the soft down on his cranium. ‘The thing is, you don’t get any warning… do you see what I mean? It just rings.’

  ‘Sylvester,’ replied Anselm, wondering how to break the news gently, ‘the ring is the warning.’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense.’ Sylvester shook a loose fist at the countless thousands who rang without writing first. ‘It’s folk today. They never use pen and ink. What’s wrong with paper? Stamps? Envelopes? Copperplate and decent grammar?’

  ‘Things aren’t what they once were,’ sighed Anselm.

  ‘They’re not.’

  ‘Much that was good has passed away.’

  ‘Too true.’

  ‘These are the dark times.’

  Sylvester prodded the phone as if to check it was still alive. ‘Anyway, no harm done. You got the call.’

  ‘I did. Your triumph, at least, remains.’

  Having bowed with that special ceremony reserved for Larkwood’s most frustrating yet best loved elder, Anselm stepped outdoors remembering the pithy conversation with John Fielding, the old friend whose urgent call had initially been routed to various extensions in the monastery where Anselm was least likely to be found.

  ‘I need a lawyer,’ he quoted, heading towards the woodshed.

  The phrase was laden with the past. It rang from nineteen eighty-two when Anselm had still been at the Bar and when John, booted out of Warsaw by the Communist Junta, had come back to London with a swollen jaw talking about a violent arrest in a graveyard. The real, abiding injury, however, had been out of sight. The look in John’s eye told something of the pathology but Anselm had never been able to properly construe the symptoms. Like Sylvester, he’d needed something simple to hang on to, and John had become … complicated; he wouldn’t explain. Part of him had been secretly dying; and localised death — the inner kind — had ultimately left its imprint. Dragging open the large door that hung on one valiant hinge, Anselm paused to inhale the warming aroma of dry wood shavings mingled with the zest of fresh cut timber.

  I’d better explain in person, John had continued. You know I don’t like the phone.

  There’d been no further elaboration. John had simply asked if he could come to Larkwood that evening. I’ll make a fire, Anselm had replied, knowing from that pointed reference to the law that John intended to go back to the cold part of his life: to his secret meetings with dissident thinkers and his brush with State violence. But Anselm was also apprehensive. John’s voice had been tense, his breath catching on the line.

  ‘Why now?’ murmured Anselm, running his thumb across the dull edge of an axe. ‘What has happened to bring back that unforgotten year?’

  Lengths of wood, old and new, were stacked in different piles at opposing ends of the room. Anselm went for something green, something that was still holding sap.

  Part One

  The Friend of the Shoemaker

  Chapter One

  ‘Oh no,’ snapped Róża. ‘It’s him again.’

  The lawyer had written formally to Madam Róża Mojeska. He’d telephoned, late and early He’d left brisk messages on the answer machine. He’d written more letters. He’d trailed Róża around Warsaw in that battered blue 2CV, pleading his case through an open window. Undeterred by the constant refusals, he’d turned up cold and knocked on Róża’s door. He’d pushed lightly against the frame, with Róża shoving back from the other side. He’d flicked a business card through the closing gap. And now he was having another go — late on a Sunday afternoon.

  ‘Blast him.’

  Róża had only looked out of the kitchen window by chance. She’d just thrown back a Bison Grass snifter — on her doctor’s orders — and was about to rinse the glass when she glimpsed that car parked on the main road, three floors down. Which meant the lawyer must be on his way up.

  ‘There’s no stopping him,’ muttered Róża.

  He’s brought a sleeping bag; he won’t leave until I give in.

  Without grabbing a coat or knowing where she was going, Róża slammed the door behind her and ran down the corridor towards the fire escape that led to a courtyard of bins and slumped refuse sacks. She might be 80, but Róża could move. Every day she walked through the city going nowhere in particular. The exercise kept her strong. It burned up the energy of untold memories. They were burning now as she nipped across the yard and entered the dark passage that linked her block of flats to a neighbouring complex. She hurried close to the wall, her gaze fixed on the autumn light framed by stained concrete. A plan was forming … she’d head into town and hang around the Palace of Culture and Science. A gift from the Soviets, she liked to imagine its demolition. Stepping into the warmth and light, Róża paused. There were child
ren in the quadrangle. Two girls turned the rope while a third skipped, her white dress bright and clean, flying like bunting in the wind. A boy in a tracksuit, bored and brooding, sat on a step offering advice and insults.

  ‘Do they know your story?’ came the voice.

  Róża turned wearily to her side. Leaning on the wall, legs crossed, hands in his tatty jean pockets, was the lawyer. He’d kept his good shoes on — Róża always noticed shoes and clothing; it had come with life in an orphanage, that never-forgotten world of shapeless hand-me-downs and patched elbows — and they still hadn’t been polished.

  ‘They need to hear what you have to say.

  ‘Will you ever leave me alone?’ asked Róża, quietly.

  ‘I doubt it.’ The lawyer didn’t smile but his mouth made the shape in sympathy ‘All the others have passed away You’re the last, Róża. You’re the only one who knows what happened in that prison. You’re the only one who can bring justice to that most unjust time.’

  Róża closed her eyes. She listened to the whip of the rope as it struck the ground. She frowned as the girls counted triumphantly against the boy’s jaded mockery A small part of her surrendered.

  Sebastian Voight, thirty-something, unshaved, and endowed with a charm as exasperating as it was unconscious, worked for the Institute of National Remembrance, a body formed, inter alia, to preserve the memory of patriotic resistance against tyranny and — coming to MrVoight’s neck of the woods — to prosecute crimes committed by officials of the former Communist state. There was no statute of limitation: the guilty could not escape judgement; all that was required were witnesses; then the law could take its course.

  Róża didn’t know why Sebastian rehearsed all the technical stuff. She’d already read it in the letters, heard it from a car window and listened to the endless messages. Perhaps spelling out the government’s intentions was meant to insinuate an obligation to co-operate. Róża watched the slim, young man, vexed by his natural confidence, drawn to his easy unrushed manner, almost amused by his ill-concealed watchfulness: he’d finally got Róża sitting down, and he was wondering if the old fish had enough strength to wriggle off the hook.

  They’d come back to Róża’s small flat. Tea had been made. Cherries had been washed and piled in a bowl. They sat facing each other across the dining table, Róża like a patient, somewhat stiff, Sebastian like a doctor on a house call, hands knitted, and arms resting on the table. His white shirt hadn’t been ironed below the collar; the blue linen jacket was loose and creased. He spoke with a low, reassuring tone.

  ‘Six months ago we came into possession of some lost documents. They were compiled by the secret police back in the eighties, ours and the East Germans’. It’s a joint archive covering joint operations against certain high profile dissidents. One of the files deals with the Shoemaker.’

  Sebastian waited a moment to see if Róża would react. Everyone had heard of the Shoemaker. He was one of the giants of dissident thought, an intellectual of the velvet revolution, a writer who’d helped craft the ideas and tactics that would bring down authoritarian communism. While his collected essays were required reading in every university, they’d remained in demand where they’d first appeared, on the street. Unlike other philosopher kings of East-Central Europe, however, the Shoemaker had never been crowned with political office. His identity remained unknown. Sebastian’s expectant pause dried out. Róża wasn’t going to take the bait and reveal his name; instead, she reached for a cherry.

  ‘The Shoemaker was the voice behind Freedom and Independence,’ resumed Sebastian, as if Róża didn’t know already ‘The paper published his essays every two weeks, beginning in nineteen thirty-eight. For no apparent reason, he fell silent after twelve years … in nineteen fifty-one, during the Stalinist Terror.’

  Róża nodded, feeling her throat go dry.

  ‘Most people think he’d said all he had to say but then, out of the blue, he spoke again … thirty-one years later, just after martial law had been declared. Freedom and Independence suddenly appeared on the streets as if there’d been no hush. This time he dried up after eight months.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Róża, finding her voice, thinking the best line of defence would be a passive contribution. She ate the cherry to do what normal people do when they’re not worried.

  ‘Again, the view of historians and critics is that there was nothing else to be said — he’d been a writer with a sense of economy … no wasted words, no repetition. Why go on? He’d sent out his ideas and he was content to wait for the harvest.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Róża.

  ‘No one seriously considered that he might have been betrayed. Twice. In fifty—one and eighty—two.’

  ‘No.’ Her throat was drying again.

  Sebastian paused for a while, waiting for the received version of history to fall apart without any help from him. He sipped his tea, as if leaving Róża’s arms to weaken; waiting for her to drop what she was carrying.

  ‘The Shoemaker didn’t operate alone,’ he said, casually ‘The entire operation depended on a group around him called the Friends. No one knows how they were structured or how they’d organised the printing and distribution of the paper. In fact no one knows how many of them were involved and who they might have been. Like the Shoemaker, they appeared with the paper and they vanished with the paper. Which brings me back to the archive found in Dresden … and a file on the Shoemaker.’

  Róża nodded, her resistance beginning to flag, the very sound of the words seeming to press down upon her.

  ‘The file contains documents compiled during an operation to catch him in nineteen eighty-two after the breaking of his long silence.’

  ‘Yes.’ Again, the act of speaking gave Róża something to lean on, something to hide behind.

  ‘The operation was run by Otto Brack.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was called Polana.’

  Róża, already reeling, frowned at the name; she felt a kind of tug on the line, but the hook was snagged deep in the past. Something stirred but slipped away.

  ‘It failed,’ said Sebastian.

  ‘It did.’

  ‘He only caught you … the only known Friend. The papers call you “the pre-eminent Friend”. You were betrayed.’

  Róża waited, her gaze falling on to Sebastian’s lips. He’d fished out the slice of lemon and was eating the fruit, wincing at the bitter taste. After placing the rind on the saucer, he said, ‘But you see Róża, I’m not here to talk about what happened in eighty-two. What interests me is fifty-one. The really dark year that no one knows about, except you and Otto Brack.’

  Róża froze. She hadn’t expected this. The letters, calls and messages had all been vaguely about justice, forgotten wrongs and the strength of the law Cleaning up the past. She imagined he’d come across some slip of paper that mentioned her name; that he’d wanted her to fill in the gaps … but not this. He’d found his way into the cellar of Mokotów prison.

  ‘Róża, we have a vast archive at the IPN,’ said Sebastian, like a man laying his cards upon the table. ‘It’s the paperwork of the old secret police machinery. But it was cleaned up. Officials like Brack took the opportunity to get rid of incriminating material before going home from the office for the last time. They went away with smiles on their faces. But these lost documents, now found, change all that. Or to be precise, they change everything in relation to you. The file opened on the Shoemaker in nineteen eighty-two has an enclosure: the file opened on you in nineteen fifty-one. In it are the transcripts of your interrogations carried out in Mokotów, when they asked you about the Shoemaker. I’ve read them, Róża. I’ve read between the lines. I know that off the page the gravest offences took place.’

  Róża didn’t dare to lift her cup of tea for fear her hand might shake. All at once she felt terribly old, too old for this. And Sebastian didn’t understand that no lawyer could penetrate that lost time; no one could cross the divide constructed by Ot
to Brack. Sebastian was leaning forward, unaware of the abyss yawning in front of him.

  ‘Róża, there’s hardly anyone left who survived the Terror,’ he said, quietly ‘You’re the only one alive who knows what happened in fifty-one. Strenk is dead. Only you know what crimes took place when the questions were over … you and Otto Brack. He was there, too, at the beginning of his career. He’s still alive.’

  Their eyes met. Oddly it gave Róża a kind of support; she held on to the gaze as if she might fall over.

  ‘Do you know what Otto Brack did after the fall of Communism?’

  Róża shook her head. She’d often wondered, not wanting to know; yet wanting to know, with the terrible heat of an old, quiet fire.

  ‘He took early retirement and began stamp collecting: He nodded at Róża’s vacant face, crediting a surprise that she hadn’t shown. ‘Yes, that’s what he does to while away the hours. He collects little pictures of days gone by the good old communist days. That’s what he was doing when I asked him to comment upon your interrogation papers. He was going over his stamp collection.’ Sebastian came an inch or two closer. ‘He regrets nothing, Róża. He remains convinced of the cause and the merit of the cost. It’s as if he’d done nothing wrong …

  Sebastian’s eyes dropped remorselessly upon Róża’s left hand. They both stared at the two wedding rings on her third finger, the one public avowal of what had happened in Mokotów when Róża was barely 22.

  ‘Róża, help me bring him to court.’

  ‘Why?’ The whispered question was patently disingenuous born of a desperate longing to not know the answer.

  ‘For murder and torture. Your torture. And the killing of two men … one of whom was Pavel, your husband.’

  The sun had slipped away A pink light warmed the apartment, illuminating a shabby brown sofa, a landscape painting hung askew, a half empty bookcase, an oval dining table and three matching chairs: the detritus of a life crushed by the secret police. Róża looked calmly upon her new inquisitor. She’d been in this type of situation before. After the exhaustion that comes with dodging questions, there’s a strange second wind, an energy born of knowing you’ve won, at least for the time being. Róża knew when it was time to make a controlled confession, and it was now. It was time to give the other side a little bit of what they wanted so as to keep back an awful lot more.