The Day of the Lie
Page 2
Chapter Two
Róża fetched out the bottle of Bison Grass. With two small glasses cupped in her other hand, she resumed her place at the oval table. A feeble light trapped by a thick orange shade just about reached them from the standard lamp in the corner. It picked out strands of Sebastian’s roughly parted black hair. There was a pallor round his eyes and Róża concluded he didn’t eat many vegetables. She filled each glass.
‘How old are you, Sebastian?’
‘Thirty-six.’
‘You were fifteen when the Wall came down:
‘Yes.’
Róża sniffed at the coincidence. ‘My age when Stalin replaced Hitler.’
This was an apt meeting point. At fifteen Róża had seen the birth of totalitarian communism while Sebastian, at the same age, had seen its death: the corpse seemed to lie between them, stretched out on the table.
‘I didn’t join the resistance immediately’ said Róża, her mouth and tongue warmed. ‘But one day I was given a secret. I was brought as close as you could get to the Shoemaker. And, like it or not, that made me a Friend … shortly afterwards, a Friend in prison.’
‘Róża, who was the Shoemaker?’ asked Sebastian, tentatively ‘That era has been and gone. They lost, we won. The fight’s over, isn’t it?’
‘No, not mine.’
‘Even though it’s—’
The question died on Sebastian’s lips. He was looking over Róża’s shoulder as if Otto Brack had stepped from behind the curtain.
He’d seen the bullet.
Róża kept it standing upright on a shelf beneath a wall mirror. Most people didn’t spot it; and if they did few dared or wanted to venture a question. But that little brass jacket with the lead on top, once seen, grew large and filled the room. It changed those who saw it: changed how they saw Róża. And Sebastian’s eyes, finding again the old woman in the white blouse with a silver brooch clipped at the collar, were no longer so sure of themselves. He’d just learned something new about surviving the Terror.
‘They came for me in November nineteen fifty-one and took me to Mokotów prison,’ continued Róża, as if the air between them had been cleared. ‘I remember the night even now, the biting cold, and the snow crunching underfoot. They’d already lifted my husband and others whom I’d never met or even heard of … people who’d never been told the secret. Maybe that’s why Otto Brack thought of me. He was a young man, then. An angry, unquiet man. He’d just joined the secret police.’
Sebastian nodded. Impatiently, to clear his line of vision, he flicked back his fringe.
‘He asked your question,’ said Róża. ‘He wanted to know about the Shoemaker and Freedom and Independence. He, too, said the fight was over, though it had only just begun. And I didn’t give him any answers either.’
Róża took the smallest sip, letting the heat suffuse her lips and attack her throat. She couldn’t continue with the chronology of her confession. To do so would only bring back the dim grey cell, the sound of thundering water in the cellar. To do so would only bring back the sound of the pistol.
‘They let me out in nineteen fifty-three,’ she said, airily vaulting the years. ‘All I had left was a secret. I came out burdened by knowledge of the one thing that Otto Brack had wanted to know Only I could bring him close to the Shoemaker.’
The muffled sound of a television came from the flat below, a smudge of noise made of high voices and laughter. Observing Sebastian, Róża sensed his disappointment: he was still in Mokotów; he wanted a statement about the torture and the killings. He was trying to find a way into the cellar.
‘I was helped by good friends, continued Róża, drawing him on. ‘Ordinary, decent people whose names will never be immortalised by the IPN. People I would defend with my life. But I did nothing for the struggle, not for thirty years. And then, one morning, I went back to the Shoemaker.’
‘Why?’
‘The time was right.’
‘And the Shoemaker … he’d been waiting?’
‘No. Grieving.’
Sebastian nodded, outmanoeuvred. ‘And this brings us to nineteen eighty-two?’
‘Yes.’
‘The year when Freedom and Independence reappeared on the streets?’
‘Yes. Eight months later Otto Brack came to arrest me again. Oddly enough, it was a freezing cold November. Once more I was taken to Mokotów.’
Only there was no cage; no endless interrogations during that eternal twilight that emerges when you’ve no idea whether it’s night or day This time it was a single session like a brief visit to an undertaker. Unknown to Róża, the coffin had been sized beforehand. Brack was simply waiting with the lid in his hands, a hammer on the table, the nails in his teeth.
‘I’ve read the papers, Róża,’ Sebastian said with a note of warning. He’d picked up the crisp edge to Róża’s voice. He’d seen her face stiffen. ‘I’ve reviewed the operational file from eighty-two. It was cleansed. Brack got there first. All that’s left are a few vague clues, marks on the wall … Brack looked after his informers. He made sure they were safe, that no one could trace them. You’ll have to accept that—’
‘I’m not bothered about the file,’ said Róża, suddenly brittle. ‘If you’re really interested in what happened off the page, listen to me. If you want to understand how crimes can be protected by silence then give me your undivided attention.’
The orange light fell upon Sebastian’s slightly parted lips.
‘I’m going to tell you my only other secret,’ continued Róża. ‘You’ve been chasing me for weeks and now I’ll tell you why I run away This is my confession. It explains why I’ve done nothing about the murder of my own husband.’
For a brief moment, Róża lost her thread. She reached for her glass to get rid of the bitterness in her throat. Recalling that last interrogation in 1982, Róża began hesitantly trying to erase the memory of Otto Brack’s ashen face.
‘When I entered the room, I thought I’d won. He’d wanted so much more, and all he’d got was me. Again. He’d got nothing the first time and he was going to get nothing now I was so much bigger than the prison system, so much taller than its walls. He couldn’t contain my spirit. Or so I thought: Róża paused, smiling at her foolishness. ‘I hadn’t realised that on this occasion he didn’t intend to ask any questions.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Polana wasn’t simply about catching the Shoemaker and suppressing Freedom and Independence. He wanted to find me, to tell me that if I ever sought justice in the future, it could only be bought at a heavy price … a price I wouldn’t pay He’d found a means of silencing me for ever.’
‘About the murder of your husband?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the other man?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘He turned the tables. He gave information to me.’
‘Information?’
‘Yes. He told me the name of the informer. He told me their secrets. He told me things they didn’t even know about themselves. He gave me the awful power that comes with knowledge.’
Sebastian stared back, expectant but uncomprehending.
‘It was a special kind of blackmail,’ explained Róża, patiently ‘He was warning me that if I ever accused him of murder, he’d not only expose the informer, he’d release all the details of their undisclosed past, as a means to shatter their future.’
Sebastian waited for a long time, holding Róża’s gaze, wondering if there was any more to come; and then he realised she’d finished speaking, that she’d explained herself in full.
‘He threatened to burn your enemy’ he asked, eyes closed and brow furrowed, ‘and that threat silenced you?’
‘Yes.’
‘How? Help me. Why not let ‘em fry?’
‘Because they might never recover from the shame, from the public destruction. They could very well end their own life.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, but so what?’
Sebastian blinked rapidly one hand scratching the back of another.
‘No, no, no, Róża, you’ve got it wrong, so wrong,’ he laughed without humour. ‘That’s not how the world works, not now, not then. If a shamed collaborator opts for suicide that’s their choice … that’s their way of dealing with responsibility. Everyone at some point has to face up to what they’ve done. They can’t run off or hide behind your … what is it? Decency? That’s the one thing they threw away … you of all people can’t give it back to them.’ He seemed to come closer but he hadn’t moved. He was still now, almost predatory. ‘Róża, you’re talking about an informer. They got a handful of silver. They’ve had their’
Sebastian’s voice trailed off.
Róża had stood up and walked to the mirror. She picked up the bullet and returned to the table, placing it between them as if it were a tiny storm lamp, something from a doll’s house. She sat down, looking at it as if she, too, was perplexed by its meaning.
‘When I was first in Mokotów, Brack used one of these.’ She turned it slightly, as if to adjust the flame. ‘The next time round, I discovered he was no ordinary executioner. He’d learned how to silence someone without violence, without committing a crime. He did something I never could have imagined: he used me against myself. I won’t vindicate Pavel at the cost of another life, Sebastian, even that of an informer. When people are stripped down in public, when every sordid detail of their past becomes cheap gossip at the bus stop, they can lose the will to live. That’s not the kind of free speech we fought for. I won’t use words to bring about another death … not when words were all we had to keep ourselves alive.’
Róża insisted on walking Sebastian to the street below It was a mild night with a soft breeze carrying the hum of distant engines and downtown activity. Sebastian loitered, hanging back, making Róża walk more slowly His hands were in his pockets in that relaxed way of his that was somehow smart. He was thinking hard, trying to find a way to end the meeting on the right note. His car keys jingled and he struggled with the lock in the driver’s door.
‘I won’t trouble you any more, Róża,’ he said, yanking at the handle. ‘But I’ve got one last request. Come to the IPN. Let me show you something else that lies beyond your imagination.’
Chapter Three
For a long while Róża considered the two trees. They stood by the entrance to the Institute of National Remembrance. One was upright but the other seemed it might lose balance and fall over, its trunk curved as though it had grown in a gale. The lower branches were stretched out like arms ready for the fall. They were just the right height for a boy wanting to climb and get a better view of any commotion.
‘Welcome, Róża,’ said Sebastian, holding open the door. ‘This is the place where we try and clean up the past.’
She shrank from the towering block. The Shoemaker had once said that history was our sacred curse; that we were forever torn between the duty to remember and the joy of picking daisies.
‘Are you okay?’ queried Sebastian.
‘Yes … just something I read in the paper.’
Alongside the windows were canisters hiding external lights. Róża had seen them illuminated after dark during one of her walks. Reminded now of the building’s purpose Róża wondered why she’d got into that taxi. She’d made another mistake: first, she’d said too much; now she’d come too far.
‘We’ve got lots of papers here,’ quipped Sebastian, leading Róża inside. ‘You can read them, too.’
His suit was charcoal grey verging on black. His white shirt had that factory gleam, persuading Róża that it had been torn from its cellophane wrapper earlier that morning. The maroon tie was slightly loose at the neck.
‘The lifts are out of order, I’m afraid,’ he explained, passing a couple of vexed technicians. ‘So we’ll have to use the stairs.’
On the other side of a door marked ‘Private’ they were met by a man whose job description did not permit a smile. An officer of the Internal Security Agency — Special Forces — said Sebastian in a low voice. He followed them down three floors, along a corridor and to a locked grey door. Róża felt unsteady, her stomach churning at an old memory. The cage had been three floors down, too; there’d been guards who didn’t smile; and the cellar door had been grey The paint had been peeling and the ground was damp. Brack had fumbled for his keys, breathing recrimination.
‘Most people aren’t allowed to see what I’m going to show you, said Sebastian. ‘Special clearance is needed. I had to fight to get yours.
He pushed a card into a narrow slit and the electronic lock flashed green.
‘Come on in. This is part of what Brack and his friends left behind.’
The room comprised nothing but shelving: row after row of long metal units jam-packed with buff folders, box files and bound reports. Between each block was a narrow walkway providing cramped access to the documentation. A musty smell tainted the air. Róża felt vaguely ill. She’d said too much, she’d come too far and now she’d gone too deep. She hadn’t expected this.
‘Lined up, there’s about one hundred miles of material,’ said Sebastian, leaning on the wall, legs crossed. ‘Over ninety thousand informers from all walks of life. Here is some of what they said, noted down by the secret police. As I explained before, a lot of the really damaging stuff has been destroyed, though we reckon a duplicate archive exists in Moscow’
Sebastian walked down an alleyway, drawing Róża along by a tilt of the head. She lingered, looking right and left, feeling the weight of information leaning towards her, the spines of the files like the backs of their authors turned in shame. All at once she wanted to get out of this terribly silent place. The intimidation of the handlers had been left behind like the harsh smell of cheap aftershave. When Sebastian opened a door on to an office, Róża entered with a sigh of relief, but then instantly recoiled as from a slap to the face.
The room was brightly lit. There were two comfortable chairs on either side of a table. In the middle of the table was a microphone wired to a recording machine. Beside the machine were two folders, one a dull orange, the other a pale green. Both were secured by a black lace tied in a bow There was a jug of water and an upturned glass. A coat stand watched like a sentry. Sebastian appeared before Róża’s frozen gaze.
‘Róża, I’m not going to make you stay here. You don’t have to say anything. You’re a free woman. You can turn around and I’ll call another taxi. But I want you to understand what you’re doing.’
Róża smiled thinly at the offer of advice.
‘Out there, behind you, is their story,’ said Sebastian. ‘They’ve had their say The secret police and their informers have put their slant on every event since you were fifteen — and not just the politics but what your neighbours had for breakfast.’
It was far more complex than that, objected Róża, not bothering to say so. It had been so much more involved. Yes, some had taken the silver for a better standard of living … but there’d been others:
parents, desperate to obtain medical treatment; one time adulterers, blackmailed to save a marriage; careerists who’d bought promotion with cheap gossip known to everyone but the cat; the stupid, who’d thought they could play the game better than the ones who’d made up the rules; and that special class — the almost innocent, the trusting kind who didn’t even know they were being used. They’d all been informers. They’d all betrayed someone. But there was no true equivalence, not really The many faces of choice and coercion kept them well apart. All they shared was exile, deserved and undeserved. Róża looked at Sebastian’s mouth as it moved, not hearing the words, wondering why his generation couldn’t differentiate between the varying shades of wickedness and co-operation; why they smudged t
ogether malice, blabbing and whimpering; why they found it so easy to apportion blame.
‘—but the files are with us for ever, and we have to make sense of them, here in a building that’s meant to house your memories,’ he continued, searchingly, trying to win Róża back. He’d sensed her drift away He’d felt a remote coolness in her appraisal of him. ‘If you ever decide to speak, everything you say would count as a memorial to the kids playing with the rope. Otherwise, this is what they’re left with. The lies, the obsessions, the compromise. Their story. ‘Róża turned around. Ahead was the narrow passage, walled by fading covers. At the far end the grey door seemed wedged between distant protruding binders. For those who’d grown while the shelves were being filled, the place was frightening. There was a terrible implied intimacy between lives lived ordinarily and these secret memoranda; these notes on what others had heard while you poured the tea or washed the cherries.
‘On the table are two files,’ said Sebastian. He’d moved to the door and taken its handle, ready to show Róża the way out. ‘The orange holds your interrogations from nineteen fifty-one. The green is the Shoemaker file and what’s left of Operation Polana in nineteen eighty-two. If you leave now, that’s what you’re turning your back on. When I return the folders to the shelf, there’ll be no other version of your life and times; the beginning and end of your resistance. Brack gets the first and last word. It doesn’t have to be that way.
Róża appraised the orange file. It was thick, the cover faded and bulging. With the sudden jolt of an electric charge she recalled a little man with a tatty briefcase, a spectacled pen—pusher who’d come to Mokotów shortly before she was released.