In the scorching heat of this beating, Róża crouched by Otto in a makeshift hospital by the Old Town walls. There was no ammunition left to carry so they were ripping bandages from the clothes of the dead. Suddenly Róża gripped Otto’s hand. They were going to die and she didn’t want to go without giving the best of herself to someone. With shocking violence she pressed into his palm all the love she had left.
And he began to talk.
As if a door had been blown off its hinges, he began to speak about what he’d seen through the window in the attic, tears pouring down his face.
‘My father used to make me toys out of wood and bits of plumbing, pipes and joints, fantastic things, a musket, a revolver, a sword … they looked real, honestly people used to stop and stare. He’d take me fishing, bird watching, camping, hiking and when I lost a tooth he’d put a coin under my pillow in an envelope with a funny drawing of a mouse waving at me, my name written all over the page. For years I thought the mouse came for my tooth. My mother used to cook fish in lemonade, really I’m not joking, lemonade, and it made the trout all sweet, a special kind of sweet. She was always there, always—’
He stopped abruptly as if he’d run out of things to say The wall behind soaked up a bang and seemed to bend inwards.
‘Where are they?’
‘Don’t know … deported.’
‘Why were you hiding?’
‘My father was a communist.’ He spoke with a savage, loud pride. ‘He believed in a better world for everyone, for you, for me, for them—’ He ducked the crack of an explosion. Chunks of plaster bounced on the floor; an eerie white dust floated down.
‘Where are you from?’ The conversation was in pieces. They were getting it all in before the ceiling came down.
‘Polana.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Near the Ukraine.’
The ground made a judder as if the world had just been smashed off its axis. Then Róża thought of the sewers. They’d been used for gun running and messages. Pulling Otto she stumbled into the open, head low, making a scream to batter down her terror. Two hundred yards later they lifted a cover and scrambled into the hole. Thirty-four rungs down, Róża and Otto slid waist deep into the water and filth.
High, high above, the din continued. Otto struck a match. The cavern appeared.
Corpses floated silently by like sleeping watchmen. Róża and Otto began wading east, the black bricks shuddering overhead. The match died. Otto lit another. The smell of gas, spent grenades and dirt made them wretch. On they went, pushing aside the dead. The match slowly faded. Róża whispered to the darkness, not expecting a reply:
‘The Red Army Why didn’t they help us?’
The question echoed down the reeking corridor. When it died there was a silence and lapping and then Otto made a murmur.
‘I thought they’d come, but now I understand.’ Otto was near. She felt his breath on her neck. ‘Sometimes watching is waiting.’
Róża blanked from exhaustion. Then she gradually understood, unable to accept that he meant it, wanting to believe that she’d misheard the tone of approval.
‘You mean they’re watching while we die?’
There was no more murmuring.
‘You mean they’ll only come when we’ve been wiped out? When there’s no more resistance?’ She found some energy and it made her voice jagged and loud. ‘You mean they’ll come when they can take over?’
Otto struck a match. His face lit up, covered in grime, his cheeks muddied from his dried tears.
‘I mean the future lies with Moscow A new future, without chains. Sacrifices have to be made.’
‘A future without chains? Where did you get that from?’
This wasn’t Otto. Not the boy who had been hurt and hidden. It was the ghost of a man … his father; it had to be his father. Otto was repeating speeches heard while they’d hiked and camped. He sloshed forward, reaching for Róża’s hand, the hand he’d held up there where the bombs were falling. He raised the flame to illuminate her face.
‘We’re going to get out of here.’
Róża glared at his mask of disarranged dirt.
‘Choose the right side,’ he whispered.
‘What?’
‘There’s going to be another struggle.’ His cracked lips barked out the memory. ‘Choose the right side.’
Róża yanked her hand free and swung around. She could just make out a T-junction ahead: the tunnel joined another route heading north-south.
‘I’ve made a choice already’ Even though she was worn out and could hardly think straight, she could grasp a basic truth. Mr Lasky used to say that what you believed was everything. It changed who you walked with and where you went. He was right. It had roused a visceral loyalty to those disfigured bodies among the rubble. ‘I’m going north, Otto,’ she gasped. ‘You go south.’
Róża pushed her way through the water, holding on to the mental image of the junction. A small flame burst behind her and Róża felt a flash of grief. Not so much for losing her friendship with Otto or for having given him her love. No, she was devastated because she’d told him about the red dress, the green jacket and the shoes. She’d given him her dreams.
Six years later those two tunnels came to another junction in the Mariensztat District when Otto and four men in long coats broke down her front door.
Róża lifted her face off the cell floor. The prisoner with the grey hair was sniggering into her hand, pointing at some fragment of her imagination. The others were like crouched gargoyles on a forsaken church. When Róża had first entered this hell she’d understood, on a primitive level, that to survive she would have to keep soft some part of her heart. Which was why she’d said nothing about her previous friendship with Otto. The revelation could put him in a cell of his own. Association was suspicion. So it was at this juncture of her fidelity to him and his abandonment of her that Róża chose to keep alive her humanity. Whatever power Major Strenk might have over her, she would remain above him, through Otto.
It was only when Róża was in the cage with water thundering upon her, when she was in this, the lowest gutter of human existence, that Róża realised what had really been happening throughout her interrogations: Otto had already told Major Strenk about their shared past. And it was precisely because Róża never referred to it that the major knew Róża could break down and still keep important information to herself; that she might well know how to find the Shoemaker. Otto had been the man behind the questions. From that moment, Otto ceased to exist for Róża. He became Brack.
Chapter Fourteen
Two weeks later Róża was brought back to the interrogation room. There, behind the desk with the small lamp, sat Brack, opening and shutting a drawer. He started asking questions even before Róża crouched on the footstool.
‘Ink. Ink stains. You must have seen stains. Tell me about stains. He was on to something. It was how Róża discovered that Pavel was involved. She’d seen that incredibly black crescent under a thumbnail. She’d found out later that part of Pavel’s role within the Shoemaker organisation was the obtaining of vital supplies. Without wearing gloves, he’d handled a leaking tin.
‘People disappear, Róża,’ he’d said, gripping her hands. ‘They vanish. Accept my silence. It protects you.
His dark eyes had been wide with feeling, his fair hair ruffled. He’d shoved her gently on the bed.
‘Stains,’ repeated Brack.
‘I never saw any.’
Brack opened and shut the drawer, tension gouging out his eye sockets. He had to find a way of breaking her. But there was nothing in the desk. It had to be something worse than the cage. He changed subject.
‘When did you first hear of the Shoemaker?’
‘When I was child.’
‘I want the name.’
‘Mr Lasky He read us stories every— ‘Don’t play with me … Comrade.’ The words left his mouth like fibres spat from one of his cigarettes. ‘I have the power o
f life and death.’
Róża dared to laugh. He had nothing of the sort. He was wearing Major Strenk’s shoes, that’s all.
‘The Shoemaker,’ he repeated. ‘When did you first learn that your husband was an associate?’
Pavel had told her after she’d swung her legs off the bed. She’d insisted on knowing about the ink. His risk was her risk. He’d thought for a long while first, getting dressed distractedly, confusing the buttons and holes. When he was done he’d put on his coat and thrown Róża’s across the room.
‘I’m going to introduce you to someone. I call him the Threshold.’
It was night. They went to a church that backed on to a railway line. Most of the surrounding buildings were incomplete, the reconstruction slowed by cost and a lack of materials. Heaps of rubble had still not been cleared away Frameless windows cut black squares out of the sky Pavel knocked on a door. After a moment he tried to light a cigarette, giving up after three strikes of a match. After several minutes a bolt slammed back and a man in a cassock pulled them inside, swearing under his breath. He was in his mid thirties. His hair, short and black, gave prominence to a large forehead. He’d shaved roughly leaving small red cuts on his chin and neck.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he snapped.
Pavel drew the priest down the low lit corridor, whispering urgently After listening for a few seconds the priest’s mouth slowly fell open and he swore again. Róża caught their talk.
‘You’re married?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me? If I’d—’
‘I couldn’t. You know the rules.’
‘Rules? You break them all the time.’
‘Look, stick to the point. What do you think?’
The priest drew a hand across his jaw, checking the cuts. Glancing at Róża, he shook his head in disbelief and condemnation.
‘I had to find someone from outside the Friends,’ argued Pavel, frustrated. ‘You agreed. You said we need a sleeper. Someone who can wake the dead and shatter the illusions of many. Someone who can take up where we left off, if I’m caught. Someone who can restructure a new group of Friends. These are your words. You agreed.’
‘Damn it, I thought you meant a man. But a young woman, your wife?’
‘They’ll arrest her anyway If they pick me up, they’ll pick her up.
‘Which is why you shouldn’t have got married.’
‘But I did. Look, they wouldn’t expect her to know anything. Like you, they wouldn’t think I’d tell her.’
‘Have you any idea what these people can do?’ The priest pointed towards Róża as if she was a joint at the butchers. ‘They don’t hand out questionnaires. They—’
‘They’ll do all that anyway.’
‘Oh, fine. That’s all right then. So let’s just—’
‘Excuse me.’ Róża’s soft voice took them by surprise. They’d forgotten she was there. ‘This is my choice. I accept the risk.’ She walked down the corridor to join the conspirators. ‘Think about it: if they believe I’m your sleeper they won’t kill me. I’d be the only one who could lead them to what they want. They’ll keep me alive.’
The priest clawed at his neck, seeming to weigh her femininity and her resistance. She knew too much already At length he murmured, ‘I hope you’re right.’
They moved quietly to the door and the priest drew back the bolt.
‘Will the Shoemaker agree?’ asked Pavel. He wanted to know that the matter was settled.
‘It’s not for him to decide.’ The priest reached for the switch. ‘And he wouldn’t want to know If he did, he might never write another word. It’s our responsibility We decide and we live with the consequences. He writes.’
The priest flicked the light dead. Slowly he opened the door, keeping it ajar by an inch. Leaning towards the crack, head bowed, he listened, not seeming to breathe. Finally without a word, he pushed them both outside and the bolt slipped home.
That night, Pavel explained how the organisation was structured and what she was to do in the event of his arrest. She listened until morning, clocking the detail. Throughout she watched herself with a kind of third eye, the eye of the secret sleeper. She watched Róża Mojeska fall helplessly in love again, only this time far more deeply than before. It frightened her. She found herself bottoming out, reaching the soft sea bed; a place reserved for the elderly and those who know that their time together has been cut short.
‘When did you first learn that your husband was an associate?’
Róża was being interrogated again. Once more Brack was in the major’s shoes, one arm dangling, his hollowed eyes levelled upon her. The pond green jacket of the secret police didn’t sit well on his shoulders. He was still thin, seemingly undernourished.
‘I first heard words to that effect one hundred and fifty-four days ago.’ She’d scratched them on the wall with the nail of her thumb. Brack frowned. It sounded like an admission, that he might be getting somewhere, but he knew something was wrong. Róża explained. ‘You told me on the night of my arrest.’
The drawer slammed shut.
Pavel had said none of the Friends knew each other. The only link between them all was Pavel. Only Pavel had a link to the priest, and only the priest knew how to get to the Shoemaker. By the same token, the Shoemaker only knew of the priest. All the other Friends were unknown to him. Róża, then, was a figure completely outside the organisation, a kind of wild card in the brutal game against the secret police: unknown to everyone, she’d been entrusted with the key to any future operation. Pavel and the priest had fixed the one flaw in the security system: they’d prepared for betrayal. In that event the Shoemaker could still speak and Róża would spread his words, fronting a new organisation of Friends.
They’d moved just in time. Two months after Róża’s initiation, Pavel had lingered at the door. Unusually preoccupied, he’d given Róża his wedding ring. ‘Father Nicodem’s idea,’ he’d said. It had been a first slip of the tongue: he’d used a name. Three hours later the front door had splintered under a sledge hammer and Otto had stepped over the debris followed by four men in coats the colour of mud.
The drawer opened, snapping her reverie.
‘Tell me what you know, Róża.’ It was the first time that Brack had used her name. ‘We’re not going to let you out until you tell us.’ He was staring at her swollen stomach and the hidden life. A hint of the attic came across his face. ‘You don’t understand, Róża. You don’t know what harm the Shoemaker has done.’
‘Harm?’
‘Harm.’ The bark had gone; he still seemed trapped. He was still in a tunnel of filth trying to find his way out. Róża pitied him. Major Strenk had trusted him to break the girl while he dealt with the men.
‘There’s nothing you can do to me,’ she declared, obliquely.
Brack twitched and slid the drawer shut.
Thirty-two days later the cell door opened.
Two guards helped Róża to her feet and brought her slowly down the stairs to the cellar. Ahead, to the left, was the entrance to the room with the cage. The grey iron door was open. But Róża was pushed on to a chair standing incongruously by the corridor wall. Moments later came the sounds of scuffling and dragged feet. A man whom Róża had never seen before was pulled down the stairs. He was disfigured and cut, his chest gurgling like a blocked pipe. His feet were bare, bouncing along the concrete as if he were a marionette without strings. The guards hoisted him into the room with the cage. Moments later a heavy shot crashed into the corridor. The echo was still ringing in Róża’s ears when she heard more noise from the staircase, more groaning and dragging.
Another man was hauled along the passageway This time the guards stopped at the grey door. The prisoner lifted his battered face towards Róża. She hadn’t recognised him because of the quantity of blood … but it was Pavel. His body was limp in the arms of the green thugs, his shoulders horribly high, as if he were meat hanging on two hooks. He gaped a
t Róża, and sobbed, seeing for the first time the great swelling of life in her stomach. He tried to raise a crushed hand but all his energy went into a shake at the neck. As they dragged him into the room he coughed a sort of ‘No’.
Brack stepped out, a revolver in his hand. He stood, hangdog and determined, grimacing at Róża, waiting for her to make another choice. She pressed her thumb against the two rings on her finger and made a confused shake of the head. Her ears were ringing. A black hole was quietly expanding, rising from her depths. Brack’s mouth sagged open and he stepped slowly into the room.
The silence seeped into Róża’s mind.
She waited for the sound, her knees shaking uncontrollably Then, a compressed bang seemed to tear open her side.
They took Róża back to her cell as if nothing had happened. As the lock turned, she sank to her knees and the mental thread between her mind and her mouth snapped. She started gibbering. Her words became jumbled, losing shape and sense. Sounds poured out from her stomach like vomit. An arm came around her shoulder. The woman with cropped blonde hair was stroking her brow, saying ‘Shush’. Lights flickered and popped behind her eyes. The agony of childbirth was under way and she could feel nothing. Standing over her was the grey, distressed woman, wagging her finger, screeching nonsense.
Chapter Fifteen
Róża was transferred to the prison infirmary, a ward of evenly spaced iron beds, just like the dormitory at Saint Justyn’s. There, in a state of delirium, she moaned, looking up at some figment of Major Strenk. Cradled in his arms was a big fish, gasping for air, its tail flapping as if it were a kind of wild applause. A door slammed in a draught.
The following weeks were lost to Róża. She couldn’t scratch them on a wall to mark their passing. Exhaustion gradually shut down the hallucinations. A dark cloud settled on her consciousness, its density drawn from the pain it absorbed. She recovered the basic functions of living without quite being alive. When she could hear and respond to simple questions, they took her to a nursery on the same corridor.
The Day of the Lie Page 10
