They’re going to shoot me.
Her heart beat out of time. Gratitude flushed through her veins. But another guard was heaving back the entrance gate. She saw the main street. Brack was on the pavement smoking. He flicked the stub on the floor and stamped it flat. A heavy shove sent her reeling towards him.
‘Goodbye, Róża,’ he said, nodding at the men behind.
‘What?’
‘There’s always a right and a wrong choice, Róża. You made the wrong one.
‘You said you wouldn’t let me out—’
‘You should have told me about the Shoemaker. That was the right choice.’
Róża spun around. The prison door had been shut. There was no outside handle. She struck it with clenched fists, kicking the iron panels, begging the men on the other side to open up. She turned to Brack, hands joined, imploring. ‘Shoot me? Please, Otto, shoot me. I don’t want to live, I’ve nothing left … please …
‘Yes, you have. You’ve got the Shoemaker.’
Brack pulled his revolver from its belt holster. With a flick of his thumb the chamber fell open. He withdrew a single round and held it out to Róża.
‘Be grateful. This was meant for you.’ He tossed the bullet up and down as if it were loose change. ‘I argued for your life. But if you don’t want it, take this.’
Róża saw her fingers pick up the small brass jacket with the lead cap. She felt its coldness as she closed her hand around it. Unsteadily she walked away towards a road junction while Brack’s voice roared down a kind of tunnel.
‘I’ll find him, Róża. One day I’ll find him.’
The sky was a most gorgeous blue, like Mr Lasky’s tea set. It had been a wedding present. He always thought of his wife when he used it. Somewhere behind, near the gate, was the stump. They’d painted the cut face black to stop any shoots growing.
Chapter Seventeen
Róża’s eyes fell upon every window; she lingered, trembling, at every junction, staring down the long avenues at the lined up houses and apartment blocks. Her child was behind one of those doors. Another woman with short black hair was telling her husband about those first infant steps, the reeling on tiny feet, and the soft, surprised landing. Together they were mouthing words, ‘Mummy’, ‘Daddy’. The evocation of family contentment was worse than any torture Róża had endured in Mokotów She looked in different directions, trying to turn away but only saw other windows and other doors. Finally her agonised steps came to a block of flats built on the old Jewish Ghetto. On the third floor was the home of Aniela Kolba.
The door was opened by a little boy aged five or six. His hair was chestnut brown, his cheeks scrubbed. A white fist gripped the side of baggy charcoal trousers.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, cowering away.
This had to be Bernard. He’d once nearly choked on a fishbone.
‘I am…’
Róża couldn’t finish her introduction. She was overcome with emotion at the sight of the boy his blue veins visible through the soft skin of his neck. Aniela, busy and buxom, appeared behind him, her plump hands covered in flour. Dusting them wildly on her blue flowered apron, she pulled Róża inside.
‘I’ve been waiting,’ she murmured. ‘And now that you have come, you will stay’
She gripped Róża fiercely, recognising that she’d come alone: that the baby had left Mokotów through another door; that Róża had followed a hard route taken by other prison mothers. Aniela’s grip told Róża that she understood everything; that coping with the loss of your husband was bad enough without suffering a constant reminder of his murdered face; that Róża had done nothing wrong; that she’d made a difficult decision for the best. All this and much more was pressed into Róża, as if she needed some kind of absolution from another mother. Róża accepted it, neither willing nor able to explain how Brack had tricked her.
‘Your home is with us, now,’ said a man’s voice, full of the same understanding and compassion. ‘Aniela won’t let you go, so you might as well get used to it.’
Edward Kolba, weathered and stocky sleeves rolled up, shook his head at any possible objection. He was standing behind his wife, one hand resting on his son’s head.
‘When she’s made up her mind, he said, his arched thick eyebrows riding high with affection, ‘there’s no compromise. I’ve told her a million times: join the Party. The Russians would let go by the end of the week.’
‘Have you got the bed yet?’ asked Aniela, over her shoulder. ‘If I told you once I told you twice. Now—’
‘I’ll be back in half an hour,’ replied Edward, reaching for his coat and hat. ‘I’ll sort everything out.’
Edward sorted out a great deal — far more than the army camp bed that he set up on the other side of a wardrobe that functioned as a kind of partition in the sitting room, giving Róża her own private space. Within a week he’d found her a job at the Dubiński Millinery, a hat-making factory where his sister-in-law worked as a line manager. Róża, bewildered with gratitude, accepted her place in this new ordered world. Its structure gave her strength. It roused her dreams. She went on the night shift so that she could be free during the day Free to find the State department that dealt with adoptions.
The relevant offices were situated in a bleak concrete edifice at the end of an alley in a southern district of the city After being shunted from one room to another, describing to various administrators along the way the man with the ragged briefcase, she ended up in the antechamber of Mr P R. Bondel, the Temporary Fourth Assistant to the Second Deputy Director. The room was small, the walls naked of any decoration. Two wooden chairs faced a reception desk, behind which sat a woman with scraped back hair typing feverishly Over her shoulder, Róża saw a door of frosted glass. Looking at the shadowy figure on the other side, she explained to the secretary that she wanted to find her child. There’d been a terrible mistake. The papers had been filled in a short while back and surely— ‘Sorry.’ The woman hit a full stop and looked up, her pointed face frank and uncompromising. ‘Once the forms are signed it’s just not possible … didn’t anyone tell you?’
‘Yes,’ replied Róża, ‘but my situation is different. I didn’t sign. It’s complicated. It’s—’
‘Name?’ Simple, unfortunately the woman’s expression implied.
‘Mojeska, Róża.’
‘Take a seat.’
The woman barely opened the frosted door, and only managed to slip through the gap because she was so thin. After a few minutes, she eased herself back into the antechamber and said, with that same practised finality, ‘Sorry, there really are no exceptions. Mr Bondel is most sympathetic, but once the forms are completed, signed or not, there’s no—’
‘I want to see him.’
‘You can’t.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s busy.’
‘I’ll wait.’
‘You’ll be here all day’
‘I’ll stay all week.’
Persuaded that Róża meant business, the woman quickly nipped inside once more. After some heated back and forth, the door swung wide open. Behind an enormous desk, like a man hiding from a Panzer, or maybe his wife, sat the spectacled official who’d come with his briefcase to Mokotów prison.
‘Do take a seat, Madam,’ he said, rising, one hand brushing the crumbs off his waistcoat. ‘How very nice to see you again. Can’t say I thought you’d see the light of day so soon, but there we are. Glad to know you’ve made your peace with the forces of law and order. Everyone should get a second chance, that’s what I say …
Róża saw the sweat on his top lip. He took out a wrinkled handkerchief and dabbed his mouth.
‘It’s not too late,’ said Róża, firmly taking a seat.
‘For what?’
‘Getting back my child.’
‘Ah … that’s exactly what my secretary said you’d said. I presumed she’d misunderstood your meaning. I’m afraid it’s quite out of the question, quite impossible … altogether —�
� he paused, looking for another word, something official or technical — ‘unfeasible. That’s what it is. Totally unfeasible.’
‘Why?’
With a heavy sigh, he shoved the handkerchief into his trouser pocket, settling his beetle brows into a kindly smile for the criminally obtuse. He was used to explaining things official. And not everyone appreciated the work of the Department. Unsung, it was.
‘Madam … sorry, what was the name?’
‘Mojeska, Róża.’
‘Quite right, Madam Mojeska, you have to understand how these things work. You see, there’s a great demand for an infant, you know, when they’re young. Free of attachment. Wouldn’t know their mother from a spring chicken. Makes life easier for everyone. The older they get, they don’t hook on that easily And that makes them hard to place. It takes time and folk don’t always want to wait. They want a simple life. Sad, but true. A child’s a child, that’s what I say but not everyone agrees with me. And you see Madam … Majewsky … the facts are your child would have been placed within days. Even before I got back to the office. The queue for infants reaches from here to Kraków That’s just an expression, mind you, we have a national remit, of course.’ but—’
‘The papers were only filled in seven months ago,’ objected Róża. ‘I was tricked and misled. You have to help me.’ I beg you. Tell me who has my child. If they knew what had happened, they’d understand, I’m sure of it … and they can stay at the front of the queue, there are other children out there. But we have to find my child. I’m free now … I’m here’
Mr Bondel nodded a painful recognition of the fact but then began to shake his head as if reverting to the thrust of his previous expostulations. He waited and waited, expecting Róża to rise and leave, but she only stared back, resolute, uncomprehending … obtuse, criminally incapable of falling into line. Mr Bondel thought for a moment and then a sort of light brightened his official regret. ‘Perhaps, this once, I can do something.’ Pondering, a finger flicked his lips. ‘What was the name?’
‘I’ve already told you.’
‘Not yours, the child’s. What was written down on the forms?’
‘None. I didn’t choose one.’
‘All right, no grave problem —’ he spoke as if it most certainly was — ‘that’s what we might call a hiccup. But we have the surname.’ of course, so we can—’
‘No.” said Róża, paling. ‘The space was left empty …’
‘Ali.’ His hairy fingers tapped the desk. ‘Now that causes me some difficulty Considerable, I’d say The name’s the key without the key I can’t open the lock:
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Filing systems, Madam Majewsky Formalities,.’ He lowered his head as if to duck the attention of his secretary ‘Frankly I’ll be honest. I’ll break a rule to show my goodwill. I remember placing your child. Nice woman, expensive shoes. Handmade, I’d say Classy all round. But I wouldn’t know her from Adam … or Eve, for that matter. I’ve no idea where she came from or where she went. I never do. From our end, once everyone’s happy, we send off the forms to Section Three and they put them in a red binder, but without a name, well.’ what’s to be done? There’s nothing to ask for. I can’t ask them to find something if there’s no label. Can’t use the index. Can’t look up “None”. God knows where they’d put “None”. Never thought of that one.’
‘But that’s not possible,’ protested Róża. ‘All it takes is a little—’
‘Now don’t you start blaming yourself.’ Madam.” said Mr Bondel.’ freeing the bottom button of his waistcoat. ‘There’s nothing we can do. None is none. I shouldn’t have raised your hopes, that was my fault and I ask your pardon. But you can rest assured that all the children who pass across this desk go to the best of homes —’ he tapped his fingers as if they were tiny feet — ‘and the lady I met was altogether captivating. A cut above your usual—’
‘But I was tricked,’ whispered Róża.’ Harshly.
‘Madam Majewsky you got out of prison.” he whispered back, kindly ‘Your child did, too. Be grateful. It doesn’t always end that well, as you should know’
‘I was tricked.’
Mr Bondel’s tone dropped even lower. ‘Madam, allow me to give you some sound advice of a general character. Always fill in the forms. Tick the boxes. Sign the bottom. It’s what makes the world go round.’
‘I want my child back,’ persisted Róża.
‘Unfeasible.’
‘You have to listen to me, forms or no forms—’
‘No, you listen.’ Mr Bondel’s patience with the criminal classes abruptly snapped. Disgust and disapproval, previously suppressed.’ boiled to the surface, making scum of his certified courtesies. ‘I shouldn’t have seen you, and I did. I’m a family man, and 1 felt sorry for you. But no one can help you find nothing. Your bird has flown. You let it go.’ not me.’ He stood up, short and ridiculously imperious, crumbs trapped in a fold of his waistcoat. ‘Olga,’ he bawled. ‘Madam Majewsky is leaving.’
The door opened. Róża walked hesitantly away from the man who’d filled in the forms, turning round when she reached the thin, terrified woman.
‘My name is Mojeska,’ said Róża, quietly, to Mr Bondel. ‘M—o—j—e—s-k-a.’
‘Quite right. I’ll make a note. Olga, jot that down, will you?’
When she’d left the antechamber and walked twenty or so yards down the corridor.’ Róża swivelled on her heels and strode back to the reception desk, her limbs shaking, her teeth grinding. The lean assistant recoiled and made a weak scream as Róża reached over and grabbed the typewriter. In a wild swinging movement, ablaze with rage, she hurled the machine straight through the panel of frosted glass.
Róża stepped out of the alley and began her long walk back to the Old Ghetto, choked by impotence, blinded by tears. The Temporary Fourth Assistant to the Second Deputy Director knew exactly how to find her child, but he wouldn’t; and probably couldn’t. He was just as much a cog in the wheel as she was. They turned in opposing directions, that’s all, their teeth meshing in a kind of obedience to the vast grinding machine that shaped their lives, determining what was possible, establishing an order of right and wrong, free from appeal or question. The only difference was that Mr Bondel moved willingly In a way he was a collaborator — the most contemptible kind because he knew he would never be blamed: all he’d ever done was go through the motions. Just then, Róża’s hand found the bullet in her pocket. Pausing in the middle of the street, she took it out.
Brack said it had been meant for her.
Why, then, had he kept her alive?
Róża stumbled on, turning the thing around in her hand. He’d kept her alive not from any residue of affection or friendship, but because he hoped she’d lead him one day to the Shoemaker. His commitment to the machine was without limitation. He would never tire or waver in his purpose. Róża was only alive so that someone else might be brought to death. At that instant, she felt watched, tabbed and tailed. She heard the clatter of a typewriter and the clang of the return carriage. Her file would never be closed.
‘Why have you gone this far, Otto?’ said Róża, out loud, stumbling forward aimlessly ‘Wasn’t killing my husband enough?’
Shouts of warning rang out, seemingly far off.
‘Is it all because I went north and you went south? Is this my punishment?’
Róża was wavering on the pavement holding up the bullet as if she were Hamlet talking to that skull. Passers-by looked on as if she were mad. Suddenly, she closed her fists and started walking, head down, wondering how she would ever face tomorrow.
Róża moved on to the day shift. Sitting between two other women at a long table she sewed ribbons on to hats for export to the Soviet Union. Each evening on the way home she found an empty pew in Saint Klement’s and listened to the silence. After an hour she went home to her side of the wardrobe. Then she ate, slept and went to work again. Occasionally like a drunken masochist, she’d
rise to watch Bernard sleep, listening to his breathing, feeling the cut of a saw’s teeth with each intake of air, with each long, slow exhalation. Events passed her by Talk of riots and deaths somewhere in the north or strikes on the coast were like distant noises, not entirely real, sounds from other people’s mouths. If Brack had arranged for someone to follow her.’ he’d wasted his time. Róża was going nowhere that would interest him. He’d played too hard and gone too far. He should have left her with some purpose in life, something to fight for, a reason to go back to the Shoemaker. Whereas she had nothing left. Her days were empty Their meaning had gone, flown from her own hand.
Part Four
The Polana File
Chapter Eighteen
Anselm examined the sequence of framed maps on the wall of an airy well lit office, situated on the fourth floor of the IPN. They charted the loss of national sovereignty to the Prussians.’ the Austrians and the Russians.’ their invasions in blue, brown and red constantly rearranging the green homeland throughout a hundred and fifty years of resistance, at one point erasing it completely I’m in an obstinate country, he thought; one that waits for spring.
The display had been brought to his attention by a red-haired woman dressed in a white trouser suit, who’d then left him to retrieve the Shoemaker material for his inspection. Presently she returned carrying an oblong cardboard box. She placed it on the desk beneath the maps and turned on a lamp. Unable to speak English or German, she pointed once again at the maps, as if seeking confirmation that Anselm had got the message. Loud and clear, he nodded. After she’d gone, clipping the door shut behind her, Anselm polished his glasses on his scapular, conscious that his task to find a secret police informer was part of that greater picture of shifting boundaries; that the losses and gains were moral and spiritual and not just national; that even a single betrayal in 1982 carried the entire weight of a people’s devastated expectations. John had warned him as much.
The Day of the Lie Page 12
