‘You have the money?’ she said in German.
She’d seen his habit and it had unsettled her. Why hadn’t Frenzel told her? To keep her on the leash in case she had misgivings?
‘Yes.’
She seemed unable to ask for it. A glance begged Anselm to cut short her embarrassment. But he didn’t move. So, Sebastian thought Anselm didn’t have it in him? He thought a monk was too self-righteous to take lessons from Frenzel? He’d show him how fast he could learn. The first lesson was already under his belt: snatch the advantage from the weak.
‘Show me the file,’ he ordered.
Her hair was greying and frizzy, her facial bones fine. Wire glasses flashed as she opened her shapeless damp coat to reach the brown envelope held to her side. Anselm didn’t move. Lesson Two: wait for them to come to you. After hesitating, she walked over, holding out the packet. Her jaw was incongruously strong, without undermining an essential delicacy Her eyes were blue, the lips dry and full. She wouldn’t look at him. Lesson Three: show no gratitude.
The envelope contained four sets of documents, held at the corner by tags of green string. Swinging to his side, he placed them on the small table and started reading, whipping through the pages one after the other. He had a few questions to ask. He spoke while reading.
‘Is there nothing else?’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I took them in the first place.’
Anselm looked up, unsmiling, clouding his face with judgment and disapproval. He’d done that in the Old Bailey with the more intractable witnesses. The jury had loved it. Not caring, Anselm noticed that this was probably Frenzel’s Lesson Four.
‘Tell me how the archive was structured,’ said Anselm. ‘Why is all the material in German?’
‘That’s how Colonel Brack worked.” she replied. ‘It meant he could control what the Stasi knew He decided what got translated and put into the files … and it wasn’t much. He kept the rest to himself … with Polana.’ Anyway. The last thing he wanted was interference from the Stasi so he kept them in the dark.’
Lesson Five: pretend you haven’t heard and that you’re not that interested anyway.
Lesson Six: let ‘em stew when you’ve got ‘em hanging in the air.
Anselm slowly examined the first batch of papers. It was a series of interviews carried out with known associates of Róża Mojeska (RM). Few had anything worthwhile to say One said she worked, another said she prayed. A third, while keen to co-operate, was judged half mad. She’d taught her parrot to scream, ‘I’m free’.
Anselm turned to the second bundle.
The weekly bulletins from FELIKS made pitiful reading. He’d grovelled and scraped. He’d scoured Warsaw looking for RM. He’d followed his wife. He’d finally come up with a good idea. But they’d have to let his son out first. No, he wasn’t making a threat, he just thought that RM would do anything for the boy End of the trail. There were no more reports.
Anselm glanced up. The squat man was eyeing the television, as if wondering what his mother might say if he asked to put it on. His designer shaved head was wet from the rain. He had his mother’s fine nose. One foot tapped the ground. The trainers were squeaky new and white, like the floor.
‘The reports from FELIKS aren’t complete.” said Anselm, his voice smooth but accusing.
‘That was Colonel Brack,’ said the woman, wringing her hands. ‘I’ve already told you, he ran the operation himself, he picked what went to the Stasi. He wanted to keep them in the dark. We were all in the dark. That’s what he was like, especially with Polana.’ it was his baby, he—’
Anselm shut her down with a raised finger, settling his attention on the third set of papers.
Error, Frenzel seemed to say, with a hitch to his trousers. You went too far. You should have listened to what she was about to tell you. You’re interested in Brack aren’t you? Lesson Seven: don’t enjoy yourself too much. Keep your eye on the ball. When they start blathering, let them hang themselves. That’s fun, too; they do all the work … Anselm had listened enough. He made a mental dash away from the tutorial; he raced over the operational detail for a planned arrest of RM on the 1st November 1982. A well-placed agent had reported that she would be making an appearance at the monument to Prus. Brack would deal with the matter personally, assisted by Lieutenant Frenzel … Anselm skipped to the end, looking for a name, and then.’ finding nothing, threw it aside. He opened the fourth and final bundle.
In his hands was the missing correspondence between the Stasi and the SB. Anselm, still running, went straight to the back page. Brack had originally refused to disclose the names of any agents, indicating that an accommodation might be found at the termination of the operation. That accommodation, it seemed, had been found.
A cough sounded. It was his own, though it seemed to come from someone else.
Staring at the letter signed by Frenzel.’ he’d come to a standstill. It couldn’t be.’ he thought. His head was shaking a ‘No’. He couldn’t believe it was possible.
‘It was him.” said the woman. She seemed to share his shock and dismay, only she’d got used to it. She seemed vaguely apologetic. ‘He worked for Colonel Brack.’
Anselm was still shaking his head.
‘He was well paid, thank you,’ she said, growing confident; wanting to get her own back. She’d been stung by Anselm’s manner. ‘Signed for every instalment.’
Anselm put the papers back in the envelope and went to the bathroom. In a daze he counted out two thousand five hundred Euros and came back to the woman and her son.
‘Here,’ he said, holding out the notes. He was like an automaton. ‘This is a one-off. You don’t have to sign for anything.’
She took the money hurriedly and said, ‘There’s more, if you’re interested.’
Anselm’s eyes came into focus. She was trying to fit the envelope into an inside pocket of her coat.
‘Sorry?’
‘That lot, she said, nodding towards the bed. ‘That’s everything he gave them … for over thirty years.’
‘Them?’ Anselm looked from the woman to the bin liners and back again. ‘You’re one of them.’
‘There are forty-two files,’ she said, ignoring the jibe. ‘All his reports. They’re from the main SB archive. Mr Frenzel thought you might be interested. He says they’re special. If you want them it’s going to—’
‘What?’ snapped Anselm, exhausted by this wrangling in a cesspool. ‘Cost the earth? The skin off my back? Or yours?’ He looked at her with a sudden savage pity. She was still fumbling with the first wedge of profit, trying to get it past the pocket lining. Mouth open, the son was lost. Languages weren’t his thing. ‘How much did Frenzel tell you to go for? Five? I bet it was five. Well.’ I’ll give you three.’
Anselm didn’t wait for the woman to work out what she’d say to Frenzel. He went back to the bathroom, counted out the notes and then returned, throwing them on the bedroom floor. Sinking into his chair, he paled with loathing as she brushed them together and made a pile, watched stupidly by her son with an arm around the refuse bags. Housework wasn’t his thing.
‘How much does Frenzel take?’ asked Anselm, quietly, His anger had gone like a popped balloon. His ears were ringing. ‘Half?’
She didn’t reply. Her problem was trying to find a pocket big enough for the cash.
‘He checks out the punters, he sends them to you, he gets his cut?’ Anselm angled his neck, trying to look up into her face. ‘If need be he’ll break a bone or two?’
He’s the pimp. And you? You’re the poor woman who takes all the risks. If anyone’s going to get busted, it’s you. Mr Frenzel just looks after the house and its contents. Anselm kept the thought to himself.
He was calm now, with the shuddering stillness that follows an accident; when the shock of seeing mutilated bodies has lost its primal power; when one’s mind turns to how anyone will
live normally once the wreckage has been towed away.
‘You don’t know what it’s like,’ said the woman, tying the belt on her coat. She pointed at her son. There wasn’t much affection in her look, just indebtedness and resentment. ‘You didn’t grow up getting beaten up for what your mother did during the communist years. You could walk safely down the street. You had friends, you had birthday parties … you had good times. No one turned their back on you.’
Anselm nodded. Her eyes were clear behind her flimsy glasses. She came closer, lowering her voice, just in case a saint was listening.
‘I just took a job, you know,’ she said, one hand pressed against a bulging pocket. ‘I knew two languages, I could type. I had a child. I needed money. That’s all. I wasn’t for them, I wasn’t against them. I just wanted a job. All I did was type up what other people had said. I never gave an opinion; I never shopped on my neighbours. I just wanted some security … for him, for me.’ She appealed to Anselm with open hands as if she were begging at the door to some church. ‘I’ll always be an outcast. And all because I spoke two …’ Languages, thought Anselm. And you could type. And you were neither for nor against. She didn’t say it in her defence but she could have done: how many people did no worse than her?
The woman was at the door. The son was already outside, idly running the zip of his fleece up and down. Looking at her straight back Anselm wanted to say sorry, but his mouth wouldn’t open. But he meant it: he was sorry for what had happened to her; and sorry for his behaviour. He’d forsworn the power of kindness and courtesy — and all because he wanted to tell Sebastian he could hold his own with Frenzel.
‘Madam, you do have a name,’ said Anselm, at last. ‘He can’t take that from you.
The woman didn’t even turn around. She closed the door with a trailing hand.
Anselm didn’t move for a long time. He sat facing the television and the shopping trolley with the sacks. He thought of the agent whose codename was SABINA and his long, dedicated service to the secret police. He thought of the woman who’d just left, Irina Orlosky, Brack’s bilingual personal assistant, thankful that he’d resisted the temptation to use her name; glad that by so doing he’d cut back on her due quota of humiliation.
Anselm pushed the trolley to the reception desk. The manager was troubled. He ran a clean establishment. His eyes lingered on the sacks while Anselm paid for the room he wouldn’t be needing after all. There were no farewell wishes.’ Father; no bon voyage. Turning to leave, Anselm noticed a crucifix above the entrance. And he knew with a cold certainty, that Frenzel was somewhere near, perhaps in a car outside sucking a remembered shell. He stayed up late to watch the fun. The joke was far too good to be missed.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
IPN/RM/13129/2010
EDITED TRANSCRIPT OF A STATEMENT MADE BY
RÓŻA MOJESKA
4h.16
I only told Mateusz, Bernard and John about the meeting with the Shoemaker. They were a group representing more than themselves: the Worker, the Intellectual, and the Messenger.
4h.22
I chose the 1st November because it’s All Souls Day A day of memorial, a day for Pavel and that other man. I knew there’d be thousands of lit candles. I knew there’d be lots of people. I knew it would be easy to blend into a crowd if Father Nicodem had been right and I had been wrong. Of course.’ I was about to break Pavel’s Golden Rule, to never meet a stranger. I was about to meet the Shoemaker.
4h.37
I don’t know who saw who first. I hadn’t seen Brack in thirty years. He’d been twenty-odd and he was now in his fifties. But our eyes met over the hats and headscarves. Nothing essential had changed. He’d always looked hungry; he’d always scraped his lower lip with his teeth. I was about to slip away when I saw Father Nicodem.
4h.39
He was standing ten yards or so from Brack, hands in his coat pockets, as if there was nothing to be frightened of … and then my mind blurred. I realised that I wasn’t the only one who’d been betrayed. The Shoemaker was somewhere nearby; and he was only there because of me. I had to cause a diversion so that he could get away. So I walked over to Brack and said.’
‘Well done, Comrade.’
4h.42
And then all hell let loose. John appeared with his camera, just as two ubeks grabbed my arms. More of them pushed through the crowd and seized him. I was marched straight past Father Nicodem. He looked on carelessly. I’ve thought often since: in the circumstances, there was nothing else he could do. He was simply being professional.
4h.50
I was brought to the same interrogation room that they’d used in the fifties. The colours had changed, that’s all … from a sickly green to a sickly yellow The desk looked the same and Brack was behind it. The lamp had gone. They gave me a chair rather than a footstool. The door closed and we were alone.
‘I don’t suppose there’s any point in my asking about the Shoemaker?’ he asked.
‘None,’ I replied.
He leaned back and opened the desk drawer. Looking inside, angling his head, he muttered.’
‘If you’d only answered that question all those years ago, then everything would have been so different. For both of us.’
He seemed to be blaming me for what he had done.
With his head still bent, he said.’
‘I wanted you, this time … as much as the Shoemaker. There’s something I think you ought to know’
He slid the drawer back and forth.
‘Do you remember you once said there’ll be laws one day to get at people like me?’ He glanced up, just to make sure I’d heard him.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That day will come.
‘I think it will, too,’ he said, ‘given how the Party has messed up everything. But that doesn’t change a thing for you.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘You called it justice,’ he said, dropping his gaze into the drawer again. ‘You need to understand that you won’t be getting any’
I stared at him, waiting.
‘Justice,’ he said, quietly, drawing out the word. ‘You won’t be getting any’
I stood up, feeling so much bigger than him, his system, his prison, and I said so, but he shut me up with a small gesture … a closing of the thumb and third finger, like when you extinguish a candle. I sat down, suddenly obedient.
‘Have you any idea who betrayed you?’ he asked, smiling.
‘No,’ I replied.
He took a passport out of his coat pocket and slid it across the table.
‘I’ve always given you a choice, Róża,’ he said. ‘I’ve always been fair. I’ve always let you pick the consequences of your actions. So, here’s another choice: if you ever want to bring me to court, then bear this in mind — I don’t want to speak on my own behalf. I’ll rely on my informer, and they can tell the judge what I did to defend my country from agitators and parasites. How, together, we fought and lost. I’ll stand up and be counted, Róża, but not on my own.
And then he told me the name and what they’d been doing for years on end. That was all he had to do. He knew I’d never want to see their story spread all over the papers. That’s when I noticed he’d dressed for the occasion; he’d shaved, combed his hair … for this moment with me in Mokotów Without waiting for a reply, he slowly shut the drawer and walked out of the room, not even bothering to close to the door.
I went home, leaving the passport on the desk. That was his one act of mercy — a chance to get away from where my life had fallen apart. To start another in the West. This was his moment of complete triumph. He knew I wouldn’t take it, because we both knew he’d locked me in Mokotów for ever. He’d even left me with the key. I hold it still, in my hand.
END OF TRANSCRIPTION (4h.56)
Chapter Thirty
The Polana file named SABINA as Father Nicodem Kaminsky According to his ‘Statement of Intent’, written in 1949 and carefully filed away in the dossier bearing hi
s chosen code-name, he’d been a dedicated communist since reading the Manifesto of Marx and Engels, considering its trenchant paragraphs to be a ‘watershed document in the history of social, political and economic thinking’. Fair enough, thought Anselm; but he’d volunteered his services to the organs of State Security. He’d wanted to do his bit in the struggle between the age-old servants of Capital and the newly woken brotherhood of oppressed Labour. He’d counted the cost of losing; and a price was to be paid for the winning.
‘He wrote it with his own hand,’ observed Anselm, recalling the precise signature. ‘He chose his own words. He knew what securing the win would involve.’
‘And he lost.” observed Sebastian, drily ‘Now he picks up the tab:
Sebastian was lodged at his cramped desk.’ slowly turning the pages of an orange folder. Stripped of their plastic sacks, SABINA’s massive output lay on the floor like columns of paving stones in a builder’s yard. For an hour and a half Sebastian had been leafing through selected volumes, murmuring to himself, occasionally swearing under his breath. Legs crossed in an armchair, Anselm had reviewed Róża’s statement, his gaze shifting on occasion to the night sky and the fallen stars on the streets below.
‘And to think … he’s one of my lot, a Gilbertine,’ said Anselm, ruefully. ‘Where are the Jesuits when you need them?’
Father Kaminsky’s short manifesto revealed that the priest had left his monastery before the war and never returned. His political convictions would not sanction a ‘self-interested’ withdrawal from the crisis. The forging of a new future, built on the disillusionment of yesterday, required ‘uncompromising engagement with the times’. He had committed himself to social action within the concrete circumstances of history.
The Day of the Lie Page 18
