The Day of the Lie

by William Brodrick

  After further frantic enquiries it transpired she’d been taken to a holding cell two floors down. Strenuous representations from Sebastian, Celina and John, with a brisk appearance from Madam Czerny eventually secured her release after forty-five minutes. Yes, criminal charges might be pressed. No, you can’t have it back when you leave the building. Yes, the court will be informed of Róża’s conduct.

  ‘Why did you bring it?’ exclaimed Sebastian when they were settled in the conference room. ‘What was going through your mind?’

  ‘I just wanted to return it,’ she said, completely unflustered. ‘I never managed to find a use for it:

  ‘Return it? Who to?’

  Róża didn’t answer. She looked different … younger than the night before. Just as striking was her appearance: the Jaeger dress had been left in a wardrobe, along with the accessories. She’d put on rough and ready clothes, as if she were off to the market: black woollen trousers that had lost their front pleats; a loose grey woollen jumper, darned at the elbows; a white blouse. On the floor by her feet was a plastic bag bulging with old newspapers. One of the more enthusiastic policemen had raised the possibility of poisoned ink. She was lucky they’d returned it without insisting on forensic examination.

  ‘I was only thinking the other day — when that professor from Kraków was describing the old days — I was saying to myself, this isn’t really working.’

  ‘What isn’t?’ asked Sebastian.

  ‘The trial. It’s just not what I’d expected and hoped for. It’s narrow, somehow I can’t find myself in what’s happening in the courtroom. It’s as though something’s missing. You see, unless you were there, you can’t imagine what it was like. It was so much worse than any list of wrongs. It was a climate. And I don’t want justice simply for what happened to Pavel. It has to reach wider than his or my experience.’

  The walls were white, the lighting harsh. They were seated at a round conference table, Róża somehow at its head, though she sat to one side as if she’d just dropped in and might well leave at any moment. She was leading the meeting, but in a way foreign to any professional lawyer.

  ‘Róża,’ began Sebastian, like a fisherman, net in hand, watching the big one glinting within reach, ‘don’t do this, listen to me—’

  ‘No, Sebastian, you listen. I know what I’m doing. I know how to get the right kind of justice:

  ‘So the trial goes on?’ Sebastian’s relief was only marginally in advance of his confusion.

  ‘Yes, but not according to the usual rules. I’m going to run a trial within a trial, only don’t tell Madam Czerny If she didn’t understand the bullet, we’re not going to see eye to eye on my kind of gun.

  Róża’s relaxed appearance, coupled with her confidence, was at stark variance with the tension in the room. Even Celina did not know her mother’s intentions. John was frowning behind his glasses. No one dared speak. Róża was in control of a parallel legal universe that only she could understand. She began to explain, slowly.

  ‘I intend to silence Otto Brack, but not by using his file,’ she said, coming closer, leaning both elbows on the table. ‘A family’s tragic past? Strenk’s reports? His ignorance? That’s their way I have another.’

  Róża became precise in her movements: the slight angle of the head as if she were aiming, the narrowed eye, one raised finger …

  ‘You must understand that for Brack this is not a trial,’ she said, dispassionately ‘It is an interrogation, and he knows all about those. They were his bread and butter. He’s at home. Only this time it’s his turn to answer the questions. And he wants to. He’s waiting for Madam Czerny to try and trip him up, to start wearing him down with her clout, with the same, sudden shift in moods that he’d learned from Strenk — from surprise to boredom, from loathing to indignation.’ Róża slowly shook her head. ‘There may have been a time when he feared the court, but not any more. His scheme has done its work. The other side didn’t catch him. He’s lived a free life. What’s at stake now is what he believes.’ She turned to Sebastian at her side. ‘Which is why I don’t think he’ll pull some trick out of his bag to smear Pavel’s memory. He intends to state his case. He wants Pavel to be who he was, so he can say he was someone different.’

  Still no one dared to make a contribution.

  ‘If I give evidence,’ she said, deliberately her eyes roving round the table, ‘he gets a right of reply If I speak about the execution of Pavel, so will he. If I speak of those bad days, so will he. He’ll be able to match me, word for word. And I don’t want to hear what he has to say I’ve heard it all before. He hopes to redeem what I would condemn and of course, he can’t: the court won’t legalise his murdering, but what matters to him is that he spoke. He got the chance to claim the light before he was cast into the darkness. Make no mistake about it, he wants the condemnation. He wants to sink to his knees, like Pavel, and die a martyr to his cause. And I’m not going to let him.’

  ‘What are you planning, Róża?’ asked Sebastian, for everyone in the room.

  ‘For Pavel, to pull a different kind of trigger; for me, to turn a different kind of key’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By giving evidence to which there is no reply’

  Anselm glanced at Sebastian and Celina. Their eyes darted back. John nudged his glasses.

  ‘I’m going to name his crime within the greater crime of an era. To those who weren’t there, it will seem trivial and that I’m a silly old woman who’s lost her mind. But he will hear and understand; and he won’t be able to say anything in return.’

  Róża reached for her plastic bag and stood up. Anselm watched her move to the door as if she was off to the market to pick up a few bargains. On the way she’d throw all those papers in the recycling bin. Turning abruptly as if she’d forgotten to say the obvious, she said, ‘At the same time, there is, of course, this other trial, the one being led by Madam Czerny. That goes on as if nothing was happening. And it will conclude with the one thing he didn’t give me, which he doesn’t want, and which he’ll have to accept: a kind of mercy He’ll walk away a free man — apparently and actually reprieved. But within himself, he’ll be imprisoned for the rest of his life, listening to the echo of his own dead voice.’ She made a humph and turned the door handle. ‘It shouldn’t take too long.’

  ‘Róża,’ called Sebastian. ‘Wait a moment, don’t go. Why any sort of mercy?’

  He was robed, ready for court. Unless Anselm was mistaken, he was wearing a new suit. This was his day too.

  ‘Because of Strenk’s reports, his family’s past and his ignorance,’ replied Róża. ‘I’m glad you brought them to me. I think they should be taken into account.’

  ‘But there’ll be no conviction.’

  ‘Sebastian, listen to me. He’s angling with you as he angled with me. Don’t get caught by what he’s flashing in front of your eyes. Look deeper, look further. You’ll see, my way is best.’

  With that confident declaration, Róża opened the door and stepped into the bustle of the court corridor, leaving everyone behind as if they had nothing to do with the proceedings. One by one, Sebastian, Celina and John left the conference room. Anselm smiled to himself, quietly admiring, reminded of Róża’s original statement. She had a certain style and it had just repeated itself Róża had planned a deeper trial within a trial; a quest for a deeper justice. The two would coincide, nicely Justice and Mercy would meet. And when they did, maybe those five musicians in Praga would spring to life: the time of music was almost upon them.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Anselm adjusted his earpiece and settled forward, the window over the court reminding him of that terrifying painting by Breughel where Mad Meg leads an army of women to pillage the bowels of hell. Apparently messages had been sent to Barbara Novak and Lidia Zelk, old Friends of the Shoemaker: they were down there somewhere, waiting for Róża to arrive and lead them on. So was Aniela Kolba, who’d changed her mind about keeping away So was Irina Orlosky cr
ouched on the edge of her seat. Madam Czerny bi-focals on the end of her nose, was leafing through a statement, presumably Meg’s, rehearsing a strategy of questions.

  Brack was motionless. He sat with horrible stillness, like a careless lord surrounded by frantic peasants, his hands resting on his leather bag. Mr Fischer twirled a pen between his fingers, tugging occasionally at his yellow and green cuffs. He wasn’t worried either. This was a case he could only lose. Then Anselm made a start: slouching by the far wall like a bored demon sat Marek Frenzel, turned out by Burberry He was in trouble, though. Something was stuck between his back teeth.

  The court became quiet. The judges were seated on their hi-tech bench, the computer screens flickering. The jury were ready to listen. The usher’s voice called the last witness for the prosecution.

  ‘Róża Mojeska.’

  Almost immediately the ordinary procedure was upturned. When Róża reached the lectern she was offered a chair. She refused and asked, instead, for a table. The request was granted with a kind of puzzled tolerance, an attitude that prevailed while Róża laid out her tatty newspapers as if she were a street vendor near a railway station. And yet, this protracted activity, undertaken slowly lent a curious authority to this Mad Meg. She was setting up her own stand. There were two courts in the room, one facing the other. When Róża had finished her preparations, Madam Czerny blanched hair astray rose slowly, gently swinging her bifocals in one hand.

  ‘Your name, please.’

  ‘Róża Mojeska.’

  ‘Date of birth?’

  ‘Major Strenk asked that.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Major Strenk. Always names, always dates of birth:

  ‘I’m afraid we keep records.’

  ‘Does it really matter?’

  The prosecutor had a ready indulgent smile. She was used to difficult witnesses. From long experience she knew how to handle them. ‘Yes. For the court. We note what you say.’

  ‘So did Major Strenk.’

  ‘Thank you.

  ‘You’re nothing like him, of course, and I’m sorry for any comparison. The eighth of March, nineteen twenty-nine:

  The concession was entirely formal. Róża had demonstrated —right at the outset — that she was curiously adjacent to the system; that she would respectfully co-operate with its mechanisms; but that she intended to introduce some changes.

  ‘You were brought up in Saint Justyn’s Orphanage for Girls?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You fought in the Uprising of nineteen forty-four?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Your function?’

  ‘Ammunition carrier.

  Even the judges laughed. It took time for the quiet to return and find its depth.

  ‘You were deported to the transit camp at Pruszków?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘From there you heard the explosions as Warsaw was razed to the ground?’

  ‘I have never forgotten the sound.’

  ‘You returned to rebuild it?’

  ‘With my own hands.’

  Anselm found Madam Czerny totally intimidating, even when she was being nice. The bleached hair evoked a scouring personality; someone who got the stains off a burnt pan that anyone else would throw in the bin. But Róża was wholly undisturbed. She seemed to be giving the court only what she wanted, even though she had no control over the questions. And so the two women, prosecutor and witness, came by careful, mutually agreed steps to the Shoemaker Operation. In a series of brisk exchanges Róża confirmed her recruitment in 1951, her arrest following that of her husband, and her incarceration in Mokotów prison.

  ‘Before dealing with the grave events which are the subject of the indictment against this defendant,’ said Madam Czerny addressing more the jury than Róża, ‘I think it may be of assistance to the court if you would explain, in simple terms, what the Shoemaker meant to you. You had never met him. You had only read his words. I ask because your answer will explain not only why you were prepared to face imprisonment but — and of great importance for the purpose of this trial — it will illuminate the motives of Otto Brack, the defendant; for the crimes alleged against him spring more from his quarrel with the Shoemaker than your role as his publisher.’

  This was the moment Róża had been waiting for. She appeared to pounce, though she merely gripped the lectern, fingers widely spaced in the manner of an embrace. Anselm had the strongest intimation that the trial within a trial was about to begin, that Róża’s unconventional procedure was now underway She’d said it wouldn’t take that long.

  ‘It was a matter of hope,’ she said, simply ‘The Shoemaker wrote about hope. You can all come and see me afterwards, if you like, and I’ll show you what he said —’ she pointed towards the covered table — you can read him for yourself. He named hope so much better than I could. The word occurs on every page of every edition. I’ll give you some examples:

  Róża leaned over her stand to find selected copies of Freedom and Independence while Madam Czerny, reduced to a spectator, shifted on her feet: this kind of thing was outside her experience. She was about to intervene when a knowing look from the presiding judge forestalled her. Let the old woman have some latitude, he implied, smoothing a heavy moustache. We can wait. She’ll be easier to lead once she’s had her say.

  ‘These quotations are all taken from nineteen fifty-one, before I was arrested,’ said Róża, opening three different editions on the lectern. ‘Remember, this was during the Terror. People with a mind of their own didn’t dare to whisper what they were thinking. This is what the Shoemaker said to them: “Hope is among you.”‘ She paused. “‘During a time of Occupation hope is our national sovereignty.”‘ Another pause. ‘And finally my favourite: “Hope is a tree in an open field. All the birds of the air settle in its branches.”‘

  Madam Czerny’s deep voice sounded loud enough to scare them off. ‘And now, mindful of those helpful observations, we can turn to the matters set forth in the indictment.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I’m afraid the more I’ve listened, the more I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s just not wide enough.’

  The bleached prosecutor settled her glasses on her long nose. Sebastian, hunched at her side, lowered his head. Brack looked towards Róża, implacable but inquiring. The entire room was spellbound by the hiatus. Just as the presiding judge leaned forward to speak, Róża snatched the initiative from his open mouth, underlining the culmination of her evidence.

  ‘A man can shoot the birds from the trees … and I’ve seen them fall to the ground.’ Her tone had changed colour and pitch; it was dark and low, now ‘He can even rob the nests that are left behind. But this defendant went one step further.’ She turned towards Brack and raised her arm, pointing at him with an open hand. ‘This is the greater crime he must answer for. It includes all the others. He cut into the sap. He cut down the tree itself.’

  Brack stared ahead. He didn’t seem to react, though Róża’s accusation had echoed round the room. ‘She was right,’ murmured Anselm to himself. ‘He’s just waiting for his chance to reply’ So this must be the moment: she’s turning a kind of key pulling a kind of trigger.

  ‘Let us take things a little more slowly and in detail,’ came Madam Czerny’s reassuring, papering-over—the—cracks voice. But there was a shake to the timbre. The deep cadences had gone. She’d picked up Róża’s statement prepared for the trial and Anselm knew what the prosecutor — reeling behind the bluff of calm — was thinking: she had to pull the witness into line, damn quick, and forcefully if necessary; but he also knew that Róża wouldn’t be moving an inch. She wasn’t singing from Madam Czerny’s hymn sheet; Róża had another one. And Anselm knew she hadn’t finished, either, despite what she then said.

  ‘I have nothing further to say’

  Mr Fischer looked up as if the lights had come on at two in the morning. Momentarily he was caught in the gl
are of unimaginable good luck: a win was careering straight towards him, a win he’d never thought possible. Blinking, recovered, coughing and suave, he came to his feet, oblivious that his client had suddenly begun to move, writhing in his suit.

  ‘Moved as we all are by the words of the witness, I’m obliged to remark, however, that the crime she identifies — grave though it be — is not known to the law’ He reminded Anselm of the kind of opponent he’d most disliked: denigrating in the robing room and then fussy in their courtesy after a case abruptly turned their way He tugged a cuff into place, gloating. ‘I’d be grateful if those representing the interests of prosecution would clarify — for the avoidance of all doubt — that this lady has indeed completed her evidence. The court will anticipate that in those curious—’

  ‘I said I had finished,’ replied Róża, speaking for herself. ‘There is nothing more to be said.’

  ‘In that case,’ began Mr Fischer, tugging the other cuff, ‘I would have thought that the proper way forward — in the interests of justice — is for Madam Czerny to reconsider her position and that of those whom she represents. I’m reluctant to state the obvious to someone as distinguished as my learned colleague, but it would seem there is no lawful basis upon which the continued prosecution of my client can proceed. It is difficult to know precisely …’

  Mr Fischer lost his thread because Róża had reached down to her table and picked up another edition of Freedom and Independence. Again, the presiding judge raised a calming hand, his expression as sympathetic as it was sad: he’d recognised what the whole court must know; Róża Mojeska, the survivor of the Terror, had suffered profound, enduring wounds to the mind. She’d lost her grip; she was throwing away her only chance of vindication. He sighed, audibly surrendering the collapse of the trial to the one person responsible. Let her have the last word, he seemed to say.

  ‘Let me read you the concluding reflections of the Shoemaker,’ said Róża, turning to the inside back page. ‘This is what he said, in late nineteen eighty-two. He hasn’t spoken since. “One day we will win. It is inevitable. But then we must turn to the question of justice. We will have to look back, never forgetting how difficult it was to steer a morally straight course when, in the day to day, we were obliged to live a double life, one in private and the other in public. We will need to recognise that we all, to a greater or lesser extent, bolstered up the system we now accuse. We will have to recall that there was a chasm between thinking and speaking, believing and doing and that not many of us managed to cross the divide without a fall. Each of these painful truths, when recollected, should make passing judgement a delicate exercise. Remember: collaboration had a grading. Let our reprimand be proportionate. Name wrongs and move on.”‘ Róża turned the page, coming to the final paragraph. “‘But what happens when we are obliged to judge someone and, try as we might, we cannot find the shades of grey known to us all? When there is no name to describe the wrong? When we linger in mourning? What are we to do? I have this one final thought: our justice can never be like theirs. It can never be a process without hope. There must always remain the possibility, however slender, that in certain strange circumstances even great crimes can be met with an even stranger mercy.