Rage

by Zygmunt Miloszewski

  “Uh-huh. Will you be back at any particular time, or can I go to the pool?”

  Her tone left him in no doubt that she hadn’t the slightest wish to go to the pool. She was just letting him know how hurt and disappointed she’d be if she spent another evening alone.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Only the bedside light was on in Hela’s room. She was lying on the bed in a thin jacket, as if that were the only cover available.

  “Will you come sit with me?”

  He sat down beside her.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I’ve got a headache. I think it’s the climate. Did you know the German soldiers stationed here got a bonus for working in tough conditions? The damp climate ruined their health. It’s making it impossible for me to concentrate on my assignment.”

  He felt irritated. He was about to erupt and tell her the colorful anecdote was about another city, not Olsztyn. And then he would ask, What damn assignment? She had just been chatting away in the kitchen. But he avoided open conflict. He could never find a reasonable focal point for his conversations with his daughter when it came to disagreements, especially emotionally tricky ones, which demanded a frank and serious talk. Either he escaped into aggression, or he withdrew into formulaic chitchat about nothing, “How’s school?—great—super.”

  “What’s the assignment?”

  “We’ve got to do a presentation on a world-famous Pole.”

  “Lech Wałęsa or John Paul II?”

  She straightened up, quite briskly for someone whose health had been ruined by three months in Olsztyn.

  “Well, actually I’d rather not do them. I found various things on the Internet, including a presentation about Aleksander Wolszczan. You know, the astronomer who . . .”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll show you.”

  She reached for her laptop.

  “But I don’t want to do Wolszczan. There’s this article here, look . . .”

  “The thing is . . . my pasta . . . ,” he stammered. If anyone had recorded this and posted it on the Internet, plenty of Polish jailbirds locked up by Prosecutor Teodor Szacki would have rolled on the floor laughing.

  She gave him a look, partly disbelief, partly inquiry. Her mother always used to look at him that way.

  “Marie Curie?” he finally asked.

  “She was a great scholar. A woman. A feminist. The first woman to win a Nobel Prize, and the only person to win it twice. I thought they could do with a little gender ideology out here in the sticks. I’ll show you a clip from the documentary I found. I want to start with that. I’m so excited, but at the new school I’ve got to make a good impression right off the bat. You see?”

  Downstairs the door slammed. It was going to be a long evening.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tuesday, November 26, 2013

  On the anniversary of Adam Mickiewicz’s death, Tina Turner is celebrating her seventy-fourth birthday. Human Rights Network is warning about the scale of rape in Syria, where violence against women is being used as a weapon. As extramarital sex is prohibited there, a victim of rape is deemed guilty of breaking the law. Europe still has a faint hope that the Ukrainian authorities will change their minds about signing the association agreement. The deadline is Friday. Also, the Scottish First Minister officially announces a referendum in which the Scots will decide whether to leave the United Kingdom, and Pope Francis criticizes the cult of money. In Poland the debate continues on an act awaiting presidential signature, which is designed to send extremely dangerous criminals to special psychiatric institutions when they have completed their prison sentences. In Olsztyn, city of contrasts, the theme of the day is the remote past and the distant future. Archaeologists have dug up a Gothic pillar beside the High Gate, the remains of a medieval bridge. It looks as if hundreds of years ago the River Łyna followed a different course than was previously assumed. The local authorities have signed an agreement to start building an international airport at Szymany in the spring; the rumor on the streets is that once the work is completed, secret CIA prisoners will finally be processed through the airport in a comfortable fashion. Throughout Poland the weather is quite good and sunny for this time of year, but in Warmia there is fog and freezing drizzle.

  1

  As he sat sipping a mug of coffee in his kitchen that was the size of a studio apartment, he pretended to be absorbed in the Olsztyn Gazette to avoid taking part in the conversation about emotions that was hanging in the air. His camouflage was extremely weak—no one on earth could possibly be so interested in the Olsztyn Gazette. Szacki had often wondered who kept an eye on the authorities around here, since the local media were busy—as in this edition—with public polls for Mailman of the Year. He skimmed over the typical article about domestic violence—three thousand new reported incidents in the region, and a sensible policeman was appealing for vigilance because the victims and offenders are very rarely from pathological families. His gaze was held for a while by a dramatic piece of photojournalism about the rescue of an elk that had gotten stuck in a mud-filled hole. He thought he’d better hide the paper from Hela, or else she’d roll her eyes again and insist she was being made to live in the backwoods. The elk had been rescued by some hunters, which prompted Szacki to suspect they had shoved the animal in there in the first place, to be able to say afterward on TV that they weren’t just a bunch of testosterone-fueled maniacs who like to do a bit of killing over vodka and a bowl of bigos. Nothing of the kind—they go around saving animals.

  “Is there something about you in there?”

  He looked up in surprise.

  “No, why do you ask?”

  “Adela said you were on Channel One yesterday.”

  He shrugged, leafed through the rest of the paper, and tossed it aside theatrically.

  “Somehow, from the outside world, this city looks more interesting than it really is. Women killing their children, bullies getting lynched, mayors shoving their hands into their secretaries’ panties. Where’s all that?”

  Żenia cast him a look over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow. It was such a characteristic gesture that she should have had it printed on her business cards.

  “Have you gone crazy? Do you want people to murder children?”

  “Of course not. But if they must, let them do it on my watch. A little mob rule, for instance, like that case in Włodowo where the villagers took the law into their own hands. That would be good.”

  “You’re sick.”

  “You’re looking at it too emotionally. That was a fascinating case, as a story and in legal terms, and what happened? A boozed-up, violent ex-con who was terrorizing the whole neighborhood got killed. No great crime. The culprits spent a few months in jail, and then the president pardoned them, so they didn’t exactly suffer much for their crime.”

  “And quite right, too.”

  “That’s debatable. The public should be informed that they’re not allowed to resolve conflicts by beating people to death with sticks.”

  “You’re talking like a prosecutor.”

  “I wonder why.”

  Szacki got up, straightened his cuffs, and put on his jacket. It was three minutes to eight. He hugged Żenia and gave her an affectionate kiss on the lips. Even in her bare feet she was almost as tall as he was—he liked that.

  “First of all, we need to have that talk. Do you realize that?”

  He reluctantly nodded. He knew.

  “Secondly, you remember the two-minute rule?” She pointed at his mess. Crumbs, spilled coffee, a plate and mug. It occurred to him that most of her statements changed into questions. In a person he was interrogating, he’d take that as a sign of uncertainty, but in her it was a communication technique that forced him to keep saying yes, which meant he ended up agreeing to something he didn’t like.

  So he didn’t say yes.

  “Any task that takes less than two minutes gets done right away, correct? Making life easier for everyone. Now I�
�ve got a question . . .”

  What a surprise.

  “How long does it take to wash a plate, a glass, and a mug? More than two minutes?”

  “I’ve got a job to do.” He pointed at the big station clock hanging above the door.

  “Oh yes,” she said, lowering her voice, “your real, masculine office job. You’ve even got a briefcase, my dear he-man. While I work barefoot at home—I’ve got such a funny girly job, just a hobby really, so I can clean up after you. Get real—we’re not in the ’70s.”

  He felt the bile rising in him. He’d had enough of being bossed around. He’d already put his jacket on. Now he’d have to take it off, remove his cuff links, roll up his sleeves, and wash the dishes. It would only take her a moment—she wouldn’t even notice.

  She glanced over her shoulder and through the window at the prosecution service building, and raised an eyebrow.

  “Just tell me you’ve got to run because you’re afraid of getting stuck in traffic.”

  For some reason that remark caused a red curtain of rage to fall before his eyes. Maybe it wasn’t the ’70s, but everyone deserves a bit of respect.

  “I’ve got a job to do,” he said coldly.

  And left.

  2

  Edmund Falk was already waiting outside his office. As soon as he saw Szacki, he got up and held out a hand. He never said much; if asked a question, he replied politely and sparingly, as if they took a fee from his account with every syllable.

  Szacki opened the door and let the junior prosecutor inside. Falk sat in the seat for clients, immediately took a file out of his briefcase, and silently waited for the signal to present his cases.

  Szacki knew all of Olsztyn’s legal service was laughing at the “King of the Stuffed Shirts” and the “Prince of the Starched Collars,” as they were known. And indeed, there was some truth in it, because if Szacki had had a son, there was no way this son, his own flesh and blood, could have been more like him than Edmund Falk.

  The young lawyer had graduated from the first year of students who must have really wanted and made an effort to become prosecutors. Before then it had been the other way around: the law graduates who went into the prosecution service were often the ones who had failed to get other apprenticeships or didn’t have enough backing or families with the right connections. A few years ago, the prosecution and magistracy apprenticeship had been abolished, and an elite National School of Judiciary and Public Prosecution had been set up.

  Anyone with a degree in law who dreamed of wearing a gown with red or purple trim—the prosecutor’s and magistrate’s court uniforms, respectively—now had to get into the school in Kraków and undergo an arduous three-year marathon of lectures, internships, and exams. But if they survived, they were guaranteed a post as a junior prosecutor. And it was worth the fight—as students they received a large monthly grant; a junior prosecutor’s net salary was more than three thousand zloty per month, and a regional prosecutor’s started at more than four. Maybe not a fortune, but in uncertain times it meant a job, and guaranteed employment in the public sector.

  Two thousand people took the practical and theoretical entrance exams for the National School. Only three hundred were accepted for the first general year. Later on, one hundred and fifty were eliminated, and the rest were polished into legal diamonds. Falk was a representative of the first class to become junior prosecutors, not after three years of apprenticeship—in other words, making the coffee in a regional office—but after three years of hard work. He knew the codes and procedures thoroughly, had been taught to work with victims by the European NGOs and trained in interrogation techniques by instructors from the FBI academy in Quantico. He had done internships at forensic labs, morgues, police stations, prosecution services, and courts at all levels. He had a lifesaving diploma and a first-aid certificate. He knew English to a standard that qualified him to teach it, and he had studied Russian in college because he thought it was the logical choice: for employment at the prosecution service in Olsztyn, which bordered the Kaliningrad district and thus a part of Russia, that particular skill could come in useful. Their delighted boss had also informed Szacki that Falk had been the national junior champion ballroom dancer and was a qualified riding instructor. At the time, Szacki had thought that last item was purely to fulfill the image of a sheriff. He could probably spin a revolver on one finger, too.

  Edmund Falk was a native of Olsztyn. He knew there was a junior prosecutor’s post to be filled in his hometown. And he knew that the principles for assigning the posts were very simple, so he passed his final exams with the best scores in his class. Not because he wanted to come out on top—he just wanted to have first choice. It was a logical decision.

  And then he had arrived in Olsztyn, met the boss, and instead of kissing her ring like she was the Queen Mother, he had set a condition: he was ready to do them the honor of gracing them with his presence as a junior prosecutor, but only if his supervisor was Prosecutor Szacki.

  And so for the first time in his career, Szacki had acquired an apprentice. He hadn’t asked Falk why it mattered to him so much, figuring that Falk would tell him at some point. But he hadn’t.

  “I sorted out the case at Barczewo. They shouldn’t be bothering us again,” said Falk. He never talked about sports or the weather.

  “I interviewed the inmate Grzegorz Jędras and realized his claim was part of a bigger problem that needed to be resolved.”

  Szacki gave him an inquiring look. Jędras’s claim was typical humbug. The man had testified to having converted to Islam, and he claimed to have a deep faith, but the administration wouldn’t accept that and was discriminating against him in terms of religion, refusing to take pork out of his meals or to assign him a cell with a window facing Mecca, or to adapt the daily timetable to the pattern of Islamic prayers. Lately conversions had been a fashionable form of amusement among prisoners—you could always rely on a change of cell or at least a few interviews, and then entertain your pals with the story of how you’d greeted the prosecutor with “Salaam alaikum!”

  “So how did you resolve this problem?” Szacki was trying not to show surprise. He was legalistic himself, but he couldn’t believe Falk had taken the matter seriously.

  “I talked to the warden, and we jointly established that, unfortunately, the geographical position of the Barczewo facility does not allow for anyone to have a cell with a window facing Mecca. So out of concern for the prisoner’s religious freedom, he’ll be urgently transferred to the facility in Sztum. Although in his case, there are no grounds for applying Article 88 of the Executive Penal Code. The warden there was considerate enough to agree to accommodate him in the one block with cells facing Mecca. All meat products are to be eliminated from the prisoner’s diet because we recognized that it’s not possible to monitor the kitchen and the inmates working there closely enough to prevent them from harming Jędras, whether maliciously or accidentally, by including pork in his meals.”

  Szacki nodded his approval, though it cost him a lot to keep a straight face. Falk had torn Jędras to pieces. He had taken him away from his pals and sent him to a prison of ill repute in Sztum. On top of that, he had made him a vegetarian, and out of concern for his faith had placed him in a unit for dangerous criminals. It was an exceptionally dismal place, where they weren’t allowed their own clothes, were forced to undergo a search every time they entered or exited a one-man cell, and defecation was performed under the watchful eye of a camera. Of course, Jędras would defend himself by lodging further appeals, but the wheels of justice turn slowly. In the meantime he was bound to become a militant atheist.

  “Doesn’t it bother you to be working on the edges of the law?” he asked Falk.

  “On paper it all looks like an expression of the greatest concern for the prisoner. I looked for a solution that would not only satisfy Jędras, but also send an obvious signal to other inmates, and that will put an end to wasting the prosecution’s time. The taxpayer has a right
to demand that we keep things in order, not entertain inmates like Jędras. It was the logical solution.”

  Sometimes Szacki understood why the rest of the region called Falk “Pinocchio.” He was really stiff, as if carved out of wood. Others were bothered by his attitude—unfortunately the natural human tendency was to fraternize, make friends, and close the distance. But Szacki was impressed by it.

  “Anything else?”

  “I dismissed the Kiwit case.”

  Szacki asked to be reminded of the details.

  “The day before yesterday, the provincial hospital informed the police that an ambulance had brought in a man with injuries. He had called for help himself. The injuries weren’t life-threatening, but they were serious enough to leave him permanently deaf in the left ear. Witold Kiwit, fifty-two years old, entrepreneur.”

  “What category is that?”

  Falk didn’t hesitate.

  “One hundred and fifty-seven.”

  Szacki agreed. It had been a trick question—in theory, the preceding article, 156, directly mentioned depriving a person of “sight, hearing, speech, or the capacity to procreate,” but from case law it emerged that it had to be total deprivation and not just damage. The difference was considerable—the penalty for 156 was from one to ten years, and for 157 from three months to five years.

  “He refused to be interviewed, and kept insisting that he wasn’t going to press charges.”

  “Scared?”

  “Determined, more like. I explained that this isn’t America, and that it’s our job to prosecute people who stick sharp objects in other people’s ears, because people like that are bad. And not because the injured party wants us to. Then he changed his tune and said it was an accident. He slipped on the ice on his way home and hit his ear on a sharp fence post. He can’t remember where, he was in shock.”

  “Family?”

  “Wife, two sons in high school and middle school.”

  “And what’s his business? Boardinghouse? Café?”