The Day of the Lie (41 page)

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 crouched 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.