The Day of the Lie (15 page)

On entering the nursery
the following morning, Róża looked as usual to the cot and then towards
the window — only this time she saw nothing but a cloudy sky She banged into
the nurse as she ran towards the dismal light. Gripping the bars she stared, unable
to believe her eyes, She slowly breathed in, speaking into her lungs:

‘No, no, no, no no …’
It was as though they’d flattened Warsaw once more. They’d cut down the cherry
tree. Róża almost heard a voice: this was Brack’s reply to her speech in
the interrogation room. He was showing her the limits of commitment and
sacrifice, freely chosen: first, he’d removed Aniela and now he’d taken the
tree. Where would he stop? When she had nothing left? That afternoon she was
brought to the interrogation room.

‘We’re not going to let
you out until you tell us where to find the Shoemaker,’ said Brack.

Róża was shaking
slightly With all her heart she regretted her defiance while crouched on the
stool. She’d got carried away, one word following another, failing to remember
that for Brack the argument was concluded the day they’d taken different
directions in the sewer. He watched her, running a finger thoughtfully across
his bottom lip, and said, ‘You got something wrong the other day, during that
lecture on winter and spring. You see, we
can
keep you here for ever.

Róża looked
vacantly at the desk, the lamp, the paper, the pencil.

‘For ever,’
he
repeated, quietly.

Róża could only
think of the faint breeze that had freed the tiny petals. They’d flown away The
tree’s fingers hadn’t got the strength to hold on.

‘Despite everything, Róża,
I want to help you. Even though you won’t help me, I still want to help you. If
you won’t speak to me about the Shoemaker, if your commitment and sacrifice
demand only what you freely choose —’ his voice dropped a tone — ‘then let the
child go.

Róża’s lips
shivered.

‘Yes, that’s what I
said. Let it go. Don’t keep it in this forsaken place.’ He pushed back his
chair and came from behind Major Strenk’s desk. Kneeling beside her, he growled
with naked desperation. ‘Don’t let another life suffer.
We’ve
made
different choices,
we
face the consequences, and each of us must do what
we
have to do, but don’t let those decisions destroy this defenceless
child —’ a wavering hand touched Róża’s shoulder; she smelled his sweat
and the violent aftershave — ‘don’t create another victim. We’re living through
a terrible time, with terrible costs, and we’ve taken opposing sides that set
us against each other, to the death, for something that we both believe is
better, but there is something we can agree upon. We can do something
unquestionably …
good;
we can salvage something
innocent
from
the bitterness and hatred, the confusion and the uncertainty. Help me save
your child from what we’ve both known: the orphanage. Let me find a father, a
mother … a home.’

Brack strode back behind
the desk. His voice altered, his face distorted, his green-brown eyes levelled
and blind.

‘I said we can keep you
here for ever.’ A drawer opened slowly ‘You won’t be called for questioning
again. Ask for me if you have anything to say Make the choice:

Do I betray Father Nicodem and bring them
within one step of the Shoemaker, or do I keep my child? The priest had weighed
her strength, but what about his? Could she pass on the obligation to suffer?

Whichever way Róża
looked, she only saw catastrophic loss. If she gave in and brought them to
Father Nicodem, she’d keep her child but negate the meaning of Pavel’s death,
and the child would almost certainly grow up to condemn her decision. If she
remained loyal to the Shoemaker’s cause then Pavel’s death might retain its
significance, but she’d remain in prison, with their child eventually
transferred to the care of some unfeeling institution. Would her child thank
her for that noble decision? She thought not. And that left a middle way —
loyalty to her beliefs at the cost of her child, a sacrifice the child would
never know about; for her child would grow in ignorance of the past, loved by
another mother and a living father.

We can keep you here
for ever.

There was no law.
They
were the law Could her child wait until tomorrow, until that springtime? As
if a window had blown open, Róża’s mind turned to the cherry tree. She saw
the burst of wind and the flight of pink butterflies. She felt a deep pain at
her side; a hand went to her stomach as if to hold herself together. In the
morning she asked to see Lieutenant Brack.

‘If I agree … can I
keep in touch with my child? Can I write a—’

‘No, I’m sorry.’ Brack’s
fingers were knitted, his arms resting on his desk.

‘Will I get any
information —’ Róża began to squirm, her face breaking into creases of
supplication — ‘a photograph, maybe … once in a while … just a little
something to let me know that—’

‘It’s just not possible.’

Róża felt like she
was sinking to the bottom of an ocean, not breathing, her eyes wide, her lungs
full of water. ‘Do I have a say in which family my—’

‘I’m sorry.

‘Years from now, can I
ask for a meeting, even for a few minutes, just a—’

‘No.’ Brack slowly
raised his eyes. ‘There’s a system, Róża. These matters are dealt with by
the appropriate State department. Applicants who want to adopt are assessed for
their suitability. It’s only good people who apply you must know that; people
who are hungry to give, who long to receive —’ he seemed to check himself, not
wanting emotion to contaminate his official declarations — ‘people who will
raise a child far from harm. He weakened, ‘It’s another world out there, Róża
… another world.’

An employee of the
relevant department came the following day, a short spectacled man with a tatty
leather briefcase, its top flap curving out at the ends like a huge shred of
dried orange peel. Food stains peppered the dull shine of his tie. A waistcoat
button was missing. Plump hairy fingers gripped the pen that filled in the
forms. He seemed to talk to himself under his breath, but Róża couldn’t
make out any words. Her attention settled on the perspiration over his top lip.

‘Name,’ he said, when he
got to the right column. ‘You’ll have picked a name, of course?’

‘None.’

‘None?’

Róża spelled out
the word. ‘N-o-n-e.’

‘Fine.’ He thought for a
moment. ‘I’ll just put your surname, then.’

‘No, you won’t.’

He mumbled about the
irregularity, wanting his papers well in order.

‘You’ll need to sign.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Initials? Two small
letters?’

‘Nothing.’

Róża slowly opened
her hands. She looked down, seeing they were empty. There would be no fine
thread of attachment; nothing that would ever allow anyone to uncover the birth
in prison to a murdered father; nothing that would ever lead her child back to
a deranged mother in a damp cell.

‘You’re probably right,’
said the official, throwing caution to the wind. ‘Keep well out, that’s what I
say Leave the mite unencumbered.’

Róża sat
motionless, feeling the weight and silence of the ocean all around her. She was
sinking slowly into the sand. Sediment clouded her mind. The little man ticked
some boxes and then closed the folder, slid it into his briefcase and stood up.

‘Well done,’ he said,
dabbing his mouth with a crumpled handkerchief. He seemed surprised that a
social degenerate had been capable of an act of common sense. ‘You made the
right decision.’

At the door, he turned,
nodding profound assurances, like a nurse saying the scratch will heal. A guard
appeared, summoning Róża with a lazy hand. They walked side by side down
the corridor, retracing the route to her cell. Passing a barred window on the
floor below, Róża slowed. Beyond the prison wall she’d glimpsed the grubby
bureaucrat nodding more assurances to a slender woman dressed in a long dark
coat. Her face was pale and drawn; her hair short and black. Head bobbing, he
handed over the child as if it were a prize in a raffle. The guard’s hand
closed around her elbow.

‘Can’t I watch to say
goodbye?’ she whispered.

‘Back to your cell.’

Moments later the door
slammed shut.

The lock turned.

All at once, Róża
seemed to surface from the deep. She sucked in the air and fell on her hands
and knees. Sputtering and gasping, she rolled over, digging her nails into her
breasts and stomach. The other women watched, expressionless, lined around the
room like tied sacks of refuse. Róża couldn’t weep. She had no tears left.
When all the noise had been expelled, she went to sleep.

‘Mojeska.’

Six months had passed,
the empty hours falling away like water from a dripping tap. Róża hadn’t
spoken a word to anyone. She seemed not to hear what was said to her. She’d
eaten mechanically with a voracious appetite. She’d left the wall unscratched.
A deathly composure had displaced all her emotions.

‘Mojeska, out,’ repeated
the voice, louder.

She looked up. The cell
door was open. A guard was signalling her into the corridor. Without speaking,
she obeyed. They went down some stairs to a room where her photograph was
taken. Then, with a shove, she stumbled through a door into the main yard. The
sun crashed upon her head like the blow of a mallet. She felt a cool breeze and
her skin tingled. The guard was moving quickly.

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.