The Day of the Lie (16 page)

‘When she’s made up her
mind, he said, his arched thick eyebrows riding high with affection, ‘there’s
no compromise. I’ve told her a million times: join the Party. The Russians
would let go by the end of the week.’

‘Have you got the bed
yet?’ asked Aniela, over her shoulder. ‘If I told you once I told you twice.
Now—’

‘I’ll be back in half an
hour,’ replied Edward, reaching for his coat and hat. ‘I’ll sort everything
out.’

Edward sorted out a
great deal — far more than the army camp bed that he set up on the other side
of a wardrobe that functioned as a kind of partition in the sitting room,
giving Róża her own private space. Within a week he’d found her a job at
the Dubiński Millinery, a hat-making factory where his sister-in-law
worked as a line manager. Róża, bewildered with gratitude, accepted her
place in this new ordered world. Its structure gave her strength. It roused her
dreams. She went on the night shift so that she could be free during the day
Free to find the State department that dealt with adoptions.

The relevant offices
were situated in a bleak concrete edifice at the end of an alley in a southern
district of the city After being shunted from one room to another, describing
to various administrators along the way the man with the ragged briefcase, she
ended up in the antechamber of Mr P R. Bondel, the Temporary Fourth Assistant
to the Second Deputy Director. The room was small, the walls naked of any
decoration. Two wooden chairs faced a reception desk, behind which sat a woman
with scraped back hair typing feverishly Over her shoulder, Róża saw a
door of frosted glass. Looking at the shadowy figure on the other side, she
explained to the secretary that she wanted to find her child. There’d been a
terrible mistake. The papers had been filled in a short while back and surely— ‘Sorry.’
The woman hit a full stop and looked up, her pointed face frank and
uncompromising. ‘Once the forms are signed it’s just not possible … didn’t
anyone tell you?’

‘Yes,’ replied Róża,
‘but my situation is different. I didn’t sign. It’s complicated. It’s—’

‘Name?’ Simple,
unfortunately the woman’s expression implied.

‘Mojeska, Róża.’

‘Take a seat.’

The woman barely opened
the frosted door, and only managed to slip through the gap because she was so
thin. After a few minutes, she eased herself back into the antechamber and
said, with that same practised finality, ‘Sorry, there really are no
exceptions. Mr Bondel is most sympathetic, but once the forms are completed,
signed or not, there’s no—’

‘I want to see him.’

‘You can’t.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s busy.’

‘I’ll wait.’

‘You’ll be here all day’

‘I’ll stay all week.’

Persuaded that Róża
meant business, the woman quickly nipped inside once more. After some heated
back and forth, the door swung wide open. Behind an enormous desk, like a man
hiding from a Panzer, or maybe his wife, sat the spectacled official who’d come
with his briefcase to Mokotów prison.

‘Do take a seat, Madam,’ he said, rising,
one hand brushing the crumbs off his waistcoat. ‘How very nice to see you
again. Can’t say I thought you’d see the light of day so soon, but there we
are. Glad to know you’ve made your peace with the forces of law and order.
Everyone should get a second chance, that’s what I say …

Róża saw the sweat
on his top lip. He took out a wrinkled handkerchief and dabbed his mouth.

‘It’s not too late,’
said Róża, firmly taking a seat.

‘For what?’

‘Getting back my child.’

‘Ah … that’s
exactly
what my secretary said you’d said. I presumed she’d misunderstood your
meaning. I’m afraid it’s quite out of the question, quite impossible …
altogether —’ he paused, looking for another word, something official or
technical — ‘unfeasible. That’s what it is. Totally unfeasible.’

‘Why?’

With a heavy sigh, he
shoved the handkerchief into his trouser pocket, settling his beetle brows into
a kindly smile for the criminally obtuse. He was used to explaining things
official. And not everyone appreciated the work of the Department. Unsung, it
was.

‘Madam … sorry, what
was the name?’

‘Mojeska, Róża.’

‘Quite right, Madam
Mojeska, you have to understand how these things
work.
You
see,
there’s a
great
demand for an infant, you know, when they’re
young.
Free
of attachment. Wouldn’t know their mother from a spring chicken. Makes life
easier for everyone. The older they get, they don’t hook on that easily And
that makes them hard to place. It takes time and folk don’t always want to
wait. They want a simple life. Sad, but true. A child’s a child, that’s what I
say but not everyone agrees with me. And you see Madam … Majewsky … the
facts are your child would have been placed within days. Even before I got back
to the office. The queue for infants reaches from here to Kraków That’s just an
expression, mind you, we have a national remit, of course.’ but—’

‘The papers were only
filled in seven months ago,’ objected Róża. ‘I was tricked and misled. You
have to help me.’ I beg you. Tell me who has my child. If they knew what had
happened, they’d understand, I’m sure of it … and they can stay at the front
of the queue, there are other children out there. But we have to find my child.
I’m free now … I’m here’

Mr Bondel nodded a
painful recognition of the fact but then began to shake his head as if
reverting to the thrust of his previous expostulations. He waited and waited,
expecting Róża to rise and leave, but she only stared back, resolute,
uncomprehending … obtuse, criminally incapable of falling into line. Mr
Bondel thought for a moment and then a sort of light brightened his official
regret. ‘Perhaps, this once, I can do something.’ Pondering, a finger flicked
his lips. ‘What was the name?’

‘I’ve already told you.’

‘Not yours, the child’s.
What was written down on the forms?’

‘None. I didn’t choose
one.’

‘All right, no grave
problem —’ he spoke as if it most certainly was — ‘that’s what we might call a
hiccup. But we have the surname.’ of course, so we can—’

‘No.” said Róża,
paling. ‘The space was left empty …’

‘Ali.’ His hairy fingers
tapped the desk. ‘Now that causes me some difficulty Considerable, I’d say The
name’s the key without the key I can’t open the lock:

‘What are you talking
about?’

‘Filing systems, Madam Majewsky
Formalities,.’ He lowered his head as if to duck the attention of his secretary
‘Frankly I’ll be honest. I’ll break a rule to show my goodwill. I remember
placing your child. Nice woman, expensive shoes. Handmade, I’d say Classy all
round. But I wouldn’t know her from Adam … or Eve, for that matter. I’ve no
idea where she came from or where she went. I never do. From our end, once
everyone’s happy, we send off the forms to Section Three and they put them in a
red binder, but without a name, well.’ what’s to be done? There’s nothing to
ask for. I can’t ask them to find something if there’s no label. Can’t use the
index. Can’t look up “None”. God knows where they’d put “None”. Never thought
of that one.’

‘But that’s not
possible,’ protested Róża. ‘All it takes is a little—’

‘Now don’t you start
blaming yourself.’ Madam.” said Mr Bondel.’ freeing the bottom button of his
waistcoat. ‘There’s nothing we can do. None is none. I shouldn’t have raised
your hopes, that was my fault and I ask your pardon. But you can rest assured
that all the children who pass across this desk go to the best of homes —’ he
tapped his fingers as if they were tiny feet — ‘and the lady I met was
altogether captivating. A cut above your usual—’

‘But I was tricked,’
whispered Róża.’ Harshly.

‘Madam Majewsky you got
out of prison.” he whispered back, kindly ‘Your child did, too. Be grateful. It
doesn’t always end that well, as you should know’

‘I was tricked.’

Mr Bondel’s tone dropped
even lower. ‘Madam, allow me to give you some sound advice of a general
character. Always fill in the forms. Tick the boxes. Sign the bottom. It’s what
makes the world go round.’

‘I want my child back,’
persisted Róża.

‘Unfeasible.’

‘You have to listen to
me, forms or no forms—’

‘No,
you
listen.’
Mr Bondel’s patience with the criminal classes abruptly snapped. Disgust and
disapproval, previously suppressed.’ boiled to the surface, making scum of his
certified courtesies. ‘I shouldn’t have seen you, and I did. I’m a family man,
and 1 felt sorry for you. But
no one
can help you find nothing. Your
bird has flown. You let it go.’ not me.’ He stood up, short and ridiculously
imperious, crumbs trapped in a fold of his waistcoat. ‘Olga,’ he bawled. ‘Madam
Majewsky is leaving.’

The door opened. Róża
walked hesitantly away from the man who’d filled in the forms, turning round
when she reached the thin, terrified woman.

‘My name is Mojeska,’
said
Róża,
quietly, to Mr Bondel. ‘M—o—j—e—s-k-a.’

‘Quite right. I’ll make
a note. Olga, jot that down, will you?’

When she’d left the
antechamber and walked twenty or so yards down the corridor.’ Róża
swivelled on her heels and strode back to the reception desk, her limbs
shaking, her teeth grinding. The lean assistant recoiled and made a weak scream
as Róża reached over and grabbed the typewriter. In a wild swinging
movement, ablaze with rage, she hurled the machine straight through the panel
of frosted glass.

Róża stepped out of the alley and
began her long walk back to the Old Ghetto, choked by impotence, blinded by
tears. The Temporary Fourth Assistant to the Second Deputy Director knew
exactly how to find her child, but he wouldn’t; and probably couldn’t. He was
just as much a cog in the wheel as she was. They turned in opposing directions,
that’s all, their teeth meshing in a kind of obedience to the vast grinding
machine that shaped their lives, determining what was possible, establishing an
order of right and wrong, free from appeal or question. The only difference was
that Mr Bondel moved willingly In a way he was a collaborator — the most
contemptible kind because he knew he would never be blamed: all he’d ever done
was go through the motions. Just then, Róża’s hand found the bullet in her
pocket. Pausing in the middle of the street, she took it out.

Brack said it had been
meant for her.

Why, then, had he kept
her alive?

Róża stumbled on,
turning the thing around in her hand. He’d kept her alive not from any residue
of affection or friendship, but because he hoped she’d lead him one day to the
Shoemaker. His commitment to the machine was without limitation. He would never
tire or waver in his purpose. Róża was only alive so that someone else
might be brought to death. At that instant, she felt watched, tabbed and
tailed. She heard the clatter of a typewriter and the clang of the return
carriage. Her file would never be closed.

‘Why have you gone this
far, Otto?’ said Róża, out loud, stumbling forward aimlessly ‘Wasn’t
killing my husband enough?’

Shouts of warning rang
out, seemingly far off.

‘Is it all because I
went north and you went south? Is this my punishment?’

Róża was wavering
on the pavement holding up the bullet as if she were Hamlet talking to that
skull. Passers-by looked on as if she were mad. Suddenly, she closed her fists
and started walking, head down, wondering how she would ever face tomorrow.

Róża moved on to the day shift.
Sitting between two other women at a long table she sewed ribbons on to hats
for export to the Soviet Union. Each evening on the way home she found an empty
pew in Saint Klement’s and listened to the silence. After an hour she went home
to her side of the wardrobe. Then she ate, slept and went to work again.
Occasionally like a drunken masochist, she’d rise to watch Bernard sleep,
listening to his breathing, feeling the cut of a saw’s teeth with each intake
of air, with each long, slow exhalation. Events passed her by Talk of riots and
deaths somewhere in the north or strikes on the coast were like distant noises,
not entirely real, sounds from other people’s mouths. If Brack had arranged for
someone to follow her.’ he’d wasted his time. Róża was going nowhere that
would interest him. He’d played too hard and gone too far. He should have left
her with some purpose in life, something to fight for, a reason to go back to
the Shoemaker. Whereas she had nothing left. Her days were empty Their meaning
had gone, flown from her own hand.

Part Four

The
Polana
File

Chapter Eighteen

Anselm examined the sequence of framed maps
on the wall of an airy well lit office, situated on the fourth floor of the
IPN. They charted the loss of national sovereignty to the Prussians.’ the
Austrians and the Russians.’ their invasions in blue, brown and red constantly
rearranging the green homeland throughout a hundred and fifty years of resistance,
at one point erasing it completely I’m in an obstinate country, he thought; one
that waits for spring.

The display had been
brought to his attention by a red-haired woman dressed in a white trouser suit,
who’d then left him to retrieve the Shoemaker material for his inspection.
Presently she returned carrying an oblong cardboard box. She placed it on the
desk beneath the maps and turned on a lamp. Unable to speak English or German,
she pointed once again at the maps, as if seeking confirmation that Anselm had
got the message. Loud and clear, he nodded. After she’d gone, clipping the door
shut behind her, Anselm polished his glasses on his scapular, conscious that
his task to find a secret police informer was part of that greater picture of
shifting boundaries; that the losses and gains were moral and spiritual and not
just national; that even a single betrayal in 1982 carried the entire weight of
a people’s devastated expectations. John had warned him as much.