The Day of the Lie

Chapter Sixteen

Roza was allowed to see her child for two hours a day Then she had to leave the metal cot watched over by the nurse with thick fingers. Back in her cell she thought endlessly of the pink little mouth and the branches against the sky. For the first time since her imprisonment, she opened her eyes to those who were around her. She made friends with the woman with cropped blonde hair; the imprisoned nurse who’d held her hand during the birth.

Aniela Kolba was twenty-six, the mother of a five-year-old boy called Bernard who she hadn’t seen for eighteen months. She’d been arrested because her brother had been an officer in the Home Army, at first a hero of the Uprising, a patriot, but then a deemed enemy of the new order. Aniela’s offence was association by blood. There was no one else to go for. Her parents were dead, shot and burned like Pavel’s family in the Ochota massacres.

‘My boy hates fish,’ she said, a hand pulling at knotted strands, her face fulsome, her arms chubby Eyebrows, dark and fine, were twisted with pain. ‘He once threw the keys to the house in the river.’

Roza told Aniela of Saint Justyn’s and day trips with Mr Lasky to Chopin’s birthplace or the grave of Prus, while Aniela recounted holidays in the Carpathians to see the timber churches of the Lemks and Boyks. They took turns unfolding the story of Quo Vadis. Neither of them was called for interrogation, though Brack’s sunken face occasionally appeared at the Judas Window in the cell door. He’d watch, brooding for a moment and then vanish.

One morning the guards came for Aniela. She returned at midday, dressed in clothes from home — a light green dress with small orange flowers, a deep red cardigan with dark blue buttons. The colours were blinding, harsh against the scratched walls. Her hair was neat and tidy shining like brushed silk. She wore new brown shoes.

‘They’re letting me go,’ she admitted. Her loyalty bound her to Roza and the prison.

‘Why?’

‘They didn’t say I suppose I’m no longer a threat to the Party Maybe they’ve found my brother… I don’t know’

It was like her arrest: there’d been no reason to lock her up; there was no reason to let her go. She smoothed her dress, ashamed to be wearing glad rags. Her eyebrows twisted. ‘They’ve let me say goodbye.’

Roza thrust her face into Aniela’s neck and the wonderful smell of soap burned her nostrils. She pressed herself deep into those soft, open arms, from affection and to stifle the sound of gibbering from the other women — the frenzied requests to get a message out to their men and children.

‘When it’s your turn, come to me,’ Aniela managed, against the choking. ‘I’ll always have a room for you.’

Then she was gone, taking with her the aroma of clean cotton, fresh skin, and the mysterious, healing power of colours, the ointment of green, orange, red and brown. Her going was like an amputation.

Roza’s turn did not arrive. The months dragged on, leaving Roza with a glimpse of the changing seasons for two hours a day All the depth of her being was concentrated into that time with her growing child. She stopped sleeping, living only for that moment of awe, veneration and pride.

On a cold night in winter Roza heard a scraping noise in the distance. She sat up, intrigued. All the other women were sleeping, shifting uneasily on their boards, one moaning, another calling out. The sound outside was familiar… back and forth, back and forth; then a sort of rest; then back and forth, back and forth. But she couldn’t place it. The steady rhythm was comforting, oddly warming in the memory. Back and forth, back and forth. It sent Roza into a deep restoring sleep.

On entering the nursery the following morning, Roza 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. Roza 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.

Roza 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.

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

‘For ever,’ he repeated, quietly.

Roza 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, Roza, 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.

Roza’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 Roza’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 Roza 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, Roza’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 — ’ Roza 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.’

Roza 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, Roza. 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, Roza

… 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 Roza 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?’

Roza 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.’

Roza 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.’

Roza 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 Roza 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, Roza 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, Roza 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. Roza 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. Roza 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, Roza,’ he said, nodding at the men behind.

‘ What?’

‘There’s always a right and a wrong choice, Roza. 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.’

Roza 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 Roza.

‘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.’

Roza 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, Roza. 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.