The Day of the Lie

Chapter Forty-Two

Celina asked for some water. Anselm went to get some, wondering if they’d ever get on to the wine. He thought of Belloc; All, all must face their Passion at the last. The fetching didn’t break the tension. There was no escape, now It just grew tighter. Anselm roused the fire in a vast hearth with wood that was hard and dry. There was little smoke, the perfume faint but deep. Roza still said nothing. She watched. Her eyes wouldn’t shift from John.

‘I’m not what you think, John,’ said Celina, looking into the glass as if it were a goldfish bowl. ‘I never was. Though it’s what I wanted… wanted with every ounce of longing that dragged me down. You can’t weigh longing, of course. It’s a just a wisp of air. Smoke from a fire. The scales don’t change. You remain what you are.

It was true; Celina had been kicked out of four schools. But there were no aunts and uncles chalked up dead by the Tsar’s secret police. Her mother had dumped her father, but not because of any high-minded principles. She hadn’t got any; and he’d been no dissident. There’d been no contributions to the Club of the Crooked Circle; he’d been no Vagabond, at least, not of the noble kind. The nearest he’d got to a secret society was the SB.

‘He didn’t tell me outright, but you find out, eventually’ Celina sniffed quietly finding a tissue from inside a sleeve. It was inconspicuous, petite, wholly unfit for purpose. ‘It’s their way of talking, the habitual evasions, the sense that they’re important and nobody knows it, that no one appreciates them, that they understand things that no one would ever…’ Her delicate voice trailed off. She wiped her eyes. Folding it neatly, square upon tiny square, she made the tissue into a pellet, something insignificant to hang on to. ‘My mother walked out when I was nine.’

She’d been a go-alonger, the sort of woman who didn’t mind what she ate, where she went or what they did. To this day Celina ground her teeth if someone said, ‘I don’t mind’. Her mother had sat in the corner doing puzzles, her shiny dyed hair in curlers. All she’d wanted to know was six down or whatever. And no matter what you said, it clashed with four across. Celina had no other memory of her. She wondered now if doing crosswords had been inevitable: she’d avoided every big question, leaving all the big answers to her husband. What more could she do? She’d gone off with another SB officer. Someone with a higher rank — someone who knew more answers to more questions. And what of the daughter she’d left behind? Well, perhaps she didn’t mind.

‘Despite her failings, she mattered. A mother always matters. I hit back at school until they kicked me out.’

Anselm frowned as if he’d just heard gunfire echoing down a corridor in Praga. Irina’s son was sorting out the Afghans. In the kitchen, Irina was explaining…

‘My father showed no emotion,’ said Celina, as if cutting Anselm short. ‘He just focused on me. I was all that counted. But, you see, these people whose importance isn’t widely known, all they’ve got is what they think of themselves. Nothing else matters. So he tried to make me into another version of him.’

When Celina began to mock one or two teachers, he’d stood over the desk in her bedroom, legs apart, hands behind his back. He’d dished out all the official lines he’d ever learned. He’d ranted in the kitchen about duty and responsibility and choices and sacrifice and ashes. After her third expulsion he’d said she was becoming an embarrassment — the understatement had shocked her; he wasn’t a man for delicate wordplay Following the fourth, what was left of their relationship broke down. She didn’t wait to be thrown out, she just walked on to the street. Homeless, she’d eventually found herself among like minds, people who gave her a floor, people who thought like she did, whose flats were sometimes turned over by the boys in jeans and leather jackets. She went to a kind of university with lectures in boiler rooms and attics, staffed by professors who worked in factories or washed the windows.

‘I next saw him after I’d been arrested in sixty-eight,’ said Celina. She sipped water, her lips needing moisture. ‘He got me out. There were no charges brought and I was furious and sick with shame. Other people’s kids were finished off, but not his. I told him to keep far, far away from my life. But he stayed there, I understand that now Why else did they leave me alone? How else did I get a job in film? How else did I get my work past the censors?’

Celina laid one hand upon the other. Carelessly showing the depth of her distress, she played with her ring, the big daisy. Her voice came again like the tearing of flimsy paper. ‘I wanted those relatives, John. More than anything, I wanted parents in prison and ancestors scattered round Siberia. But that’s not what I got. I got a mother who didn’t have a clue and a father who was Otto Brack.’

At least Anselm had seen it coming, so he had an excuse for not reacting. John made a start as if the Dentist had forgotten to use anaesthetic. But Roza simply stared ahead, mute, remote, frightening Anselm with her silence. She seemed all-knowing, expectant, resigned. Her thumb strayed to the finger with two wedding rings. Celina played with the daisy John put on his glasses as if to avoid a coming explosion of light. The fire collapsed. Shadows fled across the vaulted roof A sort of fuse spontaneously ignited in Anselm’s mind.

‘I thought I’d never see him again,’ said Celina. ‘He completely vanished from my life. I made something of myself. Good things happened to me. We met in May do you remember, John? I moved in towards the end of the August. It was a sunny time, wasn’t it? We were free and easy and the army was out there bothering other people. But then, in the October, I came home and found my father in the sitting room, legs crossed. In his hands was a journal. He didn’t say a thing, he just sat there, turning the pages.’

Celina’s evocation of that encounter was so vivid — not by her words but the expression on her face, the shock lived again — that Anselm found himself in that Warsaw flat, a frightened intruder watching a mystery unfold, a mystery half understood because that journal was Brack’s creation. Anselm couldn’t move. The fuse was sputtering. He looked out of his own darkness at the father and his terrified daughter…

‘He’s been very stupid,’ he said closing the journal. ‘And that annoys me.

‘What the hell are you doing here? What are-’

‘Keep your voice down. I’m here to help. Again. Tidying up after you. Sweeping up your endless mistakes.’

He hadn’t shouted, but he sounded loud and piercing. Celina stayed with her back to the front door, the keys jingling in one hand. He was dressed in one of those shapeless suits without apparent colour, the cloth blending into any and all surroundings. His drab overcoat was slung over the back of a chair.

‘I’ve been trying to help him,’ he said, tossing the book on to a coffee table. ‘But he’s broken the rules and now he’s in trouble. Serious trouble. Like you, he should have listened. Like you, he thinks he knows best.’

‘What do you mean, help him?’

Her father pointed towards a chair. Out of some remembered fear, Celina obeyed. His eyes tracked her with the old, hungry disapproval. He’d greyed but the hardness was still there around the mouth. She’d always thought his face looked scarred, only there were no old cuts on the beaten skin. ‘I’ve been giving his career a push. Looking after him like I’ve looked after you.

Nausea turned Celina’s insides. He was at it again. He wouldn’t let go of her; and now his contamination had reached John. All she could manage was, ‘He’s in trouble?’

‘Of course he is.’ Her father nodded towards the journal. ‘He’s written down where he got it all from — I’m not worried, I’m a careful man. We’ve never met. He doesn’t know my face or name — but what he’s written down is proof, proof of serious crimes.’

‘Take it… burn it.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s been seen by eyes other than mine. I’ve sent them away for now, but I’ll have to act on it. Eventually’

‘I’ll tell them what you’ve said and what you’ve done for me, over the years.

He looked at her with a father’s contempt. ‘No one but me would believe you.’

‘Crimes?’ She was lurching with anxiety and guilt: this was her fault. He was her father, and now he’d compromised John, as he’d always compromised her. ‘What crimes?’

‘The sort that land you in prison for ten years. Espionage doesn’t attract a short sentence, not when it upsets Moscow Which is why he’s upset me. I was only giving his career a shove in the right direction.’

Why won’t you leave me alone? The question rose from Celina’s depths but she couldn’t give it voice. She couldn’t bear to have any exchange with this… there wasn’t a single word to describe him, or what he meant to her. The remembered fear was eating at her guts. Why had he sent off his subordinates? Why was he still here?

‘He’s named you and someone else,’ he said, as if in reply ‘You’re all in danger now He really should have stuck to the rules. Write nothing down was number one.’

‘You’ll help him?’

‘Are you asking?’ Again the father’s contempt.

‘Yes.’

‘All right. But there isn’t much time. He mentions a woman called Roza Mojeska. I’ll need to see her, which isn’t prudent for a man in my position. But it’s the only way I can organise a passport. I’ll have to get one for you, too. I can get you all out before it’s too late. I’ll make it so that your boyfriend’s asked quietly to leave — among journalists, that’s a kind of medal for bravery. Shows he got close to the nerves of power. Best career boost in the bag. Is that good enough for you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen gratitude put light on your face.’

‘I’m not grateful,’ snapped Celina. ‘It’s your meddling around with my life that’s caused all this… all you’ve ever done is bring me- ‘Privileges,’ supplied her father. ‘Well, take this one with both hands. It won’t be happening again.’ He stood up to go. ‘Obviously you can’t tell your boyfriend what I’m doing or that we’ve met.’

‘Why not?’

‘He can’t be trusted. He breaks rules.’ An ironic smile warped his face. ‘And I’m not sure he’d want to marry into the family you know what I mean? Your connection to me might put him off. Christmas with the in-law? I don’t think so. That’s why I’m going to keep well out of the picture. Frankly it’s better for him and for you if he leaves Warsaw thinking he’s some kind of hero.’ Shaking his head in dismay he looked down at the journal. ‘Put that thing back with his socks, will you? He really should have listened.’

Celina wondered what would happen next. She was fearful and loath to be dependent on him. ‘Will you find her… this woman?’

‘Me?’ He walked to the chair and shrugged on his overcoat. ‘No, you will.’

‘What?’

‘Who else?’

‘But what can I do?’ Celina was crouched on her chair, looking up.

‘Save him from himself, like I saved you. Do what you don’t want to do, for his good. Forget yourself. Co-operate with me.’

‘But I can’t follow him.’

‘No. And you can’t ask him either.’

‘What then?’

Celina’s father made an impatient sigh, as if to say he’d done enough already ‘Why not see if your boyfriend writes something interesting in his journal? For once the damned thing might serve some good purpose… it’ll keep all three of you out of prison. Find some other way if you like. It’s up to you. I’ll help, but this time you’ve got to pull your weight. You can reach me on five-five-eight-seven-six.’

The fire crackled and spat.

‘Do you see what he was doing? What he did?’ Celina’s voice rose slightly ‘He’d already been to you. He’d already sent you towards Roza. You’d already found her, and so he came to me. I didn’t know, I suspected nothing.’

Roza made the slightest moan, so low and so unobtrusive that in other circumstances it wouldn’t have been noticed. But here, in this vast yet cramped room, it was as though a flagstone had cracked. Something immense was disintegrating within Roza. But there was no collapse. Her eyes were on John, bleeding with emotion.

‘I read your journal.’ Celina’s admission came like a tearing at the mouth. ‘I knew where you’d been and where you were going.’

She’d read it every day worried that time was ebbing away; that her father would come back to arrest them both. She finally learned of a planned meeting by the grave of Prus. Celina was whispering now She’d dialled Brack’s number as if she were lodging a complaint at the passport office. It had been a quick, cold call.

They were silent.

The truth, at last, was out. The informer used by Brack had been his own daughter… but Anselm was running now, following the fizz of the burning fuse, head down, not seeing where he was going. Brack had told Roza the name of the informer and what they’d been doing for years. And that had silenced her… but why? She’d never met Celina. Brack’s delinquent child couldn’t be that significant.

‘You came home beaten by them,’ said Celina, carefully unfolding the tissue. ‘The next day I didn’t go to the censor. I rang my father. We met in the cemetery.’

Celina had sent him back to Prus, to where he’d betrayed her. She’d hit him hard across the face. His head had flown back with the force of the blow, but, on righting himself, he’d hardly seemed present. One calm hand had gone into his drab overcoat and he’d taken out a passport.

‘I threw it on the floor.’ Celina dabbed the corners of her eyes. ‘I wanted my freedom but not thanks to him. Then, when I came home, the phone rang. They’d given you two days. You asked me to come. You made a call for a passport.’ She clutched the tissue as if it were a shred of hope. ‘Was it the embassy?’

‘No.’

‘Five-five-eight-seven-six?’

‘Yes.’

Everything was ready thought Anselm, awed. Everyone had been put into position. Everyone had been moved. Polana was a game of wit and patience for three or more players. Waddington’s couldn’t have dreamed up the goal, the rules or the cost. Brack had won. But only because Celina’s importance was…

‘I couldn’t speak at the trial, John, because it was me who’d got you thrown out of Warsaw’ Celina was looking at her daisy again. ‘I left because I knew I couldn’t remain and keep the lie going, year on year. I’m sorry.

We’d both lost out, she seemed to say Something simple and beautiful had died, without even withering. Celina turned to Roza, her face anguished. Her hands came together. ‘I’m sorry I brought him to you. To this day I don’t know what my father was doing, or why’

Anselm wasn’t entirely sure that Roza was breathing. Her thumb had stopped moving. Her face remained drawn and shadowed; her eyes were open; the stare fixed. John seemed to look back, yet neither was really looking at the other. Why was Roza looking at John?

‘He was saving himself,’ replied Roza from her inner refuge.

‘But from what?’ asked Celina. ‘Why use me to get to John, and John to get to you?’

‘He was frightened.’

‘What of?’

‘The claims of the law My claims, those of my husband… and those of…’

My child. The fuse went phut just as the word burst inside Anselm’s mouth.

He sat, lips apart, as if watching torn clods fall in slow motion to the ground: he recalled what Roza had said in the bright light of what she had not said. There and then an elemental fusion took place in Anselm’s mind between the deeper depth of Roza’s statement and its surface meaning: Roza’s child lay beneath the page on blank blue paper, its name the one name she’d refused to disclose on the surface of the page.

‘I’ve understood, Roza,’ he said. ‘I know what happened in nineteen fifty-three.’

Disclosing certain tragedies can’t be done slowly There can be no cushioning. But Anselm was going to try He reached over and took one of Roza’s hands in his. Watching the tears spill free, he said, deliberately and slowly ‘Celina, Otto Brack is not your father.’

Anselm could feel the impact of his words. They’d crashed into Celina and a stunned hush had bounced back. As if he needed any confirmation, Anselm felt the slightest pressure from Roza’s fingers.

‘He’s not your father,’ repeated Anselm, even more slowly. ‘And your mother never sat in the corner lost in a puzzle, not minding what the day might bring. She minded more than she’ll ever be able to say.

Anselm couldn’t speak any more. The fire snapped and murmured, sending sparks upwards in a spray of light.