the wind that strips the trees.
‘One day we will win,’ said Roza, crouched on the footstool, when next summoned for an interrogation.
She’d never said ‘we’ before; she’d never spoken of a struggle for victory But now she was more than herself. She spoke for someone who didn’t yet have a voice; and she joined herself to all those beyond the prison walls who couldn’t speak, either from ignorance, complacency or fear, and she spoke for them. She pledged herself to a victory that they would all claim as their own, one day, with or without merit, a victory that she knew was utterly certain, a day of freedom that could only be delayed and never denied.
‘I can wait,’ she said. ‘Today, tomorrow, either in here or out there, it makes no real difference. It’s all about patience and waiting, and I can do both. Do you know why?’
Like the prisoners, Brack was barely distinguishable from the greenish walls. Even his brown hair seemed to have changed. The green in his eyes had grown stronger. He said nothing. Roza felt herself grow beyond her surroundings: even as she crouched, she filled the room.
‘Do you know why?’ she repeated, looking up, arms folded on her knees. ‘Because you can’t stop the Shoemaker. You can’t lock up his words. You can’t kill his ideas. They’re beyond reach. They have a life of their own. They’re for ever on the wind. And whether you like it or not, they are the future, yours and mine, because, fundamentally your ideas and your words aren’t as compelling as ours. They aren’t as good. They require force… bloodshed… suffering; whereas ours… ours demand nothing. First they persuade… only then do they ask for commitment and sacrifice.’
Brack’s top teeth scraped his bottom lip. He’d darkened at the assault on his beliefs, but then mastered himself, strangely unsettled — it seemed — by Roza’s assurance and indifference to his authority.
‘Today is your day’ admitted Roza. ‘This is your winter. But we’ll have the spring. Tomorrow is coming and when it dawns — ’ she nodded severity at him, and confidence — ‘there’ll be new laws, fairly framed; there’ll be honest, dedicated lawyers. There’ll be judges who don’t pass sentence in a damp cellar with a pistol. You’ll be spared what was done to me, but rest assured, you will be prosecuted for what you have done. I will give evidence against you. I will tell them about the cage and the merciless killing of two innocent men… whose only crime was to think differently from you and the barren system you serve.
Once more Roza expected Brack to ignite at her attack but again he said nothing. There was no outburst about choosing sides and warnings in the sewers. He looked at Roza over his desk and the heap of Major Strenk’s papers, his teeth gouging at the lip. And then Roza understood why he’d been silent throughout her credo. Like all lackeys he was scared of what might happen if the teacher went away: where he would be if, when tomorrow came, Roza was right and he was wrong. The recognition made Roza fire a shot at the present.
‘You can’t keep me here for ever,’ she said. ‘And anyway, I’m already outside. I’ve seen the wind in a cherry tree.’
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.
