exposed; his need to be helped along the way ‘He didn’t want to be found by his friend. He hoped I’d go to Warsaw and find nothing. And, in fact, there was nothing to be found; the file was empty. I could easily have given up and come back empty-handed. And he’d have been reassured that there was nothing over there waiting to blow up in his face. That’s what he really wanted to know Remember, Roza had told him about the files. She’d said it was only a matter of time before the informer was flushed out by some lawyer or journalist interested in the Shoemaker. He needed to know what was inside the Polana file to see if he was safe.’
The Prior was listening but he didn’t reply Gilbertines were like that. He had nothing else to say so he said nothing. Anyway he was keen to get on, nodding strained gratitude when Anselm finally placed the wood on the block.
‘And I wasn’t the only one he used,’ murmured Anselm. ‘There were others.’
The Prior tapped the log three times.
That reluctant witness: John had urged her to come to London. Why? Because he loved her? Or because he knew that sooner or later the press might look a little closer at the circumstances of his expulsion from Warsaw; that he might be accused; that he might have need of a respectable dissident to preserve his standing. She refused when he tried to use her. And the day he was vindicated, she walked out of his life.
The axe fell and the wood splintered.
‘He gave me hints for years,’ continued Anselm. Without his former caution he yanked out the next victim for the block. ‘He smoked Russian cigarettes. He wore East German trainers.’
The Prior humphed and the log cracked and fell, divided.
‘Worst of all, he played games with Roza.’ Anselm was talking to the pile of dry wood. He spent a long time choosing the next branch. He paused while pulling it free. ‘She was begging him to make a confession, to come on side, and help her bring Brack to court. To vindicate himself by himself. What did he do? He called up the naive lawyer who’d done the magic last time around. Someone with his head in the clouds. Someone who wouldn’t know the meaning of a Zeha trainer if it vanished up his backside. I just don’t understand. I can’t-’
‘Here.’
‘What?’
‘Take this.’
Anselm seemed to wake. The Prior was holding out the axe. His round glasses, repaired at both ends with a paperclip, caught the wintry afternoon light. Snow was creeping timidly into the shed. The Prior’s breath fogged in the cold air.
‘Let the head do all the work.’
‘Wot?’
‘You do nothing. Just guide the weight of the axe and let it fall.’ Anselm wasn’t entirely grateful for the technical advice. He considered himself something of a woodsman.
‘We all want to understand,’ said the Prior, impatiently drying his brow with a clean, white handkerchief ‘But sometimes we can’t, and when that happens we just have to get on with our life.’ He paused, folding up the cloth neatly ‘There are other, special situations when it’s not our job to understand. When our task is a kind of obedience to the circumstances in which we find ourselves. Roza came to John. John came to you. No one demands that you understand anything. For the moment, you simply have to put one foot in front of the other. You have to do as you were asked. It’s their job to understand and explain. Now, speaking of the circumstances in which we find ourselves, do some work. It solves all manner of problems.’
Anselm capitulated, though not in deference to that last, doubtful maxim. He’d simply worn himself out thinking. Jaw thrust forward, he squared up to the wood and began to swing the axe, thinking of Charles Ingalls in Little House on the Prairie — something far from the unpleasantness of the grown up world. Suddenly he slowed and stopped.
‘What happens now?’ he asked. ‘What do I do?’
‘I’ve just told you.’
‘Sorry I must have missed that one.
‘Let the head do the work. Just guide the weight and let it fall.’
‘Forgive me. South of Hadrian’s Wall we stick to the matter in hand, it’s why we won at Culloden-’
‘John needs to explain how he came to be CONRAD,’ groaned the Prior, ‘and Roza needs to explain why CONRAD is so important.’
‘And I do nothing?’
‘Bring them together, Anselm,’ rasped the Prior. ‘Bring them far away from all that is secure and familiar. Bring them here. And build them a fire.’
Anselm planned two phone calls but ended up making three. Sitting in the calefactory he started with John. After a few pleasantries, he told him the full cost of his trip to Warsaw — leaving out hefty disbursements paid by the IPN.
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘It’s to be expected, I suppose. Can’t say I’d carried out the full calculation.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Calculations, John.’ Anselm felt himself slipping away drawing back behind his words, into the gloom of his mind. From far inside, he said, ‘I was going to explain about champagne and oysters, and a room in another hotel that I didn’t use, but let’s put first things first. I think you need to explain to Roza everything that happened to CONRAD
… you know, Klara’s boy.’
There was a long blistering pause on the line.
‘John?’
‘Yes, I heard.’
‘I’m sorry to mention her name. I know, now, something of her life. I’ve learned a little of what she did. I’ve an idea of how that might have affected you.’
In the corridor outside, Father Jerome hollered after Brother Benedict. It sounded like the opening shots of an argument about the work rota. Intellect and feeling were about to lose their footing.
‘And that was in a file?’ asked John, coldly his voice far off as if he’d turned from the mouthpiece.
‘No. There is no file on Klara. It’s been destroyed. In a way that’s also true of the Polana file. Nothing between the covers points unequivocally to you, the Dentist made sure of that.’ Anselm waited, listening hard. He raised a hand to the air, reaching out. ‘John, I’m not saying you betrayed Roza. You’ve nothing to fear from me, or anyone else. In the world of ducking and diving, you’re safe. You’re home and dry. This is what I have to say: the huge issue here is not your relationship with Otto Brack and how to keep it secret. It’s Otto Brack’s with Roza Mojeska and how to make it public. The big question is not whether you’ll ride out your days without being named, it’s whether Roza will end hers with the justice she’s been denied. She’s put the power to decide in your hands. You can choose yes, or no. She came to see you, John, not to accuse you, but because she feared that you were going to be exposed anyway sooner or later. But she was wrong. The file is empty. All she has left is your willingness to speak for yourself… because she won’t name you. I don’t know why’
‘Me neither.’
Anselm only just caught the reply because John seemed further off.
‘Come to Larkwood. It’s a good place to get things off your chest. Roza already knows what you’re hiding. She just wants you to tell her yourself. It’s what friends do.’
The scorching silence was back. Outside, snowflakes fell like shreds of wet paper. They were banking high on the window sills. Anselm pressed the phone hard against his ear, trying to catch some indication of John’s presence. It came hard and suddenly the words squeezed through the tiny holes of the mouthpiece.
‘Fine. I’ll explain. You might as well call Celina. She’ll need to listen, too. You’ll get her number from the BBC. There’s no point in me calling. She wouldn’t pick up the phone.’
Then he was gone. No goodbye. Just a light click.
Anselm’s heart was beating erratically It thumped hard against his chest. The open blisters on his hands began to burn from the sweat. On a kind of elan of misery, he rang the BBC and two extensions later he spoke to Celina Hetman who was about to do a live broadcast for the World Service. He’d pushed, saying it was personal and urgent and that he was a monk — that last being a key to many a closed door. The conversation was brief because the engineer was raising his voice. The light had gone green. Maybe that’s why she caved in.
