appraisals written by Major Strenk. She stared, expressionless, at the NKVD memo from Moscow, the blunt tool (said Sebastian) that would, if used, stun Brack like an animal in an abattoir.
‘Yes, I’m sure it would,’ she replied, pushing the closed file towards Sebastian.
‘I’ll organise a meeting for tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
‘But not with Brack,’ clarified Roza, with a quick wag from her finger. ‘There will be no meeting with Brack. It won’t be necessary.
‘Who, then?’
‘My Friends. Everyone who’s come this far with me, but leave out Madam Czerny I don’t think she’d appreciate what I’m planning to do, even though it’s a kind of justice.’
Stray filtered light patterned the walls of Anselm’s hotel bedroom. Shards with soft edges, like the design in the carpet downstairs. They came like echoes from the city on the other side of the windows. What was Roza going to do? Why had she changed so dramatically? These were the main questions but, ever ill-disciplined, Anselm’s curiosity strayed along a couple of byways. He was trying to work out if they led back to the main road.
First, Roza had evidently known Brack long before she’d been interrogated in Mokotow They’d known each other during the war, at Saint Justyn’s. Would it be stretching probability to infer that they’d been more than friends? Anselm thought not. Frenzel had sniffed something personal in Brack’s obsession with catching Roza. A lost or failed love, that’s the fruit he’d detected, drawn in through those flaring nostrils. The connoisseur of old mistakes had smelled a hidden blunder. Was Brack simply Brack — at least in part — because, through some wrong turning, he’d lost his hold on Roza? A hold which he’d tried to reinstate through murder and a perverted scheme that left him as the father of her child — even as he convinced himself that he’d pulled the trigger for the sake of a better set of ideas?
The second byway intrigued Anselm even more, because it represented a short step back in time: Brack must have met Mr Lasky He was there in the orphanage, guiding Roza with his homespun maxims. Brack had told Strenk about Roza, but there’d been no mention of the caretaker. Why? Because — Anselm concluded — he’d been grateful. In the epoch where naming names was a means to salvation, he’d shown a hidden, redundant loyalty — even to a dead man, executed by the Nazis. But why grateful? Presumably for saving his life. This byway extremely narrow and now overgrown, led to the person whom Roza had met as a girl… Otto, a youth separated from his family because of his father’s political convictions, someone capable of gratitude and love. And who, tomorrow, would meet Roza’s kind of justice.
What was she planning? How did the all the roads come together? How would she take account of who he was, set against who he’d become and what he’d done?
Chapter Forty-Eight
The first Anselm knew of the hullabaloo was when he saw armed police running past the room where he was waiting for the meeting with Roza. Celina, John and Sebastian followed him out into the corridor. Shouts came echoing from round a corner, court officials walked into view with strained urgency Sebastian intercepted one of them with a pull to the elbow He listened and his mouth fell open.
‘Roza’s been arrested,’ he gasped, swinging around. ‘She’s come with a bullet in her handbag. A live round, for God’s sake:
After further frantic enquiries it transpired she’d been taken to a holding cell two floors down. Strenuous representations from Sebastian, Celina and John, with a brisk appearance from Madam Czerny eventually secured her release after forty-five minutes. Yes, criminal charges might be pressed. No, you can’t have it back when you leave the building. Yes, the court will be informed of Roza’s conduct.
‘Why did you bring it?’ exclaimed Sebastian when they were settled in the conference room. ‘What was going through your mind?’
‘I just wanted to return it,’ she said, completely unflustered. ‘I never managed to find a use for it:
‘Return it? Who to?’
Roza didn’t answer. She looked different… younger than the night before. Just as striking was her appearance: the Jaeger dress had been left in a wardrobe, along with the accessories. She’d put on rough and ready clothes, as if she were off to the market: black woollen trousers that had lost their front pleats; a loose grey woollen jumper, darned at the elbows; a white blouse. On the floor by her feet was a plastic bag bulging with old newspapers. One of the more enthusiastic policemen had raised the possibility of poisoned ink. She was lucky they’d returned it without insisting on forensic examination.
‘I was only thinking the other day — when that professor from Krakow was describing the old days — I was saying to myself, this isn’t really working.’
‘What isn’t?’ asked Sebastian.
‘The trial. It’s just not what I’d expected and hoped for. It’s narrow, somehow I can’t find myself in what’s happening in the courtroom. It’s as though something’s missing. You see, unless you were there, you can’t imagine what it was like. It was so much worse than any list of wrongs. It was a climate. And I don’t want justice simply for what happened to Pavel. It has to reach wider than his or my experience.’
The walls were white, the lighting harsh. They were seated at a round conference table, Roza somehow at its head, though she sat to one side as if she’d just dropped in and might well leave at any moment. She was leading the meeting, but in a way foreign to any professional lawyer.
‘Roza,’ began Sebastian, like a fisherman, net in hand, watching the big one glinting within reach, ‘don’t do this, listen to me-’
‘No, Sebastian, you listen. I know what I’m doing. I know how to get the right kind of justice:
‘So the trial goes on?’ Sebastian’s relief was only marginally in advance of his confusion.
‘Yes, but not according to the usual rules. I’m going to run a trial within a trial, only don’t tell Madam Czerny If she didn’t understand the bullet, we’re not going to see eye to eye on my kind of gun.
Roza’s relaxed appearance, coupled with her confidence, was at stark variance with the tension in the room. Even Celina did not know her mother’s intentions. John was frowning behind his glasses. No one dared speak. Roza was in control of a parallel legal universe that only she could understand. She began to explain, slowly.
‘I intend to silence Otto Brack, but not by using his file,’ she said, coming closer, leaning both elbows on the table. ‘A family’s tragic past? Strenk’s reports? His ignorance? That’s their way I have another.’
Roza became precise in her movements: the slight angle of the head as if she were aiming, the narrowed eye, one raised finger…
‘You must understand that for Brack this is not a trial,’ she said, dispassionately ‘It is an interrogation, and he knows all about those. They were his bread and butter. He’s at home. Only this time it’s his turn to answer the questions. And he wants to. He’s waiting for Madam Czerny to try and trip him up, to start wearing him down with her clout, with the same, sudden shift in moods that he’d learned from Strenk — from surprise to boredom, from loathing to indignation.’ Roza slowly shook her head. ‘There may have been a time when he feared the court, but not any more. His scheme has done its work. The other side didn’t catch him. He’s lived a free life. What’s at stake now is what he believes.’ She turned to Sebastian at her side. ‘Which is why I don’t think he’ll pull some trick out of his bag to smear Pavel’s memory. He intends to state his case. He wants Pavel to be who he was, so he can say he was someone different.’
Still no one dared to make a contribution.
‘If I give evidence,’ she said, deliberately her eyes roving round the table, ‘he gets a right of reply If I speak about the execution of Pavel, so will he. If I speak of those bad days, so will he. He’ll be able to match me, word for word. And I don’t want to hear what he has to say I’ve heard it all before. He hopes to redeem what I would condemn and of course, he can’t: the court won’t legalise his murdering, but what matters to him is that he spoke. He got the chance to claim the light before he was cast into the darkness. Make no mistake about it, he wants the condemnation. He wants to sink to his knees, like Pavel, and die a martyr to his cause. And I’m not going to let him.’
‘What are you planning, Roza?’ asked Sebastian, for everyone in the room.
