‘For Pavel, to pull a different kind of trigger; for me, to turn a different kind of key’
‘How?’
‘By giving evidence to which there is no reply’
Anselm glanced at Sebastian and Celina. Their eyes darted back. John nudged his glasses.
‘I’m going to name his crime within the greater crime of an era. To those who weren’t there, it will seem trivial and that I’m a silly old woman who’s lost her mind. But he will hear and understand; and he won’t be able to say anything in return.’
Roza reached for her plastic bag and stood up. Anselm watched her move to the door as if she was off to the market to pick up a few bargains. On the way she’d throw all those papers in the recycling bin. Turning abruptly as if she’d forgotten to say the obvious, she said, ‘At the same time, there is, of course, this other trial, the one being led by Madam Czerny. That goes on as if nothing was happening. And it will conclude with the one thing he didn’t give me, which he doesn’t want, and which he’ll have to accept: a kind of mercy He’ll walk away a free man — apparently and actually reprieved. But within himself, he’ll be imprisoned for the rest of his life, listening to the echo of his own dead voice.’ She made a humph and turned the door handle. ‘It shouldn’t take too long.’
‘Roza,’ called Sebastian. ‘Wait a moment, don’t go. Why any sort of mercy?’
He was robed, ready for court. Unless Anselm was mistaken, he was wearing a new suit. This was his day too.
‘Because of Strenk’s reports, his family’s past and his ignorance,’ replied Roza. ‘I’m glad you brought them to me. I think they should be taken into account.’
‘But there’ll be no conviction.’
‘Sebastian, listen to me. He’s angling with you as he angled with me. Don’t get caught by what he’s flashing in front of your eyes. Look deeper, look further. You’ll see, my way is best.’
With that confident declaration, Roza opened the door and stepped into the bustle of the court corridor, leaving everyone behind as if they had nothing to do with the proceedings. One by one, Sebastian, Celina and John left the conference room. Anselm smiled to himself, quietly admiring, reminded of Roza’s original statement. She had a certain style and it had just repeated itself Roza had planned a deeper trial within a trial; a quest for a deeper justice. The two would coincide, nicely Justice and Mercy would meet. And when they did, maybe those five musicians in Praga would spring to life: the time of music was almost upon them.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Anselm adjusted his earpiece and settled forward, the window over the court reminding him of that terrifying painting by Breughel where Mad Meg leads an army of women to pillage the bowels of hell. Apparently messages had been sent to Barbara Novak and Lidia Zelk, old Friends of the Shoemaker: they were down there somewhere, waiting for Roza to arrive and lead them on. So was Aniela Kolba, who’d changed her mind about keeping away So was Irina Orlosky crouched on the edge of her seat. Madam Czerny bi-focals on the end of her nose, was leafing through a statement, presumably Meg’s, rehearsing a strategy of questions.
Brack was motionless. He sat with horrible stillness, like a careless lord surrounded by frantic peasants, his hands resting on his leather bag. Mr Fischer twirled a pen between his fingers, tugging occasionally at his yellow and green cuffs. He wasn’t worried either. This was a case he could only lose. Then Anselm made a start: slouching by the far wall like a bored demon sat Marek Frenzel, turned out by Burberry He was in trouble, though. Something was stuck between his back teeth.
The court became quiet. The judges were seated on their hi-tech bench, the computer screens flickering. The jury were ready to listen. The usher’s voice called the last witness for the prosecution.
‘Roza Mojeska.’
Almost immediately the ordinary procedure was upturned. When Roza reached the lectern she was offered a chair. She refused and asked, instead, for a table. The request was granted with a kind of puzzled tolerance, an attitude that prevailed while Roza laid out her tatty newspapers as if she were a street vendor near a railway station. And yet, this protracted activity, undertaken slowly lent a curious authority to this Mad Meg. She was setting up her own stand. There were two courts in the room, one facing the other. When Roza had finished her preparations, Madam Czerny blanched hair astray rose slowly, gently swinging her bifocals in one hand.
‘Your name, please.’
‘Roza Mojeska.’
‘Date of birth?’
‘Major Strenk asked that.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Major Strenk. Always names, always dates of birth:
‘I’m afraid we keep records.’
‘Does it really matter?’
The prosecutor had a ready indulgent smile. She was used to difficult witnesses. From long experience she knew how to handle them. ‘Yes. For the court. We note what you say.’
‘So did Major Strenk.’
‘Thank you.
‘You’re nothing like him, of course, and I’m sorry for any comparison. The eighth of March, nineteen twenty- nine:
The concession was entirely formal. Roza had demonstrated — right at the outset — that she was curiously adjacent to the system; that she would respectfully co-operate with its mechanisms; but that she intended to introduce some changes.
‘You were brought up in Saint Justyn’s Orphanage for Girls?’
‘Yes.’
‘You fought in the Uprising of nineteen forty-four?’
‘I did.’
‘Your function?’
‘Ammunition carrier.
Even the judges laughed. It took time for the quiet to return and find its depth.
‘You were deported to the transit camp at Pruszkow?’
‘I was.’
‘From there you heard the explosions as Warsaw was razed to the ground?’
‘I have never forgotten the sound.’
‘You returned to rebuild it?’
‘With my own hands.’
Anselm found Madam Czerny totally intimidating, even when she was being nice. The bleached hair evoked a scouring personality; someone who got the stains off a burnt pan that anyone else would throw in the bin. But Roza was wholly undisturbed. She seemed to be giving the court only what she wanted, even though she had no control over the questions. And so the two women, prosecutor and witness, came by careful, mutually agreed steps to the Shoemaker Operation. In a series of brisk exchanges Roza confirmed her recruitment in 1951, her arrest following that of her husband, and her incarceration in Mokotow prison.
‘Before dealing with the grave events which are the subject of the indictment against this defendant,’ said Madam Czerny addressing more the jury than Roza, ‘I think it may be of assistance to the court if you would explain, in simple terms, what the Shoemaker meant to you. You had never met him. You had only read his words. I ask because your answer will explain not only why you were prepared to face imprisonment but — and of great importance for the purpose of this trial — it will illuminate the motives of Otto Brack, the defendant; for the crimes alleged against him spring more from his quarrel with the Shoemaker than your role as his publisher.’
This was the moment Roza had been waiting for. She appeared to pounce, though she merely gripped the lectern, fingers widely spaced in the manner of an embrace. Anselm had the strongest intimation that the trial within a trial was about to begin, that Roza’s unconventional procedure was now underway She’d said it wouldn’t take that long.
