‘It was a matter of hope,’ she said, simply ‘The Shoemaker wrote about hope. You can all come and see me afterwards, if you like, and I’ll show you what he said — ’ she pointed towards the covered table — you can read him for yourself. He named hope so much better than I could. The word occurs on every page of every edition. I’ll give you some examples:
Roza leaned over her stand to find selected copies of Freedom and Independence while Madam Czerny, reduced to a spectator, shifted on her feet: this kind of thing was outside her experience. She was about to intervene when a knowing look from the presiding judge forestalled her. Let the old woman have some latitude, he implied, smoothing a heavy moustache. We can wait. She’ll be easier to lead once she’s had her say.
‘These quotations are all taken from nineteen fifty-one, before I was arrested,’ said Roza, opening three different editions on the lectern. ‘Remember, this was during the Terror. People with a mind of their own didn’t dare to whisper what they were thinking. This is what the Shoemaker said to them: “Hope is among you.”‘ She paused. “‘During a time of Occupation hope is our national sovereignty.”‘ Another pause. ‘And finally my favourite: “Hope is a tree in an open field. All the birds of the air settle in its branches.”‘
Madam Czerny’s deep voice sounded loud enough to scare them off. ‘And now, mindful of those helpful observations, we can turn to the matters set forth in the indictment.’
‘That won’t be necessary.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’m afraid the more I’ve listened, the more I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s just not wide enough.’
The bleached prosecutor settled her glasses on her long nose. Sebastian, hunched at her side, lowered his head. Brack looked towards Roza, implacable but inquiring. The entire room was spellbound by the hiatus. Just as the presiding judge leaned forward to speak, Roza snatched the initiative from his open mouth, underlining the culmination of her evidence.
‘A man can shoot the birds from the trees… and I’ve seen them fall to the ground.’ Her tone had changed colour and pitch; it was dark and low, now ‘He can even rob the nests that are left behind. But this defendant went one step further.’ She turned towards Brack and raised her arm, pointing at him with an open hand. ‘This is the greater crime he must answer for. It includes all the others. He cut into the sap. He cut down the tree itself.’
Brack stared ahead. He didn’t seem to react, though Roza’s accusation had echoed round the room. ‘She was right,’ murmured Anselm to himself. ‘He’s just waiting for his chance to reply’ So this must be the moment: she’s turning a kind of key pulling a kind of trigger.
‘Let us take things a little more slowly and in detail,’ came Madam Czerny’s reassuring, papering-over-the- cracks voice. But there was a shake to the timbre. The deep cadences had gone. She’d picked up Roza’s statement prepared for the trial and Anselm knew what the prosecutor — reeling behind the bluff of calm — was thinking: she had to pull the witness into line, damn quick, and forcefully if necessary; but he also knew that Roza wouldn’t be moving an inch. She wasn’t singing from Madam Czerny’s hymn sheet; Roza had another one. And Anselm knew she hadn’t finished, either, despite what she then said.
‘I have nothing further to say’
Mr Fischer looked up as if the lights had come on at two in the morning. Momentarily he was caught in the glare of unimaginable good luck: a win was careering straight towards him, a win he’d never thought possible. Blinking, recovered, coughing and suave, he came to his feet, oblivious that his client had suddenly begun to move, writhing in his suit.
‘Moved as we all are by the words of the witness, I’m obliged to remark, however, that the crime she identifies — grave though it be — is not known to the law’ He reminded Anselm of the kind of opponent he’d most disliked: denigrating in the robing room and then fussy in their courtesy after a case abruptly turned their way He tugged a cuff into place, gloating. ‘I’d be grateful if those representing the interests of prosecution would clarify — for the avoidance of all doubt — that this lady has indeed completed her evidence. The court will anticipate that in those curious-’
‘I said I had finished,’ replied Roza, speaking for herself. ‘There is nothing more to be said.’
‘In that case,’ began Mr Fischer, tugging the other cuff, ‘I would have thought that the proper way forward — in the interests of justice — is for Madam Czerny to reconsider her position and that of those whom she represents. I’m reluctant to state the obvious to someone as distinguished as my learned colleague, but it would seem there is no lawful basis upon which the continued prosecution of my client can proceed. It is difficult to know precisely…’
Mr Fischer lost his thread because Roza had reached down to her table and picked up another edition of Freedom and Independence. Again, the presiding judge raised a calming hand, his expression as sympathetic as it was sad: he’d recognised what the whole court must know; Roza Mojeska, the survivor of the Terror, had suffered profound, enduring wounds to the mind. She’d lost her grip; she was throwing away her only chance of vindication. He sighed, audibly surrendering the collapse of the trial to the one person responsible. Let her have the last word, he seemed to say.
‘Let me read you the concluding reflections of the Shoemaker,’ said Roza, turning to the inside back page. ‘This is what he said, in late nineteen eighty-two. He hasn’t spoken since. “One day we will win. It is inevitable. But then we must turn to the question of justice. We will have to look back, never forgetting how difficult it was to steer a morally straight course when, in the day to day, we were obliged to live a double life, one in private and the other in public. We will need to recognise that we all, to a greater or lesser extent, bolstered up the system we now accuse. We will have to recall that there was a chasm between thinking and speaking, believing and doing and that not many of us managed to cross the divide without a fall. Each of these painful truths, when recollected, should make passing judgement a delicate exercise. Remember: collaboration had a grading. Let our reprimand be proportionate. Name wrongs and move on.”‘ Roza turned the page, coming to the final paragraph. “‘But what happens when we are obliged to judge someone and, try as we might, we cannot find the shades of grey known to us all? When there is no name to describe the wrong? When we linger in mourning? What are we to do? I have this one final thought: our justice can never be like theirs. It can never be a process without hope. There must always remain the possibility, however slender, that in certain strange circumstances even great crimes can be met with an even stranger mercy.
Roza folded up the paper and laid it with the others on the table.
All eyes in the court were upon her. She was the only person standing, now Madam Czerny and Mr Fischer had resumed their seats, superfluous to the drama in which they’d played a part. Brack glared from the dock, paralysed and unnaturally dark — from rage or confusion or from the choking realisation that the trial was coming to an end. Roza addressed her final words to him.
‘I was going to return your bullet, Otto,’ she explained, conversationally ‘But I’m glad the court took it from me. I’d be worried that when you left here a free man you might use it, and I’d only blame myself.’
Without any further acknowledgement to the court, or even the dismantling of her own — she left the table covered with editions of Freedom and Independence, for anyone who might want a copy — Roza began walking from the hushed room, plastic bag in hand, as if she could, at last, get to the market and catch those two-for-one bargains that weren’t really bargains.
‘I had hopes, too,’ shouted a strangled voice. Brack was upright and wavering; a fist punching at the air. But Roza wasn’t listening; she just kept strolling towards the courtroom entrance, frowning to herself as if she’d forgotten to bring a shopping list. Brack stumbled forward, pushing Mr Fischer aside. ‘I have a story, too, about birds shot from a tree, Yes, tell that to the Shoemaker… come back… I have a right to be heard… I demand it. Come back…’
But Roza had gone: the door had swung shut behind her with a soft thud. The trial was over. Or rather, the two trials had ended. Only Roza had spoken. She’d achieved the inconceivable: she’d condemned a man with mercy.
There was no doubting Roza’s victory — at least in the minds of those who understood her — but no celebration took place; and not because Brack’s technical acquittal was a matter of regret in several quarters. There was no party because Roza did, in fact, go to the market — the biggest in Eastern Europe, on the Praga side of the river. It was just another day it seemed. Sebastian, subdued and defeated, went back to work, leaving Anselm, John and Celina in a crowded bar near the court sipping Zubrowka.
‘Who was that bizarre woman?’ asked Celina. ‘The one that wouldn’t leave?’
‘Some crackpot,’ offered John, who’d only heard the rumpus.
‘Eventually the ushers called the police… it took three of them
