William Brodrick - The Day of the Lie

The Prior made a humph. ‘She waited fifty-nine years,’ he calculated, drawing out the words. ‘And then, when she finally decided to use the power given to her by this man Brack, she turned to you. Not one of the many Friends who’d served the cause of the Shoemaker, but you, a man she’d only known for a matter of months… it’s as though she could trust no other. It’s as though you were part of her lost opportunity’

The Prior humphed again, and Anselm winced, waiting for his spiritual father to express pained regret: that the monastic enclosure represented an environment of inner freedom born of stability and that Anselm, without duress, had chosen to live within it; that he was no longer free to be anyone’s eyes and hands. Instead the Prior sat back and said, ‘What can be done?’

Like Roza said, explained John, there are files.

During the eighties, the Warsaw SB and Stasi personnel from East Germany formed a unit to tackle underground printing in the city They kept a joint archive in German. No one knew of its existence until six months ago when a plumber found two crates in the basement of a condemned office block in Dresden. The contents were now lodged with the Instytut Pamieci Nardowej in Warsaw, the Institute of National Remembrance, commonly known as the IPN. After Roza’s disappearance John had lunged for the phone, wondering if she’d been there and hoping to track down a contact number. He’d failed on both scores for reasons of confidentiality but mention of the Shoemaker and his own arrest elicited a reference to the newly found documents. As a victim of the former communist regime and someone directly linked to the fortunes of Freedom and Independence, he was entitled to inspect them.

‘The operation that led to my arrest was called Polana,’ he explained. ‘Obviously, the target was Roza, not me. The point, however, is that the file generated by the operation was stored in one of those crates. As I say, all the paperwork is in German.’

The last observation came with an angling of the head towards Anselm, neatly making reference to his passable competence at the language. As an adolescent Anselm had been enthralled by all those dark words for dread and anxiety along with heavyweight mindbenders like vergangenheitsbewaltigung: the assumption of one’s past. He’d relished that one, even before he’d had a past to assume. With the same hunger he’d scoured a dictionary for like terms in a fearless endeavour to acquire intellectual depth. He’d drop them carelessly into ordinary discourse as if to say English had unfortunate conceptual limitations. It was only much later, after the war criminal Eduard Schwermann had claimed sanctuary at Larkwood, that Anselm returned to the language with the sober application that comes with middle age. He’d been taught by the community’s gardener, Brother Eckhart, a former bookseller with unsubstantiated connections to the Austrian aristocracy His tuition had been unconventional, grounding Anselm’s vocabulary in horticultural matters, thirteenth century mystical theology and the requirements of polite table conversation.

‘The file ought to contain everything compiled by this unit to catch Roza,’ said John, fidgeting with a button on the cuff of his jacket. ‘And that would include the name of the informer.’

‘Whom Roza has, in effect, protected from Otto Brack,’ mumbled the Prior, recapitulating.

‘Yes,’ said John.

‘Because if she accuses Brack he, in turn, will accuse his own informer.’

‘Exactly’

‘Who would then be exposed for what they were and are.’

‘Which Roza, until now, has refused to contemplate.’

‘For fear they’d take desperate measures to avoid the shame.’

This was Roza’s dilemma, neatly summarised. For a long while, the two monks and their guest meditated on Otto Brack’s scheme to avoid justice, their heavy silence almost certainly shared by Sylvester who, ear to the door, was straining to catch the Prior’s considered response. Finally, Larkwood’s reluctant superior made a kind of speech. If Anselm hadn’t sought the conference that morning he’d have thought the Prior had prepared his words the night before. He spoke deliberately with measured phrasing:

‘Such is the ingenious plan of Otto Brack. But Roza’s is all the braver, all the more daring and all the more laden with risk. Her aim is nothing less than to turn Brack’s world-view upside down. She’s placing all her hopes in the hands of the one person who has everything to lose. Brack, it seems, has no faith in the human condition, in humanity. He has never contemplated that his informer might be prepared, if asked, to face their past. Roza, on the other hand, holds firm to a belief that I sometimes fear is waning… that a longing for truth lingers in every man. This, I suspect, is why she dares — at last — to seek their co-operation. She thinks they’ll agree to a manner of dying. For their own sake if not for hers.’ The Prior adjusted his glasses and a trace of Glasgow pragmatism entered his voice. ‘As with any great endeavour the risk of failure far exceeds the chances of success. Someone has to reach out and tip the balance. Someone with the right kind of experience.’

‘My sentiments precisely’ endorsed John.

‘Anything else?’

‘No:

‘We’re all agreed then.’

Anselm frowned, not quite following the drift of accord that had left him behind. Puzzled, he watched the Prior worm a hand into his chest habit pocket and take out a diary and the chewed stub of a pencil. Flicking the pages, he said, ‘Anselm, I take it you’ve persuaded more than one criminal to enter a guilty plea?’

‘Indeed I have.’

It was an art. They had to come out of the discussion believing abject surrender was a smart move. He coughed modestly.

‘Well, you better go to Warsaw and read that file. The sooner you find this informer and get to work the better. It seems Roza needs your kind of help.’

Anselm’s mouth dropped open. What had happened to ‘monastery walls’? It was the Prior’s phrase, used to emphasise the importance of the enclosure, and not just when restless monks fancied a jaunt up the road for some ostensibly worthwhile purpose. The remark enshrined the withdrawn nature of Larkwood’s communal life, its witness of recollection and stability to people forever on the move. And yet here he was, trading dates and times with John, resolving incidental details.

‘I’ll meet all the expenses,’ insisted John. ‘There’s a reasonable hotel right by the IPN:

‘We’ll contribute.’

‘No, really’

‘Three days?’

‘A week, he might as well visit the place.’

‘Call it ten. We’ll pay the difference.’

‘I think not.’

At the close of the meeting, the two negotiators shook hands and, with a curiously solemn nod to Anselm, the Prior disappeared through the arched door that led to the cloister. It was as though his companions had just finished one of their old walks, when John had been overrun by despair and Anselm had kept watch from a distance. His presence had finally been acknowledged.

Quite apart from the ‘monastic walls’ aspect, the Prior’s decision had been unprecedentedly swift. Ordinarily he didn’t sleep on a proposal; he hibernated with it, emerging after some private winter of reflection. But now, without the slightest equivocation, he’d agreed to Anselm acting on John’s behalf. Leaving his old friend in the parlour, Anselm hurried over to Sylvester who was back behind his desk, eyeing the telephone as if it were a child that might talk back.

‘Were you listening?’ whispered Anselm, leaning down.

‘How dare you.’ Sylvester lurched for his walking stick as if it were a Lee Enfield with fixed bayonet.