William Brodrick - The Day of the Lie

‘When it’s your turn, come to me,’ Aniela managed, against the choking. ‘I’ll always have a room for you.’

Then she was gone, taking with her the aroma of clean cotton, fresh skin, and the mysterious, healing power of colours, the ointment of green, orange, red and brown. Her going was like an amputation.

Roza’s turn did not arrive. The months dragged on, leaving Roza with a glimpse of the changing seasons for two hours a day All the depth of her being was concentrated into that time with her growing child. She stopped sleeping, living only for that moment of awe, veneration and pride.

On a cold night in winter Roza heard a scraping noise in the distance. She sat up, intrigued. All the other women were sleeping, shifting uneasily on their boards, one moaning, another calling out. The sound outside was familiar… back and forth, back and forth; then a sort of rest; then back and forth, back and forth. But she couldn’t place it. The steady rhythm was comforting, oddly warming in the memory. Back and forth, back and forth. It sent Roza into a deep restoring sleep.

On entering the nursery the following morning, Roza looked as usual to the cot and then towards the window — only this time she saw nothing but a cloudy sky She banged into the nurse as she ran towards the dismal light. Gripping the bars she stared, unable to believe her eyes, She slowly breathed in, speaking into her lungs:

‘No, no, no, no no…’ It was as though they’d flattened Warsaw once more. They’d cut down the cherry tree. Roza almost heard a voice: this was Brack’s reply to her speech in the interrogation room. He was showing her the limits of commitment and sacrifice, freely chosen: first, he’d removed Aniela and now he’d taken the tree. Where would he stop? When she had nothing left? That afternoon she was brought to the interrogation room.

‘We’re not going to let you out until you tell us where to find the Shoemaker,’ said Brack.

Roza was shaking slightly With all her heart she regretted her defiance while crouched on the stool. She’d got carried away, one word following another, failing to remember that for Brack the argument was concluded the day they’d taken different directions in the sewer. He watched her, running a finger thoughtfully across his bottom lip, and said, ‘You got something wrong the other day, during that lecture on winter and spring. You see, we can keep you here for ever.

Roza looked vacantly at the desk, the lamp, the paper, the pencil.

‘For ever,’ he repeated, quietly.

Roza could only think of the faint breeze that had freed the tiny petals. They’d flown away The tree’s fingers hadn’t got the strength to hold on.

‘Despite everything, Roza, I want to help you. Even though you won’t help me, I still want to help you. If you won’t speak to me about the Shoemaker, if your commitment and sacrifice demand only what you freely choose — ’ his voice dropped a tone — ‘then let the child go.

Roza’s lips shivered.

‘Yes, that’s what I said. Let it go. Don’t keep it in this forsaken place.’ He pushed back his chair and came from behind Major Strenk’s desk. Kneeling beside her, he growled with naked desperation. ‘Don’t let another life suffer. We’ve made different choices, we face the consequences, and each of us must do what we have to do, but don’t let those decisions destroy this defenceless child — ’ a wavering hand touched Roza’s shoulder; she smelled his sweat and the violent aftershave — ‘don’t create another victim. We’re living through a terrible time, with terrible costs, and we’ve taken opposing sides that set us against each other, to the death, for something that we both believe is better, but there is something we can agree upon. We can do something unquestionably… good; we can salvage something innocent from the bitterness and hatred, the confusion and the uncertainty. Help me save your child from what we’ve both known: the orphanage. Let me find a father, a mother… a home.’

Brack strode back behind the desk. His voice altered, his face distorted, his green-brown eyes levelled and blind.

‘I said we can keep you here for ever.’ A drawer opened slowly ‘You won’t be called for questioning again. Ask for me if you have anything to say Make the choice:

Do I betray Father Nicodem and bring them within one step of the Shoemaker, or do I keep my child? The priest had weighed her strength, but what about his? Could she pass on the obligation to suffer?

Whichever way Roza looked, she only saw catastrophic loss. If she gave in and brought them to Father Nicodem, she’d keep her child but negate the meaning of Pavel’s death, and the child would almost certainly grow up to condemn her decision. If she remained loyal to the Shoemaker’s cause then Pavel’s death might retain its significance, but she’d remain in prison, with their child eventually transferred to the care of some unfeeling institution. Would her child thank her for that noble decision? She thought not. And that left a middle way — loyalty to her beliefs at the cost of her child, a sacrifice the child would never know about; for her child would grow in ignorance of the past, loved by another mother and a living father.

We can keep you here for ever.

There was no law. They were the law Could her child wait until tomorrow, until that springtime? As if a window had blown open, Roza’s mind turned to the cherry tree. She saw the burst of wind and the flight of pink butterflies. She felt a deep pain at her side; a hand went to her stomach as if to hold herself together. In the morning she asked to see Lieutenant Brack.

‘If I agree… can I keep in touch with my child? Can I write a-’

‘No, I’m sorry.’ Brack’s fingers were knitted, his arms resting on his desk.

‘Will I get any information — ’ Roza began to squirm, her face breaking into creases of supplication — ‘a photograph, maybe… once in a while… just a little something to let me know that-’

‘It’s just not possible.’

Roza felt like she was sinking to the bottom of an ocean, not breathing, her eyes wide, her lungs full of water. ‘Do I have a say in which family my-’

‘I’m sorry.

‘Years from now, can I ask for a meeting, even for a few minutes, just a-’

‘No.’ Brack slowly raised his eyes. ‘There’s a system, Roza. These matters are dealt with by the appropriate State department. Applicants who want to adopt are assessed for their suitability. It’s only good people who apply you must know that; people who are hungry to give, who long to receive — ’ he seemed to check himself, not wanting emotion to contaminate his official declarations — ‘people who will raise a child far from harm. He weakened, ‘It’s another world out there, Roza

… another world.’

An employee of the relevant department came the following day, a short spectacled man with a tatty leather briefcase, its top flap curving out at the ends like a huge shred of dried orange peel. Food stains peppered the dull shine of his tie. A waistcoat button was missing. Plump hairy fingers gripped the pen that filled in the forms. He seemed to talk to himself under his breath, but Roza couldn’t make out any words. Her attention settled on the perspiration over his top lip.

‘Name,’ he said, when he got to the right column. ‘You’ll have picked a name, of course?’

‘None.’

‘None?’

Roza spelled out the word. ‘N-o-n-e.’

‘Fine.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I’ll just put your surname, then.’

‘No, you won’t.’

He mumbled about the irregularity, wanting his papers well in order.

‘You’ll need to sign.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Initials? Two small letters?’