William Brodrick: The Day of the Lie

‘They almost met.’

‘Who?’ asked Anselm, this time strangely afraid.

‘Celina… and her mother.’ Brack, thin and angular, seemed lost. All he’d said till now had been for the court, prepared and crafted, but now he was wandering. He didn’t know what he was saying, or how to say it.

‘What did you do?’ Anselm was almost whispering.

‘I found a journalist… first, 1 linked him up with Roza… then I linked him up with Celina — ’ he’d paused, standing still, his wavering hands moving objects slowly in the air from one place to another — ‘through him, they would have come together. I’d got them passports… all I had to do was throw them out… but Roza wouldn’t go… she thought I was trying to escape the law… that I’d adopted Celina to protect myself… there was no scheme… she couldn’t see that it was better if Celina never knew what had happened.’

‘Why did you get them passports?’ said Anselm very quietly; but the question broke the spell.

The two dark brown holes in Brack’s head were levelled against him once more, as when he’d first entered the hall. He returned to his seat, croaking and angry. ‘Because they were both lost causes:

But Anselm didn’t entirely believe him. He screwed up his eyes: behind the manifest wrongdoing that Polana represented he’d discerned a contradictory image… or at least he thought he had: there were lines drawn in Brack’s behaviour that he didn’t appear to know about. The decision to expel Roza and Celina had another inner logic: a kind of unconscious rebellion against himself and the voices in his head.

Recalling Celina’s feverish account of meeting Brack in John’s apartment, Anselm heard again Brack’s first avowed explanation of his conduct: that he’d been helping John as he’d once helped Celina. From one perspective, that remained true. It also remained true that Brack’s plan to find Roza through a journal entry (written by John, read by Celina and reported to Brack) had, as its chief purpose, the need to warn Roza that she could never seek justice without harming her daughter — which is what he’d told her in Mokotow And it remained true that Brack still hoped to capture the Shoemaker. But there was more to be seen.

Brack had tried to bring Roza and Celina together.

He’d got them passports. He’d planned to expel them, not just because they were ‘lost causes’, but because he knew that if they didn’t get to the West pretty damn fast, long prison sentences would await them both, for they’d never stop resisting the system to which he’d given his life.

He’d planned to expel them together.

And not because eyes other than his own had seen John’s journal — evidence of the offences that would place John and Roza in prison. That had been a lie. Brack had come to John’s flat alone, in his capacity as the Dentist, an identity unknown to Frenzel and the other SB footmen. He’d lied to twist Celina’s arm… to make her betray John

… so that he could bring Roza and Celina back to one another, an outcome that now revealed itself as the inner logic of Polana. Irina Orlosky had said it was the only case that Brack had cared about. He’d even dressed up to make the culminating arrest that would trigger Roza’s departure from Warsaw Only — for all that — Brack didn’t seem to know what he’d been doing. He hadn’t seen the parallel mechanics of his own stratagem. Anselm was now convinced of what he’d discerned behind Brack’s argument and actions: he’d tried to return a stolen daughter to her mother. There’d been a remnant of humanity in Otto Brack: he hadn’t quite managed to stamp out the fire. He’d made a confused bid for reparation.

‘Lost causes, I say’ snapped Brack, coiled in his chair, arms folded tight. ‘The pair of them.’

He seemed to be retracing his steps, wanting to clear up any confusion. He looked worried, vulnerable, knowing he could only repeat himself; that away from the microphone he’d said strange things off the record. He couldn’t retract them; he’d let slip things he didn’t fully grasp himself.

‘Well?’ challenged Brack.

Anselm didn’t reply He let Brack squirm in the made-to-measure suit of a killer, sensing the cloth had always chafed his skin. Anselm stared across the divide, intrigued at that lingering scrap of decency.

It was Celina who’d fanned a heap of dust into flame, bringing sensation back to his life. With her colour and craziness and cheek. After she’d walked out on him, he’d tracked her troubled steps, protecting her from the many dangers of the brave new world, torn between the two, though not acknowledging the tear into his own universe. He’d almost been rescued from moral extinction… by garish nail varnish worn by a girl who wouldn’t stay between the lines. The chance of salvation had risen out of his crimes, but he hadn’t seen it. Then, and now, he had to keep face. He’d once been the man of a moment, the responsibility handed to him by his father. He couldn’t surrender that, not even for the sake of Celina.

‘Well? Speak. Now it’s your turn,’ he barked, ill-tempered and defensive, no longer quite so convincing. ‘I’ve told you about the crimes, now tell me about the mercy.’

Anselm had made no deal. But he couldn’t walk away from the table. There’d been a partial exchange of information. Anselm had listened. It was his duty to complete the picture: to complete the trial. However, he had a few preliminary matters that required a brisk adjudication.

‘What happened to JULITA’s file?’

‘It was destroyed.’

‘By whom?’

‘I don’t know’

That was a lie, concluded Anselm, but it didn’t matter, for now; at least the point had been dealt with.

‘Did you let it be known to interested parties that John Fielding had been involved in intelligence gathering — an allegation which, by the way could only damage his reputation?’

‘No.’

‘Who did?’

‘Frenzel. I found out shortly afterwards:

And that was true. Anselm nodded, intrigued again by the hint of another double image. For if Brack had known — he’d implied — he’d have stopped his subordinate from having fun. But why? John was an enemy.

‘I’m not making an exchange,’ said Anselm, moving on to the trial proper. ‘I’ll explain why Roza chose mercy if you insist, but this is your chance to escape. You can walk out of this hall, just like Roza and Celina could have left Warsaw, sheltered by ignorance. Or, like them, you can try and shape how you understand your life by taking account of things you never knew about. Things that were kept from you. As you kept them from Celina. It’s a big choice. Think about it. The protection you offered them is still available to you. I’m offering you a passport.’

Anselm found it almost impossible to make contact with Brack now Behind his glasses Brack was almost absent, in a chosen darkness. Anselm was talking into an abyss. Brack said, ‘In eighty-nine I tried to find my file. It had gone. I wanted to see what others made of me. You see, I’m not scared of what others think. I’m more troubled by what they do. I don’t understand Roza’s mercy and I don’t want Roza’s mercy But if I have to live with it, I need to know why’

Anselm wondered if irony would ever leave this man alone. The one thing he needed to fear was that file. And chance had taken it from him. But he wanted it back.

‘Your parents were deported to Mauthausen,’ said Anselm. He’d decided to lay out the facts, simply and without padding, as he’d done with Celina in the Old Mill. ‘Your mother died there but, against what you have always believed, your father did not.’

Brack made all the physical motions preparatory to speech — that sudden, light rising with the body — but then said nothing. The cracks in the linoleum round his mouth became hard again. Anselm continued.