The Day of the Lie

by William Brodrick

  ‘It’s yours,’ said a nurse with a square jaw.

  ‘Mine?’ Róża cried, wanting wonder, feeling only a terrifying weight.

  ‘Have you thought of a name?’

  Róża sank to a chair, tears streaming down her face. She couldn’t look down. She’d already glimpsed the vast ocean-blue eyes, the gangling limbs. She could hear a soft sucking sound. She’d seen the lips, the little tongue working, the nails on small fingers hooked on to the blanket.

  ‘Name. Have you got one?’ The jaw was pushed forward as if she were holding a pin between her teeth. She tapped a pencil on a pad. ‘There are forms to be filled in.’

  In abject misery, Róża turned her head aside, away from the bulky nurse with the muscular fingers, away from her pad, the notes, and the endless requests for names and dates of birth. Opening her eyes, Róża saw a window The frame was large, with bars fixed on the inside. Beyond lay the sky, puffs of cloud and, most agonising of all, a tree. Róża could see the pink cherry blossoms. A light breeze came in short gusts, plucking them free. They floated away by the handful, like scared butterflies.

  ‘I have a form.’ The pencil tapped impatience.

  Róża looked at the large pad of blue paper with its columns and boxes, the gaps and dotted lines. ‘There will be no name.

  ‘Just a surname?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Róża couldn’t do it. She couldn’t reduce this mystery of life to just another fact in prison. ‘No name at all.’

  ‘I’ll leave it blank, then.’

  Róża had a consuming dread that her milk would dry up from grief and the devastating guilt that came from bringing life into a prison. But as she fed the murmuring infant she looked out of the window and received something that made her strong and able to cope with the shock of hearing that first murder and the sound of Pavel’s execution, all set against the grotesque monotony of prison existence. She’d seen pink blossoms. She’d seen the wind that strips the trees.

  ‘One day we will win,’ said Róża, crouched on the footstool, when next summoned for an interrogation.

  She’d never said ‘we’ before; she’d never spoken of a struggle for victory But now she was more than herself. She spoke for someone who didn’t yet have a voice; and she joined herself to all those beyond the prison walls who couldn’t speak, either from ignorance, complacency or fear, and she spoke for them. She pledged herself to a victory that they would all claim as their own, one day, with or without merit, a victory that she knew was utterly certain, a day of freedom that could only be delayed and never denied.

  ‘I can wait,’ she said. ‘Today, tomorrow, either in here or out there, it makes no real difference. It’s all about patience and waiting, and I can do both. Do you know why?’

  Like the prisoners, Brack was barely distinguishable from the greenish walls. Even his brown hair seemed to have changed. The green in his eyes had grown stronger. He said nothing. Róża felt herself grow beyond her surroundings: even as she crouched, she filled the room.

  ‘Do you know why?’ she repeated, looking up, arms folded on her knees. ‘Because you can’t stop the Shoemaker. You can’t lock up his words. You can’t kill his ideas. They’re beyond reach. They have a life of their own. They’re for ever on the wind. And whether you like it or not, they are the future, yours and mine, because, fundamentally your ideas and your words aren’t as compelling as ours. They aren’t as good. They require force … bloodshed … suffering; whereas ours … ours demand nothing. First they persuade … only then do they ask for commitment and sacrifice.’

  Brack’s top teeth scraped his bottom lip. He’d darkened at the assault on his beliefs, but then mastered himself, strangely unsettled — it seemed — by Róża’s assurance and indifference to his authority.

  ‘Today is your day’ admitted Róża. ‘This is your winter. But we’ll have the spring. Tomorrow is coming and when it dawns —’ she nodded severity at him, and confidence — ‘there’ll be new laws, fairly framed; there’ll be honest, dedicated lawyers. There’ll be judges who don’t pass sentence in a damp cellar with a pistol. You’ll be spared what was done to me, but rest assured, you will be prosecuted for what you have done. I will give evidence against you. I will tell them about the cage and the merciless killing of two innocent men … whose only crime was to think differently from you and the barren system you serve.

  Once more Róża expected Brack to ignite at her attack but again he said nothing. There was no outburst about choosing sides and warnings in the sewers. He looked at Róża over his desk and the heap of Major Strenk’s papers, his teeth gouging at the lip. And then Róża understood why he’d been silent throughout her credo. Like all lackeys he was scared of what might happen if the teacher went away: where he would be if, when tomorrow came, Róża was right and he was wrong. The recognition made Róża fire a shot at the present.

  ‘You can’t keep me here for ever,’ she said. ‘And anyway, I’m already outside. I’ve seen the wind in a cherry tree.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Róża was allowed to see her child for two hours a day Then she had to leave the metal cot watched over by the nurse with thick fingers. Back in her cell she thought endlessly of the pink little mouth and the branches against the sky. For the first time since her imprisonment, she opened her eyes to those who were around her. She made friends with the woman with cropped blonde hair; the imprisoned nurse who’d held her hand during the birth.

  Aniela Kolba was twenty-six, the mother of a five-year-old boy called Bernard who she hadn’t seen for eighteen months. She’d been arrested because her brother had been an officer in the Home Army, at first a hero of the Uprising, a patriot, but then a deemed enemy of the new order. Aniela’s offence was association by blood. There was no one else to go for. Her parents were dead, shot and burned like Pavel’s family in the Ochota massacres.

  ‘My boy hates fish,’ she said, a hand pulling at knotted strands, her face fulsome, her arms chubby Eyebrows, dark and fine, were twisted with pain. ‘He once threw the keys to the house in the river.’

  Róża told Aniela of Saint Justyn’s and day trips with Mr Lasky to Chopin’s birthplace or the grave of Prus, while Aniela recounted holidays in the Carpathians to see the timber churches of the Lemks and Boyks. They took turns unfolding the story of Quo Vadis. Neither of them was called for interrogation, though Brack’s sunken face occasionally appeared at the Judas Window in the cell door. He’d watch, brooding for a moment and then vanish.

  One morning the guards came for Aniela. She returned at midday, dressed in clothes from home — a light green dress with small orange flowers, a deep red cardigan with dark blue buttons. The colours were blinding, harsh against the scratched walls. Her hair was neat and tidy shining like brushed silk. She wore new brown shoes.

  ‘They’re letting me go,’ she admitted. Her loyalty bound her to Róża and the prison.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They didn’t say I suppose I’m no longer a threat to the Party Maybe they’ve found my brother … I don’t know’

  It was like her arrest: there’d been no reason to lock her up; there was no reason to let her go. She smoothed her dress, ashamed to be wearing glad rags. Her eyebrows twisted. ‘They’ve let me say goodbye.’

  Róża thrust her face into Aniela’s neck and the wonderful smell of soap burned her nostrils. She pressed herself deep into those soft, open arms, from affection and to stifle the sound of gibbering from the other women — the frenzied requests to get a message out to their men and children.

  ‘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.

  Róża’s turn did not arrive. The months dragged on, leaving Róża with a glimpse of the changing seasons for two hours a day All the depth o
f 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 Róża 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 Róża into a deep restoring sleep.

  On entering the nursery the following morning, Róża 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. Róża 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.

  Róża 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.

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

  ‘For ever,’ he repeated, quietly.

  Róża 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, Róża, 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.

  Róża’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 Róża’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 Róża 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, Róża’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 —’ Róża 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.’

  Róża 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, Róża. 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, Róża … 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 Róża 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?’

  Róża 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?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Róża slowly opened her hands. She looked down, seeing they were empty. There would be no fine thread of attachment; nothing that would ever allow anyone to uncover the birth in prison to a murdered father; nothing that would ever lead her child back to a deranged mother in a damp cell.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ said the official, throwing caution to the wind. ‘Keep well out, that’s what I say Leave the mite unencumbered.’

  Róża sat motionless, feeling the weight and silence of the ocean all around her. She was sinking slowly into the sand. Sediment clouded her mind. The little man ticked some boxes and then closed the folder, slid it into his briefcase and stood up.

  ‘Well done,’ he said, dabbing his mouth with a crumpled handkerchief. He seemed surprised that a social degenerate had been capable of an act of common sense. �
�You made the right decision.’

  At the door, he turned, nodding profound assurances, like a nurse saying the scratch will heal. A guard appeared, summoning Róża with a lazy hand. They walked side by side down the corridor, retracing the route to her cell. Passing a barred window on the floor below, Róża slowed. Beyond the prison wall she’d glimpsed the grubby bureaucrat nodding more assurances to a slender woman dressed in a long dark coat. Her face was pale and drawn; her hair short and black. Head bobbing, he handed over the child as if it were a prize in a raffle. The guard’s hand closed around her elbow.

  ‘Can’t I watch to say goodbye?’ she whispered.

  ‘Back to your cell.’

  Moments later the door slammed shut.

  The lock turned.

  All at once, Róża seemed to surface from the deep. She sucked in the air and fell on her hands and knees. Sputtering and gasping, she rolled over, digging her nails into her breasts and stomach. The other women watched, expressionless, lined around the room like tied sacks of refuse. Róża couldn’t weep. She had no tears left. When all the noise had been expelled, she went to sleep.

  ‘Mojeska.’

  Six months had passed, the empty hours falling away like water from a dripping tap. Róża hadn’t spoken a word to anyone. She seemed not to hear what was said to her. She’d eaten mechanically with a voracious appetite. She’d left the wall unscratched. A deathly composure had displaced all her emotions.

  ‘Mojeska, out,’ repeated the voice, louder.

  She looked up. The cell door was open. A guard was signalling her into the corridor. Without speaking, she obeyed. They went down some stairs to a room where her photograph was taken. Then, with a shove, she stumbled through a door into the main yard. The sun crashed upon her head like the blow of a mallet. She felt a cool breeze and her skin tingled. The guard was moving quickly.