The Day of the Lie

by William Brodrick

  With that sense of solemn engagement.’ Anselm sat down and removed the lid from the box. Inside were two files, one thick and orange, the other thin and green. He took the first and untied its bow with a quick tug. Opening the cover, he paused.

  The text had not been translated. Glancing down the three short paragraphs, Anselm gleaned two names: one in lower case.’ Róża Mojeska, the second capitalised.’ OLEK. Beneath this document Anselm found two prison photographs, the first of a girl with wavy hair, the second of a haggard woman, someone so absent that Anselm thought she’d just risen from an autopsy table. They were each marked ‘MPB WARSZAWA’ and dated 1951 and 1953 respectively Then he realised they were one and the same individual. This was Róża Mojeska.’ before and after. The rest of the file held page after page of meticulous pencil-written notes — these presumably being a contemporaneous record of Róża’s various interrogations. This was the neatness of that most frightening of individuals, the bureaucrat and torturer, whose violence is a kind of humdrum administrative activity Anselm moved them to one side, grateful that he couldn’t understand the questions and answers. Reaching into the box he withdrew the file with the green cover. It was so flimsy it might have been empty This, presumably was the Polana material from the joint Stasi-SB archive.

  Anselm was right. Inside were two letters in German. The first was dated 17th June 1982, reference MW/MfS/XV1/1982. It had been sent by a Stasi major in Warsaw to a general in East Berlin. A single paragraph was relevant to Anselm’s purpose:

  Contrary to the protocol of December 1978, Colonel Brack declines to share key intelligence. Day to day running of Polana is left to his deputy, Lieutenant Frenzel who keeps matters firmly in the SB camp. We know, for example, that an agent named FELIKS has been reactivated but to date we have not been told who that might be.

  The second letter was dated three weeks later. It came from Colonel Brack to the general, copied to the major, reference IO/ SB/XVI/1982. Again one element spoke to Anselm:

  As you know, agent running is a delicate task resting upon the absolute trust of the informer with their handler. Their contract is with the SB, not the Stasi. To disclose their names at this stage is neither necessary nor desirable. That said, at the completion of the operation I am sure some accommodation can be found.

  That was it. John had assumed the file would contain everything that had been compiled to catch Róża, which would include the name of the informer. But there was nothing of the sort. The bulk of the contents had evidently been removed. Anselm pushed back his chair to seek the woman in white. He found her ticking boxes in another office some distance down the corridor. Behind her stood a man in a dark suit examining a photocopier as if it were a lethal gadget made by Q.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Anselm, hesitating at the door. ‘The file is incomplete.’

  The nurse’s signals suggested he might like to try again but the conversation did not improve until the man prodding the paper tray tuned in. Shaking Anselm’s hand he said, in assured English, ‘Nothing’s missing. They’ve been destroyed:

  Sebastian Voight had read law at Warsaw and then pursued postgraduate studies in London and Washington. He’d specialised in criminal procedure, with an eye to war crimes and the problems of transitional justice, thinking originally of a career at the Hague. However he’d been knocked off course — or on course, depending on your perspective — by the offer of a job at the IPN. Amongst the many investigations he’d instituted into what were now called ‘communist crimes’, few had been as important or urgent as that of Otto Brack.

  ‘Important because his case links crimes of the Stalinist Terror to those of the martial law years; it’s the beginning and end of Communism. Róża’s story symbolises the entire epoch. A trial of Otto Brack would be a trial of post-war authoritarian ideology and its murderous consequences.’ Sebastian’s office, it transpired, faced that allocated to Anselm. The order was in surprising contrast to a rather appealing anarchy in his clothing. He was smart, but something rebelled. The stiff shirt collar refused to stay inside the jacket. His soul was in a pair of trainers. ‘And it’s important regardless of any inherent symbolic qualities, because we’re dealing with a double killing.’

  The orange file contained not only Róża’s interrogations from the early fifties but a secret report referring to the interrogation and execution of two men believed to be part of the Shoemaker organisation: Pavel Mojeska and Stefan Binkowski.

  ‘There was no trial,’ said Sebastian, leaning on the edge of his desk. ‘They were simply killed. At the time Róża was in the same prison. I’m sure she knows what happened. As things stand there is no evidential link between the murders and Otto Brack.’

  ‘How do you know there is one?’

  ‘Intuition. I could feel it when I met Róża. She was there. I know she was there.’

  Anselm glanced at the wall planner, marked with red dots for pending actions. There were no blue ones for the holidays. Along one wall was a rack of shelves packed with box files. Presiding over the lot, in a central gap, was a photograph of an elderly woman standing behind a wheelchair.

  ‘You said urgent,’ resumed Anselm, legs crossed, remembering the savage energy generated by papers organised for a trial.

  ‘Róża is the last and only witness,’ replied Sebastian. ‘The known guards are dead. And if they weren’t I doubt if they’d talk. It all hangs on Róża. But she’s trapped by her own decency Brack threatened to bring a plague on an informer’s house if she ever opened her mouth. She’s worried they’d take a running jump.’

  Anselm sipped a glass of fizzy water, picked up from a machine in the corridor outside. ‘Well, she was present all right.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the prison when her husband and Stefan Binkowski were shot.’

  ‘Shot? How do you know?’

  ‘She flew all the way to London to tell John Fielding, a friend of mine. She asked him to walk through fire to find the informer who betrayed her in nineteen eighty-two. She’ll only meet them if they’re willing to talk honestly If they won’t, she’ll let them go. If they will, she hopes to persuade them that Brack’s worst isn’t that bad after all.’

  ‘Well, well, well,’ murmured Sebastian, dragging a hand through his black hair. ‘She really did change her mind:

  He spun off the desk’s edge to open a front drawer.

  ‘I’d been chasing Róża for weeks but she wouldn’t talk to me. He took out a folder and opened its flap. ‘Eventually.’ I persuaded her to come here and see the SB files. I tricked her, and she knew it. I’d set up recording equipment, right there in front of the shelves. I’d put up some pictures showing the chaos of her life and times. I’d made it difficult to walk away’

  He’d asked her to talk about the period between 1951 and 1982, saying it was for a voice archive, Which was true.’ only what he really wanted was a list of all the people she’d known. The informer had to be among them.

  ‘I knew what I was looking for. There are only two types of candidate that would explain Róża’s willingness to leave Brack unaccused. First, someone intimately connected to the Shoemaker operation with a high enough profile to make public disclosure almost unthinkable. Second, someone to whom she felt indebted … someone to whom she owed far more than she ever stood to gain by seeing Brack banged up for life.’

  ‘Either way.” said Anselm.’ commending the classification, ‘someone who might choose the Vistula if exposed.’

  Sebastian gave a nod. ‘But Róża saw the ruse: she gave no names. After she’d finished, I thought I’d never see her again.’

  But a week or so later she’d come back with a revised statement.’ identifying every person of significance in her life.

  ‘She, too, was transformed,’ explained Sebastian. ‘She’d worked out a plan of some kind, but she wouldn’t elaborate. All she’d say was that she intended to wake the dead and shatter the illusions of many And now you’ve turned up.’

  Anselm ra
ther liked the ring to that declaration. He took off his glasses to shine the lenses, baulking, suddenly, as Róża’s expectations came into focus.

  ‘She brought that statement to London,’ said Anselm, blinking uncertainly ‘In effect, she called it a tool to help find the informer. Thing is, she never gave it to John.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘When they met, she saw he was blind.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She left. Devastated. Not knowing that John would come to me, and that I would come here, in his stead, without that statement.’

  The two lawyers appraised each other, both of them — Anselm was sure — reviewing the law of agency for unless Anselm could be described as Róża’s representative, the IPN couldn’t disclose a copy of her statement.

  ‘The words “authorised”, “express” and “implied” spring to mind,’ purred Anselm. ‘I’ve forgotten the rest but I think we can frame an argument to the effect that I’m Róża’s sub-agent, with John as the absent principal.’

  ‘Agreed,’ replied Sebastian.’ taking a document from the folder.

  ‘This is the text. To sharpen the focus, I’ve cut out the material where no names are mentioned. I’ll get it translated now I’ve traced the addresses and telephone numbers of all the people mentioned. You’ll find them listed at the back.’

  It was an East meets West triumph: a sort of indigenous Pizza Express, only they sold dumplings. Pierogi. Anselm wouldn’t have thought it possible, but these fast serving mono—thematic eateries were all the rage. They’d sprung up all over the city Could a dumpling seriously vie with a pizza? Anselm was privately awed. Out loud, over a shot of Śliwowica Paschalna (‘… just fermented plums. Nothing added. Not even water …’) he wondered if Sebastian had given any thought to FELIKS.

  ‘Oh yes. I looked him up in one of the SB agent registers. And sure enough, he’s there in Róża’s statement all the way from the fifties to the eighties. For the first time I got a glimpse of her predicament fleshed out. FELIKS is a friend. FELIKS is part of a family FELIKS is surrounded by people who’ve no idea he’s a swine who got his swill. People Róża doesn’t want to harm.’

  Anselm took a sip.

  ‘The second type of informer.” he whispered, eyes watering.

  ‘Yes. She owed him her life:

  Assuming FELIKS is our man (continued Sebastian, after draining his glass) the circumstances showed up the moral perversion of Brack’s actions. Sure, he’d used her goodness against herself, but he’d also gambled on a lack of honesty among the very people she sought to protect.

  ‘Not everyone wants to hear the truth.” he avowed with a knowing wink to the waiter at the bar. ‘They wouldn’t want to know that Daddy was an informer and they wouldn’t thank Róża for telling them. She’d have known the score immediately: if she wanted to keep popping round for dinner and watch the telly then she’d better keep her mouth shut.’

  Anselm nodded, thinking — curiously — of John. Given the choice.’ he’d preferred the lie of a happy family to the truth of his mother’s betrayal. He wasn’t grateful for the enlightenment, even now. He hadn’t wanted the pain. Neither had his father or Melanie. They’d all been playing Misery ever since, trying to get back to the good times. All of which demonstrated the complexity of Róża’s position and the risks involved in persuading someone to step centre-stage.

  One arm behind his back, the waiter refilled Sebastian’s tiny glass, aping shock when Anselm declined a top-up.

  ‘But, of course, FELIKS may not be our man.” said Anselm, wetting his bottom lip.

  ‘No. I spotted that, too.’

  Colonel Brack’s letter to the general, copied to the major, referred to ‘agents’. Plural. There were other ears at Róża’s door. But only one of them really mattered.

  ‘I’ve got to find the informer that led Brack to the Powązki Cemetery in nineteen eighty—two.” said Anselm. ‘The rest are just bit-players.’

  How to proceed, then? Anselm could hardly go through an SB agent registry like one of those telephone-based salesmen, asking if the householder would like to change their heating system. He needed to know for sure that he’d found Brack’s main actor, so he could plan his approach, plan that ‘better story’ mentioned by the Prior that would persuade them to meet Róża.

  Sebastian.’ it transpired, had already tried to narrow down the pool of candidates. Cross-referring the IO/SB/XVI/1982 reference with SB employment records, he’d identified Irina Orlosky as Brack’s bilingual personal assistant. The revenue people had traced her address but, like Róża, she’d refused to talk. Unlike Róża she’d been hard and brittle; hysterical when pushed. And while neither of them had a choice but to co—operate with an IPN investigation, Sebastian recognised he couldn’t hope to mount a successful prosecution without willing witnesses.

  Anselm stared at his glass and then swallowed fire in one swift movement.

  ‘Odd, really that the Polana file isn’t completely empty.” he said, after a long burning pause. ‘The letters left behind are more like adverts. A hint of what’s on offer. I was reminded of a mail order catalogue.’

  ‘Catalogue?’

  ‘Yes. You know, bargain sales. Basement level.’

  Sebastian didn’t follow so Anselm explained.

  ‘We need the papers that are missing from the Polana file. The one name left on view to anyone who opens the cover is Brack’s deputy.’ Lieutenant Frenzel. I find that an intriguing state of affairs. I think it was deliberate. I think he wouldn’t be surprised if we gave him a call. I think the man is open for business:

  Sebastian leaned back slowly viewing Anselm with reluctant admiration. Annoyance, too, that he’d missed the true meaning of the surviving correspondence. For months he’d been poring over those two letters, seeing nothing more alluring than a reference number, and then this monk had turned up.’ this herald expected to shatter the illusions of many and he’d seen the implications in five minutes.

  ‘I think I might join you after all,’ said Anselm, signalling to the waiter.

  Warmed by Sebastian’s silent praise, he thought it right, however, to advertise his ignorance. He’d wanted to know something long before he’d dared to question the eminence of dumplings.

  ‘So, tell me.’ who was FELIKS?’

  Chapter Nineteen

  IPN/RM/13129/2010

  EDITED TRANSCRIPT OF A STATEMENT MADE BY

  RÓŻA MOJESKA

  Timings refer to the complete recording.

  0.15

  The guard behind shoved me out … but I didn’t want to leave. I’d forgotten how to live and I didn’t know what to do out there, on an ordinary street. For years I’d been in a cell with a tiny window so high that I had to strain my neck to see the clouds. I turned round and banged on the gate … but they wouldn’t let me back in. Brack just watched me … and, when I finished beating on the gate, his eyes followed me to a junction a few hundred yards up the road. That’s when I thought of Aniela Kolba. We’d shared a cell. She’d told me to come and stay when they set me free.

  0.56

  Aniela and I were bound by memories of prison while Edward, her husband, became my guide and friend. He knew how to live na lewo, on the left … outside official channels; he’d learned how to załatwić sprawy … to wangle things. That first night he obtained an old British Army camp bed and set it up in the sitting room.’ between a wardrobe and wall. He called it my apartment. A few days later, he pulled some strings and got me a job sewing ribbons in a hat factory I was part of the family No rent. No payments of any kind. I sat at their table as if I’d always been there. I didn’t leave it until four years later, when — thanks to Edward’s back door wangling — I got a place of my own. But by then there was no leaving. I belonged.

  5.37

  Work at the factory gave a structure to my life. I sat between two women and we just sewed from morning till night. To my left was Barbara Nowak. Her husband had gone for a long walk and never come b
ack. She had a pram with a doll, bought in the hope of having a child. She had a parrot in a cage that yelled ‘Let me out’. She was unhappy; and that made us friends. We both sat there, lost with our own thoughts, endlessly pulling a needle and thread. Thirty years later, never having attended a strike or demonstration in her life.’ Barbara organised a system of distribution for Freedom and Independence. She used to wear a flowery apron, even in the street. The SB never gave her a second look. But that was all to come. At the time I met her, we were both in a kind of troubled sleep.

  8.09

  The fifties were a difficult time for everyone. And yet I didn’t really notice the hardship. I remember once seeing blood on my thumb but I had no recollection of having felt the stab of the needle. That sums me up, back then. From day to day I felt nothing. The greater part of me was still in Mokotów … by a large window that looked on to a cherry tree. Events passed me by — great, terrible events, which burned themselves into those around me.’ and I looked on, numbed, as if I’d found someone else’s blood on my fingers.

  It was through Barbara that I heard about the riots in 1956. She leaned towards me saying the workers from the Stalin factory in Poznań were on the streets. They had banners. ‘We want Freedom’, ‘We want Bread’.’

  ‘We are Hungry’. She said the farmers had taken on the Soviet army Bombs were falling out of the sky Folk were being dragged off to Siberia. I listened from afar, only stirring at a detail that turned out to be true. Children had climbed trees to get a better view of the tanks and the soldiers. When the army opened fire, aiming high to warn the rioters, they hit these little sparrows. Children fell dead from the branches.

  18.23

  Such was my life. Every night I’d go to Saint Klement’s for an hour or so. The silence reminded me of a voice I once heard on a train. This girl sang a song that took me out of myself. In my life, which has seen so many demands for names and dates of birth, here was someone important who’d escaped being nailed down. There was no name. I don’t know who it was, or what she looked like but I found her again in that quiet place.