Entanglement

by Zygmunt Miloszewski

  Someone covered his eyes.

  “A penny for your thoughts, Prosecutor.”

  “Nothing interesting, I was just dreaming about sex with those children in the sandpit.”

  She laughed and removed her hands. He looked at her and felt completely defenceless. He stepped back a pace. She noticed his reaction.

  “Are you afraid of me?”

  “Like any femme fatale. I wanted to see how you’re looking today,” he lied.

  “And?” she asked, standing in contrapposto. She was wearing an orange shirt with the sleeves rolled up, white trousers and flip-flops. She looked like the allegory of summer. Her freshness and energy were quite unbearable, and Szacki thought he should run away, or else he wouldn’t be capable of resisting them and would turn the life he’d toiled away at building all these years into a heap of steaming rubble.

  “Extraordinary,” he said, sincerely at last. “Perhaps even too extraordinary for me.”

  They walked, chatting about unimportant things. Szacki got pleasure from listening to her voice, so he encouraged her to talk as much as possible. He teased her a little with his big-city superiority when he found out she was born in the town of Pabianice. She told him about her family, that her father had died recently, about her younger brother, her older childless sister stuck in a toxic relationship, and her mother, who in her old age had decided to go back to Pabianice. Her stories kept breaking off and lacked any conclusion, so Szacki couldn’t always keep up with them, but it didn’t bother him.

  They walked around the pond, where some children were throwing balls of bread at some indifferent overfed ducks, hopped across the stepping stones in the fake stream, the source of which was a rusty metal pipe - all too visible - and reached a small hillock crowned with an undefined something. It was a modern sculpture, a bit like a Vienna doughnut but without the wrinkles. It was covered in declarations of love, and Szacki remembered how once he had carved his own initials here, and those of his “sweetheart” in year eight at primary school.

  He leaned against the statue and she sat in its hollow. Below, the Łazienkowska Highway roared by in its gully, on the other side they had Ujazdowski Castle, and on the left swaggered - what else could it do - the church crossed with a fortress, where a few days ago he had been kneeling beside the body of Henryk Telak.

  They didn’t say anything, but he knew that if he didn’t kiss her now - despite all later explanations and attempts to rationalize - he would never cease to regret it. So for fear of being ridiculed, he leaned over and kissed her awkwardly. She had narrower, harder lips than Weronika, she didn’t open her mouth as far and generally wasn’t a champion kisser. Either she stood without moving, or she swivelled her head and stuck her tongue in his mouth abruptly. He almost snorted with laughter. She tasted great - a bit like cigarettes, a bit like mango, a bit like watermelon.

  She quickly pulled away.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I know you’ve got a family. I know you’re going to break my heart. I know I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t stop myself. I’m sorry.”

  He thought she was right. He wanted to say it wasn’t true, but he couldn’t. At least that was that.

  “Come on,” she said more cheerfully, and grabbed his hand. “You can see me to the bus stop.”

  They went down the hillock - once he had thought it so big - and walked along a path past Finnish cottages standing behind the fence, proof of the fact that stopgaps last longest. At first they didn’t talk, but suddenly she pinched his side hard. He was afraid it would leave a mark.

  “Hey, Mr Prosecutor, we’ve just been kissing in a romantic setting, no need to be so glum, eh? I liked it - what about you?”

  “It was fantastic,” he lied.

  “I’ll tell you more: I really did like it. I could even get to love it, though till now I’ve always thought kissing was just the boring bit before sex,” she laughed loudly. It sounded fake. “I shouldn’t tell you, but as we’ve almost become lovers now, maybe I can.” More laughter. “Looks like you’re going to be promoted soon.”

  “What makes you think that?” he asked, meaning the bit about becoming lovers.

  “The Internal Security Agency was asking me about you today. Anyway, they must have been checking up on you for some time if they know we’re seeing each other. The cretins, they asked such stupid things I almost died laughing. I don’t know what significance it can have for state security, but…”

  He wasn’t listening. Could it be possible that Wenzel was right? Had he touched on untouchable matters? But it was nonsense, just a coincidence. He pulled himself together and abruptly started questioning Monika about the details. She was surprised, but she answered. Soon he knew there were two of them, they were quite young - under thirty - dressed like the FBI agents in TV serials. They had showed her their identity cards. Matter-of-fact, they had asked short, precise questions. Some of them, for example whether he squandered money, whether he talked about the criminal underworld, seemed justified. Others, about his political views, habits and addictions, less so. In spite of himself he felt more and more unnerved. He couldn’t calm down. If they’d found her, they could even more easily get to his family.

  Romance had suddenly evaporated from his mind. They had already left the park - Monika increasingly surprised by his importunate questions - when he remembered this was a date. He suggested she should weigh herself on the antique scale at the entrance.

  It was an entertainment - one of his favourites as a child. First the old man in charge of the scale measured his height, then sat him in the seat, fiddled with various weights for a while, until finally he gave a mighty pull on a worn-out lever and handed him a small card, on which was stamped - just stamped, with no ink - the date and his weight. Funny, he’d had so many of those little cards and they’d all got lost somewhere. Or maybe they’d been kept at his parents’ house?

  “You’re joking,” she said indignantly. “So you can make sure how small I am, and how heavy too? There’s no way.”

  He laughed, but he felt sorry.

  V

  At home, he had fabulous sex again. The more often he saw Monika, the more he fantasized about her, the better he got on with Weronika. He had no idea why that was happening.

  He lay beside his sleeping wife and thought things through. Firstly, he shouldn’t accept that it had actually been the Internal Security Agency that had questioned Monika, but find out from Wenzel who was after him and why. Check it himself at the Internal Security Agency and ultimately submit a crime report. He wasn’t too keen on this last idea, because of Weronika. There were sure to be some leaks as usual, and his wife might find out about his affair - quasi-affair for now - from the papers.

  Secondly, was Kamil Sosnowski, the mysterious corpse from the late 1980s, of whom all trace had vanished, his missing person? The person Jeremiasz Wróbel had told him to find? The phantom whom Henryk Telak had been staring at so fearfully throughout the therapy? He had no idea what it could mean. From the theory of Constellation Therapy it emerged that the missing person should be a woman, Telak’s first great love - he’d never come to terms with losing her. And he felt guilty about her death. Then his sense of guilt and loss were the reason why his daughter - identifying with the dead woman and at the same time wanting to relieve her father’s suffering - had committed suicide. And now? It was hard even to make any guesses, as all he knew about Sosnowski was that he had been murdered during a break-in. Nothing more. Could Telak have been the murderer, one of the burglars? Extremely doubtful. Highly improbable. Questions, questions, nothing but questions.

  Thirdly, was he in love with that girl with the small breasts? Maybe not. But if not, why couldn’t he get her out of his head? Why was she his last thought before sleeping and his first on waking? He snorted with laughter. Christ Almighty, like something out of an old-fashioned romantic novel! Either every love affair was like bad emotional scribbling, or he was only
capable of experiencing love in a juvenile way. Not surprising, considering the last time he’d fallen in love had in fact been as a juvenile, with his present wife. Maybe it was time to fall in love as a man? The idea occurred to him that perhaps he should test out this new sort of falling in love on his wife, but he quickly dropped it. The world was so big. And you only had one life.

  So he went to have a pee before sleep, carefully picking up his mobile from the bedside table. Lately he’d always kept it on silent at home, fearing the question: “Who is it this time?” - and his own lies.

  The message was short: “What have you done to me? I’m about to go crazy. M.” He sent a safe answer: “Me? Just you stop putting drugs in my coffee”, and went happily to bed.

  He cuddled up to Weronika and instantly fell asleep.

  10

  Wednesday, 15th June 2005

  The Japanese have built a machine that will drill through the earth’s crust. The Spanish have arrested sixteen people on suspicion of Islamic terrorism. The Dutch have set fire to a mosque. “I’m impressed by the development of events both within Poland and concerning Poland, and the highly varied arguments that are reaching me,” Włodzimierz Cimoszewicz tells the Polish Press Agency; he isn’t excluding the idea that he will in fact compete in the presidential elections. In her turn, Government Plenipotentiary for Male and Female Equality Magdalena Środa is not impressed by the Polish textbooks in which Mummy flies about with a duster and does the cooking, while Daddy is a businessman graciously coming home for dinner. She announces a feminist crusade. And Warsaw’s mayor, Lech Kaczyński, who recently argued that sexual orientation cannot be the subject of a public demonstration, agrees with the nationalist group All-Polish Youth’s homophobic crusade, the “Normality Parade”. After being the stronger team for 120 minutes at Grodzisk Wielkopolski, Legia only manage a draw with Groclin 1-1, and then in lamentable style lose on penalties the chance to get through to the Polish Cup final. In Warsaw it is either sunny and almost thirty degrees, or the sky is so dark that the street lamps come on, and there are violent storms. A thirty-five-year-old woman is killed by a bolt of lightning.

  I

  He scowled as he parked the Citroën by the pharmacy on the corner of Żeromski and Makuszyński Streets in the Bielany district. The curbs in this city were too high even for the hydraulic suspension of his big French cruiser. He soon found the low building where Wenzel lived and ran up to the second floor. Before pressing the bell next to the surprisingly armour-plated door, he crossed his fingers and glanced upwards. If he didn’t get anything this time that would let him solve the Telak case, that was the end of it.

  Karol Wenzel opened the door, at once surprising him in two ways: behind the door solid bars had been fitted, providing another barrier between the flat and the corridor, and Wenzel himself looked like the last person you would suspect of being employed at the Institute for National Remembrance. He looked more like a manager at a thriving advertising agency. He was quite small, probably not much taller, if at all, than Tom Cruise, but there was nothing else to fault him. Barefoot, dressed in shorts and a white polo shirt, he looked as if he consisted only and exclusively of muscles. Not in an exaggerated way, like a bodybuilder, but like someone who spends every spare moment doing sports. He was tanned and clean-shaven, with thick black hair cut short. He must have been Szacki’s age, but alongside the historian the prosecutor looked like his uncle.

  “Aren’t you going to ask if anyone followed me?” asked Szacki more cuttingly than he’d intended, thinking at the same time that if he stood on his toes, Wenzel could pass under his arm.

  “They know where I live,” replied Wenzel curtly.

  Every detail of the interior seemed to shout: here lives a bachelor. The whole flat couldn’t have been more than a hundred square feet, and must once have consisted of a main room and a kitchen. Now the rooms were joined into one. Two windows looked onto the same western side. Between them another one had been painted on the wall, with mountains beyond it. Szacki wasn’t sure, but it may have been the ridge of the High Tatra Mountains with the peaks of Kozi Wierch and Zamarła Turnia, seen from the direction of Gąsienicowy Tarn. He hadn’t admired that view for ages. Life was passing by, and all he ever knew was work, wife, work, child, wife, work. But that was going to change. It was already changing.

  One entire wall of the flat was taken up by shelves full of books and files - this alone bore witness to the resident’s profession. The rest of it - a desk combined with a folding sofa, a TV, computer, hi-fi, speakers in each corner, posters from all the Star Wars films on the walls and a designer espresso machine in pride of place in the kitchen - were toys for a big boy who lives alone.

  “Want a coffee, Teo?” asked Wenzel, pointing at the espresso machine.

  Szacki said yes. He thought his host could at least for the sake of formality ask before calling him by his first name, even though they were more or less contemporaries working in the same profession. As Wenzel was fussing over the espresso machine, Szacki wondered if he should start by telling the case history, or by saying that they’d already found him. He chose the first option.

  He gave a precise account of the therapy, described the potential killers: Rudzki, Jarczyk, Kaim and Kwiatkowska, and summarized his conversation with Wróbel, who had told him to look for the person missing. He talked about Telak’s lucky numbers, about the newspapers and the strange murder of Kamil Sosnowski, all trace of which had vanished in the police archives. About his conversation with Captain Mamcarz and the file cleaned out by Department “D”, which Podolski didn’t want to talk about.

  Wenzel was quiet for a while, then burst into noisy laughter.

  “As far as I can see you already know the whole story,” he said. “You just have to put the facts together.”

  “Please, leave out the riddles.”

  “This Sosnowski, in the bath with his throat cut and his hands and legs tied together. You must know who else was tied up like that in the 1980s, only a few years earlier. Everyone knows.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Close.”

  “Father Jerzy Popiełuszko.”

  “Exactly.” The shocking murder of the priest by the secret police was world famous.

  “Are you trying to say Sosnowski was murdered by the secret police? Why?”

  Wenzel shrugged.

  “Either to subdue his parents, or they made a mistake. Things like that did happen. I’ll tell you briefly whose corns you’ve trodden on, so you know what we’re talking about. I’m sure you’ve got a rough idea of their operational chart - Department III for the opposition, Department IV for the Church, subject surveillance, moulding personal sources of information, central card index, filing system and so on?”

  Szacki said he did.

  “People think it was a sort of militia bureaucracy, and that all those SB-men, like the lieutenant played by Kowalewski in Monitored Conversations were just dim-witted functionaries who gathered non-essential information. Incidentally, I can’t stand Bareja. And I don’t like Chęciński for Conversations either,” he said, referring to the film-makers who had sent up the Communist era.

  “Because?”

  “Because it’s all lies. Lies that are nice and convenient for those sons of bitches. And that will continue to be for all time. Lies that make people believe Communist Poland was this wacky country, where life may not have been easy, but at least it was funny and we all had a jolly good time.”

  “Wasn’t it a bit like that?” Personally Szacki adored Bareja’s films.

  The historian sighed and looked at him as if planning to throw him out.

  “Ask Kamil Sosnowski. Do you really think he was the only victim? Why doesn’t anyone bloody well want to understand what the People’s Republic of Poland was really like? It was a totalitarian system relying on the repression and persecution of its citizens, using all sorts of means, where those with the most to say - however pathetic it sounded - belonged to the apparatus of ter
ror, in other words the omnipresent services, keeping an eye on almost everybody and ready to react at any moment. Fuck it all,” - Wenzel was plainly furious - “can’t you see that they want you to keep believing in films like Teddy Bear and Brunet Will Call? It’s not surprising. There’s nothing there about prisons, accidents and disappearances. There’s no Division III, no blackmail or traitors. There’s no Department ‘D’.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Szacki humbly. “I was seventeen in 1989.”

  “And I was eighteen. So what? Does that let you off knowing history? Allow you to reduce your childhood and your parents’ lives to a silly satire full of jokes about sausages? Congratulations. Go and buy a pound of frankfurters and put them on Jacek Kuroń’s grave. Let him have a laugh.” The late Solidarity leader had spent plenty of time in prison for his brave stance against the Communist regime.

  “I’m extremely sorry,” muttered Szacki, “but I don’t work at the Institute for National Remembrance. I don’t find out about secret-police crimes every day. And if I come to find out, instead of receiving information I get fucked. If you want me to leave, just tell me. If you don’t, then explain what you know. But leave the rest of it out.”

  Wenzel frowned and ruffled his hair.

  “‘D’, or disinformation and disintegration. It was the most well-camouflaged structure within the Ministry of Internal Affairs - they called themselves ‘a conspiracy within a conspiracy’. It existed both centrally and regionally, as section ‘D’. Those were the guys who did the dirty work. Their activities involved spreading rumours, setting the opposition against each other and slander. Blackmail, kidnapping, beating people up, also murder. I know you’ve never heard of it, but their existence is logical. Can you believe in an apparatus of terror that stops at just gathering reports and statements from its collaborators? Well, quite.”