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?’
‘Nothing.’
Roza 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.’
Roza 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 Roza 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, Roza 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, Roza 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. Roza 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. Roza 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.
They’re going to shoot me.
Her heart beat out of time. Gratitude flushed through her veins. But another guard was heaving back the entrance gate. She saw the main street. Brack was on the pavement smoking. He flicked the stub on the floor and stamped it flat. A heavy shove sent her reeling towards him.
‘Goodbye, Roza,’ he said, nodding at the men behind.
‘ What?’
‘There’s always a right and a wrong choice, Roza. You made the wrong one.
‘You said you wouldn’t let me out-’
‘You should have told me about the Shoemaker. That was the right choice.’
Roza spun around. The prison door had been shut. There was no outside handle. She struck it with clenched fists, kicking the iron panels, begging the men on the other side to open up. She turned to Brack, hands joined, imploring. ‘Shoot me? Please, Otto, shoot me. I don’t want to live, I’ve nothing left… please…
‘Yes, you have. You’ve got the Shoemaker.’
Brack pulled his revolver from its belt holster. With a flick of his thumb the chamber fell open. He withdrew a single round and held it out to Roza.
‘Be grateful. This was meant for you.’ He tossed the bullet up and down as if it were loose change. ‘I argued for your life. But if you don’t want it, take this.’
Roza saw her fingers pick up the small brass jacket with the lead cap. She felt its coldness as she closed her hand around it. Unsteadily she walked away towards a road junction while Brack’s voice roared down a kind of tunnel.
‘I’ll find him, Roza. One day I’ll find him.’