‘When I entered the room, I thought I’d won. He’d wanted so much more, and all he’d got was me. Again. He’d got nothing the first time and he was going to get nothing now I was so much bigger than the prison system, so much taller than its walls. He couldn’t contain my spirit. Or so I thought: Roza paused, smiling at her foolishness. ‘I hadn’t realised that on this occasion he didn’t intend to ask any questions.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Polana wasn’t simply about catching the Shoemaker and suppressing Freedom and Independence. He wanted to find me, to tell me that if I ever sought justice in the future, it could only be bought at a heavy price… a price I wouldn’t pay He’d found a means of silencing me for ever.’
‘About the murder of your husband?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the other man?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘He turned the tables. He gave information to me.’
‘ Information?’
‘Yes. He told me the name of the informer. He told me their secrets. He told me things they didn’t even know about themselves. He gave me the awful power that comes with knowledge.’
Sebastian stared back, expectant but uncomprehending.
‘It was a special kind of blackmail,’ explained Roza, patiently ‘He was warning me that if I ever accused him of murder, he’d not only expose the informer, he’d release all the details of their undisclosed past, as a means to shatter their future.’
Sebastian waited for a long time, holding Roza’s gaze, wondering if there was any more to come; and then he realised she’d finished speaking, that she’d explained herself in full.
‘He threatened to burn your enemy’ he asked, eyes closed and brow furrowed, ‘and that threat silenced you?’
‘Yes.’
‘How? Help me. Why not let ‘em fry?’
‘Because they might never recover from the shame, from the public destruction. They could very well end their own life.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, but so what?’
‘In part, it would be my fault and I’d share the responsibility. I would be no different to Brack. I might as well have pulled the trigger myself… and that’s why Brack put the gun in my hand. He knew I’d never take aim and fire.’
Sebastian blinked rapidly one hand scratching the back of another.
‘No, no, no, Roza, you’ve got it wrong, so wrong,’ he laughed without humour. ‘That’s not how the world works, not now, not then. If a shamed collaborator opts for suicide that’s their choice… that’s their way of dealing with responsibility. Everyone at some point has to face up to what they’ve done. They can’t run off or hide behind your… what is it? Decency? That’s the one thing they threw away… you of all people can’t give it back to them.’ He seemed to come closer but he hadn’t moved. He was still now, almost predatory. ‘Roza, you’re talking about an informer. They got a handful of silver. They’ve had their’
Sebastian’s voice trailed off.
Roza had stood up and walked to the mirror. She picked up the bullet and returned to the table, placing it between them as if it were a tiny storm lamp, something from a doll’s house. She sat down, looking at it as if she, too, was perplexed by its meaning.
‘When I was first in Mokotow, Brack used one of these.’ She turned it slightly, as if to adjust the flame. ‘The next time round, I discovered he was no ordinary executioner. He’d learned how to silence someone without violence, without committing a crime. He did something I never could have imagined: he used me against myself. I won’t vindicate Pavel at the cost of another life, Sebastian, even that of an informer. When people are stripped down in public, when every sordid detail of their past becomes cheap gossip at the bus stop, they can lose the will to live. That’s not the kind of free speech we fought for. I won’t use words to bring about another death… not when words were all we had to keep ourselves alive.’
Roza insisted on walking Sebastian to the street below It was a mild night with a soft breeze carrying the hum of distant engines and downtown activity. Sebastian loitered, hanging back, making Roza walk more slowly His hands were in his pockets in that relaxed way of his that was somehow smart. He was thinking hard, trying to find a way to end the meeting on the right note. His car keys jingled and he struggled with the lock in the driver’s door.
‘I won’t trouble you any more, Roza,’ he said, yanking at the handle. ‘But I’ve got one last request. Come to the IPN. Let me show you something else that lies beyond your imagination.’
Chapter Three
For a long while Roza considered the two trees. They stood by the entrance to the Institute of National Remembrance. One was upright but the other seemed it might lose balance and fall over, its trunk curved as though it had grown in a gale. The lower branches were stretched out like arms ready for the fall. They were just the right height for a boy wanting to climb and get a better view of any commotion.
‘Welcome, Roza,’ said Sebastian, holding open the door. ‘This is the place where we try and clean up the past.’
She shrank from the towering block. The Shoemaker had once said that history was our sacred curse; that we were forever torn between the duty to remember and the joy of picking daisies.
‘Are you okay?’ queried Sebastian.
‘Yes… just something I read in the paper.’
Alongside the windows were canisters hiding external lights. Roza had seen them illuminated after dark during one of her walks. Reminded now of the building’s purpose Roza wondered why she’d got into that taxi. She’d made another mistake: first, she’d said too much; now she’d come too far.
‘We’ve got lots of papers here,’ quipped Sebastian, leading Roza inside. ‘You can read them, too.’
His suit was charcoal grey verging on black. His white shirt had that factory gleam, persuading Roza that it had been torn from its cellophane wrapper earlier that morning. The maroon tie was slightly loose at the neck.
‘The lifts are out of order, I’m afraid,’ he explained, passing a couple of vexed technicians. ‘So we’ll have to use the stairs.’
On the other side of a door marked ‘Private’ they were met by a man whose job description did not permit a smile. An officer of the Internal Security Agency — Special Forces — said Sebastian in a low voice. He followed them down three floors, along a corridor and to a locked grey door. Roza felt unsteady, her stomach churning at an old memory. The cage had been three floors down, too; there’d been guards who didn’t smile; and the cellar door had been grey The paint had been peeling and the ground was damp. Brack had fumbled for his keys, breathing recrimination.
‘Most people aren’t allowed to see what I’m going to show you, said Sebastian. ‘Special clearance is needed. I had to fight to get yours.
He pushed a card into a narrow slit and the electronic lock flashed green.
‘Come on in. This is part of what Brack and his friends left behind.’
The room comprised nothing but shelving: row after row of long metal units jam-packed with buff folders, box files and bound reports. Between each block was a narrow walkway providing cramped access to the documentation. A musty smell tainted the air. Roza felt vaguely ill. She’d said too much, she’d come too far and now she’d gone too deep. She hadn’t expected this.
‘Lined up, there’s about one hundred miles of material,’ said Sebastian, leaning on the wall, legs crossed. ‘Over ninety thousand informers from all walks of life. Here is some of what they said, noted down by the secret police. As I explained before, a lot of the really damaging stuff has been destroyed, though we reckon a duplicate archive exists in Moscow’
Sebastian walked down an alleyway, drawing Roza along by a tilt of the head. She lingered, looking right and left, feeling the weight of information leaning towards her, the spines of the files like the backs of their authors turned in shame. All at once she wanted to get out of this terribly silent place. The intimidation of the handlers had been left behind like the harsh smell of cheap aftershave. When Sebastian opened a door on to an office, Roza entered with a sigh of relief, but then instantly recoiled as from a slap to the face.