Staring at the letter signed by Frenzel.’ he’d come to a standstill. It couldn’t be.’ he thought. His head was shaking a ‘No’. He couldn’t believe it was possible.
‘It was him.” said the woman. She seemed to share his shock and dismay, only she’d got used to it. She seemed vaguely apologetic. ‘He worked for Colonel Brack.’
Anselm was still shaking his head.
‘He was well paid, thank you,’ she said, growing confident; wanting to get her own back. She’d been stung by Anselm’s manner. ‘Signed for every instalment.’
Anselm put the papers back in the envelope and went to the bathroom. In a daze he counted out two thousand five hundred Euros and came back to the woman and her son.
‘Here,’ he said, holding out the notes. He was like an automaton. ‘This is a one-off. You don’t have to sign for anything.’
She took the money hurriedly and said, ‘There’s more, if you’re interested.’
Anselm’s eyes came into focus. She was trying to fit the envelope into an inside pocket of her coat.
‘Sorry?’
‘That lot, she said, nodding towards the bed. ‘That’s everything he gave them… for over thirty years.’
‘ Them?’ Anselm looked from the woman to the bin liners and back again. ‘You’re one of them.’
‘There are forty-two files,’ she said, ignoring the jibe. ‘All his reports. They’re from the main SB archive. Mr Frenzel thought you might be interested. He says they’re special. If you want them it’s going to-’
‘What?’ snapped Anselm, exhausted by this wrangling in a cesspool. ‘Cost the earth? The skin off my back? Or yours?’ He looked at her with a sudden savage pity. She was still fumbling with the first wedge of profit, trying to get it past the pocket lining. Mouth open, the son was lost. Languages weren’t his thing. ‘How much did Frenzel tell you to go for? Five? I bet it was five. Well.’ I’ll give you three.’
Anselm didn’t wait for the woman to work out what she’d say to Frenzel. He went back to the bathroom, counted out the notes and then returned, throwing them on the bedroom floor. Sinking into his chair, he paled with loathing as she brushed them together and made a pile, watched stupidly by her son with an arm around the refuse bags. Housework wasn’t his thing.
‘How much does Frenzel take?’ asked Anselm, quietly, His anger had gone like a popped balloon. His ears were ringing. ‘Half?’
She didn’t reply. Her problem was trying to find a pocket big enough for the cash.
‘He checks out the punters, he sends them to you, he gets his cut?’ Anselm angled his neck, trying to look up into her face. ‘If need be he’ll break a bone or two?’
He’s the pimp. And you? You’re the poor woman who takes all the risks. If anyone’s going to get busted, it’s you. Mr Frenzel just looks after the house and its contents. Anselm kept the thought to himself.
He was calm now, with the shuddering stillness that follows an accident; when the shock of seeing mutilated bodies has lost its primal power; when one’s mind turns to how anyone will live normally once the wreckage has been towed away.
‘You don’t know what it’s like,’ said the woman, tying the belt on her coat. She pointed at her son. There wasn’t much affection in her look, just indebtedness and resentment. ‘You didn’t grow up getting beaten up for what your mother did during the communist years. You could walk safely down the street. You had friends, you had birthday parties… you had good times. No one turned their back on you.’
Anselm nodded. Her eyes were clear behind her flimsy glasses. She came closer, lowering her voice, just in case a saint was listening.
‘I just took a job, you know,’ she said, one hand pressed against a bulging pocket. ‘I knew two languages, I could type. I had a child. I needed money. That’s all. I wasn’t for them, I wasn’t against them. I just wanted a job. All I did was type up what other people had said. I never gave an opinion; I never shopped on my neighbours. I just wanted some security… for him, for me.’ She appealed to Anselm with open hands as if she were begging at the door to some church. ‘I’ll always be an outcast. And all because I spoke two…’ Languages, thought Anselm. And you could type. And you were neither for nor against. She didn’t say it in her defence but she could have done: how many people did no worse than her?
The woman was at the door. The son was already outside, idly running the zip of his fleece up and down. Looking at her straight back Anselm wanted to say sorry, but his mouth wouldn’t open. But he meant it: he was sorry for what had happened to her; and sorry for his behaviour. He’d forsworn the power of kindness and courtesy — and all because he wanted to tell Sebastian he could hold his own with Frenzel.
‘Madam, you do have a name,’ said Anselm, at last. ‘He can’t take that from you.
The woman didn’t even turn around. She closed the door with a trailing hand.
Anselm didn’t move for a long time. He sat facing the television and the shopping trolley with the sacks. He thought of the agent whose codename was SABINA and his long, dedicated service to the secret police. He thought of the woman who’d just left, Irina Orlosky, Brack’s bilingual personal assistant, thankful that he’d resisted the temptation to use her name; glad that by so doing he’d cut back on her due quota of humiliation.
Anselm pushed the trolley to the reception desk. The manager was troubled. He ran a clean establishment. His eyes lingered on the sacks while Anselm paid for the room he wouldn’t be needing after all. There were no farewell wishes.’ Father; no bon voyage. Turning to leave, Anselm noticed a crucifix above the entrance. And he knew with a cold certainty, that Frenzel was somewhere near, perhaps in a car outside sucking a remembered shell. He stayed up late to watch the fun. The joke was far too good to be missed.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
IPN/RM/13129/2010
EDITED TRANSCRIPT OF A STATEMENT MADE BY ROZA MOJESKA
4h. 16
I only told Mateusz, Bernard and John about the meeting with the Shoemaker. They were a group representing more than themselves: the Worker, the Intellectual, and the Messenger.
4h. 22
I chose the 1st November because it’s All Souls Day A day of memorial, a day for Pavel and that other man. I knew there’d be thousands of lit candles. I knew there’d be lots of people. I knew it would be easy to blend into a crowd if Father Nicodem had been right and I had been wrong. Of course.’ I was about to break Pavel’s Golden Rule, to never meet a stranger. I was about to meet the Shoemaker.
4h. 37
I don’t know who saw who first. I hadn’t seen Brack in thirty years. He’d been twenty-odd and he was now in his fifties. But our eyes met over the hats and headscarves. Nothing essential had changed. He’d always looked hungry; he’d always scraped his lower lip with his teeth. I was about to slip away when I saw Father Nicodem.
4h. 39
He was standing ten yards or so from Brack, hands in his coat pockets, as if there was nothing to be frightened of… and then my mind blurred. I realised that I wasn’t the only one who’d been betrayed. The Shoemaker was somewhere nearby; and he was only there because of me. I had to cause a diversion so that he could get away. So I walked over to Brack and said.’
‘Well done, Comrade.’
4h. 42
And then all hell let loose. John appeared with his camera, just as two ubeks grabbed my arms. More of them pushed through the crowd and seized him. I was marched straight past Father Nicodem. He looked on carelessly. I’ve thought often since: in the circumstances, there was nothing else he could do. He was simply being professional.
4h. 50
I was brought to the same interrogation room that they’d used in the fifties. The colours had changed, that’s all… from a sickly green to a sickly yellow The desk looked the same and Brack was behind it. The lamp had gone. They gave me a chair rather than a footstool. The door closed and we were alone.
‘I don’t suppose there’s any point in my asking about the Shoemaker?’ he asked.