‘What did you say?’ The question had stung. It had struck at the heart of their relationship. ‘Who the hell do you think I am? Do you have any idea how much I’ve done for you?’
‘I’m sorry it’s just that I got a beating in the van, and I…’ John stroked his swollen jaw Confusion erupted at the thought of Roza walking calmly towards the Dentist. She knew him. How could Roza know the Dentist?
‘I want you to let her go:
‘Who?’
‘Roza Mojeska.’
The Dentist frowned. His top teeth stabbed at his lower lip. ‘You’re not serious:
‘I am. Let her out.’ John had influence and he was going to use it. ‘Otherwise the deal’s off.’
‘My goodness, you are serious.’
Unless John was completely mistaken, there was a hint of humour in his voice. The faint mockery riled him. ‘Do you think I’m joking?’
‘No, of course, not. It’s just that, well, I’ve got a job, too, you know You seem to think I can just pick and choose my fights.’ He stood up, shrugging his coat again, thrusting his hands deep into the wide pockets. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘No, that’s not enough. She has to walk free. It’s not my fault a wheel came off today And I want to see her…’
‘You’re going too far,’ said the Dentist. ‘You’re wading out of your depth. You’re heading into my waters. They’re dangerous.’
All at once the Dentist looked tired; even bored; and possibly… sad. He examined John from afar, nodding to himself His eyes moved around his clothes and features, just like John’s had moved over his. The mutual appraisal was like that awkward weighing up when someone new enters the family What you think doesn’t really matter; they’re here to stay You put the best foot forward and hope for the best. And, by the look of the leather, the Dentist had gone for Churches, the Oxford style. He’d put on his Sunday best.
‘I want her address.’ John stood up as if finding height over the Dentist might add some pressure. ‘Don’t you see? I have to tidy up what happened in the graveyard. I was there. You were there:
The Dentist made a face, as if to say he hadn’t thought of that. Part of his remote sadness predisposed him to being helpful. His teeth nipped his bottom lip. ‘Thirty-seven Miron Buildings, Niska Street. You say nothing of me, do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nothing.’
‘Okay’
‘Don’t get tetchy’ The Dentist moved towards the door. ‘You’ve compromised me once already’
Turning around he studied John with a new intensity. ‘You shouldn’t have called, you know It complicates things.’
John nodded. He’d made a mistake. He made lots of mistakes.
‘We can’t meet again, do you understand? Our relationship is over.’ The Dentist looked aside, absorbed by his thoughts. ‘For now, the deal’s on hold.’
‘Okay’ replied John, uncertainly As far as he was concerned, nothing need change. There was still a lot of work to be done. They needed to talk more, that’s all.
‘See if you can get her out,’ said the Dentist, standing up.
‘Who?’
‘Roza,’ snapped the Dentist, his voice low and running. ‘You’re right. She’s seen us together. If you can persuade her to jump, I’ll get the passport.’
The Dentist knocked on the door and waited for the guards, rocking impatiently on his heels, his back to John. When they came, he stepped outside without even a glance behind.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Anselm’s street map led him to a parish church ten minutes walk to the west of the city centre. It stood on the edge of a residential complex by a railway line that climbed towards a bridge. Anselm could almost smell the presence of the river. Flanked by major thoroughfares, the neighbourhood was somewhere and nowhere, a triangular patch of land left behind when the road and rail people had done their bit for Warsaw’s post-war infrastructure.
Father Kaminsky spoke English quite well. His French was good, though his German was better. To get at Dante and Cervantes he’d learned Italian and Spanish, which left him comprehensively unprepared for small talk. His Russian was faultless. He liked Czech. Latin was another option, though the vocab might not cover the nuances of life under Stalin. So said the visiting curate from the United States when taxed on the phone by Sebastian. He viewed his host with unadulterated awe.
‘He’s seen everything, you know,’ said the curate to Anselm. ‘From the Nazis to the Reds. They say he smuggled Jewish kids out of the Ghetto, made Molotovs in the Uprising, and then, after Yalta, went out into the Cold. But he won’t tell me anything. Sweet whatever. He only talks about his childhood.’
They entered a parlour facing a garden running to outbuildings and a wall. On the far side lay an embankment sloping to the tracks. A train thundered by out of sight, tearing towards the bridge.
Father Kaminsky was lodged in a wheelchair, his legs painfully thin in flimsy black trousers. Bony feet in large slippers had been lodged on the footrests like pedals on a bike. A grey woollen cardigan with buttons missing hung upon his shrunken chest. Around his neck was a bright yellow scarf, The room had the feel of a passenger’s waiting room. Newspapers were heaped on a table. Anselm’s eye picked out El Pais, La Repubblica, the Sun.
‘Ah, my youth has come to scold me,’ Father Kaminsky said in English, fondly noting Anselm’s habit. ‘I’ll come back, one day’ He pointed towards a wicker chair, his voice throaty and soft. ‘You want to speak about Roza Mojeska.’
‘In the first instance, no,’ replied Anselm, picking up the Sun. ‘I thought we might start with Pavel, her husband. Or Stefan. Or maybe Otto Brack. Or perhaps we could just cut to the chase and talk about retribution, human and divine.’
The old man started, gently ‘You surprise me, Father.’
‘Really?’ Anselm turned the pages, not seeing. ‘Do you know this paper’s most famous headline? It’s “Gotcha!”‘
The curate knocked open the door with his knee and brought in a tray laden with tea, sliced panettone, nougat, Lady Finger biscuits and poppyseed cakes. After pouring and stirring he loitered, hoping to join in the chat, but Father Kaminsky made a firm nod towards the door. He was frail, like Sylvester back home. His bones were clear beneath the soft skin on his face. White hair, in wisps, had managed to get tangled, making him look more of a boy than a man. It was hard to believe that collaboration could leave no identifying marks. His eyes were wide, the blue running out of colour.
‘Tell me about SABINA,’ said Anselm, closing the paper. ‘The rest will come out in the wash:
I’m old school, he said, taking no nonsense. I’m telling you all you need to know and not a breadcrumb more, do you understand. You’ll be getting nothing about the Shoemaker, the Friends, Freedom and Independence. Don’t ask how I met Pavel Mojeska because I won’t tell you. Same for Stefan Binkowski. They were both shot because someone said something they should’ve kept to themselves. Trust is all well and good, but it has a boundary. It’s not an open field. And don’t ask about me. I won’t tell you. Understood? Check the door will you?
He was Sylvester in reverse. Anselm, unsteady on his feet, had a quick look: the curate had gone. The old man was rolling on with his story even before Anselm had sat down. A premonition told Anselm that playing smart with a headline had been a spectacular mistake. And the old man was talking… talking fast, as if he’d been primed to explode.
‘I approached them in nineteen forty-eight. We needed the money ‘We?’
‘I’ve already told you: don’t ask for breadcrumbs. Where was I?’
‘Money’
‘Ah, yes, and we needed to keep them at a distance.’
So he’d drawn them in to keep them out, and drawn a decent wage while he was at it. A group of prominent figures, well known to him and of interest to the authorities, had agreed that he should inform on them. Patriots with ideas. Nationalists who didn’t accept Soviet domination. They’d met regularly to decide in advance what Father Nicodem was to say They’d hoped to influence minds.