The Prior reached down and picked up some wood shavings and splinters. He began sifting them through his fingers as if he were looking for something. Finally he let them drop and dusted dry his hands.
‘I’m no Father Zossima, Anselm,’ he said. ‘I’m no wiser than you, no more foolish, but I’m sure of this: evil, simply present? You’ll never understand it and neither will I. Ultimately that’s what evil is
… it’s something bad without an explanation. Which is why it’s terrifying. And as for mercy in the dark — well, what is salvation if not a light greater than all the shadows, something good which cannot be explained? It, too, can be terrifying. I doubt if men like Otto Brack would dare to look in its direction.’
The Prior’s words stayed with Anselm for the remainder of the day He saw the wood chips falling from his hand, back on to the floor. And he saw Roza in a completely different light. For the naming of Brack as Brack, without any understanding or indulgence, revealed who she’d been up against, and the scale of her accomplishment in stepping through and beyond the suffering he’d prepared for her. She’d trusted again, in the full knowledge that things can end badly She brought the truth to light knowing that Celina would be harmed and that she might reject her. She’d trusted in something stronger than his hate. She was simply a good woman.
Over the following months, Anselm waited apprehensively to learn of outcomes. As ever, he was encouraged to learn that evil, named and exposed, always loses some of its power.
The disclosure to Celina of her background had obviously been a shattering experience. She was being helped to cope with the implications by a skilled counsellor called Myriam, said John — he didn’t know the surname and Anselm wondered if counsellors even had them — and one of her remarks (‘you are always more than your past’) had worked its way into Anselm’s mouth as if it was a gem from his life of silence. When the time was right he planned to let it drop, lightly But there was, if anything, a sharp irony to the failure of Brack’s plan. Coping with the knowledge that one’s parent had been murdered was dramatically offset by the relief of learning that the ideologue who’d ranted at you from infancy was not your father; that the woman who’d chosen puzzles over the enigma of life was not, in fact, your mother; that Celina’s relatives were, in truth, the dissident activists of her imagination. She had the whole package, from torture to martyrdom. She was exactly who John had thought her to be. There was a hint, too, that she had found a deep bond with him — something more prized than any collection of reinstated memories: in very different ways and for very different reasons, they’d both been abandoned; they each had to grapple with the consequences of failure — their own and other people’s; Anselm sensed the unique and warming softness of people who no longer judge that easily.
Chapter Forty-Four
Brack’s arrest caused a sensation in Warsaw and beyond. Sebastian had been right in saying the case had a unique quality. The revelation of crimes by the secret police during the Terror linked to secret police operations under martial law evoked the entire period of communist rule, presenting it as a seamless garment, dirtier in some places than others, but one thing. A straitjacket stitched and darned by the dedicated service of certain individuals. Memory and moment came together in the media. Roza’s vindication, for so long a personal concern, had become a matter of national remembrance.
Anselm followed events at a distance, thanks to faxes or calls from Sebastian and John (Larkwood had yet to obtain a computer. The idea of explaining an email to Sylvester had left the Prior speechless). He’d seen copies of press coverage, and mused over the smudged photograph of the accused, barely able to discern his features. Flinching, he’d read a transcript of Roza’s evidence. But, curiously nothing came from Brack himself There’d been no transcripts of interviews conducted in the presence of his legal representative. And then one morning in April, the Watchman beckoned Anselm as he floated through reception on his way to the hives. The old fellow was cross.
‘It never works.’
‘What doesn’t?’
‘That.’ He hit the console with his stick. ‘Why can’t we just have one phone? Why the wires like springs? Why the buttons and lights, blasted thing? You know, other calls come in while you’re trying to‘Who rang?’
‘A chap from a place with memories or something. Flags, too, I think. He was nice enough, I suppose. Said he’d been here once.
Anselm immediately rang Sebastian from an extension near the cloister.
‘I’m worried about this trial,’ came the voice without preamble. It was as though Anselm was in the room on the other side of his desk. He pictured Sebastian, feet up, clothing acceptably disarrayed, his bloodshot eyes on the wall of box files surrounding the photograph of an old woman standing behind the wheelchair.
‘He refuses to answer a single question. Won’t say “Yes”, won’t say “No”. Affirms nothing, denies nothing. But he’s not playing the system. He’s pleased. He wants the triaclass="underline"
‘Wants?’
‘He wants Roza to take the stand and say out loud what he did. He’s impatient for the prosecutor’s opening speech. Doesn’t even want a lawyer. Says someone can be appointed for any legal stuff. It’s as though this were his day and not hers. He wants Roza to say whatever she likes. He is supremely unconcerned.’
Slowly, Anselm sank to a stone seat built into an arch. What had Brack done? What further step had Brack prepared? This was not a man who entered a brawl. He was a cold planner. A man who worked out his preferences. And he was obviously confident. What was the final trick? Roza wouldn’t find out until she stood up in public… and then it would be too late. Anselm’s mind careered into a manner of darkness: who else was left for Brack to use? Had he trapped someone else vital to Roza’s life and story?
‘I’ve lost the first round already’ said Sebastian. He was rapidly clicking and unclicking a biro.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The murderer of Stefan Binkowski won’t be on the indictment.’
‘Why?’
‘Roza insists. Have you any idea who he might be?’
‘None.’
Which was untrue. Because Anselm had thought of the empty wheelchair. And he’d recalled that Sebastian, too, had a personal story linked to the struggle. He’d promised to tell Anselm after Brack’s conviction.
‘He’s the brother of Aniela Kolba.’
Anselm, caught by surprise, thought for a moment. His mind whirred back to the grovelling reports of FELIKS.
‘Think about it,’ said Sebastian. ‘It sheds a different light on Edward.’
It certainly did. It took time for the picture to develop in Anselm’s mind, but when the print was done, he stared at it with a mixture of revulsion and pity. Stefan had been one of the Friends. They’d arrested his sister, presumably to exert pressure on him. Maybe, unknown to Roza, Aniela had been a Friend, too. It didn’t matter. The point is they had her brother and they’d been beating him for months. Getting nowhere. Same with Pavel and Roza. To break Roza’s will — and possibly Aniela’s — they’d shot Pavel and Stefan. But it hadn’t worked. That left the two women in the cell, either of whom could still lead them to the Shoemaker.
‘I don’t think Edward went to them,’ said Sebastian. ‘I reckon they came to him.’
‘Saying if you don’t watch your wife and Roza, we shoot them both.’ Anselm felt the strange sick feeling that comes with recognising something deep and wicked. ‘So Edward agreed — hell, what’s so bad about watching someone? Just give Brack some peanuts every once in a while.’
‘Exactly,’ replied Sebastian. ‘They let Aniela go first, but not before she’d urged Roza to come and stay. The invite must have been Edward’s. Roza took the bait: she moved in.