‘Roza,’ began Sebastian, like a fisherman, net in hand, watching the big one glinting within reach, ‘don’t do this, listen to me-’
‘No, Sebastian, you listen. I know what I’m doing. I know how to get the right kind of justice:
‘So the trial goes on?’ Sebastian’s relief was only marginally in advance of his confusion.
‘Yes, but not according to the usual rules. I’m going to run a trial within a trial, only don’t tell Madam Czerny If she didn’t understand the bullet, we’re not going to see eye to eye on my kind of gun.
Roza’s relaxed appearance, coupled with her confidence, was at stark variance with the tension in the room. Even Celina did not know her mother’s intentions. John was frowning behind his glasses. No one dared speak. Roza was in control of a parallel legal universe that only she could understand. She began to explain, slowly.
‘I intend to silence Otto Brack, but not by using his file,’ she said, coming closer, leaning both elbows on the table. ‘A family’s tragic past? Strenk’s reports? His ignorance? That’s their way I have another.’
Roza became precise in her movements: the slight angle of the head as if she were aiming, the narrowed eye, one raised finger…
‘You must understand that for Brack this is not a trial,’ she said, dispassionately ‘It is an interrogation, and he knows all about those. They were his bread and butter. He’s at home. Only this time it’s his turn to answer the questions. And he wants to. He’s waiting for Madam Czerny to try and trip him up, to start wearing him down with her clout, with the same, sudden shift in moods that he’d learned from Strenk — from surprise to boredom, from loathing to indignation.’ Roza slowly shook her head. ‘There may have been a time when he feared the court, but not any more. His scheme has done its work. The other side didn’t catch him. He’s lived a free life. What’s at stake now is what he believes.’ She turned to Sebastian at her side. ‘Which is why I don’t think he’ll pull some trick out of his bag to smear Pavel’s memory. He intends to state his case. He wants Pavel to be who he was, so he can say he was someone different.’
Still no one dared to make a contribution.
‘If I give evidence,’ she said, deliberately her eyes roving round the table, ‘he gets a right of reply If I speak about the execution of Pavel, so will he. If I speak of those bad days, so will he. He’ll be able to match me, word for word. And I don’t want to hear what he has to say I’ve heard it all before. He hopes to redeem what I would condemn and of course, he can’t: the court won’t legalise his murdering, but what matters to him is that he spoke. He got the chance to claim the light before he was cast into the darkness. Make no mistake about it, he wants the condemnation. He wants to sink to his knees, like Pavel, and die a martyr to his cause. And I’m not going to let him.’
‘What are you planning, Roza?’ asked Sebastian, for everyone in the room.
‘For Pavel, to pull a different kind of trigger; for me, to turn a different kind of key’
‘How?’
‘By giving evidence to which there is no reply’
Anselm glanced at Sebastian and Celina. Their eyes darted back. John nudged his glasses.
‘I’m going to name his crime within the greater crime of an era. To those who weren’t there, it will seem trivial and that I’m a silly old woman who’s lost her mind. But he will hear and understand; and he won’t be able to say anything in return.’
Roza reached for her plastic bag and stood up. Anselm watched her move to the door as if she was off to the market to pick up a few bargains. On the way she’d throw all those papers in the recycling bin. Turning abruptly as if she’d forgotten to say the obvious, she said, ‘At the same time, there is, of course, this other trial, the one being led by Madam Czerny. That goes on as if nothing was happening. And it will conclude with the one thing he didn’t give me, which he doesn’t want, and which he’ll have to accept: a kind of mercy He’ll walk away a free man — apparently and actually reprieved. But within himself, he’ll be imprisoned for the rest of his life, listening to the echo of his own dead voice.’ She made a humph and turned the door handle. ‘It shouldn’t take too long.’
‘Roza,’ called Sebastian. ‘Wait a moment, don’t go. Why any sort of mercy?’
He was robed, ready for court. Unless Anselm was mistaken, he was wearing a new suit. This was his day too.
‘Because of Strenk’s reports, his family’s past and his ignorance,’ replied Roza. ‘I’m glad you brought them to me. I think they should be taken into account.’
‘But there’ll be no conviction.’
‘Sebastian, listen to me. He’s angling with you as he angled with me. Don’t get caught by what he’s flashing in front of your eyes. Look deeper, look further. You’ll see, my way is best.’
With that confident declaration, Roza opened the door and stepped into the bustle of the court corridor, leaving everyone behind as if they had nothing to do with the proceedings. One by one, Sebastian, Celina and John left the conference room. Anselm smiled to himself, quietly admiring, reminded of Roza’s original statement. She had a certain style and it had just repeated itself Roza had planned a deeper trial within a trial; a quest for a deeper justice. The two would coincide, nicely Justice and Mercy would meet. And when they did, maybe those five musicians in Praga would spring to life: the time of music was almost upon them.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Anselm adjusted his earpiece and settled forward, the window over the court reminding him of that terrifying painting by Breughel where Mad Meg leads an army of women to pillage the bowels of hell. Apparently messages had been sent to Barbara Novak and Lidia Zelk, old Friends of the Shoemaker: they were down there somewhere, waiting for Roza to arrive and lead them on. So was Aniela Kolba, who’d changed her mind about keeping away So was Irina Orlosky crouched on the edge of her seat. Madam Czerny bi-focals on the end of her nose, was leafing through a statement, presumably Meg’s, rehearsing a strategy of questions.
Brack was motionless. He sat with horrible stillness, like a careless lord surrounded by frantic peasants, his hands resting on his leather bag. Mr Fischer twirled a pen between his fingers, tugging occasionally at his yellow and green cuffs. He wasn’t worried either. This was a case he could only lose. Then Anselm made a start: slouching by the far wall like a bored demon sat Marek Frenzel, turned out by Burberry He was in trouble, though. Something was stuck between his back teeth.
The court became quiet. The judges were seated on their hi-tech bench, the computer screens flickering. The jury were ready to listen. The usher’s voice called the last witness for the prosecution.
‘Roza Mojeska.’
Almost immediately the ordinary procedure was upturned. When Roza reached the lectern she was offered a chair. She refused and asked, instead, for a table. The request was granted with a kind of puzzled tolerance, an attitude that prevailed while Roza laid out her tatty newspapers as if she were a street vendor near a railway station. And yet, this protracted activity, undertaken slowly lent a curious authority to this Mad Meg. She was setting up her own stand. There were two courts in the room, one facing the other. When Roza had finished her preparations, Madam Czerny blanched hair astray rose slowly, gently swinging her bifocals in one hand.
‘Your name, please.’
‘Roza Mojeska.’
‘Date of birth?’
‘Major Strenk asked that.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Major Strenk. Always names, always dates of birth:
‘I’m afraid we keep records.’
‘Does it really matter?’
The prosecutor had a ready indulgent smile. She was used to difficult witnesses. From long experience she knew how to handle them. ‘Yes. For the court. We note what you say.’
‘So did Major Strenk.’