Part 11 (1/2)
”He went.”
”Anything else?”
Denial.
”Did you talk about it?”
Denial.
”Do you know the people he went to therapy with?”
Denial.
”Do you recognize anyone in these photos?”
Denial.
Completely pointless, thought Szacki, we'll never get anywhere like this.
”What were you doing on Sat.u.r.day evening?”
”Playing.”
”What?”
”Call of Duty.”
”One or two?”
”Two.”
”Which campaign?”
The boy settled more in the chair.
”For G.o.d's sake.”
”Russian, British or American?”
”Russian.”
”You didn't get far.”
”Right. I can't get past the bit in Stalingrad where you have to fire from the Town Hall window. I'm not able to take them all out, someone always sneaks under and creeps up on me from behind. And when I watch my back, the whole Fascist army comes from the front with their machine guns.”
Szacki nodded understandingly. That mission had taken even him a good few hours of effort.
”Unfortunately there's no good way,” he said. ”The best is to kill off as many as you can first, then watch the rear and use the sniper rifle to pick off just the ones with machine guns. If you hold out for long enough, eventually you get a message about a new task. It's an idiotic mission, its entire difficulty depends on the fact that they've multiplied the usual number of Germans by ten. But on the whole it's OK.”
”Well, it must have been like that, don't you think?”
”The war? Yes, surely. You run about blindly with your rifle jamming, it's nothing but chaos with bullets whizzing past and your friends falling all around you. And all you're interested in is getting to the nearest pit, hiding in there, throwing a grenade and rus.h.i.+ng onwards. The sound is important.”
”I've got 5.1 speakers.”
”Congratulations. I've got 2.1s, my flat's too small for 5.1s. But I usually play with headphones anyway because my wife gets mad at me.”
”Mum comes in and tells me she doesn't want tanks driving through her home. Interrogations are nothing like this in the movies.”
Szacki was surprised by the sudden change of topic, but he replied instantly: ”I can't conduct this interview this way. Why don't you answer my questions?”
The boy shrugged.
”I didn't think it would matter.”
”You're father's been killed, and I want to know who did it and why. You don't think that matters?”
He shrugged again.
”No, because it won't bring him back to life again. Besides, what's the difference whether I answer in full sentences or just say yes or no? Surely the important thing is to tell the truth.”
Szacki put the report aside. He didn't actually think the boy could know anything that would be evidence in the case. He was concerned about something else.
”And do you wish your father would come back to life?” he asked.
He was expecting Telak to shrug, but he sat quite still, not so much as batting an eyelid.
”Yes and no,” he replied.
”Was he a bad father?”
”He never hit us and he didn't want us to scrub his back for him, if that's what you mean. He didn't shout much either. He was the average boring Polish father. I didn't hate him or love him. Maybe it's the shock, but I can't actually arouse any emotion in myself following his death. I'm telling you the truth.”
Szacki wished his witnesses always gave such frank answers. He gave the boy a respectful nod.
”Did he change after your sister's death?”
”He aged. But before that only my sister could get through to him anyway, so for me it didn't matter.”
”Did you blame him for your sister's death?”
He hesitated.
”No more than anyone else around.”
Szacki thought about the pills found in Telak's room on azienkowska Street.