Part 28 (2/2)
”In a way I died with him. Henryk was at my side the whole time. Tender, sympathetic, understanding, ready to forgive anything. He didn't interest me, but he was there. I got used to him. I married him. I soon fell pregnant. Kasia was born and I started living for her. Then Bartek. Sometimes it was better, sometimes worse. That's family life. It ended with Kasia's death. I'm ashamed, but if I could resurrect just one person, it would be Kamil. And then his father appeared, d.a.m.n him, with his truth and his justice. I wish that day had never dawned.”
She lit another cigarette, and the small room was filled with smoke. Combined with the oppressive heat, it was getting unbearable.
”I don't know why I went to azienkowska Street that evening. I can't explain it. But I went. I came in as he was packing. He confessed to me what he'd found out during the constellation. He was badly shaken, crying and saying he'd almost committed suicide. I thought that was the best thing he could have done, and I asked if he shouldn't complete the therapy, for Bartek's sake. He refused to. I ran out of his room and went into the kitchen for a drink of water, because I thought I was going to be sick. You know what happened after that.”
Not long ago, in spite of everything, he would have wanted to take her to court. Now he didn't care. So much so that he didn't even feel like responding. She went on staring at him in silence, nodded her head and stood up.
”I'd like to know, were your motives for the deed purely emotional?” he finally asked.
She just smiled and left.
Prosecutor Teodor Szacki got up from his chair, took off his jacket, opened the window wide and tipped the dog-ends from the ashtray into the bin. He opened the drawer to put the ashtray away, and his gaze fell on a piece of paper where he'd written out an extract from a newspaper interview with Bert h.e.l.linger, probably from Gazeta Wyborcza.
I'm always being asked to condemn the perpetrators of all sorts of crimes, but I know the only way to cope with the presence of evil is to admit that they are people too, in spite of everything. We should find a place in our hearts for them as well. For our own good. That doesn't free them of responsibility for their acts in the least. But if we exclude someone, we deny them the right to belong, we put ourselves in the place of G.o.d, we decide who is to live and who not. And that is quite extraordinary.
III.
On the way to Monika's place in Chomiczowka he stopped at Wilson Square to buy two cream puffs at Blikle's patisserie - those were their favourite cakes. As he stood in the queue, he thought about Jadwiga Telak and her Warsaw Delight, and felt very, very tired. Tired by this case, tired by his work, tired by the lover who didn't really entirely interest him. There was something missing again, but what?
Justice, he thought, and was startled by this idea. It sounded as if someone next to him had said it aloud. He looked round, but the oliborz old-age pensioners were standing meekly in line, examining the cold counter full of pastries and the shelves full of cakes in mute concentration. Justice, meaning what? He hoped the voice would answer him. But this time he didn't hear words - instead an image appeared. The image of the metal cylinder from which he had extracted the twenty-four-year-old whisky. He thought of Karol Wenzel, who lived on the way to Monika's. Maybe he should pay him a call? Maybe there was a way to deal with the senders of exclusive Scotch? What was the harm in checking? Surely a chat with a slightly nutty historian was too little for them to rub him out?
He bought the cream puffs, called Wenzel, who happened to be at home, and drove up to the house on eromski Street. As he was getting out, he took the cakes with him; he felt silly turning up empty-handed. He was walking towards the stairwell between the garages and a dustbin, when a little girl Helka's age came flying out of a side alley on a scooter, almost ramming into him. He jumped out of the way, but the handlebars caught on the packet of cakes. The paper tore open, and one of the cakes fell out and smashed on the tarmac. The little girl, really very like his daughter, stopped, and when she saw the cake lying on the wrinkled tarmac, the corners of her mouth turned down in dismay.
”I'm terribly sorry, little one,” he said quickly. ”I didn't see you coming, I was miles away and I whacked you with my cakes. Are you all right?”
She nodded, but there were tears in her eyes.
”Phew, that's a relief. I was afraid one of my cream puffs might have hurt you. Do you know, cream puffs can get really cross? They suddenly go for you, just like weasels. That's why I keep them in this packet. But perhaps this one's not dangerous - what do you think?” He leaned tentatively over the cream puff and prodded it with a finger.
The little girl laughed. He took the surviving cake out of the torn packet and handed it to her.
”Have it to say sorry,” he said. ”But eat it carefully so it doesn't get cross.”
The little girl looked round uncertainly, said thank you, took the cream puff and rode away, finding it hard to keep her balance. She really was very like Helka. Did he really want to go and see Karol Wenzel, dig up the case and risk the lives of his loved ones? He remembered what the historian had said during their conversation: ”So if you're thinking of getting at them in any way, back off right now. Think about it in the morning, and in the evening you'll be crying over your daughter's body.”
And he froze.
He hadn't told him he had a daughter.
He thought about little Helka Szacka, about the smell of fresh bread and about a skull opening with a hideous squelch on the dissection table.
Only seconds earlier he'd been sure this story had to have a continuation.
He was wrong.
Author's note.
My sincere thanks to the prosecutors who told me about their difficult and, unfortunately, underappreciated work. I hope they do not bear me any grudges for the things I have invented or twisted to make reality fit the needs of fiction. My thanks too to Dorota Kowalska of Newsweek for her article 'In the Service of Crime', without which this book would have been completely different. To those interested in constellation therapy I recommend Bert h.e.l.linger's Ordnungen der Liebe (The Orders of Love) (Carl-Auer-Systeme Verlag, Heidelberg 2001), and to anyone wanting to know more about the secret services in Communist Poland, Henryk Gbocki's excellent Policja tajna przy robocie (The Secret Police at Work) (Arcana, Krakow 2005).
BITTER LEMON PRESS.
end.
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