A Grain of Truth (17 page)

How would he define the nature of these relations? Sporadic, appropriate, maybe even friendly.

“And what about the victim?”

“Elżbieta,” Szyller corrected him insistently.

Szacki merely pointed at the Dictaphone.

“Ela and I have known each other almost from the day she came back here.”

He hadn’t got used to the past tense yet, and Szacki didn’t correct him.

“Since her marriage?”

“More or less.”

“What sort of relationship did you and she have?”

“Well, you know, if you’re looking for a sponsor for anything in Sandomierz, the list is quite short. The glassworks, me, a few factories, a few hotels, for want of anything better the restaurants and bars. There’s hardly a day when someone doesn’t ask. A concert, some children in need, some old folks in bad health, skateboards for the skateboarding
club, guitars for a new band, drinks for a private view. I’ve sorted it out by having one of the accountants dispense a certain sum each quarter for, let us say, aims to do with Sandomierz. He chooses the projects, and naturally I approve them.”

“How large is the sum?”

“Fifty thousand a quarter.”

“Was the victim in touch with him?”

“Elżbieta,” he emphasized again, “spoke to the accountant, or directly to me.”

Szacki started questioning him in more detail, and taunted him with the word “victim” several times more, but couldn’t get any worthwhile information out of him. He and Mrs Budnik knew each other, and had even been friends, he funded (or didn’t, but more often did) her various crazy ideas, such as putting on a production of
Shrek
at Sandomierz Castle. Perhaps, so it seemed to Szacki now and then, the businessman from the Belarusian manor house had been a little bit in love with Mrs Budnik.

“Will you continue to make such generous donations to local cultural life?”

“Naturally. As long as I regard the proposed projects as worth it. I’m not a state institution, I have the luxury of supporting what appeals to me.”

Szacki made a mental note to check what did and what didn’t gain the noble gentleman’s approval.

“I’ve heard you didn’t love” – he paused almost imperceptibly to gauge Szyller’s reaction – “Mr Budnik? That his activities at the municipal council weren’t convenient for your business interests.”

“Gossip.”

“In every bit of gossip there’s a grain of truth. I realize that for a thriving businessman who wants to operate with full transparency it might not be convenient for the city to be handing property over to the Church as recompense for centuries of injustice, only for that property to be traded outside the system of public tenders, to the eternal glory of all interested parties. Well, except for you, obviously.”

Szyller gave him a vigilant look.

“I thought you were new here.”

“New, yes; from Sweden, no,” retorted Szacki calmly. “I know how this country works.”

“Or doesn’t.”

Szacki made a gesture to imply that he agreed.

“I’m glad you’re so agreeable. As a civil servant. It restores one’s faith in the Republic.”

Well, wouldn’t you know, Mr Crashing-Bore can be witty too, thought Szacki. Except that he didn’t have time for idle banter.

“Are you a patriot?” he asked his host.

“Naturally. Aren’t you?”

“In that case it shouldn’t bother you if someone acts to the benefit of the Church, the one true Catholic faith.” Szacki did not think it appropriate to answer the question; his own views were totally irrelevant here.

Szyller stood up abruptly. When he wasn’t huddled on the sofa, he looked like a big strong man. He was quite tall, broad-shouldered, a powerful build, the type on whom even a suit from the supermarket would look good. Szacki was envious – his own suits had to be made to measure so they wouldn’t look as if they were hanging on a broom handle. Szyller went up to the minibar, and for a split second Szacki thought he was reaching for the Metaxa, visible in the distance, but he fetched out a bottle of some snobby mineral water and poured them each a glass.

“I’m not sure if this is really relevant to our conversation, but the biggest, most harmful idiocy in the history of Poland is the identification of patriotism with that paedophile sect. Excuse me for the strong words, but it only takes a little nous to see that the Church is not behind our greatest achievements, just the disasters. Behind the bloodthirsty myth about the bulwark of Christendom, behind the pornographic desire for martyrdom, behind a suspicious attitude towards the wealthy…”

That’s where it hurts you, thought Szacki.

“…behind idleness, superstition, passive waiting for divine aid, finally behind sexual neuroses and the pain of all those poor couples
who can’t afford test-tube babies and who will never be granted the joy of offspring, because the state is afraid of that mafia of onanists in black skirts.” Szyller had noticed that he was getting carried away, and got a grip on himself. “And so yes, I am a patriot, I do my best to be a good patriot, I want my actions to speak for me and I want to be proud of my country. But please don’t insult me with suspicions that I place some Jewish sect above other superstitions and that I call it patriotism.”

Szacki felt a touch of sympathy for the guy; no one had ever expressed his own views so aptly. He kept this thoughts to himself.

“Patriotism without Catholicism and anti-Semitism, you really are creating a new standard,” said Szacki, once again steering the conversation onto topics of interest to him. He could see they were close to Szyller’s heart too; the man noticeably loosened up, relaxed, and he could tell this sort of conversation had often been held in this house.

“Please don’t be offended, but you’re thinking in terms of politically correct stereotypes – you’ve been programmed to think the best citizen is the left-wing cosmopolitan with a short memory. And patriotism is a sort of shameful hobby that goes hand-in-hand with popular Catholicism, xenophobia and, naturally, anti-Semitism.”

“So you’re a non-believing, Jew-loving patriot?”

“Let’s say I’m a non-believing Polish patriot and anti-Semite.”

Szacki raised an eyebrow. Either the fellow didn’t read the papers, or he had a screw loose, or he was playing some sort of devious game with him. Intuition told him it was more likely to be the latter. Not good.

“Surprised?” Szyller settled more comfortably on the sofa; it looked as if he were snuggling down in his own opinions. “Surely you’re not going to pull out the Penal Code, you’re not going to charge me for inciting racial hatred, are you?”

Szacki did not pass comment. He had more important things to think about. Besides which he knew Szyller would say his bit anyway. He was the type.

“You see, we’re living in strange times. Since the Holocaust, anyone who dares to admit to anti-Semitism must be standing shoulder to
shoulder with Eichmann and saluting Hitler – he’s regarded as a deviant who dreams of splitting up families on the loading ramp. However, there’s quite a difference between having a degree of reserve towards the Jews, their role in Polish history and their present politics, and inciting pogroms and the final solution, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Please go on, this is very interesting,” Szacki encouraged him, not wanting to get involved in an open quarrel. He would have had to reply sincerely that he was disgusted by any attempt to judge people in terms of the national, ethnic, religious or any other kind of group they belong to. And that he was sure every pogrom had its roots in the civilized debate about “a degree of reserve”.

“Just look at France and Germany. By showing reserve towards immigrants from Algeria and Turkey do they at once become fascists and murderers? Or are they perhaps merely citizens who are concerned about their country’s future, concerned about the expanding ghettoes, the lack of assimilation, the aggression, the alien element that is destroying their culture?”

“I don’t remember anything about the Jews in pre-war Poland setting fire to carriages, organizing themselves into mafias and living on drug-smuggling,” said Szacki, and mentally kicked himself for not holding back the wisecracks. Let him talk, man, let him talk.

“So you say, because you didn’t live in those times.”

“Indeed, I am a little younger than you.”

Szyller just snorted.

“You don’t know what it was like. A Pole and a Jew from neighbouring districts couldn’t communicate because they spoke different languages. The Jewish districts were not necessarily like nice open-air museums of cultural interest. Filth, poverty, prostitution. Usually a black hole on the map of the town. People who were all too keen to live in a developing Poland, but who didn’t want to work for it or fight for its good. Have you ever heard of any Jewish battalions fighting in the national uprisings? Of any Orthodox Jewish units in the Polish Legions? I haven’t. Sit tight and wait until the Poles bleed to death, and then we can occupy a few more streets in the depopulated town. Yes, I think that if I’d been alive in those days, I wouldn’t have been a fan of
theirs, regardless of my respect for writers like Tuwim and Leśmian. Just as today I don’t agree with the idea that every aggression-filled, xenophobic move Israel makes in the Middle East is immediately pardoned because of the Holocaust. Can you imagine what would happen if the Germans started fencing themselves off from Turkish settlements with a wall several metres high?”

No, Szacki couldn’t imagine it. More than that – he refused to imagine it. Nor did he want to tell the man about Berek Joselewicz, who did command a regiment of Jews in the Kościuszko Uprising of 1794, and went on to fight in the Legions. He wanted to find Elżbieta Budnik’s murderer, best of all with incontestable proof, to press charges, write out an indictment and win the case in court. Meanwhile, here he was in this annoyingly perfect sitting room, where apart from the tacky antlers above the mirror there was nothing to find fault with, listening to this man’s woolly effusions about the world, and getting annoyed. He could sense that Szyller’s committed rant was a well-practised routine, and he could imagine the guests at table, the wine that cost at least fifty zlotys a bottle, the scent of perfume that cost at least two hundred for thirty mils, the sirloin steak that cost at least seventy zlotys a kilo, and Szyller in a shirt that cost at least three hundred, toying with a cufflink that cost God knows how much and asking what would happen if the Germans… The guests agree and smile understandingly: how good he is at putting it into words, what an orator our Jerzy is!

“Those days are over, there aren’t any Jews left, you can thank whomever necessary.”

“Now really, you can do better than that.” Szyller seemed genuinely devastated by Szacki’s impertinence. “I am an anti-Semite, but not a perverted fascist. If I had divine powers and could rescind the Holocaust, aware that Poland would be left with its pre-war problems, I would rescind it, I wouldn’t hesitate for a fraction of a second. But now that it has happened and can’t be undone, it is a sad fact of life, a scar on world history, and if you were now to ask if the disappearance of the Jews from Poland was a good thing for it, then my answer to you would be yes, it was a good thing. Just as today the
disappearance of the Turks from Germany would be a good thing for our neighbours.”

“Yes, Polish children are safe at last.”

“Are you talking about ritual murder? Do you take me for a fool? Do you think anyone in their right mind could take that nonsense seriously, that local legend with terrible, real consequences?”

“They say that in every legend there’s a grain of truth,” said Szacki, to goad him even more.

“You see, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. Just one critical word and at once I am plainly a fascist, ready to march through the town with flaming torches, shouting that they’ve kidnapped a Polish child to make matzos. This is a country full of superstitions, distortions, prejudices and hysteria. It’s hard to be a patriot here.”

The modern anti-Semite broke off and pondered his own words, probably perceiving depths in them that even he found surprising.

“Szyller,” said Szacki solemnly. “A truly Polish name.”

“Don’t mock – that name belongs to the old Polish aristocracy from Ukraine. Read the novel
Fame and Glory
, if you please.”

“I’m not a great fan of Andrzejewski.”

“It’s by Iwaszkiewicz.”

“I always get those socialist-realist queers muddled up,” said Szacki, smiling stupidly.

Jerzy Szyller gave him a look full of disdain, poured out the rest of the water and went into the kitchen, most likely to fetch another bottle. Szacki did some thinking. He had talked to the man for long enough now to become familiar with his reactions, and reckoned his inner lie detector was tuned in. As well as that, he had let himself appear to be an idiot, which always helped. Time to move on to the really important matters. He felt calm, because he was sure he wouldn’t leave Szyller’s house empty-handed. He’d discover something. He didn’t yet know what, but something for sure. And it would be something important.

IV

As Jerzy Szyller and Prosecutor Teodor Szacki were having their long conversation, there were several things they didn’t realize: Szacki that despite his intuition and expectations he was not coming close to a swift solution to the case, but quite the opposite – every minute spent on this debate was distancing him from its conclusion; and Szyller that the prosecutor’s bored look was a mask, and that his growing conviction that the investigator was a typical incompetent official was acutely mistaken. And both of them were unaware that they belonged to a very small group of Sandomierz townsfolk who could have been, and yet weren’t watching episode seven in the adventures of Father Mateusz, the TV priest-cum-detective.

Irena and Janusz Rojski were not in this minority; they were sitting side by side on the couch, regretting that it wasn’t on the Polsat channel, where you could have a pee in the advert break, make a cup of tea and discuss what had happened so far. Artur Żmijewski, who played Father Mateusz, was just visiting the scene of a crime at a rundown care home, where one of the OAPs had given up the ghost with somebody else’s assistance.