Necessary Lies (9 page)

On December 12, 1981, they gave their first party to celebrate their coming together. Marie brought Anna a bouquet of red roses and hugged her for a long time before she let her go. “Just take care of yourself,” she whispered in her ear. William's friends came with good wishes and curious glances. “Long time, no see,” she heard voices in the hall as William greeted them, “You lucky man. How do you do it?” Her extended hand
was squeezed and shaken as William introduced her to his colleagues, former students, their wives and girlfriends.

She was asked how she liked Montreal, if she had already been to
Place des Arts
, to the Laurentians. “William is a great guy,” she was told in conspicuous whispers. She was nodding her head, smiling, recounting all the trips they had already taken. No one asked her about Poland any more; she was no longer a visitor, and it was now tactless to mention what she had left behind.

By degrees the living room became too warm, too smoky, and she found herself drifting off, unable to fend off the thoughts of her mother who must, by then, have learned about her and Piotr. In her big, dark Wroclaw apartment, among the mismatched pieces of furniture and threadbare carpets her mother and father were getting ready for Christmas. There would be tears at Christmas Eve supper, and an empty plate at the table where she would have sat.

“Are you all right?” William asked. “You look pale.”

“It's nothing, love,” she said. “I'm fine.” It pleased her so much to call him
love
, to hear the concern in his voice. To exchange little smiles of understanding across the room. She thought she should hide her pain from him, keep the old life away from the new.

There were too many people she didn't know to make her feel comfortable. Marie was busy talking to a tall, handsome man who was sitting cross-legged on the floor. She was kneeling opposite him, making large circles in the air with her hand. The black strap of her silk blouse kept falling off her shoulder. From where she stood, Anna could hear Marie's laughter, see her thick, black hair tossed back. She did not want to interrupt.

Anna walked to the window to open it a bit more, to let in fresh, cold, wintry air. Outside, the world was covered in a white snowy blanket. Thick caps formed over street lamps, fire hydrants, parked cars. Enormous white flakes danced in the light. She wanted the party to end, to stop the growing noise, the laughter, the stories of events that had no resonance for her yet, memories of the lost referendum, absurdities of the French language policy, upcoming constitutional wrangles.

“Lévesque was stabbed in the back,” she heard a fierce whisper. “Once again!” Someone hummed a few notes of a song. “Oh, come on!” she heard. “Stop it!” By candlelight the faces of the guests looked long and lean. No, not frightening, but strangely distant.

Piotr she dismissed when he appeared to her then. It was not an easy decision, but she had the right to make it. Even if she did go back, she told herself, how long would it be before she started to blame him for every day that went wrong. How long before she would make his life miserable. It all made perfect sense. She could betray either him or herself; there were no other choices to make.

On the morning of December 13, Anna woke up in what she still, in her mind, called William's bed. In his light pine bed, on a thick, springy mattress, between his smooth white sheets. He was quite conservative that way, she had discovered, linen, towels, tablecloths had to be white, snow white, without a blemish.

She thought she should get up and start cleaning up after the party. They had both been too tired to do it in the evening. A pile of dirty dishes had been left soaking in the sink. Even in the bedroom, with the window opened a crack, there was the faint smell of cigarette smoke and wine.

William was still asleep beside her, snoring. She smiled. She wanted to shake him gently, to make him turn on his side, but knew she would only wake him up. It moved her to discover these little things about him, to learn of his habits. Piotr wouldn't have woken up even if she switched on the radio or talked to him. She didn't feel like getting up, not yet. The alarm clock was set for nine o'clock. There were still a few minutes left.

This is the CBC news. Our top story. Last night Polish troops took over control of the country. General Jaruzelski went on national television and announced the imposition of martial law. There are unconfirmed reports that the Solidarity leader, Lech Wal?
sa, was arrested last night, together with the entire leadership of the First Independent Trade Unions.

“Shit!” William said and sat up, wide awake at once.

“What?” it was Anna who kept asking, as if the words she had heard made no sense to her. “What's happened?”

“Martial law,” William said. “Oh, God. Bastards!”

The first images on the ABC morning news showed the Polish TV screen. General Jaruzelski, his eyes hidden behind his dark sunglasses, was sitting at his desk, behind him a huge Polish flag. “Citizens of the Polish People's Republic!” he was saying in a strained but steady voice. “I turn to you as a soldier and the chief of government! Our fatherland is on the verge of an abyss!” When the speech ended, and before it was repeated, the screens showed pictures of flowery meadows, still background for the music of Chopin.

The state of war was declared at night. The declarations posted on street corners were printed in the Soviet Union — American and Canadian commentators stressed — to preserve the secrecy of the operation. Poles were informed that all schools, theatres, movie theatres were closed, that public gatherings of any kind were forbidden, that no one could leave his place of residence without official authorisation.

Anna kept switching the channels, hoping to learn more. By midday came the first shots of grey tanks slowly rolling in the Polish streets. One shot, in particular, appeared over and over again, at every television station, the neon signs of the Moscow cinema in Warsaw announcing “Apocalypse Now.” The tank that stood by the entrance had its turret aimed at the street.

Anna walked around the room, in circles, avoiding the stacks of plates, leftovers of the party. She noticed that someone had spilled beer on the beautiful art book William kept opened on the coffee table, and now the pages were swollen with dampness. A feeling of panic, so strong that she had to stop herself from rushing somewhere, anywhere, spread all over her body. Her hands were cold and she had to sit down to catch her breath. William followed her into the living room, silent, picking up the plates, emptying ashtrays, taking them all to the kitchen, grateful to have something to do. He had run to the store and brought her papers,
The Gazette, The New York Times, Le Devoir
, but the news seemed all the same to her.

“It's still too early,” he tried to calm her down. “We'll have to wait.” He brought her a glass of water and a piece of toast, but she only shook her head. Then he began making coffee, and she shuddered at the grinding noise of the coffee mill. The phone rang. “Yes,” William said. “I will. You can imagine how she feels. Yes. Thank you. I will.”

She dialled the operator.

“Sorry, Ma'am. All lines to Poland are cut off. I'm really sorry. Please try again later.”

In the evening, exhausted from crying, her mind unable to sift through reports that called the events in Poland everything from
utter betrayal
to
the choice of a lesser evil
, she let William take her out to dinner. She was silent the whole evening, staring beyond him, her eyes aimlessly recording the shapes of wainscotting, the maze of squares on the wallpaper. He looked at her, and then looked away. “I don't know what to say,” he said.

She didn't say anything. William's face seemed to her too sharp, too finely chiselled, the way the world looked on the days in her childhood when a fever hit her. Trees had sharp, spiky branches, clouds stood out from the blue of the sky, the stocky, dark houses had sharp roof tops and red wavy tiles. Now it was William's face she saw as if cut out of paper; the edges, if she ran her fingers over them, capable of slashing her finger, a thin shallow wound painful to heal.

“Don't cut me off like that,” he pleaded.

It was her own body she concentrated upon, following the trajectory of each shiver, hands folded, pressing against her thighs. The food she had forced herself to swallow lodged itself against the walls of her stomach, a hard, sour lump, refusing to dissolve. She was trying to steady another surge of panic, the urge to stand up and run, blindly, fast, the fastest she could. She took a long breath and drank the wine William placed in front of her. She thought that the force of her pain disappointed him; the resurgence of old ties diminished the new. She didn't care.

He ate fast, watching her all the time. He tried to reason with her, to plead for her patience, for time. “It won't be too bad. At least it's not the Soviets, Anna. Communists won't dare to do anything too drastic. They can't afford it.” She nodded
but did not listen. “Tell me what you are afraid of,” he asked, but she only shook her head. How could she tell him about shame? About blaming herself for her selfishness. In the last four months she had come to believe that she had the right to think of herself. Thought herself brave, even. Until the moment when she saw the images of tanks in Polish streets, telling her that what she did had nothing to do with her new freedom.
It wasn't courage
, she thought,
it was betrayal
“I haven't really known you, have I?” Piotr had asked.

“You cannot change anything, darling,” William kept repeating. “Would you rather be there now? How would that help?”

“I want to go home,” she said, and rushed out of the restaurant. The door swung behind her. William's car was parked nearby, but she kept walking through the streets, her feet slipping on the frozen pavement. She didn't even turn back to check if he followed.

The news flew fast. There were accounts of massive arrests of Solidarity activists; the lists, rumours had it, had been prepared months ahead. There were reports of strikes, of tanks crushing the entrance gate of the Lenin Shipyard in Gda
sk. Striking miners were dying in the
Wujek
coal mine, in a losing battle with the ZOMO forces. The arrests of Wal
sa, Kuro
, Michnik were confirmed; Frasyniuk was reported to be on the run. On the walls, defiant graffiti, “Winter may be yours, but spring will be ours.”

It was not hard to imagine how it would go: Loud knocks at the door. The old, worn platitudes.
You're under arrest. Don't try any tricks.
Piotr would flash his defiant smirk, lips folding as if he were getting ready to spit in their faces. Would she love him more for it had she stayed? Would nothing else matter to her, too? Anna didn't know any more. She had lost the certainty of her judgments. She was floating in between worlds, unanchored, weightless. Could it be that her love for William was nothing but an infatuation after all? Love misplaced, uncertain, already tainted by her shameless
desire for peace, for comfort. What had she done then?