The Black Maria

by Rupert Colley

  Finally, he spoke. ‘I think we’re ready,’ he declared.

  He painted as if the devil possessed him, his eyes focussed in intense concentration, glancing from me to the canvas and back to me in rapid succession. It was, I have to admit, fascinating to watch the artist at work. I could see from the movement of his hand that he began with broad strokes, applying fresh layers of paint at regular intervals. And again, he worked silently, his thoughts and efforts engrossed in the work at hand. I, as a person, had ceased to be important; I’d become an object of artistic intent, of creative application.

  After a while, my arms began to ache. The effort of keeping unnaturally still was tiring. I needed to move, to stretch. But the merest hint of movement was met with disapproval. He urged me to remain still. ‘Not much longer,’ he muttered after another five minutes had passed, then ten, fifteen minutes. And just as I thought I was going to drop the tray out of pure exhaustion, he unexpectedly threw his hands triumphantly in the air and declared that we had done enough. I dropped the tray onto the table and sat down on a small stool with utter relief. He laughed and apologised. Dmitry the artist had gone and in his place was Dmitry the man.

  ‘Can I have a look?’ I asked him.

  ‘No, not yet, we haven’t finished. It would be bad luck. Can you return tomorrow?’

  ‘No, not tomorrow; I have to go to the kindergarten. I could come back the day after.’

  ‘Yes, yes, excellent.’

  I was thrilled, I hadn’t envisaged more than the one sitting, hadn’t realised the commitment of the task. Yes, of course I could come back, and willingly – my life as a Soviet housewife was not exactly demanding. I was an artist’s model now, someone needed me, I was important, I had a role to play. It was tiring work but I had to do it because he needed me.

  ‘Come, let’s have a glass of wine,’ said Dmitry. He too was happy; his work had obviously gone well, perhaps better than he’d imagined. Maybe I had inspired him, chased out the artistic demons that troubled his thoughts. For the first time since coming to Moscow, my spirit was soaring. I knew I was getting carried away, but Dmitry had unexpectedly and unintentionally given me a purpose.

  We clinked our glasses in mutual gratitude and enthusiasm. The red wine was thick, like sweet syrup. We stood only a few feet apart, our eyes burning into each other, the saccharine taste on our lips, the warmth inside our bellies. His bottom lip shone red with the concentrated thickness of the wine. I watched as he swallowed, the movement of his Adam’s apple, the dark stubble on his throat.

  ‘Is this the sort of work you enjoy?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, it pays my way. But sometimes I wish I could break loose the chains of socialist realism and paint something truly extravagant.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The nude.’

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  ‘Come off it, it’d be too dangerous. You know what the Party thinks of anything it deems pornographic.’

  ‘Yes.’ But the mere notion of it was strangely exciting. ‘I’d pose for you.’

  He laughed. ‘No, I’m not asking you to.’

  ‘Really, I want to.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, Maria. I’m not sure if I want to paint the female figure and even if I did, it couldn’t be you; you have too much sadness in your eyes. I fear you would lack the confidence to give yourself fully to me. I would demand your unquestioned trust and I don’t think you’re ready to give me that. Forgive me, but I believe life has been too cruel to you.’

  His words, so softly spoken, pained me as surely as if he’d hit me.

  ‘I’m sorry, you look hurt, I don’t mean to offend you but I have to be brutally honest for your sake as well as mine. And anyway, you know how risky it would be. Any art expressed in classical terms is viewed as nothing short of depravity. I’m sorry.’

  He was right of course, but I never realised I wore my heart so clearly on my sleeve. Too much sadness in my eyes? I left Dmitry’s apartment slightly deflated.

  *

  An hour later, as I began preparing Petrov’s dinner, I heard the apartment door open and the familiar footsteps. I went through to the living room. Rosa was slumped on the settee, her college bag dumped on the floor. She looked pale and exhausted. ‘Rosa love, is anything wrong?’ She closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘Come on, what’s the matter?’

  She sighed and rubbed her eyes. ‘Have you ever been through a purge?

  ‘No, why do you ask?’

  ‘They’re sending a purge commission to the institute.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What do you mean by “oh”? I’ve got nothing to be worried about.’

  I tried to smile. ‘I know that, I know – ’

  ‘I do my work, I don’t get in trouble, I read my books...’

  ‘But...?’

  Rosa’s eyes wandered around the room. Finally, she said in a whisper, ‘I’m frightened.’

  The poor girl. I sat down on the settee next to her. ‘You’ll be all right. They might not even choose you.’

  ‘Do you know what really happened to my father?’

  ‘No, I don’t. No one ever knows.’ This wasn’t exactly true.

  ‘But he must’ve have done something wrong. They wouldn’t arrest anyone for no reason, would they?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Well, there you are then. I’ll be OK.’ She looked at me carefully for a few moments and then turned away and closed her eyes again. I noticed a slight smile on her lips but it soon faded.

  Chapter 6: The Rehearsal

  ‘“I heard yesterday that she is going to be married to Protopopov, the chairman of our Rural Board...”’

  ‘Stop, stop, stop.’

  Rosa’s mouth hung open, on the verge of delivering the next line. She was standing on the stage, playing her part, her Masha talking to Ella’s Olga in Chekhov’s The Three Sisters. The interruptions came at regular intervals. What now, she wondered. She turned and gazed at Comrade Ramzin, the drama teacher, who was sitting in the middle of the second row of haphazardly lined chairs. Various other students sat near her, all with copies of the script on their laps.

  ‘Rosa,’ said Ramzin, ‘you sound like a parrot perched on a pirate’s shoulder in some infantile nursery performance.’ Ella grinned smugly at Rosa. Comrade Ramzin was a large woman, her long mousy hair pleated down her back, her cheeks flushed with circles of red. ‘Try to give it some... some meaning,’ she continued. ‘Don’t finish your sentences on the up, it sounds too optimistic. The intended emotion of Masha’s words is not conveyed in the sound of your voice. Right, shall we try it again?’

  Rosa cleared her throat and tried to ignore the asinine expression on Ella’s mocking face. Think sad, she thought, think sad. She thought of the day they came for her father.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ yelled Comrade Ramzin, impatiently.

  ‘“Andrey, come here, dear, for a minute.”’

  ‘“This is my brother, Andrey Sergeyevitch.’”

  Ella waited for the appearance of Boris as Andrey Sergeyevitch but was greeted only with silence. She repeated the last line. This time Boris took his cue and stumbled onto the stage from behind her.

  ‘“What do you want? I can’t make it out?’”

  ‘No, no, no,’ cried Ramzin. ‘For goodness sake, Boris, that is your entrance from Act Three, not Act One. OK, OK, that’s enough, I can’t take much more of this. Now, Rosa, you still look so limp. Use your arms more, move your head, don’t just stand there like a wooden soldier. Ella, perfect as usual, well done. All right, we’ll call it a day. We meet again at two tomorrow. And perhaps we could have more of a concerted effort. I know you’re amateurs but do you have to wear it so proudly on your sleeves? OK, class dismissed.’

  Rosa and Ella jumped off the low stage, Ella wearing a satisfied grin that stretched right across the face, dimpling her cheeks. Boris took the more sedate route of the stage steps.

  ‘Your big day tomorrow, eh, Bori
s? Got your speech ready?’ asked Ella as Boris met them in front of the stage.

  ‘I don’t know what she expects from us, we’re not the bloody Moscow School of Drama, it’s only a college play.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Rosa. ‘It’s not even as if anyone important is going to be there, I don’t see what the fuss is about.’

  ‘Listen to you two,’ said Ella. ‘If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing properly. Where’s your pride?’

  ‘We don’t all want to be film stars,’ said Boris.

  ‘So, where are you off to tonight, Rosa? Home to practice your lines, I hope. Or have you got another date with your librarian friend?’

  ‘He is a librarian. And as it happens, yes, I am meeting him tonight.’ She shot Boris a sideways glance, but Boris, flipping through his Chekhov script, avoided her eyes.

  ‘Where’s he taking you tonight then?’ asked Ella. ‘What wonders await you from the toil and wages of a librarian? Another romantic meal at the Hotel Prague?’

  ‘Come on, let’s go to lunch,’ said Rosa to Boris.

  ‘Don’t worry, I take the hint. Find out what he does,’ said Ella, as Rosa and Boris walked away.

  Sitting down at one of the long wooden benches with their plates of black bread and cups of tea, Boris talked about the play. ‘I remember my father reading it to me when I was a child,’ he said. ‘He liked Chekhov, he often used to quote him, especially The Cherry Orchard. To him, it summed up the indestructible path of change. We call it progress but he hated it.’

  ‘I’ve never heard you mention your father –’

  ‘When will we ever get proper food?’

  ‘Perhaps when they’ve rooted out all the wreckers.’

  ‘Rosa, are you really seeing this man tonight?’ Rosa turned away and toyed with her bread, crumbling it between her fingers, not wanting to answer. Boris continued: ‘Forgive me, Rosa, but I need to speak my mind. Knowing that you’re seeing this... this librarian is... well, I think you know how I feel about you, it’s just that... I’m not saying this very well.’

  Rosa’s cheeks flushed. ‘I know. Look, I do like you but...’ she waved her hands about, trying to find the appropriate word. ‘But...’

  ‘I know, you like me as a friend.’

  ‘Is that so bad?’

  ‘From where I’m sitting – yes. I, I think of you all the time, Rosa. I hate this boy for being able to take you out and spoil you and – ’

  ‘Boris, no. You make me sound shallow. Do you really think I see him just because of that?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that.’

  ‘You’re a good friend. I know it’s not enough for you but if we started seeing each other in that way, it would spoil everything. Anyway, what would your parents say, you a Jew seeing a gentile, and an atheist at that.’

  ‘Mother just wants me to find a pretty girl, fall in love and settle down. She’d like you.’

  Rosa smiled at the compliment. ‘And your father?’

  ‘My father’s dead. He was a rabbi so I admit that would’ve been a harder nut to crack. Are your parents still alive?’

  ‘No. Both died.’ Her mother had indeed died but why lie about her father? She knew why. ‘Don’t let us fall out over this, Boris.’

  ‘No.’ He forced a smile. ‘No, of course not.’

  *

  Rosa tried to visit her father at least once a week. She never wanted to, but somehow she felt obligated and it always cheered up Maria. She’d become used to living at the institute, it was so much more fun. She hated her aunt’s apartment – two tiny rooms in a communal house with a couple across the corridor who spent half the day yelling at each other and at their baby. And next door to them, four generations of the same family living on top of each other, without breathing space and in utter squalor. And these families, along with half a dozen others, all shared the same kitchen. The massive kitchen stove was heated only twice a week when all the women fought for space and cooked their meals for the coming three or four days, to be heated later on their own Primus stoves. It was so depressing; there just weren’t enough houses to go round. But, as she frequently reminded herself, it was their duty to suffer today to reap the benefits tomorrow.

  ‘Rosa, love,’ said her aunt as she walked in. The only armchair, which was usually occupied by her father, was empty.

  ‘Where’s father?’ she asked, as she sat down.

  ‘He’s not feeling too well today, he hasn‘t got up.’

  Rosa picked up a year-old magazine she could almost recite word for word and idly flipped through the pages.

  Maria coughed delicately. ‘Are you going out tonight?’

  Rosa was looking at the photograph of the famous polar explorer, the huge man-mountain of Otto Schmidt with his long wild beard, staring maniacally into the lens.

  ‘Rosa?’

  ‘Hmm? Yes.’

  According to the song, Schmidt’s beard ran down to his knees. ‘With Vladimir?’

  Rosa closed the magazine. ‘Yes, with Vladimir.’

  ‘So, er, what’s he like, this Vladimir?’

  ‘He’s nice.’

  ‘Nice? Should you be spending so much time with a boy who’s just nice? Can’t you find someone nearer your own age?’

  ‘How do you know how old he is?’

  ‘Well, I can’t imagine a boy of your age being able to afford to take you out like this Vladimir does. I mean, restaurants, cinemas, the theatre, what next? Surely, there must be someone at college you could go out with?’

  ‘Sorry, Maria, but I don’t know what this has to do with you. I’m eighteen now; who I wish to see is my business. If you’ll excuse me, I’d better go see father; see if he’s awake.’

  Rosa opened the bedroom door and was struck by the stale, musty odour. The smell was familiar yet it never ceased to take her by surprise whenever she was confronted by it. It was dark inside the room, what little light there was came through the thin curtain with its frayed edge.

  Her father was lying on his bed, his blanket thrown back, covering only his legs. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and silent. There was a chair next to the bed where her aunt sat for hours talking or reading to him, rarely receiving a response, never expecting one. Rosa sat down and stared at him. ‘Hello, father,’ she said, speaking as normally as possible. He looked hot, his forehead glistened with perspiration. She felt as if she should reach over with a handkerchief and wipe his brow but she couldn’t face it – the idea, she realised with pang of remorse, repulsed her. She opened her mouth to speak but then closed it again. Her aunt could do it, but she couldn’t, it seemed too unnatural. She wanted to tell him about her day – the rehearsals, Ella’s irritating smugness, Boris’s forlornness, her pending date with Vladimir, her suspicions about his job. Damn Ella, Rosa thought. But instead, she said nothing and felt the awkwardness of the silence as acutely as if she was trying to make conversation with someone who could actually talk back.

  He was twenty-six when she was born. She was eighteen now, that made him forty-four. Was this how a forty-four-year-old man was meant to look like? She was fifteen when they came to arrest him. Three years ago.

  November 1932. There had been nothing to warn them, at least nothing that she knew of. One night, in the early hours of the morning, there was a knock at the door. An urgent, horrible knock. It must have continued for some time because by the time she peered through the crack of her bedroom door into the main room, her mother and father were already up, still in their pyjamas. Her father’s pyjamas were red and white stripes; the same pair he wore now, lying in his bed, oblivious to his daughter’s presence. But now, they were far too big for him and the red had faded into a murky pink. She remembered standing anxiously just inside the bedroom, hiding within the darkness of the room, her eyes blinking from the light of the main room. Her parents hadn’t seen her...

  ‘We give you five seconds to open this door,’ said the aggressive voice from outside. ‘One... two...’ Her
parents, Nadya and Viktor, exchanged terrified glances. ‘Three...’

  ‘All right, all right, I’m coming,’ said Viktor. He unbolted the bolt at the top of the door and turned the key. Just before the lock clicked open, he paused and glanced back at his wife, as if to say, here goes... He turned the key through its last turn and reached for the doorknob but before he had chance to open it, the door burst open and a flurry of black uniforms suddenly filled the space of the apartment. Nadya clasped her hands over her cheeks, Viktor looked older already, his face drained of colour.

  The first uniform introduced himself and his two colleagues in a quick staccato voice, the names disappearing in a haze of fear. To the fifteen-year-old Rosa, they all looked threateningly the same with their long black, shiny mackintoshes and peaked caps. ‘Citizen Tomsky, you are under arrest.’

  Rosa’s mother let out a shrill shriek and clamped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide as spectacles. Her father’s legs seemed to buckle from underneath him. He gripped the back of a chair, his mouth gaping open like a fish on dry land, trying to absorb the words, grappling for a response. ‘W-what for?’ he spluttered.

  ‘I am not at liberty to say.’ The first uniform clicked his fingers at his colleagues. The two men responded immediately and started pulling out drawers and tipping their contents on the floor, searching underneath the cushions of the armchair, under the carpets, on top of cupboards. Rosa withdrew behind the door and bit furiously at her nails. For so long, she pretended to be older than she was, but now, her fear stripped away the years and she felt unbearably vulnerable. She wanted to go to her mother, to disappear within her warmth but she couldn’t face stepping out of the protecting darkness of the bedroom. She saw them go into the kitchen and heard them rummaging around.