The Black Maria

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The Black Maria Page 8

by Rupert Colley


  Vladimir looked concerned. ‘You don’t seem happy?’

  ‘But why, Vladimir? How?’

  Vladimir shuffled from one foot to the other; his usual confidence had ebbed away. Perhaps he recognised that he’d taken her too far, too quickly. ‘Because I... I like you.’ His gaze fell to his polished shoes, the chandelier lights reflecting in the shiny blackness of the leather. ‘Because I like you very much,’ he said, almost apologetically.

  Rosa’s bewilderment at her surroundings disappeared in an instant. For the first time, Vladimir had stripped himself of his exterior and had allowed her a glimpse of the person within. She knew it’d taken all his strength to humble himself in front of her, and for that, she cherished the moment.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And I like you too, Vladimir. I like you very much.’

  Chapter 7: The Unveiling

  The more important factory workers had crowded into the works’ restaurant. I stood with my back pressed against the wall, watching their blank faces. Rows of mostly men, their overalls grimy, traces of dirt on their faces, their eyes fixed on the table at the far end of the large, over-lit room. One could tell that, given a choice, they’d all prefer not to be here; it was obvious they had been press-ganged into attending. Behind the table sat Comrade Trifonov, the prestigious factory director, a couple of his deputies, then Dmitry and, next to him, his patron, Mikhail. Trifonov was a man in his late fifties, a small, rounded man with dark, thinning hair and a long, thin nose and a lugubrious expression. Dmitry seemed uncomfortable and kept shooting me glances as if seeking reassurance by my presence. Along the sidewall hung the usual portraits of Stalin, Lenin, and the NKVD boss, Yagoda. On the back wall hung a large banner, proclaiming Work productively, rest culturally. And behind the main table, covered by a dark green piece of cloth, hung Dmitry’s painting.

  I couldn’t help but feel disappointed for Dmitry. His carefully crafted work was to be unveiled in this nondescript hall in a routine factory, no different to the hundreds of others dotted around Moscow. It deserved better – a wider, more appreciative audience than the bedraggled unenthusiastic workers currently present. But Trifonov was an influential man and a painting by someone such as Dmitry provided a degree of prestige to his establishment. It would show him as a man of taste, a patron of the arts. The agreement was that after spending a year in the factory, Dmitry’s painting would be transferred to one of the smaller art galleries. If Dmitry received his Order of Lenin, then his reputation would spread. He could work for the art galleries and not bother with these commissions from men who knew nothing about art.

  Nonetheless, I looked forward to the prospect of even a small gallery. The idea of my image being seen by hundreds of people was immensely thrilling. I had posed three times for him, each time longer than the previous. The middle session was particularly difficult. Dmitry knew his deadline was looming and the pressure did little for his output. Whatever he did, he immediately erased under a stream of muttered curses. He frequently paused and paced up and down his small studio or circled around me, eyeing me like a dress in a shop, rarely looking at me in the eye. He talked constantly but only to himself. I soon realised that when he talked, things were going badly. After an hour or more, he finally gave up and seemed despondent. I changed back into my ordinary clothes and quickly left. Later that day, he phoned to apologise. But I understood, I had learnt to distinguish between the charm of Dmitry the man and Dmitry, the irascible artist at work.

  Two days later, we had our third and final session. With the deadline forthcoming, I arrived with trepidation. As much as I looked forward to seeing him, the appeal of being an artist’s model was already losing its gloss. This time, however, it was thankfully different. He seemed more relaxed; the paint went where he wanted it to go, the image in his head translated itself easily onto the canvas. He even addressed me directly on a couple of occasions and towards the end, he worked with a small smile on his lips. Eventually, he stepped back from the canvas and stared at his work, nodding his head with obvious satisfaction. He beckoned me to join him. I was impressed. There I was, my profile in a work of art. My image stood at the front and to the right of the painting, my left hand clasping a jug of water, the right hand passing a filled glass to the outstretched hand of one of the workers. My posture was one of a pride – pride in my fellow workers, pride in the process of collectivisation, pride in my country. The sun reflected off my gleaming blue overalls, my hair tied back. But despite the androgynous nature of the clothes, I was still very much a woman, the maternal future of the Motherland. The top of the overalls opened enough to reveal the roundness and texture of my bosom, too much I feared, and the elasticated waist exaggerated the shape of my hips.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  ‘I think it’s wonderful.’ He looked at me as if seeking the truth in my eyes. ‘Truly, I think it’s really very good.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, yes, yes.’ He paced to the other side of the room and back again, grinning broadly, his eyes sparkling with pleasure, barely able to contain his glee. ‘Yes, so do I,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t think it’s a little too...’

  ‘Too what?’

  ‘Daring? I mean, my...’

  ‘Breasts?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He put his arm around my shoulder. ‘It’s beautiful, the whole thing is. Don’t worry; it’ll be fine.’

  The touch and the weight of his arm around me made my insides tingle and a shiver of pleasure ran down my spine; I felt so comfortable and attached. I leant into his embrace and breathed in his odour of paint and warmth.

  ‘Yes, it’ll be fine.’

  ‘You know, it’s such a joy finishing a work but sometimes it takes a day or two to fully sink in and when it does, it’s... it’s wonderful, I feel like punching the air and shouting out of the window. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘I... I don’t know.’ As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t think of a time when I felt such spontaneous joy.

  ‘Thank you, Maria, you made a good painting a perfect painting.’

  ‘Pleased to have obliged.’

  He laughed and pulled me closer. I looked up at him, his face hovering above me, and stared into the darkness of his eyes. The seconds lingered. Kiss me, I thought, just kiss me, just for a few moments, let me know what it is to be alive, to be kissed for a reason, kissed with a passion.

  ‘Perhaps next time,’ he said, ‘I will paint you nude.’

  ‘I thought it couldn’t be me, I thought...’

  He stepped away from me – the moment had passed. ‘We could place you in a classical setting, the Soviet Olympus, with her mirror and her black cat or perhaps draped against a column of a Greek temple with cherubs at your feet, gazing up at you adoringly ...’ I stopped listening, aware only of the closeness that was no more. He was Dmitry the Artist again.

  The recollection of that evening made me smile wistfully while Mikhail delivered his patriotic speech, his thumb hooked into the small pocket of his waistcoat, his greased hair shining under the hall lights. I tried to concentrate. He talked of Russia’s expanding industrialisation within its second Five-Year-Plan, of the need to maintain the momentum, the necessity to catch-up and ultimately overtake the West. He talked of the wisdom of the Party and Stalin in particular. Occasionally, Comrade Trifonov would nod in agreement but his expression remained static, still lugubrious.

  ‘A work of art has to depict a story as surely as a piece of fiction. And that story has to be Soviet, whether it’s the miner, the soldier, a field of grain, a factory, or the worker on the collective farm. By the very nature of their ordinariness, they become heroic standard-bearers of the mundane. Art has to have immediate appeal, free of distraction or any form of disorder. Art for the sake of art is a bourgeois indulgence. The viewer must believe he is viewing a story not a piece of art. And the proletariat has to be seen as strong in mind and body, resolutely moral in character, and, even under capitalist oppression, they must be
defiant and brave, unwilling to cede their higher moral ground. The artist, therefore, must surrender his individuality to the greater god of ideology. “The artist is the engineer of the soul” – we are all familiar with Comrade Stalin’s – ’ An eruption of applause interrupted him. He waited for a few moments before being able to continue. ‘Comrade Stalin’s phrase. And few artists encapsulate our beloved leader’s vision as Dmitry here. As a member of the Russian Association of Proletariat Artists and a leading light of the creative intelligentsia, his work is becoming widely acknowledged as perfect examples of our glorious past and shining future. His work here is an example of socialist realism at its best. It shows the harmonious working of the countryside, the collective pride of the noble peasant. Its place here, in one of Moscow’s most productive factories, is particularly fitting.’ He paused as if expecting a response and looked momentarily embarrassed by the silence. He stepped back from the table and moved to the cloth-covered painting. The moment had come. I noticed Dmitry clasp his hands and my stomach churned. Only I knew how important this moment was to him. No one, apart from myself, had yet set eyes on the completed painting – Mikhail had insisted on maintaining the surprise effect and Comrade Trifonov had shown no resistance. He reached for the cord attached to the cloth and held it gingerly. ‘So,’ he said, stretching the word, ‘with no further ado...’ Mikhail eyed his audience and I realised that he was as nervous as me. His reputation also depended on Dmitry and his other clients. ‘I am d-deep...’, he coughed. ‘Deeply honoured to unveil Dmitry’s latest work. Dedicated to the workers of this fine factory and to all glorious workers of the Soviet Union, comrades, I present to you... The Workers’ Rest...’

  The audience of factory workers began to applaud mechanically even before the cloth had fallen away. I hoped that as the painting was unveiled, the acclaim might become more spontaneous, more genuine. I was disappointed, the applause was only one step removed from a slow clap – steady, rhythmic and ponderous. I hated them for it. The only show of enthusiastic reaction came from Trifonov’s deputies sitting behind the table. Comrade Trifonov himself was not clapping but had turned his chair around and was intently studying the painting. I tried to read the expression in Dmitry’s eyes, but for one who usually wore his heart on his sleeve, it was difficult to tell what was going through his mind. But then the sight of Trifonov rising to his feet took my attention. He still wasn’t clapping but I assumed he was taking the lead in providing a standing ovation, at least theoretically, as the audience had been on their feet throughout. His deputies jumped to the same conclusion and, as one, rose to their feet and began to clap with greater rigour. At least this provided the spur to the workers to show more enthusiasm for this piece of work produced for their benefit. I saw Trifonov’s mouth open and what seemed like a single-syllable, rounded word was lost in the noise. But there was something in his eyes that frightened me. I stopped clapping, suddenly unable to carry on. I concentrated on his mouth, stretching my ears. He started shaking his head and the third or fourth time, I heard it; he was saying ‘No.’

  The deputies had heard it too. Instantly, they stopped clapping and glanced nervously at each other. Trifonov turned to face his workers. With his hands slicing the air horizontally, he yelled, ‘Stop it, I say. I said stop it!’ The workers at the front immediately stopped clapping and, like a wave, row upon row fell silent until the last echoes of applause died away. The hall reverberated with stunned silence, all eyes focused on Trifonov, the question burned on their faces. They weren’t bored now. Trifonov, his face flushed, paced back to the painting. He glanced disparagingly at Mikhail and then spun round to face the wide-eyed Dmitry. The director pointed to the painting behind him, ‘What’s this?’, he hissed.

  Dmitry shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Comrade Trifonov, I don’t follow.’

  Trifonov glared at Mikhail. Mikhail shrugged his shoulders and asked, ‘Is there anything wrong, Comrade Trifonov?’

  ‘Wrong? I would say there’s something “wrong”.’ He stepped back towards the table. ‘Are you blind, am I the only one to see it?’

  Mikhail’s nonplussed expression summed up the question of everyone present but I had a feeling that I knew what was coming next, and somehow I knew my alter-ego was about to become the focus of everyone’s acute attention. ‘See what?’ asked Mikhail.

  ‘Why you – you... Can’t you see the blatant pornography in this picture? Look,’ he said, pointing back to the painting. ‘Look at her, the blazoned shape of her – her...’ He struggled to find the word.

  ‘Breasts?’ said Dmitry mockingly. ‘Yes, women have breasts, I don’t understand – ’

  ‘Don’t come the innocent with me; that overall is so unbuttoned, it virtually exposes her.’

  ‘It’s a hot day,’ protested Dmitry. I could tell that inside he was laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

  ‘Well, why didn’t you paint her naked and be done with it?’ A ripple of laughter swam across the room and Dmitry suppressed an incredulous laugh. Trifonov scowled at his workers. ‘Oh, so you think the depiction of pornography is funny, do you? Another peep out of you lot and I’ll give you something to laugh about.’

  Mikhail coughed. ‘I do understand your concerns, Comrade Trifonov – ’

  ‘Do you? I have the distinct feeling I’m alone in my repugnance. You know how strongly the Party feels about this sort of thing – ’

  ‘Quite so, Comrade Trifonov, quite so. But come now, the artist is merely trying to show the honest sweat of the worker on a hot day in the country. In fact, we are privileged indeed to be in the company of the young lady who posed for this figure...’ My heart leapt. A titter of interest rippled through the audience as I felt my cheeks burn. My discomfort was obvious and being the only non-factory female in the hall, eyes began to turn in my direction.

  Dmitry tried to interrupt, ‘I don’t think it’s necessary to – ’

  But it was already too late; every head was turned, every pair of eyes fixed on me. ‘Oh, I’m sure Maria wouldn’t mind...’ said Mikhail, as his eyes came to rest on me. Comrade Trifonov was the last person to realise that I was the new point of interest. As his eyes focussed on me, I pressed myself against the wall and felt myself physically diminish in height.

  Mikhail continued. ‘Maria, would you mind stepping forward so that everyone can see you.’

  I smiled weakly but I couldn’t move, conscious of how hot I suddenly felt.

  Comrade Trifonov glanced at the painting and then looked back at me, as if comparing the girl in the painting with the physical embodiment in front of him. I swear he glanced down at my breasts for a fraction of a second before refocusing on my eyes. ‘Did you pose for this?’ he asked.

  I tried to speak but the nerves in my stomach silenced my tongue. Instead, I merely nodded. For a moment, his expression softened as if he was impressed by Dmitry’s skill. But perhaps remembering his indignation, the moment soon passed. ‘What would your parents think?’ he snarled. ‘Well, what do you have to say for yourself, young lady, has the cat got your tongue?’

  I opened my mouth but the words wouldn’t come. To my relief, Dmitry sprung to my defence. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he snapped. ‘This has nothing to do with her.’ His outburst managed to deflect the attention of everyone’s focus away from me. I felt myself slide down the wall, the sweat breaking out on my forehead. ‘I’m sorry, Comrade Trifonov, but I find your comments unjustified. The pornography that only you can see is obviously the product of your mind – ’

  ‘No!’ It was Mikhail’s turn to panic; he knew Dmitry was skating on very thin ice. Dmitry held his tongue and watched his patron. ‘What I think Dmitry means, is that there is clearly a misunderstanding here – ’

  ‘A “misunderstanding”?’ bellowed Comrade Trifonov. ‘There’s no misunderstanding. He’s the pornographer in this room and yet he has the gall to try and turn the tables. Well, we’ll see who’s the fornicator here when I take this to the proper authorities.’
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  Mikhail shot a nervous look at Dmitry. ‘Really, comrade, I don’t think we need to take it that far.’

  ‘Well, I do,’ said Trifonov. He took a final look at the painting and then suddenly turned on his heels and walked away from the table and out through the door at the side of the door.

  The hall erupted into a burst of thrilled conversation. After a few moments, one of Trifonov’s deputies decided to take charge of the situation. Rising to his feet, he ordered the workers to go home and not to mention to anyone the events of the evening. As the workers filed out, each stealing a last glimpse of me, I kept my attention focussed on Dmitry. Mikhail sat wearily down next to him and I noticed him pat Dmitry’s hand. It was a small gesture but I was relieved. It meant Dmitry still had his patron’s support. He wouldn’t have to fight this on his own – at least, in the officious sense, for Dmitry knew, he would always have my support.

  After a while, Dmitry looked up and caught my eye. Still unable to move from the spot, I smiled at him above the heads of the passing workmen. He smiled back but even from across the hall, I could see his usual confidence had ebbed away.

  Chapter 8: The Purge

  The students had been told to take their places in the main lecturing theatre at the end of classes. Rosa, Ella and Claudia arrived early, determined to sit towards the back and melt into the anonymity of faces. The wooden floor echoed with the sound of slow footsteps as the students and lecturers came in silently to take their places. Extra chairs had been brought in and arranged in a huge square; in the centre of which stood the temporary platform: a large table covered in a white cloth, decked with a lamp, glasses and jugs of water, and behind which were three unoccupied chairs. And on the other side of the table, another chair, conspicuous by its solitary presence. On the table lay a large pile of folders, held together by a thick, red ribbon.

  Rosa shivered. The main hall was always cold – it was too large and the ceiling too high to maintain any warmth. But, today, it was the foreboding pile of folders that had made her tremble. Each folder represented a student or lecturer, each one filled with testimonies, histories and written accusations against the name on the front cover. Was her name among them? It was rumoured that there were spies in every classroom, invisible informants at every turn. One’s student life, and private, family and political lives, were held within those sheaves of paper; every aspect of one’s existence. But, Rosa reminded herself, she had nothing to fear; after all, she loved her country, she loved her leader, she worked hard, and her lecturers thought highly of her. But was that enough? Rosa wasn’t a spy; she had never denounced anyone. But perhaps she should have. Was it something they could use against her? Had her failure to denounce others implied complicity? The table also had upon it a bust of Stalin and a vase of flowers. Somehow, thought Rosa, the flowers looked out of place. Flowers signified hope, a new beginning. But the atmosphere was not of hope but of dread. One could see it in every single face – the silent dread of what lay ahead. The best one could hope for was survival. It was either survival or condemnation. And Rosa knew only too well the meaning of condemnation – she had seen it for herself when they came and took away her father in their Black Maria. Condemnation meant expulsion from the Party, arrest and incarceration – it didn’t bear thinking about.

 

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