‘Boris!’ It was raining heavily; people were scurrying up the steps, escaping the downpour. Rosa hurried after him, cursing him and wishing she’d brought her raincoat. ‘Boris,’ she cried out again. ‘Please, stop.’
He carried on walking but slowed down with each step, like a large locomotive grinding to a halt. Finally, without turning around, he stopped next to the ornate fountain, and allowed his haversack to fall from his shoulder and lie on the wet driveway. Rosa walked up from behind and circled around him to face him directly. And there they stood for a few time-stretching moments, facing each other silently in the rain, the gushing fountain next to them.
‘I would have survived, you know,’ he said.
‘Yes, I know.’
‘So why did you do it?’
She wished she could see into his eyes, but his glasses were too speckled with spots of rainwater. ‘Why did I do what?’
‘Does the guilt of betrayal lie so easily on your conscience? You knew. You were the only person I’d ever told because I thought, I believed, you were the only person I could tell.’
‘Your father? But...’
‘Yes, my father. Do you know what it’s like to have had a father and never acknowledge his existence? We all ask each other what our parents did, don’t we? It’s one of the first questions we ask people. What did your father do for the Revolution? And they’ve always done something, haven’t they? Yes, he fought the Whites and single-handedly killed a whole division of them, or he listened to Lenin preach. I remember him vividly, my father. Yes, he died when I was five and I love him to this day. And why? Because the man who took his place, beat the Jewish shit out of me daily for ten years. I was brought up speaking Yiddish and then I was suddenly forbidden to speak it. Even an utterance of it earned me a lashing – it was literally beaten out of me. And yet I tell people he’s my real father and that I love him. Do you know how great this feels? To be able to tell the truth; to tell you how much I hated him, and still do. And that’s how I felt when I told you about my real father. I may have only mentioned it in passing, my father was a rabbi, but oh, what liberation. Just a passing comment, that’s all it was, but it felt as if I was standing on the rooftops, shouting it out for all Moscow to hear. Yes, my father was a rabbi and I’m proud of the fact, I’m proud I’m a Jew. Inside, inside, my heart was beating. My father was a rabbi. It was the first time I’d ever said it. And why you? Because I thought I loved you. Yes, OK, I know, you didn’t love me back, I knew that, but I couldn’t help my own feelings. I told you because I loved you, because I trusted you. Trust is a non-existent thing, but I thought you were different. But you’re not, you’re even worse...’
‘I never told a soul.’
‘You liar!’ Boris stepped away, then turned back and spat the words at her. ‘It was twenty years ago; we lived in a small village hundreds of miles away. Even the all-seeing eyes of the NKVD would not make the connection. And yet, five minutes after telling you, they knew! You told them, or you told someone who told them.’
Someone. Yes, thought Rosa, someone. The realisation hit her, she staggered as surely as if struck by a physical punch. ‘It’s not how you think...’
‘No? Stripped of my Party card, my ration card, my place at college. I’m only here now to pick up my things. Hauled in by the NKVD for a cosy chat, shunned by my friends, a week’s notice to quit the apartment. But of course, don’t let any of this shake your faith, Rosa; I wouldn’t want to disillusion you.’ He scooped up his haversack and the rainwater dripped from its contact with the ground.
‘Boris, please –’
But Boris was already walking away. He stopped and turned. ‘Perhaps next time you see me, when I’m out there on the streets with the rest of the beggars, you’ll dig deep in your pocket and help me out a bit.’
‘No...’ But Boris had reached the end of the short driveway, turned the corner and was gone.
The drive and the entrance to the college were deserted, the rain having forced everyone inside. With her hair glued to her face, Rosa fought for breath as rain and realisation drowned her in a spasm of self-pity and hatred.
Chapter 15: The Death
My every waking thought now was how to escape Petrov. It was so obvious to me now that he’d denounced Viktor to the NKVD. It wouldn’t have taken much, just a whispered word; an acknowledgement from a Rykov-type bureaucrat and the damage was done. I had to leave. I envisaged various scenarios but the conclusion was always the same. Whatever way I looked at it, I was doomed. And yet I knew I had to do something. I was still young, I’d fallen in love; I had the rest of my life in front of me. But while I remained married to Petrov, I was still a prisoner under the camouflage. Now, each day was another day wasted, another day less of freedom, of love.
My problem, our problem – for it occupied Dmitry’s mind as much as mine – became more intangible and more unassailable every day. Sometimes, during my more charitable moments, I couldn’t believe Petrov would carry out his threat. But he would. I knew him too well. What he couldn’t have he destroyed – the people who used to live in our apartment, the boss who’s job he wanted, the assistants who threatened him by their very intelligence. Trotskyites – all of them, and where were they now? No man, no problem. Pride, jealousy and fear make for an unpredictable and dangerous combination. And these were people against whom he had nothing more than whispered allegations. But he took what little he had and used it to devastating effect. Against me, his own wife, he had a positive arsenal of ammunition, a long list of crimes against the State.
I’d been out all morning, shopping; this time with Anna and this time with more success – we’d queued for hours and came away with half a dozen sausages each. As we queued, I told Anna everything. Speaking in hushed tones, I told her of my love for her brother and Petrov’s reaction. I told her that Petrov had denounced Viktor. I told her that I had a past to be frightened of. I didn’t tell her what – it was enough that she knew.
‘You could blackmail him,’ she said quietly, so as not to be overheard.
‘With what, Anna? There’s nothing I could hold against Petrov, no chink in his armour, no Achilles Heel – apart from me. He travels light. He has no possessions, no friends, little family, no secrets, no skeletons. I’m his only item of baggage. My past is his only fault-line.’
‘Perhaps there’s something at his work?’
‘No, his work and I are separate entities. He rarely speaks about it – and even then only in terms of statistics and production levels. I doubt if he’s ever mentioned me at work.’
‘Just another bureaucrat without a personal life.’
‘Yes. Work is a closed book, totally inaccessible.’
‘So what is there?’
‘That’s the problem, as hard as I try to think, he remains invincible, beyond my reach. He has no weaknesses.’
‘Does he drink? To excess? That’d be frowned upon.’
‘No. Perhaps the occasional drink, but that’s all.’
‘Any weaknesses of the flesh?’
I laughed. ‘No, Stalin and the Party are his only loves.’
‘And that’s how it’s meant to be.’
‘Wherever I start from, I return to the same place.’ Of course, there was only one thing I could do. It wasn’t something I could share even with Anna, but I always returned to it – and the thought of it made me shudder.
*
I invited Anna back for a coffee. Returning to my apartment, we picked our way through the poorly-lit hallway, up the three flights of stairs, and down the semi-dark corridor. Our progress was hampered by boxes of litter, of piles of belongings, heaps of clothes, mattresses (occupied and unoccupied) and a continuous line of people – leaning against the walls, smoking, chatting, sleeping, children screaming and playing chasing games up and down the stairs, a mother breastfeeding on the landing, an old woman darning socks. Everywhere, there was such noise, people shouting, yelling, babies crying. Eventually, we got in.
&nbs
p; Petrov was out at work and Viktor was still in bed. I checked up on him, as always. Immediately I knew something was wrong. ‘Viktor,’ I said. ‘Are you all right?’
The room was dark; I opened the curtains and let the dim light through. Viktor lay in his bed, his head propped up on his pillows. His eyes were open but I knew – he was dead.
‘Oh, my dear Lord,’ I whispered. ‘Viktor, oh Viktor. Couldn’t you have waited until I returned?’ I closed his eyelids, the sensation causing me to tremble.
I sat down on the edge of the bed.
After a while, Anna, who’d be sitting in the main room, came to see what had happened to me. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked, standing at the door of the bedroom. ‘Is Viktor all right?’
I shook my head, unable to talk. I watched her as she approached the bed. She grimaced at the sight of him and tried to disguise it. ‘Oh, Maria. I am sorry.’
‘I should have been here for him.’
‘You couldn’t be here all the time,’ she said, rubbing my shoulder. ‘It’s over now; he needn’t suffer any more. At least he died at home.’
‘Yes. They can’t touch him now.’
We sat in silence for a while, me on the bed, Anna on a chair next to me.
‘What do I do, Anna? Who should I call first? A doctor? The undertaker?’
‘Let’s worry about that later. You’re in shock, Maria. I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
As Anna busied herself in the kitchen, I could hear a baby sobbing in the adjoining apartment. It started off as a bored sort of cry, but then worked itself up into an angry bawl, hardly drawing breath. Poor thing, couldn’t someone see to it? Eventually, the baby stopped crying and a degree of silence returned, just the sound of people traipsing up and down the corridor, the sound of muffled talking.
‘I put in an extra sugar,’ said Anna, bringing in two mugs. ‘You probably need it.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Tell me, Maria. Tell me everything that happened.’
‘With Viktor?’
‘Yes, with Viktor.’
I thought back to that terrible time, every last detail imprinted on my memory. ‘Oh, Anna. Where do I start?’
‘You know, don’t you, Maria, that you can trust me? I mean, really trust me.’
‘Yes, I know.’ I stroked her arm with gratitude. ‘OK, I’ll tell you everything. I suppose it started when Nadya, Viktor’s wife, came in to see me, with Rosa, screaming that they had arrested him. She was hysterical.’
‘Understandable.’
‘She told me how these men in their long black shiny mackintoshes barged in in the middle of the night, looking like messengers from the Devil himself, and started tearing the place apart.’
‘Looking for incriminating evidence.’
‘Yes. They ripped up the mattress and the sofa, flung all the drawers on the floor, smashed all the crockery. Of course, Viktor had done nothing wrong, and I told her to cling onto that.
‘The next day, I went with her to the Lubyanka prison where we thought they might be holding him. We queued for hours with hundreds of other women, just like us, all desperate to know about their husbands, their sons, their brothers. They all had parcels – we hadn’t. When we got to the head of the queue, the blank-faced official said he had no record of him. Then, we went over to the Butyrka prison and finally the Lefortovo and repeated the whole process – and all for nothing. Next day, we went through it all again, but this time, Nadya came prepared with a parcel: a few clothes, bites to eat, a book or two.
‘Our lives had come to a standstill. I lived with this constant gnawing in the pit of my stomach; we both did. Every time we spoke to an official, it was with tears in our eyes. We both so desperately wanted to know where he was. He adored Stalin, we’d say; he was a communist to his last hair. We were wasting our time of course. They just stare at you with utter contempt and order you out of the way. Every night, I’d come back here and just cry my eyes out. Petrov couldn’t understand; he said there would have been a reason for Viktor’s arrest. Little did I suspect that he was the reason for it. All the neighbours were too frightened to talk to us any more. And the few friends we had made no contact. I could imagine them all scrubbing my name out of their address books, concerned to wipe away any association with me. And Nadya. For them, we had ceased to exist. Viktor was another of the “disappeared”.
‘I wasn’t going to give up. My brother and I had survived so much together; I had to find him. I had to remain strong because Nadya had fallen apart. She lost all her strength. So I carried on by myself, visiting all three prisons every day. Eventually I found out that Viktor was being held in the Lubyanka, which was, of course, the first place we’d tried. I spent weeks going to the prison with my parcels and handing them over. I also tried getting into the offices of the NKVD, just in the hope of being able to help him in some way. Nadya even began blaming Viktor for his own downfall – he’d always been too nice. She was angry because he hadn’t been vigilant enough; he should have denounced more people and saved his own skin. And then she began talking as if perhaps he was guilty, after all.
‘One day while I was queuing at the NKVD headquarters, I was told to meet a certain officer at some specified time and place. Alone. This was very exciting; I’d been thrown a lifeline of hope. I naturally kept my appointment and was met by a man whom I’ve come to know well, too well. His name is Rykov. He said he had a proposal for me, a sort of deal. He said I was the sort of woman they were always on the lookout for. By that, they meant I was presentable, intelligent, cultured. In short, he wanted me to be a spy, an occupational denouncer, and in return, they’d give me back Viktor. Of course, I refused, how could I? How could I ruin the lives of others, to subject scores of women to the same fate I was experiencing? So I said no. But he told me to think it over; there was no deadline to his offer.
‘A short while later, Viktor was sentenced to ten years in a labour camp out in the Urals. It was all too much for Nadya. Poor Nadya. She died a broken woman. We took Rosa in. Petrov wasn’t keen but even Petrov with his ice-cold heart knew we couldn’t leave her in one of those orphanages. And so, I tried to rebuild my life, but it wasn’t easy. For once, Petrov proved useful. I was the sister of an enemy of the people – it’s bad enough but at least I wasn’t the wife of an enemy of the people. Petrov used his contacts, denounced a few colleagues and was able to keep his job.
‘I wrote every week to the authorities, requesting permission to visit Viktor. He was meant to have visiting rights, albeit, only once every couple of years. Finally, thanks to Rykov, my request was granted – I could go to the Urals.
‘It took three days by train, three days in a third-class apartment, sitting on a hard bench, with little to drink or eat. I’d made the mistake of falling asleep before eating. When I awoke, the food I’d so carefully prepared and brought with me had been stolen. A horse and cart took me the ten miles from the station to the camp gates. Oh, Anna, a more forbidding place, you cannot imagine. The bleak watchtowers, the high walls, the rolls of barbed wire, the barren landscape. The camp was made up of long, uniform barracks with tiny windows. As I waited to be admitted into the complex, a group of about one hundred prisoners were leaving for their day’s work. Oh, what a pitiful sight. There wasn’t a glimmer of life among them. These weren’t men, but the remnants of men, with their thin, wasted bodies, their ragged clothes useless against the biting wind, barely able to lift their feet; their filthy faces and long unkempt beards.
‘I presented my papers to the guard in the office and was searched by a female guard. Presently, I was shown to a small waiting room with a dried mud floor and, stretched from one window to another, a banner which read Labour for Socialism. I remember thinking the irony of the slogan bordered on the cruel. The door opened and in came an old man with a long shaggy beard, covered in lice, with haunted eyes and large dark blotches on his yellow skin. He was followed in by a guard holding a pistol. The guard pushed the old man towards me
and said, “you have ten minutes”. It was then I realised – this old man was my brother. Viktor. He’d aged a hundred years in three. He just looked at me and at first I thought he hadn’t recognised me. Then, he fell on his knees and started howling. I took him in my arms and, Anna...’
‘Go on, tell me.’
‘I feel ashamed to say it but it was all I could do not to retch, he stank so terribly. He pleaded with me, begged me, to do all that I could to get him out of that hellhole. His every waking moment was an utter torment.
‘Oh, what a life, I cannot describe. They work all day in the most terrible conditions – breaking rocks, chopping trees, laying tracks, all of it the work of strong, hardened men. But these poor beings, the amount they have to eat is pitiful, lacking any form of substance. I told him, I told Viktor, I could get him out, he just needed to be patient, but I had the means. And then our ten minutes were up. I’d travelled three days and nights for ten inadequate minutes. But what did it matter – ten minutes or ten hours, I’d seen what I needed to see, witnessed for myself what depths a man can endure.
‘I came back to Moscow, my mind made up. I’d do whatever the bastards wanted me to do, anything, for I couldn’t bear the thought of my Viktor suffering so horribly. I immediately went to see Rykov and said I’d be his spy, that I’d offer whatever evidence I could do incriminate others, to put them through that same hell Viktor was living, simply in order to have him back. It was someone else’s turn. What had been an impossible decision suddenly became very easy. Rykov sat there and grinned at me. He knew all along that I’d come round in the end. It was Rykov who arranged it for me to visit Viktor. He knew what he was doing.
The Black Maria Page 15