Chapter 25: The Wait
As the Black Maria swung off the road and forced its way through the crowds, Boris knew his current existence had come to an end. How odd it was to be chauffeured in a rich man’s car while wearing his tuxedo and bowtie. Anyone looking in would assume he was the man with the power. Despite the coldness of the night, Boris felt himself drenched in sweat. The car paused at the sentry box, and then passed through the imposing iron gates. Boris peered ahead and saw the outline of the building silhouetted against the night sky, every window alight. His heart, already fast, beat even faster. This, he knew, was the Lubyanka, the most feared building in Moscow, the NKVD’s main interrogation centre. The name, by itself, was enough to reduce men to quivering wrecks. Of those who entered the Lubyanka, very few came out the front way. You either came out in a box or were herded out the back into a waiting van and hence to start the long journey to some godforsaken place. Boris clenched his eyes shut and felt the sting of the sweat.
The long dark corridor smelt of disinfectant and carbolic soap. Vladimir went in front, then Boris, and the two assistants behind. Boris tried to keep up, but his legs felt weak with fear. He followed as Vladimir swung sharply left and opened a door into a small room. Inside, behind a table, stood two non-uniformed officers. Boris noticed how they thrust their chins up and stuck out their chests at the sight of Vladimir.
‘Another one for you,’ said Vladimir to them, before turning on his heels and leaving, taking his henchmen with him.
The room was bare, just grey walls and ceiling, not even a photograph of Stalin to relieve the monotony. Boris looked at his two new hosts, both wearing suits as grey as the walls. The taller, balder of the two, sat down at the table and picked up a pen. ‘Name?’ he asked without looking up. Boris answered. He then gave his address and age. The man clicked his fingers and Boris realised he was pointing to a door he hadn’t noticed, behind the desk. The second man opened the door, and Boris made his way forward, fearful of what lay beyond.
This room was even smaller. To one side, was a camera perched on a tripod. The second man positioned himself behind the camera and pointed to the wall opposite. Boris stood with his back against the wall and faced the lens. The flash temporarily filled the room with its furious white light, while the vision fluttered on his retina for a good few seconds. ‘Profile,’ said the man. Boris swivelled to the left and the flash went off again. ‘Out.’ Boris returned to the first room.
The first warden was waiting for him in the middle of the room. The man behind him pushed Boris forwards. ‘Remove your belt and your shoelaces,’ said the first man. Without hesitating, Boris obeyed.
Boris stood and waited while the first warden made a few notes, resisting the urge to pull his trousers up, which he could feel sagging annoyingly low on his hips. He glanced at the second man, who immediately averted his gaze. He wanted to talk, to ask them what was going to happen to him, but he knew to keep his silence. These men were hard, thought Boris – not just in the physical sense, but within their hearts. They had no more compassion for him than a worker in an abattoir has for the condemned cow. He was, and forever more would be, an object in a harsh, unrelenting system.
‘Empty your pockets,’ said the first man. Boris did as he was told but all he had was a packet of cigarettes, a box of matches and a few notes concerning the play.
‘Watch.’
Boris took his watch off and handed it to the warden. The man made a few more notes before saying, ‘Take your clothes off.’
‘What?’ Had he heard correctly, why would they want him to remove his clothes? But the man remained silent, his face devoid of any expression beyond boredom. Boris removed his dinner jacket and looked around for a chair or somewhere to place it. Finding no obvious means, he dropped the jacket on the floor. He untied his bow-tie and then removed his dress-shirt. He was about to drop the shirt, when the warden clicked his fingers and held out his hand. Boris passed him his shirt. The warden took it and passed it to his colleague who proceeded to pull off all the buttons. Boris watched for a few moments. ‘Clothes,’ bellowed the first man. Boris jumped. Reluctantly, he removed his shoes and unbuttoned his trousers. Finally, he was standing in only his underpants, his hands clasped delicately in front of him.
‘And those.’
He could feel his lips trembling through fright and cold. He swallowed and, summoning the strength, slowly pulled down the white, thin material and carefully stepped out of them. The warden clicked his fingers again. Boris passed him his underpants. He stood shivering in front of them, his hands now firmly cupped over his genitals and watched as the second warden hacked at the underpants with a knife. Eventually, the man extracted the elastic and threw the pants back at Boris’s feet.
The first man stepped up to him. Boris noticed something in his hand. He stepped back, his body tensing up in expectation of pain. ‘Keep still, you fucker.’ His eyes flickering, Boris drew a sharp intake of air and prepared himself. ‘Open your mouth.’ Boris’s muscles relaxed for a moment as he realised the implement in the warden’s hand was merely a torch. The tension returned as he opened his mouth. ‘Wider.’ The fingers went in like two dry grubs. ‘Look up.’ The torch flicked on and Boris gagged as he felt the fingers poke under his tongue, against the roof of his mouth and at the back of his throat, darting roughly from one to the other. Then he felt a fat finger hook around one cheek and pull violently to the side. The warden tilted his head and used the torch to peer inside. The process was repeated for the other cheek.
It wasn’t so much the pain as the unexpectedness of what happened next that made Boris cry out. The warden grabbed his bottom eyelid and yanked it down. Blinded by the flash of light an inch away from his eye, Boris tensed-up as he awaited the second inspection. The pain was momentary but it was the fear of sudden pain that made his shivering more intense.
‘Head back.’ Boris complied but the warden still pushed his head further back with a swift jab beneath the jaw. The torch light shone up into his eyes and Boris realised his nostrils were being inspected. Then, the warden twisted Boris’s head first one way and then the other, as the light shone into his ears. What, wondered Boris, could he possibly hide in his ears, his nose, his eyelids? There were more obvious places if he so wished to try, and the thought of it drove a stab of fear through his heart.
‘Hold your penis and pull back... oh, you’re a Jew boy.’ Boris shuddered. He opened his mouth but then closed it again. There was no point in asking for any concessions, these men had done this a hundred times or more. What was another frightened victim to them? His penis felt light and useless in the cold moistness of his hand. The warden bent down and, with his torch, inspected Boris’s appendage. Boris grimaced. ‘Lift your penis up.’ This was part of the game, the ritual of humiliation, the degradation of the individual for the benefit of the State. ‘OK, let go.’ He wouldn’t cry, not in front of these men. There’d be worse to come, an even greater humiliation to come; he knew that now.
‘Right, turn round, bend over, legs apart and touch your feet with your hands.’
This, thought Boris, was it. The humiliation was complete.
*
The cell was small – about four feet by nine. The floor was wet, there was no ventilation and the place stank of stale air, urine and filth. There was a wooden bench attached to the wall and nothing else. A bright light bulb hung from the ceiling. Boris shivered; it was cold. Without the buttons, his shirt hung open. He sat on the bench and wrapped his arms around himself. But then, the peephole in the door opened and a voice boomed at him. ‘On your feet, you Jewish shit. Catch you sitting down again, I’ll come in and break your balls – got it?’ Boris rose to his feet, the ground squelching beneath his lace-less shoes. His trousers and underpants were on the verge of falling down and he had no choice but to grip them in place.
He heard a noise – a scream – coming from not far away. It was a horrific sound. It was followed by another, and then another. They were sc
reams all right – loud, piercing screams. Boris’s heartbeat quickened. He could even hear the sound of the lash between each shriek of pain. The lashes continued without pause, and each scream was more terrifying than the last until he wondered whether a human was really capable of such a noise. Boris paced up and down the nine feet of his cell, his hands clenched over his ears, his trousers and pants flapping around his thighs, trying to block out the sound of terror. But each time he removed his hands, the screams were still there. After a while, the beatings stopped, and Boris heard the angry, bestial shouts of a man, followed by the tormented, pleading voice of a woman. This time, the sound from the beating was not a lash but a dull, sickening thud. The anguished noise that followed was much the same. How can a man inflict so much pain on another person, let alone a woman? Was this what he could expect?
He sat down on the wooden bench and immediately sprung up again, remembering the guard’s threat. His head throbbed, he felt so damn exhausted, he so desperately needed to sleep. Was it possible that only a few hours before he was standing on stage next to Rosa. Was it just a few hours? It was hard to tell, he had no idea what time it was, whether it was day or night. All he knew was that this was Day One of his new life. Ironically, the make-believe world of the play had been his last contact with reality. Already, it seemed to belong to another lifetime. Now, he was in a new reality and it was still only the first day. The first day of what? Ten years, fifteen, twenty-five? Thousands and thousands of days.
He realised the screaming had stopped. Now, there was a heavy silence. He strained his ears for a sound, a hint of a voice. There was nothing. Only the sound of his own breathing, coming in short bursts. Unable to keep his eyes open, Boris felt the heaviness of his eyelids.
Why was he here? The question had, up to this point, hardly bothered him. It was enough to know he was here. Logic and reasoning barely came into it. What had Vladimir said? The peculiarities of your case. Peculiarities of your case – what exactly were those, he wondered? His father the rabbi? Or rather, his attachment to Rosa, daughter of an enemy of the people.
He swayed as his head suddenly felt unbearably heavy. In his mind’s eye, he was in a forest, a pine forest, it still smelt of piss but at least the view was heavenly with the rays of sun slanting between the trees. It was the forest outside his parents’ village, near Vyatka (he could never get used to its new name, Kirov). He’s running and then diving behind a fallen tree and hiding, crouched against the damp forest floor. He peeks over the top of the trunk. In the distance, he sees his parents walking side by side. But nearer by, calling out his name, is his younger sister, giggling to herself. He ducks down again and listens as the sound of her feet comes closer. Then he leaps out from behind the fallen tree with a loud whooping noise, his arms outstretched. His sister jumps with surprise and then collapses in laughter. Boris laughs too. He can’t stop laughing, his whole world echoes with laughter. His parents laugh, the forest laughs, the sun laughs. Why, even God laughs.
His head fell abruptly against his chest and Boris woke up with a start. His knees ached, the coldness seemed to have permeated his joints and the dampness of the floor had seeped through to his feet and legs. He wished he could turn off the glaring light bulb. He started shivering, his whole body shaking with cold. He needed a pee. How long had he been asleep? It could have been two minutes or two hours. Were they going to make him stand forever? His tiredness was overriding everything, even the hunger. When was the last time he ate? Just before the performance? And when was that? Twelve hours, twenty-four? How long had he been in the cell? He’d become bewildered by timelessness. He paced to the end of the cell and leant against the dampness of the solid wall. The coldness of the stone soon passed through his jacket and shirt and he moved away from it. If he only he knew what time it was. He looked down at the bench, the hard wooden slab now looked as inviting as a four-poster bed covered in large, soft blankets.
Boris thought of Rosa. He visualised her eyes; wide and dark, her sleek hair, her beautiful smile that melted him every time he saw it. The times he fell asleep with her image imprinted on his drifting thoughts, only to wake up to find she was still there. He had so wanted her but he’d placed her on too high a pedestal, to the point she’d become unobtainable, like a precious vase one can’t bear to touch for fear of breaking it. He felt his heart constrict at the thought of her using his secret like a weapon. She knew what he felt about her and yet she still yielded it. Yes, she told me you’re a yid. Had she really hated him so much for loving her?
Just then, the peep-hole swung open and an eye appeared. ‘I need a pee,’ said Boris quickly.
‘Piss in the corner then,’ came the answer before the eye disappeared again. What choice did he have, he had to relieve himself. Instinctively, he went to unbutton his fly, only to realise the buttons weren’t there any more. He grimaced as he urinated in the corner furthest away from the bench. Pigs lived better than this.
And then, the screaming started again.
*
Boris reckoned he must have been there at least a whole day on his feet, cold, without food, water or sleep when they finally came to fetch him. He could feel his spirit draining away. The heavy iron door creaked open and a guard appeared at the opening. ‘Out,’ he’d said.
Boris walked out of the cell, his knees shaking and his calf muscles throbbing. He felt an inexplicable gratitude towards the guard for having come to him, for having opened the door. ‘What time is it?’ he asked.
‘Dunno.’
‘Please, tell me, what time is it?’
‘Shut the fuck up. Walk.’
The guard followed behind, jangling his keys loudly, as Boris made his way down a long, carpeted corridor. Occasionally, he noticed, an enclave built into the wall. On each side, he passed numerous doors, all uniform grey, each with a number. The moment of euphoria had already passed, instead came the sense of dread – where was he being taken to, what lay ahead? Apart from the guard’s keys, there was no sound, the carpet absorbing their footsteps. The silence was unnerving. There must have been hundreds of people in this building but all he could hear was this false silence. But then, in the distance, there was the faint sound of more jangling keys. The guard placed his hand on Boris’s shoulder. ‘Back here,’ he said urgently, ‘quickly.’
Boris turned around and went to where the guard was pointing. Boris realised the guard meant him to stand in an enclave. Boris stepped inside and looked at the guard. ‘Face the wall,’ he was told. He turned round, his vision taken up entirely by the grey stone. The second set of jangling keys passed by. After a few minutes, the guard instructed him to proceed. As Boris made his way down the corridor, he realised the purpose of that little charade: the jangling keys were to alert others of their approach. Obviously, they were so determined to isolate the prisoners from one another, they weren’t even permitted to set eyes on each other.
The guard took Boris up a long flight of stairs and Boris noticed the nets spread across the banisters. No chance of suicide there, he thought. Then down another long corridor. Eventually, Boris was told to stop. They’d come to a grey door marked with the number ‘421’. The guard knocked, waited for permission, and then opened the door.
Boris walked into the heavily carpeted room and was almost blinded by the shaft of light that shone through the window. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness of the day, he saw a table with a man sitting behind it, his hands clasped on the table in front of him, his head tilted slightly to one side. He wore a small pair of glasses pressed against his large blue eyes. Behind him, stood the familiar sight of Vladimir, a supercilious grin on his face. And, more worryingly, to Boris’s left, stood a bear of a man, with huge, squared shoulders and the neck of a bulldog, his hands behind his back. Boris thought he heard the sound of knuckles being cracked. The slam of the door closing behind him made him jump. He glanced around; the guard had gone. He could feel the sweat running down his back. He turned back and faced the man behind the desk.
>
‘Good afternoon,’ said the man with a curling smile. ‘I do apologise for having kept you waiting for so long. Let me introduce myself. My name is Rykov.’
Chapter 26: The Arrest
‘Hello. Could I be put through to Firefox, please.’
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
I cupped my hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Oxford Blue.’
‘Wait.’
I was phoning from the communal phone on the ground floor. This, in all the months I’d been working for Rykov, was the first time I’d rang him. Above the telephone was a sticker proclaiming, Socialism – united we stand! At the end of the corridor a couple children were sitting cross-legged on the floor playing a game of cards.
‘Oxford Blue. Have you news for me?’
‘Yes. It’s about our latest subject. He plans to go on holiday – tonight.’ One of the children screeched with delight scooping up a pile of cards.
‘Is he indeed? With family?’
‘Yes. The plane leaves within a couple of hours.’
The line went dead. Rykov had heard all he needed to hear. He knew Mikhail’s address and, thanks to me, he knew he was at home, at least for now. United we stand.
I returned upstairs to the flat and thought about making something to eat. But I had no appetite, just a deep empty feeling of nothingness. Instead, I busied myself dusting the apartment – snow white clean, as Petrov would have demanded. I could hear the baby next door crying. I realised how alone I was in the world – no Petrov, no Viktor. Dmitry seemed to be slipping away from me. And I knew I’d be seeing less and less of Rosa – she had little reason to visit now. Poor Rosa, I was concerned for her. She was already suffering from the angst of disillusionment and it was a bitter pill to swallow. The arrest of her friend, Boris, had been a severe blow. Worse still was the thought that her supposed “boyfriend” had more than an influencing hand in Boris’s downfall. Rosa had already sworn not to have anything more to do with him. Frankly, I wasn’t sure whether I was relieved or not. Undoubtedly, Vladimir was not the sort of man I wanted my niece to be associated with, but equally, who could be better placed than to protect her interests – and mine?
The Black Maria Page 23