*
The quartet finished with a piece by Rimsky-Korsakov. The audience applauded while the musicians took their bows and exited. A few people around me rose, deciding to find another attraction to amuse themselves with, and left. No one took their places, so that the seats were no more than three-quarters full. I peered round and then I saw him. Sitting about five rows behind me, the man in the corduroy jacket and peaked cap. Our eyes met for the briefest of moments.
After a couple of minutes, a short, plump man wearing the most obvious of wigs appeared on the stage, clutching a large piece of paper. He was wearing a shirt and tie but had removed his jacket. The darkened rings of sweat stood out around the underarms of his white shirt. The heavy bags under his eyes conflicted with the smoothness of his skin, making him look older than he was. He coughed into the microphone at the front of the stage, dug around in his trouser pocket and pulled out a pair of glasses. I leant over towards my neighbour and asked who this man was. My neighbour looked at me with surprise – obviously I was meant to know. This man, I was informed with unnecessary emphasis, was none other than Nikolai Kopelev, Deputy Commissar for the Arts Ministry. With glasses fixed, the Commissar held up the sheet of paper and began to read.
His speech was similar to the one Mikhail had made at the unveiling of Dmitry’s The Workers’ Rest. He talked about how important it was for the arts to work in tandem with politics and industry to achieve the ultimate utopia, which we, as a nation of workers, were already well on the road towards achieving. How the fight must always go on, the need for ever greater vigilance to guard ourselves from the ever-present enemy within and the persistent enemy lurking on the outside – the decaying capitalist countries, the emergent Fascist serpent. The speech went on in this vein for an indeterminable amount of time, so that even my sycophant neighbour had trouble stifling the occasional yawn.
There was a disturbance to my left, somewhere behind me. ‘Why can’t they just sit down,’ muttered my neighbour to his wife sitting on his right. I half-heartedly turned round and was only dimly aware of a small group of people shuffling along a row of seats. But then I craned my neck further and my heart somersaulted. I must have let out an audible cry for my neighbour asked if I was all right. Our mysterious companion had gone. Instead, sitting in his place, were Anna and Rosa, flanked by Rykov and Vladimir.
Chapter 29: The Ceremony
Vladimir’s heart was also thumping. Once, not so long ago, he’d hoped to win Rosa’s hand. Instead, here he was, holding her hostage. What a situation for a young man to find himself in. Next to Rosa, was her aunt’s friend and, to Anna’s right, his boss. Circumstances had forced him into situations that had totally alienated him from her. And those circumstances were all down to the Jew and that moron up there on the stage. Look at him, the floppy haired lout, with his fellow artists, all standing in a line, waiting to receive their meaningless medals.
And where did that leave him with Rosa? Nowhere. They might as well be a hundred miles apart as to sitting next to one another. He tried to watch her from the corner of his eye. God, she was beautiful, with her jet black hair and her wide dark eyes. He twisted his head a little more. Rosa noticed and turned to face him. He held her gaze, wondering how to say sorry with his eyes but, feeling ashamed by her disgusted glare, turned away. Vladimir still wasn’t sure whether Rykov intended to arrest Rosa and Anna, or whether he was simply using them to bait Dmitry. Rykov was fond of using hostages as a means to breaking prisoners. Vladimir had seen it for himself; the most resolute of men, who could withstand any number of beatings, simply had to see a loved one within the walls of the Lubyanka and they’d cave in within seconds. Boris, on the other hand, proved to be the least resolute of prisoners, not that Vladimir expected anything different from the lily-white Jew. Barely had the thug’s fist cracked his jaw and he was confessing. But until he knew what he was confessing to, they had to hit him some more. The rubber bat against the soles of the feet helped remind him. He was, he eventually remembered, a leading member of a Jewish counter-revolutionary conspiracy who planned to assassinate Stalin and overthrow the Party. Amazing what they learnt at college these days.
The day was getting hotter and Vladimir wanted to remove his jacket but knew he couldn’t. He slipped his hand into the inside pocket and felt for his revolver. Sometimes he shuddered at the degree of power that had been entrusted to him.
On the stage, Nikolai Kopelev was handing out the Order of Lenins to the artists, shaking each one enthusiastically by the hand. Dmitry was last in the line. Rosa and Anna clapped as each recipient received their medal. Vladimir followed suit but when Rykov leant forward and glared at him across the two women, he immediately stopped. Dmitry took his turn, bowing before the Deputy Commissar, shaking his hand and receiving his award. Vladimir glanced at Anna and noticed the defiant energy with which she clapped. Dmitry shook the Commissar’s hand again and made his way to the stage exit.
Kopelev thanked the audience for their attention and then also hastily exited. Around them, people collected their bags and belongings, and rose to their feet. Vladimir and the two women looked at Rykov.
Leaning forward to speak to Vladimir, Rykov said, ‘Right, take the girl and arrest him. Keep her close and any fucking about, show him the Mauser. Me and Anna will wait here.’
Vladimir nodded. ‘You’d better take my hand,’ he said to Rosa. ‘I’m sorry, Rosa, I really am,’ he said quietly once they were out of Rykov’s earshot, pushing their way through the drifting crowds.
‘I suppose you’re going to tell me none of this is your fault.’
‘What else can I say? Do you think I want to do this?’ Realising perhaps he was speaking too loudly, Vladimir glanced around nervously and lowered his voice. ‘I used to lie awake at night, my head full of you, swimming with your image. I’d fall asleep dreaming about walking hand in hand with you. But never, never in my wildest dreams, did I ever think it had to be like this.’
‘You never said.’
They were behind the wooden stage, near the door with the No Entry notice. Vladimir caught sight of the burly guard and pulled Rosa back a few yards. ‘Rosa, look at me,’ he said, lowering his voice still further. ‘I can arrest a person at the drop of a hat – man, woman, young or old, I’ve got nerves of steel. I can stride into the best restaurants, buy the sort of luxuries that most don’t even know exist, but when it came to you, I was like a simpering child.’
‘Am I under arrest?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Vladimir, tell me.’
But before he could answer, the stage door swung open and there, in front of him, a few yards away, stood Dmitry. A second later, Maria had appeared, running up to Dmitry and flinging her arms around him.
‘Maria,’ said Rosa under her breath.
Vladimir stepped forward but Rosa, still holding onto his hand, yanked him back. Vladimir glanced at her, his eyes narrowing with determination, and, for the briefest of moments, he was a policeman again. But Rosa’s frightened expression stopped him in his tracks.
‘Help them,’ she mouthed, gripping his hands still tighter.
Vladimir stared at her, his mind whirling with impossibilities. He looked down at their hands, their fingers, moistened by sweat, locked around each other’s. He suddenly felt very heavy as his insides lurched within him. He realised he’d never really had to make a decision, at least not a moral one; the word had never concerned him. Things were decided for him, circumstances had always dictated the course of his life. If not circumstances, then Rykov. All his life, he had bathed in cruelty. It’s what made him so damn good at his job. Cruelty and loyalty. And now Rosa was forcing him to question his twin gods. His mind flashed to a memory. He was at school with his older brother who’d been given a bloody nose. It took all of Vladimir’s powers of persuasion to force his brother to say who the tormentor was. Once he’d got the name, Vladimir walked up to him and demanded an apology. The older, bigger boy laughed at him. He didn’t
laugh for long. That day was a turning point in the young Vladimir’s life; the day he realised the depth of his courage and strength, strength that often bordered on cruelty, and he soon embraced it in its many brutal forms.
‘Stay here,’ he said to her. ‘Don’t move until I come back for you.’ He strode up to Dmitry and Maria, still with their arms around each other, wrapped in their own world. It was Dmitry who saw him first, his arms dropping, his expression heavy with foreboding. Maria followed his gaze and, on seeing Vladimir, her face whitened.
‘So, you’re not going to let me enjoy my moment of glory?’ said Dmitry.
‘I have Rosa with me.’
Maria looked across and saw her, standing only a few yards behind.
‘You will follow me,’ said Vladimir. ‘Quickly, around the corner.’ There was something in his voice that made Dmitry and Maria obey without hesitation. Once out of earshot from the burly man at the stage door and away from Rosa and from the milling passers-by, Vladimir spoke, his face peering up to Dmitry’s, only inches away. ‘I can give you an hour, no more.’
Dmitry and Maria exchanged glances. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Go to ground, leave Moscow, get the fuck out of here, I don’t care, but if you don’t act now, you won’t get another chance.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Dmitry.
‘It doesn’t matter. You will need to hit me.’
‘What?’
‘Hard.’ Vladimir straightened and braced himself.
‘You’re asking me to hit you, a NKVD man? This is the sort of opportunity that most people would gladly pay for.’
‘Get on with it,’ said Vladimir through clenched teeth.
Dmitry hit him.
Vladimir staggered back. He put his hand to his mouth and looked at the trickle of blood on his fingers. ‘Again.’
Dmitry obliged.
This time, Vladimir almost fell but managed to stay on his feet. Blood seeped from his nose. He smiled. ‘That’ll do,’ he said. ‘Now go.’
Dmitry made to step forward, to offer his thanks, thought Vladimir, to shake his hand. But Vladimir turned abruptly and walked back around the corner.
*
Vladimir found Rosa where he’d left her; she hadn’t moved an inch. She was obviously expecting to see her aunt and Dmitry behind him. Her eyes widened with incredulity as she realised Vladimir was by himself. ‘They got away from me,’ he said holding a handkerchief against his bleeding lip.
Rosa opened her mouth but then closed it again. Vladimir seized her hand and led the way back towards the front of the stage to where Rykov would be waiting for them. Vladimir was walking quickly and Rosa pulled his hand to slow him down.
Coming up next to him, she whispered, ‘Thank you.’ He looked at her from the corner of his eyes and winked.
Chapter 30: The Apartment
We had to wait for so long for a streetcar; it seemed as if all of Moscow was on the move and, because of the festival, there were less streetcars than normal. Every minute we waited, we felt as if our futures were slipping away from us. We couldn’t speak, could barely look at each other. Vladimir told us we had one hour to make good our escape. One hour. How easily we can distort time. But however we distort it, we can’t control it, it does exactly opposite to what one wants. Just when one wants to stop it, the seconds and minutes hurtle by like an overflowing stream. This is how it felt now as I looked down the street and willed the streetcar to come. I would happily wait hours at a time for every future streetcar, just let this one come now. The warmth of the sun settled on our backs. One brief sentence had been enough to decide where we had to go. I did not have my internal passport on me. If we were to make our escape out of Moscow, then I had to have it. But then where? Dmitry thought he had a solution, an old acquaintance who owed him a favour. We could impose ourselves for a day or two before slipping quietly out of the city. Our apartments would soon be unsafe to return to. The all-pervading eyes of the NKVD would prevent our return. The future suddenly seemed a frightening place. How unpleasant it is not to have any idea where one might be in a week’s time? A month? A year? How would we start again? I knew the feeling; I’d been through it once before. That all-consuming existence when one lives from one day to another, never knowing what misfortune hung around the corner, never being able to trust anyone, too frightened to catch people in the eye for fear of betraying oneself. And still there was no streetcar and no means to getting back to my apartment. I wanted to be sick; I felt so weak. Dmitry took my hand, his palm wet with sweat. We were as powerless as each other. The image of two little girls flashed across my mind.
When finally, our streetcar approached, I almost wept with relief. We had already lost twenty minutes; the journey would take another twenty minutes, possibly as much as thirty. We were first in the queue but a number of people had gathered at the stop behind us. Dmitry and I stretched ourselves out, determined to keep our place. The streetcar drew up and it was packed. We had to fight and push our way on. People cursed us, tried to block our way, tried to push us off. I wanted to scream, I wanted to scratch my nails across their ugly, contorted faces. Together, with the force of people behind us, our determination provided the impetus and we clambered aboard. We clung on, almost falling out the back, as the streetcar speeded its way back towards the city centre.
*
We ran up the stairs to my apartment. It was only as I was unlocking the apartment door, I realised how empty the block was. Everyone was out, enjoying the sun, enjoying the public holiday. Either that, or they were waiting for a streetcar. I looked at my watch. It had taken us almost an hour from leaving Vladimir to getting back. How precise was he being when he said an hour? Would they know to come here? I imagined the Black Maria speeding through the city, screeching to a halt in front of Dmitry’s block. I could see them breaking in his door and then, on finding it empty, returning to the car.
‘Where is it?’ asked Dmitry.
‘Here, in the sideboard.’ I pulled open the drawer where Petrov and I kept all our official documents – work permits, ration books, his Party membership card, Trade Union card, various passes – and our internal passports.
‘Well?’
‘I – I can’t see it.’
‘What do you mean, you can’t see it?’
My stomach lurched as I realised my passport wasn’t there. Desperately, I rummaged through all the sheaves of paper, hastily discarding them and throwing them onto the floor. I felt my strength draining from me with every passing second. I turned to him, tears brimming, ‘It’s not here.’ I felt as if I was pronouncing my own death sentence.
‘For Christ’s sake. Where else then? What about the other drawers?’
I pulled the next drawer open with such haste, it fell to the floor, spilling its contents. Dmitry fell to his knees, scattering pieces of paper in his desperate search for the familiar blue booklet. I checked the last drawer, filled with letters and Petrov’s work-related reports, minutes, orders and memorandum. I was exhausted, my head throbbed and my eyes were clouding over with tears and panic. I wanted to curl up in a ball, close my eyes and pretend I wasn’t living this nightmare.
‘Try the bedroom,’ urged Dmitry.
I straightened up, panting, debilitated. I feared I was about to faint. ‘It won’t be there,’ I said breathlessly.
‘Well, it’s got to be somewhere,’ shouted Dmitry. ‘Think, Maria, for the love of God, think.’
‘I’m trying, but, but... Petrov’s hidden it.’ I noticed I’d referred to him in the presence tense.
I saw the colour drain from Dmitry’s cheeks. ‘In that case, we’re done for.’
‘No, wait. The mattress.’ And yes, sure enough, there it was, beneath the mattress.
‘Oh, thank the Lord,’ said Dmitry.
It was at that point, we heard the pounding at the door.
*
Moments later, I found myself grappling with the window lock. My inner self seemed to have already
vacated my body and to be looking down, watching myself, watching as Dmitry pulled me back from the window by my waist, my arms flailing, my reddened face contorted with fear and anger. His words came to me through a clouded haze, words, that on the surface sounded like calm reassurance but in reality, could not hide his own terror. We were four floors up, he said urgently, if I jumped, I’d be jumping to my death. Did I care? I spat back through clenched teeth.
My inner self reconnected with my outer shell at the moment the door burst open and there, in front of us, stood four breathless people, which, in such a small room, constituted a small crowd. It took a few moments for my glazed eyes to adjust. Behind Rykov and Vladimir stood Rosa and a dishevelled-looking Anna.
Anna had aged and seemed to be ageing as I looked at her.
‘Good afternoon, comrades,’ said Rykov, removing his hat politely. ‘How nice to make your acquaintance again, Maria Radekovna.’ Vladimir had been true to his word and given us an hour, almost to the minute. I tried to catch his eye but he was purposely avoiding me, twisting his gaze this way and that, anywhere but look at either me or Dmitry. Somehow, I felt embarrassed; embarrassed that having been given the gift of the hour, we had failed him. But unlike him and his boss, we did not have the luxury of a car. Rosa lurked behind him, a sweep of her black hair falling over her eyes. How beautiful she looked, but so helpless.
With his hands in the pockets of his light knee-length coat, Rykov made a point of circling round Dmitry as Dmitry stood as a statue in the middle of the living room. ‘So, this is the famous Dmitry Kalinin, recipient of the Order of Lenin for contribution to the advancement of socialist art and socialist realism, and pivotal member of the Russian Association of Proletariat Artists, and, no less, the man who has the nerve to hit an officer of the NKVD. That takes some doing. I salute you, Comrade Kalinin. I apologise for having dragged your sister here, and Maria, for bringing Rosa. Although you and I, young lady’ he said, addressing Rosa, ‘have our own issues to discuss.’
The Black Maria Page 25