by Robin Byron
‘I have discovered something about my real… my natural father.’
‘You mean in Second World War.’
‘Yes.’
‘He was German, perhaps?’
‘No, not German.’
‘So he was French, like your mother?’
‘No, not French, Anna. Latvian.’
Anna stared at her. Perhaps unsure about what she had heard, she said, ‘Your father was Latvian – like me?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Oh my God! You are serious? My God – Latvian. I can’t believe it. Perhaps we are related?’
‘That might be expecting too much.’
‘I can’t… that’s just… just so fuckin’ amazing – I’m sorry, I shouldn’t say that – but show me where it say this. What was his name?’
‘Sadly she never seems to name him. Only just the letter “V”.’
‘V – could be Vanags, or Vasiljevs or…’
‘I think the V may have been his first name…’
‘Oh, I see…’
Marianne showed Anna the passages where her mother had referred to conversations with V about Latvia – its perilous geography, sandwiched between Soviet Russia and Nazi Germany – and how he had been a reluctant conscript into the German army.
‘That’s right,’ Anna said, suddenly serious, ‘our history in last century was very hard.’ Then, brightening, she said, ‘We need to give him a name. Perhaps Valdis? Or Vilns? Or would you prefer Viktors?’
Marianne laughed. ‘Yes, alright, we’ll call him Viktors,’ and she watched while Anna danced from one foot to another, her eyes shining wet.
‘You are Latvian – it’s like we are related. I can’t believe it – so amazing.’ Then she said, ‘We must celebrate. Stefans works tonight so I will stay and cook you dinner and you can tell me what you know about Viktors and I will tell you about Latvia – and maybe we drink a little wine…’
‘Alright,’ said Marianne, and she found that she too had to blink away the tears.
Leah had been in the house for barely five minutes before Anna broke the news to her.
‘Are you serious?’ said Leah. ‘Gran’s real father was Latvian?’
‘It’s true – Marianne showed me in the old diaries.’
‘Wow – that’s so cool,’ and she gave Anna a long hug. When Marianne confirmed the news to her, Leah said, ‘You’ve got to write a book about all this, Gran.’
Marianne laughed. ‘I suppose that’s what I am trying to do – but first I have to complete the translation.’
‘Dad’s told me about your Russian novels – I’m planning to read them.’
‘Well, you’re very welcome but best wait till after your exams.’
Leah was one of those teenagers who didn’t like to work alone. Marianne had identified this trait on earlier visits, so now she and Leah worked together in her sitting room, swapping from desk to armchair or sometimes sitting at opposite sides of Marianne’s large partners’ desk. On this occasion Leah was occupying the whole of the desk, laptop open and books spread around her. Marianne sat reading in her armchair but would occasionally look up – usually when Leah started muttering to herself, such mutterings being a precursor to a request for help.
‘Oh Lear, Lear, Leah. Beat at this gate – and get my fucking mind to work.’
Marianne looked up from her papers.
‘Sorry, Gran – I just don’t seem able to get my brain into gear today.’
‘I supposed you’ve had some fun with those puns.’
‘Not me, but the kids in my class think it’s hilarious. “Is Leah completely mad, or just a fool?” – that kind of thing.’
‘Have you got a problem?’
‘OK – so why does Cordelia die? It’s so unnecessary.’
Marianne laughed. ‘You’re not the first person to think that. What’s your own view?’
‘Well, our English teacher says that she shows too much pride in not playing along with her father’s game – but I don’t agree.’
‘She is quite brutal, what is it? “… according to my bond; no more nor less.”’
‘True…’
‘Perhaps she should have humoured her old father?’
‘Yeah, maybe in private she would have done – but not after her sisters spewed out all that bilge. The critics all concentrate on the father-daughter relationship, but that scene is more about siblings – she knows she loves her father more but she can’t bring herself to compete…’
‘Good – you’re obviously thinking about it. So, would the play be better if Cordelia had lived?’
‘Well, less grim – more balanced.’
‘But is that the nature of tragedy?’
‘I guess not – but there’s that bit at the end where Albany says everyone should get their just deserts.’
‘And do they?’
‘No. Yeah, I know – small character flaws lead to big disasters in tragedies.’
‘Maybe it’s not Cordelia you should be concentrating on here, but Lear himself?’
‘So her death is just part of his tragedy. The final punishment for rejecting the person who loved him most.’
‘Exactly. But don’t forget there is also redemption – before her death, and his own – he recognises her goodness and his own love.’
‘Still, it’s quite depressing.’
‘Yes, it’s a bleak outlook – perhaps a world where Cordelia might not want to go on living? Have a look at the existential critics. You don’t have to agree with them – just be aware. Have you read Hamlet yet?’
‘Yeah, sort of, but I need to go through it again. So much happens. I mean, King Lear is our set Shakespeare tragedy, but Mrs D wants us to know Hamlet for what she calls a comparison text.’
‘Would you like to have a session on Hamlet tomorrow?’
‘Yeah, that would be really helpful.’
‘Good. On that note, I think I will go and make some tea.’
Marianne hobbled to the kitchen, thinking back to her daughter Izzy. Izzy had been bright and diligent but she hadn’t ever wanted Marianne to help her with school work – at least not after the age of eleven. As Marianne filled the kettle, Leah appeared at her shoulder. ‘Thanks again, Gran, for taking me to that concert last night. You know I really didn’t want to go.’
‘I could tell.’
‘I mean, two hours of classical music – I would never have chosen that.’
‘So how do you feel about it now?’
‘Pleased I came – it was awesome, but I feel so ignorant about music.’
‘Your parents do seem to have neglected your musical education – you know, your father was quite a good pianist as a child.’
‘Dad? Wow, he never said. I shall have to ask him to play something.’
‘Now I have another proposal – for this Friday. I have two tickets for Richard II at the Arts Theatre – would you like to come?’
‘More Shakespeare? I don’t know… If it was like, another tragedy, then maybe it would be relevant…’
‘There’s more to life than just your A-levels, you know. Anyway, it was originally described as a tragedy and you will find plenty of parallels with Lear if you want them.’
‘Alright, yes. Sorry, I don’t mean to appear ungrateful…’
‘It will be a pleasure to have your company. Now if you help to carry the tea through we both need to get back to work.’
17
‘Listen to this,’ said Marianne, sitting at her desk and reading from a typescript in front of her. ‘“K screaming at V again. He has sent him back for another stint cleaning the guns. He always picks on V. Perhaps because he is Latvian and not German. Now I won’t see him again till Sunday. I hate K – I hate his smarmy politeness to us (obséquieuse politesse, she writes, she really di
dn’t like him) – and the way he bullies his men – especially V. I hate him as much as I love V.” Then she goes on about whether to tell V she loves him.’
‘Amazing to discover this.’
‘Yes, it is fascinating – I can’t deny it.’
Dorrie got up and walked across to the desk. ‘I always thought you looked on Anna as a kind of reincarnation of your own daughter Isabelle, and that was why you were so fond of her – but this Latvian connection adds a whole extra twist. Does she know?’
‘Yes, I told her.’
‘So how old was your mother?’
‘I think she was seventeen – or perhaps just eighteen – when she got pregnant.’
‘And who is K?’
‘He is the German officer billeted on the family. He lives in the house and the men live in the stables.’
‘How come your mother never told you? I mean, about who your real father was?’
‘That’s the great mystery. I used to think it might have been a rape, or something she felt ashamed of, but from the diaries it seems like a real love story. I feel sure there must have been some reason she wouldn’t talk about it, but if so, I haven’t discovered it yet.’
Dorrie poured them both some more tea and then settled back into her armchair. Marianne envied Dorrie’s easy mobility. All walking was painful to her now and she often preferred to sit at her desk rather than sink into an armchair from which she would struggle to extricate herself. How old was Dorrie now? Eighty-two? Eighty-three? Unlike Marianne, she had refused to go grey, and her hairdresser had created a colour which was remarkably like the natural hair of her younger days. Much shorter now, but it still conveyed that certain spirit – that panache – which Marianne had always found so attractive. Dorrie had been her best friend now for over half a century; their brief spell as lovers had ended amicably, and rather than damage their friendship it had served to cement it.
‘How much longer do you have Leah staying?’
‘Callum and Helen are back next Friday.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘She’s gone into town today. I mean, she’s eighteen now. I can’t keep her locked up all the time…’
The telephone had started to ring on Marianne’s desk. ‘This might be her now,’ she said, picking up the receiver. ‘Hello?’
Dorrie watched Marianne as long periods of silence were interrupted with the occasional ‘yes’, and ‘that’s true’. Clearly this wasn’t Leah. The one-sided conversation seemed interminable but ended with Marianne agreeing to someone coming to visit her the following week.
‘What on earth was all that about?’
Marianne sat staring across the room. She said nothing.
‘Darling, whatever is it? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘It does feel like a ghost. But… no – it’s just some researcher who’s been burrowing in the old Soviet archives. Seems my name has come up – from the time I was arrested. He wants to hear my side of the story. God knows how he got hold of my number.’
‘Surely you don’t want to have to think about all that again?’
‘I don’t really…’
‘Why not tell him to bugger off then?’
Marianne paused. She had gone very pale. ‘I don’t know – anyway, I didn’t.’
‘I’ll call him back for you; tell him not to come…’
‘No, don’t do that. I’ve done plenty of research in my time. It’s only fair if those who can still remember talk to these young guys. I don’t mind.’
‘I think you do mind.’
‘No, honestly. I should see him.’
‘Well, I won’t let you see him alone. I’ll be your minder.’
‘It’s OK – really, I’ll be fine.’
‘Don’t be stupid – you’ve no idea who this so-called “researcher” is. Maybe some Russian gangster.’
‘Anna will be here.’
‘That’s not the same.’
‘Well, she’s not keen on Russians, so she could be quite fierce.’
‘Seriously. I think I ought to be with you.’
Marianne smiled. ‘OK. You win. Eleven o’clock on Tuesday.’
‘I’ll be here at 10.30. Armed with my Luger. The old theatre store had some realistic props.’
Mikhail Libman was a small man of around thirty with a dark, closely cropped beard. His unusual eyes appeared to bulge from their sockets – although it may have been only that his thick-lensed spectacles made it seem so. Marianne, sitting behind her large desk, watched him intently as he sat in a chair in front of her, fiddling with a cheap biro while making some introductory remarks – in Russian, until she urged him to speak English.
‘I’m far too old to do this in Russian,’ she said.
‘Of course. But I beg your pardon if I make mistakes with my English.’
‘And I want to hear as well,’ said Dorrie from the armchair in the corner of the room. Libman turned and gave Dorrie a slight bow, though his eyes expressed displeasure at her intervention. He showed Marianne a letter of introduction from some academic institute in Moscow – she barely looked at it – and explained he was researching the relationship between the Soviet State and Russian Jews in the 1960s and ’70s. With her love of Russian history and literature, Marianne was predisposed to be friendly to any Russians she met, but there was something about the tense formality of this Mr Libman that put her on edge.
‘I think your contact at the American Embassy, Larry Anderson, took a particular interest in Jewish emigration to Israel?’
‘That’s true.’
‘And you were helping him gather information about this?’
‘Look, let me just tell you briefly how it was. Then you can ask me any questions you like.’
‘Of course. Please proceed.’
Marianne explained how she had first met Larry Anderson at a US Embassy party and subsequently at a restaurant. How he had wanted to learn about dissident material circulating around the university; how they had become friendly, and in due course lovers. ‘As you can see, my role was really quite trivial. Handing over the odd Samizdat, that kind of thing. Then there was the air crash – did your archives mention that?’
‘You and Anderson went to Georgia and you came back on your own.’
‘Yes, and after the crash I was in hospital for several weeks. On the day I was about to leave and fly to England with my husband and daughter, I was arrested.’
‘Indeed so.’
‘Well, I expect you know about my time under arrest?’
‘I would like to hear it from you.’
‘I was kept in prison for… I can’t remember exactly, but quite a long time.’
‘Twenty-five days.’
‘Was it? Well, if you say so.’
‘Not a very long time.’
Marianne looked at him, surprised at the sudden change of tone. ‘Have you spent much time yourself in prison, Mr Libman?’
‘Not myself…’
‘Well, let me tell you that twenty-five days with the KGB doesn’t seem like a short time.’
Libman nodded.
‘Do you want me to continue?’
‘Please do.’
It was into this somewhat chilly atmosphere that Anna, unhappy at being excluded from the scene of Libman’s visit, now emerged from the hall, kicking the door open without ceremony, and carrying a tray into the room. ‘I bring coffee,’ she announced in a loud voice. Placing the tray on a side table, she began pouring the coffee.
‘Do you want sugar?’ she asked in Russian, looking at Libman.
Her tactic had the desired effect. Libman looked suitably surprised. ‘No, thank you,’ he said. And then, after a pause, ‘Are you Russian?’
‘I’m from Riga.’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘
And you?’ said Anna, handing the coffee to him and studying him with a look of undisguised distaste.
‘I’m from Moscow.’
Dorrie, sitting at the back of the room, caught Marianne’s eye during this exchange, and smiled broadly. When everyone had received their coffee, and Marianne had thanked Anna sufficiently, Dorrie got up. ‘I’ll hold the door for you,’ she said, ushering Anna out of the room and following her into the kitchen.
Now alone with Libman, Marianne resumed her account of her time with the KGB. She explained about the two different interrogators, how the aggressive one had hit her in the face, about the endless questions and the revelation of the photographs.
‘I just want to establish the conditions in which you were held,’ said Libman. ‘It wasn’t a prison cell?’
‘No.’
‘More like a hotel room?’
‘Perhaps – an extremely basic one.’
‘Were you cold?’
‘No.’
‘And you had adequate food?’
‘Adequate, yes.’
‘You weren’t dragged from your bed to be interrogated in the middle of the night?’
‘No.’
‘And I understand you saw a doctor in connection with your crash injuries?’
‘That’s true.’
‘And someone from the embassy.’
‘Only after I’d been there a couple of weeks.’
‘And apart from getting a slap in the face, you didn’t suffer any mistreatment?’
‘It was a bit more than a slap.’
‘But it wasn’t a punch?’
‘Maybe not, but what are you trying to get at?’
‘It’s just important for me to… to get a feel for what it was like in this… this so-called prison.’
‘It was certainly a prison for me.’
While this exchange had been going on Dorrie had returned to the room. She looked as if she might be about to intervene, but Marianne gestured for her to stay quiet.
‘You mentioned earlier that one of Anderson’s main interests was Jewish emigration?’