***
“Maria, Maria, I have the number,” Lydmilla called, rushing through the front door. “I have the number of the Post Office and I called them! I spoke to the Director of the Post Office himself and he told me he would go to your parent’s apartment tonight and tell them the good news and tomorrow you can speak to them yourself! You can call them midday tomorrow!” Lydmilla was lying of course, she already had the number but she couldn’t tell Maria; she had to wait for Maria to be able to speak to her family directly.
***
Because they had a telephone, Lydmilla had arranged to stay with her relatives, Sasha and Irina, in the country for a few days up until the birth of Maria’s baby, so the following day they had woken very early and took the first train out the their village where Sasha and Irina were waiting for them at the train station. After saying their ‘hellos’, they made their way back to their apartment in plenty of time for Maria to make the midday call. Lydmilla had already explained everything to Sasha and Irina and, as the clock neared twelve noon, aside from Lydmilla, they all quietly left the room, leaving Maria to make the call she had been longing to make for two very long years.
All morning Maria had thought about what she was going to say, how she was going to explain everything. There were so many things she wanted to tell them. She looked down at the bulge of her belly and smiled as she thought of telling her mother that she was going to be a grandmother. That would be the very first thing, before anything else. She would tell her what a beautiful, wonderful grandson she will have. Her mother will be so happy. Maria closed her eyes and imagined her excitement, of her mother and her sister and her grandmother jumping around, clapping, laughing, smiling, and urging her to come back to them and their home and the village as soon as she could. She could hear them say that everything was now going to be all right and that they would all look after little Maria and her son as they had looked after her before she disappeared. She smiled to herself as she thought of their warm arms around her, hugging her tight, their tears of joy, their excitement, their friendship but most of all their love. She had so missed their love.
Maria sat trembling with her fingers over the telephone. She dialed the number and waited, silence. No connection. She tried again, silence, and again, no connection. She looked up at the clock, five past twelve. She tried for the third time, and then the fourth, still no connection. 12.15. She tried once more and, after a few seconds, there was the familiar sound of the phone ringing. Maria’s heart leapt.
“Hello?” Maria said timidly, shaking with nerves.
“Hello Maria!” screamed a voice Maria didn’t recognize on the other end, “Maria, is it you? Is it really you? Oh my god Maria, We thought you were dead, Oh Maria where have you been?” she heard crying.
“Oh Nadezhda, it’s you!” Maria screamed back “My little Nadezhda.” Maria heard her sister weeping hysterically on the phone. “Its okay Nadezhda, I am all right now, everything is all right, don’t cry my little Nadezhda don’t cry” Maria said over and over. “Where’s mummy, let me speak to mummy,” she asked.
There was a silence apart from her sister’s sobs.
“Oh Maria, Maria, mummy’s dead, Nikoly came home one night really drunk,” she sobbed, “he tried to hit me, mummy stepped in the way and he hit her. She fell and hit her head, Oh Maria, Maria, mummy’s dead.”
Maria sat silent, stunned, unable to talk or move.
“And grandma?” Maria whispered.
“Grandma died a few weeks after you had gone missing. She died of a broken heart Maria.” All her hopes of going back to her family were shattered. Her dreams that had given her the strength during the past two years to fight her situation and had driven her to escape the gypsies and the suffering and the squalor and the deprivation of her life had vanished. A deep black hole had opened in front of Maria - the world spun around her, images of her life on the streets mercilessly tormented her, ruthlessly taunting her. She looked down into the gaping black hole beneath her, into the world darkness and of nothing and fell in, willingly.
Maria collapsed.
For almost two weeks Maria laid curled up in bed, eating little, saying nothing. She didn’t cry, there were no more tears left, there was nothing left just an empty space; no thoughts, no feelings, just an empty space in her mind as she stared down into the swirling hole. The hole was safe, nothing more could hurt her, nothing more could happen to her and she never wanted to leave it. She wanted to die.
Sasha and Irina looked after her, talking to her, urging her to get up, to eat something, to watch the television or read or just to do something. She didn’t want to do anything. She didn’t want to live. There was no reason to live, she had nothing to live for and she had no one. Her youth had been taken from her, her innocence and purity, her normality - everyone that she ever loved had also been taken. What had she done to deserve the life that she had been given? If she had only sat still on the train all those years ago when they were on their way to see her grandmother, nothing like this would ever have happened. She would not have fallen from the train, she would not be disabled, she would not have been kidnapped, she would not have had to beg, she would not have been raped and, above all, her mother and grandmother would still be alive. Was she to suffer eternally because of her inquisitiveness when she was just five years old? Was she being punished, were those around her being punished because of the actions of an innocent little girl? She was solely responsible for everything that had happened to her. Is there not one good thing in this life to compensate for everything bad and ugly and horrid?
And then the baby inside her kicked.
She opened her eyes.
It kicked again and again.
She propped herself upright. He was telling her not to give up, that he was the one good thing in her life that had made the pain and anguish of her life worthwhile. He was not going to let his mother go. He needed her and he was ready. “Irina,” she called. “Irina!”
***
On the 26 January 2000 Maria gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. She named him Anton It was the name her mother would have chosen had she had a son. Lydmilla was his godmother.
Section Three
Walking Tall
Chapter Eight
Back to the UK
Tears rolled down Inna’s eyes as the clouds rolled in and we rushed into a dark corner of the dirty metro to shelter from the heavy rain. The rain battered against the grimy window behind the row of kiosks where we had settled, there was no place else and the station was packed with people waiting at the exit until the rain subsided.
I stood in front of Inna and Maria as they sat huddled against the grubby wall. I listened to Maria talking in Russian to Inna, not knowing what was being said but by just looking at the expressions on Inna’s face I knew that the story was sad and tragic but nevertheless astonishing. Maria told Inna that she spent about a month with Sasha and Irina looking after the baby. Lydmilla and Natasha visited them every weekend. She was so proud of little Anton, every hardship, every trauma, every difficulty was worth just one minute holding Anton in her arms, his face close to hers, his wonderful baby smell. He was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She was going to be a good mother.
Lydmilla heard that the gypsies had moved on, no one knew where, but apparently they were no longer in Moscow. Maria wondered about her friends the beggars, and what had become of them? Where were they now, she thought? Had they gone with the gypsies or sold to another clan? Were they still begging on the streets somewhere? She thought about them often but had not seen any of them them since.
Lydmilla, with Sasha’s help, managed to find Maria one room at a hostel in Moscow. It wasn’t much, but it was a place of their own and cost just a few roubles a night. And so, after a month in the country, Maria and Anton went back to Lydmilla’s apartment for a few days until they moved into their room.
Maria was no longer alone. She had friends, good kind friends and she had Anton; she is loved again and she could now love.
Anton stays with Lydmilla and Natasha from Monday to Friday while Maria goes out to beg. She has little choice but to beg; there are no jobs for the disabled in Moscow. She told Inna she found this spot to beg about three years ago, has lots of friends in the area and has remained here ever since. She still has to pay the local mafia boss, but he isn’t greedy and leaves her alone, and she earns just enough to support herself. She stays alone at the hostel during the week and at weekends either Natasha brings Anton into Moscow or Maria goes to stay with them. Anton is a bright little boy and he goes to kindergarten, which he loves.
Maria eventually went back to Siberia, but things were different and awkward and she didn’t stay long. Her sister lived in their mother’s apartment, but after a tearful reunion and a couple of days of somber hanging around, she left. There was no longer anything for her in her village and she no longer felt close to her sister. Her life was in Moscow with her son.
Inna looked up at me, wondering what to do or to say. “What a story,” she finally managed to utter, looking down at her notes.
I asked Inna to explain to Maria that we shall try and sell her story to a British newspaper or magazine and that, she has our word, that we would give her any money we make from selling it. Inna translated.
“We will see.” Maria said, “To be honest, a lot of people tell me they will try and help, but nobody ever does. Thank you anyway, but let’s see.”
“It may take a while but I promise you that we will try our best.” I replied. I really didn’t want to be one of those whose promises vanished with the change of season, I felt determined. I wanted to at least try and do something for her and writing a story and selling it to a newspaper or magazine seemed the only way.
“And anyway, I’m not going anywhere.” She laughed.
Inna took out an envelope we had already filled with a few hundred roubles and handed it to Maria, saying it was for her time. I shook her hand and kissed her cheek and thanked her in my limited Russian. As we said our goodbyes neither Inna nor I wanted to leave. We had a strange feeling of guilt and of responsibility. We felt that Maria and Anton should be leading a different life, not the life they have had and have now, but a ‘normal’ life, a life like most other mothers and children around the world. As we walked away, looking back, waving, smiling, we felt sadness and despair for her, her son and her life. Life on the streets of Moscow was now the only life she knew, but she didn’t deserve to have been dealt the hand she had, she wasn’t a nasty, unkind woman, she wasn’t evil, she wasn’t uncaring. Sure, she was a tough woman, a strong woman, a bloody-minded woman - she has had to be - but she has compassion and kindness and gentleness hard to imagine from a woman that has led, and still leads, the life she does. As we walked towards the café and the warmth and security of our very different world, we took one last look back and saw she had settled herself back into her little corner. The rain had stopped and the streets were muddy and we watched Maria, hand outstretched, asking passers by for a few roubles.
As we sat going over Inna’s notes in the café, sipping cappuccino, occasionally looking out onto the streets and in the vicinity of the metro, we wondered what would eventually become of Maria and her son. Inna was summarising the story to me, highlighting a few things, skipping others. She would write it up fully later that evening when we got back to the sanctuary of our apartment and, as I listened to her, I wondered how many others like Maria have a story to tell. I remembered the man with no arms on the metro standing in front of me many months ago on that very first day I saw Maria, and wondered again about his story and the life he now leads.
***
Weeks passed and I had finally managed to put a draft story together from Inna’s six pages of notes and hours of ‘filling in.’ We had spoken about Maria and Anton many times over the previous weeks, but I had been busy finishing a few other stories. I also had a five-day close protection operation to concentrate on; I had been tasked to provide security for two corporate clients who were regular visitors to Moscow. It was an easy job, but took up my time and energy and it had postponed finishing the article on Maria. I suppose I had fallen into the trap of what I didn’t see, I didn’t really think about, although that wasn’t entirely true, but I had put back her article and trying to sell it until I had more time, and, after almost a month, it was finally finished and ready to sell. I also had a couple of nice pictures of Maria to go with the article.
When trying to sell a story freelance to magazines and newspapers it is always best to first send a synopsis, rather than the finished article. Editors get hundreds of different unsolicited articles and editorials every week from freelancers like me, almost all go into the bin, and so the first few seconds of a editorial presentation were the most important; I had to grab the editor’s immediate attention otherwise the e-mail or fax would simply be ignored or binned. Editors rarely reply, so you don’t actually know whether they are considering your story or whether it ends up in the trash can. I sent a synopsis of Maria’s Story to about twenty magazines, mainly woman’s weeklies, as well as a couple of more mainstream monthlies. After about two weeks of sending e-mails and faxes and chasing them up I eventually heard back from around four - all saying what a tragic story it was but it wasn’t really for the British market. If it featured a British girl then they would definitely be interested, but not a Russian girl. As the replies slowly filtered into my inbox, we became more and more despondent; we had promised Maria that we would help and the only way we felt we could was by selling the story and giving her the proceeds, but I couldn’t sell the story! We didn’t know what to do and we didn’t know what we would tell Maria - if and when we saw her again. Inna had told me that there were times that she saw Maria begging on the streets, but had to take a different route into the metro as she felt embarrassed about not having anything positive to tell her. It would have been easier for us to have ignored her, to put her tale and her circumstances down to one of life’s many sad tragedies and continue with our own lives, hoping we would never see her again. That would have been far easier, but we felt guilty and obligated and we promised ourselves we didn’t want to be like everyone else in Maria’s life who said they will definitely do something to help, but actually ending up doing nothing. We had given Maria our word that we were going to help her, and that was what we decided we were going to do.
***
Moscow is sometimes the most wonderful place to live; vibrant, exciting, energetic, unique, but it can also be a dreadful place; high crime, extreme corruption, violent, immoral. Sometimes you love the city and everything about the city and everything that living in Moscow means, but other times you crave to escape to the normality of the West, to the security and stability, to the relative honesty and incorruptibility of a more modern society. I had had enough of Moscow and the breaking point came when Inna and I sat in the kitchen drinking tea, reading, and occasionally looking out onto the magnificence of the Moscow State University buildings opposite our apartment. It was a nice day, we had the windows open, the music playing and were enjoying the breeze and the fresh smell from the park nearby. There was little traffic along the narrow road in front of the apartment, only the occasional car pulling into the car park in front of the building or on its way to the neighbouring block, and we could hear the lighthearted chatter of Alex, the concierge below. We got on well with Alex. He lived in the apartment directly opposite us on our landing. He had helped us out on several occasions and, during the first few days of us moving in, had even once got us back into our apartment when the door lock broke. Alex had been working as the concierge at our apartment block for a few months, after a campaign persuading the rest of the residents that he could and would do a better job that the existing concierge, who did little all day apart from sitting cooped up in his dingy office getting drunk. Alex org
anised games for the children and quiz evenings, and even had floodlights installed after one of the residents was attacked outside the block the previous winter. When the rubbish in the chute become blocked, and the refuse from the apartments above piled higher and higher, it would that way for days, stinking and rotting in the heat of the summer, but Alex would call the engineers and have it unblocked and fixed almost immediately. In the winter, when the ice outside the entrance would build up and become almost impassable and treacherous, he would be up at 6am with his shovel clearing the snow from the paths. He got paid almost nothing, but loved his job and spent every minute of every day working for the community and helping out where and when he could. Around fifty years old, white hair, always smiling and friendly, Alex wasn’t a frail man, but he wasn’t particularly fit and healthy either. Anyway, suddenly we heard shouting and commotion outside and looked out of the window to the ground below. Alex seemed to be having a heated argument with a young policeman. Alex was flapping some papers around and shouting and swearing about something. Inna was trying to listen. The policeman started shouting back, which seemed to make Alex even angrier and argue even more. Suddenly the policeman rushed over and grabbed Alex by the arm, forcing it behind his back. We heard Alex cry for help. I rushed to get my camera; I wanted to photograph this as, in my opinion and not understanding what had been said, Alex didn’t deserve this sudden hostility and aggression.
Maria's Story Page 13