I nodded.
‘Come this way,’ he said.
He led me along the length of the warehouse towards a waiting car.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ I asked.
‘I have orders that you are to be sent directly to Moscow,’ the official said. ‘I know nothing further.’
The driver opened the door for me. Before getting in, I noticed four men flinging what at first I thought were sacks onto a truck. Then I realised that they weren’t sacks. They were bodies. The men misjudged the distance with one corpse and it toppled to the ground. Its head flopped back and its eyes stared straight at me. I recognised the face and my blood turned cold: it was Zinaida.
As soon as I was put on the train to Moscow I knew a hero’s welcome was not what was in store for me. The train compartment was divided into wired cages. Several prisoners shared the other cages but I was placed in one by myself, with nothing more than a plank bed. The window was barred and had been painted over so I couldn’t see outside.
When we arrived in Moscow, my fellow prisoners were bundled into a prison truck but I was shoved into a baker’s van with gold lettering on the side: Bread, Rolls & Cakes. I had seen hundreds of these types of bakery vans around Moscow before the war. Now I realised that they hadn’t been carrying bread at all. It explained why the food stores were always empty and the prisons so full.
As the van bumped and jerked along the streets, I heard the sounds of Moscow around me: the rattle of the trams; car horns; construction workers calling out to each other. After a short while the van stopped and I was ordered out. I found myself in the courtyard of a massive building, which felt oddly familiar. Then I realised I was in the Lubyanka, the headquarters of the NKVD. It was where my father had been taken the night he was arrested. Two guards armed with machine guns escorted me inside. I was thrown into a brightly lit cell with green walls and a parquet floor. The window was boarded up. The only furniture was an iron-framed bed and a slops bucket that gave off the sickly sweet odour of carbolic acid. There was nowhere for me to sit except on the bed, but as soon as I approached it a square window opened in the door and a guard looked in at me.
‘Stand up!’ he whispered. ‘No sleeping!’
Why was he whispering? The window closed again and I waited, expecting something to occur, but hours passed and nobody came to the cell. All I could hear was the sound of my own frantic breathing. Papa’s face flashed before me. Everything that was happening to me had happened to him. The thought that my cheerful, playful father had suffered the mental anguish that I was now enduring made me weep.
Sometime later, the guard opened the door. A man wheeled in a trolley on which sat a silver serving platter covered by a dome. Was I being brought some sort of elaborate dinner? The man lifted the dome to reveal two pieces of black bread and a mug of hot water.
Although I hadn’t eaten for days, my nerves had destroyed my appetite. I forced myself to swallow the food and water. When I’d finished I sat down on the bed.
The guard immediately entered the cell and whispered, ‘Get up! No resting for you!’
‘Why are you whispering?’ I asked him.
‘Shh!’ he said. ‘It is not permitted to speak loudly here.’
I assumed that I wasn’t allowed to rest because I was about to be interrogated. I paced the floor but still nothing happened. Finally, a long time later, a different guard opened the door and ordered me into the corridor. I was taken down several flights of stairs to a basement where a woman in a military uniform ordered me to take off all my clothes and lay them on the table. She went thoroughly over each item, snipping the buttons off the dress with a pair of scissors, emptying the pockets and feeling along the seams. She threw my brassiere and stocking garters into a bucket, then cut the elastic out of my underpants and set it to one side along with my coat, stockings, boots, hat, gloves and scarf. She made me remove my hairpins so she could search through my hair.
‘Now get dressed,’ she said.
I pulled on my slip and tied a knot in my underpants so they wouldn’t fall down. Without the buttons I couldn’t fasten my dress so I held it closed with my hand. I waited for the woman to give me back the other items but she didn’t. In my dishevelled state I was marched to another room where I was photographed and had my fingerprints taken. After that I was returned to my cell.
It was cold in the cell without my coat and boots. I lay down on the bed and curled up into a ball. The guard appeared at the window in the door and whispered that if I was going to sleep I had to keep my face turned to the light. I rolled onto my back and fell asleep. I was jolted awake by a bloodcurdling scream. I sat up. What sort of animal had made the sound? A few seconds later the howl sounded again and I realised it was a man crying out. He screamed again, just once, then made no other sound. A few minutes later the guard came into my cell. ‘Hurry!’ he whispered. ‘The interrogator is ready.’
I was marched along a corridor with my hands secured behind my back. Without the buttons, my dress slipped open and I couldn’t hold it closed as before. There were several minutes of going up and down stairs and along corridors, and all the while I was terrified I was going to be tortured like the man I had heard screaming. Then I was pushed into the same cell I had just come from.
The pattern of not allowing me to sleep, or disturbing me when I did, continued for what seemed like weeks but may have only been days. I lost all sense of time. My food continued to be served in the same elaborate way but was always a starvation ration: black bread and a cup of hot water; two spoonfuls of porridge and a cup of hot water; soup that was often nothing more than a cabbage leaf floating in hot water. The bread was fresh and the porridge was tasty, but it wasn’t enough. Then one night the guard woke me and whispered, ‘Time for your interrogation.’ I expected to go through the same farce of walking up and down the stairs and corridors to no purpose other than to frustrate me. But this time I was led down a different corridor and into a spacious room where a man was waiting for me behind a desk. The room was lavishly decorated with carved table lamps, Bessarabian rugs and gold curtains. A portrait of Stalin hung on the wall and a fire gave off a warm glow.
‘The prisoner is ready for interrogation,’ announced the guard.
The man behind the desk was around thirty years of age and wore a major’s uniform, but his pudgy face and pot belly told me that he hadn’t fought on the frontline. His gaze fell to my breasts. I rearranged my dress to cover myself.
‘Please sit down,’ the major said, indicating a mahogany-and-velvet chair opposite his desk. ‘I trust you have been treated well?’
He didn’t wait for an answer and nodded at the guard to dismiss him. A few minutes later a woman came in with a tray of tea things and pryaniki. The honey and nutmeg aroma of the cookies made me even more aware of how hungry I was.
The major poured tea into a cup and placed it in front of me. ‘Lemon? A cube of sugar? Jam?’ he asked me. ‘Some pryaniki?’
Although I was starving, I shook my head. Surely this was a trick.
‘Why am I here?’ I asked. ‘Why have I been arrested?’
The major took a sip from his own cup and stared at the ceiling for a few moments, giving me a view of his double chin. Then he turned his attention back to me. ‘To confess your crimes,’ he said.
His voice was gentle and encouraging, like a lover. It sent shivers down my spine.
‘I am Natalya Stepanovna Azarova,’ I told him. ‘The pilot. I was downed over enemy territory in Orël Oblast after running out of ammunition and ramming a Messerschmitt with my own airplane. I was captured by the enemy, and although I tried to commit suicide and also to escape I did not succeed in my attempts. I was transported to Auschwitz where I remained until it was liberated by the Red Army on the twenty-seventh of January. I haven’t committed any crime that I am aware of. I never surrendered to the enemy. I fought with everything I had.’
The major lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘What did you do at Au
schwitz?’
‘I was put to work sorting food and clothing.’
The major turned his penetrating gaze on me. I suddenly felt guilty. But surely sorting clothes in order to receive food for survival wasn’t aiding the enemy?
‘We have plenty of time in the Lubyanka,’ he said. ‘We never hurry. At first it barely hurts and you wonder what all the fuss is about. And then … well, if you continue with these lies you will find out.’
I tried to appear calm but my heart was racing. ‘Everything I’ve told you is the truth!’ I said.
The major rose from his seat and stood above me. ‘Lies! Lies! Lies!’ he screamed. His face was so close to mine that I could smell the vodka-scented sweat of his skin. ‘You are Zinaida Glebovna Rusakova and you worked for the Gestapo!’
‘That’s wrong!’ I replied. ‘Zinaida Glebovna Rusakova was a passenger I met on the train from Katowice to Odessa. She was shot when we arrived at the port!’
‘Do you know the punishment for spying, Zinaida Glebovna?’ the major asked me. A thread of spittle clung to the corner of his lip and his forehead was covered in sweat.
‘I told you, I’m not Zinaida Glebovna!’
Zinaida had said she’d worked in a labour camp in Poland. Either she’d been lying or the major was. I remembered Zinaida’s friendly manner and was certain she hadn’t worked for the Gestapo.
The major took a strand of my hair between his fingers. ‘You have long hair. You haven’t wasted away to skin and bones. You don’t look like someone who has been in Auschwitz. You look like a well-fed German whore. Where did you get that dress?’
Was it worth even replying, I wondered. The more I argued with the major the further I seemed to be dragged into his game. Was he trying to make me believe that there’d been a mix-up and I’d been arrested in Zinaida’s place? But to what purpose? There was probably no logic to the interrogation. It was nothing more than sadism.
I had spent eighteen months in a concentration camp, and two years before that fighting in a brutal war. I was physically and mentally exhausted. I pulled up the sleeve of my dress to reveal my Auschwitz tattoo. ‘What is it you want from me?’ I asked. ‘If you are convinced that I worked for the Gestapo why didn’t you put a bullet through my head in Odessa? If it’s information about the Germans you want, I have nothing to give you!’
The major returned to his chair and put on a pair of spectacles. He opened a folder on his desk and rummaged through its papers as if he’d forgotten me. Then he looked at me over the rim of his glasses.
‘You think it’s going to be as easy as that?’ he said coldly. ‘Yes, you will be killed — eventually — but you’re going to have to work for your death. You are going to pay back the Motherland for your crimes against her. Where Auschwitz failed, Kolyma will succeed.’ Kolyma? That was a prison colony in the Arctic Circle. Nobody came back from there! ‘In Kolyma you will become thin and your skin will turn black,’ said the major, emphasising each word. ‘Your teeth will fall out and your organs will shrivel. But not before you have worked with the last drop of your blood to atone for your crimes. We’ll keep you alive long enough to do that.’
‘I am not a criminal!’
The major went back to looking through his folder. He pulled out a piece of paper and placed it in front of me.
‘Sign this,’ he said. ‘It’s your confession.’
My situation was hopeless, I knew, but I couldn’t give in to these ridiculous accusations.
‘I will not sign it!’ I said. ‘I told you: I am Natalya Stepanovna Azarova. I am a decorated fighter pilot. I fought for my country! Did you?’
I expected my taunt to infuriate the major but he didn’t react.
‘I would stop pretending that you are Natalya Azarova if I were you,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know that Natalya Azarova deliberately flew into enemy territory so she could join the Germans? She was a daughter of an enemy of the people, but she lied to get a job at an aircraft factory and then lied to the Komsomol in order to become a member. She even lied to the great Marina Raskova and the Soviet Air Force. She’s already been stripped of her medals.’
I was too shocked to say anything more. So that is what the Soviet people would be told: that I was a spy and a traitor! How could justice prevail as long as Stalin was leader?
The major took some papers out of the folder and made sure that I got a look at them. They were the letters I had written to Mama and Valentin in Katowice. Letters that I now knew they would never receive.
‘Besides,’ said the major, throwing the letters into the fire, ‘if you were Natalya Azarova, you would sign the confession.’ He grinned. ‘Natalya Azarova would remember that she has a mother who lives in the Arbat. And … oh yes, a fighter pilot for a lover. His name is Valentin Victorovich Orlov, I believe.’
I understood then that everything was lost. The NKVD knew perfectly well who I was. My beloved Motherland was in the hands of lunatics. ‘Yes, Natalya Azarova would sign her confession,’ continued the major, ‘if she didn’t want something … dreadful to happen to those she loved.’ He pushed the paper closer to me and handed me a pen. ‘Remember to sign it by your real name, Zinaida Glebovna.’
My hand wavered over the document. If I didn’t sign it, the NKVD would still kill me, and Valentin and Mama would certainly be doomed. Signing it was the only chance I had of protecting them. My hand trembled as I formed the letters of my false signature. When I had finished, the pen slipped from my fingers and clattered to the floor.
The major opened the curtains to reveal a view of the square below. The snow had melted and the sky was a magnificent blue.
‘Look at Moscow one last time!’ he said, spreading his arms wide. ‘Say goodbye. You won’t be seeing it again. Twenty years’ hard labour without the right of correspondence.’ That was my sentence? In signing the confession Natalya Azarova had ceased to exist and I was as good as dead.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Moscow, 2000
Natasha was about to continue with her story when Polina came in pushing a mobile drip.
‘Ah, I see she’s been drinking some water,’ she said, pointing to the half-empty jug on the bedside table. ‘I called Doctor Pesenko and he recommended giving her intravenous fluids anyway.’
Polina set about preparing to insert the catheter into Natasha’s arm. Lily was aware that she and Oksana had been with Natasha for nearly two hours, a much longer visiting time than was usually allowed. She wanted to hear the rest of Natasha’s story, but the nurses had a schedule to keep, and Natasha’s health came first.
‘We’ll come and see you tomorrow,’ Lily said, patting Natasha’s hand. ‘And I’ll bring Laika.’
The dismay on the old woman’s face stung Lily. She sympathised. How could the telling of Natasha’s life story be interrupted at this crucial point, like a video put on pause for a toilet break?
On the way out of the hospital, Oksana’s mobile phone rang. While she took the call, Lily thought about what Natasha had told them. It had been a rollercoaster ride and her head was spinning. She had come to Russia to connect with a country that was part of her heritage and had got much more than she’d bargained for.
Oksana ended the call and looked at Lily. ‘That was Antonia. She went to feed the cats this afternoon at the Zamoskvorechye building site and a woman from the apartment block opposite threw a bucket of water over her. She also found several dead kittens. Their heads had been crushed, probably with a brick.’
‘That’s awful!’ said Lily. ‘Does Antonia think it’s the same woman?’
Oksana shrugged. ‘Possibly. We deal with this all the time. People see stray cats as vermin.’
Lily knew the Moscow Animals volunteers had been speeding up their trapping program with winter approaching, but the difficult thing was finding people who could care for the cats. Oksana had recently found a home for Max and Georgy, and Lily expected that she’d miss the kittens when they went to live with their new owner.
‘
I can take more cats into my apartment,’ she said.
Oksana shook her head. ‘I can’t impose on you like that. You’ve been generous enough as it is.’
‘Yes, you can,’ said Lily, grinning. ‘I want to be a crazy cat lady like you!’
Oksana laughed. ‘What are you up to tonight? Do you want to come trap some cats?’
‘There’s nothing I’d rather do!’ Lily replied.
She wasn’t entirely joking. After listening to Natasha’s harrowing story, she didn’t want to be alone, and Oksana would understand exactly how she was feeling.
At the building site, Oksana set up the new box trap she’d invented in the hope of outsmarting Tuz, a ginger tom who had figured out how to remove food from a trap without stepping on the trigger plate and getting caught. They needed to trap him urgently because he was one of the toms impregnating the females and adding to the cat population.
‘It’s going to take patience,’ Oksana told Lily. ‘It’s not easy to fool street-smart cats like him, and Antonia has already fed the colony. Normally we don’t give them food on the day of the trapping so the cats are hungry enough to take the bait.’
To work the box trap, Lily and Oksana had to sit some distance away holding the string that set off the trap. While they were waiting for the cats, a woman appeared at the fence.
‘You’re trespassing!’ she told them. ‘I’ll call the police.’
Oksana went over to explain to the woman what they were doing. From their conversation it became apparent to Lily that this was the woman who’d thrown the bucket of water over Antonia and possibly killed the kittens. She’d expected the woman to be a crazy old biddy, but she was smartly dressed in linen trousers and a tailored blouse, and looked to be in her mid-forties. What a bitch, Lily thought, indignant on behalf of all the volunteers who were trying to help the animals.
‘We’re with an authorised animal group and we’re removing the cats,’ Lily heard Oksana say. ‘Leave us to do what we have to and then you won’t have any more cats to worry about, okay?’
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