Anastasia

by Rupert Colley

  He looked at his watch – he’d been watching them for almost half an hour, time well spent, although initially he hadn’t thought so. He resented it when Donath sent him out on these errand-like jobs; jobs he thought were better suited to those more junior than himself, like his new assistant, Fischer. Another new recruit, freshly out of Moscow’s school for secret police, Fischer had returned full of the latest ideas and newest techniques for extracting confessions.

  But Zoltan had enjoyed observing the array of footballing talent – the dizzying speed which some of them could muster with a ball at their feet, the strength with which they could kick a ball. And he’d been impressed by Bordas; for such a small, uninspiring looking man, he had his players hanging on his every word, awaiting his nuggets of wisdom. Without having to ask, he had their total obedience and fulsome commitment. The man should be in government. Or the army. Only once had Bordas looked in his direction but if he’d thought of asking why Zoltan was there, he’d thought better of it.

  Zoltan was aware that he looked like AVO. He’d spent years trying not to, trying to blend in with the populace, all the better to listen in to private conversations, to observe unnoticed. But something about working for the secret police blew your cover. People seemed to know. Some kind of instinct warned them. Perhaps it was the way he walked, the look in his eye. Perhaps because he looked like a hard bastard (at least, he liked to think so). And he took pride that when the need arose, he could act the part of a hard bastard. Only Petra, his wife, knew to what extent it was an act. And he couldn’t deny it, he enjoyed it. He enjoyed the power, the look in the eyes of his victims when they knew they had nowhere to go, no one to help them. He enjoyed listening to their pleas, the reasons why they should not qualify for the severe beating that was theirs to suffer. Did they never think he’d heard it all before – hundreds of times: the dependent wife, their lovely children, the fragile mother, their delicate health? He supposed that they each thought they were alone in their special need for mercy. But despite this, he knew he wasn’t the hard bastard he wanted to be. He didn’t enjoy the violence; he could happily sanction it, it was an everyday and necessary part of the job, but he had no stomach when it came to actually applying it. That was something he left to others more able than himself. Those who derived some sadistic satisfaction from the application of state justice.

  The players had stopped running and were seated on the parched grass, listening to their manager. Too far away to hear what was being said, Zoltan wondered how long a strong lad like George would survive before buckling, for buckle they all did. Probably not long. Physical strength was no measure when pitted against the AVO. No, it was the strength of mind that mattered. Those with the psychological will lasted the longest. Young women, old men. The ones that surprised you by how long they lasted. But even they caved in in the end. Just when they thought they’d survived the pain, the humiliations, the degradation, the AVO played their final card – to bring in their children for questioning. It never failed to work.

  He hoped George would never have to experience the workings of the AVO. He was too young, too strong, too beautiful to suffer such torments. It’d be like watching a tiger shot – all that grace, that dignity stripped away. It wouldn’t be right. Beauty should not be sullied. But it wouldn’t come to that, there was no need. It was, after all, only a football match. He looked again at his watch – it was almost midday, time he was off, he’d spent too long here already. Bordas had finished his pep talk, the players were back on their feet, awaiting their next instruction. This, thought Zoltan, was as good a time to interrupt as any. A quick word, a nod of compliance, and that would be it. They needn’t ever meet again. And for some reason, Zoltan couldn’t help but feel disappointed by the thought.

  *

  George had enjoyed the morning’s training session – he’d trained as he had never done before. He was only ten days away from a match that could change his life, a performance scrutinised by the national manager. What better motivation did a man need?

  Bordas’s talk had been encouraging – Lokomotiv weren’t the team of yesteryear, they were a shadow of their former shelves. It was only a friendly but neither side would want to lose. For the Russians it’d be akin to losing to one’s kid brother.

  George had been discussing their chances with the giant goalkeeper, Milan Ignotus, when he saw the stranger approach. ‘Who’s this, then?’ asked Milan. George shrugged his shoulders. Despite the warmth, the man wore a long dark coat, his eyes fixed on George.

  ‘George Lorenc?’

  George smiled; it’d been the second time within a few days a stranger who’d known his name had approached him. Perhaps, he thought, he was a colleague of Mark Decsi, the scout.

  The man offered his hand. ‘Can I have a word?’

  George took it. ‘Yes, of course.’

  Milan looked awkward. ‘Yeah, I’ll... I’ll see you later then, George.’

  The stranger watched Milan as he jogged back towards his team-mates. ‘Perhaps we could...’ He made to walk.

  George followed. The man was wearing collar and tie, a bright red tie, and heavy boots – the type AVOs wear. His hair was nondescript brown, receding, cut short, but his neck was long – giraffe-like, thought George.

  ‘My name is...’ The man glanced over his shoulder, ensuring they were out of earshot. ‘Zoltan Beke, AVO.’

  The words AVO brought George to a stop, his heartbeat quickened. ‘AVO?’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re not in any trouble.’

  ‘Is it about my father?’

  ‘I have no idea about your father. I’m here because we need your help.’

  ‘You need my help?’

  Zoltan grinned. ‘Yes, your help.’ He reached in his pocket and drew out a packet of Red Stars. ‘Do you want one? No?’ He paused to light the cigarette, cupping his hands against the non-existent breeze. ‘No,’ he said, blowing out the smoke, ‘I don’t suppose a man in your condition would smoke.’ He coughed and, choking, added, ‘Fact is, I don’t really smoke myself.’ They walked on slowly, following the perimeter of the pitch. ‘I was watching you train. I’m no expert but I can see you’re good. Your reputation precedes you, George. May I call you George? They say the team’s a bit of a one-man show. Without you, they wouldn’t stand a chance. Is that right?’

  ‘No, of course not –’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. It’s a... it’s a team effort and there’s some good players –’

  ‘Modest as well as talented. I like that. Modesty is a forgotten virtue these days. It’s nice to encounter it every now and then. Too many people puffing themselves up, pretending to be things they’re not. But not you – I can see that. You’re the sort of man that this country needs. Strong, talented, forward thinking. Are you forward thinking, George?’

  ‘I... I suppose so.’

  ‘Of course you are. And, I suspect, a man who knows that sometimes one has to sacrifice a little personal glory for the sake of the common good.’

  George notice Beke smile to himself, and a small shiver of discomfort ran through him. ‘Sacrifice?’

  ‘Yes, George, sacrifice. This game on Sunday week...’

  ‘Against Moscow Lokomotiv?’

  A loose ball lay in front of them and Beke kicked it back onto the pitch. ‘Yes, Moscow Lokomotiv. You are to make sure your team loses.’

  George stopped. ‘Loses?’

  ‘You’re the hosts, the Russians your guests. It’s customary, don’t you think, for the host to make small sacrifices for the sake of his guest?’

  Beke had continued walking and George had to stride quickly to catch-up. ‘But this is a game of football, not a dinner party. What’s the point in playing to lose; what satisfaction can they derive from that?’

  ‘They won’t know. You see, none of your team-mates will know, they’ll be playing as normal. But you, George, you will know. Give yourself an off day; we all have an off day occasionally. If you play below your us
ual high standard, Lokomotiv should win.’

  ‘You overestimate me.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘I’m only one man out of eleven, how can I influence the game that much?’

  ‘You’re the man who scores the goals. All I’m asking is that this time – you abstain. You see, we have a lot to thank our Russian friends for. Our liberators.’ They had reached a corner flag. ‘It’s still only four years and our debt to the Soviet Union does not diminish with time –’

  ‘So we must continue our subservience?’

  ‘Subservience? Is that how you see it?’

  For the first time Beke was looking him in the eye, and George realised he’d said too much. ‘Well, perhaps not subservience.’

  ‘I think the word you’re looking for, George, is gratitude. We, as a country, owe our liberty to the Russians.’

  ‘To the extent of losing a football match?’

  ‘Football is an honourable game, you don’t need me to tell you that.’ He looked up at the clouds. He threw the cigarette away and the two men stared at it for a moment, the red tip sizzling on the grass. ‘I have to leave now. I’ve enjoyed our talk. You’re an intelligent boy, George. Use your intelligence. You have plenty of more games ahead of you. Don’t let this be your last one...’

  George watched him walk away towards the pavilion, passing the ball he’d kicked earlier. This time, however, he ignored it. Milan and the others had gone in for their showers. He suddenly felt very alone.

  Chapter 5: Eva

  We were nearing the end of our lesson on the Yalta Conference and Comrade Stalin’s magnificent role in the historical negotiations, when Tibor suddenly asked if he could make an announcement. I gave my assent, but for some reason I felt a terrible sense of apprehension about what was coming.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Horvath.’ He rose to his feet, looking every inch a politician with his thumbs hooked into his waistcoat. ‘Comrades, I want to share my excitement at what I’ve done. Yesterday, I walked into the offices of the AVO and formally denounced my parents.’ An audible gasp circled round the classroom. ‘Yes, I know, on the surface it seems a shocking act but I know several of you are suffering the same agonies as I was until yesterday. My parents are harsh critics of our wise and benevolent leadership, critical of where they are taking our country and scornful of everything they say or do. Of course, I love my parents and still do. But I hated this... this constant sniping at the Party, who do their best for us all; I hated the way my father, especially, undermined and even laughed, yes – laughed, at my political beliefs. For months, I grappled with the dilemma, trying to decide whether my loyalties belonged to the two people who brought me up or to the Party. It is to Miss Horvath I thank for making me see sense.’

  My heart skipped – what part of our conversation had he misconstrued, what part had he manage to twist?

  Tibor had warmed up to his oratory, drumming his fingers on his desk as he continued. ‘She asked me simply whether I loved my parents. And in all truth, I hadn’t really thought about it, I suppose I simply assumed. And then I realised I love them so much that I needed to help them. It was then I’d made up my mind.’

  I couldn’t help myself, I groaned loudly with frustration. The class turned to look at me. Tibor looked puzzled. ‘Are you all right, Miss?’ he asked.

  ‘Tibor, I see you believe in political re-education, don’t you?’

  ‘It is their only hope, Miss. If my parents are to play a part in the country’s bright future, they cannot afford to dismiss it as some fancy fly-by-night fad. I know what I’ve done may seem a little drastic, but I hope you appreciate my logic. I did it for them and out of my love for them.’

  His classmates looked at him as if in shock. He knew the effect he had had on them and glowed in his halo of self-righteousness.

  I knew he would want to see me again after class. His curriculum questions were, by now, merely a disguise by which to see me. He’d become dependent on me; he saw me no longer as his teacher but as his mentor, possibly even his friend. Afterwards, once we were alone, he approached me. ‘You think I’ve been rash, don’t you, Miss?’

  ‘I know you did it with the best intentions, Tibor.’ I looked at him, with his long fringe of blond hair almost obscuring an eye, clutching a thick tome, and I suddenly realised I felt intimidated by him. He may only been a schoolboy but that he was capable of such extreme measures made me conscious of my every word.

  ‘I did. It’ll be like a medicine for them. Horrible to taste but –’

  ‘It’ll do them good in the long run.’

  ‘Yes. Exactly.’

  ‘And your father’s job?’ I asked, stacking a few books in a neat pile.

  ‘Well, he’s... he’s lost it for now.’

  ‘For now?’

  ‘He’ll get it back; once they’ve been... you know.’

  ‘Re-educated.’

  ‘Yes.’ He reached into his pocket and produced a packet of cigarettes. He offered me one.

  I shook my head. ‘I didn’t know you smoked, Tibor.’

  ‘I do now,’ he said, lighting one.

  ‘And are you OK? You’re not regretting what you’ve done?’

  ‘No, of course not. It’s for their own good. Why should I be regretting it?’

  A haze of smoke circled around us. ‘No, no reason. So, where are you going to live?’

  ‘With my uncle.’

  ‘And what’s he like, this uncle? Is he married?’

  ‘He’s all right. He lives alone. Why are you asking me so many questions? You think –’

  ‘No, I don’t. I’m sure you did the right thing. Don’t you have another lesson to go to?’

  He looked at me. I knew what he was thinking – that I wasn’t the person he thought I was. He thought he could trust me and now he wasn’t so sure. ‘Yes,’ he said, taking another drag on his cigarette. ‘I’d better go.’

  I watched him leave, his book under his arm; leaving a cloud of smoke in his wake.

  *

  In a moment of clarity, I decided I needed my husband back, the husband who’d emotionally detached himself from me almost a year ago. Our relationship had deteriorated to the point that we were husband and wife in name only. I decided to make a special meal; to play the part I had neglected for too long as I wallowed in pity, the part of a dutiful, socialist wife.

  Using the coupons Josef acquired from his work, I had access to stores closed to ordinary citizens. As a man of responsibility, Josef enjoys the perks – the extra food rations, access to healthcare, access to the better quality goods in better quality shops. And a whole apartment to ourselves – a real luxury at a time when families are forced to share with strangers. But Josef has no time to appreciate the perks. His fast climb up the promotional ladder came about, not through ability, but because his predecessors were, one by one, called to account. If they were lucky, they were transferred or demoted. Others, however, were not so fortunate. Poor Josef, how he has aged in the last two years, knowing it is only a matter of time.

  It was time to make a change. I walked to the subsidized food store and, without having to queue, I was able to buy everything I needed for one of Josef’s favourite meals – duck cooked in a mint sauce, runner beans and roast potatoes. I bought mushrooms for a starter, and a bottle of red wine. Then, having left the store, I immediately returned and bought a second bottle. Once in ten days, he had a day off, half of which he’d spend in bed, catching up on his sleep. But this evening, instead of sloping off to read one of his reports in preparation for the following day, I insisted he sat down for a proper meal. I used a tone that would not accept no for an answer.

  And so at eight o’clock, we sat down. I’d turned off all the lights bar one lamp in the corner. I’d lit candles; I’d covered the table with a tablecloth, and laid napkins at our places. I wore my favourite chemise, a burgundy-coloured shirt I hadn’t worn for a while, with a frilly collar and large buttons, and a knee-length skirt, slightly pleate
d at the hem.

  ‘Sit, Josef, sit.’

  ‘Is it my birthday?’ he said, looking round.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yours?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh God, it’s our anniversary.’

  ‘No, Josef, it’s not our anniversary.’

  ‘So...’ He waved his arms about. ‘What’s all this in aid of?’

  ‘Do we need a reason?’

  ‘Well. No. I suppose not.’

  ‘Exactly. Now, if you would excuse me a minute.’

  I returned moments later bearing our starter – fried mushrooms with a dash of paprika.

  ‘Oh my,’ said Josef. ‘This looks good.’

  I poured us each a glass of wine. ‘A toast. To us, Josef,’ I said, lifting my glass.

  ‘Yes. Yes. To us.’ Our glasses clinked.

  ‘Well, tuck in.’

  ‘It looks good.’

  ‘So, how’s work?’

  ‘Must I?’

  ‘I’m interested.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes, Josef, I am.’

  He sighed. ‘It’s getting worse.’

  ‘The five-year-plan?’

  ‘The politicians order these huge projects and ask for advice from experts. When the experts try to point out the shortcomings in the planning process, they get chucked in jail. A second set are drafted in who of course are too frightened to tell the truth, so they say what the politicians want to hear. So when the project fails, and millions of forints are wasted, the second set of experts are punished because the first set was right. These mushrooms are delicious. We’re walking into an economic disaster but ordinary civilians, people like you, have no idea. As far as everyone is concerned the country is meeting and exceeding every industrial target and, like the Soviet Union, will soon be the envy of the capitalist world. Eva, you wouldn’t tell anyone any of this?’

  ‘Josef – of course I wouldn’t. But what about you – are you safe?’

  ‘No one’s ever safe; you know that. The scrutiny is unbearable. I’m accountable for every aspect of the department’s output, which means taking all the flak but none of the praise. It’s the finger pointing that gets me – the blame, the reproaches, the criticism, the liability moving like pass-the-parcel, all of us terrified lest it should stop with us. Well, that was very nice.’