Anastasia

by Rupert Colley

  The splashes behind him were getting louder with each stone. He drew heavily on his cigarette and wished he could relax but he couldn’t shake Elizabeth Vas from his mind. He only hoped that while he was here on a rare day out with his wife and daughter, she was using the hours to reflect carefully on what she was letting herself in for. How could a young girl like that truly believe she could beat the system and come out unscathed? He could picture her eyes; that look of innocent ruthlessness, a contradiction that only the young are capable of. A ruthlessness borne out of conviction but not yet dulled by disillusionment. Conviction, he thought, is a worthy attribute but not when it merges into stupidity.

  Zoltan’s mind was still full of Elizabeth Vas when Roza, who’d climbed back onto the wall, lost her balance, slipped and fell noiselessly into the lake. Afterwards, when he thought back to those terrifying moments, he wondered why, despite being so close, he never realised a thing while his wife, twenty yards away, turned at that very moment. He put it down to a mother’s intuition. It was only the sight of Petra running down the slope, almost in slow motion, screaming something garbled that Zoltan knew with heart-stopping fear that something was amiss. Dropping his cigarette, he turned and scanning his eyes, searched frantically for the figure in pink. Now, Petra was next to him, screaming the water, the water but how distant and disconnected her voice seemed. But he knew what he had to do and as he stepped over the wall and into the cold water, the greyness of the lake suddenly looked as fearsome as the angriest ocean.

  There she was, his daughter, on her back, her arms circling, fighting for breath, unable to scream, a flailing sludge of pink. He waded through the knee high tide, the sharp coldness of the water biting into his calves, his shoes heavier by the moment. Four huge steps and he was there, scooping her out, surprised by her weight, her arms drooping down. Petra stood on the grass, shaking, her face etched with terror. Her friend had come down the slope and held her still with a protective arm round her shoulders. Zoltan lay Roza on the grass, tilted her head back, and blew into the mouth; his hand gently pounding her chest. With every blow he asked God, then begged, then demanded, that she should be spared. Roza grimaced and he felt the first stirrings of hope; then with a strength he didn’t think possible from one so small, she threw up, her chest caving in as the bile erupted from her mouth. Zoltan could have drunk it as champagne; his daughter was alive!

  The push was so severe and so unexpected Zoltan found himself lying on the grass, unsure what force had propelled him there. He looked up to see Petra, her arms wrapped tightly around Roza, squeezing her into her chest, her whole body, it seemed, emitting a terrible wail, earth-like and primeval. A thrusting blade of jealousy pierced him.

  Like a tidal wave, exhaustion crashed over him but, summoning a strength forged through the need for reassurance and to reassure, he got up. He could hear Roza crying now beneath her mother’s wailing and it brought the tears to his own eyes. He reached out an arm, desperate to touch his family, to reassure them of his presence, to be as one with them.

  But Petra, sensing his presence, flung out her arm to repel him. ‘You buffoon, she almost drowned,’ she said, with a look that grieved him.

  ‘But... I saved her.’

  Her words came out as a growl: ‘Get out of my sight.’

  ‘Petra? Please...’ I saved her, he thought, I saved her.

  *

  Returning to work that afternoon, Zoltan felt sick. His head thumped, his stomach churned but it was in his heart that the sickening manifested itself. He’d never felt so alone, so at odds with the world. Often, his work compensated for his home life or vice versa. But now, whatever way he looked, he could find no escape from his misery. Beyond home and work, there was nothing, no third option, no escape route. He was a weak father, he knew that, and that, in turn, made him a weak husband. However hard he worked, the promotion never came; however hard he tried to love her, the gap between him and Petra never shortened. There never seemed to be any light to lead him forward, no promise of a brighter future. He knew now why he took Elizabeth Vas’s case to heart; not only did she remind him of a younger Petra but she reminded him of the Petra who’d loved him; the Petra who didn’t hold him responsible for all the shortcomings in her life.

  He looked at Petra’s clock that still, after all these years, sat on his desk. Next to it the photograph of Roza from four years ago. For some reason, he never got round to replacing it with a more recent one.

  Three o’clock; he had a meeting with Donath. Although they didn’t know it, Donath and Petra had much in common – a disappointment that the young man who promised so much had delivered so little. For Donath, Zoltan’s nadir came with the football match, and in his boss’s eyes he’d never really recovered from that. Zoltan had suffered as a result and he still shuddered when he thought back to that horrendous time. Donath and his seniors squarely blamed him for Moscow Lokomotiv’s failure to win an unimportant football game and devised what, in their minds, was a simple but devastating punishment for Zoltan to suffer. They gave Zoltan Fischer’s job, and Fischer Zoltan’s. A simple swap, designed to humiliate. But they hadn’t expected it to backfire. Fischer was as uneasy with the arrangement as Zoltan and, as a result, failed to deliver. Eighteen months later, Fischer was transferred out of the department and Zoltan got his old job back. His delight was soon tempered by Petra’s wry observation that a promotion that merely cancelled out a relegation was not truly a promotion.

  ‘Sit down, Zoltan.’ Donath, still wearing his Order of Lenin with pride, lit a cigar, which, as if in evidence of his rising status, seemed to get bigger with every passing year. ‘So, this Elizabeth Vas case, she’s finally signed the confession.’

  What a relief; Zoltan smiled.

  ‘No need to look like that, it has nothing to do with your powers of persuasion. We had to take her to the second stage.’

  Zoltan moved to the edge of the chair. ‘But why, I almost had her.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake, I almost had her.’ This was a new habit of Donath’s; to cruelly impersonate those who caused him displeasure. ‘Sure you did, but we thought we’d save you some time. No point hanging round.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘Waiting transfer. Five years hard labour.’

  His heart sunk. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The two men contemplated the gulf between them. Felix Dzerzhinsky stared down at him. ‘What’s happened to you, Beke? You’re weak; that’s your problem and you’re getting weaker.’ Donath puffed on his cigar, a spiral of blue smoke obscuring his face. ‘Fact is, I’m losing patience, I can’t keep covering your tracks; you need to mend your ways – and fast.’

  Zoltan coughed, the acrid smoke sticking to the back of his throat. ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind, boss, you know, at home.’

  ‘Who hasn’t? Tell me something new. Now listen, you remember a youth we had in a few years back, lanky chap by the name of Szabo; Jasper Szabo?’

  Zoltan thought back. Yes, he did remember, grassed up by his girlfriend for furtively listening to the Voice of America on the radio. They’d hammered his knuckles, threw him down for a week, then told him to get lost.

  ‘Well, he’s back,’ said Donath. ‘Sabotage; caught red-handed stealing from his factory, tractor parts, that sort of thing. Doesn’t get much easier than this, Zoltan. Sort him out and this time...’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘No pissing around.’ He tapped his cigar into the ashtray. ‘Full confession or the body-grinder. Got it?’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ he said firmly. ‘Got it.’

  *

  ‘What cell is Elizabeth Vas being held in?’

  ‘Let me see, now.’ The secretary leafed through a file, running his finger down the last sheet. ‘Here we are,’ he said, ‘one-fourteen.’

  One-fourteen, thought Zoltan, as he strutted off towards the stairs, that’s a holding cell, means she’ll be carted off to prison within the week.

  As always, the line of bri
ght light bulbs dazzled him as he entered the first basement floor; the iciness seeped from within its thick damp walls, cold condensation dripped down the huge metal doors. He flashed his pass to the duty-guard even though the guard knew him well by sight. Cell eleven, twelve, thirteen... each one host to a miserable specimen of humanity. Cell fourteen. He flipped open the judas hole and peered in. She must’ve heard the scrape of the metal because she clambered to her feet, her back facing the door. The prisoners were meant to remain on their feet for hours at a time. The job of the guard was to check regularly that his charges were behaving.

  ‘Open this,’ he said to the guard.

  The door closed behind him, its slam reverberating through the cell. Elizabeth Vas stood facing the wall, a threadbare blanket wrapped round her shoulders. She was shivering, her feet bare and blackened with dirt. He noticed on the back of her head, the patches of scalp where clumps of her hair had been yanked out.

  ‘Elizabeth.’ He said her name quietly, apologetically. It was, he thought, probably the last time anyone would address her by her first name; from now on she’d be known only by a number. ‘Elizabeth?’

  Slowly, she turned round, shuffling her feet step by step. He tried not to let his shock show but they’d gone to town on her – her face was a mess of black and blue, her nose misshapen out of recognition, her once-vermilion lips now glued together with dried blood, her eyes lost within the swellings. Her wrists, twisted and puffy, had been broken. Her clothes too were ripped, her skirt speckled with blood, her blouse stripped of buttons. They would have raped her, possibly many times over.

  Now he’d come, he had no idea what to say. An apology seemed pointless, any promises futile. ‘I... I tried to warn you,’ was all he could think to say.

  She stood like a statue about to topple over, comatose, beyond help. But then she opened her mouth and tried to say something.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ he said, relieved that she could still attempt to talk. He stepped towards her, hoping to catch her words. But with a quickness that took him unawares, she rolled back her head, stretched open her lips and, throwing her head forward, spat at him. Her spittle landed squarely on his cheek. He didn’t move, conscious of the warm phlegm creeping down his face, and felt the pain of yet another humiliation. He could have wept for her but he hated her at the same time, hated her for reminding him what a ridiculous man he’d become. Even this broken woman was capable of reducing him to nothing.

  He’d had enough. The AVO thugs had already taken a swipe at her and, as far as he was concerned, they could do as they wanted with her now. Flinging open the cell door, he stormed down the corridor, ignoring the guard, and ran back up the stairs.

  He’d tried to warn her. He’d saved his daughter but still they blamed him. Even Roza blamed him. Six years old but she still held him responsible for the disappearance of her friends. A buffoon. Petra’s voice came back to him in all its mocking glory, you buffoon, she’d said as she pushed him away, not wanting him to touch her or their daughter. What a word to use, as derisive as a mouthful of spit. And Elizabeth Vas, beaten to a pulp yet she managed to find the strength to exhibit her contempt for him. Contempt – that was the word etched on all their faces – Petra, Elizabeth, Roza and Donath. You’re weak, Beke, and you’re getting weaker. Fuck them. Fuck them all; he’d show Donath what he was made of. His job, he thought, was to interview, to intimidate. It wasn’t for him to apply the physical, that was for the employed thugs. But if that was what Donath expected, then that’s what he’d get.

  *

  Jasper Szabo was waiting for him in his office, another guard standing behind him, beside the door. Szabo hadn’t changed much, thought Zoltan, the crescent-shaped scar above his right eyebrow gave him a distinctive look. His left hand was deformed, the broken bones had set badly leaving his buckled fingers at odd angles to each other.

  He stood above him for a few moments, the two men silently re-familiarising themselves, the breath coming from Zoltan’s nostrils like a bull in the ring. Buffoon. Weak. Always to blame.

  The first blow hit the cheek, his fists impacting the bone. The second on the mouth, the third, the fourth... It all became a blur. Szabo cowered in the chair, his arms trying to divert the blows. Blood splattered his clothes, the grunting became louder but still the blows rained down, one after the other, while all the time the voices mocked him, belittled him. He’d show them, this wasn’t the act of a weak man; Zoltan Beke was not a man to be toyed with any more. Things were going to change. Blood smeared across his knuckles. He felt fantastic. Yes, things were going to change. No one would ever mock him again. No footballer was ever going to inflict a career reversal like that again. He’d kill him. If he ever saw him again, he’d fucking kill him.

  ‘Comrade... comrade.’ The guard had his arms on Zoltan’s shoulder, trying to prise him away from the battered Szabo. ‘Comrade...’ Slowly, the guard’s voice permeated his brain. ‘Comrade, I think you ought to be questioning him first.’

  He stopped as suddenly as he’d started, exhausted but elated. ‘Yes!’ he said, between breaths. ‘Yes, thank you, comrade, I’m well aware... of that.’ He looked down at Szabo, whose eyes peered up at him from behind a shield of arms.

  ‘Jasper Szabo?’ said Zoltan, ‘I think we’ve met before...’

  Chapter 17: George

  ‘Sign here.’

  ‘What is it?’

  The squat man with a peaked AVO cap too small for him handed George a pen. ‘Your pledge that you’re not to say or write a single word about your time here,’ he said, leaning back in his chair.

  George duly signed his name on the line, not bothering to read the lines of text above it, and realised he hadn’t held a pen for almost four years. How cumbersome it felt, yielding this pen, how spindly his writing.

  The AVO receptionist glanced at his signature and filed the sheet of paper into a manila folder, George’s name writ large on its cover and the ominous X engraved in the box denoting his category. ‘One thousand, three hundred and seventy days.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How long you spent here – three months short of four years. Less than most, you’re a lucky man.’

  George felt far from lucky. He took his crutch that had been leaning against the office wall.

  ‘Right then, you’re a free man,’ said the receptionist, folding his arms and grinning with self-satisfaction, as if he was the one responsible for granting George his freedom. ‘Show him out,’ he said, nodding to a typically burly security guard.

  ‘Can’t I have a belt or something?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘My trousers; they’re too big for me now.’

  ‘Do I look like a gentleman’s outfitters? Sod off out of here.’

  Two minutes later, George found himself on the pavement outside the prison walls. You’re a free man, he said aloud, repeating the receptionist’s words. But, he knew, he’d never be a free man while that X remained pinned to his file – excluded from work, accommodation, or any form of state help.

  He was coming out in the same set of clothes as when he went in, one thousand, three hundred and seventy days previously – a cream-coloured, linen summer suit. (He remembered how the AVO men had allowed him to change after he’d been stretchered off the football pitch.) He held onto his trousers for fear they’d fall down, the jacket hung round his shoulders now like a shawl, his shirt ballooned at his waist with loose fabric. The cold breeze bit into him. The linen suit was not designed to withstand the cold March wind. How strange the world looked – the buildings looming high, the cars and trams whizzed pass on the roads, the length of the streets stretching into the distance, the hoards of people going about their business, a blur of strangers, no one sparing him even a second glance. How strange and how frightening. Part of him wanted to run away, to escape back to the confines of his cell, to hide behind the thick steel doors. It was all too much, too bewildering all at once. He wondered how he must look to all these people – a gaunt man
in a filthy linen suit, leaning on a crutch, his hair bedraggled, his beard scraggy and unkempt, his trousers falling down. Budapest’s answer to Robinson Crusoe.

  He searched his pockets, remembering the few florins he’d left but of course, the money was not there. He hadn’t expected it to be. He had no choice but to walk across town to his parents’ apartment in this cold.

  Adjusting his crutch, he started to walk holding onto his trousers. After only a few minutes, he had to stop, exhausted. The crutch was a crude thing and the unfinished wood left splinters in his hand. He leant against a garden wall and tried to steady his breathing. This was going to take longer than he’d thought. Summoning up his will, he focussed on the pavement in front of him and started again.

  After an hour and a quarter, he arrived at the foot of his parents’ apartment block. He sat down on a step shivering, less from the cold and more from the physical effort of getting here. His fingers bled, the sweat on his forehead seeped into his eyes, his fringe was plastered onto his skin. But he felt no self-pity. For he was outside, going where he wanted to go under his own free will, this was freedom, this is what he’d dreamt about for over three and half years – for one thousand, three hundred and seventy days. He would have smiled but for the effort of doing so. He was now only minutes away from his mother, his father, a bath, a shave, proper food, and a bed. These were the things that dreams are made of. He only hoped the lift was working.

  As he stepped out of the lift onto the fourth floor, his nose was hit by the various cooking smells emanating from behind the closed doors; a mish-mash of ingredients and aromas; an olfactory assault that left him feeling faint – how rich it all smelt, so overpoweringly strong, so beautiful.

  He knocked on the door and braced himself for his mother’s screams. He braced himself too for the shocked sense of anti-climax – he remembered all too well the day his father came home. The door swung open but instead of his mother, a tall, thin man in a vest stood there, unshaven, a cigarette stuck to his lip. The two men gaped at each other; George noticed the tuft of chest hair poking out of the man’s vest. ‘Well?’