The Black Maria

by Rupert Colley

  ‘Vladimir,’ I said, trying to force a smile but pleased to see him.

  His eyes, though bright blue, had already lost the radiance of youth, tinged as they were with a streak of ruthlessness that came with his job. He placed the file on Rykov’s desk. ‘The Technology Institute report you asked for, comrade sir.’

  Rykov nodded without looking at his young assistant. He took the file, opened it, and scanned his eyes down the top page.

  Vladimir shuffled from one foot to another, waiting for an instruction. He caught my eye and smiled weakly. I couldn’t reconcile the two faces of Rosa’s boyfriend. On the rare occasions we met, he behaved like any boy in front of his girlfriend’s aunt – courteous, shy and slightly awkward. But, according to Rykov, Vladimir was set for a meteoric rise through the ranks of the Secret Police – and surely, that could only mean one thing.

  Rykov closed the file and placed it to one side. ‘Tell me, Vladimir Petrovich, are you still seeing something of the lovely Rosa?’

  Vladimir blushed, his ears turning red. ‘Yes, comrade sir.’

  ‘And, Maria, surely, as a good aunt, it must bother you that your niece is seeing an employee of the NKVD. How much simpler it would be for you if your niece’s boyfriend was the librarian he tells her he is.’ He laughed. ‘A librarian! I take my hat off to you, Comrade Vladimir.’

  Of course it bothered me; I hated it. And no matter how much Vladimir spoilt Rosa with trips to the theatre, the ballet or restaurants, I couldn’t disguise my distaste for my niece’s choice of boyfriend. I couldn’t even find solace in the thought that he was safe from arrest. Employees of the NKVD were as liable to be arrested as any other citizen.

  Rykov continued. ‘You should see him at work. Unmerciful he is. Look at him, the long streak of piss – you wouldn’t credit it, would you?’ He looked up at the awkward youngster and winked at him. ‘So tell us then, have you fucked her yet?’

  I gasped for breath, my fingers gripping my thighs. Vladimir shot me a mortified look. ‘This is my niece you’re talking about,’ I said.

  Rykov’s mocking expression turned instantly grave, his nostrils twitching like a bull’s. Immediately I regretted my outburst. ‘And it’s your brother whose liberty is at stake here.’ He kept his glare fixed on me while addressing his assistant, ‘OK, Vladimir Petrovich, leave us now.’

  ‘Sir.’ Vladimir raised his eyebrows at me by means of apology and hurriedly left, closing the door gently behind him.

  I trembled. ‘I’m sorry, Comrade Rykov. Please, I beg of you, don’t send Viktor back. Give me another chance.’ I’d have gladly fallen at his feet, licked his shoes, lifted my skirt, anything. Anything. And it wasn’t my sense of dignity that held me back – I’d lost that long ago – but the knowledge that Rykov must have seen it a hundred times before.

  Rykov leant back in his chair, his fingers forming a steeple, and looked at me as if making up his mind. ‘Well, Maria Radekovna, I see our relationship as a contract based on a two-way dialogue. Come empty-handed again and I will have no option but to consider our contract finished, do you understand?’

  I nodded enthusiastically, he was giving me another chance, and I was experiencing an unexpected warmth for the man. Rykov continued. ‘You can have your second chance but don’t fail me again. It’s up to you, Maria – your home and your brother’s freedom lie entirely in your hands.’

  I thanked him profusely. Moments later, I was back outside with no remembrance of leaving the office, descending the stairs or being shown out. Outside, I shivered against the cold air while grimacing at the sticky feeling of sweat pressing on my back. How I wished to be home, in bed, asleep, away from Rykov. Walking quickly down the cobbled backstreet, I realised the enormity of what I still had to do.

  Chapter 4: The School

  ‘I don’t believe it, the bloody water’s frozen again.’ Rosa stood shivering in her pyjamas and jumper, and stared at the dry washbasin, willing the water to appear. She turned and looked at her two friends: Claudia was sitting on the edge of her bed, her pink cheeks stretched in a yawn, while Ella sat in front of the mirror, combing her hair, concentrating on producing the perfect parting in her strawberry blonde locks. Rosa had always been jealous of Ella’s hair, her petite nose, her pure blue eyes. She was by far the most attractive girl in the university. She placed her hand on the metal of the zigzagged flu. ‘God, it’s cold, can’t we get the stove hotter?’

  Claudia tutted. ‘There’s no more wood and we used up the last of the newspaper last night, remember?’

  Rosa rattled the taps in the forlorn hope of making a difference. Everything felt so damn cold. She pulled back the grubby lace curtains and scraped her fingernails against the glass. ‘Even the window’s frosted over.’ She climbed back into the warmth of her bed and pulled the covers over her. The dormitory room was small with a bunk bed, a second bed, the sink and the dressing table. The walls were decorated with pink and white-stripped wallpaper, the floor covered in dark-blue linoleum.

  ‘I can’t concentrate when it’s this cold,’ said Claudia.

  ‘Don’t complain, it could be worse,’ said Ella. ‘Anyway, I don’t know what you’re moaning about.’

  ‘What’s that meant to mean?’

  ‘Well... you know, you probably don’t feel the cold as much,’ said Ella, pulling the comb down the length of her hair.

  Claudia stood up and hovered behind Ella, catching her friend’s eye in the mirror’s reflection. ‘Are you saying I’m fat?’

  Ella laughed. ‘As if I would, I’m just saying – ’

  ‘I know what you’re saying.’

  ‘Stop it, you two,’ said Rosa through a yawn. She watched Ella as her friend attacked the lipstick. ‘Heck, Ella, how long does it take?’

  ‘Long enough.’

  ‘I hope he appreciates the effort?’

  ‘Oh, he appreciates it all right,’ she said, pouting her lips.

  Claudia started getting dressed, pulling on a thick cotton dress. She prodded Rosa’s bed. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘get up or you’ll miss breakfast.’ Rosa groaned. Claudia sneaked her hand beneath the covers and tickled her friend. Rosa squealed and before she had chance to react Claudia was tickling her mercilessly.

  The three friends had shared their dormitory room at the institute for almost a year. They’d become used to each other’s habits and foibles, had become dependent on one another, and had become firm friends. Claudia was the youngest and despite the institute’s inadequate diet, had maintained a healthy layer of puppy fat. Both her parents worked in a steel factory. Ella was the daughter of a technical engineer and lived with her vanity and an unswerving adoration of a chemistry student called Gregory. These were the children of the proletariat, the new class of student, where one’s social origins counted for more than intelligence or standing; where their political credentials were held in greater esteem than their educational attainments.

  Half an hour later, the three girls were in the packed canteen, a large wooden-floored hall that smelt of porridge and reverberated with the sounds of dozens of students on long wooden benches at linoleum-covered tables. A large banner draped on the wall proclaimed, “Food Co-Operation Opens The Way To A New Life”. On the far white-washed wall, above the main entrance, hung a huge portrait of Stalin in semi-profile, wearing his ubiquitous military jacket. Beneath the painting, stood an old brazier, the only source of warmth in the huge hall. Breakfast consisted of a small bowl of porridge, a piece of black bread and a lukewarm cup of black tea.

  ‘So, what happened to you last night then, eh?’ asked Ella grinning at Rosa.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ said Rosa, catching the accusatory tone in her friend’s voice.

  ‘A little bird told me they saw you last night,’ she said, with a mouthful of black bread. ‘You were with your boyfriend. You were coming out the Hotel Prague. Now, that’s posh. So come on, who is he?’

  Rosa sighed. It was impossible to keep a secret in Moscow. She was about to at
tempt an evasive answer when, from behind her, she heard a familiar voice. ‘May I join you?’ She raised her eyebrows in acknowledgement as the young student sat down next to her. He was a Jewish boy, his black hair swept to one side, his tortoise-shell glasses exaggerating the size of his eyes.

  ‘Hello, Boris,’ said Rosa, relieved at her friend’s timely intervention. She noticed that he was still wearing the same jacket he wore every day, with its worn elbows and missing middle button. He smiled weakly and rubbed his hands against the cold. Rosa liked Boris; he was a loyal friend and she’d known him from school, but she couldn’t help feeling slightly embarrassed in his company because of his undisguised fondness for her.

  ‘Hello, Rosa,’ he said with a smile. ‘Claudia, Ella.’

  ‘Rosa’s about to tell us about this mysterious man she’s been seeing,’ said Claudia, gleefully.

  Rosa felt her cheeks burn. Claudia could be so damn tactless sometimes. She shot her friend a scornful look but if Claudia noticed, she made no show of it.

  ‘Go on then, Rosa, do tell.’

  Rosa sighed and noticed Boris shuffling uncomfortably in his seat. ‘If you must know,’ she said, ‘his name is Vladimir but he’s not my boyfriend, he’s just a friend.’

  Ella grinned. ‘Hmm, done well for yourself there, haven’t you?’

  ‘He’s OK.’

  She nudged Rosa with her elbow. ‘Have you, er, you know...’

  Boris interrupted. ‘Please, do we have to?’

  ‘I’m just interested, y’know. Well?’ she asked, with a wink.

  ‘Ella, it’s none of your business, but as it happens, no we haven’t. Like I said, he’s just a friend, that’s all.’

  ‘What else did you do; last night I mean?’

  Rosa blushed. ‘He, erm, took me out for a meal.’

  ‘Bloody hell, what does he do?’

  Boris looked forlorn. ‘I wish I had the means to take you out like that,’ he said.

  ‘Shut up, Boris,’ said Ella. ‘So go on, what does he do?’

  ‘He works for the Moscow Public Library.’

  Ella and Claudia scoffed and even Boris raised his eyebrows. ‘Moscow Public Library, my arse,’ said Claudia. ‘Unless he’s Mister Supremo, he’ll be getting almost as paltry an amount as our grants. How could he afford to take you out to the Hotel Prague on what they earn?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe he saved up.’

  ‘Wise up,’ said Ella. ‘He doesn’t work for the library. He’s got an important job somewhere.’

  ‘Yeah, something that comes with privileges,’ added Claudia.

  Rosa felt herself blush again, this time because of her naivety. The thought had already occurred to her but she had pushed it to one side, preferring not to know. But did it matter what he did? She tried to tell herself that no, it didn’t matter. But somehow, she’d failed to convince herself as much as she’d failed to convince her friends – because it did matter, it mattered very much. Vladimir was holding something back and how can you give yourself to a man who doesn’t fully give himself to you?

  *

  ‘And so, in conclusion, comrades, we are left with Comrade Stalin. And only Stalin can truly be considered Lenin’s natural successor, his one and only disciple. In a truly Marxist tradition, only Stalin is capable of carrying Lenin’s teachings forward and interpreting them in a manner that Lenin would have approved of and been proud of. We live in a glorious time. When the world finally catches up with us, when the masses dominate throughout the globe, when the capitalist empires are revealed for what they are, we will be the envy of nations, the forefathers of class revolution. And Comrade Stalin will be at its pinnacle, standing as no leader has stood before...’

  Rosa listened eagerly. She’d heard it a hundred times before over the years, from when she first started school, when it was drummed into her with constant regularity. And although she was still listening to it now, at university, it was something she never tired of. Her country was leading the way, and for that she felt immense pride. Almost half her curriculum consisted of politically-orientated subjects – the history of the Revolution and the Party, socialist economics, Marxist theory and so on. Yes, sometimes it could be dull but she didn’t mind, education was the passport to a good life. She hoped, one day, to become a teacher, to contribute to the liquidation of illiteracy.

  The lecturer, Comrade Kalinikov, was a thin tall balding man who wore red braces and the same suit every day and Rosa reckoned, by its condition, he had worn it daily for years. He wore a pair of metal-rimmed spectacles which he fiddled with continuously, as if perpetually nervous. The classroom itself was a shabby affair. The peeling white paint had taken on a yellowy tinge and everything was filthy. The floors were covered in dust, cobwebs stretched across the ceilings and the windows had ceased to allow light through their blackened panes.

  ‘Of course, artistic fashions change, often dictated by the political climate of the time – there is no contradiction in that. The abstract art of the early years following the revolution is now, quite rightly, frowned upon, but they served a purpose that was right for the time. Politically, the country had just gone through radical changes and art reflected that. These were progressive men who sought to rid themselves of the yoke of the bourgeois tradition and we can understand that. But the revolution is almost twenty years old now, and we live in more stable times. Yes, things are still changing and improving apace, but we can allow ourselves the luxury of looking back and embracing our rich artistic heritage...’

  She loved her country, loved Stalin and read Lenin voraciously. She felt nothing but pity for the rest of the world and the wretched conditions in which the workers laboured. But the USSR was there to show the way. There wasn’t enough paper in the world to describe the joys of being a citizen of the Soviet Union. She’d been born in 1917 – the year of the Revolution! That made her special. She thanked God for having given her the privilege of being alive during such wondrous times. Could any other country provide its workers with theatres and clubs, and education for themselves and their children; free medical facilities, crèches, kindergartens and so on? Yes, OK, she’d heard vaguely of the famines, of the mass liquidizations, the forced exiles, but that all harped back years. Now surely, things were different. And yes, she’d also heard of the purges, the arrests, the deportations. But things were only that bad if you paid any attention to the scaremongers and the gossips. Anyway, no one ever said the road to the socialist utopia was easy. The Soviet citizen was one who lived in the house at the same time as building it. The ends justified the means, as far as she was concerned, and if it meant a few dubious elements were rooted out, then so be it. It just so happened that one of the victims had been her father. He was her one secret. But that was just a mistake – after all, they sent him back, didn’t they? But somehow, it was still a secret. She visualised his drawn face with those deep, shallow eyes devoid of any perceivable emotion. Sometimes she found herself wondering whether it had been a mistake. What if he had deviated from the path? Well, if that was the case, then it served him right. Father or no father, Stalin always came first.

  And then there was Ella. That was someone else’s secret but did her knowledge of it make it her secret as well? Poor Ella, desperate to use her looks to advance in life, to become an actress. But then, recently, she became pregnant. A baby was the last thing she needed, so she had an abortion. Had she had it only a few months before, it would have been permissible. After the revolution, women were allowed to do to their bodies as they saw fit and abortion was perfectly permissible. But with the new emphasis on the family, the Party introduced harsh new measures against it. You were no longer allowed to have an abortion for personal, economic or social reasons. Ella had taken a risk and now she had to live with the knowledge of what she had done.

  Comrade Kalinikov was finishing off. ‘OK, we meet again tomorrow, when we’ll be discussing historic materialism.’ Now that, thought Rosa, was something she wasn’t so keen on. ‘Than
k you, you may proceed to the canteen for lunch now.’ Lunch – what a euphemism that was. The students were perpetually hungry, but we suffer today, she said to herself, so we may reap the benefits tomorrow. With tomorrow, would come abundance. It was just that sometimes, tomorrow seemed a long way off.

  *

  Carrying her tray, Rosa queued at the canteen’s long counter. A kitchen operative, wearing white overalls, passed her a bowl of cabbage soup, a plate of gruel and a cutlet of some indeterminable meat, together with a slice of black bread. The queue for cutlery at the end of the counter took even longer; such was the shortage of knives and forks. Eventually, a clean batch of cutlery was thrown into the large wooden box. Rosa helped herself and then looked around for someone to sit with. She found Claudia, Ella and Boris sitting together in the corner of the canteen under Stalin’s scrutinising gaze. ‘Hello everyone,’ she said cheerfully, sitting down. ‘We’re casting this afternoon, aren’t we?’

  ‘Hmm,’ muttered Claudia, through a mouthful of black bread.

  ‘Chekhov is so boring,’ yawned Ella.

  Claudia thrust her elbow into Ella’s ribs. ‘Shut up, you fool,’ she said quietly, glancing around her. ‘That mouth will get you in trouble one of these days.’

  Ella smiled sarcastically.

  Rosa slurped at her soup, which was already cold. ‘If we’re lucky we might all get to play the three sisters.’

  ‘Three witches, more like,’ said Claudia mashing the cutlet into the greyish gruel.

  ‘Speak for yourself.’

  Rosa eyed Boris who was busying himself by cutting his meat into small pieces. ‘Are you hoping for a part, Boris?’

  Boris looked up. ‘A part?’

  ‘You know, the play.’

  ‘The Three Sisters,’ added Claudia by way of clarification.