The Black Maria

by Rupert Colley

  ‘But – but can’t you tell me what is it I’m supposed to have done?’ she heard her father ask.

  ‘No. Against regulations. You’ll know soon enough.’

  ‘But my husband hasn’t done anything, have you, Viktor? We’re loyal citizens, firm believers, my husband fought in the revolution – ’

  ‘Look, I couldn’t give a shit; I’ve got my orders. Now go and get dressed. And you...,’ he said addressing Nadya, ‘pack him a bag, a few clothes, nothing more.’

  One of the assistant officers barged into the bedroom and turned on the light. Rosa’s unexpected presence made him jump. ‘What the...’ Rosa backed away from him, trying to squeeze herself into the wall. The man grabbed her hand from behind her back and dragged her into the main room. ‘Boss, look what we’ve got here,’ he said, pushing Rosa into the light.

  Everyone turned round and looked at her. Her mother held her arm out for her. Rosa darted across the room, the veneer of maturity vanishing in an instant, and fell into the warmth of her mother’s clasp. Nadya turned to the officer. ‘Please, comrade, think of my daughter –’

  He ignored her and, turning to Viktor, said, ‘If you don’t want to go out in your night-clothes, I’d get changed right now, if I was you.’

  ‘But I don’t understand...’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, stop pissing me around. You’re under arrest and you coming with us, that much I would have thought was obvious. I’ll give you two minutes, now go and get dressed.’

  Viktor turned and went to the bedroom. Nadya and Rosa followed him. They found the room a mess of clothes as one of the men opened the drawers and scattered various objects across the floor.

  Nadya began to crumple under the duress of violation. ‘What, what are you looking for?’ she asked the man. He didn’t answer her, didn’t look at her. Nadya busied herself by stuffing a few clothes for her husband into a small bag. Rosa sat on the floor in the corner of the room and drew her arms around her knees, desperate to make herself seem as small as possible. From the corner of her eye, she watched her father get dressed. Somehow she knew she’d never see him again, she knew that life as she knew it was coming to an end – right there, right at that moment. No sooner had Viktor finished changing, the uniform in charge declared that it was time to go. The assistants had searched the whole apartment, ripped everything apart in the process and had found nothing to incriminate their victim. But it made little difference, he was still under arrest.

  The four men stood at the door of the apartment, Viktor surrounded by the three black mackintoshes, his vulnerability dwarfed by the menacing representatives of the State – man crushed by the machine. Nadya’s face seemed to be covered by a blanket of pain; Rosa could see the fear in her eyes. Rosa stood as close as possible to her mother. She knew what was happening, but it didn’t explain her incomprehension.

  Viktor looked at them, looked at his wife and daughter, and said, in a quivering voice, ‘It’s just a mistake, you’ll see, I’ll be back in no time.’ Nadya nodded, her hands gripping her daughter’s arms.

  Seconds later, Viktor was gone. Nadya and Rosa stared at the door, at the empty space where a few seconds before Viktor delivered his hollow reassurance. Then Nadya sat down at the table, her mouth gaping open, fighting for air. From the silent street, they heard the sound of a car start up. Rosa went to the window and drew back the curtain. She saw the black van draw away, the trail of exhaust fumes dissipating behind the rear lights.

  ‘Black Maria,’ she said quietly to herself. Walking through to the kitchen, she viewed the mess – the upturned packets of cereals and flour, the pots and pans lying scattered on the work-surface, the shattered teapot and bits of crockery on the kitchen floor.

  A moment later, the main room was filled by the sound of wailing, her mother’s terrifying squeal – bitter and anguished. She looked at her mother, watched the unnatural contortions of her mouth, her body convulsed, her sobs reverberating. Her mother’s heart was breaking right there in front of her. Rosa felt a tremor of annoyance within her – annoyed that she wasn’t the centre of concern.

  That was three years ago. Amazingly, Viktor was eventually returned to them, but her mother did not live long enough to see the day. She died within the year, her heart broken, her spirit crushed.

  But the man lying asleep in front of her wasn’t her father. Whatever the NKVD had done to him had killed him as effectively as a bullet through the back of the head. She felt no love for him now, just a faint longing for the man that used to be, the man she could barely remember. However hard she tried, she simply couldn’t reconcile the two faces of the same man.

  After his arrest, neighbours pointedly turned their backs; acquaintances shunned them, friends stopped calling. They were no longer safe to know, they’d become pariahs. At the time they had most needed friends, they found themselves with none. Even at school, Rosa was avoided. Everyone knew that her father had “disappeared”. Soon afterwards, they were evicted and all their furniture and belongings confiscated. Uncle Petrov managed to use his influence and saved them from the streets. They were given a tiny, one-room apartment – it was squalid and claustrophobic, but when she considered what might have been...

  Meanwhile, Rosa’s mother, accompanied by Aunt Maria, went out every day, trying to find her husband, to discover what crime he’d been arrested for, where they had taken him. Rosa grieved for him. She knew him to be dead. Where her mother fought for a scrap of hope, she wallowed in grief. She pitied her mother’s pointless pursuit for some strand of news, her need to find a lifeline to cling onto. Her mother’s refusal to give in and her own pragmatic acceptance of the worse, proved to be awkward bedfellows. Rather than offering comfort to each other, each found the other’s reaction to Viktor’s arrest aggravating. They fought and took out their frustrations on each other. Their shared suffering only served to sever their relationship. With time and the resilience of youth, Rosa survived her grief. It started the day she stood up at school and denounced her father. She’d been forced into it, and she had never told her mother, but from that moment on, her life began to change. With her uncle’s help, she managed to get into the Komsomol, the Communist Youth League, and learnt the meaning of what it was to be a true proletariat. Her membership of the Komsomol guaranteed her a place at college – her life was falling into place after all. Her father’s crime was a thing of the past, an aberration, for now she had a new love – Stalin.

  Her mother continued to talk of her husband in the present tense while Rosa referred to him in the past. Each year, on 28 February, Nadya bought Viktor a present for his birthday. Each year, on 6 November, Rosa mourned for the day her father was arrested. She’d come to see the date as the anniversary of his ‘death’.

  And then one day, Nadya died. The doctors said she’d suffered a stroke brought on by worry. Rosa hardly grieved. Her mother was not the mother she’d once been. Instead, that role was increasingly filled by Maria. Her aunt and Petrov gave her a room.

  Then came the news that Viktor was coming home. They were told to expect him in two weeks’ time. Rosa burst into tears; it was too unnatural to be true – the dead didn’t come back to life. She’d buried him in her mind years ago and now she was to be confronted with his ghost. But what really hurt was the realisation that her mother had been right after all. There had been a purpose for her hope, and Rosa hated herself for refusing so resolutely to share her mother’s faith. She felt humbled, humiliated even. She’d let her father down, as well as her mother. And now, the opportunity to apologise to her mother had gone, although she doubted she would ever have found the strength to have said sorry.

  Those two weeks became unbearable for Rosa, heightened by her aunt’s agitated nervousness. She could tell that Petrov didn’t want anything to do with his brother-in-law. Maria had warned her not to expect the father she’d known and Rosa didn’t know what she meant by that. When she thought of her father, there was only one way of visualising him, she couldn’t contempla
te an alternative. The anticipation of Viktor’s return filled her with dread and tormented her thoughts.

  There was no joy in Viktor’s homecoming; no celebration, no bunting, no fanfares. Just an old man who looked close to death. ‘Give him a hug, Rosa,’ Maria had said. Rosa obliged but the bodily contact repulsed her. This wasn’t her father, she’d been right all along.

  Over the weeks, Viktor’s sceptre-like presence filled the apartment. He rarely moved, spoke only occasionally and even then, very briefly, but his presence dominated the limited space, his shadow seemed to encroach over Rosa’s domestic life. She never complained, didn’t dare to, and merely tolerated his overbearing presence. She felt no love for him, just a resentment that the father of now wasn’t the father of before. It wasn’t his fault, she knew that, but she couldn’t help but blame him for it. It was a huge relief when she secured a place at college, a lifeline to sanity, which she grabbed with indecent haste.

  Rosa glanced at her watch. Vladimir didn’t like it when she was late. It wasn’t a woman’s prerogative; it was merely bad organisation and lack of self-discipline. He was a librarian, after all, everything in his life was neatly compartmentalised. At least, she hoped he was. She took another look at her sleeping father and rose from the chair. As she turned to leave, she stopped. Then, turning round, she approached him, leant down and kissed his forehead. For a moment, she thought she saw a faint flicker of a smile on the old man’s lips.

  *

  ‘Tonight, Rosa, you’re in for a very special treat.’ Vladimir’s grin spread broadly across his face, like a boy with a secret he can’t wait to reveal. His eyes positively twinkled with anticipation.

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Wait and see.’

  Rosa was used to being spoilt by her new boyfriend – each trip out seemed to reveal an even greater surprise. She wished sometimes that she had the appropriate clothes for these glamorous places. Each time she had to wear the same drab outfit, so poorly made and carelessly sewn. Occasionally, he managed to commandeer a car, but tonight they caught the streetcar to a destination unknown. And yet, he did all this and asked for nothing in return. At 25, she’d expected him to be more demanding, but no, his manners were exemplary, his conduct chivalrous. Frankly, it was disappointing. Sometimes, she wondered what Vladimir wanted from her. However much she dolled herself up, however much she lingered at the college gates when he dropped her off, he never made an inappropriate pass. What did it take?, she asked herself.

  Vladimir was wearing his usual cream mackintosh, tied tightly by a belt, his black shoes carefully polished, his fair hair neatly combed with a perfect parting to the left. But tonight he was also wearing a dark blue, silken scarf that Rosa hadn’t seen before. She’d been tempted to ask him where he got it from but decided against it.

  ‘Were you at college today?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, we were rehearsing the play.’

  ‘And how are your friends, Boris and Ella, isn’t it?’

  Rosa thought of Ella and her excessive make-up, her perfect hair and the abortion so carefully filed away in the depths of her consciousness. ‘Yes, and Claudia. Ella’s the pretty one, though, very pretty – you’d like her.’ She hoped for a reaction but Vladimir’s expression gave nothing away.

  ‘And how about this Boris, you said he’s a Jew?’

  ‘Yes, I found out today his father was a rabbi. And he, er, also declared his undying love for me today.’

  She watched him carefully. ‘Did he indeed,’ he said with a muffled laugh, gazing out of the window at the passing pedestrians. ‘Can’t say I blame him.’

  ‘Oh, really? Why do you say that?’

  ‘A rabbi, you say?’

  She sighed. ‘Yes, Vladimir, a rabbi.’

  They rode in silence for a few stops down Tverskaya Street, or, to use its new name, Gorky Street. The street was being widened and consequently, it was a like travelling through a continuous building site. Rosa looked sideways at Vladimir. Perhaps, her aunt was right. She liked Vladimir, she liked him a lot but she needed something more. His mystery had been part of the charm but now the novelty was wearing off. She desired trust, not secrets. After a while, he asked her about the Chekhov rehearsals and she replied in detail and wondered whether he was listening. ‘So how’s life at the library?’ she asked nonchalantly.

  ‘Quiet,’ he said, abruptly. ‘Here we are.’

  As they jumped off the streetcar, Rosa noticed a row of large black cars parked along the street and wondered what they were doing there. The sight of them made her shudder, they all looked so shiny and officious, with their spoked wheels and running boards. Near the cars, a small huddle of ragged people had gathered, looking through a shop window. Vladimir walked towards them and silently but brusquely pushed his way through. People stepped back to let him through, and Rosa saw they were eyeing a shop display and the goods no one but the people in the black cars could afford. To Rosa’s surprise, Vladimir walked directly up to a door where a militiaman stood, flashed a card which he produced from his pocket, and then said something to the soldier in a hushed tone. The soldier nodded and stood aside for Vladimir to pass.

  ‘Come,’ he said.

  ‘Are we going in?’

  ‘Yes, come.’

  ‘But this is the Gastronom Number One, isn’t it?’

  ‘Nothing but the best, Rosa, nothing but the best.’

  Rosa stepped in and was surprised how big and extravagant the hallway seemed. From outside, it seemed like an ordinary dwelling but it was obviously something a bit special. A colourful red patterned carpet lined the corridor, chandeliers hung from the ceiling and portraits of Party officials adorned the walls. ‘What is this?’

  ‘You’ll see in a minute. You have to sign here,’ he said, pointing to an open visitors book resting on a table covered in a bright, white tablecloth. Vladimir led her down the corridor and knocked on the large imposing door at the end of the hallway. The door swung open and Vladimir walked through taking Rosa by the hand. Another uniformed man approached Vladimir with a polite smile and took his coat. The man turned to Rosa.

  ‘Rosa, your coat?’ said Vladimir.

  But Rosa was standing next to the door; her mouth had dropped open in awe of what was laid out in front of her. From outside, no one would have suspected, but inside was a lavish store of such grandiose means that it took her breath away. ‘I never realised there were places like this,’ she said to herself as Vladimir relieved her of her coat. Men in uniforms wandered around the room accompanied by extravagantly dressed women, inspecting what was on offer to them, making purchases, handing over ration cards, filling their shopping bags. The nearest table was laden with foodstuffs of the sort she didn’t know existed in such abundance. She knew that there were shops for the privileged but she never imagined this. It wasn’t so much the sight of all this food, but the assault on her sense of smell. Olfactory memories crowded in on her; smells she’d forgotten, aromas she didn’t know. The pure perfume of dairy goods fought against the smell of freshly butchered meat, which finally succumbed to the dizzying smell of fish. Her stomach contracted as if rebelling against the saliva forming on her tongue. She approached the table and avoided the assistant’s helpful smile as if her eyes would give away that she didn’t belong, that she was only here under false pretences. She cast her eye over the glorious bounty of foodstuffs. There were a dozen varieties of cheese; yellow, white and blue, cheeses with fancy French names. There was butter as yellow as gold, and eggs – huge shiny eggs. She’d forgotten that food could smell so strongly. Next to the dairy products was a table of fruit. Rosa picked up an orange and tried to remember the last time she’d eaten a piece of fruit. She wandered to the next table and stood awestruck by the sight and smell of sausages in numerous shapes and sizes, of freshly-cut bacon, of recently-plucked fowl.

  Rosa wandered in a daze, aware that Vladimir was hovering behind her. ‘I have my uses, don’t you think?’ he said gleefully. ‘Have y
ou ever come across this?’

  He was holding up a blood-red bottle with a bright label on it, written, she thought, in English. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s American. It’s called ketchup.’

  ‘Catch up?’

  Vladimir laughed. ‘Ketchup. It’s a sauce.’

  A few paces further along, Rosa came across a fish tank full of live fish. ‘What would you like, comrade?’ asked the plump male assistant, wearing white overalls, poised with a small fish net, at the ready. ‘We have pike, trout, carp, bream, whatever you like.’

  Rosa smiled weakly.

  She presumed that the prices would be astronomical, she imagined a month’s salary for a few sausages, but no, she was wrong. The cost for the most gorgeous, mouth-watering food was so much less than the most basic, unappetising food available to them as ordinary citizens.

  ‘But I don’t understand, how do you...’ She couldn’t finish the sentence, unsure how to frame a dozen questions into one.

  ‘Let’s just say, I know a few people,’ he said, with a wink. ‘But even I’m rationed, there’s only so much I’m permitted per week, but I want you to enjoy yourself, whatever is mine is yours, Rosa.’ He handed her his ration card. She studied it for a few seconds and realised that in one week, Vladimir could purchase what Maria could afford in perhaps three months or more. She thought of her poor aunt and her just-in-case bag.

  Rosa stared at him, still in a state of disbelief. His gleeful grin had changed into a smile of sincerity, of a man who wanted to make a difference to her life, if only briefly, and to show her that another, better world existed under the very noses of those who daily survived without. But Rosa’s disbelief was not joyous. She realised she knew little about her boyfriend but not until this moment had she realised quite how deep her ignorance was. She knew nothing about him and even less about the world he occupied. Ella was right, this man was not a librarian and she had every right to ask for the truth but something held her back; the truth frightened her. Instead, she merely shook her head.