At least, he had the satisfaction of seeing his rival removed out of Rosa’s reach. He had enjoyed that, watching from the back of the auditorium. The look on his face, the way that smug certainty drained away as the realisation hit home. He so admired the way Comrade Pletnev had put the questions, slowly raising the pressure – the man was young, but what a professional. Vladimir could learn a lot from men like him. Poor Rosa, an unguarded word (Yes, Vladimir, a rabbi) and he had him where he wanted. The rest was simple. He wrote out a brief denunciation and posted it into one of the college’s special boxes, erected specifically for the purpose. It’d amused him how he had to take his place in a queue of students and even a few lecturers – all eager to post their foul scribbled notes into the black metal box. It was incumbent on all to denounce each other – one was viewed suspiciously if one didn’t. Whom, people might ask, were you trying to defend, why aren’t you doing your duty and exposing these traitors, these spies and deviationists? And yet, putting one’s name to paper still took some courage. What if the allegation backfired? And no one would dare add their name if the allegations were untruths or simply downright lies. So, although some may have been bold enough to have signed their damning indictments, most, like his, would have been written anonymously. What had he said? He tried to remember. Something, he thought, along the lines of:
“Dear Commissioners,
I can relate that the student, Comrade Boris Gershberg of the Institute’s Arts Faculty, is the son of a Jewish rabbi, now deceased. My contacts affirm that his father never made any attempts to renounce his faith for the stupidity it is. I have this information on good authority and in good faith.
Yours, etc.,
A concerned senior lecturer of this college.
At first, he’d signed it as “A concerned student...”, but decided it would have more impact if delivered by a lecturer, a senior one at that. And that signalled the end of old Boris and his lovelorn ways. Vladimir looked at his watch – he and Boris were due their first meeting.
A knock on the door brought him back to the present. ‘Enter.’
‘Your interviewee, boss,’ said the guard.
‘Ah, I was just thinking of him. Bring him in.’ He leant back in the chair and smiled as the young Jew with the tortoise-shell glasses entered the room and stood before him. The guard closed the door behind him. He looked at Boris, whose eyes darted from Vladimir to the divan behind him, the bookshelves and back to Vladimir. He was nervous all right, thought Vladimir with satisfaction as he stretched and clicked his fingers. ‘Sit.’
‘Tha-thanks.’
‘So, why do you think you’re here, Comrade Gershberg?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Sure?’
Boris nodded. Vladimir sighed, he was tired and didn’t want to play games. ‘Tell me what happened last night?’
‘I got expelled from college. Am I under arrest?’
‘And why were you expelled?’
Boris shrugged his shoulders, an action which, for some reason, Vladimir found deeply annoying. ‘Am I under arrest?’ he asked again.
‘Now listen here, you yid, I was there, so I know, but I want to hear it in your own words.’
Boris swallowed, his brow wrinkled. ‘Someone informed the Purge Commission that my father had been a rabbi.’
‘And...? Go on.’
‘But it’s ludicrous. He died when I was five. Why should I be held responsible for that? My mother married again and together, with her new husband, they brought me up – he’s my real father, not some man I barely remember.’
‘An apple never – ’
‘“Falls far from the tree”, so they said.’
‘No, to answer your question, you’re not under arrest – yet.’
‘So, why am I here?’
‘I just thought you and I should have a chat. Are you a practising Jew?’
‘What d’you think? Of course not. Come to my house, you won’t see anything.’
‘So, what’s your relationship with Rosa?’
‘You know Rosa?’ Boris raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes, I know Rosa.’
‘How do you know her?’
‘I’m the one asking questions here. I ask you again, what’s your relationship with Rosa?’
‘She’s someone I thought I could trust but apparently I was wrong.’
‘And why is that?’
But Boris didn’t answer. Instead he fixed his eyes on Vladimir as the wheels of his brain worked it out. His eyes widened as the realisation hit him. ‘It’s you, isn’t it? You’re the librarian.’
Vladimir sniggered. ‘Well, it worked for a while but I don’t think she thinks I’m a librarian any more.’
‘So, she told you.’
‘Yes, she told me; told me you’re a yid.’
‘I’m not a yid,’ said Boris quietly. ‘I’m a communist and you can’t tell me otherwise.’
‘Yes I can, as did the Purge Commission,’ he said rising to his feet. ‘Your social origins are detestable.’ He paced around the table and placed a hand on the back of Boris’s chair. Boris instinctively leant away. ‘Understand this, Gershberg, you are this far from arrest,’ he indicated the narrowest of gaps between his finger and thumb. ‘We have plenty to arrest you with already, but work is piling up at the moment, lots of purges to work on – ’
‘Oh, poor you – ’
Vladimir’s fist lashed out. He caught him in the jaw with a dull thud. Boris pitched back but managed to maintain his balance and remain on the chair. He rubbed his jaw when Vladimir struck him a second blow catching him on the side of his nose. This time he fell sideways off the chair and landed on his knees, his glasses falling to the floor. Vladimir darted round from the back of his chair. Boris cowered. Vladimir hovered above him, his fist ready to strike. ‘Now hear this, you little shit, you speak to Rosa again, I’ll pulp your balls, you understand?’ His words came in short breaths as the sweat formed on his forehead. ‘And... and if she finds out what I do, I’ll hold you responsible, got it?’
Boris, still on his knees, his hands cupped around his head, looked nervously up at him.
Vladimir glared down at him, breathing through his teeth, and felt the hatred rising inside him like a torrent. With a grunt, he swung his boot, calf muscles clenched, and felt the surge of pleasure as the leather made a crunching contact with the ribs. This time, Boris bawled in pain as he fell back on the floor.
He whipped out his scarf and deftly wrapped it round Boris’s neck. Tightening it, he growled, ‘I said got it?’
‘Yes,’ spluttered Boris. ‘OK.’
‘Right, get out.’ Boris peered up at him. ‘Get out.’ Vladimir watched him as Boris collected his glasses and staggered to his feet, wincing in pain and panting as he tried to straighten up. ‘Don’t forget, one word to Rosa and your balls are pulped,’ he snarled. Boris took this as his cue and made for the door. As he opened it, a guard appeared from the hallway and blocked his path. ‘Show him out,’ muttered Vladimir, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief.
As the door closed, Vladimir puffed his cheeks and went to sit back in Rykov’s chair, the big chair. Sitting down, he rested his head on his arm. He felt exhausted but at least, he thought, he’d made his point. Now it was down to him to take Rosa into his confidence and introduce her to the idea that his was a dirty but necessary job. The defence of the Motherland was paramount and no one ever said it was going to be easy.
Chapter 12: The Meeting
‘Why are you doing this to me?’
I was running through a churchyard in my nightgown, darting in and out between the headstones in the warm moonlit night. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ The question came again, this time louder and nearer, catching up. The whiteness of my night-gown glowed under the light of the fluorescent moon, my hair loose, trailing behind me as I ran glancing back at my pursuer. But then I tripped over something in the dark and landed with a thud at the foot of a grave. ‘Why are you doi
ng this to me?’ I still couldn’t see him, but the voice was so near, I felt as if it was coming from within me. I opened my eyes, and there he was, looming above me, his eyes barely inches above mine.
‘Petrov? Petrov, it’s still dark. What... what time is it?’
‘About five.’
I smelt his breath, the warm, musty smell of his sleepy breath. ‘But what... I don’t understand. Why are you awake?’
‘Why are you doing this to me, Maria?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Don’t you love me any more?’
Love? I’d never heard Petrov use the word. And yet he said it without any hint of self-consciousness, as if it was part of his everyday vocabulary.
‘Maria?’
What could I say? The question contained a presupposition – that I loved him in the first place. He saw love where I saw dependence. He held my life in his hands, but I held his love in mine. I needed to say something affirming but not promising. ‘You know I’ll always be indebted to you, Petrov.’
‘So why then?’
‘Because you think you love me but you don’t; not truly – ’
‘No – ’
‘Please, let me finish. All you need from a woman is someone who stays at home, has little contact with the outside world and few friends as possible. Perhaps, that’s enough for some women, but... but not for me, not any more. I’m bored, Petrov, you must see that. I need to start living; I need to connect with the world. You can’t imagine what it’s like for me – I do virtually nothing. I keep the house tidy for you and what else? I have no friends, I spend hours queuing, a bit of translation and sewing, and that’s about it. We hardly speak because I have nothing to say. I’m still young, you forget that sometimes. Oh, I’ve seen a lot, too much and yes, for a while, I needed to hide away, but now...’
‘Now?’
‘You don’t love me. To you, I’m just another household object. Please, I’m asking you, no, I’m begging you... give me my freedom.’
He sat on the edge of the bed, his back to me, running his fingers through his air. He seemed to be contemplating it for a moment. Without turning, he said quietly, ‘No, I shall not, I cannot. You are my wife, you will remain my wife.’ Was that it, I thought? Was that the end of it, a stark declaration? But then he continued. ‘Furthermore, you are not to see this artist friend of yours again. Is that understood?’
‘No,’ I snarled, ‘it isn’t understood. How... how dare you dictate.’ Stop it, I thought, just stop it, my anger wouldn’t change anything. I took a deep breath and decided to try a different tack. ‘Petrov, what’s the point? You’re a man of position, you could find yourself someone else, someone who values you for what you are. Surely, you must realise it, I... I don’t love you.’ His shoulders moved as if my words had caused him physical pain. ‘I don’t think I ever have and I think you know that.’
‘Love? You talk of love as if it’s important.’ He spun round to face me. ‘It’s not though, is it? If you think about it, love is merely a convenience. What’s important is living. This obsession with the self, it’s not right, it’s not why we’re here. Don’t you see we’re the lucky ones? We’re building a future, we’re part of the experiment, the great socialist experiment. And it sickens me to hear you carry on about yourself as if nothing else mattered. What we do for socialism, what we do for the Party – that’s what’s important. And do you know, sometimes I lie awake at night and worry. I worry because of whom and what I’ve married.’
‘Well, let me go then.’
‘In my position? I can’t be seen as a divorcee. No, but if I denounce you, then yes, that’s all right, one less enemy to worry about.’
‘You wouldn’t denounce me, Petrov.’
‘No? You try to leave me and what choice would I have?’
‘And if I told them the truth, that you knowingly married me despite knowing that I was an outcast on the streets?’
‘I’d deny it. Who do you think they’d believe, eh? Answer me that.’
I fell back against the pillow. He was right, of course. They’d never believe me; whatever I said would account for nothing. Petrov returned to bed and wrapped himself in the warmth of the blankets. After a while, I realised he’d fallen asleep. But for me, sleep would not come. The years stretched before me: a life of servitude, servitude to Petrov, servitude to the Party and the mighty Socialist cause. I lay there, my eyes wide open and stared out of the window. As the sun rose, I felt a sheet of despondency drift over me. I was trapped and no number of new dawns was going to release me or offer me hope. I knew there and then, I had to do something. Desperation could only be remedied by drastic measures – that much I had learnt already. I’d hoped never to feel that desperate again but as the cold dawn rose, I could feel the surging in my heart. I had experienced it before and I knew where it had led me. But this time, at least, I had an ally.
*
I managed to persuade Dmitry to invite me to the RAPA meeting that Mikhail had mentioned. It was taking place in a large upstairs room above a café, just a couple of miles from where he lived. Dmitry had got there early in order to have a late breakfast with some of his old friends. I felt sick as I made my way, knowing what I had to do. I’d done this before – infiltrated a meeting, watched them at work, made mental notes and decided who I should choose to be the NKVD’s next victim. It was a sickening chore, playing the role of the Devil, pointing my evil stick at some unsuspecting citizen.
I got there at ten thirty and the meeting had already started. The well-dressed manager of the café showed me up the stairs and knocked gently on the door for me before disappearing back down the stairs. I could hear voices from within but no one said come in. I waited for a few moments before opening the door a fraction and slipping in unobserved.
‘Whether by accident or design, if the work is not worthy of socialism, it is our fundamental duty to point out the error of their ways.’ Mikhail was at the far end of the room, standing behind a wooden-top table with iron legs, lecturing his select audience. ‘The artist is an impulsive being, he doesn’t always think before committing an idea to the canvas, the block of stone or whatever his medium...’ I stood next to the door with my back pressed against the wall, and surveyed the scene: it was a large room with a high ceiling and long windows that flooded the space with cold sunlight. The smell of cigarette smoke hung in the air. There must have been twenty or so men in suits men sitting in hard upright chairs in rows, their backs to me, listening to the animated Mikhail. I could see Dmitry among them, his black hair against the white collar of his shirt, sitting to the far right in the back row.
‘You, as artists, know perfectly well,’ continued Mikhail, ‘that rational thought and inspiration are not always natural bedfellows. The artist gets carried away, his mind becomes single-tracked and nothing else matters but the work at hand.’
A hand shot up in the air, ‘We don’t all work like that,’ said a bald-headed man in the second row. ‘All my work is carefully worked out beforehand, I’m meticulous in my planning.’
‘Here, here,’ said another.
Mikhail turned to face the voice. ‘Yes, yes, of course, I appreciate that, Comrade Mamontov, but what I’m saying is that you must also appreciate the impulsive tendencies of some of your fellow artists. We can’t judge everyone by your own standards, old man. And we can’t jump down their throats the moment they commit a creative faux pas. After all, we all deserve a second chance.’
Mikhail’s comments drew a wave of muttering among his audience. As he waited, I crept across the back of the room to a chair in the far corner. Dmitry and the man immediately to his left noticed me. Dmitry smiled and winked at me. Eventually, the same hand shot up.
‘Comrade Mamontov?’
‘I’m sorry, Comrade Mikhail, we think you’re speaking like a sentimentalist and, dare I say it, like a cultural kulak.’
‘I would refute that.’
‘No, no, I don’t mean to be ove
r-critical but...’ Mamontov rose to his feet, his bald head shining in the light. ‘Comrades, the role of the artist has changed; we all know that,’ he said waving his arms. ‘We can no longer afford the luxury of committing to canvas whatever comes to us in a rush of so-called inspiration. We’re no longer here to satisfy our own vanities and dreams; why, it reeks of self-satisfaction and petty indulgence. Are we going to allow such extravagance? I think not, because to do so undermines the importance of our role in Soviet society. We’re not sixteen-year-olds writing pappy poetry or painting pretty pictures, we’re the new frontline of the battle; we’re the state’s foot soldiers. There’s an enemy out there and we have to maintain our vigilance at all times. We must reflect the glory of collectivisation, the triumph of industrialisation. I’m sure you’ll agree with me when I say we owe it to the second Five-Year-Plan and to our leader.’ Mamontov sat down with a smug look on his face and the eyes of the gathering returned to Mikhail.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he said, his hands resting on the table. ‘But I say the more artists we have on our side, the greater the chance of victory. I believe it’s short sighted of us to pounce on the young artist who sticks his leg out slightly to the side of what’s right. Rather than castigate him publicly, thereby alienating him and losing a potential future general, if, Comrade Mamontov, you permit me to extend your metaphor, I think we should point out his errors and give him a second chance.’
‘Is that because you were given a second chance?’ asked Mamontov.
The atmosphere in the room tightened. Trying to maintain his composure, Mikhail coughed and straightened his tie. ‘All I’m asking,’ he continued, ‘is should we make examples of these unfortunates when there are those in power who take advantage at our expense?’
‘Meaning?’
‘It’s no secret, you know what I’m talking about – the privileges afforded to high-ranking officials, the misdirecting of funds by bourgeois degenerates, those who promise higher standards of living but only they achieve it. Of course, I refer not to the Politburo who, as we know, lead by example but to the army of bureaucrats below them. We all know it goes on but we, as a society, turn a blind eye while targeting those less able to defend themselves....’
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