The Black Maria

by Rupert Colley

  Everywhere I looked, there were queues: queues for shoes and clothes, for crockery, medicines, and, worst of all, the queues for food which sprawled into the adjoining street. But the mood that prevailed was one of calm resignation; no one pushed, no one lost their temper – as long as everyone obeyed by the rules. And everyone dressed the same – women in headscarves, men in peaked caps, everyone in dark coats – the classless uniformity of the proletariat. I ambled precariously along the line and towards a shop with a large window. A large sign stuck over the stained glass proclaimed that no food was available without ration cards. Someone shouted at me to get back, assuming I was trying to push in. The people at the front bunched up as if denying me any space, glaring at me. I turned back and walked to the end of the queue where I found a young girl of about thirteen with windswept hair, wearing a red dress, its pattern long-since obscured by dark stains.

  ‘Been here long?’ I asked.

  ‘Half an hour,’ she replied without looking at me, sucking a strand of hair. ‘They reckon those up front have been here since the middle of the night.’

  ‘Anything special?’

  ‘Yeah, they got new potatoes in. And turnips. Won’t be any by time we get there.’

  I smiled and walked away. I’d been tempted to ask the girl why bother carry on queuing if she had so little expectation of getting anything, but I knew the answer. Vague optimism and desperation borne of hunger combine to make a powerful incentive.

  I carried on walking, leaving behind the multifarious queues of people and decided to try my luck at one of the many small markets. I sometimes heard talk of the market nearby, next to the Church of St John the Warrior. I paced down the monotonous side streets, too small for trams but still busy with expressionless Muscovites. I knew the produce in the markets was more expensive than the State-run shops but while Rykov compensated me for my dirty work, I might be able to afford something without having to queue for hours with little hope of reward.

  Eventually, I came across the market in a small square surrounded by tall, dilapidated accommodation blocks. There were only a few dingy stalls, and in front of each one, a crowd of people bustled, swaying and fighting for space. No orderly queues here. The stalls belonged to forlorn-looking peasants, half loaded with mouldering vegetables and disintegrating fruit. Further along, were the dreary outcasts, sitting cross-legged on the ground with a newspaper spread in front of them, on which were displayed bits of crockery, a scrap of lace, a drinking glass, a single boot.

  I returned to the main thrust of the market and sauntered on the periphery of the crowd finding myself sucked in and involuntarily moved along by its rhythm. I heard the shouts of haggling, the expressions of disgust at so little being offered for so much. Some came away clasping bits of dried fish, a clump of vegetables, a half loaf of bread, a small hunk of meat. I could smell it all too, the aroma of stale food mingling with the dirt of the oscillating crowd. Further still, an open space where the sellers were not peasants but city workers who offered single items for sale: a few eggs here, a couple slabs of dried fish there. Speculators, I thought: they had bought their goods from the co-operatives using their ration cards and were now trying to sell them at four times the price on the open market. They were playing a dangerous game.

  Wandering back to the main thrust of the market, I came across a stall selling mangled slices of raw and cooked meat. My stomach churned at the rank smell of what was on offer. The two stallholders, their faces red, shouted and argued with the passing hoard. I knew I could afford their prices but wondered whether I could face even touching it. The overpowering smell became too much and I pushed my way back out of the crowd. I found myself following a bearded man dressed in a long black coat and split shoes. As we fought our way free from the bustle, I saw that he’d come away with a portion of cooked sausage, half unwrapped from its covering of newspaper. He shot a look at me, evidently pleased with his purchase. To my surprise, he sunk his teeth into the meat and ripped a chunk off. He raised the remainder of the sausage in a form of toast and grinned while his cheeks bulged and moved beneath his beard. But just as I was about to leave, I saw his expression change. Leaning over, he coughed violently and fragments of chewed meat spewed from his mouth. He staggered a few feet, still coughing and then started retching, his hand clutching his stomach. He retched again and, almost bent double, pawed at thin air. And yet, to my amazement, he summoned the strength to continue chewing. As I turned to leave, I noticed he had tears in his eyes, trying to force more of the sausage into his mouth, as hunger and repulsion fought for dominance.

  *

  I was exhausted but I had to keep going. I’d left the market with no more than a handful of heavily bruised potatoes and a few vegetables – still it was better than nothing. I’d been on my feet so long that a large split had appeared along the lining of the sole running all the way round the toe from one side to the other. But there was no hope of replacing them – shoes, as much as anything else, were in short supply. Someone once told me that the mass slaughter of cattle during collectivisation had caused an acute shortage of leather. I passed an optimistic balloon seller and a shoeshine stall. Half an hour later, feeling sick with dread, I was back home.

  ‘I managed to get some vegetables,’ I said breezily to Petrov as I stamped my feet.

  ‘You’ve got your coat then?’ Petrov was sitting at the table, a pile of papers in front of him.

  ‘Yes, I’d paid a visit to Dmitry’s, and, silly me; I left without it and had to go back. He said you’d been. Would you like some tea? How’s Viktor?’

  Petrov threw me a hideous look, and took a couple of strides towards me. Instinctively, I stepped back. ‘Don’t walk away from me, you whore,’ he yelled. ‘Do you like being there; do you like being his latest possession, his plaything? Huh? I told you, you weren’t to see him again.’

  ‘And I told you, I’m his model.’ I stood routed to the spot in the middle of the living room.

  ‘And so I see; taking your clothes off. Who’d have thought that my wife was such a slut?’

  ‘Better an artist’s slut than a bureaucrat’s lackey.’

  My outburst shocked him – I’d never answered back before. ‘You’d do well, woman, to think before you speak to me like that again.’ He paced around and behind me. I summoned the strength to keep still, fearing he might strike me at any moment. ‘So this is what I get, then is it?’ he growled. ‘I work all day to a standstill, but it’s not enough for you, eh? You want cheap luxury, bourgeois decadence? Have you forgotten?’ I was expecting this question, for it always came back to this. ‘Have you forgotten that you owe it all to me? I saved you, Maria, I saved you. If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be scavenging on the streets, sleeping in that hellhole. I know more about you than you think. That accountant – he told me things about you. How you appeared from nowhere, half-starving with your ragamuffin country clothes in tatters. You were on the run, he reckoned. What were you running from, eh? What were you, Maria – a kulak? Is that it, did I marry a kulak? You know I know people. One word from me and you’d be finished.’

  ‘So I am your lackey then, your slave? A marriage based on blackmail. This is not a marriage, this is servitude. You’re too proud to let me work, you won’t let me have my own friends – ’

  ‘Oh, so all this is my fault? I do my best for you, Maria; these are difficult times. I’m the slave here. While I’m out working my balls off, you’re...’ His eyes began watering. ‘You’re taking your clothes off and parading naked in front of other men – and supposedly in the name of art. God knows, I mean it – if I catch you seeing that man one more time, I’ll kick you out, back to whatever little hole you appeared from. I’ll rip you apart as I did your brother.’

  Did I hear him correctly? My brother? ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It was you,’ I said in a whisper. ‘You... you denounced Viktor.’ The obviousness struck me like a slap on the face, taking my breath aw
ay. From a whisper to a scream. ‘You denounced my brother, your own brother-in-law. How could you, how –’

  ‘I had to, I had to do it,’ he screamed back.

  ‘You denounced my brother?’ My vision blurred with tears.

  ‘There were rumours. At work. I thought I was next – you and me. I did it for us.’

  ‘Us? You did it for us?’

  ‘We would’ve been next. It was us or Viktor. What could I do?’

  ‘You beast. You killed my brother.’

  ‘Killed? He’s not dead.’

  ‘He might as well be, you... you bastard.’

  ‘You should be thanking me; it could’ve been you.’

  ‘I wish it had been; anything to save me from spending another day with you.’

  Chapter 14: The Faith

  ‘Rosa, Rosa, have you heard yet?’ said Ella and Claudia in almost perfect unison.

  Rosa eyes gaped open as she plonked her tray on the canteen table and quickly sat down. ‘What? What’s happened?’

  ‘About Comrade Kalinikov. Haven’t you heard?’ said Ella, urging Rosa to lean forward. The expression on their faces was a mixture of fear and excitement.

  ‘No, tell me.’

  Ella glanced around and leant across the table, ‘Comrade Kalinikov’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’

  Claudia added the detail. ‘Yes, dead. He hanged himself.’

  ‘No! Suicide?’

  ‘Yes, they found him yesterday,’ exclaimed Ella. ‘In his apartment, hanging by the cord of his dressing-gown. His wife and son were staying with friends out of town. They just came home and found him.’ She clasped her hand around her neck as if to emphasise the point.

  ‘But why?’

  Ella rolled her eyes. ‘Oh come on, Rosa, why do you think?’

  ‘Because they purged him?’

  ‘Yes, of course. No Party card, no job; no job, no apartment.’

  ‘No apartment, no job,’ added Claudia, slurping her soup.

  ‘And all because he had his child baptised,’ said Rosa.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Ella.

  Claudia looked up. ‘Who’s going to take his classes now, do you think?’

  ‘Shut up, Claudia,’ snapped Ella.

  Rosa shook her head. ‘What would Comrade Stalin think?’

  ‘I agree, he’d be appalled.’

  ‘If only there was a way of letting him know.’

  The three friends fell silent, each eating their dinners, lost deep in their own thoughts. Rosa had liked Comrade Kalinikov, even if his lectures could sometimes be tediously dull. But he had an aura of intelligence and respectability about him. People may not have loved him, but they certainly respected him – his knowledge of political and economic theory, dialectics and social materialism was beyond comparison. But recently, he’d become increasingly nervous as if he knew time and external forces were against him. Rosa had been shocked when the Purge Commission had expelled him, but not as shocked as she was now. That was the last time they’d seen him – squirming in front of Comrade Pletnev while confessing to the baptism of his eighteen-month-old son. A superstitious renegade is how Pletnev described him, covering the innocent under a cloak of superstition. Rosa remembered the woman behind her who’d stood up and declared she’d been at the christening and how proud Comrade Kalinikov had been. Would she have been so keen to denounce him, had she known her words were as effective as a death sentence? Rosa’s face flushed as she also remembered the way she herself, had clapped and stamped her feet with all the rest of the baying wolves, while Kalinikov sat there with tears streaming down his face. Chuck him out! Chuck him out! What a spectacle.

  Ella broke the silence. ‘It was the most terrifying moment of my life,’ she said, as if to herself.

  ‘What?’ asked Claudia.

  ‘Being up there, in front of the Commission. I honestly thought I was going to die. They don’t take their eyes off you for a moment, and sitting there, surrounded by all those people, all of them willing you to fail.’

  ‘We didn’t want you to fail, Ella,’ said Rosa.

  ‘I know. Thank you.’

  ‘“So, what, Comrade Pavlovna, is your view of collectivisation?”,’ said Claudia, mimicking the Commission Chairman.

  ‘Claudia, shush, can’t you see...’

  ‘I’m sorry...’

  ‘It’s OK, I’m all right. It just shook me up a bit; it was so horrible.’

  Claudia placed her hand on Ella’s arm. ‘But you survived, my girl, that’s the main thing.’

  Wiping a handkerchief over her eyes, Ella rose from her chair. ‘I need to go; you two coming?’

  ‘Rosa hasn’t finished her soup,’ said Claudia.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Rosa. ‘You two go. I’ll see you later.’

  Ella left quickly with Claudia following in her wake. Rosa sighed and settled down to finish her lunch. She thought about Ella’s ordeal. Like Claudia said, Ella had survived. Her secret remained a secret. For once, the all-seeing eyes of the System had failed. But someone, somewhere had leaked Kalinikov’s secret. Was baptism such a crime? The Party had decreed it was. Indeed the rejection of religion had always been one of the basic tenants of the revolution. As with the rest of her generation, Rosa had grown up as a devout atheist, religion played no part in her life; she couldn’t understand it. Stalin was her only God. Surely, Kalinikov knew what a dangerous game he was playing. And perhaps there were other things too, things that the Commission hadn’t made public, but knew about – certain irregularities in Kalinikov’s life that singled him out as a dubious element. But she still believed, the alternative was inconceivable; she had to hold onto her faith in the system. Yes, sometimes it could be unpredictable but it had its reasons, its justifications, and she knew that. You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. But did it mean it was right that Boris should also have been expelled? Like he said, his father had died when he was only five. But once again, the Commission must have had its reasons. Perhaps, they were right. Religion is in the blood and, like a hereditary disease, it cannot be shaken off easily. Once a Jew, always a Jew. The apple never falls far from the tree.

  Rosa looked at her watch; she was planning on going to the library. Then, in the corner of her eye, she noticed the familiar sight of Boris standing at the counter, holding a cup of tea, a haversack flung over his shoulder. In an instant, their eyes met. What was he doing here, she wondered. She made to wave but Boris turned his back. Rosa watched as he went to sit at a table at the other end of the dining-hall, his back still towards her. He sat down next to a group of three male students whom she knew to be friends of his. But as soon as he’d sat down, the friends rose as one and, without so much as a glance at him, went to sit at another table where they immediately resumed their animated conversation. Rosa looked across the hall at Boris’s hunched back, a figure in solitude, his haversack at his feet. Above him, the banner: “Food Co-Operation Opens The Way To A New Life”. Perhaps, she thought, he hadn’t seen her; his eyesight wasn’t the best, even with those thick glasses he wore. But the distance between them hadn’t been that big, surely he would have seen her. So why would he so pointedly ignore her? As soon as she formed the question, the answer came to her. She smiled, good old Boris, ever the faithful friend. By his expulsion, he was now considered a contaminated person, as just shown by his so-called friends. Perhaps, he was just being careful not to taint Rosa by his association? But then, she thought, he had no qualms about sitting with his male friends. Which ever way she tried to work it out, Rosa was puzzled.

  The dining-hall was thinning out; lunch was coming to an end and the students had other places to be, the kitchen staff were wiping tables and emptying ashtrays. The male threesome were leaving, still talking animatedly. There was no point, she decided, worrying about it when Boris was just there, a matter of a few feet away. She collected her bag and made her way across the hall. How small Boris seemed to be, his thin shoulders crunched over, his head disappearin
g beneath the collar of his jacket.

  ‘Boris?’ He physically jumped at the sound of his name. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t...’ Her words floundered on seeing the expression on his face, a mixture of fear and loathing. ‘I didn’t mean to make you –’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I said leave me alone.’

  ‘I... I don’t understand.’ Nervously, she pulled out a chair and slowly sat down. Boris immediately leant back in his seat and pointedly turned his head away from her and pretended to fix his concentration on the other side of the hall. Rosa hadn’t expected this, and it was upsetting her. She noticed his hands placed on the edge of the table, the left index finger tapping against the wooden surface. Why was he being like this? She had done something to upset him, but whichever way she stretched her mind, she could not think what. ‘Boris, please...’ she said quietly, ‘what’s wrong?’ She felt condemned by his silence. ‘What have I done?’

  This time, it was she who jumped. The way he stood bolt upright, the chair scrapping noisily against the floor, the glance of fury in his eyes as he looked down at her. ‘You pretend not to know...?’ By the time Rosa spluttered an incoherent word, Boris had grabbed his haversack and was striding across the dining-hall heading directly for the exit.

  In a flash, Rosa’s jumble of confusing thoughts manifested themselves in anger. Rising to her feet, she surprised herself by the volume and the intensity of her outburst. ‘No!’ she yelled across the hall, ‘I don’t know, I don’t bloody know.’ Like a radio being switched off, the gentle background babble of conversation and kitchen staff at work stopped instantly. Boris too stopped. He’d reached the large double-swing doors. For a moment, Rosa thought (hoped) he’d turn around. But he didn’t. After a pause, he pushed open the heavy doors and was gone. Rosa watched the doors swing back and forth and settle back into position, aware that all eyes were on her. She decided she wasn’t going to allow him to walk away without explaining his behaviour. Gathering her bag, she hastily made for the exit. Boris was already at the far end of the corridor. She ran to catch-up with him. By the time she saw him again, he was outside, trotting down the main steps which led down from the college entrance onto the gravelled drive, which, itself, led to the street.