The Black Maria

by Rupert Colley

  ‘And so I became an official spy for the NKVD. I’ve never told anyone this, how could I? For the last two years, I’ve kept my fortnightly appointment with Rykov; always Rykov. They even pay me. I started off keen; happy to denounce people I knew through Viktor’s old work, passing on overheard snippets of conversation, of whispered doubts, and even my suspicions, however ill-founded. After the fourth session, Rykov declared he was happy with my work – I’d kept my side of the bargain, and so it was time for him to keep his. Within two weeks, Viktor was home. He was delivered here in a Black Maria. Unfortunately, in the three months since I’d seen him in the camp, he’d developed pneumonia. A doctor came to see him regularly for a while. There was no bed for him at the hospital, and, as an enemy, ex- enemy of the people, the doctor was not permitted to prescribe anything beyond the most basic of medicines, so naturally his condition worsened. The virus spread to his lungs and from then on, I knew it was only a matter of time. But still I carried on, acting as Rykov’s personal spy, too frightened to stop.’

  Anna let out a deep sigh. ‘Your story – about coming from Leningrad – I never really believed it. You see, when we first met, you were still new to Moscow, and you seemed so unversed in the ways of the city. At first, I thought it was because you weren’t used to Moscow, but the more I thought of it, I realised that one big city is not so different from another. It wasn’t Moscow that was new to you; it was city life generally. Any city. You’d come from the countryside.’

  ‘I can’t go back that far, Anna, I simply can’t. But yes, Viktor and I came to Moscow and Petrov found me working as a maid for an accountant. He gave us a new identity. Also, Nadya and Rosa when they came. Don’t ask any more.’

  ‘And are you going to tell your Rykov about Viktor?’

  ‘Of course. I have no reason to work for them now. Viktor’s death ends our contract.’

  We both looked at Viktor. There was no serene expression on his face, as I believed the dead often have. He’d died as he lived – in torment.

  ‘I don’t think Rykov will let you off that easily,’ said Anna. ‘And perhaps, Maria, you might need him.’

  ‘Rykov?’

  ‘Yes, Rykov. You are in danger; you know that, don’t you? While you still insist on seeing Dmitry, Petrov’s anger could be the end of you. But there’s still time.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘To go back to your husband. Tell Petrov it’s all over between you and Dmitry. Pledge him your future. He’ll forgive you and in six months, it’ll all be forgotten.’

  ‘I can’t; it’s too late.’

  ‘What do you mean, too late? What choice do you have?’

  ‘I have no choice, Anna. I can’t carry on with Petrov; it’s like your brother said, I’m dying slowly from the inside. But Dmitry, Dmitry has given me a reason to live, a future. He’s restored my sense of womanhood. Have you never known love, Anna?’

  She didn’t answer for a while; she just looked at me, her eyes blinking. After a while, I think she’d stopped seeing me and saw, instead, her own reflection. A small, wry smile flashed briefly across her lips. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I have never been in love. And yet, I know what you mean. I also know you are in an impossible situation. Dmitry may be your future, but he will also be your downfall. If you don’t go back to Petrov, he will denounce you, as he did your brother, of that I am sure.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I know.’

  ‘You must stop him.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I have an idea.’

  ‘Go on...’

  Chapter 16: The Dacha

  ‘Petrov, we need to sort this out, one way or the other. Come away with me, just for a couple of days.’

  Petrov was scanning the front page of Pravda. Without lifting his eyes, he barked back at the suggestion. ‘Are you mad? I can’t; I’ve got too much work.’

  ‘But I’m not asking you to take time off, just come away with me on one of your days off.’

  ‘No. Anyway, where would we go?’

  ‘Anna has a dacha, she said we could use it, anytime we wanted.’

  He rested the newspaper on his lap. ‘Anna? A dacha?’

  ‘Yes, Anna. Is it so strange?’ We were sitting in our apartment on the settee. I had decided to lure Petrov away to the dacha where, I thought, we could talk out our differences. In his heart of hearts, he knew our marriage had nowhere to go, that it was finished. But I needed to convince him of the fact while persuading him he needn’t let his pride ruin my life. Couples divorce, it wasn’t new, sometimes it couldn’t be helped. OK, the dacha didn’t really belong to Anna, it belonged to Dmitry, but if he knew that, then there’d be no way I could persuade him to come away with me.

  ‘What can we talk about there we can’t talk about here?’

  ‘Because, Petrov, can’t you see? Our marriage is falling apart and – ’

  ‘And whose fault is that, exactly?’ he said, stamping his leg on the floor.

  ‘Yes, I know. But we need to talk, I mean really talk. I just think if we went away from all this... this claustrophobia, and had some country air, we’d be more open with each other. We’d put aside our pain and sort ourselves out. Just you and me. Think of it, Petrov, we could go for long walks and enjoy the delights of spring.’ For the first time, his face softened, I was getting through to him. I pressed home my advantage: ‘Who knows, we might even enjoy it. Anna says it’s a lovely spot. We could cook some proper meals for a change, light the fire and have the whole place to ourselves.’

  He picked up the newspaper and began reading again but I could tell he was thinking about it. He was tempted, that much was obvious, but would he concede? ‘How far is it?’

  ‘Not far, only an hour by train, we could go tomorrow night, Wednesday.’

  He didn’t speak for a whole two minutes. Instead, he read his Pravda but I could see his mind working. It made sense to him, but he hated it when I came up with an idea. Eventually, without lifting his eyes, he spoke. ‘One night only. I need to get back to work.’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine. One night only. It’s all we’ll need.’ I leant back against the settee and closed my eyes. I was pleased, it was what I wanted. I had a plan, albeit one that left much to chance, and it involved large quantities of vodka. It didn’t take much to get Petrov drunk but it had to be vodka. Under the influence of wine, he became argumentative and aggressive, as Dmitry, himself, had witnessed. But vodka made him maudlin and dull. I soon tired of his sentimental discourses and either left the room or, if we were at home, forced him into bed. Never before had it occurred to me that within this sentimentalism might lie a story, a revelation. I needed him relaxed, feeling nostalgic, his belly full and sexually fulfilled. Then, I’d allow the vodka to do its work. But whatever Petrov told me, I knew that, come push to shove, his word was worthier than mine. I needed a witness, someone who could, if necessary, add credence to my testimony. That someone was Anna.

  *

  Dmitry’s dacha was situated down a leafy lane outside a small village, about an hour and a quarter north-west of Moscow. The whole lane was occupied by dachas. The weather was foul, with fierce rain and a howling gale. We managed to cadge a lift from an old boy with a long grey beard, wearing a floppy peaked cap, felt boots and a pipe clamped between his brown teeth. We rode the two kilometres from the station in silence on the back seat of his two-wheeled cart pulled by a pony as decrepit as the man. The lane was picturesque in the extreme, a long straight road, about half a mile long, with lovely birch trees overhanging the lane giving it a tunnel-like appearance. On either side, a series of driveways led up to the hideaways of the privileged. The peasant bade us farewell with a dismissive wave as we skipped off the cart outside number nine, Dmitry’s dacha, and lugged our overnight bags up the short gravelled drive. The dacha was a small, one-storey wooden affair with a tin roof and painted turquoise green, its windows and doors decorated with elaborate fretwork. A large hedge concealed it from its neighbours, and behind the dacha, one
could see the edge of the woods, the large pine trees and the silver birches swaying in the wind.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ said Petrov, as I unlocked the front door.

  ‘She’s had it years apparently. Came through a contact at work.’

  ‘I never knew she was doing so well.’

  It was dark inside and the musty, stale air hit us as we walked in. I shivered. Petrov pulled back the curtains and flung open the blinds. The main room was small but didn’t have that same claustrophobic feeling of Moscow apartments. A large table dominated one side of the sitting room, an old brazier stood next to the wall, its funnel zigzagging at angles into a hole in the ceiling and through the tin roof; two armchairs sat at opposite ends of the room, each a deep shade of crimson, either side of a woven rug.

  ‘This place bears the hallmark of Dmitry,’ said Petrov, idly looking at the series of small framed landscape paintings and pencil drawings, flanked by portraits of Marx, Lenin and Stalin. He was right, of course, I recognised the style, the concentration of detail, the vivid colours, the exaggerated contrast between the light and shade. On a small, cloth-covered table in the corner, was evidence of an artist at work – the paintbrushes, the coloured-splattered boxes of paint, the pencils and bottles of turpentine.

  ‘Yes, it does seem so.’

  ‘Funny, isn’t it?,’ said Petrov, in a tone that implied there was nothing funny in what he was about to say. ‘Once upon a time, not long ago, I’d never heard of the man but now he seems to invade every part of my life. Even a simple night away and he’s all around me.’

  ‘Well, it does belong to Anna, so obviously, he comes here too. Nothing funny about that. They are brother and sister, after all.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  I carried the bags through to the tiny bedroom where there was just enough room to walk around the double bed. A wardrobe occupied one wall. I opened the doors and found a couple of male shirts hanging inside. Everywhere, like Petrov said, Dmitry’s presence lingered. I hid the shirts beneath the bed.

  I busied myself in the kitchen, an area to the side of the sitting room, while Petrov slumped in the armchair, lit his pipe and opened the Pravda. This was a good sign – Petrov only ever lit his pipe when he was feeling totally relaxed. There were a few tins of stew which we could make use of and, of course, a couple of bottles of vodka. Within this scene of simple domestic harmony, my heart was pounding. But, while I was scouting around in the cupboards looking for pans, crockery and cutlery, I was having doubts and could feel the certainty draining out of me.

  ‘Do you have to make so much noise?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What about the fire?’

  ‘Yes, Petrov.’ I hadn’t realised until that moment, the place was so cold. Next to the brazier, was a basket of logs and kindling wood, and, next to it, an axe and a poker, and, to the left of the brazier, a small stack of dry newspaper. I placed four logs onto the hearth, crumpled up some newspaper on top of them, and finished off with some pieces of kindling. But the logs were too big and wouldn’t allow the doors to shut. Despite hunting around in the basket, I couldn’t find any logs of suitable length. I held a thick log, took the axe and split it down the centre. The axe embedded itself a third of the way down and splinters of wood landed on the mat. Another few strokes, and it was cut. After ten minutes, the fire was alight and looked strong enough to remain so.

  Petrov had been watching me. ‘You do that like a proper country girl,’ he said with, I think, a hint of admiration in his voice.

  ‘Some things you never forget.’

  ‘So I see. Any chance of a cup of tea now? Or shall I make it?’

  ‘No, you stay there and relax a bit.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, Petrov, I’m fine. And you?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better.’

  As I hunted around the kitchen cupboards for a kettle, I told myself to be strong. I’d come this far, I couldn’t back out now. I couldn’t find a kettle and resigned myself to boiling a pan of water on the stove. The water had just started to warm up, when there was the knock on the door. My heart lurched. It couldn’t be Anna; it was too early, far too early.

  Petrov looked up from his paper and removed his pipe. ‘Who in the hell could that be?’

  ‘I... I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there, see who it is.’

  ‘Can’t you?’

  ‘Maria, please.’

  ‘OK.’ If it was Anna, she was three hours too soon. I needed time on my own with him, to take him to bed, to cook a warm meal. Anna’s unexpected appearance was all part of the plan but not this early. I opened the door and staggered back. This wasn’t part of the plan at all. ‘Dmitry?’

  ‘Maria? I saw the lights on. But what are you –’

  ‘Didn’t Anna say...?’

  ‘What the hell is he doing here?’ Petrov was on his feet, hovering behind me, clutching his newspaper.

  ‘I could ask the same,’ Dmitry retorted, removing his hat and coat and shaking off the rain. ‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’

  ‘No,’ snapped Petrov, as Dmitry edged passed me. ‘What’s he doing here?’ said Petrov to me. ‘Did you know about this?’

  ‘No. No, really, I didn’t, Anna didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said Dmitry. ‘I told her I was coming tonight. I often come here alone. She must’ve got mixed up. I was hoping to do some work.’

  ‘Well,’ said Petrov, ‘you can turn right round and leave, thank you very much,’ said Petrov, flinging the newspaper on the table.

  Dmitry strode to the middle of the room and dropped his haversack next to the settee. ‘I can’t go back now; there won’t be another train until morning. Don’t worry, old man, I’m sure we can all muddle on together. You two have the bedroom, I’ll just kip here; I’ll be fine. Any chance of a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, glad to step back into the kitchen area. ‘I’ve just...’ I could see the steam rising from the stove. Taking a tea towel, I picked up the pan by its handle.

  ‘This is no coincidence,’ growled Petrov, facing Dmitry, his back to the fire. ‘You two have planned this, haven’t you?’

  ‘No, Petrov,’ I said. ‘Believe me, I had no idea.’ It was true. Was Anna still going to come, I wondered?

  ‘You’re getting paranoid, my dear man,’ said Dmitry. ‘Why should we do that, eh?’ Dmitry’s composure didn’t feel natural. The way he kept saying old man was false, it wasn’t an expression he used, he seemed to be mimicking Mikhail.

  ‘Don’t patronise me.’ Petrov spun round to face me, his eyes ablaze with fury. ‘What are you up to, woman?’ I edged away from him, my back to the fire, feeling its warmth against the back of my legs, still holding onto the pan of simmering water. I was frightened; I’d seen Petrov angry but not like this. He seemed to be trembling with fury, so beside himself he didn’t know where to direct his anger next. ‘If the pair of you think I’m going to let you get away with it, think again.’ He was speaking quickly, his voice a deep growl. ‘The pornographer and the kulak – what a combination, the NKVD would have a field day.’

  ‘Perhaps but they’re never going to know, are they?’ said Dmitry.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, because you’re not going to tell them. You’re going to do the decent thing and let your wife go. My God, man, admit it, it’s over.’

  ‘No, never.’ I watched as the two men circled around each other, like two male tigers, measuring their ground, waiting to pounce. The room wasn’t warm yet, but I could see the beads of sweat forming on Petrov’s shiny scalp, his eyes glaring behind his glasses.

  ‘She’s still young; she has a life to live, yet you keep her locked up like a caged animal.’

  ‘She’s my wife and that’s good enough for me. I saved her but if need be, I’ll destroy her. Both of you. If she even tries to leave me, she’ll rot in Hell, and you too. I’ve seen what they can do to men like you, they’d crush your balls.�
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  ‘Listen to you, you pathetic little man.’

  ‘Oh hark, the pretentious artist, the bourgeois lackey.’

  ‘My conscience is clear. How’s yours, Party man?’

  I’d backed almost into the fire, still holding the pan, when Petrov made his lunge. A fist hurled towards Dmitry’s face. Dmitry pitched his head to one side but Petrov’s fist caught him in the chin. If it hurt, Dmitry made no sign of it. Instead, he squared himself, and threw a punch back. I heard myself screaming at them to stop. Dmitry’s fist caught Petrov fully on the nose. He fell back against the arm of the settee and ricocheted onto the floor, landing at my feet. I took a few steps back, not wanting to be within his reach. He shook his head and rubbed his nose, dabbing his blood, then hauled himself up. As he did so, he grabbed the fire poker.

  ‘Please, Petrov, no,’ I screamed.

  ‘Come on, Petrov,’ said Dmitry. ‘This is stupid –’

  ‘Oh, it’s Petrov now, is it?’

  Dmitry also stepped back, his eyes fixed on the metal stick. ‘Put it down, man. This won’t solve anything.’

  ‘You think not, you bastard? I think it solves quite a lot, actually.’ Petrov waved the poker back and forth in front of Dmitry’s face, relishing his moment of power.

  ‘Put it down, I said,’ said Dmitry.

  He didn’t see it coming, nor did I, but he screeched in pain as the poker smashed against his arm. I screamed. Dmitry staggered back, cursing, clutching his arm where the poker had made contact. Petrov didn’t hesitate and wielding it like a sword, struck him again, hitting Dmitry against his side. I heard the crack on his ribcage. My hand went to my mouth. Dmitry fell to his knees, gasping for air. Petrov stepped over him, grunting. He lifted the poker above his head, gripping it in both hands, his face screwed up. He was going to hit him on the head; he was going to smash his skull in, I could see it in his eyes; he wanted to kill him.

  I was still holding onto the pan of water. I threw its contents onto the fire. Anything for a diversion; to stop Petrov from using that poker. The sudden sizzling sound made Petrov falter. He turned to see what the noise was and in that moment Dmitry leapt to his feet. As Petrov turned to face him again, Dmitry struck, punching him in the face. Petrov fell, landing heavily on his back. We watched him, waiting for him to get up, the silence broken only by Dmitry’s breathing and the crackle and spitting of the fire.