I could feel my heart beating – she’d waited more than half a century for this and, after all this time, Caroline and I were the audience she’d waited all her life for. She was terrified, unable to look us in the eye. I waited while she composed herself and wondered what could have happened to render an old woman so frightened and so full of guilt after all this time.
‘I was young, twenty-five. My name was Matrena. It is the name I was born with. I changed it to Maria when I came to Moscow. I could no longer live with the name of my birth. I had a husband, an older man. His surname was Makarov and that is the name I always remember him by – Makarov. When we were hungry, we dreamt of food, and then we would wake up miserable because, of course, we had no food. That day, the last day, it was a cold May morning...’
Chapter 18: The Hunger
Matrena woke up on a cold May morning in her own home for the last time. She opened her eyes but, not wanting to face the day ahead, closed them again. It was the same every day, that fleeting moment of optimism abruptly suffocated by the grim realisation that she was still hungry. She scratched herself. Perpetual hunger had gnawed away at her soul, eroded her personality and diminished her thoughts to a one-track desire from which there was no escape. Hunger strips the mind of logical thought, chases away one’s imagination. The mind is concentrated and constricted, like a man in a straitjacket, and any freedom of thought is crushed by the unbearable weight of hunger. One has so little energy yet sleep is hard to come by. When finally, it does prevail, sleep provides the only respite, the only satisfaction – for Matrena’s dreams are filled with food. Huge banquets and unending feasts filled every corner of her nocturnal wanderings. She dreamt she was fat and awoke to find herself emaciated. With the hunger tearing at her insides, she placed her hands on her stomach, the stomach which, just moments before in her dream, had been bloated with food, was instead bloated with starvation.
Eventually, her husband, Makarov, came to drag her out of her pit. He sat silently beside her on the edge of the bed and stroked her arm. She looked for the dark attractiveness that used to characterise his face but saw only the lines of fatigue and hunger etched into his translucent, dry skin. Gone were the blazing green eyes, the blackness of his hair, the permanent smile. His breath was dry and stale, his gums white, his teeth a dark yellow. He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn for weeks (or was it months?). She no longer noticed the stench – she was too immersed in it herself. What catastrophe had brought them to this? Somehow, it could have been more bearable to blame a severely bad harvest, or adverse weather, or the workings of an external enemy; but no, it was man-made, and it came from within. Only in Russia could the people suffer so much at the hands of the Dictatorship of the Proletariat.
They both knew, at some point during the day, they could expect the usual visit. She always hoped it would come sooner rather than later, just to get it over and done with. It was like waiting for the grim reaper day after day. No, worse – at least the reaper only bothered you the once.
The family congregated in the main room. It was dark and dank with smooth mud walls and a low whitewashed beamed ceiling. A thin blanket draped over the solitary window in an attempt to stem the whistling draught that played with the candle sitting on the table. A parade of bugs, croton bugs, marched up and down the improvised curtain. Makarov sat on a wooden bench at the end of the long, bowed table, a look of pity mixed with disgust as he stared at his two daughters, Natasha and Nicola, lying huddled together on a mattress next to the huge clay stove. What a pathetic sight they made, what with their swollen bellies, and skeletal arms and legs poking out from their filthy remnants of cloth, totally unaware of the flies congregating around the eyes, their thinning brittle hair crawling with vermin. Matrena knew they were too exhausted by hunger to wake up. She stood at the stove and lifted the lid of the steaming pot and poked in a fork. Breakfast, such as it was, was the same as yesterday, the day before and the day before that. In fact, she could scarcely remember a time when they had anything different, any variation on a slither of potato. She crouched down and took the hand of Natasha and tried to smile. She could feel the bones of the little girl’s fingers under the skin. Natasha and Nicola – her four-year-old twins with their faces of old, old women.
There was the knock on the door. They’d come early today, thought Matrena. At least they still had the decency to knock. Matrena looked at Makarov. There was no nervousness in his expression, simply dulled trepidation. He squeezed Matrena’s hand but there was no point in trying to reassure her; they were all at their mercy. They’d been lucky so far, each extra day in their dank home a bonus. But Matrena felt it in her bones – today their luck was about to run out. Then came the second knock, no more impatient than the first. ‘Enter,’ growled Makarov.
The Chairman of the District Soviet entered. Matrena knew his name now, Comrade Yonov. A tall, stiff-looking man, nothing to look at, she thought, no soul, no heart, which made Yonov’s grip on power all the more precious. Yonov was followed by his usual assistant, Ivanova, a woman with a slow eye and heavy eyebrows and the look of a condemned woman surviving by virtue of her uniform. ‘Good morning, Comrade Makarov,’ said Yonov with a chirpy tone laced with false sincerity. ‘So, what’s going on here, preparing for a feast then? Smells good.’
‘You’re welcome to join us,’ replied Makarov.
Yonov lifted the lid of the pot and, waving away the steam, peered in. ‘A potato – how imaginative.’
‘And what would you suggest, Comrade?’
Replacing the lid, Yonov turned to Makarov. ‘You don’t fool me. Pretend to eat like paupers and as soon as our backs are turned, you feast like kings. Enough of this charade – you know why I’m here.’
‘To take away my non-existent grain?’
‘Don’t give me that bull, I know you’re hiding it, I’ve got my informers – people tell me things, y’know.’
‘They can tell you as much as they like, I still don’t have any.’
Yonov looked at the two girls on the mattress, their limbs intertwined, their eyes closed. ‘Do you know what the punishment is for non-compliance of your quota?’ he said to Makarov.
Matrena had heard this conversation too many times. She rose from her chair, making herself the centre of attention. ‘Why do you keep on so? Everyday, we go hungry and everyday you ask the same stupid questions, make the same impossible demands’. She walked over and stood directly in front of Yonov, towered by his height. ‘What do you want us to say that we haven’t told you a dozen times before?’
She could tell that Yonov wasn’t used to such arrogance from a woman. Her comments angered him and seemed to prick his professional pride. ‘Hold your insolent tongue, you – ’
Instinctively, Makarov stepped quickly forward and placed himself between Yonov and his wife. ‘Don’t you dare.’
Yonov slapped Makarov hard across the face. Matrena gasped and put her hand to her mouth. Makarov stood his ground breathing heavily through his nose, staring at Yonov, his eyes burning with fury. Ivanova edged to her boss’s side, but Yonov had no need for her help. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a revolver. ‘Do you know what this is?’
Makarov watched it as he answered. ‘A Mauser.’
‘A Mauser – that’s right. You have to hand it to the Germans – they know how to make guns.’ Matrena could sense Yonov’s satisfaction at having the situation under his complete control.
Yonov turned to address Ivanova. ‘Take an inventory. Up in the loft too,’ he said. Ivanova nodded and took a notepad and a pencil out from her breast pocket.
Matrena watched her suspiciously. ‘What – what are you doing?’ Ivanova pointedly ignored her as she licked the end of her pencil and started jotting lists in a well-used notepad. Matrena repeated the question, this time to Yonov.
‘Shut up,’ snapped Yonov, his hand still gripping the revolver.
Matrena knew the answer – they only listed everything once they’d decided to
turf you out.
Makarov had realised it too. ‘You’re taking us away, aren’t you?’ he growled. Yonov kept his silence. Makarov persisted. ‘Why, we haven’t done anything wrong? On whose authority?’
‘On the authority of this,’ Yonov snarled as he waved his revolver in front of Makarov’s face. Makarov stepped back. Matrena leapt towards Yonov, grabbing his wrist. ‘Get out, get out, you bastard,’ she screamed.
Ivanova came to her boss’s aid and, between them they loosened her grip and flung her off. Matrena fell across the room, landing in a heap at the foot of the table. ‘Try that again, you bitch, and I’ll kill you,’ yelled Yonov still brandishing his revolver. Natasha and Nicola woke up, their eyes blinking into focus. First one started to cry and then the other.
Matrena’s eyes were also welling up. ‘Leave us alone,’ she said.
Ignoring her, Yonov glared at Makarov. Barely able to disguise his glee, he pronounced their fate: ‘With the authority invested in me by the District Committee for the Collection and Redistribution of Grain, I am arresting you and your family for: a., non-compliance with repeated requests to fulfil your quota of grain; and b...’ He paused, trying to remember what the ‘b’ was.
Ivanova interjected. ‘Kulak agent?’
‘Yes, yes, thank you, Ivanova, I’m perfectly aware of that. And b., for being under suspicion of being a kulak agent. You are thereby –’
‘We’re not kulaks,’ said Matrena.
‘I didn’t say you were, if you listen I said “under suspicion” –’
‘And he said kulak agent not an actual kulak,’ added Ivanova.
Matrena was aware of the underlying farce beneath the tragedy unfolding in front of her. ‘Well, if we’re talking semantics here, what exactly defines us as being either a kulak or a kulak agent?’ The calmness in her own voice surprised her.
‘A kulak: one who possesses property or wealth that favours him to the detriment of the rest of the village and contrary to the spirit of collectivisation.’
Ivanova looked up from beneath her eyebrows. ‘And you should see how much they’ve got here boss – pots: three; pans: four (one slightly dented); jugs: three; wooden bowls: five; wooden spoons – ’
‘Shut up, Ivanova.’
‘Sorry, boss.’
Matrena could almost have laughed if it hadn’t been for Nicola’s simpering but she was quite prepared to continue the farce. ‘And a kulak agent?’
A flash of realisation passed over Yonov’s face. ‘You bitch; you think you can take the piss? I’ve had enough of this; we’re leaving right now.’
‘Where are you taking us?’ asked Makarov.
‘Just you. I’m not touching those kids; your wife can stay here and bury them. They’ll be dead by the end of the day.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Makarov, despite the muzzle of the Mauser pressed against his stomach.
Yonov stepped back a pace and lifted the revolver, pointing it first at Makarov’s forehead and then slowly swinging it around to face Matrena. Matrena, realising the gun was aimed at her, felt her heart quicken. She stepped back towards the stove, glancing nervously at her husband but Makarov kept his focus on Yonov. Matrena, shaking with fear, crouched down near her daughters and grabbed a delicate little hand.
With his eyes fixed on Matrena, Yonov addressed Makarov, saying quietly, ‘Listen here, you bastard, I’ll count to five and if you’re not through that door by the end of it, I swear I’ll shoot. You got that?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘One...’
Matrena knew that her husband had no option and the sense of loss was already beginning to eat at her. She had lived all her life in this village. As a girl, she’d helped her father in the vast fields owned by the local family of nobles. She’d lived in this very house, with Viktor, her brother, and her parents and grandparents. She remembered the long evenings; all of them crammed into this dingy space, her mother reading Tolstoy and Pushkin to her, trying to explain the complex narratives. Then, of course, came the war. Viktor joined up in 1916, becoming a soldier of the tsarist army, leaving behind his pregnant wife. He fought the Germans in conditions he’d never been able to put into words. But the war wasn’t going to plan; there were rumours of soldiers deserting en masse. Eventually, Viktor deserted too, refusing to fight for the imperialists, placing his loyalty instead with the workers.
‘Two...’ Towards the end of the war, Viktor was back in the village, reunited with his wife and joining Matrena in the fields, and now a proud father to a daughter. Meanwhile, the murmuring of discontent grew audibly each day. The word “revolution” was on everyone’s lips. They stopped working the fields – it was no longer safe to be seen working under the ‘bourgeois yoke’. And when it came, it broke forth like a dam, a torrent of revolutionary violence that shook the very foundation of Mother Russia. One could taste the excitement; they became drunk on the anticipation of a new beginning. The old order was on its head, now they, the workers and peasants, had the power: the Dictatorship of the Proletariat. She remembered the night the old estate workers looted the nobles’ house. She and Viktor came away with a wheelbarrow full of treasure: a heavy carpet, a silver cup, a cigarette case and other bits and pieces of imperialist loot. But it was a strange musical instrument that really excited her brother. He found out later it was a bassoon. And then, they set the old house to flames. She remembered her sense of unease. But Viktor didn’t share her concerns or disquiet – as far as he was concerned the nobles had it coming to them. The fire reached the moon, extinguishing forever bourgeois exploitation. The old life was gone and from the ashes they would build a new utopian reality. That night they couldn’t sleep for excitement. For weeks and months on end, people took to the streets, and platforms were hastily erected, as, overnight, ordinary people became impassioned orators delivering adrenaline-stirring speeches and conjuring up fist-shaking slogans. New words became part of the everyday vocabulary; Bolsheviks, soviets, anarchists, Social Revolutionaries. And everywhere that name, again and again, Lenin, Lenin, Lenin.
‘Three...’ Then after the euphoria came the hangover; the bloody fallout, Reds against the Whites, the Civil War and its arbitrary death and executions. Matrena’s village remained staunchly Red. She remembered too well the death of those regarded as White sympathisers. She watched as they were forced down the road that led out of the village, lined up against the wall of a decrepit barn and shot, their desperate pleas met with derision and ridicule. She cheered along with the other villagers as the shots echoed through the early evening air. She shuddered with shame at the memory. One could still, to this day, see the bullet holes peppered against the wall of the barn.
‘Four...’ But Matrena, Viktor and Makarov had all become adept at embracing and condoning violent change as a means of camouflage. The village had rid themselves of the bourgeois oppressors and for that, they were thankful. But the new masters, whom they had all readily embraced, became more ferocious, more stifling than the tsarist regime had ever been. And now, thirteen years on, in the figure of Yonov, it was pointing a gun straight at her head. She looked at Natasha and Nicola, huddling each other for warmth, too young and too weak to know or care what was unfolding around them. She saw the blank, death-like expressions on their faces. Yonov was right – they’d be dead by nightfall.
‘Five...’
She knew they’d been defeated, defeated by the power of a Mauser. Makarov knew it too. ‘OK,’ he said, stepping towards the door. For a moment, she thought she heard Yonov breathe a sigh of relief. Makarov reached the door and turned to face Yonov with a shrug of the shoulders.
She tried to speak but the choking in her throat prevented the words from taking shape.
Ivanova, having forgotten to check the loft, joined her boss at his side. ‘Let’s go,’ said Yonov pulling open the door.
Matrena watched as Makarov followed Yonov outside into the street, Ivanova behind them. He turned around at the door. ‘It’ll turn out all right,’ he said in a h
oarse whisper. ‘You’ll see.’ She knew of course things wouldn’t turn out all right – how could they? She knew she’d never see him again. For the first time in her life, she wanted to tell him how much she loved him. But she didn’t know how to.
*
Matrena looked at her daughters and knew with a force that crushed her that they wouldn’t survive.
She didn’t cry but her whole body felt numb, her mind fuzzy with incomprehension, and her heartbeat seemed to have slowed down to a crawl. She rose from the floor and sat on the wooden bench, her eyes fixed on the closed door. The whole sequence of events had happened so quickly, she wondered whether it had happened at all. How long she sat there staring at the door, her mind empty of any thoughts, she did not know. Half an hour? Two hours? It didn’t matter. The girls had fallen asleep again, still huddling to each other for warmth under the fast diminishing heat of the stove.
They’d taken away her husband. Something told her she ought to run after them, plead with Viktor and Nadya nearby to help her. But she couldn’t; her body was too weak and anyway, what could they do? Perhaps they’d taken Viktor as well. She had to think. Despite the many searches, Yonov and his men always managed to miss the sack of grain hidden in a concealed hole under the stove. That and a few potatoes was all they’d had these last couple of months. It was a starvation diet and now the sack was almost empty. What could she hope for then? With her husband labelled a kulak, she’d be beyond sympathy.
It was almost nightfall and still she’d barely moved. She realised she had to leave while she still maintained a degree of strength. She would call on Viktor and Nadya – assuming they were still there. But what about the girls? Still lying on their mattress next to the stove, their breathing was slow and laboured. It wouldn’t be long now, she thought. Just as she finally thought she was about to succumb to tears, she mustered the strength to move. She mustn’t cry, she thought, if she did, she’d never stop. She stepped outside, shivering against the cold. She looked up the street and scanned her eyes across the trees and the thatched houses lining the muddy track. Houses just like hers – small square blocks made of logs, compacted with mud and whitewashed, each with just a couple of small windows and a chimney. And how odd the trees looked without their barks, stripped of their dignity like old women stripped of their clothes. In their hunger, the villagers had resorted to eating every available piece of bark they could reach. She remembered also how once the village reverberated to the sound of dogs – there were dozens of them. But not a single dog remained – they’d all been eaten, as had all the livestock. There wasn’t even any manure to eat any more. She’d done it all – fed herself and her family on a diet of dog, manure and bark. The sight of the village sprawled out in front of her and the deprivations its occupants had suffered made her shudder. She knew this view as well as she knew her own face; this had been her village all her life. But she never wanted to see it again. She shuffled round to the back of the house, which used to be piled high with logs. Wedged beneath the house was an axe and, next to it, one remaining log. She picked up the axe and mustering all her strength, she split the log into two.
The Black Maria Page 18
