Vladimir had never been to Rosa’s apartment but desperate causes called for desperate measures. Whenever he’d been to the college, he couldn’t find her. He was usually palmed off by one of her friends, the overweight one or the overly made-up one. Each of them guilty in her own way of vanity. The former for being so damn plump during such austere times, the other for paying herself far too much attention – both were equally obscene. He wouldn’t have minded so much if they could tell him where Rosa was, but every time they said she wasn’t in or they didn’t know where she was. Frankly, he didn’t believe them.
And so, Vladimir found himself outside the block of flats in a dismal backstreet on the outskirts of the Arbut district. He got the address easily enough; it was plastered all over Maria’s files. He found the main door to the apartment block open and wandered in, blinking as he got accustomed to the dim light. He climbed the three flights of stairs, appalled by the amount of debris and clutter impeding his way. Do people have to live like this, he wondered, where was their pride? As he turned into the corridor, he almost tripped over a couple lying entwined in each other’s arms on a tatty old mattress. He turned his face away, unable to hide his utter contempt for them. Everywhere, there were people, wasting their time away. He couldn’t believe that Rosa lived in an apartment with all this human filth on her doorstep. At the sight of him, they stopped their chatter and stared at him, leaning back further into the walls. He enjoyed the effect he had on these people, striking them dumb by his mere presence. Maybe they knew – he wasn’t a uniformed officer, but perhaps the long black mac, the way he walked, the authoritative look he’d cultivated, spoke more to them than the outward appearance of the uniform. He was a man to be reckoned with, a man of the NKVD. He knocked on Rosa’s door and as he waited, he became aware that the corridor folk were edging around him. He turned to face them, and en masse, they backed away, shrinking away from the glare of his contemptuous look. He turned back to face the door and allowed himself a little snigger – it was like the pantomime. The door opened a fraction and he saw Maria, wiping her hands on her apron, peering at him. ‘Vladimir?’ she said, understandably surprised to see him.
‘Maria Radekovna, can I come in?’
*
I hesitated for a moment when I saw Vladimir standing at the door. My eyes flickered from him to the others behind. With a quick nod of my head, I opened the door and allowed him through. I was about to close the door when I noticed that the corridor mob had inched forward to within touching distance of me. I knew what they were thinking – if I was taken away, my flat would be up for grabs. But they were confused, I could tell, the police never worked alone, what was he doing there? But I was in no mood to enjoy the moment, the appearance of Vladimir at my flat was torturing me. I closed the door and found him standing in the middle of the main room, his nose twitching with displeasure, taking in the sordid details of his surroundings. I felt as if I should offer him a seat but felt too embarrassed by the state of Viktor’s armchair to do so.
‘I’m sorry to bother you but I wonder if you could tell me where your niece is?’
Oh, so that was it, I thought, it was a romantic call, not a call of business. I sighed with relief. ‘I haven’t seen her today.’
‘Pity. Any idea what time she’ll be back?’
‘No, she might not be back.’
‘You don’t know whether your niece will be back tonight? Does that not worry you?’
‘No, you don’t understand. She spends most of her time at college.’
‘Ah, of course, I see.’ Vladimir absorbed the information. ‘Well, if she happens to drop in, tell her I was asking after her, and hope she’s all right.’
‘I will.’
He sat down on the edge of Viktor’s armchair. ‘So how’s your friend, the artist? What was his name?’
‘Dmitry.’
‘Ah yes, Dmitry.’ He knew very well. ‘And tell me, how are you getting on with RAPA; found out anything of interest yet?’
‘My appointment is not for another few days. I thought this was just a social call.’
Vladimir shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is but I might as well get something out of it. So?’
‘My report must be delivered to Comrade Rykov, and Comrade Rykov only. But I will tell you, that I intend to hand in my notice.’
Vladimir snorted. ‘Hand in your notice? You’re talking about the NKVD here, not some women’s flower arranging co-operative, you can’t just hand in your notice when you feel like it. Remember the deal, your brother – ’ He stopped and glanced around the apartment. ‘Where is your brother?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Oh.’
I knew what he was thinking – I now had all this space to myself, it wasn’t right, what with whole families living in corridors. ‘He died a few days ago.’ I waited a moment, wondering whether he might offer his condolences. He did not. ‘That is why I’m handing my notice in. You brought him back as good as dead, and now he is.’
‘No, no, hang on; don’t make it sound as if it’s somehow our fault. We don’t have a say in how the camps are run.’
‘Yes, but you made damn sure he got sent to one.’
‘Yes, and what would you suggest? He was an enemy of the people, he confessed, he held up his hands and said, OK, I did it, I was a capitalist spy, I admit it.’
‘So be it, but I’m not going to spy for you any more.’
‘Rykov won’t like it – he decides when you’re finished, not the other way round. Especially now he’s got you earmarked on the RAPA case. Not that it matters much, RAPA’s already as good as dead in the ground – nationally, it’s fast falling out of favour. Rykov’s keen to get in on the act and expose your friend’s subgroup, the Moscow East, isn’t it? Where is he anyway? We need to speak to him.’
‘Why?’
‘You see, a body was discovered in a copse not far from a dacha registered in the name of your friend Dmitry. We haven’t seen the body yet, but it’s being sent over for an autopsy, but our country bumpkin colleagues tell us it is recent; it’d been unearthed within forty-eight hours of death. Now, I’m not a criminal policeman, I’m on the political team, as you know, but, in this instance, the two seem to be merging. We have a witness who gave a lift in a pony and cart to a couple from the train station to the gate of this dacha and a neighbour who spoke to the woman. Did your associate talk to you about spending some time there?’
‘No.’
‘So, it wasn’t you in that pony and cart then?’
Although my heart leapt at the assured assumption, I carefully paused and waited a few measured moments before replying. ‘No, certainly not. He doesn’t know me well enough to invite me to his dacha.’
‘So what were you doing last Wednesday and Thursday?’
‘I was at home.’ That wasn’t difficult, I was always at home.
‘Remind me, Maria Radekovna, what’s your husband’s name?’
‘Antonov. Petrov Antonov.’ Again, he knew full well but he still made a show of writing the name down in his notepad.
‘The boss has asked me to request your presence at an identity parade as soon as we can get the neighbour over here.’
‘Oh.’ I turned and looked out of the window to the street below.
‘Would that be all right with you?’
‘Yes, of course. I have nothing to hide.’
Chapter 21: The Ordinary Man
The college was abuzz with activity; it was the evening of the Chekhov performance. Vladimir had seen the poster on the door of the main entrance; the same poster he’d seen dotted around in various shops in the district. He’d come to deal with another outstanding issue – Rosa.
He stood at the end of the main college corridor and surveyed the scene – students in nineteenth-century costume, others with clipboards, lecturers waving bits of paper, all walking hastily in different directions. The atmosphere was soaked in nervous excitement. Envying their enthusiasm for something so simple, he
ambled down the corridor, looking out for Rosa or one of her friends. He turned left at the end of the corridor and down another that led to the main hall. It was here the performance was taking place in little over two hour’s time. He looked through the round window of the heavy double-swing doors and saw the stage. He was impressed – the painted scenery at the back of the stage depicted a late nineteenth-century nobleman’s drawing room, complete with swaying curtains either side of a large French window, framed pictures of aristocrats and hunting scenes. In the middle of the stage was a large polished table, decked with full dinner service, with large candleholders and ornate serving-dishes. To the side, a large sofa plumped up with cushions. He wondered where they’d managed to commandeer so much stuff. All of the lights in the main hall were switched on, and the place was awash with yet more excitable students.
A voice from behind him told him to mind his back. A thin, middle-aged woman carrying a tray of champagne flutes pushed her back against the door. Vladimir offered to hold the door open and went through first to hold it open for her. Before she had chance to disappear, he quickly asked her if she knew where Rosa was. She did and nodded in the direction of the drama department where, she said, she’d be getting ready. Vladimir thanked her and made his way back to the main corridor. Most of the classrooms were off this corridor and sure enough, half way down, he saw a door with the sign Drama Department written on it. The small window had been screened off from the inside with a dark cloth. Vladimir knocked. The door opened a fraction, and an older woman with suspicious eyes asked brusquely what he wanted. Yes, she said, Rosa was there, she was busy, but she’d see if she had a minute. Vladimir thanked her and waited in the corridor. A few moments later, Rosa appeared at the door, surprised at his unexpected appearance.
As she stepped out into the corridor, Vladimir eyed her costume. She was quite the bourgeois lady with her flowing light green dress and bustle; her hair tied and held up with a decorative clip, and, in her hand, a parasol. ‘Rosa,’ he said, ‘you look... you look stunning.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Can I see you a minute?’
She glanced up and down the corridor. ‘OK, but I don’t have long, we’re having a final dress rehearsal in a few minutes. We’ll go outside.’
Once outside, in front of the college’s main entrance, Rosa stood next to the fountain, drawing a line in the gravel with her parasol. Vladimir wasn’t sure where to start. ‘So, how have you been? I haven’t seen you for ages.’
‘Busy. What with the play and college.’
He noticed that she hadn’t yet looked him in the eye. ‘Yes, of course. I, er, was sorry to hear about your father.’
‘Are you?’
Now she looked at him but he was taken aback by her coldness, by the sharpness of her dismissive response. ‘Well, yes, I saw your aunt, she told me.’
‘You saw my aunt?’
‘I came to see you, to see how you were.’
‘I’m surprised she didn’t throw you out. But I suppose she’s too frightened of you.’
‘I... Why should she do that?’
Rosa thrust the spiked end of the parasol into the gravel with such vehemence, it stuck. ‘Vladimir, I thought for a while I liked you, I thought I could trust you. Vladimir the Librarian. Oh, what a laugh you must have had about that. What an idiot you must’ve taken me for. Everyone knew, everyone but me. I mean, I defended you, told them they were wrong. You said you were a librarian and I believed you.’
‘Yes, I know, I’m sorry, but I had to lie to you to protect you.’
‘It wasn’t much of a lie then, was it? Access to the closed stores, theatre tickets, cinema, the restaurants. I only fell for it because, I suppose, I wanted to. But to anyone else...’
‘Didn’t you enjoy it?’
‘Of course I enjoyed it, who wouldn’t? But that’s hardly the point, is it? You lied to me. You lied.’
‘I had no choice, Rosa, believe me. My job, it’s... it’s not the kind of job one announces to the world.’ He waited for a response, hoping, at least, for an acknowledgement of his predicament, but nothing was forthcoming. She’d picked up the parasol and was idly jabbing the gravel with it, making rows of neat holes. It was irritating him beyond reason but why, he couldn’t work out. ‘Who told you?’ he snapped. ‘I need to know, who told you?’
‘No one told me, like I say, it was obvious to all but me.’
It was only obvious, he thought, because someone had told them, and it wasn’t difficult to work out who that someone was.
‘My father, did you have anything to do with that?’
‘No, I swear, I had nothing to do with your father’s case, it was before my time. Look, it’s a job I have to do. I won’t pretend that I don’t enjoy it sometimes, seeing the conspirators brought to justice, the uprooting of class enemies, but sometimes...’ He glanced around, wanting to make sure they were alone. Lowering his voice, he continued, ‘I know sometimes we might be a bit over zealous, we make mistakes. I expect your father was a mistake.’
‘Ha!’
‘But I’m an ordinary man doing an extraordinary job. And now that I’m in it, I can’t leave; I know too much of what things are like from the inside.’
‘Does that mean you want to leave?’
Two students, both girls, came out from the college, and, giggling, trotted down the steps and passed the fountain. Vladimir waited until they were almost out onto the street before replying. ‘No,’ he said simply.
Rosa turned her parasol upside down and rubbed the gravel and dirt from the spike. ‘I have to go now.’
‘Rosa...’
‘Boris is back,’ she said, as she sauntered away from him, towards the steps.
‘Back?’
She stopped on the bottom step and turned around. ‘Yes, the college made an appeal to the Politburo on his behalf, saying they couldn’t perform the play without him. They said that since he wasn’t technically under arrest, he could do the play but he’s not allowed to resume his studies.’
She made to climb the steps but Vladimir hastened after her and grabbed her wrist. She tried to free herself, but he tightened his grip. ‘Boris. He told you, didn’t he?’
‘What?’
‘It was Boris who told you I worked for them.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Let go.’
Vladimir released his grip and, with his arm suspended in mid-air, watched her climb the steps and push open the large college doors and disappear inside. His heart was thumping, his teeth clenched. He suddenly felt very alone. That bastard little Jew was ruining everything – he’d squirmed his way back into the college and he was poisoning Rosa against him. A vision flashed across his mind – the image of Rosa huddled within the arms of the Jew boy, a gloating, triumphant smirk across his face. Vladimir could feel the acrid phlegm burn the back of his mouth. He spat violently, trying to rid himself of the spit from his throat and of the mocking vision from his mind. This was it, he thought, he was going to have to deal with the Jew for once and for all. And this time, the Jew wouldn’t come back.
Chapter 22: The Damned
I kept asking myself – was I a murderess? No, it was an accident but somehow I still felt as if I had turned into a monster, a cold-blooded monster. The question kept bouncing in my brain as I caught the tram to my dreaded appointment with Rykov – our routine chat. Dmitry and I were free to start our lives together. Isn’t that what we wanted? But far from rejoicing in our solitude, we avoided each other, wallowing in self-pity and reciprocal resentment. The days lacked structure, all sense of normality disappeared like water down a plughole. I hadn’t seen Dmitry since Vladimir’s visit. I tried to ring him, to tell him that we were in danger, that Rykov wanted me for an identity parade. But he hadn’t answered. The neighbour at the dacha would recognise me – how could he not? But Rykov’s job was political. If I proved useful to him, he might think my services were too important to allow me to fall into the hands of the criminal police. I was
as dependent on Rykov as ever.
The cool spring air was doing me good but nothing could chase my demons away. I had the feeling they’d be with me for the rest of my days, forever tormenting me, teasing my subconscious with a feather. I passed a church near the northern end of the Arbut. Across the door was a banner proclaiming Support the war against superstition! The influence of the Godless Society was everywhere, counting the days until they could finish off, for once and for all, the believers in their own St. Bartholomew’s Massacre. The church was now just a shell, the inside transformed into a large warehouse. The church bells, I knew, had long since been removed and melted down for scrap metal. But it was still a church, and I had to avert my eyes for fear God was watching me. I remembered when they sent the army to tear down the church in the village. Many of the villagers, armed with pitchforks, tried to bar their way, desperate to save their tradition. I wanted to join them but Makarov held me back. He was right; the Red Army soldiers quickly crushed the picket, and shot the ringleaders.
Religion is the opiate of the people. How long I’d resisted the Godless Society. Once, out of love, I killed two small girls and I needed God, I needed to believe in a God who would look kindly on my desperation and pardon my sins. But now, I had played my part in the killing of a man, my husband. I didn’t dare think of God, for what would He make of me now? Would He see it as an accident? Would He forgive me this time? However hard I tried to justify it to Him, and to myself, I felt beyond His forgiveness. I walked with my hands thrust deep into my pockets, my eyes fixed on the pavement in front of me, unable to look up at the people walking past me. Petrov had stood between me and my freedom, but as I lived in a country where the Dictatorship of the Proletariat terrorised its own, how could I ever expect to be free? Even though Petrov was gone, I felt as suffocated as ever.
The Black Maria Page 20
