The Black Maria

by Rupert Colley

  Poor Petrov – I never gave him the child he so wanted. At first, I also wanted children. I felt that another child would ease the pain but Natasha and Nicola are too entrenched within my psyche to be so easily supplanted. Not a night goes by when I don’t dream of them and every morning I awake with their names on my lips. They smile at me in those last few moments of unconsciousness, their bright eyes and laughing voices, wishing me good morning as I open my eyes. It took years to get used to those few moments of panic when I realised I was awake and they had gone. I’d shut my eyes, desperate to see them again but my awakened self lacked the strength of my subliminal mind. During the daytime, I can only visualise them in those last few months and weeks and on that fatal day. Sometimes, I can’t wait for the hours to pass, for the day to fade away, can’t wait to slip back into my dreams where I know I’ll find them, waiting for me, forever laughing and playing and calling me ‘Mama’. Makarov is sometimes there too, but always in the distance, that half-smile playing on his lips as he watches on proudly.

  After the first couple of years, I became frightened that a new baby would erase my dreams, would deny me my possession of Natasha and Nicola. But then I realised that I did want a child, I just didn’t want one with Petrov.

  How strange it felt to be thinking of Petrov as part of my past. I looked back on that evening and shuddered. It had only been a few days, but it already felt as if it was a lifetime ago, somebody else’s lifetime.

  *

  ‘Well, come in, Maria Radekovna,’ said Rykov as I entered his office. On his desk was a cup of something hot, still steaming. ‘Take a seat.’

  I sat down. I waited for him to comment on the weather. But instead he launched straight into business. ‘So, I understand young Vladimir has asked you to appear at an identity parade?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Now, I’m sure there’ll be nothing to worry about. This man, the neighbour chap, will be with us the day after tomorrow. Two o’clock. That suit? Good. Our country colleagues tell us they’ve found traces of blood near the fireplace. Interesting. So, tell me again, what is your relationship with Kalinin? Your Dmitry?’

  Of course the neighbour would recognise me. Even in the dark, with the rain, he would recognise me, the medieval witch. The way he stared at me, open-mouthed, disbelieving. Two days time, two o’clock. So casually said, as if Rykov and I were arranging a coffee date. There was no escape; nowhere to run to.

  ‘Maria Radekovna, did you hear what I said?’

  ‘What? I’m sorry?’

  ‘You were miles away.’ He laughed. ‘Usually when people sit there, I have their undivided attention. So, let’s try again. How well do you know this artist?’ Then, rather unexpectedly, Rykov rose to his feet and walked to the side of the room where, leaning against a wall, was a board of some sort covered by a dark green cloth, which I hadn’t noticed before. ‘One thing that worries me still, if I may, is this reluctance of yours to admit the extent of your friendship with our friend, Comrade Kalinin.’

  ‘But I’ve told you, I know his sister well, so by association –’ My words stuck in my throat as, like a magician, Rykov whipped the cloth away and there, under the full glare of the room’s lighting, was the painting, my Mona Lisa–like smile grinning at me as if greeting an old friend. Rykov stepped back to admire it. There I was, in my full naked glory, being examined by an officer of the NKVD.

  ‘It’s a good likeness,’ said Rykov, with a mischievous glint in his eye, turning back and forth to compare the two of us. I felt as exposed as my portrait and felt the need to fold my arms across my breasts as if he could see through my clothing. ‘So, tell me, Maria Radekovna, is your friend’s brother quite so familiar with all his casual acquaintances?’

  I couldn’t look at him. I tried to focus on the painting but that was worse. ‘I – I just... he needed a model, that’s all, his usual model was sick –’

  ‘His usual model? But there are no other paintings like this at his apartment.’

  ‘No,’ I said humbly. ‘It was the first.’

  Rykov stepped up to the painting to examine it from close up. ‘Quite a brazen example of titillation. Very nice titillation, if I may say, but it’s hardly a work of socialist realism, is it?’ I didn’t answer, not thinking I was needed to. ‘I said is it?’

  I jumped; the vehemence in his voice frightening me. ‘No,’ I said, conscious of the quiver within my monosyllabic answer.

  ‘So, how do you feel when you see this? Do you feel proud? Whoring yourself to the first man who tells you to strip your clothes off?’

  ‘He’s an artist.’

  ‘Oh yes, I don’t question his talent, but that doesn’t excuse your part in this. Don’t artists usually pick up the cheapest bit of skirt they can find? You’re an intelligent woman, Maria Radekovna, I know that, but you deem it right to degrade yourself like this? Where is your shame, your sense of dignity? Hmm?’

  He was right, of course, but at the time it seemed so right, so damn romantic. But now, under his scrutiny and in this office, it seemed exactly as he was describing it: sordid, cheap and degrading. His expression summed it up for me, his disgusted look. I remembered the way Dmitry had seen me that night – audaciously confident and beautiful. But the beauty was fading with every second. I remembered the confidence I felt that night, as if the whole world was about to change, as if we were on the threshold of the bright new tomorrow we were always being promised. But how pitiful it all looked now, pitiful and downright silly.

  He returned to his chair. ‘So, what have you got for me this week? Anything to report?’

  ‘Yes. I have been to a meeting of RAPA.’

  ‘You have? Good. And anything come from it?’

  I sighed. How I hated this moment. ‘Is this necessary any more?’

  He glared at me and I felt myself shrink into the chair. ‘I’ll pretend, just – this – once, that I didn’t hear that. Have you or have you not anything to report?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He took a sip of his drink. ‘Good.’ He waited while I stirred myself for another denunciation. ‘Well, go on,’ he said. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense.’

  Chapter 23: The Play

  The corridors were deserted. So too were the classrooms, the offices and the canteen. Not a soul was in sight. In the distant, Vladimir could hear the sound of the actors on stage; their exaggerated voices reverberating through the narrow corridors. The only other sound was that of three pairs of shoes on the parquet floor. The two uniformed men marched side by side a few feet behind him, both of them identical caricatures of themselves – burly, squat-faced, squared-shouldered thugs in corresponding long black mackintoshes. Vladimir was nervous; he always was before an arrest, especially one where he was in sole charge, and, even more especially, after his last solo experience. He felt the inside pocket of his jacket for the umpteenth time, checking once again for the reassuring presence of the revolver.

  Arresting someone was always difficult but when it went to plan, it was an exhilarating experience, especially when you believed the arrest was justified. The look of horror on their faces, the intense fear in their eyes, the incredulous denials; one could almost draw a diagram illustrating the various stages of response. And because one was always so on edge, one was liable to do anything to complete the arrest. It was a formidable escalation of fear upon fear with violence only ever a hair’s-breadth away. Apart from the pressure one felt from one’s superiors, there was always the risk it wouldn’t go according to plan. And the pressure from above was real enough because woe betide the arresting officer who fucked up. Once was just about forgivable, twice was not. And Vladimir had used up his only chance. Hence, it wasn’t just an act, one couldn’t help but turn into the hard bastard people thought you were, simply from the adrenaline-induced fear of incurring the wrath of someone like Rykov. That the prisoners would plea, beg, break into hysterics, and lose all semblance of dignity was expected, but there was always the chance they might actua
lly fight back, try to run away, throw themselves under a tram; those were the sort of things one worried about.

  The women were always the worst. And the pregnant women especially so. That’s what happened last time. Rykov had charged him with the responsibility of arresting a woman suspected of being (and subsequently sentenced as) a saboteur. The problem, as he found out when he arrived at her apartment at four in the morning, was that she was heavily pregnant. Rykov hadn’t thought to warn him. Perhaps, he didn’t know, or hadn’t thought it important. She was a screamer, not the terrified kind, but the aggressive type. She refused to budge and, eventually, his thugs were forced into physically carrying her out, struggling to contain her huge belly. The bitch scratched one of the officers right across the eye, drawing blood. The officer’s mate punched her in the mouth and then, the stupid bastard who’d been scratched thumped her in the stomach. Half an hour later, she miscarried in the back of the van; made an awful mess. Rykov was furious. She had been Vladimir’s responsibility. He couldn’t afford any more mistakes. The bosses liked their suspects brought in cleanly – it was their job to apply the pressure.

  Vladimir turned the corner into another corridor that led to the double-doors of the main hall. He heard Rosa’s voice bellowing out from within, her words wrought with embellished emotion. He slowed up as he approached the doors, the footsteps behind him following suit. What chance did he have with her now, he wondered. Their encounter just a few hours earlier hadn’t gone well. Why was she so damn angry with him? He’d always taken her for a true believer, a young communist of the first order. Surely then, she should have embraced his proletariat duty as a worthy occupation. Was that not a cause for pride? Was a soldier not held in the highest esteem, and what was he, if not a soldier? But Rosa had shown no acknowledgement of this, no recognition for the sacred cause he was serving. Even his concession that her father’s imprisonment had been a mistake had fallen on deaf ears. A concession that, if truth be known, was both unnecessary and based in falsehood, for Rosa’s father was as guilty as they came. He was disappointed and even disturbed by her reaction, but it hadn’t dented his feelings for her because he knew the root cause for it. Somebody had poisoned her mind and for her own sake, it had to stop. As the daughter of an enemy of the people, Rosa’s own situation was far from secure. If she allowed herself to be taken in by counter-revolutionary thoughts, she could find herself in an unenviable position. It was like a rotting tooth – it took harsh measures to deal with it. And this particular rotten tooth was about to be removed.

  Vladimir pushed open the left-side door, sneaked into the darkness of the main hall and stood to one side. The two uniforms followed and took their places either side of him. They’d entered almost unnoticed, only a few people in the back row turned their heads momentarily, and a lecturer approached them. He was, presumed Vladimir, about to ask them for their tickets but then stopped at the sight of the uniformed thugs. Vladimir nodded at him, and the lecturer backed away. Vladimir couldn’t help but consider it ironic that the two people currently on stage were Rosa and Boris. Was there a wave of electricity between them? No, he thought, just the clumsy transaction of dialogue between two amateur actors. A tingle of satisfaction went through him at the thought that poor unsuspecting Boris had no idea what the evening had in store for him.

  ‘“How they keep on talking, talking all day long.’”

  Vladimir was disappointed in Rosa’s performance. He was no expert on acting, but he could see that her presentation was stilted, the way she stood awkward. Boris was even worse, his words sounded so insincere, so boringly flat. Even he, thought Vladimir, could inject more life into the character of Andrey Sergeyevitch. The set, at least, was impressive. He’d seen it earlier when he came looking for Rosa, but now under the stage lighting and floodlights, it was still more sumptuous. The lighting had transformed the painted wallpaper from the simple yellow of before to a vibrant mustard colour. The French windows looked out on a scene of bright green lawn and weeping willows. The set designer had put the actors to shame.

  ‘“Our garden is like a garden passage; they walk and ride through. Nurse, give those people something.’”

  The characters of Olga and Masha had come onto the stage, and Vladimir recognised the waif-like figure of Rosa’s friend, Ella, and her overweight friend, Claudia. At last, here was some acting! Ella’s mere presence had transformed the production. She spoke her lines with conviction and finesse.

  ‘“Let us sit together, even if we don’t say anything...’

  Ella’s ability was having a positive effect on the others. Both Rosa and Boris seemed more at ease delivering their lines to Ella’s character. Although he hadn’t seen it for years, Vladimir knew the play well enough to know that they were fast approaching the end.

  ‘“Our soldiers are going. Well, good luck to them.’

  He felt for the revolver in his jacket and breathed deeply. He thought back to the pregnant woman in the van driving through the deserted night-time streets of Moscow. Her screams of agony as the baby miscarried, trying to muffle her screams with his gloved hand, the officer pulling on her hair to try to keep her still, while the other drove, occasionally turning around to thump her. It was barbaric but at the time he could have quite happily have shot her there and then and pushed her out of the van and into the river. Never again, he thought, this time he wouldn’t allow for any mistakes. At least this time, it wasn’t a woman.

  ‘“If only we knew, if only we knew...’

  Rosa, Claudia and Ella froze their expressions and their movement as the heavy green curtains drew together. The audience clapped. He joined in, clapping softly as the curtain drew back, and the three principal characters, the three sisters, bowed. Vladimir noticed, with an inward smile, that his two assistants had taken his cue and were also politely clapping. The curtains closed and re-opened, and all the actors had come onto the stage, bowing to their audience, lapping up their applause, enjoying the artistic high, the creative buzz. The curtains drew close again, and the hall lights flickered on. The applause stopped as suddenly as it had started, and Vladimir blinked as his eyes accustomed to the harsh glare of the ordinary lights. The assistant to his left looked at him expectantly. Vladimir shook his head. No, not yet, he thought, let him enjoy it, let him enjoy his moment of glory, his last few minutes of freedom.

  The audience had begun rising to their feet, collecting their belongings, making their way to the exits. Vladimir watched them as they passed, many of them casting him a furtive glance, quickly looking away before catching his eye. It was time, thought Vladimir. He nodded to his assistants and led the way.

  They walked up onto the stage, and followed the stage exit to the left as taken by the actors. It led to a high-ceilinged room, its doors propped open by buckets of sand. Vladimir could hear the gaggle of excited voices coming from within, congratulating themselves, the relief it was all over. Now, here’s to The Cherry Orchard, Vladimir heard one say in a voice that cut above the others. As he approached, he saw the gathering of students milling around inside the room, heard the clink of glasses, felt the warmth of satisfied artistic pride. It seemed such a shame, he thought, to be breaking it up.

  He knocked gently on the opened door as he stepped inside. Only the few nearest the door saw them at first, then some others, and then, like a ripple effect, a few more. People stopped talking in mid-sentence, their mouths hanging open, glasses poised near lips. A lighted match wavered and then burnt itself out. All eyes turned to them, their unexpected and unwelcome visitors. He eyed them each in return, his gaze flickering from one face to another. This, he thought, was power.

  From the midst of the gathering, emerged Rosa, still dressed as the nineteenth-century lady of leisure, an apparition of the bourgeois past. Behind her, he saw Ella and, not far away, Claudia and next to her, Boris, dressed in a tuxedo and bow tie. Rosa was holding a glass of red wine, her eyebrows knotted in confusion at Vladimir’s appearance. ‘Vladimir? What... what brings y
ou here?’

  ‘I’m here to carry out an unpleasant assignment.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Here? Now?’

  A large woman with pleated hair and flushed cheeks approached him. ‘What’s the meaning of this intrusion?’ she asked.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Ramzin, I’m the head of drama here. So I ask you again, what’s the meaning of this?’

  Vladimir flashed his identity card at her. ‘Business.’

  If her expected her to be cowed by the letters, NKVD, he was to be disappointed. ‘That’s all very well,’ she said, ‘but this is most inopportune. Can’t it wait?’

  ‘I fear not, I have my orders.’ He walked passed her, his eyes fixed on Boris, whose face wore the expression of depressed resignation. The few people between them parted like biblical waves. He felt like a central character in a play; the actors were now his audience. Someone coughed. He could feel the presence of his assistants at his shoulder, his worthy supporting cast. He cleared his throat. ‘Comrade Gershberg?’ he said, mustering up as much authority as possible, ‘I would ask you to come with us, please.’

  Boris took a deliberate sip of wine, swallowed and then said, ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘Yes, quite,’ said Ramzin. ‘Why?’

  ‘I am not at liberty to divulge the peculiarities of the case at this particular juncture. If you would follow me, please.’

  It was Ella who stepped forward, so splendid, remembered Vladimir, as Olga. ‘You can’t just take him,’ she said. Vladimir cocked his head to one side. She turned to Rosa. ‘Rosa do something, tell your... your librarian that Boris is innocent.’

  ‘Innocent of what?’ asked Vladimir. A murmur of discontent rippled around the room.

  ‘Innocent of whatever he’s guilty of, of course.’