Why they had arrested Mamontov – I had not mentioned him to Rykov? But over the years we had all come to realise that logic had no place in the world we lived in. I wondered what Mikhail was doing at that precise moment. Putting his children to bed? Making love to his wife? Rykov wouldn’t go himself – he left the dirty work to Vladimir. Vladimir with his large ears. Poor, poor Mikhail. I’d ruined a good man’s life, torn apart a loving family. However much I dusted or listened to the sound of the baby, or thought of my loneliness, I could not dislodge the image of Mikhail from my mind, with his hat in his hands and his apocalyptic words. But it was him or Dmitry – or me. I couldn’t stand it any longer – I had to make sure I was safe. Throwing on my coat, I hastened back out.
Thirty minutes later, I was back in Bolshaya Square. The light on the third floor was still on. A family at home. I had to wait almost an hour, pacing up and down, by which time I felt chilled to the bone. No one, except for a black cat with its illuminated eyes, took any notice of me. Even the cat got bored of me and slunk off. I thought of my brother. Of course, I hadn’t wanted him to die but now that he was gone, I couldn’t help but feel hugely relieved. But this sense of relief troubled me. His survival had held my life in check for too long. I felt as if I couldn’t do a thing while Viktor sat there all day long, let alone plan anything. But now, just as my future was opening up, it was closing again. The warden in charge of the block had been to see me – I had two days to move out. Two days. In some ways, it was a relief. Since Viktor’s death, my neighbours had become even more unbearable. They were knocking on my door at night to keep me awake, spoiling my cooking in the shared kitchen, and stealing my utensils. They wanted me out as quickly as possible; each one of them believing it was their turn next to be allocated an apartment. Although moving in with Dmitry was a possibility, the idea had somehow lost its appeal. In some ways, the idea of simply disappearing appealed to me. I even thought about the village – the place where I’d left Matrena behind. It was dangerous and uncertain but it was a means of getting rid of Rykov.
Finally, a Black Maria appeared in the square, as quiet and as sleek as the cat. It parked near the entrance to Mikhail’s block of flats and two men emerged and stood for a moment within the rays of a streetlight. One of them, in his long mackintosh, was Vladimir. The other was smoking. Vladimir fished a piece of paper from his pocket. Having read it, he looked up at the windows, then nodded at his colleague. The men walked up the few steps to the main door. The second man threw his cigarette behind him into the road. I watched it fizzle in the dark, as the door swung back and forth. I had no need to stay any longer. I knew what was coming next.
Chapter 27: The Parade
The day had come. I found myself standing in a line down a corridor with another dozen women, all vaguely similar to me in terms of their age, height and colouring. We stood in silence, as ordered, and waited. I felt no sense of fear, no panic. Instead, I was resigned to whatever fate had decreed. My husband was dead; I had played my part. Whatever the justifications, I had sinned, and there was no escaping that. And everyone knew it was far better to be a criminal prisoner than a political one and the sentences, even for murder, more lenient. I thought of Mikhail and shuddered to think of the degradations he would be suffering now based on no more than my say-so. There was a strange consolation that whatever punishment I may have to suffer was no more than I deserved. But I had lost Dmitry in the process. He had changed – I had changed him. I felt hollow inside – everything I had done had been for nothing. Petrov deserved better.
‘Right, stand straight, look straight ahead. Do not say a word.’ A uniformed policeman walked along the line, inspecting us. Satisfied with his motley crew of women, he took his place at the far end of the line, and nodded at a colleague standing next to the door. In came the man. I couldn’t see him, and didn’t want to, nor need to, my eyes focused on the brick wall opposite me.
The process was conducted in total silence. He paused at each woman. I was, I think, seventh in line. He stopped in front of me and our eyes met momentarily. It was him all right. He was probably thinking exactly the same about me. But if he recognised me, which surely he must, he showed no sign of it. Instead, he carried on to the next woman and so on down the line, eventually reaching the policeman at the end, who escorted him out of the corridor.
Moments later, the policeman was back. ‘OK, thank you, ladies, you may return to reception where you can collect your fee. Thank you for your time. The accused will come with me.’
And with that the line dispersed. I followed my policeman and was taken up two flights of stairs and deposited in an office. On being shown in the dark room, I was greeted by Rykov sitting behind a desk. But this wasn’t his usual office, or indeed his usual place of work. ‘Maria Radekovna,’ said Rykov. ‘Take a seat.’ This office was small, not so opulent as his own office, low ceilinged and featureless bar the usual portrait of Stalin hung on the wall.
He shuffled some papers, wrote a note on one, then laying everything to one side, fixed his eyes on me. His curling smile seemed exaggerated, it seemed as if a cartoon mouth had been cut out and pasted onto his mouth. ‘He recognised you immediately,’ he said. It came as no surprise but my hands still gripped the side of the chair. ‘So, let me tell you where we are. Your husband was reported missing by his assistant at work. So we asked her in to identify the body. This helpful lady had the aforethought to bring a photograph of your husband and you from her boss’s desk at work. You OK?’
‘Yes. Fine.’ I hadn’t realised Petrov had a photograph of us both on his desk at work. The thought stabbed me in the heart. Rykov must have noticed it in my eyes.
He continued. ‘Using the photo, our country-bumpkin colleagues tracked down an old chap who gave the couple a lift from the train station late afternoon, last Wednesday. He recognised both of you. And now our helpful neighbour has identified you from the parade. So, tell me, what exactly happened last Wednesday at the dacha?’
I told him. I told him everything. There was no need to hold anything back. ‘Yes, we killed him,’ I said by way of conclusion. ‘But it was an accident and if Dmitry hadn’t hit him, he would have killed Dmitry.’
Rykov stretched his arms, his fingers interlocked. ‘So it was more important to you to have your artist friend alive than your husband?’
‘I wasn’t really weighing it up in that way. I threw the water on the fire, hoping the diversion would calm them both down.’
‘How resourceful,’ he said, scribbling another note. ‘They will want to question you, of course, and who knows, they might say accidents happen and let you go. But I doubt it. I’ve requested to be permitted to speak to you first – to help in my own investigations.’
‘Should I be grateful?’
Rykov shot me a furious look. ‘I don’t really care how you feel. But as soon as I let you go, you will be under their jurisdiction. I want you to know, your friend, Dmitry, is finished but, worse for him, his is a political charge. The RAPA colleague you told us about has been most obliging in his information. Comrade Mamontov confessed everything. We now know all the heinous goings on within that little organisation. The so-called Russian Association of Proletariat Artists turns out to have been nothing more than a cover for counter-revolutionary espionage. We thought as much but we simply needed the proof. And now, thanks to your friend’s accommodating colleague, we have it. We owe Comrade Mamontov a great debt of gratitude. And now that we have your friend’s old patron under our protection, Mikhail what’s-his-name, we’re expecting confirmation of Mamontov’s confession any time now. You remember that fuss at the locomotive factory, of course. Yes? Well, old Comrade Trifonov may have got himself in a schoolboy fluster over a bit of cleavage but his suspicions were well founded. We have much to thank him for as well. Well, before his own arrest that is. So, we need to speak to our friend Dmitry Kalinin. But first, we want him to receive his award. His Order of Lenin will make the case more high profile. Makes us look good,
’ he said with a wink.
‘So, in short,’ he continued, ‘your friend is under arrest and you’re wanted for questioning. You can go home tonight. Enjoy your last evening of freedom. Do not think of doing anything rash. Should you even as much as yawn, I will get to know about it. Tomorrow, you will be at the ceremony with Dmitry. I’m sure your presence will make Comrade Kalinin much more accommodating. We will be accompanied by his sister, Anna, isn’t it? And your niece.’
‘Rosa? Why drag Rosa into this?’
‘I want to ensure your cooperation.’
‘You’re taking Anna and my niece as hostages?’
‘If you want to put it that way. Also, as her guardian, I should warn you... your niece has not been so forthcoming as we might expect from our loyal youth. We had reason to question a doctor recently. An abortionist.’
‘No, not Rosa.’
‘No, let me finish. Not Rosa but a friend of hers, by the name of Ella. I forget her full name now. She, the dirty little whore, had an abortion. This disgusting, low-life doctor performed the termination, denying Stalin a future citizen for our glorious motherland. When we questioned the young lady in question she confessed your niece knew all about it. So why, I ask, did Rosa not denounce her friend to the Purge Commission for the foul, anti-Soviet bitch that she is? We also interviewed a young acquaintance of hers, a Jewish boy, and he certainly confirmed that Rosa is in need of some attention.’
Chapter 28: The Park
Dmitry and I were being swept along with the immense Labour Day crowds as it snaked forward towards Gorky Park. Draped across the broad gates at the park entrance was a huge banner inscribed with Stalin’s dictum Life has become better, life has become more cheerful.
Once inside the gates, I felt myself in a different land – such was the joyous atmosphere, the shrieks and laughter, the smiling faces, the happy families. Never had I felt so at odds with the people around me. There were thousands of people, all determined to enjoy their public holiday of the Revolution and, as if to mark the occasion, the sun had, at last, come out. Surely, I thought, as my life had collapsed around me, Gorky Park had never been as brimming and alive as this.
Dmitry put his arm around me. Without looking at me, he whispered, ‘Don’t turn around, but have you noticed our friend?’
‘Friend? What friend?’
‘We’re being followed. A little chap in a corduroy jacket and a peak cap. You hadn’t noticed?’
‘No –’
‘Don’t turn around.’
‘Rykov did say.’
‘There’ll be others too; you can be sure of that.’ He sighed. ‘Seems odd, doesn’t it? They’re allowing us our last day of freedom. Like a condemned man’s last meal. We might as well enjoy it. How are you feeling?’
‘Strangely calm.’
‘Yes, me too. I’m sorry, Maria,’ he said taking my hand. ‘I suppose we never stood a chance, did we?’
‘No, I’m sorry. I’ve thought of it often – there you were, leading a comfortable life, playing within the rules. Then I came in and destroyed it for you. It is me that should be saying sorry.’
‘I would have fallen sooner or later.’
‘And now there’s nothing we can do. It’s almost a relief.’
Dmitry smiled. He knew what I meant.
We still had an hour to kill before we were due to present ourselves at the Stage of Soviet Artistic Endeavours where Dmitry was due to receive his award.
Near the park entrance, in neat orderly rows, was a series of cardboard battleships and tanks. Further along, Dmitry and I stopped and watched a demonstration of community dancing. A conductor was holding forth at the microphone, behind him his band, instruments at the ready. In the partitioned square in front of him, stood a dozen or so pairs of young grinning girls, dressed in knee-length red and white dresses, with large red bows in their hair. The conductor described the steps of the dance as the girls demonstrated the moves. Then, they repeated the show but this time, accompanied by music. The demonstration completed, the conductor invited the watching public to join in. A few couples stepped forward but most, like ourselves, were too abashed to participate. But then, the young girls sprang in different directions into the crowd and started dragging protesting couples into the square. We were among the press-ganged and soon found ourselves facing each other, embarrassed grins fixed on our faces, hands intertwined and at the ready. ‘This is ludicrous,’ said Dmitry. ‘What are we doing?’ There must have been about twenty couples. The music started and the conductor delivered his instructions as we skipped to the left, circled round the edge of the square and back in towards the centre but not without a few wrong turns and several collisions with other, equally inept couples. Dmitry had, I found to my amusement, a poor sense of rhythm. At the end of five, rather excruciating minutes, he was bent double with laughter and apologising for his ‘two left feet’.
We’d made our escape before the next dance routine was introduced. ‘How can we laugh at a time like this?’ I asked.
‘The laughter of the condemned.’
We strolled idly through the park, feeling detached from everything around us, our eyes caught by various attractions and unusual sights. We saw food stands selling sausages, bacon rolls, melting cheeses and frothy beer. The State could provide when it needed to. Ahead of us, we could see the Ferris wheel and, nearer by, came the screams and shouts from the bowling alley. We stood and watched a parade of Pathetic Enemies. A brass band passed first, playing a tongue-in-cheek dirge followed by the procession consisting of costumed characters lampooning the enemies of the revolution. First came the religious cavalcade: angels, gods, priests, and the figure of Jesus. Then followed the capitalists – children dressed in suits and eye-glasses, with cushions stuffed down their fronts, and fat cigars between their lips. One child, much to our amusement, had added the delicious touch of smearing tomato sauce around his lips – the blood-sucking capitalist. Lastly, there were the similarly obese Tsarist nobles, counts and barons and their self-important generals.
Elsewhere, we came across a junior chess masterclass with pairs of well-dressed children sitting at small tables, listening to advice and concentrating on their next move, their parents hovering nearby. But perhaps the most popular spectacle was the parachute jumping. Queues of people waited patiently to climb the steps to the top of a stone tower which, according to the notice, was 130 feet high. From there, people jumped off and parachuted to the grass below. I urged Dmitry to have a go but by now, time was against us – at least, that was his excuse!
The Stage of Soviet Artistic Endeavours was comparatively small compared to everything else we’d seen in the park. The temporary platform was fitted with an arched-shaped wooden roof, across which, was the usual banner proclaiming another of Stalin’s phrases: The artist is the engineer of the soul. There could have been no more than about fifteen rows of chairs. At least, virtually every seat was taken and with more people milling close by, watching a string quartet playing Stravinsky. Dmitry led the way as we skimmed pass the standing audience and made our way to the back entrance of the large wooden structure.
‘This is where we part,’ said Dmitry.
‘Good luck.’
‘Thank you.’
I leant up to kiss him. He wrapped his arms around me, pulled me in and kissed me hard on the mouth. It was only then, as the noise of the park receded into the background, I realised how loud everything had been. The intensity of thousands upon thousands of people talking excitedly, of couples laughing, of children screeching, of music playing. But now, as we kissed, the noise diminished into a distant rumble, a muffled murmur far, far away. Dmitry pulled back and we gazed at each other. At the very last, I seemed to have won him back. But it was already too late.
Without another word, he turned and walked briskly up to the burly man standing guard at the stage door with a No Entry sign. Having had his invitation carefully scrutinised, he was allowed in. As he stepped through the door, I raised my ha
nd to wave goodbye, but he didn’t look back.
*
I wandered along the rows of seats, finding one near the front, while also keeping an eye out for our mysterious companion. The string quartet was still on stage, performing a piece I think was Mozart. The viola player was female, otherwise the others were male and they were all young. My neighbour, a grey-haired man with a slightly pockmarked face, told me, during pauses, that they were students from the Workers’ Academy of Music. The next piece, he told me, was by Shostakovich.
But by now, I was no longer able to concentrate. I could feel my stomach churning. I was feeling nervous for Dmitry, for me, for Anna and Rosa. I wondered where they were.
What was happening to our world? Here I was, listening to Shostakovich, a thousand smiling faces around me, but behind each smile there was a tale to be told. Stalin’s purge had, like the most contagious of diseases, permeated into every sphere of life. There was barely a soul who had not been affected in some way, however indirectly, by the shadow that been cast over the whole Soviet Union. And now, in my bid for freedom, I had thrown myself under that same shadow. Life with Petrov had been so suffocating but, as I was now beginning to realise, it had been stable. Like a cheap trickster with a tablecloth, I had whipped that stability from the table with one fell swoop. But instead of finding everything still neatly in its place, the entire edifice had come crashing down around me. I missed him in a strange way. I had wanted to be rid of him but not in that way; he didn’t deserve such a fate. I had swapped suffocation and stability for love and uncertainty. It no longer seemed the attractive proposition it once did.
The Black Maria Page 24
