Maria's Story

by Robin Barratt

  Title Page

  MARIA’S STORY

  By Robin Barratt

  Publisher Information

  First published as an eBook in 2014 by

  Apex Publishing Ltd

  12A St. John’s Road, Clacton on Sea,

  Essex, CO15 4BP, United Kingdom

  www.apexpublishing.co.uk

  Please email any queries to Chris Cowlin:

  mail@apexpublishing.co.uk

  Digital Edition converted and published by

  Andrews UK Limited 2014

  www.andrewsuk.com

  Copyright © 2014 Robin Barratt

  The author has asserted his moral rights

  Cover photo: Supplied by the author

  Cover design: Chris Cowlin

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition, that no part of this book is to be reproduced, in any shape or form. Or by way of trade, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser, without prior permission of the copyright holder.

  Publishers note: This story is based on actual events, originally written in 2005 and updated April 2014

  About the Author

  Robin Barratt has been writing and publishing since the year 2000, after stepping away from security operations and training; an industry he was in for almost 20 years previously. He is the author of five non-fiction true crime books, one self-help guide and one travel anthology. He has spent many years in Moscow but is currently living in Norwich, Norfolk.

  Prologue

  Sitting down on that eventful day in Moscow almost ten years ago listening to Maria tell her story, certainly changed my life, and probably my wife Inna’s too. I suppose, if I could have done anything in the world apart from writing, I would have most definitely wanted to set up a facility in Moscow helping the disabled because, albeit in a small way, Inna and I had started to transform Maria’s life, but Maria had given us so much more. She made me recognise something in me I felt I knew I had, but never really had any chance of developing; the love and desire to help others not so advantaged.

  I really do think that generally most of us do want to help and a lot of us occasionally pop a coin into the bucket, never really getting involved, not really emotional, caring just enough to give that spare pound but then walking away without any concern or another thought. I was the same; rarely giving and caring little. However, involving myself with Maria and her young son, and striving to fulfil the promises we made to her, had most definitely changed both myself and my wife; we now understand the hope we give with our promises, and the sadness and despair when those promises are not realised.

  It is true to say that Maria has probably experienced more in her short life so far than most of us will ever experience in the whole course of ours. For the most part, Maria’s life has been awful, but amazingly she retains a scale of hope and aspiration that continues to astonish and surprise. Maria dreams of a better life and she dreams of being a better mother; a mother her son will one day look up to and admire.

  If this book does nothing else, it should give us all hope and make us realise that, no matter how hard or how bad life gets, there is always a way out, there are always chances and opportunities, and there are always people around us that really do care.

  Firstly though, and unconventionally, Inna and I must thank everyone that called, wrote and e-mailed us back then with their false promises to help. Some people promised so many things but ended up giving or doing absolutely nothing and, after their initial enthusiasm and exuberance to help, we never heard from them again. Those false and fake promises actually motivated us to work even harder. For example, with her initial telephone call out of the blue one Sunday morning, the wife of a famous pop star promised us, and more importantly Maria, so much and yet actually ended up doing very, very little. For an incredibly wealthy woman who has, in some ways, lived a similar life to Maria, that saddened and disappointed us, and Maria, beyond belief. And so this story not only chronicles Maria’s amazing and tragic life and the incredible effort many people did make in getting her walking again, but also our constant struggle to make certain others fulfilled the initial promises they made to Maria too.

  Secondly, and infinitely much more importantly, we have to thank everyone that pledged their support and who actually did help us, sometimes in ways we still find hard to believe. For example, without the help from the Icelandic prosthetic company Össur, we would never have had new artificial legs for Maria, enabling Maria to actually take that first giant step, both physically and mentally, towards a new life. And of course we have to thank Jamie Gillespie, the British prosthetist who works for Össur and who went over to Moscow time and time again to work with Maria. And of course a big thank you goes to Andrei and his clinic in Moscow, who worked so hard fitting Maria’s new limbs and getting her walking again. They all gave us the inspiration and determination to succeed.

  We must also thank those wonderful people who gave money to Maria to make life for her a little more comfortable including; Tim, Allan and the staff at CIA Excel Risk Consultancy, Mrs. Hingley, Mrs Loveday, Mrs Mitchell, Mrs J E Bruce, The Norwich Russian Group, Mr. G Tilsley, A J Howe, Mr Mann, J Ogden, Mrs M Heald, David & Barbara Herman, Jim Beaumont, S P Vassallo, J H Delaney, Mrs J Hammond, S A Milligan, Ms Illingworth, Sarah Baker, James Howells, S M Harris, Mr Cooper, Mr Eley, Ms Jeary, Master G Baker and the staff at Norwich Union as well as the other anonymous donations we received. It truly amazed and moved us how much everyone actually genuinely cared about Maria.

  In a country with little or no state support for those with disabilities, we know that Maria sadly still begs to survive, even after all the support and help we gave her. She still goes out every day to her miserable corner in the dirty metro, on her small wooden platform and pleads to passers-by for a few spare coins. We also heard that Maria had once spent ten days in hospital after being beaten up whilst begging. This was, and still is her horrible life as a disabled beggar on the mean streets of Moscow.

  Not only does this book record Maria’s harsh life, but it also aims to give inspiration and hope to others like Maria, as well as recording the astonishing care that people have felt for her. We also hope that the Russian government might one day look at its draconian attitude to care and support for its disabled population and enforce the laws that it occasionally and half-heartily makes. Healthcare in Russia is free for Russians but the money that the Russian government allocates to the disabled disappears into the pockets of the officials allocating it, long before it ever reaches its destination. Yet the Government actively frowns upon and discourages foreign aid and charities. The Russian government cannot, and does not want to look after its disabled and destitute, nor does it want anyone else to - being disabled in Russia is being a prisoner in your home, with your only destiny the four walls that surround you.

  Section One

  Finding Maria

  2003

  Winters in Moscow are long, harsh and hard. Temperatures often drop from between minus twenty and minus 30 degrees centigrade, and on occasions even lower. I looked outside at the falling snow and understood how much I really do hate the Russian winters. I hate going out, having to dress in so many layers and yet still feel cold. I hate wearing thick gloves, thick hat and a scarf covering my mouth; the taste of bits of wool mixed with condensation always makes me feel like vomiting. I hate the blind trudge through the thick
snow, my head and body huddled against the driving blizzards. I hate queuing up for the No:17 minibus, which stops opposite the supermarket not far from my apartment, waiting quietly and patiently until the bus pulls up and then the mad frenzy as everyone surges forward and battles to find a place to stand (there are rarely any seats). Old frail looking grandmothers, smiling sweetly and chatting happily about their grandchildren are suddenly transformed into merciless warriors as they fight and push and claw their way on to freezing cold minibus. Everyone follows suit - no one wants to spend another 15 minutes standing in the snow and the relentless, biting cold and if you weren’t willing to fight your way onto the bus and into a space, even before the bus had fully stopped, you would be probably be standing freezing at the bus-stop for hours. One evening I remember having to walk home in the driving rain as, even after the third attempt, I still didn’t manage to get myself onto a bus. I was pulled back and pushed aside time and time again, until I simply gave up. There were no taxis, so I walked the two miles home in the cold and pouring rain, moaning, extremely bad-tempered and wishing I was some place else.

  Once on the bus, things don’t get much better. Minibuses that are made to carry 15 passengers often have double that amount squeezed on. Money for the fare is passed down the bus from passenger to passenger, eventually making its way to the driver who precariously sorts out the fares and change while recklessly negotiating and manoeuvring through the traffic, often at break-neck speed. Condensation in the minibuses is so thick it is virtually impossible to see out the windows and therefore to know when to get off. The driver will only stop when requested, miss the stop and off you go to the next and another long treck back in the snow. Normal buses are less frequent than minibuses but are twice as full. Even with comparative warmth of a full bus, icicles hang from the ceiling and the floor as slippery as an ice rink.

  I walked over to the window and looked at the thermometer: minus twenty-four. My journey to the other side of Moscow to meet Inna, my wife, was not going to be pleasant and I wasn’t looking forward to it in the slightest. I looked down at my watch, it was three o’clock in the afternoon and I had two hours to get ready and get myself across Moscow to a typically Russian bistro that we had arranged to meet at, near to her office. Called Moo-Moo, it served tasty, hot and very cheap Russian cuisine in a large self-service restaurant packed with noisy Russians eating before their inevitable long, cold journey home.

  I looked down to the streets below, at the few huddled figures rushing here and there. It was snowing heavily, horribly cold and no one in their right mind would ever spend any longer outside than absolutely necessary. Any part of the body left uncovered would, within a few short minutes, be stinging and raw and painful. No Russian would ever dream about going outside in mid winter without layers of heavy clothing, a thick, furry, warm hat, thick boots and heavy insulated gloves. When I first came to Moscow I had the misfortune of forgetting, or perhaps not thinking I would need a hat. As I left the apartment I wondered why those around me looked both horrified and concerned. Within a few short minutes of being outside I completely understood - my head was thumping with the intense cold and my ears burned. It was minus 32 that day and I had no choice but to turn around and quickly go back home. It can sometimes be so cold that the water in your eyes would actually start to freeze, and I have even had a bottle of vodka turn to thick syrup after just a short walk from the supermarket to my apartment. Russian winters are unforgiving.

  I knew it would take me about an hour to get to the restaurant. I had a ten minute walk to the bus stop - I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to wait too long for a bus - then a ten minute bus journey to the nearest metro station at Prospect Vernadskogo. From Prospect Vernadskogo I would then take the metro into the centre of Moscow, changing lines at Chistye Prudy station, to Alekseevskaya, my destination. Thankfully Moo-Moo, with its large black and white sign of a Friesian cow outside, was just next to the metro at Alekseevskaya and just a two minute walk.

  My wife took this journey every morning and every night, five days a week, and in every kind of weather. I was reluctant to do it just the once. I hadn’t been outside in almost a week, preferring the solitude of the computer and my thoughts about the couple of articles I had been contracted to write about Russian life for British magazines.

  I had originally come to Moscow as a bodyguard for a chairman of a multi-national company. This was how I met Inna. She was working for the security company I worked in partnership with. Whenever I needed Russian bodyguards, or run an investigation for a Western company with interests in Russia, I would always call her. She was the Personal Assistant to the ex KGB Director and had contacts for almost anything. After a few months of speaking to her on the telephone and occasionally popping into their office, I asked her out.

  Bodyguarding and security had been my life since the late ‘80s, and I have travelled the world protecting the rich and famous. I tended to concentrate primarily on areas of high-risk, and had spent time in Bosnia during the conflict, Israel, Africa and Asia, but as I got older the appeal and excitement grew less, and my safety and the future of my daughter became the most important thing. I didn’t want her to grow up with just a picture of me on the mantle-piece, knowing that her daddy got killed in some far-off place, protecting someone she never heard of and although I didn’t see her that often as I had separated from her mother, I would speak to my daughter every few days, write once a week and see her whenever I could. And so I had more or less given up bodyguarding and had taken a journalist course, joined the National Union of Journalist and now made my frugal living as a freelance writer in Moscow, writing stories and selling them; I had written about the difficulties of being black in Moscow, the prejudice, the hatred, the beatings. This won an award from IMPACT Magazine, I had also written about two gay women struggling with their sexuality in society where being gay was, up until recently, a criminal offence, and one of the articles I had been contracted to write whilst in Moscow was about a female bodyguard protecting her client against the Russian Mafia, which I found fascinating. I enjoyed writing much more than bodyguarding and had just finished my first book Doing the Doors, which went on to be a best-seller in its genre.

  Anyway, I really did not want to go out but I had promised Inna I would meet her that evening after work and buy her dinner and so, reluctantly, I searched for my boots, hat, scarf and gloves.

  With my mind focused on a large steaming bowl of borsch soup, I locked the apartment door and called for the elevator. As I waited for the antiquated lift to slowly make its way from the ttwenty-second floor to the sixth, I could feel myself getting hotter and hotter. That was another thing I remembered I hated about the Russian winters; wearing layers and layers of clothing for the outside, and then having to get on the packed, hot, stuffy metro. You quickly feel like being baked inside a microwave. After a few short minutes it becomes unbearable and you crave to at least take your coat off. But there is generally no room and you stand and sweat and suffer. For me the worst bit was not so much the baking, but the going back outside into the freezing cold with sweat running down my back. Just horrible.

  Almost all apartment blocks in Moscow are communally heated twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week throughout the winter. Day in day out, big industrial boilers feed large areas of high-rise apartment blocks; there is no individual temperature control or thermostat, heating is either on or off. In the summer heating is off, in the winter it is on and in mid-winter the temperature inside the apartment blocks is probably around 25 to 30 degrees. Although twenty-four hour heating and hot water for a tiny monthly fee is one of the slightly better things about living through a Russian winter; rarely did my monthly utility bill exceed the equivalent of ten UK pounds. Going from plus 20 to minus 20 degrees in one swing of a door never fails to shock me, and is like being slammed full on by a speeding truck. The cold hits you hard and it takes you a few moments to catch your breath. Breathing through the m
outh is dangerous and can quickly freeze the moisture that lines the throat, so you have to slowly inhale through your nose and exhale through your mouth. After a few slow breaths, and a lot more grumbles, I pulled my hat lower over my ears, pulled my coat collar higher and trundled as quickly as I could towards the bus-stop.

  We lived in quite a nice area of Moscow, south of the city centre, not far from the university, where many lecturers, teachers and academics lived. By British standards the rows and rows of high-rise apartment blocks would have long ago been marked for demolition and, admittedly, in the autumn rain and spring thaw the place looks deprived and dirty and impoverished, but in the snow the whole area has a perfect, clean, healthy feel. It is as though, for a few months of every year, everything that is dirty and corrupt and immoral about Russia is covered by a sheet of clean, white, crispy linen. When it first starts to snow everything is beautiful and exciting and different, but after a few months of unremitting cold and relentless driving snow, it is no-longer nice; everything is bad and horrible, and depression and despair settles in. However, even though I did indeed hate the Russian winters and longed for the sun and the summer, there is something truly magical about the snow and I can honestly say that Moscow city centre, the Red Square and the Kremlin, on a bright sunny morning after a thick layer of fresh snow, is one of the most beautiful and magical looking places in the world. The irony is of a fairytale, innocent, magical looking palace inhabited by ruthless, authoritarian dictators.

  Thankfully, going into Moscow at that time in the afternoon is not nearly as hectic as early in the morning and a minibus was waiting at the bus-stop. Only half full, I clambered on, paid the driver the seven roubles (equivalent to 15 UK pence) fare and found a seat at the back. Late morning and early afternoon minibuses have a tendency to wait until they are almost full before setting off. This is great if you are at the beginning of the route, which thankfully I was, but not so good if you live midway along a route as then, generally, the minibuses are completely full and speedily pass waiting passengers. A couple of passengers quickly followed me on-board, slamming the sliding door behind them. The driver crunched the minibus into first gear and we started to move.