Maria's Story

by Robin Barratt

  “Now get some sleep Maria, you have been through enough for today. Get some sleep and let’s see what tomorrow brings.” Olga said, helping Maria over to a corner where a few blankets had been placed on the ground by one of the other women. “Tomorrow things will seem better and, as the days and weeks pass, things won’t seem so bad after all.”

  Chapter Six

  On the Streets

  The next morning at 6am the doors to the building were unlocked and the two gypsy women entered, carrying a small bundle of clothing. They told Maria to change. Maria looked around - where could she change? There was no privacy, except the one small smelly room that was both the bathroom and toilet, tiny, with a dirty broken porcelain toilet and a cold water wall tap. There was no hot water, in the winter water was warmed on the stove and everyone would take turns washing from the same big container as their soup and stews were cooked. Maria, maintaining as much privacy as she could, struggled into her new clothes. She guessed these clothes would probably stay on her body for weeks. Clothes were washed, infrequently, also in the same large pot.

  “And this is for you to get about on.” A wooden base with small wheels in each corner was placed on the floor. Maria crawled over and placed herself onto the plinth. The man with one leg took the belt off his worn out old trousers and fed it under the plinth between the wheels and across Maria’s waist. He carefully tightened the ancient buckle and she was secured. The gypsies also gave her a pair of old gloves for her hands. She would have to find something better, she thought, as the gloves would soon wear out.

  Maria followed the gypsy women outside. The second woman was waiting, along with three other dirty horrible looking men standing by the car, cigarettes stuck to the corners of their mouths. Two of the men were quite old, around the same age as the women, but the third was a lot younger, probably around 30. His greasy black hair was swept back off face, his dark eyes and dark features betrayed a hard life, an unfeeling and heartless life of poverty and struggle. He looked as though he cared for no one and nothing. He looked down at Maria as she struggled to get used to her new platform, bumping and grinding over the rutted stony ground leading to the waiting car. She got one of the wheels stuck and, as she tried to maneuver herself free, he hooked the end of his shoe under the platform next to the stuck wheel and jolted her free, almost causing her to topple over. He laughed as the other beggars looked on, silent, used to the torment and humiliation the gypsies gave them.

  “You had better get used to it pretty quick,” he snarled.

  The other gypsy men stood and watched as Maria nervously and clumsily made her way to the car. At the door she unbuckled the belt and Svetlana and Olga helped lift her onto the back seat, placing the platform on Maria’s lap. Svetlana sat beside her and Olga walked round the other side, squashing Maria in the middle. One of the older gypsy men got into the driver’s seat and the old woman sat in the front passenger seat. As they drove to the metro, Maria was told she would be working outside the entrance of Kurskaya metro Station. But they had to take the metro to that particular station as it was too far to drive and they needed the car to ferry the others. Everyone would be working their normal places, either directly at the exit of the metro or nearby. The important thing was to sit where as many people as possible passed, but not so close that people passed in too much of a hurry, or without looking down and seeing her. The gypsies had been working that territory for a few years and knew the local mafia well, but she still needed to introduce Maria to them, and negotiate a new fee for her. Maria was warned that she better be worth the extra money.

  It was impossible for her to believe that in a few minutes she would be sitting on the streets of Moscow, so far away from her home and her family, begging to survive. She remembered the few beggars she had seen in her village and thought what a horrible and degrading life it was. She always hurried passed them as quickly as she could, or looked down or away. She never gave anything; she didn’t feel sorry for them, she didn’t feel sad for them, they were just odd people standing silently with their hands out. And now she was going to be part of that strange tormented sad world, and people were going to pass her by, without looking down or even caring. At least, she thought lightheartedly to herself, it was the summer and it was warm. But she would have to escape before the winter.

  The car stopped opposite the metro entrance and they all got out. The driver turned around and went back for the others. Maria buckled herself onto her wooden platform and followed the others as they made their way across the road to the entrance of the metro. As they approached the concrete steps leading from pavement level down to the metro entrance, the gypsy woman and Svetlana grabbed Maria each side under the arms and held her as they went down the steps and through the swinging entrance doors.

  The gypsy already had metro tickets for everyone and, keeping a close eye out for police, they went through the turnstile one by one, down the escalator and waited on the platform. Maria had never been on a metro before but, as they were ushered on and off the train as it came and went, her thoughts were of what was going to happen to her in the next few hours.

  At Kurskaya metro station, where they were going to spend the following days, weeks and, quite possibly months begging, Maria was instructed to sit on her wooden platform just outside of the swinging exit doors alongside the wall and hold out her hand, looking up at everyone that passed by. She was told that she was pretty and if she looked pretty people would pity her and give her more. She had to brush her hair and keep her clothes tidy and the gypsies promised that if she did well they might even bring her a little make-up. The gypsies knew a pretty looking girl with no legs begging was sure to generate a lot of money. However, she was firmly told that if anyone asks her what she was doing or where her family was, she must just say that her family is dead and that she was begging to survive. This would generate even more pity and even more money. Maria felt sick when she was told to say that about her family, and hoped no one would ever ask. Other than that, the only thing she could say to passers by was; “A few roubles please,” and “thank you.” If she was heard saying anything else she would be punished, and she knew what their way or punishing was.

  Maria was shown where to sit. It was still early and, although there were already quite a few people going to work, the real rush of commuters hadn’t yet started. She sat, fighting back the tears, hoping that she would soon wake up to find the last few days were just an awful surreal nightmare. Slowly a tear rolled down onto her cheek, she tried to wipe it away, not wanting anyone to see. No matter what she had to go through and how bad things may get, she wanted to be strong, and not to cry.

  “You can cry all you like dear,” said the gypsy standing over her, looking down, “crying is good for business.”

  Her eyes filled as she struggled with the words “A few roubles please.” As commuter time approached the station started getting busier and busier. More and more people made their weary way to work. People passed briskly by, occasionally glancing down at this new sight on their normal mundane journey, perhaps promising to themselves to give a few roubles to this poor girl on their way home or maybe tomorrow, or the next day.

  However, her hands slowly filled with kopecks and roubles and every so often she would wrap the coins she had collected in the cloth placed by her side. And every so often one of the gypsy women would turn up, pick up the cloth, count its contents, pop the money into a leather bag and disappear.

  She filled the day with thoughts of her family and her village, her school, her friends, her grandmother’s cooking and the books she loved to read. The gypsy women came and went and smiled every time she counted that period’s takings, nodding or even occasionally bending over and whispering a well done in her ear before scurrying off. Maria felt disgusted and ashamed.

  And so, every morning at 6am sharp the door was unlocked and they went to work. After about a week Maria was trusted to make her own way on
the metro to her begging site. But always, within an hour or so, the gypsy women would arrive and start take the money; counting it, nodding, whispering an occasional “well done.” It seemed to Maria that she was earning more than any of the others. As the weeks passed they would occasionally bring her a little make up, or a new blouse. One of the men found an old handle which they attached to a block of wood for Maria to use instead of her old gloves. With the block she could propel herself around on her makeshift platform a lot more quickly and easily. Weeks and months passed. She learned to manage steps and the escalator, swinging doors and getting on and off the metro. She would shout at the top of her voice “Beep beep, let me through, let me through,” as she darted in and out of the commuters. And every night she made her way back to the squalid, rundown building which was now her ‘home.’ The gypsies would always be waiting at the metro with the car, counting the last money she had collected, searching her and ushering her and the other beggars into the car and back to their hovel. Most of the time the same grubby looking man drove the old Lada, although occasionally the younger man would turn up and drive. He sent shivers down Maria’s spine. He smiled at her and tried to make basic conversation but she detested him. There was something about him that was nasty and cruel and horrible and she couldn’t bare the thought of him even looking at her.

  The two gypsy women were there at the compound every morning at 6am and every evening, but men came and went. Sometimes there were children; rough looking, foul-mouthed kids that taunted Maria and the others, and ran around the yard, kicking cans, spitting and fighting. Other times old men just stood by, smoking, staring silently as the beggars came and went. Maria wondered who they were and where they lived.

  As the summer slowly passed and autumn evenings drew in, after a day on the streets begging, Maria and the others would often sit outside their dilapidated home, on wooden boxes, eating their soup and bread and chatting. Sometimes they talked about nothing in particular, other times they told their own tragic stories time and time again, as though each time was the first and the perhaps last, and as though somehow their lives would change and this was all a nightmare for them too. They talked about the dreams they once had, the tables they once sat at, the nice food they once ate. Maria sat and listened; they seemed to be able to talk freely to her. She gave them all a little sparkle of hope as she spoke about going home, of her family and friends, of her escape. They saw something of themselves in Maria; as though they too did indeed have somewhere to go and family waiting for them with open arms and hugs and tears of relief.

  In the weeks and months that passed no one else joined their little group, the gypsies evidently had enough beggars working for them for the moment and, over time, their little group seemed to become stronger and closer; the old ladies helped Maria and Svetlana mend their worn out tatty clothes, the old man serviced Maria’s platform, keeping the wheels running smoothly and the block free of splinters.

  Everyone understood that Maria was earning good money, as they were now getting a few extra luxuries that they had never had before. A frying pan was given to them, and once or twice a week sausages were brought to supplement the daily monotony of soup and stew. They would occasionally be treated to white rather than black bread and once a week they were brought fruit.

  As time passed she learnt more and more about the gypsies and their way of life. This group had actually originally come from an area not far from where Maria once lived. They were a big family, with connections to other gypsy families in and around Moscow. Normally the gypsie families would not stay too long in one place, as they were targeted by the police and, with few or no papers, were usually moved on after paying heavy fines. But this gypsy family were earning a good living from the beggars and were paying the local police and the local mafia groups. She learned that the men were the cousins or uncles of the two gypsy women that had first taken her. The whole family lived on what the beggars earned every day, as well as what they could steal on the streets and from people’s homes and cars. She heard that there were various groups of gypsies throughout Russia targeting and kidnapping the old and the disabled, sending them to work on the streets. They would be kept begging for as long as possible, or until the gypsies were moved on by the police, and then the beggars would be sold to another gypsy family in another part of Moscow.

  Maria heard stories of gypsy children targeting foreigners in the centre of Moscow; the groups of children would suddenly spring from nowhere, surrounding the foreigners, pulling at their coats and tugging their clothes and distracting and confusing them until their prying searching hands found wallets and passports. Or the gang of children would run past foreigners grabbing at cameras or handbags or jewelry and dispersing in a multitude of directions, down alleys and side streets. Foreigners were easy target as they looked so out of place with their Western-style clothing and hairstyles and Western ‘look’.

  With her pretty face and big blue sad eyes, Maria was earning good money for the gypsies. People felt pity for her and gave more than they normally gave to other beggars. Slowly Maria began to make friends with a kiosk worker nearby. She was a fat, friendly woman called Lydmilla, who sold newspapers and magazines and greeted Maria every morning and bade her a cheerful farewell every evening. Lydmilla had been working that specific kiosk for many years, she knew of the gypsies and she hated them for what they did. But she kept herself to herself, paying the local mafia every week, ignoring what was going on around her. She knew that if she interfered she would be beaten up and thrown off the territory and it would be very difficult, if not impossible, to find another kiosk in another area, but Lydmilla had a daughter about Maria’s age and felt sorry for Maria. She also knew that the gypsies didn’t like their beggars talking much to anyone, so she would only leave her kiosk for a few seconds to drop Maria some small change and exchange a few words whenever she felt sure there was no one nearby watching. As time passed the gypsies began to trust Maria more and more, which meant she could gradually stop for longer and longer and chat to Lydmilla at the kiosk, although it was never more than a few minutes. And on occasions Lydmilla would give Maria the occasional women’s magazine and puzzle book, which the gypsies didn’t seem to mind. All along, however, this was Maria’s plan; to make the gypsies slowly trust her more and more and to show them that she did indeed have nowhere else to go and that her life was now on the streets. And then, when they least expected it, she would plan her escape.

  Chapter Seven

  The Escape

  As time passed Maria noticed a young guy hanging around the compound as Maria went out to work in the mornings, and in the evenings when they returned. Sometimes it would just be him and sometimes he would be standing smoking with the other gypsy men. He kept looking at Maria, smiling and occasionally saying hello and asking how she was and if she was warm enough. The winter was settling in, it was getting colder, snow was falling lightly and life begging on the streets was becoming tougher and tougher. He then started turning up where Maria was begging, bringing her an extra coat or scarf or some new gloves, or even some warm tea and frequently stood by her side chatting as she tried to beg. She learned that he was the youngest son of one of the gypsy women that had originally found her stuck between the railway carriages all those months ago. She didn’t like him, he was ugly and his hair was horrible and he was unwashed and smelt dirty, but above all he was a gypsy and she detested the gypsies and their way of life with every fiber in her body. She detested the way they treated other human beings; using people’s disability to their advantage and financial gain. She hated how they ruled the other beggars with fear and threats of violence and intimidation, and how they were all held against their will in that squalid run down, cold, dirty building. The gypsies were the jailers and Maria and the others were the prisoners, and she despised them for everything they had done to her and everything they had taken away from her. She tried to ignore him, pleading with him to let her work, but day afte
r day he continued visiting her, spending a few minutes by her side trying to make conversation, or just standing silently by, watching her. She felt uneasy.

  All through the winter he would visit her almost every day on the corner where she worked. She was always guarded and very careful with what she would say. She tried not to upset him or to be too rude, as she didn’t want to be punished by either him of his family, and was careful never to talk about her family or her desperate desires to return home. She would make a little conversation but, after a few minutes, ask him to move on as she couldn’t beg if he was standing next to her. No one would give if they thought she was a gypsy; everyone in Moscow hated the gypsies. His mother also warned him about spending too much time standing with her, but he would ignore his mother’s nagging, even though he knew he was affecting the amount of money Maria was making. But he liked Maria and it was the only time he could spend with her.

  Maria and the rest of her group survived the long, harsh, hard winter. Many on the streets didn’t. The cold pierces the heart and numbs the soul and quickly kills many that live and work on the streets. Unless shelter can be found and layers upon layers of warm clothing worn, there is little chance of surviving a Russian winter. Maria and her group were lucky, they had shelter and warm food and enough clothing to ward off the appalling sub-zero temperatures.

  The daily trudge of winter had passed, the snow had melted, the sun was shining and blossom started to appear on the trees that lined the boulevards. It was a bright spring morning and after a brief chat to Lydmilla at the kiosk and clutching a free copy of last months Cosmopolitan magazine, Maria arrived as usual at her corner and settled into her normal day. She looked up to see the two gypsy women, along with the two elders whom she now knew were their husbands, and the son, approaching her. They had seemed a bit strange in the car that morning on the way to dropping them off at the metro; the man kept looking at Maria through the mirror and the woman kept turning round and smiling at her, but she thought it was because she had been earning good money again as it was a little warmer and people seemed more relaxed. In the winter people rushed by; few people had the time to take off their gloves or bury their hands past the layers of clothing for a few roubles, but in the spring and summer they not only had more time and were more likely to stop for a few extra minutes, but it was also so much easier to give; they wore lighter jackets and could get to their change in their pockets or handbags a lot easier than when they wore thick coats and gloves.