Maria's Story

by Robin Barratt

  The five gypsies stood around Maria and looked down at her. She suddenly felt very frightened. She cowered back, thinking that she was going to get beaten. She had certainly done a few things wrong over the past eight or nine months but, because she was such a good earner the gypsies had turned a blind eye, or let her off with a stern warning. She had not yet had the beating the other beggars had warned her about, and now she was desperately tried to think what it was she had done. She looked at her magazine in her trembling hands and cried; “she gave it to me, I didn’t buy it, she gave it to me, go and ask her.”

  The gypsies smiled. “It isn’t that dear, we have some good news.”

  “I can go home!” Maria almost shouted.

  “Maria, dear, you know this is your home now,” the gypsies replied firmly, looking round, making sure no one heard Maria’s outburst. “No, we have even better news. You are going to marry our son Zdanko.”

  For the gypsies, this was great as Maria earned them all a good living, but Maria’s world tore apart. She felt sick and her eyes filled with tears. She wanted to scream “no” but no sound came out. She just sat there, numb, silent. Zdanko, the disgusting awful son of those monsters. Ugly, stinking Zdanko who she couldn’t bare to even talk to, even though he persisted in visiting her almost every day throughout the winter. Maria looked up at the family. No words would come out. She was shocked. She wanted to shout for help, tell everyone passing by whom these people were and what they were doing to her, but she just looked up and smiled. She now knew she had to escape, and very soon. The gypsies told her that the wedding would be very soon and she was privileged because many of the local families would be attending. They all wanted to see what a good woman her son was marrying. As they turned to leave, Zdanko hesitated for a few seconds, smiling down at Maria. He wanted to tell her he loved her and that everything would be fine, but he knew she didn’t love him, he knew she despised him. But she will, he thought to himself, eventually.

  On the way home that evening Maria stopped for slightly longer than usual with Lydmilla. She had never spoken with her about what had happened but she had to trust someone and Lydmilla was the only person that could help her. While pretending to look through a magazine, Maria quickly told Lydmilla how she was kidnapped and smuggled to Moscow and forced to beg, and what had just happened that morning. Maria begged Lydmilla to help her to conceal a few roubles from her earnings every day. The gypsies wouldn’t notice. Her plan, she told Lydmilla, was to save for the train fare back home and when she had enough she would just disappear. She wondered why she hadn’t done it earlier, but was always too frightened of being found out and of being beaten and she was always too unsure of who, or who not to trust.

  “Tomorrow morning,” Maria quickly whispered,“I will give you my mother’s address, please write to her telling her I am safe and will be home soon.” She folded the magazine and gave it back to Lydmilla as the gypsy woman approached. Not even looking at Lydmilla, the gypsy ushered Maria away, telling her yet again how well she had done begging that day.

  And so, every day Maria started to carefully put aside a few roubles, dropping them off with Lydmilla as and when she could, before the day ended.

  With no warning, when she got back to the compound that evening, she was told that the wedding was going to be the next day. She slept little that night, vomiting time and time again into the toilet bowl until there was nothing left inside her. She finally dozed off for a couple of hours, her little brief relief from what was to come.

  That morning the room was silent - no one spoke as the beggars got ready for work, they ate their bread and drank their tea in strange haunting silence. Maria fought back her tears, her sadness and despair was overpowering and she sat silently as everyone passed her, giving her a quiet hug or kiss or just touching her shoulder. They understood what was going to happen but could do nothing to help apart from offer a little emotional comfort and support. They were all now good friends and were all sad and distressed. Svetlana held Maria tightly, her arms wrapped around Maria’s neck, her warm tears soaking Maria’s cheek. “We will always be here for you,” she whispered and kissed her.

  Maria watched as everyone slowly made their way out of the front door to their usual day on the streets begging, leaving Maria sitting silently, alone in the middle of the bleak, empty room that had been her home for almost a year. She looked around at the few small bundles of tatty clothes lying haphazardly on the floor and the crumpled blankets and wooden crates where her friends sat and slept, and she suddenly felt lonely and afraid. She had become used to having people around her when she slept, and with her in the morning when she awoke. She had become used to the constant chatter, the occasional laughter and now her home, their home, was as she had never seen it before; silent and sad.

  Once everyone had left, the two gypsy women came back into the room and gave Maria a new white blouse, fresh underwear and new black trousers. She was also handed a small gold chain with a strange looking crest, which the gypsies said she should wear. They also gave her some make-up and lipstick. They stood by and watched as she changed, and then Zdanko’s mother pulled over a wooden crate, sat in front of Maria and started to brush her hair. “You look beautiful, my dear, and you will make my son a good wife.” Maria stared at the wall beyond numbly as she concentrated on brushing her hair.

  “You will be good to him and bear him lots of children.” Maria wanted to be sick; she couldn’t stand the thought of Zdanko near her let alone anything else. “It will be a fine day and you will behave and do exactly as we tell you, is that clear? We are your family now Maria and everything will be fine. Now don’t cry,” she said as she saw Maria’s eyes filling with water. “Everything will be fine. Zdanko may not be the most handsome of boys” she chuckled, “but he is a good man and has a kind heart.”

  They drove to a rundown apartment block about twenty minutes away. It seemed that the whole of the floor was occupied by gypsy families; doors to the separate apartments were wedged wide open and people wandered in and out, and up and down the corridors, talking and shouting and swearing to one another. Children were running around, screaming and crying and shouting. The smell of cooking and cigarette smoke filled the air. Maria was ushered into a big room at the very end of the corridor, where a few of the elders sat. As she entered they looked around and greeted her. She didn’t really understand what they were saying, she was in a state of bewilderment and shock and couldn’t believe in a few hours she would be married, and married into a family that had kidnapped her and forced her into slavery, forced her to beg and forced her to live in squalor. The thought disgusted her.

  Alongside the far wall was a long table filled with food and bottles of wine and vodka. She couldn’t remember the last really good meal she had had. She wondered if she could somehow smuggle some food back to her friends, but she didn’t feel like eating. If she had legs she would be running as fast as they could carry her, and as far away as they would take her. She would run all the way back to Siberia. But she didn’t have legs and couldn’t run anywhere. She was a prisoner of her own disability.

  She looked at the table of food. The gypsies drank wine and vodka and ate ham and cheese and pickles and fish, all bought with the money that she and the group made begging on the streets, as well as from stealing from the innocent. While she and her friends ate soup and black bread in their squalid hovel, the gypsies lived in an apartment and feasted like kings.

  At the end of the table was an ornate engraved silver cup standing on a higher velvet covered pedestal. Maria wondered what it was for.

  “Welcome to our home, you will be part of the family soon and our home is now your home,” said one of the elders, drawing hard on a foul smelling cigarette. She didn’t understand what he meant. “You will look after Zdanko and make him a good wife, you will give him children and will provide support and money and work hard for him.” Was she really hearing this
? That she will work hard for him! What does it mean, that he will live off the money she made begging. Is this what being married into a gypsy family means? That she now must beg to support him?

  One of the elders stood up, clapped his hands and shouted, calling everyone into the room. Everyone squeezed in, filling every wall and corner. Zdanko was last in and as he entered everyone cheered and applauded.

  Maria and Zdanko were ushered to the end of the room where the oldest looking of the elders stood. He raised his hand and the room immediately fell silent. He welcomed everybody in a strange dialect that Maria found hard to understand. It was Russian, but it was a Russian that Maria had never heard before. Maria sat silently, numbed, as he read the vows of their marriage. The elder turned directly to Maria and said something to her. She didn’t understand and looked to Zdanko. “Say Yes,” he whispered in her ear. She didn’t want to say yes, she wanted to scream No! Never! But she quietly, almost inaudible said yes. This can’t be a legal wedding, she thought to herself as she looked up at the old man standing before her, and then to people smiling and nodding. Surely I am not really married? I have not signed anything, or even said anything apart from “yes.” The elder picked up the ornate cup and offered it to Zdanko. He said something and sipped the wine inside. The elder then lifted Maria’s hand and a small ornate ring was placed on the third finger of her right hand. She looked at the elaborate design of the piece of gold circling her finger and wanted to tear it off. As the ring slowly slipping into place, her right arm was lifted high in the air and everyone around her cheered and shouted and music blared from a record player.

  Everybody danced and clapped to traditional gypsy folk songs that Maria had never heard before, the gypsy women scuttled backwards and forwards with plates and glasses, food and wine. People congratulated Zdanko, hugging him, kissing him, patting his shoulders, while ignoring Maria as she sat alone in the corner. She would be a good earner for Zdanko, she heard people say.

  Zdanko’s mother bent over and whispered into Maria’s ear. From now onwards, she said, because she was the wife of her son, the son of an elder, a room has been set aside here in the apartment for them both to live. They will live there as man and wife. She must still go out to work every day, but now she will be providing solely for her husband; that is the gypsy way. Sundays she can have off so she can cook and clean and be with her new husband. She longed to return to the squalor of the room she had made her home and the beggars she had made as her friends. Already she missed them.

  The celebrations continued late into the evening, while Maria sat silently hour after hour, lonely and sad and, for the first time in over a year, wishing she was dead. She feared the end of the evening as she understood what was going to happen to her. They had taken her dignity and her pride, they had forced her into slavery and poverty and the only thing that was left of hers, the only sacred thing would also soon be taken away. She would soon have nothing left. The gypsies had taken it all.

  He forced himself upon her that evening, as she cried and pleaded for him to stop. As he forced himself onto her, tears filled her eyes as she stared up at the dirty ceiling and imagined fluffy white clouds and birds and she smelt the lavender and the freshly cut grass and watched as the butterflies darted around playfully.

  Night after night her resolve to escape became stronger and stronger. Three weeks after their marriage Maria missed her period. At first she thought she was just a day late, and then two days, and then a week and then, after two weeks, she knew she was pregnant. She now had gypsy blood inside her. At first she didn’t tell Zdanko, hoping that perhaps she would miscarriage and the horror of the situation would be quickly flushed down the toilet, but as her belly slowly grew she knew she needed to tell him. He said it was expected and it was her duty as a gypsy and as a wife to bear her children. Zdanko’s mother and the other women were ecstatic; being pregnant on the streets would fetch even more money.

  There was probably not another pretty pregnant girl, with no legs, begging on the streets in all of Moscow and Maria started to earn a lot more money. Maria knew it and the gypsies knew it and they milked her for as much as they could get, knowing that it would only last a few months. They made her work from early in the morning until late in the evening, and even during her so-called day off. Summer ended and autumn moved in, with its wind and rain and cold, sleet showers. Maria sat day-in and day-out on her wooden platform with her hand outstretched, scheming and planning her escape. Because she was earning a lot more than usual, the gypsies collected from her more often too, always praising her, patting her on the shoulder or on the head and telling her how proud they were and what a wonderful wife she was to Zdanko. A few times a day Maria managed to secretly pass a few roubles to Lydmilla, and it was soon adding up. If Maria finished before Lydmilla closed her kiosk, she would stop for a quick chat and, as Lydmilla handed her an out-of-date newspaper or magazine, Maria would slip her some change. If Maria had to work later than Lydmilla, Lydmilla would pass by to say goodbye, and Maria would find a way of slipping her money.

  Every day Maria hoped that a reply had come from the letter Lydmilla had sent her mother. The weeks and months passed and yet still there was no reply. Maria asked Lydmilla to write another letter, which she did and again weeks went by and still no reply. Maria wondered if maybe her family had moved because perhaps her stepfather had finally found work in another town. Or maybe the first letter was never delivered. She knew that posting a letter to Siberia could sometimes take a month to be delivered, even longer, and more often than not, they would go missing and not get delivered at all. The wait for their reply was the only thing that kept her going. She just wanted to know that her mother and grandmother were fine, and that they knew that she was fine too, and that she would soon be coming home.

  For the following eight months Maria played the game of a devoted wife and first-rate earner. She never complained, she tried to always stay strong while all the time planning and working out her escape. She now had more than enough money to get back home, she just needed the right opportunity, for if she was caught she would be severly punished and may never have another chance again. That day came earlier than expected.

  One Sunday morning, as Maria was preparing breakfast, Zdanko casually told her that they would all soon be moving on, moving to another city. Their time in Moscow was running out, the police were starting to ask too many questions and demanding higher and higher payments and the original older local police were slowly being replaced by younger, greedier ones. The street mafia was also demanding higher payments as the police were extorting more and more from them too, so they were planning to move to a smaller town away from Moscow where they would have less to pay and everything would be a lot easier to control. Maria knew she had to act soon, as there would never be another Lydmilla to help her. The following morning, after the gypsies had done their first round of collecting money, she spoke to Lydmilla and told her of the gypsy’s plans. Lydmilla told Maria that everything will be arranged.

  It was time. Maria had hardly slept. She listened to the snores of Zdanko next to her, hoping and praying it would be for the very last time. While she was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for the clock to strike five, she had promised that if everything Lydmilla and her had planned failed, if everything collapsed and she was caught or if something stopped her escaping, she would jump into the river and kill herself. It was mid-winter and she knew that she and her baby would die in the extreme cold within a few short minutes. She was determined not to give birth into the horrible world she had found herself. No baby of hers, whether gypsy baby or not, would live the life she had lived and go through the suffering she had gone through. As she felt the baby grow inside her, her feelings for it slowly changed; from hatred and disgust to compassion and acceptance and eventually of love. After all, half of the baby was hers; her blood and the blood of her family. She grew to love her baby and marveled as it kicked
and moved inside her. But she would never let it grow up a gypsy. Never. She would rather die that to let that happen.

  She silently got out of bed, brushed her hair, washed her face in the bowl next to the bed and put on her best clothes, hiding them underneath thick layers of jumpers, jackets and coats. She looked around the room, there was nothing she wanted to take. Zdanko stirred and turned over, facing her. Her heart leaped.

  “What time is it?” he asked, eyes open, staring at her as she got ready.

  “5.30,” she replied looking at the clock on the wall opposite.

  “You’re early,” he said, sitting up.

  “Please don’t offer to take me, not today, please no,” she screamed inside. He rarely offered, only when the weather was terrible.

  “What is the weather like?” he asked laying back down.

  She looked through the curtains at the blizzard outside. “It’s okay, it’s not too bad.”