by Sarah Rayne
If Elisabeth Valk had not been so vividly alive, she might never have come to the attention of Annaleise, and subsequently to Zoia’s. But at university, Elisabeth had been a leader, an innovator, at the centre of everything. She had not been called Valk then – Zoia had never known her maiden name and it had not really mattered, because if anyone ever said ‘Elisabeth’ people had always known who was meant, and had smiled. Zoia had never smiled though. She envied Elisabeth who was beautiful and clever and possessed of the indefinable gift called charm, and because of that she had disliked her without knowing her. She had thought, in a vague way, that it would be deeply satisfactory to teach such a vain, privileged little madam a lesson. Was she now going to get the chance to do that?
Zoia’s departure from the university did not cause much comment; if anyone noticed they assumed she had gone because she had no money to continue, or because of some man. These things happened and the awkward angular female had never really been a part of student life. After leaving she worked mostly in cafes and bars; a couple of months in one town, a few weeks in another, going wherever Annaleise thought would be most useful. She had expected to dislike snooping and prying, but when it came to it she found it deeply exciting and for the first time she understood properly the saying about knowledge being power. She had knowledge of the people with whom she worked or who came into the cafes and the bars; she found out their secrets and that gave her power over them.
She went about her work diligently because it was for Annaleise. She eavesdropped and became a sympathetic listener to people’s troubles. She found that people who went into bars to get drunk were apt to disclose their most private thoughts to the waitress or barmaid. After a little while she hit on the idea of inventing a large mythical family, nothing like her real family, consisting of relations who had similar troubles to her customers. It created a bond; people opened up far more when they heard that the sympathetic girl serving their wine or food had a cousin or sister or aunt who was in the exact same situation. Several of them even invited Zoia to their houses or apartments, saying how wonderful it was to talk to someone who really understood. On more than one of these visits Zoia contrived to read their letters or bank statements.
She loved it when she could take a really useful piece of information to Annaleise. Perhaps someone might be receiving rents for land or property they ought not to own – there were sections of the community who were prohibited from owning land nowadays but some people found ways of dodging the law. Sometimes there were people who wrote what was called sedition – inciting others to rebel by means of articles or pamphlets. Often these were students who came into the bars and talked indiscreetly after a few glasses of wine.
When Annaleise was pleased with some particular nugget of information she would take Zoia to an expensive restaurant and smile at her across the table, and afterwards take her back to wherever she or Zoia might be living, and cause the longed-for explosions in Zoia’s body and mind. Zoia lived for these meetings and, after a time, if the supply of information about people’s plans and secrets was sparse, she made things up. This one was writing a pamphlet, that one was forging land ownership papers. It was extraordinarily easy to find out what Annaleise’s masters wanted to know and fashion information accordingly. In the beginning it worried her slightly in case these made-up tales resulted in official interrogation or even a spell in prison, but after a time she ceased to care. The guilty would be punished and the innocent would be able to prove their innocence. All that mattered was pleasing Annaleise and, in any case, who ever said life was fair? It had certainly not been fair to Zoia.
A few times she approached other women, curious to know if they could give her the same explosive pleasure as Annaleise. She was careful about who she approached. Sometimes she got it wrong and the woman would recoil from her, but mostly her instinct was right. The trouble was that once in a bed – or more likely a quiet back street or a deserted park – all other women were disappointments as far as Zoia was concerned. They knew the mechanics, some of them were very expert indeed with fingers and tongues, and one or two possessed devices shaped for female pleasure – it was Zoia’s first experience of these. Some demanded money afterwards, which she generally refused to pay. Usually she got away with this, although on a couple of occasions the women attacked her and one sent a shifty-looking man to beat her up. Zoia recovered from the beating which was not much more than bruises and cigarette burns to her arms, and was more wary about who she approached afterwards. In any case, none of them created the wild throbbing of the blood she sought.
Once, curious for further knowledge, she picked up a man in a late-night cafe and went into a nearby park with him. She did not much like it; his penis forcing itself inside her was hard and thick, and it took her back to the nights in the cottage when her father unbuckled his belt to thrash her and her sisters, one hand wielding the belt, the other hand moving with rhythmic urgency between his legs. Still, she thought she might as well know this side of the sex act, so she endured the man’s banging thrusts to the finish and tried not to flinch. Back in her own lodgings, she washed for a long time in lukewarm water from the chipped enamel basin on her washstand. The man’s climax, when it finally happened, had been messier than she had expected and she could not bear the smell or the feel of him on her skin. But the exercise had not been entirely without its value, because now she knew what men were like. He had assumed she was a prostitute and given her money.
She had been living like this for almost a year when Annaleise came to the small apartment where Zoia was living, her face flushed with uncharacteristic colour, her eyes blazing.
‘The Party have agreed to officially investigate Elisabeth Valk,’ she said.
Elisabeth had married at the end of her final year at the university: her husband was a lecturer from another college. His name was Andrei Valk, and he was several years older than Elisabeth, and said to be intelligent and fairly well-off.
‘As much as anyone is well-off these days,’ Annaleise said curtly.
Elisabeth and Andrei Valk had left the university town after their marriage. Annaleise had not yet found where they had gone, but it was said to be not very far.
‘It will be easy to find the exact address,’ said Annaleise. ‘Andrei took up writing as a profession, so we might be able to trace him through his books. But a couple like that would stand out in any community.’
She had read one of Andrei’s books and said she thought it pretentious.
‘He dedicated his first book “To my beloved Elisabeth, who possesses all the graces”. Can you believe that? Nauseating, isn’t it?’
Zoia agreed. She remembered how the lecturers had looked at Elisabeth with proud fondness while Zoia herself had barely earned a second glance from them and she was pleased to think Madam Vanity was about to be taught a lesson. ‘I have a great deal of information about her,’ said Annaleise. ‘But so far nothing quite damning enough for the Party to take action.’
Zoia thought how marvellous it would be if she could get the final damning evidence Annaleise wanted.
And exactly two months later, she did get it.
It happened completely out of the blue, and was due to one of the customers in the bar where she had been working for the past three months. He was a youngish man who came in every Saturday night to wait for his girlfriend and sometimes they had a meal in the tiny dining room. Zoia had cultivated a cautious friendship with them, not because there was any indication that they might be grist for Annaleise’s mill, but because she had learned by now that almost everyone could be made use of in some way.
On this particular night something emerged from the casual talk that could be used very definitely indeed.
‘I was listening to the wireless before I came out,’ said the young man, accepting the glass of beer he always drank before his girl arrived, clearly relaxed after his week’s work and looking forward to the evening ahead. ‘Remarkable, isn’t it, the things people manage to get broadcast nowaday
s.’
Zoia, polishing glasses, said she supposed it was.
‘Brave of them, when you consider it,’ he said. ‘The way they speak out against—’ He glanced furtively over his shoulder to see who was in earshot, and drew nearer to Zoia and the bar.
‘Against whom?’
He gave a small shrug and drank some more of his beer.
Zoia’s mind had sprung to attention by this time. Trying another approach, she said, ‘What do you mean, brave? What was the programme?’
‘One of those protest radio stations,’ he said. ‘There’ve been a few of them over the years but this was the first one I’d ever heard. A mistake, of course,’ he said hastily, looking round to see if anyone had heard this statement. ‘I was trying to find a play I wanted to hear and I tuned in by accident. The October Group, it calls itself. Of course, I switched off almost as soon as I realized what it was.’ He said this fairly loudly.
‘But what was it exactly?’ asked Zoia, her heart starting to pound, the palms of her hands suddenly clammy with sweat. Was this going to be a really big lead? A protest radio station, she thought. That’s something Annaleise’s people would want to know about.
‘What it was,’ said the young man, taking a deep draught of his beer, ‘was sedition, nothing less. Clear as a curse. They were publicizing a meeting – a rally to freedom they called it – and asking questions most of us wouldn’t even dare to think, if you take my meaning.’
‘Such as?’
‘Best not say,’ he said, with a wink. Then, half turning, he smiled, ‘Here’s my lady,’ he said, and Zoia saw the girlfriend come through the door. He got up from the bar stool, then looked back at Zoia. ‘I’ll tell you this, though,’ he said. ‘Before I switched off, I noticed the woman who was talking had one of the most attractive voices I’ve ever heard.’
‘Really?’
‘People don’t give the voice enough weight as an attraction, do they?’ he said. ‘But sedition or not, this one’s voice was an absolute sizzler. Her name was Elisabeth Valk.’
* * *
The next night in Annaleise’s apartment, Zoia and Annaleise spent almost an hour turning the dial on the wireless to find the wavelength of the October Group. Annaleise knew about them, of course. ‘They call themselves that because of the Russian Revolution of 1917,’ she said. ‘But it’s also an acknowledgement of the start of the Hungarian Revolution in October 1956. They think we don’t know they exist, but of course we do, although I’d have to admit we don’t know much about them. But,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘Elisabeth Valk is one of their number, is she?’
‘It looks like it,’ said Zoia. She was pleased it was Sunday and her day off so she could be involved, but Annaleise was inclined to be sceptical about whether this would lead anywhere. They did not know how far they could trust Zoia’s customer, she said. He might just be making mischief. As the wireless’s dial screeched its way along the various channels, her scepticism increased.
‘It’s the same time of the evening,’ offered Zoia. ‘He’d been listening before he came in, so it would have been about this time.’
‘Yes, but they might only have made that one broadcast. Or they might not bother on a Sunday. They might even have been discovered in the last twenty-four hours and closed down.’
Then, quite suddenly, between a blast of music and a discussion about farming, it was there.
‘The October Group calling,’ said the voice. ‘The October Group calling… Elisabeth Valk here, wishing a very good evening to all my friends…’
Elisabeth Valk. Zoia stared at the wireless. One of the most attractive voices I’ve ever heard, the man had said, an absolute sizzler. Infuriatingly and unfairly, it was a remarkable voice, like violet midnight or warm honey or newly spun silk. If you lay in bed with the owner of this voice you would feel as if your skin was being caressed by sound.
Elisabeth was talking about the meeting which Zoia’s customer had mentioned. She called it a rally, and said details as to time and place would be given soon on this wavelength. In the meantime, here were some things for their overlords to ponder. Why had labour camps been created and why was there vicious physical and psychological torture of prison inmates – many of whom had committed no crime? asked the beautiful voice. There were other references, more homely. Why was the food in the shops of the poorest quality but the most expensive of prices? Why was it necessary for bread to be bought with ration cards in an agricultural country? But most damning of all were the warnings she gave. A change of government was coming and there would be appalling restrictions of human rights, there would be censorship, and what was called relocation – people would be forced from their homes. Beware of it all, said Elisabeth. Fight against it, for it would ruin the country and other countries as well. When she bade her listeners goodnight and urged them to listen again at the same time tomorrow evening, Zoia saw that Annaleise’s eyes were blazing with triumph. She turned her head and smiled.
‘We have her,’ she said softly. ‘Proof positive and clear. If my people can track down where that broadcast is coming from – and that should be possible – then we have Elisabeth Valk tied up tighter than a caterpillar’s cocoon.’
She reached out and pulled Zoia hard against her. ‘It’s arousing, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘And so you and I are going to bed now, and I’m going to have you so many times, by dawn you’ll be crying for mercy.’
‘I would never cry for mercy with you.’
Annaleise smiled.
‘I wonder if you’ll still be saying that by the time dawn comes,’ she said, and began to tear off Zoia’s clothes.
Nothing happened for several days and Zoia began to think Annaleise’s people had failed to find the source of the broadcast. Or perhaps it had been found by others and closed down. She wished she had a wireless of her own so she could tune in to the October Group herself, but wirelesses were expensive and there was a waiting list of at least a year.
But a week later, Annaleise came into the bar where Zoia worked. This was something she had never done before, and Zoia’s heart leapt with a mixture of delight and apprehension.
Without preamble, Annaleise said, ‘Can you be ready to make a journey early tomorrow morning? Around seven o’clock?’
Zoia did not finish at the bar until one a.m. and it took forty-five minutes to get back to her apartment, so she would only get four or five hours sleep, but she would have gone without any sleep at all for Annaleise. She said, ‘Yes.’
It was a bitter, unforgiving morning as the large car jerked its way across the frozen countryside and a sharp frost rimed the hedges and the roofs. A man Zoia had never met was driving, with a woman, also unfamiliar, seated next to him. She was around forty, bony-featured and striking without being actually good-looking. Her eyes, as she turned to look at Zoia, were piercing.
Annaleise said, ‘Elena, this is Zoia Calciu. I told you about her.’
‘You did,’ said the woman. ‘We’re all very pleased with your work for the Party.’
‘This is Madame Elena Ceauşescu,’ said Annaleise. ‘She’s a very hardworking and respected member of our cause. Her husband is a senior member of the Politburo.’
Zoia had not expected to meet anyone so highly connected. Her sense of inferiority returned at the reference to the Politburo, but she tried not to appear intimidated and managed to ask where they were going.
‘Across the border into Yugoslavia,’ said Annaleise. ‘To Krivaca, then to a small village on its edge. It’s about seventy miles from here – we should do it in two hours.’
Before she could say any more, Elena said, ‘We’re going to find Elisabeth Valk. Annaleise particularly asked that you be there when we catch her – you were the one who provided the information, Zoia.’
‘What will happen to her?’ asked Zoia, aware of sudden pleasure that Annaleise had made this request.
A thin smile lifted Elena’s lips. ‘She will be dealt with,’ she said. ‘The Party has a very p
articular way of dealing with enemies of the state.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The present
Well! thought Theo, sitting back and staring at the screen, no one can say I’m not importing real people into this book! Elena Ceauşescu, no less. Married to one of the greediest, most corrupt dictators of modern times – Nicolae Ceauşescu, convicted of genocide and shot with his wife on Christmas Day, 1989.
He did not know a great deal about Elena Ceauşescu, and he certainly did not think he had known enough to introduce her into the plot, but there she was. He got up to scan the bookshelves in a corner of the room, where a motley collection had assembled itself over the years. There were ragged paperbacks the cousins had brought to read during the holidays and forgotten to take home, cookery books belonging to Helen, ordnance survey maps and tourist books about the area which no one had ever consulted. But there were a few standard reference books as well, all foxed and faded-looking and among them was an elderly Oxford Concise Encyclopedia. Theo reached for it, bringing out a shower of dust and dispossessing several indignant spiders of their homes.
The encyclopedia turned out to have been published in 1933, and described Adolf Hitler as being Germany’s new Chancellor. Theo swore and returned it to its place in disgust, and was just thinking he would have to drive to the nearest library when he saw, at one end, a couple of books dealing with Eastern European history. Memory stirred and he remembered a summer when Guff had brought to Fenn House a young Ukrainian student, in England to improve her languages. She had, as far as the family was concerned, been one of Guff’s less worrying escapades, partly because she had not seemed interested in money but also because on the second night of her stay she had taken over the kitchen and cooked borscht followed by a truly inspirational beef stroganoff. She had also, in the wake of several bottles of Bulls Blood that evening, taught the younger Kendals several satisfyingly explosive swear words in Russian. Theo had no idea what had eventually happened to her, but it looked as if Guff, rather endearingly, had tried to acquaint himself with Eastern European history, either during or as a result of, the association.
