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Beauty And The Russian Beast

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We travel back to Brest on the night train, and kiss each other goodbye on the station as I catch the connection through to Kobryn. It won’t be so long before we’re together again, for another delicious six weeks of summer we promise each other.

But life’s not that simple. The first hint I get of a storm brewing is an unexpected visit from a school inspector. She watches one of my lessons, but seems more interested in checking through my files, registers and record-keeping. I’m wrong-footed when she asks, out of the blue, whether I’m a Party member. When I mumble, “Er no … not ye…” she starts interrogating me about my understanding of a schoolteacher’s responsibilities to the collective farm.

By the time she departs, I’m feeling pretty glum, getting the strong impression that I’m not approved of. Yet she can hardly file a bad report, the lesson she observed went well, the children’s annual test results were very satisfactory – she checked these very closely, as if she thought I was cooking the scores.

But then, as the end of the term approached, I receive a curt letter summoning me to the office of the District Education Supervisor in Kobryn. When I arrive for my appointment, I found I’m faced by not just the Supervisor – who last year was quite helpful and supportive – but Comrade Markov, chairman of the farm council, and a Police inspector too.

They plunge straight away into questioning me about my visit to Moscow. I see no point in lying, I tell them I’d received an invitation from the Commissar for Agricultural Planning, that it was an honour not just for me but for the school and the collective farm, that it was an excellent opportunity for me to learn about the capital and government of the USSR and to bring back knowledge and understanding to pass onto my pupils in this region so recently integrated into the Union.

All three of them were obviously a bit discomfited by this, they shuffled awkwardly, looked at each other wondering who’d ask the next question. I know they’re irritated and suspicious at this humble schoolteacher, a washed-up bit of flotsam from the shipwreck of Europe, getting these privileges, yet they’ve that same haunted look of people who think they’re being watched that I’d seen in Moscow.

The Police Inspector tried questioning my travel permits, I had all those, and the pass Ivan had given me while we were in Moscow for me to show when I went into any public building or if I was stopped by any official. He peered at it closely and handed it back without a word. That silenced him.

Markov brought up yet again the issue of my contribution to the life of the collective, I was ready for that, I’d got the newspaper cuttings giving star coverage to my kids’ display on Revolution Day. He grumbled yet again about my absence from the harvest last autumn.

That was a cue for the Supervior to come in again. “I take it, Miss Innokentaya, that you’ll be helping with the harvest this summer?” That was the dagger question, her eyes showed she knew it. “Well, comrade,” I replied cautiously, “I’ll certainly pull my weight, but I would hope to spend some time in the library in Br….” “Quite unnecessary!” She snapped, “You’re only an elementary schooteacher, not a university professor – no other teachers on my circuit find it necessary to spend hours in the Library.” “Yes, that’s only an excuse, she doesn’t want to get her hands dirty!” added Markov.

The Supervisor glared at me as she issued her edict: “You will not go to Brest during the coming school holiday, you will remain on the collective farm. If Comrade Markov is not satisfied with your contribution, I shall get to hear from him. And if you attempt to leave, the Transport Police will detain you and inform the Inspector here. Either way, the consequence will be immediate dismissal from your teaching post. Do you understand, Miss Innokentaya?”
 
I understand. I keep my composure until I got out of the office, then burst into tears – of rage, frustration, humiliation. How dare they treat me like a schoolgirl? What right have they to tell me how I’ll spend the holiday? They know they can’t fault my teaching, the kids like me, the parents are satisfied, the inspector couldn’t find anything to criticise – except I choose to spend summer in Brest.

On the bus back from Kobryn, I’m wrestling with the decision I have to make. If I defy them, I’ll lose my job. I’ll lose my flat. I’ll have to beg for work on the collective, and if I get any it will be the most degrading they can find, swilling out the piggeries for starters. Or I’ll be a vagrant, a whore, end up in a prison-camp…

But if I submit to their ultimatum, I’ll not just miss another delicious time with Ivan, those thrilling nights in the dacha-dungeon, and the more quiet pleasures of the library too – I’ll lose Ivan, we can’t keep up our relationship just writing letters, and anyway it’s a very one-sided correspondence, I write long letters, he sends brief notes – and nylon briefs too, which make up for his brevity!

Back home, I sit up all night writing a letter to him, the most important one I’ve ever written. It goes through countless drafts, page after page screwed up and chucked in the bin. In the end, I get it down to a summary of what they said to me at the meeting, a simple statement of the choice that faces me, either submit to a life sentence as a spinster-schoolmistress on this benighted collective farm at the back of beyond, or chuck it in and take my chance on getting to Brest and moving in with him, full-time.

And obviously, I can only do the latter if he agrees (and I’ll need his ‘fixing’ if I’m to make it to Brest without being arrested and dragged back here). I seal the letter with a very big kiss and another round of tears, hurry out in the early dawn to drop it in the letter-box.

The last few weeks of term, I’m on tenterhooks, nervy, distracted – a shame, it’s a nice time of year for the kids after the exams are over and we can do enjoyable things, sports, country-walks, story-times, but my heart’s not in it, my mind’s elsewhere…

And Ivan doesn’t reply. Every morning I look for a letter, maybe just a travel permit, every morning I feel the knot inside me twisting tighter. I’m getting hysterical, shouting and swearing and beating the floor with my fists when I find no letter, worrying myself sick that he’s given up on me, he’s found another woman, he’s in some trouble himself…

By the last few days of term, I’m deeply depressed, can’t sleep, no longer even angry, just apathetic, resigned, a great dark cloud of oppression hanging over me, the only view ahead a life of tedium here on the collective. On the last day, I wish the children a happy summer, they scuttle out, I clear the books away and go into my office and howl, a great keening of utter despair.

Sitting at my desk, head in hands, sobbing helplessly, I hardly hear, don’t take in, the sound of a motor. A loud, urgent banging at the door seems to me to be in my head, I’m imagining it …

No! I leap up, sprint through the classroom, swing open the door – Ivan!

Before I can fling myself on him and hug him, he barks, “If you’re coming, come now!” I stop statue-like, my arms still spread, “Now!” he shouts. “Er… all right, I’ll get my…” “Now!” he yells a third time, grips my arm, hauls me to the byke. I swing my leg across the pillion, grab the handle behind me and already he’s turned it and we’re roaring off up the track.
 
Eulalia said:
I understand. I keep my composure until I got out of the office, then burst into tears – of rage, frustration, humiliation. How dare they treat me like a schoolgirl? What right have they to tell me how I’ll spend the holiday? They know they can’t fault my teaching, the kids like me, the parents are satisfied, the inspector couldn’t find anything to criticise – except I choose to spend summer in Brest.

On the bus back from Kobryn, I’m wrestling with the decision I have to make. If I defy them, I’ll lose my job. I’ll lose my flat. I’ll have to beg for work on the collective, and if I get any it will be the most degrading they can find, swilling out the piggeries for starters. Or I’ll be a vagrant, a whore, end up in a prison-camp…

But if I submit to their ultimatum, I’ll not just miss another delicious time with Ivan, those thrilling nights in the dacha-dungeon, and the more quiet pleasures of the library too – I’ll lose Ivan, we can’t keep up our relationship just writing letters, and anyway it’s a very one-sided correspondence, I write long letters, he sends brief notes – and nylon briefs too, which make up for his brevity!

Back home, I sit up all night writing a letter to him, the most important one I’ve ever written. It goes through countless drafts, page after page screwed up and chucked in the bin. In the end, I get it down to a summary of what they said to me at the meeting, a simple statement of the choice that faces me, either submit to a life sentence as a spinster-schoolmistress on this benighted collective farm at the back of beyond, or chuck it in and take my chance on getting to Brest and moving in with him, full-time.

And obviously, I can only do the latter if he agrees (and I’ll need his ‘fixing’ if I’m to make it to Brest without being arrested and dragged back here). I seal the letter with a very big kiss and another round of tears, hurry out in the early dawn to drop it in the letter-box.

The last few weeks of term, I’m on tenterhooks, nervy, distracted – a shame, it’s a nice time of year for the kids after the exams are over and we can do enjoyable things, sports, country-walks, story-times, but my heart’s not in it, my mind’s elsewhere…

And Ivan doesn’t reply. Every morning I look for a letter, maybe just a travel permit, every morning I feel the knot inside me twisting tighter. I’m getting hysterical, shouting and swearing and beating the floor with my fists when I find no letter, worrying myself sick that he’s given up on me, he’s found another woman, he’s in some trouble himself…

By the last few days of term, I’m deeply depressed, can’t sleep, no longer even angry, just apathetic, resigned, a great dark cloud of oppression hanging over me, the only view ahead a life of tedium here on the collective. On the last day, I wish the children a happy summer, they scuttle out, I clear the books away and go into my office and howl, a great keening of utter despair.

Sitting at my desk, head in hands, sobbing helplessly, I hardly hear, don’t take in, the sound of a motor. A loud, urgent banging at the door seems to me to be in my head, I’m imagining it …

No! I leap up, sprint through the classroom, swing open the door – Ivan!

Before I can fling myself on him and hug him, he barks, “If you’re coming, come now!” I stop statue-like, my arms still spread, “Now!” he shouts. “Er… all right, I’ll get my…” “Now!” he yells a third time, grips my arm, hauls me to the byke. I swing my leg across the pillion, grab the handle behind me and already he’s turned it and we’re roaring off up the track.
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I am on tenterhooks waiting for more....
 
Eulalia said:
that's just what I like to hear from a guy! :devil:​
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Eulalia said:
I understand. I keep my composure until I got out of the office, then burst into tears – of rage, frustration, humiliation. How dare they treat me like a schoolgirl? What right have they to tell me how I’ll spend the holiday? They know they can’t fault my teaching, the kids like me, the parents are satisfied, the inspector couldn’t find anything to criticise – except I choose to spend summer in Brest.

On the bus back from Kobryn, I’m wrestling with the decision I have to make. If I defy them, I’ll lose my job. I’ll lose my flat. I’ll have to beg for work on the collective, and if I get any it will be the most degrading they can find, swilling out the piggeries for starters. Or I’ll be a vagrant, a whore, end up in a prison-camp…

But if I submit to their ultimatum, I’ll not just miss another delicious time with Ivan, those thrilling nights in the dacha-dungeon, and the more quiet pleasures of the library too – I’ll lose Ivan, we can’t keep up our relationship just writing letters, and anyway it’s a very one-sided correspondence, I write long letters, he sends brief notes – and nylon briefs too, which make up for his brevity!

Back home, I sit up all night writing a letter to him, the most important one I’ve ever written. It goes through countless drafts, page after page screwed up and chucked in the bin. In the end, I get it down to a summary of what they said to me at the meeting, a simple statement of the choice that faces me, either submit to a life sentence as a spinster-schoolmistress on this benighted collective farm at the back of beyond, or chuck it in and take my chance on getting to Brest and moving in with him, full-time.

And obviously, I can only do the latter if he agrees (and I’ll need his ‘fixing’ if I’m to make it to Brest without being arrested and dragged back here). I seal the letter with a very big kiss and another round of tears, hurry out in the early dawn to drop it in the letter-box.

The last few weeks of term, I’m on tenterhooks, nervy, distracted – a shame, it’s a nice time of year for the kids after the exams are over and we can do enjoyable things, sports, country-walks, story-times, but my heart’s not in it, my mind’s elsewhere…

And Ivan doesn’t reply. Every morning I look for a letter, maybe just a travel permit, every morning I feel the knot inside me twisting tighter. I’m getting hysterical, shouting and swearing and beating the floor with my fists when I find no letter, worrying myself sick that he’s given up on me, he’s found another woman, he’s in some trouble himself…

By the last few days of term, I’m deeply depressed, can’t sleep, no longer even angry, just apathetic, resigned, a great dark cloud of oppression hanging over me, the only view ahead a life of tedium here on the collective. On the last day, I wish the children a happy summer, they scuttle out, I clear the books away and go into my office and howl, a great keening of utter despair.

Sitting at my desk, head in hands, sobbing helplessly, I hardly hear, don’t take in, the sound of a motor. A loud, urgent banging at the door seems to me to be in my head, I’m imagining it …

No! I leap up, sprint through the classroom, swing open the door – Ivan!

Before I can fling myself on him and hug him, he barks, “If you’re coming, come now!” I stop statue-like, my arms still spread, “Now!” he shouts. “Er… all right, I’ll get my…” “Now!” he yells a third time, grips my arm, hauls me to the byke. I swing my leg across the pillion, grab the handle behind me and already he’s turned it and we’re roaring off up the track.
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What a fantastic piece of writing, Eulalia. So descriptive and so tense and intense. I can't wait for it to continue
 
thanks for all the encouraging comments!

It’s not easy, riding pillion on a speeding byke when you’re clad only in a light cotton frock. My right hand’s clinging on to the handle behind my bum, while I fight with my left to stop the hem from blowing up and endangering not just my decency but my remaining on the saddle. My hair – which I’ve not taken much care of these last few weeks – streams out behind me.

At the top of the school track, he swings right on the road, away from the usual route back to my flat, the farm offices and the junction for Kobryn. A few more turns and we’re speeding through fields no longer familiar, the collective’s behind me!

We turn out onto what’s evidently a relatively major road, though not much using it but horse-and-cart traffic, occasional cyclists, a few military lorries. The afternoon sun’s behind me, I feel it on my back – we aren’t going north towards Kobryn or Brest, we’re heading east! I want to shout questions in Ivan’s ear, but don’t waste my breath, I know I won’t get an answer.

We hurtle along for a good couple of hours, the sun's low in the sky when we come to what must be a military base and airfield,. We turn into the entrance, the sentry inspects Ivan’s pass, instantly raises the barrier, salutes smartly. We chug between rows of huts to the main, concrete, building, over which the red flag wafts protectively, enriched by the evening sun.

A guard at the entrance salutes us as Ivan parks the byke and we dismount, we enter a functional office. A Major – as I see from the star and two red bars on his lapel, he’s no doubt the C.O. here – rises and welcomes Ivan as a familiar friend, then turns to me – I feel a wreck in my rumpled working dress, hair dishevelled, my face, arms and legs stinging with road-dust, hot and sweaty – but he evidently likes the look of me, shakes my hand warmly, “I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Innokentaya,” I smile, “Thankyou, Comrade.” Not sure what else I can say.

“Well, no doubt you’re ready for a meal, but there’s a message from Moscow for you comrade, you have to phone immediately.” “Very well,” says Ivan, then to me, “The Major will take you to get something to eat, I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

I’m escorted across to what’s evidently the base canteen, as we enter the Major gives a slight bow and declares, “This isn’t quite the restaurant I’d choose to entertain a lady in, but I trust you’ll find Red Army cuisine to your liking.” I grin, he’s got a way with the ladies! “Comrade, whatever you feed your soldiers on will do fine for me – but,” I blush a little, “Er, is there a washroom?” “Ah, well yes, over here – only one I’m afraid, but I’ll ensure the Red Army don’t occupy the building!”

Feeling better after a good wash, I come out to find a young squaddie serving a huge plate of stew and vegetables, much better than anything I’m used to, and much more of it too, but I’m starving hungry. As I sit down to it, Ivan arrives, he has a brief conversation with the Major, I don’t catch what he’s saying, but it’s clear Ivan’s giving orders, the Major is receiving instructions.

As we both tuck into our dinners, the Major orders out the kitchen staff, and leaves us to enjoy our meal in privacy. “He’s a nice guy,” comments Ivan, “Indeed, he’s charming,” I reply, “But would you mind telling me, Ivan, where the hell are we and what the hell is going on?”

He smiles, one of those mysterious smiles that makes me sure there’s some oriental strand in his ancestry, takes a deep breath, before saying “Well, you aren’t on that collective farm any more.” “No, and if this is your way of getting me out of that dump, I’m truly very grateful. But why didn’t I hear anything from you, why the shock tactics?”

He leans forward, glancing around as if instinctively, though we’ve got the palce entirely to ourselves. “The point is, Alisa, I’ve got a new job, a big promotion. The news came a fortnight after we went for the May Day Parade, I was called back to Moscow and informed of my new position.” “Well done, Ivan, that’s great,” I give his hand a congratulatory squeeze, “I’m proud of you. But does that mean you won’t be in Brest any more?” “Right, I’m based in Moscow now.”

I’m a bit thrown by this, obviously it has implications for me, now I’ve committed myself to sharing Ivan’s life, lock, stock and barrel. But I’m still confused about these last few weeks. “So you didn’t get my letter?” I ask, after a pause. “Oh yes, but I knew all about what was going on anyway, with you and that Supervisor bitch and the ass Markov.” Again, I’m somewhat unnerved at his omniscient awareness of the tensions I’ve been subjected to. “But why didn’t you answer?”

He leans back, spreads his hands in a gesture, “This is your answer!”

No point in pressing him further. “Okay Ivan, well you’ve put me through hell these last few weeks, but I suppose you had your reasons. Anyway, you’ve got me out of the trap – like I said, I’m very, very thankful.” I lean across and give him a kiss.

He holds my face between his hands, his is very serious. “Yes, planning this operation wasn’t easy, and I had to be sure, quite sure, that you’d made your decision.” “But how…?” He holds his right hand up. “Look, Alisa, you've made your decision, and you’re with me. That’s all there is to it. There’s no going back.”

He pauses, I’m taking it in. After the whirlwind of confusion on the back of his byke, my mind’s only just sorting out what’s happened, what it all means. At last, I simply nod, “Yes. I understand.”

“You know the game of snakes and ladders?” He asks ominously. “Of course.” “You know when you’re low down on the board, the ladders are quite short, and so are the snakes. You can climb up a little if you're lucky, you might slip down a bit if you aren’t. But the higher up the board you go, the ladders get longer, and so do the snakes.” He takes my hand, grips it firmly. “I’ve climbed up a big ladder, and you’ve chosen to come up with me.” His eyes are close to mine, fixing me with his gaze. “Watch out for the snakes!”

Again, we’re silent for some minutes, eating a very tasty dessert of fresh fruit and honey biscuits. As we're finishing, he says, “Now, I’ve had an urgent call, I’ve got to fly back to Moscow. The Major will have got a plane ready and waiting for me by now. You’ll stay overnight here, you’ll be perfectly safe and well looked-after. A car will come for you in the morning. I’ll see you in Moscow”

With that, he gets up, lifts up my face for another quick kiss, and he’s off.
 
Eulalia said:
thanks for all the encouraging comments!

It’s not easy, riding pillion on a speeding byke when you’re clad only in a light cotton frock. My right hand’s clinging on to the handle behind my bum, while I fight with my left to stop the hem from blowing up and endangering not just my decency but my remaining on the saddle. My hair – which I’ve not taken much care of these last few weeks – streams out behind me.

At the top of the school track, he swings right on the road, away from the usual route back to my flat, the farm offices and the junction for Kobryn. A few more turns and we’re speeding through fields no longer familiar, the collective’s behind me!

We turn out onto what’s evidently a relatively major road, though not much using it but horse-and-cart traffic, occasional cyclists, a few military lorries. The afternoon sun’s behind me, I feel it on my back – we aren’t going north towards Kobryn or Brest, we’re heading east! I want to shout questions in Ivan’s ear, but don’t waste my breath, I know I won’t get an answer.

We hurtle along for a good couple of hours, the sun's low in the sky when we come to what must be a military base and airfield,. We turn into the entrance, the sentry inspects Ivan’s pass, instantly raises the barrier, salutes smartly. We chug between rows of huts to the main, concrete, building, over which the red flag wafts protectively, enriched by the evening sun.

A guard at the entrance salutes us as Ivan parks the byke and we dismount, we enter a functional office. A Major – as I see from the star and two red bars on his lapel, he’s no doubt the C.O. here – rises and welcomes Ivan as a familiar friend, then turns to me – I feel a wreck in my rumpled working dress, hair dishevelled, my face, arms and legs stinging with road-dust, hot and sweaty – but he evidently likes the look of me, shakes my hand warmly, “I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Innokentaya,” I smile, “Thankyou, Comrade.” Not sure what else I can say.

“Well, no doubt you’re ready for a meal, but there’s a message from Moscow for you comrade, you have to phone immediately.” “Very well,” says Ivan, then to me, “The Major will take you to get something to eat, I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

I’m escorted across to what’s evidently the base canteen, as we enter the Major gives a slight bow and declares, “This isn’t quite the restaurant I’d choose to entertain a lady in, but I trust you’ll find Red Army cuisine to your liking.” I grin, he’s got a way with the ladies! “Comrade, whatever you feed your soldiers on will do fine for me – but,” I blush a little, “Er, is there a washroom?” “Ah, well yes, over here – only one I’m afraid, but I’ll ensure the Red Army don’t occupy the building!”

Feeling better after a good wash, I come out to find a young squaddie serving a huge plate of stew and vegetables, much better than anything I’m used to, and much more of it too, but I’m starving hungry. As I sit down to it, Ivan arrives, he has a brief conversation with the Major, I don’t catch what he’s saying, but it’s clear Ivan’s giving orders, the Major is receiving instructions.

As we both tuck into our dinners, the Major orders out the kitchen staff, and leaves us to enjoy our meal in privacy. “He’s a nice guy,” comments Ivan, “Indeed, he’s charming,” I reply, “But would you mind telling me, Ivan, where the hell are we and what the hell is going on?”

He smiles, one of those mysterious smiles that makes me sure there’s some oriental strand in his ancestry, takes a deep breath, before saying “Well, you aren’t on that collective farm any more.” “No, and if this is your way of getting me out of that dump, I’m truly very grateful. But why didn’t I hear anything from you, why the shock tactics?”

He leans forward, glancing around as if instinctively, though we’ve got the palce entirely to ourselves. “The point is, Alisa, I’ve got a new job, a big promotion. The news came a fortnight after we went for the May Day Parade, I was called back to Moscow and informed of my new position.” “Well done, Ivan, that’s great,” I give his hand a congratulatory squeeze, “I’m proud of you. But does that mean you won’t be in Brest any more?” “Right, I’m based in Moscow now.”

I’m a bit thrown by this, obviously it has implications for me, now I’ve committed myself to sharing Ivan’s life, lock, stock and barrel. But I’m still confused about these last few weeks. “So you didn’t get my letter?” I ask, after a pause. “Oh yes, but I knew all about what was going on anyway, with you and that Supervisor bitch and the ass Markov.” Again, I’m somewhat unnerved at his omniscient awareness of the tensions I’ve been subjected to. “But why didn’t you answer?”

He leans back, spreads his hands in a gesture, “This is your answer!”

No point in pressing him further. “Okay Ivan, well you’ve put me through hell these last few weeks, but I suppose you had your reasons. Anyway, you’ve got me out of the trap – like I said, I’m very, very thankful.” I lean across and give him a kiss.

He holds my face between his hands, his is very serious. “Yes, planning this operation wasn’t easy, and I had to be sure, quite sure, that you’d made your decision.” “But how…?” He holds his right hand up. “Look, Alisa, you've made your decision, and you’re with me. That’s all there is to it. There’s no going back.”

He pauses, I’m taking it in. After the whirlwind of confusion on the back of his byke, my mind’s only just sorting out what’s happened, what it all means. At last, I simply nod, “Yes. I understand.”

“You know the game of snakes and ladders?” He asks ominously. “Of course.” “You know when you’re low down on the board, the ladders are quite short, and so are the snakes. You can climb up a little if you're lucky, you might slip down a bit if you aren’t. But the higher up the board you go, the ladders get longer, and so do the snakes.” He takes my hand, grips it firmly. “I’ve climbed up a big ladder, and you’ve chosen to come up with me.” His eyes are close to mine, fixing me with his gaze. “Watch out for the snakes!”

Again, we’re silent for some minutes, eating a very tasty dessert of fresh fruit and honey biscuits. As we're finishing, he says, “Now, I’ve had an urgent call, I’ve got to fly back to Moscow. The Major will have got a plane ready and waiting for me by now. You’ll stay overnight here, you’ll be perfectly safe and well looked-after. A car will come for you in the morning. I’ll see you in Moscow”

With that, he gets up, lifts up my face for another quick kiss, and he’s off.
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EEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKK!!! Wonderful tension - can't wait for more !
 
on to chapter 5 now -
things take a turn...

5

The Major soon arrives and takes me back to the main building, to a room reserved for visiting officers, though he apologises once again for lacking ‘hotel accommodation for a lady’. He assures me that his men are under orders to ensure I have all I require but to respect my privacy, shows me the key in the door, the button on the wall to ring at any time, I thank him with a smile.

But I do lock the door as soon as he’s gone, I’m beginning to feel very anxious, very vulnerable, a young woman alone in this all-male environment – my teenage encounter with the Red Army made me pretty wary of soldiers in general, for all my fascinated adoration of Ivan. What’s more, it’s dawning on me that I’ve not just left the collective farm, I’ve left everything. Apart from the minimal summer clothes I’m wearing, I’ve lost the lot – my handbag with my ID papers, my small supply of roubles, all my clothes, even my nightdress and washing things …

I’m weary, stretch out on the bed, which has indeed been carefully made with gleaming white sheets and soft blankets. The curtains are already drawn, I turn out the light and sleep for a bit, but wake up with a real panic attack, terrified by a confused dream in which the night of the Liberation, my interview with the Supervisor, our crazy ride across Byelorussia, and the penetrating, strip-me-naked eyes of Lavrenti Beria all came to haunt me.

I kneel on the bed, shivering, sweating, dreading what's going to happen to me….

I suppose I must have dozed again, on and off, though I keep waking, still shaking. There are noises outside, booted feet going back and forth, motor vehicles, shouted commands. A knock at my door throws me into irrational terror, I daren't open it. “Who’s there” I call, “It’s your breakfast, Miss Innokentaya!”

I open the door, take my generously loaded tray from a pleasantly smiling young corporal. “The Major says the car will be ready to collect you in half an hour, Madam.” I thank him – “Madam,” Well! Not just “Comrade!”

The breakfast’s good, even coffee – not a bad hotel at all! And I’m able to get a nice refreshing wash in a shower supplied with soap and soft towels. They’ve even thought of an army-issue comb. So, although I wish I had a change of dress, I don’t feel so bad as I step out into the daylight.

The car that’s indeed awaiting is one of the kind I’d seen rushing about Moscow, usually attended by security outriders on motor-bykes, reserved for high officials. The Major’s there to wish me a good trip, I thank him and his men for their hospitality, he thanks me for gracing his outpost with my presence – he’s a gem! I sink into the luxurious leather-upholstered seat at the back, a rather solemn driver checks I’m ready, off we glide.

It’s a long ride through generally rather featureless, low-lying countryside. As we pass through a few towns, local police warn people, carts and the few other motor vehicles out of our way, we barely slow down. We stop a couple of times, on both occasions at Police Stations, where I’m offered refreshments and allowed to use the toilet, but the taciturn driver conveys a sense of urgency, I don’t waste time. At a border checkpoint – it must be the entry to Russia ‘proper’, we’re waved through with a salute. The scenery becomes more hilly, with extensive birch-woods alongside the road for much of the way, but increasingly populated with settlements, industrial works, building sites, I realise we’re approaching Moscow.

It’s quite late in the afternoon as we race, still at high speed, past huge, brutal apartment blocks and rows of rather shabby tenements, through the tree-lined boulevards leading into the city centre and into the prestigious residential neighbourhoods immediately around. Children are coming home from school, college students, young mothers with babies in prams, office workers with brief-cases, all hurrying back and forth.

In a street that must have housed princes and dukes before the Revolution, we at last slow down, turn to an entrance guarded by a massive metal gate. A guard salutes, the gate immediately swings open, we cruise up a gravel drive to a grandiose entrance porch.

As we stop, a guard in super-smart uniform hurries down the steps to open the door for me. I step out, before I’ve even time to turn and thank the driver, I’m being led through a palatial front door into an awe-inspiring entrance hall.

A more senior official awaits me there, the guard retires outside. “Miss Innokentaya?” enquires the officer, “Yes, comrade.” He presses a bell-buton beside an inner door. I wait, gazing round in awe at the grandeur – surely this can’t be where Ivan lives?

The door opens, a short, stoutish man with rimless glasses looks me up and down.
 
A cold surge of horror floods through me, a dreadful awareness of being trapped. I was tough as iron in the hands of those soldiers on Liberation night, I’ve shocked Ivan with how much I can endure under his whip and torture-tools, but this man, Beria, exudes such a radiation of evil, I feel helpless as a butterfly caught on the web, the spider’s eyeing its prey.

‘Good evening, Alisa, we meet again!’ His thin lips curl in a gloating smile. ‘Good evening, comrade.’ ‘I expect you would like a little light refreshment, before we begin our business?’ ‘Er… if you, er … thankyou,comrade…’ I’m confused, tongue-tied, but instinct tells me it’s wise not to refuse.

He beckons me through the inner door, I hear the officer shut and lock it behind us. We pass along a gallery lined with art-works that must once have graced royal apartments, and into a grand, ornately-decorated lounge, where he gestures to me to sit on a low, plush sofa.

A silver pot of tea, milk in a silver jug, sugar in a silver bowl, a porcelain cup, a matching plate with a range of cream pastries, await me on a damascene tray enamelled – as I could see between the crockery – with scenes of exotic love-making.

Beria sits beside me, close, his body within a few centimetres of mine. As I lean forward and serve myself with trembling hands, terrified I’ll drop the precious china, then lean back to sip the tea and balance the plate of pastries on my knee, he watches the movements of my light cotton frock, riding up above my knees to reveal my thighs, stretching and creasing with the movements of my breasts.

His left arm slithers behind me, his fingers crawl on my neck, tangle with the curls of my unkempt hair. Now, as I try to drink tea and eat pastries with ladylike composure, his right hand moves to my thigh, slowly edging the hem of my skirt further and further back.

I sigh, my body swivels involuntarily, I can feel his warm breath on my shoulder, laid bare by the movements of his fingers. He says nothing, neither do I, until I’ve finished the cup and consumed one of the pastries. ‘Have you enjoyed your tea, Alisa?’ He lifts my chin, turns my face towards his, his rimless lenses a finger’s length from my eyes. *It was very good, thankyou comrade.’ Indeed it was, exquisite tea and luscious pastry, but I was in no condition to appreciate it.

His other hand is fondling my breast now, beginning to undo the buttons at the top of my dress, his fingers soon find their way under the fabric, forcing entry under my bra, I shiver at the prick of his nails approaching the nipple.

Suddenly, he pulls his hand out, flings his arms around me and throws himself on me. I topple sideways, fearing for the trayload of valuables, but he’s clearly unconcerned about that. He growls as he bites at my lips, forcing them apart with his tongue, plunging it deep into my throat, while his legs straddle my pelvis, his hips pounding me in rhythmic motion.

I lie limp, resistance is futile and I’m in no position to co-operate actively. His trousers are unbuttoned, I’m resigned to being raped, waiting for him to tear down my panties, but he hasn’t the patience, his sperm erupts in a fountain that reaches up to my neck.
 
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He stands up with a curse, grabs my hair and hauls me to my feet, ‘Come on bitch, you’re coming where I can fuck you properly!’ Grasping my arm, he drags me through a door, along another hallway, up some impressive stairs, and into a huge bedroom.

There he makes me stand facing an ornate dressing-table with a huge wide mirror, I see my flushed, sweat-gleamng face, dishevelled hair, rumpled dress with a wide wet semen-stain on the front. He starts to lift my dress, slowly, fingering me at each stage – loins, hips, waist, breasts – I lift my arms co-operatively, he slides it over my head, tosses it aside.

‘You’ve nice underwear,’ he comments in a sneering tone, as he unhooks my bra, ‘A gift from Ivan, I expect?’ ‘Y-yes, comrade.’ I’d be mad to say anything else – will I get Ivan into trouble? Is he already? I can see the look of fear in my eyes in the mirror – so can Beria.

He slips my panties down my legs, I kick off my shoes as they drop to the floor. ‘Pick them up, give them to me – I like to keep a little souvenir!’ He grins as I obey and hand them to him. I’m facing him now as he drinks in my nakedness, seeing for himself what he’d so vividly imagined when we met on May Day.

‘What’s this?’ He points to the brand-mark on my thigh. ‘Oh, er… that’s Ivan’s initial, comrade.’ ‘Aha, so you’re a slave, a branded slave?’ ‘Y-yes, comrade.’ ‘Very nice – but we don’t believe in private property, do we?’ I’m dumbstruck, he slaps my face, hard, ‘Do we?!’ he yells, ‘N-no, comrade…’ ‘Cunt! You should be branded with the hammer and sickle, property of the Soviet State!’

I hang my head, dreading what’s coming. He hangs my undies on the upright at the end of the dressing-table mirror, trophies of his triumph. Now he opens a drawer, brings out a pair of handcuffs, gleaming silvery steel, not just the functional military police kind Ivan uses. ‘I believe you like these, Alisa?’ I hold out my wrists compliantly, ‘Yes comrade.’

‘Now slave, down!’

I kneel, like I do for Ivan, forehead down on the rich, deep carpet, manacled arms stretched out in front. I hear him open a cupboard, I guess what he’s taking out. The sting of the whiplash across my shoulders, curling round to bite my breast, is familiar enough, he’s efficient, like my Master, and vicious with it. I squeal obligingly, it’s what he wants to hear and it helps with absorbing the pain.

He carries on till I’m really sobbing, beginning to roll a bit from side to side between strokes, feeling sick and giddy as well as red-hot with bruising. Then he throws the whip on the bed, I hear the rustle of clothing, he’s pulling off his pants. He straddles me, I press with my elbows to support myself under his weight.

Owwwwwwwwww! He thrusts his tool in me, not in my sex but my rectum, something I’ve never had done to me since one of the soldiers buggered me on Liberation night. It hurts hellishly, he pumps vigorously, I get no pleasure, just gasping with pain till I feel the rush of his semen in my colon.

When he’s finished, he stands up, kicks me, snarls “Stay there bitch – don’t you dare move!”

He’s gone a good while, but indeed I daren’t move, I stay kneeling low with my arms stretched out. My mind’s in turmoil, a mixture of fury, terror and desperation. I try to think rationally about what’s happened, it’s barely possible - does Ivan know I’m here? Did he know when he left me last night that this was going to happen? Has it all been an elaborate plot, whisking me away from the school and bringing me here to Moscow, to Beria’s lair? I try not to believe it, but a ghastly thought preys on my mind, won’t go away – am I the price he’s paying for his promotion?

For a while, I’m sobbing quietly, my fingers gripping at the deep carpet-pile, I’m tense with fear and anger. Then something catches my eye - under the bed that’s beside me, down in darkness beside a bedside cabinet, I spy a small object glinting. Cautiously I move my shackled hands towards it, manage to get my fingers to it, pull it a little closer, into a bit more light. It’s a small enamel badge, some previous victim must have dropped it. As the light catches it, I can see in the centre there’s a female figure leaping, in relief on silvery metal; around her, there’s a border of red enamel, the Cyrillic letters spell out ‘Uzbekistan SSR’.

Those Uzbek girls I chatted with on May Day! My stomach churns with horror, grief and anger. Hearing footsteps, I hastily push the brooch back into the shadows, make myself a kneeling statue.

He tugs me up by my hair, flings me onto the bed. “Get ready for fucking, cow!” I stretch myself out, almost relieved that he’s planning to fuck me normally. “How do you want me, comrade? Back or front?” “The way you do it with Ivan.” Well, we do it lots of ways, but I stretch my arms up above my head, gripping the fancy metalwork of the bed-head, flex my legs and press down with my soles on the soft bedding, lift my pelvis to offer myself.

He gets completely naked, turns the light down, positions himself and drops onto me, working his way into me with slow, gradual penetration, not with the violence of his previous assaults. Loathsome as he is, I have to admit I feel arousal, as my clitoris is gently awakened by his cock’s rubbing, my passageway grows warm and wet to greet him.

He’s licking, kissing, biting – but, again, not viciously now – I let my head roll side-to-side, move my breasts to rub against his only modestly hairy chest, respond to his pumping with contractions of my thighs and abdominal muscles. It’s a good, long fuck, he actually kisses me when he’s orgasmed.

He gets off the bed, puts on a silk dressing-gown, lights a cigarette, stands staring at my nakedness, now damp with sweat and juices.

After a while, he nods, “You can go.” I get off the bed, he has the key, I hold out my wrists for unlocking, retrieve my dress and shoes – I know I’m not going to get my undies back, I just cover my nakedness with my light summer frock. “Thankyou, comrade,” I say quietly, not wholly insincerely.

I find my own way back down the stairs, along the splendid galleries and through the regal lounge, out to the entrance hall where the officer’s still on duty. He stands up as I arrive, and hands me an enormous bouquet of flowers.
 
Eulalia said:
He stands up with a curse, grabs my hair and hauls me to my feet, ‘Come on bitch, you’re coming where I can fuck you properly!’ Grasping my arm, he drags me through a door, along another hallway, up some impressive stairs, and into a huge bedroom.

There he makes me stand facing an ornate dressing-table with a huge wide mirror, I see my flushed, sweat-gleamng face, dishevelled hair, rumpled dress with a wide wet semen-stain on the front. He starts to lift my dress, slowly, fingering me at each stage – loins, hips, waist, breasts – I lift my arms co-operatively, he slides it over my head, tosses it aside.

‘You’ve nice underwear,’ he comments in a sneering tone, as he unhooks my bra, ‘A gift from Ivan, I expect?’ ‘Y-yes, comrade.’ I’d be mad to say anything else – will I get Ivan into trouble? Is he already? I can see the look of fear in my eyes in the mirror – so can Beria.

He slips my panties down my legs, I kick off my shoes as they drop to the floor. ‘Pick them up, give them to me – I like to keep a little souvenir!’ He grins as I obey and hand them to him. I’m facing him now as he drinks in my nakedness, seeing for himself what he’d so vividly imagined when we met on May Day.

‘What’s this?’ He points to the brand-mark on my thigh. ‘Oh, er… that’s Ivan’s initial, comrade.’ ‘Aha, so you’re a slave, a branded slave?’ ‘Y-yes, comrade.’ ‘Very nice – but we don’t believe in private property, do we?’ I’m dumbstruck, he slaps my face, hard, ‘Do we?!’ he yells, ‘N-no, comrade…’ ‘Cunt! You should be branded with the hammer and sickle, property of the Soviet State!’

I hang my head, dreading what’s coming. He hangs my undies on the upright at the end of the dressing-table mirror, trophies of his triumph. Now he opens a drawer, brings out a pair of handcuffs, gleaming silvery steel, not just the functional military police kind Ivan uses. ‘I believe you like these, Alisa?’ I hold out my wrists compliantly, ‘Yes comrade.’

‘Now slave, down!’

I kneel, like I do for Ivan, forehead down on the rich, deep carpet, manacled arms stretched out in front. I hear him open a cupboard, I guess what he’s taking out. The sting of the whiplash across my shoulders, curling round to bite my breast, is familiar enough, he’s efficient, like my Master, and vicious with it. I squeal obligingly, it’s what he wants to hear and it helps with absorbing the pain.

He carries on till I’m really sobbing, beginning to roll a bit from side to side between strokes, feeling sick and giddy as well as red-hot with bruising. Then he throws the whip on the bed, I hear the rustle of clothing, he’s pulling off his pants. He straddles me, I press with my elbows to support myself under his weight.

Owwwwwwwwww! He thrusts his tool in me, not in my sex but my rectum, something I’ve never had done to me since one of the soldiers buggered me on Liberation night. It hurts hellishly, he pumps vigorously, I get no pleasure, just gasping with pain till I feel the rush of his semen in my colon.

When he’s finished, he stands up, kicks me, snarls “Stay there bitch – don’t you dare move!”

He’s gone a good while, but indeed I daren’t move, I stay kneeling low with my arms stretched out. My mind’s in turmoil, a mixture of fury, terror and desperation. I try to think rationally about what’s happened, it’s barely possible - does Ivan know I’m here? Did he know when he left me last night that this was going to happen? Has it all been an elaborate plot, whisking me away from the school and bringing me here to Moscow, to Beria’s lair? I try not to believe it, but a ghastly thought preys on my mind, won’t go away – am I the price he’s paying for his promotion?

For a while, I’m sobbing quietly, my fingers gripping at the deep carpet-pile, I’m tense with fear and anger. Then something catches my eye - under the bed that’s beside me, down in darkness beside a bedside cabinet, I spy a small object glinting. Cautiously I move my shackled hands towards it, manage to get my fingers to it, pull it a little closer, into a bit more light. It’s a small enamel badge, some previous victim must have dropped it. As the light catches it, I can see in the centre there’s a female figure leaping, in relief on silvery metal; around her, there’s a border of red enamel, the Cyrillic letters spell out ‘Uzbekistan SSR’.

Those Uzbek girls I chatted with on May Day! My stomach churns with horror, grief and anger. Hearing footsteps, I hastily push the brooch back into the shadows, make myself a kneeling statue.

He tugs me up by my hair, flings me onto the bed. “Get ready for fucking, cow!” I stretch myself out, almost relieved that he’s planning to fuck me normally. “How do you want me, comrade? Back or front?” “The way you do it with Ivan.” Well, we do it lots of ways, but I stretch my arms up above my head, gripping the fancy metalwork of the bed-head, flex my legs and press down with my soles on the soft bedding, lift my pelvis to offer myself.

He gets completely naked, turns the light down, positions himself and drops onto me, working his way into me with slow, gradual penetration, not with the violence of his previous assaults. Loathsome as he is, I have to admit I feel arousal, as my clitoris is gently awakened by his cock’s rubbing, my passageway grows warm and wet to greet him.

He’s licking, kissing, biting – but, again, not viciously now – I let my head roll side-to-side, move my breasts to rub against his only modestly hairy chest, respond to his pumping with contractions of my thighs and abdominal muscles. It’s a good, long fuck, he actually kisses me when he’s orgasmed.

He gets off the bed, puts on a silk dressing-gown, lights a cigarette, stands staring at my nakedness, now damp with sweat and juices.

After a while, he nods, “You can go.” I get off the bed, he has the key, I hold out my wrists for unlocking, retrieve my dress and shoes – I know I’m not going to get my undies back, I just cover my nakedness with my light summer frock. “Thankyou, comrade,” I say quietly, not wholly insincerely.

I find my own way back down the stairs, along the splendid galleries and through the regal lounge, out to the entrance hall where the officer’s still on duty. He stands up as I arrive, and hands me an enormous bouquet of flowers.
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Brilliant, Eulalia, again. Painful, erotic, just fantastic. Cannot wait for the next parts.
 
Then he opens the front door. Down the steps, I see my transport awaits me. Same car, same driver, I climb in and sit shivering on the leather seat. The scent of the flowers is overwhelming, sickening, I’m cold, dazed, frightened – what hell have I fallen into?

The drive’s a short one, the car takes a few turns along streets through a district that seems, in the poorly-lit darkness of the city night, to my distracted eyes, full of imposing houses. It draws up outside a gateway, I get out, the driver just nods and points up the entrance, then glides away.

I walk up the path, burdened with the unwanted bouquet, it leads to steps and the front door of a large, though – compared to Beria’s – rather decrepit, run-down villa. As I approach, the door opens, Ivan steps towards me.

“Bastard!” I screech and fling the flowers at him. He seems unsurprised, catches them, holds out his hand to take my arm. I pull back, “Don’t touch me!” It’s not just him, I can’t bear the thought of any man laying hands on me after what Beria’s done. Again, he seems to be expecting the reaction, just gestures for me to come in.

I follow him up the steps, obviously I’ve no choice, though I’ve a mad urge to turn round and just run, I haven’t a clue where I am, or where I’d go. We enter a hallway in need of a fresh paper and a coat of paint, and in through another door – evidently the house is divided into apartments, Ivan’s is on the ground floor.

We’re in a living-room cum kitchen. Ivan turns on the radio, playing some music quite loudly, crosses to the sink and turns on a tap, sits down at the plain wooden table, beckons me to do likewise. He leans towards me and just says, sotto voce, “Be careful what you say, Alisa – walls have ears.”

I’m feeling I want to scream, shriek till they come and take me to the madhouse, the place my sister’s in now seems a haven of peace and sanity compared to where I’ve been kidnapped! I simply sit, staring at Ivan, he returns my gaze.

At last I draw breath, when I do speak, it comes out as a low growl, “Well, you’ve got some explaining to do, Ivan Taneyev. And don’t you dare say you’re sorry, you’ve already played that card.” He nods with a rueful little smile, “I know, and I don’t suppose I need to ask if you hate me?” I pause, don’t respond to that, but ask the question that’s haunting me, “Am I the price you’ve paid Beria to get your promotion?”

Ivan shakes his head, I glare at him. “No, Alisa, that’s not the way – you don’t strike bargains with Beria. If he’s got his claws into a woman, he’ll have her. If I’d tried to stop him, I’d be on my way to Siberia now – or dying in the cellars of the Lubianka. And he’d have had you just the same.”

My heart sinks even lower, as the full dread of the situation opens up to me. “So-“ I ask in a hoarse whisper, “even if I’d stayed at the collective, he’d still have got his hands on me.” Ivan nods. “Oh yes, he certainly would. But you decided…” I was silent for a while, then said quietly, “Yes, Ivan, I decided.” “What I told you at the army base was true, Alisa – not the whole truth, obviously, if I’d told you that, you’d have done something crazy. But remember what I said about snakes and ladders.” I nodded, repeated the words he’d used then, “There’s no going back.”

He pust out his hand, no doubt to give me a reassuring touch, but I still shrink back, not wanting contact. “Well, one thing Alisa, it’s probably not much consolation, but it won’t happen again – Beria always demands a new woman.” I shrugged, no, not much help. “Oh,” he added, “and, in case anyone ever asks you, you consented – the flowers are the proof!”
 
I’m speechless, mute with shock at what’s happened, terror at what might happen. Ivan stands up, “Come on Alisa, you need to sleep – and I need to too, I’ve got to be up early for work.” He opens a door to what must be the bedroom, I’m still rigid, not moving. “Don’t worry, you’ll have the bed and the room to yourself, I’ve got a sofa in my study where I can kip – and you’ll be safe, honest, I’ve no more nasty tricks up my sleeve.”

I stand up, walk with a blank, vacant expression into the room he’s opened, but when he turns on the light I gasp. Not at the size or luxury of the room, it’s certainly a big step up from the cramped apartment in Brest, but not in Beria’s palatial league. What’s such a big surprise is lying on the bed - my handbag, that I’d left behind in the school! I pounce on it and open it, delighted to find my identity papers are all there, even the few roubles and kopeks in the purse.

Being a woman with no identity in the Moscow of Stalin and Beria has been a terrifying condition, an anxious undercurrent to all the other emotions that have swamped me since I was swept here. Holding these scraps of bureaucratic documentation gives me a sense of relief out of all proportion. I turn and give Ivan a big smile, “Thankyou, Ivan, thankyou so much – I’ve not the foggiest idea how you got this here, but by God I’m glad you have!”

He smiles back, “That’s not all I’ve fixed”. He points across the far side of the bed, two packing-cases there, I walk round and peer in one, goodness! All the stuff from my flat! I rummage through, soon find my washing things, everything’s been packed, even a half-used piece of soap! “Yes, I am ready to sleep now, just need a wash first – where’s the bathroom?” Ivan shows me it‘s the next room along, small but adequate, I blow him a kiss and wish him goodnight.

I strip off the soiled and crumpled dress and wash my naked, ravaged body very vigorously, wanting to scrub off and flush away all the pollution of that evil monster. At last, wrapped in just a towel, I return to the bedroom, turn out the light and fall on the bed. I don’t get to sleep all that quickly, too much has happened, too much is still disturbing me, but eventually I do, and don’t wake up for a very long time.

When I do, I find some clean clothes in one of the cases, open the curtains and see the sun’s high, must already be lunchtime. There are big buildings quite close, but the window’s sheltered by some large, untended bushes in a small, gone-to-seed patch of garden. I make my way to the kitchen, still feeling uneasy, being on my own here – I check the front door, it’s locked. Ivan’s left some things out for me to eat, and there’s plenty more in the fridge.

Then I turn to unpacking my belongings. Absolutely everything’s there, even unfinished jars and packets from my little kitchen. Everything, that is, except my diaries. I search thoroughly through everything I’ve taken out, tips the cases upside down, but no, they’re definitely not there.

I’m very upset at this, naturally, they’re the intimate record of my private thoughts and feelings over the past dozen years. There’s really nothing in them (surely?) that could get me into any trouble, but why should anybody want them? Who’s reading them now? I feel violated – not just penetrated in my body, God knows I’ve had more than my fair share of that, but as if some evil force is trespassing deep inside my soul…
 
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