Читать книгу That Stranger Next Door - Goldie Alexander - Страница 7

Eva

Two men took me to a 'safe house' where they insisted no one could find me, and so far they haven't. At least not yet. Several days have passed with nothing to do except observe the weather: grey skies, light rain, and an occasional outburst of sun. I watched an endless stream of trucks, trams, cars and bikes. Every so often the rattle of a horse-drawn cart reminded me of home. Each time a car pulled up outside, my heart leapt into my mouth, only slowly subsiding when I realised it had nothing to do with me. Though my days drifted slowly by, and I had nothing to read - no books, newspapers, or magazines, at least I was comfortable.

Those past few days were becoming a blur. How I had waited for some assurance that those men would find me a safe haven. I'd already spent eighteen hours in a gloomy windowless room with strong overhead lights, a long scratched table and just enough chairs for two nameless interrogators, an interpreter, and the elderly stenographer. Everyone, apart from the stenographer, smoked, and soon the fug was so dense my eyes wouldn't stop watering.

After telling them everything I knew, the men fell silent. What was going through the older one's mind? I couldn't tell. His bloodshot eyes and unshaven cheeks reminded me of a bulldog, as if too much food, drink and cigarettes had swelled his face to grotesque proportions. Though he was never openly hostile, always sat still, too still, I would have hated to be alone with him. Once, when he handed me a pen, his touch sent shivers down my spine. The younger man, though less hardened, was more fidgety, though still focussed on everything I said.

Their silence went on for so long, I wondered if they truly realised what peril I was in. Or if they even cared? I did my best to convince them I had more to divulge, anything to make them reconsider my situation. Nor did I admit to understanding any English. Better to make the interpreter repeat all their questions in Russian, thus giving me time to consider my answers. I could have mentioned that I know some German and Italian, but in the end I didn't. They were never unkind, they must have realised any aggression on their part would only silence me. But their faces gave nothing away, remaining always neutral. Again I had to remind them how integral I was to their investigation, how dangerous my situation was, and above all, that I had nowhere else to go.

They bundled me into the rear of a car and we drove north through empty streets to a motel; a two-storey brick building, with a deserted car park beside it. I was ushered up a concrete staircase to a corridor open to all weathers. Halfway along, as the wind buffeted us with spiteful fingers, the bigger man paused to unlock a door. The men only spoke English, so without our interpreter we resorted to gestures. The younger man pointed to the bed saying, 'Sleep. We watch room.'

'Sleep.' I blankly repeated as if I didn't understand. Not that this bothered them, because they left right away, slamming the door behind them. I heard their car drive away.

The small room had two single beds, with faded-red chenille covers, and between them a table with a broken lamp. Tattered floral curtains covered the window. There was no wardrobe, just a horizontal rod with wooden hangers. Another door led into a tiny bathroom with a toilet, washbasin, and a shower lined with broken tiles. It was all so dirty and neglected I knew the motel had been chosen because no one would look for me here.

I removed my hat and shoes, and still in my coat, collapsed on the bed closest to the window and tried to empty my mind, even sleep a little. I must have dozed off, because I was woken by a loud knock, and sat up in shock; heart in my mouth. Who might have found me? I refused to open the door until I heard the young man who had brought me here, say, 'We have food.'

I unlatched the chain and opened the door. On the other side was also a woman, hair in curlers, cigarette between her lips.

I unleashed the chain and took the tray. Under a grubby tea towel I found a plate with two pale sausages, a pile of greasy chips doused in tomato sauce, two slices of tasteless white bread, and a mug of milky tea. Previously, those men had brought me ham and tomato sandwiches, but anything I tried to eat had stuck in my throat. Suddenly ravenous, I wolfed down the tray's contents and wished there was more.

Then I took a shower, under a thin spray of lukewarm water, dried myself with a worn towel and, having no fresh clothes, pulled on what I'd worn these last two days.

Totally exhausted, I climbed under a thin blanket to lie on rough sheets. Sleep, when it finally came, was fractured by dreams of being chased into dark alleyways. Twice, just as a hand grabbed me, I woke with my heart banging in my chest.

The last dream, I was in my village running by peaked haystacks; my sister Anushka, behind, calling out: Wait, wait for me. I woke, with wet cheeks, wishing, so wishing this was real.

I spent the rest of the night staring into the dark.

Next morning the two men came for me. Stubble-cheeked and smelling so strongly of sweat and cigarettes, I realised they must have slept in their car. They shepherded me into the back of it, and we drove back to the same building.

The same elderly stenographer and Elizabeth, the very serious translator, were waiting for us.

At least half a foot taller than me, and thin with brown hair pulled tightly into a chignon, Elizabeth told me this time, very proudly, 'I have a university qualification as an interpreter in Russian, Polish and Swedish.'

I nodded. Given my circumstances, I couldn't afford to be less than polite, but her accent was so bad it made me wonder which university had been this generous.

As before, everything we said was carefully recorded. The questions never stopped, not even after I had given them everything I did know, plus a little more to keep them happy.

I never did find out the men's names, only that the older regarded anyone who didn't speak English with enormous suspicion.

He kept asking Elizabeth, 'You sure she understands?'

Once they felt they'd wrung every bit of information out of me, and it had all been gone over at least three times, it was well after midnight. I was bundled back into their car and this time driven south to an apartment in a busy street on the first floor above a shop called a milk bar. The younger man leaned over to open the car door for me.

Before I climbed out, Elizabeth grabbed my arm, and for the first time I felt a hint of compassion from her. 'Eva, you'll be safe here,' she assured me. 'But it means you must never go outside, and never tell anyone who you are. Everything you need is here. I'll come in a few days to make sure you're settled.'

The men took me up a wooden staircase into the flat where I could hide, they told me, in relative safety. They made such a clatter going up the stairs we must have woken the entire neighbourhood.

The younger man said, 'Eva, this flat was recently renovated and refurnished. We're sure you'll be very comfortable here.'

He led me into the kitchen, opened cupboards to show me jars filled with tea, sugar, rice, flour, then into the bathroom to a cupboard stored with soap, towels and sheets; finally to the main bedroom where a suitcase sat on the bed. He pointed, saying, 'Open it.'

Inside, I found a wallet with fifty crisp new pound notes, a carton of Craven A cigarettes, three blouses, a skirt, three changes of underwear, a pink woollen dressing gown, three sets of stockings and a girdle, slippers and some lace-up shoes. Everything was new and functional, but chosen with no imagination or style.

Back in the sitting room, and hall, I looked for a telephone. There was none. It seemed that the wireless would be my only communication with the outside world. It was wonderful to listen to music, but what other use did a radio have when my English was so poor?