Images sifted through his subconscious as he slept, and his mind put a
story to them.
*
A villa just outside Berlin, in the narrow strip of West Germany
surrounded by the communist East. A beautiful dark-eyed Russian woman,
a defector, lived here beneath the shelter of trees.
She was not alone here. Other defectors. . .no, patriots. Bulgarians,
Poles and others, who loathed their totalitarian masters and the
brutality, without freedom, under which their peoples were forced to
live, and work away their lives, like ants. Former high-ranking
members of the government, military, and intelligence branches of the
Eastern bloc and the Soviet Union. KGB. Here they lived in close
communion, despite the danger, working sometimes with the West,
sometimes without it, according to their skills, to undermine the iron
grip of the communist leadership, to encourage and protect dissidents,
and to publish their work both home and abroad. As well as other goals
that were more immediately humane.
It was not a place loved by the Kremlin or the East German puppets, the
loyal KGB. Many times assassins, head hunters had been sent, either to
infiltrate or destroy the traitorous band. But so far as could be
told, under the watchful and knowing eyes of Sonya Semenov, herself a
former agent, none had yet succeeded their aim. And those who had
tried, the captured, sure of death, had not been executed, or even
turned over to the west. Instead they were sent back unharmed, with no
greater injury than the knowledge that a hated sect had shown them
mercy, and (to some) disquieting questions about their own loyalty and
courage.
For mistress Semenov, the former operative, used methods of testing
that were quite unique. Those who arrived at the Villa under pretense
of defection, always suspect, were kept alone in a basement cell, of
drab cement, for two days and nights without food or water. Their only
contact with the world outside was a tiny, barred window that looked
out on a beautiful garden, filled with birds. This window was kept
shuttered, blocking out all light and sound, but for five minute
periods twice daily. At all other times the cell was dark, cool and
silent. There was no bed, nor any comfort to be found.
On the third day a single cup of water was brought, and the steel
shutters remained closed. At intervals, moving pictures were projected
from a square opening onto the opposing wall of gray: scenes from the
Holocaust, the American bombing of Hiroshima, the torture and later
execution of a 'dissident' during the Stalin era. Grim portraits with
no clear political message or theme, except that of human suffering.
Always suffering.
After two more days of this an evening meal was brought, along with
water and wine, by one of the women (or men) of the allegiance. A
comfortable bed was made of a mattress against the hard floor. The
window was opened and she (or he), the deliverer, remained for the
night: kissing, massaging aching limbs, making love. The entire
ritual was then repeated. Afterwards, the pledge was sent to a small
cabin in the woods, given food, drink and writing materials, and told
to return in three weeks time.
The final test, after the writing had been studied by. . .was making
love to Sonya Semenov. . .the group..... Making love. . .and love. . .
kissing, massaging..... Sonya Semenov.....
"Sonya."
The man stirred, but did not wake, in his sleep. The sensations,
physical, of his love seemed to fade. They faded. And as he sank back
the dream began again, at the beginning. But this time he was Sonya
Semenov, a man, and a dark-haired Hungarian woman had come to them,
escaped from the life of concubine to a ranking member of the
Presidium, as she explained to the others. Wearing a deep melancholy,
whose depth was still greater for the pain in her large eyes, which
could hide nothing of what she felt, whom he trusted instantly, or
would have, except that he was Sonya Semenov, and life had taught him
not to trust.
She was put to the test, and every minute he hovered like an angel
above her, seeing her pain, in the merciless concrete room, her great
and caring heart that had been so maimed, and always wanting her,
wanting to disband, destroy the test, because she was so beautiful and
incapable of anything but truth. Wanting her, and loving her more and
more. And when she went into the woods his spirit followed her, and
the poetry she wrote, which spoke of suffering, the suffering of
others, he felt because of her. And he loved her still more and she
was everything that he had never found after an eternity. And after
an eternity she returned from those woods, made magic by her presence,
whose green leaves lifted for her in the wind and turned their light
undersides like Spring, the dark green returning like deepest summer as
she came back to them. The Villa. And those who questioned her he
wanted to kill but mostly only wanted her and needed to be with her.
Wanting her, and the time of their joining drew near and he knew she
would make love to her, Sonya, and he prayed in his sleep that the
dream would not fade.
And at the last she came to him. In the beautiful dying light of the
day, she lifted away her garment and stood shimmering by the open door
of the balcony, as the wind kissed her hair and rustled the leaves in
the high branches and she trembled slightly. And he was a woman once
more, in love and then a man, and they kissed as their breasts touched
through long hair and they stood in glorious nakedness and nothing held
back. And he led her to the bed and laid her down and made the
sweetest, purest love, giving her everything so gently as she quietly
groaned and still the pain was in her face but now a different kind of
pain, and he loved her as he had never loved and would never love
again, touch-kissing her breasts and pouring out his soul. And as the
love consumed and soon would be incarnate he closed his eyes. He was
Sonya, and his lover lifted something that gleamed a little and seemed
so unnatural, and stabbed her throat.
And Sonya Semenov was dead, killed by a Russian assassin, in the year
1989.
*
Salnikov woke in a cold sweat, as his memory raced to put back the
pieces of history and dream. KGB. He shuddered, because he knew it
was true.
........................................................................
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