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CHAPTER 8 : A FAREWELL TO FANTASIES
Svetlana Nikitechna Kustenskaya(1) is sitting in her other Moscow apartment, in the neo-soviet Triumph Palace Skyscraper, on Chapayevsky Pereulok in north west Moscow. (2) When the building was opened in 2007, Anatoly and Sveta bought one of the apartments to give them more spacious, modern and quiet accommodation for friends, guests and business contacts than was possible in their old apartment on Tverskaya. The new apartment in the central tower has magnificent views. It is also more to Sveta’s taste!
Today, Neena is coming to discuss the training of the new slave, Vyera. Sveta is taking a very close interest because Vyera has been acquired so she can work for the Kustensky family and is not, for the moment at any rate, intended for sale.
Neena joined the personal staff of Gaspadeen Kustensky when she left the Army. Her new job is rather like her previous one: training new recruits. In Russia, all young adults undertake a period of military service. Some look forward to it, others do not, but they all have to accept their obligations and work through their training.
Neena is dealing with conscripts once again, so she is on familiar ground. However the conscripts she trains for Gaspadeen Kustensky have to face some additional and rather special challenges. They have to accept that their new lives will be quite different from the lives they once led and that there will be no return, ever. They have to accept a complete change of attitude to their superiors; they must willingly embrace the “technical” skills they will be taught and most of all, they must accept that they are now and will always be slaves.
When she emerges from her car, Neena is impressed! The building has been designed to echo the architecture of the “Seven Moscow Sisters”, the Russian baroque neo-gothic skyscrapers constructed by Stalin after the Second World War, the most famous of them being Moscow University.(3) All Moscow has heard about the Triumph Palace. It was the tallest building in Europe from 2005 to 2007, it is still amongst the three tallest buildings in the city and most of Moscow can see it, most all of the time!
Neena reports to the concierge and is taken up to the Kustensky apartment by another member of Anatoly’s security team.
“Neena Alexandrovna! Do come in!” Sveta is a warm and generous hostess and immediately puts Neena at her ease. “You have arrived in time for coffee. A good journey?”
“Yes, thank you so much Svetlana Nikitechna”
Neena Alexandrovna Kirova and Svetlana Nikitechna Naidenova, now Kustenskaya. Ah, how much history there is in a name! Neena, is the daughter Alexander Kirov and in everyday conversation in Russia, she is referred to as Neena Alexandrovna, her given name and her patronymic. From Sveta’s point of view, it underlines that Neena came from a real family.
But what of Sveta? Sveta, is a foundling, brought up an orphan and instantly recognisable as one from her name. Her maiden name, Naidenova is derived from the word for ‘abandoned’, her patronymic, Nikitechna was given to her by the director of the orphanarium where she was brought up and echoes the name of the Soviet Leader at the time, Nikita Kruschev. Her first name, Svetlana recalls the word for ‘light’, a reminder of the summer morning when a little baby girl was found abandoned in one of the Moscow parks. Thus, on every occasion before her marriage, when she had to give her full name, Sveta was reminded that neither her mother nor her father had really wanted her or had any interest in her. She was, for them, something which could be thrown away.
Is this why Sveta has encouraged Anatoly in his slave-trading adventures? Slaves cost. They are valuable possessions. They are too expensive to merely throw away – unlike a little baby girl, one summer’s evening, years ago …
Russia has for many years been a land of opportunities and Svetlana Nikitechna has done very well. She is intelligent, beautiful, energetic and has had the good fortune to meet, to fall in love with and to marry Anatoly, the handsome and capable son of the famous General Sergey Kustensky, Hero of the Soviet Union. Yet, even now, sitting in her apartment in the Triumph Palace she is still marked out as a foundling and feels oddly disadvantaged in the presence of a younger woman who was brought up by her real parents in a family home and has a proper name.
So tell me, Neena Alexandrovna. What progress?
“Svetlana Nikitechna, I have briefed Pyotr and Andrei and also our Domestic Team about Vyera, her back ground and the particular challenges she faces and I have begun the training syllabus and it has already been an interesting experience for both of us”
“You and the slave?”
“Exactly. This particular acquisition presents some new and unusual problems. These set her a little apart from some of the other girls I have trained.”
Sveta nods, listening carefully to Neena’s account.
“In common with other recruits,” she continues, in the rather stilted tone always expected of her when reporting in the military, “when she realises that she can no longer hide from the reality of her new circumstances she will be hit by a storm of emotions: anger, disbelief, horror, dismay, despair, fear, desperation, home-sickness and even psychological depression. As her trainer, I have to support her through this crisis until she accepts her new circumstances and of course, these symptoms do not arrive in a neat and tidy order.”
“Of course,” replies Sveta, happy to let Neena lay out the groundwork for her report. In any case, Sveta has a perfect understanding of what is involved.
Neena continues: “Vyera is unusual because she already has her own ideas about what it means to be a slave and so she will have to undergo some re-education I have to undo her misconceptions before I can help her into her new position. Some of our traditional training methods are likely to be counterproductive. We will have to be flexible.”
Sveta considers Neena’s words. She has examined the information Anatoly had collected on this new slave. According to the dossier, Vyera has enjoyed fantasies of submission for a long time. She has even put them into practice in some quite brave and unusual ways. There are things she finds exciting about slavery games. The sex, the bondage, the erotic corporal punishment, the submission; these are all things that have been a strong part of her sexuality. But there are the other things which she will not accept so easily; the menial, tedious work; the physical labour; others having amusement at her expense; being ignored and taken for granted; her body and mind exploited by her owners with no reward for her. She is going to find all of those difficult, as Neena makes clear. She continues, “In my opinion, the main challenge here is to make her understand that slavery is to be her vocation and when she undertakes her daily tasks her focus must always be on what is good for her owners and never on what is congenial to her, and that she must be generous and unstinting in her efforts.”
Neena leans forward to emphasise her words. “Vyera’s re-education and the work of moulding her must involve her first in acquiescence, then obedience then acceptance, then agreement and finally a full, willing and enthusiastic commitment to her new role in life. It will be a very rewarding project – for both of us! But as a first step, she has to let go of her fantasies.”
Sveta is impressed. “Thank you, Neena Alexandrovna Such an insightful report! I am sure the little rapina is in good hands. Unfortunately I cannot keep in daily contact with you – too much to do, I am afraid, - but I would like you to send me reports of … significant … milestones? Here: take this Dictaphone. It records electronically. It is more advanced than the one you have been using. You can make notes and email the audio file to me more easily. Can you do that?”
“Of course, Svetlana Nikitechna. I will be delighted to do that. I realise you have more experience in this field that I do and any advice you have or any insights you could share – well, I would be very grateful for them.”
As she leaves the building, Neena reflects on their exchange. It was a short but significant discussion, she feels. It’s quite clear to Neena that despite what Sveta says about being ‘too busy’ to keep in close touch, she is in fact going to take a very personal interest in rapina Vyera’s journey into slavery. That is understandable, as she will work for the Kustenskys themselves, but there seems to be something more. Neena can’t quite put her finger on it. Perhaps it was something in Sveta’s face as the spoke of the girl? She finds it curious …
Back in the apartment, Sveta gazes out over the city, towards the dacha and thinks about rapina Vyera. She glances through her copy of the Vyera dossier and looks again at the photographs found on Vyera’s computer in England: the photographs of a little girl … and the date of birth: 03 June 1985. Why, of all the days, did she have to be born then? A ghost from Sveta’s past has been disturbed once more but then, the ghost has never been far away.
From Neena Alexandrovna to Svetlana Nikitechna. Audio Diary: Tape No. 1
“I thought that we were making some progress over the past several days. Learning her new language. Learning to count in Russian, learning the new alphabet - she was starting to show that she could do as she was told. Today, it’s different. Today she’s decided to be difficult. This is not a problem for me; she will find that we can adapt to her moods. But it will end as a problem for her! However, you can’t reach the end of the journey without taking a few false steps …
I can tell that today is going to be a difficult day as soon as I enter her cell. The scowl she gives me tells me everything I needed to know.
“Vyerka, it’s time for you to come with me.”
She looks up. She says nothing. She is different from yesterday. I do not know what has happened over night but I sense her resistance, like a sledge which glides over snow but then binds on gravel.
“Come with me Vyerka,” I say once more and reach out for her arm. As I take it she swings her weight away from me.
“No!” she yells. “Nyet, if you’d rather.” She swings back and goes to hit me, fists clenched. My military training comes to my aid at once. I keep tight hold of her arm and swivel round presenting my back towards her and drop to my knees. Vyera keeps moving and gracefully rolls over my shoulder and sprawls full length, on her back, on the floor.(4) She’s winded by the impact. She must know I won’t stand for this type of behaviour. I reach behind my back and pull my taser from its holster, point and fire. The bolt of electricity courses through her body leaving her twitching and convulsing, her nervous system completely overwhelmed by the shock. I notice that she loses control of her bladder. A large puddle of urine spreads out beneath her.
Her actions are almost what I am expecting. Hanging on the wall outside her cell is everything I need for my response. I call out for Pyotr who is on duty today. He comes immediately with the straight jacket. We wrestle her twitching body into it, as she stares up at me barely comprehending what I am doing to her and completely unable able to resist. I wrap her arms across her and buckle the restraining straps behind her back. I secure her so she cannot be a danger to us or to herself. The twitching and tremors are beginning to subside but her eyes still stare at me madly.
She has to learn straight away that aggression of any sort will not be tolerated. On the same hook outside her cell hangs a leather hood. I fit it to her. No eye holes, a rubber plug fitted so it is forced into the mouth, a cut-out for the nostrils so she can breathe, and laces at the back to pull the soft leather tightly against her skin.
I strap her ankles together. The muscular spasms induced by the taser are subsiding. I leave her lying on the floor of her cell and shut the door without saying a word. She is an intelligent woman. She will have understood that this treatment is the direct consequence of her actions”
Sveta opens the computer file which contains to surveillance recordings and watches the incident unfold. Neena’s judo was excellent. Vyera was brought down so … aesthetically! She is pleased with the decisive way Neena dealt with Vyera’s belligerence. The tasers had been a good investment. It could bring a slave to their knees (at least) with very little collateral damage and deliver a salutatory lesson at the same time. The little rabinya had deserved everything she received.(5)
Neena Alexandrovna to Svetlana Nikitechna. Audio Diary: Tape No.2
“When I go to find her the next day, Vyera has been freed from her strait-jacket and hood but she looks no less resistant. She wasn’t fed yesterday and had only water from a bowl, left on the floor. That will have helped her to think about her situation. Yesukai, one of the Mongolian Domestic team we employ follows me into Vyera’s cell and puts down the metal bucket which contains her food; a hunk of bread in a small metal dish and a plastic cup of water. She stands when we enter her cell. She flickers her eyes over the bucket but then, taking control of herself, bows her head, evidently recalling some ritual that she was made to go through with her trainers at Inward Bound. Yesukai smiles broadly and also bows! It is clear that Vyera is not entirely sure whether Yesukai is returning her complement or merely making fun of her. Vyera herself is obviously entranced by the fantasy of submission – that is what drove her to Inward Bound – but there is still so much more she must learn to make the leap from fantasy to reality. I almost envy her the discoveries she has ahead of her. Almost.
“Go on,” I say, nodding to the food. She falls on it voraciously and devours it in only a few bites. She lifts her head, startled by her own greedy impatience, and takes a few deep breaths as though the food has suddenly placed some strain on her system. Then she turns to the water, sipping it slowly. I wait wordlessly while she drinks. Every so often she peers at me over the rim of her cup. I look directly back, engaging her with my eyes but saying nothing until she has finished.
“Come with me,” I tell her. This time she obeys wordlessly, a small step along the journey she must take and the next step is to confront her romantic notions of submission. I take her down to the kitchens. There’s quite a mess after last night’s meal.
“Vyerka: your task this morning, is to clean the kitchen. Wash the dishes and pans, clear away the food waste. When all is clean tidy, wash the floor. You’ll find scrubbing brush and buckets in the sluice room and you should fill and empty the buckets from the sluice there, not from any of the sinks or taps in the kitchen. You’ll have to get down on your knees. It will take some effort. These tiles need to gleam. We set the highest standards for cleanliness in the kitchens. I think there may even be a kneeling pad with the other equipment so there will be nothing to hinder you from excellent work. Our Domestic Team will watch over you. They are Batachikan (who is senior) and her colleagues, Damdinsuryn and Yesukai – who you have just met. There is also Ssisma and Arban. Arban is on home leave at present, but you will meet her soon. You are under their authority just as much as you are under mine. You will carry out any instructions they give you as if I had told you. You will find they can make their wishes perfectly clear to you and in practice, there will be no language barriers.
The prospect of menial work obviously troubles her! It triggers another belligerent response. “You can’t make me do this,” she shouts, her exasperated voice echoing off the tiled floor. “You can’t keep me here! Can’t keep me like this! Just who do you think you are?”
I don’t bother to react at first, because it is better to let her make her outburst. I wait quietly as her rage subsides in the face of my indifference. Eventually her anger seems to run out of energy. She stands facing me red faced, breathing shallowly, almost panting as if she has been running, the adrenalin coursing through her veins as a result of her protests. I sense that this is the moment she will either attack me or collapse. I know what will stop her ranting and reach behind my back for the tazer. She sees at once what I intend and backs down immediately, remembering the very unpleasant experience of yesterday.
“No, please,” she says, “I’ll be quiet. Show me what I have to do.”
“This is criminal behaviour, Vyerka. It’s just not acceptable. I have told you what you must do. You can remember what I asked, can’t you?”
She nods, knowing she has gained nothing by her outburst.
There are some things we must get clear, Vyerka. There was a time when you wore slavery like a costume. You took it off when you were tired of the game. You are now wearing slavery as your uniform. A uniform requires hard work, commitment and discipline. I will make sure you get plenty of all three, Vyerka. Do not underestimate me.
Then there is one thing more,” I reply. I have brought a leather muzzle. I hold it out for her. “You will wear this. Wear it while you work and remember that you should always keep harsh words in check.”
She looks at me wide eyed and tearful, sees my other hand holding the taser and takes the muzzle from me. She fits it to herself, fastening the buckles in turn to pull the straps tightly around her head. With her shaven scalp, it’s easier for her than other slaves who have received this particular treatment.
There is a thick rubber bar that fits across the mouth, she puts it in place and, thinking that she has finished, she turns to me. I unfasten the two small padlocks that hang from the muzzle’s collar. One I fit through the ring that closes the muzzle’s bit gag, the other I use to secure the muzzle itself. “There, Vyera, now you can think about the importance of controlling your tongue.” She is already drooling around the edge of the bit. She stands looking at me, spit dripping from the corner of her mouth and running down onto her chin. I wave her towards where I had told her the cleaning things are. She follows my direction and sets to work.
In the end, she does a good job. On this occasion she has worked hard, as instructed and achieved something useful. I tell her that I am pleased with her work; happy that she has made the effort to do things well. At this early stage in her training it is best not to criticise each tiny fault – that can come later. Rather, it is more important to praise her efforts when she complies. “Very good, Vyerochka I am impressed,” I say, using Verochka as a small reward and encouragement. “You can be free of your muzzle and there will be food tonight.”
I point to the floor and in reply she kneels so that I can unfasten the padlocks that imprison her in the leather muzzle. She glances up to me, uncertain what to do. I tell her that she has my permission to take the muzzle off. She does it, slowly, not taking her eyes off me as she unclasps each buckle in turn, staring at me with eyes framed by leather straps until she finally pulls the muzzle from her head. She holds it, waiting. I nod and she carefully holds it out towards me, for me to take from her. “Now we will go back to your cell, Vyerochka. You have more language work to do.”
She walks ahead of me, silently, calmly and perhaps a little more resigned to her new life”
Sveta closes the audio file and reflects on Neena’s clever contrast of costume and uniform.
Her summary of Vyera’s history and former inclinations with what will become her future position was masterly (so to speak); Sveta jots down a note to suggest that Neena might consider looking for an opportunity to returning to that theme as Vyera’s training unfolds.
Neena Alexandrovna to Svetlana Nikitechna. Audio Diary: Tape No. 3
“Vyera is compliant again when I go to see her the next day. She gets to her feet and bows her head once more. I haven’t asked for this but, if she thinks it is the right thing to do, it probably helps. Especially if it helps her to see herself in her new position.
I almost said ‘role’ there, but it’s not a role, not something she’s playing at. Not something she can put on and take off like an actress. Vyera is a slave. That’s what she has to understand. But how far has she really understood and accepted that and how can I help her to see the truth of the situation?
I tell her again how pleased I was with her work yesterday. “This is something you are skilled in Vyerochka. It is good to have a skill. There is much more of that work for you. You will be happy to be so useful to the domestics.”
Something in my words or tone provokes Vyera. She buries her head in her hands and issues a torrent of verbal abuse, swearing at me and about her new home. “I am not a bloody Housekeeper, like them,” she yells, waving at Batachikan from the permanent staff. “I am a university lecturer. I am doing research. This menial, domestic, housekeeping work,” she almost spits the words out, “this is what I would be doing if I had not worked and studied for my career. Can’t you damn well see that? Why should I do this? And why should I have to scrub the fucking floor? Anyone with half a brain should know there are better ways to get the floor clean – cleaner than scrubbing!”
I remain calm her but my quiet, calm, demeanour seems only to agitate her further.
“And you,” she snarls, “silent and smiling. Except that you’re not – you are a manipulative bully! Demanding your own way all the time. Thinking Vyerka will do as she is told.” She looks startled and throws her hands to her mouth. “Oh!” and then begins to punch herself on the side of her head in frustration and anger.
I am about to have her restrained again when she stops, either because she is really hurting herself or because this latest outburst has allowed her to burn off her anger and frustration.
Of course, she has realised that in her rage, she has referred herself by her slave name, not the adult’s version, not the little child’s version but the slave’s version! I find it hard to avoid a smirk of satisfaction but I know that would do no good at all. Instead I talk quietly and calmly. “It is a shame that you belittle these tasks. For such attitudes we had a revolution. There were many things wrong with the Bolsheviks but the dignity of labour was something they were right about.”
She looks at me astounded, hardly believing that the result of her outburst is to be engaged in political dialectic.
However, this presents another opportunity to mould her thinking. “Vyerka”, I begin, using once more the slave’s version of her name, the version she applied to herself. “Recently I pointed out that you now wore slavery as a uniform and not as a fancy dress costume. There is a deeper truth. You are a slave. In a previous life, you did not soil your hands with domestic work (as you might put it) but we have now stripped that cloak from you. You stand naked as you really are. Domestic work, any work we give you, is one hundred percent appropriate for you to do, because you are a slave and working on the instructions of their superiors is what slaves do. We have stripped you of all the ridiculous pretences you once had about yourself and you will never again be left in any doubt about your true status and your calling!”
Of course, that isn’t all that happens. Vyera has to learn that such rude behaviour results in sanctions. When we are dealing with an intelligent girl like Vyera, sanctions are best implemented without further explanation. The slave is then forced to reflect on what may have given rise to their punishment and how they should modify their behaviour in future. A slave will behave correctly when she has internalised the right attitudes and outlooks – and becomes her own task-mistress, as it were.
I have her muzzle. I thought I would need it and I was right. I shake my head making it clear that I am disappointed. I point to the floor. She drops to her knees. I push the bit gag between her lips. She doesn’t resist. She just looks at me with wide eyes that tell me she knows why I am doing this. I don’t even have to ask her to fasten it, she does it herself.
I call over the Batachikan, the Domestic who is in charge of the basement area today. “Take her bowl and jug,” I tell her, “since Vyerka thinks washing and cleaning is unimportant.”
Vyera’s face is a picture of dismay - she had not intended to imply that washing and cleaning were unimportant, only that they were not important for her - and then her eyes then settle on my belt and the taser I carry and I can see that she has learned a healthy respect for it: she does not want to risk me using it on her again. Today’s punishment, a second day in the muzzle, demonstrates how much she is in our power and underlines her complete dependence on us for the least little thing.
In the end she goes quietly with the Batachikan and Damdinsuryn. They take her, as I have asked, to the laundry. There is always plenty to do there. Unfortunately it is hot work as well. In the afternoon she helps to organise vegetables in the cool dark vegetable store and then to take some to the kitchen pantry. When she returns to the cell her body is streaked with the combination of her own sweat and dust from the provisions.
The Domestics tell me that she has done all the work required of her without complaint and there have been no more displays of defiance. I see her into her cell and take off her muzzle. She looks around. “Please,” she says, “can I have my washing things?” She pauses and then tries another tack. “Please, can Vyerka have her washing things?”
This is at once encouraging and disappointing. She is at least associating herself with her new status and identity, which is good. But she stills sees it as something outside herself; something to be used as a manipulative tool, which is not so good. I make no comment on her use of her name. “Perhaps,” I say, “and perhaps Vyerka is starting to see the value of the work she must do? I will see.”
Vyera obviously thought I would give in at once but I simply close the door to her cell and leave her. She looks distraught as I go. She sinks back onto her bed, running her hands up her arms, feeling the stickiness of the sweat and dirt.
The following day she is given more cleaning work. There is no resistance this time, according to the Domestics When she returns to her cell at the end of the day, she finds a jug and bowl waiting for her. I say nothing but, of course, she understands. She looks at them and then at me and says “Thank you, Gaspazha”. The relish with which she washes herself lets me know how much she has valued the privilege that she has just earned through her efforts.”
Several days later, Sveta has the opportunity to listen to Neena’s latest dispatch and Sveta is very pleased to see how Neena is weaving Vyera’s basic training around the opportunities which Vyera herself is providing, as she attempts to put up a token of resistance. But what is one soldier, however brave, against an army? It is clear to Sveta who is winning the war.
Neena Alexandrovna to Svetlana Nikitechna. Audio Diary no. 4
“Over the past few weeks, Vyera has been superficially cooperative but I began to notice that she was becoming more tense and “edgy” as the days passed and I had made myself ready for a further outburst of bad behaviour. Just as I expected, her superficially compliant behaviour turned out to be misleading …
This morning, Vyera stands in apparent submission when I go to find her. “Well Rapina Vyerka, I am pleased to see you prepared for duty once more. Are you ready for more work today?”
“I’m sorry,” Vyera responds with an assumed look of puzzlement, “were you talking to me? It’s just I didn’t hear my name. I think you must have me confused with someone else.”
This is ridiculous. She must know that she won’t get anywhere with this.
“You see, my name is McEwan, Mrs Jennifer McEwan, not, ‘Vyerka, Verochka or even Vyera’. And I think you said ‘Rapina’. I think that means ‘slave’. That can’t be right. I am sorry.”
I watch her carefully, not reacting.
“I’m sure I can help out though. Let me do the jobs which have to be done. Until you find this ‘Vyerka’ whoever she is.”
So that’s her game. She’ll do as she is told but only if she can be who she wants to be. Well, it’s different. Unacceptable of course, but different.
I find myself becoming a little tired by all this. I know that in the long term this determined, gentle implacable approach will achieve the best results but her sullen resistance just makes me want to reach for a whip. I don’t let my irritation show. She will feel the whip in due course but at the moment, the only thing that will have a lasting effect work is the slow, relentless erosion of her resistance and this is simply the next step.
“There may have been a Jennifer McEwan, once,” I say, “but she was quite different from you. I am sorry if you are confused but I think I can help.”
I beckon to Yesukai and Ssisma. They are quite strong, surprisingly so for their slight stature, and completely implacable. Ssisma takes hold of Vyera while Yesukai goes to the equipment room and returns with handcuffs, the transport belt and a hobble for Vyera’s legs. Vyera struggles against Yesukai, surprised at the ease with she is held helpless while first her wrists and then her arms are restrained and then finally she is gagged. I do not want to be wearied by the screams which I am sure will start soon. A thick broad leather collar is locked around her neck (perhaps it is time she was collared permanently?) and a lead rein is attached to the cleaning cart so that she has no choice but to follow them as they take their cart and leave.
When I see her later in the day she is still helplessly bound on her bed. Her nose ring has been put back in place and she has been tethered by it to ring set in the wall with a length of chain so short that her face is only a few centimetres away from it. There are the marks of new tattoos on the back of her neck, at the bottom of her back, on her left breast, across her mons and just below her right ankle. Neat, precise, clear. They all say the same thing. They all give her slave number and her number on our asset register
I make a great show of checking each of the numbers in turn, running a finger over the cling film which protects them, along the still raw marks of the tattoos. (6) “That’s right,” I say, “good; 836-906-368. You must be Vyerka. I was sure that you were. Is everything all right now? Also, your shiny nose and nipple rings are not appropriate for a slave so that is why they have been replaced by dark grey rings. Perhaps one day you might earn the silver rings back again but you will have to work very hard for to earn that privilege.
Her whimpered reply is muffled by the gag that she is still wearing but it is sufficient for me. I think she is beginning to accept that each time she confronts us, her resistance is overturned.
I unfasten the chain linking her nose ring to the wall and help her up. “There,” I say. “I hope you are rested, rapina Vyerka?”
She nods, slowly, resignedly.
“Good. It is good for you to rest when you are not working. That way you are ready for all that is asked of you. Aren’t you?”
Another nod, but her eyes are filled with tears.
“You are to help with the cleaning in the kitchens again today.”
She nods, as Ssisma appears. She takes the chain from Vyera’s nose ring and leads her away; Ssisma neat in her dark grey Domestic’s uniform, Vyera naked with nothing but her tattoos. It is quite clear which is the servant and which is the slave. I can’t imagine how Vyera was confused.
When she opens Neena’s email, Sveta laughs out loud. First at Vyera’s creativity. This girl might still have her sense of humour intact and second, at the delicious way Neena had provided the girl with such an appropriate punishment. Vyera refuses to acknowledge that she is Vyera, rapina and she ends the day marked with a slave number anyone can see from any angle. What a delicious irony!
Neena Alexandrova to Svetlana Nikitechna. Audio Tape: No 5.
My hopes that Vyera had finally understood that she is here for the convenience of her owners, not other way about have been frustrated again. When I went to see her this evening in her cell, Arban from the Domestic Team was with her and insisted on talking to me. She showed me the corridors and entrance hall where Vyera had been put to work today. She had done a good job; an excellent job, in fact. At first I was pleased. Then she showed me something else and now I am not so pleased.
“Vyerka!”
She looks up at me. Normally I would have been pleased by this confirmation of her acceptance of her identity but, in the circumstances, this isn’t anything approaching enough to placate me.
“Vyerka, you have not eaten. You have taken no water. This is not how a slave looks after her owner’s property.”
She looks at me but there is an air of desperation in the way she looks and in the way speaks, as if she realizes that day by day, she is losing her battle against us and now her last supplies of ammunition are running out. “I couldn’t find a meal for Mrs McEwan,” she says, stubbornly. “There was only food for some slave girl; this Vyerka you are looking for. I can’t eat her food that wouldn’t be fair. I must have my own food.”
I sigh. She is going to be very sorry that she hit on this idea, as a way of demonstrating her continued failure to accept her position. However, I remember an earlier outburst when she began to punch herself on the side of her head, to relieve her anger and frustration: another example of deliberate self harm and I will make sure all those who come into contact with her look out for any repetition. It may be that some treatment with anti-psychotic drugs might help her through this phase?
It’s an hour later when I come back to see her after our nurse has finished. Vyera has been put back in her straight jacket and strapped down on the couch in her cell. From where she lays, she can see her evening meal (which has been liquidised and thinned down with milk so that it can flow easily through the naso-gastric tube) passing into her body and there is nothing she can do to prevent it. The tube runs up her nose, down through her throat, into her oesophagus and down into her stomach. The nurse has taken great care to ensure that it was properly inserted and now Vyera can be fed and watered without any cooperation on her part. The nurse is still present when I arrive, to make sure Vyera does not vomit as she is fed.
I crouch down beside her head. Her breath is rasping through her mouth, the discomfort of the tube in her throat evident in every rise and fall of her chest. “Listen to me, Vyerka,” I say. “There was no meal for McEwan because there is no McEwan. There is only Vyerka and Vyerka must eat and drink and keep well for her owners. Because she property. She is their property and Vyerka is expected to take great care of other people’s property.”
The helpless girl on the couch makes a mewling sound. It is not angry, it sounds defeated. She can stay on the drip for tonight. She will work again tomorrow and then, if she takes food and drink, the worst of this might be is over for her.”
Sveta, through the medium of Neena’s audio diary and the surveillance tapes, has enjoyed the battle between Vyera and Neena except for this last encounter, which rubs at some old wounds. The “medical” nature of the punishment. The presence of the nurse. All very necessary but all very disquieting for Sveta. She gets a grip of herself and reflects on Neena’s suggestions about anti-depressants. Yes: that could be helpful. She will take advice. Sveta takes up her mobile and then checks the time. Ah, a bit late to find him in his office and as a ‘conservative’ he does not carry a mobile. The problem will have to wait until tomorrow. But to make sure she does not forget and perhaps also to ease her own disquiet, Sveta leaves herself a note in her diary, and another on her phone, and another, handwritten by her bed.
Yet despite the notes, she spends a fitful night anxiously reflecting on the naked, lonely, frightened girl who was once someone’s wife, once a parent’s child, reduced to punching herself in the head and starving herself, because of what had been done to her by Anatoly and Neena and Sveta herself.
SOME LESSONS FROM HISTORY
Neena Alexandrovna to Svetlana Nikitechna. Audio Tape: No. 6
The weeks have passed into months and slowly, slowly Vyera is adapting to her role as our slave. She accepts the menial tasks given her and works hard at them. Her grasp of Russian continues to improve and almost all the domestic tasks she needs to receive instructions about can be given to her in Russian. Also, commands to send her to various parts of the Dacha and commands to tell her where to go – turn right, turn left, straight on – all these are now in Russian. I think she also understands that whenever she confronts us, she will be defeated and that with her defeat comes inevitable punishment: I recently noticed her gazing at the slave number on her breast. She will never forget how she brought that indignity upon herself. And yet, a slave should be proud of who she is. Slavery is not something suitable for everyone. I wonder how long it will take before Vyera feels proud to be an owned slave, proud to be our property and proud of her numbers – all five of them?
Vyera’s personality – I suppose I really mean her psychological make-up – continue to provide interesting surprises. We are forcing her to accept that she is no longer a free individual: she is a slave. We are subducting her previous view of herself beneath the new reality we have imposed and are constructing a new psychological landscape in her mind. Subduction produces earthquakes and volcanic eruptions and from time to time the psychological tensions inside Vyera do similar things!
Today when I opened her cell door, it was apparently time for an eruption of emotion.
There were no little bows, no ‘Good morning Gaspazha’ instead she began to demand a justification for her abduction and enslavement.
“Can you tell me what authority you have to do this to me?”
“Pardon? Slaves do not speak to their Supervisor I that way, Vyerka. What are you thinking of?”
“I am trying to be perfectly reasonable, but this is not the days of the Roman Empire or the Southern United States. Slavery is illegal. Kidnapping is illegal. In every civilized country, anyone would tell you. You just cannot keep me here any longer!”
Vyera’s voice is steadily rising in pitch as she delivers her little speech and the longer she speaks, the more desperate and diffident she looks. She keeps glancing at the floor to avoid my gaze.
I sigh and place my hands on my hips, the fingers of my right hand touching the taser on my equipment belt. Vyera notices at once. I notice that she notices! But, all credit to her, the presses on with her thoughts and the emotional lava oozes out of her …
“There are organizations against slavery. Governments hold countries to account for their human rights record. Consumers are demanding that international companies uphold basic labour standards … What about the United Nations?”
‘Well what about the United Nations?’ I think. I slide my hand backwards until the taser is more obviously in my grasp and yet she still continues, faltering but she does her best to conclude her argument …
“I mean just because you can does not mean you should. Look, can’t you just let me go?”
“Vyerka! For goodness sake. You must have learned something since you were acquired?
You are a slave. It is the person you are. Slaves have to be in slavery. It’s not good for them to be any other way.”
“But I am not …”
“But you are.”
“But”
“Kneel. There in front of me, like a good slave should!”
“But I am not …”
“Kneel Vyerka! This is your very last opportunity!”
She notices how my grip on the taser has tightened and she kneels and plaintively looks up at me.
“Vyerka, you know whats wrong here? It is your view of history. You were brought from the West and I know that in the West, the Individual is king, so to speak. Even a powerful country like the United States has power divided up amongst the individual States and within each one, Authority is further divided between Cities and Towns and Counties until finally you reach an individual in his homestead. You do not have to organise the world like that. Think instead about Ruric the Viking, the first Tsar of all the Russias. Invited by the Slavic tribes to rule over them and bring peace and order. In this country, which is now your country we prefer that the world has strong, clear, central organization. Every adult understands that their own interests come second to the interests of the State because of that. Also, their individual interests come second to the men and women who run the State. Your owner is a great and powerful man. He controls to destiny of thousands of people around the world. He creates prosperity and helps to bring order. He has given you a tremendous privilege. He has taken you to work for him. But not just to work, but to give yourself completely to him. To be his slave.”
Vyera has bowed her head in the face of this more positive view of her situation. She is silent at last. The ‘eruption’ is over.
“Here is what I will do, Vyerka. Today, you will get on with your duties and tonight I will flog you for wasting time and forgetting what you have been taught. Revision is the mother of learning, as they say and it seems to me that you need to reflect more positively on your good fortune.”
I am as good as my word, of course. That evening, after she has been fed, I return to her cell and make her lean against the cell wall, legs apart. Andrei stands with me, to discourage any resistance on Vyera’s part. I take a flogger and carefully play the strands across her skin. I want to leave her hot and itchy, with a more severe bruise here and there but I want the punishment to be well within what she can cope with, to give a positive reinforcement to my words and to remove the opportunity for Vyera to indulge in self pity as she might if I had been brutal. But I want her to remember she has been flogged for her impertinence earlier in the day.
She stands. I flog her. I start across her shoulders, then her back, then her spine, then her buttocks, then between her legs, occasionally directing the spray of thongs up across her vulva.
I keep the flogging going for many minutes and bring events to a conclusion as she starts to pant and mewl. Finally I go to her, place my hand carefully on her shoulder as reassurance and kiss her gently.
“There: little rabinya! You took your punishment very well. I am proud of you. So lucky to have Owners who care for you so tenderly.”
In the evening, Sveta listens carefully to Neena’s resume and enjoys watching her flog the slave. She agrees with Neena. If that was the best Vyera could do, to be defiant and obstinate, then she was losing the battle for her soul on every front. However, Neena should make a another - perhaps definitive - assault on Vyera’s idea of who she is, to prize from her grasp once and for all, the concept of Jennifer McEwan and everything she stands for …
The girl, Neena, comes for me again.
The door of the cell opens and there she stands. I look up. She looks back at me, calmly. She points to her feet. I know what she wants. I know why she’s doing it. She wants me to get used to doing as I’m told, acclimatised to obeying orders. It’s the same pattern they followed at Inward Bound, but this is different: this is real.
There is no point in making things more difficult than they are already going to be. I get up and kneel by her boots. She taps my shoulder with the crop she always seems to carry. I get down on all fours. She turns and taps the back of the heel of her boots as she starts to walk away. I crawl down the corridor after her.
We enter the next room.
It’s just like the cell they keep me in, except for the heavy wooden table and two chairs. This is where they interrogated me. The room where Neena let me leave to go out into the winter cold. Bitch!
She points to one of the two chairs and I sit. She sits. She lays the crop down. It’s pointing at me as if it’s accusing me of something that I’ve done or I’m going to do.
On the table are several carefully separated piles of paper. They look like they are photographs but they are all face down.
There is a paper shredder. Its power cable snakes across the floor to a wall socket.
I’m uncomfortable and a little afraid as I am when anything new happens to me here. I’m tired and I’m hungry. That seems just to make me feel resigned to whatever they are going to do.
The girl picks up one of the pieces of paper and turns to it over, pushing it towards me.
It is a photograph. It shows a cathedral, a view from across fields. It’s Ely. Where I used to live. When I was a little girl. A carefree, happy little girl. How did she - they - know where I came from? What is all this going to be about? I feel more scared than before, as though the closer they get to the rest of my world the more dangerous it is for me.(7)
She can see my discomfort, my fear. She nods and takes the picture back. She feeds in into the shredder. What is the point of this, I wonder? Do they think they can just rub out my past by shredding pictures. It makes no sense.
She shows me another picture. It’s the river, the Great Ouse. She takes it away. It’s shredded.
Another picture - my old home. I lean forward to take it from her but she pulls it back and away from me. It’s shredded like the others.
Another picture - now it’s my parents walking together. It’s a recent shot. Neena looks directly at me, sees the shock in my face, smiles - and shreds the picture.
She starts on another pile: This time it’s the University. There’s our department, my colleagues, Angela, me walking from the library with my briefcase. She shreds them. Every one. One after another after another. Neena pauses only long enough to make sure I have seen each and every one. It’s relentless; one, then another, then another.
There’s the next pile. It’s our street. My home. Me leaving for work. All shredded. All gone.
Then the pile of pictures. She picks up the first picture. It’s a picture of me and Joe. She pauses. Our eyes meet. Mine are full of tears now. Hers show no compassion, no concern at all. Carefully, slowly Neena turns the picture round and feeds it into the machine. She takes another. This time it’s Joe and me going for lunch on that last day in London. Shredded. Then it’s Joe and me embracing in Fitzroy Square. She hands me the picture. I stare at it. I hold it tight. I hold it against me. The girl picks up the crop. She motions me to stand. I stand She taps the shredder I begin to shake my head and quick as a flash she has struck me on the side of my face. The blow takes my breath away and I fall backwards. Neena rises and walks slowly round to tower over me, as I lay on the floor. She motions me to stand. I crawl backwards away from her. She raises the crop again and slashes me across my thigh. The pain just burns and stings. White. Cutting. All the worse for her sudden strike.
She bends down and drags me to my feet. The she grabs my nose ring and pulls me back to the table. She grasps my hand. The hand holding the picture. I can’t stop her. She is so strong. She pulls and twists my wrist until the picture is caught by the shredder and is drawn in to be destroyed.
There is one last picture.
I’m shaking with tears. She lifts it to my face. It’s a close up of Joe. He smiles at me. She puts it into my shaking hand and then grabs my wrist. She twists my wrist over and I watch myself feeding Joe’s face into the shredder. It chatters and whines and in a second he is reduced to a jumble of paper strips and the last part of him is pulled from my hand by the machine.
There is now just one last little pile of papers with three items.
She holds up the first one. It’s our marriage certificate. She shreds it.
She holds up the second one. It’s a passport. My passport. She opens it to show me my photograph so there is no doubt in my mind. Calmly she feeds it into the machine. Just for a moment, the passport resists its destruction. The whirr of the machine slows. It is forced to grind more slowly but it is in exorable and in a few seconds more, the passport is gone.
There is now just one last piece left. She holds it for me to see.
It is my birth certificate. The official record of me.
“ Girl. Born 03 June 1985. Father: Andrew George Palmer, Soldier. Mother Inga Karin Palmer, University Lecturer.”
The girl Neena takes the certificate and shreds it, leaving my official record as little pale yellow strips of paper indistinguishable amongst all the others in the bin beneath the shredder.
Then there’s nothing left.
Just Neena and me.
I’m back in my cell now. She brought me back here, put me in and locked the door; left me alone. The whole time she never said a word to me. She did not need to. Her actions were crystal clear.
I know what I’m supposed to understand from today. It does not need words. It’s perfectly clear. There is no going back. I start to panic. All that I was, is now gone. I’m no longer a daughter, someone who came from somewhere, someone with friends and a job. Someone who had a husband who loved me. It’s all gone. I’m all alone. With them. Never going home again. Always to be a slave. Never to escape. Never, never, never. I have nothing. I am nothing. I am merely property. There remains only what they want me to do and what they will do to me. Only Vyerka, slave, 836-906-368.
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FOOTNOTES
(1) Sveta’s full name. Kustenskaya, is the female form of Kustensky
(2) The Triumph Palace Building can be found at “The Skyscrapers Page”
(3) The Seven Moscow Sisters have a good explanation on Wikipedia.
(4) Of course Neena has learned her judo by studying a master> You can buy Vladimir Putins judo video on-line. You just could not make this stuff up, as they say!!!!
(5) Tasers. Again. More detail on Wikipedia. Apparently, there used to be a taser for personal protection made in pink, for girls!
(6) Cling film is used nowadays to protect a new tattoo for the first few hours after it has been drawn.
(7) Ely Cathedral from across the fens is a wonderful sight. Try “Been There Done That” for a picture.
© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg 2011
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