A Sadist and a Saint?

My WIP Veiled in Storms keeps rolling on.
I am writing what I have found the most difficult sections of the story at the moment.

In a plot development truly the brainchild of my Inner Sadist one of my main characters is arrested and sent to Siberia. To be more precise she is sentenced to 25 years in Stalin’s GULAG system. Some of you may know something of the GULAGs as reams have been written about them, most famously Aleksandr Isayevich Solzhenitsyn’s books The Gulag Archipelago and One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, essentially they were a forced labour camps of the Soviet Union.

The majority of people sent to the GULAGs were there on trumped up charges. Some were never charged but were sentenced because of the “actions” of friends or relatives. Depending on when a person was arrested and where a person was sent in the system things varied from very hard to being worked and starved to death.

The problem for me as an author (even one who consults an inner sadist) is experiences in the system were quite simply terrible. Entry into the system typically involved interrogation by the NKVD. The NKVD routinely used torture, both psychological and physical. As if that wasn’t bad enough, women (my character is female) were frequently raped as part of the process of breaking them.

Once in the camps there is also plenty of options for my Inner Sadist to throw at my poor character. Work details, starvation, violence of all kinds from prisoners and guards. According to Solzhenitsyn the worst curse possible was to be not only a woman but an attractive woman in the camps. My poor character ticks both boxes.

So somehow I have to explore surviving the impossible with my character. I have had experience with writing difficult material, a component of my first book Veiled in Shadows is the Holocaust. I don’t pull too many punches in that book, but I think I managed to find a balance between telling a harrowing story and keeping it light enough to read. As a by the by I think my reviewers agree with me.

You can find reviews here:
(Kathleen Jones' Review - Reviews on Amazon - Reviews on Book Depository).

So the trick is to tell a story that is realistic (even dismally so) but to find a way to balance the hard with the not quite so bad.

I guess that is where my Inner Saint comes into play. To avoid giving too much of my plot away I’ll quote from Anne Applebaum’s book Gulag: A History. “Certainly many women survivors are convinced there were great advantages to being female within the camp system. Women were better at taking care of themselves…better able to subsist on low amounts of food... They formed powerful friendships and helped each other in ways that male prisoners did not.”

So my Inner Sadist might throw the intolerable at my poor character. At the same time my Inner Saint will throw some lifelines. How many she catches along the way… well you will have to wait and see.

Oh by the way - my Inner Saint wants me to tell any concerned readers of Valentina’s extracts that the character who goes to GULAG is not her. Do you believe me?

Fitzroy Gardens and Valentina

Yesterday started grey and gloomy but the afternoon showed promise of being sunny. So Deb and I packed ourselves a picnic lunch and headed to Fitzroy Gardens in the heart of Melbourne. We were starving by the time we arrived so we parked ourselves in this classically inspired pavilion to picnic. I snapped this avenue of elms from my seat. Autumn has yet to really bite and most have not yet begun to turn.Looking into the park you would forget you’re in the middle of Melbourne.

Down between the tree trunks we could see another classical folly.After eating we went for a stroll along a profusion of tree lined paths.If you lift your head you get a reminder of the city that surrounds you.Near the bottom of the garden is “Captain Cook’s Cottage” The cottage was constructed in 1755 in the English village of Great Ayton, North Yorkshire, by the parents of Captain James Cook. Cook had been in the Merchant Navy for years by that point and joined the Royal Navy that year, but almost certainly he visited his parents at the house.
The cottage was brought to Melbourne and rebuilt in the 1930s in a fit of Oz (and Empire) patriotism.
I find it very odd. Cook never got nearer to Melbourne than Tasmania and he died 56 years before Melbourne was settled.
Ah well it gives the tourists from overseas something to be photographed in front of.

I thought this cottage built in 1866 and used as the head gardener’s residence until 1990 is much more interesting. By the way the banana trees in this piccie indicate that Melbourne is not so very far from the tropics. Remind me of that when I am grumbling about the cold this winter.

Just in case you don’t believe in fairies, quite a number live in Melbourne.

Heading back up the hill we came on a familiar sight. We’d finished our circuit of the park.

Now to an extract of my WIP for the week.
Last week Valentina caught up with Stepan an old and dear friend. This week Penelope is back on the scene…


Valentina Meshcova
Berlin 1948
By the weekend I was feeling well enough to give in to Natasha's pestering and take her to the lake. It was not really warm enough, but I relented because autumn was around the corner and that would mean months mostly confined inside.

I also needed to get out. I didn't know what I would do after my personal disaster with Ronnie. But whatever lay ahead I was not going to be despondent. If grief was what faced me I would cry for a time and then heal. Natasha showed me again and again that what matters is enjoying the moment, not dwelling on what might have been.

In that spirit I promised myself I would enjoy the day. So, I sat on the sand and watched Natasha frolic at the water’s edge.

'Hello.'
My insides turned over, 'I was not expecting you.'
Penelope knealt down on the sand beside me, 'I wanted to apologise for my part in the cock up last week.'
My resolution of moments before vanished, 'Apologise? What a bourgeois notion. Do you think a few words will mend my opinion of you?'
She flushed red, she looked even more like Ronnie when she was angry. 'I don't know. Before you were frightened I thought a great deal of you. Enough to continue taking this risk. Enough to make debasing myself seem worthwhile. Now I don't know!'
'Before?'
'Before you got frightened. But frightened of what?'
'The NKVD...'
'NKVD, NKVD I have heard enough of that. With Ronnie you could have had a future away from that. For that matter even without Ronnie. You can walk away. Walk straight into the American or British sector and you would be welcomed as a defector.'
'I am Russian...'
'Yes you are Russian. But the tyrant who drives all the terror is not. And you can't believe that he is a Communist with the people at heart. Walk away, there is nothing stopping you. No wall imprisoning you except in your head!'
'What would I do over there?'
'That is fear speaking. You would do anything you chose to do. And what of Natasha?'
'Natasha?'
'Do you want her to grow up in a society where she has to watch what she says, what she thinks? A place where she is always looking over her shoulder?'
'You are trying to manipulate me.'
She laughed, a harsh sound with no hint of humour. 'Yes I am. In spite of everything I think of you as my friend. I give more than a fig for what happens to you. And there is Ronnie.'
'What about Ronnie?'
Her anger faded away, spent, gone.

A sigh from deep within her, and a single tear trickled down her cheek. 'I grieve everyday for my husband. His name was Danny, did I ever tell you that?’
‘No.’
‘For six years I have grieved, never whole, never serene.’
She scooped a handful of sand and let it trickle through her fingers. I watched it fall through a mist of tears. ‘Ronnie has grieved for you. For years now. What ever happens I will always carry my loss. My darling boy lies in a grave, he will never come back to me.’
Her grey eyes transfixed me, ‘I can't bear to think of Ronnie going through what I have any longer. The only thing that prevents his happiness, and yours for that matter, is your fear.'

I could not entirely hide my tears from Natasha as we packed our beach things. 'What's wrong Valentina?'
'Nothing.'
'Why are you crying?'
'Penelope said something that reminded me about someone I lost in the war.'
‘Penelope?’
‘She was here, she’s gone.’
Natasha wrapped her wet little body around me and patted my shoulder, 'It's alright, I'll look after you.'

I took her hand, as we left the beach 'You know I think we might have some bratwurst at home, just for a certain person.'
'Yummy!'

As we walked home I tried very hard to recapture the hint of optimism I had felt only a few hours before. The cold grey streets of Berlin did not help.
A city block from our apartment with racing motors two big black cars pulled up beside us.
Two uniformed men jumped out of the front car and blocked our path. 'Hello Tina.'
I spun to face the voice, Stepan was not smiling this time.

Rambles, The Moon in June, (er March) and more WIP.

Last night was a full moon and the first ‘super moon’ in 18 years.

Alas I missed its rise, but I caught it a few minutes later.
I’ve never had much luck photographing the moon before, but I decided to have a go again anyway.

This is the result of my efforts. Not brilliant but my best effort so far, and given the limits of my current camera as good as I can expect.

Speaking of cameras I have actually put a new Canon 60D SLR on lay-by. Normally, a camera like that retails down this way for about AUD$2,400 (including a basic lens).
But the Aussie dollar has been recently equal or slightly better than the US$. This means they are currently retailing for $1,600. A saving I couldn’t miss.
I can’t afford to shell out $1,600 at the moment but lay-by means I can lock the good price in.
I’m going Canon by the way because I like them and my current lenses are compatible.

I’ll go from an 8 megapixel to a 18 megapixel in one jump. And a far more capable camera all round.

I can’t wait!

Today was something of an ordeal. Poor E our eldest woke us in the early hours with terrible tooth ache.
To start, it was just a matter of giving her pain killers and waiting til morning.

Come this morning it was finding a dentist who could/would do something on a Sunday. Deb and I had to take her into the city and then there was a lot of waiting around until the poor dear could be seen. Once she finally got in there was another hour wait.

Unfortunately, the tooth and surrounding area was so inflamed that they couldn’t do anything today. So she has been prescribed heavy duty pain killers, anti-inflammatories and anti-biotics. She has to go back about Wednesday.

The only silver lining was I took my computer and managed to get a little work done on my WIP.

Speaking of my WIP here is another extract. This, unlike the others isn’t quite a first draft. I have struggled with getting this scene something like the way I want it. Bear in mind it is still far from an edited final piece.

To place it in context, in Berlin by 1948 almost no rebuilding had happened. As it was to remain until 1990 Berlin was an occupied city. It was different to later though, the Berlin Wall that forms so much a part of 20th century history was still thirteen years in the future.

The NKVD was the Soviet security service/secret police. It was the forerunner to the KGB. Valentina’s fears are very real, having any more than casual contact with foreigners could literally be deadly to Russians during Stalin’s rule.

For those of you have been following Valentina here is the next episode of her adventures.
Last time she came off second best…



Valentina Meshcova
Berlin 1948
Penelope’s voice screaming as if from far away, ‘Fred enough!’
His weight came off me, I was sure he would kick me as he stood up. I needed to roll aside, had to move, but I simply couldn’t.
I was certain I was lying on the hard floor, but the room was spinning, tilting. I spiralled into blackness.

A cool hand on my cheek. Something to fix on, to hold, an anchor to slow the spinning. Penelope kneeling by my side.
‘Valentina?’
Her voice urgent, frightened, ‘You’ve hurt her! Fred help me!’

Blackness

Where am I? A terrible feeling of uncertainty.
I sit propped in a corner of an old couch. A long narrow room that looks like a cross between an office and a canteen. It's all old and scruffy, the furniture falling to pieces like so much of Berlin. Maybe it was the room behind the garage? But how had I got there?

Penelope, on her knees peering into my face. ‘Valentina? Can you hear me?’
Her expression one of such anxiety seemingly so concerned that I would almost have believed her lies again.
‘I can hear.’ I wanted to spit in her face, but all the fight had been driven out of me.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was you who was following, or I wouldn’t have run.’
‘You are a dirty liar.’
No response, how does a person respond to raw hatred?

I couldn’t see properly, the room blurred, swam before my eyes. I focused on my anger, something constant. ‘Everything about you is a lie. You told me you were German, pretended to be my friend.’
She held my gaze, 'I am your friend, if you just trust me for a moment.'
‘You must let me go.’
‘Go then,’ frustration in her voice, ‘you’re not a prisoner.’
I lurched to my feet, a single step and I was toppling. My balance was hopeless.

Concussed, I must be concussed.

If Penelope hadn’t caught me I would have fallen. ‘Sit down, you’re in no fit state…’
‘I have to go.’ But in spite of myself I was lowered back into the couch.
‘There’s no rush. We'll get you a doctor.’
‘No! I can’t stay, can’t talk to you. I know what you are, you are death to me.’
Spinning, falling, black.

‘What happened?’
A voice in the dark, Ronnie it was Ronnie. Joy and grief.
I lie still. Penelope answering, ‘She followed me. I didn’t handle it well.’
‘But why this?’
‘She was wild, she had a gun. I was sure for a moment she was going to shoot me.’’
‘So Fred bashed her?’
‘He was protecting me, you shouldn't be hard on him.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘I’ve sent him to find a doctor.’
‘That’s something at least.’
A warm hand on my cheek. ‘Val can you hear me?’
‘Val? Please God, Val can you hear?’
I didn’t want to open my eyes. What would I see? Love? Or the rage I saw when we met at the airport?

With an effort I came back into the room. Two faces: Penelope worried, almost frightened sick; and Ronnie, my Ronnie.

How stupid I had been. How had I not seen straight away? They were peas in a pod.
‘She's your sister.’
She gave me a warm friendly smile, as if she was still my friend. ‘You’re a duffer, too clever for your own good, but not clever enough to work it out.’
Tears from him, he stroked my wounded cheek, 'Oh Val, what have you been through?'
'I'll leave this to the two of you.' Penelope withdrew to the far end of the room. Incongruously she busied herself with the domestic task of filling a kettle and setting it on a kerosene burner .

Ronnie stayed by my side stroking my cheek then my hair.
I swallowed my own tears, I couldn't force more than a whisper, 'Why are you doing this to me?'
'I'm sorry, it wasn't meant to happen like this.'
'You must hate me so much.'
'Why would you say that?'
'The airport and these games you play. You will bring the NKVD to my door.'
'I'm not playing games. The NKVD is why I've had Pen watching you. I needed to make sure you were safe before I tried to contact you.'
'What for, why do you do this?'
He sat open mouthed, as if he was struggling to understand. ‘I love you.’
‘Then leave me alone. Let me be.’

Silence for a moment. He sighed with exasperation. 'I came back you know, to your little bombed out house in Murmansk.'
Choking on tears I forced out the words. 'I waited for you, the NKVD...'
'The NKVD came for you, I know. They picked me up when I came back. A man... he was your friend?'
'Stepan.'
'That's the one Stepan. He warned me off.'
'Stepan saved me, him and Svetlana's father... but he is dead now, he cannot help me now. When they come for me next time I cannot say “My boyfriend is an ally”. You are the enemy now.'
'I’m not your enemy.'
'That is not how it is. If you are not Russian, you are enemy.'
'Oh tosh. I love you, I lost you once, I'm not going to let you go again.'
'You have to forget me. You must stop with this foolishness. Do you want me dead?'
'Of course not, I love you.’
‘You love me.’
‘Yes damn it! I want to take you home to England. Like I said years ago, I want to marry you.'
'You...'
'I want to marry you.'

I had dreamt so many times of a moment like this. With him, with Ronnie. But, I felt none of the elation I had imagined.
I was tired and sick, empty, ‘I’m not the sweet girl that you enchanted with stories of Paris and London.’
Apprehension on his face ‘What do you mean?’
‘I was a child then, a romantic child. I have seen so much blood, so much death. I am a broken thing.’
He was quiet for a moment, a muscle twitched in his cheek, ‘Perhaps we are all a bit broken…’
‘I can’t run away with you Ronnie. I spend my time running an orphanage, what would those children do without me?’
‘They would be looked after.’
Penelope piped up, ‘Natasha could come with you. No one would expect you to abandon your little darling.’
I ignored her. ‘And what about me? What would I do? I cannot just sit, just be a hausfrau. I would go mad.’
‘You should do whatever you wish.’
‘No Ronnie, it was a dream a lovely dream, but it’s impossible. I am awake now.’