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.