by Ken Follett
The war with Germany was over, but the Soviet Union was still battered and impoverished, and a lavish celebration would have been frowned upon. Zoya had a new dress, but Volodya wore his uniform. However, there was plenty to eat, and the vodka flowed freely.
Volodya’s nephew and niece were there, the twin children of his sister, Anya, and her unpleasant husband, Ilya Dvorkin. They were not yet six years old. Dimka, the dark-haired boy, sat quietly reading a book, while blue-eyed Tania was running around the room crashing into tables and annoying the guests, in a reversal of the expected behaviour of boys and girls.
Zoya looked so desirable in pink that Volodya would have liked to leave right away and take her to bed. That was out of the question, of course. His father’s circle of friends included some of the most senior generals and politicians in the country, and many of them had come to toast the happy couple. Grigori was hinting that one extremely distinguished guest might arrive later: Volodya hoped it was not the depraved NKVD boss Beria.
Volodya’s happiness did not quite let him forget the horrors he had seen and the profound misgivings he had developed about Soviet Communism. The unspeakable brutality of the secret police, the blunders of Stalin that had cost millions of lives, and the propaganda that had encouraged the Red Army to behave like crazed beasts in Germany, had all caused him to doubt the most fundamental things he had been brought up to believe. He wondered uneasily what kind of country Dimka and Tania would grow up in. But today was not the day to think about that.
The Soviet elite were in a good mood. They had won the war and defeated Germany. Their old enemy Japan was being crushed by the USA. The insane honour code of Japan’s leaders made it difficult for them to surrender, but it was only a matter of time now. Tragically, while they clung to their pride, more Japanese and American troops would die, and more Japanese women and children would be bombed out of their homes; but the end result would be the same. Sadly, it seemed there was nothing the Americans could do to hasten the process and prevent unnecessary deaths.
Volodya’s father, drunk and happy, made a speech. ‘The Red Army has occupied Poland,’ he said. ‘Never again will that country be used as a springboard for a German invasion of Russia.’
All the old comrades cheered and thumped the tables.
‘In Western Europe Communist parties are being endorsed by the masses as never before. In the Paris municipal elections last March, the Communist party won the largest share of the vote. I congratulate our French comrades.’
They cheered again.
‘As I look around the world today, I see that the Russian revolution, in which so many brave men fought and died . . .’ He tailed off as drunken tears came to his eyes. A hush descended on the room. He recovered himself. ‘I see that the revolution has never been as secure as it is today!’
They raised their glasses. ‘The revolution! The revolution!’ Everyone drank.
The doors flew open, and Comrade Stalin walked in.
Everyone stood up.
His hair was grey, and he looked tired. He was about sixty-five, and he had been ill: there were rumours that he had suffered a series of strokes or minor heart attacks. But his mood today was ebullient. ‘I have come to kiss the bride!’ he said.
He walked up to Zoya and put his hands on her shoulders. She was a good three inches taller than he, but she managed to stoop discreetly. He kissed her on both cheeks, allowing his grey-moustached mouth to linger just long enough to make Volodya feel resentful. Then he stepped back and said: ‘How about a drink for me?’
Several people hastened to get him a glass of vodka. Grigori insisted on giving Stalin his chair in the centre of the head table. The buzz of conversation resumed, but it was subdued: they were thrilled he was here, but now they had to be careful of every word and every move. This man could have a person killed with a snap of his fingers, and he frequently had.
More vodka was brought, the band began to play Russian folk dances, and slowly people relaxed. Volodya, Zoya, Grigori and Katerina did a four-person dance called a kadril, which was intended to be comic and always made people laugh. After that more couples danced, and the men started to do the barynya, in which they had to squat and kick up their legs, which caused many of them to fall over. Volodya kept checking on Stalin out of the corner of his eye – as did everyone else in the room – and he seemed to be enjoying himself, tapping his glass on the table in time with the balalaikas.
Zoya and Katerina were dancing a troika with Zoya’s boss, Vasili, a senior physicist working on the bomb project, and Volodya was sitting out, when the atmosphere changed.
An aide in a civilian suit came in, hurried around the edge of the room, and went right up to Stalin. Without ceremony, he leaned over the leader’s shoulder and spoke to him quietly but urgently.
Stalin at first looked puzzled, and asked a sharp question, then another. Then his face changed. He went pale, and seemed to stare at the dancers without seeing them.
Volodya said under his breath: ‘What the hell has happened?’
The dancers had not yet noticed, but those sitting at the head table looked frightened.
After a moment Stalin stood up. Those around him deferentially did the same. Volodya saw that his father was still dancing. People had been shot for less.
But Stalin had no eyes for the wedding guests. With the aide at his side he left the table. He walked towards the door, crossing the dance floor. Terrified revellers jumped out of his way. One couple fell over. Stalin did not seem to notice. The band ground to a halt. Saying nothing, looking at nobody, Stalin left the room.
Some of the generals followed him out, looking scared.
Another aide appeared, then two more. They all sought out their bosses and spoke to them. A young man in a tweed jacket went up to Vasili. Zoya seemed to know the man, and listened intently to him. She looked shocked.
Vasili and the aide left the room. Volodya went to Zoya and said: ‘For God’s sake, what’s going on?’
Her voice was shaky. ‘The Americans have dropped a nuclear bomb in Japan.’ Her beautifully pale face seemed even whiter than normal. ‘At first the Japanese government couldn’t figure out what had happened. It took them hours to realize what it was.’
‘Are we sure?’
‘It flattened five square miles of buildings. They estimate that seventy-five thousand people were killed instantly.’
‘How many bombs?’
‘One.’
‘One bomb?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good God. No wonder Stalin turned pale.’
They both stood silent. The news was spreading around the room visibly. Some people sat stunned; others got up and left, heading for their offices, their telephones, their desks and their staff.
‘This changes everything,’ Volodya said.
‘Including our honeymoon plans,’ said Zoya. ‘My leave is sure to be cancelled.’
‘We thought the Soviet Union was safe.’
‘Your father has just made a speech about how the revolution has never been so secure.’
‘Now nothing is secure.’
‘No,’ said Zoya. ‘Not until we have a bomb of our own.’
(vii)
Jacky Jakes and Georgy were in Buffalo, staying at Marga’s apartment for the first time. Greg and Lev were there too, and on Victory Japan Day – Wednesday 15 August – they all went to Humboldt Park. The paths were crowded with jubilant couples and there were hundreds of children splashing in the pond.
Greg was happy and proud. The bomb had worked. The two devices dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki had wreaked sickening devastation, but they had brought the war to a quick end and saved thousands of American lives. Greg had played a role in that. Because of what they had all done, Georgy was going to grow up in a free world.
‘He’s nine,’ Greg said to Jacky. They were sitting on a bench, talking, while Lev and Marga took Georgy to buy ice cream.
‘I can hardly believe it.’
‘What will he be, I wonder?’
Jacky said fiercely: ‘He’s not going to do something stupid like acting or playing the goddamn trumpet. He’s got brains.’
‘Would you like him to be a college professor, like your father?’
‘Yes.’
‘In that case . . .’ Greg had been leading up to this, and was nervous about how Jacky might react – ‘he ought to go to a good school.’
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘How about boarding school? He could go where I went.’
‘He’d be the only black pupil.’
‘Not necessarily. When I was there we had a coloured guy, an Indian from Delhi called Kamal.’
‘Just one.’
‘Yes.’
‘Was he teased?’
‘Sure. We called him Camel. But the boys got used to him, and he made some friends.’
‘What happened to him, do you know?’
‘He became a pharmacist. I hear he already owns two drugstores in New York.’
Jacky nodded. Greg could tell that she was not opposed to this plan. She came from a cultured family. Although she herself had rebelled and dropped out, she believed in the value of education. ‘What about the school fees?’
‘I could ask my father.’
‘Would he pay?’
‘Look at them.’ Greg pointed along the path. Lev, Marga and Georgy were returning from the ice-cream vendor’s cart. Lev and Georgy were walking side by side, eating ice-cream cones, holding hands. ‘My conservative father, holding the hand of a coloured child in a public park. Trust me, he’ll pay the school fees.’
‘Georgy doesn’t really fit anywhere,’ Jacky said, looking troubled. ‘He’s a black boy with a white daddy.’
‘I know.’
‘People in your mother’s apartment building think I’m the maid – did you know that?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve been careful not to set them straight. If they thought Negroes were in the building as guests, there might be trouble.’
Greg sighed. ‘I’m sorry, but you’re right.’
‘Life is going to be tough for Georgy.’
‘I know,’ said Greg. ‘But he’s got us.’
Jacky gave him a rare smile. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘That’s something.’
Part Three
THE COLD PEACE
21
1945 (III)
After the wedding Volodya and Zoya moved into an apartment of their own. Few Russian newlyweds were so lucky. For four years the industrial might of the Soviet Union had been directed to making weapons. Hardly any homes had been built, and many had been destroyed. But Volodya was a major in Red Army Intelligence, as well as the son of a general, and he was able to pull strings.
It was a compact space: a living room with a dining table, a bedroom so small the bed almost filled it; a kitchen that was crowded with two people in it; a cramped toilet with a washbasin and shower, and a tiny hall with a closet for their clothes. When the radio was on in the living room, they could hear it all over the flat.
They quickly made it their own. Zoya bought a bright yellow coverlet for the bed. Volodya’s mother produced a set of crockery that she had bought in 1940, in anticipation of his wedding, and saved all through the war. Volodya hung a picture on the wall, a graduation photograph of his class at the Military Intelligence Academy.
They made love more now. Being alone made a difference Volodya had not anticipated. He had never felt particularly inhibited when sleeping with Zoya at his parents’ place, or in the apartment she had used to share; but now he realized it had an influence. You had to keep your voice down, you listened in case the bed squeaked, and there was always the possibility, albeit remote, that somebody would walk in on you. Other people’s homes were never completely private.
They often woke early, made love, then lay kissing and talking for an hour before getting dressed for work. Lying with his head on her thighs on one such morning, the smell of sex in his nostrils, Volodya said: ‘Do you want some tea?’
‘Yes, please.’ She stretched luxuriously, reclining on the pillows.
Volodya put on a robe and crossed the tiny hallway to the little kitchen, where he lit the gas under the samovar. He was displeased to see the pots and dishes from last night’s dinner stacked in the sink. ‘Zoya! he said. ‘This kitchen’s in a mess!’
She could hear him easily in the small apartment. ‘I know,’ she said.
He went back to the bedroom. ‘Why didn’t you clean up last night?’
‘Why didn’t you?’
It had not occurred to him that it might be his responsibility. But he said: ‘I had a report to write.’
‘And I was tired.’
The suggestion that it was his fault irritated him. ‘I hate a filthy kitchen.’
‘So do I.’
Why was she being so obtuse? ‘If you don’t like it, clean it!’
‘Let’s do it together, right away.’ She sprang out of bed. She pushed past him with a sexy smile and went into the kitchen.
Volodya followed.
She said: ‘You wash, I’ll dry.’ She took a clean towel from a drawer.
She was still naked. He could not help but smile. Her body was long and slim, and her skin was white. She had flat breasts and pointed nipples, and the hair of her groin was fine and blonde. One of the joys of being married to her was her habit of moving around the apartment in the nude. He could stare at her body for as long as he liked. She seemed to enjoy it. If she caught his eye she showed no embarrassment, but just smiled.
He rolled up the sleeves of his robe and began to wash the dishes, passing them to Zoya to dry. Washing up was not a very manly activity – Volodya had never seen his father do it – but Zoya seemed to think such chores should be shared. It was an eccentric idea. Did Zoya have a highly developed sense of fairness in marriage? Or was he being emasculated?
He thought he heard something outside. He glanced into the hall: the apartment door was only three or four steps from the kitchen sink. He could see nothing out of the ordinary.
Then the door was smashed open.
Zoya screamed.
Volodya picked up the carving knife he had just washed. He stepped past Zoya and stood in the kitchen doorway. A uniformed policeman holding a sledgehammer was just outside the ruined door.
Volodya was filled with fear and rage. He said: ‘What the fuck is this?’
The policeman stepped back, and a small, thin man with a face like a rodent entered the flat. It was Volodya’s brother-in-law, Ilya Dvorkin, an agent of the secret police. He was wearing leather gloves.
‘Ilya!’ said Volodya. ‘You stupid weasel.’
‘Speak respectfully,’ said Ilya.
Volodya was baffled as well as angry. The secret police did not normally arrest the staff of Red Army Intelligence, and vice versa. Otherwise it would have been gang warfare. ‘Why the hell have you bust my door? I would have opened it!’
Two more agents stepped into the hall and stood behind Ilya. They wore their trademark leather coats, despite the mild late-summer weather.
Volodya was fearful as well as angry. What was going on?
Ilya said in a shaky voice: ‘Put the knife down, Volodya.’
‘No need to be afraid,’ said Volodya. ‘I was just washing up.’ He handed the knife to Zoya, standing behind him. ‘Please step into the living room. We can talk while Zoya gets dressed.’
‘Do you imagine this is a social call?’ Ilya said indignantly.
‘Whatever kind of call it is, I’m sure you don’t want the embarrassment of seeing my wife naked.’
‘I am here on official police business!’
‘Then why did they send my brother-in-law?’
Ilya lowered his voice. ‘Don’t you understand that it would be much worse for you if someone else had come?’
This looked like bad trouble. Volodya struggled to keep up the facade of bravado. ‘Exactly what do you and these other a
ssholes want?’
‘Comrade Beria has taken over the direction of the nuclear physics programme.’
Volodya knew that. Stalin had set up a new committee to direct the work and made Beria chairman. Beria knew nothing about physics and was completely unqualified to organize a scientific research project. But Stalin trusted him. It was the usual problem of Soviet government: incompetent but loyal people were promoted into jobs they could not cope with.
Volodya said: ‘And Comrade Beria needs my wife in her laboratory, developing the bomb. Have you come to drive her to work?’
‘The Americans created their nuclear bomb before the Soviets.’
‘Indeed. Could they perhaps have given research physics higher priority than we did?’
‘It is not possible that capitalist science should be superior to Communist science!’
‘This is a truism.’ Volodya was puzzled. Where was this heading? ‘So what do you conclude?’
‘There must have been sabotage.’
That was exactly the kind of ludicrous fantasy the secret police would dream up. ‘What kind of sabotage?’
‘Some of the scientists deliberately delayed the development of the Soviet bomb.’
Volodya began to understand, and he felt afraid. But he continued to respond belligerently: it was always a mistake to show weakness with these people. ‘Why the hell would they do that?’
‘Because they are traitors – and your wife is one!’
‘You’d better not be serious, you piece of shit.’
‘I am here to arrest your wife.’
‘What?’ Volodya was flabbergasted. ‘This is insane!’
‘It is the view of my organization.’
‘There is no evidence.’
‘For evidence, go to Hiroshima!’
Zoya spoke for the first time since she had screamed. ‘I’ll have to go with them, Volodya. Don’t get yourself arrested too.’
Volodya pointed a finger at Ilya. ‘You are in so much fucking trouble.’
‘I’m carrying out my orders.’
‘Step out of the way. My wife is going into the bedroom to get dressed.’
