Edge of Eternity (62 page)

Clearly Josef knew no more. Bemused, Dimka turned and left the store.

It was not the police who had done this, he reasoned as he walked back to his bike, nor the army nor the KGB. Anyone official would have arrested Max and taken him to prison and broken his arms in private. Someone unofficial, then.

Unofficial meant gangland. So there were nasty criminals among Natalya’s friends or family.

No wonder she never said much about her private life.

Dimka drove fast to the Kremlin but still he was dismayed to find that Khrushchev had got there before him. However, the boss was in a good mood: Dimka could hear him laughing. Perhaps this was the moment to mention Vasili Yenkov. He opened his desk drawer and took out Yenkov’s KGB file. He picked up a folder of documents for Khrushchev to sign, then he hesitated. He was a fool to do this, even for his beloved sister. But he suppressed his anxiety and went into the main office.

The First Secretary sat behind a big desk speaking on the telephone. He did not much like the phone, preferring face-to-face contact: that way, he said, he could tell when people were lying. However, this conversation was jovial. Dimka put the letters in front of him, and he began to sign while continuing to talk and laugh into the mouthpiece.

When he hung up, Khrushchev said: ‘What’s that in your hand? Looks like a KGB file.’

‘Vasili Yenkov. Sentenced to two years in a labour camp for possessing a leaflet about Ustin Bodian, the dissident singer. He’s served his time, but they’re keeping him there.’

Khrushchev stopped signing and looked up. ‘Do you have some personal interest?’

Dimka felt a chill of fear. ‘None whatsoever,’ he lied, managing to keep the anxiety out of his voice. If he revealed his sister’s link to a convicted subversive it could end his career and hers.

Khrushchev narrowed his eyes. ‘So why should we let him come home?’

Dimka wished he had refused Tania. He should have known Khrushchev would see through him: a man did not become leader of the Soviet Union without being suspicious to the point of paranoia. Dimka backpedalled desperately. ‘I don’t say we should bring him home,’ he said as calmly as he could. ‘I just thought you might like to know about him. His crime was trivial, he has suffered his punishment, and for you to grant justice to a minor dissident would accord with your general policy of cautious liberalization.’

Khrushchev was not fooled. ‘Someone has asked you for a favour.’ Dimka opened his mouth to protest his innocence, but Khrushchev held up a hand to silence him. ‘Don’t deny it, I don’t mind. Influence is your reward for hard work.’

Dimka felt as if a death sentence had been lifted. ‘Thank you,’ he said, sounding more pathetically grateful than he wished.

‘What job is Yenkov doing in Siberia?’ Khrushchev asked.

Dimka realized that the hand holding the file was trembling. He pressed his arm against his side to stop it. ‘He’s an electrician in a power station. He’s not qualified, but he used to work in radio.’

‘What was his job in Moscow?’

‘He was a script editor.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ Khrushchev threw down his pen. ‘A script editor? What the hell use is a script editor? They’re desperate for electricians in Siberia. Leave him there. He’s doing something useful.’

Dimka stared at him in dismay. He did not know what to say.

Khrushchev picked up his pen and resumed signing. ‘A script editor,’ he muttered. ‘My arse.’

*  *  *

Tania typed out Vasili’s short story,
Frostbite
, with two carbon copies.

But it was too good merely for
samizdat
publication. Vasili evoked the world of the prison camps with brutal vividness – but he did more. Copying it, she had realized, with an ache in her heart, that the camp stood for the Soviet Union, and the story was a savage critique of Soviet society. Vasili was telling the truth in a way that Tania could not, and she burned with remorse. Every day she wrote articles that were published in newspapers and magazines all over the USSR; every day she carefully avoided reality. She did not tell outright lies, but she always skirted around the poverty, injustice, repression and waste that were the actual characteristics of her country. Vasili’s writing showed her that her life was a fraud.

She took the typescript to her editor, Daniil Antonov. ‘This came to me in the mail, anonymously,’ she said. He might well guess that she was lying, but he would not betray her. ‘It’s a short story set in a prison camp.’

‘We can’t publish it,’ he said quickly.

‘I know. But it’s very good – the work of a great writer, I think.’

‘Why are you showing it to me?’

‘You know the editor of
New World
magazine.’

Daniil looked thoughtful. ‘He occasionally publishes something unorthodox.’

Tania lowered her voice. ‘I don’t know how far Khrushchev’s liberalization is intended to go.’

‘The policy has vacillated, but the overall instruction is that the excesses of the past should be discussed and condemned.’

‘Would you read it and, if you like it, show it to the editor?’

‘Sure.’ Daniil read a few lines. ‘Why do you think it was sent to
you
?’

‘It’s probably written by someone I met when I went to Siberia two years ago.’

‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘That would explain it.’ He meant
not a bad cover.

‘The author will probably reveal his identity if the story is accepted for publication.’

‘Okay,’ said Daniil. ‘I’ll do my best.’

25

The University of Alabama was the last all-white state university in the US. On Tuesday, 11 June, two young Negroes arrived at the campus in Tuscaloosa to register as students. George Wallace, the diminutive Governor of Alabama, stood at the doors of the university with his arms folded and his legs astride, and vowed to keep them out.

At the Department of Justice in Washington, George Jakes sat with Bobby Kennedy and others listening to telephone reports from people at the university. The television was on, but, for the moment, none of the networks was showing the scene live.

Less than a year ago, two people had been shot dead during riots at the University of Mississippi after its first coloured student enrolled. The Kennedy brothers were determined to prevent a repeat.

George had been to Tuscaloosa, and had seen the university’s leafy campus. He had been frowned at as he walked across the green lawns, the only dark face among the pretty girls in bobby socks and the smart young men in blazers. He had drawn for Bobby a sketch of the grand portico of the Foster Auditorium, with its three doors, in front of which Governor Wallace now stood, at a portable lectern, surrounded by highway patrolmen. The June temperature in Tuscaloosa was rising towards a hundred degrees. George could visualize the reporters and photographers crowded in front of Wallace, sweating in the sun, waiting for violence to break out.

The confrontation had long been anticipated and planned by both sides.

George Wallace was a Southern Democrat. Abraham Lincoln, who freed the slaves, had been a Republican, while pro-slavery southerners had been Democrats. Those southerners were still in the party, helping democratic presidents get elected then undermining them once in office.

Wallace was a small, ugly man, going bald except for a patch at the front of his head that he greased and combed into a ludicrous quiff. But he was cunning, and George Jakes could not figure out what he was up to today. What result did Wallace hope for? Mayhem or something more subtle?

The civil rights movement, which had seemed moribund two months ago, had taken wing after the Birmingham riots. Money was pouring in: at a Hollywood fund-raiser, movie stars such as Paul Newman and Tony Franciosa had written cheques for a thousand dollars each. The White House was terrified of more disorder, and desperate to appease the protestors.

Bobby Kennedy had at last come round to the belief that there must be a new civil rights bill. He now admitted that the time had come for Congress to outlaw segregation in all public places – hotels, restaurants, buses, restrooms – and to protect the right of Negroes to vote. But he had not yet convinced his brother, the President.

Bobby was pretending to be calm and in charge this morning. A television crew was filming him, and three of his seven children were running around the office. But George knew how fast Bobby’s relaxed openness could turn to cold fury when things went wrong.

Bobby was resolved that there would be no rioting – but he was equally determined to get the two students enrolled. A judge had issued a court order to admit the students, and Bobby, as Attorney General, could not let himself be defeated by a state governor intent on flouting the law. He was ready to send in troops to remove Wallace by force – but that, too, would be an unhappy ending, Washington bullying the South.

Bobby was in his shirtsleeves, bent over the speakerphone on his wide desk, with wet marks of perspiration under his arms. The army had set up mobile communications, and someone in the crowd was telling Bobby what was happening. ‘Nick has arrived,’ the voice on the speaker said. Nicholas Katzenbach was Deputy Attorney General, and Bobby’s representative on the scene. ‘He’s going up to Wallace . . . he’s handing him the cease-and-desist.’ Katzenbach was armed with a presidential proclamation ordering Wallace to cease illegally defying a court order. ‘Now Wallace is making a speech.’

George Jakes’s left arm was in a discreet black silk sling. State troopers had cracked a bone in his wrist in Birmingham, Alabama. Two years earlier a racist rioter had broken the same arm in Anniston, which was also in Alabama. George hoped never to go to Alabama again.

‘Wallace isn’t talking about segregation,’ said the voice on the speaker. ‘He’s talking about states’ rights. He says Washington doesn’t have the right to interfere in Alabama schools. I’m going to try to get close enough so you can hear him.’

George frowned. In his inaugural speech as governor, Wallace had said: ‘Segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation for ever.’ But then he had been speaking to white Alabamans. Who was he trying to impress today? Something was going on here that the Kennedy brothers and their advisors had not yet understood.

Wallace’s speech was long. When at last it was over, Katzenbach once again demanded that Wallace obey the court, and Wallace refused. Stalemate.

Katzenbach then left the scene – but the drama was not over. The two students, Vivian Malone and James Hood, were waiting in a car. By prior arrangement, Katzenbach escorted Vivian to her dormitory, and another Justice Department lawyer did the same for James. This was only temporary. To register formally, they had to enter the Foster Auditorium.

The lunchtime news came on television, and in Bobby Kennedy’s office someone turned up the sound. Wallace stood at the lectern, looking taller than he was in real life. He said nothing about coloured people or segregation or civil rights. He talked of the might of central government oppressing the sovereignty of the State of Alabama. He spoke indignantly about freedom and democracy, as if there were no Negroes being denied the vote. He quoted the American constitution as if he did not spurn it every day of his life. It was a bravura performance, and it worried George.

Burke Marshall, the white lawyer who headed the civil rights division, was in Bobby’s office. George still did not trust him, but Marshall had become more radical since Birmingham, and now he proposed resolving the stalemate in Tuscaloosa by sending troops in. ‘Why don’t we just go ahead and do it?’ he said to Bobby.

Bobby agreed.

It took time. Bobby’s aides ordered sandwiches and coffee. On the campus, everyone held their positions.

News came in from Vietnam. At a road junction in Saigon a Buddhist monk called Thich Quang Duc, doused in five gallons of gasoline, had calmly struck a match and set himself alight. His suicide was a protest at the persecution of the Buddhist majority by the American-sponsored President Ngo Dinh Diem, who was a Catholic.

There was no end to the travails of President Kennedy.

At last the voice on Bobby’s speakerphone said: ‘General Graham has arrived . . . with four soldiers.’

‘Four?’ said George. ‘That’s our show of force?’

They heard a new voice, presumably that of the general addressing Wallace. He said: ‘Sir, it is my sad duty to ask you to step aside under orders from the President of the United States.’

Graham was the commander of the Alabama National Guard, and he was clearly doing his duty against his inclination.

But the voice on the phone now said: ‘Wallace is walking away . . . Wallace is leaving! Wallace is leaving! It’s over!’

There was cheering and handshaking in the office.

After a minute the others noticed that George was not joining in. Dennis Wilson said: ‘What’s the matter with you?’

In George’s opinion, the people around him were not thinking hard enough. ‘Wallace planned this,’ he said. ‘All along, he intended to give in as soon as we called in the troops.’

‘But why?’ said Dennis.

‘That’s the question that’s been bothering me. All morning, I’ve had this suspicion that we’re being used.’

‘So what did Wallace gain by this charade?’

‘A showcase. He’s just been on television, posing as the ordinary man standing up to a bullying government.’

‘Governor Wallace, complaining about being bullied?’ said Wilson. ‘That’s a joke!’

Bobby had been following the argument, and now he intervened. ‘Listen to George,’ he said. ‘He’s asking the right questions.’

‘It’s a joke to you and me,’ said George. ‘But many working-class Americans feel that integration is being shoved down their throats by Washington do-gooders such as all of us in this room.’

‘I know,’ said Wilson. ‘Though it’s unusual to hear that from—’ he was going to say from a Negro, but changed his mind – ‘from someone who campaigns for civil rights. What’s your point?’

‘What Wallace was doing, today, was talking to those white working-class voters. They’ll remember him standing there, defying Nick Katzenbach – a typical East Coast liberal, they’ll say – and they’ll remember the soldiers making Governor Wallace withdraw.’