Winter of the World (114 page)

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.’

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 assholes 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.’

‘No time for that,’ said Ilya. ‘She must come as she is.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

Ilya put his nose in the air. ‘A respectable Soviet citizen would not walk around the apartment with no clothes on.’

Volodya wondered briefly how his sister felt being married to this creep. ‘You, the secret police, morally disapprove of nudity?’

‘Her nakedness is evidence of her degradation. We will take her as she is.’

‘No you fucking won’t.’

‘Stand aside.’

‘You stand aside. She’s going to get dressed.’ Volodya stepped into the hall and stood in front of the three agents, holding his arms out so that Zoya could pass behind
him.

As she moved, Ilya reached past Volodya and grabbed her arm.

Volodya punched him in the face, twice. Ilya cried out and staggered back. The two men in leather coats stepped forward. Volodya aimed a punch at one, but the man dodged it. Then each man took
one of Volodya’s arms. He struggled, but they were strong and seemed to have done this before. They slammed him against the wall.

While they held him, Ilya punched him in the face with leather-gloved fists, twice, three times, four, then in the stomach, again and again until Volodya puked blood. Zoya tried to intervene,
but Ilya punched her, too, and she screamed and fell back.

Volodya’s bathrobe came open in front. Ilya kicked him in the balls, then kicked his knees. Volodya sagged, unable to stand, but the two men in leather coats held him up, and Ilya punched
him some more.

At last Ilya turned away, rubbing his knuckles. The other two released Volodya, and he crumpled to the floor. He could hardly breathe and felt unable to move, but he was conscious. Out of the
corner of his eye he saw the two heavies grab Zoya and march her naked out of the apartment. Ilya followed.

As the minutes went by, the pain changed from sharp agony to deep, dull ache, and Volodya’s breathing began to return to normal.

Motion eventually returned to his limbs, and he dragged himself upright. He made it to the phone and dialled his father’s number, hoping the old man had not yet left for work. He was
relieved to hear his father’s voice. ‘They’ve arrested Zoya,’ he said.

‘Fucking bastards,’ Grigori said. ‘Who was it?’

‘It was Ilya.’

‘What?’

‘Make some calls,’ Volodya said. ‘See if you can find out what the fuck is going on. I have to wash off the blood.’

‘What blood?’

Volodya hung up.

It was only a couple of steps to the bathroom. He dropped his bloodstained robe and got into the shower. The warm water brought some relief to his bruised body. Ilya was mean but not strong, and
he had not broken any bones.

Volodya turned off the water. He looked in the bathroom mirror. His face was covered with cuts and bruises.

He did not bother to dry himself. With considerable effort, he got dressed in his Red Army uniform. He wanted the symbol of authority.

His father arrived as he was trying to tie the laces of his boots. ‘What the fucking hell happened here?’ Grigori roared.

Volodya said: ‘They were looking for a fight, and I was foolish enough to give them one.’

His father was unsympathetic at first. ‘I’d have expected you to know better.’

‘They insisted on taking her away naked.’

‘Fucking creeps.’

‘Did you find out anything?’

‘Not yet. I talked to a couple of people. No one knows anything.’ Grigori looked worried. ‘Either someone has made a really stupid mistake . . . or for some reason
they’re very sure of themselves.’

‘Drive me to my office. Lemitov is going to be mad as hell. He won’t let them get away with this. If they are allowed to do it to me, they’ll do it to all of Red Army
Intelligence.’

Grigori’s car and driver were waiting outside. They drove to the Khodynka airfield. Grigori stayed in the car while Volodya limped into Red Army Intelligence headquarters. He went straight
to the office of his boss, Colonel Lemitov.

He tapped on the door, walked in, and said: ‘The fucking secret police have arrested my wife.’

‘I know,’ said Lemitov.

‘You know?’

‘I okayed it.’

Volodya’s jaw dropped. ‘What the fuck?’

‘Sit down.’

‘What is going on?’

‘Sit down and shut up, and I’ll tell you.’

Volodya eased himself painfully into a chair.

Lemitov said: ‘We have to have a nuclear bomb, and fast. At the moment, Stalin is playing it tough with the Americans, because we’re fairly sure they don’t have a big enough
arsenal of nuclear weapons to wipe us out. But they’re building a stockpile, and at some point they will use them – unless we are in a position to retaliate.’

This made no sense. ‘My wife can’t design the bomb while the secret police are punching her in the face. This is insane.’

‘Shut the fuck up. Our problem is that there are several possible designs. The Americans took five years to figure out which would work. We don’t have that much time. We have to
steal their research.’

‘We’ll still need Russian physicists to copy the design – and for that they have to be in their laboratories, not locked in the basement of the Lubyanka.’

‘You know a man called Wilhelm Frunze.’

‘I was at school with him. The Berlin Boys’ Academy.’

‘He gave us valuable information about British nuclear research. Then he moved to the States, where he worked on the nuclear bomb project. The Washington staff of the NKVD contacted him,
scared him by their incompetence, and fucked up the relationship. We need to win him back.’

‘What has all this got to do with me?’

‘He trusts you.’

‘I don’t know that. I haven’t seen him for twelve years.’

‘We want you to go to America and talk to him.’

‘But why did you arrest Zoya?’

‘To make sure you come back.’

(ii)

Volodya told himself he knew how to do this. In Berlin, before the war, he had shaken off Gestapo tails, met with potential spies, recruited them, and made them into
reliable sources of secret intelligence. It was never easy – especially the part where he had to talk someone into turning traitor – but he was expert.

However, this was America.