Winter of the World (85 page)

Since then they had been dating regularly.

Today they were to have lunch with his father. He had arranged to meet her beforehand at the fountain in order to have a few minutes alone with her.

Zoya gave him her thousand-candlepower smile and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. She was tall, but he was taller. He relished the kiss. Her lips were soft and moist on his. It was over too
soon.

Volodya was not completely sure of her yet. They were still ‘walking out’, as the older generation termed it. They kissed a lot, but they had not yet gone to bed together. They were
not too young: he was twenty-seven, she twenty-eight. All the same, Volodya sensed that Zoya was not going to sleep with him until she was ready.

Half of him did not believe he would ever spend a night with this dream girl. She seemed too blonde, too intelligent, too tall, too self-possessed, too sexy ever to give herself to a man. Surely
he would never be allowed to watch her take off her clothes, to gaze at her naked body, to touch her all over, to lie on top of her . . . ?

They walked through the long, narrow park. On one side was a busy road. All along the other side, the towers of the Kremlin loomed over a high wall. ‘To look at it, you’d think our
leaders in there were being held prisoner by the Russian people,’ Volodya said.

‘Yes,’ Zoya agreed. ‘Instead of the other way round.’

He looked behind them, but no one had heard. All the same it was foolhardy to talk like that. ‘No wonder my father thinks you’re dangerous.’

‘I used to think you were like your father.’

‘I wish I was. He’s a hero. He stormed the Winter Palace! I don’t suppose I’ll ever change the course of history.’

‘Oh, I know, but he’s so narrow-minded and conservative. You’re not like that.’

Volodya thought he was pretty much like his father, but he was not going to argue.

‘Are you free this evening?’ she said. ‘I’d like to cook for you.’

‘You bet!’ She had never invited him to her place.

‘I’ve got a piece of steak.’

‘Great!’ Good beef was a treat even in Volodya’s privileged home.

‘And the Kovalevs are out of town.’

That was even better news. Like many Muscovites, Zoya lived in someone else’s apartment. She had two rooms and shared the kitchen and bathroom with another scientist, Dr Kovalev, and his
wife and child. But the Kovalevs had gone away, so Zoya and Volodya would have the place to themselves. His pulse quickened. ‘Should I bring my toothbrush?’ he said.

She gave him an enigmatic smile and did not answer the question.

They left the park and crossed the road to a restaurant. Many were closed, but the city centre was full of offices whose workers had to eat lunch somewhere, and a few cafés and bars
survived.

Grigori Peshkov was at a pavement table. There were better restaurants inside the Kremlin, but he liked to be seen in places used by ordinary Russians. He wanted to show that he was not above
the common people just because he wore a general’s uniform. All the same, he had chosen a table well away from the rest, so that he could not be overheard.

He disapproved of Zoya, but he was not immune to her enchantment, and he stood up and kissed her on both cheeks.

They ordered potato pancakes and beer. The only alternatives were pickled herrings and vodka.

‘Today I am not going to speak to you about nuclear physics, General,’ said Zoya. ‘Please take it as read that I still believe everything I said last time we talked about the
subject. I don’t want to bore you.’

‘That’s a relief,’ he said.

She laughed, showing white teeth. ‘Instead, you can tell me how much longer we will be at war.’

Volodya shook his head in mock despair. She always had to challenge his father. If she had not been a beautiful young woman, Grigori would have had her arrested long ago.

‘The Nazis are beaten, but they won’t admit it,’ Grigori said.

Zoya said: ‘Everyone in Moscow is wondering what will happen this summer – but you two probably know.’

Volodya said: ‘If I did, I certainly could not tell my girlfriend, no matter how crazy I am about her.’ Apart from anything else, it could get her shot, he thought, but he did not
say it.

The potato pancakes came and they began to eat. As always, Zoya tucked in hungrily. Volodya loved the relish with which she attacked food. But he did not much like the pancakes. ‘These
potatoes taste suspiciously like turnips,’ he said.

His father shot him a disapproving look.

‘Not that I’m complaining,’ Volodya added hastily.

When they had finished, Zoya went to the ladies’ room. As soon as she was out of earshot, Volodya said: ‘We think the German summer offensive is imminent.’

‘I agree,’ said his father.

‘Are we ready?’

‘Of course,’ said Grigori, but he looked anxious.

‘They will attack in the south. They want the oilfields of the Caucasus.’

Grigori shook his head. ‘They will come back to Moscow. It’s all that matters.’

‘Stalingrad is equally symbolic. It bears the name of our leader.’

‘Fuck symbolism. If they take Moscow, the war is over. If they don’t, they haven’t won, no matter what else they gain.’

‘You’re just guessing,’ Volodya said with irritation.

‘So are you.’

‘On the contrary, I have evidence.’ He looked around, but there was no one nearby. ‘The offensive is codenamed Case Blue. It will start on 28 June.’ He had learned that
much from Werner Franck’s network of spies in Berlin. ‘And we found partial details in the briefcase of a German officer who crash-landed a reconnaissance plane near Kharkov.’

‘Officers on reconnaissance do not carry battle plans in briefcases,’ Grigori said. ‘Comrade Stalin thinks that was a ruse to deceive us, and I agree. The Germans want us to
weaken our central front by sending forces south to deal with what will turn out to be no more than a diversion.’

This was the problem with intelligence, Volodya thought with frustration. Even when you had the information, stubborn old men would believe what they wanted.

He saw Zoya coming back, all eyes on her as she walked across the plaza. ‘What would convince you?’ he said to his father before she arrived.

‘More evidence.’

‘Such as?’

Grigori thought for a moment, taking the question seriously. ‘Get me the battle plan.’

Volodya sighed. Werner Franck had not yet succeeded in obtaining the document. ‘If I get it, will Stalin reconsider?’

‘If you get it, I’ll ask him to.’

‘It’s a deal,’ said Volodya.

He was being rash. He had no idea how he was going achieve this. Werner, Heinrich, Lili, and the others already took horrendous risks. Yet he would have to put even more pressure on them.

Zoya reached their table and Grigori stood up. They were going in three different directions, so they said goodbye.

‘I’ll see you tonight,’ Zoya said to Volodya.

He kissed her. ‘I’ll be there at seven.’

‘Bring your toothbrush,’ she said.

He walked away a happy man.

(iv)

A girl knows when her best friend has a secret. She may not know what the secret is, but she knows it is there, like an unidentifiable piece of furniture under a dust
sheet. She realizes, from guarded and unforthcoming answers to innocent questions, that her friend is seeing someone she shouldn’t; she just doesn’t know the name, although she may
guess that the forbidden lover is a married man, or a dark-skinned foreigner, or another woman. She admires that necklace, and knows from her friend’s muted reaction that it has shameful
associations, though it may not be until years later that she discovers it was stolen from a senile grandmother’s jewel box.

So Carla thought when she reflected on Frieda.

Frieda had a secret, and it was connected with resistance to the Nazis. She might be deeply, criminally involved: perhaps she went through her brother Werner’s briefcase every night,
copied secret papers, and handed the copies to a Russian spy. More likely it was not so dramatic: she probably helped print and distribute those illegal posters and leaflets that criticized the
government.

So Carla was going to tell Frieda about Joachim Koch. However, she did not immediately get a chance. Carla and Frieda were nurses in different departments of a large hospital, and had different
rotas, so they did not necessarily meet every day.

Meanwhile, Joachim came to the house daily for lessons. He made no more indiscreet revelations, but Maud continued to flirt with him. ‘You do realize that I’m almost forty years
old?’ Carla heard her say one day, although she was in fact fifty-one. Joachim was completely infatuated. Maud was enjoying the power she still had to fascinate an attractive young man,
albeit a very naive one. The thought crossed Carla’s mind that her mother might be developing deeper feelings for this boy with a fair moustache who looked a bit like the young Walter; but
that seemed ridiculous.

Joachim was desperate to please her, and soon brought news of her son. Erik was alive and well. ‘His unit is in the Ukraine,’ Joachim said. ‘That’s all I can tell
you.’

‘I wish he could get leave to come home,’ Maud said wistfully.

The young officer hesitated.

She said: ‘A mother worries so much. If I could just see him, even for only a day, it would be such a comfort to me.’

‘I
might
be able to arrange that.’

Maud pretended to be astonished. ‘Really? You’re that powerful?’

‘I’m not sure. I could try.’

‘Thank you for even trying.’ She kissed his hand.

It was a week before Carla saw Frieda again. When she did, she told her all about Joachim Koch. She told the story as if simply retailing an interesting piece of news, but she felt sure Frieda
would not regard it in that innocent light. ‘Just imagine,’ she said. ‘He told us the code name of the operation and the date of the attack!’ She waited to see how Frieda
would respond.

‘He could be executed for that,’ Frieda said.

‘If we knew someone who could get in touch with Moscow, we might turn the course of the war,’ Carla went on, as if still talking about the gravity of Joachim’s crime.

‘Perhaps,’ said Frieda.

That proved it. Frieda’s normal reaction to such a story would include expressions of surprise, lively interest, and further questions. Today she offered nothing but neutral phrases and
noncommittal grunts. Carla went home and told her mother that her intuition had been correct.

Next day at the hospital, Frieda appeared in Carla’s ward looking frantic. ‘I have to talk to you urgently,’ she said.

Carla was changing a dressing for a young woman who had been badly burned in a munitions factory explosion. ‘Go to the cloakroom,’ she said. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I
can.’

Five minutes later she found Frieda in the little room, smoking by an open window. ‘What is it?’ she said.

Frieda put out the cigarette. ‘It’s about your Lieutenant Koch.’

‘I thought so.’

‘You have to find out more from him.’

‘I
have
to? What are you talking about?’

‘He has access to the entire battle plan for Case Blue. We know something about it, but Moscow needs the details.’

Frieda was making a bewildering set of assumptions, but Carla went along with it. ‘I can ask him . . .’

‘No. You have to
make
him bring you the battle plan.’

‘I’m not sure that’s possible. He’s not completely stupid. Don’t you think—’

Frieda was not even listening. ‘Then you have to photograph it,’ she interrupted. She produced from the pocket of her uniform a stainless-steel box about the size of a pack of
cigarettes, but longer and narrower. ‘This is a miniature camera specially designed for photographing documents.’ Carla noticed the name ‘Minox’ on the side.
‘You’ll get eleven pictures on one film. Here are three films.’ She brought out three cassettes, the shape of dumbbells but small enough to fit into the little camera. ‘This
is how you load the film.’ Frieda demonstrated. ‘To take a picture, you look through this window. If you’re not sure, read this manual.’

Carla had never known Frieda to be so domineering. ‘I really need to think about this.’

‘There’s no time. This is your raincoat, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but—’

Frieda stuffed the camera, films and booklet into the pockets of the coat. She seemed relieved they were out of her hands. ‘I’ve got to go.’ She went to the door.

‘But, Frieda!’

At last Frieda stopped and looked directly at Carla. ‘What?’

‘Well . . . you’re not behaving like a friend.’

‘This is more important.’

‘You’ve backed me into a corner.’

‘You created this situation when you told me about Joachim Koch. Don’t pretend you didn’t expect me to do something with the information.’

It was true. Carla had triggered this emergency herself. But she had not envisaged things turning out this way. ‘What if he says no?’

‘Then you’ll probably be living under the Nazis for the rest of your life.’ Frieda went out.

‘Hell,’ said Carla.

She stood alone in the cloakroom, thinking. She could not even get rid of the little camera without risk. It was in her raincoat, and she could hardly throw it into a hospital rubbish bin. She
would have to leave the building with it in her pocket, and try to find a place where she could dispose of it secretly.

But did she want to?

It seemed unlikely that Koch, naive though he was, could be talked into smuggling a copy of a battle plan out of the War Ministry and bringing it to show his inamorata. However, if anyone could
persuade him, Maud could.

But Carla was scared. There would be no mercy for her if she were caught. She would be arrested and tortured. She thought of Rudi Rothmann, moaning in the agony of broken bones. She recalled her
father after they released him, so brutally beaten that he had died. Her crime would be worse than theirs; her punishment correspondingly bestial. She would be executed, of course – but not
for a long time.

She told herself she was willing to risk that.

What she could not accept was the danger that she would help kill her brother.