*
Tania wanted to reassure Vasili that he had not been forgotten. She had done that already, but was it enough? Could she offer him any hope? She also wanted to tell him that his story was wonderful and he should write more, but again she had no encouragement to offer him: Frostbite could not be published and the same would probably be true of anything else he produced. She feared she might end up making him feel worse, not better.
She waited for him in the bar. The hotel was not bad. All visitors to Siberia were VIPs – no one came here for a holiday – so the place had the level of luxury expected by the Communist elite.
Vasili came in looking a bit better than he had earlier. He had combed his hair and put on a clean shirt. He still looked like a man recovering from an illness, but the light of intelligence shone in his eyes.
He took both her hands in his. ‘Thank you for coming here,’ he said, his voice trembling with emotion. ‘I can’t begin to tell you how much it means to me. You’re a friend, a solid gold friend.’
She kissed his cheek.
They ordered beer. Vasili ate the free peanuts like a starving man.
‘Your story is wonderful,’ Tania said. ‘Not just good, but extraordinary.’
He smiled. ‘Thank you. Perhaps something worthwhile can come out of this terrible place.’
‘I’m not the only person who admires it. The editors of New World accepted it for publication.’ He lit up with gladness, and she had to bring him down again. ‘But they changed their minds when Khrushchev was deposed.’
Vasili looked crestfallen, then he took another handful of nuts. ‘I’m not surprised,’ he said, recovering his equanimity. ‘At least they liked it – that’s the important thing. It was worth writing.’
‘I’ve made a few copies and mailed them – anonymously, of course –to some of the people who used to receive Dissidence,’ she added. She hesitated. What she planned to say next was bold. Once said, it could not be retracted. She took the plunge. ‘The only other thing I could do is try to get a copy out to the West.’
She saw the light of optimism in his eyes, but he pretended to be dubious. ‘That would be dangerous for you.’
‘And for you.’
Vasili shrugged. ‘What are they going to do to me – send me to Siberia? But you could lose everything.’
‘Could you write some more stories?’
From underneath his jacket he took a large used envelope. ‘I have already,’ he said, and he gave the envelope to her. He drank some beer, emptying his glass.
She glanced into the envelope. The pages were covered with Vasili’s small, neat handwriting. ‘Why,’ she said with elation, ‘it’s enough for a book!’ Then she realized that if she were caught with this material she, too, could end up stuck in Siberia. She slipped the envelope into her shoulder bag quickly.
‘What will you do with them?’ he asked.
Tania had given this some thought. ‘There’s an annual book fair in Leipzig, in East Germany. I could arrange to cover it for TASS – I speak German, after a fashion. Western publishers attend the fair – editors from Paris and London and New York. I might be able to get your work published in translation.’
His face lit up. ‘Do you think so?’
‘I believe Frostbite is good enough.’
‘That would be so wonderful. But you would be taking a terrible risk.’
She nodded. ‘So would you. If somehow the Soviet authorities found out who the author was, you’d be in trouble.’
He laughed. ‘Look at me – starving, dressed in rags, living alone in a hostel for men that is always cold – I’m not worried.’
It had not occurred to her that he might not be getting enough to eat. ‘There’s a restaurant here,’ she said. ‘Shall we have dinner?’
‘Yes, please.’
Vasili ordered beef stroganoff with boiled potatoes. The waitress put a small bowl of bread rolls on the table, as was done at banquets. Vasili ate all the rolls. After the stroganoff he ordered pirozhki, a fried bun filled with stewed plums. He also ate everything Tania left on her plate.
She said: ‘I thought skilled people were highly paid here.’
‘Volunteers are, yes. Not ex-prisoners. The authorities submit to the price mechanism only when forced.’
‘Can I send you food?’
He shook his head. ‘Everything is stolen by the KGB. Parcels arrive ripped open, marked “Suspicious package, officially inspected”, and everything decent is gone. The guy in the room next to mine received six jars of jam, all empty.’
Tania signed the bill for dinner.
Vasili said: ‘Does your hotel room have its own bathroom?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does it have hot water?’
‘Of course.’
‘Can I take a shower? At the hostel we get hot water only once a week, and then we have to rush before it runs out.’
They went upstairs.
Vasili was a long time in the bathroom. Tania sat on the bed looking out at the grimy snow. She felt stunned. She knew, in a vague way, what labour camps were like, but seeing Vasili had brought it home to her in a devastatingly vivid way. Her imagination had not previously stretched to the extent of the prisoners’ suffering. And yet, despite everything, Vasili had not succumbed to despair. In fact, he had summoned, from somewhere, the strength and courage to write about his experiences with passion and humour. She admired him more than ever.
When at last he emerged from the bathroom, they said goodbye. In the old days he would have made a pass at her, but today the thought did not seem to cross his mind.
She gave him all the money in her purse, a bar of chocolate, and two pairs of long underwear that would be too short but otherwise would fit him. ‘They might be better than what you’ve got,’ she said.
‘They certainly are,’ he said. ‘I don’t have any underwear.’
After he left, she cried.
36
Every time they played ‘Love Is It’ on Radio Luxembourg, Karolin cried.
Lili, now sixteen, thought she knew how Karolin felt. It was like having Walli back home, singing and playing in the next room, except that they could not walk in and see him and tell him how good it sounded.
If Alice was awake they would sit her close to the radio and say: ‘That’s your daddy!’ She did not understand, but she knew it was something exciting. Sometimes Karolin sang the song to her, and Lili accompanied her on the guitar and sang the harmony.
Lili’s mission in life was to help Karolin and Alice emigrate to the West and be reunited with Walli.
Karolin was living at the Franck family house in Berlin-Mitte. Her parents would have nothing to do with her. They said she had disgraced them by giving birth to an illegitimate child. But the truth was that the Stasi had told her father he would lose his job as a bus station supervisor because of Karolin’s involvement with Walli. So they had thrown her out, and she had moved in with Walli’s family.
Lili was glad to have her there. Karolin was like an older sister to replace Rebecca. And Lili adored the baby. Every day when she came home from school she watched Alice for a couple of hours, to give Karolin a break.
Today was Alice’s first birthday, and Lili made a cake. Alice sat in her high chair and happily banged a bowl with a wooden spoon while Lili mixed a light sponge cake that the baby could eat.
Karolin was upstairs in her room, listening to Radio Luxembourg.
Alice’s birthday was also the anniversary of the assassination. West German radio and television had programmes about President Kennedy and the impact of his death. East German stations were playing it down.
Lyndon Johnson had been President by default for almost a year, but three weeks ago he had won an election by a landslide, defeating the Republican ultra-conservative Goldwater. Lili was glad. Although Hitler had died before she was born, she knew her country’s history, and she was frightened by politicians who made excuses for racial hatred.