5
Tania Dvorkin left Yakutsk, Siberia – the coldest city in the world – after an early breakfast. She flew to Moscow, a distance of a little over three thousand miles, in a Tupolev Tu-16 of the Red Air Force. The cabin was configured for half a dozen military men, and the designer had not wasted time thinking of their comfort: the seats were made of pierced aluminium and there was no soundproofing. The journey took eight hours with one refuelling stop. Because Moscow was six hours behind Yakutsk, Tania arrived in time for another breakfast.
It was summer in Moscow, and she carried her heavy coat and fur hat. She took a taxi to Government House, the apartment building for Moscow’s privileged elite. She shared a flat with her mother, Anya, and her twin brother, Dmitriy, always called Dimka. It was a big place, with three bedrooms, though Mother said it was spacious only by Soviet standards: the Berlin apartment she had lived in as a child, when Grandfather Grigori had been a diplomat, had been much more grand.
This morning the place was silent and empty: Mother and Dimka had both left for work already. Their coats were hanging in the hall, on nails knocked in by Tania’s father a quarter of a century ago: Dimka’s black raincoat and Mother’s brown tweed, left at home in the warm weather. Tania hung up her own coat beside them and put her suitcase in her bedroom. She had not expected them to be in, but all the same she felt a twinge of regret that Mother was not here to make her tea, nor Dimka to listen to her adventures in Siberia. She thought of going to see her grandparents, Grigori and Katerina Peshkov, who lived on another floor in the same building, but decided she did not really have the time.
She showered and changed her clothes, then took a bus to the headquarters of TASS, the Soviet news agency. She was one of more than a thousand reporters working for the agency, but not many were flown around in air force jets. She was a rising star, able to produce lively and interesting articles that appealed to young people but nevertheless adhered to the party line. It was a mixed blessing: she was often given difficult high-profile assignments.
In the canteen she had a bowl of buckwheat kasha with sour cream, then she went to the features department where she worked. Although she was a star, she did not yet merit an office of her own. She greeted her colleagues, then sat at a desk, put paper and carbons into a typewriter, and began to write.
The flight had been too bumpy even to make notes, but she had planned her articles in her head, and now she was able to write fluently, referring occasionally to her notebook for details. Her brief was to encourage young Soviet families to migrate to Siberia to work in the boom industries of mining and drilling: not an easy task. The prison camps provided plenty of unskilled labour, but the region needed geologists, engineers, surveyors, architects, chemists and managers. However, Tania in her article ignored the men and wrote about their wives. She began with an attractive young mother called Klara who had talked with enthusiasm and humour about coping with life at sub-zero temperatures.
Halfway through the morning, Tania’s editor, Daniil Antonov, picked up the sheets of paper from her tray and began to read. He was a small man with a gentle manner that was unusual in the world of journalism. ‘This is great,’ he said after a while. ‘When can I have the rest?’
‘I’m typing as fast as I can.’
He lingered. ‘While you were in Siberia, did you hear anything about Ustin Bodian?’ Bodian was an opera singer who had been caught smuggling in two copies of Dr Zhivago he had obtained while singing in Italy. He was now in a labour camp.
Tania’s heart raced guiltily. Did Daniil suspect her? He was unusually intuitive for a man. ‘No,’ she lied. ‘Why do you ask? Have you heard something?’
‘Nothing.’ Daniil returned to his desk.
Tania had almost finished the third article when Pyotr Opotkin stopped beside her desk and began to read her copy with a cigarette dangling from his lips. A stout man with bad skin, Opotkin was editor-in-chief for features. Unlike Daniil he was not a trained journalist but a commissar, a political appointee. His job was to make sure features did not violate Kremlin guidelines, and his only qualification for the job was rigid orthodoxy.
He read Tania’s first few pages and said: ‘I told you not to write about the weather.’ He came from a village north of Moscow and still had the north-Russian accent.
Tania sighed. ‘Pyotr, the series is about Siberia. People already know it’s cold there. Nobody would be fooled.’
‘But this is all about the weather.’
‘It’s about how a resourceful young woman from Moscow is raising her family in challenging conditions – and having a great adventure.’
Daniil joined the conversation. ‘She’s right, Pyotr,’ he said. ‘If we avoid all mention of the cold, people will know the article is shit, and they won’t believe a word of it.’
‘I don’t like it,’ Opotkin said stubbornly.
‘You have to admit,’ Daniil persisted, ‘Tania makes it sound exciting.’
Opotkin looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said, and dropped the copy back into the tray. ‘I’m having a party at my house on Saturday night,’ he said to Tania. ‘My daughter graduated college. I was wondering if you and your brother would like to come?’
Opotkin was an unsuccessful social climber who gave agonizingly boring parties. Tania knew she could speak for her brother. ‘I’d love to, and I’m sure Dimka would too, but it’s our mother’s birthday. I’m so sorry.’
Opotkin looked offended. ‘Too bad,’ he said, and walked on.
When he was out of earshot Daniil said: ‘It’s not your mother’s birthday, is it?’
‘No.’
‘He’ll check.’
‘Then he’ll realize I made a polite excuse because I didn’t want to go.’
‘You should go to his parties.’
Tania did not want to have this argument. There were more important things on her mind. She needed to write her articles, get out of there, and save the life of Ustin Bodian. But Daniil was a good boss and liberal minded, so she suppressed her impatience. ‘Pyotr doesn’t care whether I attend his party or not,’ she said. ‘He wants my brother, who works for Khrushchev.’ Tania was used to people trying to befriend her because of her influential family. Her late father had been a colonel in the KGB, the secret police; and her Uncle Volodya was a general in Red Army Intelligence.
Daniil had a journalist’s persistence. ‘Pyotr gave in to us over the Siberia articles. You should show that you’re grateful.’
‘I hate his parties. His friends get drunk and paw each other’s wives.’
‘I don’t want him to bear a grudge against you.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘You’re very attractive.’ Daniil was not coming on to Tania. He lived with a male friend and she was sure he was one of those men not drawn to women. He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Beautiful and talented and – worst of all – young. Pyotr won’t find it difficult to hate you. Try a little harder with him.’ Daniil drifted away.
Tania realized he was probably right, but she decided to think about it later, and returned her attention to her typewriter.
At midday she got a plate of potato salad with pickled herrings from the canteen and ate at her desk.
She finished her third article soon afterwards. She handed the sheets of paper to Daniil. ‘I’m going home to bed,’ she said. ‘Please don’t call.’
‘Good work,’ he said. ‘Sleep well.’
She put her notebook in her shoulder bag and left the building.
Now she had to make sure she was not being followed. She was tired, and that meant she was likely to make foolish mistakes. She felt worried.
She went past the bus stop, walked several blocks to the previous stop on the route, and caught the bus there. It made no sense, which meant that anyone who did the same had to be following her.
No one was.
She got off near a grand pre-revolutionary palace now converted to apartments. She walked around the block, but no one appeared to be watching the building. Anxiously she went around again to make sure. Then she entered the gloomy hall and climbed the cracked marble staircase to the apartment of Vasili Yenkov.
Just as she was about to put her key in the lock the door opened, and a slim blonde girl of about eighteen stood there. Vasili was behind her. Tania cursed inwardly. It was too late for her to run away or pretend she was going to a different apartment.
The blonde gave Tania a hard, appraising stare, taking in her hairstyle, her figure, and her clothes. Then she kissed Vasili on the mouth, threw a triumphant look at Tania, and went down the staircase.
Vasili was thirty but he liked girls young. They yielded to him because he was tall and dashing, with carved good looks and thick dark hair, always a little too long, and soft brown bedroom eyes. Tania admired him for a completely different set of reasons: because he was bright, brave, and a world-class writer.
She walked into his study and dropped her bag on a chair. Vasili worked as a radio script editor and was a naturally untidy man. Papers covered his desk, and books were stacked on the floor. He seemed to be working on a radio adaptation of Maxim Gorki’s first play, The Philistines. His grey cat, Mademoiselle, was sleeping on the couch. Tania pushed her off and sat down. ‘Who was that little tart?’ she said.
‘That was my mother.’
Tania laughed despite her annoyance.
‘I’m sorry she was here,’ Vasili said, though he did not look very sad about it.
‘You knew I was coming today.’
‘I thought you’d be later.’
‘She saw my face. No one is supposed to know there is a connection between you and me.’
‘She works at the GUM department store. Her name is Varvara. She won’t suspect anything.’
‘Please, Vasili, don’t let it happen again. What we’re doing is dangerous enough. We shouldn’t take additional risks. You can screw a teenager any day.’
‘You’re right, and it won’t happen again. Let me make you some tea. You look tired.’ Vasili busied himself at the samovar.