They went to the apartment of Dimka’s grandparents. Katerina opened the door in a red dress. Dimka was startled to see that it was knee length, in the latest Western fashion, and that his grandmother still had slim legs. She had lived in the West, while her husband was on the diplomatic circuit, and she had learned to dress more stylishly than most Soviet women.
She looked Nina up and down with the unapologetic curiosity of old people. ‘You look well,’ she said, and Dimka wondered why her tone of voice sounded a little odd.
Nina took it as a compliment. ‘Thank you, so do you. Where did you get that dress?’
Katerina led them into the living room. Dimka remembered coming here as a boy. His grandmother had always given him belev candy, a traditional Russian kind of apple confection. His mouth watered: he would have liked a piece right then.
Katerina seemed a little unsteady in her high-heeled shoes. Grigori was sitting in the easy chair opposite the television, as always, though the set was off. He had already opened a bottle of vodka. Perhaps that was why Grandmother was wobbling a little.
‘Birthday greetings, Grandfather,’ said Dimka.
‘Have a drink,’ said Grigori.
Dimka had to be careful. He would be no use to Khrushchev drunk. He knocked back the vodka Grigori gave him, then put the glass down out of Grandfather’s reach, to avoid a refill.
Dimka’s mother was already there, helping Katerina. She came out of the kitchen carrying a plate of crackers with red caviar. Anya had not inherited Katerina’s stylishness. She always looked comfortably dumpy, whatever she wore.
She kissed Nina.
The doorbell rang and Uncle Volodya came in with his family. He was forty-eight, and his close-cropped hair was now grey. He was in uniform: he might be called to duty at any moment. Aunt Zoya followed him, approaching fifty but still a pale Russian goddess. Behind her trailed their two teenagers, Dimka’s cousins, Kotya and Galina.
Dimka introduced Nina. Both Volodya and Zoya greeted her warmly.
‘Now we’re all here!’ said Katerina.
Dimka looked around: at the old couple who had started it all; at his plain mother and her handsome blue-eyed brother; at his beautiful aunt and his teenage cousins; and at the voluptuous redhead he was going to marry. This was his family. And it was the most precious part of everything that would be lost today if his fears came true. They all lived within a mile of the Kremlin. If the Americans fired their nuclear weapons at Moscow tonight, the people in this room would all be lying dead in the morning, their brains boiled, their bodies crushed, their skin burned black. And the only consolation was that he would not have to mourn them because he, too, would be dead.
They all drank to Grigori’s birthday.
‘I wish my little brother, Lev, could be with us,’ said Grigori.
‘And Tania,’ said Anya.
Volodya said: ‘Lev Peshkov is not so little any more, Father. He’s sixty-seven years old and a millionaire in America.’
‘I wonder if he has grandchildren in America.’
‘Not in America, no,’ said Volodya. Red Army Intelligence could find out this sort of thing easily, Dimka knew. ‘Lev’s illegitimate son, Greg, the senator, is a bachelor. But his legitimate daughter, Daisy, who lives in London, has two adolescents, a boy and a girl, about the same age as Kotya and Galina.’
‘So I have British great-nephews,’ Grigori said, musing in a pleased tone. ‘What are they called? John and Bill, perhaps.’ The others laughed at the odd sounds of the English names.
‘David and Evie,’ said Volodya.
‘You know, I was supposed to be the one to go to America,’ Grigori said. ‘But at the last minute I had to give my ticket to Lev.’ He went into a reminiscence. His family had heard the story before, but they listened again, happy to indulge him on his birthday.
After a moment, Volodya took Dimka aside and said: ‘How was this morning’s Presidium?’
‘They ordered Pliyev not to fire nuclear weapons without specific orders from the Kremlin.’
Volodya grunted disparagingly. ‘Waste of time.’
Dimka was surprised. ‘Why?’
‘It will make no difference.’
‘Are you saying Pliyev will disobey orders?’
‘I think any commander would. You haven’t been in battle, have you?’ Volodya gave Dimka a searching look with his intense blue eyes. ‘When you’re under attack, fighting for your life, you defend yourself with any means that come to hand. It’s visceral, you can’t help it. If the Americans invade Cuba, our forces there will throw everything at them, regardless of orders from Moscow.’
‘Shit,’ said Dimka. All this morning’s efforts had been wasted, if Volodya was right.
Grandfather’s story wound down, and Nina touched Dimka’s arm. ‘Now might be a good moment.’
Dimka addressed the assembled family. ‘Now that we have honoured my grandfather’s birthday, I have an announcement. Quiet, please.’ He waited for the teenagers to stop talking. ‘I have asked Nina to marry me, and she has accepted.’
They all cheered.
Another round of vodka was poured, but Dimka managed not to drink this one.
Anya kissed Dimka. ‘Well done, my son,’ she said. ‘She didn’t want to get married – until she met you!’
‘Maybe I’ll have great-grandchildren soon!’ said Grigori, and he winked broadly at Nina.
Volodya said: ‘Father, don’t embarrass the poor girl.’
‘Embarrass? Rubbish. Nina and I are friends.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Katerina, who was now drunk. ‘She’s already pregnant.’
Volodya protested: ‘Mother!’
Katerina shrugged. ‘A woman can tell.’
So that was why Grandmother looked Nina up and down so hard when we arrived, Dimka thought. He saw a glance pass between Volodya and Zoya: Volodya raised an eyebrow, Zoya gave a slight nod, and Volodya made a momentary ‘Oh!’ with his mouth.
Anya looked shocked. She said to Nina: ‘But you told me . . .’
Dimka said: ‘I know. We thought Nina couldn’t have children. But the doctors were wrong!’
Grigori raised yet another glass. ‘Hooray for wrong doctors! I want a boy, Nina – a great-grandson to carry on the Peshkov-Dvorkin line!’
Nina smiled. ‘I’ll do my best, Grigori Sergeivitch.’
Anya still looked troubled. ‘The doctors made a mistake?’
‘You know doctors, they never admit to mistakes,’ said Nina. ‘They say it’s a miracle.’
‘I just hope I live to see my grandchild,’ said Grigori. ‘Damn the Americans to hell.’ He drank.
Kotya, the sixteen-year-old boy, spoke up. ‘Why do the Americans have more missiles than we do?’
Zoya answered: ‘When we scientists began to work on nuclear energy, back in 1940, and we told the government that it could be used to create a super-powerful bomb, Stalin did not believe us. So the West got ahead of the USSR, and they’re still ahead. That’s what happens when governments don’t listen to scientists.’
Volodya added: ‘But don’t repeat what your mother says when you go to school, okay?’
Anya said: ‘Who cares? Stalin killed half of us, now Khrushchev will kill the other half.’
‘Anya!’ protested Volodya. ‘Not in front of the children!’
‘I feel for Tania,’ said Anya, ignoring her brother’s remonstrances. ‘Over there in Cuba, waiting for the Americans to attack.’ She began to weep. ‘I wish I could have seen my pretty little girl again,’ she said, sudden tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Just once more, before we die.’
*
By Saturday morning the US was ready to attack Cuba.
Larry Mawhinney gave George the details in the basement Situation Room at the White House. President Kennedy called this area a pigpen, because he found it cramped; but he had been raised in grand, spacious homes: the suite was larger than George’s apartment.
According to Mawhinney, the air force had 576 planes at five different bases ready for the air strike that would turn Cuba into a smoking wasteland. The army had mobilized 150,000 troops for the invasion that would follow. The navy had twenty-six destroyers and three aircraft carriers circling the island nation. Mawhinney said all this proudly, as if it were his own personal achievement.
George thought Mawhinney was too glib. ‘None of that will be any use against nuclear missiles,’ George said.
‘Fortunately, we have nukes of our own,’ Mawhinney replied.
Like that made everything all right.
‘How do we fire them, exactly?’ said George. ‘I mean, what does the President do, physically?’
‘He has to call the Joint War Room at the Pentagon. His phone in the Oval Office has a red button that connects him instantly.’
‘And what would he say?’
‘He has a black leather briefcase containing a set of codes that he has to use. The briefcase goes everywhere with him.’
‘And then?’
‘It’s automatic. There’s a programme called the Single Integrated Operational Plan. Our bombers and missiles take off with about three thousand nuclear weapons, and head for a thousand targets in the Communist bloc.’ Mawhinney made a flattening motion with his hand. ‘Wipe them out,’ he said with relish.
George was not buying this attitude. ‘And they do the same to us.’