Winter of the World

Volodya said: ‘What kind of science do you do, Zoya?’

With evident regret she stopped eating to answer. ‘I’m a physicist,’ she said. ‘We’re trying to understand the atom: what its components are, what holds them together.’

‘Is that interesting?’

‘Completely fascinating.’ She put down her fork. ‘We’re finding out what the universe is really made of. There’s nothing so exciting.’ Her eyes lit up. Apparently physics was the one thing that could distract her from her dinner.

Ilya spoke up for the first time. ‘Ah, but how does all this theoretical stuff help the revolution?’

Zoya’s eyes blazed anger, and Volodya liked her even more. ‘Some comrades make the mistake of undervaluing pure science, preferring practical research,’ she said. ‘But technical developments, such as improved aircraft, are ultimately based on theoretical advances.’

Volodya concealed a grin. Ilya had been demolished with one casual swipe.

But Zoya had not finished. ‘This is why I wanted to talk to you, sir,’ she said to Grigori. ‘We physicists read all the scientific journals published in the West – they foolishly reveal their results to the whole world. And lately we have realized that they are making alarming forward leaps in their understanding of atomic physics. Soviet science is in grave danger of falling behind. I wonder if Comrade Stalin is aware of this.’

The room went quiet. The merest hint of a criticism of Stalin was dangerous. ‘He knows most things,’ Grigori said.

‘Of course,’ Zoya said automatically. ‘But perhaps there are times when loyal comrades such as yourself need to draw important matters to his attention.’

‘Yes, that’s true.’

Ilya said: ‘Undoubtedly Comrade Stalin believes that science should be consistent with Marxist-Leninist ideology.’

Volodya saw a flash of defiance in Zoya’s eyes, but she dropped her gaze and said humbly: ‘There can be no question that he is right. We scientists must clearly redouble our efforts.’

This was horseshit, and everyone in the room knew it, but no one would say so. The proprieties had to be observed.

‘Indeed,’ said Grigori. ‘Nevertheless, I will mention it next time I get a chance to talk to the Comrade General Secretary of the Party. He may wish to look into it further.’

‘I hope so,’ said Zoya. ‘We want to be ahead of the West.’

‘And how about after work, Zoya?’ said Grigori cheerily. ‘Do you have a boyfriend, a fiancé perhaps?’

Anya protested: ‘Dad! That’s none of our business.’

Zoya did not seem to mind. ‘No fiancé,’ she said mildly. ‘No boyfriend.’

‘As bad as my son, Volodya! He, too, is single. He is twenty-three years old, well educated, tall and handsome – yet he has no fiancée!’

Volodya squirmed at the heavy-handedness of this hint.

‘Hard to believe,’ Zoya said, and as she glanced at Volodya he saw a gleam of humour in her eyes.

Katerina put a hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Enough,’ she said. ‘Stop embarrassing the poor girl.’

The doorbell rang.

‘Again?’ said Grigori.

‘This time I have no idea who it might be,’ said Katerina as she left the kitchen.

She returned with Volodya’s boss, Major Lemitov.

Startled, Volodya jumped to his feet. ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said. ‘This is my father, Grigori Peshkov. Dad, may I present Major Lemitov?’

Lemitov saluted smartly.

Grigori said: ‘At ease, Lemitov. Sit down and have some chicken. Has my son done something wrong?’

That was precisely the thought that was making Volodya’s hands shake.

‘No, sir – rather the contrary. But . . . I was hoping for a private word with you and him.’

Volodya relaxed a little. Perhaps he was not in trouble after all.

‘Well, we’ve just about finished dinner,’ Grigori said, standing up. ‘Let’s go into my study.’

Lemitov looked at Ilya. ‘Aren’t you with the NKVD?’ he said.

‘And proud of it. Dvorkin is the name.’

‘Oh! You tried to arrest Volodya this afternoon.’

‘I thought he was behaving like a spy. I was right, wasn’t I?’

‘You must learn to arrest enemy spies, not our own.’ Lemitov went out.

Volodya grinned. That was the second time Dvorkin had been put down.

Volodya, Grigori and Lemitov crossed the hallway. The study was a small room, sparsely furnished. Grigori took the only easy chair. Lemitov sat at a small table. Volodya closed the door and remained standing.

Lemitov said to Volodya: ‘Does your comrade father know about this afternoon’s message from Berlin?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You’d better tell him.’

Volodya related the story of the spies in Spain. His father was delighted. ‘Well done!’ he said. ‘Of course this might be disinformation, but I doubt it: the Nazis aren’t that imaginative. However, we are. We can arrest the spies and use their radios to send misleading messages to the right-wing rebels.’

Volodya had not thought of that. Dad might play the fool with Zoya, he thought, but he still has a sharp mind for intelligence work.

‘Exactly,’ said Lemitov.

Grigori said to Volodya: ‘Your school friend, Werner, is a brave man.’ He turned back to Lemitov. ‘How do you plan to handle this?’