Normally, the guards stole most of the consignment and sold it. The prisoners were left with plain gruel in the morning and turnip soup at night. Food rarely went bad in Siberia, where the ambient temperature was usually below freezing--but Communism could work miracles. So when, occasionally, the meat was crawling with maggots and the fat rancid, the cook threw it all into the pot, and the prisoners rejoiced. Soso gobbled down kasha that was oily with stinking lard, and longed for more.
Tanya was nauseated, but at the same time she had to read on.
With each page she was more impressed. The story was about an unusual relationship between two prisoners, one an intellectual dissident, the other an uneducated gangster. Vasili had a simple, direct style that was remarkably effective. Life in the camp was described in brutally vivid language. But there was more than just description. Perhaps because of his experience in radio drama, Vasili knew how to keep a story moving, and Tanya found that her interest never flagged.
The fictional camp was located in a forest of Siberian larch, and its work was chopping down the trees. There were no safety rules and no protective clothing or equipment, so accidents were frequent. Tanya particularly noted an episode in which the gangster severed an artery in his arm with a saw and was saved by the intellectual, who tied a tourniquet around his arm. Was that how Vasili had saved the life of the messenger who had brought his manuscript to Moscow from Siberia?
Tanya read the story twice. It was almost like talking to Vasili: the phrasing was familiar from a hundred discussions and arguments, and she recognized the kinds of things he found funny or dramatic or ironic. It made her heart ache with missing him.
Now that she knew Vasili was alive, she had to find out why he had not returned to Moscow. The story contained no clue to that. But Tanya knew someone who could find out almost anything: her brother.
She put the manuscript in the drawer of her bedside table. She left the bedroom and said to her mother: "I have to go and see Dimka--I won't be long." She went down in the elevator to the floor on which her brother lived.
The door was opened by his wife, Nina, nine months pregnant. "You look well!" Tanya said.
It was not true. Nina was long past the stage when people said a pregnant woman looked "blooming." She was huge, her breasts pendulous, her belly stretched taut. Her fair skin was pale under the freckles, and her red-brown hair was greasy. She looked older than twenty-nine. "Come in," she said in a tired voice.
Dimka was watching the news. He turned off the television, kissed Tanya, and offered her a beer.
Nina's mother, Masha, was there, having come from Perm by train to help her daughter with the baby. Masha was a small, prematurely wrinkled peasant woman dressed in black, visibly proud of her citified daughter in her swanky apartment. Tanya had been surprised when she first met Masha, having previously got the impression that Nina's mother was a schoolteacher; but it turned out that she merely worked in the village school, cleaning it in fact. Nina had pretended that her parents were somewhat higher in status--a practice so common as to be almost universal, Tanya supposed.
They talked about Nina's pregnancy. Tanya wondered how to get Dimka alone. There was no way she was going to talk about Vasili in front of Nina or her mother. Instinctively she mistrusted her brother's wife.
Why did she feel that so strongly, she wondered guiltily? It was because of the pregnancy, she decided. Nina was not intellectual, but she was clever: not the type to suffer an accidental pregnancy. Tanya had a suspicion, never voiced, that Nina had manipulated Dimka into the marriage. Tanya knew that her brother was sophisticated and savvy about almost everything: he was naive and romantic only about women. Why would Nina have wanted to entrap him? Because the Dvorkins were an elite family, and Nina was ambitious?
Don't be such a bitch, Tanya told herself.
She made small talk for half an hour, then got up to go.
There was nothing supernatural about the twins' relationship, but they knew each other so well that each could usually guess what the other was thinking, and Dimka intuited that Tanya had not come to talk about Nina's pregnancy. Now he stood up too. "I've got to take out the garbage," he said. "Give me a hand, would you, Tanya?"
They went down in the elevator, each carrying a bucket of rubbish. When they were outside, at the back of the building, with no one else around, Dimka said: "What is it?"
"Vasili Yenkov's sentence is up, but he hasn't come back to Moscow."
Dimka's face hardened. He loved Tanya, she knew, but he disagreed with her politics. "Yenkov did his best to undermine the government I work for. Why would I care what happens to him?"
"He believes in freedom and justice, as you do."
"That kind of subversive activity just gives the hard-liners an excuse to resist reform."
Tanya knew she was defending herself, as well as Vasili. "If it were not for people like Vasili, the hard-liners would say everything was all right, and there would be no pressure for change. How would anyone know that they killed Ustin Bodian, for example?"
"Bodian died of pneumonia."
"Dimka, that's not worthy of you. He died of neglect, and you know it."
"True." Dimka looked chastened. In a softer voice he said: "Are you in love with Vasili Yenkov?"
"No. I like him. He's funny and smart and brave. But he's the kind of man that needs a succession of young girls."
"Or he was. There are no nymphets in a prison camp."
"Anyway, he is a friend, and he's served his sentence."
"The world is full of injustice."
"I want to know what has happened to him, and you can find out for me. If you will."
Dimka sighed. "What about my career? In the Kremlin, compassion for dissidents unjustly treated is not considered admirable."
Tanya's hopes rose. He was weakening. "Please. It means a lot to me."
"I can't make any promises."
"Just do your best."
"All right."
Tanya felt overcome by gratitude, and kissed his cheek. "You're a good brother," she said. "Thank you."
*
Just as the Eskimos were said to have numerous different words for snow, so the citizens of Moscow had many phrases for the black market. Everything other than life's most basic necessities had to be bought "on the left." Many such purchases were straightforwardly criminal: you found a man who smuggled blue jeans from the West and you paid him an enormous price. Others were neither legal nor illegal. To buy a radio or a rug, you might have to put your name down on a waiting list; but you could leap to the top of the list "through pull," by being a person of influence and having the power to return the favor; or "through friends," by having a relative or pal in a position to manipulate the list. So widespread was queue-jumping that most Muscovites believed no one ever got to the top of a list just by waiting.
One day Natalya Smotrov asked Dimka to go with her to buy something on the black market. "Normally I'd ask Nik," she said. Nikolai was her husband. "But it's a present for his birthday, and I want it to be a surprise."
Dimka knew little about Natalya's life outside the Kremlin. She was married with no children, but that was about the extent of his knowledge. Kremlin apparatchiks were part of the Soviet elite, but Natalya's Mercedes and her imported perfume indicated some other source of privilege and money. However, if there was a Nikolai Smotrov in the upper reaches of the Communist hierarchy, Dimka had never heard of him.
Dimka asked: "What are you going to give him?"
"A tape recorder. He wants a Grundig--that's a German brand."
Only on the black market could a Soviet citizen buy a German tape recorder. Dimka wondered how Natalya could afford such an expensive gift. "Where are you going to find one?" he asked.
"There's a guy called Max at the Central Market." This bazaar, in Sadovaya-Samotyochnaya, was a lawful alternative to state stores. Produce from private gardens was sold at higher prices. Instead of long queues and unattractive displays, there were mountains of
colorful vegetables--for those who could afford them. And the sale of legitimate produce masked even more profitable illegal business at many of the stalls.
Dimka understood why Natalya wanted company. Some of the men who did this kind of work were thugs, and a woman had reason to be wary.
Dimka hoped that was her only motive. He did not want to be led into temptation. He felt close to Nina just now, her time being near. They had not had sex for a couple of months, which made him more vulnerable to Natalya's charms. But that paled beside the drama of pregnancy. The last thing Dimka wanted was a dalliance with Natalya. But he could hardly refuse her this simple favor.
They went in the lunch hour. Natalya drove Dimka to the market in her ancient Mercedes. Despite its age it was fast and comfortable. How did she get parts for it, he wondered?
On the way she asked him about Nina. "The baby is due any day," he said.
"Let me know if you need baby supplies," Natalya said. "Nik's sister has a three-year-old who no longer needs feeding bottles and suchlike."
Dimka was surprised. Baby feeding bottles were a luxury more rare than tape recorders. "Thank you, I will."
They parked and walked through the market to a shop selling secondhand furniture. This was a semi-legal business. People were allowed to sell their own possessions, but it was against the law to be a middleman, which made the trade cumbersome and inefficient. To Dimka, the difficulties of imposing such Communist rules illustrated the practical necessity of many capitalist practices--hence the need for liberalization.
Max was a heavy man in his thirties dressed American style in blue jeans and a white T-shirt. He sat at a pine kitchen table drinking tea and smoking. He was surrounded by cheap used couches and cabinets and beds, mostly elderly and damaged. "What do you want?" he said brusquely.
"I spoke to you last Wednesday about a Grundig tape recorder," said Natalya. "You said to come back in a week."
"Tape recorders are difficult to get hold of," he said.
Dimka intervened. "Don't piss about, Max," he said, making his voice as harsh and contemptuous as Max's. "Have you got one or not?"
Men such as Max considered it a sign of weakness to give a direct answer to a simple question. He said: "You'll have to pay in American dollars."
Natalya said: "I agreed to your price. I've brought exactly that much. No more."
"Show me the money."
Natalya took a wad of American bills from the pocket of her dress.
Max held out his hand.
Dimka took Natalya's wrist to prevent her handing over the money prematurely. He said: "Where is the tape recorder?"
Max spoke over his shoulder. "Josef!"
There was a movement in the back room. "Yes?"
"Tape recorder."
"Yes."
Josef came out carrying a plain cardboard box. He was a younger man, maybe nineteen, with a cigarette dangling from his lip. Although small, he was muscular. He put the box down on a table. "It's heavy," he said. "Have you got a car?"
"Around the corner."
Natalya counted out the cash.
Max said: "It cost me more than I expected."
"I don't have any more money," Natalya said.
Max picked up the bills and counted them. "All right," he said resentfully. "It's yours." He stood up and stuffed the wad into the pocket of his jeans. "Josef will carry it to your car." He went into the back room.
Josef grasped the box to pick it up.
Dimka said: "Just a minute."
Josef said: "What? I haven't got time to waste."
"Open the box," said Dimka.
Josef took the weight of the box, ignoring him, but Dimka put his hand on it and leaned on it, making it impossible for Josef to lift it. Josef gave him a look of blazing fury, and for a moment Dimka wondered if there would be violence. Then Josef stood back and said: "Open the damn thing yourself."
The lid was stapled and taped. Dimka and Natalya got it open with some difficulty. Inside was a reel-to-reel tape recorder. The brand name was Magic Tone.
"This is not a Grundig," Natalya said.
"These are better than Grundigs," Josef said. "Nicer sound."
"I paid for a Grundig," she said. "This is a cheap Japanese imitation."
"You can't get Grundigs these days."
"Then I'll have the money back."
"You can't, not once you've opened the box."
"Until we opened the box, we didn't know you were trying to defraud us."
"Nobody defrauded you. You wanted a tape recorder."
Dimka said: "Bugger this." He went to the door of the back room.
Josef said: "You can't go in there!"
Dimka ignored him and went in. The room was full of cardboard boxes. A few were open, showing television sets, record players, and radios, all foreign brands. But Max was not there. Dimka saw a back door.
He returned to the front room. "Max has run off with your money," he told Natalya.
Josef said: "He's a busy man. He has a lot of customers."
"Don't be so fucking stupid," Dimka said to him. "Max is a thief, and so are you."
Josef pointed a finger close to Dimka's face. "Don't you call me stupid," he said in a threatening tone.
"Give her the money back," Dimka said. "Before you get into real trouble."
Josef grinned. "What are you going to do--call the police?"
They could not do that. They were engaged in an illegal transaction. And the police would probably arrest Dimka and Natalya but not Josef and Max, who were undoubtedly paying bribes to protect their business.
"There's nothing we can do," Natalya said. "Let's go."
Josef said: "Take your tape recorder."
"No, thanks," Natalya said. "It's not what I want." She went to the door.
Dimka said. "We're coming back--for the money."
Josef laughed. "What are you going to do?"
"You'll see," Dimka said weakly, and he followed Natalya out.
He was seething with frustration as Natalya drove back to the Kremlin. "I'm going to get your money back," he said to her.
"Please don't," she said. "Those men are dangerous. I don't want you to get hurt. Just leave it."
He was not going to leave it, but he said no more.
When he got to his office, the KGB file on Vasili Yenkov was on his desk.
It was not thick. Yenkov was a script editor who had never been in trouble nor even under suspicion until the day in May 1961 when he had been arrested carrying five copies of a subversive news sheet called Dissidence. Under interrogation he claimed he had been handed a dozen copies a few minutes earlier and had begun to pass them out under a sudden impulse of compassion for the opera singer who had pneumonia. A thorough search of his apartment had revealed nothing to contradict his story. His typewriter did not match the one used to produce the newsletter. With electrical terminals attached to his lips and his fingertips, he had given the names of other subversives, but innocent and guilty people alike did that under torture. As was usual, some of the people named had been impeccable Communist Party members, while others the KGB had failed to trace. On balance, the secret police were inclined to believe Yenkov was not the illegal publisher of Dissidence.
Dimka had to admire the grit of a man who could maintain a lie under KGB interrogation. Yenkov had protected Tanya even while suffering agonizing torture. Perhaps he deserved his freedom.
Dimka knew the truth that Yenkov had kept hidden. On the night of Yenkov's arrest, Dimka had driven Tanya on his motorcycle to Yenkov's apartment, where she had picked up a typewriter, undoubtedly the machine used to produce Dissidence. Dimka had hurled it into the Moskva River half an hour later. Typewriters did not float. He and Tanya had saved Yenkov from a longer sentence.
Yenkov was no longer at the logging camp in the larch forest, according to the file. Someone had discovered that he had a little technical expertise. His first job at Radio Moscow had been studio production assistant, so he knew about mic
rophones and electrical connections. The shortage of technicians in Siberia was so chronic that this had been enough to get him a job as an electrician in a power station.
He had probably been pleased, at first, to move to inside work at which he did not have to risk losing a limb to a careless axe. But there was a downside. The authorities were reluctant to permit a competent technician to leave Siberia. When his sentence was up, he had applied in the usual way for a travel visa to return to Moscow. And his application had been refused. That left him no choice but to continue in his job. He was stuck.
It was unjust; but injustice was everywhere, as Dimka had pointed out to Tanya.
Dimka studied the photograph in the file. Yenkov looked like a movie star, with a sensual face, fleshy lips, black eyebrows, and thick dark hair. But there seemed more to him than that. A faint expression of wry amusement around the corners of his eyes suggested that he did not take himself too seriously. It would not be surprising if Tanya were in love with this man, despite her denials.
Anyway, Dimka would try to get him released for her sake.
He would speak to Khrushchev about the case. However, he needed to wait until the boss was in a good mood. He put the file in his desk drawer.
He did not get an opportunity that afternoon. Khrushchev left early, and Dimka was getting ready to go home when Natalya put her head around his door. "Come for a drink," she said. "We need one after our horrible experience in the Central Market."
Dimka hesitated. "I need to get home to Nina. Her time is near."
"Just a quick one."
"Okay." He screwed the cap onto his fountain pen and spoke to his secretary. "We can go, Vera."
"I've got a few more things to do," she said. She was conscientious.
The Riverside Bar was patronized by the young Kremlin elite, so it was not as dismal as the average Moscow drinking hole. The chairs were comfortable, the snacks were edible, and for the better-paid apparatchik with exotic tastes there were bottles of Scotch and bourbon behind the bar. Tonight it was crowded with people whom Dimka and Natalya knew, mostly aides like themselves. Someone thrust a glass of beer into Dimka's hand and he drank gratefully. The mood was boisterous. Boris Kozlov, a Khrushchev aide like Dimka, told a risky joke. "Everybody! What will happen when Communism comes to Saudi Arabia?"
They all cheered and begged him to tell them.
"After a while there will be a shortage of sand!"