The older patrolman came over and said: "Better take 'em, Roy."
"If you say so," said the driver.
George and Maria boarded the ambulance.
As they drove away, George looked back at the bus. Nothing remained but a drift of smoke and a blackened hulk, with a row of scorched roof struts sticking up like the ribs of a martyr burned at the stake.
CHAPTER FIVE
Tanya 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 aluminum and there was no soundproofing. The journey took eight hours with one refueling stop. Because Moscow was six hours behind Yakutsk, Tanya 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, Dmitri, 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 Tanya's father a quarter of a century ago: Dimka's black raincoat and Mother's brown tweed, left at home in the warm weather. Tanya 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 labor, but the region needed geologists, engineers, surveyors, architects, chemists, and managers. However, Tanya 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 humor about coping with life at sub-zero temperatures.
Halfway through the morning Tanya'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 Doctor Zhivago he had obtained while singing in Italy. He was now in a labor camp.
Tanya'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.
Tanya 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 Tanya'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.
Tanya 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, "Tanya 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 Tanya. "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. Tanya 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."
Tanya 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." Tanya 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 Tanya. 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.
Tanya 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 afterward. 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 anyo
ne 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 blond girl of about eighteen stood there. Vasili was behind her. Tanya cursed inwardly. It was too late for her to run away or pretend she was going to a different apartment.
The blonde gave Tanya 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 Tanya, 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. Tanya 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 Gorky's first play, The Philistines. His gray cat, Mademoiselle, was sleeping on the couch. Tanya pushed her off and sat down. "Who was that little tart?" she said.
"That was my mother."
Tanya 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.
"I am tired. But Ustin Bodian is dying."
"Hell. What of?"
"Pneumonia."
Tanya did not know Bodian personally, but she had interviewed him, before he got into trouble. As well as being extraordinarily talented, he was a warm and kindhearted man. A Soviet artist admired all over the world, he had lived a life of great privilege, but he was still able to get publicly angry about injustice done to people less fortunate than himself--which was why they had sent him to Siberia.
Vasili said: "Are they still making him work?"
Tanya shook her head. "He can't. But they won't send him to hospital. He just lies on his bunk all day, getting worse."
"Did you see him?"
"Hell, no. Asking about him was dangerous enough. If I'd gone to the prison camp they would have kept me there."
Vasili handed her tea and sugar. "Is he getting any medical treatment at all?"
"No."
"Did you get any idea of how long he might have to live?"
Tanya shook her head. "You now know everything I know."
"We have to spread this news."
Tanya agreed. "The only way to save his life is to publicize his illness and hope that the government will have the grace to be embarrassed."
"Shall we put out a special edition?"
"Yes," said Tanya. "Today."
Vasili and Tanya together produced an illegal news sheet called Dissidence. They reported on censorship, demonstrations, trials, and political prisoners. In his office at Radio Moscow, Vasili had his own stencil duplicator, normally used for making multiple copies of scripts. Secretly he printed fifty copies of each issue of Dissidence. Most of the people who received one made more copies on their own typewriters, or even by hand, and circulation mushroomed. This self-publishing system was called samizdat in Russian and was widespread: whole novels had been distributed the same way.
"I'll write it." Tanya went to the cupboard and pulled out a large cardboard box full of dry cat food. Pushing her hands into the pellets, she drew out a typewriter in a cover. This was the one they used for Dissidence.
Typing was as unique as handwriting. Every machine had its own characteristics. The letters were never perfectly aligned: some were a little raised, some off center. Individual letters became worn or damaged in distinctive ways. In consequence, police experts could match a typewriter to its product. If Dissidence had been typed on the same machine as Vasili's scripts, someone might have noticed. So Vasili had stolen an old machine from the scheduling department, brought it home, and buried it in the cat's food to hide it from casual observation. A determined search would find it, but if there should be a determined search Vasili would be finished anyway.
Also in the box were sheets of the special waxed paper used in the duplicating machine. The typewriter had no ribbon: instead, its letters pierced the paper, and the duplicator worked by forcing ink through the letter-shaped holes.
Tanya wrote a report on Bodian, saying that General Secretary Nikita Khrushchev would be personally responsible if one of the USSR's greatest tenors died in a prison camp. She recapitulated the main points of Bodian's trial for anti-Soviet activity, including his impassioned defense of artistic freedom. To divert suspicion away from herself, she misleadingly credited the information about Bodian's illness to an imaginary opera lover in the KGB.
When she had done, she handed two sheets of stencil paper to Vasili. "I've made it concise," she said.
"Concision is the sister of talent. Chekov said that." He read the report slowly, then nodded approval. "I'll go in to Radio Moscow now and make copies," he said. "Then we should take them to Mayakovsky Square."
Tanya was not surprised, but she was uneasy. "Is it safe?"
"Of course not. It's a cultural event that isn't organized by the government. Which is why it suits our purpose."
Earlier in the year, young Muscovites had started to gather informally around the statue of Bolshevik poet Vladimir Mayakovsky. Some would read poems aloud, attracting more people. A permanent rolling poetry festival had come into being, and some of the works declaimed from the monument were obliquely critical of the government.
Such a phenomenon would have lasted ten minutes under Stalin, but Khrushchev was a reformer. His program included a limited degree of cultural tolerance, and so far no action had been taken against the poetry readings. But liberalization proceeded by two steps forward and one back. Tanya's brother said it depended on whether Khrushchev was doing well, and felt strong politically, or was suffering setbacks, and feared a coup by his conservative enemies within the Kremlin. Whatever the reason, there was no predicting what the authorities would do.
Tanya was too tired to think about this, and she guessed that any alternative location would be as dangerous. "While you're at the radio station, I'm going to sleep."
She went into the bedroom. The sheets were rumpled: she guessed Vasili and Varvara had spent the morning in bed. She pulled the coverlet over the top, removed her boots, and stretched out.
Her body was tired but her mind was busy. She was afraid, but she still wanted to go to Mayakovsky Square. Dissidence was an important publication, despite its amateurish production and small circulation. It proved the Communist government was not all-powerful. It showed dissidents they were not alone. Religious leaders struggling against persecution read about folksingers arrested for protest songs, and vice versa. Instead of feeling like a single voice in a monolithic society, the dissident realized that he or she was part of a great network, thousands of people who wanted a government that was different and better.
And it could save the life of Ustin Bodian.
At last Tanya fell asleep.
She was awakened by someone stroking her cheek. She opened her eyes to see Vasili stretched out bes
ide her. "Get lost," she said.
"It's my bed."
She sat upright. "I'm twenty-two--far too old to interest you."
"For you, I'll make an exception."
"When I want to join a harem, I'll let you know."
"I'd give up all the others for you."
"No, you wouldn't."
"I would, really."
"For five minutes, maybe."
"Forever."
"Do it for six months, and I'll reconsider."
"Six months?"
"See? If you can't be chaste for half a year, how can you promise forever? What the hell time is it?"
"You slept all afternoon. Don't get up. I'll just take off my clothes and slip into bed with you."
Tanya stood up. "We have to leave now."
Vasili gave up. He probably had not been serious. He felt compelled to proposition young women. Having gone through the motions he would now forget about it, for a while at least. He handed her a small bundle of about twenty-five sheets of paper, printed on both sides with slightly blurred letters: copies of the new issue of Dissidence. He wound a red cotton scarf around his neck, despite the fine weather. It made him look artistic. "Let's go, then," he said.
Tanya made him wait while she went to the bathroom. The face in the mirror looked at her with an intense blue-eyed stare framed by pale-blond hair in a short gamine crop. She put on sunglasses to hide her eyes and tied a nondescript brown scarf around her hair. Now she could have been any youngish woman.
She went into the kitchen, ignoring Vasili's impatient foot-tapping, and drew a glass of water from the tap. She drank it all, then said: "I'm ready."
They walked to the Metro station. The train was crowded with workers heading home. They went to Mayakovsky Station on the Garden Ring orbital road. They would not linger here: as soon as they had given out all fifty copies of their news sheet they would leave. "If there should be any trouble," Vasili said, "just remember, we don't know each other." They separated and emerged aboveground a minute apart. The sun was low and the summer day was cooling.
Vladimir Mayakovsky had been a poet of international stature as well as a Bolshevik, and the Soviet Union was proud of him. His heroic statue stood twenty feet high in the middle of the square named after him. Several hundred people milled about on the grass, mostly young, some dressed in vaguely Western fashions, blue jeans and roll-neck sweaters. A boy in a cap was selling his own novel, carbon-copy pages hole-punched and tied with string. It was called Growing Up Backward. A long-haired girl carried a guitar but made no attempt to play it: perhaps it was an accessory, like a handbag. There was only one uniformed cop, but the secret policemen were comically obvious, wearing leather jackets in the mild air to conceal their guns. Tanya avoided their eyes, though: they were not that funny.