‘How many Vietcong casualties?’
‘Only one body was left behind in the compound.’
Dimka shook his head in amazement. ‘You’ve got to give it to the Vietnamese, they’re terrific fighters.’
‘The Vietcong are. The South Vietnamese Army is hopeless. That’s why they need the Americans to fight for them.’
Dimka frowned. ‘Isn’t there some American big shot in South Vietnam right now?’
‘McGeorge Bundy, National Security Advisor, one of the worst of the capitalist-imperialist warmongers.’
‘He’ll be on the phone to President Johnson right now.’
‘Yes,’ said Natalya. ‘I wonder what he’s saying.’
She had her answer later the same day.
American planes from the aircraft carrier USS
Ranger
bombed an army camp called Dong Hoi on the coast of North Vietnam. It was the first time the Americans had bombed the north, and began a new phase in the conflict.
Dimka watched in despair as Kosygin’s position crumbled, bit by bit, during the course of the day.
After the bombing, American aggression was condemned by Communist and non-aligned countries around the world.
Third World leaders now expected Moscow to come to the aid of Vietnam, a Communist country being directly attacked by American imperialism.
Kosygin did not want to escalate the Vietnam War, and the Kremlin could not afford to give massive military aid to Ho Chi Minh, but that was exactly what they now did.
They had no choice. If they drew back the Chinese would step in, eager to supplant the USSR as the mighty friend of small Communist countries. The position of the Soviet Union as defender of world Communism was at stake, and everyone knew it.
All talk of peaceful coexistence was forgotten.
Dimka and Natalya were thrown into gloom, as was the entire Soviet delegation. Their negotiating position with the Vietnamese was fatally undermined. Kosygin had no cards to play: he had to grant everything Ho Chi Minh asked for.
They remained in Hanoi three more days. Dimka and Natalya made love all night, but during the daytime all they did was make detailed notes of Pham An’s shopping list. Even before they left, a consignment of Soviet surface-to-air missiles was on its way.
Dimka and Natalya sat together on the plane home. Dimka dozed, delightfully recalling four humid nights of love under a lazy ceiling fan.
‘What are you smiling about?’ Natalya said.
He opened his eyes. ‘You know.’
She giggled. ‘Apart from that . . .’
‘What?’
‘When you review this trip in your mind, don’t you get a feeling . . . ?’
‘That we were totally managed and exploited? Yes, from the first day.’
‘In fact, that Ho Chi Minh deftly manipulated the two most powerful countries in the world, and ended up getting everything he wanted.’
‘Yes,’ said Dimka. ‘That’s exactly the feeling I get.’
* * *
Tania went to the airport with Vasili’s subversive typescript in her suitcase. She was scared.
She had done dangerous things before. She had published a seditious newspaper; she had been arrested in Mayakovsky Square and dragged off to the notorious basement of the KGB’s Lubyanka building; and she had made contact with a dissident in Siberia. But this was the most frightening.
Communicating with the West was a crime of a higher order. She was taking Vasili’s typescript to Leipzig, where she hoped to place it with a Western publisher.
The news-sheet that she and Vasili had published had been distributed only in the USSR. The authorities would be much angrier about dissident material that found its way to the West. Those responsible would be considered not just rebels but traitors.
Thinking about the danger, sitting in the back of the taxi, she felt nauseated by fear, and clamped her hand over her mouth in a panic until the sensation faded.
On arrival, she almost told the driver to turn around and take her home. Then she remembered Vasili in Siberia, hungry and cold, and she steeled her nerve and carried her case into the terminal.
The Siberia trip had changed her. Before, she had thought of Communism as a well-intentioned experiment that had failed and ought to be scrapped. Now, she saw it as a brutal tyranny whose leaders were evil. Every time she thought of Vasili, her heart was filled with hatred for the people who had done this to him. She even had trouble talking to her twin brother, who still hoped that Communism could be improved rather than abolished. She loved Dimka, but he was closing his eyes to reality. And she had realized that wherever there was cruel oppression – in the Deep South of the US, in British Northern Ireland, and in East Germany – there had to be many nice, ordinary people like her family who looked away from the grisly truth. But Tania would not be one of them. She was going to fight it to the end.
Whatever the risk.
At the desk she handed over her papers and placed her case on the scale. If she had believed in God, she would have prayed.
Check-in staff were all KGB. This one was a man in his thirties with the blue shadow of a heavy beard. Tania sometimes assessed people by imagining what they would be like to interview. This one would be assertive to the point of aggression, she thought, answering neutral questions as if they were hostile, constantly on the lookout for hidden implications and veiled accusations.
He looked hard at her face, comparing it with her photograph. She tried not to seem scared. However, she told herself, even innocent Soviet citizens were scared when KGB men looked at them.
He put her passport down on his desk and said: ‘Open the bag.’
There was no knowing why. They might do it because you appeared suspicious or because they had nothing better to do or because they liked pawing through women’s underwear. They did not have to give a reason.
Heart pounding, Tania opened her case.
The clerk knelt down and began to rifle through her things. It took him less than a minute to discover Vasili’s typescript. He took it out and read the title page:
Stalag: A Novel of the Nazi Concentration Camps
by Klaus Holstein.
This was fake, as was the contents list, the preface, and the prologue.
The clerk said: ‘What is this?’
‘A partial translation of an East German work. I’m going to the Leipzig Book Fair.’
‘Has this been approved?’
‘In East Germany, of course, otherwise it would not have been published.’
‘And in the Soviet Union?’
‘Not yet. Works may not be submitted for approval before they are finished, obviously.’
She tried to breathe normally as the clerk flicked through the pages.
‘These people have Russian names,’ he said.
‘There were many Russians in the Nazi camps, as you know,’ Tania said.
If her story were to be checked, it would fall flat in no time, she knew. If the clerk took the time to read more than the first few pages, he would see that the stories were not about the Nazis but about the Gulag; and then it would take the KGB only a few hours to learn that there was no East German book nor a publisher, at which point Tania would be taken back to that cellar in the Lubyanka.
He riffled the pages idly, as if wondering whether to make a fuss about this or not. Then there was a commotion at the next desk: a passenger was objecting to the confiscation of an icon. Tania’s clerk returned her papers with her boarding card and waved her away, then went to assist his colleague.
Her legs felt so weak that she feared she might not be able to walk away.
She recovered her strength and made it through the rest of the formalities. The plane was the familiar Tupolev Tu-104, this one configured for civilian passengers, a bit cramped with six seats abreast. The flight to Leipzig was a thousand miles, and took a little over three hours.
When Tania picked up her suitcase at the other end she looked carefully at it but saw no signs that it had been opened. But she was not yet in the clear. She carried it into the customs and immigration zone, feeling as if she were holding something radioactive. She recalled that the East German government was said to be harsher than the Soviet regime. The Stasi were even more omnipresent than the KGB.
She showed her papers. An official studied them carefully then dismissed her with a discourteous gesture.
She headed for the exit, not looking at the faces of the uniformed officials, all men, who stood scrutinizing passengers.
Then one of them stepped in front of her. ‘Tania Dvorkin?’
She almost burst into guilty tears. ‘Y-yes.’
He addressed her in German. ‘Please come with me.’
This is it, she thought; my life is over.
She followed him through a side door. To her surprise, it led to a parking area. ‘The director of the book fair has sent a car for you,’ the official said.
A driver was waiting. He introduced himself and put the incriminating suitcase into the trunk of a two-tone green-and-white Wartburg 311 limousine.
Tania fell into the back seat and slumped, as helpless as if she were drunk.
She began to recover as the car took her into the city centre. Leipzig was an ancient crossroads that had hosted trade fairs since the Middle Ages. Its railway station was the biggest in Europe. In her article Tania would mention the city’s strong Communist tradition, and its resistance to Nazism that continued into the 1940s. She would not include the thought that occurred to her now, that Leipzig’s grand nineteenth-century buildings looked even more gracious beside the brutalist Soviet-era architecture.
The taxi took her to the fair. In a large hall like a warehouse, publishers from Germany and abroad had erected stalls where they displayed their books. Tania was shown around by the director. He explained to her that the main business of the fair was the buying and selling, not of physical books, but of licences to translate them and publish them in other countries.
Towards the end of the afternoon she managed to get away from him and look around on her own.
She was astonished by the enormous number and bewildering variety of books: car manuals, scientific journals, almanacs, children’s stories, Bibles, art books, atlases, dictionaries, school textbooks, and the complete works of Marx and Lenin in every major European language.
She was looking for someone who might want to translate Russian literature and publish it in the West.
She began to scan the stalls for Russian novels in other languages.
The Western alphabet was different from the Russian, but Tania had learned German and English at school, and had studied German at university, so she could read the names of the authors and generally guess at the titles.
She spoke to several publishers, telling them she was a journalist for
TASS
and asking them how they were benefitting from the fair. She got some useful quotes for her article. She did not even hint that she had a Russian book to offer them.
At the stall of a London publisher called Rowley, she picked up an English translation of
The Young Guard
, a popular Soviet novel by Alexander Fadeyev. She knew it well, and amused herself by deciphering the English of the first page until she was interrupted. An attractive woman of about her own age addressed her in German: ‘Please let me know if I can answer any questions.’
Tania introduced herself and interviewed the woman about the fair. They quickly discovered that the editor spoke Russian better than Tania spoke German, so they switched. Tania asked about English translations of Russian novels. ‘I’d like to publish more of them,’ said the editor. ‘But many contemporary Soviet novels – including the one you’re holding in your hand – are too slavishly pro-Communist.’
Tania pretended to be prickly. ‘You wish to publish anti-Soviet propaganda?’
‘Not at all,’ the editor said with a tolerant smile. ‘Writers are permitted to like their governments. My company publishes many books that celebrate the British Empire and its triumphs. But an author who sees nothing at all wrong in the society around him may not be taken seriously. It’s wiser to throw in a
soupçon
of criticism, if only for the sake of credibility.’
Tania liked this woman. ‘Can we meet again?’
The editor hesitated. ‘Do you have something for me?’
Tania did not answer the question. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘The Europa.’
Tania had a room reserved at the same hotel. That was convenient. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Anna Murray. What’s yours?’
‘We’ll talk again,’ said Tania, and she walked away.
She felt drawn to Anna Murray on instinct, an instinct refined by a quarter of a century of life in the Soviet Union; but her feeling was supported by evidence. First, Anna was clearly British, not a Russian or East German posing as British. Second, she was neither Communist nor strenuously pretending to be the opposite. Her relaxed neutrality was impossible for a KGB spy to fake. Third, she used no jargon. People brought up in Soviet orthodoxy could not help talking about Party, class, cadres and ideology. Anna used none of the key words.
The green-and-white Wartburg was waiting outside. The driver took her to the Europa, where she checked in. Almost immediately she left her room and returned to the lobby.
She did not want to draw attention to herself even by merely asking at reception for Anna Murray’s room number. At least one of the desk clerks would be an informant for the Stasi, and might make a note of a Soviet journalist seeking out an English publisher.
However, behind the reception desk was a bank of numbered pigeonholes where the staff deposited room keys and messages. Tania simply sealed an empty envelope, wrote on it ‘Frau Anna Murray’, and handed it in without speaking. The clerk immediately put it in the pigeonhole for room 305.
There was a key in the space, which meant that Anna Murray was not in her room right now.
Tania went into the bar. Anna was not there. Tania sat for an hour, sipping a beer, roughing out her article on a notepad. Then she went into the restaurant. Anna was not there either. She had probably gone out to dinner with colleagues at a restaurant in the city. Tania sat alone and ordered the local speciality,
allerlei
, a vegetable dish. She sat over her coffee for an hour, then left.