Lubyanka,’ he said to Vera. ‘Tell them very clearly that you’re calling from the office of the First Secretary, who is concerned about the arrest of leading journalist Tania Dvorkin. Tell them that Comrade Khrushchev’s aide is on his way to question them about it, and they should do nothing until he arrives.’
She was making notes. ‘Shall I order up a car?’
Lubyanka Square was less than a mile from the Kremlin compound. ‘I have my motorcycle downstairs. That will be quicker.’ Dimka was privileged to own a Voskhod 175 bike with a five-speed gearbox and twin tailpipes.
He had known Tania was heading for trouble because, paradoxically, she had ceased to tell him everything, he reflected as he rode. Normally, they had no secrets from one another. Dimka had an intimacy with his twin that they shared with no one else. When Mother was away, and they were alone, Tania would walk through the flat naked, to fetch clean underwear from the airing cupboard, and Dimka would pee without bothering to close the bathroom door. Occasionally Dimka’s male friends would sniggeringly suggest that their closeness was erotic, but in fact it was the opposite. They could be so intimate only because there was no sexual spark.
But for the past year he had known she was hiding something from him. He did not know what it was, but he could guess. Not a boyfriend, he felt sure: they told each other everything about their romantic lives, comparing notes, sympathizing. Almost certainly it was political, he thought. The only reason she might keep something from him would be to protect him.
He drew up outside the dreaded building, a yellow-brick palace erected before the revolution as the headquarters of an insurance company. The thought of his sister imprisoned in this place made him feel ill. For a moment he was afraid he was going to puke.
He parked right in front of the main entrance, took a moment to recover his self-possession, and walked inside.
Tania’s editor, Daniil Antonov, was already there, arguing with a KGB man in the lobby. Daniil was a small man, slightly built, and Dimka thought of him as harmless, but he was being assertive. ‘I want to see Tania Dvorkin, and I want to see her right now ,’ he said.
The KGB man wore an expression of mulish obstinacy. ‘That may not be possible.’
Dimka butted in. ‘I’m from the office of the First Secretary,’ he said.
The KGB man refused to be impressed. ‘And what do you do there, son – make the tea?’ he said rudely. ‘What’s your name?’ It was an intimidating question: people were terrified to give their names to the KGB.
‘Dmitriy Dvorkin, and I’m here to tell you that Comrade Khrushchev is personally interested in this case.’
‘Fuck off, Dvorkin,’ said the man. ‘Comrade Khrushchev knows nothing about this case. You’re here to get your sister out of trouble.’
Dimka was taken aback by the man’s confident rudeness. He guessed that many people trying to spring family or friends from KGB arrest would claim personal connections with powerful people. But he renewed his attack. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Captain Mets.’
‘And what are you accusing Tania Dvorkin of?’
‘Assaulting an officer.’
‘Did a girl beat up one of your goons in leather jackets?’ Dimka said jeeringly. ‘She must have taken his gun from him first. Come off it, Mets, don’t be a prick.’
‘She was attending a seditious meeting. Anti-Soviet literature was circulated.’ Mets handed Dimka a crumpled sheet of paper. ‘The meeting became a riot.’
Dimka looked at the paper. It was headed Dissidence. He had heard of this subversive news-sheet. Tania might easily have something to do with it. This edition was about Ustin Bodian, the opera singer. Dimka was momentarily distracted by the shocking allegation that Bodian was dying of pneumonia in a Siberian labour camp. Then he recalled that Tania had returned from Siberia today, and realized that she must have
She was making notes. ‘Shall I order up a car?’
Lubyanka Square was less than a mile from the Kremlin compound. ‘I have my motorcycle downstairs. That will be quicker.’ Dimka was privileged to own a Voskhod 175 bike with a five-speed gearbox and twin tailpipes.
He had known Tania was heading for trouble because, paradoxically, she had ceased to tell him everything, he reflected as he rode. Normally, they had no secrets from one another. Dimka had an intimacy with his twin that they shared with no one else. When Mother was away, and they were alone, Tania would walk through the flat naked, to fetch clean underwear from the airing cupboard, and Dimka would pee without bothering to close the bathroom door. Occasionally Dimka’s male friends would sniggeringly suggest that their closeness was erotic, but in fact it was the opposite. They could be so intimate only because there was no sexual spark.
But for the past year he had known she was hiding something from him. He did not know what it was, but he could guess. Not a boyfriend, he felt sure: they told each other everything about their romantic lives, comparing notes, sympathizing. Almost certainly it was political, he thought. The only reason she might keep something from him would be to protect him.
He drew up outside the dreaded building, a yellow-brick palace erected before the revolution as the headquarters of an insurance company. The thought of his sister imprisoned in this place made him feel ill. For a moment he was afraid he was going to puke.
He parked right in front of the main entrance, took a moment to recover his self-possession, and walked inside.
Tania’s editor, Daniil Antonov, was already there, arguing with a KGB man in the lobby. Daniil was a small man, slightly built, and Dimka thought of him as harmless, but he was being assertive. ‘I want to see Tania Dvorkin, and I want to see her right now ,’ he said.
The KGB man wore an expression of mulish obstinacy. ‘That may not be possible.’
Dimka butted in. ‘I’m from the office of the First Secretary,’ he said.
The KGB man refused to be impressed. ‘And what do you do there, son – make the tea?’ he said rudely. ‘What’s your name?’ It was an intimidating question: people were terrified to give their names to the KGB.
‘Dmitriy Dvorkin, and I’m here to tell you that Comrade Khrushchev is personally interested in this case.’
‘Fuck off, Dvorkin,’ said the man. ‘Comrade Khrushchev knows nothing about this case. You’re here to get your sister out of trouble.’
Dimka was taken aback by the man’s confident rudeness. He guessed that many people trying to spring family or friends from KGB arrest would claim personal connections with powerful people. But he renewed his attack. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Captain Mets.’
‘And what are you accusing Tania Dvorkin of?’
‘Assaulting an officer.’
‘Did a girl beat up one of your goons in leather jackets?’ Dimka said jeeringly. ‘She must have taken his gun from him first. Come off it, Mets, don’t be a prick.’
‘She was attending a seditious meeting. Anti-Soviet literature was circulated.’ Mets handed Dimka a crumpled sheet of paper. ‘The meeting became a riot.’
Dimka looked at the paper. It was headed Dissidence. He had heard of this subversive news-sheet. Tania might easily have something to do with it. This edition was about Ustin Bodian, the opera singer. Dimka was momentarily distracted by the shocking allegation that Bodian was dying of pneumonia in a Siberian labour camp. Then he recalled that Tania had returned from Siberia today, and realized that she must have
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