to send her next. ‘I want to be here with Papa, and to share the danger,’ she said. Misha felt a sudden flash of admiration for her, something he had never felt before.
‘And what can we do for you?’ said Yegor, who had taken over the preparation of the tea.
‘It’s Mikhail I’ve come to see,’ she said. ‘Misha’s fame as a Shakespearian tutor continues to grow. I have an essay to write for my literature teacher. He wants to know what I think about Antony and Cleopatra . I have to explain the meaning of a speech.’
‘I shall leave you two to get on then,’ said Yegor, as he poured three cups of strong brown tea. He brought two cups over, then disappeared back to his study.
Svetlana smiled and fished a book out of her bag. ‘It’s the speech about the evening, the night sky. I’ve got to explain it in ordinary terms.’
Misha loved that speech. He wished he could read it in English but he barely spoke a word – just a couple of phrases: ‘How are you?’ and ‘Thank you’.
‘Aren’t you learning English?’ he asked Svetlana. She nodded but seemed distracted. ‘If I help you, will you do me a favour too? If you can find the English edition, will you read it out to me, so I can hear how he meant it to sound?’
Misha could tell by the way her eyes darted around that she was taken aback by this request. Clearly Svetlana was not used to trading favours. But she managed a smile. They talked about the piece, how a ‘promontory’ was a mass of higher land or land jutting out into the sea, and how ‘black vesper’s pageants’ meant the beautiful sights and sounds of evening. Misha thought, as he explained, how well his own teacher had taught him. But he also noticed how little attention Svetlana seemed to be paying to what he said. She was there but her mind was somewhere else.
‘You look worried,’ he said carefully. ‘I hope everything is all right.’
She looked around, wanting to make sure she was alone in the room. ‘Comrade Mikhail,’ she whispered. ‘We have known each other for some years. Our papas are old friends. I must talk with someone I can trust. Can I trust you?’
Misha nodded and wondered what on earth was coming next.
She fished around in her leather satchel, and pulled out a magazine. Misha had never seen it before and the typeface was completely indecipherable to him. He recognised the squiggles – they were the Western-style alphabet – ‘Roman’ it was called – but he understood it about as much as he understood Egyptian hieroglyphics.
‘Are you allowed such things?’ he blurted out. Misha knew anything at all from the West was regarded with deep suspicion by the Soviet government.
‘Of course I am,’ she said indignantly, barely keeping her temper. ‘I am studying English. Papa asks me to talk to visitors from England when they come here. But look at this I read today.’ She turned to a page where Nadya Stalin, holding Svetlana as a toddler, peered out at the reader from a black-and-white photograph. Misha could see a likeness with her mother, especially now Svetlana was growing older. Svetlana looked very cross in that photograph, although Misha thought it best not to mention this.
‘Look at this,’ she said quietly, reading out the caption and translating as she went. ‘ Stalin’s wife Nadezhda Alliluyeva, pictured here with their daughter Svetlana. Nadezhda, known as “Nadya”, is thought to have shot herself in 1932. ’
‘But she died of appendicitis,’ said Misha. ‘Everyone knows that.’
Svetlana did not return his gaze. She stared hard at the photograph. Misha noticed for the first time her clear pale skin and light red hair. She was turning into a beautiful woman.
‘She never liked me much, you know. Look how uncomfortable I look in that photograph. But I think she had a difficult life. I think she probably did shoot herself. Papa never speaks of her. I’ve learned not to mention her.’
‘This is capitalist propaganda,
‘And what can we do for you?’ said Yegor, who had taken over the preparation of the tea.
‘It’s Mikhail I’ve come to see,’ she said. ‘Misha’s fame as a Shakespearian tutor continues to grow. I have an essay to write for my literature teacher. He wants to know what I think about Antony and Cleopatra . I have to explain the meaning of a speech.’
‘I shall leave you two to get on then,’ said Yegor, as he poured three cups of strong brown tea. He brought two cups over, then disappeared back to his study.
Svetlana smiled and fished a book out of her bag. ‘It’s the speech about the evening, the night sky. I’ve got to explain it in ordinary terms.’
Misha loved that speech. He wished he could read it in English but he barely spoke a word – just a couple of phrases: ‘How are you?’ and ‘Thank you’.
‘Aren’t you learning English?’ he asked Svetlana. She nodded but seemed distracted. ‘If I help you, will you do me a favour too? If you can find the English edition, will you read it out to me, so I can hear how he meant it to sound?’
Misha could tell by the way her eyes darted around that she was taken aback by this request. Clearly Svetlana was not used to trading favours. But she managed a smile. They talked about the piece, how a ‘promontory’ was a mass of higher land or land jutting out into the sea, and how ‘black vesper’s pageants’ meant the beautiful sights and sounds of evening. Misha thought, as he explained, how well his own teacher had taught him. But he also noticed how little attention Svetlana seemed to be paying to what he said. She was there but her mind was somewhere else.
‘You look worried,’ he said carefully. ‘I hope everything is all right.’
She looked around, wanting to make sure she was alone in the room. ‘Comrade Mikhail,’ she whispered. ‘We have known each other for some years. Our papas are old friends. I must talk with someone I can trust. Can I trust you?’
Misha nodded and wondered what on earth was coming next.
She fished around in her leather satchel, and pulled out a magazine. Misha had never seen it before and the typeface was completely indecipherable to him. He recognised the squiggles – they were the Western-style alphabet – ‘Roman’ it was called – but he understood it about as much as he understood Egyptian hieroglyphics.
‘Are you allowed such things?’ he blurted out. Misha knew anything at all from the West was regarded with deep suspicion by the Soviet government.
‘Of course I am,’ she said indignantly, barely keeping her temper. ‘I am studying English. Papa asks me to talk to visitors from England when they come here. But look at this I read today.’ She turned to a page where Nadya Stalin, holding Svetlana as a toddler, peered out at the reader from a black-and-white photograph. Misha could see a likeness with her mother, especially now Svetlana was growing older. Svetlana looked very cross in that photograph, although Misha thought it best not to mention this.
‘Look at this,’ she said quietly, reading out the caption and translating as she went. ‘ Stalin’s wife Nadezhda Alliluyeva, pictured here with their daughter Svetlana. Nadezhda, known as “Nadya”, is thought to have shot herself in 1932. ’
‘But she died of appendicitis,’ said Misha. ‘Everyone knows that.’
Svetlana did not return his gaze. She stared hard at the photograph. Misha noticed for the first time her clear pale skin and light red hair. She was turning into a beautiful woman.
‘She never liked me much, you know. Look how uncomfortable I look in that photograph. But I think she had a difficult life. I think she probably did shoot herself. Papa never speaks of her. I’ve learned not to mention her.’
‘This is capitalist propaganda,
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