some change in his energy. Some quality of attentiveness, even softness came into him.
‘You still love Malevich, of course.’
‘I do like you, Rodya. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.’
‘No and you wouldn’t be here either unless … when is it due?’
‘I don’t know exactly. Maybe five months.’
‘And even in these revolutionary times, babies need fathers. Ones who are fighting somewhere in the wastes of Siberia hardly count for much, do they?’
‘No. I want his baby…’
‘… to be protected. Quite right.’
Tonya looked down at her hands. They were folded primly on her lap. She felt herself looking like an efficient secretary or a schoolgirl eager for praise. And Tonya was neither. She tried to make herself relax.
‘Tonya, you asked if my offer still stands. It does.’
‘Ah!’
‘I know your feelings for Malevich. I think I understand your feelings for me.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you do understand that any marriage of ours would be a real marriage? We would share an apartment and a bed.’
‘Of course.’
‘If Malevich returns… I shan’t seek to prevent him. If he comes and you choose him, I shan’t stand in your way. The revolution must be total. The heart and the state.’
‘You are a good man, Rodya.’
Rodyon stood up. Tonya did the same.
‘Well then,’ he said.
Tonya swallowed. She knew that a kiss was now expected. Rodyon’s physical proximity now seemed sudden and almost overwhelming. She could smell him as though noticing his scent for the first time: a mixture of linen and ice water, ink and tobacco smoke, pierced through with something athletic, the light sweat of exercise.
‘Well.’
She nodded, and held her arms slightly out as a signal for him to step forwards. Her movements were jerky and abrupt, like a mechanical toy that hadn’t been oiled. Rodyon stepped lightly forwards and kissed her gently on the lips before moving back. His touch had been definite, but light; more than familial, less than possessive.
‘Thank you,’ she said stupidly. ‘Thank you.’
She tried to summon up a picture of Misha in her head, but all she could bring up was the soldiers surrounding him on the station platform, his white face looking around at her in shock, the fist in his back pushing him forward, and the train that would take him east to Siberia, out of her life, perhaps for ever.
It was the eleventh of June, 1919 and the future suddenly felt very empty indeed.
FOUR
It was the second of May, 1945.
The day was rainy and cold. Dull grey clouds pressed low over the city. Everywhere over the shattered city, smoke continued to rise in dense black pillars, but the flames themselves were already dying back. There was shooting here and there – at the Zoo flak tower, at some U-Bahn stations, in isolated buildings and cellars – but mostly the impression was of silence.
Silence and desolation.
In Prenzlauerberg that evening, a group of Red Army soldiers tumbled out of a ransacked brewery. The soldiers were so drunk, they were barely able to walk. One of the men went to relieve himself in a doorway, then heard shouts from downstairs, where there were men locked in a cellar. The man was too drunk to care much, but as he lurched back out onto the street, still fiddling with his flies, he happened across a SMERSH officer. The man told the officer about the cries, then staggered off. The SMERSH man investigated.
Inside the cellar there were eight men, hungry, their faces black with grime and stubble. The SMERSH man was briefly interested. The Russians were on the lookout for scientists and technicians who would be of value to Soviet weapons programmes. But the prisoners were of no consequence. There were a couple of pastors, some old Social Democrats, a couple of common criminals. The SMERSH officer lost interest. He was only human, after all. This night was the first night of victory, and he too wanted to get drunk.
And that was lucky. Because if the officer had been a
‘You still love Malevich, of course.’
‘I do like you, Rodya. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.’
‘No and you wouldn’t be here either unless … when is it due?’
‘I don’t know exactly. Maybe five months.’
‘And even in these revolutionary times, babies need fathers. Ones who are fighting somewhere in the wastes of Siberia hardly count for much, do they?’
‘No. I want his baby…’
‘… to be protected. Quite right.’
Tonya looked down at her hands. They were folded primly on her lap. She felt herself looking like an efficient secretary or a schoolgirl eager for praise. And Tonya was neither. She tried to make herself relax.
‘Tonya, you asked if my offer still stands. It does.’
‘Ah!’
‘I know your feelings for Malevich. I think I understand your feelings for me.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you do understand that any marriage of ours would be a real marriage? We would share an apartment and a bed.’
‘Of course.’
‘If Malevich returns… I shan’t seek to prevent him. If he comes and you choose him, I shan’t stand in your way. The revolution must be total. The heart and the state.’
‘You are a good man, Rodya.’
Rodyon stood up. Tonya did the same.
‘Well then,’ he said.
Tonya swallowed. She knew that a kiss was now expected. Rodyon’s physical proximity now seemed sudden and almost overwhelming. She could smell him as though noticing his scent for the first time: a mixture of linen and ice water, ink and tobacco smoke, pierced through with something athletic, the light sweat of exercise.
‘Well.’
She nodded, and held her arms slightly out as a signal for him to step forwards. Her movements were jerky and abrupt, like a mechanical toy that hadn’t been oiled. Rodyon stepped lightly forwards and kissed her gently on the lips before moving back. His touch had been definite, but light; more than familial, less than possessive.
‘Thank you,’ she said stupidly. ‘Thank you.’
She tried to summon up a picture of Misha in her head, but all she could bring up was the soldiers surrounding him on the station platform, his white face looking around at her in shock, the fist in his back pushing him forward, and the train that would take him east to Siberia, out of her life, perhaps for ever.
It was the eleventh of June, 1919 and the future suddenly felt very empty indeed.
FOUR
It was the second of May, 1945.
The day was rainy and cold. Dull grey clouds pressed low over the city. Everywhere over the shattered city, smoke continued to rise in dense black pillars, but the flames themselves were already dying back. There was shooting here and there – at the Zoo flak tower, at some U-Bahn stations, in isolated buildings and cellars – but mostly the impression was of silence.
Silence and desolation.
In Prenzlauerberg that evening, a group of Red Army soldiers tumbled out of a ransacked brewery. The soldiers were so drunk, they were barely able to walk. One of the men went to relieve himself in a doorway, then heard shouts from downstairs, where there were men locked in a cellar. The man was too drunk to care much, but as he lurched back out onto the street, still fiddling with his flies, he happened across a SMERSH officer. The man told the officer about the cries, then staggered off. The SMERSH man investigated.
Inside the cellar there were eight men, hungry, their faces black with grime and stubble. The SMERSH man was briefly interested. The Russians were on the lookout for scientists and technicians who would be of value to Soviet weapons programmes. But the prisoners were of no consequence. There were a couple of pastors, some old Social Democrats, a couple of common criminals. The SMERSH officer lost interest. He was only human, after all. This night was the first night of victory, and he too wanted to get drunk.
And that was lucky. Because if the officer had been a
Similar Books
