upstairs neighbours would knock on the door and complain that it was disturbing their evening tranquillity.
Yegor told Misha he was taking precautions in case they were being bugged. Then he would change his mind and say, ‘Why would they bother with a little minnow like me?’ But Misha was glad of his caution. He had never heard of this ‘being bugged’ before. Being overheard – everyone in the Soviet Union knew about that. But ‘being bugged’ was something completely new. He hoped, as they sat side by side at the dining table, that their conversation was too quiet for any little microphones to pick up over the sound of the radio.
Misha had even started to look around the apartment. Every day now, since Papa first mentioned it, he checked when he came home from school. A vase of flowers, a bowl of fruit, the book that lay on the big bureau in the dining room – all of them were inspected. Misha was going to make sure that he and Papa did not go the same way as Mama.
That evening’s meal brought further startling revelations. ‘The Vozhd has lost his ability to tell right from wrong,’ whispered Papa. ‘We had some high officials from the air force in today complaining about the training aircraft they have to use. They crash far more frequently than should be expected. One of the air marshals lost his temper and said Stalin was making his pilots fly in coffins. There was a long silence and the Vozhd paced around the room. I knew there would be trouble because his eyes were darting around more than they usually do. Then he lit his pipe and said, “You shouldn’t have said that.” The poor man went white. I don’t think we’ll be seeing him again.
‘Then after they left, the Vozhd started ranting about saboteurs deliberately damaging the planes, meddling with the engines. It was ridiculous. Everything is saboteurs, wreckers, foreign spies. And nobody, nobody dares to question anything. Nobody will ask, “Are the planes badly designed? Have we spent enough time testing them?”’
Misha wondered what on earth he should say. He remembered the bloodstained confession he had seen on the Vozhd ’s desk but thought it wise not to mention it. When he looked up, he saw that his father’s eyes were brimming with tears and he said, ‘Sometimes, often, I wish we were back at the kommunalka and Mama and me were both still teachers. Misha, I had wanted you to join me working here – you’re a bright boy after all – but I think you need to get as far away from here as possible. I don’t know how it’s going to end. I don’t like to think about how it’s going to end.’
On the final day of the school year, after they had had their reports and results, Misha and his friends arranged to meet in the Gorky Park of Culture and Rest at 8.00 that evening. There was an open-air dance on the side of the big lake there, in a fenced-off section, with a band and a bar. It was only four kopeks to get in, but Nikolay persuaded them to follow him round to the back of the enclosure, where there was a gap in the fence. ‘We can all buy an extra bottle of beer if we get in for free,’ he pointed out.
It was one of those soft early summer evenings, and Misha had the time of his life. At first he had been distracted because Valya had turned up with a young man from the flying club who he didn’t know, and who she didn’t introduce to anyone. In fact, she kept out of the way of them all that evening and spent her time with her date and his friends. But Yelena had danced with Misha all night. She knew all the latest Latin American steps, like the tango, that were popular in Moscow that summer. And she was good at the foxtrot too. It was all right to dance that now, although Misha remembered it had been banned as a bourgeois dance when he was younger. At the end, when the band played a slow waltz, Yelena had held him close, and they had even kissed, but then Nikolay and Sergey started to whistle and the moment
Yegor told Misha he was taking precautions in case they were being bugged. Then he would change his mind and say, ‘Why would they bother with a little minnow like me?’ But Misha was glad of his caution. He had never heard of this ‘being bugged’ before. Being overheard – everyone in the Soviet Union knew about that. But ‘being bugged’ was something completely new. He hoped, as they sat side by side at the dining table, that their conversation was too quiet for any little microphones to pick up over the sound of the radio.
Misha had even started to look around the apartment. Every day now, since Papa first mentioned it, he checked when he came home from school. A vase of flowers, a bowl of fruit, the book that lay on the big bureau in the dining room – all of them were inspected. Misha was going to make sure that he and Papa did not go the same way as Mama.
That evening’s meal brought further startling revelations. ‘The Vozhd has lost his ability to tell right from wrong,’ whispered Papa. ‘We had some high officials from the air force in today complaining about the training aircraft they have to use. They crash far more frequently than should be expected. One of the air marshals lost his temper and said Stalin was making his pilots fly in coffins. There was a long silence and the Vozhd paced around the room. I knew there would be trouble because his eyes were darting around more than they usually do. Then he lit his pipe and said, “You shouldn’t have said that.” The poor man went white. I don’t think we’ll be seeing him again.
‘Then after they left, the Vozhd started ranting about saboteurs deliberately damaging the planes, meddling with the engines. It was ridiculous. Everything is saboteurs, wreckers, foreign spies. And nobody, nobody dares to question anything. Nobody will ask, “Are the planes badly designed? Have we spent enough time testing them?”’
Misha wondered what on earth he should say. He remembered the bloodstained confession he had seen on the Vozhd ’s desk but thought it wise not to mention it. When he looked up, he saw that his father’s eyes were brimming with tears and he said, ‘Sometimes, often, I wish we were back at the kommunalka and Mama and me were both still teachers. Misha, I had wanted you to join me working here – you’re a bright boy after all – but I think you need to get as far away from here as possible. I don’t know how it’s going to end. I don’t like to think about how it’s going to end.’
On the final day of the school year, after they had had their reports and results, Misha and his friends arranged to meet in the Gorky Park of Culture and Rest at 8.00 that evening. There was an open-air dance on the side of the big lake there, in a fenced-off section, with a band and a bar. It was only four kopeks to get in, but Nikolay persuaded them to follow him round to the back of the enclosure, where there was a gap in the fence. ‘We can all buy an extra bottle of beer if we get in for free,’ he pointed out.
It was one of those soft early summer evenings, and Misha had the time of his life. At first he had been distracted because Valya had turned up with a young man from the flying club who he didn’t know, and who she didn’t introduce to anyone. In fact, she kept out of the way of them all that evening and spent her time with her date and his friends. But Yelena had danced with Misha all night. She knew all the latest Latin American steps, like the tango, that were popular in Moscow that summer. And she was good at the foxtrot too. It was all right to dance that now, although Misha remembered it had been banned as a bourgeois dance when he was younger. At the end, when the band played a slow waltz, Yelena had held him close, and they had even kissed, but then Nikolay and Sergey started to whistle and the moment
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