Even Harry was surprised by the outburst of applause that followed. Book conferences are usually sparsely attended by thoughtful academics, who manage a polite round of applause once the speaker has sat down. But at least the interruption allowed him a few moments to gather his thoughts.

“How many of us in this room have read books about Hitler, Churchill, or Roosevelt? Three of the four leaders who determined the outcome of the Second World War. But until recently the only inside account about Josef Stalin to come out of the Soviet Union was an official pamphlet censored by a committee of KGB officials. As you all know, the man who translated that book into English was so disillusioned with it that he decided to write his own unauthorized biography, which would surely have given us a different perspective of the man we all know as Uncle Joe. But no sooner was the book published than every copy of it was destroyed, its publisher shut down, and, following a show trial, the author disappeared off the face of the earth. I’m not talking about Hitler’s Germany, but present-day Russia.

“One or two of you may be curious to know what Anatoly Babakov could possibly have written that caused the authorities to act in such a tyrannical manner—myself included. After all, the Soviets never stop trumpeting the glories of their utopian state, which they assure us is not only a model for the rest of the world, but one which, in time, we will have no choice but to copy. If that is the case, Mr. President, why can’t we read a contrary view and make up our own minds? Don’t let’s forget that Uncle Joe was written by a man who stood one pace behind Stalin for thirteen years, a confidant of his innermost thoughts, a witness to how he conducted his day-to-day life. But when Babakov decided to write his own version of those events, no one, including the Soviet people, were allowed to share his thoughts. I wonder why?

“You won’t find a copy of Uncle Joe in any bookshop in England, America, Australia, Africa, or South America, and you certainly won’t find one in the Soviet Union. Perhaps it’s appallingly written, boring, without merit, and unworthy of our time, but at least let us be the judge of that.”

Another wave of applause swept through the room. Harry had to suppress a smile when he noticed that the men in long black coats kept their hands firmly in their pockets, and their expressions didn’t change when the interpreter translated his words.

He waited for the applause to die down before he began his peroration. “Attending this conference today are historians, biographers, scientists, and even a few novelists, all of whom take for granted their latest work will be published, however critical they are of their governments, their leaders, even their political system. Why? Because you come from countries that can handle criticism, satire, mockery, even derision, and whose citizens can be entrusted to make up their own minds as to a book’s merit. Authors from the Soviet Union are published only if the State approves of what they have to say. How many of you in this room would be languishing in jail if you had been born in Russia?