His father yawned. “Take me now,” he said. “I’m tired. I have a family to get back to.” His eyes blurred with drunken tears. “My boys,” he said, nauseatingly. “I do everything for them. . . .”

“You’re a hero, Ivan,” said Alexei, sycophantically grinning.

“Help me up!” his father barked at Vladek.

“Right away,” Vladek said. He gently heaved the man to his feet. His father swayed, backwards, forwards, and stumbled, but Vladek was there. His arms darted out and caught him before he hit the sawdust on the floor.

“You want a hand?” Alexei asked. He was weaving too,Vladek saw with satisfaction.

“That’s okay. You get home to your wife,” he said.

“I’m getting a whore,” Alexei said. He cackled.Vladek considered doing something about him, but decided no; he didn’t want additional distractions.

Slowly, he dragged his father into his coat. It was a well-made fur, better than Pyotr’s, waiting by the door. As Ivan mumbled curses at him, Vladek put on the stolen coat and slipped the money and watch into his pocket. He put the gloves on, too. They were necessary; as soon as he opened the door, the cold hit him in the face like a punch. Alexei would not get lucky tonight; the whores were long gone.

“Which is your car?” Vladek said, like he didn’t know. It was the sturdy little Moskovich, standard black, with only one dent on the fender. A working car for a rich party man.

“Tha. . . . ,” said Ivan. He drunkenly fumbled in his pocket for the keys. Vladek was there before him; he fished them out between a thumb and forefinger, and dragged the man to the vehicle. He unlocked it, and shoved Ivan into the front seat; then turned the key in the ignition.

The Moskovich spluttered and choked a little, and then the engine spurted into life.

Vladek felt powerful. He pressed his foot on the gas, and the car sped off down the road, bumping over the potholes, going towards the city. In the seat next to him, his father’s head lolled back, and he started to snore.

Vladek enjoyed the drive. It was more than the strangeness of the big machine, headlights on, eating up the road; it was the knowledge that he was now a criminal, running away, running to his destiny. If they caught him, it would be the gulag. But that was of no concern; they wouldn’t catch him.The police out here were slugs like Ivan. They didn’t care about anything other than warmth and women and booze. By the time they even started to look for him, he would be long gone. In America perhaps, or London. Living the good life.