Zoya looked so desirable in pink that Volodya would have liked to leave right away and take her to bed. That was out of the question, of course. His father’s circle of friends included some of the most senior generals and politicians in the country, and many of them had come to toast the happy couple. Grigori was hinting that one extremely distinguished guest might arrive later: Volodya hoped it was not the depraved NKVD boss Beria.

Volodya’s happiness did not quite let him forget the horrors he had seen and the profound misgivings he had developed about Soviet Communism. The unspeakable brutality of the secret police, the blunders of Stalin that had cost millions of lives, and the propaganda that had encouraged the Red Army to behave like crazed beasts in Germany, had all caused him to doubt the most fundamental things he had been brought up to believe. He wondered uneasily what kind of country Dimka and Tania would grow up in. But today was not the day to think about that.

The Soviet elite were in a good mood. They had won the war and defeated Germany. Their old enemy Japan was being crushed by the USA. The insane honour code of Japan’s leaders made it difficult for them to surrender, but it was only a matter of time now. Tragically, while they clung to their pride, more Japanese and American troops would die, and more Japanese women and children would be bombed out of their homes; but the end result would be the same. Sadly, it seemed there was nothing the Americans could do to hasten the process and prevent unnecessary deaths.

Volodya’s father, drunk and happy, made a speech. ‘The Red Army has occupied Poland,’ he said. ‘Never again will that country be used as a springboard for a German invasion of Russia.’

All the old comrades cheered and thumped the tables.

‘In Western Europe Communist parties are being endorsed by the masses as never before. In the Paris municipal elections last March, the Communist party won the largest share of the vote. I congratulate our French comrades.’

They cheered again.

‘As I look around the world today, I see that the Russian revolution, in which so many brave men fought and died . . .’ He tailed off as drunken tears came to his eyes. A hush descended on the room. He recovered himself. ‘I see that the revolution has never been as secure as it is today!’

They raised their glasses. ‘The revolution! The revolution!’ Everyone drank.

The doors flew open, and Comrade Stalin walked in.

Everyone stood up.

His hair was grey, and he looked tired. He was about sixty-five, and he had been ill: there were rumours that he had suffered a series of strokes or minor heart attacks. But his mood today was ebullient. ‘I have come to kiss the bride!’ he said.

He walked up to Zoya and put his hands on her shoulders. She was a good three inches taller than he, but she managed to stoop discreetly. He kissed her on both cheeks, allowing his grey-moustached mouth to linger just long enough to make Volodya feel resentful. Then he stepped back and said: ‘How about a drink for me?’