‘I know.’

‘People in your mother’s apartment building think I’m the maid – did you know that?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve been careful not to set them straight. If they thought Negroes were in the building as guests, there might be trouble.’

Greg sighed. ‘I’m sorry, but you’re right.’

‘Life is going to be tough for Georgy.’

‘I know,’ said Greg. ‘But he’s got us.’

Jacky gave him a rare smile. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘That’s something.’

Part Three

THE COLD PEACE

21

1945 (III)

After the wedding Volodya and Zoya moved into an apartment of their own. Few Russian newlyweds were so lucky. For four years the industrial might of the Soviet Union had been directed to making weapons. Hardly any homes had been built, and many had been destroyed. But Volodya was a major in Red Army Intelligence, as well as the son of a general, and he was able to pull strings.

It was a compact space: a living room with a dining table, a bedroom so small the bed almost filled it; a kitchen that was crowded with two people in it; a cramped toilet with a washbasin and shower, and a tiny hall with a closet for their clothes. When the radio was on in the living room, they could hear it all over the flat.

They quickly made it their own. Zoya bought a bright yellow coverlet for the bed. Volodya’s mother produced a set of crockery that she had bought in 1940, in anticipation of his wedding, and saved all through the war. Volodya hung a picture on the wall, a graduation photograph of his class at the Military Intelligence Academy.

They made love more now. Being alone made a difference Volodya had not anticipated. He had never felt particularly inhibited when sleeping with Zoya at his parents’ place, or in the apartment she had used to share; but now he realized it had an influence. You had to keep your voice down, you listened in case the bed squeaked, and there was always the possibility, albeit remote, that somebody would walk in on you. Other people’s homes were never completely private.

They often woke early, made love, then lay kissing and talking for an hour before getting dressed for work. Lying with his head on her thighs on one such morning, the smell of sex in his nostrils, Volodya said: ‘Do you want some tea?’

‘Yes, please.’ She stretched luxuriously, reclining on the pillows.

Volodya put on a robe and crossed the tiny hallway to the little kitchen, where he lit the gas under the samovar. He was displeased to see the pots and dishes from last night’s dinner stacked in the sink. ‘Zoya! he said. ‘This kitchen’s in a mess!’

She could hear him easily in the small apartment. ‘I know,’ she said.

He went back to the bedroom. ‘Why didn’t you clean up last night?’

‘Why didn’t you?’

It had not occurred to him that it might be his responsibility. But he said: ‘I had a report to write.’