‘Greg’s father is called Lev, and Lev had a brother called Grigori.’

‘Then Greg could be your cousin.’

‘He said brother.’

Grigori’s blush deepened and he said nothing.

Zoya put in: ‘How could that be?’

Volodya said: ‘According to this American Peshkov, Lev had a pregnant girlfriend in St Petersburg who married his brother.’

Grigori said: ‘Ridiculous!’

Volodya looked at Katerina. ‘You haven’t said anything, Mother.’

There was a long pause. That in itself was significant. What did they have to think about, if there was no truth in Greg’s story? A weird coldness descended on Volodya, like a freezing fog.

At last his mother said: ‘I was a flighty girl.’ She looked at Zoya. ‘Not sensible, like your wife.’ She sighed deeply. ‘Grigori Peshkov fell in love with me, more or less at first sight, poor idiot.’ She smiled fondly at her husband. ‘But his brother, Lev, had fancy clothes, cigarettes, money for vodka, gangster friends. I liked Lev better. More fool me.’

Volodya said amazedly: ‘So it’s true?’ Part of him still hoped desperately for a denial.

‘Lev did what such men always do,’ Katerina said. ‘He made me pregnant then left me.’

‘So Lev is my father.’ Volodya looked at Grigori. ‘And you’re just my uncle!’ He felt as if he might fall over. The ground under his feet had shifted. It was like an earthquake.

Zoya stood beside Volodya’s chair and put her hand on his shoulder, as if to calm him, or perhaps restrain him.

Katerina went on: ‘And Grigori did what men such as Grigori always do: he took care of me. He loved me, he married me, and he provided for me and my children.’ Sitting on the couch next to Grigori, she took his hand. ‘I didn’t want him, and I certainly didn’t deserve him, but God gave him to me anyway.’

Grigori said: ‘I have dreaded this day. Ever since you were born I have dreaded it.’

Volodya said: ‘Then why did you keep the secret? Why didn’t you just speak the truth?’

Grigori was choked up, and spoke with difficulty. ‘I couldn’t bear to tell you that I wasn’t your father,’ he managed to say. ‘I loved you too much.’

Katerina said: ‘Let me tell you something, my beloved son. Listen to me, now, and I don’t care if you never listen to your mother again, but hear this. Forget the stranger in America who once seduced a foolish girl. Look at the man sitting in front of you with tears in his eyes.’

Volodya looked at Grigori and saw a pleading expression that tugged at his heart.

Katerina went on: ‘This man has fed you and clothed you and loved you unfailingly for three decades. If the word father means anything at all, this is your father.’

‘Yes,’ Volodya said. ‘I know that.’

(iv)

Lloyd Williams got on well with Ernie Bevin. They had a lot in common, despite the age difference. During the four-day train journey across snowy Europe Lloyd had confided that he, like Bevin, was the illegitimate son of a housemaid. They were both passionate anti-Communists: Lloyd because of his experiences in Spain, Bevin because he had seen Communist tactics in the trade union movement. ‘They’re slaves to the Kremlin and tyrants over everyone else,’ Bevin said, and Lloyd knew exactly what he meant.