‘Another clean sheet, well done,’ said Konstantin. ‘Although you’re the best goalkeeper the school’s had in years, it’s still more important to win that scholarship. I assume you still haven’t heard anything?’
‘Nothing,’ said Alexander, as he made his next move. It was a few moments before his father countered. ‘Papa, can I ask if you’ve managed to get a ticket for the match on Saturday?’
‘No,’ admitted his father, his eyes never leaving the board. ‘They’re rarer than a virgin on Nevsky Prospect.’
‘Konstantin!’ said Elena. ‘You can behave like a docker when you’re at work, but not at home.’
Konstantin grinned at his son. ‘But your Uncle Kolya has been promised a couple of tickets on the terraces, and as I have no interest in going . . .’ Alexander leapt in the air as his father made his next move, pleased to have distracted his son.
‘You could have had as many tickets as you wanted,’ said Elena, ‘if only you’d agree to become a party member.’
‘That’s not something I’m willing to do, as you well know. Quid pro quo. An expression you taught me,’ said Konstantin, looking across the table at his son. ‘Never forget, that lot will always expect something in return, and I’m not willing to sell my friends down the river for a couple of tickets to a football match.’
‘But we haven’t reached the semi-final of the cup for years,’ said Alexander.
‘And probably won’t again in my lifetime. But it will take far more than that to get me to join the Communist Party.’
‘Vladimir’s already a pioneer and signed up for the Komsomol,’ said Alexander, after he’d made his next move.
‘Hardly surprising,’ said Konstantin. ‘Otherwise he’d have no chance of joining the KGB, which is the natural habitat for that particular piece of pond life.’
Once again, Alexander was distracted. ‘Why are you always so hard on him, Papa?’
‘Because he’s a shifty little bastard, just like his father. Be sure you never trust him with a secret, because it will have been passed on to the KGB before you’ve reached home.’
‘He’s not that bright,’ said Alexander. ‘Frankly, he’ll be lucky to be offered a place at the state university.’
‘He may not be bright, but he’s cunning and ruthless, a dangerous combination. Believe me, he’d shop his mother for a ticket to the cup final, probably even the semi-final.’
‘Supper’s ready,’ said Elena.
‘Shall we call it a draw?’ said Konstantin.
‘Certainly not, Papa. I’m six moves away from checkmate, and you know it.’
‘Stop squabbling, you two,’ said Elena, ‘and lay the table.’
‘When did I last manage to beat you?’ asked Konstantin as he placed his king on its side.
‘November the nineteenth, 1967,’ said Alexander, as the two of them stood up and shook hands.
Alexander put the salt cellar back on the table and returned the chess pieces to the box while his father took down three plates from the shelf above the sink. Alexander opened the kitchen drawer and took out three knives and three forks of different vintages. He recalled a paragraph in War and Peace that he’d just translated. The Rostovs regularly enjoyed a five-course dinner (better word than supper – he would change it when he returned to his room), and a different set of silver cutlery accompanied each dish. The family also had a dozen liveried servants who stood behind each chair to serve the meals that had been prepared by three cooks, who never seemed to leave the kitchen. But Alexander was sure that the Rostovs couldn’t have had a better cook than his mother, otherwise she wouldn’t be working in the officers’ club.
One day . . . he told himself, as he finished laying the table and sat back down on the bench opposite his father. Elena joined them with the evening’s offering, which she divided between the three of them, but not equally. The thick steak which, along with the parsnips and the potatoes, had been ‘repatriated’ – a word Alexander had taught her – from the officers’ leftovers, had been cut into two pieces. ‘Waste not, want not’, she could manage in both languages.
‘I’ve got a church meeting this evening,’ said Konstantin as he picked up his fork. ‘But I shouldn’t be back too late.’
Alexander cut his steak into several pieces, chewing each morsel slowly, between mouthfuls of bread and sips of water. He saved the parsnip till last. Its bland taste lingered in his mouth. He wasn’t sure if he even liked it. In War and Peace parsnips were only eaten by the servants. They continued to talk in English while they enjoyed the meal.
Konstantin emptied his glass of water, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket, stood up and left the room without another word.
‘You can go back to your books, Alexander. This shouldn’t take me too long,’ his mother said with a wave of her hand.
Alexander happily obeyed her. Back in his room, he replaced the word ‘supper’ with ‘dinner’, before turning to the next page and continuing with his translation of Tolstoy’s masterpiece. The French were advancing on Moscow . . .
As Konstantin left the apartment block and walked out onto the street, he was unaware of a pair of eyes staring down at him.
Vladimir had been gazing aimlessly out of the window, unable to concentrate on his school work, when he spotted Comrade Karpenko leaving the building. It was the third time that week. Where was he going at this time of night? Perhaps he should find out. He quickly left his room and tiptoed down the corridor. He could hear loud snoring coming from the front room, and peeped in to see his father slumped in his ancient horsehair chair, an empty bottle of vodka lying on the floor by his side. He opened and closed the front door quietly, then bolted down the stone steps and out onto the street. Glancing to his left he spotted Mr Karpenko turning the corner and ran after him, slowing down only when he reached the end of the road.
He peered around the corner, and watched as Comrade Karpenko went into the Church of the Apostle Andrew. What a complete waste of time, thought Vladimir. The Orthodox Church may have been frowned on by the KGB, but it wasn’t actually banned. He was about to turn back and go home when another man appeared out of the shadows, whom he’d never seen at church on Sundays.
Vladimir was careful to remain out of sight as he edged his way slowly towards the church. He watched as two more men came from the other direction and quickly made their way inside, then froze when he heard footsteps behind him. He slipped over the wall and lay on the ground, waiting until the man had passed before he crept between the gravestones to the back of the church and an entrance that only the choristers ever used. He turned the heavy door handle and cursed when it didn’t open.
Looking around, he spotted a half-open window above him. He couldn’t quite reach it, so using a rough stone slab as a step, pushed himself up off the ground. On his third attempt, he managed to grab the window ledge, and with a supreme effort pulled himself up and squeezed his slim body through the window before dropping to the floor on the other side.
Vladimir tiptoed silently through the back of the church until he reached the sanctuary, where he hid behind the altar. Once his heartbeat had returned to almost normal, he peered around the side of the altar to see a dozen men seated in the choir stalls, deep in conversation.
‘So when will you share your idea with the rest of the workforce?’ one of them was asking.
‘Next Saturday, Stepan,’ said Konstantin, ‘when all our comrades come together for the monthly works meeting. I’ll never have a better opportunity to convince them to join us.’
‘Not even a hint to some of the older hands about what you have in mind?’ asked another.
‘No. Our only chance of success is surprise. We don’t need to alert the KGB to what we’re up to.’
‘But they’re certain to have spies in the room, listening to your every word.’