is, you know – soup made from peelings. You youngsters have no idea how well off you are.’
There was a knock at the door. Grigori frowned, not expecting anyone; but Katerina said: ‘Oh, I forgot! Konstantin’s daughter is coming.’
Grigori said: ‘You mean Zoya Vorotsyntsev? The daughter of Magda the midwife?’
‘I remember Zoya,’ said Volodya. ‘Skinny kid with blonde ringlets.’
‘She’s not a kid any more,’ Katerina said. ‘She’s twenty-four and a scientist.’ She stood up to go to the door.
Grigori frowned. ‘We haven’t seen her since her mother died. Why has she suddenly made contact?’
‘She wants to talk to you,’ Katerina replied.
‘To me? About what?’
‘Physics.’ Katerina went out.
Grigori said proudly: ‘Her father, Konstantin, and I were delegates to the Petrograd Soviet in 1917. We issued the famous Order Number One.’ His face darkened. ‘He died, sadly, after the Civil War.’
Volodya said: ‘He must have been young – what did he die of?’
Grigori glanced at Ilya and quickly looked away. ‘Pneumonia,’ he said; and Volodya knew he was lying.
Katerina returned, followed by a woman who took Volodya’s breath away.
She was a classic Russian beauty, tall and slim, with light-blonde hair, blue eyes so pale they were almost colourless, and perfect white skin. She wore a simple Nile-green dress whose plainness only drew attention to her slender figure.
She was introduced all around, then she sat at the table and accepted a bowl of borscht. Grigori said: ‘So, Zoya, you’re a scientist.’
‘I’m a graduate student, doing my doctorate, and I teach undergraduate classes,’ she said.
‘Volodya here works in Red Army Intelligence,’ Grigori said proudly.
‘How interesting,’ she said, obviously meaning the opposite.
Volodya realized that Grigori saw Zoya as a potential daughter-in-law. He hoped his father would not hint at this too heavily. He had already made up his mind to ask her for a date before the end of the evening. But he could manage that by himself. He did not need his father’s help. On the contrary: unsubtle parental boasting might put her off.
‘How is the soup?’ Katerina asked Zoya.
‘Delicious, thank you.’
Volodya was already getting the impression of a matter-of-fact personality behind the gorgeous exterior. It was an intriguing combination: a beautiful woman who made no attempt to charm.
Anya cleared away the soup bowls while Katerina brought the main course, chicken and potatoes cooked in a pot. Zoya tucked in, stuffing the food into her mouth, chewing and swallowing and eating more. Like most Russians, she did not often see food this good.
Volodya said: ‘What kind of science do you do, Zoya?’
With evident regret she stopped eating to answer. ‘I’m a physicist,’ she said. ‘We’re trying to understand the atom: what its components are, what holds them together.’
‘Is that interesting?’
‘Completely fascinating.’ She put down her fork. ‘We’re finding out what the universe is really made of. There’s nothing so exciting.’ Her eyes lit up. Apparently physics was the one thing that could distract her from her dinner.
Ilya spoke up for the first time. ‘Ah, but how does all this theoretical stuff help the revolution?’
Zoya’s eyes blazed anger, and Volodya liked her even more. ‘Some comrades make the mistake of undervaluing pure science, preferring practical research,’ she said. ‘But technical developments, such as improved aircraft, are ultimately based on theoretical advances.’
Volodya concealed a grin. Ilya had been demolished with one casual swipe.
But Zoya had not finished. ‘This is why I wanted to talk to you, sir,’ she said to Grigori. ‘We physicists read all the scientific journals published in the West – they foolishly reveal their results to the whole world. And lately we have realized that they are making alarming forward leaps in their understanding of atomic physics. Soviet science is in grave danger of falling behind. I wonder if Comrade Stalin is aware of this.’
The room went quiet. The merest hint of a criticism of Stalin was dangerous. ‘He knows most things,’ Grigori said.
‘Of course,’ Zoya said automatically. ‘But perhaps there are times when loyal comrades such as yourself need to draw important matters to his attention.’
‘Yes, that’s true.’
Ilya said: ‘Undoubtedly Comrade Stalin believes that science should be consistent with Marxist-Leninist ideology.’
Volodya saw a flash of defiance in Zoya’s eyes, but she dropped her gaze and said humbly: ‘There can be no question that he is right. We scientists must clearly redouble our
