'That's the last thing I'd say of him,' said Madyarov. 'He disagrees with everyone and heaps sarcasm on them. But he's got a free mind; he hasn't been indoctrinated.'

'No, he is kind. And vulnerable.'

'But you have to admit,' said Madyarov, 'that our Petya doesn't let slip a careless word even now.'

Just then Sokolov came into the room. He overheard Madyarov.

'I'd like to ask you, Leonid Sergeyevich, first not to give me advice, and secondly never again to start conversations of that nature in my presence.'

'I don't need your advice, for that matter,' replied Madyarov. 'And just as you answer for your words, I'll answer for mine.'

Sokolov looked as if he wanted to say something very stinging. Instead, he left the room.

'Well, perhaps I'd better go home after all,' said Madyarov.

'You'll make me very upset,' said Marya Ivanovna. 'And you know how kind he is. It will torment him all night.'

She went on to explain that Pyotr Lavrentyevich had a very sensitive soul, that he had suffered a lot, that he had been interrogated very harshly in 1937 and as a result had had to spend four months in a clinic for nervous disorders.

Madyarov nodded his head. 'All right, Masha. I give in.'

Then, in a sudden fury, he added: 'That's all very well, but your Petya wasn't the only one to be interrogated. Have you forgotten the eleven months I spent in the Lubyanka? And how during all that time Pyotr only once telephoned my wife Klava – his own sister…? Have you forgotten how he forbade you to telephone her? All that hurt Klava very deeply. Yes, your Petya may be a great physicist, but he's got the soul of a lackey.'

Marya Ivanovna buried her face in her hands and remained silent. Then she said very quietly: 'No one, no one will ever understand how deeply this pains me.'

No one else understood how appalled her husband had been by the savagery of general collectivization and the events of 1937. She alone understood his spiritual purity. But then she alone knew how servile he was in the face of power.

That was why he was so capricious at home, such a petty tyrant. That was why Masha had to clean his shoes for him, why she had to fan him in hot weather with her headscarf, why she had to keep the mosquitoes off with a branch when they went for walks near their dacha.

Once, during his last year at university, Viktor had thrown a copy of Pravda on to the floor and said to a fellow student: 'It's so deadly boring. How can anyone ever read it?'

Immediately afterwards he had felt terrified. He had picked up the newspaper, smoothed its pages and smiled weakly. Even now, years later, the memory of that pitiful, hang-dog smile was enough to make him break out into a sweat.

A few days later, Viktor had held out another issue of Pravda to that same friend and said animatedly: 'Grishka, have a look at the leading article. It's a good stuff.'

His friend had taken the newspaper from him and said pityingly:

'Vitya's frightened, is he? Do you think I'm going to denounce you?'

Viktor had then taken a vow either to remain silent and not express dangerous thoughts or else to say what he thought without funking it. He had not kept this vow. He had often flared up and thrown caution to the wind – only to suddenly take fright and attempt to snuff out the flame he himself had lit.

In 1938, after the trial of Bukharin, he had said to Krymov:

'Say what you like, but I've met Bukharin. I've talked to him twice. I remember his kind, intelligent smile. And he's certainly got a head on his shoulders. My impression is that he's someone of great charm and absolute purity.'

Krymov had looked at him morosely. Thrown into confusion, Viktor had muttered: 'But then who knows? Espionage. Working as an agent of the Okhrana. [34] There's nothing charming or pure about that. It's just despicable!'

Krymov's next words left Viktor even more confused.

'Since we're relatives,' he said sullenly, 'let me say one thing to you: I am quite unable, and always shall be unable, to associate the name of Bukharin with the Okhrana.'

'My God, I can't believe all this horror!' Viktor had burst out with sudden fury. 'These trials are a nightmare. But why do they confess? Why do they all confess?'

Krymov had said nothing more. He had obviously said too much already…

What a wonderful power and clarity there is in speaking one's mind. What a terrible price people paid for a few bold words.

How often Viktor had lain awake listening to the cars on the street! Sometimes Lyudmila had gone barefoot to the window and parted the curtains. She had stayed there for a while and watched; then, thinking that Viktor was asleep, she had gone silently back to bed and lain down. In the morning she had asked: 'Did you sleep well?'

'All right, thank you. And you?'

'It felt very stuffy. I had to go to the window for some fresh air.'

'Yes.'

How can one ever describe those nights and that extraordinary sense of both doom and innocence?

'Remember, Viktor, every word reaches them. You're destroying yourself, together with me and the children.'

And another time:

'I can't tell you everything. But for the love of God, don't say a word to anyone. Viktor, we live in a terrible age – you've no idea just how terrible. Remember, Viktor, not a word to anyone.'

Sometimes Viktor glimpsed the opaque, sad eyes of someone he had known since childhood. He had been frightened not by what his old friend said, but by what he didn't say. And of course he had been much too frightened to ask directly: 'Are you an agent? Do you get called in for questioning?'

He remembered looking at his assistant's face after making a thoughtless joke about Stalin's having formulated the laws of gravity long before Newton.

'You didn't say anything, and I didn't hear anything,' this young assistant had said gaily.

Why, why, why all these jokes? It was mad to make such jokes – like banging a flask of nitroglycerine with a hammer.

What power and clarity lies in the word! In the unfettered, carefree word! The word that is still spoken in spite of all one's fears.

Was Viktor aware of the hidden tragedy in these conversations? Everyone who took part in them hated German Fascism and was terrified of it… But why did they only speak their minds at a time when Russia had been driven back to the Volga, at a time when terrible military defeats held out the threat of slavery?

Viktor walked silently beside Karimov.

'There's something very surprising,' he suddenly said, 'about novels portraying the foreign intelligentsia. I've just been reading Hemingway. When his characters have a serious conversation, they are always drinking. Cocktails, whisky, rum, cognac, more cocktails, more cognac, still more different brands of whisky. Whereas the Russian intelligentsia has always had its important discussions over a glass of tea. The members of "People's Will", the Populists, the Social Democrats all came together over glasses of weak tea. Lenin and his friends even planned the Revolution over a glass of weak tea. Though apparently Stalin prefers cognac.'

'Yes, yes,' said Karimov, 'you're quite right. And the conversation we had today was over a glass of tea.'

'Absolutely. And isn't Madyarov intelligent? Isn't he bold? I'm really not used to anyone speaking the way he does. It excites me.'

Karimov took Viktor by the arm.

'Viktor Pavlovich, have you noticed that the most innocent remark of Madyarov's somehow sounds like a generalization? I find that worrying. And he was arrested for several months in 1937 and then released. At a time when no one was released. There must be a reason. Do you follow me?'

'Yes,' Viktor answered slowly, 'I do. How could I not understand you? You think he's an informer.'

[34] The Tsarist Secret Police.