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Unfortunately the Russian counterattack had petered out in March. It had won back much territory, and made Muscovites feel safer, but the Germans had licked their wounds and were now preparing to try again.
And Stalin was still in charge.
Volodya spotted Zoya walking through the crowd toward him. She was wearing a red-and-white checked dress. There
was a spring in her step, and her pale blond hair seemed to bounce with her stride. Every man stared at her.
Volodya had dated some beautiful women, but he was surprised to find himself courting Zoya. For years she had treated him with cool indifference, and talked to him about nothing but nuclear physics. Then one day, to his astonishment, she had asked him to go to a movie.
It was shortly after the riot in which General Bobrov had been killed. Her attitude to him had changed that day--he was not sure he understood why; somehow the shared experience had created an intimacy. Anyway, they had gone to see George's Dinky Jazz Band, a knockabout comedy starring an English banjolele player called George Formby. It was a popular movie, and had been running for months in Moscow. The plot was about as unrealistic as could be: unknown to George, his instrument was sending messages to German U-boats. It was so silly that they had both laughed their socks off.
Since then they had been dating regularly.
Today they were to have lunch with his father. He had arranged to meet her beforehand at the fountain in order to have a few minutes alone with her.
Zoya gave him her thousand-candlepower smile and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. She was tall, but he was taller. He relished the kiss. Her lips were soft and moist on his. It was over too soon.
Volodya was not completely sure of her yet. They were still "walking out," as the older generation termed it. They kissed a lot, but they had not yet gone to bed together. They were not too young: he was twenty-seven, she twenty-eight. All the same, Volodya sensed that Zoya was not going to sleep with him until she was ready.
Half of him did not believe he would ever spend a night with this dream girl. She seemed too blond, too intelligent, too tall, too self-possessed, too sexy ever to give herself to a man. Surely he would never be allowed to watch her take off her clothes, to gaze at her naked body, to touch her all over, to lie on top of her . . . ?
They walked through the long, narrow park. On one side was a busy road. All along the other side, the towers of the Kremlin loomed over a high wall. "To look at it, you'd think our leaders in there were being held prisoner by the Russian people," Volodya said.
"Yes," Zoya agreed. "Instead of the other way round."
He looked behind them, but no one had heard. All the same it was foolhardy to talk like that. "No wonder my father thinks you're dangerous."
"I used to think you were like your father."
"I wish I was. He's a hero. He stormed the Winter Palace! I don't suppose I'll ever change the course of history."
"Oh, I know, but he's so narrow-minded and conservative. You're not like that."
Volodya thought he was pretty much like his father, but he was not going to argue.
"Are you free this evening?" she said. "I'd like to cook for you."
"You bet!" She had never invited him to her place.
"I've got a piece of steak."
"Great!" Good beef was a treat even in Volodya's privileged home.
"And the Kovalevs are out of town."
That was even better news. Like many Muscovites, Zoya lived in someone else's apartment. She had two rooms and shared the kitchen and bathroom with another scientist, Dr. Kovalev, and his wife and child. But the Kovalevs had gone away, so Zoya and Volodya would have the place to themselves. His pulse quickened. "Should I bring my toothbrush?" he said.
She gave him an enigmatic smile and did not answer the question.
They left the park and crossed the road to a restaurant. Many were closed, but the city center was full of offices whose workers had to eat lunch somewhere, and a few cafes and bars survived.
Grigori Peshkov was at a pavement table. There were better restaurants inside the Kremlin, but he liked to be seen in places used by ordinary Russians. He wanted to show that he was not above the common people just because he wore a general's uniform. All the same, he had chosen a table well away from the rest, so that he could not be overheard.
He disapproved of Zoya, but he was not immune to her enchantment, and he stood up and kissed her on both cheeks.
They ordered potato pancakes and beer. The only alternatives were pickled herrings and vodka.
"Today I am not going to speak to you about nuclear physics, General," said Zoya. "Please take my word for it that I still believe everything I said last time we talked about the subject. I don't want to bore you."
