Heads You Win

4 Sasha

En route to Southampton

Sasha heard a firm rap on the side of the crate.

‘Anyone in there?’ asked a gruff voice.

‘Yes,’ they both said, in two different languages.

‘I’ll be back when we’re outside territorial waters,’ said the voice.

‘Thank you,’ replied Sasha. They heard the sound of heavy boots fading away, followed a few moments later by a loud bang.

‘I wonder—’

‘Don’t talk,’ whispered Elena, ‘we need to conserve our energy.’ Sasha nodded, although he could hardly see her in the darkness.

The next noise they heard was the rumbling of a vast piston turning over somewhere below them. This was followed by a feeling of movement as the ship eased away from the dock and began its slow progress out of the harbour. Sasha had no idea how long it would take before they crossed the invisible line that maritime law recognizes as international waters.

‘Twelve nautical miles until we’re safe,’ said Elena, answering his unasked question. ‘Uncle Kolya told me it should take just over an hour.’

What’s the difference between a land mile and a nautical mile, Sasha wanted to ask, but he remained silent. He thought about his Uncle Kolya, and could only hope he would be safe. Had anyone found Polyakov yet? Was he already wreaking revenge? Sasha had told his uncle to start a rumour that his friend Vladimir had masterminded the escape, which he hoped would derail his chances of joining the KGB. He thought about his homeland, and what he would miss most, and even wondered if Zenit F.C. had beaten Torpedo Moscow and lifted the Soviet Cup.

It felt like far longer than an hour before they heard the heavy footsteps returning. Another tap on the side of the crate.

‘We’ll have you out in no time,’ said the same gruff voice.

Sasha gripped his mother by the arms as they listened to the sound of nails being extracted one by one. Finally the lid was raised. They both took a deep breath, and looked up to see a short, scruffy man dressed in grubby overalls grinning down at them.

‘Welcome aboard,’ he said after checking to make sure the six cases of vodka were in place. ‘My name’s Matthews,’ he added, before offering Elena his arm. She stretched stiffly for a moment before grabbing his arm and climbing unsteadily out of the crate. Sasha took the small suitcase and his lunch box, and handed them to Matthews before joining his mother.

‘I’ve been told to take you both up to the bridge so you can meet Captain Peterson,’ said Matthews, before leading them to a rusty ladder attached to the side of the hold.

Sasha picked up his mother’s case, and was the last to climb the ladder. With each rung, the sun shone brighter, until he was looking up at a cloudless blue sky. When he finally stepped out on deck, he paused for a moment to look back at the city of his birth for what he both hoped and feared would be the last time.

‘Follow me,’ said Matthews, as two of his crew mates began climbing down into the hold intent on claiming their bounty.

Elena and Sasha followed Matthews towards a spiral staircase which he began to climb without looking back. They quickly followed like obedient spaniels, and moments later stepped out onto the bridge, feeling slightly giddy.

The helmsman standing behind the wheel didn’t give them a second look, but an older man dressed in a dark blue uniform, with four gold stripes on the arm of his double-breasted jacket, turned round to face the stowaways.

‘Welcome aboard, Mrs Karpenko,’ he said. ‘What’s the lad’s name?’

‘Sasha, sir,’ he replied.

‘Don’t call me sir. Mr Peterson, or skipper, will be fine. Now, Mrs Karpenko, your brother told me you’re a fine cook, so let’s find out if he was exaggerating.’

‘She’s the finest cook in Leningrad,’ said Sasha.

‘Is she indeed? And what do you have to offer, young man, because this isn’t a pleasure cruise? Everyone on board has to pull their weight.’

‘He can serve at table,’ said Elena before Sasha had a chance to reply.

‘That will be a first,’ said the captain.

It certainly will, thought Sasha, who’d never been inside a restaurant in his life, and apart from clearing the table and washing up after supper, was rarely to be found in the kitchen.

‘Is the cabin next to Fergal’s free, Matthews?’ asked the captain.

‘Yes, skipper, but it’s hardly big enough for two.’

‘Then put the boy in with Fergal. He can sleep on the top bunk, and his mother can have the spare cabin. Once they’ve unpacked,’ he added, glancing down at the small suitcase, ‘take them to the galley and introduce them to the cook.’

Sasha noticed that this statement brought a smile to the lips of the helmsman, although his eyes remained fixed on the ocean ahead.

‘Aye, aye, captain,’ said Matthews. Without another word he led his charges back down the spiral staircase and onto the main deck. Once again Sasha stared towards the distant horizon, but there was no longer any sign of Leningrad.

They followed Matthews back across the deck, and descended an even narrower staircase to the bowels of the ship. Their guide led them down a dimly lit corridor, coming to a halt outside two adjoining cabins.

‘This is where you’ll be sleeping during the voyage.’

Elena opened the door of her cabin and looked up at a swinging bulb that threw a small arc of light onto a narrow bunk. The rhythmic thumping of the ship’s engine guaranteed that even if she hadn’t slept for the past week, she certainly wasn’t going to for the next one.

Matthews opened the next-door cabin. Sasha stepped inside to find a double bunk that took up almost the whole space.

‘You’ll be on top,’ said Matthews. ‘I’ll be back in half an hour, when I’ll take you up to the galley.’

‘Thank you,’ said Sasha, who immediately climbed onto the top bunk. It wasn’t any better than his bed in Leningrad. He couldn’t help wondering if he’d chosen the right crate.

‘Now listen up,’ someone shouted, ‘because I’m only going to say this once.’

Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to face the chef, who was standing in the centre of the galley, hands on hips.

‘We have a lady on board, and she’ll be working with us. Mrs Karpenko is a trained cook, who has a great deal of experience, so you will treat her with the respect she deserves. If any one of you puts a foot out of line, I’ll chop it off and feed it to the seagulls. Do I make myself clear?’ The nervous laughter that followed suggested that he did.

‘Her son, Sasha,’ continued the chef, ‘who is also travelling with us, will be assisting Fergal in the dining room. Right, let’s all get back to work. We have dinner to serve in a couple of hours.’

A thin, pale young man with a shock of red hair strolled across the galley and stopped in front of Sasha.

‘I’m Fergal,’ he said. Sasha nodded, but didn’t speak. ‘Now listen up,’ he added firmly, placing his hands on his hips, ‘because I’m only going to say this once. I’m the chief steward, and you can call me sir.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Sasha meekly.

Fergal burst out laughing, shook his new recruit by the hand and said, ‘Follow me, Sasha.’

Sasha followed him out of the galley and up the nearest staircase. ‘So what am I expected to do?’ he asked once he’d caught up.

‘As you’re told,’ said Fergal when he reached the top step. ‘Our job is to serve the passengers in the dining room.’

‘This ship has passengers?’

‘Only a dozen. We’re a cargo vessel, but if you have more than twelve passengers, you’re registered as a cruise ship. The company does own a couple of ocean liners, but we’re part of their cargo fleet,’ he added as he pushed open a door and entered a room containing three large circular tables, each with six chairs.

‘But there are eighteen places,’ said Sasha. ‘You said—’

‘I can see you’re sharp,’ said Fergal with a grin. ‘As well as the twelve passengers, there are six officers who also eat in the dining room but sit at their own table. Now, our first job,’ he added, pulling open a drawer in a large sideboard and extracting three tablecloths, ‘is to lay up for dinner.’

Sasha had never seen a tablecloth before, and watched as Fergal skilfully cast one over each of the three tables. He then returned to the sideboard, took out matching cutlery and began to set each place.

‘Don’t just stand there gawping. You’re my assistant, not one of the passengers.’

Sasha grabbed some knives, forks and spoons and began to copy his mentor, who double-checked each setting, making sure everything was lined up and in its correct place.

‘Now, the most important job you’ll be responsible for,’ Fergal said once he’d added two glasses to each place setting, and a salt and pepper pot in the centre of the table, ‘will be to organize the dumb waiter.’

‘What’s a dumb waiter?’

‘You. But we luckily have a more useful example over here.’ Fergal walked across to the far side of the room and opened a small hatch in the wall to reveal a square box with two shelves and a thick rope on one side. ‘This goes down to the kitchen,’ he said as he pulled the rope, and the box disappeared. ‘When chef is good and ready, it will be sent back up with the first course, which you’ll place on the sideboard before I serve it. You don’t speak to anyone unless they speak to you, and then only if they ask you a question. At all times, address the guests as Sir or Madam.’ Sasha kept nodding. ‘Now, the next thing we have to do is find you a white jacket and a pair of trousers that fit. We can’t have you looking like some sea urchin that’s been washed up on the beach, can we?’

‘Can I ask a question?’ said Sasha.

‘If you must.’

‘Where do you come from?’

‘The Emerald Isle, to be sure,’ said Fergal. But Sasha was none the wiser.

The cook glanced across at Elena, who was making a sauce from some leftovers. ‘You’ve done that before,’ he said. ‘When you’ve finished, would you prepare the vegetables, while I concentrate on the main course.’ He looked up at a menu pinned to the wall. ‘Lamb chops.’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Elena.

‘Call me Eddie,’ he added, before making his way across to the fridge and removing a rack of lamb.

Once Elena had prepared the vegetables and arranged them in separate dishes, Eddie inspected them. ‘Good thing you’re leaving us when we dock in Southampton,’ he said, ‘otherwise I might be looking for a job.’

I will be looking for a job, Elena wanted to tell him, but satisfied herself with, ‘What would you like me to do next?’

‘Take the smoked salmon out of the fridge and prepare eighteen portions. Once you’ve done that, put them in the dumb waiter, ring the bell, and send them up to Fergal.’

‘The dumb waiter?’ said Elena, looking puzzled.

‘Ah, at last something you don’t know about.’ He smiled as he headed towards a large square hole in the wall.

A buzzer sounded.

‘First course on its way up,’ said Fergal, and a few moments later, six plates of smoked salmon appeared. Sasha placed them on the sideboard before sending the dumb waiter back down. He was unloading the last three plates of salmon when the door opened and two smartly dressed officers walked in.

‘Mr Reynolds, the chief engineer,’ whispered Fergal, ‘and the purser, Mr Hallett.’

‘And who’s this?’ Mr Reynolds asked.

‘Sasha, my new assistant,’ said Fergal.

‘Good evening, Sasha. I believe we have you to thank for half a dozen cases of vodka, which I can assure you the ratings will appreciate.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Sasha.

The door opened again, and the passengers began to trickle in one by one and take their places.

Sasha never stopped pulling the rope up and down, before placing the contents of the box on the sideboard. Fergal served the fifteen men and three women with a relaxed charm that the chef assured Elena came from regularly kissing the Blarney Stone. Something else he had to explain to his new assistant.

An hour later, after the last diner had departed, Sasha collapsed into the nearest chair and said, ‘I’m exhausted.’

‘Not yet, you aren’t,’ said Fergal, laughing. ‘Now we have to clear up before re-laying the tables for breakfast. You can start by hoovering the carpet.’

‘Hoovering?’

Fergal gave him a short demonstration on the strange machine before returning to lay the tables. Sasha was fascinated by the vacuum cleaner, but didn’t want to admit he’d never seen one before, although it couldn’t have been more obvious as he bumped into chairs and table legs. Fergal let him become familiar with it, while he laid eighteen places for breakfast.

‘That’s it for today,’ said Fergal, ‘so you can shove off now.’

Sasha made his way back to the sleeping quarters and knocked on his mother’s door. He didn’t enter until he heard her say, ‘Come in.’ The first thing he noticed when he walked into her cabin was that she had unpacked both her suitcase and his lunch box. He also thought the room looked far tidier than he remembered.

‘What’s it like being a waiter?’ was her first question.

‘You never stop moving,’ said Sasha, ‘but it’s great fun. Fergal seems to have them all under control, even the captain.’

Elena laughed. ‘Yes, chef told me he’s broken several hearts over the years, and only gets away with it because the passengers are rarely on board for more than a fortnight.’

‘What’s the chef like?’

‘An old pro, and so good at his job that I can’t understand what he’s doing on a small ship like this. I would have thought the Barrington Line could have put him to far better use on one of their cruise liners. There has to be some reason why they haven’t.’

‘If there is,’ said Sasha, ‘Fergal will be sure to know, so I’ll find out long before we reach Southampton.’

5 Alex

En route to New York

When Alex heard the cargo hold close and the boat ease away from its moorings he began to hammer on the side of the crate with a clenched fist.

‘We’re in here!’ he shouted.

‘They can’t hear you,’ said Elena. ‘Uncle Kolya told me the hold won’t be opened again until we’re well outside Soviet territorial waters.’

‘But—’ Alex began, then simply nodded, although he was beginning to understand what it must be like to be buried alive. His thoughts were interrupted by the unsteady rumbling of an engine somewhere below them, followed by movement. He assumed they must at last be making their way out of the harbour, but he had no idea how long it would be before they were released from their self-imposed prison.

Alex had hoped to be going to a football match with his uncle that afternoon, and ended up in a crate with his mother. He prayed to whatever gods there were that his uncle would be safe. He assumed that Polyakov had been found by now. Was he even trying to have the ship turned around? He’d told his uncle to start a rumour that his friend Vladimir had helped him to escape, which he hoped would end his chances of joining the KGB. He began to think about what he’d left behind. Not a lot, he concluded. But he would have liked to know the result of the match between Zenit F.C. and Torpedo Moscow, and wondered if he ever would.

He eventually drifted into a half sleep, but was woken by the sound of the hold door crashing open, followed by what sounded like someone tapping on the side of a nearby crate. He clenched his fist again and thumped the side of his prison cell, shouting, ‘We’re in here!’ This time his mother didn’t try to stop him.

Moments later he could hear two, or was it three, voices, grateful they were speaking a language he recognized. He waited impatiently, and when the lid of the crate was finally torn off, he saw three men towering over him.

‘You can get out now,’ said one of them in Russian.

Alex stood up, and helped his mother as she slowly unwound her stiff body. He took her hand as she stepped gingerly out of the crate. He then grabbed her small suitcase and his lunch box before climbing out to join her.

The three deckhands, dressed in navy blue, oil-stained overalls, were peering into the crate to make sure their promised reward was in place.

‘You both come with me,’ said one of them, while the other two began to remove the cases of vodka. Alex and Elena obediently followed the man who’d given the order, as he dodged in between several other crates until they reached a ladder attached to the side of the hold. Alex looked up to see the open sky beckoning him, and began to believe for the first time that they just might be safe. He followed the deckhand slowly up the ladder, the suitcase in one hand, while his mother tucked his lunch box under her arm.

Alex stepped out onto the deck, and took a deep breath of fresh sea air. He stared back in the direction of Leningrad, which looked like a tiny village melting in the early evening sun.

‘Don’t hang about,’ barked the sailor, as his two mates hurried past, each carrying a case of vodka. ‘Cook doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’ He led them across the deck and down a spiral staircase into the bowels of the ship. Alex and Elena were quite giddy by the time they reached the lower deck, where their guide stood in front of a door displaying the faded words ‘Mr Strelnikov, Head Chef’.

The sailor pulled open the heavy door, revealing the smallest kitchen Elena had ever seen. They stepped inside, to be greeted by a giant of a man dressed in a grubby white jacket that had several buttons missing, and blue striped trousers that looked as if they’d recently been slept in. He was already unscrewing the top off a bottle of vodka. He took a swig before saying in a gruff voice, ‘Your brother told me you’re a good cook. You’d better be, or you’ll both be thrown overboard and then you’ll have to swim home, where I expect you’ll find quite a few people waiting on the dockside to welcome you back.’

Elena would have laughed, but she wasn’t sure the cook didn’t mean it. After taking another swig, he turned his attention to Alex. ‘And what’s the point of you?’ he demanded.

‘He’s a trained waiter,’ said Elena, before Alex could reply.

‘We don’t need one of them,’ said the chef. ‘He can wash the dishes and peel the potatoes. As long as he doesn’t open his mouth, I might even let him have one or two scraps at the end of the day.’ Alex was about to protest when the cook added, ‘Of course, if that doesn’t suit you, your worship, you can always work in the engine room and spend the rest of your life hurling coal into a blazing furnace. I’ll leave the choice to you.’ The words ‘the rest of your life’ had a haunting conviction about them. ‘Show them where they’ll be sleeping, Karl. Just make sure they’re back in time to help me prepare dinner.’

The sailor nodded, and led them out of the galley, back up the narrow staircase and onto the deck. He didn’t stop walking until he reached a lone lifeboat swinging in the breeze.

‘This is the royal suite,’ he said, with no suggestion of irony. ‘If you don’t like it, you can always sleep on deck.’

Elena looked back in the direction of her homeland, which had almost disappeared from sight. She found herself already missing the meagre comforts of their tiny flat in the Khrushchyovka. Her thoughts were interrupted by Karl barking, ‘Don’t keep cook waiting, or we’ll all live to regret it.’

Most chefs occasionally taste their food, while others sample each dish, but it soon became clear to Elena that the ship’s cook preferred to devour whole portions between swigs of vodka. She was surprised that the officers, let alone the rest of the crew, were ever fed.

The kitchen, which Elena would quickly learn to refer to as the galley, was so small that it was almost impossible not to bump into someone or something if you moved in any direction, and so hot that she was soaked in sweat within moments of putting on a not very white jacket that didn’t fit.

Strelnikov was a man of few words, and those he uttered were usually prefaced by a single adjective. He looked fifty, but Elena suspected he was only about forty. He must have weighed over 300 pounds, and had clearly spent a considerable portion of his wages on tattoos. Elena watched as he stood over a vast stove inspecting his handiwork while his assistant, a tiny Chinese man of indeterminate age, squatted, head bowed, in the far corner, endlessly peeling potatoes.

‘You,’ barked the chef, having already forgotten Alex’s name, ‘will assist Mr Ling, while you,’ he said, pointing at Elena, ‘will prepare the soup. We’ll soon find out if you’re as good as your brother claims.’

Elena began checking the ingredients. Some of the scraps had clearly been scraped off the plates of previous meals. There was also the odd bone of an animal that she couldn’t immediately identify floating in a greasy pan, but she did her best to salvage what little meat was left on them. She dropped what remained into the bin, which only brought a frown to Strelnikov’s face, as he wasn’t in the habit of throwing anything away.

‘Some of the deckhands consider bones a luxury,’ he said.

‘Only dogs consider bones a luxury,’ mumbled Elena.

‘And sea dogs,’ snapped Strelnikov.

Strelnikov focused on preparing the dish of the day, which Elena later discovered was the dish of every day: fish and chips. Three fish at a time were being fried in a vast, round, burnt pan, while Mr Ling expertly sliced each potato the moment Alex had finished peeling it. Elena noticed that only three soup bowls and three dinner plates of different sizes had been laid out on the countertop, although there had to be at least twenty crew on board. Strelnikov interrupted his frying to sample the soup, and as he didn’t comment, Elena assumed she had passed her first test. He then ladled a large portion into each of the three soup bowls, which Mr Ling placed on a tray, before taking them off to the officers’ mess. As he opened the door, Elena saw a long queue of morose-looking figures, billycans in hand, waiting to be served.

‘Only one ladle each,’ grunted Strelnikov, as the first deckhand held up his billycan.

Elena carried out his orders, and tried not to show that she was appalled when Strelnikov dropped a fried fish into the same billycans as the soup. Only one member of the crew greeted her with a warm smile, and even said ‘thank you’, in her native tongue.

Once she’d completed the task, twenty-three men in all, the cook returned to the stove and began to fry the largest three pieces of fish, one by one, before tipping them onto the officers’ plates. Mr Ling selected only the thinnest chips to accompany them, then placed the plates on his tray before leaving the galley once again.

‘Start clearing up!’ Strelnikov barked, as he sank into the only chair in the room while nursing a half-empty bottle of vodka.

After Mr Ling had returned with the empty soup plates, he immediately began to scour the large pots and the two frying pans. When he heard Strelnikov begin to snore, he grinned at Alex and pointed to a pan of untouched chips. Alex devoured every last one of them, while Elena continued scrubbing the pots. Once she’d finished, she glanced across at Strelnikov. He was fast asleep, so she and Alex slipped out of the galley and made their way back up the spiral staircase and onto the deck.

Elena began to unpack her little suitcase and place each item neatly on the deck, when she heard heavy footsteps behind her. She quickly turned around to see a tall, heavily built man approaching them. Alex put down his dictionary, leapt up and stepped between his mother and the advancing giant. Although he knew it would be an unequal contest, he didn’t intend to give up without a fight. But the man’s next move took them both by surprise. He sat down cross-legged on the deck, and smiled up at them.

‘My name is Dimitri Balanchuk,’ he said, ‘and, like you, I’m a Russian exile.’

Elena looked more carefully at Dimitri, and then remembered he was the man who’d thanked her at supper. She returned his smile, and sat down opposite him. Alex folded his arms and remained standing.

‘We should arrive in New York in about ten days,’ said Dimitri in a soft, gentle voice.

‘Have you been to New York before?’ Elena asked.

‘I live there, but I still consider Leningrad to be my home. I was on deck when I saw you climbing into the crate. I tried to warn you to get into the other one.’

‘Why?’ said Alex. ‘I’ve read a lot about New York, and even though it’s full of gangsters, it sounds exciting.’

‘It’s exciting enough,’ said Dimitri, ‘although there are just as many gangsters in Moscow as there are in New York,’ he added, with a wry smile. ‘But I’m not convinced you’ll ever get off this ship without my help.’

‘Are they going to send us back to Leningrad?’ asked Elena, trembling at the thought.

‘No. The Yanks would welcome you with open arms, especially as you’re refugees fleeing from Communism.’

‘But we don’t know anyone in America,’ said Alex.

‘You do now,’ said Dimitri, ‘because I’d do anything to help a fellow countryman escape from that repressive regime. No, it’s not the Americans who will be your problem, it’s Strelnikov. You’ve cut his workload in half, so he’ll do anything to prevent you getting off the ship.’

‘But how can he stop us?’

‘The same way he does Mr Ling, who joined the crew in the Philippines over six years ago. Whenever we approach a port, Strelnikov locks him in the galley and doesn’t let him out until we’re back at sea. And I suspect that’s exactly what he has planned for you.’

‘Then we must tell one of the officers,’ said Elena.

‘They don’t even know you’re on board,’ said Dimitri. ‘Even if they did, it’s more than their life is worth to cross Strelnikov. But don’t panic, because I have an idea which I hope will see the cook ending up locked in his own galley.’

Although she was exhausted, it was some time before Elena fell asleep, as she couldn’t get used to the pitching and swaying of the lifeboat. After she had finally managed an hour, perhaps two, she opened her eyes to find Mr Ling standing by her side. She clambered out of the boat and shook Alex, who was fast asleep on the deck. They accompanied Mr Ling back down to the galley with only the moon to guide them. It was clear that they weren’t going to see the sun for the next ten days.

Breakfast consisted of two fried eggs and beans on toast for the officers, served on the same three plates as their meal the evening before, with cups of black coffee to accompany them, while the crew were handed two slices of bread and dripping, and a mug of tea, with no suggestion of sugar. No sooner had Elena, Alex and Mr Ling cleared up after breakfast than they had to begin preparing for lunch, while Strelnikov took his morning siesta. More sleep than Elena had managed the previous night.

Elena and Alex were given a short break after lunch, but were not allowed to go back on deck, as Strelnikov didn’t want the officers to find out they were on board. They sat alone in the corridor, hunched up against the wall, wondering how different things might have been if they had climbed into the other crate.

6 Sasha

En route to Southampton

By the end of their first week on board, Sasha had mastered the dumb waiter so well that he even found time to help Fergal serve the passengers, although he wasn’t allowed anywhere near the captain’s table. Once they’d laid up for breakfast each night, Sasha would return to his mother’s cabin and regale her with what he’d overheard the passengers talking about, and what he’d said to them.

‘But I thought you weren’t allowed to speak to the passengers.’

‘I’m not, unless they ask a question. So now they all know you’re working in the kitchen and looking for a job in England, and if you haven’t got one by the time we dock at Southampton, we won’t be allowed past immigration, and will have to remain on board. And here’s the bad news. Once they’ve reloaded, and the new passengers have come on board, they’re going straight back to Leningrad.’

‘We certainly can’t risk that. Have any of the passengers shown the slightest interest in our plight?’

‘Not a dicky bird.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It’s cockney rhyming slang for word.’

‘What’s a cockney?’

‘Someone who’s born within the sound of Bow bells.’

‘Where are these Bow bells?’

‘No idea. But Fergal will know.’

‘Are there any English passengers on board?’ asked Elena.

‘Only four, and they rarely speak to each other, let alone anyone as lowly as a waiter. They’re standoffish.’

‘I’ve never heard that word before.’

‘Fergal uses it a lot, particularly when he’s talking about the English. I looked it up in the dictionary. It means distant and cold in manner, unfriendly.’

‘Perhaps they’re just shy,’ suggested Elena.

With only three days to go before the ship was due to dock in Southampton, the chef informed Elena that Mr Hallett, the purser, wished to see her when she came off duty.

‘What have I done wrong?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Nothing. In fact I suspect the exact opposite.’

Once the cook had released the kitchen staff for the afternoon, Elena went straight to the purser’s office. She knocked on the door, and when she heard a voice say, ‘Come,’ she walked in to find two men seated on either side of a large desk. They both rose, and the purser, dressed in a smart white uniform with two gold stripes on the sleeves, waited for her to be seated before he introduced Mr Moretti, and explained that he was a passenger who had asked to meet her.

Elena took a closer look at the elderly gentleman dressed in a three-piece suit. He addressed her in English with a slight accent that she couldn’t place. He asked her about her work in Leningrad, and how she had ended up on board the ship. She told him almost everything that had happened during the past month, including how her husband had died, but didn’t mention why her son had nearly killed the local head of the KGB. By the time Mr Moretti came to the end of his questions, Elena had no idea what sort of impression she’d made, although he did give her a warm smile.

‘Thank you, Mrs Karpenko,’ said Mr Hallett, ‘that will be all for now.’ Both men rose again as she left the office.

She returned to her cabin in a daze, to find Sasha waiting for her. Once she had told him about her interview with Mr Moretti, he said, ‘That must be the Italian gentleman who owns a restaurant in somewhere called Fulham. I know he’s also asked to see the chef and Fergal, so keep your fingers crossed, Mama.’

‘Why Fergal?’

‘He wants to know how I’m getting on in the dining room. I think he’s hoping to get two for the price of one. So Fergal’s going to tell him I’m the best assistant steward he’s ever had.’

‘You’re the only assistant he’s ever had.’

‘A minor detail that Fergal will not be mentioning.’

The meetings with the chef and Fergal must have gone well, because Mr Moretti asked to see Elena a second time, and offered her a job at his restaurant in Fulham.

‘Ten pounds a week, with accommodation above the premises,’ he said.

Elena had no idea where Fulham was, or if it was a good wage, but she happily accepted the only offer she was likely to get, if they didn’t want to go straight back to Leningrad.

The purser then proceeded to ask her several more questions about why she was seeking asylum, while he filled out a long official Home Office form. Once he’d double-checked each entry, he and Mr Moretti signed on the bottom line, having agreed to act as her sponsors.

‘Good luck, Mrs Karpenko,’ said the purser as he handed the completed form to Mr Moretti. ‘We will all miss you, and if things don’t work out, you can always get a job with the Barrington Line.’

‘That’s kind of you,’ responded Elena.

‘But for your sake, let’s hope not, Mrs Karpenko. Before you leave, don’t forget to collect your wages.’

‘You’re going to pay me as well?’ said Elena in disbelief.

‘Of course.’ The purser handed her two brown envelopes. He then walked to the door of his office, opened it and said, ‘Let’s hope we never see you again, Mrs Karpenko.’

‘Thank you, Mr Hallett,’ said Elena, who stood on her toes and kissed him on both cheeks, which left the purser speechless.

She went straight to her cabin, keen to let Sasha know about the offer. When she opened the door, she was both surprised and delighted. Delighted to find her son waiting for her, but surprised to see a large parcel on the bed.

‘What’s that?’ she asked, taking a closer look at the bulging package wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string.

‘I have no idea,’ said Sasha, ‘but it was there when I came off work.’

Elena undid the string and slowly removed the wrapping paper. She gasped when she saw all the clothes that spilled out onto the bed, along with a card that read, Thank you both, and good luck. It was signed by every member of the crew, including the captain. Elena burst into tears. ‘How can we ever pay them back?’

‘By being model citizens, if I remember the captain’s exact words,’ said Sasha.

‘But we’re not even citizens yet, and will remain stateless until the immigration authorities are convinced that we’re genuine political refugees, and have real jobs to go to.’

‘Then let’s hope that they’re a bit more friendly than the English passengers on board, because if they aren’t, we’re about to find out the true meaning of the word “standoffish”.’

‘The chef’s also English,’ said Elena, ‘and he couldn’t have been kinder. He even apologized for not being able to act as one of my sponsors.’

‘He daren’t risk it,’ said Sasha. ‘There’s a warrant out for his arrest. Whenever the ship docks in Southampton, he has to remain on board. Fergal tells me he locks himself in the kitchen and doesn’t reappear until they’ve left the harbour.’

‘Poor man,’ said Elena.

Sasha decided not to tell his mother the reason the British police wanted to arrest Eddie.

Elena and Sasha joined Mr Moretti on the passenger deck the following morning, but not before Sasha had vacuumed the dining room, and Elena had left the kitchen spotless.

‘Magnifico,’ said Moretti, when he saw Elena in her new dress. ‘When did you find time to go shopping?’ he teased.

‘The crew have been so generous,’ said Elena. ‘But don’t say anything about Sasha’s jeans,’ she whispered. ‘Fergal isn’t quite as tall as him, and he’s still growing.’

Mr Moretti smiled as Sasha leant over the railings and watched two dockers winding one of the ship’s heavy ropes around a bollard and tying it fast.

‘Let’s hope the immigration authorities are equally understanding,’ said Moretti, as he picked up his bags and headed for the gangway with Elena and Sasha in his wake. ‘But you have one thing going for you — the British hate the communists every bit as much as you do.’

‘Do you think they’ll let us in?’ asked Elena anxiously as they stepped onto the dockside.

‘Thanks to the purser, we can be confident that all the necessary forms have been correctly filled in, so we’ll just have to cross our fingers.’

‘Cross our fingers?’ repeated Sasha.

‘Hope we get lucky,’ said Moretti. ‘Now remember, Sasha, don’t speak unless you’re spoken to, and if the immigration officer asks you a question, just say yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir.’

Elena burst out laughing. Sasha couldn’t stop looking around him as they walked along the dockside. Some buildings looked as if they’d been built quite recently, while others had just about survived the war. The locals appeared to be relaxed, and no one had their head bowed, while the women were dressed in colourful clothes and chatted to the men as if they were equals. Sasha had already decided he wanted to live in this country.

Mr Moretti headed towards a large brick building with the single word ALIENS chiselled in stone above the door.

When they entered, they were greeted by two signs: BRITISH and NON UK CITIZENS. Elena crossed her fingers as they joined the longer queue, and couldn’t help wondering if they would be back on the ship bound for Leningrad long before the sun set on what was left of the British Empire.

Sasha watched as those holding British passports received a cursory inspection, followed by a smile. Even tourists were not kept waiting more than a few moments. The Karpenkos were about to find out how the British treated those people who didn’t have a passport.

‘Next!’ said a voice.

Mr Moretti stepped forward and gave his passport to the immigration officer, who checked it carefully before passing it back. Moretti then handed over several sheets of paper along with two photographs, before turning to acknowledge his wards. The official didn’t smile as he slowly turned each page, and finally checked that the photographs matched the two applicants standing in front of him. Moretti felt confident that everything was in, to quote the purser, ‘apple pie’ order, but couldn’t help wondering if that would be enough.

Elena became more nervous by the minute, while Sasha just seemed impatient to find out what lay beyond the barrier. Eventually the officer looked up and beckoned the two would-be immigrants to step forward. Elena was only thankful that they weren’t dressed in their old clothes.

‘Do you speak English?’ the officer asked Elena.

‘A little, sir,’ she replied nervously.

‘And are you in possession of a passport, Mrs Karpenko?’

‘No, sir. The communists don’t allow anyone to travel outside the country, even to visit relatives, so my son and I escaped without any papers.’

‘I’m sorry to say,’ began the officer — Elena’s heart sank — ‘that given the circumstances I can only authorize a temporary visa, while you apply to the Home Office for refugee status, and I can’t guarantee that will be granted.’ Elena bowed her head. ‘And,’ the officer continued, ‘you will be subject to several conditions while your application for citizenship is being processed. Should you fail to comply with any of them, you will be deported back to —’ he looked down at the form — ‘Leningrad.’

‘Where they would be locked up for the rest of their lives,’ said Moretti. ‘Or worse.’

‘Be assured,’ said the officer, ‘that will be taken into consideration when their applications come before the Home Office.’ He smiled at Elena and Sasha for the first time, and said, ‘Welcome to Britain.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mr Moretti before Elena could respond. ‘But may we know what those conditions are?’

‘Mrs Karpenko and her son will have to report to the nearest police station once a week for the next six months. Should they fail to do so, an arrest warrant will be issued, and when they are apprehended they will be placed in a detention centre. They can then expect their applications for citizenship to be refused. I should add, Mr Moretti, that as their sponsor, you will be responsible for them at all times, and if either of them should attempt to abscond you would not only have to pay a heavy fine, but would also face the possibility of a term of imprisonment of not less than six months.’

‘I fully understand,’ said Moretti.

‘And if anything claimed on their application form should prove to be bogus...’

‘Bogus?’ said Elena.

‘Inaccurate. If that should be the case, your application will automatically be declined.’

‘But I have only told the truth,’ protested Elena.

‘Then you have nothing to fear, Mrs Karpenko.’ He handed Moretti a small booklet. ‘You’ll find everything you need to know in there.’

Elena shuddered, and couldn’t help wondering if they had climbed into the right crate.

‘I can assure you, officer,’ said Moretti, ‘Mrs Karpenko and her son will be model citizens.’

‘Will the young man also be working in your restaurant, Mr Moretti?’ asked the officer, not even looking at Sasha.

‘No, sir,’ said Elena firmly. ‘I want him to continue with his education.’

‘Then you will have to register the boy at the nearest local authority school.’ Elena nodded, even though she had no idea what he was talking about. The officer turned his attention to Sasha for the first time, looking down at his ankles. ‘I see you’re growing fast,’ he said. Sasha remembered Mr Moretti’s advice, and remained silent. ‘You’ll have to work hard when you go to your new school if you hope to succeed in this country,’ said the officer, giving the young immigrant a warm smile.

Sasha returned the smile and said, ‘Yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir.’

7 Alex

En route to New York

Alex stared out at endless miles of flat, uninterrupted sea, and could only wonder if he’d ever see land again, while his mother just continued to get on with her job. The menu didn’t vary from one day to the next, so Elena quickly mastered the simple routine, and began to take on more and more responsibility while Strelnikov’s siestas became longer and longer.

She and Alex looked forward to being released each evening, when Dimitri would join them on deck and tell them more about life in ‘the Big Apple’, and his small flat in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn.

Elena told Dimitri about her husband and her brother Kolya, and why Major Polyakov had been the reason they’d had to escape. Alex watched Dimitri carefully, and couldn’t help feeling that the friendly Russian knew exactly who Polyakov was, and even wondered if they’d put his uncle in danger. But the subject that continued to occupy them was how Elena and Alex would get off the ship once they’d docked in New York. Alex reluctantly accepted that without Dimitri’s help they were never going to make it.

‘What will we do if Strelnikov locks us in the galley while the ship’s cargo is being unloaded?’ asked Elena.

‘There are still a couple of bottles of vodka left over that he doesn’t know about,’ said Dimitri, ‘and they might just mysteriously appear in the galley the day before we’re due to arrive in New York. With a bit of luck, by the time he wakes up you’ll be on your way to Brooklyn.’

For the next week, Elena and Alex worked endless hours, never once complaining, even though the chef rarely left his chair.

With only a couple of days to go, Strelnikov ran out of vodka, which meant he didn’t fall asleep quite as easily, and they both had to suffer his wrath.

As Dimitri had promised, another couple of bottles appeared while Strelnikov was taking his siesta on the afternoon before they were due to arrive in New York. Elena had to take over cooking lunch, because the moment Strelnikov woke and saw the bottles by his side, he opened one of them immediately and had taken several gulps before he demanded, ‘Where did these come from?’

Mr Ling shrugged his shoulders and continued to slice the potatoes, while Elena checked the soup. Strelnikov showed more interest in finishing off the first bottle than in preparing lunch. Elena could only marvel at how much the man could consume without collapsing, and it wasn’t until after dinner that he finally slumped in his chair and fell into a deep sleep.

Elena and Alex crept out of the galley and made their way up onto the deck, but couldn’t sleep as they gazed out across the open sea, willing Manhattan to appear on the skyline, becoming more confident by the minute that Dimitri’s plan would work. But just as the sun peeped over the horizon, a voice behind them bellowed, ‘Thought you’d get away with it, did you?’

They turned to see Strelnikov standing over them brandishing a meat cleaver. Alex leapt up and glared at him defiantly.

‘Be my guest,’ said the cook. ‘You wouldn’t be the first, and after the gulls have picked your bones I can assure you no one will miss you, other than your mother.’

Alex didn’t budge. Behind them, the skyscrapers of New York were appearing on the horizon. Strelnikov was distracted when he spotted Alex’s lunch box. He bent down, opened it and pocketed their life savings. He then picked up Elena’s suitcase, and after a cursory inspection hurled the contents overboard. ‘You won’t be needing those any longer,’ he snarled.

Still Alex refused to move, until Strelnikov grabbed Elena by the arm, placed the blade of the meat cleaver to her throat, and began to drag her downstairs, leaving Alex with no choice but to follow.

Once they reached the lower deck Strelnikov stood aside and ordered Alex to open the door of the galley, before pushing him and Elena inside, and slamming the door behind them. Elena burst into tears when she heard the key turning in the lock.

Mr Ling was lounging in the cook’s chair, clutching on to the remaining bottle of vodka. He didn’t even glance in their direction as he drained the last drop, and quickly fell asleep.

The sound of the ship’s foghorns as they entered New York harbour reverberated in the galley but Elena and Alex were powerless to do anything about it. They could feel the ship slowing down, until it finally came to a shuddering halt. Ling continued to snore peacefully as Elena and Alex sat helplessly on the floor, aware that when the ship returned to Leningrad, Strelnikov wouldn’t even have to lock them in.

It must have been an hour, possibly two, before Mr Ling finally stirred. He stretched, rose slowly from the cook’s chair and made his way over to his work bench. But instead of starting to peel another bucket of potatoes, he knelt down, lifted one of the floorboards and rummaged around. A few moments later a large grin appeared on his face. He made his way unhurriedly across the galley, placed a key in the lock, turned it, and pushed the door open.

Elena and Alex stood and stared at him. Finally Alex said, ‘You must come with us.’

Mr Ling bowed low. ‘No, not possible. This my home.’ The first words they’d ever heard him speak. He closed the door behind them, and again they heard the key turning in the lock.

Alex cautiously climbed the staircase. Once he’d reached the top step he looked out, as if he was a submariner peering through a periscope searching for the enemy. He waited for some time before he was convinced that Strelnikov and the rest of the ship’s company had gone ashore, leaving only a skeleton crew on board.

He bent down and whispered to his mother, ‘I can see the gangway leading to the dock. When I say “Now”, follow me, and whatever you do, don’t stop.’

Alex waited for a few more seconds, and when no one appeared he climbed out onto the deck and began walking quickly, not running, towards the gangway, only glancing back to make sure Elena was a pace behind. Just as he reached the top of the gangway, he heard someone holler.

‘Stop those two!’

His mother ran past him.

He looked up at the bridge to see an officer signalling frantically at two deckhands who were unloading a crate from the hold. They immediately stopped what they were doing, but Alex was already halfway down the gangway. When he reached the dockside he looked back to see the two crew members running towards him, while Elena stood frozen by his side. He then heard footsteps coming from behind him and clenched his fists, although he knew he now had no chance.

‘They won’t be any trouble,’ said Dimitri quietly, as he took his place by Alex’s side. The two deckhands came to an abrupt halt the moment they saw Dimitri. They hesitated for a few seconds before retreating and climbing back up the gangway. ‘Two good lads,’ said Dimitri. ‘Truth is, they’d rather lose a couple of days’ pay than a couple of teeth.’

‘What now?’ said Alex.

‘Follow me,’ said Dimitri, and immediately marched off, clearly knowing exactly where he was going. Elena gripped Alex’s hand. Her son couldn’t hide his excitement at the prospect of living in America.

Alex noticed that a number of passengers from other ships were heading in the opposite direction. Some of them were carrying leather bags while others were pushing laden trolleys, and one or two even had porters to assist them. Elena and Alex had no luggage. Everything they possessed had either been stolen or thrown overboard by Strelnikov.

They followed in Dimitri’s wake as he headed towards an imposing stone building that announced above its entrance in bold white letters, ALIENS.

When Elena entered the building she froze on the spot, staring in disbelief at the long queues of stateless people babbling away in so many different tongues, while all hoping for one thing — to be allowed to pass beyond the barrier and enter a new world.

Dimitri joined the shortest queue, and beckoned Alex and Elena to join him. Alex didn’t hesitate, but Elena remained rooted to the spot, immovable as a statue.

‘Keep our place,’ said Dimitri, ‘while I go and fetch your mother.’

‘Elena,’ he said as he reached her side, ‘do you want to go back to Russia?’

‘No, but—’

‘Then get in line,’ said Dimitri, raising his voice for the first time. Elena still looked unconvinced, as if weighing up the lesser of two evils. Finally Dimitri said, ‘If you don’t, you’ll never see your son again, because he certainly won’t be going back to Leningrad.’ She reluctantly joined Alex at the back of the queue.

Alex couldn’t wait to get moving, but had to watch a large black minute hand circle a massive clock three times before they finally reached the front of the queue.

He filled the time by peppering Dimitri with questions about what they might expect once they had crossed the white line. Dimitri was more interested in making sure they had their story straight before they were questioned by an immigration officer who’d heard everything. Elena was convinced that when they heard her unlikely tale she would be marched straight back to the ship, and handed over to Strelnikov, before making the one-way journey to Leningrad, where she would find Major Polyakov standing on the dockside.

‘Make sure you both stick to the story we agreed on,’ whispered Dimitri.

‘Next!’ shouted a voice.

Elena tentatively stepped forward, her eyes never leaving the man seated on a high stool behind a wooden desk, wearing a dark blue uniform with three stars on his lapels. Uniforms only meant one thing to Elena — trouble. And the more stars, the more trouble. As she approached the desk Alex pushed past her and gave the officer a huge grin, which was met with a frown. Dimitri pulled him back.

‘Are you one family?’ the officer asked.

‘No, sir,’ replied Dimitri. ‘But I am an American citizen,’ he said, handing over his passport.

The officer turned the pages slowly, checking dates and entry stamps before handing it back. He then opened a drawer in his desk, extracted a long form, placed it on the counter and picked up a pen. He turned his attention to the woman in front of him, who appeared to be shaking.

‘What is your full name?’

‘Alexander Konstantinovitch Karpenko.’

‘Not you,’ he said firmly. He pointed his pen at Elena.

‘Elena Ivanova Karpenko.’

‘Do you speak English?’

‘A little, sir.’

‘Where do you come from?’

‘Leningrad, in the Soviet Union.’

The officer filled in a couple of boxes before he continued. ‘Are you this lady’s husband?’ he asked Dimitri.

‘No, sir. Mrs Karpenko is my cousin, and her son Alex is my nephew.’

Elena obeyed Dimitri’s instructions and said nothing, because she wasn’t willing to lie.

‘So where is your husband?’ asked the officer, his pen poised.

‘He was—’ began Dimitri.

‘The question was addressed to Mrs Karpenko, not you,’ the officer said equally firmly.

‘The KGB killed my husband,’ said Elena, unable to hold back the tears.

‘Why?’ demanded the officer. ‘Was he a criminal?’

‘No!’ said Elena, raising her head in defiance. ‘Konstantin was a good man. He was the works supervisor at the Leningrad docks, and they killed him when he tried to set up a trade union.’

‘They kill you for that in the Soviet Union?’ said the officer in disbelief.

‘Yes,’ said Elena, bowing her head once again.

‘How did you and your son manage to escape?’

‘My brother, who also worked on the docks, helped smuggle us onto a ship bound for America.’

‘With the help of your cousin, no doubt,’ said the officer, raising an eyebrow.

‘Yes,’ said Dimitri. ‘Her brother Kolya is a brave man, and with God’s help we will get him out as well, because he hates the communists every bit as much as we do.’

The mention of God’s help and hatred of the communists brought a smile to the officer’s face. He filled in several more boxes.

‘Are you willing to act as a sponsor for Mrs Karpenko and her son?’ the officer asked Dimitri.

‘Yes, sir,’ responded Dimitri without hesitation. ‘They will live at my home in Brighton Beach, and as Elena is an excellent cook it shouldn’t be too difficult for her to find a job.’

‘And the boy?’

‘I want him to continue his education,’ said Elena.

‘Good,’ said the officer, who finally turned his attention to Alex. ‘What is your name?’

‘Alexander Konstantinovitch Karpenko,’ he announced proudly.

‘And have you been working hard at school?’

‘Yes, sir, I was top of the class.’

‘Then you will be able to tell me the name of the President of the United States.’

Elena and Dimitri looked anxious. ‘Lyndon B. Johnson,’ said Alex without hesitation. How could he forget the name of the man Vladimir had described as the Soviet Union’s greatest enemy, which only made Alex assume he must be a good man?

The officer nodded, filled in the final box and added his signature to the bottom of the form. He looked up, smiled at the boy and said, ‘I have a feeling, Alex, you’ll do well in America.’

8 Sasha

En route to London

Sasha was sitting in the corner of the railway carriage when the 3.35 shunted out of Southampton station on its way to London. He stared out of the window but didn’t speak, because his mind was far away in his homeland. He was beginning to wonder if they’d made a terrible mistake.

He hadn’t said a word since they’d climbed on board, while Elena didn’t stop chatting to Mr Moretti about his restaurant as the train rattled through the countryside towards the capital.

Sasha couldn’t be sure how much time had passed before they eventually began to slow down and the train pulled into a station called Waterloo. Sasha immediately thought of Wellington, and wondered if there was a Trafalgar station. When they came to a halt, Sasha took Mr Moretti’s bags off the rack, and followed his mother onto the platform.

The first thing Sasha noticed was how many men were wearing hats: flat caps, homburgs and bowlers, which his teacher back home had claimed simply reminded everyone of their position in society. He was also struck by how many women were strolling along the platform unaccompanied. Only loose women were unaccompanied in Leningrad, he’d once heard his mother say. He’d had to later ask his father what a loose woman was.

Mr Moretti handed over three tickets at the barrier, before leading his charges out of the station where they joined the back of a long queue. Something else the British were renowned for. Sasha’s mouth opened wide when he caught sight of his first red double-decker bus. He ran up the spiral stairs to the top deck, and took a seat at the front before Mr Moretti could stop him. He was captivated by the panoramic view that stretched as far as the eye could see. So many cars of different shapes, sizes and colours that stopped whenever a traffic light turned red. There weren’t many traffic lights in Leningrad, but then there weren’t many cars.

The bus stopped again and again to allow passengers on and off, but it was still several more stops before Mr Moretti stood up and headed back down the spiral staircase. Once they were on the pavement Sasha kept stopping every few moments to gaze inside shop windows. A tobacconist that sold so many different brands of cigarettes and cigars, as well as pipes, which brought back memories of his father. In another, a man was sitting in a large leather chair having his hair cut. Sasha’s mother always cut his hair. Didn’t this man have a mother? A cake shop where he would have liked to take a closer look, but he had to keep up with Mr Moretti. Another shop that displayed only watches. Why would anyone need a watch when there were so many church clocks all around them? A women’s boutique, where Sasha stood mesmerized when he saw his first miniskirt. Elena grabbed him firmly by the arm and pulled him away. He didn’t have time to stop again until he saw a sign swaying in the breeze, proclaiming MORETTI’S.

This time it was Elena who peered inside to admire the neatly laid tables with their spotless red and white checked tablecloths, folded napkins and fine bone china. Waiters in smart white jackets bustled around, attentively serving their customers. But Moretti continued walking until he reached a side door, which he unlocked and beckoned them to follow. They climbed a dimly lit staircase to the first floor where Moretti opened another door.

‘The flat is very small,’ he admitted, standing aside to let them in. ‘My wife and I lived here when we were first married.’

Elena didn’t mention that it was larger than their unit in Leningrad, and far better furnished. She walked into a front room that overlooked the main road just as a motorbike revved by. She’d never experienced traffic noise or congestion before. She inspected the little kitchen, bathroom and two bedrooms. Sasha immediately inhabited the smaller one. He collapsed onto the bed, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

‘Time for you to meet the chef,’ whispered Moretti.

The two of them left Sasha sleeping and returned downstairs. Moretti walked into the restaurant and took her through to the kitchen. Elena thought she’d arrived in heaven. Everything she’d requested when she was in Leningrad, and so much more, was there before her.

Moretti introduced her to the chef, and explained how he’d met Elena while on the return journey to England. The chef listened attentively to his boss but didn’t look convinced.

‘Why don’t you take a couple of days finding out how we do things here, Mrs Karpenko,’ the chef suggested, ‘before I decide where you might fit in.’

It only took Elena a couple of hours before she was assisting the sous-chef, and long before the last customer had departed the chef’s expression of condescension had turned to one of respect for the lady from Leningrad.

Elena returned to her flat just after midnight, utterly exhausted. She looked in on Sasha, who was still lying on his bed, fully dressed and fast asleep. She took off his shoes and pulled a blanket over him. The first thing she must do in the morning was find the right school for him.

Mr Moretti even had ideas on that subject.

Elena tried to focus, and not think about what was going on in the dining room, even though Sasha’s future could well depend on it. She set about preparing Mr Quilter’s favourite dish long before he arrived.

Mr Moretti guided the gentleman and his wife to a corner table usually reserved for regulars or important customers.

Mr and Mrs Quilter were not regulars. They fell into the category of anniversaries and special occasions. However, Mr Moretti had instructed his staff to treat them as VIPs.

He handed them both a menu. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked Mr Quilter.

‘Just a glass of water for now. I’ll choose a bottle of wine once we’ve decided what we’re going to eat.’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Moretti. He left them to study their menus and went through to the kitchen. ‘They’ve arrived. I’ve put them on table eleven,’ he announced.

The chef nodded. He rarely spoke unless it was to bawl out one of his sous-chefs, although, he had to admit, life had become a lot easier since the arrival of their latest recruit. Mrs Karpenko also rarely spoke as she went about preparing each dish with skill and pride. It had taken less than a week for the normally sceptical chef to admit that a rare talent had appeared at Moretti’s, and he warned the boss that he feared it wouldn’t be long before she wanted to move on and run her own kitchen.

Mr Moretti returned to the dining room and whispered to the head waiter, ‘I’ll be taking the order for table eleven, Gino.’ When he saw the special guest close his menu, he quickly moved across to their table. ‘Have you decided what you’d like, madam?’ he asked Mrs Quilter, removing a small pad and pen from his jacket pocket.

‘Yes, thank you. I’ll start with the avocado salad, and as it’s a special occasion, I’ll have the Dover sole.’

‘An excellent choice, madam. And for you, sir?’

‘Parma ham and melon, and I’ll also have the Dover sole. And perhaps you could recommend a wine that would complement the fish?’

‘Perhaps the Pouilly-Fuissé?’ said Moretti, pointing to the third wine on a long list.

‘That looks fine,’ said Quilter after checking the price.

Moretti hurried away and told his sommelier that table eleven would have the Pouilly-Fuissé. ‘Premier Cru,’ he added.

‘Premier Cru?’ the waiter repeated, only to receive a curt nod.

Moretti retreated to a corner and watched the sommelier uncork a bottle and pour out some wine for the customer to taste. Mr Quilter sipped it.

‘Magnificent,’ he said, looking a little puzzled. ‘I think you’ll enjoy this, my dear,’ he added as the sommelier filled his wife’s glass.

Although the restaurant was full that night, Mr Moretti’s eyes rarely left the customers on table eleven, and as soon as the main courses had been cleared away he returned to ask if they would like a dessert.

The smile that appeared on Mr Quilter’s lips after he tasted the first mouthful of Elena’s crème brûlée could have left no one in any doubt how much he enjoyed it. ‘Worthy of Trinity,’ he mumbled when their empty dishes were whisked away, leaving Moretti none the wiser.

Mr Moretti remained in a corner of the restaurant until the special guest asked a passing waiter for the bill, at which point he made his way back to table eleven.

‘What a wonderful meal,’ Mr Quilter said as he ran a finger down the bill. He took out his chequebook, filled in the figures and added a generous tip. He handed the cheque to Mr Moretti, who tore it in half.

Mr and Mrs Quilter were unable to hide their surprise. ‘I don’t understand,’ Mr Quilter eventually managed.

‘I need a favour, sir,’ said Moretti.

Elena straightened Sasha’s tie, and stood back to take a careful look at her son. He was dressed in his Sunday best, a recent purchase from a local church jumble sale. The suit may have been a little on the large size, but nothing a needle and thread hadn’t taken care of.

Mr Moretti had given Elena the morning off, although he was just as nervous about the outcome as she was. A red double-decker bus transported mother and son to the next borough, and they got off outside a vast set of wrought-iron gates. They walked through into a courtyard, where Elena asked one of the boys for directions to the headmaster’s office.

‘How nice to meet you both,’ said Mr Quilter, when his secretary ushered them into his study. ‘Now, I know Mr Sutton is expecting us, so let’s not keep him waiting.’

Elena and Sasha obediently followed Mr Quilter out of the room and into a crowded corridor, full of smartly dressed, exuberant young boys, who immediately stood aside when they saw the headmaster heading towards them. Elena admired their smart blue monogrammed uniforms with dismay.

The headmaster stopped outside a classroom with the words MR SUTTON MA (OXON) painted on the pebbled glass. He knocked, opened the door and led the candidate in.

A man wearing a long black academic gown over his suit rose from his desk as they entered his classroom.

‘Good morning, Mrs Karpenko,’ said the senior mathematics master. ‘My name is Arnold Sutton, and I’m delighted you were both able to join us today. I’ll be conducting the examination.’

‘How nice to meet you, Mr Sutton,’ said Elena as they shook hands.

‘You must be Sasha,’ he said, giving the boy a warm smile. ‘Please, take a seat and I will explain what we have planned.’

‘Meanwhile, Mrs Karpenko,’ said the headmaster, ‘perhaps we should return to my study while the test is taking place.’

Once the headmaster and Elena had left the room, Mr Sutton turned his attention to the young applicant.

‘Sasha,’ he said, opening a file and extracting three sheets of paper, ‘this is the mathematics examination that was taken by those pupils who wished to enter the sixth form of Latymer Upper.’ He placed three pages on the desk in front of Sasha. ‘The time allocated for the test is one hour, and I suggest you read each question carefully before answering it. Do you have any questions?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Good.’ The schoolmaster checked his watch. ‘I’ll warn you when you have fifteen minutes left.’

‘You do understand, Mrs Karpenko,’ said Mr Quilter as they walked back down the corridor, ‘that the exam your son is sitting is not only for pupils hoping to enter the sixth form here at Latymer, but also for those preparing to go on to university.’

‘That’s no more than I would want for Sasha,’ said Elena.

‘Yes, of course, Mrs Karpenko. But I must warn you that he will have to get sixty-five per cent to pass. If he does, we would be delighted to offer him a place at Latymer Upper.’

‘Then I must warn you, Mr Quilter, that I couldn’t afford the school uniform, let alone the fees.’

The headmaster hesitated. ‘We do offer places for pupils in, shall we say, straitened circumstances. And of course,’ he added quickly, ‘we award academic scholarships for exceptionally gifted children.’ Elena didn’t look convinced. ‘Can I offer you a coffee?’

‘No thank you, Mr Quilter. I’m sure you must be very busy, so please go back to work. I’m perfectly happy to read a magazine while I’m waiting.’

‘That’s most considerate of you,’ said the headmaster, ‘as I do have rather a lot of paperwork to be getting on with. But I’ll return just as soon as...’

The door was flung open and Mr Sutton burst in even before the headmaster could finish his sentence. He walked quickly across to Mr Quilter and whispered in his ear.

‘Would you be kind enough to wait here, Mrs Karpenko?’ said the headmaster. ‘I will be back shortly.’

‘Is there a problem?’ asked Elena anxiously, but the two men had already left the room.

‘You say he finished the exam in twenty minutes? That barely seems possible.’

‘What’s even more incredible,’ said Sutton, almost on the run, ‘he scored a hundred per cent, and frankly looked bored.’ He opened the door of his classroom to allow the headmaster to enter.

‘Karpenko,’ said Quilter, after he’d glanced at a long row of ticks, ‘can I ask if you’ve ever seen this paper before?’

‘No, sir.’

The headmaster studied the pupil’s answers more carefully, before asking, ‘Would you be willing to answer a couple of oral questions?’

‘Yes, of course, sir.’

The headmaster nodded to Mr Sutton.

‘Karpenko, if I throw three dice,’ said Sutton, ‘what is the probability that the result will be a total of ten?’

The would-be scholar picked up his pen and began to write out various combinations of three numbers. Four minutes later, he put the pen down and said, ‘One in eight, sir.’

‘Remarkable,’ said Sutton. He smiled at the headmaster, who, as a classicist, was none the wiser. ‘My second question is, if you were offered odds of ten to one that you couldn’t throw ten with three dice, would you accept the bet?’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Sasha without hesitation, ‘because on average, I would win every eight throws. But I would want to place at least a hundred bets before I would consider it to be statistically reliable.’

Mr Sutton turned to Mr Quilter and said, ‘Headmaster, please don’t allow this boy to go to any other school.’

9 Alex

En route to Brooklyn

Alex gazed into a dark hole that masses of people were rushing into. ‘Follow me,’ said Dimitri, as he led his reluctant charges down a narrow flight of steps, before coming to a halt in front of a ticket barrier. He purchased three tickets, then they made their way onto a long dirty platform.

Alex heard a rumbling sound in the distance, like the prelude to a thunderstorm, and then out of a vast cavern at the far end of the platform appeared a train like no other train he’d ever seen before. In Leningrad the stations were carved in green marble, the carriages were clean, and it was only the passengers who were grey.

‘You’ll get used to it,’ said Dimitri, as the doors slid open. ‘Ten stops, and we’ll be in Brooklyn.’ But neither of them was listening, both preoccupied with their own thoughts.

Alex looked around the carriage and noticed that no two people were alike, and they were all chattering away in different languages. In Leningrad, passengers rarely spoke to each other, and if they did, it was always in Russian. He was fascinated. Elena looked overwhelmed.

Alex followed the names of the stations on a little map above the carriage door: Bowling Green, Borough Hall, Atlantic Avenue, Prospect Park, came and went, and he never stopped watching the passengers as they got on and off. When the train finally pulled into Brighton Beach, Dimitri led his two charges out onto the platform. Another escalator took them up, and after they stepped off at the top, Dimitri showed them how to feed their little tokens into a turnstile. They emerged into the sunlight, and Alex was struck by how many people were walking up and down the sidewalk, all of them at a speed he’d never experienced. Everyone seemed to be in such a hurry. The road was just as busy, with cars the size of tanks blasting their horns at anyone who dared to step into their path. Dimitri didn’t seem to be aware of the noise. Alex was also mystified by the gaudy colours daubed on walls, even doorways. Graffiti, Dimitri explained, something else he’d never seen in Leningrad. A droning sound caused him to look up, where he spotted a plane that seemed to be falling out of the sky. He stood still, horrified, until Dimitri burst out laughing.

‘It’s an aeroplane,’ he said. ‘It’s landing at JFK, which is only a few miles away.’ A second plane appeared, which seemed to Alex to be pursuing the one in front. ‘You’ll see one every couple of minutes,’ said Dimitri.

Elena was more interested in checking out each cafe and restaurant they passed. She couldn’t believe how many people were having breakfast. How could they possibly afford it? She wondered what a hamburger was, and who Colonel Sanders could be. The only colonel she’d ever known was the dock commandant, and he certainly didn’t own a restaurant. And Coke? Wasn’t that something you put on the fire at night to keep warm?

After a few blocks they came to a street market, where Dimitri stopped to chat with a couple of traders he clearly knew. He selected some potatoes, carrots and a cabbage, which he paid for with cash. Elena picked up some of the fruits and vegetables displayed on the next stall that she’d never seen before. She smelt them, and tried to memorize their names.

‘How many would you like?’ asked the stallholder.

Elena dropped the avocado and quickly moved on.

Dimitri moved across to another stall, and was happy to take Elena’s advice before he chose a chicken, which the stallholder dropped into a brown paper bag.

As they left the market, Dimitri handed a coin to a boy who was yelling something at the top of his voice that Alex couldn’t make out.

‘More Yanks killed in Vietnam!’

Alex was surprised that the boy selling the newspapers was younger than him, and was not only allowed to handle money, but to work alone.

They turned a corner into a side street, not quite as busy, not quite so noisy, with rows of large houses on either side. Could it be possible that Dimitri lived in one of them?

‘I live at number forty-seven,’ he said. Alex was impressed, until Dimitri added, ‘I rent the basement.’ After a few more yards he led them down a short flight of steps. He put a key in the door, unlocked it, and stepped inside.

Elena followed him into a sparsely furnished front room, and wasn’t in any doubt that Dimitri was a bachelor.

‘Where are we going to live?’ Elena asked, after Dimitri had shown her around.

‘Perhaps you could stay with me until you find your own place,’ said Dimitri. Elena didn’t look convinced. ‘I have an extra mattress, so you can take the spare room, while Alex sleeps on the sofa. As long as he takes his boots off.’

‘Thank you,’ said Alex, who felt almost anything would be an improvement on a wooden deck that never stopped pitching and tossing.

Finally Dimitri took Elena into the kitchen. Elena emptied the chicken and vegetables they’d bought at the market onto the kitchen table, then set about preparing the meal. The sink had two taps, and she scalded herself when she turned on the first one. She was even more surprised when Alex opened a small white box and peered inside.

‘It’s a refrigerator,’ Dimitri explained. ‘It makes it possible to keep food for several days.’

‘I’ve seen a fridge before,’ said Elena, ‘but never in someone’s home.’

Elena rolled up her sleeves, and an hour later placed three laden plates on the kitchen table, as if she was still serving officers. Once she’d sat down, she couldn’t stop talking about their life in Russia. It quickly became clear how much she was missing her homeland.

‘That was the best meal I’ve had in years,’ said Dimitri, as he licked his lips. ‘You won’t find it hard to get a job in this town.’

‘But where do I start?’ Elena asked as Alex filled the sink with warm water and began to wash the dishes.

‘With the Post,’ said Dimitri, reverting to English.

‘The post?’ said Elena. ‘But I’m not expecting any letters.’

‘The Brighton Beach Post,’ said Dimitri, picking up the newspaper he’d bought from the boy on the street. ‘Every day it has a jobs section,’ he said, turning the pages until he reached the classified advertisements. He ignored accountancy, business opportunities, car sales, only stopping when he reached catering. His finger moved down the column until he came to ‘Cooks’.

‘Cook wanted in Chinese restaurant,’ he read out. ‘Must speak Mandarin.’ They all burst out laughing. ‘Pastry chef required in an Italian restaurant’ sounded more promising, until he added, ‘must be fully trained sous-chef. Italian preferred.’ He moved on. ‘Pizza cook—’

‘What’s a pizza?’ asked Elena, as Alex drained the sink and rejoined them at the table.

‘It’s the latest thing,’ said Dimitri. ‘A dough base, with different toppings, for variety.’ He checked the location. ‘And it’s only a couple of blocks away, so we could call by tomorrow morning. They’re offering a dollar an hour, so you could make as much as forty dollars a week while you look for something better. They’ll be lucky to get you,’ he added.

Elena didn’t reply, because her head was resting on a table that didn’t move. She was fast asleep.

‘The first thing we’re going to have to do,’ said Dimitri after they’d finished breakfast, ‘is get you some new clothes. No one’s going to give you a job dressed like that.’

‘But we haven’t got any money,’ protested Elena.

‘That won’t be a problem. Most of the stallholders are happy to give credit.’

‘Credit?’ said Elena.

‘Buy now, pay later. Everyone in America does it.’

‘I don’t,’ said Elena firmly, placing her hands on her hips. ‘Earn now, and only buy when you can afford it.’

‘Then we’ll have to try the Goodwill shop on Hudson. Maybe they’ll be willing to give you something for nothing.’

‘Charity is for those in real need, not for those capable of doing a day’s work,’ said Elena, reverting to her native tongue.

‘I don’t think you’ll have much chance of being offered a job even in a pizza parlour if you look like a Russian refugee who’s just got off the boat,’ said Dimitri.

Alex nodded his agreement.

Elena was finally silenced.

Dimitri took a five-dollar note out of his pocket and handed it to Elena.

‘Thank you,’ said Elena, reluctantly accepting it. ‘I’ll pay you back as soon as I get a job.’

‘The Goodwill store opens at nine,’ said Dimitri. ‘We must be waiting outside at one minute to.’

‘Why so early?’ asked Alex, determined only to speak English.

‘A lot of people clear out their wardrobes at the weekend, so the best deals are always on a Monday morning.’

‘Then let’s get going,’ said Alex, who couldn’t wait to be back on the street. He wanted to see if the boy was still standing on the corner selling newspapers, because he hoped his mother would also allow him to look for a job, perhaps even as a trader on one of the stalls.

‘And then we must look for a good school that will take Alex,’ said Elena, dashing her son’s hopes.

‘But I want to start working,’ pleaded Alex, ‘so we can both earn some money.’

‘If you hope to end up with a worthwhile position, and eventually earn a proper salary,’ said Elena, ‘you’ll have to go back to school and make sure you’re offered a place at university.’

Alex couldn’t hide his disappointment, but he knew this was the one thing his mother wouldn’t compromise on.

‘Then you’ll have to make an appointment with the education officer at City Hall,’ said Dimitri. ‘But not before you both get some new clothes and Elena’s landed that job in the pizza parlour, so we’d better get going.’

Once they were back on the street, Alex tried to take in everything that was going on around him. He wondered how long it would be before, like Dimitri, he too melted into the background.

One of the first things Alex noticed was that not all of the men were wearing a suit and hat, while many of the women were dressed in brightly coloured clothes, some of them in dresses that didn’t even cover their knees. The paper boy was standing on the same street corner, shouting a different headline.

‘Bobby Kennedy assassinated!’

Alex wondered if Bobby Kennedy was related to the former president, whom he knew had also been assassinated. If he’d had a dime, he would have bought a paper. Once they were back at the market, Elena would have liked to stop and inspect the freshly baked bread, the oranges, apples and so many other vegetables, and ask about those she was unfamiliar with. What did an avocado taste like, she wondered, and could you eat the skin?

Alex couldn’t resist stopping every few moments to stare into the windows of shops that offered watches, radios, televisions and gramophone records. He kept being distracted, and then having to run to catch up with Dimitri and Elena.

They finally arrived outside the Goodwill store on Hudson, just as a young woman was turning the CLOSED sign around to read OPEN. Dimitri led them inside, still very much in charge.

Elena spent her time rifling through the shelves and clothes racks before she selected a white shirt and a dark blue tie for Alex. She then turned her attention to a row of suits hanging on a long rail, while Dimitri chatted to the shop assistant. Alex was disappointed when his mother picked out a plain grey suit, which she held up against him to check the size. It was a little large, but she knew it wouldn’t be too long before he grew into it. She told him to try it on.

When Alex came out of the changing room, dressed in his new suit, he couldn’t help noticing that the girl behind the counter was taking a closer look at him. He turned away, embarrassed. Elena pretended not to notice as she began to pick out some clothes for herself: a simple blue dress and a pleated black skirt. She was beginning to worry that her money must be running out, when she spotted a pair of black leather shoes that would go perfectly with Alex’s new suit.

‘A man dropped them in on Saturday afternoon,’ said the girl. ‘He told me no one wears shoes with laces any longer.’

‘Perfect,’ said Elena once Alex had tried them on and walked around the shop a couple of times.

‘How much?’ Elena asked, gathering up all the goods and placing them on the counter.

‘Five dollars,’ said the girl.

Elena handed over the money, stood back and admired her son, no longer a child. She didn’t notice Dimitri hand the girl another ten dollars, give Alex a wink, and say, ‘Thank you, Miss Marshall,’ as the girl handed him a bag full of their old clothes.

‘I hope you’ll come back soon,’ said Addie. ‘We get new stuff in every day.’

‘Now we have to find the pizza parlour as quickly as possible,’ said Dimitri, as he left the shop and dropped the bag of old clothes in the nearest trashcan. ‘Can’t afford to be late and let someone else get that job.’

Elena was about to rescue the bag, when Alex said, ‘No, Mother.’ She reluctantly joined her son, and they set off once again at a pace everyone else on the sidewalk seemed to consider normal, and they didn’t slow down until Dimitri spotted a red and white sign swinging in the breeze. He crossed the road, dodging in and out of traffic, while Elena and Alex followed, showing none of the same confidence as cars shot past them, horns blaring.

‘Leave the talking to me,’ said Dimitri as he pushed open the door and walked inside. He went straight up to a man standing behind the counter and said, ‘I want to speak to the manager.’

‘That’s me,’ said the man, looking up from his booking sheet.

‘I’ve come about the job you advertised in the Post for a pizza cook,’ said Dimitri. ‘It’s not for me, but for this lady, and you’d be lucky to get her.’

‘Have you worked in a pizza parlour before?’ the man asked, turning his attention to Elena.

‘No, sir.’

‘Then I can only offer you a job as washer-up.’

‘But she’s a fully qualified cook,’ said Dimitri.

‘What was your last job?’ asked the manager.

‘I was the head cook in an officers’ club in Leningrad.’

‘In Queens?’

‘No, in Russia.’

‘We don’t employ commies,’ said the manager, spitting out the words.

‘I’m not a communist,’ protested Elena. ‘In fact I hate them. I would still be there if... but I didn’t have any choice.’

‘But I do,’ said the manager. ‘The only job fit for a commie is as a washer-up. The pay’s fifty cents an hour.’

‘Seventy-five,’ said Dimitri.

‘You’re hardly in a position to bargain,’ said the manager. ‘She can take it or leave it.’

‘We’ll leave it,’ said Dimitri. He began to walk towards the door, but this time Elena didn’t follow.

‘Where’s the kitchen?’ was all she said, rolling up her sleeves.

As Elena didn’t have to clock on at the pizza parlour before ten, she went straight to City Hall the following morning. After checking the board in the lobby she took the elevator to the third floor. By the time she left a couple of hours later, Elena knew the only school she wanted Alex to attend.

She didn’t make an appointment to see the principal, but in her afternoon break sat in the corridor outside his office until he finally gave in and agreed to see her.

Alex reluctantly joined the twelfth grade of Franklin High the following Monday, and it wasn’t long before the principal had to admit that Mrs Karpenko hadn’t exaggerated when she suggested he would be top in maths and Russian. They weren’t the only subjects he excelled in, although Alex was far more interested in several lucrative activities that were not listed on the school’s official curriculum.

10 Sasha

London

It was at least a week before the other boys stopped staring at Sasha. Although the lower sixth had experienced their fair share of overseas students, he was the first Russian the boys had set eyes on. What did they imagine would be different about him, Sasha wondered.

As English was his second language, it was assumed that he would have difficulty keeping up with the rest of the class. But within a month, several of his classmates had abandoned trying to keep up with ‘the Russki’, and when it came to maths, his third language, Mr Sutton admitted to the headmaster, ‘It won’t be too long before he realizes there’s not much more I can teach him.’

While his academic prowess was admired by many, what made Sasha particularly popular with the other boys was his ability to keep ‘a clean sheet’.

‘A clean sheet?’ said Elena. ‘But you sleep at home, so how can the other boys know if your sheets are clean?’

‘No, Mother, I’ve just become the school’s First Eleven goalkeeper, and we’ve gone three matches without the opposition scoring.’ What he didn’t tell her was that Maurice Tremlett, the boy he’d replaced as goalkeeper, couldn’t hide his anger when he was demoted to the Second Eleven — and it didn’t help that Tremlett was school captain.

Towards the end of his first term Sasha felt he was becoming accepted by most of his fellow pupils. But that was before the incident, when overnight he became the most popular boy in the school and also made a friend for life.

It was during a playground kick-about in the mid-morning break that the incident occurred. Ben Cohen, another boy from the lower sixth, who played centre-forward for the Second Eleven, was running towards the goal looking as if he was certain to score, when Tremlett came charging out of his goalmouth, so Cohen passed the ball to another boy, who struck it into the open net.

Cohen raised his arms in triumph, but Tremlett didn’t slow down, and ran straight into him, knocking him to the ground. ‘Try that again,’ he shouted, ‘and I’ll break your neck.’

When they kicked off again, Cohen was about to shoot when he saw Tremlett once again heading towards him. He stood aside, and the ball rolled to Tremlett’s feet. He ran purposefully towards Sasha in the opposition’s goal, with everyone stepping out of his way. Sasha came out of his goal so he could cut down the angle, and when Tremlett entered the penalty box, Sasha threw himself to the ground and pulled the ball safely to his chest. Tremlett didn’t break his stride, and kicked Sasha squarely in the back as if he were the ball.

Sasha lay motionless on the ground as the ball trickled out of his hands. Tremlett jumped over him and hammered it into the open goal. He raised his arms in triumph, but no one was cheering.

Cohen ran across to help Sasha to his feet, to find Tremlett was standing over him.

‘Not quite as good as you thought you were, are you, Russki?’

‘Maybe not,’ said Sasha, ‘but if you check next week’s team sheet, you’ll find it’s you who’s still in the Second Eleven.’ Tremlett took a swing at him, but Sasha dodged out of the way, and the blow only brushed his shoulder. ‘And I don’t think you’ll make the boxing team either,’ said Sasha.

Tremlett turned red, and raised his fist a second time, but Sasha was too quick for him, and landed a blow on his nose that caused him to stagger back and fall to the ground. Sasha was about to deliver another punch when Tremlett was saved by the bell, calling them all back to their classrooms.

‘Thanks,’ said Cohen as they left the playground. ‘But keep your eyes open, because Tremlett likes causing trouble.’

‘He won’t be any trouble,’ said Sasha. ‘Trouble is when a KGB officer is pointing a gun at your head.’

When Sasha got home that evening, he didn’t tell his mother about the incident, as he hadn’t considered it that important. He was tucking into a plate of spaghetti when there was a knock on the door.

Elena put down her fork, but didn’t move. Knocks on the door meant only one thing. Sasha jumped up and left the table before she could stop him. He opened the front door to find a tall slim man, elegantly dressed in a long black coat with a velvet collar and a trilby, standing in the corridor.

‘Good evening, Sasha,’ the man said, handing him a card.

‘Good evening, sir,’ said Sasha, wondering how the stranger knew his name. He looked at the card, and thought he recognized the name. He certainly knew the address.

‘I was hoping to have a word with your mother,’ said Mr Agnelli, his accent revealing his heritage.

‘Please come in,’ said Sasha, and led Mr Agnelli into the kitchen.

‘Good evening, Mrs Karpenko,’ he said, removing his hat. ‘My name is Matteo Agnelli, and I’m—’

‘I know who you are, Mr Agnelli.’

He smiled. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you while you’re having your supper, so I’ll get straight to the point. My chef has handed in his notice as he wishes to return to his family in Naples, and I have been unable to find a suitable replacement. So I would like to offer you the position.’

Elena couldn’t hide her surprise. She’d only been working for Mr Moretti for a few months, and had no idea that his greatest rival was even aware of her existence. Before she could reply, Mr Agnelli solved the mystery.

‘One of my regular customers told me he’d recently dined at Moretti’s, and that the food had improved beyond recognition, so I decided to find out why. On my instructions, our maître d’ had lunch at your restaurant last week, and afterwards he warned me that we now had a genuine rival on our doorstep. So I would like to offer you the position of head chef at Osteria Roma.’

‘But—’ began Elena.

‘I can’t give you a flat above the restaurant, but I would be willing to double your wages, which would allow you to rent a place of your own.’ Sasha began to listen with greater interest. ‘Of course, the challenge would be considerable, as we have double the number of covers as Moretti’s. But from all I’ve heard, you seem to enjoy a challenge.’

‘I’m flattered, Mr Agnelli, but I’m afraid I’m in debt to Mr Moretti, who—’

‘And if I was willing to cover that debt, Mrs Karpenko?’

‘It’s not a financial debt,’ said Elena, ‘it’s personal. It was Mr Moretti who made it possible for Sasha and me to come to this country. That is not something I can easily repay.’

‘Of course, I understand. And how I wish it had been me who’d been travelling on that ship from Leningrad.’ Mr Agnelli handed Elena his card. ‘But should you ever change your mind...’

‘Not while Mr Moretti is still alive,’ said Elena.

‘Despite my countrymen’s reputation, I hadn’t thought of going quite that far,’ said Agnelli. ‘But if you insist...’ All three of them burst out laughing.

‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you,’ said Elena, rising from her place and accompanying Mr Agnelli to the door.

‘Will you tell Mr Moretti about the offer?’ asked Sasha, when she returned to the kitchen.

‘Certainly not. He has enough problems of his own at the moment, without me threatening to leave.’

‘But if he knew about the offer, he might offer you a rise, even a percentage of the profits.’

‘There are no profits,’ said Elena. ‘The restaurant’s barely breaking even.’

‘All the more reason to take Mr Agnelli’s offer seriously. After all, you might not get another opportunity like this again.’

‘You may well be right, Sasha, but loyalty doesn’t have a price. It has to be earned. And in any case, Mr Moretti deserves better than that.’ Sasha still didn’t look convinced. ‘If you ever have to face a similar dilemma,’ said Elena, ‘just think what your father would have done, and you won’t go far wrong.’

‘The headmaster wants to see you, Karpenko,’ said Mr Sutton as he entered the classroom the following morning. ‘You’re to report to his study immediately.’

The tone of his teacher’s voice didn’t suggest it was anything other than a command. Sasha stood up and left the classroom, painfully aware that all the other boys were staring at him. As he walked along the corridor he wondered what the old man could possibly want. He knocked on the headmaster’s door.

‘Come,’ said an unmistakable voice.

Sasha entered Mr Quilter’s study to find him sitting behind his desk, grim-faced. Another man was seated opposite him, who didn’t turn around.

‘Karpenko, this is Mr Tremlett,’ said the headmaster. A large man with thinning red hair, whose sizeable paunch meant he couldn’t do up the buttons on his double-breasted suit, turned and gave Sasha a smug look that would have told any poker player he had a full house. ‘Mr Tremlett tells me you punched his son during a game of football yesterday, and broke his nose. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Mr Tremlett has assured me that his son had done nothing to provoke you, other than to score a goal. Is that the case?’

The meaning of the word ‘sneak’ had been explained to Sasha in his first week at Latymer Upper, along with the consequences.

‘It’s called collaboration in the Soviet Union,’ Sasha had told his friend Ben Cohen. ‘But the consequences there are likely to be a little more serious than being sent to Coventry.’

The headmaster waited for an explanation, the expression on his face rather suggesting that he hoped there would be one, but Sasha made no attempt to defend himself.

‘In the circumstances,’ Mr Quilter said eventually, ‘you leave me with no choice but to administer an appropriate punishment.’

Sasha was prepared for detention, extra prep, even six of the best, but he was shocked by the punishment the headmaster prescribed, especially as it meant the school would suffer every bit as much as he would. But he suspected that wouldn’t worry Tremlett. Father or son.

‘And should such an incident ever be repeated, Karpenko, I will have no choice but to withdraw your scholarship.’ Sasha knew that would mean him having to leave Latymer Upper, because his mother certainly couldn’t afford the school fees. ‘Let’s hope that’s an end to the matter,’ were his final words.

‘Why didn’t you tell him the truth?’ said Ben Cohen when Sasha explained why he’d been demoted to the Second Eleven for the rest of the season.

‘Tremlett’s father is a school governor, as well as a local councillor, so who do you think Quilter is more likely to believe?’

‘This isn’t the Soviet Union,’ said Ben. ‘And Mr Quilter is a fair man. I should know.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘My father is a Jewish immigrant, and several other schools turned me down before Latymer offered me a place.’

‘I always think of you as English,’ said Sasha.

‘I’m sure you do,’ said Ben. ‘But the Tremletts of the world don’t, and never will.’

Sasha didn’t tell his mother the reason he was no longer playing in goal for the First Eleven. However, the rest of the school became painfully aware who was responsible for the team no longer having a clean sheet, while the Second Eleven were enjoying a vintage season.

When the headmaster asked to see Sasha at the end of term he couldn’t think what he’d done wrong this time, but felt sure he was about to find out. He knocked tentatively on Mr Quilter’s door and waited for the familiar ‘Come’. When he entered the study, he was greeted with a smile.

‘Take a seat.’ Sasha was relieved. If you remained standing, you were in trouble; if you were invited to sit, all was well. ‘I wanted to have a private word with you, Sasha —’ the first time the headmaster had called him by his Christian name. ‘I’ve been going over your mock A-level papers, and I think you should consider entering for the Isaac Barrow Prize for Mathematics at Cambridge.’

Sasha remained silent. He had no idea what the headmaster was talking about.

‘The Isaac Barrow is one of Cambridge’s most prestigious awards, and the winner is offered a scholarship to Trinity,’ Mr Quilter continued. The fog was slowly lifting, but it still wasn’t clear. ‘As Trinity is my alma mater, it would give me particular pleasure if you were to win the prize. However, I must warn you, you’d be up against pupils from every school in the country, so the competition will be stiff. You’d have to sacrifice almost everything else if you were to have a chance.’

‘Even playing for the First Eleven next season?’

‘I had a feeling you might ask me that,’ said Quilter, ‘so I discussed the problem with Mr Sutton, and we felt you could be allowed just one indulgence, especially as cricket has failed lamentably to capture your imagination, and captaining the school chess team hasn’t proved too demanding.’

‘I’m sure you know, headmaster,’ said Sasha, ‘that I’ve already been offered a place at the London School of Economics, subject to my A-level results.’

‘An offer that you could still take up should you fail to win the Isaac Barrow Scholarship. Why don’t you discuss the idea with your mother, and let me know how she feels?’

‘I can tell you exactly how she will feel,’ said Sasha. The headmaster raised an eyebrow. ‘She’ll want me to enter for the prize. But then she’s always been far more ambitious for me than she is for herself.’

‘Well, you don’t have to reach a decision before the beginning of next term. However, it might be wise to give the matter some serious thought before you make up your mind. Never forget the school motto, “paulatim ergo certe”.’

‘I’ll try not to,’ said Sasha, daring to tease the headmaster.

‘And while you’re at it, please warn your mother that I’m taking my wife to Moretti’s for dinner on Saturday evening to celebrate our wedding anniversary, so I hope it’s not her night off.’

Sasha smiled, rose from his chair and said, ‘I’ll let her know, sir.’

He decided to take a walk around the school grounds before heading home to tell his mother why the headmaster had wanted to see him. He strolled out onto the close to see that a cricket match was taking place on the square. The school were 146 for 3. Despite his fascination with figures, Sasha hadn’t mastered the subtle nuances of the game. Only the English could invent a game where logic couldn’t determine which side was winning.

He continued walking around the boundary, occasionally glancing up when he heard the smack of leather on willow. When he reached the other side of the ground, he decided to go behind the pavilion so he wouldn’t distract the players. He’d only gone a few yards when his reverie was interrupted by the sound of a girl’s voice coming from the nearby copse. He stopped to listen more carefully. The next voice he heard was one he recognized immediately.

‘You know you want it, so why pretend?’

‘I never wanted to go this far,’ protested the girl, who was clearly crying.

‘It’s a bit late to tell me that.’

‘Get off me, or I’ll scream.’

‘Be my guest. Nobody will hear you.’

The next thing Sasha heard was a loud cry that sent the starlings perched on top of the pavilion scattering high into the air. He ran into the copse to see Tremlett lying on top of a struggling girl whose skirt was pushed up around her waist, her blouse and knickers on the ground by her side.

‘Mind your own business, Russki,’ said Tremlett, looking up. ‘She’s only a local tart, so get lost.’

Sasha grabbed Tremlett by the shoulders and dragged him off the girl, who let out an even louder scream. Tremlett cursed Sasha, as he picked up his shoes and, remembering the broken nose, sauntered off through the copse.

Sasha was kneeling by the girl’s side, handing her her blouse, when the cricket master and three boys came running out of the back of the pavilion.

‘It wasn’t me,’ protested Sasha. But when he turned round, expecting the girl to confirm his story, she was already running barefoot across the grass, and never looked back.

‘It wasn’t me,’ repeated Sasha after the cricket master had marched him straight to the headmaster’s study and reported what he had witnessed.

‘Then who else could it have been?’ demanded the headmaster. ‘Mr Leigh found you alone with the girl, who was screaming before she ran away. Nobody else was there.’

‘There was someone else,’ said Sasha, ‘but I didn’t recognize him.’

‘Karpenko, you don’t seem to realize how serious this matter is. As things stand, I have no choice but to suspend you, and place the matter in the hands of the police.’

Sasha stared defiantly at the headmaster and repeated, ‘He ran away.’

‘Who did?’

‘I didn’t recognize him.’

‘Then you must return home immediately. I strongly advise you to tell your mother exactly what happened, and let’s hope she can bring you to your senses.’

Sasha left the headmaster’s study and made his way slowly home, any thoughts of Trinity or the LSE now far from his mind.

‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ said his mother when he walked into the kitchen.

He sat down at the table, head in hands, and began to tell her why he’d come home early that afternoon. He’d reached, ‘I was kneeling by her side...’ when there was a loud banging on the front door.

Elena opened it to find two uniformed policemen towering over her. ‘Are you Mrs Karpenko?’ the first officer asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Is your son Sasha with you?’

‘Yes, he is.’

‘I need him to accompany me to the station, madam.’

‘Why?’ demanded Elena, blocking the doorway. ‘He hasn’t done anything wrong.’

‘If that’s the case, madam, he has nothing to fear,’ said the second officer. ‘And of course you are welcome to come with us.’

Elena and Sasha sat silently in the back of the squad car as they were driven to the local police station. Once Sasha had been signed in by the duty sergeant, they were escorted to a small interview room in the basement and asked to wait.

‘Don’t say a word,’ said Elena, once the door had closed. ‘Being suspended from school is one thing, being sent back to the Soviet Union is quite another.’

‘But this isn’t the Soviet Union, Mother. In England you’re innocent until proven guilty.’

The door swung open and a middle-aged man in a dark grey suit walked into the room and sat down opposite them.

‘Good evening, Mrs Karpenko, I’m Detective Inspector Maddox. I’m the officer in charge of this case.’

‘My son is innocent, and—’

‘And we’re about to give him a chance to prove it,’ said Maddox. ‘We would like your son to take part in an identity parade, but as he’s a minor, we can’t do so without your written permission.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘Then he will be arrested, and will remain in custody overnight while we continue our inquiries. But if you’re convinced he has nothing to hide...’

‘I have nothing to hide,’ said Sasha, ‘so please sign the document, Mama.’

The inspector placed a two-page form on the table in front of Elena, and handed her a biro. She took her time reading every word before finally adding her signature.

‘Please come with me, young man,’ said the inspector. He rose from his place and accompanied Sasha out of the room and down the corridor. The detective then stood aside to allow Sasha to enter a long narrow room with a raised platform on one side. Standing on the platform were eight young men, roughly the same age as Sasha, who had clearly been waiting for him.

‘You can choose where you would prefer to stand,’ said the inspector.

Sasha stepped onto the platform and took his place between two lads he’d never seen before, second on the left.

‘Will all of you now please turn and face the mirror in front of you.’

The inspector left the room and went next door, where a frightened young girl, her mother and a female police officer were waiting for him.

‘Now, Miss Allen,’ said Detective Inspector Maddox as he drew back the curtain along one wall of the room, ‘remember that although you can see them, they cannot see you.’ The girl didn’t look convinced, but when her mother nodded, she stared intently at the nine young men. She only needed a few seconds before she pointed to the one who was standing second from the right.

‘Can you confirm that is the young man who attacked you, Miss Allen?’ asked Maddox.

‘No,’ said the girl, barely above a whisper. ‘That’s the boy who came to my rescue.’

She rang the doorbell twice. She knew he was at home, because she’d sat in her car for the past two hours waiting for him to return. When he answered the door he looked down at her and said, ‘What do you want?’

‘I’ve come to see you about your son.’

‘What about my son?’ he said, not budging an inch.

‘Perhaps it might be wiser if we were to discuss this inside, councillor,’ she said, glancing across at an elderly lady who was peeping through the lace curtain next door.

‘All right,’ he said reluctantly, and led her through to his study.

‘So what’s this all about?’ he demanded once he’d closed the door.

‘Your son tried to rape my daughter,’ she said.

‘I know all about this,’ said the man, ‘and you’ve got the wrong lad. I think you’ll find that the police have already arrested the culprit.’

‘I think you’ll find that they’ve already released him without charge.’

‘So what makes you think my son was involved?’

Mrs Allen opened her handbag, took out a grey sock and handed it to the councillor.

‘This could be anyone’s,’ he said, passing the sock back to her.

‘But it isn’t anyone’s. A conscientious mother has taken the trouble to sew a Cash’s name tape on the inside. Perhaps you’d like to have another look?’

He reluctantly took the sock back and checked the inside, where he found the name TREMLETT neatly sewn in red on a thin piece of white tape.

‘I presume you’ve got the other one.’

‘Of course I have. But I can’t make up my mind if I should hand it over to the police, or—’

‘One sock isn’t proof.’

‘Perhaps not. But if your son is innocent, my daughter won’t be able to pick him out in an identity parade, will she? Unless, of course, all the others have red hair.’

‘How much?’ said Tremlett.

11 Alex

Brooklyn

A knock on the door at that time of night meant only one thing to Elena.

‘Who can that be?’ said Dimitri, getting up from his seat.

Alex didn’t take his eyes off the television screen as Dimitri left the room, so neither of them noticed that Elena was trembling.

Dimitri peered through the spyglass in the front door to see two smartly dressed men wearing identical grey suits, white buttoned-down shirts and blue ties, each carrying a hat. He unbolted the door, opened it and said, ‘Good evening. How can I help you?’

‘Good evening, sir,’ said the older of the two men. ‘My name is Hammond, and I’m with the US Border Patrol. This is my colleague Ross Travis.’ He took out his identity card and held it up for Dimitri to see. Dimitri said nothing. ‘We understand that a Mrs Karpenko is living at this address?’

‘She’s registered here,’ said Dimitri, standing his ground.

‘We’re aware of that,’ said Travis. ‘We believe she might have some information that could prove useful to us.’

‘Then you’d better come in,’ said Dimitri. He led them through to the front room, walked across to the television and switched it off.

Alex scowled at the intruders. He’d been looking forward to finding out if James Cagney would escape from the house with the help of his mother without being arrested by the FBI. Why didn’t he have a mother like that?

‘These gentlemen are with the US Border Patrol,’ said Dimitri to Elena in Russian. ‘You don’t have to speak English if you don’t want to.’

‘I have nothing to hide,’ said Elena. ‘What do you want?’ she asked, turning to face the two men, and hoping she sounded relaxed.

‘Are you Mrs Elena Karpenko?’ asked Hammond.

‘I am,’ said Elena, a slight tremble in her voice.

Once again the two men introduced themselves, and Alex couldn’t take his eyes off them. It was as if they’d stepped out of the television screen straight into their front room.

‘There’s nothing for you to worry about, Mrs Karpenko,’ said Hammond, smiling. Elena didn’t look convinced. ‘We’d just like to ask you a few questions.’

‘Please sit down,’ said Elena, not least because she didn’t like them towering over her.

‘We understand that you and your son escaped from Leningrad. We wondered how that was possible, given that the Soviet Union has such tight border security.’

‘He thinks you might be a spy,’ said Dimitri in Russian.

Elena laughed, which puzzled the two men. ‘My husband was murdered by the KGB,’ she said, as Travis opened a notebook and began to write down every word. Hammond then asked her a series of questions that had clearly been well prepared.

‘Can you recall the names and ranks of any of the KGB officers you cooked for, and their responsibilities?’ asked Hammond.

‘I could never forget them,’ said Elena, ‘especially Major Polyakov, who was the docks’ head of security, although my husband told me he reported directly to the dock commandant.’

Travis turned the page after underlining ‘dock commandant’. He then wrote down the name and rank of every other officer Elena could remember.

‘Only a couple more questions,’ said Hammond. He opened his briefcase and took out a plan of the docks, which he placed on the table in front of her. ‘Can you show us where you worked?’

Elena placed a finger on the officers’ club.

‘So you were nowhere near the submarine base,’ said Hammond, pointing to the other end of the dockyard.

‘No. You had to have special security clearance to work in that part of the yard.’

‘Thank you,’ said Hammond. ‘You could not have been more cooperative.’ Travis closed his notebook, and Elena assumed the interview was over. ‘And is this your son?’ asked Hammond, turning to Alex. Elena nodded. ‘I hear you’re doing well at school, and had hoped to attend the Foreign Language Institute in Moscow.’

‘Yes, I did,’ said Alex in Russian, hoping he sounded like James Cagney.

‘I wonder if you’d be willing to be interviewed by a specialist officer from Langley,’ responded Hammond in Russian.

‘You bet,’ said Alex, enjoying the whole experience every bit as much as his mother was detesting it. ‘Especially if it will help get the men who killed my father.’

‘I only wish it was that easy,’ said Hammond. ‘I’m afraid it’s not like the television, where they seem to be able to solve all the world’s problems every evening in just under an hour, between commercials.’

Elena smiled. ‘We’ll do anything we can to help.’

‘Do either of you have any questions for us?’ asked Hammond.

‘Yes,’ said Alex. ‘How do I become a G-man?’

‘They work for the FBI,’ said Travis. ‘If you want to join us at Border Patrol, you’ll have to study hard at school and make sure you pass all your exams.’

Hammond stood up and shook hands with Elena. ‘Thank you again for your cooperation, Mrs Karpenko. We’ll be in touch with your son again in due course.’

Alex immediately turned the television back on, while Dimitri, who’d hardly uttered a word, accompanied the two men out of the room and into the corridor. Alex thought it strange that Dimitri hadn’t questioned them, but he was more interested in the film.

‘You were right, Dimitri,’ said Travis once they were outside on the pavement. ‘She’s a gem. And more important, although he’s young, the boy could be an ideal candidate.’

‘I agree,’ said Hammond. ‘Perhaps it’s time to tell him about Players’ Square.’

‘I already have,’ said Dimitri. ‘So you should have a man posted there on Saturday morning.’

‘Will do,’ said Hammond. ‘Then we’ll just have to hope they find each other.’

‘Believe me, they won’t be able to miss each other. They’ll be like a magnet and iron filings.’

Hammond smiled. ‘When are you going back to Leningrad?’

‘As soon as I can find a ship that needs a third mate. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you informed. Now I’d better get back before they start to become suspicious.’ Dimitri shook hands with both men, closed the door and returned to the front room to find that Elena had gone to bed and Alex couldn’t take his eyes off James Cagney.

He looked closely at the young man, and wondered if it was too great a risk.

Elena and Dimitri were both up by six the following morning, and were soon discussing their nocturnal visitors.

‘Can they be trusted?’ asked Elena, taking a couple of three-minute eggs out of a saucepan of boiling water.

‘Compared to the KGB, they’re angels. But don’t forget, they can make or break your chances of becoming an American citizen,’ said Dimitri as Alex burst into the room.

‘OK, you guys, my name is Agent Karpenko, and I’m putting you both under arrest.’

‘On what charge?’ Dimitri demanded.

‘Brewing illegal alcohol in the basement of this establishment.’

They both burst out laughing.

‘Then you’d better drink your milk, Alex, before you go to school. And I need to get moving too, if I’m going to keep my job.’

‘That job isn’t good enough for you, Mama. You ought to be working in a real restaurant, not a pizza joint.’

‘It’s fine for the time being,’ said Elena. ‘And it’s not a joint. The pay’s not bad, and yesterday they let me make my first pizza.’

‘Real chefs don’t make pizzas.’

‘They do when it’s the only job in town.’

Alex couldn’t wait to be interviewed by a special agent from the CIA. He borrowed a book from the library the following morning, entitled The CIA and its Role in the Modern World, and read it from cover to cover, twice. He had so many questions he wanted to ask a real agent.

He was on his way to the market the following Saturday when he saw them for the first time. An assorted group of men and women of various ages and nationalities, all with one thing in common: a love of chess. He recalled Dimitri telling him about Players’ Square, so he decided to find out for himself. Their heads were bowed as they studied the boards. There must have been a dozen of them, perhaps more, waiting for their opponents’ next move.

Alex hadn’t played chess since he’d arrived in America, and like a drug addict who’s been deprived of his next fix, he joined the onlookers, moving quickly from game to game until he came across a heavily set middle-aged man dressed in jeans and a sweater, who was seated on his own. None of the other players seemed willing to take the seat opposite him. Alex decided there was only one way to find out why.

‘Hi,’ he said, ‘my name is Alex.’

‘Ivan,’ the man replied. ‘But before you sit down, have you got a dollar to lose? Because that’s what it’s going to cost you when I win.’

Alex did have a dollar, two in fact, which Elena had given him along with a list of groceries she needed for the weekend.

He sat down, extracted a bill from his pocket and held it up. ‘Now let’s see yours.’

The man chuckled. ‘You’ll only see mine if you beat me.’ He moved his king’s bishop’s pawn two squares forward.

Alex immediately recognized an opening often used by Boris Spassky, and countered by moving his queen’s pawn forward one square.

The undisputed champion of Brighton Beach gave him a second look before moving his king’s knight in front of his pawns. It only took a few more moves for Ivan to realize he would have to concentrate if he was going to defeat his young challenger.

Neither noticed that a small crowd had begun to gather around them, wondering if it could be possible that ‘the champ’ was about to be defeated for the first time in months. It was another forty minutes before a round of applause broke out when Alex delivered the word ‘checkmate’.

‘Best of three?’ suggested the older man, handing over a dollar.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Alex replied, ‘but I have to go. I have some errands to run for my mother.’

It was the way he pronounced the word ‘mother’ that caused Ivan to ask his next question in Russian. ‘Then why don’t you come back tomorrow, around midday, and give me a chance to win my dollar back.’

‘I’ll look forward to that,’ said Alex, who stood up and shook hands with a man he knew wouldn’t be taken by surprise a second time.

Alex couldn’t be sure what time it was, but felt certain his mother would be home by now. He hurried out of the square and headed straight for the market, where he bought the vegetables and pork chops his mother had asked for. He had quickly learnt which stalls to go to for the finest cuts of meat and the freshest vegetables, but most of all he enjoyed haggling with the stallholders before handing over any cash; something every Russian did from the day they were born, except for his mother.

After he’d paid for a couple of pounds of potatoes, the last item on his mother’s list, he began to make his way home. He wouldn’t have stopped if he hadn’t seen her looking at him through the window. He hesitated for a moment, then marched into the shop as if he had always intended to.

‘I need a belt,’ said Alex, naming the first item of clothing that popped into his head.

‘That’s not the only thing you need,’ said the girl, as she selected a nearly new brown leather belt and handed it to him. He tried to give her his winnings. ‘Save it,’ she said. ‘You can take me to a movie tomorrow night.’

Alex was lost for words. He’d never asked a girl out on a date, and now the dame was doing the asking. Cagney wouldn’t have approved.

‘Henry Fonda in Once Upon a Time in the West,’ she said. He’d never heard of Henry Fonda.

‘Ah yes,’ said Alex, ‘I was looking forward to seeing that movie.’

‘Well, now you’re going to. I’ll meet you at the Roxy at six-thirty. Don’t be late.’

‘I won’t,’ he said, wondering where the Roxy was. As he turned to leave the shop, she said, ‘Don’t forget your belt.’

Alex grabbed it, threw it in one of the bags and walked casually out of the shop. Once he had rounded the corner, he ran all the way home.

‘Where have you been?’ his mother asked as he entered the kitchen. ‘It’s gone six.’

He wondered whether to tell her about Ivan and the chess game (she would approve), the dollar he’d won (she wouldn’t approve), and his second encounter with the girl from the thrift store (he couldn’t be sure), going to a movie (he could be sure). Elena opened the brown paper bag, pulled out the leather belt and asked, ‘Where did you get this?’

Alex would have told her, but he couldn’t remember her name.

Alex returned to Players’ Square the following morning, but not until his mother had left for work.

Ivan was already sitting at one of the boards, fingers tapping impatiently on the table. He held up two clenched fists even before Alex had sat down. Alex tapped the right hand, and Ivan opened it to reveal a white pawn. He rotated the board and waited for Alex to make the first move.

After an hour, it was clear to those who had congregated around the board to watch the match that there wasn’t much to choose between the two players. Ivan won the first game, and Alex had to hand back his hard-earned dollar before the board was reset for the decider. The final game was by far the longest.

Eventually Ivan and Alex agreed on a stalemate. They stood and shook hands, which was greeted by a spontaneous round of applause from the lesser mortals surrounding them.

‘Do you want to make some real money, kid?’ asked Ivan as the crowd melted away.

‘Only if it’s legal,’ replied Alex. ‘My American citizenship is still only provisional, so I could be sent back to the Soviet Union if I was found guilty of a crime.’

‘We wouldn’t want that, would we?’ said Ivan, grinning. ‘Let’s go and have a coffee, then I’ll explain what I have in mind.’

Ivan guided his protégé to the far side of the square and across the road to a small diner. He strolled in, said ‘Hi, Lou’ to the man behind the counter, and headed for what was evidently his usual booth. Alex slipped into the seat opposite him.

‘What would you like?’ asked Ivan.

‘I’ll have the same as you,’ said Alex, hoping it wasn’t too obvious he’d never been in a diner before.

‘Two coffees,’ Ivan told the waitress. He then took some time explaining to Alex how they could make some extra cash the following weekend.

‘And which role would I play?’ asked Alex.

‘You’ll be the blind man, and I’ll tell you the moves your opponent makes.’

‘But you’re as good a player as I am, probably better.’

‘I won’t be by the time I’ve finished with you. And in any case, you’re still only seventeen.’

‘Nearly eighteen.’

‘But you look about fifteen, which will make the punters all the more confident they can beat you.’

‘When do we start?’ asked Alex.

‘Next Saturday morning, eleven sharp.’

‘Can I ask a favour?’

‘Of course. We’re partners now.’

‘Can I have my dollar back?’

‘Why?’

‘I’m taking a girl to the movies tonight, and that was meant to pay for our tickets.’

Alex was standing outside the movie theatre fifteen minutes before they’d agreed to meet. He walked nervously up and down the sidewalk, occasionally pausing to study the poster advertising the film. He was wondering how you ever got to meet someone as beautiful as Claudia Cardinale, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

He swung round to see Addie smiling at him. She took his hand and led him up to the box office.

‘Two for Once Upon a Time in the West,’ she said, and stood aside to allow Alex to pay. Lesson number one in the courting manual. She then grabbed his hand again and took him inside the dimly lit cinema.

Although the film seemed to be incidental to what Addie had in mind, it was Henry Fonda, not Claudia Cardinale, who Alex couldn’t take his eyes off. He wanted to talk like that, walk like that, even dress like that. He decided he would have to see the film again during the week when he wouldn’t be distracted, because he no longer wanted to be James Cagney.

Alex didn’t want Addie to realize it was his first visit to a cinema, so when the man seated in front of him put his arm around his girlfriend’s shoulder, he copied him. She snuggled up closer. He was enjoying the film, when a hand reached across, pulled him towards her, and he experienced his first kiss. There wasn’t time for a second, because a few moments later the words THE END appeared on the screen and the lights went up.

‘Let’s get a Coke,’ suggested Alex. ‘I know a great little diner not far from here.’

‘Sounds good,’ said Addie.

This time Alex took her hand and led Addie across the square to the diner Ivan had taken him to earlier that day. Alex marched in, waved to the man behind the counter and said, ‘Hi, Lou,’ before heading straight for Ivan’s table as if he was a regular.

‘Two Cokes, please,’ said Alex when the waitress appeared.

During the next half hour Alex learnt far more about Addie than she did about him. In fact he knew her entire life history by the time the waitress asked if they’d like another Coke. He would have said yes, but he’d run out of money.

Addie didn’t stop talking while Alex walked her home. When they reached her front door she stood on her toes, put her arms around his neck and kissed him. A second kiss. A very different kiss.

He walked home in a daze, crept into the house and went straight to bed, not wanting to wake his mother.

‘I’ve been given another raise,’ said Elena triumphantly, when Alex joined her for breakfast the following morning. ‘I’m now on a dollar fifty an hour. I’m going to suggest to Dimitri that it’s time for us to start contributing to the rent.’

‘Us?’ said Alex. ‘I don’t contribute anything, Mama, as you well know. But that could change if you’d allow me to earn some extra cash at the weekend.’

‘Doing what?’

‘There are always odd jobs going at the market,’ said Alex, ‘especially at weekends.’

‘I’d allow you to look for a weekend job but only if you can assure me it won’t interfere with your school work. I’d never forgive myself if you didn’t get a place at NYU.’

‘It didn’t prevent my father—’

‘Your father wanted you to go to college every bit as much as I do,’ she said, ignoring the interruption. ‘And if you were to get a degree, who knows what you could achieve, especially in America?’ Alex decided this wasn’t the time to let his mother know exactly what he had in mind for when he left school.

Although he worked hard at school during the week, Alex couldn’t wait for Saturdays, and the chance to make some real money.

‘Will you clear up?’ Elena asked as she put on her coat. ‘I don’t want to be late for work.’

Once he’d finished drying the dishes, Alex quickly left the house, and started running down the road. As he approached Players’ Square that Saturday morning, he could hear the banter and cries of the basketball players on the nearby courts. He stopped and watched them for a few minutes, admiring their skill. He wished the Americans played football, something else he hadn’t thought about when he climbed into the crate. He hadn’t realized that there were no goalkeepers in American football. He put it out of his mind as he made his way across to the patch of grass set aside for chess players.

The first thing he saw was Ivan standing legs apart, hands on hips, wearing an unkempt sweater and faded jeans, with a black scarf around his neck.

‘You’re late,’ he said in Russian, glowering at him.

‘It’s only a game,’ said Alex, ‘so why not keep them waiting?’

‘It’s not a game,’ hissed Ivan. ‘It’s business. Never be late when it’s business. It gives your opponents an advantage.’ Without another word he moved across to a row of six chessboards that had been lined up next to each other with an empty chair behind each board.

Ivan clapped his hands, and once he had caught the crowd’s attention, announced in a loud, clear voice, ‘This young man is willing to challenge any six of you to a game.’ One or two potential opponents looked interested. ‘And to make it more interesting, he will be blindfolded. I will tell him each move his opponents make, and then wait for his instructions.’

‘What odds are you offering?’ demanded a voice from the crowd.

‘Three to one. You put up a dollar, and if you beat him, I’ll give you three.’

Several challengers immediately stepped forward. Ivan collected their money and recorded their names in a little notebook, before allocating a chair to each of the six contestants. Several people looked disappointed not to have been chosen, and one of them shouted, ‘Any side bets?’

‘Of course. Same odds, three to one. Just tell me which player you’re backing.’ Several other names entered his little notebook. ‘The book’s closed,’ said Ivan once the last person had placed his bet. He walked across to Alex, who was staring down at the six boards, removed the scarf from around his neck, placed it over Alex’s eyes and tied it with a firm knot.

‘Turn him around so he’s not facing the boards,’ demanded a disbeliever.

Alex swung round even before Ivan had a chance to respond.

‘You first,’ said Ivan, pointing to a nervous-looking young man who was seated at board number one. ‘Pawn to queen’s bishop 3,’ said Ivan in English, and waited for Alex’s instruction.

‘Pawn to queen 3,’ he responded.

Ivan nodded to an older man who was peering down at board number two through thick-rimmed glasses. ‘Pawn to king 3,’ he said, and moved on to the third board once Alex had responded.

The crowd huddled around the players and studied all six boards intently, while whispering among themselves. Board number four admitted defeat within thirty minutes, and after another hour only one board was still in play.

A burst of applause broke out when board number three knocked his king over. Ivan removed the scarf from around Alex’s eyes before he turned to face the crowd and took a bow.

‘Will we get a chance to win our money back?’ demanded one of the losing players.

‘Of course,’ said Ivan. ‘Come back in a couple of hours, and to make it even more interesting, my partner will play ten boards.’ Alex tried not to show the anxiety he felt. ‘Let’s go, kid,’ said Ivan once the crowd had dispersed, ‘and have that pizza your mother promised.’

When they entered Mario’s Pizza Parlour it was clear that Elena was no longer doing the washing up. She was standing at a large wooden table, kneading a lump of fresh dough until it was flat and even. She was so skilful that she produced a new base every ninety seconds.

Another chef then moved in and checked the order, before he covered the dough with the next customer’s chosen ingredients. It was then scooped up on what looked to Alex like a flat wooden spade and placed into an open wood-burning oven by a third chef, who took it out three minutes later and shovelled it onto a waiting plate. Alex calculated that they were producing a piping hot pizza every six minutes. Americans clearly didn’t like to be kept waiting.

Elena smiled when she looked up and saw her son.

‘This is Ivan,’ said Alex. ‘We work together at the market.’

Elena pointed to one of the few unoccupied tables.

‘How much did we make?’ asked Alex once they’d sat down.

Ivan checked his notebook. ‘Nineteen dollars,’ he whispered.

‘Then you owe me nine dollars and fifty cents,’ said Alex, holding out his hand.

‘Not so fast, kid. Don’t forget you’ve got a bigger challenge this afternoon, so we’ll settle up at the end of the day.’

‘If any of them are as good as the guy on board three, we might even lose the odd match.’

‘Which wouldn’t be a bad thing,’ said Ivan, as a waitress placed two pizzas and a couple of Cokes in front of them.

‘How come?’

‘If you lose the occasional game, the suckers become more interested. It’s a gambler’s weakness. If they see someone else win, it convinces them it’s their turn next,’ said Ivan, before he devoured a large slice of pizza. ‘Must remember to thank your mother,’ he said, looking at his watch.

Alex glanced around at Elena, who hadn’t stopped turning out perfect pizza bases since they’d arrived. He wondered how long it would be before she was giving the orders.

‘Right,’ said Ivan, ‘let’s get back to work.’

When Alex arrived back home for dinner that night, he was surprised to find that Dimitri wasn’t sitting in his usual place.

‘He was offered a job on a merchant ship bound for Leningrad,’ Elena explained. ‘He had to leave on the first tide.’

‘Do you sometimes wonder if Dimitri is too good to be true?’

‘I judge people by their actions,’ said Elena, raising an eyebrow, ‘and he couldn’t have been kinder to us.’

‘I accept that. But why did he take such an interest in two Russians he didn’t know who might well have been criminals?’

‘But we’re not criminals.’

‘He had no way of knowing that. Or did he? And was it just a coincidence that he joined us on deck the first night we were on board?’

‘But he’s a Russian, just like us,’ protested Elena.

‘Not just like us, Mama. He wasn’t born in Russia, but in New York. And I can tell you something else. His parents are very much alive.’

Elena turned to face Alex. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘Because when he helps you with the washing up, he sometimes takes off his watch, and engraved on the back are the words, “Happy 30th, love, mom and dad”, dated 2-14-68. Only last year. So perhaps...’

‘Perhaps you should remember that without Dimitri’s help, we wouldn’t have a roof over our heads, and there would be no possibility of you going to university,’ she said, her voice rising with every word. ‘So I’ll say this once, and once only. You will stop spying on Dimitri, because if you don’t you could end up just like your friend Vladimir, a lonely, sick individual with no morals and no friends.’

Alex was so shocked by his mother’s words that he didn’t speak for some time. He bowed his head and apologized, telling her he would never raise the subject again. After she left for work, he once again thought about her outburst. She was right. He couldn’t have done more for them, but what he hadn’t told his mother was that he feared that Dimitri was working for the KGB.

12 Sasha

London

Although Sasha worked hard when he returned to school for his final year, once the last football game had been played he hung up his goalkeeping gloves and began a strict regimen that even impressed his mother.

He rose at six every morning, and had already done two hours’ work before breakfast. He ran to and from school — almost the only exercise he took — and while the other boys were in the playground enjoying French cricket, he remained in the classroom, turning another page of another book.

Once the bell sounded at the end of the day, and everyone else had gone home, Sasha remained at his desk and, with the help of Mr Sutton, tackled yet another past Isaac Barrow exam paper. Finally he would run home and eat a light supper, before going to his room to do his prep, often falling asleep at his desk.

As the day of the exam drew nearer, he somehow managed to work harder still, finding hours even his mother wasn’t acquainted with.

‘The exam will be conducted in the Great Hall at Trinity,’ the headmaster told him. ‘It might be wise if you were to travel up to Cambridge the night before, so you don’t feel rushed or under any unnecessary pressure.’

‘But where would I stay?’ asked Sasha. ‘I don’t know anyone in Cambridge.’

‘I’ve arranged for you to spend the night at my old college.’

‘Perhaps I should take the day off and come up to Cambridge with you,’ Elena suggested.

Sasha managed to talk his mother out of the idea, but he couldn’t stop her buying him a new suit that he knew she couldn’t afford. ‘I want you to look as smart as your rivals,’ she said.

‘I’m only interested in being smarter than my rivals,’ he replied.

Ben Cohen, who had just passed his driving test, drove Sasha to King’s Cross. On the way, he told him about his latest girlfriend. It was the word ‘latest’ that made Sasha realize just how much he’d missed out on during the past year.

‘And my dad’s going to buy me a TR6 if I get into Cambridge.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘I’d swap it for your brain any day,’ said Ben, as he turned off the Euston Road and parked on a yellow line.

‘Good luck,’ he said, as Sasha climbed out of the car. ‘And don’t come home with a clean sheet.’

Sasha sat in the corner of a packed carriage, staring out of the window as the countryside rattled by, not wanting to admit that he wished he’d agreed to let his mother come with him. It was his first journey outside London, unless you counted away matches, and he was becoming more nervous by the minute.

Elena had given him a pound note to cover any expenses, but as it was a clear fine day when the train pulled into Cambridge station, he decided to walk to Trinity. He quickly learnt only to ask people wearing gowns for directions to the college. He kept stopping to admire other buildings he passed on the way, but when he first saw the great gates above which Henry VIII stood, he was transported into another world, a world he suddenly realized how much he wanted to be part of. He wished he’d worked harder.

An elderly porter accompanied him across the court and up a flight of centuries-worn stone steps. When they reached the top floor he said, ‘This was Mr Quilter’s room, Mr Karpenko. Perhaps you’ll be its next occupant.’ Sasha smiled to himself. The first person ever to call him Mr Karpenko. ‘Dinner will be served at seven in the dining room on the far side of the court,’ the porter said, before leaving Sasha in a little study that wasn’t much bigger than his room above the restaurant. But when he looked out of the mullioned window, he saw a world that appeared to have ignored the passing of almost four hundred years. Could a boy from the backstreets of Leningrad really end up in a place like this?

He sat at the desk and once again went over one of the questions Mr Sutton had thought might come up in the exam. He was just starting another when the clock in the court chimed seven times. He left his books, ran down the stone staircase and into the court to join a stream of young men chatting and laughing as they made their way around the outside of a manicured grass square, on which not one of them stepped.

When Sasha reached the entrance to the dining room he peeped inside, to see rows of long wooden tables laden with food, and benches occupied by undergraduates who obviously felt very much at home. Suddenly fearful of joining such an elite gathering, he turned around, and made his way out through the college gates and onto King’s Parade. He didn’t stop walking until he saw a queue outside a fish and chip shop.

He ate his supper out of a newspaper, aware that his mother wouldn’t have approved, which only caused him to smile. When the street lights flickered on, he returned to his little room to revise two or three more possible exam questions, and didn’t climb into bed until just after midnight. He only slept intermittently, and was horrified when he woke to hear the clock in the court chime eight times. He was just thankful it wasn’t nine. He jumped out of bed, washed and dressed, and ran all the way to the dining hall.

He was back in his room twenty minutes later. He went to the lavatory at the end of the corridor four times during the next hour, but was still standing outside the examination hall thirty minutes early. As the minutes ticked by, a trickle of candidates joined the queue, some talking too much, others not at all, each displaying their own particular level of nervousness. At 9.45, two masters dressed in long black gowns appeared. Sasha later learnt they were not masters, but dons, and that the title of Master was reserved for the head of house. So many new words to learn — he wondered if the college had its own dictionary.

One of the dons unlocked the door and the well-disciplined flock followed the shepherd into the examination hall. ‘You’ll find your names on the desks,’ he said. ‘They are in alphabetical order.’ He then took his seat behind a table on the dais at the end of the hall. Sasha found KARPENKO in the middle of the fifth row.

‘My colleague and I will now hand out the examination papers,’ said the invigilator. ‘There are twelve questions, of which you must answer three. You will have ninety minutes. If you can’t work out how much time you need to allocate for each question, you shouldn’t be here.’ A ripple of nervous laughter spread around the room. ‘You will not begin until I blow my whistle.’ Sasha immediately recalled Mr Sutton’s first law of exams: the person who finishes first won’t necessarily be the winner.

Once an examination paper had been placed face down in front of each candidate, Sasha waited impatiently for the whistle to blow. The shrill, piercing blast sent a shiver down his spine as he turned the paper over. He read slowly through the twelve questions, immediately placing a tick by five of them. After considering them a second time, he was down to three. One was similar to a question that had come up seven years ago, while another was on his favourite topic. But the real triumph was question 11, which now had two ticks by it, because it was one he’d tackled the night before. Time for Mr Sutton’s second law of exams: concentrate.

Sasha began to write. Twenty-four minutes later he put his pen down and read through his answer slowly. He could hear Mr Quilter’s voice: remember to leave enough time to check your answers so you can correct any mistakes. He made a couple of minor emendations, then moved on to question 6. This time, twenty-five minutes, followed by another read-through of his submission, before he moved on to question 11, the double tick. He was writing the final paragraph when the whistle blew, and he only just managed to finish before the papers were gathered up. He was painfully aware that he hadn’t left any time to double-check that answer. He cursed.

Once the candidates had been dismissed, Sasha returned to his room, packed his small suitcase, headed downstairs and walked straight to the station. He didn’t look back, fearing he would never enter the college again.

On the journey to London, he tried to convince himself that he couldn’t have done any better, but by the time the train pulled in to King’s Cross, he was certain he couldn’t have done any worse.

‘How do you think it went?’ Elena asked even before he’d closed the front door.

‘It couldn’t have gone better,’ he said, wanting to reassure her. He handed his mother eleven shillings and sixpence, which she put in her purse.

When Sasha returned to school the next morning, Mr Sutton was more interested in studying the examination paper than in finding out how his pupil felt he’d done, and although he smiled when he saw the ticks, he didn’t point out to Sasha that he’d missed a question on a theorem they had gone over in great detail only a few days before.

‘How long will I have to wait for the results?’ asked Sasha.

‘No more than a couple of weeks,’ replied Sutton. ‘But don’t forget, you still have to take your A-levels, and how you do in them could be just as important.’

Sasha didn’t like the words ‘could be just as important’, but he returned to his slavish routine. It worried him that he found the A-level papers a little too easy, like a marathon runner on a six-mile jog. He didn’t admit as much to Ben, who felt it had been far tougher than any marathon, and no longer expected to be the proud owner of a TR6.

‘You could always be a bus driver,’ said Sasha. ‘After all, the pay’s pretty good and so are the holidays.’

‘You’d get longer holidays if you go up to Cambridge,’ said Ben, revealing his true feelings. ‘By the way, I’m holding an end of exams party at my place on Saturday night. Mum and Dad are away for the weekend, so make sure you don’t miss it.’

Sasha put on a freshly ironed white shirt, school tie and his new suit. As soon as he arrived at Ben’s home he realized that he’d made a dreadful mistake. But then, he had assumed the party would be just a few of his classmates, who would down pints of beer until they fell over, fell asleep, or both.

He discovered his next mistake as he walked into a hallway that was larger than his flat. There were just as many girls as boys at the party, and none of them were wearing school uniform, so he’d removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt long before he reached the drawing room. He looked around and smiled, quite unaware that everyone seemed to know who he was. But he didn’t talk to a girl until more than an hour had passed, and she evaporated almost as quickly as she’d appeared.

‘He’s from another planet,’ he heard her tell Ben.

‘Only wish I occupied it,’ his friend replied.

Sasha wished he had Ben’s ability to casually chat to a girl, and make her feel she was the only woman in the room. He settled down in a comfortable chair from which he could observe the scene as if he were a spectator watching a game where he didn’t know the rules.

He froze when he saw a particularly attractive girl heading in his direction. How long would this one last before she too evaporated?

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘My name’s Charlotte Dangerfield, but my friends call me Charlie.’ She’d broken the ice, but he still froze. She made a second attempt. ‘I’m hoping to go up to Cambridge in September.’

‘To read maths?’ asked Sasha hopefully.

She laughed, a gentle laugh followed by a captivating smile. ‘No, I’m an art historian. Or at least that’s what I’d like to be.’ What’s my next line, thought Sasha, trying not to make it too obvious that he was staring at her legs as she perched on the arm of his chair.

‘Everyone says you’re going to win the Isaac Barrow Prize. And as I’m no better than a borderline case, I’ve got everything crossed, including my toes.’

Sasha was desperate to keep the conversation flowing, but as he’d never visited an art gallery in his life, all he could manage was, ‘Who’s your favourite artist?’

‘Rubens,’ she said without hesitation. ‘Particularly the early paintings he did in Antwerp, when we can be certain he alone was responsible for the entire canvas.’

‘You mean someone else painted his later pictures?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘But once he became famous and even the Pope wanted to commission him, he allowed his more talented pupils to assist him. Who’s your favourite artist?’

‘Mine?’

‘Yes.’

‘Leonardo da Vinci.’ The first name that came into his head.

She smiled. ‘That’s hardly surprising, as, like you, he was a mathematician. Which of his paintings do you particularly like?’

‘The Mona Lisa,’ said Sasha. It was the only one he knew.

‘I’m visiting Paris with my parents in the summer,’ said Charlie, ‘and looking forward to seeing the original.’

‘The original?’

‘At the Louvre.’

Sasha was trying to think what to say next, when she slipped down into the seat beside him, leant across and gently kissed him. Neither of them said a great deal during the next hour, and although Sasha was clearly untutored, she didn’t treat him as if he’d come from another planet.

When some of his friends began to leave just after midnight, Sasha plucked up the courage to ask, ‘May I walk you home?’ His mother had told him that was what a gentleman did when he really liked a girl. You can hold her hand during the walk, but when you reach her front door, you should only kiss her on the cheek and say, ‘I hope we’ll meet again,’ so she knows you care about her. If it’s gone really well, you can ask for her telephone number.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

When Charlie took a key out of her bag, he leant towards her, intending to follow his mother’s advice. Her lips parted, and he thought he would explode.

‘Why don’t you pick me up next Saturday morning around nine,’ Charlie said as she turned the key in the lock. ‘Then I’ll take you to the National Gallery and introduce you to Rubens,’ she added before disappearing inside.

As Sasha walked home, he was certainly on another planet, and for a change, Newton wasn’t occupying it.

Charlie did most of the talking on the tube journey from Fulham Broadway to Trafalgar Square, and almost all of the talking once they’d climbed the steps to the National Gallery.

What Sasha had originally considered no more than an excuse to spend some time with Charlie, turned out to be the beginning of a love affair. He was courted by the Dutch, beguiled by the Spanish, mesmerized by the Italians and enchanted with Charlie.

‘Are there any other galleries in London?’ he asked as they walked back down the steps and joined the pigeons in Trafalgar Square.

Charlie didn’t laugh, as she already knew it wouldn’t be too long before Sasha was asking her questions she couldn’t answer.

When they arrived back in Fulham, Sasha wanted to take her to lunch at Moretti’s, but the fact that he couldn’t afford it wasn’t the only reason they ended up at a local coffee shop. Charlie would need a little more time before she was introduced to his mother.

Charlie was still on Sasha’s mind on Monday morning when the headmaster rang him at home and asked him to drop by and see him. ‘Drop by’ made him laugh.

He thought his legs might give way as he walked through the school gates and down the corridor towards the headmaster’s study, like a punch-drunk boxer about to face the final round.

Mr Quilter answered his knock with the familiar ‘Come!’ Sasha opened the door, but learnt nothing from the expression on the headmaster’s face. He declined the offer to sit down, preferring to remain standing until he’d heard the verdict.

‘Proxime accessit,’ said Quilter. ‘Many congratulations.’ Sasha’s heart sank. He didn’t consider coming second was worthy of praise. ‘You were beaten by a boy from Manchester Grammar School who got one hundred per cent, while you managed ninety-eight. Of course,’ the headmaster continued, ‘you’ll be disappointed, and understandably so. But the good news is that, after assessing your A-level papers, Trinity is still willing to offer you a scholarship.’

‘But you just said I came second.’

‘In maths, yes. But no one got anywhere near you in Russian.’

His first thought was, I hope Charlie...

13 Alex

Brooklyn

Ivan handed over twenty-three dollars to Alex and said, ‘Another good day. I can’t see any reason why we shouldn’t go on milking this cow for a lot longer. So I’ll see you next Saturday at eleven sharp.’

‘Why wait until then,’ said Alex, ‘when we could make money like this every day?’

‘Because then we’d only milk the cow dry. And in any case, if your mother were to find out what you’re up to, she’d certainly put a stop to it.’

Alex stuffed the crumpled notes in the back pocket of his jeans, shook hands with his partner and said, ‘See you next Saturday.’

‘And try and be on time for a change,’ said Ivan.

As he walked towards the market, Alex began to whistle. He felt like a millionaire — which he’d already told his mother he would be by the age of thirty. He handed over ten dollars to her every Sunday evening, explaining that it came from the odd jobs he did in the market over the weekend. The truth was that the market had become his second home, and in the afternoons after school, and while Elena was still at work, he would hang around the stalls watching the traders, quickly learning who could be trusted and, more important, who couldn’t. He always bought his fruit and vegetables from Bernie Kaufman, who never short-changed a customer or sold them yesterday’s wares.

‘I need two pounds of potatoes, Bernie, some runner beans and a couple of oranges,’ said Alex, checking his mother’s shopping list. ‘Oh yes, and a beetroot.’

‘Three dollars, Mr Rockefeller,’ said Bernie, handing over two paper bags. ‘And I’d just like to say, Alex, how much I’ve enjoyed having you as a customer, and I have no doubt you will do well if you go to NYU.’

‘Why would I go anywhere else for my fruit and vegetables?’

‘You’ll have to in future, because I’ll be giving up my stall in a couple of weeks.’

‘Why?’ asked Alex, who’d assumed Bernie was a permanent fixture in the market.

‘My licence comes up for renewal at the end of the month, and the owner’s demanding eighty dollars a week. At that price, I’d be lucky to break even. In any case, I’m nearly sixty, and I don’t enjoy the long hours any more, especially in winter.’ Alex knew Bernie got up at four o’clock every morning to go to the market, and rarely went home before five in the afternoon.

Alex couldn’t accept that his friend would disappear overnight. There were a dozen questions he wanted to ask Bernie, but he needed some time to think. He thanked him and began to walk home.

He was walking past the thrift store deep in thought, when Addie opened the door and shouted after him, ‘Come back, Alex, I’ve got something special for you.’

When Alex joined her in the shop, she took what looked like a brand-new suit off the rack and said, ‘Why don’t you try it on.’

‘How did you get hold of this?’ asked Alex as he slipped on the jacket.

‘A regular customer who goes on shopping sprees, a few days later often gives us something he no longer wants.’

Alex tried to imagine what it must be like to be that rich. ‘What’s this made of?’ he asked, feeling the cloth.

‘Cashmere. Do you like it?’

‘What’s not to like? But can I afford it?’

‘Yours for ten dollars,’ she whispered.

‘How come?’

‘It will have been in and out of the store before my boss even sees it.’

Alex pulled off his jeans, put on the trousers — they even had a zip — and studied himself in the full-length mirror. Beige wouldn’t have been his first choice, but it still looked like a hundred-dollar suit.

‘Just as I thought,’ said Addie. ‘A perfect fit. It could have been made for you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Alex, handing over ten dollars.

‘Are we still going to the movies next Saturday?’ Addie asked as he pulled his jeans back on.

‘John Wayne in True Grit. I’m looking forward to it,’ he said as she folded up the suit and slipped it into a bag. ‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ he added.

‘I’ll think of something,’ said Addie as he left the store.

As he walked back home, Alex’s thoughts turned to how he could possibly get his hands on the eighty dollars a week he needed to rent Bernie’s stall. He was making around twenty dollars from chess games at the weekends, but he had no idea how he could make up the shortfall. He knew his mother didn’t have that sort of spare cash, even though she’d just been given another raise. But what about Dimitri, who’d just come back from his most recent trip to Moscow? He must surely have some spare cash.

Alex had prepared his pitch long before he reached home, and when he opened the door, he could hear Dimitri singing out of tune. He joined him in the kitchen, and listened to what he had been up to on his Moscow trip.

‘A fascinating city,’ said Dimitri. ‘Red Square, the Kremlin, Lenin’s tomb. You should visit Moscow one day, Alex.’

‘Never,’ said Alex firmly. ‘I’m not interested in Lenin’s tomb. I’m an American now, and I’m going to be a millionaire.’

Dimitri didn’t look surprised, but then he’d already heard the claim many times before. But on this occasion, Alex added another sentence which did take him by surprise. ‘And you could be my partner.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Dimitri.

‘How much spare cash do you have?’ asked Alex.

Dimitri didn’t reply immediately. ‘About three hundred dollars,’ he said eventually. ‘There’s not a lot to spend your money on while at sea.’

‘How would you feel about investing it?’

‘In what?’

‘Not in what, but in who,’ said Alex. He filled the sink with warm water, and by the time they’d finished washing up, he’d explained why he needed three hundred and twenty dollars, and why he would be getting up at four in the morning.

‘How does she feel about this?’ was Dimitri’s only comment.

‘I haven’t told her yet.’

Alex found it difficult to concentrate in class the following Monday, but as there were only half a dozen boys who could keep up with him when he was half-awake, no one noticed except his teacher.

When the bell rang at four o’clock, Alex was the first out of the classroom, and he ran all the way to the market. He headed straight for Bernie’s stall. Once he’d caught his breath, he began firing questions at the old trader while he served his customers.

‘If I rented the stall,’ said Alex, ‘would you be willing to go on working?’

‘I’m trying to get off the treadmill, and you’d only want to speed it up,’ grinned Bernie.

‘But if I always went to the market in the mornings, you wouldn’t have to start work until eight, and I could take over after school.’

Bernie didn’t reply.

‘I’d pay you forty dollars a week,’ said Alex as Bernie handed a customer a bag of grapes.

‘I’d have to think about it,’ said Bernie. ‘But even if I agreed, you’d still have a problem.’

‘What?’ said Alex.

‘Not what, but who. Because there’s someone else who will have to go along with your plan.’

‘Who?’ demanded Alex. ‘Because I’m not going to tell my mother until you agree.’

‘It wasn’t your mother I was worried about.’

‘Then who?’

‘The man who owns my stall, and most of the others in the market. You’re going to have to convince Mr Wolfe that you’re good for the money, because only he can grant you a licence.’

‘So where do I find this Mr Wolfe?’

‘His office is at 3049 Ocean Parkway. He starts work at six every morning, and never goes home before eight in the evening. And let me warn you, Alex, he’s one mean son of a bitch.’

‘See you same time tomorrow afternoon,’ said Alex, before setting off for home. ‘By then, I’ll own your stall.’

Dimitri winked when Alex dashed in and joined him at the kitchen table. They chatted about everything except what was really on his mind, while Alex waited impatiently for his mother to leave for work.

‘You’ve barely eaten anything,’ said Elena, checking her watch.

‘I’m just not that hungry, Mama.’

‘Are you working tonight?’ she asked. For a moment Alex thought he’d been caught out, and then he realized what she meant.

‘Yes, I’ve got to write an essay on the Founding Fathers. I’m learning about Hamilton and Jefferson, and how they came together to write the Constitution.’

‘That sounds interesting. If you leave your essay on the kitchen table I’ll read it when I get home tonight,’ said Elena as she put on her coat.

‘She’s no fool, your mother,’ said Dimitri when he heard the front door close. ‘If she finds out you’re more interested in Rockefeller and Ford than you are in Hamilton and Jefferson, you could be in real trouble.’

‘Then she’d better not find out.’

As he walked along Ocean Parkway, Alex once again went over what he would say to Mr Wolfe, while at the same time trying to anticipate his questions. He was wearing his new suit, and could only hope he looked like someone who could afford eighty dollars a week. He was so preoccupied that he walked straight past number 3049 and had to turn back. When he reached Wolfe’s office door, he took a deep breath and marched in, to find a prim, middle-aged woman seated behind a counter. She couldn’t hide her surprise when she saw the young man.

‘I want to see Mr Wolfe,’ Alex said before she could speak.

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘No, but he’ll want to see me.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Alex Karpenko.’

‘I’ll see if he’s in.’ She rose from her desk and went into the next room.

‘Of course he’s in,’ mumbled Alex, ‘otherwise you would have said he wasn’t.’ He paced around the room like a caged tiger while he waited for the ringmaster to return.

Eventually the door opened, and the receptionist reappeared. ‘He can spare you ten minutes, Mr Karpenko,’ she said. The first person ever to address him as Mr Karpenko — was that a good sign? ‘But no longer,’ she added firmly, standing aside to allow him to enter.

Alex straightened his tie and marched into Mr Wolfe’s office, hoping he looked older than his years. The landlord looked up from behind his cluttered desk. He was wearing an olive green three-piece suit and an open-neck brown shirt. A few thin strands of hair had been combed across his head in an attempt to disguise his baldness, and a surplus of chins suggested he rarely left the office, other than to eat. ‘What can I do for you, kid?’ he said, a half-smoked cigar bobbing up and down in his mouth.

‘I want to take over Bernie Kaufman’s stall when his licence expires.’

‘And where would you get that kind of money?’ asked Wolfe. ‘My stalls don’t come cheap.’

‘My partner will supply the money, that is if we can agree on a price.’

‘I’ve already set the price,’ said Wolfe. ‘So the only question is, can you afford it?’

‘How long would the licence run for?’ said Alex, trying to gain back the initiative.

‘Five years. And the contract would have to be signed by someone who isn’t a minor.’

‘Two hundred and fifty dollars a month, cash in advance,’ said Alex, ‘and you’ve got yourself a deal.’

‘Three hundred and twenty a month, kid.’ The bobbing cigar never left Wolfe’s mouth. ‘And only then when I see the cash.’

Alex knew he couldn’t afford it, and should have walked away, but like a reckless gambler he still believed that somehow he’d come up with the money, so he nodded. Wolfe took the cigar out of his mouth, opened a drawer in his desk, and pulled out a contract, which he handed to Alex. ‘Read it carefully before you sign it, kid, because no smart-assed lawyer has managed to break it yet, and you’ll find the penalty clauses are all in my favour.’

The cigar returned to Wolfe’s mouth. He inhaled deeply, blew out a cloud of smoke, and said, ‘Make sure you get here real early tomorrow morning, cash in hand, kid. I wouldn’t want you to be late for school.’

If this had been a gangster movie, James Cagney would have filled Wolfe with lead and then taken over his empire. But in the real world, Alex slunk out of the office and slowly made his way back home, wondering where he’d get the second month’s rent if the stall didn’t make a big enough profit.

Although Dimitri had already handed over 320 dollars to cover the first month’s rent, Alex still needed his mother’s blessing, and he knew exactly what she would demand in return. He was all too aware that he hadn’t been working hard enough at school recently, and had been winging it for the past few months, although he’d still managed to stay among the top half dozen in his class. But while most afternoons were spent with Bernie learning the trade, and every weekend taken up with trying to earn enough extra cash with Ivan to survive, he wasn’t surprised when, a couple of weeks later, the principal asked to see him on Saturday morning concerning a private matter.

Alex was standing outside the principal’s office at one minute to ten, having already been to the market at four that morning, and done an hour’s work on the stall before Bernie took over at eight. He knocked on the door and waited to be asked to come in.

‘Are you still hoping to make it to NYU, Karpenko?’ the principal asked before he’d even sat down.

Alex wanted to say, No, I plan to build an empire that will rival Sears, so I won’t have time to go to university, but he simply replied, ‘Yes, sir.’ Alex had promised his mother he’d work harder at school, and make sure he achieved the grades he needed to get in to university.

‘Then you’re going to have to devote far more time to your school work,’ said the principal, ‘because your recent efforts have been less than impressive, and I don’t need to remind you that your entrance exam is less than six months away, and the examiner won’t be interested in the price of a pound of apples.’

‘I’ll work harder,’ said Alex.

The principal didn’t look convinced, but nodded to indicate that he could leave.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Alex. Once he’d left the principal’s office, he didn’t stop running until he reached Players’ Square. He realized he must have been a few minutes late when he saw Ivan pacing up and down looking at his watch. Twelve punters were already seated behind their boards, waiting impatiently to make their first move.

‘What’s your excuse this time?’ Ivan asked.

Whenever one of Dimitri’s chosen vessels tied up in Leningrad, he headed straight for the dockside pub where Kolya could be found most evenings.

Once eye contact had been made, Dimitri would leave and make his way across town to Moskovsky station. He would buy a ticket for a local train, then go to the waiting room between platforms 16 and 17. By the time Kolya appeared he would have secured a corner seat, well away from the window and any prying eyes. Few people other than the occasional tramp hung about in the waiting room for more than fifteen minutes, by which time they would be thrown out.

Kolya and Dimitri also limited themselves to fifteen minutes in case an observant porter, or worse, an off-duty KGB officer — they were never really off duty — might spot them and become suspicious. The rules of encounter had been established during their first meeting. Both would have their questions ready, and often several of the answers as well. This time, Dimitri knew that, in their first meeting since Elena and Alex’s escape, Kolya would be desperate to know how his sister and nephew were progressing in the New World.

As soon as Kolya arrived, he took the seat next to Dimitri and opened his newspaper. They never shook hands, resorted to small talk, or bothered with any pleasantries.

‘Elena is still working at a pizza parlour called Mario’s,’ said Dimitri. ‘She’s been promoted three times already, and is now deputy manager. Even Mario is becoming nervous. Her only problem is she thinks she’s putting on weight. It seems that wasn’t something she ever had to worry about when she worked at the officers’ club.’

‘Any men in her life?’

‘Other than Alex, none that I’m aware of.’

‘Alex?’

‘Alexander. He now insists on being called Alex. More American, he tells me.’

‘And how’s he doing at school?’

‘Well enough, but not as well as he could do. He’s already been offered a place at New York University in the fall to study economics. But if he had the choice, he’d skip college and start working straight away. Sees himself as the next John D. Rockefeller.’

‘Rockefeller?’

‘He’s an American tycoon — they’ve even named a building after him,’ said Dimitri.

Kolya smiled as he turned a page of his newspaper. ‘But if I know Elena, she’ll still want the boy to go to college, and then get what she’d call a proper job.’

‘No doubt about that,’ said Dimitri. ‘But he’s hell bent on becoming a millionaire. He even talked me into investing three hundred and twenty dollars in his latest venture.’

‘Does he know why you can afford it?’

‘No, I just told him there’s not much to spend my pay on while I’m away at sea.’

‘It can only be a matter of time before he finds out. But I have to admit I’d invest in the boy myself, if I had any money,’ said Kolya. ‘He’s got his father’s self-confidence and his mother’s common sense. Whoever this Rockefeller is, he’d better watch out.’

Dimitri laughed. ‘I’ll keep you briefed on how my investment turns out.’

‘I can’t wait,’ said Kolya. ‘Give them both my love.’

‘Of course. And is there anything you’d like me to pass on to my friends?’

‘Yes, it looks as if I might be the next convener of the dockers’ union and therefore follow in Konstantin’s footsteps, though without the same size shoes.’

‘He’d have been proud of you.’

‘Not quite yet. There are still a few more problems to surmount, not least Polyakov, who has his own candidate for the job. A fully paid-up party member who would report directly to him.’

‘So despite Polyakov being at the docks when Elena and Alex escaped, he somehow managed to keep his job?’

‘He actually turned the whole disaster to his advantage,’ said Kolya. ‘Told the commandant that he didn’t go to the cup final because he’d been tipped off that someone might be trying to escape.’

‘Then why didn’t he arrest both of them?’

‘Said he was on his own when a dozen men took him by surprise, and that if it hadn’t been for him, a lot more dissidents would have been on that ship.’

‘And they believed him?’

‘Must have. But I hear he’s unlikely to be promoted in the near future.’

‘Did he try to pin anything on you?’

‘No, he couldn’t. I was back at the stadium well in time to watch the second half of the match. I drifted around the north terrace for the next hour, so by the time the final whistle went, over a thousand of my workmates were able to confirm they’d seen me, so I was in the clear.’

‘That’s a relief.’

‘Not altogether,’ said Kolya. ‘Polyakov remains unconvinced, which is another reason why he’s so determined to stop me becoming convenor of the trade union.’

‘And who won?’

‘Won what?’

‘The cup final. Alex keeps asking me to find out.’

‘We beat Moscow two — one, despite the referee being a KGB officer.’

Dimitri laughed. ‘Anything else you want to tell me?’ he asked, aware that their time was running out.

‘Yes,’ said Kolya, turning another page of his newspaper. ‘Alexander might be interested to know that his old school friend Vladimir has been elected to the committee of the university Komsomol. Don’t be surprised if he’s chairman by the next time we meet.’

‘One last thing,’ said Dimitri. ‘Elena wants to know, if I was able to fix a visa for you, would you consider coming to New York and living with us?’

‘Thank her for her kindness, but Polyakov would make sure I was never granted a visa. Perhaps you could try and explain to my dear sister that I’ve still got important work to do here.’ He folded his newspaper, the sign that he had nothing more to say, just as a train shunted into platform 17 and screeched to a halt.

Dimitri rose from his place, joined the jostling passengers now crowding the platform, and began the long walk back to the ship, making the occasional detour to be sure no one was following him. He couldn’t help worrying about Kolya, and the risks he was willing to take because he detested the communist regime. Unlike most of Dimitri’s other contacts, Kolya never asked for money. Some men can’t be bought.

14 Sasha

University of Cambridge

Once Sasha had read through his essay and made a couple of alterations, he glanced at his watch, then hurriedly pulled on his long black scholar’s gown, ran downstairs and across the court. He charged up another staircase, stopping at the third floor, just as he heard the first of ten chimes.

He couldn’t be even a minute late for Dr Streator, who began his supervisions as the great courtyard clock struck, and finished them when it chimed again an hour later. Sasha caught his breath, knocked on the door and walked in on the tenth chime, to find the two other scholars already sitting in front of the fire enjoying toasted crumpets.

‘Good morning, Dr Streator,’ said Sasha, handing over his essay.

‘Good morning, Karpenko,’ said Streator in Russian. ‘You’ve missed out on the crumpets, but then, being on time doesn’t appear to be one of your strengths. However, I can still offer you a cup of tea.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Streator poured a fourth cup before he began. ‘Today, I want to consider the relationship between Lenin and Stalin. Lenin not only didn’t have any respect for Stalin, he actively despised the man. However, he recognized that if the revolution was to be a success, he needed money to make sure that his political opponents were removed one way or another. Enter a young thug from Georgia who was only too happy to carry out both tasks. He raided banks, and didn’t give a second thought about murdering anyone who got in his way, including innocent bystanders.’

Sasha took notes while Dr Streator continued his discourse. It hadn’t taken him long to realize how little Russian history he actually knew, and that his teachers in Leningrad had parroted words from a book that had been vetted by the KGB in a blatant attempt to rewrite history.

‘I am only interested in proven facts,’ said Streator, ‘with reliable evidence to back them up; not mere propaganda, endlessly repeated until the gullible have accepted it as the truth. Stalin, for example, was able to convince an entire nation that he was in Moscow in 1941, leading from the front at a time when the German army were within twenty miles of the city. Whereas it’s far more likely that he actually fled to Kuybyshev, and only returned to Moscow once the Germans were in retreat. Why do I say far more likely? Because I don’t have irrefutable proof, and for a historian, odds of ninety per cent should not be good enough.’

Sasha enjoyed his twice-weekly supervisions, and never missed a lecture, although Ben Cohen kept trying to persuade him there was a life beyond academia. Ben had recently joined the Union and begun to take an interest in politics. After much arm-twisting, Sasha had agreed to attend the next debate with him. Sasha rarely ventured beyond the walls of Trinity unless it was to spend time with Charlie in Newnham. But then, Dr Streator had made it clear at their first supervision that he expected all three of them to be high Wranglers. Nothing less would be acceptable. While others excelled on the playing fields, Streator considered it his duty to stretch his students’ minds, not their muscles. However, Sasha felt a trip to the Union couldn’t do any harm.

The hour went by so quickly, that when the clock chimed again, Sasha closed his notebook and reluctantly gathered up his papers. He was about to leave when Streator said, ‘Can you spare me a moment, Karpenko?’

‘Yes, of course, sir.’

‘I wondered if you had anything planned for this evening?’

‘I was going to the Union.’

‘This house would not fight for Queen and country.’

‘Yes, sir. Will you be there?’

‘No, I’ve had enough of war,’ said Streator, without explanation. ‘But when you’ve got a free evening, perhaps you could join me after supper for a game of chess, where kings, queens and knights are not imprisoned, executed or assassinated, but simply moved across a board and occasionally removed.’ Sasha smiled. ‘But I must warn you, Karpenko, I have an ulterior motive. I’m the don in charge of the university chess team, and I want to find out if you’re good enough to be selected for the match against Oxford.’

‘Have you slept with her yet?’

‘Ben, you’re the crudest individual I’ve ever come across.’

‘That’s only because you’ve led such a sheltered life. Now answer the question. Have you slept with her?’

‘No, I haven’t. Frankly I’m not even sure how she feels about me.’

‘How can you be so clever and so stupid at the same time, Sasha? Charlie adores you, and you must be about the only person who doesn’t realize it.’

‘But it still wouldn’t be easy,’ said Sasha, ‘because Newnham doesn’t allow their undergraduates to have a man in their room after six, and even then, if I recall the regulations, he has to keep both feet on the floor at all times.’

‘This may come as a surprise to you, Sasha, but people have been known to have sex before six o’clock, and even with both feet on the floor.’ Sasha still didn’t look convinced. ‘But that isn’t the reason I wanted to see you. Are you still coming to the debate tonight?’

‘This house would not fight for Queen and country,’ said Sasha. ‘Yes, even though it’s a ridiculous motion, which I assume will be overwhelmingly defeated.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that. There are an awful lot of Bolshies around who’d happily support the idea of the Queen living in a council house. But there’s another reason I want you to come. So you can meet my latest girlfriend.’

‘Have you slept with her yet?’ asked Sasha, grinning.

‘No, but it shouldn’t be long now, because I know she’s got the hots for me.’

‘Ben,’ said Sasha in disgust, ‘English is the language of Keats, Shelley and Shakespeare, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘You clearly haven’t read Harold Robbins.’

‘No, I haven’t,’ said Sasha, letting out an exaggerated sigh. ‘However, if for no other reason than to meet this unfortunate lady who’s got what you so elegantly describe as the hots for you, I’ll come along.’

‘Actually, she’s also quite bright.’

‘She can’t be that bright, Ben. Think about it.’

‘And she’s the only woman on the Union committee,’ said Ben, ignoring the jibe.

‘Then she must be out of your league.’

‘There is no league once you get them into bed.’

‘Ben, you have a one-track mind.’

‘Why don’t you invite Charlie along, and we can all have supper together afterwards?’

‘OK, I give in. Now go away. I’ve got a supervision in an hour’s time, and I need to check through my essay.’

‘I haven’t even written mine.’

‘I didn’t realize writing was a prerequisite for anyone studying Land Economy.’

It was Sasha’s first visit to the Union, but as soon as the two of them walked into the debating chamber, it was clear that Ben was already a fixture. He grabbed two free places on a bench near the front of the room, and immediately joined in the noisy chatter emanating from the benches around them. It only ceased when the Union’s officers walked in and took their places in the three high-backed chairs on a raised platform at the front of the hall.

‘The one seated in the centre,’ Ben whispered, ‘is Carey. He’s the current president of the Union. I’m going to be sitting in that chair one day.’ Sasha smiled, as Carey rose and said, ‘I will now ask the vice-president to read the minutes of the last meeting.’

While Chris Smith read the minutes, Sasha looked around the packed hall and up into the gallery, which was crowded with eager students leaning over the railings, waiting for the debate to begin.

When the minutes had been read and the vice-president had sat down, the president rose again. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I shall now call upon the Right Honourable Mr Anthony Wedgwood Benn, MP, to propose the motion, that this house would not fight for Queen and country.’

As Mr Benn rose from his place, he was greeted by loud, enthusiastic cheers. Sasha could see, as he looked around the hall, that he appeared to be supported by the majority of students present.

‘Mr President, I’m delighted to have been invited to propose this motion,’ Benn began. ‘Not least because we all know Britain isn’t a democracy. How could anyone claim it is when our head of state isn’t even elected? How can we consider our fellow men and women to be equals in the law, when our second chamber is dominated by seven hundred hereditary peers, most of whom have never done a day’s work in their lives, and whose sole contribution is to turn up and vote whenever their birthright is threatened? Yet these are the very people who can decide if you should go to war with whom they consider to be their enemy.’

Benn’s speech was frequently interrupted by cries of ‘Hear, hear!’ and ‘Shame!’ shouted with equal vehemence, and although Sasha didn’t agree with a word he said, it was undeniable that Benn had captured the attention of the whole house. When he resumed his place, the room reverberated with even louder cheers and cries of shame than before.

Admiral Sir Hugh Munro, a Conservative Member of Parliament, rose to oppose the motion. The gallant gentleman pointed out that if Britain had not fought for King and country in the Second World War, it would be Adolf Hitler who was sitting on the throne in Buckingham Palace, and not Queen Elizabeth II. This was greeted by hear, hears from that section of the audience who’d remained silent throughout Mr Benn’s speech. Once the admiral had sat down, the two seconders spoke with equal passion, but it still looked to Sasha as if those in favour of the motion were going to carry the day.

He had listened carefully to all four speeches, still amazed that such diverse views could be expressed so openly without fear of any repercussions. In Leningrad, half the students would have been arrested by now, and at least two of the speakers sent to prison, if not shot.

The president rose from his seat once again, and invited members to speak from the floor, before a vote would be taken. ‘Two minutes only,’ he said firmly.

One after another, a succession of undergraduates declared that they would never fight for Queen and country, while others asserted that they would die on the battlefield rather than be subjected to foreign rule. It was after a speech by a Mr Tariq Ali, a former president of the Oxford Union, that Sasha found he could no longer restrain himself. Without thinking, he leapt up when the president called for the next speaker, and was shocked when Mr Carey pointed in his direction.

Sasha was already regretting his decision as he walked slowly up to the front of the hall. The house fell silent, unsure which side he was going to support. He gripped the dispatch box to stop himself shaking.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Sasha began almost in a whisper. ‘My name is Sasha Karpenko. I was born in Leningrad, where I spent the first sixteen years of my life, until the communists murdered my father.’ For the first time, a silence fell upon the assembled gathering, and every eye in the room remained fixed on Sasha. ‘His crime,’ he continued, ‘was to want to form a trade union so that his fellow dock workers could enjoy rights that you in Britain take for granted. That is one of the privileges of living in a democracy. As Winston Churchill reminded us, Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all the others. I refuse to apologize for not having been born in this country, but I am grateful to have escaped the tyranny of Communism, and be allowed to attend this debate, a debate that could never take place in Russia. Because if it had, Mr Wedgwood Benn would have been shot and Mr Tariq Ali sent to the salt mines in Siberia.’

A few roars of hear, hear, good idea, were followed by raucous laughter. Sasha waited for silence to return before he continued. ‘You may laugh, but if we were in the Soviet Union, everyone who spoke in favour of this motion tonight would have been arrested, and every student who even attended the debate would have been expelled and sent to work in the docks. I know, because that’s what happened to me.’ Sasha was quite unaware of the effect his words were having on his fellow students.

‘My mother and I were able to escape from that totalitarian state, and were fortunate enough to end up in England, where we were welcomed as refugees. But I must tell this house, I would return to the Soviet Union tomorrow to fight that despotic regime, and be willing to die if I thought there was the slightest chance that the communists could be driven out and replaced by a democratic state in which every one of my countrymen would have a vote.’

The cheer that followed gave Sasha a chance to gather his thoughts. Only when he had complete silence did he continue. ‘It’s been fun to debate this motion without fear or favour, to have a vote, and then be allowed to join your friends in the bar. But had I made this speech in my country, I would have ended up behind bars, and spent many years, perhaps the rest of my life, in a labour camp. I beg you to defeat this motion, because supporting it will only give succour to those evil despots around the world who consider dictatorship a better system than democracy, just as long as they’re the dictator. Let us send a message from this house tonight, that we would rather die in defence of our country and its values than be subjected to tyranny.’

As Sasha made his way back to his place, the whole house rose to acknowledge him. He was touched to see both Mr Wedgwood Benn and Mr Ali on their feet joining in the ovation. When everyone had finally settled, the president stood again and invited the house to divide and cast their votes.

Twenty minutes later, the vice-president rose from his place and declared that the motion had been defeated by 312 votes to 297. Sasha was immediately surrounded by a throng of students, congratulating him and wanting to shake his hand, while Ben sat back and basked in his triumph. A member of the committee leant across and whispered in his ear. ‘The president wondered if you and your friend would care to join him for a drink in the committee room.’

‘You bet,’ said Ben, who led Sasha out of the hall and up a wide staircase to join the presidential party.

The first person to walk across and congratulate him was Mr Wedgwood Benn.

‘A magnificent contribution,’ he said. ‘I can only hope you’re considering a career in politics. You have a lot to offer.’

‘But I might not sit on your side of the house, sir,’ said Sasha.

‘Then I would consider you a worthy opponent, sir.’

Sasha was about to respond when they were joined by a young woman who also wanted to offer her congratulations.

‘This is Fiona,’ said Ben. ‘The only woman on the Union committee.’

Sasha was impressed, not only with the achievement, but also by her radiant beauty, which didn’t require any announcement.

‘I’m surprised we haven’t seen you before, Sasha,’ she said, touching his arm.

‘He rarely abandons his books to join us lesser mortals,’ said Ben, who didn’t notice that Sasha couldn’t take his eyes off her.

‘I was hoping to be able to convince you to join CUCA.’

‘CUCA?’ repeated Sasha.

‘The University Conservative club,’ said Ben. ‘It was Fiona who recruited me.’

‘I hear your speech at the Union went down rather well,’ said Streator, moving a rook to protect his queen.

‘The British are such a civilized people,’ said Sasha, as he studied the board. ‘They allow anyone to express their views, however ridiculous or ill-informed they might be. I’m sure it won’t come as a surprise to you, sir, that we didn’t have a debating society at my school in Leningrad.’

‘Dictators don’t care too much for other people’s opinions. Mind you, even the Duke of Wellington, after chairing his first cabinet meeting as prime minister, was surprised to find that his colleagues didn’t seem willing simply to carry out his orders, but actually wanted to discuss the alternatives. It was some time before the Iron Duke was prepared to accept that his fellow cabinet ministers might have opinions of their own.’

Sasha laughed, and moved his bishop.

‘But be warned, Sasha, civilized as the British are, you shouldn’t assume that just because you’re clever, they will accept you as one of them. There are many who are suspicious of a first-class mind, while others will make a judgement based not on the words you say, but the accent in which they’re pronounced, and some will be against you the moment they hear your name. However, should you choose to remain at Trinity once you’ve taken your degree, you will only come up against such prejudice if you were foolish enough to venture outside these hallowed walls.’

It had never crossed Sasha’s mind that he might stay at Trinity and teach the next generation. Only a few days ago a cabinet minister had encouraged him to consider a political career, and today his supervisor was suggesting that he should remain at Cambridge. He moved a pawn.

‘You’re a natural,’ said Streator, ‘and I’m sure the college will want to hold on to you.’ He moved his rook again. ‘But I suppose you might consider us a pretty dull lot, and think there’s a far more exciting world out there for you to conquer.’

‘I’m flattered that my future has even crossed your mind,’ said Sasha as he picked up his queen.

‘Do keep me informed of any plans you might have,’ said Streator, ‘either way.’

‘I only have one plan at the moment, sir. Checkmate.’

The phone on Dr Streator’s desk began to ring, but he ignored it.

‘The decision to divide Berlin into four Allied sectors following the Second World War was nothing more than a political compromise.’ The phone stopped ringing. ‘And when those people living in what in 1949 became East Germany began to flee to the West in droves, the government’s reaction was to panic and build an eleven-foot-high barrier which became known as the Berlin Wall. This concrete monstrosity topped with barbed wire stretches for over ninety miles, with the sole purpose of preventing the citizens of East Germany escaping to the West.’

The phone began to ring again.

‘Over a hundred people have lost their lives attempting to climb that wall. As a monument to the virtues of Communism, it has proved a public relations disaster.’

The phone stopped ringing.

‘I hope that in my lifetime, and certainly in yours,’ continued Streator, ‘we shall see it torn down, and Germany once again united as a single nation. That is the only way to guarantee a lasting peace in Europe.’

There was a loud rap on the door. Streator sighed, reluctantly rose from his place and walked slowly across the room. He had already prepared his first sentence for the intruder. He opened the door to find the senior porter standing there, flushed and clearly embarrassed.

‘Perkins, I am in the middle of a supervision, and unless the college is on fire, or about to be invaded by Martians, I would be obliged—’

‘Worse than Martians, sir, far worse.’

‘And what, pray, could be worse than Martians, Perkins?’

‘Nine men from Oxford are lurking in the porter’s lodge, intent on doing battle.’

‘With whom?’

‘With you, sir, and the members of the Cambridge chess team.’

‘Typical of that lot to turn up on the wrong day,’ said Streator. He returned to his desk, opened his diary and said, ‘Bugger.’

Sasha had never heard the senior tutor swear before, and had certainly never known him lost for words.

‘Bugger,’ Streator repeated a few moments later. ‘I apologize, gentlemen,’ he said, slamming his diary shut, ‘but I am going to have to cut this supervision short. I owe you,’ he checked his watch, ‘nineteen minutes. Your essay this week will be on the role Konrad Adenauer played as the first chancellor of West Germany following the Second World War. I recommend that you read A. J. P. Taylor and Richard Hiscocks, who have differing opinions on the subject. I believe neither of them to be wholly correct, but don’t let that influence you,’ he said as he headed out of the room. ‘Karpenko,’ he added, almost as an afterthought, ‘as you’re a member of the Cambridge team, I suggest you join me.’

The porter hurried down the steps at a speed he only considered in grave emergencies, followed by the Senior Tutor, with Sasha bringing up the rear. When Streator entered the porter’s lodge, he was greeted with a warm smile by his opposite number, Gareth Jenkins, a Welshman he’d never really cared for, and eight Oxford undergraduates who were trying hard not to smirk.

‘I’m so sorry, Gareth,’ said Streator. ‘I thought the match was next week.’

‘I think you’ll find that it’s scheduled for four o’clock this afternoon, Edward,’ said Jenkins, handing over the letter of confirmation, with the senior tutor’s unmistakable signature scrawled along the bottom.

‘Could you give me an hour or so, old chap, so I can rustle up the rest of my team?’

‘I’m afraid not, Edward. The match is in the fixture list for four o’clock this afternoon, which leaves us,’ he said, checking his watch, ‘sixteen minutes before play will commence. Otherwise it will be recorded as a whitewash.’ The Oxford team were already celebrating.

‘But I can’t possibly round up my entire team in sixteen minutes. Do be reasonable, Gareth.’

‘Can you imagine what the reaction would have been had Montgomery said to Rommel, can you hold up the battle of El Alamein for an hour or so, old chap, I’ve got the wrong day and my men aren’t ready?’

‘This is not El Alamein,’ replied Streator.

‘Clearly not for you,’ was Jenkins’s response.

‘But I’ve only got one member of my team on hand,’ said Streator, sounding even more frustrated.

‘Then he’ll have to take on all eight of us,’ said Jenkins, who paused before adding, ‘at the same time.’

‘But—’ protested Streator.

‘That’s fine by me,’ said Sasha.

‘This should be amusing,’ said Jenkins. ‘Not so much El Alamein as the Charge of the Light Brigade.’

Streator reluctantly led the Oxford team out of the lodge and across the court to the Junior Combination Room, where two college servants were quickly setting up a row of chessboards on the refectory table. Streator kept looking at the clock and then glancing towards the doorway in the hope that at least one other member of the team might turn up. But all he saw was a mass of undergraduates flooding in to witness the forthcoming annihilation.

The eight Oxford players took their places at the boards, ready for combat. Sasha, like Horatio, stood alone on the bridge, while Streator and Jenkins, as match referees, took up their positions at either end of the table.

As the clock on the wall struck four, Jenkins declared, ‘Time. Let the matches commence.’

Oxford’s top board moved his queen’s pawn two squares forward. Sasha responded by advancing his king’s pawn one square, just as the Cambridge captain came rushing into the hall.

‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, catching his breath. ‘I thought the match was next week.’

‘Mea culpa,’ admitted Streator. ‘Why don’t you take the second board, as the match has only just begun?’

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ said Jenkins. ‘Our man has already made his first move, so the match is under way. Therefore your captain is no longer eligible to take part.’

Streator would have complained if he hadn’t thought Field Marshal Montgomery’s name would have been taken in vain a second time.

The Oxford second board made his opening move. Sasha countered immediately, as more undergraduates wandered into the hall to watch the challenger as he moved on to the next board. Within a few minutes, two more members of the Cambridge team had appeared, but they were also obliged to watch the encounter from the sidelines.

Sasha defeated his first opponent within twenty minutes, which was greeted with a warm round of applause. The next dark blue king fell eleven minutes later, by which time the whole of the Cambridge team were present, but as the hall was so packed they had to watch proceedings from the balcony above.

The third and fourth Oxford men took a little longer to surrender to Sasha’s particular skills, but they nonetheless fell within the hour, by which time there was standing room only in the hall and the balcony was heaving with undergraduates, and even a few elderly dons.

The next three Oxford players kept Sasha occupied for another half hour, but eventually they too succumbed, leaving only their top board remaining on the battlefield. Be patient, Sasha could hear his father saying. Eventually he’ll make a mistake. And he did, twenty minutes later, when Sasha sacrificed a rook and the Oxford captain left an opening that he would regret in another seven moves when Sasha declared, for the eighth time, ‘Checkmate.’

Oxford’s top board rose from his place, shook hands with Sasha and bowed low. ‘We are unworthy,’ he said, which was greeted with spontaneous applause.

‘I do believe that’s a whitewash,’ said Streator once the applause had died down. ‘And I think it’s only fair to warn you, Gareth, that young Karpenko is a freshman, and I’ll make sure I get the right date when we visit you next year.’

Sasha wondered if he’d ever get used to a woman paying for a round of drinks. ‘Have you considered standing for the Union committee?’ Fiona asked him as she handed him a lager.

He took a sip, which gave him time to think about his response. ‘What would be the point?’ he eventually said. ‘I can’t even make up my mind which party I support, so who would even consider voting for me?’

‘Far more people than you realize,’ said Ben before taking a long draught. ‘After your rousing speech in the Queen and Country debate, and then trouncing the entire Oxford chess team single-handed, they’d vote for you if you stood as a Russian Separatist.’

‘Will you be standing, Ben?’ Sasha asked.

‘You bet. And Fiona’s put her name down for vice-president.’

‘Well, you’re guaranteed at least two votes from a couple of your most devoted admirers,’ said Sasha.

‘Thank you,’ said Fiona. ‘But there are plenty of men, including some in my own party, who still think a woman’s place is in the kitchen.’

‘Shame on them,’ said Ben, raising his glass.

‘Not to mention those members of the Labour Party who consider me to be somewhere on the right of Attila the Hun.’

Ben placed his empty glass on the table. ‘Another round?’

‘No thanks,’ said Sasha. ‘I need an early night if I’m going to explain to Dr Streator why I think he’s wrong about the Soviet people being best suited to living under a totalitarian regime, even a tsar.’

‘Heady stuff,’ said Ben. ‘I wouldn’t dare to disagree with my supervisor.’

‘Would he even recognize you if you ever turned up to one of his supervisions?’ said Sasha.

Ben ignored the comment. ‘What about you, Fiona, will you join me for another round?’

‘Much as I’d love to, Ben, I also need to get to bed. I don’t want to fall asleep during tomorrow’s Torts lecture.’

‘I’d join you,’ said Ben, ‘but I’ve just spotted a group of Liberals who I need to butter up if I’m to have any chance of being elected to the committee.’

‘Remember to put in a good word for me,’ said Fiona. ‘And don’t forget you’ll be disqualified from standing if you buy them a drink this close to the election.’

‘Ben’s right, you know,’ she said to Sasha as they headed out of the Union bar and down the cobbled path to King’s Parade.

‘Right about what?’

‘That you should stand for the committee,’ said Fiona. ‘You might not be elected first time, but you’d be putting down a marker.’

‘A marker for what?’

‘Higher office.’

‘I don’t think so. I’ll leave that to you.’

‘You should at least consider it. Because once you’ve decided which party you support, you could even end up as Union president.’

‘I thought that was the job you were after?’

‘I am. But as there’s a new president every term, why shouldn’t we both achieve it?’

‘I hadn’t considered standing for the committee,’ said Sasha, ‘let alone president.’

‘Then it’s time you did. Are you going to walk me back to my college?’

‘Of course.’

‘You’re so wonderfully old-fashioned,’ Fiona teased, as she took his hand.

Once again Sasha was taken by surprise that it was a woman who’d made the first move. Queen’s pawn advances one square.

As they walked hand in hand towards Fiona’s college, he couldn’t help thinking about Charlie. He knew she didn’t care much for the Union, and Fiona in particular.

‘Will you be able to find your way home, Sasha?’ Fiona asked when they reached the entrance to Newnham. But before he could reply, she added, ‘Perhaps you’d like to come up to my room for a drink?’

‘How would I get past the porter’s lodge?’ said Sasha, looking for a way out.

Fiona laughed. ‘Come with me.’ Once again she took his hand, and led him round to the back of the building. ‘You see the fire escape? The window on the third floor is my room. When you see the light go on, come up and join me.’ Without another word she left him standing there.

Sasha tried to collect his thoughts. He was thinking about going straight back to Trinity when the light on the third floor went on. She pushed the window open and smiled down at her unwitting Romeo.

Sasha mounted the fire escape and climbed to the third floor. He scrambled inside, and saw Fiona standing by the bed, unbuttoning her blouse. She moved across to join him, slipped his jacket off his shoulders, and began to kiss his neck, his face, his lips. When he pulled away, he found she had already discarded her blouse.

‘But I thought you and Ben were an item,’ said Sasha.

‘It suits my purpose for him to think so,’ said Fiona, pulling him towards the bed. ‘But my only interest in Ben is his ability to pull in the Jewish vote.’

Sasha immediately stood up and pushed her away.

‘What did I say?’

‘If you don’t know, Fiona, I wouldn’t be able to explain it to you.’ He picked his jacket up from the floor and headed for the window. He looked back, and had to admit that even though Fiona couldn’t hide her anger, she still looked beautiful. It was after he’d climbed down the fire escape and was walking back to Trinity, that he decided he would stand for the Union committee.

15 Alex

New York University

When Alex ran out of money, he wasn’t sure who he could turn to to bail him out.

Most young men going to university as freshmen could take a few weeks to become accustomed to the routine before they settled in, but Alex didn’t have a few weeks. Bernie’s stall, as the locals still thought of it, was just about breaking even. Although Alex had found ways of cutting costs, the Wolfe at the door was still demanding his 320 dollars a month — and, as he regularly reminded Alex, in advance, as agreed in the contract. But Alex didn’t have 320 dollars, and if he couldn’t hand over the money by Monday morning, he would no longer have a stall. Who could he possibly ask for another short-term loan?

He sat at the back of the theatre scribbling on a notepad. Those undergraduates seated around him assumed he was writing down the lecturer’s thoughts, but he was too preoccupied with how to hold on to the stall. He had assured Elena at breakfast that morning that his grades were always good enough to put him in the top half of his class, but knew he couldn’t share his other worries with her.

‘Could the Wall Street crash have been avoided, and should the financial experts have spotted the signs far earlier, or were they all just...’

Alex looked down at his notes and thought about his options: Mama, Dimitri, Ivan. He considered each of them in turn. His mother only knew half the story, and it was the better half. She’d never met Mr Wolfe, and only ever saw Ivan from a distance when he joined Alex for lunch at Mario’s. A shadowy figure who she didn’t like the look of, she’d told her son on more than one occasion.

Recently, Alex had begun to wonder if she might be right. Elena had assumed that Ivan worked in the market, although she’d never seen him there. She frequently made it clear that she hoped her son would not end up as a market trader, but would become a lawyer, or an accountant, with an air-conditioned office in Manhattan, who went home every evening to his wife and three children, and resided on the Upper East Side, rather than in Brooklyn.

Dream on, Alex would have told her. But he knew she would never accept that he was one of life’s street traders who, when he put on a suit, became an entrepreneur. He struck a line through her name.

Dimitri? He had proved to be a giver, not a taker. A man whose trust and generosity seemed to know no bounds. He had been responsible for Alex and his mother having a roof over their heads, and had supplied the original loan for his stall, which Alex still hadn’t repaid. To make matters worse, Dimitri was away at sea again and wasn’t expected back for another ten days.

Alex still thought Dimitri was hiding a secret. But perhaps his mother was right, and he was simply one of the good guys. Alex reluctantly put a line through his name, leaving only one person on the list.

Ivan. Their relationship had become increasingly fraught. His partner would often fly into a temper if Alex was even a few minutes late for a chess match, and recently Alex had begun to suspect that he wasn’t getting his fair share of the profits from their weekend games. Ivan never let him see what he’d entered in his notebook, and while the side bets were being placed his eyes were always covered with a blindfold.

During the past year, Alex had learnt very little about Ivan. He didn’t know what his day job was, other than that he ran a small import and export business on the side. Despite this, Ivan was fast looking like the only prospect of keeping his agreement with Mr Wolfe.

Alex slowly circled his name, and decided that as in chess, the best form of defence was attack. He would raise the subject of a loan during their lunch break on Saturday.

‘I want you to write an essay over the weekend,’ said the lecturer, ‘on whether President Roosevelt’s first hundred days in office were the turning point...’

That wasn’t how Alex planned on spending his weekend.

‘Let me try and understand your problem,’ said Ivan in Russian, as a large pizza was placed in front of him. ‘You are currently renting a stall—’

‘I have a five-year licence.’

‘— for three hundred and twenty dollars a month, and you’re only making a small profit.’

‘Not enough to cover next month’s rent.’

‘But you think the problem would be solved if only you were given enough time?’

‘Especially if I could get my hands on a second stall.’

‘Even though you can’t afford the one you already have?’

‘That’s true, but if you and I were to become partners, I’m confident—’

‘Forget it,’ said Ivan, cutting him short. ‘If you were to rent a second stall, the only thing that would double would be your losses.’

Alex bowed his head and looked down at his untouched pizza.

‘However,’ said Ivan, after he’d picked up a second slice, ‘if it’s simply a cash flow problem, I might be able to help.’

‘I’ll do anything.’

‘Last week I had to sack one of my couriers, and I’m looking for a reliable replacement.’

‘But that would mean I’d have to drop out of NYU. If I did that, my mother would disown me.’

‘Perhaps you could have the best of both worlds,’ said Ivan, ‘because I’d only need you two or three times a week, and then just for a couple of hours.’

‘But there’s no way I could earn enough to cover—’

‘As long as you’re always on call, I’d pay you a hundred dollars a week, which would leave you with a few dollars over.’

‘What would you expect me to do in return?’

‘Nothing too demanding. Don’t forget, I’m an immigrant, just like you,’ said Ivan. ‘I may not have got off the last ship that docked, but I haven’t been here that long. However, I’ve managed to build up a small import and export business that’s doing fairly well, and I’m always on the lookout for good lieutenants.’

‘I won’t have anything to do with drugs,’ said Alex firmly. That would be the surest way back to the Soviet Union.

‘And neither would I,’ said Ivan. ‘Although I confess the business is not quite what the Jewish would call kosher, so perhaps it’s best you don’t know too much.’

‘Are the goods stolen?’

‘Not exactly, but from time to time a few cartons of cigarettes might fall off the back of a truck on its way out of the docks, or the occasional crate of whisky might not appear on the manifest after being unloaded from a ship.’

‘But I wouldn’t be willing—’

‘And you wouldn’t be expected to. That isn’t a side of the business you’d be involved in. All I’m looking for is a courier to deliver messages to my workers in the field. That shouldn’t be too demanding for someone of your intelligence.’

‘But how could that possibly be worth a hundred dollars a week?’ asked Alex.

‘You’re bilingual, and most of my couriers only speak Russian,’ said Ivan. He took a wad of hundred-dollar bills out of his back pocket, peeled off four and handed them to Alex, which stopped him asking any more questions.

Elena watched from behind the counter as the cash changed hands. No one paid out that kind of money if it was legitimate. What made her even more suspicious was that Alex hadn’t touched his favourite pizza.

To begin with, Ivan was not too demanding. It was as if he was testing out his new recruit, asking him only to deliver innocuous messages to various contacts across the city. Alex rarely got much more than a grunt in return from his fellow countrymen, and when they did speak, it was always in Russian. But Ivan explained that they were all immigrants who, like him, had escaped the tyrannies of the KGB and didn’t trust anyone. Alex couldn’t pretend he liked the people he was dealing with, but he hated the KGB even more, and equally important, Ivan never failed to pay his wages on time. Most of the money was passed on to Mr Wolfe the following morning, who seemed to be the only person making a profit.

Alex would leave NYU at around four in the afternoon, and be back at the market in time to relieve Bernie at five. He rarely shut up shop much before seven, when he would walk across to Mario’s and join his mother for supper. He would always carry a couple of books under his arm, leaving the impression that he was a hardworking student who’d just come from a lecture. Although he didn’t mind admitting to Elena that he was enjoying the economics course far more than he’d expected.

Over supper he would read a chapter of Galbraith or Smith, and when he returned home he’d write extensive notes before going to bed. A routine a Jesuit would have approved of, while disapproving of what Alex was trying to achieve.

By the time Alex returned to university for his sophomore year, he was renting three stalls. Fruit and vegetables, jewellery (three times the mark-up) and clothes, which he purchased from Addie, who put aside anything that didn’t look second-hand, which would then turn up on Alex’s stall the following morning at double the price. He spent every Saturday evening with Addie, occasionally staying overnight, which wasn’t always appreciated, as he had to be back at the market by 4 a.m., in order to make sure he didn’t get second-best. Five o’clock, and you ended up with the leftovers.

By the end of his sophomore year, Alex had paid back every penny of his debt to Dimitri, and had bought his mother a fur coat for the New York winters; a thrift store bargain of the month at sixty dollars. He was even thinking about getting himself a second-hand delivery van so he could speed up deliveries and save time, but not until he’d graduated.

Although Alex was working sixteen hours a day, he was enjoying a lifestyle no other undergraduate at NYU would have thought possible. But the real bonus was that his three stalls were now producing a large enough profit to make it possible for him to buy a fourth (cut glass, the latest rage).

Everything was going to plan, until he was arrested.

16 Sasha

University of Cambridge

‘When do you think we’ll hear the result?’ asked Sasha.

‘The ballot closed at six o’clock,’ said Ben, ‘so the returning officer and his team will be counting the votes now. My bet is that we’ll know in about half an hour, possibly sooner.’

‘But how will we find out?’ asked Sasha, not wanting to admit how nervous he felt.

‘The outgoing president will announce the names of the new officers along with those who’ve been elected to the committee, and then we either celebrate or drown our sorrows.’

‘Let’s hope we both make it onto the committee.’

‘You’re a shoo-in,’ said Ben. ‘I’m just hoping to scrape into fourth place.’

‘If you do make it, how will you celebrate?’

‘I’m going to have one last crack at getting Fiona into the sack. If she makes VP, I must be in with a chance.’

Sasha took a sip of his lager.

‘And what have you got planned?’ asked Ben.

‘Either way I’m going to see Charlie, and try to make up for all the time I’ve been spending in this place.’

‘She’s been pretty preoccupied herself since she joined Footlights,’ said Ben. ‘Perhaps you should have become an actor, not a politician. Then you could have played Oberon opposite her Titania.’

‘Lucky Oberon.’

A sudden silence fell over the room as the outgoing president of the Union made his entrance. He came to a halt in the centre of the room, coughed, and waited until he had everyone’s attention. ‘The result of the ballot for officers of the Union in the Michaelmas term is as follows. President, with seven hundred and twelve votes, Mr Chris Smith of Pembroke College.’

A loud cheer followed as Smith’s supporters raised their glasses. Carey didn’t speak again until silence had been restored.

‘The treasurer will be Mr R. C. Andrew of Caius, with six hundred and ninety-one votes,’ which allowed the members of the Labour Club to join in the cheering.

‘And the vice-president, with four hundred and eleven votes,’ continued Carey, to a hushed audience, ‘will be,’ he paused, ‘Miss Fiona Hunter, of Newnham College.’ Half the room leapt up, while the other half remained seated.

‘She’ll be the next president,’ said Ben.

‘Elected as members of the committee,’ said Carey, turning to a separate sheet of paper, ‘Mr Sasha Karpenko with eight hundred and eleven votes, Mr Norman Davis with five hundred and forty-two votes, Mr Jules Huxley with five hundred and sixteen votes, and Mr Ben Cohen with four hundred and forty-one votes.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Ben, shaking Sasha warmly by the hand. ‘It can only be a matter of time before you become president. But for now, let’s go and fall at the feet of our new VP.’

Sasha reluctantly followed his friend across the room, where Fiona was surrounded by admirers. She gave Ben a warm hug, but when she saw Sasha, turned her back on him.

‘We should celebrate,’ said Ben. ‘Will you join us for supper?’

‘No, thanks,’ said Sasha. ‘I’m off to see Charlie. I’m hoping she’ll give me a second chance.’

‘Good luck,’ said Ben, ‘and congratulations on climbing to the top of the greasy pole.’

Sasha made his way slowly across the crowded room, having to stop several times to shake hands with well-wishers, although he was already thinking about Charlie, and hoping she would want to share in his triumph. He knew how he’d like to celebrate. The last time he’d seen her was for tea in her room just over a week ago. He’d been horrified to discover that Charlie’s room was on the second floor, directly below Fiona’s. She had been preoccupied — perhaps it was the thought of playing Titania, with the opening night only a few days away. Or maybe he’d gone on just a little too much about the Union.

Sasha broke into a jog as he passed Trinity, and ran all the way to Newnham, where he made his way around to the back of the building.

Although the curtains were drawn, Sasha could see a light shining in Charlie’s room. He grabbed the bottom rung of the fire escape and quickly climbed up to the second floor. He was about to tap on the window when he noticed a gap in the curtains. He peeped through to see Titania was in bed with Oberon.

The intermittent sound of a piercing siren accompanied by flashing blue lights caused the traffic on the Fulham Road to pull over and allow the ambulance to continue on its journey.

Elena had rushed out of the kitchen the moment she heard Mr Moretti had collapsed. She’d immediately instructed the head waiter to phone for an ambulance, while she knelt by his side and checked his pulse. It was weak, but he was still alive. Gino asked for the nearest phone.

‘They’ll be here any minute,’ Elena said, holding his hand tightly. She wasn’t sure if he could hear her, but then his eyes opened and he attempted a smile.

It felt like hours before she heard the welcome sound of an approaching ambulance, although in fact it was only seven minutes.

A moment later two young paramedics were kneeling by Moretti’s side. While one checked his pulse, the other placed an oxygen mask over his face. They then lifted the grey-faced old gentleman onto a stretcher, and carried him out of the restaurant as concerned customers stood aside to allow them through.

‘Phone his wife, Gino,’ said Elena as she accompanied them out onto the street, still holding Mr Moretti’s hand. He was lifted into the ambulance and strapped in. A few seconds later they were speeding towards the hospital.

Elena tried to remain calm, while praying to a god of whose existence she was no longer certain. The paramedic in the back of the ambulance went through a routine he had carried out countless times; first, wrapping a pad around the patient’s right arm and attaching a lead to a small screen that traced a line showing little mountains and valleys bobbing up and down. Suddenly, without warning, the mountains and valleys became a flat uninterrupted desert. The paramedic immediately switched into emergency mode, thumping the patient’s chest every few seconds, pausing occasionally to check the monitor. After several minutes, when there was still no response, he finally gave up.

‘We’ve lost him,’ he said quietly, and slumped back, aware that any further attempt at resuscitation would serve no purpose.

‘No!’ cried Elena, not wanting to accept his words. Something else he’d experienced many times.

‘Was he your father?’ he asked sympathetically, as he placed a sheet over Mr Moretti’s face.

‘No. But no father could have done more for his daughter.’

‘Did you see Charlie in Dream?’ asked Ben, as they sat at the bar.

‘All eight performances,’ admitted Sasha. ‘Even the matinees.’

‘That bad?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘So what are you going to do about it?’

‘There’s not much I can do while Oberon is continuing his amorous performance offstage as well as on. I seem to be cast in the role of Bottom.’

‘I think you’ll find he’s already moved on to his next part.’

‘But I saw them—’ Sasha stopped in mid-sentence.

‘That was before the critics hailed Rory as a future star, while Charlie barely got a mention.’

‘But I thought she was wonderful,’ said Sasha. ‘Every bit as good as him. Better in fact.’

‘Pity the critics didn’t agree with you,’ said Ben. ‘But then, they weren’t to know she was in love with someone else.’

‘There’s someone else?’

‘No, idiot. Honestly, I sometimes wonder how such a clever man can be so dumb. Every time I see Charlie, she only talks about you. So go and cheer her up. Start by telling her how wonderful you thought she was as Titania.’

‘I don’t think she’d welcome that from me.’

‘Sasha, for God’s sake, wake up, get off your backside and do something about it.’

It was another twenty-four hours before Sasha got off his backside and did something about it.

Sasha found he couldn’t concentrate during his morning supervision. He didn’t eat lunch, and skipped his afternoon lecture, before finally taking Ben’s advice and setting off in the direction of Newnham.

This time, when he arrived at the college, he didn’t creep round the back and climb up the fire escape, but walked through the front gate. He registered his name with the porter before making his way slowly up the stairs to the second floor. Several times he nearly turned back, and might have done so, if he hadn’t heard Ben’s voice in his ear repeating ‘Pathetic idiot.’ He hesitated once again when he reached Charlie’s door, then took a deep breath and knocked.

He was about to give up, when the door opened. For a few moments the two of them just stared at each other.

‘Et tu, Brute,’ Charlie eventually managed.

‘Wrong play,’ said Sasha. ‘I came to tell you there is nothing so fair in all Verona.’

‘But you climbed onto someone else’s balcony before mine.’

‘You saw me?’ said Sasha, turning scarlet.

‘Both times. And it didn’t improve my love life when I jumped out of bed and ran to the window only to find you’d already disappeared.’

Sasha burst out laughing.

‘Rory left almost as quickly as you did. But come in,’ she said, taking his hand, ‘because that was only a dress rehearsal.’

When Sasha returned to his college a couple of hours later, no one could have failed to notice the satisfied grin on his face, except perhaps for the porter.

‘Telephone message for you, Mr Karpenko,’ he said, handing him a slip of paper.

Sasha unfolded it, and once he’d read the single sentence, he asked when she had phoned.

‘Just over an hour ago, sir. I tried your room but you weren’t there, and no one seemed to know where you were, as you’d missed your afternoon lecture.’

‘No, I was... If anyone asks, please tell them I’ve had to go to London at short notice, and I don’t expect to be back for at least a couple of days.’

‘Of course, sir.’

Within an hour, Sasha was stepping onto the platform at King’s Cross. When he arrived back at the little flat above the restaurant in Fulham, he found his mother more distressed than he’d seen her since his father’s death. She had taken the evening off, something he’d never known her to do before.

The large turnout for the funeral held at St Mary’s, Fulham, the following week, bore testimony to just how popular Mr Moretti was, far beyond the boundaries of the local community. Sasha’s moving eulogy led Mr Quilter to remark, ‘As they say in Yorkshire, lad, you did him proud.’

After the ceremony was over and the coffin had been lowered into the ground, Sasha accompanied his mother back to the restaurant, where family, friends and customers came to pay their respects. Many of them swapped stories of personal kindnesses they’d experienced, none more touching than Elena’s.

When the last guest had departed, Elena accompanied the grieving widow home.

‘You must go back to work, Elena,’ said Mrs Moretti when the light began to fade. ‘Salvatore would have expected nothing less.’

Elena reluctantly rose from her chair and gave the old lady one last hug before putting her coat back on. She was just about to leave when Mrs Moretti said, ‘Would you be kind enough to drop by sometime tomorrow, my dear? I think we ought to discuss what I have planned for the restaurant.’

Sasha didn’t return to Cambridge the following day, but headed in the opposite direction, arriving at Oxford well in time to join his team mates at Merton, who had all double-checked the date, time and place.

But the Oxford team had licked their wounds, and were lying in wait for them. By the time Sasha had worked out what they were up to, it was too late, and Cambridge lost the match 4½ to 3½. Sasha explained to Dr Streator on the journey back to the Fens how Jenkins had beaten them even before they made their opening moves.

‘He did what?’ said Streator.

‘Mr Jenkins broke with the convention of playing their best player against our best player. He put their weakest player up against me, clearly willing to sacrifice that game. So their strongest player played our second board, and they were at an advantage for the other seven games.’

‘The Welsh bastard,’ said Streator.

‘Don’t worry, sir. They won’t get away with those tactics next year, because I’ll make sure it’s us who are lying in wait.’

‘Good. And, Sasha, I intend to make you captain next year, so it will be your last chance for revenge. But I suspect that won’t be your biggest challenge, if you’re still planning to stand for president of the Union, and get a first.’

‘I do sometimes wonder if I can do both,’ said Sasha. ‘Charlie never says anything, but I know she’d prefer me to give up the Union and concentrate on my work.’

‘I hear she’s given up the theatre for the same reason,’ said Streator. Sasha made no comment. ‘If you do stand for the presidency, who do you think will be your biggest rival?’

‘Fiona Hunter, the current vice-president.’

‘If she’s her father’s daughter, she’ll be a formidable opponent.’

‘You know Sir Max Hunter?’

‘Knew would be more accurate. Max and I were contemporaries at Keble. I never liked him. He was always looking for a short cut. A bent man, bent on politics.’

‘He made it to the Cabinet.’

‘Not for long,’ said Streator. ‘He’d trampled on too many people on the way up, so when he finally fell from grace, none of them were there to support him on the way down. I can only repeat, if Fiona is her father’s daughter, keep your eyes wide open, because she’ll make Gareth Jenkins look like a gentleman.’

‘I can’t believe she’s quite that bad,’ said Sasha.

‘Milk and sugar, my dear?’

‘Thank you,’ said Elena. ‘Just milk.’

‘I wanted to see you because I had an unexpected call from my accountant last week,’ said Mrs Moretti. ‘He’s received an offer for the restaurant that he considers fair. More than fair, if I remember his exact words.’

Elena put down her cup and listened carefully.

‘So I agreed to have a meeting with the prospective buyer, who assured me he was a great admirer of yours. He assured me that he’d want to keep you on in your present position, and had no objection to you continuing to live in the upstairs flat.’

Elena couldn’t hide her relief. She hadn’t admitted even to Sasha that she was anxious about what would happen to the restaurant now that Mr Moretti was no longer around to look after his extended family.

‘May I ask the name of the new owner?’ Elena asked, hoping it might be a customer she knew, or perhaps someone she had worked with in the past.

Mrs Moretti put her glasses back on, picked up the recently signed agreement and checked the name on the bottom line. ‘A Mr Maurice Tremlett,’ she said, dropping another sugar lump into her tea. ‘He seemed such a nice young man.’

Elena’s tea went cold.

Maurice Tremlett marched into the kitchen and shouted above the bustle and noise, ‘Which one of you is Elena Karpenko?’

Elena put down her carving knife and came out from behind the long steel counter. Tremlett stared at her for some time before saying, ‘I want you off the premises immediately, and I mean immediately. And you have twenty-four hours to clear all your possessions out of my flat.’

‘That’s not fair,’ said Betty, taking off her rubber gloves and stepping forward to stand by her friend.

‘Is that right?’ said Tremlett. ‘Then you’re sacked as well. And if anyone else wants to join them, be my guest.’ Although one or two of the other kitchen staff shuffled around nervously, no one spoke. ‘Good, then that’s settled. But be warned, should any of you speak to either of these two again,’ he said, pointing at Elena and Betty as if they were criminals, ‘you can also start looking for another job.’ He turned and left without another word.

Elena took off her whites, left the kitchen and made her way upstairs to the flat without speaking to anyone. The first thing she did once she’d closed the front door was to look up the number of the porter’s lodge at Trinity. For only a second time, she was going to break her golden rule of never disturbing Sasha during term time. However, she decided this was, without question, an emergency. She picked up the phone, and was about to dial the number when she heard a long buzzing sound. The phone had already been cut off.

A firm rap on the door caused Dr Streator to pause in midsentence.

‘Either the college is on fire,’ he said, ‘or once again I’ve got the wrong day for the match against Oxford.’

The three undergraduates dutifully laughed as their supervisor rose from his place by the fire, walked slowly across the room and opened the door, to find a stern-looking man and a uniformed police officer standing in the corridor.

‘I apologize for disturbing you, Professor Streator,’ (he was flattered by the promotion) said the young man in a grey suit and a college tie that the senior tutor thought he recognized. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Warwick,’ he said, holding up his identity card. ‘Is a Mr Sasha Karpenko with you?’

‘Yes, he is. But may I ask why you want to see him?’

Warwick ignored the question, and stepped past the don and into his study, followed by the constable. He didn’t need to ask which of the three students was Karpenko, because Sasha immediately stood up.

‘I need to ask you a few questions, Mr Karpenko,’ said Warwick. ‘Given the circumstances, it might be more convenient if you were to accompany me to the station.’

‘What are the circumstances?’ demanded Streator.

‘I’m not at liberty to say, sir,’ replied Warwick, as the constable took Sasha firmly by the arm and led him out of the room.

Streator left his puzzled students and followed Sasha and the two policemen out of his study, down the staircase, across the courtyard and onto the street. Several undergraduates looked on curiously as Sasha climbed into the back of a waiting police car and was whisked away.