The Yermakov Transfer

Anna came across and took Viktor’s arm. She looked pale and elegant in a black cocktail dress bought in London during a geological conference. “Come and join the party,” she said. “Enough computerised conversation.” To Viktor she whispered: “You are being very rude, darling.” She led him away to a group of scientists and Pavlov wondered if any of them were Jews in disguise.

* * *

This phase of the plan, inspired unknowingly by David Gopnik, developed brilliantly during the evening and Pavlov became so elated that he hardly heard what anyone was saying. The guests put it down to vodka which was probably a contributory factor.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough,” his wife whispered as he tossed back a glass of firewater. “You’re getting very flushed.”

In reply he took another glass from the tray. Anna stalked angrily across the room to join Yevtushenko’s audience.

Pavlov’s first thought was: If I could get the top Jewish brains to emigrate it would hit the Russians hard.

He oiled the thought with more vodka.

Then he thought: Why generalise? Why not deprive the Soviet Union of the nucleus of one branch of science?

He was talking to an assistant editor of Novy Mir who, with a Molotov cocktail of champagne and vodka under his belt, was giving his personal opinion of the literary merits of Daniel and Synyavsky. “Just my opinion,” the editor said, looking furtively around. “Just between you and me. Understand?” He prodded Pavlov in the ribs.

“Of course,” Pavlov said conspiratorially. “I understand.”

Supposing I could get all the Jewish nuclear physicists to emigrate?

Adrenalin and vodka raced in his veins.

“… and that’s my opinion of Pasternak.” The Novy Mir editor said challengingly.

Pavlov said: “I agree.” With what? “I’ve been to his grave. No one looks after it. Did you know that?”

The editor looked bewildered. “Fancy that,” he said.

What if I persuaded a team of Jewish nuclear physicists capable of making a hydrogen bomb to emigrate?

“Solzhenitzyn,” the editor whispered. “A great writer.”

Pavlov countered with: “What about Kuznetsov?”

But, of course, the Soviets would never grant nuclear physicists exit visas. The idea was crazy. Unless.…

The editor was still deliberating over Kuznetsov. His brain worked laboriously and his tongue was thick in his mouth. “Ah,” he managed, “Kuznetsov, a fine writer but …”

Unless I found a way to force their hand.

His mind raced with the possibilities; but it got nowhere, not that night.

The Novy Mir editor abandoned the enigma Kuznetsov. The flushed guests began to leave.

Tomorrow, Pavlov thought as he shook their hands automatically, I must reaffirm my faith with David Gopnik.

* * *

His wife was lying in bed waiting for him. She wore a pink cotton nightdress. She looked warm and sleepy and unheroic.

“Viktor,” she said, as he undressed clumsily, “you were very bad tonight.”

“I know.”

“I’ve never seen you drunk before.”

He fumbled with his shoelaces, sitting on the edge of the bed. “It doesn’t often happen.”

“Why tonight? Was there a reason?”

“Not particularly. It doesn’t matter. Everyone else was drunk.”

He was naked, searching for his pyjamas. “They’re under the pillow,” she told him. He climbed into bed, his legs heavy, and gazed at the spinning ceiling.

“Who was that man you were talking to?”

“Which man?”

“The man you were stuck with in the corner for nearly an hour.”

“His name’s Gopnik. He’s one of the best men on computers in the Soviet Union.” He closed his eyes but even the darkness lurched.

“Is he Jewish?”

He opened his eyes. “What if he is?”

She looked surprised. “Nothing. I just wondered if he was.”

He knew the drink was talking and he knew he must stop it. “You made it sound as if he was a leper.”

She was bewildered. “I didn’t mean to. I’ve nothing against the Jews. I just don’t understand why they want to leave Russia.”

The answers struggled to escape, but he fought them. He said: “Because they believe they have a land of their own.”

“But they’re more Russian than they’re Jewish.”

He wanted to shout “I’m a Jew” and see the shock on her face. “Not now,” he managed. “I’m too tired. Too drunk.” He reached for her. “Turn the other way. The smell of vodka must be foul.”

Obediently, she turned and he slipped his arms around her. She felt warm and soft, still smelling faintly of perfume. He cupped one breast in his hand. We’re good together, he thought. And yet I have to destroy our happiness.

“Viktor,” she said, “I’m frightened.”

But he was asleep.

* * *

The sky was pale blue this October morning with the sunlight finding the gold cupolas of the Kremlin and the sapphires in the frost on the cobblestones of Red Square.