Winter of the World (113 page)

At half past ten, they heard the first result from elsewhere. Harold Macmillan, a protégé of Churchill’s and a wartime Cabinet Minister, had lost Stockton-on-Tees to Labour.
Fifteen minutes later there was news of a huge swing to Labour in Birmingham. No radios were allowed into the hall, so Daisy and Lloyd were relying on rumours filtering in from outside, and Daisy
was not sure what to believe.

It was midday when the Returning Officer called the candidates and their agents into a corner of the room, to give them the result before making the announcement publicly. Daisy wanted to go
with Lloyd but she was not permitted.

The man spoke quietly to all of them. As well as Lloyd and the sitting MP, there was a Conservative and a Communist. Daisy studied their faces, but could not guess who had won. They all went up
on to the platform, and the room fell silent. Daisy felt nauseous.

‘I, Michael Charles Davies, being the duly appointed Returning Officer for the Parliamentary Constituency of Hoxton . . .’

Daisy stood with the Labour Party observers and stared at Lloyd. Was she about to lose him? The thought squeezed her heart and made her breathless with fear. In her life she had twice chosen a
man who was disastrously wrong. Charlie Farquharson had been the opposite of her father, nice but weak. Boy Fitzherbert had been much like her father, wilful and selfish. Now, at last, she had
found Lloyd, who was both strong and kind. She had not picked him for his social status or for what he could do for her, but simply because he was an extraordinarily good man. He was gentle, he was
smart, he was trustworthy, and he adored her. It had taken her a long time to realize that he was what she was looking for. How foolish she had been.

The Returning Officer read out the number of votes cast for each candidate. They were listed alphabetically, so Williams came last. Daisy was so anxious that she could not keep the numbers in
her head. ‘Reginald Sidney Blenkinsop, five thousand four hundred and twenty-seven . . .’

When Lloyd’s vote was read out, the Labour Party people all around Daisy burst out cheering. It took her a moment to realize that meant he had won. Then she saw his solemn expression turn
into a broad grin. Daisy began to clap and cheer louder than anyone. He had won! And she did not have to leave him! She felt as if her life had been saved.

‘I therefore declare that Lloyd Williams is duly elected Member of Parliament for Hoxton.’

Lloyd was a Member of Parliament. Daisy watched proudly as he stepped forward and made an acceptance speech. There was a formula for such speeches, she realized, and he tediously thanked the
Returning Officer and his staff, then thanked his losing opponents for a fair fight. She was impatient to hug him. He finished with a few sentences about the task that lay ahead, of rebuilding
war-torn Britain and creating a fairer society. He stood down to more applause.

Coming off the stage, he walked straight to Daisy, put his arms around her, and kissed her.

She said: ‘Well done, my darling,’ then she found she could no longer speak.

After a while they went outside and caught a bus to Labour Party headquarters at Transport House. There they learned that Labour had already won 106 seats.

It was a landslide.

Every pundit had been wrong, and everyone’s expectations were confounded. When all the results were in, Labour had 393 seats, the Conservatives 210. The Liberals had twelve and the
Communists one – Stepney. Labour had an overwhelming majority.

At seven o’clock in the evening Winston Churchill, Britain’s great war leader, went to Buckingham Palace and resigned as Prime Minister.

Daisy thought of one of Churchill’s jibes about Attlee: ‘An empty car drew up and Clem got out.’ The man he called a nonentity had thrashed him.

At half past seven Clement Attlee went to the palace in his own car, driven by his wife, Violet, and King George VI asked him to become Prime Minister.

In the house in Nutley Street, after they had all listened to the news on the radio, Lloyd turned to Daisy and said: ‘Well, that’s that. Can we get married now?’

‘Yes,’ said Daisy. ‘As quick as you like.’

(vi)

Volodya and Zoya’s wedding reception was held in one of the smaller banqueting halls in the Kremlin.

The war with Germany was over, but the Soviet Union was still battered and impoverished, and a lavish celebration would have been frowned upon. Zoya had a new dress, but Volodya wore his
uniform. However, there was plenty to eat, and the vodka flowed freely.

Volodya’s nephew and niece were there, the twin children of his sister, Anya, and her unpleasant husband, Ilya Dvorkin. They were not yet six years old. Dimka, the dark-haired boy, sat
quietly reading a book, while blue-eyed Tania was running around the room crashing into tables and annoying the guests, in a reversal of the expected behaviour of boys and girls.

Zoya looked so desirable in pink that Volodya would have liked to leave right away and take her to bed. That was out of the question, of course. His father’s circle of friends included
some of the most senior generals and politicians in the country, and many of them had come to toast the happy couple. Grigori was hinting that one extremely distinguished guest might arrive later:
Volodya hoped it was not the depraved NKVD boss Beria.

Volodya’s happiness did not quite let him forget the horrors he had seen and the profound misgivings he had developed about Soviet Communism. The unspeakable brutality of the secret
police, the blunders of Stalin that had cost millions of lives, and the propaganda that had encouraged the Red Army to behave like crazed beasts in Germany, had all caused him to doubt the most
fundamental things he had been brought up to believe. He wondered uneasily what kind of country Dimka and Tania would grow up in. But today was not the day to think about that.

The Soviet elite were in a good mood. They had won the war and defeated Germany. Their old enemy Japan was being crushed by the USA. The insane honour code of Japan’s leaders made it
difficult for them to surrender, but it was only a matter of time now. Tragically, while they clung to their pride, more Japanese and American troops would die, and more Japanese women and children
would be bombed out of their homes; but the end result would be the same. Sadly, it seemed there was nothing the Americans could do to hasten the process and prevent unnecessary deaths.

Volodya’s father, drunk and happy, made a speech. ‘The Red Army has occupied Poland,’ he said. ‘Never again will that country be used as a springboard for a German
invasion of Russia.’

All the old comrades cheered and thumped the tables.

‘In Western Europe Communist parties are being endorsed by the masses as never before. In the Paris municipal elections last March, the Communist party won the largest share of the vote. I
congratulate our French comrades.’

They cheered again.

‘As I look around the world today, I see that the Russian revolution, in which so many brave men fought and died . . .’ He tailed off as drunken tears came to his eyes. A hush
descended on the room. He recovered himself. ‘I see that the revolution has never been as secure as it is today!’

They raised their glasses. ‘The revolution! The revolution!’ Everyone drank.

The doors flew open, and Comrade Stalin walked in.

Everyone stood up.

His hair was grey, and he looked tired. He was about sixty-five, and he had been ill: there were rumours that he had suffered a series of strokes or minor heart attacks. But his mood today was
ebullient. ‘I have come to kiss the bride!’ he said.

He walked up to Zoya and put his hands on her shoulders. She was a good three inches taller than he, but she managed to stoop discreetly. He kissed her on both cheeks, allowing his
grey-moustached mouth to linger just long enough to make Volodya feel resentful. Then he stepped back and said: ‘How about a drink for me?’

Several people hastened to get him a glass of vodka. Grigori insisted on giving Stalin his chair in the centre of the head table. The buzz of conversation resumed, but it was subdued: they were
thrilled he was here, but now they had to be careful of every word and every move. This man could have a person killed with a snap of his fingers, and he frequently had.

More vodka was brought, the band began to play Russian folk dances, and slowly people relaxed. Volodya, Zoya, Grigori and Katerina did a four-person dance called a kadril, which was intended to
be comic and always made people laugh. After that more couples danced, and the men started to do the barynya, in which they had to squat and kick up their legs, which caused many of them to fall
over. Volodya kept checking on Stalin out of the corner of his eye – as did everyone else in the room – and he seemed to be enjoying himself, tapping his glass on the table in time with
the balalaikas.

Zoya and Katerina were dancing a troika with Zoya’s boss, Vasili, a senior physicist working on the bomb project, and Volodya was sitting out, when the atmosphere changed.

An aide in a civilian suit came in, hurried around the edge of the room, and went right up to Stalin. Without ceremony, he leaned over the leader’s shoulder and spoke to him quietly but
urgently.

Stalin at first looked puzzled, and asked a sharp question, then another. Then his face changed. He went pale, and seemed to stare at the dancers without seeing them.

Volodya said under his breath: ‘What the hell has happened?’

The dancers had not yet noticed, but those sitting at the head table looked frightened.

After a moment Stalin stood up. Those around him deferentially did the same. Volodya saw that his father was still dancing. People had been shot for less.

But Stalin had no eyes for the wedding guests. With the aide at his side he left the table. He walked towards the door, crossing the dance floor. Terrified revellers jumped out of his way. One
couple fell over. Stalin did not seem to notice. The band ground to a halt. Saying nothing, looking at nobody, Stalin left the room.

Some of the generals followed him out, looking scared.

Another aide appeared, then two more. They all sought out their bosses and spoke to them. A young man in a tweed jacket went up to Vasili. Zoya seemed to know the man, and listened intently to
him. She looked shocked.

Vasili and the aide left the room. Volodya went to Zoya and said: ‘For God’s sake, what’s going on?’

Her voice was shaky. ‘The Americans have dropped a nuclear bomb in Japan.’ Her beautifully pale face seemed even whiter than normal. ‘At first the Japanese government
couldn’t figure out what had happened. It took them hours to realize what it was.’

‘Are we sure?’

‘It flattened five square miles of buildings. They estimate that seventy-five thousand people were killed instantly.’

‘How many bombs?’

‘One.’

‘One bomb?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good God. No wonder Stalin turned pale.’

They both stood silent. The news was spreading around the room visibly. Some people sat stunned; others got up and left, heading for their offices, their telephones, their desks and their
staff.

‘This changes everything,’ Volodya said.

‘Including our honeymoon plans,’ said Zoya. ‘My leave is sure to be cancelled.’

‘We thought the Soviet Union was safe.’

‘Your father has just made a speech about how the revolution has never been so secure.’

‘Now nothing is secure.’

‘No,’ said Zoya. ‘Not until we have a bomb of our own.’

(vii)

Jacky Jakes and Georgy were in Buffalo, staying at Marga’s apartment for the first time. Greg and Lev were there too, and on Victory Japan Day – Wednesday 15
August – they all went to Humboldt Park. The paths were crowded with jubilant couples and there were hundreds of children splashing in the pond.

Greg was happy and proud. The bomb had worked. The two devices dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki had wreaked sickening devastation, but they had brought the war to a quick end and saved
thousands of American lives. Greg had played a role in that. Because of what they had all done, Georgy was going to grow up in a free world.

‘He’s nine,’ Greg said to Jacky. They were sitting on a bench, talking, while Lev and Marga took Georgy to buy ice cream.

‘I can hardly believe it.’

‘What will he be, I wonder?’

Jacky said fiercely: ‘He’s not going to do something stupid like acting or playing the goddamn trumpet. He’s got brains.’

‘Would you like him to be a college professor, like your father?’

‘Yes.’

‘In that case . . .’ Greg had been leading up to this, and was nervous about how Jacky might react – ‘he ought to go to a good school.’

‘What did you have in mind?’

‘How about boarding school? He could go where I went.’

‘He’d be the only black pupil.’

‘Not necessarily. When I was there we had a coloured guy, an Indian from Delhi called Kamal.’

‘Just one.’

‘Yes.’

‘Was he teased?’

‘Sure. We called him Camel. But the boys got used to him, and he made some friends.’

‘What happened to him, do you know?’

‘He became a pharmacist. I hear he already owns two drugstores in New York.’

Jacky nodded. Greg could tell that she was not opposed to this plan. She came from a cultured family. Although she herself had rebelled and dropped out, she believed in the value of education.
‘What about the school fees?’

‘I could ask my father.’

‘Would he pay?’

‘Look at them.’ Greg pointed along the path. Lev, Marga and Georgy were returning from the ice-cream vendor’s cart. Lev and Georgy were walking side by side, eating ice-cream
cones, holding hands. ‘My conservative father, holding the hand of a coloured child in a public park. Trust me, he’ll pay the school fees.’

‘Georgy doesn’t really fit anywhere,’ Jacky said, looking troubled. ‘He’s a black boy with a white daddy.’

‘I know.’

‘People in your mother’s apartment building think I’m the maid – did you know that?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve been careful not to set them straight. If they thought Negroes were in the building as guests, there might be trouble.’