Edge of Eternity by Ken Follett Page B

warm and kind-hearted man. A Soviet artist admired all over the world, he had lived a life of great privilege, but he was still able to get publicly angry about injustice done to people less fortunate than himself – which was why they had sent him to Siberia.
    Vasili said: ‘Are they still making him work?’
    Tania shook her head. ‘He can’t. But they won’t send him to hospital. He just lies on his bunk all day, getting worse.’
    ‘Did you see him?’
    ‘Hell, no. Asking about him was dangerous enough. If I’d gone to the prison camp they would have kept me there.’
    Vasili handed her tea and sugar. ‘Is he getting any medical treatment at all?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Did you get any idea of how long he might have to live?’
    Tania shook her head. ‘You now know everything I know.’
    ‘We have to spread this news.’
    Tania agreed. ‘The only way to save his life is to publicize his illness and hope that the government will have the grace to be embarrassed.’
    ‘Shall we put out a special edition?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Tania. ‘Today.’
    Vasili and Tania together produced an illegal news-sheet called Dissidence. They reported on censorship, demonstrations, trials and political prisoners. In his office at Radio Moscow Vasili had his own stencil duplicator, normally used for making multiple copies of scripts. Secretly he printed fifty copies of each issue of Dissidence. Most of the people who received one made more copies on their own typewriters, or even by hand, and circulation mushroomed. This self-publishing system was called samizdat in Russian and was widespread: whole novels had been distributed the same way.
    ‘I’ll write it.’ Tania went to the cupboard and pulled out a large cardboard box full of dry cat food. Pushing her hands into the pellets, she drew out a typewriter in a cover. This was the one they used for Dissidence.
    Typing was as unique as handwriting. Every machine had its own characteristics. The letters were never perfectly aligned: some were a little raised, some off centre. Individual letters became worn or damaged in distinctive ways. In consequence, police experts could match a typewriter to its product. If Dissidence had been typed on the same machine as Vasili’s scripts, someone might have noticed. So Vasili had stolen an old machine from the scheduling department, brought it home, and buried it in the cat’s food to hide it from casual observation. A determined search would find it, but if there should be a determined search Vasili would be finished anyway.
    Also in the box were sheets of the special waxed paper used in the duplicating machine. The typewriter had no ribbon: instead, its letters pierced the paper, and the duplicator worked by forcing ink through the letter-shaped holes.
    Tania wrote a report on Bodian, saying that General Secretary Nikita Khrushchev would be personally responsible if one of the USSR’s greatest tenors died in a prison camp. She recapitulated the main points of Bodian’s trial for anti-Soviet activity, including his impassioned defence of artistic freedom. To divert suspicion away from herself, she misleadingly credited the information about Bodian’s illness to an imaginary opera lover in the KGB.
    When she had done, she handed two sheets of stencil paper to Vasili. ‘I’ve made it concise,’ she said.
    ‘Concision is the sister of talent. Chekhov said that.’ He read the report slowly, then nodded approval. ‘I’ll go in to Radio Moscow now and make copies,’ he said. ‘Then we should take them to Mayakovsky Square.’
    Tania was not surprised, but she was uneasy. ‘Is it safe?’
    ‘Of course not. It’s a cultural event that isn’t organized by the government. Which is why it suits our purpose.’
    Earlier in the year, young Muscovites had started to gather informally around the statue of Bolshevik poet Vladimir Mayakovsky. Some would read poems aloud, attracting more people. A permanent rolling poetry festival had come into