Old Flames by John Lawton

mind’s eye Troy saw Monk’s fingers flash swiftly across the keys.
    ‘Do I need to remind you that the primary purpose of Nazism was opposition to the inferior race, the Slav; opposition to the demonic ideology, the Bolshevik? We were ready for Hitler
throughout your compromises, ready for Hider when he invaded Czechoslovakia—’
    ‘Then why did Joe Stalin sign a pact with Hitler?’ said a voice from the back of the room. There was a brief pause in the heat as the interpreter spoke rapidly to Khrushchev sotto
voce, his hands upturned, their heads bowed into a private huddle.
    Khrushchev had not seen who had spoken. It didn’t matter. It seemed to Troy that any one of them could and would have said it.
    ‘Necessity,’ Khrushchev began again. ‘Something you in the West seem scarcely capable of understanding. We either fought Hitler standing alone or we found some other way. That
is necessity! We had troops massed on the border ready to aid our brethren in Czechoslovakia. The Poles would not let us through, because they took the line laid down by the French, by the British,
by Chamberlain!’
    Again the rippling murmur of concern. But no voice of dissent. Troy doubted whether even the Tories would be able to raise a voice that would defend Chamberlain.
    ‘We had troops at the ready. A pact guaranteeing our help. What did the British do? They sent us a mission, who could say nothing, who could hear nothing, who could only sit and drink tea!
And all the time your Government was egging Hitler on, prodding him eastwards away from your shores. If you and the French had understood us more, had shown us as a new, struggling nation, more
understanding, instead of perceiving us as simply godless regicides, if you had cooperated with us, talked to us, I tell you now that the last war could have been avoided.’
    This stunned the Labour Party. It was almost the unthinkable. But Troy had long since, ever since Winston had got on his hind legs the best part of ten years ago in Missouri and dropped the Iron
Curtain, felt this to be an age that specialised in thinking the unthinkable.
    Out of the slightness of silence, the mereness of murmur, one voice spoke clearly. Brown.
    ‘May God forgive you!’
    The interpreter showed a shred of tact. Troy could hear him whisper and the very angle of his arms and shoulders spoke denial—he was trying to tell Khrushchev he had not heard what Brown
said. Khrushchev asked Brown to repeat what he had said. A buzz went round the room, a sizzling concern. Brown should not say it again. Brown went through the motions of relighting his pipe.
    Khrushchev said, ‘What’s the matter? Are you frightened to make yourself heard?’
    The interpreter, his tact and defiance exhausted in a single burst, rendered it instantly into English.
    Brown waved out his match, drew once on the pipe and took it from his lips.
    ‘No,’ he said clearly and calmly. ‘I said, “May God forgive you.”’
    Khrushchev did not take his eyes off Brown. He drew a deep breath and exploded. Troy had the feeling that he was not the only person to notice that Khrushchev had not waited for the translation.
The translator had not spoken.
    ‘No, little man. Your God may forgive you! Do you really think anything has changed since Archangel? Do you really think that your creeping Socialism makes you superior to us? Why, you are
more opposed to us than the Conservatives! And if I were British I would be a Conservative! Your support for us has been non-existent. All you do is harass us over Eastern Europe!’
    This brought Nye Bevan to his feet, wagging his finger at Khrushchev, saying, ‘Don’t try and bully us!’
    ‘And don’t wag your damn finger at me,’ said Khrushchev, and took off into a tirade that the interpreter could not keep up with. Among a dozen insults Troy caught
‘ Наглость ’—‘cheek!’
    Rod got slowly to his feet. Waited for the steam to go out of the man. The very fact that he