One Night in Winter by Simon Sebag Montefiore Page B

pistol and fired it as he overtook a truck. ‘That’ll teach the fucker!’ he shouted.
    Now they were pulling into a driveway. They were waved through a heavily guarded checkpoint, the barrier rising as Vasily put his foot down, throwing up clouds of dust. At last they stopped outside a white-pillared mansion in colonial, southern style, and went inside.
    ‘Bring drinks! Where’s the food! Fetch the gramophone!’ cried Vasily, his voice high, his eyes wild. ‘Welcome to Zubalovo. My parents used to live here. Now it’s mine.’
    Minutes later, Andrei was next to Serafima at a table covered in Georgian snacks and bottles of exotic liqueurs Andrei had never even heard of. Vasily was at the gramophone playing records as guests arrived and started to dance. ‘Listen – this is American jazz, the music of the oppressed Negroes!’ He cackled with laughter.
    ‘Hey kiddo,’ he said, his eyes in his pinched, sallow face narrowing at Andrei. ‘You’re not drinking. That’s an insult! Don’t forget my father’s a Georgian. Or rather he used to be a Georgian. Now he’s a Russian.’
    ‘I’m not a great drinker,’ confessed Andrei.
    Vasily handed Andrei and Serafima shots of something disgusting called Fernet Branca. ‘No heeltaps!’ he said.
    Andrei looked at his drink, feeling sick.
    ‘Best to drink, dear,’ said Serafima.
    Vasily pointed at him. ‘I’m watching you!’
    Andrei downed his Fernet Branca shot. Around him, the party, the dancers and the sitting room seemed to twist and wave like a mirage in the desert. Two girls from the Cocktail Hall were dancing closely together, each holding a cigarette but somehow not burning each other. Rivulets of mascaraed sweat streamed down their faces so they looked like half-naked coalminers in the rain. A captain was doing the
lezginka
in just his boots and britches. And, at the centre, Vasily stood clapping his hands, checking the gramophone while drinking vodka, Armenian cognac, Crimean
champagnski
, Georgian wine and brightly-coloured liqueurs from a fleet of glasses and bottles.
    Andrei looked at Serafima, who looked as alone and vulnerable as he was. How were they going to get away? He felt very far from Moscow; they had no car, no means of escape. His mother would be worried about him. And what would Serafima’s parents think?
    A dapper air force officer sat down at their table. ‘What the hell are you two doing here?’ he asked. It was David Satinov, George’s older brother. ‘Who brought you?’
    Serafima pointed at Vasily Stalin. ‘We didn’t have much choice in the matter, actually.’
    David Satinov shook his head. ‘I might have guessed. This is no place for schoolgirls.’
    Vasily had rejoined them. ‘David, a toast to my father. To Stalin! To our brave pilots!’ Everyone drank to this amidst a chorus of cheers.
    ‘Tell me this, David, why do our planes keep crashing?’ Vasily asked suddenly, leaning across the table.
    ‘Soviet planes are the best in the world,’ said David.
    ‘If there are faults in our planes, I’ll tell my father. We’ve got to find the criminals who send our boys up in coffins! Their heads will roll, David.’
    ‘Yes, Vaska,’ said David.
    ‘You know why I’m celebrating?’
    David shook his head.
    ‘I’ve just been promoted to general. My father trusts me again. He’s forgiven me.’ Tears pooled in his fallow, wounded eyes.
    ‘Congratulations.’ And David embraced Vasily.
    ‘Serafima! I’ll take you flying in my plane,’ cried Vasily. ‘We’ll dive so low, the peasants will hide in their haystacks. Let’s celebrate. Come on, dance!’
    ‘Hey, Vaska, go easy on her, she’s young,’ said David.
    But Vasily Stalin pulled Serafima into the crowd. ‘Let’s foxtrot.’ He took her in his arms, his hands cruising her hips, running through her hair . . . She stiffened as he squeezed her, and Andrei could see her discomfort. Several other girls started to gyrate around Vasily; while trying to dance with