Edge of Eternity (92 page)

George realized that this argument, which seemed to be about politics, was really about their relationship. And he was losing her. If he could not talk her out of the Black Panthers, he could not bring her back into his life. “Look, I know that police forces all over America are full of violent racists. But the solution to that problem is to improve the police, not shoot them. We have to get rid of politicians such as Ronald Reagan who encourage police brutality.”

“I refuse to accept a situation where the whites have guns and we don't.”

“Then campaign for gun control and more black cops in senior positions.”

“Martin believed in that and he's dead.” Verena's words were defiant, but she could not keep it up, and she began to cry.

George tried to embrace her, but she pushed him away. Nevertheless he strove to make her see reason. “If you want to protect black people, come and work on our campaign,” he said. “Bobby is going to be president.”

“Even if he wins, Congress won't let him do anything.”

“They'll try to stop him, and we'll have a political battle, and one side will win and the other will lose. It's how we change things in America. It's a lousy system, but all the others are worse. And shooting each other is the worst of all.”

“We're not going to agree.”

“Okay.” He lowered his voice. “We've disagreed before, but always kept on loving each other, haven't we?”

“This is different.”

“Don't say that.”

“My whole life has changed.”

George looked hard at her face, and saw there a mixture of defiance and guilt that gave him a clue to what was going on. “You're sleeping with one of the Panthers, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

George had a heavy feeling in his guts, as if he had drunk a tankard of cold ale. “You should have told me.”

“I'm telling you now.”

“My God.” George was sad. He fingered the ring in his pocket. Was it going to stay there? “Do you realize it's seven years since we graduated from Harvard?” He fought back tears.

“I know.”

“Police dogs in Birmingham, ‘I have a dream' in Washington, President Johnson backing civil rights, two assassinations . . .”

“And blacks are still the poorest Americans, living in the lousiest houses, getting the most perfunctory health care—and doing more than their share of the fighting in Vietnam.”

“Bobby's going to change all that.”

“No, he's not.”

“Yes, he is. And I'm going to invite you to the White House to admit that you were wrong.”

Verena went to the door. “Good-bye, George.”

“I can't believe it ends like this.”

“The maid will see you out.”

George found it difficult to think straight. He had loved Verena for years, and had assumed they would marry sooner or later. Now she had ditched him for a Black Panther. He felt lost. Although they had lived apart, he had always been able to think about what he would say to her and how he would caress her next time they were together. Now he was alone.

The maid came in and said: “This way, Mr. Jakes, if you please.”

Automatically he followed her to the hall. She opened the front door. “Thank you,” he said.

“Good-bye, Mr. Jakes.”

George got into his rented car and drove away.

•   •   •

On voting day in the California primary, George was with Bobby Kennedy at the Malibu beach home of John Frankenheimer, the movie director. The weather was overcast that morning, but nevertheless Bobby swam in the ocean with his twelve-year-old son, David. They both got caught in the undertow and emerged with scratches and scrapes from being dragged over the pebbles. After lunch Bobby fell asleep beside the pool, stretched out across two chairs, his mouth open. Looking through the glass patio doors, George noticed an angry mark on Bobby's forehead from the swimming incident.

He had not told Bobby that he had broken up with Verena. He had told only his mother. He barely had time to think on the campaign trail, and California had been nonstop: airport mob scenes, motorcades, hysterical crowds, and packed meetings. George was glad to be so busy. He had the luxury of feeling sad only for a few minutes every night before falling asleep. Even then he found himself imagining conversations with Verena in which he persuaded her to return to legitimate politics and campaign for Bobby. Perhaps their different approaches had always been a manifestation of fundamental incompatibility. He had never wanted to believe that.

At three o'clock the results of the first exit poll were broadcast on
TV. Bobby led Gene McCarthy 49 percentage points to 41. George was elated. I can't win my girl, but I can win elections, he thought.

Bobby showered and shaved and put on a blue pin-striped suit and a white shirt. Either the suit, or perhaps his increased confidence, made him seem more presidential than ever before, George thought.

The bruise on Bobby's forehead was unsightly, but John Frankenheimer found some professional movie makeup in the house and covered up the mark.

At half past six the Kennedy entourage got into cars and drove into Los Angeles. They went to the Ambassador Hotel, where the victory celebration was already getting under way in the ballroom. George went with Bobby to the Royal Suite on the fifth floor. There in a large living room a hundred or more friends, advisers, and privileged journalists were downing cocktails and congratulating one another. Every TV set in the suite was on.

George and the closest advisers followed Bobby through the living room and into one of the bedrooms. As always, Bobby mixed partying with hard political talk. Today, as well as California, he had won a low-profile primary in South Dakota, birthplace of Hubert Humphrey. After California he felt confident of winning New York, where he had the advantage of being one of the state's senators. “We're beating McCarthy, damn it,” he said exultantly, sitting on the floor in a corner of the room, keeping an eye on the TV.

George was beginning to worry about the convention. How could he make sure that Bobby's popularity was reflected in the votes of delegates from states where there were no primaries? “Humphrey is working hard on states such as Illinois, where Mayor Daley controls the delegate votes.”

“Yeah,” said Bobby. “But in the end men like Daley can't ignore popular feeling. They want to win. Hubert can't beat Dick Nixon, and I can.”

“It's true, but do the Democratic power brokers know that?”

“They will by August.”

George shared Bobby's sense that they were riding a wave, but he saw the dangers ahead all too clearly. “We need McCarthy to withdraw so that we can concentrate on beating Humphrey. We have to make a deal with McCarthy.”

Bobby shook his head. “I can't offer him the vice presidency. He's a Catholic. Protestants might vote for one Catholic, but not two.”

“You could offer him the top job in cabinet.”

“Secretary of state?”

“If he pulls out now.”

Bobby frowned. “It's hard to imagine working with him in the White House.”

“If you don't win, you won't be in the White House. Should I put out feelers?”

“Let me think about it some more.”

“Of course.”

“You know something else, George?” Bobby said. “For the first time I don't feel I'm here as Jack's brother.”

George smiled. That was a big step.

George went into the main room to talk to reporters, but he did not get a drink. When he was with Bobby he preferred to stay sharp. Bobby himself liked bourbon. But incompetence on his team infuriated him, and he could lacerate someone who let him down. George felt comfortable drinking alcohol only when Bobby was far away.

He was still stone-cold sober a few minutes before midnight when he accompanied Bobby down to the ballroom to give his victory speech. Bobby's wife, Ethel, looked groovy in an orange-and-white minidress with white tights, despite being pregnant with their eleventh child.

The crowd went wild, as always. The boys all wore Kennedy straw hats. The girls had a uniform: blue skirt, white blouse, and red Kennedy sash. A band blared a campaign song. Powerful television lights added to the heat in the room. Led by bodyguard Bill Barry, Bobby and Ethel pushed through the crowd, their young supporters reaching out to touch them and pull their clothes, until they reached a small platform. Jostling photographers added to the chaos.

The crowd hysteria was a problem for George and others, but it was Bobby's strength. His ability to get this emotional reaction from people was going to take him to the White House.

Bobby stood behind a bouquet of microphones. He had not asked for a written speech, just some notes. His performance was lackluster,
but no one cared. “We are a great country, an unselfish country, and a compassionate country,” he said. “I intend to make that my basis for running.” These were not inspiring words, but the crowd adored him too much to care.

George decided he would not go with Bobby to the Factory discotheque afterward. Seeing couples dance would only remind him that he was alone. He would get a good night's sleep before flying to New York in the morning to launch the campaign there. Work was the cure for his heartache.

“I thank all of you who made this possible this evening,” Bobby said. He flashed the Churchillian V-for-victory sign, and around the room hundreds of young people repeated the gesture. He reached down from the platform to shake some of the outstretched hands.

Then there was a glitch. His next appointment was with the press in a nearby room. The plan was for him to pass through the crowd as he left, but George could see that Bill Barry was unable to clear a path between the hysterical teenage girls shouting: “We want Bobby! We want Bobby!”

A hotel employee in the uniform of a maître d'hôtel solved the problem, pointing Bobby to a pair of swinging doors that evidently led through staff quarters to the press room. Bobby and Ethel followed the man into a dim corridor, and George and Bill Barry and the rest of the entourage hurried after them.

George was wondering how soon he could again raise with Bobby the need to make a deal with Gene McCarthy. It was the strategic priority, in George's opinion. But personal relationships were so important to the Kennedys. If Bobby could have made a friend of Lyndon Johnson everything would have been different.

The corridor led to a brightly lit pantry zone with gleaming stainless-steel steam tables and a huge ice maker. A radio reporter was interviewing Bobby as they walked, saying: “Senator, how are you going to counter Mr. Humphrey?” Bobby shook hands with smiling staff on his way through. A young kitchen worker turned from a tray stacker as if to greet Bobby.

Then, in a lightning flash of terror, George saw a gun in the young man's hand.

It was a small black revolver with a short barrel.

The man pointed the gun at Bobby's head.

George opened his mouth to yell but the shot came first.

The little weapon made a noise that was more of a pop than a bang.

Bobby threw his hands up to his face, staggered back, then fell to the concrete floor.

George roared: “No! No!” It could not be happening—it could not be happening again!

A moment later came a volley of shots like a Chinese firecracker. Something stung George's arm, but he ignored it.

Bobby lay on his back beside the ice machine, hands above his head, feet apart. His eyes were open.

People were yelling and screaming. The radio reporter was babbling into his microphone: “Senator Kennedy has been shot! Senator Kennedy has been shot! Is that possible? Is that possible?”

Several men jumped on the gunman. Someone was shouting: “Get the gun! Get the gun!” George saw Bill Barry punch the shooter in the face.

George knelt by Bobby. He was alive, but bleeding from a wound just behind his ear. He looked bad. George loosened his tie to help him breathe. Someone else put a folded coat under Bobby's head.

A man's voice was moaning: “God, no . . . Christ, no . . .”

Ethel pushed through the crowd, knelt beside George, and spoke to her husband. There was a flicker of recognition in Bobby's face, and he tried to speak. George thought he said: “Is everyone else all right?” Ethel stroked his face.

George looked around. He could not tell whether anyone else had been hit by the volley of bullets. Then he noticed his own forearm. The sleeve of his suit was ripped and blood was seeping from a wound. He had been hit. Now that he noticed, it hurt like hell.

The far door opened, and reporters and photographers from the press room burst through. The cameramen mobbed the group around Bobby, shoving each other and climbing on the stoves and sinks to get better shots of the bleeding victim and his stricken wife. Ethel pleaded: “Give him some air, please! Let him breathe!”

An ambulance crew arrived with a stretcher. They took Bobby by the shoulders and feet. Bobby cried weakly: “Oh, no, don't . . .”

“Gently!” Ethel begged the crew. “Gently.”

They lifted him onto the stretcher and strapped him in.

Bobby's eyes closed.

He never opened them again.

T
hat summer Dimka and Natalya painted the apartment, with the sun shining through the open windows. It took longer than necessary because they kept stopping for sex. Her glorious hair was tied up and hidden in a rag, and she wore an old shirt of his with a frayed collar; but her shorts were tight, and every time he saw her up a ladder he had to kiss her. He pulled down her shorts so often that after a while she just wore the shirt; and then they had even more sex.

They could not marry until her divorce was finalized, and for the sake of appearances Natalya had her own tiny apartment nearby, but unofficially they were already embarking on their new life together in Dimka's place. They rearranged the furniture to Natalya's liking and bought a couch. They developed routines: he made breakfast, she cooked dinner; he polished her shoes, she ironed his shirts; he shopped for meat, she for fish.

They never saw Nik, but Natalya began to establish a relationship with Nina. Dimka's ex-wife was now the accepted lover of Marshal Pushnoy, and spent many weekends with him at his dacha, hosting dinners with his intimate friends, some of whom brought
their
mistresses. Dimka did not know how Pushnoy arranged matters with his wife, a pleasant-looking elderly woman who always appeared at his side on formal state occasions. During Nina's country weekends, Dimka and Natalya looked after Grisha. At first Natalya was nervous, never having had children of her own—Nik hated kids. But she quickly became fond of Grisha, who looked a lot like Dimka; and, not surprisingly, she turned out to have the usual maternal instincts.

Their private life was happy but their public life was not. The
diehards in the Kremlin only pretended to accept the Czechoslovakia compromise. As soon as Kosygin and Dimka got back from Prague the conservatives went to work to undermine the agreement, pressing for an invasion that would crush Dubcek and his reforms. The argument raged through June and July in the heat of Moscow and in the Black Sea breezes at the dachas to which the Communist Party elite migrated for their summer holidays.

For Dimka this was not really about Czechoslovakia. It was about his son and the world in which he would grow up. In fifteen years Grisha would be at university; in twenty he would be working; in twenty-five he might have children of his own. Would Russia have a better system, something like Dubcek's idea of Communism with a human face? Or would the Soviet Union still be a tyranny in which the unchallengeable authority of the party was brutally enforced by the KGB?

Infuriatingly Leonid Brezhnev, general secretary, sat on the fence. Dimka had come to despise him. Terrified of being caught on the losing side, Brezhnev would never make up his mind until he knew which way the collective decision was likely to go. He had no vision, no courage, no plan for making the Soviet Union a better country. He was no leader.

The conflict came to a head at a two-day meeting of the Politburo starting on Thursday, August 15. As always, the formal meeting consisted mostly of polite interchanges of platitudes, while the real battles were fought outside.

It was in the plaza that Dimka had his face-off with Yevgeny Filipov, standing in the sunshine outside the yellow-and-white palace of the senate building among the parked cars and waiting limousines. “Look at the KGB reports from Prague,” Filipov said. “Counterrevolutionary student rallies! Clubs where the overthrow of Communism is openly discussed! Secret weapons caches!”

“I don't believe all the stories,” Dimka said. “True, there is discussion of reform, but the dangers are being exaggerated by the failed leaders of the past who are now being pushed aside.” The truth was that Andropov, the hard-line head of the KGB, was fabricating sensational intelligence reports to bolster the conservatives; but Dimka was not foolhardy enough to say so out loud.

Dimka had a source of reliable intelligence: his twin sister. Tanya
was in Prague, sending carefully noncommittal articles to TASS and, at the same time, supplying Dimka and Kosygin with reports saying that Dubcek was a hero to all Czechs except the old party apparatchiks.

It was almost impossible for people to get at the truth in a closed society. Russians told so many lies. In the Soviet Union almost every document was deceitful: production figures, foreign policy assessments, police interviews with suspects, economic forecasts. Behind their hands people murmured that the only true page in the newspaper was the one with the radio and television programs.

“I can't tell which way it's going to go,” Natalya said to Dimka on Thursday night. She still worked for Foreign Minister Andrei Gromyko. “All the signals from Washington say President Johnson will do nothing if we invade Czechoslovakia. He has too many problems of his own—riots, assassinations, Vietnam, and a presidential election.”

They had finished painting for the evening and were sitting on the floor sharing a bottle of beer. Natalya had a single smudge of yellow paint on her forehead. For some reason that made Dimka want to fuck her. He was wondering whether to do it now or get washed and go to bed first when she said: “Before we get married . . .”

That was ominous. “Yes?”

“We should talk about children.”

“We probably should have done that before we spent all summer screwing our brains out.” They had never used birth control.

“Yes. But you already have a child.”

“We have a child. He's ours. You'll be his stepmother.”

“And I'm very fond of him. It's easy to love a boy who looks so much like you. But how do you feel about having more?”

Dimka could see that for some reason she was worried about this, and he needed to reassure her. He put down the beer and embraced her. “I adore you,” he said. “And I would love to have children with you.”

“Oh, thank God,” she said. “Because I'm pregnant.”

•   •   •

It was difficult to get newspapers in Prague, Tanya found. This was an ironic consequence of Dubcek's abolition of censorship. Previously, few people had bothered to read the anodyne and dishonest reports in the
state-controlled press. Now that the papers could tell the truth, they could never print enough copies to keep up with the demand. She had to get up early in the morning to buy them before they sold out.

Television had been freed, too. On current affairs programs, workers and students questioned and criticized government ministers. Released political prisoners were allowed to confront the secret policemen who had thrown them in jail. Around the television set in the lobby of any large hotel there was often a small crowd of eager viewers watching the discussion on the screen.

Similar exchanges were taking place in every café, works canteen, and town hall. People who had suppressed their true feelings for twenty years were suddenly allowed to say what was in their hearts.

The air of liberation was infectious. Tanya was tempted to believe that the old days were over and there was no danger. She had to keep reminding herself that Czechoslovakia was still a Communist country with secret police and torture basements.

She had with her the typescript of Vasili's first novel.

It had arrived, shortly before she left Moscow, in the same way as his first short story, handed to her in the street outside her office by a stranger who was unwilling to answer questions. As before, it was written in small handwriting—no doubt to save paper. Its sardonic title was
A Free Man.

Tanya had typed it out on airmail paper. She had to assume that her luggage would be opened. Although she was a trusted reporter for TASS, it was still possible that any hotel room she stayed in would be turned over, and the apartment allocated to her in the old town of Prague would be thoroughly searched. But she had devised a clever hiding place, she thought. All the same she lived in fear. It was like possessing a nuclear bomb. She was desperate to pass it on as soon as possible.

She had befriended the Prague correspondent of a British newspaper, and at the first opportunity she had said to him: “There's a book editor in London who specializes in translations of East European novels—Anna Murray, of Rowley Publishing. I'd love to interview her about Czech literature. Do you think you could get a message to her?”

This was dangerous, for it established a traceable connection
between Tanya and Anna; but Tanya had to take some risks, and it seemed to her that this one was minimal.

Two weeks later the British journalist had said: “Anna Murray's coming to Prague next Tuesday. I couldn't give her your phone number because I don't have it, but she'll be at the Palace Hotel.”

On Tuesday Tanya called the hotel and left a message for Anna saying: “Meet Jakub at the Jan Hus monument at four.” Jan Hus was a medieval philosopher burned at the stake by the Pope for arguing that mass should be said in the local language. He remained a symbol of Czech resistance to foreign control. His memorial was in Old Town Square.

The secret police agents in all hotels took special interest in guests from the West, and Tanya had to assume that they were shown all messages, therefore they might stake out the monument to see who Anna was meeting. So Tanya did not go to the rendezvous. Instead she intercepted Anna on the street and slipped her a card with the address of a restaurant in the Old Town and the message: “Eight
P.M
. tonight. Table booked in the name of Jakub.”

There was still the possibility that Anna would be followed from her hotel to the restaurant. It was unlikely: the secret police did not have enough men to tail every foreigner all the time. Nevertheless Tanya continued to take precautions. That evening she put on a loose-fitting leather jacket, despite the warm weather, and went to the restaurant early. She sat at a different table from the one she had reserved. She kept her head down when Anna arrived, and watched as Anna was seated.

Anna was unmistakably foreign. No one in Eastern Europe was that well dressed. She had a dark-red pantsuit tailored to her voluptuous figure. She wore it with a glorious multicolored scarf that had to come from Paris. Anna had dark hair and eyes that probably came from her German-Jewish mother. She must be close to thirty, Tanya calculated, but she was one of those women who became more beautiful as they left their youth behind.

No one followed Anna into the restaurant. Tanya stayed put for fifteen minutes, watching the arrivals, while Anna ordered a bottle of Hungarian Riesling and sipped a glass. Four people came in, an elderly married couple and two youngsters on a date: none looked remotely like
police. Finally Tanya got up and joined Anna at the reserved table, draping her jacket over the back of her chair.

“Thank you for coming,” Tanya said.

“Please don't mention it. I'm glad to.”

“It's a long way.”

“I'd travel ten times as far to meet the woman who gave me
Frostbite.
”

“He's written a novel.”

Anna sat back with a satisfied sigh. “That's what I was hoping you'd say.” She poured wine into Tanya's glass. “Where is it?”

“Hidden. I'll give it to you before we leave.”

“Okay.” Anna was puzzled, for she could see no sign of a typescript, but she accepted what Tanya said. “You've made me very happy.”

“I always knew that
Frostbite
was brilliant,” Tanya said reflectively. “But even I didn't anticipate the international success you've had. In the Kremlin they're furious about it, especially as they still can't figure out who the author is.”

“You should know that there's a fortune in royalties due to him.”

Tanya shook her head. “If he received money from overseas that would give the game away.”

“Well, maybe one day. I've asked the largest London firm of literary agents to represent him.”

“What is a literary agent?”

“Someone who looks after the author's interests, negotiates contracts, and makes sure the publisher pays on time.”

“I never heard of that.”

“They've opened a bank account in the name of Ivan Kuznetsov. But you should think about whether the money should be invested somehow.”

“How much is it?”

“More than a million pounds.”

Tanya was shocked. Vasili would be the richest man in Russia if he could get his hands on the money.

They ordered dinner. Prague restaurants had improved in recent months, but the food was still traditional. Their beef and sliced dumplings came in a rich gravy garnished with whipped cream and a spoonful of cranberry jam.

Anna asked: “What's going to happen here in Prague?”

“Dubcek is a sincere Communist who wants the country to remain part of the Warsaw Pact, so he presents no fundamental threat to Moscow; but the dinosaurs in the Kremlin don't see it that way. No one knows what's going to happen.”

“Do you have children?”

Tanya smiled. “Key question. Perhaps we may choose to suffer the Soviet system, for the sake of a quiet life; but do we have the right to bequeath such misery and oppression to the next generation? No, I don't have children. I have a nephew, Grisha, whom I love, the son of my twin brother. And this morning in a letter my brother told me that the woman who will soon be his second wife is already pregnant, so I'll have another nephew or a niece. For their sakes, I have to hope that Dubcek will succeed, and other Communist countries will follow the Czech example. But the Soviet system is inherently conservative, much more resistant to change than capitalism. That may be its most fundamental flaw, in the long run.”

When they had finished, Anna said: “If we can't pay our author, can we perhaps give you a present to pass to him? Is there anything from the West he would like?”

A typewriter was what he needed, but that would blow his cover. “A sweater,” she said. “A really thick warm sweater. He's always cold. And some underwear, the kind with long sleeves and long legs.”