All of the articles agreed on one thing: America’s race to the Moon had come to a complete halt. Everyone expected the Soviets to catch and pass them, and soon. Well, at the end of the month we were scheduled to launch our first unmanned L-1—a Soyuz modified for flight around the Moon with better navigational systems, and minus the spherical orbit module on the nose.
The recovery challenges were immense. Even though the goal of the first L-1 was to get aimed somewhere in the general direction of the Moon, we all hoped the spacecraft could be commanded to a return on planet Earth. If we were lucky enough to be faced with that, the possible landing sites were many, ranging from most of the USSR to the world’s equatorial oceans and all countries between fifty-one degrees north and south latitude. (It was this possibility that caused Defense Minister Grechko to choke on the cost of creating a recovery force.)
Even assuming unlimited money, the USSR didn’t have the vehicles or personnel to create a standby team, so our Ministry of Foreign Affairs stepped up its campaign in favor of treaties regarding the peaceful return of peaceful spacecraft to their country of origin, while we at the bureau concentrated on the mechanics: transponders and trajectories.
It was tedious work, especially coming after the translations, but I was happy for it, because it kept me from wondering why Marina had not contacted me since the Saturday I found her sick with the flu.
I was in touch with her. I spoke to her several times by telephone in the days immediately after our near — dinner date, in which she confessed to a lingering illness that prevented our seeing each other. As any man would, I wondered if she were avoiding me — but on the phone she sounded ill. I even got Alla on the phone by mistake, and she told me, without prompting, that Marina was off at the Bauman clinic that afternoon.
So I burrowed into my work and did not ask questions, and was very surprised to come home one Wednesday night at eight P.M. to find Marina waiting patiently in the lobby of the building. The porter, a pale young man whose name I never managed to get, had made her a cup of tea, as if she were some visiting aunt. To be fair to the porter, Marina looked pale, drawn, and frail. I almost felt as though I had to help her up the stairs.
I knew instantly that her visit was going to be “special”—no one, even in the best of health, would venture out to Kaliningrad on a cold winter night in the middle of the week. But I was so pleased to see her again, so proud to be showing off my apartment, now equipped with two chairs and a table in addition to the bed, that it was half an hour before we really began to talk. “Alla said you’d gone to the clinic. What did they tell you?”
Her eyes filled with tears, and I began to get worried. What if she were truly ill? I had seen that look on my mother’s face. “I’m pregnant,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
My ears roared. Birth control in the USSR, in those days, was primitive. The pill existed only in the West; we were encouraged to use condoms, assuming you could ever find them in a store. In truth, couples tried to be careful, and when caught, turned to abortion. I’m sure I turned several different colors as my emotions wrenched from fear to relief to an entirely new kind of fear. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know yet.”
I nodded. I didn’t know what I wanted yet, either. Nor did I know what to say. “How far along?”
“About eight weeks. Less than three months, they think.” I handed her a handkerchief, because tears were spilling down her face without letup.
“Well, then.” I took her in my arms. “I have all kinds of information on the State wedding palace…” I had made inquiries last year, when our relationship seemed so strong.
“Yuri, I can’t marry you.”
“Why not? Don’t worry about my father. Don’t worry about anything. Half the people we know got married because the girl got pregnant.”
She blinked furiously now, and wound her open hand as if that gesture would help her speak. “It’s not your baby,” she said, finally, fatally, her face suddenly defiant.
“What do you mean?” I said, stupidly and helplessly.
“What do you think I mean! There was someone else, okay? The baby could not be yours.” She blew her nose. “You’re the engineer. Do the math.”
In fact, by then I had. There had been a period of six, maybe eight weeks from November to the New Year where we had not even seen each other, much less made love.
“Who is it?”
She stood up. “I’m not going to tell you.”
“You owe me—” I was angry now.
“I’m not going to tell you!”
I flung my glass at the wall. Fortunately, it didn’t break, though it spewed cold tea across the room, then caromed onto the floor with a truly annoying clatter. I was immediately ashamed of my temper. As ashamed as I was disgusted with the sight of Marina right then.
All I could think to do was to slink over to the corner and pick up the glass. I went into my kitchen area to get a towel.
When I returned, Marina had stopped crying and put on her coat. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Home.”
“At this time of night? Alone?” Actually, I would have relished kicking her out into the snow, but she was sick — with morning sickness, obviously — and I couldn’t be that cruel. “Stay here.” She was weak enough to accept the offer.
I slept on the floor, wrapped in my winter coat, and not very well. I woke instantly when Marina rose early the next morning, while it was still dark, and ran directly to the bathroom to throw up.
God help me, I pretended to be asleep as she cleaned herself up, gathered her things, and quietly left.
23
My Mother
My disastrous personal life obviously had an effect on my work in Department 731—rather, on the enthusiasm I brought to it. Remember that I had been pushed off to the side, away from the exciting work of preparing my colleagues Yeliseyev and Kubasov, as well as military cosmonauts Khrunov and Gorbatko, for their upcoming spacewalk. Three other bureau engineers, Grechko, Makarov, and Volkov, had been accepted for cosmonaut training by General Kamanin, and half a dozen others — including Triyanov himself — were running back and forth to Chkalov air base for zero-G flights and parachute jumps, getting in line for future Soyuz crews.
I, on the other hand, occupied my time writing memos on the lack of recovery resources.
My role in the “investigation” of the murder of Sergei Korolev or the “sabotage” of our programs dwindled to nothing. Filin had been cleared; Artemov struck me as a power-hungry thug who was certainly capable of either crime, or both, but he was inaccessible to me now.
The only bright spot was the news that Lev Tselauri had been hired by the bureau and would be joining Department 731. I didn’t hear this from Lev himself, but from Filin, whom I saw briefly at one of the endless committee meetings for the upcoming L-1 launch, which took place on March 10, 1967, under the cover name Cosmos 146.
Since recovery wasn’t part of the Cosmos 146 flight plan (it was considered a sufficient challenge just to successfully fire Chelomei’s fifth Proton into orbit, then launch L-1 toward the Moon using the new upper stage), I remained at the bureau, working toward a more ambitious test of the second L-1, to follow in early April.
On Sunday, March 12, I took the train and metro across and around Moscow to the Vagankov Cemetery, which, I realized, was not far from IMBP, where I had undergone medical tests last spring.