Read Sapphire Skies for Free Online Page A

limited oxygen supplies. Then he related how General George C Marshall was there to greet them on their arrival in America and went on to describe the cheering crowds who turned out as they were paraded through New York City. I imagined each scene as if it was I who had experienced it. I saw myself waving to the adoring crowds from the open-topped car, attired like Valentina Serova in a dress with shoulder pads and high-heeled pumps. My platinum-blonde hair glistening in the sun as President Roosevelt shook my hand and the press cameramen rushed forward to take my picture. I was lost in the glory of my celebrity when Papa nudged me. Chkalov had proposed a toast.
    ‘To Comrade Stalin, who teaches us and rears us like his own children. Even in the most dangerous situations, we feel his fatherly eyes upon us.’
    I leaped to my feet with everyone else and raised my glass. ‘To Comrade Stalin!’
    The waiters brought us dessert of peach compote and raspberry ice-cream. The fruity flavours reminded me of summer days at our dacha.
    Anastas Mikoyan, the commissar for the food industry, who was seated at our table, leaned towards my father. ‘Ice-cream — like chocolate — used to be available to the working man and his family only on special holidays,’ he said. ‘Now they can be mass-produced by machines. Why would anyone want to eat handmade ice-cream or chocolates when they can have them produced by shiny modern equipment?’
    ‘Indeed,’ replied my father.
    I wasn’t sure that Papa agreed with Mikoyan’s sentiments. His family was once famous for their fine handmade chocolates and pastries. But my father wasn’t a political man. He had not been able to find employment for several years after his family’s disfavour, and now he enjoyed his job at the Red October chocolate factory, where he had been given a free hand in inventing new chocolate recipes. As long as he was allowed to make things that delighted people, he was happy.
    I noticed Stalin was watching us. He stood up slowly and held his glass up to my father.
    ‘I now propose a special toast to Comrade Azarov, chief chocolatier of the Red October chocolate factory,’ he said. ‘The factory has not only overfulfilled its annual plan for the past two years but has, thanks to Comrade Azarov, also improved the variety and quality of chocolates available to the Soviet people. He has invented two hundred new types of chocolate.’
    Papa was caught off guard; he had not expected to be toasted. He blushed and moved his hand to his throat, flustered, and in his usual self-effacing way attempted to deflect the praise onto others.
    ‘Thank you, Comrade Stalin,’ he said, rising to his feet and holding up a champagne glass. ‘And I would like to propose a toast to Comrade Mikoyan, who has not only been responsible for our success by ensuring the supply of the raw materials needed, but also has made champagne available to every man and woman.’
    Stalin’s eyes narrowed for a moment as if he were trying to discern some hidden meaning behind what my father had said. But then he smiled and lifted his glass again. ‘Indeed, comrades, life has become more joyous! Life has become more fun!’
    He turned to the orchestra, which had been joined by a saxophonist and jazz bass player, and nodded. They started up a foxtrot.
    Papa shook off his embarrassment and led me to the dance floor. We weaved and turned to the jazz music playing, which was now officially approved. We were good dancers. We had to be — my mother was a ballroom dance teacher. She had trained to be an opera singer, but after the Revolution things changed. During the hard years, when my brother and I were born and my father and other artisans had no work, she supported the family by giving lessons in piano, dance and art to a small number of students. Now, as my father’s fortunes had changed, my mother’s had too. As I had read in Pravda : Once, the good life was the realm of the tsars and nobles. Under