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Comrade Stalin, it is for every man, woman and child to live well . My mother not only gave lessons in ballroom dancing to former working-class couples but also taught them deportment, elocution and music appreciation. Stalin encouraged his people to try new things and to show what bright lives the Soviet people lived, unexploited, outside the capitalist system.
    As Papa and I danced, I noticed Stalin moving between the guests with a glass of cognac in his hand, but his eyes were constantly on me. Or, to be more precise, on my feet. My shoes seemed to bother him. Indeed, they did not go with my lovely dress. They were a pair of black court shoes that I had inherited from my mother and kept for special occasions. We had polished them as best we could but there was no hiding that they were old. Shoes were the most difficult item of all to obtain, even for a family like mine who had access to special stores. Occasionally we would hear a rumour that shoes were available at a certain store, but after lining up for hours we would discover that they were only of a single size or of such poor quality that they would fall apart after one wearing. My brother explained that it had to do with supply and demand and a shortage of raw materials. But when I asked him more about it, my mother had quickly cut us short. ‘Never, never say anything that could be interpreted as a criticism of our state!’ she’d warned.
    Papa and I returned to our table and I was surprised to see Stalin approach us.
    ‘Comrade Azarov,’ he said, ‘I must compliment you on your beautiful young wife.’
    ‘Oh no!’ said my father, becoming flustered again and not realising that Stalin was joking. ‘This is my daughter, Natalya.’
    ‘My mother was ill so I came in her place,’ I told Stalin, repeating the white lie she had instructed me to tell if anyone asked why she hadn’t attended.
    ‘You see, Natalya is a budding pilot,’ added my father. ‘I had to bring her tonight.’
    ‘Is that so?’ Stalin asked, taking the seat Mikoyan had vacated to dance. He stroked his thick moustache and studied my face.
    I remembered my mother’s warning not to say too much, but Stalin’s interest in my ambition got the better of me.
    ‘Yes, Comrade Stalin,’ I said, tucking my feet under my chair so that my shoes wouldn’t distract him again. ‘I hope one day to be one of your eagles and bring great glory to the Soviet Union.’
    Stalin grinned and nodded approvingly to my father.
    ‘She wants to do the parachute jump in Gorky Park every time we go there,’ my father told Stalin. ‘We hope that she can commence glider school next year.’
    ‘Next year?’ Stalin took out some Herzegovina cigarettes, broke off the ends and used the tobacco to fill his pipe.
    ‘She will turn fifteen in December, Comrade Stalin,’ my father explained. ‘But she has to wait until she is sixteen to enrol.’
    ‘She’s only fourteen?’ Stalin raised his eyebrows as he lit his pipe, then inhaled deeply. The air became saturated with the aroma of tobacco. ‘Your daughter seems more mature than that.’
    ‘Indeed, you would think so,’ agreed my father. ‘She has studied every book from the library on aviation.’
    Stalin stared at his pipe as if he were thinking something over. ‘I tell my sons that to improve themselves they must study, study, study,’ he said. ‘I myself am an old man and yet I still try to learn something new every day.’
    I was thrilled to be having a personal conversation with Stalin. I was about to ask him what he liked to study when one of the guards stepped forward and whispered something in his ear.
    Stalin nodded and turned towards us. ‘I must go, but it has been a pleasure to meet you, Natalya. You must make your father proud of you.’
    On the way home in the car, I replayed every word Stalin had spoken. He wasn’t the enigmatic figure of my first impression. He was kind and fatherly, just the way Chkalov had described him, although he