Fall of Giants

by Follett, Ken

  “How did you find this place?”

  “She said she worked at Mannie Litov’s in Aldgate.”

  “Well, you’re Sherlock bloody Holmes, aren’t you?” she said, not without a note of reluctant admiration.

  “If you don’t tell me where she is, someone else will,” he said with more confidence than he felt. “I’m not going home till I’ve seen her.”

  “She’ll kill me, but all right,” Mildred said. “Twenty-three Nutley Street.”

  Billy asked her for directions. He made her speak slowly.

  “Don’t thank me,” she said as he took his leave. “Just protect me if Ethel tries to kill me.”

  “All right, then,” said Billy, thinking how thrilling it would be to protect Mildred from something.

  The other women shouted good-bye and blew kisses as he left, embarrassing him.

  Nutley Street was an oasis of quiet. The terraced houses were built to a pattern that had become familiar to Billy after only one day in London. They were much larger than miners’ cottages, with small front yards instead of a door opening onto the street. The effect of order and regularity was created by identical sash windows, each with twelve panes of glass, in rows all along the terrace.

  He knocked at number 23 but no one answered.

  He was worried. Why had she not gone to work? Was she ill? If not, why was she not at home?

  He peered through the letterbox and saw a hallway with polished floorboards and a hat stand bearing an old brown coat that he recognized. It was a cold day: Ethel would not go out without her coat.

  He stepped close to the window and tried to look inside, but he could not see through the net curtain.

  He returned to the door and looked through the flap again. The scene inside was unchanged, but this time he heard a noise. It was a long, agonized groan. He put his mouth to the letterbox and shouted: “Eth! Is that you? It’s Billy out here.”

  There was a long silence, then the groan was repeated.

  “Bloody hell,” he said.

  The door had a Yale-type lock. That meant the catch was probably attached to the doorpost with two screws. He struck the door with the heel of his hand. It did not seem particularly stout, and he guessed the wood was cheap pine, many years old. He leaned back, lifted his right leg, and kicked the door with the heel of his heavy miner’s boot. There was a sound of splintering. He kicked several more times, but the door did not open.

  He wished he had a hammer.

  He looked up and down the road, hoping to see a workman with tools, but the street was deserted except for two dirty-faced boys who were watching him with interest.

  He walked down the short garden path to the gate, turned, and ran at the door, hitting it with his right shoulder. It burst open and he fell inside.

  He picked himself up, rubbing his hurt shoulder, and pushed the ruined door to. The house seemed silent. “Eth?” he called. “Where are you?”

  The groaning came again, and he followed the sound into the front room on the ground floor. It was a woman’s bedroom, with china ornaments on the mantelpiece and flowered curtains at the window. Ethel was on the bed, wearing a gray dress that covered her like a tent. She was not lying down, but on her hands and knees, groaning.

  “What’s wrong with you, Eth?” said Billy, and his voice came out as a terrified squeak.

  She caught her breath. “The baby’s coming.”

  “Oh, hell. I’d better fetch a doctor.”

  “Too late, Billy. Dear Jesus, it hurts.”

  “You sound like you’re dying!”

  “No, Billy, this is what childbirth is like. Come by here and hold my hand.”

  Billy knelt by the bed, and Ethel took his hand. She tightened her grip and began to groan again. The groan was longer and more agonized than before, and she gripped his hand so hard he thought she might break a bone. Her groan ended with a shriek, then she panted as if she had run a mile.

  After a minute she said: “I’m sorry, Billy, but you’re going to have to look up my skirt.”

  “Oh!” he said. “Oh, right.” He did not really understand, but he thought he had better do as he was told. He lifted the hem of Ethel’s dress. “Oh, Christ!” he said. The bedsheet beneath her was soaked in blood. There in the middle of it was a tiny pink thing covered in slime. He made out a big round head with closed eyes, two tiny arms, and two legs. “It’s a baby!” he said.

  “Pick it up, Billy,” said Ethel.

  “What, me?” he said. “Oh, right, then.” He leaned over the bed. He got one hand under the baby’s head and one under its little bum. It was a boy, he saw. The baby was slippery and slimy, but Billy managed to pick him up. There was a cord still attaching him to Ethel.

  “Have you got it?” she said.

  “Aye,” he said. “I’ve got him. It’s a boy.”

  “Is he breathing?”

  “I dunno. How can you tell?” Billy fought down panic. “No, he’s not breathing, I don’t think.”

  “Smack his bum, not too hard.”

  Billy turned the baby over, held him easily in one hand, and sharply smacked his bottom. Immediately the child opened his mouth, breathed in, and yelled in protest. Billy was delighted. “Hark at that!” he said.

  “Hold him a minute while I turn over.” Ethel got herself into a sitting position and straightened her dress. “Give him to me.”

  Billy carefully handed him over. Ethel held the baby in the crook of her arm and wiped his face with her sleeve. “He’s beautiful,” she said.

  Billy was not sure about that.

  The cord attached to the baby’s navel had been blue and taut, but now it shriveled and turned pale. Ethel said: “Open that drawer over by there and pass me the scissors and a reel of cotton.”

  Ethel tied two knots in the cord, then snipped it between the knots. “There,” she said. She unbuttoned the front of her dress. “I don’t suppose you’ll be embarrassed, after what you’ve seen,” she said, and she took out a breast and put the nipple to the baby’s mouth. He began to suck.

  She was right: Billy was not embarrassed. An hour ago he would have been mortified by the sight of his sister’s bare breast, but such a feeling seemed trivial now. All he felt was enormous relief that the baby was all right. He stared, watching him suckle, marveling at the tiny fingers. He felt as if he had witnessed a miracle. His face was wet with tears, and he wondered when he had cried: he had no memory of doing so.

  Quite soon the baby fell asleep. Ethel buttoned her dress. “We’ll wash him in a minute,” she said. Then she closed her eyes. “My God,” she said. “I didn’t know it was going to hurt that much.”

  Billy said: “Who’s his father, Eth?”

  “Earl Fitzherbert,” she said. Then she opened her eyes. “Oh, bugger, I never meant to tell you that.”

  “The bloody swine,” said Billy. “I’ll kill him.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  June to September1915

  As the ship entered New York harbor, it occurred to Lev Peshkov that America might not be as wonderful as his brother, Grigori, said. He steeled himself for a terrible disappointment. But that was unnecessary. America was all the things he had hoped for: rich, busy, exciting, and free.

  Three months later, on a hot afternoon in June, he was working at a hotel in Buffalo, in the stables, grooming a guest’s horse. The place was owned by Josef Vyalov, who had put an onion dome on top of the old Central Tavern and renamed it the St. Petersburg Hotel, perhaps out of nostalgia for the city he had left when he was a child.

  Lev worked for Vyalov, as did many of Buffalo’s Russian immigrants, but he had never met the man. If he ever did, he was not sure what he would say. The Vyalov family in Russia had cheated Lev by dumping him in Cardiff, and that rankled. On the other hand, the papers supplied by the St. Petersburg Vyalovs had got Lev through U.S. immigration without a hitch. And mentioning the name of Vyalov in a bar on Canal Street had got him a job immediately.

  He had been speaking
English every day for a year now, ever since he landed in Cardiff, and he was becoming fluent. Americans said he had a British accent, and they were not familiar with some of the expressions he had learned in Aberowen, such as by here and by there, or is it? and isn’t it? at the ends of sentences. But he could say just about anything he needed to, and girls were charmed when he called them my lovely.

  At a few minutes to six o’clock, shortly before he finished work for the day, his friend Nick came into the stable yard, a cigarette between his lips. “Fatima brand,” he said. He drew in smoke with exaggerated satisfaction. “Turkish tobacco. Beautiful.”

  Nick’s full name was Nicolai Davidovich Fomek, but here he was called Nick Forman. He occasionally played the role previously taken by Spirya and Rhys Price in Lev’s card games, though mostly he was a thief.

  “How much?” said Lev.

  “In the stores, fifty cents for a tin of a hundred cigarettes. To you, ten cents. Sell them for a quarter.”

  Lev knew that Fatima was a popular brand. It would be easy to sell them at half price. He looked around the yard. The boss was nowhere to be seen. “All right.”

  “How many do you want? I’ve got a trunkful.”

  Lev had one dollar in his pocket. “Twenty tins,” he said. “I’ll give you a dollar now and a dollar later.”

  “I don’t give credit.”

  Lev grinned and put his hand on Nick’s shoulder. “Come on, buddy, you can trust me. Are we pals, or not?”

  “Twenty it is. I’ll be right back.”

  Lev found an old feed sack in a corner. Nick returned with twenty long green tins, each with a picture of a veiled woman on the lid. Lev put the tins in the sack and gave Nick a dollar. “Always nice to give a helping hand to a fellow Russian,” Nick said, and he sauntered away.

  Lev cleaned his curry comb and hoofpick. At five past six he said good-bye to the chief ostler and headed for the First Ward. He felt a little conspicuous, carrying a feed sack through the streets, and he wondered what he would say if a cop stopped him and demanded to see what was in the sack. But he was not very worried: he could talk his way out of most situations.

  He went to a large, popular bar called the Irish Rover. He pushed through the crowd, bought a tankard of beer, and downed half of it thirstily. Then he sat next to a group of workingmen speaking a mixture of Polish and English. After a few moments he said: “Anyone here smoke Fatimas?”

  A bald man in a leather apron said: “Yeah, I’ll smoke a Fatima now and again.”

  “Want to buy a tin at half price? Twenty-five cents for a hundred smokes.”

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “They got lost. Someone found them.”

  “Sounds a little risky.”

  “I tell you what. Put your money on the table. I won’t pick it up until you tell me to.”

  The men were interested now. The bald man fished in his pocket and came up with a quarter. Lev took a tin from his sack and handed it over. The man opened the tin. He took out a small rectangle of folded paper and opened it to disclose a photograph. “Hey, it’s even got a baseball card!” he said. He put one of the cigarettes in his mouth and lit it. “All right,” he said to Lev. “Pick up your quarter.”

  Another man was watching over Lev’s shoulder. “How much?” he said. Lev told him, and he bought two tins.

  In the next half hour Lev sold all the cigarettes. He was pleased: he had turned two dollars into five in less than an hour. At work it took him a day and a half to earn three dollars. Maybe he would buy some more stolen tins from Nick tomorrow.

  He bought another beer, drank it, and went out, leaving the empty sack on the floor. Outside, he turned toward the Lovejoy district, a poor neighborhood of Buffalo where most of the Russians lived, along with many Italians and Poles. He could buy a steak on the way home and fry it with potatoes. Or he could pick up Marga and take her dancing. Or he could buy a new suit.

  He ought to save it toward Grigori’s fare to America, he thought, guiltily knowing he would do no such thing. Three dollars was a drop in the bucket. What he needed was a really big score. Then he could send Grigori the money all in one go, before he was tempted to spend it.

  He was startled out of his reverie by a tap on his shoulder.

  His heart gave a guilty leap. He turned, half expecting to see a police uniform. But the person who had stopped him was no cop. He was a heavily built man in overalls, with a broken nose and an aggressive scowl. Lev tensed: such a man had only one function.

  The man said: “Who told you to sell smokes in the Irish Rover?”

  “I’m just trying to make a few bucks,” Lev said with a smile. “I hope I didn’t offend anyone.”

  “Was it Nicky Forman? I heard Nick knocked over a truckload of cigarettes.”

  Lev was not going to give that information to a stranger. “I never met anyone by that name,” he said, still using a pleasant tone of voice.

  “Don’t you know the Irish Rover belongs to Mister V?”

  Lev felt a surge of anger. Mister V had to be Josef Vyalov. He dropped the conciliatory tone. “So put up a sign.”

  “You don’t sell stuff in Mister V’s bars ’less he tells you.”

  Lev shrugged. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Here’s something to help you remember,” the man said, and he swung his fist.

  Lev was expecting the blow, and he stepped back sharply. The thug’s arm swept through empty space and he staggered, off balance. Lev stepped forward and kicked him in the shin. A fist was a poor weapon, generally, nowhere near as hard as a booted foot. Lev kicked as powerfully as he could, but it was not enough to break a bone. The man roared with anger, swung again, and missed again.

  There was no point hitting such a man in the face—he had probably lost all feeling there. Lev kicked him in the groin. Both his hands went to his crotch and he gasped for breath, bending forward. Lev kicked him in the stomach. The man opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish, unable to breathe. Lev stepped to one side and kicked the man’s legs from under him. He went down on his back. Lev aimed carefully and kicked his knee, so that when he got up he would not be able to move fast.

  Panting with exertion, he said: “Tell Mister V he should be more polite.”

  He walked away, breathing hard. Behind him he heard someone say: “Hey, Ilya, what the fuck happened?”

  Two streets away his breathing eased and his heartbeat slowed. To hell with Josef Vyalov, he thought. The bastard cheated me and I won’t be bullied.

  Vyalov would not know who had beaten up Ilya. No one in the Irish Rover knew Lev. Vyalov might get mad but there was nothing he could do about it.

  Lev started to feel elated. I put Ilya on the ground, he thought, and there’s not a mark on me!

  He still had a pocket full of money. He stopped to buy two steaks and a bottle of gin.

  He lived on a street of dilapidated brick houses subdivided into small apartments. Outside the house next door Marga was sitting on the stoop filing her nails. She was a pretty black-haired Russian girl of about nineteen with a sexy grin. She worked as a waitress but hoped for a career as a singer. He had bought her drinks a couple of times and kissed her once. She had kissed him back enthusiastically. “Hi, kid!” he shouted.

  “Who are you calling a kid?”

  “What are you doing tonight?”

  “I’ve got a date,” she said.

  Lev did not necessarily believe her. She would never admit that she had nothing to do. “Throw him over,” he said. “He has bad breath.”

  She grinned. “You don’t even know who it is!”

  “Come and see me.” He hefted his paper bag. “I’m cooking steak.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Bring ice.” He went into his building.

  His apartment was a low-rent place, by American standards, but it seemed spacious and luxurious to Lev. It had a bed-sitting-room and a kitchen, with running water and electric light—and he had it all to
himself! In St. Petersburg such an apartment would have housed ten or more people.

  He took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and washed his hands and face at the kitchen sink. He hoped Marga would come. She was his kind of girl, always ready to laugh or dance or have a party, never worrying too much about the future. He peeled and sliced some potatoes, then put a frying pan on the hot plate and dropped in a lump of lard. While the potatoes were frying, Marga came in with a tankard of chipped ice. She made drinks with gin and sugar.

  Lev sipped his drink, then kissed her lightly on the lips. “Tastes good!” he said.

  “You’re fresh,” she said, but it was not a serious protest. He began to wonder if he might get her into bed later.

  He started to fry the steaks. “I’m impressed,” she said. “Not many guys can cook.”

  “My father died when I was six, and my mother when I was eleven,” Lev said. “I was raised by my brother, Grigori. We learned to do everything for ourselves. Not that we ever had steak, in Russia.”

  She asked him about Grigori, and he told her his life story over dinner. Most girls were touched by the tale of two motherless boys struggling to get by, working in a huge locomotive factory and renting space in a bed. He guiltily omitted the part of the story where he abandoned his pregnant girlfriend.

  They had their second drink in the bed-sitting-room. By the time they started on the third it was getting dark outside and she was sitting on his lap. Between sips, Lev kissed her. When she opened her mouth to his tongue, he put his hand on her breast.

  At that moment the door burst open.

  Marga screamed.

  Three men walked in. Marga jumped off Lev’s lap, still screaming. One of the men hit her backhanded across the mouth and said: “Shut the fuck up, bitch.” She ran for the door, both hands to her bleeding lips. They let her go.

  Lev sprang to his feet and lashed out at the man who had hit Marga. He got in one good punch, striking the man over the eye. Then the other two grabbed his arms. They were strong men, and he could not break free. While they held him the first man, who seemed to be their leader, punched him in the mouth, then in the stomach, several times. He spat blood and vomited his steak.