by Follett, Ken
He recalled vividly that Caroline Wigmore had communicated her needs to him with unmistakable clarity. He found himself thinking a lot about Caroline, who was the only other woman he had ever loved. If she could say what she wanted, why not Olga? But Caroline had been a married woman, whereas Olga was a virgin who had had a sheltered upbringing.
Gus stopped in front of the bear pit, and they looked through the steel bars at a small brown bear sitting on its haunches staring back at them. “I wonder if all our days could be this happy,” Gus said.
“Why not?” she said.
Was that encouragement? He looked at her. She did not return his gaze, but watched the bear. He studied her blue eyes, the soft curve of her pink cheek, the delicate skin of her neck. “I wish I were Titian,” he said. “I’d paint you.”
Her mother and Chuck went by and strolled on, leaving Gus and Olga behind. They were as alone as they would ever be.
She turned her gaze on him at last, and he thought he saw something like fondness in her eyes. That gave him courage. He thought: If a president who has been a widower less than a year can do it, surely I can?
He said: “I love you, Olga.”
She said nothing, but continued to look at him.
He swallowed. Once again he could not make her out. He said: “Is there any chance . . . May I hope that one day you might love me too?” He stared at her, holding his breath. At this moment she held his life in her hands.
There was a long pause. Was she thinking? Weighing him in the balance? Or just hesitating before a life-changing decision?
At last she smiled and said: “Oh, yes.”
He could hardly believe it. “Really?”
She laughed happily. “Really.”
He took her hand. “Do you love me?”
She nodded.
“You have to say it.”
“Yes, Gus, I love you.”
He kissed her hand. “I’ll speak to your father before I go to Washington.”
She smiled. “I think I know what he will say.”
“After that we can tell everyone.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” he said fervently. “You have made me very happy.”
{ VII }
Gus called at Josef Vyalov’s office in the morning and formally asked permission to propose to his daughter. Vyalov pronounced himself delighted. Although that was the answer Gus expected, he found himself weak with relief afterward.
Gus was on his way to the station to catch a train to Washington, so they agreed to celebrate as soon as he could get back. Meanwhile, Gus was happy to leave it to Olga’s mother and his to plan the wedding.
Entering Central Station on Exchange Street with a spring in his step, he ran into Rosa Hellman coming out, wearing a red hat, carrying a small overnight bag. “Hello,” he said. “May I help you with your luggage?”
“No, thanks, it’s light,” she said. “I was only away one night. I went for an interview with one of the wire services.”
He raised his eyebrows. “For a job as a reporter?”
“Yes—and I got it.”
“Congratulations! Forgive me if I sound surprised—I didn’t think they employed women writers.”
“It’s unusual, but not unknown. The New York Times hired its first female reporter in 1869. Her name was Maria Morgan.”
“What will you be doing?”
“I’ll be the assistant to their Washington correspondent. The truth is, the president’s love life has made them think they need a woman there. Men are liable to miss romantic stories.”
Gus wondered if she had mentioned that she was friendly with one of Wilson’s closest aides. He guessed she had: reporters were never coy. No doubt it had helped her get the job. “I’m on my way back,” he said. “I guess we’ll see each other there.”
“I hope so.”
“I have some good news, too,” he said happily. “I proposed to Olga Vyalov—and she accepted me. We’re getting married.”
She gave him a long look, then she said: “You fool.”
He could not have been more shocked if she had slapped him. He stared at her openmouthed.
“You goddamn fool,” she said, and she walked away.
{ VIII }
Two more Americans died on August 19 when the Germans torpedoed another large British liner, the Arabic.
Gus was sorry for the victims but even more aghast at America’s being pulled inexorably into the European conflict. He felt that the president was on the brink. Gus wanted to get married in a world of peace and happiness; he dreaded a future blighted by the mayhem and cruelty and destruction of war.
On Wilson’s instructions, Gus told a few reporters, off the record, that the president was on the point of breaking off diplomatic relations with Germany. Meanwhile the new secretary of state, Robert Lansing, tried to make some kind of deal with the German ambassador, Count Johann von Bernstorff.
It could go horribly wrong, Gus thought. The Germans could call Wilson’s bluff and defy him. Then what would he do? If he did nothing he would look stupid. He told Gus that breaking off diplomatic relations would not necessarily lead to war. Gus was left with the frightening feeling that the crisis was out of control.
But the kaiser did not want war with America and, to Gus’s immense relief, Wilson’s gamble paid off. At the end of August the Germans promised not to attack passenger ships without warning. It was not a fully satisfactory reassurance, but it ended the standoff.
The American newspapers, missing all the nuances, were ecstatic. On September 2 Gus triumphantly read aloud to Wilson a paragraph from a laudatory article in that day’s New York Evening Post. “Without mobilizing a regiment or assembling a fleet, by sheer, dogged, unwavering persistence in advocating the right, he has compelled the surrender of the proudest, the most arrogant, the best armed of nations.”
“They haven’t surrendered yet,” said the president.
{ IX }
One evening in late September they took Lev to the warehouse, stripped him naked, and tied his hands behind his back. Then Vyalov came out of his office. “You dog,” he said. “You mad dog.”
“What have I done?” Lev pleaded.
“You know what you’ve done, you filthy cur,” said Vyalov.
Lev was terrified. He could not talk his way out of this if Vyalov would not listen.
Vyalov took off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Bring it to me,” he said.
Norman Niall, his weedy accountant, went into the office and returned with a knout.
Lev stared at it. It was the standard Russian pattern, traditionally used to punish criminals. It had a long wooden handle and three hardened leather thongs each terminating in a lead ball. Lev had never been flogged, but he had seen it done. In the countryside it was a common punishment for petty theft or adultery. In St. Petersburg the knout was often used on political offenders. Twenty lashes could cripple a man; a hundred would kill him.
Vyalov, still wearing his waistcoat with the gold watch chain, hefted the knout. Niall giggled. Ilya and Theo looked on with interest.
Lev cowered away, turning his back, pressing himself up against a stack of tires. The whip came down with a cruel swish, biting into his neck and shoulders, and he screamed in pain.
Vyalov brought the whip down again. This time it hurt more.
Lev could not believe what a fool he had been. He had fucked the virgin daughter of a powerful and violent man. What had he been thinking of? Why could he never resist temptation?
Vyalov lashed again. This time Lev flung himself away from the knout, trying to dodge the blow. Only the very ends of the thongs connected, but they still dug agonizingly into his flesh, and he cried out in pain again. He tried to get away, but Vyalov’s men pushed him back, laughing.
Vyalov raised the whip again, started to bring it down, stopped in midswipe as Lev dodged, then struck. Lev’s legs were slashed, and he saw blood pouring from the cuts. When Vyalov lashed again, Lev d
esperately flung himself away, then stumbled and fell to the concrete floor. As he lay on his back, losing strength rapidly, Vyalov whipped his front, striking his belly and thighs. Lev rolled over, too agonized and terror-struck to get to his feet, but the knout kept coming down. He summoned the energy to crawl a short way on his knees, like a baby, but he slipped in his own blood, and the whip came down again. He stopped screaming: he had no breath. Vyalov was going to flog him to death, he decided. He longed for oblivion to come.
But Vyalov denied him that relief. He dropped the knout, panting with exertion. “I ought to kill you,” he said when he had caught his breath. “But I can’t.”
Lev was baffled. He lay in a pool of blood, staring at his torturer.
“She’s pregnant,” Vyalov said.
In a haze of fear and pain, Lev tried to think. They had used condoms. You could buy them in any big American city. He had always put one on—except for that first time, of course, when he had not been expecting anything . . . and the time she had been showing him around the empty house and they had done it on the big bed in the guest room . . . and once in the garden after dark . . .
There had been several times, he realized.
“She was going to marry Senator Dewar’s boy,” Vyalov said, and Lev could hear bitterness as well as rage in his harsh voice. “My grandson might have been a president.”
It was hard for Lev to think straight, but he realized that the wedding would have to be called off. Gus Dewar would not marry a girl who was pregnant with someone else’s baby, no matter how much he loved her. Unless . . .
Lev managed to croak a few words. “She doesn’t have to have the baby . . . there are doctors right here in town . . . ”
Vyalov snatched up the knout, and Lev cowered away. Vyalov screamed: “Never even think about that! It’s against the will of God!”
Lev was amazed. Every Sunday he drove the Vyalov family to church, but he had assumed religion was a sham for Josef. The man lived by dishonesty and violence. Yet he could not bear to hear mention of abortion! Lev wanted to ask whether his church did not prohibit bribery and beating people up.
Vyalov said: “Can you imagine the humiliation you’re causing me? Every newspaper in town reported the engagement.” His face reddened and his voice rose to a roar. “What am I going to say to Senator Dewar? I’ve booked the church! I’ve hired caterers! The invitations are at the printers! I can just see Mrs. Dewar, that proud old cunt, laughing at me behind her wrinkled hand. And all because of a fucking chauffeur!”
He raised the knout again, then threw it away with a violent gesture. “I can’t kill you.” He turned to Theo. “Take this piece of shit to the doctor,” he said. “Get him patched up. He’s going to marry my daughter.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
June 1916
Billy’s father said: “Can we have a chat, boyo?”
Billy was astonished. For almost two years, ever since Billy had stopped attending the Bethesda Chapel, they had hardly spoken. There was always tension in the air at the little house in Wellington Row. Billy had almost forgotten what it was like to hear soft voices talking amiably in the kitchen—or even loud voices raised in the passionate arguments they had used to have. The bad atmosphere was half the reason Billy had joined the army.
Da’s tone now was almost humble. Billy looked carefully at his face. His expression told the same story: no aggression, no challenge, just a plea.
All the same, Billy was not prepared to dance to his tune. “What for?” he said.
Da opened his mouth to snap a retort, then visibly controlled himself. “I’ve acted proud,” he said. “It’s a sin. You may have been proud, too, but that’s between you and the Lord, and it’s no excuse for me.”
“It’s taken you two years to work that out.”
“It would have took me longer if you hadn’t gone in the army.”
Billy and Tommy had volunteered last year, lying about their age. They had joined the Eighth Battalion of the Welsh Rifles, known as the Aberowen Pals. The Pals’ battalions were a new idea. Men from the same town were kept together, to train and fight alongside people with whom they had grown up. It was thought to be good for morale.
Billy’s group had done a year’s training, mostly at a new camp outside Cardiff. He had enjoyed himself. It was easier than coal mining and a lot less dangerous. As well as a certain amount of grinding boredom—training often meant the same as waiting—there had been sports and games and the camaraderie of a group of young men learning new ways. During a long period with nothing to do he had picked up a book at random and found himself reading the play Macbeth. To his surprise he had found the story thrilling and the poetry strangely fascinating. Shakespeare’s language was not difficult for someone who had spent so many hours studying the seventeenth-century English of the Protestant Bible. He had since gone through the complete works, rereading the best plays several times.
Now training was over, and the Pals had two days’ leave before going to France. Da thought this might be the last time he saw Billy alive. That would be why he was humbling himself to talk.
Billy looked at the clock. He had come here only to say good-bye to his mother. He was planning to spend his leave in London, with his sister Ethel and her sexy lodger. Mildred’s pretty face, with her red lips and bunny teeth, had remained vividly in his mind ever since she had shocked him by saying Fucking hell, are you Billy? His kit bag stood on the floor by the door, packed and ready. His complete Shakespeare was in it. Tommy was waiting for him at the station. “I’ve got a train to catch,” he said.
“There are plenty of trains,” Da said. “Sit down, Billy . . . please.”
Billy was not comfortable with his father in this mood. Da might be righteous, arrogant, and harsh, but at least he was strong. Billy did not want to see him weaken.
Gramper was in his usual chair, listening. “Be a good boy, now, Billy,” he said persuasively. “Give your da a chance, is it?”
“All right, then.” Billy sat at the kitchen table.
His mother came in from the scullery.
There was a moment of silence. Billy knew he might never enter this house again. Coming back from an army camp, he had seen for the first time that his home was small, the rooms dark, the air heavy with coal dust and cooking smells. Most of all, after the free-and-easy banter of the barracks, he understood that in this house he had been raised to a Bible-black respectability in which much that was human and natural found no expression. And yet the thought of going made him sad. It was not just the place, it was the life he was leaving. Everything had been simple here. He had believed in God, obeyed his father, and trusted his workmates down the pit. The coal owners were wicked, the union protected the men, and socialism offered a brighter future. But life was not that simple. He might return to Wellington Row, but he would never again be the boy who had lived here.
Da folded his hands, closed his eyes, and said: “Oh, Lord, help thy servant to be humble and meek as Jesus was.” Then he opened his eyes and said: “Why did you do it, Billy? Why did you join up?”
“Because we’re at war,” Billy said. “Like it or not, we have to fight.”
“But can’t you see—” Da stopped and held up his hands in a pacific gesture. “Let me start again. You don’t believe what you read in the newspapers about the Germans being evil men who rape nuns, do you?”
“No,” said Billy. “Everything the papers ever said about coal miners was lies, so I don’t suppose they’re telling the truth about the Germans.”
“The way I see it, this is a capitalist war that has got nothing to do with the workingman,” Da said. “But you may disagree.”
Billy was amazed by the effort his father was making to be conciliatory. Never before had he heard Da say you may disagree. He replied: “I don’t know much about capitalism, but I expect you’re right. All the same, the Germans have got to be stopped. They think they’re entitled to rule the world!”
Da said: “We’re
British. Our empire holds sway over more than four hundred million people. Hardly any of them are entitled to vote. They have no control over their own countries. Ask the average British man why, and he’ll say it’s our destiny to govern inferior peoples.” Da spread both hands in a gesture that meant Isn’t it obvious? “Billy boy, it’s not the Germans who think they should rule the world—it’s us!”
Billy sighed. He agreed with all this. “But we’re under attack. The reasons for the war may be wrong, but we have to fight, regardless.”
“How many have died in the last two years?” Da said. “Millions!” His voice went up a notch, but he was not angry so much as sad. “It will go on as long as young men are willing to kill one another regardless, as you say.”
“It will go on until someone wins, I suppose.”
His mother said: “I expect you’re afraid people will think you’re scared.”
“No,” he said, but she was right. His rational explanations for joining up were not the whole story. As usual, Mam saw into his heart. For almost two years he had been hearing and reading that able-bodied young men such as himself were cowards if they did not fight. It was in the newspapers; people said it in shops and pubs; in Cardiff city center pretty girls handed out white feathers to any boy not in uniform, and recruiting sergeants jeered at young civilians on the streets. Billy knew it was propaganda, but it affected him just the same. He found it hard to bear the thought that people believed him to be a coward.
He fantasized explaining, to those girls with white feathers, that coal mining was more dangerous than being in the army. Apart from frontline troops, most soldiers were less likely to be killed or injured than miners. And Britain needed the coal. It fueled half the navy. The government had actually said it did not want miners to join up. None of this made any difference. Since he had put on the itchy khaki tunic and trousers, the new boots and the peaked cap, he had felt better.
