by Follett, Ken
“You’re better off than me,” Bernie said, but already she could feel him beginning to relax. “Just a few fumbles.”
“What were their names?”
“Oh, you don’t want to know.”
She grinned. “Yes, I do. How many women? Six? Ten? Twenty?”
“Good God, no. Three. The first was Rachel Wright, in school. Afterward she said we would have to get married, and I believed her. I was so worried.”
Ethel giggled. “What happened?”
“The next week she did it with Micky Armstrong, and I was off the hook.”
“Was it nice with her?”
“I suppose it was. I was only sixteen. Mainly I just wanted to be able to say I had done it.”
She kissed him gently, then said: “Who was next?”
“Carol McAllister. She was a neighbor. I paid her a shilling. It was a bit brief—I think she knew what to do and say to get it over quickly. The part she liked was taking the money.”
Ethel frowned disapprovingly, then recalled the house in Chelsea, and realized she had contemplated doing the same as Carol McAllister. Feeling uncomfortable, she said: “Who was the other one?”
“An older woman. She was my landlady. She came to my bed at night when her husband was away.”
“Was it nice with her?”
“Lovely. It was a happy time for me.”
“What went wrong?”
“Her husband got suspicious and I had to leave.”
“And then?”
“Then I met you, and I lost all interest in other women.”
They began to kiss. Soon he pushed up the skirt of her nightdress and got on top of her. He was gentle, worried about hurting her, but he entered her easily. She felt a surge of affection for him, for his kindness and intelligence and devotion to her and her child. She put her arms around him and hugged his body to hers. Quite soon, his climax came. Then they both lay back, content, and went to sleep.
{ V }
Women’s skirts had changed, Gus Dewar realized. They now showed the ankles. Ten years ago, a glimpse of ankle had been arousing; now it was mundane. Perhaps women covered their nakedness to make themselves more alluring, not less.
Rosa Hellman was wearing a dark-red coat that fell in pleats from the yoke at the back, rather fashionable. It was trimmed with black fur, which he guessed was welcome in Washington in February. Her gray hat was small and round with a red hatband and a feather, not very practical, but when was the last time American women’s hats had been designed for practical purposes? “I’m honored by this invitation,” she said. He could not be sure whether she was mocking him. “You’re only just back from Europe, aren’t you?”
They were having lunch in the dining room of the Willard Hotel, two blocks east of the White House. Gus had invited her for a specific purpose. “I’ve got a story for you,” he said as soon as they had ordered.
“Oh, good! Let me guess. The president is going to divorce Edith and marry Mary Peck?”
Gus frowned. Wilson had had a dalliance with Mary Peck while he was married to his first wife. Gus doubted whether they had actually committed adultery, but Wilson had been foolish enough to write letters that showed more affection than was seemly. Washington gossips knew all about it, but nothing had been printed. “I’m talking about something serious,” Gus said sternly.
“Oh, sorry,” said Rosa. She composed her face in a solemn expression that made Gus want to laugh.
“The only condition is going to be that you can’t say you got the information from the White House.”
“Agreed.”
“I’m going to show you a telegram from the German foreign minister, Arthur Zimmermann, to the German ambassador in Mexico.”
She looked astonished. “Where did you get that?”
“From Western Union,” he lied.
“Isn’t it in code?”
“Codes can be broken.” He handed her a typewritten copy of the full English translation.
“Is this off the record?” she said.
“No. The only thing I want you to keep to yourself is where you got it.”
“Okay.” She began to read. After a moment, her mouth dropped open. She looked up. “Gus,” she said. “Is this real?”
“When did you know me to play a practical joke?”
“The last time was never.” She read on. “The Germans are going to pay Mexico to invade Texas?”
“That’s what Herr Zimmermann says.”
“This isn’t a story, Gus—this is the scoop of the century!”
He allowed himself a small smile, trying not to appear as triumphant as he felt. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”
“Are you acting independently, or on behalf of the president?”
“Rosa, do you imagine I would do a thing like this without approval from the very top?”
“I guess not. Wow. So this comes to me from President Wilson.”
“Not officially.”
“But how do I know it’s true? I don’t think I can write the story based only on a scrap of paper and your word.”
Gus had anticipated this snag. “Secretary of State Lansing will personally confirm the authenticity of the telegram to your boss, provided the conversation is confidential.”
“Good enough.” She looked down at the sheet of paper again. “This changes everything. Can you imagine what the American people will say when they read it?”
“I think it will make them more inclined to join in the war and fight against Germany.”
“Inclined?” she said. “They’re going to be foaming at the mouth! Wilson will have to declare war.”
Gus said nothing.
After a moment, Rosa interpreted his silence. “Oh, I see. That’s why you’re releasing the telegram. The president wants to declare war.”
She was dead right. He smiled, enjoying this dance of wits with a bright woman. “I’m not saying that.”
“But this telegram will anger the American people so much that they will demand war. And Wilson will be able to say he did not renege on his election promises—he was forced by public opinion to change his policy.”
She was in fact a bit too bright for his purposes. He said anxiously: “That’s not the story you’ll write, is it?”
She smiled. “Oh, no. That’s just me refusing to take anything at face value. I was an anarchist once, you know.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m a reporter. And there’s only one way to write this story.”
He felt relieved.
The waiter brought their food: poached salmon for her, steak and mashed potatoes for him. Rosa stood up. “I have to get back to the office.”
Gus was startled. “What about your lunch?”
“Are you serious?” she said. “I can’t eat. Don’t you understand what you’ve done?”
He thought he did, but he said: “Tell me.”
“You’ve just sent America to war.”
Gus nodded. “I know,” he said. “Go write the story.”
“Hey,” she said. “Thanks for picking me.”
A moment later she was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
March 1917
That winter in Petrograd was cold and hungry. The thermometer outside the barracks of the First Machine Gun Regiment stayed at minus fifteen degrees centigrade for a full month. Bakers stopped making pies, cakes, pastries, and anything else other than bread, but still there was not enough flour. Armed guards were posted at the barracks kitchen door because so many soldiers tried to beg or steal extra food.
One bitterly cold day early in March Grigori got an afternoon pass and decided to go and see Vladimir, who would be with the landlady while Katerina was at work. He put on his army greatcoat and set off through icy streets. On Nevsky Prospekt he caught the eye of a child beggar, a girl of about nine, standing on a corner in an arctic wind. Something about her bothered him, and he frowned as he walked past. A minute later he realized what had struck
him. She had given him a look of sexual invitation. He was so shocked that he stopped in his tracks. How could she be a whore at that age? He turned around, intending to question her, but she was gone.
He walked on with a troubled mind. He knew, of course, that there were men who wanted sex with children: he had learned that when he and little Lev sought help from a priest, all those years ago. But somehow the picture of that nine-year-old pathetically imitating a come-hither smile wrenched at his heart. It made him want to weep for his country. We are turning our children into prostitutes, he thought: can it possibly get any worse?
He was in a grim mood when he reached his old lodgings. As soon as he entered the house he heard Vladimir bawling. He went up to Katerina’s room and found the child alone, his face red and contorted with crying. He picked him up and rocked him.
The room was clean and tidy, and smelled of Katerina. Grigori came here most Sundays. They had a routine: they went out in the morning, then came home and made lunch, with food Grigori brought from the barracks when he could get any. Afterward, while Vladimir had his nap, they made love. On Sundays when there was enough to eat, Grigori was blissfully happy in this room.
Vladimir’s yelling became a droning discontented grizzle. With the child in his arms, Grigori went to look for the landlady, who was supposed to be watching Vladimir. He found her in the laundry, a low-built extension at the back of the house, running wet bedsheets through a mangle. She was a woman of about fifty with gray hair tied up in a scarf. She had been plump back in 1914 when Grigori left to go in the army, but now her throat was scraggy and her jowls hung loose. Even landladies were hungry these days.
She looked startled and guilty when she saw him. Grigori said: “Didn’t you hear the child crying?”
“I can’t rock him all day,” she said defensively, and went on turning the handle of the wringer.
“Perhaps he’s hungry.”
“He’s had his milk,” she said quickly. Her response was suspiciously rapid, and Grigori guessed she had drunk the milk herself. He wanted to strangle her.
In the cold air of the unheated laundry he felt Vladimir’s soft baby skin radiating heat. “I think he’s got a fever,” he said. “Didn’t you notice his temperature?”
“Am I a doctor, now, too?”
Vladimir stopped crying and fell into a state of lassitude that Grigori found more worrying. He was normally an alert, busy child, curious and mildly destructive, but now he lay still in Grigori’s arms, his face flushed, his eyes staring.
Grigori put him back on his bed in the corner of Katerina’s room. He took a jug from Katerina’s shelf, left the house, and hurried to the next street, where there was a general store. He bought some milk, a little sugar in a twist of paper, and an apple.
When he got back Vladimir was the same.
He warmed the milk, dissolved the sugar in it, and broke a crust of stale bread into the mixture, then fed morsels of soaked bread to Vladimir. He recalled his mother giving this to baby Lev when he was sick. Vladimir ate as if he was hungry and thirsty.
When all the bread and milk were gone, Grigori took out the apple. With his pocketknife he cut it into segments and peeled a slice. He ate the peel himself and offered the rest to Vladimir, saying: “Some for me, some for you.” In the past the boy had been amused by this procedure, but now he was indifferent, and let the apple fall from his mouth.
There was no doctor nearby, and anyway Grigori could not afford the fee, but there was a midwife a few streets away. She was Magda, the pretty wife of Grigori’s old friend Konstantin, the secretary of the Putilov Bolshevik Committee. Grigori and Konstantin played chess whenever they got the chance—Grigori usually won.
Grigori put a clean diaper on Vladimir, then wrapped him in the blanket from Katerina’s bed, leaving only his eyes and nose visible. They went out into the cold.
Konstantin and Magda lived in a two-room apartment with Magda’s aunt, who watched their three small children. Grigori was afraid Magda would be out delivering a baby, but he was in luck and she was at home.
Magda was knowledgeable and kindhearted, though a bit brisk. She felt Vladimir’s forehead and said: “He has an infection.”
“How bad?”
“Does he cough?”
“No.”
“What are his stools like?”
“Runny.”
She took off Vladimir’s clothes and said: “I suppose Katerina’s breasts have no milk.”
“How did you know that?” Grigori said in surprise.
“It’s common. A woman cannot feed a baby unless she herself is fed. Nothing comes from nothing. That’s why the child is so thin.”
Grigori did not know Vladimir was thin.
Magda poked Vladimir’s belly and made him cry. “Inflammation of the bowels,” she said.
“Will he be all right?”
“Probably. Children get infections all the time. They usually survive.”
“What can we do?”
“Bathe his forehead with tepid water to bring down his temperature. Give him plenty to drink, all he wants. Don’t worry about whether he eats. Feed Katerina, so that she can nurse him. Mother’s milk is what he needs.”
Grigori took Vladimir home. He bought more milk on the way, and warmed it up on the fire. He gave it to Vladimir on a teaspoon, and the boy drank it all. Then he warmed a pan of water and bathed Vladimir’s face with a rag. It seemed to work: the child lost the flushed, staring look and began to breathe normally.
Grigori was feeling less anxious when Katerina came home at half past seven. She looked tired and cold. She had bought a cabbage and a few grams of pork fat, and Grigori put them in a saucepan to make stew while she rested. He told her about Vladimir’s fever, the negligent landlady, and Magda’s prescription. “What can I do?” Katerina said with weary despair. “I have to go to the factory. There is no one else to watch Volodya.”
Grigori fed the child with the broth from the stew, then put him down to sleep. When Grigori and Katerina had eaten they lay on the bed together. “Don’t let me sleep too long,” Katerina said. “I have to join the bread queue.”
“I’ll go for you,” Grigori said. “You rest.” He would be late back to the barracks, but he could probably get away with that: the officers were too fearful of mutiny, these days, to make a fuss about minor transgressions.
Katerina took him at his word, and fell into a deep sleep.
When he heard the church clock strike two, he put on his boots and greatcoat. Vladimir seemed to be sleeping normally. Grigori left the house and walked to the bakery. To his surprise there was already a long queue, and he realized he had left it a bit late. There were about a hundred people in line, muffled up, stamping their feet in the snow. Some had brought chairs or stools. An enterprising young man with a brazier was selling porridge, washing the bowls in the snow when they were done with. A dozen more people joined the queue behind Grigori.
They gossiped and grumbled while they waited. Two women ahead of Grigori argued about who was to blame for the bread shortage: one said Germans at court, the other Jews hoarding flour. “Who rules?” Grigori said to them. “If a streetcar overturns, you blame the driver, because he was in charge. The Jews don’t rule us. The Germans don’t rule us. It’s the tsar and the nobility.” This was the Bolshevik message.
“Who would rule, if there was no tsar?” said the younger woman skeptically. She was wearing a yellow felt hat.
“I think we should rule ourselves,” said Grigori. “As they do in France and America.”
“I don’t know,” said the older woman. “It can’t go on like this.”
The shop opened at five. A minute later the news came down the line that customers were rationed to one loaf per person. “All night, just for one loaf!” said the woman in the yellow hat.
It took another hour to shuffle to the head of the queue. The baker’s wife was admitting customers one at a time. The older of the two women ahead of Grigori went in, then the
baker’s wife said: “That’s all. No more bread.”
The woman in the yellow hat said: “No, please! Just one more!”
The baker’s wife wore a stony expression. Perhaps this had happened before. “If he had more flour, he’d bake more bread,” she said. “It’s all gone, do you hear me? I can’t sell you bread if I haven’t got any.”
The last customer came out of the shop with her loaf under her coat and hurried away.
The woman in the yellow hat began to cry.
The baker’s wife slammed the door.
Grigori turned and walked away.
{ II }
Spring came to Petrograd on Thursday, March 8, but the Russian empire clung obstinately to the calendar of Julius Caesar, so they called it February 23. The rest of Europe had been using the modern calendar for three hundred years.
The rise in temperature coincided with International Women’s Day, and the female workers from the textile mills came out on strike and marched from the industrial suburbs into the city center to protest against the bread queues, the war, and the tsar. Bread rationing had been announced, but it seemed to have made the shortage worse.
The First Machine Gun Regiment, like all army units in the city, was detailed to help the police and the mounted Cossacks keep order. What would happen, Grigori wondered, if the soldiers were ordered to fire on the marchers? Would they obey? Or would they turn their rifles on their officers? In 1905 they had obeyed orders and shot workers. But since then the Russian people had suffered a decade of tyranny, repression, war, and hunger.
However, there was no trouble, and Grigori and his section returned to barracks that evening without having fired a shot.
On Friday more workers came out on strike.
The tsar was at army headquarters, four hundred miles away at Mogilev. In charge of the city was the commander of the Petrograd Military District, General Khabalov. He decided to keep marchers out of the center by stationing soldiers at the bridges. Grigori’s section was posted close to the barracks, guarding the Liteiny Bridge that led across the Neva River to Liteiny Prospekt. But the water was still frozen solid, and the marchers foiled the army by simply walking across the ice—to the delight of the watching soldiers, most of whom, like Grigori, sympathized with the marchers.
