by Follett, Ken
The von Ulrichs had invited the von der Helbards to lunch. Monika’s father, Konrad, was a graf, or count, and her mother was therefore a gräfin, or countess. Gräfin Eva von der Helbard was a formidable woman with gray hair piled in an elaborate coiffure. Before lunch she cornered Walter and told him that Monika was an accomplished violin player and had been top of her school class in all subjects. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his father talking to Monika, and guessed she was getting a school report about him.
He was irritated with his parents for persisting in foisting Monika on him. The fact that he found himself strongly attracted to her made matters worse. She was intelligent as well as beautiful. Her hair was always carefully dressed, but he could not help imagining her unpinning it at night and shaking her head to liberate her curls. Sometimes, these days, he found it hard to picture Maud.
Now Otto raised his glass. “Good-bye to the tsar!” he said.
“I’m surprised at you, Father,” said Walter irritably. “Are you really celebrating the overthrow of a legitimate monarch by a mob of factory workers and mutinous soldiers?”
Otto went red in the face. Walter’s sister, Greta, patted her father’s arm soothingly. “Take no notice, Daddy,” she said. “Walter just says these things to annoy you.”
Konrad said: “I got to know Tsar Nicholas when I was at our embassy in Petrograd.”
Walter said: “And what did you think of him, sir?”
Monika answered for her father. Giving Walter a conspiratorial grin, she said: “Daddy used to say that if the tsar had been born to a different station in life he might, with an effort, have become a competent postman.”
“This is the tragedy of inherited monarchy.” Walter turned to his father. “But you must surely disapprove of democracy in Russia.”
“Democracy?” said Otto derisively. “We shall see. All we know is that the new prime minister is a liberal aristocrat.”
Monika said to Walter: “Do you think Prince Lvov will try to make peace with us?”
It was the question of the hour. “I hope so,” said Walter, trying not to look at Monika’s breasts. “If all our troops on the eastern front could be switched to France we could overrun the Allies.”
She raised her glass and looked over its rim into Walter’s eyes. “Then let’s drink to that,” she said.
In a cold, wet trench in northeastern France, Billy’s platoon was drinking gin.
The bottle had been produced by Robin Mortimer, the cashiered officer. “I’ve been saving this,” he said.
“Well, knock me down with a feather,” said Billy, using one of Mildred’s expressions. Mortimer was a surly beggar and had never been known to buy anyone a drink.
Mortimer splashed liquor into their mess tins. “Here’s to bloody revolution,” he said, and they all drank, then held out their tins for refills.
Billy had been in high spirits even before drinking the gin. The Russians had proved it was still possible to overthrow tyrants.
They were singing “The Red Flag” when Earl Fitzherbert came limping around the traverse, splashing through the mud. He was a colonel now, and more arrogant than ever. “Be quiet, you men!” he shouted.
The singing died down gradually.
Billy said: “We’re celebrating the overthrow of the tsar of Russia!”
Fitz said angrily: “He was a legitimate monarch, and those who deposed him are criminals. No more singing.”
Billy’s contempt for Fitz went up a notch. “He was a tyrant who murdered thousands of his subjects, and all civilized men are rejoicing today.”
Fitz looked more closely at him. The earl no longer wore an eye patch, but his left eyelid had a permanent droop. However, it did not seem to affect his eyesight. “Sergeant Williams—I might have guessed. I know you—and your family.”
And how, Billy thought.
“Your sister’s a peace agitator.”
“So’s yours, sir,” said Billy, and Robin Mortimer laughed raucously, then shut up suddenly.
Fitz said to Billy: “One more insolent word out of you and you’ll be on a charge.”
“Sorry, sir,” said Billy.
“Now calm down, all of you. And no more singing.” Fitz walked away.
Billy said quietly: “Long live the revolution.”
Fitz pretended not to hear.
In London, Princess Bea screamed: “No!”
“Try to stay calm,” said Maud, who had just told her the news.
“They cannot!” Bea screamed. “They cannot make our beloved tsar abdicate! He is the father of his people!”
“It may be for the best—”
“I don’t believe you! It’s a wicked lie!”
The door opened and Grout put his head in, looking worried.
Bea picked up a Japanese bottle-vase containing an arrangement of dried grasses and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall and smashed.
Maud patted Bea’s shoulder. “There, there,” she said. She was not sure what else to do. She herself was delighted that the tsar had been overthrown, but all the same she sympathized with Bea, for whom an entire way of life had been destroyed.
Grout crooked a finger and a maid came in, looking frightened. He pointed at the broken vase, and the maid began to pick up the pieces.
The tea things were on a table: cups, saucers, teapots, jugs of milk and cream, bowls of sugar. Bea swept them all violently to the floor. “Those revolutionaries are going to kill everyone!”
The butler knelt down and began to clear up the mess.
“Don’t excite yourself,” Maud said.
Bea began to cry. “The poor tsaritsa! And her children! What will become of them?”
“Perhaps you should lie down for a while,” Maud said. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your room.” She took Bea’s elbow, and Bea allowed herself to be led away.
“It’s the end of everything,” Bea sobbed.
“Never mind,” said Maud. “Perhaps it’s a new beginning.”
Ethel and Bernie were in Aberowen. It was a sort of honeymoon. Ethel was enjoying showing Bernie the places of her childhood: the pithead, the chapel, the school. She even showed him around Tŷ Gwyn—Fitz and Bea were not in residence—though she did not take him to the Gardenia Suite.
They were staying with the Griffiths family, who had again offered Ethel Tommy’s room, which saved disturbing Gramper. They were in Mrs. Griffiths’s kitchen when her husband, Len, atheist and revolutionary socialist, burst in waving a newspaper. “The tsar have abdicated!” he said.
They all cheered and clapped. For a week they had been hearing of riots in Petrograd, and Ethel had been wondering how it would end.
Bernie asked: “Who’s took over?”
“Provisional government under Prince Lvov,” said Len.
“Not quite a triumph for socialism, then,” said Bernie.
“No.”
Ethel said: “Cheer up, you men—one thing at a time! Let’s go to the Two Crowns and celebrate. I’ll leave Lloyd with Mrs. Ponti for a while.”
The women put on their hats and they all went to the pub. Within an hour the place was crammed. Ethel was astonished to see her mother and father come in. Mrs. Griffiths saw them too, and said: “What the ’ell are they doing here?”
A few minutes later, Ethel’s da stood on a chair and called for quiet. “I know some of you are surprised to see me here, but special occasions call for special actions.” He showed them a pint glass. “I haven’t changed my habits of a lifetime, but the landlord has been kind enough to give me a glass of tap water.” They all laughed. “I’m here to share with my neighbors the triumph that have took place in Russia.” He held up his glass. “A toast—to the revolution!”
They all cheered and drank.
“Well!” said Ethel. “Da in the Two Crowns! I never thought I’d see the day.”
In Josef Vyalov’s ultramodern prairie house in Buffalo, Lev Peshkov helped himself to a drink from the cocktail cabinet. He no longer dran
k vodka. Living with his wealthy father-in-law, he had developed a taste for Scotch whisky. He liked it the way Americans drank it, with lumps of ice.
Lev did not like living with his in-laws. He would have preferred for him and Olga to have a place of their own. But Olga preferred it this way, and her father paid for everything. Until Lev could build up a stash of his own he was stuck.
Josef was reading the paper and Lena was sewing. Lev raised his glass to them. “Long live the revolution!” he said exuberantly.
“Watch your words,” said Josef. “It’s going to be bad for business.”
Olga came in. “Pour me a little glass of sherry, please, darling,” she said.
Lev suppressed a sigh. She loved to ask him to perfom little services, and in front of her parents he could not refuse. He poured sweet sherry into a small glass and handed it to her, bowing like a waiter. She smiled prettily, missing the irony.
He drank a mouthful of Scotch and savored the taste and the burn of it.
Mrs. Vyalov said: “I feel sorry for the poor tsaritsa and her children. What will they do?”
Josef said: “They’ll all be killed by the mob, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Poor things. What did the tsar ever do to those revolutionaries, to deserve this?”
“I can answer that question,” Lev said. He knew he should shut up, but he could not, especially with whisky warming his guts. “When I was eleven years old, the factory where my mother worked went on strike.”
Mrs. Vyalov tutted. She did not believe in strikes.
“The police rounded up all the children of the strikers. I’ll never forget it. I was terrified.”
“Why would they do a thing like that?” said Mrs. Vyalov.
“The police flogged us all,” Lev said. “On our bottoms, with canes. To teach our parents a lesson.”
Mrs. Vyalov had gone white. She could not bear cruelty to children or animals.
“That’s what the tsar and his regime did to me, Mother,” said Lev. He clinked ice in his glass. “That’s why I toast the revolution.”
“What do you think, Gus?” said President Wilson. “You’re the only person around here who’s actually been to Petrograd. What’s going to happen?”
“I hate to sound like a State Department official, but it could go either way,” said Gus.
The president laughed. They were in the Oval Office, Wilson behind the desk, Gus standing in front of it. “Come on,” Wilson said. “Take a guess. Will the Russians pull out of the war or not? It’s the most important question of the year.”
“Okay. All the ministers in the new government belong to scary-sounding political parties with socialist and revolutionary in their names, but in fact they’re middle-class businessmen and professionals. What they really want is a bourgeois revolution that gives them freedom to promote industry and commerce. But the people want bread, peace, and land: bread for the factory workers, peace for the soldiers, and land for the peasants. None of that really appeals to men like Lvov and Kerensky. So, to answer your question, I think Lvov’s government will try for gradual change. In particular, they will carry on fighting the war. But the workers will not be satisfied.”
“And who will win in the end?”
Gus recalled his trip to St. Petersburg, and the man who had demonstrated the casting of a locomotive wheel in a dirty, tumbledown foundry at the Putilov factory. Later, Gus had seen the same man in a fight with a cop over some girl. He could not remember the man’s name, but he could picture him now, his big shoulders and strong arms, one finger a stump, but most of all his fierce blue-eyed look of unstoppable determination. “The Russian people,” Gus said. “They will win in the end.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
April 1917
On a mild day in early spring Walter walked with Monika von der Helbard in the garden of her parents’ town house in Berlin. It was a grand house and the garden was large, with a tennis pavilion, a bowling green, a riding school for exercising horses, and a children’s playground with swings and a slide. Walter remembered coming here as a child and thinking it was paradise. However, it was no longer an idyllic playground. All but the oldest horses had gone to the army. Chickens scratched on the flagstones of the broad terrace. Monika’s mother was fattening a pig in the tennis pavilion. Goats grazed the bowling green, and it was rumored that the gräfin milked them herself.
However, the old trees were coming into leaf, the sun was shining, and Walter was in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves with his coat slung over his shoulder—a state of undress that would have displeased his mother, but she was in the house, gossiping with the gräfin. His sister, Greta, had been walking with Walter and Monika, but she had made an excuse and left them alone—another thing Mother would have deplored, at least in theory.
Monika had a dog called Pierre. It was a standard poodle, long-legged and graceful, with a lot of curly rust-colored hair and light brown eyes, and Walter could not help thinking that it looked a little like Monika, beautiful though she was.
He liked the way she acted with her dog. She did not pet it or feed it scraps or talk to it in a baby voice, as some girls did. She just let it walk at her heel, and occasionally threw an old tennis ball for it to fetch.
“It’s so disappointing about the Russians,” she said.
Walter nodded. Prince Lvov’s government had announced they would continue to fight. Germany’s eastern front was not to be relieved, and there would be no reinforcements for France. The war would drag on. “Our only hope now is that Lvov’s government will fall and the peace faction will take over,” Walter said.
“Is that likely?”
“It’s hard to say. The left revolutionaries are still demanding bread, peace, and land. The government has promised a democratic election for a constituent assembly—but who will win?” He picked up a twig and threw it for Pierre. The dog bounded after it, and proudly brought it back. Walter bent down to pat its head, and when he straightened up Monika was very close to him.
“I like you, Walter,” she said, looking very directly at him with her amber eyes. “I feel as if we would never run out of things to talk about.”
He had the same feeling, and he knew that if he tried to kiss her now she would let him.
He stepped away. “I like you, too,” he said. “And I like your dog.” He laughed, to show that he was speaking lightheartedly.
All the same he could see that she was hurt. She bit her lip and turned away. She had been about as bold as was possible for a well-brought-up girl, and he had rejected her.
They walked on. After a long silence Monika said: “What is your secret, I wonder?”
My God, he thought, she’s sharp. “I have no secrets,” he lied. “Do you?”
“None worth telling.” She reached up and brushed something off his shoulder. “A bee,” she said.
“It’s too soon in the year for bees.”
“Perhaps we shall have an early summer.”
“It’s not that warm.”
She pretended to shiver. “You’re right, it’s chilly. Would you fetch me a wrap? If you go to the kitchen and ask a maid she will find one.”
“Of course.” It was not chilly, but a gentleman never refused such a request, no matter how whimsical. She obviously wanted a minute alone. He strolled back to the house. He had to spurn her advances, but he was sorry to hurt her. They were well suited—their mothers were quite right—and clearly Monika could not understand why he kept pushing her away.
He entered the house and went down the back stairs to the basement, where he found an elderly housemaid in a black dress and a lace cap. She went off to find a shawl.
Walter waited in the hall. The house was decorated in the up-to-date Jugendstil, which did away with the rococo flourishes loved by Walter’s parents and favored well-lit rooms with gentle colors. The pillared hall was all cool gray marble and mushroom-colored carpet.
It seemed to him as if Maud was a million miles away on another planet. And in
a way she was, for the prewar world would never come back. He had not seen his wife nor heard from her for almost three years, and he might never meet her again. Although she had not faded from his mind—he would never forget the passion they had shared—he did find, to his distress, that he could no longer recall the fine details of their times together: what she was wearing, where they were when they kissed or held hands, or what they ate and drank and talked about when they met at those endlessly similar London parties. Sometimes it crossed his mind that the war had in a way divorced them. But he pushed the thought aside: it was shamefully disloyal.
The maid brought him a yellow cashmere shawl. He returned to Monika, who was sitting on a tree stump with Pierre at her feet. Walter gave her the shawl and she put it around her shoulders. The color suited her, making her eyes gleam and her skin glow.
She had a strange look on her face, and she handed him his wallet. “This must have fallen out of your coat,” she said.
“Oh, thank you.” He returned it to the inside pocket of the coat that he still had slung over his shoulder.
She said: “Let’s go back to the house.”
“As you wish.”
Her mood had changed. Perhaps she had simply decided to give up on him. Or had something else happened?
He was struck by a frightening thought. Had his wallet really fallen out of his coat? Or had she taken it, like a pickpocket, when she brushed that unlikely bee off his shoulder? “Monika,” he said, and he stopped and turned to face her. “Did you look inside my wallet?”
“You said you had no secrets,” she said, and she blushed bright red.
She must have seen the newspaper clipping he carried: Lady Maud Fitzherbert is always dressed in the latest fashion. “That was most ill-mannered of you,” he said angrily. He was mainly angry with himself. He should not have kept the incriminating photo. If Monika could figure out its significance, so could others. Then he would be disgraced and drummed out of the army. He might be accused of treason and jailed or even shot.
He had been foolish. But he knew he would never throw the picture away. It was all he had of Maud.
