Fall of Giants

by Follett, Ken

  Lev studied Hall. The man was adjusting a heavy stamping machine, turning a nut with a long-handled wrench. He had a pugnacious air and, when he glanced up and saw Lev and Vyalov, he gave them a challenging look, as if he might be about to ask whether they wanted to make trouble.

  Vyalov shouted over the noise of a nearby grinder. “Come here, Hall.”

  The man took his time, replacing the wrench in a toolbox and wiping his hands on a rag before approaching.

  Vyalov said: “This is your new boss, Lev Peshkov.”

  “How do,” Hall said to Lev, then he turned back to Vyalov. “Peter Fisher got a nasty cut on his face from a flying shard of steel this morning. Had to be taken to the hospital.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Vyalov said. “Metalworking is a hazardous industry, but no one is forced to work here.”

  “It just missed his eye,” Hall said indignantly. “We ought to have goggles.”

  “No one has lost an eye in my time here.”

  Hall became angry quickly. “Do we have to wait until someone is blinded before we get goggles?”

  “How else will I know you need them?”

  “A man who has never been robbed still puts a lock on the door of his house.”

  “But he’s paying for it himself.”

  Hall nodded as if he had been expecting nothing better and, with an air of weary wisdom, returned to his machine.

  “They’re always asking for something,” Vyalov said to Lev.

  Lev gathered that Vyalov wanted him to be tough. Well, he knew how to do that. It was the way all factories were run in Petrograd.

  They left the plant and drove up Delaware Avenue. Lev guessed they were going home to dinner. It would never occur to Vyalov to ask whether that was okay with Lev. Vyalov made decisions for everyone.

  In the house Lev took off his shoes, which were dirty from the foundry, and put on a pair of embroidered slippers Olga had given him for Christmas, then he went to the baby’s room. Olga’s mother, Lena, was there with Daisy.

  Lena said: “Look, Daisy, here’s your father!”

  Lev’s daughter was now fourteen months old and just beginning to walk. She came staggering across the room toward him, smiling, then fell over and cried. He picked her up and kissed her. He had never before taken the least interest in babies or children, but Daisy had captured his heart. When she was fractious and did not want to go to bed, and no one else could soothe her, he would rock her, murmuring endearments and singing fragments of Russian folk songs, until her eyes closed, her tiny body went limp, and she fell asleep in his arms.

  Lena said: “She looks just like her handsome daddy!”

  Lev thought she looked like a baby, but he did not contradict his mother-in-law. Lena adored him. She flirted with him, touched him a lot, and kissed him at every opportunity. She was in love with him, though she undoubtedly thought she was showing nothing more than normal family affection.

  On the other side of the room was a young Russian girl called Polina. She was the nurse, but she was not overworked: Olga and Lena spent most of their time taking care of Daisy. Now Lev handed the baby to Polina. As he did so, Polina gave him a direct look. She was a classic Russian beauty, with blond hair and high cheekbones. Lev wondered briefly whether he could have an affair with her and get away with it. She had her own tiny bedroom. Could he sneak in without anyone noticing? It might be worth the risk: that look had shown eagerness.

  Olga came in, making him feel guilty. “What a surprise!” she said when she saw him. “I didn’t expect you back until three in the morning.”

  “Your father has moved me,” Lev said sourly. “I’m running the foundry now.”

  “But why? I thought you were doing well at the club.”

  “I don’t know why,” Lev lied.

  “Maybe because of the draft,” Olga said. President Wilson had declared war on Germany and was about to introduce conscription. “The foundry will be classified as an essential war industry. Daddy wants to keep you out of the army.”

  Lev knew from the newspapers that conscription would be run by local draft boards. Vyalov was sure to have at least one crony on the board who would fix anything he asked for. That was how this town worked. But Lev did not disabuse Olga. He needed a cover story that did not involve Marga, and Olga had invented one. “Sure,” he said. “I guess that must be it.”

  Daisy said: “Dadda.”

  “Clever girl!” Polina said.

  Lena said: “I’m sure you’ll make a good job of managing the foundry.”

  Lev gave her his best aw-shucks American grin. “Guess I’ll do my best,” he said.

  { II }

  Gus Dewar felt his European mission for the president had been a failure. “Failure?” said Woodrow Wilson. “Heck, no! You got the Germans to make a peace offer. It’s not your fault the British and French told them to drop dead. You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.” All the same, the truth was that Gus had not succeeded in bringing the two sides together even for preliminary discussions.

  So he was all the more eager to succeed in the next major task Wilson gave him. “The Buffalo Metal Works has been closed by a strike,” the president said. “We have ships and planes and military vehicles stuck on production lines waiting for the propellers and fans they make. You come from Buffalo, go up there and get them back to work.”

  On his first night back in his hometown, Gus went to dinner at the home of Chuck Dixon, once his rival for the affections of Olga Vyalov. Chuck and his new wife, Doris, had a Victorian mansion on Elmwood Avenue, which ran parallel to Delaware, and Chuck took the Belt Line railway every morning to work in his father’s bank.

  Doris was a pretty girl who looked a bit like Olga, and as Gus watched the newlyweds he wondered how much he would like this life of domesticity. He had once dreamed of waking up every morning next to Olga, but that was two years ago, and now that her enchantment had worn off he thought he might prefer his bachelor apartment on Sixteenth Street in Washington.

  When they sat down to their steaks and mashed potatoes, Doris said: “What happened to President Wilson’s promise to keep us out of the war?”

  “You have to give him credit,” Gus said mildly. “For three years he’s been campaigning for peace. They just wouldn’t listen.”

  “That doesn’t mean we have to join in the fighting.”

  Chuck said impatiently: “Honey, the Germans are sinking American ships!”

  “Then tell American ships to stay out of the war zone!” Doris looked cross, and Gus guessed they had had this argument before. No doubt her anger was fueled by the fear that Chuck would be conscripted.

  To Gus, these issues were too nuanced for passionate declarations of right and wrong. He said gently: “Okay, that’s an alternative, and the president considered it. But it means accepting Germany’s power to tell us where American ships can and can’t go.”

  Chuck said indignantly: “We can’t be pushed around that way by Germany or anyone else!”

  Doris was adamant. “If it saves lives, why not?”

  Gus said: “Most Americans seem to feel the way Chuck does.”

  “That doesn’t make it right.”

  “Wilson believes a president must treat public opinion the way a sailing ship treats the wind, using it but never going directly against it.”

  “Then why must we have conscription? That makes slaves of American men.”

  Chuck chipped in again. “Don’t you think it’s fair that we should all be equally responsible for fighting for our country?”

  “We have a professional army. At least those men joined voluntarily.”

  Gus said: “We have an army of a hundred and thirty thousand men. That’s nothing in this war. We’re going to need at least a million.”

  “A lot more men to die,” Doris said.

  Chuck said: “We’re damn glad at the bank, I can tell you. We have a lot of money out on loan to American companies supplying the Allies. If
the Germans win, and the Brits and the Froggies can’t pay their debts, we’re in trouble.”

  Doris looked thoughtful. “I didn’t know that.”

  Chuck patted her hand. “Don’t worry about it, honey. It’s not going to happen. The Allies are going to win, especially with the U.S. of A. helping out.”

  Gus said: “There’s another reason for us to fight. When the war is over, the U.S. will be able to take part as an equal in the postwar settlement. That may not sound very important, but Wilson’s dream is to set up a league of nations to resolve future conflicts without us killing one another.” He looked at Doris. “You must be in favor of that, I guess.”

  “Certainly.”

  Chuck changed the subject. “What brings you home, Gus? Apart from the desire to explain the president’s decisions to us common folk.”

  He told them about the strike. He spoke lightly, as this was dinner-party talk, but in truth he was worried. The Buffalo Metal Works was vital to the war effort, and he was not sure how to get the men back to work. Wilson had settled a national rail strike shortly before his reelection and seemed to think that intervention in industrial disputes was a natural element of political life. Gus found it a heavy responsibility.

  “You know who owns that place, don’t you?” said Chuck.

  Gus had checked. “Vyalov.”

  “And who runs it for him?”

  “No.”

  “His new son-in-law, Lev Peshkov.”

  “Oh,” said Gus. “I didn’t know that.”

  { III }

  Lev was furious about the strike. The union was trying to take advantage of his inexperience. He felt sure Brian Hall and the men had decided he was weak. He was determined to prove them wrong.

  He had tried being reasonable. “Mr. V needs to make back some of the money he lost in the bad years,” he had said to Hall.

  “And the men need to make back some of what they lost in reduced wages!” Hall had replied.

  “It’s not the same.”

  “No, it’s not,” Hall had agreed. “You’re rich and they’re poor. It’s harder for them.” The man was infuriatingly quick-witted.

  Lev was desperate to get back into his father-in-law’s good books. It was dangerous to let a man such as Josef Vyalov remain displeased with you for long. The trouble was that charm was Lev’s only asset, and it did not work on Vyalov.

  However, Vyalov was being supportive about the foundry. “Sometimes you have to let them strike,” he had said. “It doesn’t do to give in. Just stick it out. They become more reasonable when they start to get hungry.” But Lev knew how fast Vyalov could change his mind.

  However, Lev had a plan of his own to hasten the collapse of the strike. He was going to use the power of the press.

  Lev was a member of the Buffalo Yacht Club, thanks to his father-in-law, who had got him elected. Most of the town’s leading businessmen belonged, including Peter Hoyle, editor of the Buffalo Advertiser. One afternoon Lev approached Hoyle in the clubhouse at the foot of Porter Avenue.

  The Advertiser was a conservative newspaper that always called for stability and blamed all problems on foreigners, Negroes, and socialist troublemakers. Hoyle, an imposing figure with a black mustache, was a crony of Vyalov’s. “Hello, young Peshkov,” he said. His voice was loud and harsh, as if he was used to shouting over the noise of a printing press. “I hear the president has sent Cam Dewar’s son up here to settle your strike.”

  “I believe so, but I haven’t heard from him yet.”

  “I know him. He’s naïve. You don’t have much to worry about.”

  Lev agreed. He had taken a dollar from Gus Dewar in Petrograd in 1914, and last year he had taken Gus’s fiancée just as easily. “I wanted to talk to you about the strike,” he said, sitting in the leather armchair opposite Hoyle.

  “The Advertiser has already condemned the strikers as un-American socialists and revolutionaries,” Hoyle said. “What more can we do?”

  “Call them enemy agents,” Lev said. “They’re holding up the production of vehicles that our boys are going to need when they get to Europe—but the workers themselves are exempt from the draft!”

  “That’s an angle.” Hoyle frowned. “But we don’t yet know how the draft is going to work.”

  “It’s sure to exclude war industries.”

  “That’s true.”

  “And yet they’re demanding more money. A lot of people would take less for a job that keeps them out of the army.”

  Hoyle took a notebook from his jacket pocket and began to write. “Take less money for a draft-exempt job,” he muttered.

  “Maybe you want to ask: whose side are they on?”

  “Sounds like a headline.”

  Lev was surprised and pleased. It had been easy.

  Hoyle looked up from his notebook. “I presume Mr. V knows we’re having this conversation?”

  Lev had not anticipated this question. He grinned to cover his confusion. If he said no, Hoyle would drop the whole thing immediately. “Yes, of course,” he lied. “In fact it was his idea.”

  { IV }

  Vyalov asked Gus to meet him at the yacht club. Brian Hall proposed a conference at the Buffalo office of the union. Each wanted to meet on his own ground, where he would feel confident and in charge. So Gus took a meeting room at the Statler Hotel.

  Lev Peshkov had attacked the strikers as draft dodgers, and the Advertiser had put his comments on the front page, under the headline WHOSE SIDE ARE THEY ON? When Gus saw the paper he had been dismayed: such aggressive talk could only escalate the dispute. But Lev’s effort had backfired. This morning’s papers reported a storm of protest from workers in other war industries, indignant at the suggestion that they should receive low wages on account of their privileged status, and furious at being labeled draft dodgers. Lev’s clumsiness heartened Gus, but he knew that Vyalov was his real enemy, and that made him nervous.

  Gus brought all the papers with him to the Statler and put them out on a side table in the meeting room. In a prominent position he placed a popular rag with the headline WILL YOU JOIN UP, LEV?

  Gus had asked Brian Hall to get there a quarter of an hour before Vyalov. The union leader showed up on the dot. He wore a smart suit and a gray felt hat, Gus noted. That was good tactics. It was a mistake to look inferior, even if you represented the workers. Hall was as formidable, in his own way, as Vyalov.

  Hall saw the newspapers and grinned. “Young Lev made a mistake,” he said with satisfaction. “He’s fetched himself a pile of trouble.”

  “Manipulating the press is a dangerous game,” Gus said. He got right down to business. “You’re asking for a dollar-a-day increase.”

  “It’s only ten cents more than my men were getting before Vyalov bought the plant, and—”

  “Never mind all that,” Gus interrupted, showing more boldness than he felt. “If I can get you fifty cents, will you take it?”

  Hall looked dubious. “I’d have to put it to the men—”

  “No,” Gus said. “You have to decide now.” He prayed his nervousness was not showing.

  Hall prevaricated. “Has Vyalov agreed to this?”

  “I’ll worry about Vyalov. Fifty cents, take it or leave it.” Gus resisted an urge to wipe his forehead.

  Hall gave Gus a long, appraising stare. Behind the pugnacious look there was a shrewd brain, Gus suspected. At last Hall said: “We’ll take it—for now.”

  “Thank you.” Gus managed not to let out his breath in a long sigh of relief. “Would you like coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  Gus turned away, grateful to be able to hide his face, and pressed the bell for a waiter.

  Josef Vyalov and Lev Peshkov walked in. Gus did not shake hands. “Sit down,” he said curtly.

  Vyalov’s eyes went to the newspapers on the side table, and a look of anger crossed his face. Gus guessed that Lev was already in trouble over those headlines.

  He tried not to stare at Lev. This was the
chauffeur who had seduced Gus’s fiancée—but that must not be allowed to cloud Gus’s judgment. He would have liked to punch Lev in the face. However, if this meeting went according to plan the result would be more humiliating to Lev than a punch—and much more satisfying to Gus.

  A waiter appeared, and Gus said: “Bring coffee for my guests, please, and a plate of ham sandwiches.” He deliberately did not ask them what they wanted. He had seen Woodrow Wilson act like this with people he wanted to intimidate.

  He sat down and opened a folder. It contained a blank sheet of paper. He pretended to read it.

  Lev sat down and said: “So, Gus, the president has sent you up here to negotiate with us.”

  Now Gus allowed himself to look at Lev. He stared at him for a long moment without speaking. Handsome, yes, he thought, but also untrustworthy and weak. When Lev began to look embarrassed, Gus spoke at last. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  Lev was so shocked that he actually pushed his chair back from the table as if fearing a blow. “What the hell . . . ?”

  Gus made his voice harsh. “America is at war,” he said. “The president is not going to negotiate with you.” He looked at Brian Hall. “Or you,” he said, even though he had made a deal with Hall only ten minutes ago. Finally he looked at Vyalov. “Not even with you,” he said.

  Vyalov looked steadily back at him. Unlike his son-in-law, he was not intimidated. However, he had lost the look of amused contempt with which he began the meeting. After a long pause, he said: “So what are you here for?”

  “I’m here to tell you what’s going to happen,” Gus said in the same voice. “And when I’m done, you’ll accept it.”

  Lev said: “Huh!”

  Vyalov said: “Shut up, Lev. Go on, Dewar.”

  “You’re going to offer the men a raise of fifty cents a day,” Gus said. He turned to Hall. “And you’re going to accept his offer.”

  Hall kept his face blank and said: “Is that so?”

  “And I want your men back at work by noon today.”

  Vyalov said: “And why the hell should we do what you tell us?”