Fall of Giants

by Follett, Ken

  He stood up. “I must get ready for bed,” he said, and went to the door.

  “When you’ve put on your nightclothes . . . please come back. I want you to hold me.”

  Fitz smiled. “Of course,” he said.

  { III }

  On the day Parliament debated votes for women, Ethel organized a rally in a hall near the Palace of Westminster.

  She was now employed by the National Union of Garment Workers, which had been eager to hire such a well-known activist. Her main job was recruiting women members in the sweatshops of the East End, but the union believed in fighting for its members in national politics as well as in the workplace.

  She felt sad about the end of her relationship with Maud. Perhaps there had always been something artificial about a friendship between an earl’s sister and his former housekeeper, but Ethel had hoped they could transcend the class divide. However, deep in her heart Maud had believed—without being conscious of it—that she was born to command and Ethel to obey.

  Ethel hoped the vote in Parliament would take place before the end of the rally, so that she could announce the result, but the debate went on late, and the meeting had to break up at ten. Ethel and Bernie went to a pub in Whitehall used by Labour M.P.s and waited for news.

  It was after eleven and the pub was closing when two M.P.s rushed in. One of them spotted Ethel. “We won!” he shouted. “I mean, you won. The women.”

  She could hardly believe it. “They passed the clause?”

  “By a huge majority—three eighty-seven to fifty-seven!”

  “We won!” Ethel kissed Bernie. “We won!”

  “Well done,” he said. “Enjoy your victory. You deserve it.”

  They could not have a drink to celebrate. New wartime rules forced pubs to stop serving at set hours. This was supposed to improve the productivity of the working class. Ethel and Bernie went out into Whitehall to catch a bus home.

  Waiting at the bus stop, Ethel was euphoric. “I can’t take it in. After all these years—votes for women!”

  A passerby heard her, a tall man in evening dress walking with a cane.

  She recognized Fitz.

  “Don’t be so sure,” he said. “We’ll vote you down in the House of Lords.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  June to September 1917

  Walter Ulrich climbed out of the trench and, taking his life in his hands, began to walk across no-man’s-land.

  New grass and wildflowers were growing in the shell holes. It was a mild summer evening in a region that had once been Poland, then Russia, and was now partly occupied by German troops. Walter wore a nondescript coat over a corporal’s uniform. He had dirtied his face and hands for authenticity. He wore a white cap, like a flag of truce, and carried on his shoulder a cardboard box.

  He told himself there was no point being scared.

  The Russian positions were dimly visible in the twilight. There had been no firing for weeks, and Walter thought his approach would be regarded with more curiosity than suspicion.

  If he was wrong, he was dead.

  The Russians were preparing an offensive. German reconnaissance aircraft and scouts reported fresh troops being deployed to the front lines and truckloads of ammunition being unloaded. This had been confirmed by starving Russian soldiers who had crossed the lines and surrendered in the hope of getting a meal from their German captors.

  The evidence of the approaching offensive had come as a big disappointment to Walter. He had hoped that the new Russian government would be unable to fight on. In Petrograd, Lenin and the Bolsheviks were vociferously calling for peace, and pouring out a flood of newspapers and pamphlets—paid for with German money.

  The Russian people did not want war. An announcement by Pavel Miliukov, the monocled foreign minister, that Russia was still aiming for “decisive victory” had brought enraged workers and soldiers out onto the streets again. The theatrical young war minister, Kerensky, who was responsible for the expected new offensive, had reinstated flogging in the army and restored the authority of officers. But would the Russian soldiers fight? That was what the Germans needed to know and Walter was risking his life to find out.

  The signs were mixed. In some sections of the front, Russian soldiers had hoisted white flags and unilaterally declared an armistice. Other sections seemed quiet and disciplined. It was one such area that Walter had decided to visit.

  He had at last got away from Berlin. Probably Monika von der Helbard had told her parents bluntly that there was not going to be a wedding. Anyway, Walter was on the front line again, gathering intelligence.

  He shifted the box to the other shoulder. Now he could see half a dozen heads sticking up over the edge of a trench. They wore caps—Russian soldiers did not have helmets. They stared at him but did not point their weapons, yet.

  He felt fatalistic about death. He thought he could die happy after his joyous night in Stockholm with Maud. Of course, he would prefer to live. He wanted to make a home with Maud and have children. And he hoped to do so in a prosperous, democratic Germany. But that meant winning the war, which in turn meant risking his life, so he had no choice.

  All the same his stomach felt watery as he got within rifle range. It was so easy for a soldier to aim his gun and pull the trigger. That was what they were here for, after all.

  He carried no rifle, and he hoped they had noticed that. He did have a nine-millimeter Luger stuffed into his belt at the back, but they could not see it. What they could see was the box he was carrying. He hoped it looked harmless.

  He felt grateful for every step he survived, but conscious that each took him farther into danger. Any second now, he thought philosophically. He wondered whether a man heard the shot that killed him. What Walter feared most was being wounded and bleeding slowly to death, or succumbing to infection in a filthy field hospital.

  He could now see the faces of the Russians, and he read amusement, astonishment, and lively wonderment in their expressions. He looked anxiously for signs of fear: that was the greatest danger. A scared soldier might shoot just to break the tension.

  At last he had ten yards to go, then nine, eight . . . He came to the lip of the trench. “Hello, comrades,” he said in Russian. He put down the box.

  He held out his hand to the nearest soldier. Automatically, the man reached out and helped him jump into the trench. A small group gathered around him.

  “I have come to ask you a question,” he said.

  Most educated Russians spoke some German, but the troops were peasants, and few understood any language other than their own. As a boy Walter had learned Russian as part of his preparation, rigidly enforced by his father, for a career in the army and the foreign ministry. He had never used his Russian much, but he thought he could remember enough for this mission.

  “First a drink,” he said. He brought the box into the trench, ripped open the top, and took out a bottle of schnapps. He pulled the cork, took a swig, wiped his mouth, and gave the bottle to the nearest soldier, a tall corporal of eighteen or nineteen. The man grinned, drank, and passed the bottle on.

  Walter covertly studied his surroundings. The trench was poorly constructed. The walls slanted, and were not braced by timber. The floor was irregular and had no duckboards, so even now in summer it was muddy. The trench did not even follow a straight line—although that was probably a good thing, as there were no traverses to contain the blast of an artillery hit. There was a foul smell: obviously the men did not always bother to walk to the latrine. What was wrong with these Russians? Everything they did was slapdash, disorganized, and half-finished.

  While the bottle was going around, a sergeant appeared. “What’s going on, Feodor Igorovich?” he said, addressing the tall corporal. “Why are you talking to a cowfucking German?”

  Feodor was young, but his mustache was luxuriant and curled across his cheeks. For some reason he had a nautical cap, which he wore at a jaunty angle. His air of self-confidence bordered on arrogance. “H
ave a drink, Sergeant Gavrik.”

  The sergeant drank from the bottle like the rest, but he was not as nonchalant as his men. He gave Walter a mistrustful look. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Walter had rehearsed what he would say. “On behalf of German workers, soldiers, and peasants, I come to ask why you are fighting us.”

  After a moment of surprised silence, Feodor said: “Why are you fighting us?”

  Walter had his answer ready. “We have no choice. Our country is still ruled by the kaiser—we have not yet made our revolution. But you have. The tsar is gone, and Russia is now ruled by its people. So I have come to ask the people: Why are you fighting us?”

  Feodor looked at Gavrik and said: “It’s the question we keep asking ourselves!”

  Gavrik shrugged. Walter guessed he was a traditionalist who was carefully keeping his opinions to himself.

  Several more men came along the trench and joined the group. Walter opened another bottle. He looked around the circle of thin, ragged, dirty men who were rapidly getting drunk. “What do Russians want?”

  Several men answered.

  “Land.”

  “Peace.”

  “Freedom.”

  “More booze!”

  Walter took another bottle from the box. What they really needed, he thought, was soap, good food, and new boots.

  Feodor said: “I want to go home to my village. They’re dividing up the prince’s land, and I need to make sure my family gets its fair share.”

  Walter asked: “Do you support a political party?”

  A soldier said: “The Bolsheviks!” The others cheered.

  Walter was pleased. “Are you party members?”

  They shook their heads.

  Feodor said: “I used to support the Socialist Revolutionaries, but they have let us down.” Others nodded agreement. “Kerensky has brought back flogging,” Feodor added.

  “And he has ordered a summer offensive,” Walter said. He could see, in front of his eyes, a stack of ammunition boxes, but he did not refer to them, for fear of calling the Russians’ attention to the obvious possibility that he was a spy. “We can see from our aircraft,” he added.

  Feodor said to Gavrik: “Why do we need to attack? We can make peace just as well from where we are now!” There was a mutter of agreement.

  Walter said: “So what will you do if the order to advance is given?”

  Feodor said: “There will have to be a meeting of the soldiers’ committee to discuss it.”

  “Don’t talk shit,” said Gavrik. “Soldiers’ committees are no longer allowed to debate orders.”

  There was a rumble of discontent, and someone at the edge of the circle muttered: “We’ll see about that, comrade Sergeant.”

  The crowd continued to grow. Perhaps Russians could smell booze at a distance. Walter handed out two more bottles. By way of explanation to the new arrivals, he said: “German people want peace just as much as you. If you don’t attack us, we won’t attack you.”

  “I’ll drink to that!” said one of the newcomers, and there was a ragged cheer.

  Walter feared the noise would attract the attention of an officer, and wondered how he could get the Russians to keep their voices down despite the schnapps; but he was already too late. A loud, authoritative voice said: “What’s going on here? What are you men up to?” The crowd parted to give passage to a big man in the uniform of a major. He looked at Walter and said: “Who the hell are you?”

  Walter’s heart sank. It was undoubtedly the officer’s duty to take him prisoner. German intelligence knew how the Russians treated their POWs. Being captured by them was a sentence of lingering death by starvation and cold.

  He forced a smile and offered the last unopened bottle. “Have a drink, Major.”

  The officer ignored him and turned to Gavrik. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Gavrik was not intimidated. “The men have had no dinner today, Major, so I couldn’t make them refuse a drink.”

  “You should have taken him prisoner!”

  Feodor said: “We can’t take him prisoner, now that we’ve drunk his booze.” He was slurring already. “It wouldn’t be fair!” he finished, and the others cheered.

  The major said to Walter: “You’re a spy, and I ought to blow your damned head off.” He touched the holstered gun at his belt.

  The soldiers shouted protests. The major continued to look angry, but he said no more, clearly not wanting a clash with the men.

  Walter said to them: “I’d better leave you. Your major is a bit unfriendly. Besides, we have a brothel just behind our front line, and there’s a blond girl with big tits who may be feeling a bit lonely ... ”

  They laughed and cheered. It was half-true: there was a brothel, but Walter had never visited it.

  “Remember,” he said. “We won’t fight if you don’t!”

  He scrambled out of the trench. This was the moment of greatest danger. He got to his feet, walked a few paces, turned, waved, and walked on. They had satisfied their curiosity and all the schnapps was gone. Now they might just take it into their heads to do their duty and shoot the enemy. He felt as if his coat had a target printed on the back.

  Darkness was falling. Soon he would be out of sight. He was only a few yards from safety. It took all his willpower not to break into a sprint—but he felt that might provoke a shot. Gritting his teeth, he walked with even strides through the litter of unexploded shells.

  He glanced back. He could not see the trench. That meant they could not see him. He was safe.

  He breathed easier and walked on. It had been worth the risk. He had learned a lot. Although this section was showing no white flags, the Russians were in poor shape for battle. Clearly the men were discontented and rebellious, and the officers had only a weak hold on discipline. The sergeant had been careful not to cross them and the major had not dared to take Walter prisoner. In that frame of mind it was impossible for soldiers to put up a brave fight.

  He came within sight of the German line. He shouted his name and a prearranged password. He dropped down into the trench. A lieutenant saluted him. “Successful sortie, sir?”

  “Yes, thanks,” said Walter. “Very successful indeed.”

  { II }

  Katerina lay on the bed in Grigori’s old room, wearing only a thin shift. The window was open, letting in the warm July air and the thunder of the trains that passed a few steps away. She was six months pregnant.

  Grigori ran a finger along the outline of her body, from her shoulder, over one swollen breast, down again to her ribs, up over the gentle hill of her belly, and down her thigh. Before Katerina he had never known this easygoing joy. His youthful relations with women had been hasty and short-lived. To him it was a new and thrilling experience to lie beside a woman after sex, touching her body gently and lovingly but without urgency or lust. Perhaps this was what marriage meant, he thought. “You’re even more beautiful pregnant,” he said, speaking in a low murmur so as not to wake Vlad.

  For two and a half years he had acted as father to his brother’s son, but now he was going to have a child of his own. He would have liked to name the baby after Lenin, but they already had a Vladimir. The pregnancy had made Grigori a hardliner in politics. He had to think about the country in which the child would grow up, and he wanted his son to be free. (For some reason he thought of the baby as a boy.) He had to be sure Russia would be ruled by its people, not by a tsar or a middle-class parliament or a coalition of businessmen and generals who would bring back the old ways in new disguises.

  He did not really like Lenin. The man lived in a permanent rage. He was always shouting at people. Anyone who disagreed with him was a swine, a bastard, a cunt. But he worked harder than anyone else, he thought about things for a long time, and his decisions were always right. In the past, every Russian “revolution” had led to nothing but dithering. Grigori knew Lenin would not let that happen.

  The provisional government knew it,
too, and there were signs they wanted to target Lenin. The right-wing press had accused him of being a spy for Germany. The accusation was ridiculous. However, it was true that Lenin had a secret source of finance. Grigori, as one of those who had been Bolsheviks since before the war, was part of the inner circle, and he knew the money came from Germany. If the secret got out it would fuel suspicion.

  He was dozing off when he heard footsteps in the hall followed by a loud, urgent knock at the door. Pulling on his trousers he shouted: “What is it?” Vlad woke up and cried.

  A man’s voice said: “Grigori Sergeivich?”

  “Yes.” Grigori opened the door and saw Isaak. “What’s happened?”

  “They’ve issued arrest warrants for Lenin, Zinoviev, and Kamenev.”

  Grigori went cold. “We have to warn them!”

  “I’ve got an army car outside.”

  “I’ll put my boots on.”

  Isaak went. Katerina picked up Vlad and comforted him. Grigori hastily pulled his clothes on, kissed them both, and ran down the stairs.

  He jumped into the car beside Isaak and said: “Lenin is the most important.” The government was right to target him. Zinoviev and Kamenev were sound revolutionaries, but Lenin was the engine that drove the movement. “We must warn him first. Drive to his sister’s place. Fast as you can go.”

  Isaak headed off at top speed.

  Grigori held tight while the car screeched around a corner. As it straightened up he said: “How did you find out?”

  “From a Bolshevik in the Ministry of Justice.”

  “When were the warrants signed?”

  “This morning.”

  “I hope we’re in time.” Grigori was terrified that Lenin might already have been seized. No one else had his inflexible determination. He was a bully, but he had transformed the Bolsheviks into the leading party. Without him, the revolution could fall back into muddle and compromise.

  Isaak drove to Shirokaya Street and pulled up outside a middle-class apartment building. Grigori jumped out, ran inside, and knocked at the Yelizarov flat. Anna Yelizarova, Lenin’s elder sister, opened the door. She was in her fifties, with graying hair parted in the center. Grigori had met her before: she worked on Pravda. “Is he here?” Grigori said.