by Follett, Ken
Gus was worried but not surprised. The Japanese had been talking about this for a week or two. It had already caused consternation among the Australians and the Californians, who wanted to keep the Japanese out of their territories. It had disconcerted Wilson, who did not for one moment think that American Negroes were his equals. Most of all it had upset the British, who ruled undemocratically over hundreds of millions of people of different races and did not want them to think they were as good as their white overlords.
Again it was Cecil who spoke. “Alas, this is a highly controversial matter,” he said, and Gus could almost have believed in his sadness. “The mere suggestion that it might be discussed has already created discord.”
There was a murmur of agreement around the table.
Cecil went on: “Rather than delay the agreement of a draft covenant, perhaps we should postpone discussion of, ah, racial discrimination to a later date.”
The Greek prime minister said: “The whole question of religious liberty is a tricky subject, too. Perhaps we should drop that for the present.”
The Portuguese delegate said: “My government has never yet signed a treaty that did not call on God!”
Cecil, a deeply religious man, said: “Perhaps this time we will all have to take a chance.”
There was a ripple of laughter, and Wilson said with evident relief: “If that’s agreed, let us move on.”
{ IV }
Next day Wilson went to the French foreign ministry at the Quai d’Orsay and read the draft to a plenary session of the peace conference in the famous Clock Room under the enormous chandeliers that looked like stalactites in an Arctic cave. That evening he left for home. The following day was a Saturday, and in the evening Gus went dancing.
Paris after dark was a party town. Food was still scarce but there seemed to be plenty of booze. Young men left their hotel room doors open so that Red Cross nurses could wander in whenever they needed company. Conventional morality seemed to be put on hold. People did not try to hide their love affairs. Effeminate men cast off the pretense of masculinity. Larue’s became the lesbian restaurant. It was said the coal shortage was a myth put about by the French so that everyone would keep warm at night by sleeping with their friends.
Everything was expensive, but Gus had money. He had other advantages, too: he knew Paris and could speak French. He went to the races at St. Cloud, saw La Bohème at the opera, and went to a risqué musical called Phi Phi. Because he was close to the president, he was invited to every party.
He found himself spending more and more time with Rosa Hellman. He had to be careful, when talking to her, to tell her only things that he would be happy to see printed, but the habit of discretion was automatic with him now. She was one of the smartest people he had ever met. He liked her, but that was as far as it went. She was always ready to go out with him, but what reporter would refuse an invitation from a presidential aide? He could never hold hands with her, or try to kiss her good night, in case she might think he was taking advantage of his position as someone she could not afford to offend.
He met her at the Ritz for cocktails. “What are cocktails?” she said.
“Hard liquor dressed up to be more respectable. I promise you, they’re fashionable.”
Rosa was fashionable, too. Her hair was bobbed. Her cloche hat came down over her ears like a German soldier’s steel helmet. Curves and corsets had gone out of style, and her draped dress fell straight from the shoulders to a startlingly low waistline. By concealing her shape, paradoxically, the dress made Gus think about the body beneath. She wore lipstick and face powder, something European women still considered daring.
They had a martini each, then moved on. They drew a lot of stares as they walked together through the long lobby of the Ritz: the lanky man with the big head and his tiny one-eyed companion, him in white-tie-and-tails and her in silver-blue silk. They got a cab to the Majestic, where the British held Saturday night dances that everyone went to.
The ballroom was packed. Young aides from the delegations, journalists from all over the world, and soldiers freed from the trenches were “jazzing” with nurses and typists. Rosa taught Gus the fox-trot, then she left him and danced with a handsome dark-eyed man from the Greek delegation.
Feeling jealous, Gus drifted around the room chatting to acquaintances until he ran into Lady Maud Fitzherbert in a purple dress and pointed shoes. “Hello!” he said in surprise.
She seemed pleased to see him. “You look well.”
“I was lucky. I’m all in one piece.”
She touched the scar on his cheek. “Almost.”
“A scratch. Shall we dance?”
He took her in his arms. She was thin: he could feel her bones through the dress. They did the hesitation waltz. “How is Fitz?” Gus asked.
“Fine, I think. He’s in Russia. I’m probably not supposed to say that, but it’s an open secret.”
“I notice the British newspapers saying ‘Hands Off Russia.’”
“That campaign is being led by a woman you met at Tŷ Gwyn, Ethel Williams, now Eth Leckwith.”
“I don’t remember her.”
“She was the housekeeper.”
“Good lord!”
“She’s becoming something of a force in British politics.”
“How the world has changed.”
Maud drew him closer and lowered her voice. “I don’t suppose you have any news of Walter?”
Gus recalled the familiar-looking German officer he had seen fall at Château-Thierry, but he was far from certain that had been Walter, so he said: “Nothing, I’m sorry. It must be hard for you.”
“No information is coming out of Germany and no one is allowed to go there!”
“I’m afraid you may have to wait until the peace treaty is signed.”
“And when will that be?”
Gus did not know. “The league covenant is pretty much done, but they’re a long way from agreement over how much Germany should pay in reparations.”
“It’s foolish,” Maud said bitterly. “We need the Germans to be prosperous, so that British factories can sell them cars and stoves and carpet sweepers. If we cripple their economy, Germany will go Bolshevik.”
“People want revenge.”
“Do you remember 1914? Walter didn’t want war. Nor did the majority of Germans. But the country wasn’t a democracy. The kaiser was egged on by the generals. And once the Russians had mobilized, they had no choice.”
“Of course I remember. But most people don’t.”
The dance ended. Rosa Hellman appeared, and Gus introduced the two women. They talked for a minute, but Rosa was uncharacteristically charmless, and Maud moved away.
“That dress cost a fortune,” Rosa said grumpily. “It’s by Jeanne Lanvin.”
Gus was perplexed. “Didn’t you like Maud?”
“You obviously do.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were dancing very close.”
Rosa did not know about Walter. All the same, Gus resented being falsely accused of flirting. “She wanted to talk about something rather confidential,” he said with a touch of indignation.
“I bet she did.”
“I don’t know why you’re taking this attitude,” Gus said. “You went off with that oily Greek.”
“He’s very handsome, and not a bit oily. Why shouldn’t I dance with other men? It’s not as if you’re in love with me.”
Gus stared at her. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, dear.” He suddenly felt confused and uncertain.
“What’s the matter now?”
“I’ve just realized something . . . I think.”
“Are you going to tell me what it is?”
“I suppose I must,” he said shakily. He paused.
She waited for him to speak. “Well?” she said impatiently.
“I am in love with you.”
She looked back at him in silence. After a long pause she said: “Do you mean it?”
&n
bsp; Although the thought had taken him by surprise, he had no doubt. “Yes. I love you, Rosa.”
She smiled weakly. “Just fancy that.”
“I think perhaps I’ve been in love with you for quite a long time without knowing it.”
She nodded, as if having a suspicion confirmed. The band started a slow tune. She moved closer.
He took her in his arms automatically, but he was too wrought up to dance properly. “I’m not sure I can manage—”
“Don’t worry.” She knew what he was thinking. “Just pretend.”
He shuffled a few steps. His mind was in turmoil. She had not said anything about her own feelings. On the other hand, she had not walked away. Was there any chance she might return his love? She obviously liked him, but that was not the same thing at all. Was she asking herself, at this very minute, how she felt? Or was she thinking up some gentle words of rejection?
She looked up at him, and he thought she was about to give him the answer; then she said: “Take me away from here, please, Gus.”
“Of course.”
She got her coat. The doorman summoned a red Renault taxi. “Maxim’s,” Gus said. It was a short drive, and they rode in silence. Gus longed to know what was in her mind, but he did not rush her. She would have to tell him soon.
The restaurant was packed, the few empty tables reserved for later customers. The headwaiter was désolé. Gus took out his wallet, extracted a hundred-franc note, and said: “A quiet table in a corner.” A card saying Réservée was whipped away and they sat down.
They chose a light supper and Gus ordered a bottle of champagne. “You’ve changed so much,” Rosa said.
He was surprised. “I don’t think so.”
“You were a diffident young man, back in Buffalo. I think you were even shy of me. Now you walk around Paris as if you own it.”
“Oh, dear—that sounds arrogant.”
“No, just confident. After all, you’ve worked for a president and fought a war—those things make a difference.”
The food came but neither of them ate much. Gus was too tense. What was she thinking? Did she love him or not? Surely she must know? He put down his knife and fork, but instead of asking her the question on his mind he said: “You’ve always seemed self-confident.”
She laughed. “Isn’t that amazing?”
“Why?”
“I suppose I was confident until about the age of seven. And then . . . well, you know what schoolgirls are like. Everyone wants to be friends with the prettiest. I had to play with the fat girls and the ugly ones and those dressed in hand-me-downs. That went on into my teenage years. Even working for the Buffalo Anarchist was kind of an outsider thing to do. But when I became editor I started to get my self-esteem back.” She took a sip of champagne. “You helped.”
“I did?” Gus was surprised.
“It was the way you talked to me, as if I was the smartest and most interesting person in Buffalo.”
“You probably were.”
“Except for Olga Vyalov.”
“Ah.” Gus blushed. Remembering his infatuation with Olga made him feel foolish, but he did not want to say so, for that would be running her down, which was ungentlemanly.
When they had finished their coffee and he called for the bill, he still did not know how Rosa felt about him.
In the taxi he took her hand and pressed it to his lips. She said: “Oh, Gus, you are very dear.” He did not know what she meant by that. However, her face was turned up toward him in a way that almost seemed expectant. Did she want him to . . . ? He screwed up his nerve and kissed her mouth.
There was a frozen moment when she did not respond, and he thought he had done the wrong thing. Then she sighed contentedly and parted her lips.
Oh, he thought happily; so that’s all right, then.
He put his arms around her and they kissed all the way to her hotel. The journey was too short. Suddenly a commissionaire was opening the door of the cab. “Wipe your mouth,” Rosa said as she got out. Gus pulled out a handkerchief and hastily rubbed at his face. The white linen came away red with her lipstick. He folded it carefully and put it back in his pocket.
He walked her to the door. “Can I see you tomorrow?” he said.
“When?”
“Early.”
She laughed. “You never pretend, Gus, do you? I love that about you.”
That was good. I love that about you was not the same as I love you but it was better than nothing. “Early it is,” he said.
“What shall we do?”
“It’s Sunday.” He said the first thing that came into his head. “We could go to church.”
“All right.”
“Let me take you to Notre Dame.”
“Are you Catholic?” she said in surprise.
“No, Episcopalian, if anything. You?”
“The same.”
“It’s all right, we can sit at the back. I’ll find out what time mass is and phone your hotel.”
She held out her hand and they shook like friends. “Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said formally.
“It was such a pleasure. Good night.”
“Good night,” she said, and she turned away and disappeared into the hotel lobby.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
March to April 1919
When the snow melted, and the iron-hard Russian earth turned to rich wet mud, the White armies made a mighty effort to rid their country of the curse of Bolshevism. Admiral Kolchak’s force of one hundred thousand, patchily supplied with British uniforms and guns, came storming out of Siberia and attacked the Reds over a front that stretched seven hundred miles from north to south.
Fitz followed a few miles behind the Whites. He was leading the Aberowen Pals, plus some Canadians and a few interpreters. His job was to stiffen Kolchak by supervising communications, intelligence, and supply.
Fitz had high hopes. There might be difficulties, but it was unimaginable that Lenin and Trotsky would be allowed to steal Russia.
At the beginning of March he was in the city of Ufa on the European side of the Ural Mountains, reading a batch of week-old British newspapers. The news from London was mixed. Fitz was delighted that Lloyd George had appointed Winston Churchill as secretary for war. Of all the leading politicians, Winston was the most vigorous supporter of intervention in Russia. But some of the papers took the opposite side. Fitz was not surprised by the Daily Herald and the New Statesman, which in his view were more or less Bolshevik publications anyway. But even the Conservative Daily Express had a headline reading WITHDRAW FROM RUSSIA.
Unfortunately, they also had accurate details of what was going on. They even knew that the British had helped Kolchak with the coup that had abolished the directorate and made him supreme ruler. Where were they getting the information? He looked up from the paper. He was quartered in the city’s commercial college, and his aide-de-camp sat at the opposite desk. “Murray,” he said, “next time there’s a batch of mail from the men to be sent home, bring it to me first.”
This was irregular, and Murray looked dubious. “Sir?”
Fitz thought he had better explain. “I suspect information may be getting back from here. The censor must be asleep at the wheel.”
“Perhaps they think they can slacken off now that the war in Europe has ended.”
“No doubt. Anyway, I want to see whether the leak is in our section of the pipe.”
The back page of the paper had a photograph of the woman leading the “Hands Off Russia” campaign, and Fitz was startled to see that it was Ethel. She had been a housemaid at Tŷ Gwyn but now, the Express said, she was general secretary of the National Garment Workers Union.
He had slept with many women since then—most recently, in Omsk, a stunning Russian blonde, the bored mistress of a fat tsarist general who was too drunk and lazy to fuck her himself. But Ethel shone out in his memory. He wondered what her child was like. Fitz probably had half a dozen bastards around the world, but Ethel’s was
the only one he knew of for sure.
And she was the one whipping up protest against intervention in Russia. Now Fitz knew where the information was coming from. Her damn brother was a sergeant in the Aberowen Pals. He had always been a troublemaker, and Fitz had no doubt he was briefing Ethel. Well, Fitz thought, I’ll catch him out, and then there will be hell to pay.
Over the next few weeks the Whites raced ahead, driving before them the surprised Reds, who had thought the Siberian government a spent force. If Kolchak’s armies could link up with their supporters in Archangel, in the north, and with Denikin’s Volunteer Army in the south, they would form a semicircular force, a curved eastern scimitar a thousand miles long that would sweep irresistibly to Moscow.
Then, at the end of April, the Reds counterattacked.
By then Fitz was in Buguruslan, a grimly impoverished town in forest country a hundred miles or so east of the Volga River. The few dilapidated stone churches and municipal buildings poked up over the roofs of low-built wooden houses like weeds in a rubbish dump. Fitz sat in a large room in the town hall with the intelligence unit, sifting reports of prisoner interrogations. He did not know anything was wrong until he looked out of the window and saw the ragged soldiers of Kolchak’s army streaming along the main road through the town in the wrong direction. He sent an American interpreter, Lev Peshkov, to question the retreating men.
Peshkov came back with a sorry story. The Reds had attacked in force from the south, striking the overstretched left flank of Kolchak ’s advancing army. To avoid his force being cut in two the local White commander, General Belov, had ordered them to retreat and regroup.
A few minutes later, a Red deserter was brought in for interrogation. He had been a colonel under the tsar. What he had to say dismayed Fitz. The Reds had been surprised by Kolchak’s offensive, he said, but they had quickly regrouped and resupplied. Trotsky had declared that the Red Army must go on the offensive in the east. “Trotsky thinks that if the Reds falter, the Allies will recognize Kolchak as supreme ruler; and once they have done that they will flood Siberia with men and supplies.”
