by Follett, Ken
Her father said to Gus: “So what will the president do?”
“He’s going to reach out to the people over the heads of the politicians. He’s planning a ten-thousand-mile tour of the entire country. He’ll make more than fifty speeches in four weeks.”
“A punishing schedule. He’s sixty-two and has high blood pressure.”
There was a touch of mischief in Dr. Hellman. Everything he said was challenging. Obviously he felt the need to test the mettle of a suitor for his daughter. Gus replied: “But at the end of it, the president will have explained to the people of America that the world needs the League of Nations to make sure we never fight another war like the one just ended.”
“I pray you’re right.”
“If political complexities need to be explained to ordinary people, Wilson is the best.”
Champagne was served with dessert. “Before we begin, I’d like to say something,” Gus said. His parents looked startled: he never made speeches. “Dr. and Mrs. Hellman, you know that I love your daughter, who is the most wonderful girl in the world. It’s old-fashioned, but I want to ask your permission”—he took from his pocket a small red leather box—“your permission to offer her this engagement ring.” He opened the box. It contained a gold ring with a single one-carat diamond. It was not ostentatious, but the diamond was pure white, the most desirable color, in a round brilliant cut, and it looked fabulous.
Rosa gasped.
Dr. Hellman looked at his wife, and they both smiled. “You most certainly have our permission,” he said.
Gus walked around the table and knelt beside Rosa’s chair. “Will you marry me, dear Rosa?” he said.
“Oh, yes, my beloved Gus—tomorrow, if you like!”
He took the ring from the box and slid it onto her finger. “Thank you,” he said.
His mother began to cry.
{ II }
Gus was aboard the president’s train as it steamed out of Union Station in Washington, D.C., at seven o’clock in the evening on Wednesday, September 3. Wilson was dressed in a blue blazer, white pants, and a straw boater. His wife, Edith, went with him, as did Cary Travers Grayson, his personal physician. Also aboard were twenty-one newspaper reporters including Rosa Hellman.
Gus was confident Wilson could win this battle. He had always enjoyed the direct connection with voters. And he had won the war, hadn’t he?
The train traveled overnight to Columbus, Ohio, where the president made his first speech of the tour. From there he went on—making whistle-stop appearances along the way—to Indianapolis, where he spoke to a crowd of twenty thousand people that evening.
But Gus was disheartened at the end of the first day. Wilson had spoken poorly. His voice was husky. He used notes—he was always better when he managed without them—and, as he got into the technicalities of the treaty that had so absorbed everyone in Paris, he seemed to ramble and lose the audience’s attention. He had a bad headache, Gus knew, so bad that sometimes his vision blurred.
Gus was sick with worry. It was not just that his friend and mentor was ill. There was more at stake. America’s future and the world’s hung on what happened in the next few weeks. Only Wilson’s personal commitment could save the League of Nations from its small-minded opponents.
After dinner Gus went to Rosa’s sleeping compartment. She was the only female reporter on the trip, so she had a room to herself. She was almost as keen on the league as Gus, but she said: “It’s hard to find much positive to say about today.” They lay on her bunk, kissing and cuddling, then they said good night and parted. Their wedding was set for October, after the president’s trip. Gus would have liked it to be even sooner, but the parents wanted time to prepare, and Gus’s mother had muttered darkly about indecent haste, so he had given in.
Wilson worked on improvements to his speech, tapping on his old Underwood typewriter as the endless open plains of the Midwest sped by the windows. His performances got better over the next few days. Gus suggested he try to make the treaty relevant to each city. Wilson told business leaders in St. Louis that the treaty was needed to build up world trade. In Omaha he said the world without the treaty would be like a community with unsettled land titles, all the farmers sitting on fences with shotguns. Instead of long explanations, he rammed home the main points in short statements.
Gus also suggested that Wilson appeal to people’s emotions. This was not just about policy, he said; it touched on their feelings about their country. At Columbus, Wilson spoke of the boys in khaki. In Sioux Falls, he said he wanted to redeem the sacrifices of mothers who had lost their sons on the battlefield. He rarely descended to scurrility, but in Kansas City, home of the vitriolic Senator Reed, he compared his opponents to the Bolsheviks. And he thundered out the message, again and again, that if the League of Nations failed there would be another war.
Gus smoothed relations with the reporters on board and the local men wherever the train stopped. When Wilson spoke without a prepared speech, his stenographer would produce an immediate transcript, which Gus distributed. He also persuaded Wilson to come forward to the club car now and again to chat informally with the press.
It worked. Audiences responded better and better. The press coverage continued mixed, but Wilson’s message was repeated constantly even in papers that opposed him. And reports from Washington suggested that opposition was weakening.
But Gus could see how much the campaign was costing the president. His headaches became almost continuous. He slept badly. He could not digest normal food, and Dr. Grayson fed him liquids. He got a throat infection that developed into something like asthma, and he began to have trouble breathing. He tried to sleep sitting upright.
All of this was kept from the press, even Rosa. Wilson continued to give speeches, although his voice was weak. Thousands cheered him in Salt Lake City, but he looked drawn, and he clenched his hands repeatedly, in an odd gesture that made Gus think of a dying man.
Then, on the night of September 25, there was a commotion. Gus heard Edith calling for Dr. Grayson. He put on a dressing gown and went to the president’s car.
What he saw there horrified and saddened him. Wilson looked dreadful. He could hardly breathe and had developed a facial twitch. Even so, he wanted to carry on; but Grayson was adamant that he call off the remainder of the tour, and in the end Wilson gave in.
Next morning Gus, with a heavy heart, told the press that the president had suffered a severe nervous attack, and the tracks were cleared to speed the 1,700-mile journey back to Washington. All presidential engagements were canceled for two weeks, notably a meeting with pro-treaty senators to plan the fight for confirmation.
That evening, Gus and Rosa sat in her compartment, disconsolately looking out of the window. People gathered at every station to watch the president go by. The sun went down, but still the crowds stood and stared in the twilight. Gus was reminded of the train from Brest to Paris, and the silent multitude that had stood beside the tracks in the middle of the night. It was less than a year ago, but already their hopes had been dashed. “We did our best,” Gus said. “But we failed.”
“Are you sure?”
“When the president was campaigning full-time, it was touch and go. With Wilson sick, the chance of the treaty being ratified by the Senate is zero.”
Rosa took his hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “For you, for me, for the world.” She paused, then said: “What will you do?”
“I’d like to join a Washington law firm specializing in international law. I’ve got some relevant experience, after all.”
“I should think they’ll be lining up to offer you a job. And perhaps some future president will want your help.”
He smiled. Sometimes she had an unrealistically high opinion of him. “And what about you?”
“I love what I’m doing. I hope I can carry on covering the White House.”
“Would you like to have children?”
“Yes!”
“So would I.” Gus s
tared meditatively out of the window. “I just hope Wilson is wrong about them.”
“About our children?” She heard the note of solemnity in his tone, and she asked in a frightened voice: “What do you mean?”
“He says they will have to fight another world war.”
“God forbid,” Rosa said fervently.
Outside, night was falling.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
January 1920
Daisy sat at the table in the dining room of the Vyalov family’s prairie house in Buffalo. She wore a pink dress. The large linen napkin tied around her neck swamped her. She was almost four years old, and Lev adored her.
“I’m going to make the world’s biggest sandwich,” he said, and she giggled. He cut two pieces of toast half an inch square, buttered them carefully, added a tiny portion of the scrambled eggs Daisy did not want to eat, and put the slices together. “It has to have one grain of salt,” he said. He poured salt from the cellar onto his plate, then delicately picked up a single grain on the tip of his finger and put it on the sandwich. “Now I can eat it!” he said.
“I want it,” said Daisy.
“Really? But isn’t it a Daddy-size sandwich?”
“No!” she said, laughing. “It’s a girl-size sandwich!”
“Oh, all right,” he said, and popped it into her mouth. “You don’t want another one, do you?”
“Yes.”
“But that one was so big.”
“No, it wasn’t!”
“Okay, I guess I have to make another one.”
Lev was riding high. Things were even better than he had told Grigori ten months ago when they had sat in Trotsky’s train. He was living in great comfort in his father-in-law’s house. He managed three Vyalov nightclubs, getting a good salary plus extras such as kickbacks from suppliers. He had installed Marga in a fancy apartment and he saw her most days. She had got pregnant within a week of his return, and she had just given birth to a boy, whom they had named Gregory. Lev had succeeded in keeping the whole thing secret.
Olga came into the dining room, kissed Daisy, and sat down. Lev loved Daisy, but he had no feelings for Olga. Marga was sexier and more fun. And there were plenty more girls, as he had found out when Marga was heavily pregnant.
“Good morning, Mommy!” Lev said gaily.
Daisy took her cue and repeated his words.
Olga said: “Is Daddy feeding you?”
These days they talked like this, mainly through the child. They had had sex a few times when Lev got back from the war, but they had soon reverted to their normal indifference, and now they had separate bedrooms, telling Olga’s parents it was because of Daisy waking at night, though she rarely did. Olga wore the look of a disappointed woman, and Lev hardly cared.
Josef came in. “Here’s Grandpa!” Lev said.
“Morning,” Josef said curtly.
Daisy said: “Grandpa wants a sandwich.”
“No,” said Lev. “They’re too big for him.”
Daisy was delighted when Lev said things that were obviously wrong. “No, they’re not,” she said. “They’re too small!”
Josef sat down. He had changed a lot, Lev had found on returning from the war. Josef was overweight, and his striped suit was tight. He panted just from the exertion of walking downstairs. Muscle had turned to fat, black hair had gone gray, a pink complexion had become an unhealthy flush.
Polina came in from the kitchen with a pot of coffee and poured a cup for Josef. He opened the Buffalo Advertiser.
Lev said: “How’s business?” It was not an idle question. The Volstead Act had come into force at midnight on January 16, making it illegal to manufacture, transport, or sell intoxicating liquor. The Vyalov empire was based on bars, hotels, and liquor wholesaling. Prohibition was the serpent in Lev’s paradise.
“We’re dying,” said Josef with unusual frankness. “I’ve closed five bars in a week, and there’s worse to come.”
Lev nodded. “I’m selling near-beer in the clubs, but nobody wants it.” The act permitted beer that was less than half of one percent alcohol. “You have to drink a gallon to get a buzz.”
“We can sell a little hooch under the counter, but we can’t get enough, and anyway people are scared to buy.”
Olga was shocked. She knew little about the business. “But, Daddy, what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” said Josef.
This was another change. In the old days, Josef would have planned ahead for such a crisis. Yet it was three months since the act had been passed, and in that time Josef had done nothing to prepare for the new situation. Lev had been waiting for him to pull a rabbit out of a hat. Now he began to see, with dismay, that it was not going to happen.
That was worrying. Lev had a wife, a mistress, and two children, all living off the proceeds of the Vyalov businesses. If the empire was going to collapse, Lev would need to make plans.
Polina called Olga to the phone and she went into the hallway. Lev could hear her speaking. “Hello, Ruby,” she said. “You’re up early.” There was a pause. “What? I don’t believe it.” A long silence followed, then Olga began to cry.
Josef looked up from the newspaper and said: “What the hell . . . ?”
Olga hung up with a crash and came back into the dining room. With her eyes full of tears she pointed at Lev and said: “You bastard.”
“What did I do?” he said, although he feared he knew.
“You—you—fucking bastard.”
Daisy began to bawl.
Josef said: “Olga, honey, what is the matter?”
Olga answered: “She’s had a baby!”
Under his breath, Lev said: “Oh, shit.”
Josef said: “Who’s had a baby?”
“Lev’s whore. The one we saw in the park. Marga.”
Josef reddened. “The singer from the Monte Carlo? She’s had Lev’s baby?”
Olga nodded, sobbing.
Josef turned to Lev. “You son of a bitch.”
Lev said: “Let’s all try to stay calm.”
Josef stood up. “My God, I thought I’d taught you a damned lesson.”
Lev pushed back his chair and got to his feet. He backed away from Josef, holding his arms out defensively. “Just calm the fuck down, Josef,” he said.
“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down,” Josef said. With surprising agility he stepped forward and lashed out with a meaty fist. Lev was not quick enough to dodge the blow and it struck him high on his left cheekbone. It hurt like hell and he staggered back.
Olga snatched up the howling Daisy and retreated to the doorway. “Stop it!” she yelled.
Josef lashed out with his left.
It was a long time since Lev had been in a fistfight, but he had grown up in the slums of Petrograd, and the reflexes still operated. He blocked Josef ’s swing, moved in close, and punched his father-in-law’s belly with both fists in turn. The breath whooshed out of Josef ’s chest. Then Lev struck at Josef ’s face with short jabs, hitting the nose and mouth and eyes.
Josef was a strong man and a bully, but people were too scared of him to fight back, and for a long time he had had no practise at defending himself. He staggered back, holding up his arms in a feeble attempt to protect himself from Lev’s blows.
Lev’s street-fighting instincts would not let him stop while his assailant was upright, and he kept after Josef, punching his body and head, until the older man fell backward over a dining chair and hit the carpet.
Olga’s mother, Lena, came rushing into the room, screamed, and knelt beside her husband. Polina and the cook came to the doorway to the kitchen, looking scared. Josef ’s face was battered and bleeding, but he raised himself on his elbow and pushed Lena aside. Then, when he tried to get up, he cried out and fell back.
His skin turned gray and he stopped breathing.
Lev said: “Jesus Christ.”
Lena started to wail: “Josef, oh, my Joe, open your eyes!”
Lev felt Jo
sef ’s chest. There was no heartbeat. He picked up the wrist and could not find a pulse.
I’m in trouble now, he thought.
He stood up. “Polina, call an ambulance.”
She went into the hall and picked up the phone.
Lev stared at the body. He had to make a big decision fast. Stay here, protest innocence, pretend grief, try to wriggle out of it? No. The chances were too slim.
He had to go.
He ran upstairs and stripped off his shirt. He had come home from the war with a lot of gold, accumulated by selling Scotch to the Cossacks. He had converted it to just over five thousand U.S. dollars, stuffed the bills into his money belt, and taped the belt to the back of a drawer. Now he fastened the belt around his waist and put his shirt and jacket back on.
He put on his overcoat. On top of his wardrobe was an old duffel containing his U.S. Army officer’s-issue Colt.45model 1911 semiautomatic pistol. He stuffed the pistol into his coat pocket. He threw a box of ammunition and some underwear into the duffel, then he went downstairs.
In the dining room, Lena had put a cushion under Josef ’s head, but Josef looked deader than ever. Olga was on the phone in the hallway, saying: “Be quick, please, I think he may die!” Too late, baby, Lev thought.
He said: “The ambulance will take too long. I’m going to fetch Dr. Schwarz.” No one asked why he was carrying a bag.
He went to the garage and started Josef ’s Packard Twin Six. He drove out of the property and turned north.
He was not going to fetch Dr. Schwarz.
He headed for Canada.
{ II }
Lev drove fast. As he left Buffalo’s northern suburbs behind, he tried to figure out how much time he had. The ambulance crew would undoubtedly call the police. As soon as the cops arrived they would find out that Josef had died in a fistfight. Olga would not hesitate to tell them who had knocked her father down: if she had not hated Lev before, she would now. At that point, Lev would be wanted for murder.
There were normally three cars in the Vyalov garage: the Packard, Lev’s Ford Model T, and a blue Hudson used by Josef ’s goons. It would not take the flatfoots very long to deduce that Lev had left in the Packard. In an hour, Lev calculated, the police would be looking for the car.
