by Ken Follett
Another six inches, another increase in the pace of the clicking.
Greg looked at his watch. It was eleven-thirty.
Suddenly there was a loud crash. Everyone jumped. McHugh said: ‘Fuck.’
Greg said: ‘What happened?’
‘Oh, I see,’ said McHugh. ‘The radiation level activated the safety mechanism and released the emergency control rod, that’s all.’
Fermi announced: ‘I’m hungry. Let’s go to lunch.’ In his Italian accent it came out: ‘I’m hungary. Les go to luncha.’
How could they think about food? But no one argued. ‘You never know how long an experiment is going to take,’ said McHugh. ‘Could be all day. Best to eat when you can.’ Greg could have screamed.
All the control rods were re-inserted into the pile and locked into position, and everyone left.
Most of them went to a campus canteen. Greg got a grilled-cheese sandwich and sat next to a solemn physicist called Wilhelm Frunze. Most scientists were badly dressed but Frunze was notably so, in a green suit with tan suede trimmings: buttonholes, collar lining, elbow patches, pocket flaps. This guy was high on Greg’s suspect list. He was German, though he had left in the mid-1930s and gone to London. He was an anti-Nazi but not a Communist: his politics were social-democrat. He was married to an American girl, an artist. Talking to him over lunch, Greg found no reason for suspicion: he seemed to love living in America and to be interested in little but his work. But with foreigners you could never be quite sure where their ultimate loyalty lay.
After lunch he stood in the derelict stadium, looking at thousands of empty stands, and thought about Georgy. He had told no one he had a son – not even Margaret Cowdry, with whom he was now enjoying delightfully carnal relations – but he longed to tell his mother. He felt proud, for no reason – he had made no contribution to bringing Georgy into the world apart from making love to Jacky, probably about the easiest thing he had ever done. Most of all he felt excited. He was at the beginning of some kind of adventure. Georgy was going to grow, and learn, and change, and one day become a man; and Greg would be there, watching and marvelling.
The scientists reassembled at two o’clock. Now there were about forty people crowded into the gallery with the monitoring equipment. The experiment was carefully reset in the position at which they had left off, Fermi checking his instruments constantly.
Then he said: ‘This time, withdraw the rod twelve inches.’
The clicks became rapid. Greg waited for the increase to level off, as it had before, but it did not. Instead the clicking became faster and faster until it was continuous roar.
The radiation level was above the maximum of the counters, Greg realized when he noticed that everyone’s attention had switched to the pen recorder. Its scale was adjustable. As the level rose the scale was changed, then changed again, and again.
Fermi raised a hand. They all went silent. ‘The pile has gone critical,’ he said. He smiled – and did nothing.
Greg wanted to scream: So turn the fucker off! But Fermi remained silent and still, watching the pen, and such was his authority that no one challenged him. The chain reaction was happening, but it was under control. He let it run for a minute, then another.
McHugh muttered: ‘Jesus Christ.’
Greg did not want to die. He wanted to be a senator. He wanted to sleep with Margaret Cowdry again. He wanted to see Georgy go to college. I haven’t had half a life yet, he thought.
At last Fermi ordered the control rods to be pushed in.
The noise of the counters reverted to a clicking that gradually slowed and stopped.
Greg breathed normally.
McHugh was jubilant. ‘We proved it!’ he said. ‘The chain reaction is real!’
‘And it’s controllable, more importantly,’ said Greg.’
‘Yes, I suppose that is more important, from the practical point of view.’
Greg smiled. Scientists were like this, he knew from Harvard: for them theory was reality, and the world a rather inaccurate model.
Someone produced a bottle of Italian wine in a straw basket and some paper cups. The scientists all drank a tiny share. This was another reason Greg was not a scientist: they had no idea how to party.
Someone asked Fermi to sign the basket. He did so, then all the others signed it.
The technicians shut down the monitors. Everyone began to drift away. Greg stayed, observing. After a while he found himself alone in the gallery with Fermi and Szilard. He watched as the two intellectual giants shook hands. Szilard was a big, round-faced man; Fermi was elfin; and for a moment Greg was inappropriately reminded of Laurel and Hardy.
Then he heard Szilard speak. ‘My friend,’ he said, ‘I think this will go down as a black day in the history of mankind.’
Greg thought: Now what the hell did he mean by that?
(v)
Greg wanted his parents to accept Georgy.
It would not be easy. No doubt it would be unnerving for them to be told they had a grandson who had been concealed from them for six years. They might be angry. On top of that, they might look down on Jacky. They had no right to take a moralistic attitude, he thought wryly: they themselves had an illegitimate child – himself. But people were not rational.
He was not sure how much difference it would make that Georgy was black. Greg’s parents were laid back about race, and never talked viciously about niggers or kikes as some people of their generation did; but they might change when they learned there was a Negro in the family.
His father would be the more difficult one, he guessed; so he spoke to his mother first.
He got a few days leave at Christmas and went home to her place in Buffalo. Marga had a large apartment in the best building in town. She lived mostly alone, but she had a cook, two maids and a chauffeur. She had a safe full of jewellery and a dress closet the size of a two-car garage. But she did not have a husband.
Lev was in town, but traditionally he took Olga out on Christmas Eve. He was still married to her, technically, though he had not spent a night at her house for years. As far as Greg knew, Olga and Lev hated one another; but for some reason they met once a year.
That evening, Greg and his mother had dinner together in the apartment. He put on a tuxedo to please her. ‘I love to see my men dressed up,’ she often said. They had fish soup, roast chicken, and Greg’s boyhood favourite, peach pie.
‘I have some news for you, Mother,’ he said nervously as the maid poured coffee. He feared she would be angry. He was not frightened for himself, but for Georgy, and he wondered if this was what parenthood was about – worrying about someone else more than you worried about yourself.
‘Good news?’ she said.
She had become heavier in recent years, but she was still glamorous at forty-six. If there was any grey in her dark hair it had been carefully camouflaged by her hairdresser. Tonight she wore a simple black dress and a diamond choker.
‘Very good news, but I guess a little surprising, so please don’t fly off the handle.’
She raised a black eyebrow but said nothing.
He reached inside his dinner jacket and took out a photograph. It showed Georgy on a red bicycle with a ribbon around the handlebars. The rear wheel of the bike had a pair of stabilizing wheels so that it would not fall over. The expression on the boy’s face was ecstatic. Greg was kneeling beside him, looking proud.
He handed the picture to his mother.
She studied it thoughtfully. After a minute she said: ‘I’m assuming you gave this little boy a bicycle for Christmas.’
‘That’s right.’
She looked up. ‘Are you telling me you have a child?’
Greg nodded. ‘His name is Georgy.’
‘Are you married?’
‘No.’
She threw down the photo. ‘For God’s sake!’ she said angrily. ‘What is the matter with you Peshkov men!’
Greg was dismayed. ‘I don’t know what you mean!’
&
nbsp; ‘Another illegitimate child! Another woman bringing him up alone!’
He realized that she saw Jacky as a younger version of herself. ‘Mother, I was fifteen . . .’
‘Why can’t you be normal?’ she stormed. ‘For the love of Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with having a regular family?’
Greg looked down. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it.’
He felt ashamed. Until this moment he had seen himself as a passive player in this drama, even a victim. Everything that had happened had been done to him by his father and Jacky. But his mother did not view it that way, and now he saw that she was right. He had not thought twice about sleeping with Jacky; he had not questioned her when she had said airily that there was no need to worry about contraception; and he had not confronted his father when Jacky left. He had been very young, yes; but if he was old enough to fuck her, he was old enough to take responsibility for the consequences.
His mother was still raging. ‘Don’t you remember how you used to carry on? “Where is my Daddy? Why doesn’t he sleep here? Why can’t we go with him to Daisy’s house?” And then later, the fights you had at school when the boys called you a bastard. And you were so angry to be refused membership of that goddamned yacht club.’
‘Of course I remember.’
She banged a beringed fist on the table, causing crystal glasses to shake. ‘Then how can you put another little boy through the same torture?’
‘I didn’t know he existed until two months ago. Father scared the mother away.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Her name is Jacky Jakes. She’s a waitress.’ He took out another photo.
His mother sighed. ‘A pretty Negress.’ She was calming down.
‘She was hoping to be an actress, but I guess she gave that up when Georgy came along.’
Marga nodded. ‘A baby will ruin your career faster than a dose of the clap.’
Mother assumed that an actress had to sleep with the right people to progress, Greg noted. How the hell would she know? But then she had been a nightclub singer when his father met her . . .
He did not want to go down that road.
She said: ‘What did you give her for Christmas?’
‘Medical insurance.’
‘Good choice. Better than a fluffy bear.’
Greg heard a step in the hall. His father was home. Hastily, he said: ‘Mother, will you meet Jacky? Will you accept Georgy as your grandson?’
Her hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh, my God, I’m a grandmother.’ She did not know whether to be shocked or pleased.
Greg leaned forward. ‘I don’t want Father to reject him. Please!’
Before she could reply, Lev came into the room.
Marga said: ‘Hello, darling, how was your evening?’
He sat at the table looking grumpy. ‘Well, I’ve had my shortcomings explained to me in full detail, so I guess I had a great time.’
‘You poor thing. Did you get enough to eat? I can make you an omelette in a minute.’
‘The food was fine.’
The photographs were on the table, but Lev had not noticed them yet.
The maid came in and said: ‘Would you like coffee, Mr Peshkov?’
‘No, thank you.’
Marga said: ‘Bring the vodka, in case Mr Peshkov would like a drink later.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Greg noticed how solicitous Marga was about Lev’s comfort and pleasure. He guessed that was why Lev was here, not at Olga’s, for the night.
The maid brought a bottle and three small glasses on a silver tray. Lev still drank vodka the Russian way, warm and neat.
Greg said: ‘Father, you know Jacky Jakes—’
‘Her again?’ Lev said irritably.
‘Yes, because there’s something you don’t know about her.’
That got his attention. He hated to think other people knew things he did not. ‘What?’
‘She has a child.’ He pushed the photographs across the polished table.
‘It it yours?’
‘He’s six years old. What do you think?’
‘She kept this pretty damned quiet.’
‘She was scared of you.’
‘What did she think I might do, cook the baby and eat it?’
‘I don’t know, Father – you’re the expert at scaring people.’
Lev gave him a hard look. ‘You’re learning, though.’
He was talking about the scene with the razor. Maybe I am learning to scare people, Greg thought.
Lev said: ‘Why are you showing me these photos?’
‘I thought you might like to know that you have a grandson.’
‘By a goddamn two-bit actress who was hoping to snag herself a rich man!’
Marga said: ‘Darling! Please remember that I was a two-bit nightclub singer hoping to snag myself a rich man.’
He looked furious. For a moment he glared at Marga. Then his expression changed. ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘You’re right. Who am I to judge Jacky Jakes?’
Greg and Marga stared at him, astonished at this sudden humility.
He said: ‘I’m just like her. I was a two-kopek hoodlum from the slums of St Petersburg until I married Olga Vyalov, my boss’s daughter.’
Greg caught his mother’s eye, and she gave an almost imperceptible shrug that simply said: You never can tell.
Lev looked again at the photo. ‘Apart from the colour, this kid looks like my brother, Grigori. There’s a surprise. Until now I thought all these piccaninnies looked the same.’
Greg could hardly breathe. ‘Will you see him, father? Will you come with me and meet your grandson?’
‘Hell, yes.’ Lev uncorked the bottle, poured vodka into three glasses, and passed them round. ‘What’s the boy’s name, anyway?’
‘Georgy.’
Lev raised his glass. ‘So here’s to Georgy.’
They all drank.
15
1943 (I)
Lloyd Williams walked along a narrow uphill path at the tail end of a line of desperate fugitives.
He breathed easily. He was used to this. He had now crossed the Pyrenees several times. He wore rope-soled espadrilles that gave his feet a better grip on the rocky ground. He had a heavy coat on top of his blue overalls. The sun was hot now but later, when the party reached higher altitudes and the sun went down, the temperature would drop below freezing.
Ahead of him were two sturdy ponies, three local people, and eight weary, bedraggled escapers, all loaded with packs. There were three American airmen, the surviving crew of a B-24 Liberator bomber that had crash-landed in Belgium. Two more were British officers who had escaped from the Oflag 65 prisoner-of-war camp in Strasbourg. The others were a Czech Communist, a Jewish woman with a violin, and a mysterious Englishman called Watermill who was probably some kind of spy.
They had all come a long way and suffered many hardships. This was the last leg of their journey, and the most dangerous. If captured now, they would all be tortured until they betrayed the brave men and women who had helped them en route.
Leading the party was Teresa. The climb was hard work for people who were not used to it, but they had to keep up a brisk pace to minimize their exposure, and Lloyd had found that the refugees were less likely to fall behind when they were led by a small, ravishingly pretty woman.
The path levelled and broadened into a small clearing. Suddenly a loud voice rang out. Speaking French with a German accent, it shouted: ‘Halt!’
The column came to an abrupt halt.
Two German soldiers emerged from behind a rock. They carried standard Mauser bolt-action rifles, each holding five rounds of ammunition.
Reflexively Lloyd touched the overcoat pocket that contained his loaded 9mm Luger pistol.
Escaping from mainland Europe had become harder, and Lloyd’s job had grown even more dangerous. At the end of last year the Germans had occupied the southern half of France, contemptuously ignoring the Vichy French government like the
flimsy sham it had always been. A forbidden zone ten miles deep was declared all along the frontier with Spain. Lloyd and his party were in that zone now.
Teresa addressed the soldiers in French. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. Is everything all right?’ Lloyd knew her well, and he could hear the tremor of fear in her voice, but he hoped it was too faint for the sentries to notice.
Among the French police there were many Fascists and a few Communists, but all of them were lazy, and none wanted to chase refugees across the icy passes of the Pyrenees. However, the Germans did. German troops had moved into border towns and begun to patrol the hill paths and mule trails Lloyd and Teresa used. The occupiers were not crack troops: those were fighting in Russia, where they had recently surrendered Stalingrad after a long and murderous struggle. Many of the Germans in France were old men, boys, and the walking wounded. But that seemed to make them more determined to prove themselves. Unlike the French, they rarely turned a blind eye.
Now the older of the two soldiers, cadaverously thin with a grey moustache, said to Teresa: ‘Where are you going?’
‘To the village of Lamont. We have groceries for you and your comrades.’
This particular German unit had moved into a remote hill village, kicking out the local inhabitants. Then they had realized how difficult it was to supply troops in that location. It had been a stroke of genius on Teresa’s part to undertake to carry food to them – at a healthy profit – and thereby get permission to enter the prohibited zone.
The thin soldier looked suspiciously at the men with their backpacks. ‘All this is for German soldiers?’
‘I hope so,’ Teresa said. ‘There’s no one else up here to sell it to.’ She took a piece of paper from her pocket. ‘Here’s the order, signed by your Sergeant Eisenstein.’
The man read it carefully and handed it back. Then he looked at Lieutenant-Colonel Will Donelly, a beefy American pilot. ‘Is he French?’
Lloyd put his hand on the gun in his pocket.
The appearance of the fugitives was a problem. In this part of the world the local people, French and Spanish, were usually small and dark. And everyone was thin. Both Lloyd and Teresa fitted that description, as did the Czech and the violinist. But the British were pale and fair-haired, and the Americans were huge.
