by Ken Follett
"He said he would meet you at the ship."
Mishka brought their tea. Grigori was hungry--he had left his porridge on the fire--and he asked for some soup.
Katerina said: "How much can you give Lev?"
She was looking earnestly at him, and that always made him feel he would do anything she asked. He looked away. "Whatever he needs," he said.
"You're so good."
Grigori shrugged. "He's my brother."
"Thank you."
It pleased Grigori when Katerina was grateful, but it embarrassed him too. The soup came and he began to eat, glad of the diversion. The food made him feel more optimistic. Lev was always in and out of trouble. He would slip out of this difficulty as he had many times before. It did not mean Grigori had to miss his sailing.
Katerina watched him, sipping her tea. She had lost the frantic look. Lev puts you in danger, Grigori thought, and I come to the rescue, yet you prefer him.
Lev was probably at the dock now, skulking in the shadow of a derrick, nervously looking out for policemen as he waited. Grigori needed to get going. But he might never see Katerina again, and he could hardly bear the thought of saying good-bye to her forever.
He finished his soup and looked at the clock. It was almost seven. He was cutting things too fine. "I have to go," he said reluctantly.
Katerina walked with him to the door. "Don't be too hard on Lev," she said.
"Was I ever?"
She put her hands on his shoulders, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him briefly on the lips. "Good luck," she said.
Grigori walked away.
He went quickly through the streets of southwest St. Petersburg, an industrial quarter of warehouses, factories, storage yards, and overcrowded slums. The shameful impulse to weep left him after a few minutes. He walked on the shady side, kept his cap low and his head down, and avoided wide open areas. If Pinsky had circulated a description of Lev, an alert policeman might easily arrest Grigori.
But he reached the docks without being spotted. His ship, the Angel Gabriel, was a small, rusty vessel that took both cargo and passengers. Right now it was being loaded with stoutly nailed wooden packing cases marked with the name of the city's largest fur trader. As he watched, the last box went into the hold and the crew fastened the hatch.
A family of Jews were showing their tickets at the head of the gangplank. All Jews wanted to go to America, in Grigori's experience. They had even more reason than he did. In Russia there were laws forbidding them to own land, to enter the civil service, to be army officers, and countless other prohibitions. They could not live where they liked, and there were quotas limiting the number who could go to universities. It was a miracle any of them made a living. And if they did prosper, against the odds, it would not be long before they were set upon by a crowd--usually egged on by policemen such as Pinsky--and beaten up, their families terrified, their windows smashed, their property set on fire. The surprise was that any of them stayed.
The ship's hooter sounded for "All aboard."
He could not see his brother. What had gone wrong? Had Lev changed plans again? Or had he been arrested already?
A small boy tugged at Grigori's sleeve. "A man wants to talk to you," the boy said.
"What man?"
"He looks like you."
Thank God, thought Grigori. "Where is he?"
"Behind the planks."
There was a stack of timber on the dock. Grigori hurried around it and found Lev hiding behind it, nervously smoking a cigarette. He was fidgety and pale--a rare sight, for he usually remained cheerful even in adversity.
"I'm in trouble," Lev said.
"Again."
"Those bargemen are liars!"
"And thieves, probably."
"Don't get sarcastic with me. There isn't time."
"No, you're right. We need to get you out of town until the fuss dies down."
Lev shook his head in negation, blowing out smoke at the same time. "One of the bargemen died. I'm wanted for murder."
"Oh, hell." Grigori sat down on a shelf of timber and buried his head in his hands. "Murder," he said.
"Trofim was badly wounded and the police got him to talk. He fingered me."
"How do you know all this?"
"I saw Fyodor half an hour ago." Fyodor was a corrupt policeman of Lev's acquaintance.
"This is bad news."
"There's worse. Pinsky has vowed to get me--as revenge on you."
Grigori nodded. "That's what I was afraid of."
"What am I going to do?"
"You'll have to go to Moscow. St. Petersburg won't be safe for you for a long time, maybe forever."
"I don't know that Moscow is far enough, now that the police have telegraph machines."
He was right, Grigori realized.
The ship's hooter sounded again. Soon the gangplanks would be withdrawn. "We only have a minute left," said Grigori. "What are you going to do?"
Lev said: "I could go to America."
Grigori stared at him.
Lev said: "You could give me your ticket."
Grigori did not want even to think about it.
But Lev went on with remorseless logic. "I could use your passport and papers for entering the United States--no one would know the difference."
Grigori saw his dream fading, like the ending of a motion picture at the Soleil Cinema in Nevsky Prospekt, when the house lights came up to show the drab colors and dirty floors of the real world. "Give you my ticket," he repeated, desperately postponing the moment of decision.
"You'd be saving my life," Lev said.
Grigori knew he had to do it, and the realization was like a pain in his heart.
He took the papers from the pocket of his best suit and gave them to Lev. He handed over all the money he had saved for the journey. Then he gave his brother the cardboard suitcase with the bullet hole.
"I'll send you the money for another ticket," Lev said fervently. Grigori made no reply, but his skepticism must have shown on his face, for Lev protested: "I really will, I swear it. I'll save up."
"All right," Grigori said.
They embraced. Lev said: "You always took care of me."
"Yes, I did."
Lev turned and ran for the ship.
The sailors were untying the ropes. They were about to pull up the gangplank, but Lev shouted and they waited a few seconds more for him.
He ran up onto the deck.
He turned, leaned on the rail, and waved to Grigori.
Grigori could not bring himself to wave back. He turned and walked away.
The ship hooted, but he did not look back.
His right arm felt strangely light without the burden of the suitcase. He walked through the docks, looking down at the deep black water, and the odd thought occurred to him that he could throw himself in. He shook himself: he was not prey to such foolish ideas. All the same he was depressed and bitter. Life never dealt him a winning hand.
He was unable to cheer himself up as he retraced his steps through the industrial district. He walked along with his eyes cast down, not even bothering to keep an eye open for the police: it hardly mattered if they arrested him now.
What was he going to do? He felt he could not summon the energy for anything. They would give him back his job at the factory, when the strike was over: he was a good worker and they knew it. He should probably go there now, and find out whether there had been any progress in the dispute--but he could not be bothered.
After an hour he found himself approaching Mishka's. He intended to go straight past but, glancing inside, he saw Katerina, sitting where he had left her two hours ago, with a cold glass of tea in front of her. He had to tell her what had happened.
He went inside. The place was empty except for Mishka, who was sweeping the floor.
Katerina stood up, looking scared. "Why are you here?" she said. "Did you miss your boat?"
"Not exactly." He could not think how to break the news.
; "What, then?" she said. "Is Lev dead?"
"No, he's all right. But he's wanted for murder."
She stared at him. "Where is he?"
"He had to go away."
"Where?"
There was no gentle way to put it. "He asked me to give him my ticket."
"Your ticket?"
"And passport. He's gone to America."
"No!" she screamed.
Grigori just nodded.
"No!" she yelled again. "He wouldn't leave me! Don't you say that, never say it!"
"Try to stay calm."
She slapped Grigori's face. She was only a girl, and he hardly flinched. "Swine!" she screeched. "You've sent him away!"
"I did it to save his life."
"Bastard! Dog! I hate you! I hate your stupid face!"
"Nothing you say could make me feel any worse," Grigori said, but she was not listening. Ignoring her curses, he walked away, her voice fading as he went out through the door.
The screaming stopped, and he heard footsteps running along the street after him. "Stop!" she cried. "Stop, please, Grigori, don't turn your back on me, I'm so sorry."
He turned.
"Grigori, you have to look after me now that Lev's gone."
He shook his head. "You don't need me. The men of this city will form a queue to look after you."
"No, they won't," she said. "There's something you don't know."
Grigori thought: What now?
She said: "Lev didn't want me to tell you."
"Go on."
"I'm expecting a baby," she said, and she began to weep.
Grigori stood still, taking it in. Lev's baby, of course. And Lev knew. Yet he had gone to America. "A baby," Grigori said.
She nodded, crying.
His brother's child. His nephew or niece. His family.
He put his arms around her and drew her to him. She was shaking with sobs. She buried her face in his jacket. He stroked her hair. "All right," he said. "Don't worry. You'll be okay. So will your baby." He sighed. "I will take care of you both."
{ II }
Traveling on the Angel Gabriel was grim, even for a boy from the slums of St. Petersburg. There was only one class, steerage, and the passengers were treated as so much more cargo. The ship was dirty and unsanitary, especially when there were huge waves and people were seasick. It was impossible to complain because none of the crew spoke Russian. Lev was not sure what nationality they were, but he failed to get through to them with either his smattering of English or his even fewer words of German. Someone said they were Dutch. Lev had never heard of Dutch people.
Nevertheless the mood among the passengers was high optimism. Lev felt he had burst the walls of the tsar's prison and escaped, and now he was free. He was on his way to America, where there were no noblemen. When the sea was calm, passengers sat on the deck and told the stories they had heard about America: the hot water coming out of taps, the good-quality leather boots worn even by workers, and most of all the freedom to practise any religion, join any political group, state your opinion in public, and not be afraid of the police.
On the evening of the tenth day Lev was playing cards. He was dealer, but he was losing. Everyone was losing except Spirya, an innocent-looking boy of Lev's age who was also traveling alone. "Spirya wins every night," said another player, Yakov. The truth was that Spirya won when Lev was dealing.
They were steaming slowly through a fog. The sea was calm, and there was no sound but the low bass of the engines. Lev had not been able to find out when they would arrive. People gave different answers. The most knowledgeable said it depended on the weather. The crew were inscrutable as always.
As night fell, Lev threw in his hand. "I'm cleaned out," he said. In fact he had plenty more money inside his shirt, but he could see that the others were running low, all except Spirya. "That's it," he said. "When we get to America, I'm just going to have to catch the eye of a rich old woman and live like a pet dog in her marble palace."
The others laughed. "But why would anyone want you for a pet?" said Yakov.
"Old ladies get cold at night," he said. "She would need my heating appliance."
The game ended in good humor, and the players drifted away.
Spirya went aft and leaned on the rail, watching the wake disappear into the fog. Lev joined him. "My half comes to seven rubles even," Lev said.
Spirya took paper currency from his pocket and gave it to Lev, shielding the transaction with his body so that no one else could see money changing hands.
Lev pocketed the notes and filled his pipe.
Spirya said: "Tell me something, Grigori." Lev was using his brother's papers, so he had to tell people his name was Grigori. "What would you do if I refused to give you your share?"
This kind of talk was dangerous. Lev slowly put his tobacco away and put the unlit pipe back into his jacket pocket. Then he grabbed Spirya by the lapels and pushed him up against the rail so that he was bent backward and leaning out to sea. Spirya was taller than Lev but not as tough, by a long way. "I would break your stupid neck," Lev said. "Then I would take back all the money you've made with me." He pushed Spirya farther over. "Then I would throw you in the damn sea."
Spirya was terrified. "All right!" he said. "Let me go!"
Lev released his grip.
"Jesus!" Spirya gasped. "I only asked a question."
Lev lit his pipe. "And I gave you the answer," he said. "Don't forget it."
Spirya walked away.
When the fog lifted they were in sight of land. It was night, but Lev could see the lights of a city. Where were they? Some said Canada, some said Ireland, but no one knew.
The lights came nearer, and the ship slowed. They were going to make landfall. Lev heard someone say they had arrived in America already! Ten days seemed quick. But what did he know? He stood at the rail with his brother's cardboard suitcase. His heart beat faster.
The suitcase reminded him that Grigori should have been the one arriving in America now. Lev had not forgotten his vow to Grigori, to send him the price of a ticket. That was one promise he ought to keep. Grigori had probably saved his life--again. I'm lucky, Lev thought, to have such a brother.
He was making money on the ship, but not fast enough. Seven rubles went nowhere. He needed a big score. But America was the land of opportunity. He would make his fortune there.
Lev had been intrigued to find a bullet hole in the suitcase, and a slug embedded in a box containing a chess set. He had sold the chess set to one of the Jews for five kopeks. He wondered how Grigori had come to be shot at that day.
He was missing Katerina. He loved to walk around with a girl like that on his arm, knowing that every man envied him. But there would be plenty of girls here in America.
He wondered if Grigori knew about Katerina's baby yet. Lev suffered a pang of regret: would he ever see his son or daughter? He told himself not to worry about leaving Katerina to raise the child alone. She would find someone else to look after her. She was a survivor.
It was after midnight when at last the ship docked. The quay was dimly lit and there was no one in sight. The passengers disembarked with their bags and boxes and trunks. An officer from the Angel Gabriel directed them into a shed where there were a few benches. "You must wait here until the immigration people come for you in the morning," he said, demonstrating that he did, after all, speak a little Russian.
It was a bit of an anticlimax for people who had saved up for years to come here. The women sat on the benches and the children went to sleep while the men smoked and waited for morning. After a while they heard the ship's engines, and Lev went outside and saw it moving slowly away from its mooring. Perhaps the crates of furs had to be unloaded elsewhere.
He tried to recall what Grigori had told him, in casual conversation, about the first steps in the new country. Immigrants had to pass a medical inspection--a tense moment, for unfit people were sent back, their money wasted and their hopes dashed. Sometimes the immigration
officers changed people's names, to make them easier for Americans to pronounce. Outside the docks, a representative of the Vyalov family would be waiting to take them by train to Buffalo. There they would get jobs in hotels and factories owned by Josef Vyalov. Lev wondered how far Buffalo was from New York. Would it take an hour to get there, or a week? He wished he had listened more carefully to Grigori.
The sun rose over miles of crowded docks, and Lev's excitement returned. Old-fashioned masts and rigging clustered side by side with steam funnels. There were grand dockside buildings and tumbledown sheds, tall derricks and squat capstans, ladders and ropes and carts. To landward, Lev could see serried ranks of railway trucks full of coal, hundreds of them--no, thousands--fading into the distance beyond the limit of his vision. He was disappointed that he could not see the famous Liberty statue with its torch: it must be out of sight around a headland, he guessed.
Dockworkers arrived, first in small groups, then in crowds. Ships departed and others arrived. A dozen women began to unload sacks of potatoes from a small vessel in front of the shed. Lev wondered when the immigration police would come.
Spirya came up to him. He seemed to have forgiven the way Lev had threatened him. "They've forgotten about us," he said.
"Looks that way," Lev said, puzzled.
"Shall we take a walk around--see if we can find someone who speaks Russian?"
"Good idea."
Spirya spoke to one of the older men. "We're going to see if we can find out what's happening."
The man looked nervous. "Maybe we should stay here as we were told."
They ignored him and walked over to the potato women. Lev gave them his best grin and said: "Does anyone speak Russian?" One of the younger women smiled back, but no one answered the question. Lev felt frustrated: his winning ways were useless with people who could not understand what he was saying.
Lev and Spirya walked in the direction from which most of the workers had come. No one took any notice of them. They came to a big set of gates, walked through, and found themselves in a busy street of shops and offices. The road was crowded with motorcars, electric trams, horses, and handcarts. Every few yards Lev spoke to someone, but no one responded.
Lev was mystified. What kind of place allowed anyone to walk off a ship and into the city without permission?
