by Ken Follett
He drank a mouthful of Scotch and savored the taste and the burn of it.
Mrs. Vyalov said: "I feel sorry for the poor tsaritsa and her children. What will they do?"
Josef said: "They'll all be killed by the mob, I shouldn't wonder."
"Poor things. What did the tsar ever do to those revolutionaries, to deserve this?"
"I can answer that question," Lev said. He knew he should shut up, but he could not, especially with whisky warming his guts. "When I was eleven years old, the factory where my mother worked went on strike."
Mrs. Vyalov tutted. She did not believe in strikes.
"The police rounded up all the children of the strikers. I'll never forget it. I was terrified."
"Why would they do a thing like that?" said Mrs. Vyalov.
"The police flogged us all," Lev said. "On our bottoms, with canes. To teach our parents a lesson."
Mrs. Vyalov had gone white. She could not bear cruelty to children or animals.
"That's what the tsar and his regime did to me, Mother," said Lev. He clinked ice in his glass. "That's why I toast the revolution."
"What do you think, Gus?" said President Wilson. "You're the only person around here who's actually been to Petrograd. What's going to happen?"
"I hate to sound like a State Department official, but it could go either way," said Gus.
The president laughed. They were in the Oval Office, Wilson behind the desk, Gus standing in front of it. "Come on," Wilson said. "Take a guess. Will the Russians pull out of the war or not? It's the most important question of the year."
"Okay. All the ministers in the new government belong to scary-sounding political parties with socialist and revolutionary in their names, but in fact they're middle-class businessmen and professionals. What they really want is a bourgeois revolution that gives them freedom to promote industry and commerce. But the people want bread, peace, and land: bread for the factory workers, peace for the soldiers, and land for the peasants. None of that really appeals to men like Lvov and Kerensky. So, to answer your question, I think Lvov's government will try for gradual change. In particular, they will carry on fighting the war. But the workers will not be satisfied."
"And who will win in the end?"
Gus recalled his trip to St. Petersburg, and the man who had demonstrated the casting of a locomotive wheel in a dirty, tumbledown foundry at the Putilov factory. Later, Gus had seen the same man in a fight with a cop over some girl. He could not remember the man's name, but he could picture him now, his big shoulders and strong arms, one finger a stump, but most of all his fierce blue-eyed look of unstoppable determination. "The Russian people," Gus said. "They will win in the end."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
April 1917
On a mild day in early spring Walter walked with Monika von der Helbard in the garden of her parents' town house in Berlin. It was a grand house and the garden was large, with a tennis pavilion, a bowling green, a riding school for exercising horses, and a children's playground with swings and a slide. Walter remembered coming here as a child and thinking it was paradise. However, it was no longer an idyllic playground. All but the oldest horses had gone to the army. Chickens scratched on the flagstones of the broad terrace. Monika's mother was fattening a pig in the tennis pavilion. Goats grazed the bowling green, and it was rumored that the grafin milked them herself.
However, the old trees were coming into leaf, the sun was shining, and Walter was in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves with his coat slung over his shoulder--a state of undress that would have displeased his mother, but she was in the house, gossiping with the grafin. His sister, Greta, had been walking with Walter and Monika, but she had made an excuse and left them alone--another thing Mother would have deplored, at least in theory.
Monika had a dog called Pierre. It was a standard poodle, long-legged and graceful, with a lot of curly rust-colored hair and light brown eyes, and Walter could not help thinking that it looked a little like Monika, beautiful though she was.
He liked the way she acted with her dog. She did not pet it or feed it scraps or talk to it in a baby voice, as some girls did. She just let it walk at her heel, and occasionally threw an old tennis ball for it to fetch.
"It's so disappointing about the Russians," she said.
Walter nodded. Prince Lvov's government had announced they would continue to fight. Germany's eastern front was not to be relieved, and there would be no reinforcements for France. The war would drag on. "Our only hope now is that Lvov's government will fall and the peace faction will take over," Walter said.
"Is that likely?"
"It's hard to say. The left revolutionaries are still demanding bread, peace, and land. The government has promised a democratic election for a constituent assembly--but who will win?" He picked up a twig and threw it for Pierre. The dog bounded after it, and proudly brought it back. Walter bent down to pat its head, and when he straightened up Monika was very close to him.
"I like you, Walter," she said, looking very directly at him with her amber eyes. "I feel as if we would never run out of things to talk about."
He had the same feeling, and he knew that if he tried to kiss her now she would let him.
He stepped away. "I like you, too," he said. "And I like your dog." He laughed, to show that he was speaking lightheartedly.
All the same he could see that she was hurt. She bit her lip and turned away. She had been about as bold as was possible for a well-brought-up girl, and he had rejected her.
They walked on. After a long silence Monika said: "What is your secret, I wonder?"
My God, he thought, she's sharp. "I have no secrets," he lied. "Do you?"
"None worth telling." She reached up and brushed something off his shoulder. "A bee," she said.
"It's too soon in the year for bees."
"Perhaps we shall have an early summer."
"It's not that warm."
She pretended to shiver. "You're right, it's chilly. Would you fetch me a wrap? If you go to the kitchen and ask a maid she will find one."
"Of course." It was not chilly, but a gentleman never refused such a request, no matter how whimsical. She obviously wanted a minute alone. He strolled back to the house. He had to spurn her advances, but he was sorry to hurt her. They were well suited--their mothers were quite right--and clearly Monika could not understand why he kept pushing her away.
He entered the house and went down the back stairs to the basement, where he found an elderly housemaid in a black dress and a lace cap. She went off to find a shawl.
Walter waited in the hall. The house was decorated in the up-to-date Jugendstil, which did away with the rococo flourishes loved by Walter's parents and favored well-lit rooms with gentle colors. The pillared hall was all cool gray marble and mushroom-colored carpet.
It seemed to him as if Maud was a million miles away on another planet. And in a way she was, for the prewar world would never come back. He had not seen his wife nor heard from her for almost three years, and he might never meet her again. Although she had not faded from his mind--he would never forget the passion they had shared--he did find, to his distress, that he could no longer recall the fine details of their times together: what she was wearing, where they were when they kissed or held hands, or what they ate and drank and talked about when they met at those endlessly similar London parties. Sometimes it crossed his mind that the war had in a way divorced them. But he pushed the thought aside: it was shamefully disloyal.
The maid brought him a yellow cashmere shawl. He returned to Monika, who was sitting on a tree stump with Pierre at her feet. Walter gave her the shawl and she put it around her shoulders. The color suited her, making her eyes gleam and her skin glow.
She had a strange look on her face, and she handed him his wallet. "This must have fallen out of your coat," she said.
"Oh, thank you." He returned it to the inside pocket of the coat that he still had slung over his shoulder.
She said: "Let's
go back to the house."
"As you wish."
Her mood had changed. Perhaps she had simply decided to give up on him. Or had something else happened?
He was struck by a frightening thought. Had his wallet really fallen out of his coat? Or had she taken it, like a pickpocket, when she brushed that unlikely bee off his shoulder? "Monika," he said, and he stopped and turned to face her. "Did you look inside my wallet?"
"You said you had no secrets," she said, and she blushed bright red.
She must have seen the newspaper clipping he carried: Lady Maud Fitzherbert is always dressed in the latest fashion. "That was most ill-mannered of you," he said angrily. He was mainly angry with himself. He should not have kept the incriminating photo. If Monika could figure out its significance, so could others. Then he would be disgraced and drummed out of the army. He might be accused of treason and jailed or even shot.
He had been foolish. But he knew he would never throw the picture away. It was all he had of Maud.
Monika put a hand on his arm. "I have never done anything like that in my whole life, and I'm ashamed. But you must see that I was desperate. Oh, Walter, I could fall in love with you so easily, and I can tell that you could love me too--I can see it, in your eyes and the way you smile when you see me. But you said nothing!" There were tears in her eyes. "It was driving me out of my mind."
"I'm sorry for that." He could no longer feel indignant. She had now gone beyond the bounds of propriety, and opened her heart to him. He felt terribly sad for her, sad for both of them.
"I just had to understand why you kept turning away from me. Now I do, of course. She's beautiful. She even looks a bit like me." She wiped her tears. "She found you before I did, that's all." She stared at him with those penetrating amber eyes. "I suppose you're engaged."
He could not lie to someone who was being so honest with him. He did not know what to say.
She guessed the reason for his hesitation. "Oh, my goodness!" she said. "You're married, aren't you?"
This was disastrous. "If people found out, I would be in serious trouble."
"I know."
"I hope I may trust you to keep my secret?"
"How can you ask?" she said. "You're the best man I've ever met. I wouldn't do anything to harm you. I will never breathe a word."
"Thank you. I know you'll keep your promise."
She looked away, fighting back the tears. "Let's go inside."
In the hall she said: "You go ahead. I must wash my face."
"All right."
"I hope--" Her voice broke into a sob. "I hope she knows how lucky she is," she whispered. Then she turned away and slipped into a side room.
Walter put on his coat and composed himself, then went up the marble staircase. The drawing room was done in the same understated style, with blond wood and pale blue-green curtains. Monika's parents had better taste than his, he decided.
His mother looked at him and knew instantly something was wrong. "Where is Monika?" she said sharply.
He raised an eyebrow at her. It was not like her to ask a question to which the answer might be Gone to the toilet. She was obviously tense. He said quietly: "She will join us in a few minutes."
"Look at this," said his father, waving a sheet of paper. "Zimmermann's office just sent it to me for my comments. Those Russian revolutionaries want to cross Germany. The nerve!" He had had a couple of glasses of schnapps, and was in an exuberant mood.
Walter said politely: "Which revolutionaries would those be, Father?" He did not really care, but was grateful for a topic of conversation.
"The ones in Zurich! Martov and Lenin and that crowd. There's supposed to be freedom of speech in Russia, now that the tsar has been deposed, so they want to go home. But they can't get there!"
Monika's father, Konrad von der Helbard, said thoughtfully: "I suppose they can't. There's no way to get from Switzerland to Russia without passing through Germany--any other overland route would involve crossing battle lines. But there are still steamers going from England across the North Sea to Sweden, aren't there?"
Walter said: "Yes, but they won't risk going via Britain. The British detained Trotsky and Bukharin. And France or Italy would be worse."
"So they're stuck!" said Otto triumphantly.
Walter said: "What will you advise Foreign Minister Zimmermann to do, Father?"
"Refuse, of course. We don't want that filth contaminating our folk. Who knows what kind of trouble those devils would stir up in Germany?"
"Lenin and Martov," Walter said musingly. "Martov is a Menshevik, but Lenin is a Bolshevik." German intelligence took a lively interest in Russian revolutionaries.
Otto said: "Bolsheviks, Mensheviks, socialists, revolutionaries, they're all the same."
"No, they're not," said Walter. "The Bolsheviks are the toughest."
Monika's mother said with spirit: "All the more reason to keep them out of our country!"
Walter ignored that. "More importantly, the Bolsheviks abroad tend to be more radical than those at home. The Petrograd Bolsheviks support the provisional government of Prince Lvov, but their comrades in Zurich do not."
His sister, Greta, said: "How do you know a thing like that?"
Walter knew because he had read intelligence reports from German spies in Switzerland who were intercepting the revolutionaries' mail. But he said: "Lenin made a speech in Zurich a few days ago in which he repudiated the provisional government."
Otto made a dismissive noise, but Konrad von der Helbard leaned forward in his chair. "What are you thinking, young man?"
Walter said: "By refusing the revolutionaries permission to pass through Germany, we are protecting Russia from their subversive ideas."
Mother looked bewildered. "Explain, please."
"I'm suggesting we should help these dangerous men get home. Once there, either they will try to undermine the Russian government and cripple its ability to make war, or alternatively they will take power and make peace. Either way, Germany gains."
There was a moment of silence while they all thought about that. Then Otto laughed loudly and clapped his hands. "My own son!" he said. "There is a bit of the old man in him after all!"
{ II }
My dearest darling,
Zurich is a cold city by a lake,
Walter wrote,
but the sun shines on the water, on the leafy hillsides all around, and on the Alps in the distance. The streets are laid out in a grid with no bends: the Swiss are even more orderly than the Germans! I wish you were here, my beloved friend, as I wish you were with me wherever I am!!!
The exclamation marks were intended to give the postal censor the impression that the writer was an excitable girl. Although Walter was in neutral Switzerland, he was still being careful that the text of the letter did not identify either the sender or the recipient.
I wonder whether you suffer the embarrassment of unwanted attention from eligible bachelors. You are so beautiful and charming that you must. I have the same problem. I don't have beauty or charm, of course, but despite that I receive advances. My mother has chosen someone for me to marry, a chum of my sister's, a person I have always known and liked. It was very difficult for a while, and I'm afraid that in the end the person discovered that I have a friendship that excludes marriage. However, I believe our secret is safe.
If a censor bothered to read this far he would now conclude that the letter was from a lesbian to her lover. The same conclusion would be reached by anyone in England who read the letter. This hardly mattered: undoubtedly Maud, being a feminist and apparently single at twenty-six, was already suspected of Sapphic tendencies.
In a few days' time I will be in Stockholm, another cold city beside the water, and you could send me a letter at the Grand Hotel there.
Sweden, like Switzerland, was a neutral country with a postal service to England.
I would love to hear from you!!!
Until then, my wonderful darling,
rememb
er your beloved--
Waltraud.
{ III }
The United States declared war on Germany on Friday, April 6, 1917.
Walter had been expecting it, but all the same he felt the blow. America was rich, vigorous, and democratic: he could not imagine a worse enemy. The only hope now was that Russia would collapse, giving Germany a chance to win on the western front before the Americans had time to build up their forces.
Three days later, thirty-two exiled Russian revolutionaries met at the Zahringerhof Hotel in Zurich: men, women, and one child, a four-year-old boy called Robert. They walked from there to the baroque arch of the railway station to board a train for home.
Walter had been afraid they would not go. Martov, the Menshevik leader, had refused to leave without permission from the provisional government in Petrograd--an oddly deferential attitude for a revolutionary. Permission had not been given, but Lenin and the Bolsheviks decided to go anyway. Walter was keen that there should be no snags on the trip, and he accompanied the group to the riverside station and boarded the train with them.
This is Germany's secret weapon, Walter thought: thirty-two malcontents and misfits who want to bring down the Russian government. God help us.
Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, known as Lenin, was forty-six years old. He was a short, stocky figure, dressed neatly but without elegance, too busy to waste time on style. He had once been a redhead, but he had lost his hair early, and now he had a shiny dome with a vestigial fringe, and a carefully trimmed Vandyke beard, ginger streaked with gray. On first acquaintance Walter had found him unimpressive, without charm or good looks.
Walter was posing as a lowly official in the Foreign Office who had been given the job of making all the practical arrangements for the Bolsheviks' journey through Germany. Lenin had given him a hard, appraising look, clearly guessing that he was in reality some kind of intelligence operative.
