Winter of the World

by Ken Follett

  Joanne said: "The son of a bitch hit that woman!" She stepped forward.

  But most of the crowd began to move in the opposite direction, away from the factory. As they turned, the guards came after them, shoving, kicking, and lashing out with their truncheons.

  Brian Hall said: "There is no need for violence! Factory police, step back! Do not use your clubs!" Then his bullhorn was knocked out of his hands by a guard.

  Some of the younger men fought back. Half a dozen real policemen moved into the crowd. They did nothing to restrain the factory police, but began to arrest anyone fighting back.

  The guard who had started the fracas fell to the ground, and two demonstrators started kicking him.

  Woody took a picture.

  Joanne was screaming with fury. She threw herself at a guard and scratched his face. He put out a hand to shove her away. Accidentally or otherwise, the heel of his hand connected sharply with her nose. She fell back with blood coming from her nostrils. The guard raised his nightstick. Woody grabbed her by the waist and jerked her back. The stick missed her. "Come on!" Woody yelled at her. "We have to get out of here!"

  The blow to her face had deflated her fury, and she offered no resistance as he half-pulled, half-carried her away from the gates as fast as he could, his camera swinging on the strap around his neck. The crowd was panicking now, people falling over and others trampling them as everyone tried to flee.

  Woody was taller than most and he managed to keep himself and Joanne upright. They fought their way through the crush, staying just ahead of the nightsticks. At last the crowd thinned out. Joanne detached herself from his grasp and they both began to run.

  The noise of the fight receded behind them. They turned a couple of corners and, a minute later, found themselves on a deserted street of factories and warehouses, all closed on Sunday. They slowed to a walk, catching their breath. Joanne began to laugh. "That was so exciting!" she said.

  Woody could not share her enthusiasm. "It was nasty," he said. "And it could have gotten worse." He had rescued her, and he half hoped that might cause her to change her mind about dating him.

  But she did not feel she owed him much. "Oh, come on," she said in a tone of disparagement. "Nobody died."

  "Those guards deliberately provoked a riot!"

  "Of course they did! Peshkov wants to make union members look bad."

  "Well, we know the truth." Woody tapped his camera. "And I can prove it."

  They walked half a mile, then Woody saw a cruising cab and hailed it. He gave the driver the address of the Rouzrokh family home.

  Sitting in the back of the taxi, he took a handkerchief from his pocket. "I don't want to bring you home to your father looking like this," he said. He unfolded the white cotton square and gently dabbed at the blood on her upper lip.

  It was an intimate act, and he found it sexy, but she did not indulge him for long. After a second she said: "I've got it." She took the handkerchief from his grasp and cleaned herself up. "How's that?"

  "You've missed a bit," he lied. He took the handkerchief back. Her mouth was wide, she had even white teeth, and her lips were enchantingly full. He pretended there was something under her lower lip. He wiped it gently, then said: "Better."

  "Thanks." She looked at him with an odd expression, half fond, half annoyed. She knew he had been lying about the blood on her chin, he guessed, and she was not sure whether to be cross with him or not.

  The cab halted outside her house. "Don't come in," she said. "I'm going to lie to my parents about where I've been, and I don't want you blabbing the truth."

  Woody reckoned he was probably the more discreet of the two of them, but he did not say so. "I'll call you later."

  "Okay." She got out of the taxi and walked up the driveway with a perfunctory wave.

  "She's a doll," said the driver. "Too old for you, though."

  "Take me to Delaware Avenue," Woody said. He gave the number and the cross street. He was not going to talk about Joanne to a goddamn cabby.

  He pondered his rejection. He should not have been surprised: everyone from his brother to the taxi driver said he was too young for her. All the same it hurt. He felt as if he did not know what to do with his life now. How would he get through the rest of the day?

  Back at home, his parents were taking their ritual Sunday afternoon nap. Chuck believed that was when they had sex. Chuck himself had gone swimming with a bunch of friends, according to Betty.

  Woody went into the darkroom and developed the film from his camera. He ran warm water into the basin to bring the chemicals to the ideal temperature, then put the film into a black bag to transfer it into a light-trap tank.

  It was a lengthy process that required patience, but he was happy to sit in the dark and think about Joanne. Their being together during a riot had not made her fall in love with him, but it had certainly brought them closer. He felt sure she was at least growing to like him more and more. Maybe her rejection was not final. Perhaps he should keep trying. He certainly had no interest in any other girls.

  When his timer rang he transferred the film into a stop bath to halt the chemical reaction, then to a bath of fixer to make the image permanent. Finally he washed and dried his film and looked at the negative black-and-white images on the reel.

  He thought they were pretty good.

  He cut the film into frames, then put the first into the enlarger. He laid a sheet of ten-by-eight photographic paper on the base of the enlarger, turned on the light, and exposed the paper to the negative image while he counted seconds. Then he put the paper into an open bath of developer.

  This was the best part of the process. Slowly the white paper began to show patches of gray, and the image he had photographed began to appear. It always seemed to him like a miracle. The first print showed a Negro and a white man, both in Sunday suits and hats, holding a banner that said BROTHERHOOD in large letters. When the image was clear he moved the paper to a bath of fixer, then washed it and dried it.

  He printed all the shots he had taken, took them out into the light, and laid them out on the dining room table. He was pleased: they were vivid, active pictures that clearly showed a sequence of events. When he heard his parents moving about upstairs he called his mother. She had been a journalist before she married, and she still wrote books and magazine articles. "What do you think?" he asked her.

  She studied them thoughtfully with her one eye. After a while she said: "I think they're good. You should take them to a newspaper."

  "Really?" he said. He began to feel excited. "Which paper?"

  "They're all conservative, unfortunately. Maybe the Buffalo Sentinel. The editor is Peter Hoyle--he's been there since God was a boy. He knows your father well; he'll probably see you."

  "When should I show him the photos?"

  "Now. The march is hot news. It will be in all tomorrow's papers. They need the pictures tonight."

  Woody was energized. "All right," he said. He picked up the glossy sheets and shuffled them into a neat stack. His mother produced a cardboard folder from Papa's study. Woody kissed her and left the house.

  He caught a bus downtown.

  The front entrance of the Sentinel office was closed, and he suffered a moment of dismay, but he reasoned that reporters must be able to get in and out today if they were to produce a Monday morning paper, and sure enough he found a side entrance. "I have some photographs for Mr. Hoyle," he said to a man sitting inside the door, and he was directed upstairs.

  He found the editor's office, a secretary took his name, and a minute later he was shaking hands with Peter Hoyle. The editor was a tall, imposing man with white hair and a black mustache. He appeared to be finishing a meeting with a younger colleague. He spoke loudly, as if shouting over the noise of a printing press. "The hit-and-run-drivers story is fine, but the intro stinks, Jack," he said with a dismissive hand on the man's shoulder, moving him to the door. "Put a new nose on it. Move the mayor's statement to later and start with crippled c
hildren." Jack left, and Hoyle turned to Woody. "What have you got, kid?" he said without preamble.

  "I was at the march today."

  "You mean the riot."

  "It wasn't a riot until the factory guards started hitting women with their clubs."

  "I hear the marchers tried to break into the factory, and the guards repelled them."

  "It's not true, sir, and the photos prove it."

  "Show me."

  Woody had arranged them in order while sitting on the bus. He put the first down on the editor's desk. "It started peacefully."

  Hoyle pushed the photograph aside. "That's nothing," he said.

  Woody brought out a picture taken at the factory. "The guards were waiting at the gate. You can see their nightsticks." His next picture had been taken when the shoving started. "The marchers were at least ten yards from the gate, so there was no need for the guards to try to move them back. It was a deliberate provocation."

  "Okay," said Hoyle, and he did not push the pictures aside.

  Woody brought out his best shot: a guard using a truncheon to beat a woman. "I saw this whole incident," Woody said. "All the woman did was tell him to stop shoving her, and he hit her like this."

  "Good picture," said Hoyle. "Any more?"

  "One," said Woody. "Most of the marchers ran away as soon as the fighting began, but a few fought back." He showed Hoyle the photograph of two demonstrators kicking a guard on the ground. "These men retaliated against the guard who hit the woman."

  "You did a good job, young Dewar," said Hoyle. He sat at his desk and pulled a form from a tray. "Twenty bucks okay?"

  "You mean you're going to print my photographs?"

  "I assume that's why you brought them here."

  "Yes, sir, thank you, twenty dollars is okay, I mean fine. I mean plenty."

  Hoyle scribbled on the form and signed it. "Take this to the cashier. My secretary will tell you where to go."

  The phone on the desk rang. The editor picked it up and barked: "Hoyle." Woody gathered he was dismissed, and left the room.

  He was elated. The payment was amazing, but he was more thrilled that the newspaper would use his photos. He followed the secretary's directions to a little room with a counter and a teller's window, and got his twenty bucks. Then he went home in a taxi.

  His parents were delighted by his coup, and even his brother seemed pleased. Over dinner, Grandmama said: "As long as you don't consider journalism as a career. That would be lowering."

  In fact Woody had been thinking that he might take up news photography instead of politics, and he was surprised to learn that his grandmother disapproved.

  His mother smiled and said: "But, Ursula dear, I was a journalist."

  "That's different, you're a girl," Grandmama replied. "Woodrow must become a man of distinction, like his father and grandfather before him."

  Mother did not take offense at this. She was fond of Grandmama and listened with amused tolerance to her pronouncements of orthodoxy.

  However, Chuck resented the traditional focus on the elder son. He said: "And what must I become, chopped liver?"

  "Don't be vulgar, Charles," said Grandmama, having the last word as usual.

  That night Woody lay awake a long time. He could hardly wait to see his photos in the paper. He felt the way he had as a kid on Christmas Eve: his longing for the morning kept him from sleep.

  He thought about Joanne. She was wrong to think him too young. He was right for her. She liked him, they had a lot in common, and she had enjoyed the kiss. He still thought he might win her heart.

  He fell asleep at last, and when he woke it was daylight. He put on a dressing gown over his pajamas and ran downstairs. Joe, the butler, always went out early to buy the newspapers, and they were already laid out on the side table in the breakfast room. Woody's parents were there, his father eating scrambled eggs, his mother sipping coffee.

  Woody picked up the Sentinel. His work was on the front page.

  But it was not what he expected.

  They had used only one of his shots--the last. It showed a factory guard lying on the ground being kicked by two workers. The headline was: METAL STRIKERS RIOT.

  "Oh, no!" he said.

  He read the report with incredulity. It said that marchers had attempted to break into the factory and had been bravely repelled by the factory police, several of whom had suffered minor injuries. The behavior of the workers was condemned by the mayor, the chief of police, and Lev Peshkov. At the foot of the article, like an afterthought, union spokesman Brian Hall was quoted as denying the story and blaming the guards for the violence.

  Woody put the newspaper in front of his mother. "I told Hoyle that the guards started the riot--and I gave him the pictures to prove it!" he said angrily. "Why would he print the opposite of the truth?"

  "Because he's a conservative," she said.

  "Newspapers are supposed to tell the truth!" Woody said, his voice rising with furious indignation. "They can't just make up lies!"

  "Yes, they can," she said.

  "But it's not fair!"

  "Welcome to the real world," said his mother.

  vi

  Greg Peshkov and his father were in the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton hotel in Washington, D.C., when they ran into Dave Rouzrokh.

  Dave was wearing a white suit and a straw hat. He glared at them with hatred. Lev greeted him, but he turned away contemptuously without answering.

  Greg knew why. Dave had been losing money all summer, because Roseroque Theatres was not able to get first-run hit movies. And Dave must have guessed that Lev was somehow responsible.

  Last week Lev had offered Dave four million dollars for his movie houses--half the original bid--and Dave had again refused. "The price is dropping, Dave," Lev had warned him.

  Now Greg said: "I wonder what he's doing here?"

  "He's meeting with Sol Starr. He's going to ask why Sol won't give him good movies." Lev obviously knew all about it.

  "What will Mr. Starr do?"

  "String him along."

  Greg marveled at his father's ability to know everything and stay on top of a changing situation. He was always ahead of the game.

  They rode up in the elevator. This was the first time Greg had visited his father's permanent suite at the hotel. His mother, Marga, had never been here.

  Lev spent a lot of time in Washington because the government was forever interfering with the movie business. Men who considered themselves to be moral leaders got very agitated about what was shown on the big screen, and they put pressure on the government to censor pictures. Lev saw this as a negotiation--he saw life as a negotiation--and his constant aim was to avoid formal censorship by adhering to a voluntary code, a strategy backed by Sol Starr and most other Hollywood big shots.

  They entered a living room that was extremely fancy, much more so than the spacious apartment in Buffalo where Greg and his mother lived, and which Greg had always thought to be luxurious. This room had spindly-legged furniture that Greg imagined to be French, rich chestnut-brown velvet drapes at the windows, and a large phonograph.

  In the middle of the room he was stunned to see, sitting on a yellow silk sofa, the movie star Gladys Angelus.

  People said she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

  Greg could see why. She radiated sex appeal, from her dark blue inviting eyes to the long legs crossed under her clinging skirt. As she put out a hand to shake, her red lips smiled and her round breasts moved alluringly inside a soft sweater.

  He hesitated a split second before shaking her hand. He felt disloyal to his mother, Marga. She never mentioned the name of Gladys Angelus, a sure sign that she knew what people were saying about Gladys and Lev. Greg felt he was making friends with his mother's enemy. If Mom knew about this she would cry, he thought.

  But he had been taken by surprise. If he had been forewarned, if he had had time to think about his reaction, he might have prepared, and rehearsed a gracious withdrawal. But h
e could not bring himself to be clumsily rude to this overwhelmingly lovely woman.

  So he took her hand, looked into her amazing eyes, and gave what people called a shit-eating grin.

  She kept hold of his hand as she said: "I'm so happy to meet you at long last. Your father has told me all about you--but he didn't say how handsome you are!"

  There was something unpleasantly proprietorial about this, as if she were a member of the family, rather than a whore who had usurped his mother. All the same he found himself falling under her spell. "I love your films," he said awkwardly.

  "Oh, stop it, you don't have to say that," she said, but Greg thought she liked to hear it all the same. "Come and sit by me," she went on. "I want to get to know you."

  He did as he was told. He could not help himself. Gladys asked him what school he attended, and while he was telling her the phone rang. He vaguely heard his father say into the phone: "It was supposed to be tomorrow . . . okay, if we have to we can rush it . . . leave it with me, I'll handle it."

  Lev hung up and interrupted Gladys. "Your room is down the hall, Greg," he said. He handed over a key. "And you'll find a gift from me. Settle in and enjoy yourself. We'll meet for dinner at seven."

  This was abrupt, and Gladys looked put out, but Lev could be peremptory sometimes, and it was best just to obey. Greg took the key and left.

  In the corridor was a broad-shouldered man in a cheap suit. He reminded Greg of Joe Brekhunov, head of security at the Buffalo Metal Works. Greg nodded, and the man said: "Good afternoon, sir." Presumably he was a hotel employee.

  Greg entered his room. It was pleasant enough, though not as swanky as his father's suite. He did not see the gift his father had mentioned, but his suitcase was there, and he began to unpack, thinking about Gladys. Was he being disloyal to his mother by shaking hands with his father's mistress? Of course, Gladys was only doing what Marga herself had done, sleeping with a married man. All the same he felt painfully uncomfortable. Was he going to tell his mother that he had met Gladys? Hell, no.

  As he was hanging up his shirts, he heard a knock. It came from a door that looked as if it might lead to the neighboring room. Next moment the door opened and a girl walked through.

  She was older than Greg, but not much. Her skin was the color of dark chocolate, and she wore a polka-dot dress and carried a clutch bag. She smiled broadly, showing white teeth, and said: "Hello, I've got the room next door."