by Follett, Ken
She said: “Do you think you will fight?”
“Not if I can help it. What are we fighting for?”
“For Serbia, they say.”
Grigori spooned the eggs onto two plates and sat at the table. “The issue is whether Serbia will be tyrannized by the Austrian emperor or the Russian tsar. I doubt if the Serbs care one way or the other, and I certainly don’t.” He began to eat.
“For the tsar, then.”
“I would fight for you, for Lev, for myself, or for your baby . . . but for the tsar? No.”
Katerina ate her egg rapidly and wiped the plate with a fresh slice of bread. “What names do you like for a boy?”
“My father’s name was Sergei, and his father was Tikhon.”
“I like Mikhail,” she said. “The same as the archangel.”
“So do most people. That’s why the name is so common.”
“Perhaps I should call him Lev. Or even Grigori.”
Grigori was touched by this. He would be thrilled to have a nephew named after him. But he did not like to make demands on her. “Lev would be nice,” he said.
The factory whistle blew—a sound that could be heard all over the Narva district—and Grigori stood up to go.
“I’ll wash the plates,” Katerina said. Her job did not begin until seven, an hour later than Grigori’s.
She turned her cheek up and Grigori kissed her. It was only a brief kiss, and he did not allow his lips to linger, but all the same he relished the soft smoothness of her skin and the warm, sleepy smell of her neck.
Then he put on his cap and went out.
The summer weather was warm and humid, despite the early hour. Grigori began to perspire as he walked briskly through the streets.
In the two months since Lev had left, Grigori and Katerina had settled into an uneasy friendship. She relied on him, and he looked after her, but it was not what either of them wanted. Grigori wanted love, not friendship. Katerina wanted Lev, not Grigori. But Grigori found a kind of fulfillment in making sure she ate well. It was the only way he had of expressing his love. It could hardly be a long-term arrangement, but right now it was difficult to think long-term. He still planned to escape from Russia and find his way to the promised land of America.
At the factory gate new mobilization posters had been stuck up, and men crowded around, those unable to read begging others to read aloud. Grigori found himself standing next to Isaak, the football captain. They were the same age and had been reservists together. Grigori scanned the notices, looking for the name of their unit.
Today it was there.
He looked again, but there was no mistake: Narva regiment.
He looked down the list of names and found his own.
He had not really believed it could happen. But he had been fooling himself. He was twenty-five, fit and strong, perfect soldier material. Of course he was going to war.
What would happen to Katerina? And her baby?
Isaak cursed aloud. His name was also on the list.
A voice behind them said: “No need to worry.”
They turned to see the long, thin shape of Kanin, the amiable supervisor of the casting section, an engineer in his thirties. “No need to worry?” said Grigori skeptically. “Katerina is having Lev’s baby and there’s no one to look after her. What am I going to do?”
“I’ve been to see the man in charge of mobilization for this district,” Kanin said. “He promised me exemption for any of my workers. Only the troublemakers have to go.”
Grigori’s heart leaped with hope again. It sounded too good to be true.
Isaak said: “What do we have to do?”
“Just don’t go to the barracks. You’ll be all right. It’s fixed.”
Isaak was an aggressive character—no doubt that was why he made such a good sportsman—and he was not satisfied with Kanin’s answer. “Fixed how?” he demanded.
“The army gives the police a list of men who fail to show, and the police have to round them up. Your name simply won’t be on the list.”
Isaak grunted with dissatisfaction. Grigori shared his dislike of such semiofficial arrangements—there was too much room for things to go wrong—but dealing with the government was always like this. Kanin had either bribed an official or performed some other favor. It was pointless to be churlish about it. “That’s great,” Grigori said to Kanin. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” Kanin said mildly. “I did it for myself—and for Russia. We need skilled men like you two to make trains, not stop German bullets—an illiterate peasant can do that. The government hasn’t worked this out yet, but they will in time, and then they’ll thank me.”
Grigori and Isaak passed through the gates. “We might as well trust him,” Grigori said. “What have we got to lose?” They stood in line to check themselves in by each dropping a numbered metal square into a box. “It’s good news,” he said.
Isaak was not convinced. “I just wish I could feel surer,” he said.
They headed for the wheel shop. Grigori put his worries out of his mind and prepared himself for the day’s work. The Putilov plant was making more trains than ever. The army had to assume that locomotives and wagons would be destroyed by shelling, so they would be needing replacements as soon as the fighting started. The pressure was on Grigori’s team to produce wheels faster.
He began to roll up his sleeves as he stepped into the wheel shop. It was a small shed, and the furnace made it hot in winter, a baking oven now at the height of summer. Metal screeched and rang as lathes shaped and polished it.
He saw Konstantin standing by his lathe, and his friend’s stance made him frown. Konstantin’s face telegraphed a warning: something was wrong. Isaak saw it too. Reacting faster than Grigori, he stopped, grabbed Grigori’s arm, and said: “What—?”
He did not finish the question.
A figure in a black-and-green uniform stepped from behind the furnace and hit Grigori in the face with a sledgehammer.
He tried to dodge the blow, but his reaction was a moment too slow and, although he ducked, the wooden head of the big hammer struck him high on the cheekbone and knocked him to the ground. An agonizing pain shot through his head and he cried out loud.
It took several moments for his vision to clear. At last he looked up and saw the stout figure of Mikhail Pinsky, the local police captain.
He should have expected this. He had got off too lightly after that fight back in February. Policemen never forgot such things.
He also saw Isaak fighting with Pinsky’s sidekick, Ilya Kozlov, and two other cops.
Grigori remained on the ground. He was not going to fight back if he could help it. Let Pinsky take his revenge, then perhaps he would be satisfied.
In the next second he failed to keep that resolution.
Pinsky raised the sledgehammer. In a flash of redundant insight Grigori recognized the tool as his own, used for tapping templates into the molding sand. Then it came down at his head.
He lurched to the right but Pinsky slanted his swing, and the heavy oak tool came down on Grigori’s left shoulder. He roared with pain and anger. While Pinsky was recovering his balance, Grigori leaped to his feet. His left arm was limp and useless, but there was nothing amiss with his right, and he drew back his fist to hit Pinsky, regardless of the consequences.
He never struck the blow. Two figures he had not noticed materialized either side of him in black-and-green uniforms, and his arms were grabbed and held firmly. He tried to shake off his captors but failed. Through a mist of rage he saw Pinsky draw back the hammer and strike. The blow hit him in the chest, and he felt ribs crack. The next blow was lower, and pounded his belly. He convulsed and vomited his breakfast. Then another blow struck the side of his head. He blacked out for a moment, and came around to find himself hanging limply in the grip of the two policemen. Isaak was similarly pinned by two others.
“Feeling calmer now?” said Pinsky.
Grigori spat blood. His body was
a mass of pain and he could not think straight. What was going on? Pinsky hated him, but something must have happened to trigger this. And it was bold of Pinsky to act right here in the middle of the factory, surrounded by workers who had no reason to like the police. For some reason he must have been feeling sure of himself.
Pinsky hefted the sledgehammer and looked thoughtful, as if considering one more blow. Grigori braced himself and fought the temptation to beg for mercy. Then Pinsky said: “What is your name?”
Grigori tried to speak. At first nothing but blood came out of his mouth. At last he managed to say: “Grigori Sergeivich Peshkov.”
Pinsky hit him in the stomach again. Grigori groaned and vomited blood. “Liar,” said Pinsky. “What is your name?” He lifted the sledgehammer again.
Konstantin stepped from his lathe and came forward. “Officer, this man is Grigori Peshkov!” he protested. “All of us have known him for years!”
“Don’t lie to me,” Pinsky said. He lifted the hammer. “Or you’ll get a taste of this.”
Konstantin’s mother, Varya, intervened. “It’s no lie, Mikhail Mikhailovich,” she said. Her use of the patronymic indicated that she knew Pinsky. “He is who he says he is.” She stood with her arms folded over her large bosom as if defying the policeman to doubt her.
“Then explain this,” said Pinsky, and he pulled from his pocket a sheet of paper. “Grigori Sergeivich Peshkov left St. Petersburg two months ago aboard the Angel Gabriel.”
Kanin, the supervisor, appeared and said: “What’s going on here? Why is no one working?”
Pinsky pointed to Grigori. “This man is Lev Peshkov, Grigori’s brother—wanted for the murder of a police officer!”
They all began to shout at once. Kanin held up his hand for quiet and said: “Officer, I know Grigori and Lev Peshkov, and have seen both men almost every day for several years. They look alike, as brothers generally do, but I can assure you that this is Grigori. And you are holding up the work of this section.”
“If this is Grigori,” said Pinsky with the air of one who plays a trump card, “then who left on the Angel Gabriel?”
As soon as he had asked the question, the answer became obvious. After a moment it dawned on Pinsky too, and he looked foolish.
Grigori said: “My passport and ticket were stolen.”
Pinsky began to bluster. “Why did you not report this to the police?”
“What was the point? Lev had left the country. You could not bring him back, nor my property.”
“That makes you an accomplice in his escape.”
Kanin intervened again. “Captain Pinsky, you began by accusing this man of murder. Perhaps that was a good enough reason to stop production in the wheel shop. But you have admitted that you were in error, and now you allege only that he failed to report the theft of some documents. Meanwhile, your country is at war, and you are delaying the manufacture of locomotives desperately needed by the Russian army. Unless you wish your name to be mentioned in our next report to the army high command, I suggest you finish your business here quickly.”
Pinsky looked at Grigori. “What reserve unit are you in?”
Without thinking, Grigori replied: “Narva regiment.”
“Hah!” said Pinsky. “They were called up today.” He looked at Isaak. “You, too, I’ll bet.”
Isaak said nothing.
“Release them,” Pinsky said.
Grigori staggered when they let go of his arms, but he managed to stay upright.
“You’d better make sure you show up at the depot as ordered,” Pinsky said to Grigori and Isaak. “Otherwise I’ll be after you.” He turned on his heel and exited with what little dignity he had left. His men followed him.
Grigori sat down heavily on a stool. He had a blinding headache, a pain in his ribs, and a bruised ache in his belly. He needed to curl up in a corner and pass out. The thought that kept him conscious was a scorching desire to destroy Pinsky and the entire system of which he was part. One of these days, he kept thinking, we will wipe out Pinsky and the tsar and everything they stand for.
Kanin said: “The army won’t pursue you two—I’ve made sure of that—but I’m afraid I can’t do anything about the police.”
Grigori nodded grimly. It was as he had feared. Pinsky’s most savage blow, worse than any he had struck with the sledgehammer, would be to make sure that Grigori and Isaak joined the army.
Kanin said: “I’ll be sorry to lose you. You’ve been a good worker.” He seemed genuinely moved, but he was impotent. He paused a moment longer, threw up his hands in a gesture of helplessness, and left the shop.
Varya appeared in front of Grigori with a bowl of water and a clean rag. She washed the blood from his face. She was a bulky woman but her broad hands had a gentle touch. “You should go to the factory barracks,” she said. “Find an empty bed and lie down for an hour.”
“No,” Grigori said. “I’m going home.”
Varya shrugged and moved to Isaak, who was not so badly injured.
With an effort, Grigori stood up. The factory spun around him for a while, and Konstantin held his arm when he staggered; but eventually he felt able to stand alone.
Konstantin picked up his cap from the floor and gave it to him.
He felt unsteady when he began to walk, but he waved away offers of support, and after a few steps he regained his normal stride. His head cleared with the effort, but the pain in his ribs forced him to tread carefully. He made his slow way through the maze of benches and lathes, furnaces and presses, to the outside of the building, and then to the factory gate.
There he met Katerina coming in.
“Grigori!” she said. “You’ve been called up—I saw the poster!” Then she noticed his damaged face. “What happened?”
“An encounter with your favorite police captain.”
“That pig Pinsky. You’re hurt!”
“The bruises will heal.”
“I’ll take you home.”
Grigori was surprised. This was a switch of roles. Katerina had never before offered to take care of him. “I can make it on my own,” he said.
“I’ll come with you all the same.”
She took his arm and they walked through the narrow streets against the tide of thousands of workers swarming to the factory. Grigori’s body hurt and he felt ill, but all the same it was a joy to him to be walking arm in arm with Katerina as the sun rose over the dilapidated houses and the dirty streets.
However, the familiar walk tired him more than he expected, and when at last they got home he sat heavily on the bed and then, after a moment, lay down.
“I’ve got a bottle of vodka hidden in the girls’ room,” Katerina said.
“No, thanks, but I’d like some tea.”
He did not have a samovar, but she made tea in a saucepan and gave him a cup with a lump of sugar. When he had drunk it he felt a little better. He said: “The worst of it is, I could have avoided the draft—but Pinsky swore he would make sure I didn’t.”
She sat on the bed beside him and took from her pocket a pamphlet. “One of the girls gave me this.”
Grigori glanced at it. It appeared dull and official, like a government publication. Its title was “Aid to Soldiers’ Families.”
Katerina said: “If you’re the wife of a soldier you’re entitled to a monthly allowance from the army. It’s not just for the poor, everyone gets it.”
Grigori vaguely remembered hearing about this. He had not taken much notice, as it did not apply to him.
Katerina went on: “There’s more. You get cheap home fuel, cheap railway tickets, and help with children’s schooling.”
“That’s good,” Grigori said. He wanted to sleep. “Unusual for the army to be so sensible.”
“But you have to be married.”
Grigori became more alert. Surely she could not possibly be thinking . . . “Why are you telling me this?” he said.
“As it is I won’t get anything.”
Grigori lifted himself on one elbow and looked at her. Suddenly his heart was racing.
She said: “If I was married to a soldier I’d be better off. So would my baby.”
“But . . . you love Lev.”
“I know.” She began to cry. “But Lev is in America and he doesn’t care enough even to write and ask how I am.”
“So . . . what do you want to do?” Grigori knew the answer, but he had to hear it.
“I want to get married,” she said.
“Just so that you can get the soldier’s wife’s allowance.”
She nodded, and with that nod she extinguished in him a faint, foolish hope that had flared briefly. “It would mean so much,” she said. “To have a little money when the baby comes—especially as you’ll be away with the army.”
“I understand,” he said with a heavy heart.
“Can we get married?” she said. “Please?”
“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”
{ II }
Five couples were married at the same time in the Church of the Blessed Virgin. The priest read the service fast, and Grigori observed with irritation that he did not look anyone in the eye. The man would hardly have noticed if one of the brides had been a gorilla.
Grigori did not much care. Whenever he passed a church, he remembered the priest who had tried to have some kind of sex with eleven-year-old Lev. Grigori’s contempt for Christianity had later been reinforced by lectures on atheism at Konstantin’s Bolshevik discussion group.
Grigori and Katerina were getting married at short notice, as were the other four couples. All the men were in uniform. Mobilization had caused a rush to matrimony, and the church was struggling to keep up. Grigori hated the uniform as a symbol of servitude.
He had told no one about the marriage. He did not feel it was a reason for celebration. Katerina had made it clear that it was a purely practical measure, a way for her to get an allowance. As such it was a very good idea, and Grigori would be less anxious, when he was away with the army, knowing that she had financial security. All the same he could not help feeling there was something horribly farcical about the wedding.