by Ken Follett
"And the men need to make back some of what they lost in reduced wages!" Hall had replied.
"It's not the same."
"No, it's not," Hall had agreed. "You're rich and they're poor. It's harder for them." The man was infuriatingly quick-witted.
Lev was desperate to get back into his father-in-law's good books. It was dangerous to let a man such as Josef Vyalov remain displeased with you for long. The trouble was that charm was Lev's only asset, and it did not work on Vyalov.
However, Vyalov was being supportive about the foundry. "Sometimes you have to let them strike," he had said. "It doesn't do to give in. Just stick it out. They become more reasonable when they start to get hungry." But Lev knew how fast Vyalov could change his mind.
However, Lev had a plan of his own to hasten the collapse of the strike. He was going to use the power of the press.
Lev was a member of the Buffalo Yacht Club, thanks to his father-in-law, who had got him elected. Most of the town's leading businessmen belonged, including Peter Hoyle, editor of the Buffalo Advertiser. One afternoon Lev approached Hoyle in the clubhouse at the foot of Porter Avenue.
The Advertiser was a conservative newspaper that always called for stability and blamed all problems on foreigners, Negroes, and socialist troublemakers. Hoyle, an imposing figure with a black mustache, was a crony of Vyalov's. "Hello, young Peshkov," he said. His voice was loud and harsh, as if he was used to shouting over the noise of a printing press. "I hear the president has sent Cam Dewar's son up here to settle your strike."
"I believe so, but I haven't heard from him yet."
"I know him. He's naive. You don't have much to worry about."
Lev agreed. He had taken a dollar from Gus Dewar in Petrograd in 1914, and last year he had taken Gus's fiancee just as easily. "I wanted to talk to you about the strike," he said, sitting in the leather armchair opposite Hoyle.
"The Advertiser has already condemned the strikers as un-American socialists and revolutionaries," Hoyle said. "What more can we do?"
"Call them enemy agents," Lev said. "They're holding up the production of vehicles that our boys are going to need when they get to Europe--but the workers themselves are exempt from the draft!"
"That's an angle." Hoyle frowned. "But we don't yet know how the draft is going to work."
"It's sure to exclude war industries."
"That's true."
"And yet they're demanding more money. A lot of people would take less for a job that keeps them out of the army."
Hoyle took a notebook from his jacket pocket and began to write. "Take less money for a draft-exempt job," he muttered.
"Maybe you want to ask: whose side are they on?"
"Sounds like a headline."
Lev was surprised and pleased. It had been easy.
Hoyle looked up from his notebook. "I presume Mr. V knows we're having this conversation?"
Lev had not anticipated this question. He grinned to cover his confusion. If he said no, Hoyle would drop the whole thing immediately. "Yes, of course," he lied. "In fact it was his idea."
{ IV }
Vyalov asked Gus to meet him at the yacht club. Brian Hall proposed a conference at the Buffalo office of the union. Each wanted to meet on his own ground, where he would feel confident and in charge. So Gus took a meeting room at the Statler Hotel.
Lev Peshkov had attacked the strikers as draft dodgers, and the Advertiser had put his comments on the front page, under the headline WHOSE SIDE ARE THEY ON? When Gus saw the paper he had been dismayed: such aggressive talk could only escalate the dispute. But Lev's effort had backfired. This morning's papers reported a storm of protest from workers in other war industries, indignant at the suggestion that they should receive low wages on account of their privileged status, and furious at being labeled draft dodgers. Lev's clumsiness heartened Gus, but he knew that Vyalov was his real enemy, and that made him nervous.
Gus brought all the papers with him to the Statler and put them out on a side table in the meeting room. In a prominent position he placed a popular rag with the headline WILL YOU JOIN UP, LEV?
Gus had asked Brian Hall to get there a quarter of an hour before Vyalov. The union leader showed up on the dot. He wore a smart suit and a gray felt hat, Gus noted. That was good tactics. It was a mistake to look inferior, even if you represented the workers. Hall was as formidable, in his own way, as Vyalov.
Hall saw the newspapers and grinned. "Young Lev made a mistake," he said with satisfaction. "He's fetched himself a pile of trouble."
"Manipulating the press is a dangerous game," Gus said. He got right down to business. "You're asking for a dollar-a-day increase."
"It's only ten cents more than my men were getting before Vyalov bought the plant, and--"
"Never mind all that," Gus interrupted, showing more boldness than he felt. "If I can get you fifty cents, will you take it?"
Hall looked dubious. "I'd have to put it to the men--"
"No," Gus said. "You have to decide now." He prayed his nervousness was not showing.
Hall prevaricated. "Has Vyalov agreed to this?"
"I'll worry about Vyalov. Fifty cents, take it or leave it." Gus resisted an urge to wipe his forehead.
Hall gave Gus a long, appraising stare. Behind the pugnacious look there was a shrewd brain, Gus suspected. At last Hall said: "We'll take it--for now."
"Thank you." Gus managed not to let out his breath in a long sigh of relief. "Would you like coffee?"
"Sure."
Gus turned away, grateful to be able to hide his face, and pressed the bell for a waiter.
Josef Vyalov and Lev Peshkov walked in. Gus did not shake hands. "Sit down," he said curtly.
Vyalov's eyes went to the newspapers on the side table, and a look of anger crossed his face. Gus guessed that Lev was already in trouble over those headlines.
He tried not to stare at Lev. This was the chauffeur who had seduced Gus's fiancee--but that must not be allowed to cloud Gus's judgment. He would have liked to punch Lev in the face. However, if this meeting went according to plan the result would be more humiliating to Lev than a punch--and much more satisfying to Gus.
A waiter appeared, and Gus said: "Bring coffee for my guests, please, and a plate of ham sandwiches." He deliberately did not ask them what they wanted. He had seen Woodrow Wilson act like this with people he wanted to intimidate.
He sat down and opened a folder. It contained a blank sheet of paper. He pretended to read it.
Lev sat down and said: "So, Gus, the president has sent you up here to negotiate with us."
Now Gus allowed himself to look at Lev. He stared at him for a long moment without speaking. Handsome, yes, he thought, but also untrustworthy and weak. When Lev began to look embarrassed, Gus spoke at last. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"
Lev was so shocked that he actually pushed his chair back from the table as if fearing a blow. "What the hell . . . ?"
Gus made his voice harsh. "America is at war," he said. "The president is not going to negotiate with you." He looked at Brian Hall. "Or you," he said, even though he had made a deal with Hall only ten minutes ago. Finally he looked at Vyalov. "Not even with you," he said.
Vyalov looked steadily back at him. Unlike his son-in-law, he was not intimidated. However, he had lost the look of amused contempt with which he began the meeting. After a long pause, he said: "So what are you here for?"
"I'm here to tell you what's going to happen," Gus said in the same voice. "And when I'm done, you'll accept it."
Lev said: "Huh!"
Vyalov said: "Shut up, Lev. Go on, Dewar."
"You're going to offer the men a raise of fifty cents a day," Gus said. He turned to Hall. "And you're going to accept his offer."
Hall kept his face blank and said: "Is that so?"
"And I want your men back at work by noon today."
Vyalov said: "And why the hell should we do what you tell us?"
"Because of the alternative.
"
"Which is?"
"The president will send an army battalion to the foundry to take it over, secure it, release all finished products to customers, and continue to run it with army engineers. After the war, he might give it back." He turned to Hall. "And your men can probably have their jobs back then, too." Gus wished he had run this past Woodrow Wilson first, but it was too late now.
Lev said with amazement: "Does he have the right to do that?"
"Under wartime legislation, yes," said Gus.
"So you say," said Vyalov skeptically.
"Challenge us in court," said Gus. "Do you think there's a judge in this country who will side with you--and our country's enemies?" He sat back and stared at them with an arrogance he did not feel. Would this work? Would they believe him? Or would they call his bluff, laugh at him, and walk out?
There was a long silence. Hall's face was expressionless. Vyalov was thoughtful. Lev looked sick.
At last Vyalov turned to Hall. "Are you willing to settle for fifty cents?"
Hall just said: "Yes."
Vyalov looked back at Gus. "Then we accept, too."
"Thank you, gentlemen." Gus closed his folder, trying to still the shaking of his hands. "I'll tell the president."
{ V }
Saturday was sunny and warm. Lev told Olga he was needed at the foundry, then he drove to Marga's place. She lived in a small room in Lovejoy. They embraced, but when Lev started to unbutton her blouse she said: "Let's go to Humboldt Park."
"I'd rather screw."
"Later. Take me to the park, and I'll show you something special when we come back. Something we haven't done before."
Lev's throat went dry. "Why do I have to wait?"
"It's such a beautiful day."
"What if we're seen?"
"There'll be a million people there."
"Even so . . . "
"I suppose you're afraid of your father-in-law?"
"Hell, no," Lev said. "Listen, I'm the father of his grandchild. What's he going to do, shoot me?"
"Let me change my dress."
"I'll wait in the car. If I watch you undress I might lose control."
He had a new Cadillac three-passenger coupe, not the swankiest car in town but a good place to start. He sat at the wheel and lit a cigarette. He was afraid of Vyalov, of course. But all his life he had taken risks. He was not Grigori, after all. And things had worked out pretty well for him so far, he thought, sitting in his car, wearing a summer-weight blue suit, about to take a pretty girl to the park. Life was good.
Before he had finished his smoke, Marga came out of the building and got into the car beside him. She was wearing a daring sleeveless dress and had her hair coiled over her ears in the latest fashion.
He drove to Humboldt Park, on the East Side. They sat together on a slatted wooden park seat, enjoying the sunshine and watching the children playing in the pond. Lev could not stop touching Marga's bare arms. He loved the envious looks he got from other men. She's the prettiest girl in the park, he thought, and she's with me. How about that?
"I'm sorry about your lip," he said. Her lower lip was still swollen where Vyalov had punched her. It looked quite sexy.
"Not your fault," Marga said. "Your father-in-law is a pig."
"That's the truth."
"The Hot Spot offered me a job right away. I'll start there as soon as I can sing again."
"How does it feel?"
She tried a few bars.
I run my fingers through my hair
Play a little solitaire
Waiting for my millionaire
To come.
She touched her mouth gingerly. "Still hurts," she said.
He leaned toward her. "Let me kiss it better." She turned her face up to his and he kissed her gently, hardly touching.
She said: "You can be a little firmer than that."
He grinned. "Okay, how about this?" He kissed her again, and this time he let the tip of his tongue caress the inside of her lips.
After a minute she said: "That's okay, too," and she giggled.
"In that case . . . " This time he put his tongue all the way inside her mouth. She responded eagerly--she always did. Her tongue and his met, then she put her hand behind his head and stroked his neck. He heard someone say: "Disgusting." He wondered whether people walking by could see his erection.
Smiling at Marga, he said: "We're shocking the townspeople." He glanced up to see whether anyone was watching, and met the eyes of his wife, Olga.
She was staring at him in shock, her mouth forming a silent O.
Beside her stood her father, in a suit with a vest and a straw boater. He was carrying Daisy. Lev's daughter had a white bonnet to shade her face from the sun. The nurse, Polina, was behind them.
Olga said: "Lev! What . . . Who is she?"
Lev felt he might have talked himself out of even this situation if Vyalov had not been there.
He got up. "Olga . . . I don't know what to say."
Vyalov said harshly: "Don't say a damn thing."
Olga began to cry.
Vyalov handed Daisy to the nurse. "Take my granddaughter to the car right away."
"Yes, Mr. Vyalov."
Vyalov grasped Olga's arm and moved her away. "Go with Polina, honey."
Olga put her hand over her eyes to hide her tears and followed the nurse.
"You piece of shit," Vyalov said to Lev.
Lev clenched his fists. If Vyalov struck him he would fight back. Vyalov was built like a bull, but he was twenty years older. Lev was taller, and had learned to fight in the slums of Petrograd. He was not going to take a beating.
Vyalov read his mind. "I'm not going to fight you," he said. "It's beyond that."
Lev wanted to say: So what are you going to do? He kept his mouth clamped shut.
Vyalov looked at Marga. "I should have hit you harder," he said.
Marga picked up her bag, opened it, put her hand inside, and left it there. "If you move one inch toward me, so help me God, I'll shoot you in the gut, you pig-faced Russian peasant," she said.
Lev could not help admiring her nerve. Few people had the balls to threaten Josef Vyalov.
Vyalov's face darkened in anger, but he turned away from Marga and spoke to Lev. "You know what you're going to do?"
What the hell was coming now?
Lev said nothing.
Vyalov said: "You're going in the goddamn army."
Lev went cold. "You don't mean it."
"When was the last time you heard me say something I didn't mean?"
"I'm not going in the army. How can you make me?"
"Either you'll volunteer, or you'll get conscripted."
Marga burst out: "You can't do that!"
"Yes, he can," Lev said in desolation. "He can fix anything in this town."
"And you know what?" said Vyalov. "You might be my son-in-law, but I hope to God you get killed."
{ VI }
Chuck and Doris Dixon gave an afternoon party in their garden at the end of June. Gus went with his parents. All the men wore suits, but the women dressed in summer outfits and extravagant hats, and the crowd looked colorful. There were sandwiches and beer, lemonade and cake. A clown gave out candy and a schoolteacher in shorts organized the children to run jokey races: a sack race, an egg-and-spoon race, a three-legged race.
Doris wanted to talk to Gus about the war, again. "There are rumors of mutiny in the French army," she said.
Gus knew that the truth was worse than the rumors: there had been mutinies in fifty-four French divisions, and twenty thousand men had deserted. "I assume that's why they've switched their tactics from offense to defense," he said neutrally.
"Apparently the French officers treat their men badly." Doris relished bad news about the war because it gave support to her opposition. "And the Nivelle Offensive has been a disaster."
"The arrival of American troops will buck them up." The first Americans had boarded ships to sail to France.
"No, it does not mean that. We have to recruit, train, and arm at least a million men. We can't do that instantly. But next year we will send them in their hundreds of thousands."
Doris looked over Gus's shoulder and said: "Goodness, here comes one of our new recruits."
Gus turned and saw the Vyalov family: Josef and Lena with Olga, Lev, and a little girl. Lev was wearing an army uniform. He looked dashing, but his handsome face was sulky.
Gus was embarrassed but his father, wearing his public persona as senator, shook hands cordially with Josef and said something that made him laugh. Mother spoke graciously to Lena and cooed over the baby. Gus realized his parents had anticipated this meeting and decided to act as if they had forgotten that he and Olga had once been engaged.
He caught Olga's eye and nodded politely. She blushed.
Lev was as brash as ever. "So, Gus, is the president pleased with you for settling the strike?"
The others heard this question and went quiet, listening to hear Gus's answer.
"He's pleased with you for being reasonable," Gus said tactfully. "I see you joined the army."
"I volunteered," Lev said. "I'm doing officer training."
"How are you finding it?"
Suddenly Gus was aware that he and Lev had an audience around them in a ring: the Vyalovs, the Dewars, and the Dixons. Since the engagement had been broken off, the two men had not been seen together in public. Everyone was curious.
"I'll get accustomed to the army," Lev said. "How about you?"
"What about me?"
"Are you going to volunteer? After all, you and your president got us into the war."
Gus said nothing, but he felt ashamed. Lev was right.
"You can always wait and see whether you get drafted," Lev said, turning the knife. "You never know, you could get lucky. Anyway, if you go back to Washington I guess the president can get you exempted." He laughed.
Gus shook his head. "No," he said. "I've been thinking about this. You're right, I'm part of the government that brought in the draft. I could hardly evade it."