by Ken Follett
Grout came in and said: "The car is ready, my lord."
During the short drive to Belgrave Square, Fitz brooded over the news. Prince Andrei had never been good at managing the family lands. He would probably use his disability as an excuse to take even less care of business. The estate would decline further. But there was nothing Fitz could do, fifteen hundred miles away in London. He felt frustrated and worried. Anarchy was always just around the corner, and slackness by noblemen such as Andrei was what gave revolutionists their chance.
When he reached the Silverman residence Bonar Law was already there--and so was Perceval Jones, the member of Parliament for Aberowen and chairman of Celtic Minerals. Jones was a turkey-cock at the best of times, and tonight he was bursting with pride at being in such distinguished company, talking to Lord Silverman with his hands in his pockets, a massive gold watch chain stretched across his wide waistcoat.
Fitz should not have been so surprised. This was a political dinner, and Jones was rising in the Conservative party: no doubt he, too, hoped to be a minister when and if Bonar Law should become prime minister. All the same, it was a bit like meeting your head groom at the Hunt Ball, and Fitz had an unnerving feeling that Bolshevism might be coming to London, not by revolution but by stealth.
At the table Jones shocked Fitz by saying he was in favor of votes for women. "For heaven's sake, why?" said Fitz.
"We have conducted a survey of constituency chairmen and agents," Jones replied, and Fitz saw Bonar Law nodding. "They are two to one in favor of the proposal."
"Conservatives are?" Fitz said incredulously.
"Yes, my lord."
"But why?"
"The bill will give the vote only to women over thirty who are householders or the wives of householders. Most women factory workers are excluded, because they tend to be younger. And all those dreadful female intellectuals are single women who live in other people's homes."
Fitz was taken aback. He had always regarded this as an issue of principle. But principle did not matter to jumped-up businessmen such as Jones. Fitz had never thought about electoral consequences. "I still don't see . . . "
"Most of the new voters will be mature middle-class mothers of families." Jones tapped the side of his nose in a vulgar gesture. "Lord Fitzherbert, they are the most conservative group of people in the country. This bill will give our party six million new votes."
"So you're going to support woman suffrage?"
"We must! We need those Conservative women. At the next election there will be three million new working-class male voters, a lot of them coming out of the army, most of them not on our side. But our new women will outnumber them."
"But the principle, man!" Fitz protested, though he sensed this was a losing battle.
"Principle?" said Jones. "This is practical politics." He gave a condescending smile that infuriated Fitz. "But then, if I may say so, you always were an idealist, my lord."
"We're all idealists," said Lord Silverman, smoothing over the conflict like a good host. "That's why we're in politics. People without ideals don't bother. But we have to confront the realities of elections and public opinion."
Fitz did not want to be labeled an impractical dreamer, so he quickly said: "Of course we do. Still, the question of a woman's place touches the heart of family life, something I should have thought dear to Conservatives."
Bonar Law said: "The issue is still open. Members of Parliament have a free vote. They will follow their consciences."
Fitz nodded submissively, and Silverman began speaking of the mutinous French army.
Fitz remained quiet for the rest of the dinner. He found it ominous that this bill had the support of both Ethel Leckwith and Perceval Jones. There was a dangerous possibility that it might pass. He thought Conservatives should defend traditional values, and not be swayed by short-term vote-winning considerations; but he had seen clearly that Bonar Law did not feel the same, and Fitz had not wanted to show himself out of step. The result was that he was ashamed of himself for not being completely honest, a feeling he hated.
He left Lord Silverman's house immediately after Bonar Law. He returned home and went upstairs immediately. He took off his dress coat, put on a silk dressing gown, and went to Bea's room.
He found her sitting up in bed with a cup of tea. He could see that she had been crying, but she had put a little powder on her face and dressed in a flowered nightdress and a pink knitted bed jacket with puffed sleeves. He asked her how she was feeling.
"I am devastated," she said. "Andrei is all that is left of my family."
"I know." Both her parents were dead and she had no other close relatives. "It's worrying--but he will probably pull through."
She put down her cup and saucer. "I have been thinking very hard, Fitz."
That was an unusual thing for her to say.
"Please hold my hand," she said.
He took her left hand in both of his. She looked pretty, and despite the sad topic of conversation, he felt a stirring of desire. He could feel her rings, a diamond engagement ring and a gold wedding band. He had an urge to put her hand in his mouth and bite the fleshy part at the base of the thumb.
She said: "I want you to take me to Russia."
He was so startled that he dropped her hand. "What?"
"Don't refuse yet--think about it," she said. "You'll say it's dangerous--I know that. All the same there are hundreds of British people in Russia right now: diplomats at the embassy, businessmen, army officers and soldiers at our military missions there, journalists, and others."
"What about Boy?"
"I hate to leave him, but Nurse Jones is excellent, Hermia is devoted to him, and Maud can be relied upon to make sensible decisions in a crisis."
"We would need visas . . . "
"You could have a word in the right ear. My goodness, you've just dined with at least one member of the cabinet."
She was right. "The Foreign Office would probably ask me to write a report on the trip--especially as we'll be traveling through the countryside, where our diplomats rarely venture."
She took his hand again. "My only living relative is severely wounded and may die. I must see him. Please, Fitz. I'm begging you."
The truth was that Fitz was not as reluctant as she assumed. His perception of what was dangerous had been altered by the trenches. After all, most people survived an artillery barrage. A trip to Russia, though hazardous, was nothing by comparison. All the same he hesitated. "I understand your desire," he said. "Let me make some inquiries."
She took that for consent. "Oh, thank you!" she said.
"Don't thank me yet. Let me find out how practicable this is."
"All right," she said, but he could see that she was already assuming the outcome.
He stood up. "I must get ready for bed," he said, and went to the door.
"When you've put on your nightclothes . . . please come back. I want you to hold me."
Fitz smiled. "Of course," he said.
{ III }
On the day Parliament debated votes for women, Ethel organized a rally in a hall near the Palace of Westminster.
She was now employed by the National Union of Garment Workers, which had been eager to hire such a well-known activist. Her main job was recruiting women members in the sweatshops of the East End, but the union believed in fighting for its members in national politics as well as in the workplace.
She felt sad about the end of her relationship with Maud. Perhaps there had always been something artificial about a friendship between an earl's sister and his former housekeeper, but Ethel had hoped they could transcend the class divide. However, deep in her heart Maud had believed--without being conscious of it--that she was born to command and Ethel to obey.
Ethel hoped the vote in Parliament would take place before the end of the rally, so that she could announce the result, but the debate went on late, and the meeting had to break up at ten. Ethel and Bernie went to a pub in Whitehall used by Labour M
.P.s and waited for news.
It was after eleven and the pub was closing when two M.P.s rushed in. One of them spotted Ethel. "We won!" he shouted. "I mean, you won. The women."
She could hardly believe it. "They passed the clause?"
"By a huge majority--three eighty-seven to fifty-seven!"
"We won!" Ethel kissed Bernie. "We won!"
"Well done," he said. "Enjoy your victory. You deserve it."
They could not have a drink to celebrate. New wartime rules forced pubs to stop serving at set hours. This was supposed to improve the productivity of the working class. Ethel and Bernie went out into Whitehall to catch a bus home.
Waiting at the bus stop, Ethel was euphoric. "I can't take it in. After all these years--votes for women!"
A passerby heard her, a tall man in evening dress walking with a cane.
She recognized Fitz.
"Don't be so sure," he said. "We'll vote you down in the House of Lords."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
June to September 1917
Walter Ulrich climbed out of the trench and, taking his life in his hands, began to walk across no-man's-land.
New grass and wildflowers were growing in the shell holes. It was a mild summer evening in a region that had once been Poland, then Russia, and was now partly occupied by German troops. Walter wore a nondescript coat over a corporal's uniform. He had dirtied his face and hands for authenticity. He wore a white cap, like a flag of truce, and carried on his shoulder a cardboard box.
He told himself there was no point being scared.
The Russian positions were dimly visible in the twilight. There had been no firing for weeks, and Walter thought his approach would be regarded with more curiosity than suspicion.
If he was wrong, he was dead.
The Russians were preparing an offensive. German reconnaissance aircraft and scouts reported fresh troops being deployed to the front lines and truckloads of ammunition being unloaded. This had been confirmed by starving Russian soldiers who had crossed the lines and surrendered in the hope of getting a meal from their German captors.
The evidence of the approaching offensive had come as a big disappointment to Walter. He had hoped that the new Russian government would be unable to fight on. In Petrograd, Lenin and the Bolsheviks were vociferously calling for peace, and pouring out a flood of newspapers and pamphlets--paid for with German money.
The Russian people did not want war. An announcement by Pavel Miliukov, the monocled foreign minister, that Russia was still aiming for "decisive victory" had brought enraged workers and soldiers out onto the streets again. The theatrical young war minister, Kerensky, who was responsible for the expected new offensive, had reinstated flogging in the army and restored the authority of officers. But would the Russian soldiers fight? That was what the Germans needed to know and Walter was risking his life to find out.
The signs were mixed. In some sections of the front, Russian soldiers had hoisted white flags and unilaterally declared an armistice. Other sections seemed quiet and disciplined. It was one such area that Walter had decided to visit.
He had at last got away from Berlin. Probably Monika von der Helbard had told her parents bluntly that there was not going to be a wedding. Anyway, Walter was on the front line again, gathering intelligence.
He shifted the box to the other shoulder. Now he could see half a dozen heads sticking up over the edge of a trench. They wore caps--Russian soldiers did not have helmets. They stared at him but did not point their weapons, yet.
He felt fatalistic about death. He thought he could die happy after his joyous night in Stockholm with Maud. Of course, he would prefer to live. He wanted to make a home with Maud and have children. And he hoped to do so in a prosperous, democratic Germany. But that meant winning the war, which in turn meant risking his life, so he had no choice.
All the same his stomach felt watery as he got within rifle range. It was so easy for a soldier to aim his gun and pull the trigger. That was what they were here for, after all.
He carried no rifle, and he hoped they had noticed that. He did have a nine-millimeter Luger stuffed into his belt at the back, but they could not see it. What they could see was the box he was carrying. He hoped it looked harmless.
He felt grateful for every step he survived, but conscious that each took him farther into danger. Any second now, he thought philosophically. He wondered whether a man heard the shot that killed him. What Walter feared most was being wounded and bleeding slowly to death, or succumbing to infection in a filthy field hospital.
He could now see the faces of the Russians, and he read amusement, astonishment, and lively wonderment in their expressions. He looked anxiously for signs of fear: that was the greatest danger. A scared soldier might shoot just to break the tension.
At last he had ten yards to go, then nine, eight . . . He came to the lip of the trench. "Hello, comrades," he said in Russian. He put down the box.
He held out his hand to the nearest soldier. Automatically, the man reached out and helped him jump into the trench. A small group gathered around him.
"I have come to ask you a question," he said.
Most educated Russians spoke some German, but the troops were peasants, and few understood any language other than their own. As a boy Walter had learned Russian as part of his preparation, rigidly enforced by his father, for a career in the army and the foreign ministry. He had never used his Russian much, but he thought he could remember enough for this mission.
"First a drink," he said. He brought the box into the trench, ripped open the top, and took out a bottle of schnapps. He pulled the cork, took a swig, wiped his mouth, and gave the bottle to the nearest soldier, a tall corporal of eighteen or nineteen. The man grinned, drank, and passed the bottle on.
Walter covertly studied his surroundings. The trench was poorly constructed. The walls slanted, and were not braced by timber. The floor was irregular and had no duckboards, so even now in summer it was muddy. The trench did not even follow a straight line--although that was probably a good thing, as there were no traverses to contain the blast of an artillery hit. There was a foul smell: obviously the men did not always bother to walk to the latrine. What was wrong with these Russians? Everything they did was slapdash, disorganized, and half-finished.
While the bottle was going around, a sergeant appeared. "What's going on, Feodor Igorovich?" he said, addressing the tall corporal. "Why are you talking to a cowfucking German?"
Feodor was young, but his mustache was luxuriant and curled across his cheeks. For some reason he had a nautical cap, which he wore at a jaunty angle. His air of self-confidence bordered on arrogance. "Have a drink, Sergeant Gavrik."
The sergeant drank from the bottle like the rest, but he was not as nonchalant as his men. He gave Walter a mistrustful look. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
Walter had rehearsed what he would say. "On behalf of German workers, soldiers, and peasants, I come to ask why you are fighting us."
After a moment of surprised silence, Feodor said: "Why are you fighting us?"
Walter had his answer ready. "We have no choice. Our country is still ruled by the kaiser--we have not yet made our revolution. But you have. The tsar is gone, and Russia is now ruled by its people. So I have come to ask the people: Why are you fighting us?"
Feodor looked at Gavrik and said: "It's the question we keep asking ourselves!"
Gavrik shrugged. Walter guessed he was a traditionalist who was carefully keeping his opinions to himself.
Several more men came along the trench and joined the group. Walter opened another bottle. He looked around the circle of thin, ragged, dirty men who were rapidly getting drunk. "What do Russians want?"
Several men answered.
"Land."
"Peace."
"Freedom."
"More booze!"
Walter took another bottle from the box. What they really needed, he thought, was soap, good food, and new boots.
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br /> Feodor said: "I want to go home to my village. They're dividing up the prince's land, and I need to make sure my family gets its fair share."
Walter asked: "Do you support a political party?"
A soldier said: "The Bolsheviks!" The others cheered.
Walter was pleased. "Are you party members?"
They shook their heads.
Feodor said: "I used to support the Socialist Revolutionaries, but they have let us down." Others nodded agreement. "Kerensky has brought back flogging," Feodor added.
"And he has ordered a summer offensive," Walter said. He could see, in front of his eyes, a stack of ammunition boxes, but he did not refer to them, for fear of calling the Russians' attention to the obvious possibility that he was a spy. "We can see from our aircraft," he added.
Feodor said to Gavrik: "Why do we need to attack? We can make peace just as well from where we are now!" There was a mutter of agreement.
Walter said: "So what will you do if the order to advance is given?"
Feodor said: "There will have to be a meeting of the soldiers' committee to discuss it."
"Don't talk shit," said Gavrik. "Soldiers' committees are no longer allowed to debate orders."
There was a rumble of discontent, and someone at the edge of the circle muttered: "We'll see about that, comrade Sergeant."
The crowd continued to grow. Perhaps Russians could smell booze at a distance. Walter handed out two more bottles. By way of explanation to the new arrivals, he said: "German people want peace just as much as you. If you don't attack us, we won't attack you."
"I'll drink to that!" said one of the newcomers, and there was a ragged cheer.
Walter feared the noise would attract the attention of an officer, and wondered how he could get the Russians to keep their voices down despite the schnapps; but he was already too late. A loud, authoritative voice said: "What's going on here? What are you men up to?" The crowd parted to give passage to a big man in the uniform of a major. He looked at Walter and said: "Who the hell are you?"
Walter's heart sank. It was undoubtedly the officer's duty to take him prisoner. German intelligence knew how the Russians treated their POWs. Being captured by them was a sentence of lingering death by starvation and cold.