The workers began to yank stacks of papers to the door where the boys of Steponas Malachovskis – the caretaker of Vilnius’ streets – were supposed to wait for them alertly. Malachovskis’s business portfolio encompassed the dirtiest jobs of all: a good hundred of his boys – mini Malachovskis – carried rubbish, took care of the city parks and distributed The Truth of Vilnius. The children’s lean arms would extend in the most amazing ways to reach round bundles of papers so heavy that lifting them up became a real struggle, before all of Vilnius – from Antokolis to Zverynas – resounded with their shrill voices, “Come and buy! Come and buy! The Latest Truth! Scandal at the Council! Confession of the Count’s Lover!” The paper sellers went everywhere, venturing even as far as the Troubles. Motiejus Kairys had once offered his opinion about the paper, calling The Truth a newspaper most suitable for wiping one’s arse. But when it came to the boys earning one or two copecks for themselves, he did not mind at all. Having sold their bundle, the boys went back to the printers for another and then another pile, running back and forth until the dusk. A good day saw them selling up to ten thousand copies, while today Volynskiy expected them to sell three times as much.
In his keenness, it took some time for the editor to realise something was not quite right. He turned his head from side to side. Normally there would be pandemonium when the boys were picking up the newspapers outside – despite being illiterate the little Malachovskis would leaf through the paper, rehearsing their yells for the day and rolling with laughter. Today it was oddly quiet.
Volynskiy turned on his heel and marched out through the front door. Outside he stopped dead in his tracks. Piled up on the pavement there were stacks of papers. Several workers from the printers and Volynskiy’s assistant Grodek lingered about. Puzzled, their eyes darted around. The boys were nowhere to be seen.
“What is going on?” hissed Volynskiy.
“I don’t get it. Not a single little Malachovskis here. Have they overslept or something?” Grodek stammered.
“Find Malachovskis!” Volynskiy screamed. “Now! Get him out of bed, dig him up from under the ground, do whatever you need to do but in half an hour from now we must start selling it. Every minute is now crucial. Do you get it?”
Grodek nodded before rushing to execute the editor’s instructions. But less than a minute later, the sound of the ringing boys’ voices reached his ears.
“At last! Damn rascals!” muttered Volynskiy before starting to count the money this prank was going to cost Malachovskis.
The voices were drawing nearer and nearer, the boys finally coming really close. The Truth of Vilnius editor pricked his ears, but still could not make out what they were shouting. He narrowed his eyes. When it finally dawned on him what was happening, he broke out in a cold sweat and began to feel short of breath. The boys were shouting the name of a newspaper that sounded nothing like The Truth of Vilnius at all.
He did not even notice a young blonde man in a long dark jacket who had been standing in the nearby gateway, watching events outside the printers unfold. Watching Volynskiy’s face gradually distorting in dismay, the man smiled a satisfied smile and put his jacket collar up, fending off the Easterly wind.
The start to every morning in the common-use houses of Steam City and Snipiskes was exactly the same. The yawning men rolled out of beds, splashed themselves with lukewarm water, then put on slightly damp clothes, which had been washed the night before, had some hot tea and home-cooked food and, having kissed their sleeping children, lumbered off to work at the first signs of dawn. Phalanxes of hunched up men in overcoats dyed the streets grey. They exchanged one or two words with their fellow walkers, and then divided into smaller groups, dragging their feet to different Steam City factories and aiming to reach their work stations with the first sounds of the siren.
But today’s morning wasn’t any ordinary morning. If anyone listened to the bits of conversations in common kitchens, watched the eyes and tense hand movements of anxious wives, they could hear and feel the hanging in the air questions: Will it happen, or not? Will they dare, or not? If not now, then when? One word, as if transmitted on the wireless, was being passed around from one person to another: strike, strike, strike. “Don’t go to work, do not break the agreement, all stick together,” the activists tirelessly repeated. “You’ll see, they will get scared and will give in, especially now at the time of the Summit with all of Europe watching us.”
But the workers had doubts. Some of them had heard about the working conditions in Novovileysk or Kaunas, occupied by the Russians, where their brothers and sisters worked; others felt intimidated by the idea of the Sluskai cells and the stone-faced men from Vilnius Legion. These soldiers showed no mercy to their enemies, and that was what the workers would become to them once they went on strike. There were others who just wanted to spend their day working hard, then have a wash, get a change of clothes and take their families to see the outstanding spectacles promised for the occasion of the Summit.
Despite all that, the word strike spread like plague, enticing workers with the promise of a more interesting life, if nothing else. So today after breakfast, the workers did not go to the factories, but gathered in Steam City’s Central Square, opposite the Guild of Mechanics Tower.
From seven in the morning this place was already teeming with an impressive congregation. People were shifted from one foot to another, turning their heads from side to side and talking in low voices.
Beyond a shadow of a doubt, the word strike had also reached the Legionnaires’ ears, but the road leading to the Guild of Mechanics building today was clear as ever. There were no formations of Legionnaires armed to the teeth and shielding themselves, there were no shooters on the rooves, no artillery around water or steam cannons, ready to disperse the crowd swiftly and without too much strain. It did not look anything like that at all and a lot of people were puzzled.
The Guild clock sighed before making three announcements that it was quarter to eight.
The crowd was getting more and more restless. The most distrusting strikers voiced their demands for certainty, as they wanted to know what their next step would be and wished to hear from the leaders. At that moment three men emerged from the crowd – two were thin and stooped, the third, chubby with particularly pale hands. Moving papers around a desk – that is what a pair of hands like these were best at. These were the workers’ association activists Antonas Kolv, Jonas Krazas and Eustachijus Pugis. Having reached the centre of the square all three turned back to face the crowd. The uproar instantly died out.
“Brothers,” soap factory worker Jonas Krazas began in a gruff voice, only to be interrupted a moment later.
With a sudden burst of stamping feet, two dozen children – big and small, their feet dirty and noses running – came dashing out of the surrounding streets before tearing into Steam City Square. Each with a small bag over their shoulder and a pile of newspapers in their hands. The children’s shrill screams were so loud that they would have easily drowned out the carriage drivers competing for their clients’ attention outside the station.
“New newspaper! The Vilnius News!”
“Free! Take and read!”
“Scandal! Corrupt leaders of strikers! Free!”
Kolv began to gesticulate to his men to intercept the bold rascals but no-one even stirred, as catching a fish with bare hands in the Vilnele would have been an easier task. The boys streamed through the crowd in all directions, handing out the papers and dashing into a remote alley to replenish their supplies when their stack was gone.
Pleased with their free gift, the workers – even the illiterate ones – eagerly clutched the paper and, furrow-browed, carried out a close inspection of the front page pictures. The first one depicted all three leaders – Kolv, Krazas and Pugis, as well as a fourth man, getting dressed in one of the rooms at the baths, while another showed all of them enjoying drinks and the company of pretty girls, while the third had caught them counting roubles from env
elopes. The headline above the pictures read Who Commissioned Strikes in Vilnius?
“Provocation!” accountant Pugis roared, trying to grab one of the newspaper boys fleeting past by the collar, but he swiftly sidestepped and disappeared into the mass of people.
Step by step, people began to close in on the three strike leaders, whose complexions grew increasingly paler with every move of the nearing crowd.
“Obnoxious lies!” Pugys squeaked. “Where did this paper come from? I know nothing about the pictures! No one took any photos of us!”
One of his allies dug him painfully in the ribs with his elbow, but it was too late.
“How much did they pay you, hypocrites? Thirty of the Tsar’s silver coins?” someone in the crowd yelled.
“You wanted to reach Heaven on our backs, leaving us behind with nothing? No way!” another voice erupted.
Sensing something untoward, the hired agitators who’d been mingling in the crowd disappeared instantly without trace, while the people encircled the three leaders in an even tighter ring, only leaving clear the passage to the Guild of Mechanics Tower. That was where the three accomplices tried to back off.
Suddenly Pugis felt an iron hand press down on his shoulder. He turned back with a start to see a man in a bronze-coloured jacket. It was Petras Vileisis – Leader of the Guild of Mechanics.
“All that glitters is not gold,” he said scanning the crowd with his eyes. “Not all friends have good intentions and not all attractive promises are always kept. Remember that, fellows. And allow the guests of the Vilnius Summit to see what Steam City’s men are really like – hard working and united. Let all of Europe, not just other cities of the Alliance, become green with envy! And when the Summit comes to an end, let’s all sit down and discuss the issues in a manly way. With no baths and no Russian roubles!” He poked Pugis’ backside with his iron hand, making the crowd burst with laughter. But then he raised his hand and the workers went quiet again. “And one more thing. I know that according to the rules of Steam City, those who are late for work face disciplinary action. I do approve of this policy myself. But the main Steam City clock...” Vileisis pointed at the grand clock of the Guild, now showing one minute to eight, “...the main clock has been stalled and will not chime eight before all of you reach your workstations! Have a good day, everyone!”
A consenting murmur rolled over the crowd, before people began to scatter in different directions. Some of them set off running, with copies of The Vilnius News under their arms. A short minute later, the space outside the Guild building had emptied, with only Vileisis, three defeated strike leaders and a few dazed paper boys lingering about.
The riot instigator Misha Suslov disappeared from the square as well, his face discreetly concealed behind The Vilnius News. Having assured himself that the other agitators had run off safe and sound, he considered his job done. Suslov had been around for too long to allow one little mishap make him feel downhearted. Even the most ingenious plans fall apart sometimes due to some unforeseen detail or an opponent’s move which would have been impossible to predict. He had encountered similar situations before: in St Petersburg, Kiev and Orenburg. Besides, while in prison he had learned a useful lesson: a prerequisite for the game to be won is not the most powerful cards, but an extra ace up the player’s sleeve. And Suslov had at least three of those. And furthermore, he was yearning for revenge – he would make people remember this day by provoking a burly fight outside the Steam City common-use houses in the evening.
The Russian slipped into another out-of-the-way back street. He had another meeting scheduled.
The soap factory accountant Pugys and both of his accomplices went a few steps forward, thinking that it was time for them to leave the square, but the Guild of Mechanics Tower door opened up to release three Legionnaires.
“Where are you off to, gentlemen?” Vileisis enquired pleasantly. “Wait a moment. There is someone who would like to have a chat with you. About the baths and other delightful things.”
Kolv, Krazas and Pugis were instantly advanced on by the Legionnaires who, sparing all niceties, grabbed them by their collars and put them on a steam carriage, which had just trundled into the square.
Encouraged by a shrill whistle, the gaping paperboys darted over to another group of their friends before all dissipating in various directions and into other streets, shouting along the way, “Latest news! Latest news! Strike instigators arrested! The Vilnius News! Free, free of charge!”
Petras Vileisis in his bronze jacket was now the only figure still remaining in the square, which only a moment ago had been permeated with the real threat of a strike abscess exploding.
A young blonde man in a long jacket, who had just appeared from round one of the corners, slowly strolled towards him.
“Are you pleased?” he asked politely.
The head of Mechanics cast a sideways glance at the man and gave him a half smile.
“Not bad, indeed. My favourite part was Pelikanas’ weather forecast. Nice detail. Please extend my gratitude to Rector Gimbutas and his students. The day will come when they all turn into great columnists. And say thank you to Mr Malachovskis and, of course...”
“Money Councillor von Ott,” his sentence was finished by the man – the right hand of Gerhardt von Ott himself, simply known to others as Jan. “The Councillor is happy... erm... to have won Mr Malachovskis over to his side and given him the opportunity to render some assistance to the Mechanics of free Vilnius. He hopes your successful cooperation will continue into the future.”
“In other words we owe him a favour,” muttered Vileisis. “There is a wheel within a wheel, and there are tiny wheels inside them. Vilnius is just like my machines – a fiendishly complex mechanism.”
Jan bowed silently.
“The Money Councillor is wondering about the future of The Vilnius News. Is this going to be its one and only issue or will the city now have its own regular newspaper?” he asked.
“I will have a word with Rector Gimbutas, but if you would like my personal opinion, the city would benefit greatly from a truly free publication,” Vileisis replied. “With only one truth around, Vilnius finds it difficult to breathe freely. And if we could also get our own printers... Zavadskis’ printing house could certainly do with some competition. Their high prices are a concern for many people. While we are on the subject – what does our mutual friend from The Truth think of The Vilnius News?”
“He is not too pleased. Not pleased at all,” the blonde man’s bow was an indication that the conversation had come to an end. A minute later he strolled out of the square.
For a few moments Vileisis lingered and followed him with his eyes; then he scratched his cheek with his iron fingers, before turning on his heel and walking inside the Guild building.
* * *
At eight in the morning, Steam City’s sirens woke Leib Volynskiy up from the trance in which he had been lost for the last half an hour. The editor sat amongst the stacks of The Truth of Vilnius, clutching the new The Vilnius News and staring at its front page.
Printhouse workers, who happened to be on a break and were standing there pulling on cigarettes, observed the pensive editor curiously, before going back to their tasks.
Grodek – the assistant sent over to Malachovskis by Leib – was back and reporting: the king of the streets had told him to shove The Truth up his backside, also reminding him that every stick had two ends. Malachovskis’s assistance to Leib Volynskiy was free of charge, in return for keeping one rather awkward story under wraps, relating to a not so sparkling clean way of obtaining the right to collect the city’s rubbish.
Initially Volynskiy’s assistant tried to grab one or two boys by their lapels, using a few copecks as bait in return for distributing The Truth, but his efforts were as fruitless as carrying water to the sea. The little rascals shrieked with laughter, tormentingly waving The Vilnius News, with the University Dominium coat of arms glaring under its title, right in his face.<
br />
It was a financial disaster. Even if the whole of loud-mouth Volynskiy’s editorial office decided to brave the streets, the best they could do would be to a few hundred copies. But who would buy them anyway? The residents were clearly leaning towards the free Vilnius News. Moreover... Volynskiy was dreading to think of what he would have to say when flown back to the menacing monstrosity The Ilya Muromets, concealed from human eyes high above the clouds.
The rising sun cast its yellow glow over the city’s streets and alley ways, a few of its rays brushing against the stacks of The Truth of Vilnius and its screaming headline City Brought to Standstill by Strikes!, before hurrying away to tend to its other business. What it left behind was dark shadows, a pile of unwanted papers and a shuffling, distraught editor.
Chapter XXXV
Vilnius, morning
26 04 1905
Had old Marijus Pelikanas not had such an extended sojourn in bed, he would have been overjoyed to see his predictions come true. By nine in the morning, the sun had already chased away the morning mist, and was brightly illuminating the streets of festive Vilnius. The only dark thing in the sky was The Parsifal, sprawled like a giant toad. Regardless, both city residents and its guests unanimously agreed that the flying German fortress was the most impressive spectacle they had ever seen.
St George Avenue’s luscious linden trees, the chestnuts in Bernardine Gardens, the lilacs in Piromotas, the silver poplars around the Navigators’ Tower and Cathedral Square – all this abundant greenery was a feast for the eye, quietly suggesting that life is incredibly beautiful for those who feel eighteen years old in their heart. Outside the Exhibition Dome in Lukiskes Square, people had formed yet another queue, while workers by Green Bridge were putting the final touches to the spectator stands. The crowd here were cooling themselves with mugs of chilled gira[36] and observing the sweating Legionnaires, doing all that was humanly possible to control the ocean of heads, expanding every minute, who couldn’t wait to see the legendary pilot Adam Gaber-Volynskiy’s flight.
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