Fall of Giants

“Okay. All the ministers in the new government belong to scary-sounding political parties with socialist and revolutionary in their names, but in fact they’re middle-class businessmen and professionals. What they really want is a bourgeois revolution that gives them freedom to promote industry and commerce. But the people want bread, peace, and land: bread for the factory workers, peace for the soldiers, and land for the peasants. None of that really appeals to men like Lvov and Kerensky. So, to answer your question, I think Lvov’s government will try for gradual change. In particular, they will carry on fighting the war. But the workers will not be satisfied.”

“And who will win in the end?”

Gus recalled his trip to St. Petersburg, and the man who had demonstrated the casting of a locomotive wheel in a dirty, tumbledown foundry at the Putilov factory. Later, Gus had seen the same man in a fight with a cop over some girl. He could not remember the man’s name, but he could picture him now, his big shoulders and strong arms, one finger a stump, but most of all his fierce blue-eyed look of unstoppable determination. “The Russian people,” Gus said. “They will win in the end.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR – April 1917

On a mild day in early spring Walter walked with Monika von der Helbard in the garden of her parents’ town house in Berlin. It was a grand house and the garden was large, with a tennis pavilion, a bowling green, a riding school for exercising horses, and a children’s playground with swings and a slide. Walter remembered coming here as a child and thinking it was paradise. However, it was no longer an idyllic playground. All but the oldest horses had gone to the army. Chickens scratched on the flagstones of the broad terrace. Monika’s mother was fattening a pig in the tennis pavilion. Goats grazed the bowling green, and it was rumored that the gräfin milked them herself.

However, the old trees were coming into leaf, the sun was shining, and Walter was in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves with his coat slung over his shoulder-a state of undress that would have displeased his mother, but she was in the house, gossiping with the gräfin. His sister, Greta, had been walking with Walter and Monika, but she had made an excuse and left them alone-another thing Mother would have deplored, at least in theory.

Monika had a dog called Pierre. It was a standard poodle, long-legged and graceful, with a lot of curly rust-colored hair and light brown eyes, and Walter could not help thinking that it looked a little like Monika, beautiful though she was.

He liked the way she acted with her dog. She did not pet it or feed it scraps or talk to it in a baby voice, as some girls did. She just let it walk at her heel, and occasionally threw an old tennis ball for it to fetch.

“It’s so disappointing about the Russians,” she said.

Walter nodded. Prince Lvov’s government had announced they would continue to fight. Germany’s eastern front was not to be relieved, and there would be no reinforcements for France. The war would drag on. “Our only hope now is that Lvov’s government will fall and the peace faction will take over,” Walter said.

“Is that likely?”

“It’s hard to say. The left revolutionaries are still demanding bread, peace, and land. The government has promised a democratic election for a constituent assembly-but who will win?” He picked up a twig and threw it for Pierre. The dog bounded after it, and proudly brought it back. Walter bent down to pat its head, and when he straightened up Monika was very close to him.

“I like you, Walter,” she said, looking very directly at him with her amber eyes. “I feel as if we would never run out of things to talk about.”

He had the same feeling, and he knew that if he tried to kiss her now she would let him.

He stepped away. “I like you, too,” he said. “And I like your dog.” He laughed, to show that he was speaking lightheartedly.

All the same he could see that she was hurt. She bit her lip and turned away. She had been about as bold as was possible for a well-brought-up girl, and he had rejected her.

They walked on. After a long silence Monika said: “What is your secret, I wonder?”

My God, he thought, she’s sharp. “I have no secrets,” he lied. “Do you?”

“None worth telling.” She reached up and brushed something off his shoulder. “A bee,” she said.

“It’s too soon in the year for bees.”

“Perhaps we shall have an early summer.”

“It’s not that warm.”

She pretended to shiver. “You’re right, it’s chilly. Would you fetch me a wrap? If you go to the kitchen and ask a maid she will find one.”

“Of course.” It was not chilly, but a gentleman never refused such a request, no matter how whimsical. She obviously wanted a minute alone. He strolled back to the house. He had to spurn her advances, but he was sorry to hurt her. They were well suited-their mothers were quite right-and clearly Monika could not understand why he kept pushing her away.