Fall of Giants

“We do not want the lies or frauds of a bourgeois parliament! The only possible form of government is a soviet of workers’ deputies. All banks must be taken over and brought under the control of the soviet. All private land must be confiscated. And all army officers must be elected!”

That was exactly what Grigori thought, and he cheered and waved along with almost everyone else in the crowd.

“Long live the revolution!”

The crowd went wild.

Lenin clambered off the roof and got into the armored car. It drove off at a walking pace. The crowd surrounded and followed it, waving red flags. The military band joined in the procession, playing a march.

Grigori said: “This is the man for me!”

Konstantin said: “Me, too.”

They followed the procession.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE – May and June 1917

The Monte Carlo nightclub in Buffalo looked dreadful by daylight, but Lev Peshkov loved it just the same. The woodwork was scratched, the paint was chipped, the upholstery was stained, and there were cigarette butts all over the carpet; yet Lev thought it was paradise. As he walked in he kissed the hat-check girl, gave the doorman a cigar, and told the barman to be careful lifting a crate.

The job of nightclub manager was ideal for him. His main responsibility was to make sure no one was stealing. As a thief himself, he knew how to do that. Otherwise he just had to see that there was enough drink behind the bar and a decent band onstage. As well as his salary, he had free cigarettes and all the booze he could take without falling down. He always wore formal evening dress, which made him feel like a prince. Josef Vyalov left him alone to run the place. As long as the profits were coming in, his father-in-law had no other interest in the club, except to turn up occasionally with his cronies and watch the show.

Lev had only one problem: his wife.

Olga had changed. For a few weeks, back in the summer of 1915, she had been a sexpot, always hungry for his body. But that had been uncharacteristic, he now knew. Since they got married, everything he did displeased her. She wanted him to bathe every day and use a toothbrush and stop farting. She did not like dancing or drinking and she asked him not to smoke. She never came to the club. They slept in separate beds. She called him low-class. “I am low-class,” he had said to her one day. “That’s why I was the chauffeur.” She continued dissatisfied.

So he had hired Marga.

His old flame was onstage now, rehearsing a new number with the band, while two black women in head scarves wiped the tables and swept the floor. Marga wore a tight dress and red lipstick. Lev had given her a job as a dancer, having no idea whether she was good. She had turned out to be not just good but a star. Now she was belting out a suggestive number about waiting all night for her man to come.

Though I suffer from frustrations

The anticipation’s

A boost to our relations

When he comes

Lev knew exactly what she meant.

He watched her until she was done. She came offstage and kissed his cheek. He got two bottles of beer and followed her to her dressing room. “That’s a great number,” he said as he went in.

“Thanks.” She put the bottle in her mouth and tilted it. Lev watched her red lips on the neck. She took a long drink. She caught him watching her, swallowed, and grinned. “That remind you of something?”

“You bet it does.” He embraced her and ran his hands over her body. After a couple of minutes she knelt down, unbuttoned his pants, and took him into her mouth. She was good at this, the best he had ever known. Either she really liked it, or she was the greatest actor in America. He closed his eyes and sighed with pleasure.

The door opened and Josef Vyalov came in.

“So it’s true!” he said furiously.

Two of his thugs, Ilya and Theo, followed him in.

Lev was scared half to death. He hastily tried to button his pants and apologize at the same time.

Marga stood up quickly and wiped her mouth. “You’re in my dressing room!” she protested.

Vyalov said: “And you’re in my nightclub. But not for much longer. You’re fired.” He turned to Lev. “When you’re married to my daughter, you don’t screw the help!”

Marga said defiantly: “He wasn’t screwing me, Vyalov, didn’t you notice that?”

Vyalov punched her in the mouth. She cried out and fell back, her lip bleeding. “You’ve been fired,” he said to her. “Fuck off.”

She picked up her bag and left.

Vyalov looked at Lev. “You asshole,” he said. “Haven’t I done enough for you?”

Lev said: “I’m sorry, Pa.” He was terrified of his father-in-law. Vyalov would do anything: people who displeased him might be flogged, tortured, maimed, or murdered. He had no mercy and no fear of the law. In his way he was as powerful as the tsar.

“Don’t tell me it’s the first time, either,” said Vyalov. “I been hearing these rumors ever since I put you in charge here.”

Lev said nothing. The rumors were true. There had been others, although not since Marga was hired.

“I’m moving you,” Vyalov said.

“What do you mean?”