Fall of Giants

“Then tell American ships to stay out of the war zone!” Doris looked cross, and Gus guessed they had had this argument before. No doubt her anger was fueled by the fear that Chuck would be conscripted.

To Gus, these issues were too nuanced for passionate declarations of right and wrong. He said gently: “Okay, that’s an alternative, and the president considered it. But it means accepting Germany’s power to tell us where American ships can and can’t go.”

Chuck said indignantly: “We can’t be pushed around that way by Germany or anyone else!”

Doris was adamant. “If it saves lives, why not?”

Gus said: “Most Americans seem to feel the way Chuck does.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“Wilson believes a president must treat public opinion the way a sailing ship treats the wind, using it but never going directly against it.”

“Then why must we have conscription? That makes slaves of American men.”

Chuck chipped in again. “Don’t you think it’s fair that we should all be equally responsible for fighting for our country?”

“We have a professional army. At least those men joined voluntarily.”

Gus said: “We have an army of a hundred and thirty thousand men. That’s nothing in this war. We’re going to need at least a million.”

“A lot more men to die,” Doris said.

Chuck said: “We’re damn glad at the bank, I can tell you. We have a lot of money out on loan to American companies supplying the Allies. If the Germans win, and the Brits and the Froggies can’t pay their debts, we’re in trouble.”

Doris looked thoughtful. “I didn’t know that.”

Chuck patted her hand. “Don’t worry about it, honey. It’s not going to happen. The Allies are going to win, especially with the U.S. of A. helping out.”

Gus said: “There’s another reason for us to fight. When the war is over, the U.S. will be able to take part as an equal in the postwar settlement. That may not sound very important, but Wilson’s dream is to set up a league of nations to resolve future conflicts without us killing one another.” He looked at Doris. “You must be in favor of that, I guess.”

“Certainly.”

Chuck changed the subject. “What brings you home, Gus? Apart from the desire to explain the president’s decisions to us common folk.”

He told them about the strike. He spoke lightly, as this was dinner-party talk, but in truth he was worried. The Buffalo Metal Works was vital to the war effort, and he was not sure how to get the men back to work. Wilson had settled a national rail strike shortly before his reelection and seemed to think that intervention in industrial disputes was a natural element of political life. Gus found it a heavy responsibility.

“You know who owns that place, don’t you?” said Chuck.

Gus had checked. “Vyalov.”

“And who runs it for him?”

“No.”

“His new son-in-law, Lev Peshkov.”

“Oh,” said Gus. “I didn’t know that.”

{III}

Lev was furious about the strike. The union was trying to take advantage of his inexperience. He felt sure Brian Hall and the men had decided he was weak. He was determined to prove them wrong.

He had tried being reasonable. “Mr. V needs to make back some of the money he lost in the bad years,” he had said to Hall.

“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 naïve. You don’t have much to worry about.”