Fall of Giants

“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.