Fall of Giants

He glanced back. He could not see the trench. That meant they could not see him. He was safe.

He breathed easier and walked on. It had been worth the risk. He had learned a lot. Although this section was showing no white flags, the Russians were in poor shape for battle. Clearly the men were discontented and rebellious, and the officers had only a weak hold on discipline. The sergeant had been careful not to cross them and the major had not dared to take Walter prisoner. In that frame of mind it was impossible for soldiers to put up a brave fight.

He came within sight of the German line. He shouted his name and a prearranged password. He dropped down into the trench. A lieutenant saluted him. “Successful sortie, sir?”

“Yes, thanks,” said Walter. “Very successful indeed.”

{II}

Katerina lay on the bed in Grigori’s old room, wearing only a thin shift. The window was open, letting in the warm July air and the thunder of the trains that passed a few steps away. She was six months pregnant.

Grigori ran a finger along the outline of her body, from her shoulder, over one swollen breast, down again to her ribs, up over the gentle hill of her belly, and down her thigh. Before Katerina he had never known this easygoing joy. His youthful relations with women had been hasty and short-lived. To him it was a new and thrilling experience to lie beside a woman after sex, touching her body gently and lovingly but without urgency or lust. Perhaps this was what marriage meant, he thought. “You’re even more beautiful pregnant,” he said, speaking in a low murmur so as not to wake Vlad.

For two and a half years he had acted as father to his brother’s son, but now he was going to have a child of his own. He would have liked to name the baby after Lenin, but they already had a Vladimir. The pregnancy had made Grigori a hardliner in politics. He had to think about the country in which the child would grow up, and he wanted his son to be free. (For some reason he thought of the baby as a boy.) He had to be sure Russia would be ruled by its people, not by a tsar or a middle-class parliament or a coalition of businessmen and generals who would bring back the old ways in new disguises.

He did not really like Lenin. The man lived in a permanent rage. He was always shouting at people. Anyone who disagreed with him was a swine, a bastard, a cunt. But he worked harder than anyone else, he thought about things for a long time, and his decisions were always right. In the past, every Russian “revolution” had led to nothing but dithering. Grigori knew Lenin would not let that happen.

The provisional government knew it, too, and there were signs they wanted to target Lenin. The right-wing press had accused him of being a spy for Germany. The accusation was ridiculous. However, it was true that Lenin had a secret source of finance. Grigori, as one of those who had been Bolsheviks since before the war, was part of the inner circle, and he knew the money came from Germany. If the secret got out it would fuel suspicion.

He was dozing off when he heard footsteps in the hall followed by a loud, urgent knock at the door. Pulling on his trousers he shouted: “What is it?” Vlad woke up and cried.

A man’s voice said: “Grigori Sergeivich?”

“Yes.” Grigori opened the door and saw Isaak. “What’s happened?”

“They’ve issued arrest warrants for Lenin, Zinoviev, and Kamenev.”

Grigori went cold. “We have to warn them!”

“I’ve got an army car outside.”

“I’ll put my boots on.”

Isaak went. Katerina picked up Vlad and comforted him. Grigori hastily pulled his clothes on, kissed them both, and ran down the stairs.

He jumped into the car beside Isaak and said: “Lenin is the most important.” The government was right to target him. Zinoviev and Kamenev were sound revolutionaries, but Lenin was the engine that drove the movement. “We must warn him first. Drive to his sister’s place. Fast as you can go.”

Isaak headed off at top speed.

Grigori held tight while the car screeched around a corner. As it straightened up he said: “How did you find out?”

“From a Bolshevik in the Ministry of Justice.”

“When were the warrants signed?”

“This morning.”

“I hope we’re in time.” Grigori was terrified that Lenin might already have been seized. No one else had his inflexible determination. He was a bully, but he had transformed the Bolsheviks into the leading party. Without him, the revolution could fall back into muddle and compromise.

Isaak drove to Shirokaya Street and pulled up outside a middle-class apartment building. Grigori jumped out, ran inside, and knocked at the Yelizarov flat. Anna Yelizarova, Lenin’s elder sister, opened the door. She was in her fifties, with graying hair parted in the center. Grigori had met her before: she worked on Pravda. “Is he here?” Grigori said.

“Yes, why, what’s happened?”

Grigori felt a wave of relief. He was not too late. He stepped inside. “They’re going to arrest him.”

Anna slammed the door. “Volodya!” she called, using the familiar form of Lenin’s first name. “Come quickly!”