Fall of Giants

Walter looked around the room. There was a samovar hissing in a corner, and an old woman in a shawl selling smoked and pickled fish. Fifteen or twenty people were sitting at tables. No one gave a second glance to a soldier and a peasant who was obviously hoping to sell his sack of onions. A young man in the blue tunic of a factory worker followed them in. Walter caught the man’s eye briefly and watched him take a seat, light a cigarette, and open Pravda.

Walter said: “May I have something to eat? I’m starving, but a peasant probably can’t afford the prices here.”

Grigori got a plate of black bread and herrings and two glasses of tea with sugar. Walter tucked into the food. After watching him for a minute, Grigori laughed. “I’m amazed you’ve passed for a peasant,” he said. “I’d know you for a bourgeois.”

“How?”

“Your hands are dirty, but you eat in small bites and dab your lips with a rag as if it was a linen napkin. A real peasant shovels the food in and slurps tea before swallowing.”

Walter was irritated by his condescension. After all, I’ve survived three days on a damn train, he thought. I’d like to see you try that in Germany. It was time to remind Peshkov that he had to earn his money. “Tell me how the Bolsheviks are doing,” he said.

“Dangerously well,” said Grigori. “Thousands of Russians have joined the party in the last few months. Leon Trotsky has at last announced his support for us. You should hear him. Most nights he packs out the Cirque Moderne.” Walter could see that Grigori hero-worshipped Trotsky. Even the Germans knew that Trotsky’s oratory was enchanting. He was a real catch for the Bolsheviks. “Last February we had ten thousand members-today we have two hundred thousand,” Grigori finished proudly.

“This is good, but can you change things?” Walter said.

“We have a strong chance of winning the election for the Constituent Assembly.”

“When will it be held?”

“It has been much delayed-”

“Why?”

Grigori sighed. “First the provisional government called together a council of representatives which, after two months, finally agreed on the composition of a sixty-member second council to draft the electoral law-”

“Why? Why such an elaborate process?”

Grigori looked irate. “They say they want the election to be absolutely unchallengeable-but the real reason is that the conservative parties are dragging their feet, knowing they stand to lose.”

He was only a sergeant, Walter thought, but his analysis seemed quite sophisticated. “So when will the election be held?”

“September.”

“And why do you think the Bolsheviks will win?”

“We are still the only group firmly committed to peace. And everyone knows that-thanks to all the newspapers and pamphlets we’ve produced.”

“Why did you say you were doing ‘dangerously’ well?”

“It makes us the government’s prime target. There’s a warrant out for Lenin’s arrest. He’s had to go into hiding. But he’s still running the party.”

Walter believed that, too. If Lenin could keep control of his party from exile in Zurich, he could certainly do so from a hideaway in Russia.

Walter had made the delivery and gathered the information he needed. He had accomplished his mission. A sense of relief came over him. Now all he had to do was get home.

With his foot he pushed the sack containing the ten thousand rubles across the floor to Grigori.

He finished his tea and stood up. “Enjoy your onions,” he said, and he walked to the door.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man in the blue tunic fold his copy of Pravda and get to his feet.

Walter bought a ticket to Luga and boarded the train. He entered a third-class compartment. He pushed through a group of soldiers smoking and drinking vodka, a family of Jews with all their possessions in string-tied bundles, and some peasants with empty crates who had presumably sold their chickens. At the far end of the carriage he paused and looked back.

The blue tunic entered the carriage.

Walter watched for a second as the man pushed through the passengers, carelessly elbowing people out of his way. Only a policeman would do that.

Walter jumped off the train and hurriedly left the station. Recalling his tour of exploration that afternoon, he headed at a fast walk for the canal. It was the season of short summer nights, so the evening was light. He hoped he might have shaken his tail, but when he glanced over his shoulder he saw the blue tunic following him. He had presumably been following Peshkov, and had decided to investigate Grigori’s onion-selling peasant friend.

The man broke into a jogging run.

If caught, Walter would be shot as a spy. He had no choice about what he had to do next.

He was in a low-rent neighborhood. All of Petrograd looked poor, but this district had the cheap hotels and dingy bars that clustered near railway stations all over the world. Walter started to run, and the blue tunic quickened his pace to keep up.