Fall of Giants

Murray said: “On another matter, sir, have you seen the American interpreter, Peshkov, in the last day or two?”

“No,” Fitz said. “What’s happened to him?”

“We seem to have lost him, sir.”

{II}

Trotsky was immensely weary, but not discouraged. The lines of strain on his face did not diminish the light of hope in his eyes. Grigori thought admiringly that he was sustained by an unshakable belief in what he was doing. They all had that, Grigori suspected; Lenin and Stalin too. Each felt sure he knew the right thing to do, whatever the problem might be, from land reform to military tactics.

Grigori was not like that. With Trotsky, he tried to work out the best response to the White armies, but he never felt sure they had made the right decision until the results were known. Perhaps that was why Trotsky was world-famous and Grigori was just another commissar.

As he had many times before, Grigori sat in Trotsky’s personal train with a map of Russia on the table. “We hardly need worry about the counterrevolutionaries in the north,” Trotsky said.

Grigori agreed. “According to our intelligence, there are mutinies among the British soldiers and sailors there.”

“And they have lost all hope of linking up with Kolchak. His armies are running as fast as they can back to Siberia. We could chase them over the Urals-but I think we have more important business elsewhere.”

“In the west?”

“That’s bad enough. The Whites are bolstered by reactionary nationalists in Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia. Kolchak has appointed Yudenich commander in chief there, and he’s supported by a British navy flotilla that is keeping our fleet bottled up in Kronstadt. But I’m even more worried about the south.”

“General Denikin.”

“He has about a hundred and fifty thousand men, supported by French and Italian troops, and supplied by the British. We think he’s planning a dash for Moscow.”

“If I may say so, I think the key to defeating him is political, not military.”

Trotsky looked intrigued. “Go on.”

“Everywhere he goes, Denikin makes enemies. His Cossacks rob everyone. Whenever he takes a town, he rounds up all the Jews and just shoots them. If the coal mines fail to meet production targets, he kills one in ten miners. And, of course, he executes all deserters from his army.”

“So do we,” said Trotsky. “And we kill villagers who harbor deserters.”

“And peasants who refuse to give up their grain.” Grigori had had to harden his heart to accept this brutal necessity. “But I know peasants-my father was one. What they care about most is land. A lot of these people gained considerable tracts of land in the revolution, and they want to hold on to it-whatever else happens.”

“So?”

“Kolchak has announced that land reform should be based on the principle of private property.”

“Which means the peasants giving back the fields they have taken from the aristocracy.”

“And everyone knows that. I’d like to print his proclamation and post it outside every church. No matter what our soldiers do, the peasants will prefer us to the Whites.”

“Do it,” said Trotsky.

“One more thing. Announce an amnesty for deserters. For seven days, any who return to the ranks will escape punishment.”

“Another political move.”

“I don’t believe it will encourage desertion, because it’s only for a week; but it might bring men back to us-especially when they find out the Whites want to take their land.”

“Give it a try,” said Trotsky.

An aide came in and saluted. “A strange report, Comrade Peshkov, that I thought you would want to hear.”

“All right.”

“It’s about one of the prisoners we took at Buguruslan. He was with Kolchak’s army, but wearing an American uniform.”

“The Whites have soldiers from all over the world. The capitalist imperialists support the counterrevolution, naturally.”

“It’s not that, sir.”

“What, then?”

“Sir, he says he’s your brother.”

{III}

The platform was long, and there was a heavy morning mist, so that Grigori could not see the far end of the train. There was probably some mistake, he thought; a confusion of names or an error of translation. He tried to steel himself for a disappointment, but he was not successful: his heart beat faster and his nerves seemed to tingle. It was almost five years since he had seen his brother. He had often thought Lev must be dead. That could still be the awful truth.

He walked slowly, peering into the swirling haze. If this really was Lev, he would naturally be different. In the last five years Grigori had lost a front tooth and most of one ear, and had probably changed in other ways he was not aware of. How would Lev have altered?

After a few moments two figures emerged from the white mist: a Russian soldier, in ragged uniform and homemade shoes; and, beside him, a man who looked American. Was that Lev? He had a short American haircut and no mustache. He had the round-faced look of the well-fed American soldiers, with meaty shoulders under the smart new uniform. It was an officer’s uniform, Grigori saw with growing incredulity. Could his brother be an American officer?