Fall of Giants

The stocky policeman said something and patted the girl’s face. She flinched, and the other cop laughed. Grigori remembered being ill-treated by everyone in authority as a sixteen-year-old orphan, and his heart went out to this vulnerable girl. Against his better judgment, he approached the little group. Just to have something to say, he said: “If you’re looking for the Putilov works, I can show you the way.”

The stocky policeman laughed and said: “Get rid of him, Ilya.”

His sidekick had a small head and a mean face. “Get lost, scum,” he said.

Grigori was not afraid. He was tall and strong, his muscles hardened by constant heavy work. He had been in street fights ever since he was a boy and he had not lost one for many years. Lev was the same. Nevertheless, it was better not to annoy the police. “I’m a foreman at the works,” he said to the girl. “If you’re looking for a job, I can help you.”

The girl shot him a grateful look.

“A foreman is nothing,” said the stocky cop. As he spoke he looked directly at Grigori for the first time. In the yellow light from the kerosene streetlamp Grigori now recognized the round face with the look of stupid belligerence. The man was Mikhail Pinsky, the local precinct captain. Grigori’s heart sank. It was madness to pick a fight with the precinct captain-but he had gone too far now to turn back.

The girl spoke, and her voice told Grigori that she was nearer to twenty than sixteen. “Thank you, I’ll go with you, sir,” she said to Grigori. She was pretty, he saw, with delicately molded features and a wide, sensual mouth.

Grigori looked around. Unfortunately, there was no one else about: he had left the factory a few minutes after the seven o’clock rush. He knew he should back down, but he could not abandon this girl. “I’ll take you to the factory office,” he said, though in fact it was now closed.

“She’s coming with me-aren’t you, Katerina?” Pinsky said, and he pawed her, squeezing her breasts through the thin coat and thrusting a hand between her legs.

She jumped back a pace and said: “Keep your filthy hands off.”

With surprising speed and accuracy Pinsky punched her in the mouth.

She cried out, and blood spurted from her lips.

Grigori was angered. Throwing caution to the wind he stepped forward, put a hand to Pinsky’s shoulder, and shoved hard. Pinsky staggered sideways and fell to one knee. Grigori turned to Katerina, who was crying. “Run like hell!” he said, then he felt an agonizing blow to the back of his head. The second policeman, Ilya, had deployed his nightstick faster than Grigori expected. The pain was excruciating, and he fell to his knees, but he did not black out.

Katerina turned and ran, but she did not get far. Pinsky reached out and grabbed her foot, and she fell full-length.

Grigori turned and saw the nightstick coming at him again. He dodged the blow and scrambled to his feet. Ilya swung and missed again. Grigori aimed a blow at the side of the man’s head and punched with all his force. Ilya fell to the ground.

Grigori turned to see Pinsky standing over Katerina, kicking her repeatedly with his heavy boots.

A motorcar approached from the direction of the factory. As it passed, its driver braked hard, and it squealed to a stop under the streetlamp.

Two long strides brought Grigori to a position just behind Pinsky. He put both arms around the police captain, gripped him in a bear hug, and lifted him off the ground. Pinsky kicked his legs and waved his arms to no avail.

The car door opened and, to Grigori’s surprise, the American from Buffalo got out. “What is happening?” he said. His youthful face, lit by the streetlight, showed outrage as he addressed the wriggling Pinsky. “Why do you kick a helpless woman?”

This was great good luck, Grigori thought. Only foreigners would object to a policeman kicking a peasant.

The long, thin figure of Kanin, the supervisor, unfolded out of the car behind Dewar. “Let the policeman go, Peshkov,” he said to Grigori.

Grigori set Pinsky on the ground and released him. He spun around, and Grigori got ready to dodge a blow, but Pinsky restrained himself. In a voice full of poison he said: “I’ll remember you, Peshkov.” Grigori groaned: the man knew his name.

Katerina got to her knees, moaning. Dewar gallantly helped her to her feet, saying: “Are you badly hurt, miss?”

Kanin looked embarrassed. No Russian would address a peasant so courteously.

Ilya got up, looking dazed.

From within the car came the voice of Princess Bea, speaking English, sounding annoyed and impatient.

Grigori addressed Dewar. “With your permission, Excellency, I will take this woman to a nearby doctor.”

Dewar looked at Katerina. “Is that your wish?”

“Yes, sir,” she said through bloody lips.

“Very well,” he said.

Grigori took her arm and led her away before anyone could suggest otherwise.

At the corner he glanced back. The two cops stood arguing with Dewar and Kanin under the streetlamp.