Fall of Giants

The summer weather was warm and humid, despite the early hour. Grigori began to perspire as he walked briskly through the streets.

In the two months since Lev had left, Grigori and Katerina had settled into an uneasy friendship. She relied on him, and he looked after her, but it was not what either of them wanted. Grigori wanted love, not friendship. Katerina wanted Lev, not Grigori. But Grigori found a kind of fulfillment in making sure she ate well. It was the only way he had of expressing his love. It could hardly be a long-term arrangement, but right now it was difficult to think long-term. He still planned to escape from Russia and find his way to the promised land of America.

At the factory gate new mobilization posters had been stuck up, and men crowded around, those unable to read begging others to read aloud. Grigori found himself standing next to Isaak, the football captain. They were the same age and had been reservists together. Grigori scanned the notices, looking for the name of their unit.

Today it was there.

He looked again, but there was no mistake: Narva regiment.

He looked down the list of names and found his own.

He had not really believed it could happen. But he had been fooling himself. He was twenty-five, fit and strong, perfect soldier material. Of course he was going to war.

What would happen to Katerina? And her baby?

Isaak cursed aloud. His name was also on the list.

A voice behind them said: “No need to worry.”

They turned to see the long, thin shape of Kanin, the amiable supervisor of the casting section, an engineer in his thirties. “No need to worry?” said Grigori skeptically. “Katerina is having Lev’s baby and there’s no one to look after her. What am I going to do?”

“I’ve been to see the man in charge of mobilization for this district,” Kanin said. “He promised me exemption for any of my workers. Only the troublemakers have to go.”

Grigori’s heart leaped with hope again. It sounded too good to be true.

Isaak said: “What do we have to do?”

“Just don’t go to the barracks. You’ll be all right. It’s fixed.”

Isaak was an aggressive character-no doubt that was why he made such a good sportsman-and he was not satisfied with Kanin’s answer. “Fixed how?” he demanded.

“The army gives the police a list of men who fail to show, and the police have to round them up. Your name simply won’t be on the list.”

Isaak grunted with dissatisfaction. Grigori shared his dislike of such semiofficial arrangements-there was too much room for things to go wrong-but dealing with the government was always like this. Kanin had either bribed an official or performed some other favor. It was pointless to be churlish about it. “That’s great,” Grigori said to Kanin. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Kanin said mildly. “I did it for myself-and for Russia. We need skilled men like you two to make trains, not stop German bullets-an illiterate peasant can do that. The government hasn’t worked this out yet, but they will in time, and then they’ll thank me.”

Grigori and Isaak passed through the gates. “We might as well trust him,” Grigori said. “What have we got to lose?” They stood in line to check themselves in by each dropping a numbered metal square into a box. “It’s good news,” he said.

Isaak was not convinced. “I just wish I could feel surer,” he said.

They headed for the wheel shop. Grigori put his worries out of his mind and prepared himself for the day’s work. The Putilov plant was making more trains than ever. The army had to assume that locomotives and wagons would be destroyed by shelling, so they would be needing replacements as soon as the fighting started. The pressure was on Grigori’s team to produce wheels faster.

He began to roll up his sleeves as he stepped into the wheel shop. It was a small shed, and the furnace made it hot in winter, a baking oven now at the height of summer. Metal screeched and rang as lathes shaped and polished it.

He saw Konstantin standing by his lathe, and his friend’s stance made him frown. Konstantin’s face telegraphed a warning: something was wrong. Isaak saw it too. Reacting faster than Grigori, he stopped, grabbed Grigori’s arm, and said: “What-?”

He did not finish the question.

A figure in a black-and-green uniform stepped from behind the furnace and hit Grigori in the face with a sledgehammer.

He tried to dodge the blow, but his reaction was a moment too slow and, although he ducked, the wooden head of the big hammer struck him high on the cheekbone and knocked him to the ground. An agonizing pain shot through his head and he cried out loud.

It took several moments for his vision to clear. At last he looked up and saw the stout figure of Mikhail Pinsky, the local police captain.

He should have expected this. He had got off too lightly after that fight back in February. Policemen never forgot such things.

He also saw Isaak fighting with Pinsky’s sidekick, Ilya Kozlov, and two other cops.