Ken Follett - Fall of Giants

“What I remember most about that time is that no one helped us,” he said, and he was revisited by the panicky feeling that he was alone in a hostile world. The memory never failed to fill his soul with rage. It’s over now, he told himself; I’ve got a home and a job, and my brother has grown up strong and handsome. The bad times are over. But nevertheless he wanted to take someone by the neck-a soldier, a policeman, a government minister, or the tsar himself-and squeeze until there was no life left. He closed his eyes, shuddering, until the feeling passed.

“As soon as the funeral was over, the landlord threw us out, saying we would not be able to pay; and he took our furniture-for back rent, he said, although Ma was never behind with payments. I went to the church and told the priest we had nowhere to sleep.”

Katerina laughed harshly. “I can guess what happened there.”

He was surprised. “Can you?”

“The priest offered you a bed-his bed. That’s what happened to me.”

“Something like that,” Grigori said. “He gave me a few kopeks and sent me to buy hot potatoes. The shop wasn’t where he said, but instead of searching for it I hurried back to the church, because I didn’t like the look of him. Sure enough, when I went into the vestry he was taking Lev’s trousers down.”

She nodded. “Priests have been doing that sort of thing to me since I was twelve.”

Grigori was shocked. He had assumed that that particular priest was uniquely evil. Katerina obviously believed that depravity was the norm. “Are they all like that?” he said angrily.

“Most of them, in my experience.”

He shook his head in disgust. “And you know what amazed me the most? When I caught him, he wasn’t even ashamed! He just looked annoyed, as if I had interrupted him while he was meditating on the Bible.”

“What did you do?”

“I told Lev to do up his trousers, and we left. The priest asked for his kopeks back, but I told him they were alms for the poor. I used them to pay for a bed in a lodging house that night.”

“And then?”

“Eventually I got a good enough job, by lying about my age, and I found a room, and I learned, day by day, how to be independent.”

“And now you’re happy?”

“Certainly not. My mother intended us to have a better life, and I’m going to make sure of it. We’re leaving Russia. I’ve saved up almost enough money. I’m going to America, and when I get there I’ll send money back for a ticket for Lev. They have no tsar in America-no emperor or king of any kind. The army can’t just shoot anyone they like. The people rule the country!”

She was skeptical. “Do you really believe that?”

“It’s true!”

There was a tap at the window. Katerina was startled-they were on the second floor-but Grigori knew it was Lev. Late at night, when the door of the house was locked, Lev had to cross the railway line to the backyard, climb onto the washhouse roof, and come in through the window.

Grigori opened up and Lev climbed in. He was dressed smartly, in a jacket with mother-of-pearl buttons and a cap with a velvet band. His waistcoat sported a brass watch chain. His hair was cut in the fashionable “Polish” style with a parting at the side, instead of down the middle as the peasants wore it. Katerina looked surprised, and Grigori guessed she had not expected his brother to be so dashing.

Normally Grigori was pleased to see Lev, and relieved if he was sober and in one piece. Now he wished he could have had longer alone with Katerina.

He introduced them, and Lev’s eyes gleamed with interest as he shook her hand. She wiped tears from her cheeks. “Grigori was telling me about the death of your mother,” she explained.

“He has been mother and father to me for nine years,” Lev said. He tilted his head and sniffed the air. “And he makes good stew.”

Grigori got out bowls and spoons, and put a loaf of black bread on the table. Katerina explained to Lev about the fight with the policeman Pinsky. The way she told the story made Grigori seem braver than he felt, but he was happy to be a hero in her eyes.

Lev was enchanted by Katerina. He leaned forward, listening as if he had never heard anything so fascinating, smiling and nodding, looking amazed or disgusted, according to what she was saying.

Grigori spooned the stew into bowls and pulled the packing case up to the table for use as a third chair. The food was good: he had added an onion to the pot, and the ham bone gave a hint of meaty richness to the turnips. The atmosphere lightened as Lev talked of inconsequential matters, odd incidents at the factory and funny things people said. He kept Katerina laughing.

When they had finished, Lev asked Katerina how she came to be in the city.

“My father died and my mother remarried,” she said. “Unfortunately, my stepfather seemed to like me better than my mother.” She tossed her head, and Grigori could not tell whether she was ashamed or defiant. “At any rate, that’s what my mother believed, and she threw me out.”

Grigori said: “Half the population of St. Petersburg have come here from a village. Soon there will be no one left to till the soil.”

Lev said: “What was your journey like?”

It was a familiar tale of third-class railway tickets and lifts begged on carts, but Grigori was mesmerized by her face as she talked.

Once again Lev listened with rapt attention, making amusing comments, asking the occasional question.

Soon, Grigori noticed, Katerina had turned in her seat and was talking exclusively to Lev.

Almost, Grigori thought, as if I was not even here.

“So,” Billy said to his father, “all the books of the Bible were originally written in various languages and then translated into English.”

“Aye,” said Da. “And the Roman Catholic Church tried to ban translations-they didn’t want people like us reading the Bible for ourselves and arguing with the priests.”

Da was a bit un-Christian when he spoke of Catholics. He seemed to hate Catholicism more than atheism. But he loved an argument. “Well, then,” said Billy, “where are the originals?”

“What originals?”

“The original books of the Bible, written in Hebrew and Greek. Where are they kept?”

They were sitting on opposite sides of the square table in the kitchen of the house in Wellington Row. It was midafternoon. Billy was home from the pit and had washed his hands and face, but still wore his work clothes. Da had hung up his suit jacket, and sat in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, with a collar and tie-he would be going out again after dinner, to a union meeting. Mam was heating the stew on the fire. Gramper sat with them, listening to the discussion with a faint smile, as if he had heard it all before.

“Well, we don’t have the actual originals,” Da said. “They wore out, centuries ago. We have copies.”

“Where are the copies, then?”

“All different places-monasteries, museums… ”

“They should be kept in one place.”

“But there’s more than one copy of each book-and some are better than others.”

“How can one copy be better than another? Surely they’re not different.”

“Yes. Over the years, human error crept in.”

This startled Billy. “Well, how do we know which is right?”

“That’s a study called textual scholarship-comparing the different versions and coming up with an agreed text.”

Billy was shocked. “You mean there isn’t an indisputable book that is the actual Word of God? Men argue about it and make a judgment?”

“Yes.”

“Well, how do we know they’re right?”

Da smiled knowingly, a sure sign that his back was to the wall. “We believe that if they work in prayerful humility, God will guide their labors.”