Ken Follett - Fall of Giants

Katerina watched him, sipping her tea. She had lost the frantic look. Lev puts you in danger, Grigori thought, and I come to the rescue, yet you prefer him.

Lev was probably at the dock now, skulking in the shadow of a derrick, nervously looking out for policemen as he waited. Grigori needed to get going. But he might never see Katerina again, and he could hardly bear the thought of saying good-bye to her forever.

He finished his soup and looked at the clock. It was almost seven. He was cutting things too fine. “I have to go,” he said reluctantly.

Katerina walked with him to the door. “Don’t be too hard on Lev,” she said.

“Was I ever?”

She put her hands on his shoulders, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him briefly on the lips. “Good luck,” she said.

Grigori walked away.

He went quickly through the streets of southwest St. Petersburg, an industrial quarter of warehouses, factories, storage yards, and overcrowded slums. The shameful impulse to weep left him after a few minutes. He walked on the shady side, kept his cap low and his head down, and avoided wide open areas. If Pinsky had circulated a description of Lev, an alert policeman might easily arrest Grigori.

But he reached the docks without being spotted. His ship, the Angel Gabriel, was a small, rusty vessel that took both cargo and passengers. Right now it was being loaded with stoutly nailed wooden packing cases marked with the name of the city’s largest fur trader. As he watched, the last box went into the hold and the crew fastened the hatch.

A family of Jews were showing their tickets at the head of the gangplank. All Jews wanted to go to America, in Grigori’s experience. They had even more reason than he did. In Russia there were laws forbidding them to own land, to enter the civil service, to be army officers, and countless other prohibitions. They could not live where they liked, and there were quotas limiting the number who could go to universities. It was a miracle any of them made a living. And if they did prosper, against the odds, it would not be long before they were set upon by a crowd-usually egged on by policemen such as Pinsky-and beaten up, their families terrified, their windows smashed, their property set on fire. The surprise was that any of them stayed.

The ship’s hooter sounded for “All aboard.”

He could not see his brother. What had gone wrong? Had Lev changed plans again? Or had he been arrested already?

A small boy tugged at Grigori’s sleeve. “A man wants to talk to you,” the boy said.

“What man?”

“He looks like you.”

Thank God, thought Grigori. “Where is he?”

“Behind the planks.”

There was a stack of timber on the dock. Grigori hurried around it and found Lev hiding behind it, nervously smoking a cigarette. He was fidgety and pale-a rare sight, for he usually remained cheerful even in adversity.

“I’m in trouble,” Lev said.

“Again.”

“Those bargemen are liars!”

“And thieves, probably.”

“Don’t get sarcastic with me. There isn’t time.”

“No, you’re right. We need to get you out of town until the fuss dies down.”

Lev shook his head in negation, blowing out smoke at the same time. “One of the bargemen died. I’m wanted for murder.”

“Oh, hell.” Grigori sat down on a shelf of timber and buried his head in his hands. “Murder,” he said.

“Trofim was badly wounded and the police got him to talk. He fingered me.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I saw Fyodor half an hour ago.” Fyodor was a corrupt policeman of Lev’s acquaintance.

“This is bad news.”

“There’s worse. Pinsky has vowed to get me-as revenge on you.”

Grigori nodded. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

“What am I going to do?”

“You’ll have to go to Moscow. St. Petersburg won’t be safe for you for a long time, maybe forever.”

“I don’t know that Moscow is far enough, now that the police have telegraph machines.”

He was right, Grigori realized.

The ship’s hooter sounded again. Soon the gangplanks would be withdrawn. “We only have a minute left,” said Grigori. “What are you going to do?”

Lev said: “I could go to America.”

Grigori stared at him.

Lev said: “You could give me your ticket.”

Grigori did not want even to think about it.

But Lev went on with remorseless logic. “I could use your passport and papers for entering the United States-no one would know the difference.”

Grigori saw his dream fading, like the ending of a motion picture at the Soleil Cinema in Nevsky Prospekt, when the house lights came up to show the drab colors and dirty floors of the real world. “Give you my ticket,” he repeated, desperately postponing the moment of decision.

“You’d be saving my life,” Lev said.

Grigori knew he had to do it, and the realization was like a pain in his heart.

He took the papers from the pocket of his best suit and gave them to Lev. He handed over all the money he had saved for the journey. Then he gave his brother the cardboard suitcase with the bullet hole.

“I’ll send you the money for another ticket,” Lev said fervently. Grigori made no reply, but his skepticism must have shown on his face, for Lev protested: “I really will, I swear it. I’ll save up.”

“All right,” Grigori said.

They embraced. Lev said: “You always took care of me.”

“Yes, I did.”

Lev turned and ran for the ship.

The sailors were untying the ropes. They were about to pull up the gangplank, but Lev shouted and they waited a few seconds more for him.

He ran up onto the deck.

He turned, leaned on the rail, and waved to Grigori.

Grigori could not bring himself to wave back. He turned and walked away.

The ship hooted, but he did not look back.

His right arm felt strangely light without the burden of the suitcase. He walked through the docks, looking down at the deep black water, and the odd thought occurred to him that he could throw himself in. He shook himself: he was not prey to such foolish ideas. All the same he was depressed and bitter. Life never dealt him a winning hand.

He was unable to cheer himself up as he retraced his steps through the industrial district. He walked along with his eyes cast down, not even bothering to keep an eye open for the police: it hardly mattered if they arrested him now.

What was he going to do? He felt he could not summon the energy for anything. They would give him back his job at the factory, when the strike was over: he was a good worker and they knew it. He should probably go there now, and find out whether there had been any progress in the dispute-but he could not be bothered.

After an hour he found himself approaching Mishka’s. He intended to go straight past but, glancing inside, he saw Katerina, sitting where he had left her two hours ago, with a cold glass of tea in front of her. He had to tell her what had happened.

He went inside. The place was empty except for Mishka, who was sweeping the floor.

Katerina stood up, looking scared. “Why are you here?” she said. “Did you miss your boat?”

“Not exactly.” He could not think how to break the news.

“What, then?” she said. “Is Lev dead?”

“No, he’s all right. But he’s wanted for murder.”

She stared at him. “Where is he?”

“He had to go away.”

“Where?”

There was no gentle way to put it. “He asked me to give him my ticket.”

“Your ticket?”

“And passport. He’s gone to America.”

“No!” she screamed.

Grigori just nodded.

“No!” she yelled again. “He wouldn’t leave me! Don’t you say that, never say it!”