CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - May and June 1917
The Monte Carlo nightclub in Buffalo looked dreadful by daylight, but Lev Peshkov loved it just the same. The woodwork was scratched, the paint was chipped, the upholstery was stained, and there were cigarette butts all over the carpet; yet Lev thought it was paradise. As he walked in he kissed the hat-check girl, gave the doorman a cigar, and told the barman to be careful lifting a crate.
The job of nightclub manager was ideal for him. His main responsibility was to make sure no one was stealing. As a thief himself, he knew how to do that. Otherwise he just had to see that there was enough drink behind the bar and a decent band onstage. As well as his salary, he had free cigarettes and all the booze he could take without falling down. He always wore formal evening dress, which made him feel like a prince. Josef Vyalov left him alone to run the place. As long as the profits were coming in, his father-in-law had no other interest in the club, except to turn up occasionally with his cronies and watch the show.
Lev had only one problem: his wife.
Olga had changed. For a few weeks, back in the summer of 1915, she had been a sexpot, always hungry for his body. But that had been uncharacteristic, he now knew. Since they got married, everything he did displeased her. She wanted him to bathe every day and use a toothbrush and stop farting. She did not like dancing or drinking and she asked him not to smoke. She never came to the club. They slept in separate beds. She called him low-class. "I am low-class," he had said to her one day. "That's why I was the chauffeur." She continued dissatisfied.
So he had hired Marga.
His old flame was onstage now, rehearsing a new number with the band, while two black women in head scarves wiped the tables and swept the floor. Marga wore a tight dress and red lipstick. Lev had given her a job as a dancer, having no idea whether she was good. She had turned out to be not just good but a star. Now she was belting out a suggestive number about waiting all night for her man to come.
Though I suffer from frustrations
The anticipation's
A boost to our relations
When he comes
Lev knew exactly what she meant.
He watched her until she was done. She came offstage and kissed his cheek. He got two bottles of beer and followed her to her dressing room. "That's a great number," he said as he went in.
"Thanks." She put the bottle in her mouth and tilted it. Lev watched her red lips on the neck. She took a long drink. She caught him watching her, swallowed, and grinned. "That remind you of something?"
"You bet it does." He embraced her and ran his hands over her body. After a couple of minutes she knelt down, unbuttoned his pants, and took him into her mouth. She was good at this, the best he had ever known. Either she really liked it, or she was the greatest actor in America. He closed his eyes and sighed with pleasure.
The door opened and Josef Vyalov came in.
"So it's true!" he said furiously.
Two of his thugs, Ilya and Theo, followed him in.
Lev was scared half to death. He hastily tried to button his pants and apologize at the same time.
Marga stood up quickly and wiped her mouth. "You're in my dressing room!" she protested.
Vyalov said: "And you're in my nightclub. But not for much longer. You're fired." He turned to Lev. "When you're married to my daughter, you don't screw the help!"
Marga said defiantly: "He wasn't screwing me, Vyalov, didn't you notice that?"
Vyalov punched her in the mouth. She cried out and fell back, her lip bleeding. "You've been fired," he said to her. "Fuck off."
She picked up her bag and left.
Vyalov looked at Lev. "You asshole," he said. "Haven't I done enough for you?"
Lev said: "I'm sorry, Pa." He was terrified of his father-in-law. Vyalov would do anything: people who displeased him might be flogged, tortured, maimed, or murdered. He had no mercy and no fear of the law. In his way he was as powerful as the tsar.
"Don't tell me it's the first time, either," said Vyalov. "I been hearing these rumors ever since I put you in charge here."
Lev said nothing. The rumors were true. There had been others, although not since Marga was hired.
"I'm moving you," Vyalov said.
"What do you mean?"
"I'm taking you out of the club. Too many goddamn girls here."
Lev's heart sank. He loved the Monte Carlo. "But what would I do?"
"I own a foundry down by the harbor. There are no women employees. The manager got sick, he's in the hospital. You can keep an eye on it for me."
"A foundry?" Lev was incredulous. "Me?"
"You worked at the Putilov factory."
"In the stables!"
"And in a coal mine."
"Same thing."
"So, you know the environment."
"And I hate it!"
"Did I ask you what you like? Jesus Christ, I just caught you with your pants down. You're lucky not to get worse."
Lev shut up.
"Go outside and get in the goddamn car," said Vyalov.
Lev left the dressing room and walked through the club, with Vyalov following. He could hardly believe he was leaving for good. The barman and the hat-check girl stared, sensing something wrong. Vyalov said to the barman: "You're in charge tonight, Ivan."
"Yes, boss."
Vyalov's Packard Twin Six was waiting at the curb. A new chauffeur stood proudly beside it, a kid from Kiev. The commissionaire hurried to open the rear door for Lev. At least I'm still riding in the back, Lev thought.
He was living like a Russian nobleman, if not better, he reminded himself for consolation. He and Olga had the nursery wing of the spacious prairie house. Rich Americans did not keep as many servants as the Russians, but their houses were cleaner and brighter than Petrograd palaces. They had modern bathrooms, iceboxes and vacuum cleaners, and central heating. The food was good. Vyalov did not share the Russian aristocracy's love of champagne, but there was always whisky on the sideboard. And Lev had six suits.
Whenever he felt oppressed by his bullying father-in-law he cast his mind back to the old days in Petrograd: the single room he shared with Grigori, the cheap vodka, the coarse black bread, and the turnip stew. He remembered thinking what a luxury it would be to ride the streetcars instead of walking everywhere. Stretching out his legs in the back of Vyalov's limousine, he looked at his silk socks and shiny black shoes, and told himself to be grateful.
Vyalov got in after him and they drove to the waterfront. Vyalov's foundry was a small version of the Putilov works: same dilapidated buildings with broken windows, same tall chimneys and black smoke, same drab workers with dirty faces. Lev's heart sank.
"It's called the Buffalo Metal Works, but it makes only one thing," Vyalov said. "Fans." The car drove through the narrow gateway. "Before the war it was losing money. I bought it and cut the men's pay to keep it going. Lately business has picked up. We've got a long list of orders for airplane and ship propellers and fans for armored car engines. They want a pay raise now, but I need to get back some of what I've spent before I start giving money away."
Lev was dreading working here, but his fear of Vyalov was stronger, and he did not want to fail. He resolved that he would not be the one to give the men a raise.
Vyalov showed him around the factory. Lev wished he were not wearing his tuxedo. But the place was not like the Putilov works inside. It was a lot cleaner. There were no children running around. Apart from the furnaces, everything worked by electric power. Where the Russians would get twelve men hauling on a rope to lift a locomotive boiler, here a mighty ship's propeller was raised by an electric hoist.
Vyalov pointed to a bald man wearing a collar and tie under his overalls. "That's your enemy," he said. "Brian Hall, secretary of the local union branch."
Lev studied Hall. The man was adjusting a heavy stamping machine, turning a nut with a long-handled wrench. He had a pugnacious air and, when he glanced up and saw Lev and Vyalov, he gave them a challenging look, as if he might be about to ask whether they wanted to make trouble.
Vyalov shouted over the noise of a nearby grinder. "Come here, Hall."
The man took his time, replacing the wrench in a toolbox and wiping his hands on a rag before approaching.
Vyalov said: "This is your new boss, Lev Peshkov."
"How do," Hall said to Lev, then he turned back to Vyalov. "Peter Fisher got a nasty cut on his face from a flying shard of steel this morning. Had to be taken to the hospital."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Vyalov said. "Metalworking is a hazardous industry, but no one is forced to work here."
"It just missed his eye," Hall said indignantly. "We ought to have goggles."
"No one has lost an eye in my time here."
Hall became angry quickly. "Do we have to wait until someone is blinded before we get goggles?"
"How else will I know you need them?"
"A man who has never been robbed still puts a lock on the door of his house."
"But he's paying for it himself."
Hall nodded as if he had been expecting nothing better and, with an air of weary wisdom, returned to his machine.
"They're always asking for something," Vyalov said to Lev.
Lev gathered that Vyalov wanted him to be tough. Well, he knew how to do that. It was the way all factories were run in Petrograd.
They left the plant and drove up Delaware Avenue. Lev guessed they were going home to dinner. It would never occur to Vyalov to ask whether that was okay with Lev. Vyalov made decisions for everyone.
In the house Lev took off his shoes, which were dirty from the foundry, and put on a pair of embroidered slippers Olga had given him for Christmas, then he went to the baby's room. Olga's mother, Lena, was there with Daisy.
Lena said: "Look, Daisy, here's your father!"
Lev's daughter was now fourteen months old and just beginning to walk. She came staggering across the room toward him, smiling, then fell over and cried. He picked her up and kissed her. He had never before taken the least interest in babies or children, but Daisy had captured his heart. When she was fractious and did not want to go to bed, and no one else could soothe her, he would rock her, murmuring endearments and singing fragments of Russian folk songs, until her eyes closed, her tiny body went limp, and she fell asleep in his arms.
Lena said: "She looks just like her handsome daddy!"
Lev thought she looked like a baby, but he did not contradict his mother-in-law. Lena adored him. She flirted with him, touched him a lot, and kissed him at every opportunity. She was in love with him, though she undoubtedly thought she was showing nothing more than normal family affection.
On the other side of the room was a young Russian girl called Polina. She was the nurse, but she was not overworked: Olga and Lena spent most of their time taking care of Daisy. Now Lev handed the baby to Polina. As he did so, Polina gave him a direct look. She was a classic Russian beauty, with blond hair and high cheekbones. Lev wondered briefly whether he could have an affair with her and get away with it. She had her own tiny bedroom. Could he sneak in without anyone noticing? It might be worth the risk: that look had shown eagerness.
Olga came in, making him feel guilty. "What a surprise!" she said when she saw him. "I didn't expect you back until three in the morning."
"Your father has moved me," Lev said sourly. "I'm running the foundry now."
"But why? I thought you were doing well at the club."
"I don't know why," Lev lied.
"Maybe because of the draft," Olga said. President Wilson had declared war on Germany and was about to introduce conscription. "The foundry will be classified as an essential war industry. Daddy wants to keep you out of the army."
Lev knew from the newspapers that conscription would be run by local draft boards. Vyalov was sure to have at least one crony on the board who would fix anything he asked for. That was how this town worked. But Lev did not disabuse Olga. He needed a cover story that did not involve Marga, and Olga had invented one. "Sure," he said. "I guess that must be it."
Daisy said: "Dadda."
"Clever girl!" Polina said.
Lena said: "I'm sure you'll make a good job of managing the foundry."
Lev gave her his best aw-shucks American grin. "Guess I'll do my best," he said.
{II}
Gus Dewar felt his European mission for the president had been a failure. "Failure?" said Woodrow Wilson. "Heck, no! You got the Germans to make a peace offer. It's not your fault the British and French told them to drop dead. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink." All the same, the truth was that Gus had not succeeded in bringing the two sides together even for preliminary discussions.
So he was all the more eager to succeed in the next major task Wilson gave him. "The Buffalo Metal Works has been closed by a strike," the president said. "We have ships and planes and military vehicles stuck on production lines waiting for the propellers and fans they make. You come from Buffalo, go up there and get them back to work."
On his first night back in his hometown, Gus went to dinner at the home of Chuck Dixon, once his rival for the affections of Olga Vyalov. Chuck and his new wife, Doris, had a Victorian mansion on Elmwood Avenue, which ran parallel to Delaware, and Chuck took the Belt Line railway every morning to work in his father's bank.
Doris was a pretty girl who looked a bit like Olga, and as Gus watched the newlyweds he wondered how much he would like this life of domesticity. He had once dreamed of waking up every morning next to Olga, but that was two years ago, and now that her enchantment had worn off he thought he might prefer his bachelor apartment on Sixteenth Street in Washington.
When they sat down to their steaks and mashed potatoes, Doris said: "What happened to President Wilson's promise to keep us out of the war?"
"You have to give him credit," Gus said mildly. "For three years he's been campaigning for peace. They just wouldn't listen."
"That doesn't mean we have to join in the fighting."
Chuck said impatiently: "Honey, the Germans are sinking American ships!"
"Then tell American ships to stay out of the war zone!" Doris looked cross, and Gus guessed they had had this argument before. No doubt her anger was fueled by the fear that Chuck would be conscripted.
To Gus, these issues were too nuanced for passionate declarations of right and wrong. He said gently: "Okay, that's an alternative, and the president considered it. But it means accepting Germany's power to tell us where American ships can and can't go."
Chuck said indignantly: "We can't be pushed around that way by Germany or anyone else!"
Doris was adamant. "If it saves lives, why not?"
Gus said: "Most Americans seem to feel the way Chuck does."
"That doesn't make it right."
"Wilson believes a president must treat public opinion the way a sailing ship treats the wind, using it but never going directly against it."
"Then why must we have conscription? That makes slaves of American men."
Chuck chipped in again. "Don't you think it's fair that we should all be equally responsible for fighting for our country?"
"We have a professional army. At least those men joined voluntarily."
Gus said: "We have an army of a hundred and thirty thousand men. That's nothing in this war. We're going to need at least a million."
"A lot more men to die," Doris said.
Chuck said: "We're damn glad at the bank, I can tell you. We have a lot of money out on loan to American companies supplying the Allies. If the Germans win, and the Brits and the Froggies can't pay their debts, we're in trouble."
Doris looked thoughtful. "I didn't know that."
Chuck patted her hand. "Don't worry about it, honey. It's not going to happen. The Allies are going to win, especially with the U.S. of A. helping out."
Gus said: "There's another reason for us to fight. When the war is over, the U.S. will be able to take part as an equal in the postwar settlement. That may not sound very important, but Wilson's dream is to set up a league of nations to resolve future conflicts without us killing one another." He looked at Doris. "You must be in favor of that, I guess."
"Certainly."
Chuck changed the subject. "What brings you home, Gus? Apart from the desire to explain the president's decisions to us common folk."
He told them about the strike. He spoke lightly, as this was dinner-party talk, but in truth he was worried. The Buffalo Metal Works was vital to the war effort, and he was not sure how to get the men back to work. Wilson had settled a national rail strike shortly before his reelection and seemed to think that intervention in industrial disputes was a natural element of political life. Gus found it a heavy responsibility.
"You know who owns that place, don't you?" said Chuck.
Gus had checked. "Vyalov."
"And who runs it for him?"
"No."
"His new son-in-law, Lev Peshkov."
"Oh," said Gus. "I didn't know that."
{III}
Lev was furious about the strike. The union was trying to take advantage of his inexperience. He felt sure Brian Hall and the men had decided he was weak. He was determined to prove them wrong.
He had tried being reasonable. "Mr. V needs to make back some of the money he lost in the bad years," he had said to Hall.
"And the men need to make back some of what they lost in reduced wages!" Hall had replied.
"It's not the same."
"No, it's not," Hall had agreed. "You're rich and they're poor. It's harder for them." The man was infuriatingly quick-witted.
Lev was desperate to get back into his father-in-law's good books. It was dangerous to let a man such as Josef Vyalov remain displeased with you for long. The trouble was that charm was Lev's only asset, and it did not work on Vyalov.
However, Vyalov was being supportive about the foundry. "Sometimes you have to let them strike," he had said. "It doesn't do to give in. Just stick it out. They become more reasonable when they start to get hungry." But Lev knew how fast Vyalov could change his mind.
However, Lev had a plan of his own to hasten the collapse of the strike. He was going to use the power of the press.
Lev was a member of the Buffalo Yacht Club, thanks to his father-in-law, who had got him elected. Most of the town's leading businessmen belonged, including Peter Hoyle, editor of the Buffalo Advertiser. One afternoon Lev approached Hoyle in the clubhouse at the foot of Porter Avenue.
The Advertiser was a conservative newspaper that always called for stability and blamed all problems on foreigners, Negroes, and socialist troublemakers. Hoyle, an imposing figure with a black mustache, was a crony of Vyalov's. "Hello, young Peshkov," he said. His voice was loud and harsh, as if he was used to shouting over the noise of a printing press. "I hear the president has sent Cam Dewar's son up here to settle your strike."
"I believe so, but I haven't heard from him yet."
"I know him. He's naive. You don't have much to worry about."
Lev agreed. He had taken a dollar from Gus Dewar in Petrograd in 1914, and last year he had taken Gus's fiancee just as easily. "I wanted to talk to you about the strike," he said, sitting in the leather armchair opposite Hoyle.
"The Advertiser has already condemned the strikers as un-American socialists and revolutionaries," Hoyle said. "What more can we do?"
"Call them enemy agents," Lev said. "They're holding up the production of vehicles that our boys are going to need when they get to Europe-but the workers themselves are exempt from the draft!"
"That's an angle." Hoyle frowned. "But we don't yet know how the draft is going to work."
"It's sure to exclude war industries."
"That's true."
"And yet they're demanding more money. A lot of people would take less for a job that keeps them out of the army."
Hoyle took a notebook from his jacket pocket and began to write. "Take less money for a draft-exempt job," he muttered.
"Maybe you want to ask: whose side are they on?"