the surrender of the proudest, the most arrogant, the best armed of nations.”
“They haven’t surrendered yet,” said the president.
One evening in late September they took Lev to the warehouse, stripped him naked, and tied his hands behind his back. Then Vyalov came out of his office. “You dog,” he said. “You mad dog.”
“What have I done?” Lev pleaded.
“You know what you’ve done, you filthy cur,” said Vyalov.
Lev was terrified. He could not talk his way out of this if Vyalov would not listen.
Vyalov took off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Bring it to me,” he said.
Norman Niall, his weedy accountant, went into the office and returned with a knout.
Lev stared at it. It was the standard Russian pattern, traditionally used to punish criminals. It had a long wooden handle and three hardened leather thongs each terminating in a lead ball. Lev had never been flogged, but he had seen it done. In the countryside it was a common punishment for petty theft or adultery. In St. Petersburg the knout was often used on political offenders. Twenty lashes could cripple a man; a hundred would kill him.
Vyalov, still wearing his waistcoat with the gold watch chain, hefted the knout. Niall giggled. Ilya and Theo looked on with interest.
Lev cowered away, turning his back, pressing himself up against a stack of tires. The whip came down with a cruel swish, biting into his neck and shoulders, and he screamed in pain.
Vyalov brought the whip down again. This time it hurt more.
Lev could not believe what a fool he had been. He had fucked the virgin daughter of a powerful and violent man. What had he been thinking of? Why could he never resist temptation?
Vyalov lashed again. This time Lev flung himself away from the knout, trying to dodge the blow. Only the very ends of the thongs connected, but they still dug agonizingly into his flesh, and he cried out in pain again. He tried to get away, but Vyalov’s men pushed him back, laughing.
Vyalov raised the whip again, started to bring it down, stopped in midswipe as Lev dodged, then struck. Lev’s legs were slashed, and he saw blood pouring from the cuts. When Vyalov lashed again, Lev desperately flung himself away, then stumbled and fell to the concrete floor. As he lay on his back, losing strength rapidly, Vyalov whipped his front, striking his belly and thighs. Lev rolled over, too agonized and terror-struck to get to his feet, but the knout kept coming down. He summoned the energy to crawl a short way on his knees, like a baby, but he slipped in his own blood, and the whip came down again. He stopped screaming: he had no breath. Vyalov was going to flog him to death, he decided. He longed for oblivion to come.
But Vyalov denied him that relief. He dropped the knout, panting with exertion. “I ought to kill you,” he said when he had caught his breath. “But I can’t.”
Lev was baffled. He lay in a pool of blood, staring at his torturer.
“She’s pregnant,” Vyalov said.
In a haze of fear and pain, Lev tried to think. They had used condoms. You could buy them in any big American city. He had always put one on-except for that first time, of course, when he had not been expecting anything… and the time she had been showing him around the empty house and they had done it on the big bed in the guest room… and once in the garden after dark…
There had been several times, he realized.
“She was going to marry Senator Dewar’s boy,” Vyalov said, and Lev could hear bitterness as well as rage in his harsh voice. “My grandson might have been a president.”
It was hard for Lev to think straight, but he realized that the wedding would have to be called off. Gus Dewar would not marry a girl who was pregnant with someone else’s baby, no matter how much he loved her. Unless…
Lev managed to croak a few words. “She doesn’t have to have the baby… there are doctors right here in town… ”
Vyalov snatched up the knout, and Lev cowered away. Vyalov screamed: “Never even think about that! It’s against the will of God!”
Lev was amazed. Every Sunday he drove the Vyalov family to church, but he had assumed religion was a sham for Josef. The man lived by dishonesty and violence. Yet he could not bear to hear mention of abortion! Lev wanted to ask whether his church did not prohibit bribery and beating people up.
Vyalov said: “Can you imagine the humiliation you’re causing me? Every newspaper in town reported the engagement.” His face reddened and his voice rose to a roar. “What am I going to say to Senator Dewar? I’ve booked the church! I’ve hired caterers! The invitations are at the printers! I can just see Mrs. Dewar, that proud old cunt, laughing at me behind her wrinkled hand. And all because of a fucking chauffeur!”
He raised the knout again, then threw it away with a violent gesture. “I can’t kill you.” He turned to Theo. “Take this piece of shit to the doctor,” he said. “Get him patched up. He’s going to marry my daughter.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN – June 1916
Billy’s father said: “Can we have a chat, boyo?”
Billy was astonished. For almost two years, ever since Billy had stopped attending the Bethesda Chapel, they had hardly spoken. There was always tension in the air at the little house in Wellington Row. Billy had almost forgotten what it was like to hear soft voices talking amiably in the kitchen-or even loud voices raised in the passionate arguments they had used to have. The bad atmosphere was half the reason Billy had joined the army.
Da’s tone now was almost humble. Billy looked carefully at his face. His expression told the same story: no aggression, no challenge, just a plea.
All the same, Billy was not prepared to dance to his tune. “What for?” he said.
Da opened his mouth to snap a retort, then visibly controlled himself. “I’ve acted proud,” he said. “It’s a sin. You may have been proud, too, but that’s between you and the Lord, and it’s no excuse for me.”
“It’s taken you two years to work that out.”
“It would have took me longer if you hadn’t gone in the army.”
Billy and Tommy had volunteered last year, lying about their age. They had joined the Eighth Battalion of the Welsh Rifles, known as the Aberowen Pals. The Pals’ battalions were a new idea. Men from the same town were kept together, to train and fight alongside people with whom they had grown up. It was thought to be good for morale.
Billy’s group had done a year’s training, mostly at a new camp outside Cardiff. He had enjoyed himself. It was easier than coal mining and a lot less dangerous. As well as a certain amount of grinding boredom-training often meant the same as waiting-there had been sports and games and the camaraderie of a group of young men learning new ways. During a long period with nothing to do he had picked up a book at random and found himself reading the play Macbeth. To his surprise he had found the story thrilling and the poetry strangely fascinating. Shakespeare’s language was not difficult for someone who had spent so many hours studying the seventeenth- century English of the Protestant Bible. He had since gone through the complete works, rereading the best plays several times.
Now training was over, and the Pals had two days’ leave before going to France. Da thought this might be the last time he saw Billy alive. That would be why he was humbling himself to talk.
Billy looked at the clock. He had come here only to say good-bye to his mother. He was planning to spend his leave in London, with his sister Ethel and her sexy lodger. Mildred’s pretty face, with her red lips and bunny teeth, had remained vividly in his mind ever since she had shocked him by saying Fucking hell, are you Billy? His kit bag stood on the floor by the door, packed and ready. His complete Shakespeare was in it. Tommy was waiting for him at the station. “I’ve got a train to catch,” he said.
“There are plenty of trains,” Da said. “Sit down, Billy… please.”
Billy was not comfortable with his father in this mood. Da might be righteous, arrogant, and harsh, but at least
