avoided. Just as next-door neighbors no longer settled boundary disputes with six-guns, so the time must come when countries, too, submitted their quarrels to independent judgment. The British foreign secretary, Sir Edward Grey, had used the words “a league of nations” in a letter to Wilson, and the president had liked the phrase. If Gus could help bring that about his life would mean something.
But now it looked as if that dream was not going to come true, he thought, and he drifted into a disappointed sleep.
He was woken early in the morning by a cable saying that Wilson had won Ohio-a blue-collar state that had liked the president’s stand on the eight-hour day-and Kansas, too. Wilson was back in the running. A little later he won Minnesota by fewer than a thousand votes.
It was not over after all, and Gus’s spirits lifted.
By Wednesday evening Wilson was ahead with 264 electoral votes against 254, a lead of 10. But one state, California, had not yet declared a result, and it carried 13 electoral votes. Whoever won California would be president.
Gus’s phone went quiet. There was nothing much for him to do. The counting in Los Angeles was slow. Every unopened box was guarded by armed Democrats, who believed that tampering had robbed them of a presidential victory in 1876.
The result was still hanging in the balance when the lobby called to tell Gus he had a visitor. To his surprise it was Rosa Hellman, the former editor of the Buffalo Anarchist. Gus was pleased: Rosa was always interesting to talk to. He recalled that an anarchist had assassinated President McKinley in Buffalo in 1901. However, President Wilson was far away in New Jersey, so he brought Rosa up to the study and offered her a cup of coffee.
She was wearing a red coat. When he helped her off with it, he towered over her. He caught the aroma of a light flowery perfume.
“Last time we met you told me I was a goddamn fool to get engaged to Olga Vyalov,” he said as he hung her coat on the hat stand.
She looked embarrassed. “I apologize.”
“Ah, but you were right.” He changed the subject. “So now you’re working for a wire service?”
“That’s right.”
“As their Washington correspondent.”
“No, I’m his one-eyed girl assistant.”
She had never before mentioned her deformity. Gus hesitated, then said: “I used to wonder why you didn’t wear a patch. But now I’m glad you don’t. You’re just a beautiful woman with one closed eye.”
“Thank you. You’re a kind man. What sort of thing do you do for the president?”
“Apart from pick up the phone when it rings… I read the State Department’s mealymouthed reports, then tell Wilson the truth.”
“For example…?”
“Our ambassadors in Europe say that the Somme offensive is achieving some but not all its objectives, with heavy casualties on both sides. It’s almost impossible to prove that statement wrong-and it tells the president nothing. So I tell him the Somme is a disaster for the British.” He shrugged. “Or I used to. My job may be over.” He was concealing his real feelings. The prospect that Wilson could lose was dreadful to him.
She nodded. “They’re counting again in California. Almost a million people voted, and the difference is about five thousand.”
“So much hangs on the decisions of a small number of poorly educated people.”
“That’s democracy.”
Gus smiled. “A terrible way to run a country, but every other system is worse.”
“If Wilson wins, what will be his top priority?”
“Off the record?”
“Of course.”
“Peace in Europe,” Gus said without hesitation.
“Really?”
“He was never really comfortable with the slogan ‘He kept us out of war.’ The matter isn’t entirely in his hands. We may be dragged in whether we like it or not.”
“But what can he do?”
“He’ll put pressure on both sides to find a compromise.”
“Can he succeed?”
“I don’t know.”
“Surely they can’t go on slaughtering one another as they have been at the Somme.”
“God knows.” He changed the subject again. “Tell me the news from Buffalo.”
She gave him a candid look. “Do you want to know about Olga, or is it too embarrassing?”
Gus looked away. What could be more embarrassing? First he had received a note from Olga, calling the engagement off. She had been abjectly apologetic but had given no explanation. Gus had been unwilling to accept this and had written back demanding to see her in person. He could not understand it and speculated that someone was putting pressure on her. But later that same day his mother had discovered, through her network of gossiping friends, that Olga was going to marry her father’s driver. “But why?” Gus had said in anguish, and Mother had replied: “My darling boy, there is only one reason a girl marries the chauffeur.” He had stared uncomprehendingly, and Mother had at last said: “She must be pregnant.” It was the most humiliating moment of Gus’s life, and even a year later he winced with pain every time he recalled it.
Rosa read his face. “I shouldn’t have mentioned her. I’m sorry.”
Gus felt he might as well know what everyone else knew. He touched Rosa’s hand lightly. “Thank you for being direct. I prefer it. And yes, I’m curious about Olga.”
“Well, they got married at that Russian Orthodox church on Ideal Street, and the reception took place at the Statler Hotel. Six hundred people were invited, and Josef Vyalov hired the ballroom and the dining room, and served caviar to everyone. It was the most lavish wedding in the history of Buffalo.”
“And what is her husband like?”
“Lev Peshkov is handsome, charming, and completely untrustworthy. You know as soon as you look at him that he’s a rogue. And now he’s the son-in-law of one of the richest men in Buffalo.”
“And the child?”
“A girl, Darya, but they call her Daisy. She was born in March. And Lev is no longer the chauffeur, of course. I think he runs one of Vyalov’s nightclubs.”
They talked for an hour, then Gus walked her downstairs and hailed a cab to take her home.
Early next morning Gus got the California result by cable. Wilson had won by 3,777 votes. He had been reelected president.
Gus was elated. Four more years to try to achieve all they aimed for. They could change the world in four years.
While he was still staring at the telegram, his phone rang.
He picked it up and heard the switchboard operator say: “A call from Shadow Lawn. The president wants to speak to you, Mr. Dewar.”
“Thank you.”
A moment later he heard Wilson’s familiar voice. “Good morning, Gus.”
“Congratulations, Mr. President.”
“Thank you. Pack a bag. I want you to go to Berlin.”
When Walter von Ulrich came home on leave, his mother gave a party.
There were not many parties in Berlin. It was difficult to buy food, even for a wealthy woman with an influential husband. Suzanne von Ulrich was not well: she was thin, and had a permanent cough. However, she badly wanted to do something for Walter.
Otto had a cellar full of good wine he had bought before the war. Suzanne decided to have an afternoon reception, so that she would not have to provide a full dinner. She served little snacks of smoked fish and cheese on
