“And then?”
“Then I met you, and I lost all interest in other women.”
They began to kiss. Soon he pushed up the skirt of her nightdress and got on top of her. He was gentle, worried about hurting her, but he entered her easily. She felt a surge of affection for him, for his kindness and intelligence and devotion to her and her child. She put her arms around him and hugged his body to hers. Quite soon, his climax came. Then they both lay back, content, and went to sleep.
Women’s skirts had changed, Gus Dewar realized. They now showed the ankles. Ten years ago, a glimpse of ankle had been arousing; now it was mundane. Perhaps women covered their nakedness to make themselves more alluring, not less.
Rosa Hellman was wearing a dark-red coat that fell in pleats from the yoke at the back, rather fashionable. It was trimmed with black fur, which he guessed was welcome in Washington in February. Her gray hat was small and round with a red hatband and a feather, not very practical, but when was the last time American women’s hats had been designed for practical purposes? “I’m honored by this invitation,” she said. He could not be sure whether she was mocking him. “You’re only just back from Europe, aren’t you?”
They were having lunch in the dining room of the Willard Hotel, two blocks east of the White House. Gus had invited her for a specific purpose. “I’ve got a story for you,” he said as soon as they had ordered.
“Oh, good! Let me guess. The president is going to divorce Edith and marry Mary Peck?”
Gus frowned. Wilson had had a dalliance with Mary Peck while he was married to his first wife. Gus doubted whether they had actually committed adultery, but Wilson had been foolish enough to write letters that showed more affection than was seemly. Washington gossips knew all about it, but nothing had been printed. “I’m talking about something serious,” Gus said sternly.
“Oh, sorry,” said Rosa. She composed her face in a solemn expression that made Gus want to laugh.
“The only condition is going to be that you can’t say you got the information from the White House.”
“Agreed.”
“I’m going to show you a telegram from the German foreign minister, Arthur Zimmermann, to the German ambassador in Mexico.”
She looked astonished. “Where did you get that?”
“From Western Union,” he lied.
“Isn’t it in code?”
“Codes can be broken.” He handed her a typewritten copy of the full English translation.
“Is this off the record?” she said.
“No. The only thing I want you to keep to yourself is where you got it.”
“Okay.” She began to read. After a moment, her mouth dropped open. She looked up. “Gus,” she said. “Is this real?”
“When did you know me to play a practical joke?”
“The last time was never.” She read on. “The Germans are going to pay Mexico to invade Texas?”
“That’s what Herr Zimmermann says.”
“This isn’t a story, Gus-this is the scoop of the century!”
He allowed himself a small smile, trying not to appear as triumphant as he felt. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”
“Are you acting independently, or on behalf of the president?”
“Rosa, do you imagine I would do a thing like this without approval from the very top?”
“I guess not. Wow. So this comes to me from President Wilson.”
“Not officially.”
“But how do I know it’s true? I don’t think I can write the story based only on a scrap of paper and your word.”
Gus had anticipated this snag. “Secretary of State Lansing will personally confirm the authenticity of the telegram to your boss, provided the conversation is confidential.”
“Good enough.” She looked down at the sheet of paper again. “This changes everything. Can you imagine what the American people will say when they read it?”
“I think it will make them more inclined to join in the war and fight against Germany.”
“Inclined?” she said. “They’re going to be foaming at the mouth! Wilson will have to declare war.”
Gus said nothing.
After a moment, Rosa interpreted his silence. “Oh, I see. That’s why you’re releasing the telegram. The president wants to declare war.”
She was dead right. He smiled, enjoying this dance of wits with a bright woman. “I’m not saying that.”
“But this telegram will anger the American people so much that they will demand war. And Wilson will be able to say he did not renege on his election promises-he was forced by public opinion to change his policy.”
She was in fact a bit too bright for his purposes. He said anxiously: “That’s not the story you’ll write, is it?”
She smiled. “Oh, no. That’s just me refusing to take anything at face value. I was an anarchist once, you know.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m a reporter. And there’s only one way to write this story.”
He felt relieved.
The waiter brought their food: poached salmon for her, steak and mashed potatoes for him. Rosa stood up. “I have to get back to the office.”
Gus was startled. “What about your lunch?”
“Are you serious?” she said. “I can’t eat. Don’t you understand what you’ve done?”
He thought he did, but he said: “Tell me.”
“You’ve just sent America to war.”
Gus nodded. “I know,” he said. “Go write the story.”
“Hey,” she said. “Thanks for picking me.”
A moment later she was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE – March 1917
That winter in Petrograd was cold and hungry. The thermometer outside the barracks of the First Machine Gun Regiment stayed at minus fifteen degrees centigrade for a full month. Bakers stopped making pies, cakes, pastries, and anything else other than bread, but still there was not enough flour. Armed guards were posted at the barracks kitchen door because so many soldiers tried to beg or steal extra food.
One bitterly cold day early in March Grigori got an afternoon pass and decided to go and see Vladimir, who would be with the landlady while Katerina was at work. He put on his army greatcoat and set off through icy streets. On Nevsky Prospekt he caught the eye of a child beggar, a girl of about nine, standing on a corner in an arctic wind. Something about her bothered him, and he frowned as he walked past. A minute later he realized what had struck him. She had given him a look of sexual invitation. He was so shocked that he stopped in his tracks. How could she be a whore at that age? He turned around, intending to question her, but she was gone.
He walked on with a troubled mind. He knew, of course, that there were men who wanted sex with children: he had learned that when he and little Lev sought help from a priest, all those years ago. But somehow the picture of that nine-year-old pathetically imitating a come-hither smile wrenched at his heart. It made him want to weep for his country. We are turning our children into prostitutes, he thought: can it possibly get any worse?
He was in a grim mood when he reached his old lodgings. As soon as he entered the house he heard Vladimir bawling. He went up to Katerina’s room and found the child alone, his face red and contorted with crying. He picked him up and rocked him.
