“Dear God, I’ve missed you.”
“And I you. I was hoping for a letter-but this! How did you manage it?”
“I told the passport office I planned to interview Scandinavian politicians about votes for women. Then I met the home secretary at a party and had a word in his ear.”
“How did you get here?”
“There are still passenger steamers.”
“But it’s so dangerous-our submarines are sinking everything.”
“I know. I took the risk. I was desperate.” She began to cry again.
“Come and sit down.” With his arm still around her waist, he walked her across the room to the couch.
“No,” she said when they were about to sit. “We waited too long, before the war.” She took his hand and led him through an inner door to a bedroom. Logs crackled in the fireplace. “Let’s not waste any more time. Come to bed.”
Grigori and Konstantin were part of the delegation from the Petrograd soviet that went to the Finland Station late in the evening of Monday, April 16, to welcome Lenin home.
Most of them had never seen Lenin, who had been in exile for all but a few months of the last seventeen years. Grigori had been eleven years old when Lenin left. Nevertheless he knew him by reputation, and so, it seemed, did thousands more people, who gathered at the station to greet him. Why so many? Grigori wondered. Perhaps they, like him, were dissatisfied with the provisional government, suspicious of its middle-class ministers, and angry that the war had not ended.
The Finland Station was in the Vyborg district, close to the textile mills and the barracks of the First Machine Gun Regiment. There was a crowd in the square. Grigori did not expect treachery, but he had told Isaak to bring a couple of platoons and several armored cars to stand guard just in case. There was a searchlight on the station roof, and someone was playing it over the mass of people waiting in the dark.
Inside, the station was full of workers and soldiers, all carrying red flags and banners. A military band played. Twenty minutes before midnight, two sailors’ units formed up on the platform as a guard of honor. The delegation from the soviet loitered in the grand waiting room formerly reserved for the tsar and the royal family, but Grigori went out onto the platform with the crowd.
It was about midnight when Konstantin pointed up the line and Grigori, following his finger, saw the distant lights of a train. A rumble of anticipation rose from those waiting. The train steamed into the station, puffing smoke, and hissed to a halt. It had the number 293 painted on its front.
After a pause a short, stocky man got off the train wearing a double-breasted wool coat and a Homburg hat. Grigori thought this could not be Lenin-surely he would not be wearing the clothes of the boss class? A young woman stepped forward and handed him a bouquet, which he accepted with an ungracious frown. This was Lenin.
Behind him was Lev Kamenev, who had been sent by the Bolshevik Central Committee to meet Lenin at the border in case of problems-though in fact Lenin had been admitted without trouble. Now Kamenev indicated with a gesture that they should go to the royal waiting room.
Lenin rather rudely turned his back on Kamenev and addressed the sailors. “Comrades!” he shouted. “You have been deceived! You have made a revolution-and its fruits have been stolen from you by the traitors of the provisional government!”
Kamenev went white. It was the policy of almost everyone on the left to support the provisional government, at least temporarily.
Grigori was delighted, however. He did not believe in bourgeois democracy. The parliament allowed by the tsar in 1905 had been a trick, disempowered when the unrest came to an end and everyone went back to work. This provisional government was headed the same way.
And now at last someone had the guts to say so.
Grigori and Konstantin followed Lenin and Kamenev into the reception room. The crowd squeezed in after them until the room was crammed. The chairman of the Petrograd soviet, the balding, rat-faced Nikolai Chkeidze, stepped forward. He shook Lenin’s hand and said: “In the name of the Petrograd soviet and the revolution, we hail your arrival in Russia. But… ”
Grigori raised his eyebrows at Konstantin. This “but” seemed inappropriately early in a speech of welcome. Konstantin shrugged his bony shoulders.
“But we believe that the main task of revolutionary democracy consists now of defending our revolution against all attacks… ” Chkeidze paused, then said with emphasis: “… whether internal or external.”
Konstantin murmured: “This is not a welcome, it’s a warning.”
“We believe that to accomplish this, not disunity but unity is necessary on the part of all revolutionists. We hope that, in agreement with us, you will pursue these aims.”
There was polite applause from some of the delegation.
Lenin paused before replying. He looked at the faces around him and at the lavishly decorated ceiling. Then, in a gesture that seemed a deliberate insult, he turned his back on Chkeidze and spoke to the crowd.
“Comrades, soldiers, sailors, and workers!” he said, pointedly excluding middle-class parliamentarians. “I salute you as the vanguard of the world proletarian army. Today, or perhaps tomorrow, all of European imperialism may collapse. The revolution you have made has opened up a new epoch. Long live the world socialist revolution!”
They cheered. Grigori was startled. They had only just achieved a revolution in Petrograd-and the results of that were still in doubt. How could they think about a world revolution? But the idea thrilled him all the same. Lenin was right: all people should turn on the masters who had sent so many men to die in this pointless world war.
Lenin marched away from the delegation and out into the square.
A roar went up from the waiting crowd. Isaak’s troops lifted Lenin onto the reinforced roof of an armored car. The searchlight was trained on him. He took off his hat.
His voice was a monotonous bark, but his words were electric. “The provisional government has betrayed the revolution!” he shouted.
They cheered. Grigori was surprised: he had not known how many people thought the way he did.
“The war is a predatory imperialist war. We want no part in this shameful imperialist slaughter of men. With the overthrow of the capital we can conclude a democratic peace!”
That got a bigger roar.
“We do not want the lies or frauds of a bourgeois parliament! The only possible form of government is a soviet of workers’ deputies. All banks must be taken over and brought under the control of the soviet. All private land must be confiscated. And all army officers must be elected!”
That was exactly what Grigori thought, and he cheered and waved along with almost everyone else in the crowd.
“Long live the revolution!”
The crowd went wild.
Lenin clambered off the roof and got into the armored car. It drove off at a walking pace. The crowd surrounded and followed it, waving red flags. The military band joined in the procession, playing a march.
Grigori said: “This is the man for me!”
Konstantin said: “Me, too.”
They followed the procession.
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.
