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.
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
