trouble.”
Doris looked thoughtful. “I didn’t know that.”
Chuck patted her hand. “Don’t worry about it, honey. It’s not going to happen. The Allies are going to win, especially with the U.S. of A. helping out.”
Gus said: “There’s another reason for us to fight. When the war is over, the U.S. will be able to take part as an equal in the postwar settlement. That may not sound very important, but Wilson’s dream is to set up a league of nations to resolve future conflicts without us killing one another.” He looked at Doris. “You must be in favor of that, I guess.”
“Certainly.”
Chuck changed the subject. “What brings you home, Gus? Apart from the desire to explain the president’s decisions to us common folk.”
He told them about the strike. He spoke lightly, as this was dinner-party talk, but in truth he was worried. The Buffalo Metal Works was vital to the war effort, and he was not sure how to get the men back to work. Wilson had settled a national rail strike shortly before his reelection and seemed to think that intervention in industrial disputes was a natural element of political life. Gus found it a heavy responsibility.
“You know who owns that place, don’t you?” said Chuck.
Gus had checked. “Vyalov.”
“And who runs it for him?”
“No.”
“His new son-in-law, Lev Peshkov.”
“Oh,” said Gus. “I didn’t know that.”
Lev was furious about the strike. The union was trying to take advantage of his inexperience. He felt sure Brian Hall and the men had decided he was weak. He was determined to prove them wrong.
He had tried being reasonable. “Mr. V needs to make back some of the money he lost in the bad years,” he had said to Hall.
“And the men need to make back some of what they lost in reduced wages!” Hall had replied.
“It’s not the same.”
“No, it’s not,” Hall had agreed. “You’re rich and they’re poor. It’s harder for them.” The man was infuriatingly quick-witted.
Lev was desperate to get back into his father-in-law’s good books. It was dangerous to let a man such as Josef Vyalov remain displeased with you for long. The trouble was that charm was Lev’s only asset, and it did not work on Vyalov.
However, Vyalov was being supportive about the foundry. “Sometimes you have to let them strike,” he had said. “It doesn’t do to give in. Just stick it out. They become more reasonable when they start to get hungry.” But Lev knew how fast Vyalov could change his mind.
However, Lev had a plan of his own to hasten the collapse of the strike. He was going to use the power of the press.
Lev was a member of the Buffalo Yacht Club, thanks to his father-in-law, who had got him elected. Most of the town’s leading businessmen belonged, including Peter Hoyle, editor of the Buffalo Advertiser. One afternoon Lev approached Hoyle in the clubhouse at the foot of Porter Avenue.
The Advertiser was a conservative newspaper that always called for stability and blamed all problems on foreigners, Negroes, and socialist troublemakers. Hoyle, an imposing figure with a black mustache, was a crony of Vyalov’s. “Hello, young Peshkov,” he said. His voice was loud and harsh, as if he was used to shouting over the noise of a printing press. “I hear the president has sent Cam Dewar’s son up here to settle your strike.”
“I believe so, but I haven’t heard from him yet.”
“I know him. He’s naive. You don’t have much to worry about.”
Lev agreed. He had taken a dollar from Gus Dewar in Petrograd in 1914, and last year he had taken Gus’s fiancee just as easily. “I wanted to talk to you about the strike,” he said, sitting in the leather armchair opposite Hoyle.
“The Advertiser has already condemned the strikers as un-American socialists and revolutionaries,” Hoyle said. “What more can we do?”
“Call them enemy agents,” Lev said. “They’re holding up the production of vehicles that our boys are going to need when they get to Europe-but the workers themselves are exempt from the draft!”
“That’s an angle.” Hoyle frowned. “But we don’t yet know how the draft is going to work.”
“It’s sure to exclude war industries.”
“That’s true.”
“And yet they’re demanding more money. A lot of people would take less for a job that keeps them out of the army.”
Hoyle took a notebook from his jacket pocket and began to write. “Take less money for a draft-exempt job,” he muttered.
“Maybe you want to ask: whose side are they on?”
“Sounds like a headline.”
Lev was surprised and pleased. It had been easy.
Hoyle looked up from his notebook. “I presume Mr. V knows we’re having this conversation?”
Lev had not anticipated this question. He grinned to cover his confusion. If he said no, Hoyle would drop the whole thing immediately. “Yes, of course,” he lied. “In fact it was his idea.”
Vyalov asked Gus to meet him at the yacht club. Brian Hall proposed a conference at the Buffalo office of the union. Each wanted to meet on his own ground, where he would feel confident and in charge. So Gus took a meeting room at the Statler Hotel.
Lev Peshkov had attacked the strikers as draft dodgers, and the Advertiser had put his comments on the front page, under the headline WHOSE SIDE ARE THEY ON? When Gus saw the paper he had been dismayed: such aggressive talk could only escalate the dispute. But Lev’s effort had backfired. This morning’s papers reported a storm of protest from workers in other war industries, indignant at the suggestion that they should receive low wages on account of their privileged status, and furious at being labeled draft dodgers. Lev’s clumsiness heartened Gus, but he knew that Vyalov was his real enemy, and that made him nervous.
Gus brought all the papers with him to the Statler and put them out on a side table in the meeting room. In a prominent position he placed a popular rag with the headline WILL YOU JOIN UP, LEV?
Gus had asked Brian Hall to get there a quarter of an hour before Vyalov. The union leader showed up on the dot. He wore a smart suit and a gray felt hat, Gus noted. That was good tactics. It was a mistake to look inferior, even if you represented the workers. Hall was as formidable, in his own way, as Vyalov.
Hall saw the newspapers and grinned. “Young Lev made a mistake,” he said with satisfaction. “He’s fetched himself a pile of trouble.”
“Manipulating the press is a dangerous game,” Gus said. He got right down to business. “You’re asking for a dollar-a-day increase.”
“It’s only ten cents more than my men were getting before Vyalov bought the plant, and-”
“Never mind all that,” Gus interrupted, showing more boldness than he felt. “If I can get you fifty cents, will you take it?”
Hall looked dubious. “I’d have to put it to the men-”
“No,” Gus said. “You have to decide now.” He prayed his nervousness was not showing.
Hall prevaricated. “Has Vyalov agreed to this?”
“I’ll worry about Vyalov. Fifty cents, take it or leave it.” Gus resisted an urge to wipe his forehead.
Hall gave Gus a long, appraising stare. Behind the pugnacious look there was a shrewd brain, Gus suspected. At last Hall said: “We’ll take it-for now.”
