lizard crawling out of its old skin. But Grigori did not voice this thought, out of kindness to Katerina, who was still hoping Lev would send for her.
She said: “Do you think you will fight?”
“Not if I can help it. What are we fighting for?”
“For Serbia, they say.”
Grigori spooned the eggs onto two plates and sat at the table. “The issue is whether Serbia will be tyrannized by the Austrian emperor or the Russian tsar. I doubt if the Serbs care one way or the other, and I certainly don’t.” He began to eat.
“For the tsar, then.”
“I would fight for you, for Lev, for myself, or for your baby… but for the tsar? No.”
Katerina ate her egg rapidly and wiped the plate with a fresh slice of bread. “What names do you like for a boy?”
“My father’s name was Sergei, and his father was Tikhon.”
“I like Mikhail,” she said. “The same as the archangel.”
“So do most people. That’s why the name is so common.”
“Perhaps I should call him Lev. Or even Grigori.”
Grigori was touched by this. He would be thrilled to have a nephew named after him. But he did not like to make demands on her. “Lev would be nice,” he said.
The factory whistle blew-a sound that could be heard all over the Narva district-and Grigori stood up to go.
“I’ll wash the plates,” Katerina said. Her job did not begin until seven, an hour later than Grigori’s.
She turned her cheek up and Grigori kissed her. It was only a brief kiss, and he did not allow his lips to linger, but all the same he relished the soft smoothness of her skin and the warm, sleepy smell of her neck.
Then he put on his cap and went out.
The summer weather was warm and humid, despite the early hour. Grigori began to perspire as he walked briskly through the streets.
In the two months since Lev had left, Grigori and Katerina had settled into an uneasy friendship. She relied on him, and he looked after her, but it was not what either of them wanted. Grigori wanted love, not friendship. Katerina wanted Lev, not Grigori. But Grigori found a kind of fulfillment in making sure she ate well. It was the only way he had of expressing his love. It could hardly be a long-term arrangement, but right now it was difficult to think long-term. He still planned to escape from Russia and find his way to the promised land of America.
At the factory gate new mobilization posters had been stuck up, and men crowded around, those unable to read begging others to read aloud. Grigori found himself standing next to Isaak, the football captain. They were the same age and had been reservists together. Grigori scanned the notices, looking for the name of their unit.
Today it was there.
He looked again, but there was no mistake: Narva regiment.
He looked down the list of names and found his own.
He had not really believed it could happen. But he had been fooling himself. He was twenty-five, fit and strong, perfect soldier material. Of course he was going to war.
What would happen to Katerina? And her baby?
Isaak cursed aloud. His name was also on the list.
A voice behind them said: “No need to worry.”
They turned to see the long, thin shape of Kanin, the amiable supervisor of the casting section, an engineer in his thirties. “No need to worry?” said Grigori skeptically. “Katerina is having Lev’s baby and there’s no one to look after her. What am I going to do?”
“I’ve been to see the man in charge of mobilization for this district,” Kanin said. “He promised me exemption for any of my workers. Only the troublemakers have to go.”
Grigori’s heart leaped with hope again. It sounded too good to be true.
Isaak said: “What do we have to do?”
“Just don’t go to the barracks. You’ll be all right. It’s fixed.”
Isaak was an aggressive character-no doubt that was why he made such a good sportsman-and he was not satisfied with Kanin’s answer. “Fixed how?” he demanded.
“The army gives the police a list of men who fail to show, and the police have to round them up. Your name simply won’t be on the list.”
Isaak grunted with dissatisfaction. Grigori shared his dislike of such semiofficial arrangements-there was too much room for things to go wrong-but dealing with the government was always like this. Kanin had either bribed an official or performed some other favor. It was pointless to be churlish about it. “That’s great,” Grigori said to Kanin. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” Kanin said mildly. “I did it for myself-and for Russia. We need skilled men like you two to make trains, not stop German bullets-an illiterate peasant can do that. The government hasn’t worked this out yet, but they will in time, and then they’ll thank me.”
Grigori and Isaak passed through the gates. “We might as well trust him,” Grigori said. “What have we got to lose?” They stood in line to check themselves in by each dropping a numbered metal square into a box. “It’s good news,” he said.
Isaak was not convinced. “I just wish I could feel surer,” he said.
They headed for the wheel shop. Grigori put his worries out of his mind and prepared himself for the day’s work. The Putilov plant was making more trains than ever. The army had to assume that locomotives and wagons would be destroyed by shelling, so they would be needing replacements as soon as the fighting started. The pressure was on Grigori’s team to produce wheels faster.
He began to roll up his sleeves as he stepped into the wheel shop. It was a small shed, and the furnace made it hot in winter, a baking oven now at the height of summer. Metal screeched and rang as lathes shaped and polished it.
He saw Konstantin standing by his lathe, and his friend’s stance made him frown. Konstantin’s face telegraphed a warning: something was wrong. Isaak saw it too. Reacting faster than Grigori, he stopped, grabbed Grigori’s arm, and said: “What-?”
He did not finish the question.
A figure in a black-and-green uniform stepped from behind the furnace and hit Grigori in the face with a sledgehammer.
He tried to dodge the blow, but his reaction was a moment too slow and, although he ducked, the wooden head of the big hammer struck him high on the cheekbone and knocked him to the ground. An agonizing pain shot through his head and he cried out loud.
It took several moments for his vision to clear. At last he looked up and saw the stout figure of Mikhail Pinsky, the local police captain.
He should have expected this. He had got off too lightly after that fight back in February. Policemen never forgot such things.
He also saw Isaak fighting with Pinsky’s sidekick, Ilya Kozlov, and two other cops.
Grigori remained on the ground. He was not going to fight back if he could help it. Let Pinsky take his revenge, then perhaps he would be satisfied.
In the next second he failed to keep that resolution.
Pinsky raised the sledgehammer. In a flash of redundant insight Grigori recognized the tool as his own, used for tapping templates into the molding sand. Then it came down at his head.
He lurched to the right but Pinsky slanted his swing, and the heavy oak tool came down on Grigori’s left shoulder. He roared with pain and anger. While Pinsky was recovering his balance, Grigori leaped to his feet. His left arm was limp and useless, but there was nothing amiss with his right, and he drew back his fist to hit Pinsky, regardless of the consequences.
He never struck the blow. Two figures he had not noticed materialized either side of him in black-and-green uniforms, and his arms were grabbed and held firmly. He tried to shake off his captors but failed. Through a mist of rage he saw Pinsky draw back the hammer and strike. The blow hit him in the chest, and he felt ribs crack. The next blow was lower, and pounded his belly. He convulsed and vomited his breakfast. Then another blow struck the side
