of his head. He blacked out for a moment, and came around to find himself hanging limply in the grip of the two policemen. Isaak was similarly pinned by two others.
“Feeling calmer now?” said Pinsky.
Grigori spat blood. His body was a mass of pain and he could not think straight. What was going on? Pinsky hated him, but something must have happened to trigger this. And it was bold of Pinsky to act right here in the middle of the factory, surrounded by workers who had no reason to like the police. For some reason he must have been feeling sure of himself.
Pinsky hefted the sledgehammer and looked thoughtful, as if considering one more blow. Grigori braced himself and fought the temptation to beg for mercy. Then Pinsky said: “What is your name?”
Grigori tried to speak. At first nothing but blood came out of his mouth. At last he managed to say: “Grigori Sergeivich Peshkov.”
Pinsky hit him in the stomach again. Grigori groaned and vomited blood. “Liar,” said Pinsky. “What is your name?” He lifted the sledgehammer again.
Konstantin stepped from his lathe and came forward. “Officer, this man is Grigori Peshkov!” he protested. “All of us have known him for years!”
“Don’t lie to me,” Pinsky said. He lifted the hammer. “Or you’ll get a taste of this.”
Konstantin’s mother, Varya, intervened. “It’s no lie, Mikhail Mikhailovich,” she said. Her use of the patronymic indicated that she knew Pinsky. “He is who he says he is.” She stood with her arms folded over her large bosom as if defying the policeman to doubt her.
“Then explain this,” said Pinsky, and he pulled from his pocket a sheet of paper. “Grigori Sergeivich Peshkov left St. Petersburg two months ago aboard the Angel Gabriel.”
Kanin, the supervisor, appeared and said: “What’s going on here? Why is no one working?”
Pinsky pointed to Grigori. “This man is Lev Peshkov, Grigori’s brother-wanted for the murder of a police officer!”
They all began to shout at once. Kanin held up his hand for quiet and said: “Officer, I know Grigori and Lev Peshkov, and have seen both men almost every day for several years. They look alike, as brothers generally do, but I can assure you that this is Grigori. And you are holding up the work of this section.”
“If this is Grigori,” said Pinsky with the air of one who plays a trump card, “then who left on the Angel Gabriel?”
As soon as he had asked the question, the answer became obvious. After a moment it dawned on Pinsky too, and he looked foolish.
Grigori said: “My passport and ticket were stolen.”
Pinsky began to bluster. “Why did you not report this to the police?”
“What was the point? Lev had left the country. You could not bring him back, nor my property.”
“That makes you an accomplice in his escape.”
Kanin intervened again. “Captain Pinsky, you began by accusing this man of murder. Perhaps that was a good enough reason to stop production in the wheel shop. But you have admitted that you were in error, and now you allege only that he failed to report the theft of some documents. Meanwhile, your country is at war, and you are delaying the manufacture of locomotives desperately needed by the Russian army. Unless you wish your name to be mentioned in our next report to the army high command, I suggest you finish your business here quickly.”
Pinsky looked at Grigori. “What reserve unit are you in?”
Without thinking, Grigori replied: “Narva regiment.”
“Hah!” said Pinsky. “They were called up today.” He looked at Isaak. “You, too, I’ll bet.”
Isaak said nothing.
“Release them,” Pinsky said.
Grigori staggered when they let go of his arms, but he managed to stay upright.
“You’d better make sure you show up at the depot as ordered,” Pinsky said to Grigori and Isaak. “Otherwise I’ll be after you.” He turned on his heel and exited with what little dignity he had left. His men followed him.
Grigori sat down heavily on a stool. He had a blinding headache, a pain in his ribs, and a bruised ache in his belly. He needed to curl up in a corner and pass out. The thought that kept him conscious was a scorching desire to destroy Pinsky and the entire system of which he was part. One of these days, he kept thinking, we will wipe out Pinsky and the tsar and everything they stand for.
Kanin said: “The army won’t pursue you two-I’ve made sure of that-but I’m afraid I can’t do anything about the police.”
Grigori nodded grimly. It was as he had feared. Pinsky’s most savage blow, worse than any he had struck with the sledgehammer, would be to make sure that Grigori and Isaak joined the army.
Kanin said: “I’ll be sorry to lose you. You’ve been a good worker.” He seemed genuinely moved, but he was impotent. He paused a moment longer, threw up his hands in a gesture of helplessness, and left the shop.
Varya appeared in front of Grigori with a bowl of water and a clean rag. She washed the blood from his face. She was a bulky woman but her broad hands had a gentle touch. “You should go to the factory barracks,” she said. “Find an empty bed and lie down for an hour.”
“No,” Grigori said. “I’m going home.”
Varya shrugged and moved to Isaak, who was not so badly injured.
With an effort, Grigori stood up. The factory spun around him for a while, and Konstantin held his arm when he staggered; but eventually he felt able to stand alone.
Konstantin picked up his cap from the floor and gave it to him.
He felt unsteady when he began to walk, but he waved away offers of support, and after a few steps he regained his normal stride. His head cleared with the effort, but the pain in his ribs forced him to tread carefully. He made his slow way through the maze of benches and lathes, furnaces and presses, to the outside of the building, and then to the factory gate.
There he met Katerina coming in.
“Grigori!” she said. “You’ve been called up-I saw the poster!” Then she noticed his damaged face. “What happened?”
“An encounter with your favorite police captain.”
“That pig Pinsky. You’re hurt!”
“The bruises will heal.”
“I’ll take you home.”
Grigori was surprised. This was a switch of roles. Katerina had never before offered to take care of him. “I can make it on my own,” he said.
“I’ll come with you all the same.”
She took his arm and they walked through the narrow streets against the tide of thousands of workers swarming to the factory. Grigori’s body hurt and he felt ill, but all the same it was a joy to him to be walking arm in arm with Katerina as the sun rose over the dilapidated houses and the dirty streets.
However, the familiar walk tired him more than he expected, and when at last they got home he sat heavily on the bed and then, after a moment, lay down.
“I’ve got a bottle of vodka hidden in the girls’ room,” Katerina said.
“No, thanks, but I’d like some tea.”
He did not have a samovar, but she made tea in a saucepan and gave him a cup with a lump of sugar. When he had drunk it he felt a little better. He said: “The worst of it is, I could have avoided the draft-but Pinsky swore he would make sure I didn’t.”
She sat on the bed beside him and took from her pocket a pamphlet. “One of the girls gave me this.”
Grigori glanced at it. It appeared dull and official, like a government publication. Its title was “Aid to Soldiers’ Families.”
Katerina said: “If you’re the wife of a soldier you’re entitled to a monthly allowance from the army. It’s not just for the poor, everyone gets it.”
Grigori vaguely remembered hearing about this. He had not taken much notice, as it did not apply to him.
Katerina went on: “There’s more. You get cheap home fuel, cheap railway tickets, and help with children’s schooling.”
“That’s good,” Grigori said. He wanted to sleep. “Unusual for the army to be so sensible.”
