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They laughed again.
But it was the laughter of deception. Both men knew the truth: The Comintern never forgave freethinking.
Zolner suspected another even grimmer truth: His once bold comrade, his blood brother of the street battles, had grown weary. Yuri Antipov had slipped into the role of functionary, an apparatchik obsessed with meaningless details instead of grand schemes. How many like Yuri would seize control of the revolution before they killed the revolution?
“Fern is waiting to see you,” he said.
Antipov brightened. “She’s here?”
“In the house.” He picked up a telephone. “I’ll call her. I’ll tell her you’re here.”
• • •
THE ESTATE HOUSE was a limestone mansion built by a railroad magnate thirty years ago in the Gilded Age. Zolner led Antipov through the sculpted entry into a great hall with painted ceilings depicting a history of land transportation that linked Egyptian chariots to crack express trains thundering across the Rocky Mountains. Antipov stared up at the mural. His jaw set like steel.
But when Fern Hawley swept down the vast curving staircase, Antipov melted as he always did in her presence. A big grin lit his stern face, and he extended both hands and shouted, “Midgets!”
Fern took his hands and laughed. “You will never let me forget that, will you?”
“Never.”
To greet her with “Midgets!” was to remind her of her conversion on a beautiful summer day in Paris. Victorious Allied regiments were marching down the Champs-Élysées. Bands were playing, crowds cheered, and the sun shone bright. Suddenly, she had cried out in astonishment, “Midgets!”
“What do you mean?” asked Zolner, who was holding her hand.
An English regiment was marching in strict order—rifles aligned perfectly on their shoulders, uniforms immaculate—but the soldiers were tiny miniature men, not one taller than five feet.
“They’re so little,” she said. “Little tiny midgets.”
“So they are,” said Zolner. “Still, they beat the Germans.”
But Yuri Antipov gave her a look of withering disdain.
“What is it?” she asked. “What did I say?”
“Don’t you know why they are small?”
“No. What do you mean?”
“It’s a Lancashire Regiment. From the English coalfields.”
“Yuri, what are you talking about?”
“They have mined coal for four generations. They are paid a pittance. Neither they nor their fathers nor their grandfathers nor their great-grandfathers have ever eaten enough food to grow tall.”
Even tonight, separated from that moment by three years and three thousand miles, Fern Hawley winced at the memory of such ignorance and such callousness. “They’re hungry,” she had whispered, and Antipov had reached around Zolner to grip her arm and say, “They will stay hungry until the revolution.”
Thanks to Antipov, she believed with all her heart that the international revolution of the proletariat should abolish government. Thanks to Antipov, she passionately supported the Russian proletariat’s struggling new state—the Socialist Republic of Workers, Peasants and Soldiers.
“Have you eaten?” she asked.
She pulled a bell cord. A butler appeared.
“What would you like, Yuri? Champagne? A cold bird?”
“Bread and sausage.”
• • •
