I take advantage of his hesitation. “The days ahead will be treacherous for us all, and not only in our fight against the Nazis. The health of my husband and the ease and stability of your relationship with him among the allies will be critical. Who knows what might happen if that alliance breaks down? We must not risk it with unimportant misdeeds and accusations.” I pause for effect. “General de Gaulle, please try to remember that we are your allies.”
For once, de Gaulle is silent.
* * *
As the plates from the final luncheon course are cleared, the British ambassador tells a joke, and the chuckling does not subside until the dessert is served. The mood over the meal has been remarkably pleasant and relaxed, as everyone has remarked upon, except General de Gaulle and myself. We alone know why.
In the momentary silence, Winston speaks something that sounds like butchered French. As our guests chortle at this attempt, he says, “I decided that if I attempted French this afternoon, it might add a nice light touch to the occasion.”
“If only it had been French, my dear,” I say to more laughter.
“And here I thought I was doing rather well,” Winston says with a rueful chuckle.
A huge burst of laughter overtakes every guest at the table, including de Gaulle himself. The general and I catch each other’s eye, and he gives me a small nod of recognition and gratitude for the role I played today. I tuck away this rare, private acknowledgment of my involvement to bolster me for the long days ahead, where Winston will have to navigate the terrain of Roosevelt and Stalin as he navigates our country toward victory.
Chapter Forty-Four
June 5–6, 1944
London, England
I am shaken awake by a troubled Winston. “I had the dream again, Clemmie,” he whispers.
For a moment, I’m disoriented, but the pale light of dawn has begun to illuminate my bedroom in the Annexe, and I realize precisely where I am and exactly what the next twenty-four hours will bring. Suddenly, I am very awake and ready to help Winston in whatever way I can. In the coming hours, he will surely need it.
“Oh no.” I pat the bed. “Crawl in.”
I slide to the farthest edge of my bed to allow room for Winston. The bed groans with his weight, but I mask the sound with my shushing. I wrap my arms around him, and caressing his face, which is wet with tears, I ask, “Was it the same?”
“Exactly,” he answers, then grows quiet. He needn’t describe the dream. He has had it frequently since the plans for Operation Overlord were finalized, and he’s shared the nightmare in excruciating detail: wide beaches with sand dyed red with blood and crimson waves lapping the shore strewn with the bodies of dead soldiers. His recounting is so vivid that, some nights, I worry that I might have the dream myself. It is the embodiment of his deepest fear, and even though he would never say it, it harkens back to the horrible loss of life in the Dardanelles. He is terrified that history will repeat itself.
This day has loomed for years, ever since Roosevelt entered the war and the conferences between the American president and Winston began. Over those many meetings, they debated the strategy essential for the success of such a dangerous plan, a massive invasion of mainland Europe, and each man took turns fluctuating in enthusiasm for it, although no one ever doubted its necessity. Because of variability in resources and priorities, other missions took precedence, such as Operation Torch in northwest Africa, the Italian campaign, and support for Stalin’s second front, but the concept of Operation Overlord never disappeared.
Once Roosevelt and Stalin became more closely aligned—an inevitability that I’d worried about for months—the balance of power tipped in their favor, away from Winston, and my husband sensed Stalin and Roosevelt had already decided on this mass invasion of Normandy. This development did not surprise me, because I’d seen Roosevelt for the tactical game player and inveterate politician he is instead of the steadfastly loyal friend Winston believed him to be for too long. He offered Stalin and Roosevelt alternatives to the full-on invasion, which carried risks for enormous loss of life, as late as April, but Stalin insisted on this particular course, and Roosevelt agreed. What could Winston do? He told them we would proceed, and then he committed all his resources to the mission’s success. Yet he desperately fears another Dardanelles.
In his despair over a bloodbath, he’d initially wanted to watch the D-Day landings from a destroyer near the beaches where the men would land. He’d first informed Admiral Ramsay, the commander of the landings, and then General Eisenhower, both of whom vehemently argued against his presence. But neither outright refusals on their parts nor pleas that his country needed him to stay in London swayed him—until I organized a letter from the king. Only then did Winston agree to resist his nature to plunge into treacherous scenarios.
In approximately twenty-four hours, approximately one hundred fifty thousand American, British, Free French, and Canadian troops will land on the beaches of Normandy in the largest seaborne invasion in history, and Winston will not be there to watch. Even though I do not claim to have Winston’s prescience, I know with utter certainty that this is the most critical moment yet in the future of the war. We are at the crux of it now, and we must show our mettle, whatever the outcome and whatever the cost.
I wrap Winston in my arms and whisper, “I know it seems impossible, but sleep if you can, Pug. Your country needs your full and alert attention in the morning.”
* * *
Despite the decisive events secretly planned for the next dawn, the day proceeds as many other wartime days have proceeded. To call it familiar would be an insult to the word, but it follows a pattern to which I have become accustomed in this calamitous time. I spend the early morning answering the usual overflowing bag of letters from our citizens and forward their requests on to the requisite officials; I attend my regular committee meeting at Fulmer Chase Maternity Hospital for military wives; I visit air-raid shelters with Red Cross representatives, more important now than ever, as the Nazis have resumed their nightly bombing campaigns; I tour a bomb site and make lists of the victims’ needs, unusually dire as the Nazis’ new pilotless “buzz bombs” caused intense damage; and I speak to each of my daughters, taking care to check on Mary as she’s alone, unlike the married Diana, and Sarah, who continues to see Gil, a situation not without its occasional discomforts. As I return to the Annexe, I see that Londoners are proceeding as normally as possible as well, walking purposefully through the streets and even stopping to chat with neighbors they pass. As if these were normal days.
How is Eleanor passing this surreal day? I wonder. Is she pretending at normalcy as well? Marveling at life progressing apace all around her, as I am? I cannot ask her; it would break all the security precautions around the secrecy of this day. Just as I can neither confide my worries in my sister, Nellie, nor share with her my hopes that we will avenge the death of her son Esmond.
Although Winston would like me to attend the meetings in the Map Room and elsewhere to assess the final details for the invasion—reviewing reports from meteorologists on critical weather and ocean conditions, checking on the status of the thousands of men in embarkation cages who are horribly sick on ocean waves, and plotting out the location of every one of the seven thousand vessels on his beloved maps—I cannot, except for the usual brief visit I make most days. The nation has known for some time that a mass invasion is imminent, and I can do nothing that might alert the populace and, through them, our enemies, to the precise date of the invasion. Winston’s military commanders fear that a rushed visit to his offices will prompt concern; at least that’s the excuse they offer for keeping me at bay. The day must appear as any other day, and I proceed as instructed. I have seen the plans displayed in the Map Room time and time again in any event. The exercise makes me feel like an actress in a woodenly acted and poorly scripted play, and I wonder if everyone I encounter sees through my ruse. Because all I can t
hink about is Winston. How is my Pug faring?
Contrary to his military commanders’ instructions, Winston and I do engage in one unusual activity, although no one else but us—and perhaps Mrs. Landemare—would notice. We dine alone. In the entire year, we have dined alone only three times. Tonight must be the fourth, as he needs my full attention and whatever comfort I can offer.
We are quiet at first, sipping on the clear soup that sustains him and the rare beef that doesn’t but that he adores. He takes copious drinks from his wine, but I say nothing. If anyone deserves to anesthetize himself somewhat from the massive weight he carries upon his shoulders, he does. And I know it does nothing to dull his wits.
I break the uncommon silence. “I know this tension is unbearable, Pug. If I could lift it from you and carry it, even for the first night of the campaign, I would happily do so.”
“Oh, Cat, I would never wish this burden upon you. It is your unsullied goodness that keeps me purposeful and strong.”
“The decision is heavy, but it’s the right one. I know it’s colored with betrayals and fraught with uncertainties and apprehension—perhaps more than any other decision you’ve made in your entire life—but you are doing your duty to the people of this country. Just as you always have. Just as you must.”
I share the same misgivings as Winston, but the die is cast, and the vessels have already set sail. The men are in place, ready to storm the beaches and perform acts of heroism and sacrifice never undertaken before. How can we betray them now by questioning our commitment to this course? I cannot allow him to fixate on such thoughts. He must have faith.
“But doing this duty may be doing them a great disservice,” he answers.
“How? This campaign will begin the liberation of northwest Europe from the clutches of the Nazis. And that liberation will spread across Europe until we are free from the Nazis.”
“But at what cost? I just cannot help but think that when the sun rises tomorrow morning”—he puffs on his cigar, and I realize that he plans on staying awake all night—“thousands of men may have been killed. As in my nightmare.”
“And if you do not proceed with this mission and end this relentless war, how many tens of thousands more will die? Hundreds of thousands? What sort of nightmares will you have then?” I reach for his free hand and stare into his blue eyes. “My darling, everyone counts on you for the courage to continue.”
He pauses for a long moment before answering but never averts his eyes. “I will stand watch and see how the mission unfolds. We are at the Rubicon.”
I hold his gaze. “I will share your vigil with you.”
“Will you really?”
“Tonight and every night.”
Chapter Forty-Five
May 12, 1945
London, England
My plane circles over the Northolt airfield over and over. A kind young officer offers me a drink in hopes of distracting me from the obvious, and I accept, but the drink does not make me oblivious. How could it? I distinctly heard the pilot receive a radio message that the Napier is delayed, and I know exactly who owns the Napier and what the message means. Winston is running late, and the pilot has been instructed to circle until the vehicle can race to meet my plane on the runway. Winston wants to make it seem as if he’s been awaiting my arrival for hours.
I could be justifiably irritated by these circumstances. After all, I have been gone for nearly six weeks, and my arrival has been fixed for at least three days, with hourly updates. But I am too elated by the developments and too overjoyed to see my husband to suffer a silly fit of pique. I smile to myself, but my traveling companions, the stalwart Grace and Miss Mabel Johnson, the secretary to the Aid to Russia Fund, see it and return the grin. They undoubtedly believe I’m smiling at the relief and delight in finally returning home on the heels of such wondrous news, which is true. But I am also gratified by much more.
The plane finally makes it descent, and I slide my mirror out of my purse to straighten my hair and apply fresh lipstick. From my window, I see a flash of red as the wheels touch down, and I know it is Winston’s car. No matter the lateness, he has arrived. Gathering my purse, I step off the plane from Russia.
* * *
When the gold-rimmed invitation arrived, I was quite astonished. I’d grown proud of the eight million pounds I raised for my Aid to Russia Fund, funded through voluntary salary deductions, door-to-door efforts, and events, even when Stalin and Roosevelt endeavored to take control over the war’s direction. After all, I was doing it for the suffering people of Russia, not their leader. But I never thought I’d be singled out for my efforts, especially now that war victory was virtually assured. I usually watch and assess from the wings, unsung and often unnoticed.
Yet the Russian Red Cross wanted me to visit and inspect firsthand the excellent use they’d made of the funds I’d collected and the materials I’d sent over. The trip and accompanying tour throughout Moscow, Leningrad, and the countryside would take six to eight weeks, and I worried about leaving Winston for the long expanse, particularly because his mood had turned foul in the days after D-Day. Even though the casualties were far fewer than Winston had thought and Operation Overlord had indeed initiated the fall of the Nazis, the operation had yielded the terrible loss of thousands of men, and the mounting pressure to fell our enemy once and for all had soured his temper, not to mention the worry over his troubled relations with Roosevelt and Stalin. Even our jubilant November trip to Paris to celebrate its liberation at de Gaulle’s invitation had provided only a brief respite from his mood. Did his temper stem from the awful loss of life and devastation to Europe due to the war, from concern over a lessening in his power as regards Stalin and Roosevelt, or from fears over the state of Europe in the postwar years and his place in a changing Britain? Winston was strangely silent on the subject of his humor.
“You must go, Clemmie. You could be the one positive force in Anglo-Russia relations and make some headway for us. Bridge the gap in our Russian relations and all that,” Winston said when I expressed my reservations, although, of course, I did not attribute my hesitation to his mood. Since the February conference in Yalta, convened for the express purpose of discussing the postwar reorganization of Germany and Europe, Winston had grown increasingly suspicious of Stalin’s intentions and the possible Soviet expansion into Eastern Europe. How could I decline the trip when Winston claimed it might do much good?
I accepted the invitation and ordered my uniforms for the journey, which designated my rank, vice president of County of London Branch, British Red Cross. When they arrived, the boxy fit was unflattering, so I had the uniforms tailored and paired them with the Red Cross berets. By the time I wore the uniform to my send-off tea with the queen, I almost felt like myself in the attire.
Although Winston expressed reservations about the trip when the departure date grew close, I proceeded, with Grace and Mabel joining me on the trip. When we stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac in Moscow on the first day of April after the multiday journey, I was overwhelmed with our welcome. Mr. and Mrs. Ivan Maisky, the former Russian ambassador and his wife; Paulina Molotov, the wife of the minister for foreign affairs; the British ambassador Sir Archibald Clark Kerr; and the American ambassador, our own Averell Harriman, were part of the large contingent greeting us. I was unexpectedly moved, as this was the first official reception held specifically for me and my contributions, and I had to hold back tears while I shook hands. Typically, everyone feted Winston.
I was immediately swept into a hectic itinerary of visits to hospitals, children’s homes, factories that manufacture artificial limbs, ambulance stations, and portable hospital units. Every place our funds went, we toured, and for the first time, I comprehended the breadth and importance of the Aid to Russia Fund. Luncheons and dinners in my honor were interspersed with the touring, including one where I received the Soviet Red Cross Distinguished Service Meda
l, and we even attended the ballet, an exquisite version of Swan Lake.
Winston kept me apprised of the wartime developments with constant cables and letters when they could be kept secure, as well as his horror over the concentration camps. We shared news and angst over the safety and location of Nellie’s son Giles, who was still being held by the Nazis at Colditz Castle possibly for hostage value, and Winston’s brother Jack, who was gravely ill. I prayed for their health and thanked God that at least, in this final hour of the war, we were not being troubled again by my awful Mitford cousins, some of whom had been pro-Nazi during the war and one of whom had actually married her husband at the home of Nazi leader Joseph Goebbels, with Hitler in attendance no less.
Winston’s highest priority for my time in Russia was my meeting with Stalin. Ever since Winston expressed his displeasure at Russia’s violation of the agreements made at the conference in Yalta, the terms about Poland and Romania specifically, Stalin had become ice cold toward my husband. Winston requested that I make a very particular statement to Stalin about his belief that an accord between Russia and English-speaking countries will be reached soon. I rehearsed the phrase over and over, even attempting it in Russian before jettisoning the effort and deciding that I would rely upon the interpreter. God knew I could not afford to misspeak in Russian and deliver the entirely wrong message.
The appointment with Stalin was set, but when the hour arrived, only I was permitted to enter his chamber, not Grace or Mabel. The long corridor from the guards’ station to enormous double doors seemed interminable without their company, and when another set of guards granted me access, I entered a room that was no less vast than the corridors. At the far end of the impressive study, decorated in a neoclassical style, sat the dark-eyed Stalin behind his desk. Quite rudely, he did not glance up as he scribbled away, although he could hear me approach as my heels clattered and echoed in the vast space. Only when I stood directly before him did he look at me and, through an interpreter, say, “We thank you for the great work undertaken by the Aid to Russia Fund.”
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