Winston's War

by Michael Dobbs

  “But you don't know me.”

  “Well, I do, sort of. Know you're competent and organized—frighteningly so, if truth be told. Frightens the 'ell out of me. I'm such a disaster area. My place looks like the trenches at Ypres.”

  “Before or after the attack?”

  “Didn't make much difference, those trenches were a mess from the moment we'd dug 'em. I was a sergeant. Staffordshire Regiment. Solicitor's clerk now. Jerry White's the name. Anyways, I know you're patient—I've seen you with the school-kids. I'd have murdered the little perishers while all you do is scold 'em and give 'em an extra half ounce of bull's-eyes. You read newspapers—counts as an intellectual, that does, where I come from. And you love flowers—I'm sorry, got to ask. Why are you digging up those lovely roses?”

  “I'm planting more sprouts. And some runner beans and potatoes. For the war.”

  “Of course. How sensible.” She was sure now that he was mocking her. “Anyhow you looked—er, on your own, like. Is that the right term? Me too. Widower. Wanted to ask you out but I haven't the slightest idea where to start. Out of practice. Been in several times, bought more stamps than I'm likely to need in a month, and enough balls of string to get Theseus out of his maze a dozen times over. I've purchased newspapers I 've never read and even half a pound of sherbet lemons. But I hate them. Never found a chance to talk to you, you're always busy, so thought I'd leave a rose. But of course it's supposed to be anonymous. Bloody silly, if you ask me—how the heck am I supposed to ask you out if you don't even know who I am? Which is why I thought I'd come back, like. And make a fool of myself. Think I'm doing rather well in that regard.”

  Perhaps after all he was mocking only himself. “You wanted to ask me out?”

  “That's right.”

  “Why?”

  He gave her a look of utter disbelief. “Daftest question I've heard all day. And from a pretty girl like you.” So, he was blunt. Just like the dear departed. “Can I ask you a daft question in return?” he ventured.

  “Go ahead. Two minutes left before closing. They're all yours.”

  “Any chance of you accepting the rest of 'em?” From beneath his mackintosh he pulled out a bunch of red roses. She knew there would be eleven. “Because walking around with these thorny little buggers under my coat is killing me.”

  On Valentine's Day 1939, the Leader of the Thousand-Year Reich gave himself a present that was rather more substantial than flowers. He launched the Bismarck, the largest battleship ever to have been built in Germany. It had eight 15-inch and twelve 5.9-inch guns, triple propellers, and double rudders. It was to cause mayhem in the North Atlantic and would sink the pride of the British fleet, HMS Hood, with a single shell. But, in the course of things, it was to prove far less significant than twelve red and very English roses.

  “There you are, Dickie. Snifter?”

  “Don't mind if I do, Ian. Feeling a bit rattled, to tell you the truth.” He sank dolefully into the cracked leather of the Smoking Room.

  “Yes. Heard you were near that IRA bomb in Leicester Square last night. Ears must still be ringing.”

  “No, not that. It's Their Lordships. Our Noble Knob-Heads. You'll never guess what they've been debating.”

  Ian looked miffed. He didn't care for puzzles.

  “Bastardy,” Dickie continued.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “They're debating a Bastardy Bill. Which'll insist on blood tests in the case of disputed paternity.”

  “My God, Dickie…”

  “Yes, can you imagine it? More pricks in us than the madam of a Nairobi knocking shop.”

  “They start testing for bloodlines amongst their Lordships and there's no telling what they'd find. Know for a fact that old Buffy's from the wrong side of the potting shed. His ma was a notorious dick-switcher.”

  “Not to mention the Royal Family.”

  “Precisely. How is the Duchess?”

  “Writhing in hell, I hope.”

  “Always puzzled me, Dickie, why they insist on having the Home Secretary present at the birth of a royal heir. Supposed to guard against foul play. But you just think about it. Damn-all point being present at the birth. They really ought to be there at the conception.” “From what I hear, old Sam Hoare's been present at too many conceptions for his own good.” “Which reminds me—where are those bloody drinks?” He waved once more for a steward.

  “You think there will be war then, Ian?”

  “Old Mother Chaos? She's come knocking on everyone else's door. Manchuria, Abyssinia, Spain, Czechoslovakia. Now the Arabs and Jews running all over Palestine taking pot-shots at each other. Makes me nervous at times, can't help admitting.”

  “But Hitler's promised, given us firm undertakings.”

  “His firm undertakings are a little like a work of modern art. Seem to shift every time you look at 'em.”

  “Everything's so uncertain. Can't even take a walk through the center of bloody London without the IRA chucking a bomb at you.”

  “What were you doing in Leicester Square anyway?”

  A sniff of discomfort.

  “Ah, don't tell me—shortcut to Soho?”

  “What else's a chap supposed to do? Wife's on the warpath again. Caught me canvassing after hours and has cut off the conjugals. Asked me to spend a little less time with the family.”

  “Never mind, Dickie. She'll get over it. Always has done before.”

  “She goes on about loyalty as though she were the bloody Chief Whip.”

  “You'd listen to the Chief Whip.”

  “Have to. Don't fancy going the same way as old Kitty. Even Winston's in trouble in Epping, so I hear.”

  “A little local difficulty. Actually, more than a little local difficulty—an entire manure heap of it. Epping has a distinctly farmyard smell about it nowadays.”

  “Joe Ball turning the screw again?”

  “Could teach the Gestapo a thing or two.”

  They both contemplated their drinks for a few seconds.

  “Should tell Bracken, maybe.”

  “Tell him what?”

  “About the Bill. Settle his parentage once and for all. He could run off and demand a blood sample from Winston.”

  “Pure alcohol. He'd get nothing but pure alcohol.”

  “Maybe it runs in the Churchill family, this dubious parentage. His mother was less than eight months married when Winston was born. Always ahead of himself, even then.”

  “Married three times, wasn't she? A woman of considerable experience, I hear. Perhaps that's why Winston was so keen on supporting the bloody Duchess.”

  “What—the Windsor woman? Saw a bit of his own mother in her?”

  “He'll end up like his father, too, mark my words.”

  “Silly bugger. An avalanche of fine words, yet not an ounce of common sense. Always trying to make up for his disasters in the last war by being first in line for the next.”

  “Never knows when to quit.”

  “You've got it, Dickie. The Never-Never Man. Just too old.”

  Suddenly Ian became distracted, his nose was up, sniffing the air like a beagle. Smoke. Cuban. He swiveled to find the source, suddenly buried in apprehension. The smoke was billowing from behind the wings of a leather armchair whose back was towards them. The next moment a cigar appeared, and the head of Winston Churchill followed.

  Ian flushed, then affected a brave face. Maybe the old man had been snoozing, hadn't overheard. “Ah, didn't see you there, Winston. Did we, Dickie?”

  Dickie dove into his drink.

  Churchill extracted the cigar from his mouth. “They tell me,” he spat, “that competitive examinations are an excellent means of weeding out idiots and imbeciles. It is a monumental pity,” he continued, his blue eyes carving through their defenses, “that elections don't appear to be so discriminating.”

  It was a day when the winter rains seemed to have grown exhausted from their relentless efforts and were hovering just beyond the horizon
, gathering their strength once more. For the moment it was dry, a good day to get out, even if only to the market. In truth it was something of an experiment, the first time Carol had brought Mac and her kids together. Yes, kids, plural. Not just Peter who read to her and was the anchor in her life but also little Linda, still in terry-toweling diapers. Linda had been a mistake. A silly working practice. An industrial accident. A mop-haired, blue-eyed wonder. There hadn't been any man in Carol's life for six years who measured loyalty in terms that stretched much beyond twenty minutes, yet to one of them, unknown and evidently unprotected, she owed half the happiness in her life. A cause for gratitude, never grief. But for all the joys they brought to her, the kids were a formidable mountain to climb for a potential partner with his mind on anything other than a quick one. Mac had potential, she thought. He'd already proved himself to be remarkable—he had the patience of a hibernating toad—and now she had to find out how good his climbing legs were.

  Saturday morning. They had wandered through the marketplace at Epping, purchasing a bag of boiled sweets to pacify Peter, lingering over swatches of dress material, pinching and prodding the offerings of fruit and fresh vegetables that were laid out on the stalls. They shopped with care, loading their purchases into the baby's push-chair while Linda was carried along, uncomplaining, on Mac's shoulders. She drooled on his hair while he pretended to be a circus ride, swirling her around until she squealed for him to stop. Carol struggled to hide the smile—there they were, the hooker and the now non-paying punter, shopping for cabbages and King Edwards, to all intents like any other Epping family busy with the weekend chores. There was a long way to go up the mountain, but so far Mac's footing seemed remarkably secure.

  The market was filled with tantalizing smells and traders' cries. Women staggered like drunken sailors beneath a week's worth of provisions while menfolk muttered at their side, rolling cigarettes from tobacco they kept in little leather pouches and wondering if there'd be enough left to put a little on the two-thirty at Kempton. It was growing busier, the crowd ever more pressing. Carol's little caravan pushed ahead, pushchair to the fore like a battering ram, squeezing, nudging, until Peter dropped his bag of sweets in the crush and it became clear that they were getting nowhere. They had become mixed up in a throng that stretched around an elderly man who was standing on a platform and shouting at everybody. Several of those around were shouting back.

  “And so I have decided to bring my campaign to the people—”

  “But the people don't want you, Mr. Churchill!”

  The man on the platform stared at the accuser. “Some people don't want me, that is true. Some people within my own party don't want me. Want to push me out, like cuckoos in the nest. But it is not the cuckoo class who must decide, it is the ordinary people of Epping, like you, ladies and gentlemen—yes, and even you, young man”—he pointed to the persecutor who was trying to interrupt him—“even you, sir. Because the rules of democracy insist you should be allowed to vote if you are over the age of twenty-one. Which is only fair and right and decent, in spite of your evident shortcomings, since those same rules of democracy insist that if you are over the age of seventeen and one-half you should be allowed to enlist for your country and be shot.”

  There was an outpouring of abuse. Mac turned away, wanting to leave, but Carol tugged his sleeve and held him back. “It's old Winnie. Hang on a minute,” she whispered.

  Another young man, slightly older than the first, had taken up the cudgels. “You don't know what you're saying. You used to be a bleedin' Liberal.” Others in the crowd joined in with jeers.

  “Yes, indeed I was. But we must always be prepared to change. Why, I have changed, I cannot deny it. When the Boers were hunting me throughout the veldts and kops of South Africa, they put up a notice—indeed, many notices. Wanted. Dead or alive! Winston Churchill.” There was a stirring of pride amongst some of the older members of the crowd. “Twenty-five years old, they said I was. But sadly, and all too evidently, I have changed. Red-brownish hair, they said. That has changed, too—all but disappeared. Small toothbrush moustache, they said. That also has gone—although I notice that such appendages have become rather fashionable in other parts of Europe.” The crowd was chuckling, joining in with him. “And the Boers accused me in their posters of having an indifferent build. Well, just look at me now”—he patted his substantial stomach, which was clearly detectable beneath his overcoat, and there was laughter, punctuated by yet another interruption. Someone was accusing him of living off the fat of the land. “And the Boers also said—and I quote”—Churchill was shouting now to drown the interruption, waving pages of prepared notes that had become irrelevant—“that he talks through his nose and cannot pronounce the letter 'S' properly. Well, I commend that defect to you, sir, for talking through one's nose is far to be favored over talking through the back of your head!”

  He was getting the better of them now. Others in the crowd were turning on the agitators, trying to shout them down, but Churchill called them to order, waving his hand. “No, we must respect their freedom. Freedom to disagree, and freedom even to abuse. Freedom that is denied them today in half of Europe, and will be denied in the whole of Europe if dictatorship wins the day. We cannot take our freedom in this country for granted. So let them have their say. Allow them the liberty of making fools of themselves. But I must warn you, young man”—he was pointing at one of the more persistent of his antagonists—“that if you insist on keeping your mouth open and your ears closed, you'll catch nothing but flies!”

  A mistake. Normally a speaker can have the last word, beat the hecklers at their own game but, at the rear of the crowd and out of sight of Churchill, Mac could see a well-suited middleaged man circulating, whispering in the ears of the hecklers, urging them on, pressing money into the hand of one. The day was not yet done. As soon as the cheers for Churchill had died down, the agitation started once again.

  “You talk about liberty. But what about loyalty?”

  “Loyalty, yes. To my party, to my leader, to my country. But not necessarily in that order.”

  “Loyalty to Mr. Chamberlain?”

  “I am loyal to Mr. Chamberlain. But I am loyal to freedom above all else. And freedom is not divisible. We cannot in this country be free if half of the rest of Europe is cast into slavery. We cannot turn a blind eye, for it will be our turn next. We must look at what is happening to the Jews, and take care, for if we do not I fear that we shall all soon be Jews.”

  A rhetorical gesture too far for some in the crowd. “Send 'em back to Germany. To Austria. Send 'em back to where they came from!” the cries began.

  “It would be like throwing Christians to the lions.”

  “It's called appeasement.”

  “The Christians had another name for it.”

  “These ain't Christians, they're Jews.”

  “Jesus was a Jew!” Churchill retorted hotly.

  “So was Barabbas!”

  And Churchill had lost. From all corners of the crowd shouts of derision erupted. Not from the majority, for the British majority has that peculiar habit of preferring to remain silent, embarrassed by confrontation. Placards on sticks had appeared and were being waved around the platform, blocking Churchill off from those he wanted to reach. His tongue was sharper than his opponents' but their number was greater and blunted his edge. They didn't have to win; stopping him from winning was sufficient for their purposes.

  It was too much. With a wave of his hand and muted applause from his supporters, Churchill stepped down and disappeared from view. Another day, another battle. He hadn't won this one, but there would be many more to fight. The crowd began to disperse. Carol tugged at Mac's sleeve, time to go—but now it was his turn to be reluctant to leave, looking back over his shoulder to the place where Churchill had been standing. Mac's face was raw. Linda was pulling at his hair and wanting to use him as a hobby horse but he seemed not to notice. The joy they had shared only minutes before had vanished. He
was elsewhere, in another marketplace. He remembered youths—just like those here—in Wadowice, except they had hurled not only abuse but rocks, too. He remembered asking his father why. Why us, tatele? Why don't we just stop it? “One day, kindele, you will understand,” his father had said, and dragged him away, just as Carol was doing now. But Mac could never be dragged far enough. Throughout his life, wherever he had gone and no matter how hard he had run, he had never been able to escape, not even here, no matter how hard he pretended to be almost English. They would always find him.

  Yet he had just seen one man who understood—or understood as much as any goy tzedek Gentile could. A man who had stared into the fire that was to come and was crying a warning. Yet his words seemed futile, like birdsong in a thunderstorm.

  “Mac, love, what on earth's the matter?” Carol's voice was filled with concern. This was supposed to be such a special day, yet something had gone wrong. She'd lost him, somewhere deep within himself, a place where she couldn't follow.

  “It's Yosef Ya'akov. That's the matter.”

  “Who the hell's he? And why's he upsetting you?”

  “Can't be helped.”

  “He'll need bleedin' help after I've finished with him.”

  “No he won't.” He had stopped and was looking at her, holding her wrists tight—too tight, he was almost hurting her. His skin was hot, burning inside. He had an air about him that seemed turbulent, a battleground, a territory that had been fought over many times and yet would be fought over again. “You see—it's me. Yosef Ya'akov. Yosef Ya'akov Farbenblum. My name. I think I just remembered who I am.”

  Churchill was in deep trouble. The Chigwell branch of his Epping constituency party voted to sweep all his supporters from their official positions and replace them with Chamberlainites. Then the branch in Theydon Bois declared its unambiguous support for the Prime Minister, and other branches did the same. Such moves were made possible by the sudden influx of fresh members. New names were conjured up as though by magic on the membership lists and their votes were counted in the tally against Churchill, although very few of these new members ever attended a single meeting. And every party gathering within the constituency was reminded that Epping was on the bombing route to London. Yes, Epping was nervous and blamed Winston Churchill, and there were those who wanted to ensure that the entire country knew it …