Hitler's Peace

by Philip Kerr

  There was no fanfare for the president’s arrival on board the Iowa. Waking early the next morning, we discovered that the ship was already under way, and since it seemed highly unlikely that the Iowa would have left Hampton Roads without him, we concluded that Roosevelt must have joined the ship sometime during the night.

  Donning thick coats and ignoring our hangovers, we went up onto the first superstructure deck to catch sight of the Iowa and its escort of three destroyers at sea. It was a raw, cold morning and the wind off the rough-looking sea quickly sharpened our appetites. We went forward in search of breakfast. In the captain’s mess, we found several of the Joint Chiefs and Harry Hopkins already at the table under the restless eyes of four Secret Service agents at the next table.

  A cadaverous man in his early fifties, and clearly sick from cancer—a disease that had also killed his wife and father—Hopkins glanced up from his neglected ham and eggs and nodded affably our way. “Good morning,” he said pleasantly as Generals Marshall and Arnold continued their impenetrable conversation.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  Seeing Hopkins in the flesh—what little there was of it—drove home the strangeness of a man not in uniform and with no official position in Roosevelt’s administration playing such an important role in our forthcoming mission. Beyond the fact that he was from Sioux City, Iowa, and had been secretary of commerce, I knew very little about the man who had been living in what had been Lincoln’s study at the White House for more than three years. I’d seen men with thinner arms and faces, but only on a pirate’s flag. The cuffs of his shirt had almost swallowed up his hands. His salt-and-pepper hair was as dry and lifeless as the front lawn of a bankrupt tenant farm in Oklahoma. Shadowy dark eyes full of pain gave the impression he had been stabbed just under the heart. A cynic might have suggested that Roosevelt kept Hopkins around to make himself appear electably healthy.

  Given the president’s brief, that I should understudy this frail, scrappy-looking man, I was hoping to get a chance to know him better during our voyage; but Hopkins was way ahead of me.

  “Which one of you two boys is Professor Mayer?” he asked. “The philosopher.”

  “Me, sir.”

  “I read your book,” he said, and smiled. His teeth looked so even, I wondered if they might be false. “I can’t say that I understood all of it. I was never much of a scholar. But I found it . . .” He paused. “Very energetic. And I can see why it would appeal to other philosophers to have a philosopher telling them all how important they are.”

  “In that respect, at least,” I said, “philosophers are no different from politicians.”

  “You’re probably right,” and he smiled again. “Sit down, Professor.” He shifted his smile to Schmidt. “You, too, son. Help yourself to some coffee.”

  We sat. The coffee was surprisingly good and very welcome.

  “Coming back to your book for a moment,” said Hopkins. “It seems to me that while your approach is generally right, your details are wrong. I’m not a philosopher, but I’m a pretty good gin rummy player and, well, the mistake you make is to assume that every card you hold that doesn’t look as though it might make a meld is deadwood. Your deadwood might make the other fellow a sequence, or a group, and therefore you might be ill advised to discard it. Do you see what I’m saying?”

  “Maybe that’s true,” I said. Then, embracing Hopkins’s metaphor, I continued. “But there has to be some deadwood or you couldn’t discard. And if you can’t discard, you can’t complete your turn. I like your analogy, sir, but I think it helps my position more than yours.”

  “Then I guess you should go ahead and knock,” grinned Hopkins. He finished his coffee. “I take it you play the game. Gin rummy?”

  Ted Schmidt shook his head. “Just bridge,” he said.

  “Oh, that’s too sophisticated for a country boy like me.”

  “I play,” I said.

  “Thought you did. Well, good. We’ll have a game later on.”

  Hopkins stood, nodded courteously, and left the mess. A minute or two later, the two generals followed, accompanied by Agent Rowley, leaving Schmidt and me alone with the three remaining Secret Service men. A minute or two later, Schmidt excused himself. He looked as if he was going to throw up.

  In their cheap dark suits, the three agents stuck out like a trio of gooseberries among all the uniforms and the Sloppy Joes like Schmidt and me. Underneath the White House veneer, they were just cops with better manners and sharper razors. In the cramped conditions of the ship, they seemed boxed in and unmanned. Thick-ribbed, urgent, puissant, they had the look of men who needed to ride on the running board of a presidential limousine and investigate suspicious open windows in order to give their lives meaning, in the same way that I required a good book and a Mozart quartet.

  “What exactly does a philosopher do?” asked one of them. “If you don’t mind me asking.” The man tossed a packet of Kools onto the table and leaned back in his chair.

  I picked up my coffee cup, went over to their table, and sat down. One of the other agents tamped his pipe with a biscuit-colored thumb and stared at me with dumb insolence.

  “There are three kinds of questions in life,” I told the man. “There’s the how-does-fire-work kind of question.” I picked up one of his cigarettes, put a flame to it, snapped the lighter shut, and then shook the rest of his cigarettes onto the table. “Then there’s the how-many-cigarettes-do-you-have-left kind of question. Ten take away one equals nine, right? Most of the questions you can ask in life will fall into one of those two boxes. Empirical or formal.

  “And the questions that don’t? They’re the philosophical ones. Like, ‘What is morality?’ Philosophy begins when you don’t know where to look for an answer. You say to yourself, What kind of question is this, and what kind of answer am I looking for? And is it possible that I might be able to slot this question into one of the other two boxes after all? That, my friend, is what a philosopher does.”

  The three agents looked at one another with skeptical expressions and restrained smiles on their faces. But the Secret Service agent hadn’t finished quite yet with our oceangoing Socratic dialogue. “So what about morality?” he asked. “The morality of killing someone in wartime, for instance. Better still, the morality of killing Hitler. Morality tells you that murder is wrong, right? But suppose it was Hitler. And suppose you had the chance to kill Hitler and save thousands, perhaps millions of people.”

  “You ask me, Stalin’s just as bad as Hitler,” said one of the other agents.

  “Only, here’s the thing,” continued the man. “You’re not allowed to kill him with a pistol. You gotta do it with a blade, or maybe your bare hands. What do you do then, huh? I mean everything tells you to kill him, right? To kill him, no matter what.”

  “You kill the son of a bitch,” said the third man.

  “I’m trying to ask a philosophical question here,” insisted the first man.

  “A philosopher can’t tell you what to do,” I told him. “He can only explain the issues and values that are involved. But in the end, it’s up to you to decide what’s right. Choices such as the one you describe can be difficult.”

  “Then, with all due respect, sir,” said the agent, “philosophy doesn’t sound like it’s any damned use to anyone.”

  “It won’t give you absolution. If that’s what you want, you need to see a priest. But for what it’s worth, if it was me and I had the chance to kill Hitler with a blade or my bare hands, hell, I’d do it.”

  Utilitarianism, pure and simple? The greatest happiness of the greatest number? I almost managed to convince myself. But not them. And noticing their enduring skepticism, I changed the subject, asking them their names. The one who had asked me what philosophy was made the introductions. Blond, blue-eyed, with a small scar on one cheek, he looked like a member of a German dueling society.

  “The guy with the pipe is Jim Qualter. My name is John Pawlikowski. And the tall one is Wally Rauff
.”

  I pricked up my ears as I heard that last name. Walter Rauff was also the name of the Gestapo commander in Milan. But the agent didn’t look like he’d have welcomed the information.

  THAT SAME EVENING I found myself invited up to the captain’s cabin to play gin rummy with Hopkins, General Arnold, and the president. Outside the cabin, Agent Rauff sat on a chair reading Kurt Kruger’s I Was Hitler’s Doctor. He glanced up as I appeared and, without saying anything, reached over and opened the door.

  The ship’s captain, a man named John L. McCrea, was FDR’s former naval aide and a good friend. He had turned over his own cabin to the president. A number of alterations had been made to suit the man in the wheelchair. An elevator had been installed so that FDR could move easily from one deck to another. Ramps had been built over the coaxials and other deck obstructions. A new bath had been installed, and the mirror lowered to enable the president to shave while he was in his chair.

  Roosevelt’s valet, Arthur Prettyman, had brought a number of items to help make McCrea’s largish but Spartan cabin a presidential home away from home. Not the least of these were FDR’s favorite reclining chair and some china and silver from the White House. Later, Hopkins told me that Prettyman had also brought along the president’s deep-sea fishing gear and several Walt Disney movies, including Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs and Pinocchio, which was Roosevelt’s personal favorite.

  A proper card table had been erected, and the president, wearing old trousers, a thick fishing shirt, and a hunting vest containing cigarettes and the long-stemmed matches he favored, was already shuffling the cards.

  “Come on in, Professor, and take a seat,” he said. “Arthur?” FDR turned to his black valet. “Get Professor Mayer a martini, would you, please?”

  Prettyman nodded silently and retired to the rear of the cabin to prepare my cocktail. I hoped he hadn’t borrowed the recipe from the president.

  “Did you bring some money to lose?” asked the president. “The stakes are ten cents a point. And I’m feeling lucky tonight.”

  I thought it best not to mention that I had learned to count cards at Harvard. I had once written a small paper on probability theory as a generalization of Aristotelian logic. I wondered what the laws of etiquette were on taking money from the president of the United States in a card game.

  “You’ve met Harry,” said FDR. “This is General Arnold.”

  I nodded at the chief of the American Air Force, a largish, smug-looking man who, for all his extra size, seemed not much healthier than Hopkins: sweat was pouring from his brow and his color was not good.

  “How are your quarters?” Arnold asked politely.

  “Fine, sir. Thank you.”

  “Hap hates the sea—don’t you, Hap?” said Hopkins, sitting down at the card table and pouring himself a glass of Saratoga Springs water. “Hates the sea and hates ships. I’ll deal first if you like, Mr. President.”

  “Beats swimming, I guess,” growled Arnold.

  “So what do you think of my ship?” FDR asked me.

  “Very impressive.” I took the drink from Prettyman’s silver tray and sipped it cautiously. For once, it was perfect. “I’m almost sorry that I’m not going to see all these guns in action.”

  “I don’t see why you shouldn’t see them in action,” said Roosevelt. “Come to think of it, a display of firepower might be good for morale. Let the crew know what kind of navy Hitler was fool enough to declare war on. What do you think, Harry?”

  “You’re the navy man, Mr. President, not me. If I had a stomach I might look as bad as Hap here.”

  “That true, Hap? Are you belly sick?”

  “I’m fine, sir,” Arnold said gruffly.

  Hopkins dealt the cards.

  “I think the professor’s given me a good idea,” said FDR, picking up his hand and starting to sort it. “We’ll see how the Iowa can defend itself against an air attack. Shall I go first?”

  FDR took the turned-up card and placed another on the discard pile.

  The very next moment an enormous explosion rocked the ship and, seconds later, the door burst open to reveal Agent Rauff, gun in hand. “Are you okay, Mr. President?” he gasped.

  “I’m fine, Wally,” Roosevelt said coolly.

  Then, over the loudspeaker mounted in the corner of the cabin came the warning. “General stations. General stations. This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill.”

  “What the hell’s going on?” said Arnold.

  “Sounds like we’re under attack,” said Roosevelt, not even looking up from his cards. “A submarine, perhaps.”

  “Then I’d guess we’d better stay in here and out of the way,” said Arnold. “Let McCrea do his job.” Unperturbed, he drew a card from the stock pile and placed one on top of the discards.

  Thinking I could hardly do less than General Arnold, I followed suit and found I could already make a sequence of four hearts.

  “Go and find out what’s happening, Wally,” FDR told Rauff. “And for Christ’s sake, put that fucking gun away. This is a battleship, not Dodge City.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Rauff, and holstering his weapon, he went out of the cabin to find Captain McCrea. The president took the five of spades I had just discarded and put down a diamond. “Thank you, Professor,” he muttered.

  Arnold put down the spade I needed to make a group, which prompted me to count my three remaining cards. I might have knocked as soon as I had picked up Arnold’s card but by now I had guessed what the president was doing and, holding my remaining spade, I discarded a club and decided to hang on for gin. I felt anything but calm. Somewhere, a submarine might already have fired a second torpedo that even now was speeding inexorably toward the Iowa, but there was no sign of fear in Roosevelt’s demeanor. Any tension in the president’s face had to do with the card he had just drawn. Part of me wanted to put on a life vest; instead, I waited for Arnold to take his turn, and then picked up a card.

  A moment later the door opened and Captain McCrea entered the cabin and stood to attention, although his uniform looked as if it might have managed this feat on its own. With his shiny shoes, shiny smile, shiny hair, shiny eyes, and shiny fingernails, McCrea was straight out of the box.

  “Well, John,” said FDR, “are we under attack?”

  “No, sir. A depth charge fell off the stern of one of our escort destroyers and detonated in the rough sea.”

  “How the fuck is that possible?”

  “It’s a little hard to say for sure, sir, while we’re maintaining radio silence for security reasons. But I would imagine someone didn’t set a safety the proper way.”

  “Which ship was it?”

  “The Willie D. Porter just flashed a signal to say it was them.”

  “Jesus Christ, John, isn’t that the ship that backed into another ship while the Iowa was leaving Norfolk?”

  “That’s right. Admiral King’s none too pleased about it, I can tell you.”

  “I bet he’s not,” laughed Arnold.

  “By the way, John,” Roosevelt said. “I’ve decided I’d like to see this ship demonstrate its firepower.”

  “Maybe you could use the Willie D. for practice,” said Arnold.

  “Ernie King would probably agree with you,” continued Roosevelt. “How about tomorrow morning, John?”

  “Yes, sir,” grinned McCrea. “I’ll organize a display you won’t ever forget.”

  “Since we’re not actually under attack,” said Arnold, “could we get back to the game?”

  But as soon as McCrea had left the cabin, I knocked and spread my cards on the table. “Gin,” I said.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” said FDR. “We’ll attach Willard to one of those weather balloons.”

  An hour later, when I was more than fifty points ahead, Captain McCrea returned to inform the president that the convoy was stopping to search for a man overboard from the Willie D. Roosevelt looked grimly at the darkness outside the porthole and sighed. “Poor basta
rd. The man overboard, I mean. Hell of a night to fall overboard.”

  “Look on the bright side,” suggested Hopkins. “Maybe it’s the guy who fucked up with the depth charge. Saves a court-martial.”

  “Gentlemen,” said Roosevelt. “I think we had better conclude our game. Somehow it doesn’t seem right for us to continue playing gin rummy when a man on this convoy is missing and presumably drowned.”

  With the game over, I returned to my cabin to find Ted Schmidt lying on his bunk, apparently insensible, but still holding the neck of the now empty bottle of Mount Vernon rye. I removed the bottle from Schmidt’s pudgy fingers and covered him with a blanket, wondering if his drinking was habitual or occasioned by fear of being abroad on the ocean in a battleship.

  The next morning I left Schmidt to sleep it off and returned to “Presidential Country” to watch the barrage display from the flag bridge reserved for Roosevelt’s use during the voyage. Admirals Leahy, King, and McIntire (FDR’s physician) were already on the bridge, and we were soon joined by Generals Arnold, Marshall, Somervell, Deane, and George, as well as some diplomatic personnel I didn’t recognize. Last to arrive were Agents Rowley, Rauff, and Pawlikowski, Rear Admiral Wilson Brown, Harry Hopkins, John McCloy, the assistant secretary of war, Arthur Prettyman, and the president himself. He wore a regulation navy cape with velvet collar and braid frogs and a jaunty little hat with the brim turned up. He looked like a bookmaker going to his first opera.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” Roosevelt said brightly. He lit a cigarette and glanced over the rail at the secondary battery detector and the gunfire control station below. “Looks like we picked a nice day for it.”