© 2005, 2008 by Michael Dobbs
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Dobbs, Michael.
Churchill’s triumph / Michael Dobbs.
p. cm.
1. Yalta Conference (1945)--Fiction. 2. Churchill, Winston, Sir, 1874-1965--Fiction. 3. Roosevelt, Franklin D. (Franklin Delano), 1882-1945--Fiction. 4. Stalin, Joseph, 1879-1953--Fiction. 5. World War, 1939-1945--Peace--Fiction. I. Title.
PR6054.O23C47 2008
823’.914--dc22
2007041868
CONTENTS
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Epilogue
Postscript
Reading Group Guide
About the Author
Back Cover
Dedicated to the memory of Dr. Panagis V. Vandoros (codename Pan), a survivor of Hitler and Stalin
“History with its flickering lamp stumbles along the trail of the past, trying to reconstruct its scenes, to revive its echoes, and kindle with pale gleams the passions of former days.”
—Winston Churchill
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The records passed down by history can be frustrating. The documents and recollections left behind after the conference at Yalta are incomplete, at times inaccurate, and hopelessly contradictory. Churchill himself wrote that “one of the most misleading factors in history is the practice of historians to build a story exclusively out of the records which have come down to them,” and he knew a thing or two about his art. Yet what perhaps matters even more than the detailed chronology is the spirit of the thing, and that is where novels play their part. Novels can try to fill the gaps left behind by the formal records. After all, history is far more than an assembly of statistics and dates, it’s the interaction of countless people fueled by passion, prejudice, aspiration, intellect, and all those other bits that make us go round, with the mixture occasionally doused in a good shower of alcohol, at least in Winston’s case. Throw in a measure of ill health or boundless ambition and the results are inevitably provocative and usually unpredictable. Novels dare to tread along paths that scare off formal historians, but these slippery paths may lead nonetheless to understanding as well as enjoyment.
That, at least, is the ambition behind Churchill’s Triumph. The events reflected in it are, I think, recorded as accurately as in many so-called academic works, but I should throw in one or two words of caution. Marian Nowak is a fictional character and Piorun a fictional town. However, I believe they both offer a strong flavor of the events that took place in Poland at that time. I don’t wish to give a complete bibliography, but anyone wanting to read about what happened in Poland in early 1945 should try to find a copy of Flight in the Winter by the German author Juergen Thorwald. Its description of Soviet savagery is chilling.
As for the conference at Yalta, while I have tried to remain true to the course of events, I have omitted large chunks of the proceedings and taken dramatic liberties with other parts, yet most of what I have written about at the major events of the conference actually happened. But one thing that did not happen was Beria’s attack on Sarah. That is a little part of the fiction. But the point is, it might have happened—Beria was a notorious and most brutal sexual predator who never showed a glimmer of compassion for the feelings of others, and there was much drunkenness at the dinner in question. The purpose of the episode is to illustrate the exceptional personal conflicts that faced Churchill throughout those days in the Crimea. Winston wasn’t great because he found things easy but because he faced impossible dilemmas, yet somehow he dealt with them.
I should also point out that there are people alive today, Churchill’s family and friends, who were with him on his last cruise aboard the Christina. A little about that voyage is in the public record, and I have been anxious not to seek from those who were present any further details of the desperately distressing scenes they witnessed between Winston and his son, Randolph. I believe I have got the spirit of the occasion right, and I have no wish to revive old sorrows among those family and friends by probing more deeply. This is, after all, a novel.
However, those who share my fascination with Winston Churchill and wish to find out more should consider doing three things. They should join the Churchill Centre and Societies (www.winstonchurchill.org), whose website, officers and journal are an unceasing source of information and encouragement. They shouldn’t hesitate to visit the Imperial War Museum, where Terry Charman in particular has responded to all my inquiries with an enthusiasm for his topic that is infectious. And they should make a firm date to go to the new Churchill Museum that has been opened within the Cabinet War Rooms in Whitehall. Its director, Phil Reed, and his staff have worked wonders in bringing together what is one of the finest combinations of exhibition and entertainment I have ever seen. It would undoubtedly have appealed to the old man himself, and brought out the schoolboy in him. I can see him now, charging around the extraordinary interactive displays with a roar of joy. The only thing it misses in being thoroughly authentic is that whiff of cigar smoke . . .
I also want to throw a huge hug of thanks round Rachel, my wife, and our collective band of boys. If marriage is a journey of adventure, authorship is a mountain along the way, yet we seem to have climbed the obstacle with a remarkable degree of happiness even while my desk was covered with dirty plates, schoolwork, and builders’ dust.
I am indebted to my neighbor, John de Mora-Mieszkowski, who has given me excellent advice on both Polish culture and drinking habits.
Finally, I would like to thank, as so often, my dear friend Andrei Vandoros and his wife, Lucy. The book is dedicated to Andrei’s father, who was a prime inspiration for this book and its story of Marian Nowak. Dr. Pan Vandoros was a man who knew hunger, despair, torture, and the insides of both Hitler’s and Stalin’s prison camps all too well, yet throughout all his suffering he retained both his dignity and his abiding belief in humanity.
Michael Dobbs
Wylye, May 2005
JUNE 1963
THE MEDITERRANEAN
PROLOGUE
It was a moment that, in time, would be seen as marking the beginning of the end. He would soon be gone. Dead. Not tomorrow, not the next day, but one day soon. Those around him knew it, as he knew it, too, which made his son’s behavior all the more shameful and impossible to fo
rgive.
It was to be the last cruise of Winston Churchill’s long life, an unhurried voyage on board the yacht Christina that would take them through the Strait of Messina and into the Ionian Sea before the insistent heat of summer arrived and left them flinching. The Christina was almost as much of a legend as the old man. She had started her working life as a humble Canadian naval frigate but had been transformed without thought of cost into the most luxurious vessel afloat. She had handrails cut from ivory and fireplaces inlaid with lapis-lazuli; she had her own surgery, her own cinema and even a red and white Piaggio seaplane. In truth, she was so crammed with marble and mechanical gadgets that she was top heavy and at times developed a noticeable pitch and yaw. Sailing in the Christina, her owner explained, was like clinging to the bosom of an opera star, although he usually expressed it in rather more earthy style.
Aristotle Onassis was an undersized swashbuckler of a Greek who had spent a lifetime roaming the seas, a modern-day pirate who had made and lost several fortunes yet always came back for more, and of all his earthly possessions the Christina was the most seductive. He used it to make powerful friends, to woo numerous mistresses, and to keep his distance from those ordinary folk who would never be either. There was nothing ordinary about Onassis: he always made an impression—he insisted on it—and didn’t care much about who was hurt along the way. He took boyish pleasure in telling his female guests that the bar stools on which they were perched were covered with the skin from a whale’s genitalia, and that they were sitting on the biggest prick in the world. He didn’t give a damn about their reaction, so long as there was one. In his fifty-seven years he had won and lost the affections of money-lenders, monarchs, and movie stars yet, no matter who stormed out of his life, there was always a queue at the harbor side waiting to clamber on board.
But Winston Churchill seemed to be an exception. Since they had met five years earlier the Greek had gone out of his way to take personal care of the elderly statesman’s comfort, ensuring there was whisky on his breakfast tray, that his favorite films were lined up by the projector, and there was absolutely no whistling anywhere on board. Churchill hated whistling, and although he was growing deaf and in all probability would have heard nothing short of cannon fire, the Greek was taking no chances. He placed one of Churchill’s own paintings in the salon, moving aside an El Greco to make space, and read all of Churchill’s histories to ensure they would never be lost for conversation. Churchill was small and pink while Onassis was still smaller and dark, like an olive—“He’s the only man I can look up to without breaking my neck,” the Greek once joked. It was an unlikely match, the hairy-assed pirate and the pink-cheeked politician, and it raised many an eyebrow, but it worked, and at the age of eighty-eight that was really all that mattered to Winston.
There was only a handful of other guests on board, all carefully selected: Churchill no longer had the energy for new acquaintance and Onassis ensured that the faces around the old man were friendly and familiar—which was why, with considerable hesitation, he had invited Randolph, Churchill’s only son, to join them. It was Randolph who had introduced his father to Onassis in the first place, yet the son was rarely asked on board when Winston was around. Randolph was trouble. He’d inherited his father’s affection for alcohol and argument, yet while Winston knew his limits and usually stayed within them, for Randolph there were no limits. He would start an argument with a chair if he were left too long on his own and would rake over the embers of any quarrel in the hope of igniting it once more. He loved his father yet, like all the other parts of his life, it was an emotion he was unable to control.
Earlier that day, as the sun was setting and the evening air had filled with the scent of ship’s polish and tangerines, they had sailed past the island of Stromboli near the toe of Italy. It was renowned for its active volcano yet had appeared as nothing more than a mauve smudge in the descending gloom. Churchill, with his painter’s eye and inescapable love of the dramatic, had remarked how disappointing it seemed and Onassis, as always anxious to please his friend, had tugged on the yacht’s siren and tried to taunt the island into activity. “Come on, you wop bastar-r-r-r-d,” he had cried. “Show us what you’re made of, balls or blanks.” The island had seemed to tremble—surely it was nothing but the weakening light?—and then a column of fire had formed, thrusting itself ever higher and spawning fluorescent offspring that ran riot across the sky. The old man had chuckled in delight—and it was so difficult to stir the passion in him nowadays—but Onassis was an old pirate, a slave to the sea and its myths. He fell silent, ashamed at his bravado. It was a bad omen.
Later that evening, as the Christina continued its voyage through the inkwell waters of the Mediterranean, Churchill made a flamboyant entrance into the dining room, arriving like an ancient Ottoman caliph, borne aloft in a chair carried by four thick-limbed members of the crew. He had broken his hip the previous year and was no longer very mobile, yet still he instinctively raised two fingers and waved them at the other diners. Old men, old habits.
“We shall find him on the beaches,” Randolph mocked, too loudly, his voice saturated with tobacco and whisky.
“So glad you could join us on boar-r-r-r-d, Randy,” Onassis growled, in his heavy, rolling English as the crewmen settled the father at his place in the middle of the table. “Don’t know why we don’t get together like this more often—God’s truth, I don’t.”
Randolph winced. Even through the haze of cigarette smoke he had little difficulty in making out the warning he was being given. He lowered his head and studied his tumbler, swirling the whisky around before draining the glass and handing it to one of the hovering servants.
The dinner proceeded in Olympian style. The Greek showered praise on those men present, abused many who were not and, in his open and uninhibited fashion, he made a pass at the women. He came round a second time for Lee Radziwill. She was the third and considerably younger wife of Prince Stanislaw Radziwill and was also the sister of Jackie Kennedy, the wife of the U.S. President. Onassis knew and desired the two sisters and, in time, would sleep with both, in much the same way that he had already seduced his own sister-in-law when his wife had run off with his much-loathed business rival and brother-in-law, Stavros Niarchos. “We like to keep these things in the family,” he would explain, to bewildered English observers.
There was a routine to these occasions. Churchill was the guest of honor and the other diners would try to engage him in conversation, but as their spirits and their voices rose his deafness reduced it all to a sound like the buzzing of gnats round a stagnant pond, and gave him about as much pleasure, so he would say little and sometimes nothing at all. It was rumored that he was going gaga, losing his mind, but much of it was the deafness and the stifling boredom that trailed in its wake. He had grown tired of being a god, untouchable. That was why he enjoyed the company of Ari Onassis, a man who supplied enough vigor for both of them and managed to shower everything with the finest champagne.
The evening lengthened, candles cast flickering shadows across the dining-table, and the Greek’s energy came to focus increasingly on the princess. Her husband, who claimed descent from William the Conqueror, appeared entirely indifferent to the suggestive hand on his wife’s arm; rumor had it that he had his own distractions, yet somehow through the thicket of their short marriage they had managed to produce two infant children.
“So, the boy,” Onassis exclaimed to her. “Perhaps he will be like his ancestor, William. A great conqueror.”
“Bastard,” Churchill interjected, without lifting his head from his plate. It was his first comment of the evening.
“What. . . ?”
“Bastard,” the old man repeated, lisping heavily. “Before he became William the Conqueror he was known simply as William the Bastard.”
A flush spread rapidly from the princess’s breasts to her cheeks, although whether the rush of blood was caused by her intake of
alcohol, her imminent seduction or the fact that her son had been born only five months after her marriage, even she didn’t know. And no one was entirely sure if the old man was trying to make a point about the child or had simply fallen half-cock into the conversation.
As the guests sat in silence, bemused, he raised his eyes. “They said I was much of a bastard, too. Born before my time, in a cloakroom at Blenheim. My darling mother explained that I was very premature, always too eager to get on with things.” His rheumy eyes roamed the table until they attached themselves to Randolph. He waved his knife at his son. “You, however, were not born a bastard. Your friends say that only a lifetime of diligent application has made you one. I welcome you to the ranks.”
The others laughed, but Randolph hadn’t heard the humor and instead perceived only a slight. His brow clouded. “I am what you made me, Papa.”
The old man considered for a moment. “A fine writer,” he said, before returning his attention to his food.
But for Randolph this wasn’t enough. He brooded a while. Seated at the table were men of extraordinary renown—a prince, a shipping magnate and, of course, his father, the most famous man on the planet. And Randolph? Well, he was, as his father had said, a writer, a journalist who had taken the tart’s ransom at the News of the World. He had been born to so much yet, deep inside, he knew he’d achieved so very little; even deeper down, he blamed this on his father. Randolph was fifty-two and had spent his entire life living in a shadow. Stood for Parliament many times; defeated on almost every occasion. An excellent writer, yet with a reputation reduced to insignificance beside his father’s tattered histories. The father had acclaim, immense royalties, and a Nobel Prize for Literature while the son made his way as. . . a journalist. A hired hack. Oh, yes, he was also his father’s biographer, but even that accolade had been granted by the old man only after years of hesitation and with all too obvious reluctance. Randolph was sick to his soul of being punished simply because he was his bloody father’s son, and it wasn’t as if Winston had been much of a father, either.
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