Churchill's Triumph

by Michael Dobbs

  “In China I’m told that patients only pay doctors when they’re healthy. If they get sick, it’s a sign the doctor has failed.”

  “Then you’d better get yourself straight back to boot camp, Commander. I guess you really fouled up this time.”

  “As you say, sir, we’ll see.”

  Suddenly, the patient let out a breath that rattled and whistled from his frame. “Just keep me going, Commander—Howard. Please! Not for my sake, but…”

  “No one’s ever going to accuse you of being selfish, sir.”

  “Uncle Joe’s suddenly started singing all the right notes—at this rate he’ll be whistling “Dixie” by the end of the week. It’s what I’ve always dreamed of. A better world, after all this madness is done with.”

  “And Marshal Stalin’s word is his bond?”

  “Damnit, I don’t know. And you and I both know I’m not going to be around to find out. But I’ve got to try.”

  It was the first time he had acknowledged that he knew.

  Bruenn gazed for a long time into the eyes of his patient. When he spoke, his voice was very soft. “What would you like me to try to do, sir?”

  “Do your best. Just like I’m trying to do. What more can they ask of either of us?”

  ***

  “Bugger off, Sawyers. Leave me alone.”

  Churchill sat gazing into the glow given off by the birch logs, a glass in his hand, his blue eyes melting.

  “Very well, zur. I’ll be back in an ’alf-hour. Put you to bed.” The servant knew his master almost as well as he knew his own duty. He would leave the old man to deal for himself with the demons that were tearing at him inside, but he would go no further than the other side of the door, waiting, watching, fending off others. At moments like this, a man deserved his privacy.

  For the first time in the many years he had served him, Frank Sawyers saw Winston Churchill afraid.

  The Prime Minister had spent the evening with Eden and Cadogan trying to thrash out a riposte to Molotov’s document, accepting some proposals, amending or ignoring others, trying to stuff the Poles with a little less German sausage and their provisional government with a few more men of good intent. Yet the longer they had argued, the more dense and complex their own document had grown, and the more imposing had seemed the simplicity of the Russian proposal. No wonder it had been so easy for Roosevelt to swallow.

  Churchill had sent a message to the President. Said it was vital for them to meet, to consider, to co-ordinate, before Stalin pulled any more rabbits out of his marshal’s hat. Churchill had asked as a matter of urgency to see the President on his own the following afternoon. In fact, he’d swallowed his pride and all but pleaded. Dear Mother of Christ, if that was what was needed, he’d get down on his knees and grovel.

  But the reply had come back from his old friend that a private meeting would not be possible. The President felt it would be inappropriate—he meant improper—for the two of them to meet at this stage of the proceedings.

  It might upset Marshal Stalin.

  ***

  In liberated Piorun, the three brothers gathered together for the first time in many years. The priest, the mayor, and the warrior sat in the darkened inn and savored the smoke of the fire and their freedom. They ate zakaksa and drank some fine old vodka that the inn-keeper had kept hidden. He charged nothing for it: he wanted only to clear his cellar. The Russians were coming. If they arrived and found alcohol, they would drink everything and smash the inn, and if they found no alcohol, they would still smash the inn. Better that his friends enjoy his last bottles than watch it disappear down the throats of beasts.

  So they sat and they drank and relived their wars, trying to ignore the sound of the approaching front. And eventually they came round to the events of the day in the square.

  That was when they had begun to argue.

  They couldn’t agree on what to do with the bodies of the three Germans. The priest wanted to give them a Christian burial, but the mayor had grown angry at the thought of them being buried in the same sacred ground as his son. He wanted them burned, all evidence of their existence erased, in revenge—and in case the Germans came back. Yet the warrior had other ideas. He insisted that the bodies be taken to the bridge at the eastern end of the town. They should be displayed there, he said, as a sign to the oncoming Russians that Piorun had liberated itself, and would do the same to all invaders.

  And, while they quarreled, the bodies continued to hang from the lamppost in the square.

  THURSDAY, 8th OF FEBRUARY, 1945

  THE FIFTH DAY

  SIX

  “Are you ill, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich?”

  Stalin used the informal ty to address his Foreign Minister, while the rest of the Politburo had to get by with the more formal vy. Molotov was the only one allowed to get close to him. It wouldn’t save him in the end, of course, but for the while, it gave him certain liberties.

  “I might die, Josef Vissarionovich.”

  “I assure you that you will die. The only question is when.”

  “Then let it be today.”

  Molotov sat at the breakfast table in Stalin’s rooms at the Yusupov sipping fitfully at his fruit juice in the vain quest for razgruzhenie—unloading. The previous night had been long and arduous, like all nights in Stalin’s company, and Molotov was desperate to allow his system to unwind a little before the next assault. Stalin watched him across the breakfast table, looking for any sign of weakness and skinning an orange with a single flick of his wrist.

  “So, what are the Americans chattering about?”

  Every morning the Russian leader and a handful of those closest to him were given transcriptions of what had been overheard in the Livadia and the Vorontsov on the previous day. There might be a shortage of plumbers in the Crimea, but the place was crawling with electricians.

  “You haven’t read the transcripts?”

  “Why should I bark when I have dogs like you?”

  Molotov gazed humorlessly through his wire-rimmed glasses. “You are too kind, Josef Vissarionovich.”

  “So it is said, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich.”

  “He’s running out of time. Apart from his unnatural passion for the United Nations, he wants to make sure we will help him with the Japanese.”

  “How much will he pay?”

  “He thinks we’ve already agreed and it’s merely a matter of timing.”

  “And payment.”

  “He hasn’t put up much of a struggle over Poland. He’ll cooperate elsewhere.”

  Stalin was silent for a while, churning over his thoughts. He pulled out his Dunhill and began to break apart his favorite Flor cigarettes to fill the bowl. Not until it was firmly alight did he turn his attention once more to his Foreign Minister. “I wonder if he’s ever going to extract his head from his arse and tell me about the bomb.”

  It was his allies’ most closely guarded secret. The Manhattan Project. The atom bomb. Churchill and Roosevelt had discussed endlessly when—or whether—they should tell the Russians about their plans, yet Stalin had known almost from the moment the project had started. His network of highly placed spies, particularly in the British Establishment, was superb.

  “It’s not yet ready.”

  “Perhaps they intend to wait until it is ready before they tell us.”

  “Or will the first we know about it be when they drop it on Moscow?”

  “The President is old and he is foolish, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich. He genuinely believes we may all live in peace after this war is over.”

  “The Soviet Union will never know peace, Josef Vissarionovich. There will always be those who wish to pull us down.”

  “But not Roosevelt, I think.”

  “I am not so sure.”

  In any other man, questioning Stalin’s judgment was taken as clear evidence o
f treason, but Molotov was a rare bird, allowed the precious privilege of thinking for himself.

  “Well, we shall see. Let’s find out how much he’s willing to pay for our help in giving birth to this new world order of his. It will be a sign. The more he gives us, the more difficult it will be to take back later.”

  “Churchill will give us trouble.”

  “Churchill will always give us trouble. Bourgeois bastard. He can’t help himself. Hasn’t changed.”

  “And, according to the chatter, Roosevelt feels much the same. He’s refusing to meet on his own with him.”

  Stalin sucked thoughtfully at his pipe. “Then I have a thought, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich,” he said, letting out a long stream of blue smoke.

  Suddenly, Molotov was sitting to attention, his pen poised. And no one sat to attention quite like Stone Arse.

  “Let’s find out if Roosevelt will meet with us again,” Stalin continued. “On his own. Without bloody Churchill. See how much he wants us. And how much he’s willing to pay.”

  “Oh, but that is an excellent idea, Josef Vissarionovich. Put him to the test.”

  “You know, I think it’s about time to throw a bucket of shit over our favorite Englishman.” Stalin smiled. “And when we do, I want to make sure his American friend is holding it.”

  ***

  The message arrived at the Livadia soon after Roosevelt had finished his breakfast. Stalin and Molotov wished to see him to discuss the war in the Far East. The note pointed out that Churchill had not been invited: it suggested that the Far East was a matter primarily for the Americans and Russians.

  Roosevelt sent everyone out of his study while he smoked another of the Camel cigarettes that Bruenn had forbidden him and considered the matter. Suddenly, he felt stronger.

  The Russians wanted to deal, to show a few of their cards, and poker was Roosevelt’s favorite distraction. He’d never been known to turn down a game if he had the time. There would be a price to pay for entry to the game with Stalin, always was, and some of the rednecks and retreads back home might say it was too high, but so what? He’d never stand for election again. It wasn’t the judgment of voters that mattered now, but that of historians. He lit a new cigarette.

  Winston would hate it, of course. But perhaps he’d never find out. The Russians wouldn’t blab, and if he kept it close to his own chest, just Harry and a couple of others, didn’t tell that old gabblejaw Stettinius. . . Anyway, peace was more important than personality. Time to face up to facts. He’d carried that old English warhorse long enough.

  A glow returned to the President’s sallow cheek. He was beginning to feel better already.

  ***

  Nowak the warrior had returned in the middle of the night to his cottage. His wife was still awake, waiting. She stoked the embers in the hearth and gave him a bowl of hot vegetable soup. It was strange to sit once more at his own table after so long, yet there was no time for reminiscence or proper reunion, for as he sipped from his wooden spoon, he told her of the quarrel that had erupted between the brothers.

  They had argued about the Russians. Nowak the politician had said that since the Germans had left Piorun, there was a chance the Russians would be reasonable and show them some respect. Nowak the warrior said the rope that had been strung round his neck must have strangled his brother’s brain, because the Russians fought without either reason or restraint; they knew only force, and it made little difference to them whether it was a German or a Pole at the end of their bayonet. And there were three types of Pole, the warrior had said, turning a rough eye on his brother. There were those who believed in Poland, those who had betrayed it to the Germans, and those who were about to betray it to the Russians. At which point, Nowak the priest intervened to suggest that their only option was to put their trust in God.

  “I’ll trust my soul to God,” the warrior replied, “but I’ll swim in the rivers of Hell before I give my country to those stinking Bolsheviks.”

  So the three brothers, so briefly united, had gone their separate ways.

  Now the warrior sat at his table and gave his wife instructions. She was to kill the cow. She argued that if she did so they would have nothing with which to work the fields in spring, but he told her that there would be no spring: it would be cancelled by the Russians. If she did not kill the cow, the Russians would take it, along with any other livestock and all the seed. What they wanted for themselves they would use, and what they did not want they would sell back to the people of Piorun. “Better that we kill the cow and make use of the meat than leave it to the Mongols and Cossacks,” he said.

  The Nowaks had nothing of value, apart from the cow and a few chickens. But anything she held dear, any photograph or even item of clothing, she was to hide, if she could. The Russians would take everything.

  “And what of me, Papa?” she asked.

  He kissed her forehead, her torn fingers, and finally her lips. “Nie kulturny,” he said, and repeated the phrase until she could say it. No culture. Some Russian officers were sensitive to the accusation, he had heard, and perhaps the men under them, too. It might restrain them.

  And for an hour he had lain beside his wife in their bed, a bed he had last slept in more than five years before, and he had sung her one of the lullabies they had used with their children and their grandchildren.

  Then, as the first thin threads of dawn wove themselves through the winter sky, he had kissed her one last time, picked up his sheepskin and his gun, and left for the forest.

  ***

  Old men—tired old men—in a hurry.

  Stalin was expected and excitement rippled throughout the Livadia. Footsteps paced urgently along the parquet flooring. Americans checked their watches, and grim-faced Russian security men inspected every corner and closet. White-jacketed servants were everywhere, endlessly polishing banisters and doorknobs. Everyone was watching, and waiting.

  Four of the six days that Roosevelt had allotted to saving the world had already passed, and although he had come to recognize that he might have to stay for the full biblical seven, there was still so much to do, and so little time to do it. Everything was being done in a hurry.

  Like the faithful retriever he was, Stettinius rushed to bring Roosevelt the results of his morning’s work. The three foreign ministers had been meeting in an effort to sweep up some of the remaining problems on the United Nations. Many things had been settled, but there was still a difficulty with the votes. The Soviet Union still wanted three; the British Empire and its dominions, like Canada and Australia, would end up with five or six; and still the United States would get only one. In a flush of enthusiasm on the previous day, Roosevelt had indicated that this might be acceptable, but no other American thought so. Something would have to be done. But what?

  Yet in so many other areas the Foreign Ministers had found agreement, on everything except the votes. It was progress, at least. And it was this good news that Stettinius wanted to bring his master at the first opportunity. He found him in his study.

  “I thought I’d better report before the Marshal arrives,” he began. “We’ve had a most productive morning.”

  “Great news, Ed,” the President responded distractedly, as he made a final shuffle through his notes.

  “The Russians have been playing ball,” the Secretary of State continued, still a little breathless, “and I’ve managed to squeeze a whole number of concessions from them.”

  “Excellent.”

  “We’ve reached agreement on everything—”

  Then the door had swung open and Stalin was there.

  Stettinius had been in the process of saying that they had reached agreement on everything except the issue of votes for the Soviet countries, but he hadn’t finished, and as he watched Stalin shaking the President’s hand he knew he was never going to get the opportunity, no matter how much he hovered and flapped. The le
aders were rushing, there was no time. . . As the door swung shut behind him, he heard the two congratulating each other.

  “The Foreign Ministers—they’ve agreed on everything,” the American said.

  “On the extra votes?”

  “Yes. That, too.”

  It was done. The deal agreed. There could be no going back. The door closed on the Secretary of State and his most hapless career.

  Inside the President’s study, six men were seated—the President, the Marshal, Harriman, Molotov and the interpreters. They had only thirty short minutes, which included the time needed for translation, but it was all they would need to change the face of the world.

  Once more, Roosevelt shuffled the notes that Harriman had prepared for him. They were so simple, made such sense. The Japanese still had four million men under arms and invading the Japanese mainland was going to be one of the most godless tasks of the entire rotten war. “So, dear Marshal, we’d like to bomb the crap out of them first, and if you’d kindly let us use some of your Russian bases for our heavy bombers. . .

  “Of course, my dear President, we’d be happy to help. No objection to bases at Komsomolsk or Nikolaevsk. . .”

  “But they’re in Siberia. More than a thousand miles from Tokyo.”

  “Naturally. Anything closer would be inappropriate,” the Russian responded. “After all, my country is at peace with Japan.”

  Roosevelt’s jaw dropped. “But we thought you had agreed to enter the war against Japan.”

  At which point the Russian shrugged. “I personally would be happy to support our great American ally,” he said. “God willing, we could be ready perhaps. . . ninety days after the surrender of Germany?” Molotov nodded coldly in approval. “But how will I explain to my people why we are jumping from one great war into another? Russia is at peace with Japan,” Stalin repeated. “They haven’t attacked us, threatened us in any way. We’ve signed a treaty of friendship.”