Churchill's Triumph

by Michael Dobbs

  “No, Marshal, no,” Roosevelt said. He was shaking his head, in genuine anguish. Yet when Stalin turned to glare at Churchill he found nothing but an expression of steel.

  “Ah, but I have made a discovery,” Stalin continued, stabbing his finger in accusation at the Englishman. “You, Mr. Churchill, no longer want to crush Germany. Oh, all those defiant words we remember of a few years ago, but you’ve changed. You have a new plan. Why won’t you be honest? You don’t want to punish Germany, no—you want her to become prosperous and fat once more, as a milk cow for British business.”

  Churchill’s face colored. He threw down his glasses and he banged the table in anger. “I will not listen to such accusations!” he shouted. “No one has fought Nazi Germany longer or harder than we British. I am more than content that Russia should have first consideration on any compensation we may seek from Germany—yes, half of everything—but I will not sit here and listen to Britain being accused of greed. And I will not sign!”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen…” Roosevelt sighed, praying for an outbreak of sweet reason. “Surely there must be some means, Marshal, of finding an agreement that gives you what you want, gives you justice, without getting stuck on this figure of twenty billion.”

  “But it was your own secretary of state, Stettinius, who only yesterday evening agreed to it!” Stalin stormed. Look, I have it in the minutes.” He waved a piece of paper like a prosecutor with a signed confession.

  Roosevelt swallowed hard. “I’m sure that was an expression of our sympathy, Marshal, rather than a commitment.”

  “If that’s so, then it is sympathy that has vanished with the dew.”

  “Marshal Stalin, if you would be kind enough to sit down,” Churchill said, “I will be happy to repeat my undertaking that Russia should have first claim on whatever is extracted from Germany, and half of the final total. It is simply that until we know the circumstances better I cannot agree to a set figure. I have orders from my Cabinet.”

  “Orders? I thought you said they were no more than instructions.”

  “Sadly, I am not a dictator. I, for one, must do as I am told.”

  “And it is so very difficult, Marshal, to put a precise figure on—well, the value of manpower.” Roosevelt sounded almost ashamed, as indeed he was. Germany had taken Russians as slaves for hard labor in their factories and mines, and now it was to be the Russians’ turn. Forced labor. Nothing would stop them. There was to be no emancipation, no freedom from slavery. The best the American would get was to ensure that the victims of this terrible policy weren’t described as slaves in the final protocol, so that his shame should not be made public.

  And yet, as much as the President metaphorically squirmed and fidgeted, he was still arguing, still resisting. Stalin realized he wasn’t going to get all that he wanted, not here, at least. “We shall take twenty billion as a starting point,” he said, “and get our officials to sort out the details later.” Then he sat down.

  A starting point. Not a finishing point, only a starting point. A linguistic loophole, but it was enough. Churchill and Roosevelt nodded, and officials scurried off to put textual flesh on this meager bone.

  Churchill sat back in his chair, inwardly content. If the three of them couldn’t sort out this problem in a week, there was a damned fine chance that their underlings would have trouble sorting it out in a lifetime. Germany might not be raped—not all of Germany, at least. There was a chance.

  And now another piece of paper was floating round the table—God, was there no respite? He reclaimed his spectacles and read. Poland. And his sorrows flowed again. Meanwhile, that contemptible maggot Molotov was at it once more, proposing yet further changes to the agreed text, perhaps already trying to extract revenge for the setback on reparations. “So I would like to suggest,” he said, reading from a scribbled note, “on the matter of the new eastern boundaries, that it might be useful to refer to ‘the return to Poland of her ancient frontiers in East Prussia and on the Oder.’ To emphasize the historical justification.”

  “Ancient frontiers?” Roosevelt asked. “How ancient? How long ago were these places Polish, then?”

  Molotov swallowed. “A very long time ago,” he replied slowly, his expression totally deadpan.

  “Awkward precedent. Why, Winston, maybe on that basis you’d want your American colonies back?”

  “No, thanks, Franklin. Too troublesome by half.”

  Stalin joined Churchill and Roosevelt in their laughter, while Molotov quietly screwed up his little note.

  ***

  The train traveled fitfully, ever onwards, and away. The only sustenance they had during the day was a little rye bread and the dark, strong black tea that was served to them by sweating babushkas and which they drank through pieces of hard sugar clamped between their teeth.

  As dusk was falling, the train pulled into the outskirts of a substantial town. It was not allowed to go any further: an unexploded mine had been discovered beside the signal box, a present from the departing Wehrmacht who had left this place less than a year before. Sappers were busy disposing of it, and while they did so, nothing moved, and the schedule of arrivals and departures, always tenuous at best, was thrown into further chaos. For the moment, Nowak and the others were going nowhere. They were allowed on to the platform to stretch their legs, and they were soon surrounded by a small army of women selling food and drink, and items of tobacco, and serving more tea from steaming samovars. No one had any idea how long they would be staying.

  Nowak had taken little interest in the course of these events. He had no appetite, and he had lost all hope. They were now too far away from Yalta for him to make it back. Even if he had taken the risk and slipped away from the platform in the growing darkness, he had no idea of where he was and there was nowhere for him to go. It was over.

  All around him there was noise. Guards shouted instructions as men and women haggled for food and station hands went around with huge spanners banging away at wheels. The engine continued to belch plumes of steam, and someone began to play a mouth organ. The confusion grew as another train drew in on the far side of the platform. More men poured forth; another convoy, filled with construction workers, headed south, to the port of Sebastopol.

  That was when Nowak saw him. The man was no youngster and everything about him sagged: the stomach, the shoulder, the spirit. He seemed to prefer his own company, or perhaps it was simply that he had no friends. Nowak approached. As he got near he could smell the sourness of alcohol and onion on his breath. The hands were dirty, uncertain, heavily calloused, and trembled as he sipped his glass of tea. They were a drinker’s hands. “Got any cards, comrade?”

  The shallow eyes turned slowly in his direction. “What if I do?”

  “We could be here all night. Fancy a game? Durak, maybe?”

  There was no suspicion in the eyes, no joy, no warmth, nothing much at all, until they saw the large bottle of vodka that Nowak had just bought from one of the babushkas. Suddenly the man wanted nothing more than to play cards. With fingers that seemed to creak with stiffness the stranger scoured through his pockets, only to come up with a miserable collection of coins and small notes. He held them out and shrugged apologetically.

  “Don’t worry, friend,” Nowak reassured him. “I want to kill time, not your pocket. Let’s sit.”

  So they found their way to an end of the platform where the jostle of the crowd was less intense, and in the gloom they sat propped against a brick wall. As the night drew on, they played and they drank, except that Nowak played badly and drank almost nothing at all.

  “You play like an old woman.” The stranger chuckled, winning yet another hand.

  “Just luck. It will change.”

  But it didn’t. Soon the stranger was brimming over, not only with winnings and with vodka but also with contentment. He celebrated by finishing off the bottle.

 
When the call came to return to the trains, the stranger was in a sleep so profound that he heard nothing. They had to search for him. Even when the guards kicked him and screamed at him, he scarcely stirred, and when they threw him back on to the train he had precious little idea what was going on. And by that time Nowak was nowhere to be seen.

  He was already miles away. He had satisfied the guards, fulfilled all their requirements, been counted on to the other train in place of the drunk and kept their tally filled, and now he was heading in the opposite direction.

  South.

  Back towards Yalta.

  ***

  The conference in the Crimea was drawing to its close. The participants had reached the point of exhaustion where matters were settled, even though they knew things weren’t right, simply because they feared the consequences of lingering, although Cadogan proved to be something of a terrier and continued to pursue his prey with determination. A damned fine ratter, Churchill called him.

  The Prime Minister played host for the final dinner. They gathered at the Vorontsov, but only after a squad of NKVD goons had flushed through the place, locking doors, peering behind walls and into cupboards, like seaside landladies checking that the guests weren’t stealing the towels. This was not done gently, and they were so thorough that some of those staying and working in the Vorontsov were forced to walk round the outside in order to get to their rooms.

  Stalin set the tone for the evening. He strode up the steps of the palace pursued by a host of security men, to be greeted at the door by Sawyers. A comical wrestling match ensued as the servant tried to assist the Marshal off with his greatcoat.

  “What, Englishman? You want to steal my coat?” the Russian demanded gruffly. Only belatedly did he laugh and place his red-striped Marshal’s cap on Sawyers’s head. Throughout the evening he would miss no opportunity to leave a tiny barb in any Englishman who crossed his path. A parting gift.

  Then poor, dear Franklin arrived slumping in his wheelchair and surrounded by oversized, square-jawed young men in trilbies. It made him look so frail. Churchill gave his guests glasses of champagne and invited them into the Map Room. It was where he and Stalin had started at Yalta, and it was noticeable that in the ensuing week the lines of battle in the east had moved inexorably closer to Berlin. Less than fifty miles to go before the Russians would be kicking down the doors of the Reichstag. Meanwhile, the forces under Eisenhower’s command were still gathering themselves a world away, stuck on the far side of the Rhine. For all the pieces of paper that had been pushed back and forth during their week in the Crimea, this map was the one that truly mattered.

  From his wheelchair, Roosevelt waved languidly at the scene. “You know, gentlemen, some years ago my wife was asked to go and open up a school in the country. When she got there she found a large map of the world stuck on the wall. On it was this huge blank space. It stretched all the way from the Pacific to the plains of Europe, and when she asked what it was, she was told in a hushed voice that it was the Soviet Union—but the teachers were not allowed to mention it. It was forbidden even to talk of its existence. That was during my first term as president. I am delighted, Marshal Stalin, and more than a little proud, to see how far our nations have come.”

  Quietly the two men raised their glasses to each other, leaving Churchill to stare at a map that, within a few years, had gone from a total blank to a huge red stain spreading across the world, like blood on a bandage. And that was how it was to be for the rest of the evening: Stalin bluff and combative, Roosevelt nostalgic to the point of turning maudlin, and Winston Churchill.

  “You see,” Stalin said, thumping his finger into the map, “Germany is the heart of all our problems. And I shall have to return home and explain to the Russian people that, in spite of all their sacrifices and all their pain, they will get no compensation, no reparations, because the British say so.”

  “Never been my point. Never will be,” Churchill growled. “You can go home and tell the Russian people what you want. Won’t change the facts, Marshal.”

  “Boys, boys,” Roosevelt cut in, trying to act the uncle, even though he was the youngest.

  But Stalin wasn’t finished. “There are rumors in Switzerland, Mr. Churchill, that you might want to do a deal with Germany. Make a separate peace, once they’ve got rid of Hitler.”

  “I have to tell you, Marshal Stalin, that I have no experience of doing deals with Hitler. If I were even to think of it, be assured I should come to you first, to gain from your own considerable experience in the matter.”

  They stood smiling at each other, both wondering whether to push the button that would ignite the evening beyond repair.

  “As for such ridiculous rumors, we Britons have a marching song from the last war that I think adequately reflects the position of His Majesty’s Government. God bless him!” He started singing, in a bass voice that was cracked and deeply flawed: “Keep right on to the end of the road, keep right on to the end. . . ” Then he turned on his heel and led them into dinner.

  It was an intimate affair: the numbers were small, only nine including the interpreters, since many of the senior officials and military men had already left Yalta to return to their duties, with instructions to make all those lines on Churchill’s maps move a little faster.

  “I have ordered a roast of beef,” Churchill announced, as they took their places.

  “Splendid,” Stalin offered, in both congratulation and expectation.

  “It is the fare of kings!” Churchill added, with a chuckle. “Enough of the republican fare you’ve both been serving.”

  “The Central Committee may insist I lose my appetite.”

  “Nevertheless you must drink,” Churchill responded, rising once more to his feet and holding his glass aloft. “To the three heads of our three states.”

  Stalin was also on his feet. “To the three heads of our three states,” he echoed.

  “Yes, to President Roosevelt”—Churchill nodded in the American’s direction while Stalin grunted in approval—“President Kalinin. . . and His Majesty the King!”

  “To the three heads of state,” Stalin repeated once more.

  And honor was satisfied.

  But Churchill remained on his feet. “It is also my honor to propose the health of Marshal Stalin. It is a toast I have drunk on several occasions, but this time I drink it with a warmer feeling than on previous meetings, not because he is more triumphant but because the great victories and the glory of Russian arms have made him kindlier than he was.”

  Kindlier than he was? A clumsy suggestion, which left Stalin wondering when he had shown kindliness to this man, and worrying that he might have been too soft in the negotiations.

  But Churchill was still speaking. “I feel that, whatever differences there may be between us on certain questions, the Marshal has a good friend in Britain. I hope to see the future of Russia bright, prosperous, and happy. I will do anything to help, as, I am sure, will the president.”

  From his wheelchair, Roosevelt nodded like a rag doll, while Stalin was left asking himself what Britain could offer Russia that he hadn’t already taken.

  “There was a time when the Marshal was not so kindly towards us”—that phrase again—“and I remember that I said a few rude things about him, too. But our common dangers and common loyalties have wiped all that out. The fire of war has burned up the misunderstandings of the past. We feel we have a friend whom we can trust, and I hope he will continue to feel the same about us.”

  Stalin beamed. Of course he’d always feel the same about this old imperialist and his tawdry little island. Some things would never change.

  “I pray,” Churchill concluded, “we may live to see his beloved Russia not only glorious in war, but also happy in peace.”

  The Englishman drank deep and resumed his seat. Stalin leaned across the table. “Are you glad now that you and
your armies didn’t kill me all those years ago?”

  “I hope one day I shall have the pleasure of seeing you driven down the Mall in London, my dear Marshal.” Preferably in chains.

  “Careful, Marshal,” Roosevelt warned, not fully comprehending what was passing between the other two, “or Winston’ll start singing again. It’s the British secret weapon. There is no known antidote.”

  And cheerfully the Englishman hummed a few bars of “The Roast Beef of Old England.”

  “You know,” Roosevelt began, settling back in his wheelchair, “I’m left in amazement and no little awe at how much we three have learned from each other—and about each other. It’s like. . . well, in the United States there’s an organization that goes by the name of the Ku Klux Klan. It has a ferocious reputation. It takes its stand against many things—Catholics, Jews, Negroes. And there I was once in a small southern town as a guest of the local chamber of commerce. On one side of me sat a Jew, on the other side was a man who, by his name, was clearly an Italian Catholic. So after we had got to know each other a little, I asked them if they ever had any difficulties with the Klan. “Why, no,” they cried, “we’re both members! It’s all right, you see, because everybody in the town knows us.” The president laughed quietly at the recollection. “I think that’s what has happened here, in the Crimea. It’s the key to sweeping away all prejudice—getting to know each other.”

  The inanity of the observation struck Churchill like a thunderbolt. It left him waiting for a witty punchline, something that would turn the story round, give it relevance. But no, that was it, and all of it. The president was that far gone.

  “I suppose we are like the Three Musketeers,” Churchill muttered, struggling to find some response that the President wouldn’t find hurtful. “All for one—and one for all!” He raised his glass again. He was going to need it to get through this evening.

  “That leads me to another thought, gentlemen,” Roosevelt continued, his brow creased in deep thought. “I wonder—what you’ve just said, Winston, I know it’s a little late to raise it, but the voting procedures in the United Nations. It’s not all for one and one for all, is it? We’ve given the Marshal three votes, and the British Empire in total has even more. . . The United States has only one. I apologize for not thinking about it before but I wonder. . . would you agree to allowing the United States three votes? To match yours, Marshal? It might make things so very much easier with public opinion back home.”