The Wilson Deception

by David O. Stewart

  “For what?”

  “Hard to be sure. Anything different from before.”

  Cook was quiet while Fraser tried to organize the chaos on his desk. He made no medical record of his examination of Joshua because, officially, Joshua wasn’t there. Finally he sat back. “Seems that Dulles boy can move mountains.”

  “I can’t let myself think about the sort of hold he’s got over Joshua. I’m afraid we’ve exchanged the frying pan for the fire.”

  “There he is,” Fraser said when Joshua walked in. Joshua had ditched the Senegalese uniform for French workman’s clothes his father had brought. “Say, young man. I wonder if you remember the last time we met?” When Joshua looked confused, Fraser went on. “It was the picnic on the Fourth of July, our nation’s birthday, in 1900. We were next to a stream in Cadiz, Ohio.”

  “What was I, four years old? I’m supposed to remember?”

  The older men laughed. Cook stood. He was surprised how tired he was. “I need to get this young soldier tucked in. Who knows what’s next?”

  Chapter 13

  Tuesday, March 18, 1919

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen.” The president glided into Colonel House’s large office in the Hotel Crillon. Clemenceau and Lloyd George, seated next to the fire on the chilly mid-March afternoon, rose with wide smiles and open hands. They had not seen each other for a month while Wilson was back in America, Lloyd George was in London, and Clemenceau recovered from his bullet wound. The president, half a head taller than both and conspicuously clean-shaven, warmly returned their gay greetings, grasping the hand of each.

  As Wilson settled into his seat before the fire, attendants brought them tea and cookies, then retired from the room. Clemenceau assured his colleagues he was fully recovered from the shooting.

  “Your health,” Wilson said, “is a miracle.”

  “Ah, no,” the Frenchman answered. “A miracle would have been to prevent that madman from shooting at me.” He added with a twinkle, “It seems that during our recess, I may have had the best time of the three of us.”

  The other two offered thin smiles.

  “You know how the unions can be,” Lloyd George said through his feather-duster mustache. “One must listen sympathetically, care deeply, and get lots of people talking to each other. A few are bound to agree with each other sooner or later, then you’re off to the races. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. President?”

  Showing his teeth in what might have been a grin, Wilson shook his head. “Being a younger nation, our approach to political disagreements may be a bit more bare-knuckled, but I’ll bring them around. I had to lead our people to understand the importance of the war, the need for us to become involved.” The others nodded. “Now I have to lead them to understand the importance of this peace. I’ll do it. Tell me, gentlemen, all this news of the different revolutions has been worrisome.”

  The others commiserated over the entrenchment of Bolshevism in Russia, its spread into Hungary, the anarchists and socialists who sometimes commanded the streets of Berlin.

  Lloyd George pressed on that last point. “I worry about the Germans. There’s revolution all around us. Indeed, even in our midst. Look at the lunatic who shot the premier. But we cannot make peace with a Germany that has no government. We must get on with this conference, work straight through to a treaty, and find someone who will sign for Germany.”

  Wilson held up a forefinger. “Of course, you are right, Mr. Prime Minister. Certainly about the risk from revolutionaries. But I must insist that the peace be based on our principles. Our principles are what stand between the world and another conflagration like this last one.”

  Clemenceau’s teacup and spoon clattered onto a side table. “Exactly. I agree exactly. I must always insist, though, that one principle comes before all others. Germany must never be able to do this again. Twice I have seen German troops trample the sacred ground of France. Twice I have seen German shells blow up streets in Paris, right here in the beating heart of civilization. Our first principle must be to deny Germany the ability to do this a third time. How can we face the judgment of history if we allow it to happen again? If we do not stop them now, they will do it again. Germany is like the lion that hunts the antelope. The lion has no choice. Hunting the antelope is what he will do. He can do no other. Germany will make war if she can, and it is poor France’s misfortune to live next door.”

  “Surely,” Lloyd George broke in, “France is no defenseless antelope.”

  “Let us move Britain next to Germany,” Clemenceau fired back, “and then we’ll see whether you feel like an antelope.”

  Wilson raised a pacifying hand. “We are better than the animals of the jungle. We must create a world where humans no longer act like them. Haven’t we had enough of that? It’s the human soul and spirit we’re talking about here.”

  Lloyd George sat forward. “I’ve spent some of the last month thinking about the structure of our talks as I’m sure you gentlemen have. I wonder that we might be well served to clear out the underbrush a bit before we grapple with these massive issues. If we can resolve the situations of some of the smaller places, then soon enough we’ll be much closer to the end. Surely, for example, we can resolve our business in Africa, and in Asia, and even in Arabia. With the earlier agreement between our two countries over the Middle East”—he nodded to Clemenceau—“that can be settled amicably.” The British prime minister sat back.

  Wilson set his cup and saucer on a side table. “I share your concern that we find a method for advancing our pace, but your example of Arabia is not one I would have chosen. Your two nations have behaved like bullies in the schoolyard, dividing up those lands between yourselves. But who has consulted with the people who live there? What do they want? That is the question we are honor bound to ask now.”

  Clemenceau slapped his own thigh. “Mr. President, you ask exactly the correct question. Perhaps we could find a way to do so.”

  “Precisely. We must ask those people who live there,” Wilson said.

  Lloyd George forced himself to nod as though he agreed with an idea that seemed the very picture of lunacy—seeking the views of a passel of preliterate nomads and rug merchants. Clemenceau, he decided, could not truly agree with such lunacy. He was merely playing along.

  “I have thought of a way to accelerate our progress,” Wilson began again. “I urge that we conduct more conversations among the three of us, like this. Having additional parties and personalities engaged in our exchanges only produces confusion and complications. Not to mention an endless series of leaks to the newspapers.”

  The other two nodded firmly, muttering their agreement. The Big Three might squabble, but they were united in their anger over the press—even Clemenceau, who had been a newspaper editor for many years.

  Wilson continued. “Over the last month, when we three were not engaged, the negotiations made very little progress and the newspapers enjoyed a carnival of unauthorized disclosures. Indeed, much of what progress was made may very well need to be redone.”

  After a few moments of quiet, Clemenceau said, “Mr. President, to be as clear as may be, you propose that the three of us should meet in secret.”

  Wilson nodded sagely.

  Lloyd George shot a glance at the Frenchman. Clemenceau’s management of the American president was a thing of beauty.

  “An interesting idea,” Clemenceau said slowly, “and, if I may say, a very bold one.” He looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Sir, you have persuaded me.” He struck the arm of his chair with the flat of his hand. “I concur entirely. How very wise of you.”

  Thursday, March 20, 1919

  “I must speak with you immediately.” Lawrence, who had approached Dulles on the street, kept his eyes fixed to the side of the American’s head. Lawrence’s anger came through in his clipped speech and rigid posture.

  “Of course, Colonel,” Dulles answered. “Perhaps we can cross over to the president’s residence?”

  Upon their r
eturn from the United States, the Wilsons had settled in a less baronial home that stood near Lloyd George’s lodging, on the happily named Place des États-Unis. Daisies gaily bobbed their heads in the small square, heralding the loosening of winter’s grip on Paris. Having the English-speaking allies so close to each other was undeniably convenient, and no one cared any more if it looked like they were making confidential arrangements with each other. The treaty-makers had long since abandoned any pretense that the Allies were not dictating the peace.

  “Now Dulles, can you truly believe that the French mean to send a commission to the Middle East to gauge Arab public opinion? And we’re supposed to be so fatuous as to believe that they will then follow whatever policy the Arab people want?”

  Dulles chose only to smile and arch an eyebrow, hoping he appeared enigmatic. The peace conference was teaching him not to argue with zealots. Far better to let them blow themselves out.

  “My God, man!” Lawrence exploded. “It’s the grossest form of insult. The French wipe their asses with Arab public opinion, and that opinion is hardly difficult to divine. The Arabs have ruled themselves for thousands of years and wish to continue to do so. They do not wish to have a bunch of fat-assed French and English siphon off their wealth.” Lawrence stopped to face Dulles, forcing the American to turn toward him. “Don’t you know that your president has just signed the death warrant for the Arab state?”

  Dulles adopted a confused look. “Is that a specific document?”

  For once, Lawrence looked at Dulles. “You sport with me. You think it makes me seem ridiculous. But you have a responsibility to history here. You understand that. Of that much I am sure. I am not so sure your uncle or the president understand it. You must make them understand. It’s not enough to be well-meaning. One must also not be stupid. History will not be kind to those who are stupid.”

  Dulles watched Lawrence stalk away, his stiff-legged gait a fair barometer of his fury. As he turned back to the president’s residence, Dulles saw his brother standing in front, looking like the Man in the Arrow Collar. The brothers waved to each other and Foster waited. When Allen reached him, Foster asked, “Lawrence knows?”

  “Does he ever.”

  “That man will bear watching. He and his crafty Hebrew friends.”

  “Speaking of crafty friends, what do we hear from Standard Oil?”

  “They are patient. For now. Not forever, I fear. They watch Colonel Lawrence closely.”

  “Who could look away?”

  The president felt wrung out. He sank into the chair in his dressing room. His left eyelid began to twitch. Blasted thing. He held the eyelid steady with a finger. He must be getting old. The evidence was everywhere. He was tired so often. He hated to think this was what the rest of his life would be like.

  He had to get through the peace conference. He had been amazed at what a mess Colonel House made of the negotiations while Wilson was back home. If you want something done correctly . . . He sighed inwardly. It was too delicate a process, even for House. Wilson let his good eye wander the room. At least these quarters were less regal. That Murat Palace had been appalling, suitable for the Sun King, not for the president of a democracy.

  “Who are you?” He didn’t recognize the valet who entered with his evening clothes. He took his finger off his eyelid.

  “John Barnes, sir.”

  “Where’s Jerome?”

  “He’s come down with the flu. Mr. Hoover has, too. Just today.”

  “Ike’s sick?” Wilson expelled a breath. “Without our chief usher, the wheels will come off for real around here.”

  The valet faced him from about ten feet away. “I hope not, sir.”

  “How are they doing, both of them?”

  “We’ve been told they’ll recover. That’s all I know.”

  That, Wilson thought, is what was always said. He would have to ask Grayson to get a straight answer. “Where do you hail from, son? I can’t quite place your accent.”

  “Ohio, sir, then New Jersey, then New York. My father always insisted that we not speak with an accent.”

  Wilson laughed softly. “I suppose that means your father doesn’t approve of me.”

  “Oh, no, sir. We all supported the Wilson ticket. Both times.”

  “Well, John Barnes, you brim over with correct answers. Tell me, have you ever done any singing? In the church choir perhaps? You have a strong-sounding voice.”

  “They only let me sing in the pews, sir. I’m loud but not too accurate.”

  Wilson smiled. “Loud but not too accurate. You have described the Italian negotiating style to a tee. The French, too.”

  The bar was smoky and noisy, filled with unshaven men in heavy boots and dirty jackets. To Joshua’s eye, many of the women sprinkled through the place also could do with a wash and a shave. He had yet to see the flower of French womanhood. Soldiers at the front, on short leave, couldn’t afford to be choosy. Neither, to be truthful, were the French women near the front, many of whom casually accepted Negro clientele. As did this bar, where Joshua and his father weren’t the only colored people. Nobody paid much attention to them.

  At least the singing had finally died down. Not that Joshua didn’t enjoy a rousing chorus of “The Internationale,” with its thundering demand for justice and revolution. The patrons of Chez Dennis, however, knew all six verses and insisted on singing them all, steadily losing any sense of melody as they trudged manfully through the turgid business. The last stanza sounded like guttural threats from a dazed but dangerous guard dog.

  Even with his tie off, Joshua’s work clothes set him apart. Chez Dennis was not a haunt for the valets of Paris. In contrast, his father, nursing his second beer of the evening on the other side of the table, looked like he had spent the day with a shovel in his hand—which he had.

  “Can’t say I like that man,” Joshua said, “but I can’t say I hate him, either.”

  His father looked up.

  “He seemed to see me as a man.”

  Disdain twisted Cook’s mouth. “As long as you’re in your place, brushing his suits and polishing his shoes.”

  Joshua shrugged. He didn’t need a lecture on class consciousness or race pride.

  “I’ve got to write your mama and sister,” his father continued. “Tell them you’re alive.”

  “No, you can’t do that. They know who you are, that you’re my father and she’s my mother. They’ll read everything you write, especially this fellow Dulles. When I was in the army, they read everything I wrote.”

  “It’s cruel not to tell them. I feel like a liar every time I write.”

  “Go on home and tell them yourself. You can’t do anything more here. You sprung me out of prison and here I am, drinking bad beer with the revolutionary vanguard of Paris’ working class. That’s amazing. Thank you, Daddy. I’ll never forget it. But you can go home now. It’s my problem from here on out.”

  Cook reached over and squeezed Joshua’s forearm. “It is amazing. I can hardly believe it. But I’m not going anywhere until you’re back home yourself, and you’re Joshua Cook again.”

  “John! John Barnes!” Allen Dulles beamed down on them.

  Joshua straightened in his seat and nodded to an empty chair.

  After perfunctory small talk about the weather—it was growing slightly warmer—Dulles asked about Joshua’s situation at the president’s residence.

  “He seemed to accept me. He didn’t ask a lot of questions.”

  “Excellent,” Dulles said through a broad grin. “That’s just first rate.”

  “Why am I there?”

  Dulles turned up his smile to a higher wattage. “Ah, all will be revealed in the fullness of time. Tell me. Did he talk about today’s negotiation?”

  Joshua considered his answer. “He seemed real tired. Maybe he’s a bit impatient with the Italians and the French. You don’t need me in his house to know that.”

  “Ah, yes, good. You know, he and Clemenceau really went at
it today, an old-fashioned shouting match. The premier said that Wilson should be wearing the Kaiser’s helmet, which triggered an outburst of steely Presbyterian outrage over the vindictiveness of the French.” Dulles allowed himself a soft chortle. “But I wander from the point. You must be patient, Mr. Barnes. He’ll get more comfortable with you and speak with you more. He’s a sociable man. Tell me, is the president making any plans to go anywhere? Is Mrs. Wilson?”

  “I heard some talk, just from other staff you know, that he’s going to tour what they call the devastated regions. Which I guess is the part of France where we fought the war. Say, if you ask me, the man should stay home in bed a few days. He looks pale, has that funny twitch in his eye, this one.” Joshua pointed to his left eye.

  “Did anyone come by to powwow with him on the sly, just tête-a-tête?”

  “Nope.”

  “Not Colonel House?”

  “Nope.” Joshua thought a second. “There was that little doctor of his, the navy man, Grayson. No one else.”

  “Only Grayson?” Dulles asked.

  Joshua nodded.

  “Interesting. One thing I want to remind you, Barnes. You must take special care on the street to attract no attention from French or American authorities, MPs, or anything like that. If you’re detained in some fashion, there will be distinct limits on what we can do for you.” With a nod, Dulles rose and left.

  “He’s not much of a drinking man,” Cook said. He and Joshua drank in silence.

  “Can’t say I like him much, either,” Joshua said, “but he’s kept his word so far. Nobody’s bothered me, and I do prefer being free.”

  “It’s a kind of freedom, not even living under your own name, but listen to what he said. You can’t afford to take any chances out there.” The older man cleared his throat and sat up.

  Joshua could feel the speech coming.

  “Your mother and I didn’t raise you up all those years, see to your education, send you off to college, just for you to be someone else, someone’s lackey. You’re made for better things. You can do things in this world that we never could. You owe that—” He stopped, aware that his son wasn’t listening. His eyes were darting around the room.