by Warren Adler
“To you as well, sir.”
“You think so, Benson? In their wisdom, the British public thought otherwise.”
“History will be a better judge, sir.”
“Can one depend on the judgment of history? I have found that a contemporary outlook far different than our own always determines history. History might judge Mr. Truman as a brutal murderer of thousands of innocents in a horrific Götterdämmerung. And I? Already there are rumblings that I am responsible for the destruction of Dresden. As if what their bombers did to Coventry and London was playacting. Without the passion of our desperate struggle, how would it be possible for future historians to summon up the raw emotion of our time? They will look at our struggle through the wrong end of the telescope. Perhaps even Hitler will be cleansed of his legacy of evil. Indeed, people might say he didn’t finish the job of the so-called final solution.”
“You’re being very pessimistic, sir.”
“Not really. Even revisions get revised.”
Benson knew he had to steer the conversation beyond the historical. His editor had given him a specific assignment. With time fleeting, he plunged ahead.
“Tell me about what you’ll be doing and saying at Westminster College in March,” Benson said, hoping he was being casual and only mildly interested.
His mind had focused on a quote he had read on the train, attributed to Edward R. Murrow, saying that Churchill had “marshaled the power of words and sent them into battle.”
Churchill nodded and shrugged.
“Oh yes, they’re giving me a doctorate.”
Churchill flicked an ash from his cigar into a nearby ashtray. His lower lip jutted downward into a scowl.
“Defeat, you see, allows one to reap the benefits of death prematurely—portraits, dedications, honors—it’s like watching one’s own funeral.”
He grinned suddenly, his eyes sparkling.
“Getting yet another honorary doctorate here in Miami. Clemmie says I’m addicted to the irony, since I was such an awful student. No one who has ever passed so few examinations has received so many honorary degrees. Douglas tells me it’s because I like the costumes.”
He bent closer to Benson in an attitude of confidentiality.
“I’m only enduring this torture because Chandor has promised to give me some painting tips. Isn’t that right, Douglas?”
“I must say, Mr. Churchill. Your paintings are wonderful.”
“Who can argue with such praise? The truth is my figures are awful. That’s why I always paint landscapes.”
“And trees don’t talk back or chatter away,” Chandor said.
“What will be your theme?” Benson asked, trying to make the idea seem a casual thought.
“My theme?”
“In Fulton. Your speech.”
Churchill smiled. His cigar had gone out and he relit it, savoring the smoke.
“Depends,” he said, cryptically.
“Depends on what?” Benson pressed.
“On the moment,” Churchill said, with an air of dismissal.
Benson was reminded of his deflective remark to Sarah. Churchill was quite obviously deflecting. But Benson persisted.
“I’m sure everyone will be most interested in what you have to say, Mr. Churchill.”
“Nonsense, Benson. I speak to the wind these days.”
“When Churchill speaks,” Benson said, determined to restore himself in better graces, “the world listens.” Ironically, his remarks offered another opening: “Your speech in Fulton, sir, could provide an opportunity.”
“I see my daughter has gotten to you, Benson. She sees it as a seminal event, what with Mr. Truman present to introduce me.”
“I would say that you could make it a historic event if you so choose.”
Churchill puffed deeply on his still-lit cigar and blew out a stream of smoke. He seemed suddenly distant, lost in thought.
“What is your assessment of the attitude toward the Russians in Washington, Mr. Benson?” he asked, after what might be called a pregnant pause.
The inquiry seemed of very distant interest to the matter at hand, but Benson went along.
“So far, so good,” Benson said, cautiously. “There are, of course, those on the Right who are rabidly anti-Communist and won’t trust the Russians on anything. And, of course, there are many on the Left who approve of our relationship with them. All in all, I’d say there is a wide centrist reservoir of goodwill that still exists toward the Russians.”
Churchill grew pensive.
“Your General Patton wanted to go right in and fight them.”
“Surely that wasn’t your view, Mr. Churchill?”
A deliberate journalist’s ploy, he offered it with trepidation. Churchill observed him, his eyes narrowing.
“Remember, Benson, I was in your profession once.”
Churchill seemed to turn inward, and Benson did not press the point. He sensed that the old man had put up his guard.
“Put it this way, Benson. These are troubled times. We have won the war. The larger question is: Can we win the peace?”
“Who do you mean by we, sir?”
Churchill’s eyes narrowed. His cigar had gone out, and he used the pause to relight it and puff deeply.
“Why belabor the obvious, Benson? We are Western civilization. We are those who stand for the great democratic values of freedom and the rule of law. Come, Benson, surely that doesn’t need any further explanation.”
His sudden testiness quickly subsided, and Benson tried again.
“Do you think the preservation of those values is in doubt, sir? Is this what you will speak about in Fulton?”
“That depends.”
“On what?” Benson pressed.
“On Cassandra’s mood on that day,” Churchill chuckled, his brief burst of temper gone.
“And what will she be prophesying, sir?”
“Endless questions, Mr. Benson! The journalist’s lot is questions, questions, questions.”
“That’s our job, Mr. Churchill. If we don’t ask questions, we don’t get at the truth.”
“Ah, the truth. There is a conundrum. Make it up, lad. I did when I was in your profession.”
“Mr. Churchill is being playful this morning,” Douglas Chandor said, peeking from behind his big canvas.
“I was just trying to get your perspective, sir,” Benson said, defensively.
It was obvious to him now that he was not going to get the story he came for. Churchill, as if reading his mind, offered more meat for deflection.
“So what does one do in one’s dotage?” Churchill said, deliberately answering an unasked question about how he spent his time. “I paint. I write. I dictate, by the way. I continue to be a member of Parliament and the leader of His Majesty’s opposition—although, at the moment, we Tories are in shambles. I enjoy good spirits and good food, and the love and devotion of a fine family.”
He lifted the London Times.
“I keep up with events. I receive honorary degrees. My friend Chandor here is immortalizing me. And I will be crossing America with Mr. Truman, although I will not be joining him on his daily constitutional. Does he continue that practice?”
“Without fail, rain or shine.”
“Do me the world of good, I suppose, but I get my exercise being a pallbearer for my friends who swear by calisthenics and exercise,” Churchill said, patting his ample girth. “Unfortunately, the man rises at dawn. I work on a rather different clock.”
He smiled and directed his remarks to Chandor.
“What say you, Douglas?”
He turned again to Benson. “I know what he’s doing. He’s making me look like a bulldog.”
“I’m trying my best, Mr. Churchill,” Chandor said, dabbing his brush against the canvas, stepping b
ack to assess his work.
“I am more a lion than a bulldog, Chandor. Frankly, I prefer the lion.”
“Then roar away, sir,” Chandor chuckled, obviously enjoying the banter. “Your recess is over.”
“Well, then back to the grindstone,” Churchill said, resuming his pose and picking up the Times and the magnifying glass.
“Nice meeting you, Mr. Benson. I hope you have a pleasant stay in this tropical paradise.” Benson rose. He knew when he was defeated.
“I hope I have given you enough meat to put on the bones of your story.”
“I was hoping…” Benson began.
“Springs eternal, Mr. Benson. Springs eternal. I look forward to meeting you again.”
Benson nodded. He was dismissed.
Churchill took another deep puff on his cigar and looked toward the painter.
“Am I in the correct pose, Chandor?” Churchill asked.
“It will do,” Chandor said.
Benson backed away. The interview was over.
***
“I hope you got what you needed,” Sarah said.
“Very informative.”
He hadn’t told her the true objective of his mission. Nor did he wish to show any disappointment. She had gone out of the way to arrange the interview, and he wanted to show a pose of gratitude and to hide his disappointment at the results.
They were sitting in the corner of a dark cocktail lounge at a small beach hotel that Sarah had booked for him. They were on the second bottle of vintage champagne, an expense-account perk, most of which was imbibed by Sarah. Noting her condition, Benson suggested dinner.
“In a bit, darling,” Sarah said, her tongue slightly heavy.
He knew the signs. In her cups, she would eschew food, and he could look forward to a late hamburger in his room. Although they were once lovers, he had no intention of spending the night with her.
He hoped she wouldn’t get sloppy drunk, although she was quickly heading in that direction. Soon, he knew, she would get maudlin. He hated her in that mood.
“I could never marry a man like you, Spence. Never.”
“That again?” he sighed.
“Too focused. Too absorbed in your work. You never smell the roses.”
“Like your father?”
“Not at all. For Father, his work is the roses. He lives in a rose garden.”
“Tell you the truth, Sarah, I wish I had his range of interests.”
“My father is a genius,” Sarah said. “He has one problem.”
Benson’s journalistic instinct suddenly went on full alert.
“And what is that?”
“Too bloody formidable. We all love him dearly, but being his offspring is a trial. It has bent us all.”
She grew distant for a moment, then reached for her drink, and upended it.
“No more, Sarah,” Benson urged.
“You’re right,” she giggled. “Time for scotch.”
She signaled to the bartender to bring her a scotch highball. Benson resigned himself to a long night.
“Did he activate his Cassandra mode?” Sarah asked.
“As a matter of fact,” Benson shrugged.
“He’ll be right again in Missouri,” Sarah said.
Again Benson’s journalistic instincts rose.
“Right about what?”
“Blasted Stalin. Blasted Russians. I think it’s the root of his depression, what he calls his ‘black dog.’ Thinks they outsmarted us. Calls them liars, ruthless buggers. Not to be trusted. He was all for going in and taking Berlin before them and moving into Yugoslavia and Czechoslovakia when we had the chance. Thinks Eisenhower and Roosevelt were patsies, although he adored them both. Mostly, he thinks he was bamboozled.”
She swilled down the scotch. He was baffled by her knowledge of these recent historical events.
“Thinks Attlee is a fool, soft on the Russians. Worse, he thinks Truman might, for some harebrained political tradeoff, give Stalin the secrets of the bomb. Imagine that! Says Roosevelt promised it and could have done it. He’s hoping to foreclose on that possibility. You can’t imagine how Father thinks about these people—Stalin and his gang. I have the sense that he really wants to deliver a smashing psychological blow, warn the world about the Russian menace.”
“But they did suffer terribly, and the Red Army did bear the brunt of the burden.”
“He acknowledges that, of course, but insists that we might have lost the peace. For their failure at the conference table, the Western democracies could pay the piper… unless they wake up and face this new menace.”
“Pay the piper?”
“Lose the world to them, the Red menace.”
Sarah lifted her hand to signal for another scotch. But Benson did not want to break her thought pattern and motioned to the bartender to slow down the order. Although she had imbibed a great deal of alcohol, her speech was remarkably lucid.
“I think he now sees Fulton as a launching pad for his views. I’m only speculating, of course. At this stage, no one knows what he is going to say. Perhaps not even he does. But I feel certain—call it gut instinct—that he wants it to be a real bell ringer. My father believes that words are more lethal than bombs. He wants to use words to blast open the truth about the Russians.”
“Which is?”
“I just told you, Spence. He believes they want to take over the world.”
“Tomorrow the world… just like Hitler.”
She nodded.
“To my father, the war is not really over.”
Benson looked at his watch. It was past midnight. The train was to leave the Miami station at eight in the morning.
“Let me get you home, Sarah,” he said, gently.
She nodded and sighed. He felt deep compassion for her, sensing her general unhappiness. He helped her to her feet, paid the check, and with her leaning heavily on him, led her to her car.
As he drove, she put her head on his shoulder.
“It’s really hard for anything to grow in the shade of a big tree,” she whispered.
He helped her up the stairs of the villa and used her key to open the door.
“Did I reveal too much?” she asked.
“Not too much,” he replied.
“I hope you’ll respect our friendship, Spence.”
As a journalist, he knew what that meant.
“Of course.”
She smiled, kissed him on both cheeks, and passed into the house.
Chapter 6
Instead of two weeks, the journey to reach Canada took more than a month. Mueller, now Miller, spent the trip mostly in isolation. The captain and crew of the sub had obviously been instructed to keep their distance and communicate only in the most rudimentary way. He took his meals alone in the officer’s mess, and most other communication was avoided. It didn’t matter. No one aboard spoke English, and he had been instructed not to speak German.
His biggest challenge was to ward off the boredom and cope with the discomfort in the terribly cramped quarters he had been given. His only respite from the suffocating atmosphere was when the sub surfaced and he was allowed to climb on deck to breathe fresh air.
There was only one English book aboard: Of Human Bondage by Somerset Maugham, which he read repeatedly and practically memorized. He supposed he should be grateful, although he attributed his miraculous survival record to his old standby, his absolute conviction that he was born under a lucky star.
He looked back, with some nostalgia, free of remorse. He had been a good Bund member and an exemplary and heroic SS man, a true believer. He had no illusions as to why this battle would be lost. The Jews would win. Despite all the superhuman efforts to eliminate their influence, despite the elaborate killing mechanisms, despite the effort by Hitler to rally the world against this
scourge, despite the mass executions by bullets and gas, the Jews were sure to win what, in his mind, was merely the first round.
Perhaps the Nazis, in the end, were not clever enough, not ruthless enough, not single-minded enough, and too soft and weak to accomplish their purpose. Those like himself, who were spared—he was certain—fate had picked to survive, to continue to carry out the mission, or face the prospect of being forever enslaved by the Jew and his twisted agenda.
He felt nothing for the SS men he had murdered in the prison. They deserved their fate. They had not been worthy of the battle. They had buckled, lost their courage. They deserved to bite the dust.
He approved of the mission the Russians had devised for him. It defined why he had made such an effort to survive. His role was to continue the battle. He had a clear view of his real enemy, the enemy of all white people everywhere. The Jews had deliberately set about to corrupt the blood of other peoples, while they kept themselves pure and watched with glee how the blood of the other races created a world of degenerates. They had engineered the bastardization of the human race.
He welcomed the idea of killing anyone who did the Jews’ bidding, especially their leaders, the Jew Roosevelt and his henchmen, Marshall and Eisenhower, and that fat tub of lard, Churchill. The Russians, too, were on his list, manipulated by Jews. Marx was a Jew. Trotsky was a Jew. The Jews invented Communism. The protocols of Zion proved what they wanted: world domination.
He dismissed the apparent loss of the war as merely a phase in the struggle. The mixed races had won temporarily. The Slavic and Mongoloid hordes and the American half-breeds and their allies had been the Jews’ soldiers. He would carry on the battle until it was joined again. His father had understood; a Jew had cheated him out of a job. A hit-and-run driver—certainly a Jew—had killed his mother. He had their number. He had no illusions.
