by Mary Soames
I described my visit in a letter to my mother:
The actual horror camp had been burnt to the ground—it is a gloomy sight—twisted, burnt and charred remains of huts and structures cover a few acres—here and there symmetrical mounds of smooth earth appear, with a little white notice: ‘Grave No. 12—2,000 bodies’ and then the date of the burial. The Brigadier reconstructed the ghastly scene for us. On all sides a beautiful pinewood presses in on the camp, the air is full of skylarks singing. We all walked dumbly away from the camp, and were taken to visit the hospital. 16,000 internees are left—of these 7,000 are bed patients. The death rate is down from 500 a day to 10 a day. But there are some very, very ill people there; and an enormously high percentage of T.B. cases. The typhus epidemic is now under control and almost at an end. But the results of starvation are not attractive to look upon. We walked through many wards. The nurses are mainly British with quite a number of Germans and a large number of Belgian medical students to help the doctors, and a small party of serene-faced nuns from the Vatican.
In one women’s ward a Polish Jewess sat up in bed and welcomed us in broken French … ‘We are so happy to receive here to-day’ she said ‘the daughter of the great man who has made our deliverance possible …’ I nearly wept. I’ve never seen so much human suffering. And then we went to the small Maternity block where a few wrinkled, shrivelled little babies make their way into a strange world from half-starved Mothers—who have little or no milk to feed their children. The doctor in charge is Polish [a Christian Jewess]. Until 1935 she was in a large Berlin hospital—but then, being a Jewess, she was sent to one concentration camp after another. Wherever she went she tried to care for the other prisoners. At Auschwitz any pregnant woman was automatically sent to the gas chamber, and as it was a mixed camp many women became pregnant. This Doctor aborted them in secret by night, and strapped the poor creatures up tightly to conceal the operation. Thus she saved countless women. When she came to Belsen she started a maternity ward—no instruments—no water: but she struggled on until liberation. She is 36 and looks 50. She has a passion for her work—for the pathetic mothers she delivers and the thin, delicate babies she cares for. I have never seen such an ardour for life—such a victorious manifestation of the human spirit.
Then we went to the Sergeants Mess where a party was being given to about 100 pale-faced solemn [German] children. About the first party they’ve ever had. They were quiet and dazed and I hope just beginning to be a little happy.
There is a—to me—moving sequel to my visit to that horrifying place. Over fifty years later the historian Sir Martin Gilbert, my father’s official biographer, wrote to tell me that during one of his lecture tours in the United States he had met a Dr. Luba Frederick, a Polish Christian Jewess, who had endured fearful experiences in a series of internment/concentration camps. She had been in Belsen, where she had managed to protect a group of orphans and help them to survive, when it was liberated by the British army in April 1945; she was the doctor whom I had met and about whom I had written to my mother after my visit there.
Luba Frederick eventually went to America, where she married another survivor from those terrible years and made a new life. When she met Sir Martin after one of his lectures she asked him if he knew me—and so, after over half a century, and in happier times, we are in touch again.
IN THAT SAME LETTER to my mother, I also wrote about the general-election campaign at home, which was by now in full swing:
I watch with passionate interest the progress of the Election. I think of Papa so much. I know it must be a strain on him and a grief to have to mawl and be mawled. About the girls—I haven’t asked many of them for obvious reasons—but I think they will vote Labour or Liberal. The Officer’s Mess—R.A.—will I think go Labour—A.T.S. Conservative. Papa’s first election address was not received very well I’m afraid. If I collect any more information or tit-bits I will let you know. I think you will find the Army votes will largely go to Labour. You must remember the Daily Mirror is widely read by all Ranks and especially the Other Ranks. But it is very difficult to tell. I do feel gloomy about it I must confess—gloomy and uncertain.
I find too, that I’m not yet re-acclimatised to the slings and arrows of party dissension—which perhaps makes one more shocked and sensitive to the really violent attacks on Papa. I know one should try to feel impersonal about these things and take the detached view—but I can’t, I can’t. I hate these scathing, unjust, untrue attacks on Papa. Wow—oh wow—I wish I could talk to you about it. Miserable Kitten with electionitis …
I grumbled to my mother a little time later about having to cast my first (and of course loyally Conservative) postal vote for the long-sitting true-blue member for Sevenoaks (my home constituency), who seemed to me ineffably uninspiring.
Polling day was 5 July, but exceptionally the result was not to be announced until three weeks later, on 26 and 27 July—in order to allow time for the votes of servicemen and women overseas to be collected and counted. During this tantalizing pause my father decided he would take a “proper” holiday—his first in the war years, other than his convalescence after his serious illness in North Africa the previous winter. Through Bryce Nairn, newly appointed British consul general in Bordeaux, whom Winston had met and made friends with in his previous post in Marrakech, it was arranged that my parents would be the guests of a French Canadian resident, Brigadier General Brutinel, in his large and comfortable house, the Château de Bordaberry, on a hillside overlooking the Bay of Biscay and the seaside resort of Hendaye, quite near the Spanish frontier.
My father decided he would like my company: accordingly I was whisked at short notice and without explanation over to London. My conveyance was a Mosquito bomber aircraft not intended for passengers—so I had a thrilling and unconventional flight on a wooden stool right up in front near the pilot. We did some interesting unofficial sightseeing on the way, flying at times quite low to get a good view of the Dortmund-Ems Canal and Walcheren Island—both scenes of wartime actions.
I arrived home to find my parents at dinner, and learned of the holiday plans in which, to my joy (having some leave due to me), I could quite properly be included. After a hectic morning getting myself ready and packed we set off—the party consisting of my parents and myself, Jock Colvilleb (Private Secretary on duty); Lord Moran and “Tommy” Thompson; two secretaries, Mrs. Hill and Miss Sturdee; and his detectives.
During the flight my father was engrossed by a life of Frederick the Great, for which, I noted in my diary, “M[ama] and I are queuing.” He was, I realized, exhausted:
He is much worn and battered by the election. He feels the attacks so deeply—so intensely. We all await the results with impatience & anxiety. I hope he will be returned—although it will be a bitter journey’s end—so much can go wrong. He is sitting now [I was writing up my diary on the flight] transported to the age of Frederick the Great—occasionally breaking away to tell Mama something about the book.
At the Château de Bordaberry we soon settled in, and our hospitable host and my father got on extremely well, “their association being much cemented by their both having heard ‘Foghorn Macdonald’ swear at Plugstreet in the last war.” My father was feeling low and tired, but a visit to nearby St. Jean de Luz, where the Nairns were staying, transformed his mood. I recorded with great relief in my diary: “Oh joy, [he] has started to paint. He has laid his first picture. We are all delighted.” I went on to describe how my Mother and I spent that afternoon “being rolled & tossed by breakers at St. Jean de Luz, while half way up the hill Papa in sombrero and beneath a mushroom umbrella puffed & painted,” and close by Margaret Nairn, a charming woman and herself a gifted painter, set up her easel. That evening we all felt “knocked out & happy. Papa from his painting & Mama & I from the ozone, food & sun!”
Unfortunately my mother’s enjoyment was marred when she stubbed a big toe and cracked it; but once plastered up she was in action again. My diary account conti
nued happily: “Papa is beginning to feel the benefit of this complete rest. Occasional depressions au sujet des elections come over him. But between times he is happy & conversational.”
Two days later,
Papa came down & bathed for the first time. We had a tent pitched half way down the beach from which Papa emerged in shapeless drawers—smoking & with his ten gallon hat on. Sawyers [his valet] un-crowned & un-cigared him as he took to the waves. I was so happy to see Papa floating peacefully like a charming porpoise washed by lucent waves. We are all enjoying ourselves very much.
One day while we were all swimming a “determined ‘pounce’ was made by a woman, la Comtesse de Beaumont, who, so reliable ‘on dit’ goes, was an enthusiastic and passionate collaborator, and is in danger of being lynched by the people here!” The lady’s advances were however parried and defeated by a combination of my mother, myself, and Jock—and a number of French policemen who were providentially on guard (in swimming attire).
One night after dinner
we repaired to the Casino at Hendaye where the Mayor received Papa & Mama on the steps—a large crowd had assembled and the scene was lit by arc lamps and great glints of summer lightning. Then a fandango was danced and then they let loose a ‘toro fuego’—a feature of the Basque pays [sic]. It is a splendid model bull borne aloft and it is riddled with squibs & the most lovely Catherine wheels & rockets. It ‘charges’ the crowd who scream and run as it makes its crackling blazing way among them. It was the first time for four years that a toro fuego had been organised. It was all so moving & spontaneous. Papa loved it & the crowds waved & cheered & laughed; and despite the horrors and terrors, the difficulties & dangers of the newly born soi-disant peace, one did feel that a little gaiety was returning at last for France.
* * *
* WSC always had very splendid bedjackets made of brilliant, mostly boldly patterned, heavy silk.
† Fierce fighting between British troops and communist forces in Greece, including the capital Athens, had continued through December into January.
‡ André de Staercke had joined the Belgian government just before the outbreak of war and in 1942 was summoned to join the Prime Minister, Hubert Pierlot, in exile in London. After the war he served as Prince Charles’s chief political adviser until the regency came to an end in 1950 and was subsequently Belgium’s Permanent Representative to NATO.
§ Edmund Burke (1729–97), British statesman and political philosopher. Opposed British policy over American colonies.
‖ Again, it is striking how impressive the “lighting up” again was for us.
a Bergen-Belsen, originally an internment camp, was from 1943 a concentration camp and by March 1945 held 60,000 prisoners. Typhus and other epidemics took a fearful toll. The liberators found 10,000 unburied dead in the camp as well as mass graves containing 40,000 bodies, and despite all efforts the death rate among the survivors continued for many weeks to be very high (see Oxford Companion to the Second World War).
b Jock Colville was back in the private office again, having left in 1941 to join the RAF. He flew as a pilot officer in D-Day sorties, but WSC, finding him indispensable, had recalled him later in 1944.
CHAPTER 19
Triumph and Disaster
If you can meet with triumph and disaster and treat those two impostors just the same …
RUDYARD KIPLING, “If—”
OUR LOVELY HOLIDAY SOON CAME TO AN END. MY MOTHER FLEW home, anxious to start making Chartwell habitable once more, while my father prepared to meet Harry S Truman, who had succeeded FDR as U.S. President, and Marshal Stalin at Potsdam for the “Big Three” conference to be held there. I went with my father, on duty again as his ADC.
Although the meeting was known as the Potsdam Conference, the discussions actually took place in Babelsburg, an unravaged residential suburb midway between Potsdam, which had been heavily bombed, and the shambles of Berlin. The “Big Three” and their staffs were accommodated here too; and it was from here that I wrote regularly to my mother about the buildup to the Conference and my impressions of the event itself.
23, RINGSTRASSE
16TH JULY, 1945
My darling Mummy,
Our air journey was, I thought, horribly bumpy—and I felt definitely sick. We arrived in blazing sunshine at 5 o’clock. A band, troops of all three services, and a posse of generals, marshals and so on were assembled to greet Papa …
We sped off to our villa along roads posted with smart and beautiful looking Russian soldiers.
The house is lovely. In rose pink stone with grey pointing. The ground floor gives, through French windows, on to a balcony, on which are arranged garden chairs and great tubs full of hydrangeas—blue, pink and white. The lawn slopes away to a romantic looking lake which I am told is unhygienic (but whether from decomposing bodies or drains I am not in a position to state) … The rooms are large, light and well-proportioned, and there are some quite good chandeliers. The pantry and kitchens are something to dream of. There is a staff of Mr. Pinfield (Petty Officer who used to be in the ‘Renown’) and four charming A.T.S.—who are looking harassed—but I think it’s the heat. I have a charming bedroom opposite Papa’s. The curtains are blue and white and there is a romantic flower-wrought chandelier—tres jeune fille.
Last night Anthony [Eden] dined alone with Papa on the balcony—the rest of us had our dinner in the dining room. And I think this arrangement will probably persist so long as this delicious heat continues.
Anthony is brown from the sun—but beneath it he looks ill—and I think poor Simon’s loss* is a bitter grief. My heart bleeds for him—it is such a cruel blow.
This morning Papa paid his first visit to President Truman, who is installed in a monstrously ugly house about 400 yds. down the road. While Papa talked to the President, I, Tommy [Thompson] and John Peck were entertained by the ‘court’—only Admiral Leahy remains from the previous establishment. Papa remained closeted for about two hours—during which time Anthony joined them, and our circle was enlarged by Sir Alexander Cadogan†—as dry as ever—but I like him.
When Papa at length emerged we decided to walk home. He told me he liked the President immensely—they talk the same language. He says he is sure he can work with him. I nearly wept for joy and thankfulness, it seemed like divine providence. Perhaps it is F.D.R.’s legacy. I can see Papa is relieved and confident.
Archie C-K,‡ Anthony and Sir Alexander lunched a quatre with Papa. I spent a ‘domestic’ afternoon snooping in the kitchen, and persuading Mr. Pinfield to put cigarettes in the drawing room and for the ashtrays to be emptied every so often. I also banished 2 hideous black vases, and had them replaced by inoffensive gold and white china candelabra. I am trying to beat my sword into a feather duster!
LATE THIS EVENING
At four this afternoon in sweltering heat, Papa, Anthony, Archie C-K, Sir Alexander—Sawyers and all, tootled off to inspect the ruins of Berlin. They are quite extensive. The utter squalor and dilapidation of the place—the stunned look on the faces of the people are not easily forgotten. We gazed on the ruins of the Chancellery—saw the disordered air raid shelters where Hitler is said to have died. The sun beat down on dust and devastation—the Press rushed around madly photographing—and Sir Alexander complained how badly the tour was organised—which it was. But it was worth it.
General Marshall has been to dinner, and has just left. Papa is reading the evening papers and making plans for tomorrow—which I am accepting with a good deal of scepticism (silent) as I’m sure they’ll all be changed in the morning. Papa is sorry you will not come out—and means to have another try!
I am well and happy and determined to be a ‘good A.D.C.’—I’ve just had another china-clearing campaign—and removed some of the more revolting china ‘pieces’ that recline on every table. I also have designs on a sofa—but I will have to attack that in the morning.
No more for now.
Tender love and kisses darling Mummie from yo
ur loving Mary
23, RINGSTRASSE,
BABELSBURG
19TH JULY 1945
My darling Mummie,
Yesterday President Truman lunched with Papa. I spent the morning flapping around the chef, Mr. Pinfield and the soldier-gardener (who promised to produce some special flowers, and turned up at half past twelve with some purple dahlias and a few tired dog roses!) I was very nervous that Papa would be late. However, in the end everything worked out beautifully. Papa was actually down at the garden gate five minutes before the President arrived. The Scots Guards formed a Guard of Honour—Ian Colquhoun’s§ younger son [Donald] was in command … We all had delicious iced cocktails on the terrace in the sun, and then Papa took the President to the study, where they lunched à deux. His two aides lunched with all of us in the dining room. This was the menu:
Cold Consommé
Fried Sole & Tartar Sauce
Roast lamb, Mint sauce, Mashed Potatoes, Green peas
Ice Cream
Melon.
At three the President left to go and visit Uncle Jo, and when they arrived there they found another enormous lunch awaiting them. So they must have felt pretty full by the time the Conference began!
Then—at seven—I dined with General Marshall, General Arnold and their Staff in General Marshall’s mess. This was great fun, and afterwards we all went on to a very funny American Army revue.
