Pug said, as Stalin unwrapped the box, “And that is the special Virginia pipe tobacco Mr. Hopkins told you about, that his son likes so much.” Pavlov translated this, and everything the American captain said thereafter, sometimes conveying Henry’s tone as well as a quick exact version of his words. Slote sat silent, nodding from time to time.
Stalin turned the round blue tin in his hands. “Mr. Hopkins is very thoughtful to remember our casual chat about pipe tobacco. Of course, we have plenty of good pipe tobacco in the Soviet Union.” He twisted open the tin with a quick wrench of strong hands and curiously inspected the heavy lead foil seal, before slashing it with a polished thumbnail and pulling a pipe from his pocket. “Now you can tell Mr. Hopkins that I tried his son’s tobacco.” Pug understood Stalin’s Russian in this small talk, but could not follow him after that.
Stalin stuffed the pipe, put a thick wooden match to it, and puffed fragrant blue smoke while Pavlov translated Hopkins’s letter aloud. After a meditative silence, the dictator turned veiled cold eyes on Victor Henry and proceeded to speak, pausing to let Pavlov catch up in English after three or four sentences. “That is a strange letter from Mr. Hopkins. We all know the United States manufactures millions of automobiles per year of many different models and types, including big, luxurious, complicated machines such as Cadillacs and so forth. What is the problem with landing craft, then? Landing craft are armored lighters with small simple engines. Surely you can produce as many as you want to. Surely the British have plenty already. I cannot see this as a real obstacle to a second front in Europe now, as Mr. Hopkins states.”
Pug Henry pulled from his dispatch case sketches and production tables of landing craft. “Different types must be designed from scratch and manufactured, Mr. Chairman, to land against a solidly fortified coast. We expect mass production in mid-1942, at the latest. These papers may be of interest.”
Unexpectedly, in mid-translation, Stalin uttered a short harsh laugh and began to talk fast in Russian, straight at Victor Henry. Slote and Pavlov made quick notes, and when the dictator paused, Pavlov took over and spoke with much of Stalin’s hard sarcastic tone. “That is very fine! Mid-1942. Unfortunately, this is October 1941. If Mr. Hitler would only halt operations until mid-1942! But perhaps we cannot count on that. And what will happen meantime? I regard Mr. Harry Hopkins”—Stalin said Gospodin Garry Gopkins—“as a friend and a clever man. Doesn’t he know that any operation that the British can mount now—just a reconnaissance in force of a few divisions, if they can do no better—might decide the course of this war? The Germans have only very weak reserves, mere token forces, on the French coast. They are throwing everything into the battle on our front. Any action in the west might make them pause, and draw off just the decisive margin of strength here.”
Stalin doodled in red ink on a gray unlined pad during the interpretation, drawing a wolf.
Victor Henry said, “Mr. Chairman, I am instructed to answer any questions about the landing craft problem.”
Stalin used the back of his hand to shove aside the papers Pug Henry had laid before him. “Landing craft? But it is a question of will, not of landing craft. However, we will study the matter of landing craft. Of course, we have such machines too, for landing on defended coasts. Perhaps we can lend-lease some to the British. In 1915, when war equipment was more primitive than today, Mr. Churchill managed to put a big force ashore in Gallipoli, thousands of miles from England. Possibly he found the experience discouraging. But the Japanese have in recent years put ashore more than a million soldiers in China. Those men surely did not swim across, in such cold waters. So it is obviously a question of will, not of landing craft. I hope Mr. Harry Hopkins will use his great influence to establish a second front now in Europe, because the outcome of the war against the Hitlerites may turn on that. I can say no more.”
The dictator finished the wolf in rapid strokes during the translation, and started another with bared fangs and a hanging tongue. He looked up at Henry with the oddly genial expression common in his photographs, and changed his tone. “Have you enjoyed your stay? Is there anything we can do for you?”
Victor Henry said, “Mr. Chairman, I have been a wartime military observer in Germany and in England. Mr. Hopkins asked me to go to the front here, if an opportunity arose, so as to bring him an eyewitness report.”
At the word “front,” Stalin shook his head. “No, no. We are obliged to guarantee the safety of our guests. That we cannot do, in the present stage of fighting. Mr. Hopkins would not forgive us if some misfortune befell you.”
“Mr. Hopkins has been unsparing of his own health, sir. It is wartime.”
An opaque wild look, almost the look in a gorilla’s eyes, came into Stalin’s gaze. “Well, you should understand that things are bad at the front. The Germans are breaking through again in force. We may soon see the worst hours for Russia since 1812. You will hear all the news tomorrow. That is why a second front now would earn for England the friendship of my people until the end of time.” He went back to work on the wolf.
Pug said soberly, “In view of this news, Mr. Chairman, I admire your cheerfulness of spirit at the banquet tonight.”
Stalin shrugged his broad sagging shoulders. “Wars are not won by gloom, nor by bad hospitality. Well, if Mr. Hopkins wants you at the front, he must have good reasons. We will see what we can do. Give him my thanks for the letter and the tobacco. It is not bad tobacco, though I am used to my Russian tobacco. Please tell him my feelings about the second front. Perhaps your trip to our front could bring home the urgency. Mr. Hopkins is a good adviser to your great President, and as you are an emissary from him, I wish you well.”
Leaving the Kremlin and driving through the blackout, the two Americans said not a word. When the car stopped, Pug Henry spoke: “Well, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I guess these fellows will take you home.”
“No, I’ll get out.” On the sidewalk, Slote touched Pug’s arm as the limousine drove off. “Let’s talk here. I was utterly shocked by this business of going to the front. If Mr. Hopkins knew of the catastrophic situation Stalin just admitted to”—the diplomat’s voice wavered and he cleared his throat—“he would surely withdraw those instructions.”
The night was ending, and though the icy street was still black, Pug could just see Slote’s pale face under his fur hat.
“I don’t agree with you on that. He’s a pretty tough customer, Hopkins.”
Slote persisted, “You won’t really get to the front, you know. They’ve just given some correspondents a tour. They kept them far behind the lines, feeding them caviar, quails, and champagne. Still, the Luftwaffe pulled an air raid on a village and almost nailed them.”
“Right, but that could happen to us here in Moscow, too.”
“But why go, for God’s sake?” Slote broke out in a ragged shrill tone. He lowered his voice. “At best you’ll see one tiny sector for a few hours. It’s foolhardy sightseeing. It’ll create endless trouble at the embassy, as well as for the Russians.”
Victor Henry chain-lit a cigarette. “Listen, if you can watch ten men under fire, you’ll learn a lot about an army’s morale in a few hours. Mr. Hopkins likes to call himself a glorified messenger boy. That’s an exaggeration, but I’m an unglorified one. Doing this job might give me the illusion that I’m earning my salary. Come upstairs for a nightcap. I have some good Scotch.”
“No, thank you. I’m going to write my report, and then try to get an hour’s sleep.”
“Well, cheer up. My own impression was that the big cheese was being affable, but that I won’t get to go.”
“That’s what I hope. No foreign military attaché has yet gone to the front, or near it. Good morning.”
During the talk the sky had turned violet, and Slote could see his way on the dead quiet streets. This was a relief, for he had more than once banged into lamp posts and fallen off curbs in the Moscow blackout. He had also been challenged at pistol-point by patrolmen. One walked toward
him now in the gray dawn and gave him a suspicious squint, then passed on without a word.
In his flat Slote brewed coffee on the gas ring, and rapidly typed a long account of the banquet and the meeting with Stalin. When he had finished, he threw back the blackout curtains. The sun was shining. Staggering, bleary, he took a loose-leaf diary from a drawer and wrote briefly in it, ending with these words:
But the official report which I’ve just rattled off describes the meeting with Stalin in sufficient detail; and I’ll keep a copy in my files.
As for the Henrys, father and son, the puzzle is simply enough resolved after all. I saw the answer in the past few hours. They both have an instinct for action, and the presence of mind that goes with it. Byron displayed these traits in moments of physical danger. His father probably would too. But I’ve just seen him act in more sophisticated and subtle situations, requiring quick thinking, hardihood, and tact. It is not easy to keep one’s head in confronting a personage like Stalin, who has an aura like a large lump of radium, powerful, invisible, and poisonous. Victor Henry managed.
On reflection, I can understand why the ladies like such men. The man of action protects, feeds—and presumably fecundates, QED—more vigorously and reliably than the man of thought.
Possibly one can’t change one’s nature. Still one can perhaps learn and grow. Captain Henry suggested that I disregard orders and expose the Minsk documents to Fred Fearing or some newspaperman. Such an act goes entirely against my grain; and entirely for that reason, I intend to do it.
53
TALKY Tudsbury was having five o’clock tea alone in his hotel suite that day, with some light refreshment of sprats, cheese, sturgeon, black bread, and honey cakes, when Victor Henry came in and told him that he was going to the front. The correspondent got so excited that he stopped eating. “Good God, man, you are? With the Germans swarming in all over the place? It’s impossible. It’s just talk. Dear Christ, these Russians are good at putting you off with talk. You’ll never go.” He brushed up his moustaches and reached for more food.
“Well, maybe,” Pug said, sinking into a chair, and laying on his lap the briefcase stuffed with codes and harbor charts, which he had just collected at the navy ministry. He had had five or six hours’ broken sleep in four days. The room was jerking back and forth in his vision as he strove to stay awake. “But my clearance has just come in from pretty high up.”
Tudsbury was putting a chunk of bread heaped with sardines to his mouth. The morsel stopped in midair. He peered at Henry through his bottle-glass spectacles, and spoke in low quiet tones. “I’ll go with you.”
“The hell you will.”
“Victor, the correspondents went to the central front two weeks ago, when the Russians were counterattacking. The day they left, I had flu, with a sizzling temperature.” Tudsbury threw down the food, seized his cane, limped rapidly across the room, and began to put on a fur-lined coat and a fur hat. “Who’s handling this, Lozovsky? Can’t I just tell him you said I could come? I know them all and they love me. It’s up to you.”
Victor Henry did not want Tudsbury along, but he was exhausted and he was sure the Russians would refuse. “Okay.”
“God bless you, dear fellow. Stay and finish my tea. Tell Pam I’ll be back before six, and she’s to retype my broadcast.”
“Where is she?”
“A letter came for her in the Foreign Office pouch. She went to get it.”
Pug fell asleep in the armchair where he sat.
Cold fingers brushing his cheek woke him. “Hello there. Wouldn’t you rather lie down?” Pam stood over him, her face rosy from the frost, her eyes shining, wisps of brown hair showing under her gray lambskin hat.
“What? Oh!” He blinked and stretched. “What am I doing here? I guess I walked in and collapsed.”
“Where’s Talky?” She was taking off her hat and gloves. “Why did he leave his tea? That’s not like him.”
Sleep cleared from his brain like fog; he remembered his conversation with Tudsbury, and told her. Her face went stiff and strained. “The front? They’ll never let him go, but you? Victor, are you serious? Have you heard the BBC, or the Swedish Radio?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I know better than to argue, but—I can tell you this, our embassy’s getting ready to be moved to the Urals or somewhere. By the bye, Ted’s all right.” She went to the desk, still in her fur coat, and picked up typed yellow sheets. “Oh, drat, another revision. Such niggling!”
By now Pug was used to her casual bombshells, but she dropped this one so swiftly that he wasn’t sure he had heard aright. “Pamela, what’s this? What about Ted?”
“He’s fine. Or safe, anyhow.”
“But where is he?”
“Oh, back in Blighty. Hardly the worse for wear, according to him. It seems he finally managed to escape—he and four French aviators—from a prison camp outside Strasbourg. He did have quite a few adventures in France and Belgium, straight out of the films. But he made it. I rather thought he would, sooner or later.” She sat down and took the cover off the typewriter.
“Good God, girl, that’s tremendous news.”
“Yes, isn’t it? You must read his letter. Seven pages, written on both sides, and quite amusing. He’s lost three stone, and he still has a bullet in his thigh—or, more accurately, in his behind. He’s quite chastened, he’ll take the desk job now—as soon as he can sit at a desk, he adds rather ruefully! And that means I’m to come straight home and marry him, of course.”
Pamela broke her offhand manner with a long glance at Victor Henry. She put on black-rimmed glasses. “I’d better get at this. And you obviously need some sleep.”
“No use. The mission’s leaving soon. I have to see them off. Pam, that’s splendid about Ted. I’m very glad and relieved.”
Rubbing her hands and blowing on them, she said, “Lord, it would be a relief at that, wouldn’t it? I mean to get away from Talky’s handwriting, and his optimistic drivel.”
Tudsbury burst in on them a little later, his face aflame, his nose empurpled by the cold, just as Henry was putting on his bridge coat.
“Mojet byt! Qualified yes, by God! They’ll confirm it tomorrow, but Victor, I believe I’m going with you!—Pam, have you finished yet? It’s getting near that time.—The Narkomindel’s in mad confusion, Victor, the news from the front must be really bad, but God Almighty, that clearance you’ve got, whatever it is, certainly is the secret password! Of course they adore me, and they know I’m entitled to a trip, but the look that came over Lozovsky’s face, when I said you insisted that I accompany you!”
“Oh, Talky!” Pamela stopped typing, and glared at him. “Victor didn’t insist at all. He couldn’t have.”
“Pam, one has to bludgeon these people.” Tudsbury’s face creased in a tricky grin. “I said you two were old friends, in fact, and that Victor rather liked you and wanted to oblige me. So please back my story if occasion arises.”
“You unscrupulous old horror,” Pamela said, her face mantling pink.
“Well, that’s true enough, as far as it goes,” Victor Henry said. “I have to get on to the airport now. Pamela’s got some great news, Talky.”
The intrusion of Tudsbury snagged the trip. The Narkomindel, the Foreign Office, hemmed, hawed, and stalled. Days went by. Pug remained stuck in Moscow with nothing to do. The ambassador and the attachés acted cool and distant, for Victor Henry was that plague of the Foreign Service, an interloper from Washington. Once he dropped in on Slote’s office and found the diplomat pale, harassed, and given to pointless giggling.
“Say, what’s my daughter-in-law doing on your desk?” Pug said. Natalie smiled from a silver frame, looking younger and fatter, with her hair in an unbecoming knot.
“Oh! Yes, that’s Natalie.” Slote laughed. “D’you suppose Byron would mind? She gave it to me ages ago, and I’m still fond of her. What’s happened to your trip? You won’t have far to go, at the rate the Germans are coming on,
hee hee.”
“God knows,” Pug said, thinking that this man was in bad shape. “Maybe it’s all off.”
The main trouble, it turned out, was Pamela. Her father had asked to bring her along, claiming helplessness without her. He had since withdrawn the request. But the Narkomindel had fed the three names into the great obscure machine that handled the matter, and there was no starting over. Lozovsky began to lose his genial humor when Pug appeared or telephoned. “My dear Captain Henry, you will hear when you will hear. There are other equally pressing problems in the Soviet Union just now.”
So Pug wandered the streets, observing the changes in Moscow. New red-and-black posters blazed appeals for volunteers, in the crude bold socialist imagery of muscular young workmen and peasant women brandishing bayonets at spiders, snakes, or hyenas with Hitler faces. Labor battalions shouldering spades and picks marched raggedly here and there; big trucks crammed with children crisscrossed the city; long queues stood at food shops, despite the heavy rain that persisted day after day. Soldiers and horse-drawn carts vanished from the streets. Under the sodden caps and wet shawls of street crowds, the swarm of white high-cheekboned faces wore a different look. The Slavic phlegm was giving way to knotted brows, inquiring glances, and a hurrying pace; Victor Henry thought that the approach of the Germans made the Muscovites look more like New Yorkers.
Lozovsky finally telephoned him at the hotel, his voice ringing cheerily. “Well, Captain, will tomorrow at dawn suit you? Kindly come here to the Narkomindel, wear warm clothing, a raincoat, and good boots, and be prepared to be out three or four days.”
“Right. Is the girl coming too?”
“Of course.” The Russian sounded surprised and a bit offended. “That was the problem. Really it was not easy to clear, though we wanted to make the exact arrangements you desired. Our Russian girls face combat conditions as a matter of course, but we know that foreign ladies are much less hardy. Still we all know Miss Tudsbury, she is attractive, and one understands such a devoted friendship. It is arranged.”