“What fronts?”
“Poland. The election observers. It may not be too late.”
“The Russians have come up with a new proposal on that,” Cadogan interjected. “Instead of sending in observers, their duties should be taken on by our ambassadors.”
“And the Russians, as ever, take us for fools!”
“It seems. . . worthy of consideration,” Cadogan said, bureaucratic, hesitant.
“Alec, it’s about as half-witted a proposal as could be devised. Ambassadors? What ambassadors? We won’t have any until we recognize the Lubliners as the official government. By which time it’s all too bloody late! The horses bolted! The virgins plucked! Too. Bloody. Late!”
“I’m afraid the pass has been sold, Winston. Stettinius has already agreed.”
The blue eyes stared, almost pleading, Churchill trying by simple force of spirit to change what he had just heard. Then he whispered a single word: “Bugger.” And thumped the sides of the bathtub in anger.
“Sawyers, get me a drink. I need to think!”
The Old Man submerged himself once more beneath the water. Only two pink wrinkled knees protruded above the suds. He stayed there for a very long time.
***
The convoy of trucks taking Nowak and the rest of the workers from the barracks had spent several hours crashing though the gears as it meandered its way along the rising road that led up to the railhead at Simferopol. The woods on either side were often thick, the roads rough, their progress slow, but there was no chance of escape. There were guards on every truck—not that the workers were prisoners: they were citizens and guests of the Soviet system, but there were always guards. It was the manner in which things were done.
Simferopol had once been an elegant town, before the war, built on a small scale with graceful boulevards, but now it had been taken over by suspicious soldiers and sad-eyed people who dragged their lives behind them on carts and in battered suitcases, stopping only to stare or to sell what they had for a few kopecks. Everyone was on the move, and everything was for sale. When the convoy at last reached the railway station, those on board hoped they’d find a few moments to haggle for a little fruit, or bread and sausage to get them through the journey, but there was no opportunity: as soon as they arrived they were counted out from the backs of the trucks, and counted on to the carriages of the train.
Counted. Like sheep. No one checked to see who they were, no names were required, they were simply part of a tally that would keep the officer’s arse out of trouble. So many on, so many off, and the same number signed over to the next officer down the line. On the journey down from Moscow one old waiter had suffered a convulsion and stopped breathing, but they wouldn’t let him off, not even when he was dead. That wasn’t part of the regulations. There wasn’t a place on the list for any sort of absconder, no category for the “gone missing” or “given up.” No one would take responsibility for him, so the dead man had traveled with all the rest, propped in a corner, on his own, for two days.
Now they were going back. There were no facilities on the train that pulled out from Simferopol, no water, not even a toilet. All they had was a hole that had been hacked through the floorboards in the corner of the carriage. And there was no room, a hundred men crammed into each carriage meant for seventy, on a journey that would last at least four days. That first night they had slept wherever they could, squashed together on the rough wooden benches, on the floors, in the corridors, even in the luggage racks, grumbling, pushing, stepping over slumbering bodies. As the hours passed the old steam engine jerked and jolted its way a little farther north, making frequent stops for reasons that were never apparent to those on board. And with the passing of those hours, Nowak began to lose a little more of what was left of his hope.
Guards squatted on chairs at each end of the carriage, and the Pole had seated himself where he could keep an eye on the one nearest him. He knew that at some point over the next few hours he would have to risk it, jumping off, even if it meant collecting a broken ankle or bullet, because the only chance of survival lay back there in Yalta. But the guards were always wary. Throughout the night he waited in vain for some moment, some distraction that would provide an opportunity, but none came, and with every mile that crawled by, he died a little inside.
It was not until the morning, when those on board began to stir, that he thought the moment might have come. Men were standing, stretching, scratching the sleep from their eyes and their crotches, chatting to each other and to the guards, distracting them. Nowak joined the throng, moving down the carriage, nodding at the guard, asking him when they’d stop for food, getting nothing back but a shrug, until someone else had asked the guard if he had any tobacco for sale, and Nowak had slipped past. Suddenly he found himself alone. He was at the door of the creaking carriage, his fingers on the window pull, about to take a deep final breath.
But he had chosen his time with appalling luck. At the very instant he pulled at the window to reach for the outside handle and throw himself from the train, it entered a tunnel and everything was cast into confusion. He couldn’t see, couldn’t move, just stood there, choking on smoke, the noise of the train pounding in his ears like a drumbeat.
Then the light from the low wintry sun was pouring back in, blinding him, and when he was able to see again he found the guard standing nearby, staring at him. “What are you doing, comrade?” the guard shouted, above the noise that was spilling in from outside.
Nowak cursed. The train had moved from the tunnel directly on to a bridge that spanned high above a ravine. If he jumped now, even if he managed to avoid the bullet that would certainly follow, the fall would kill him. He stood undecided, the wind whipping through his hair, wanting to let go, to throw himself through the door and fly like a bird, to find for himself a taste of freedom one last time in the few seconds before he died.
And a final kiss for his daughter. Little Kasia. Instinctively, his fingers went to the pocket over his heart, brushing over her face, tracing the tiny profile of her nose, stroking the curls and her sweet, innocent lips. Yet, even now, if there were still the smallest spark of hope. . .
“Nothing, comrade,” Marian Nowak replied, turning. “Just a breath of fresh air.”
***
Stanislaw Nowak’s guards asked no questions and answered none, either. Every time he demanded to know why they had arrested him, they beat him with rifle butts and hard leather coshes. When they had beaten him into unconsciousness they threw him, along with the other leading citizens of Piorun, into a concrete cell and soaked them with a hose, then left them there for the night. In February. By morning, none of them had much appetite for making further inquiries.
It wasn’t until around midday, when they were pushed and kicked and jammed into cattle trucks, that they found the answer to one of their unspoken questions. As the train set off, the sun began to peer fitfully from the grey sky and shine through the cracks in the plank wall. From the fall of the shadows, they could tell they were traveling east. That was when they knew.
They were going to the gulags.
***
The seventh afternoon of meetings. So little time left, but time enough for one final, tumultuous, cheek-flushing, artery-tightening row. It was just as Churchill had planned it even as he emerged from his bath.
He had come finally to accept that there was little more he could do to save Poland. The fate of that nation lay in Russian hands and nothing could change that, no matter how long he stayed submerged beneath the suds. He knew he would have to give way. Take a step back. But only as far as Germany.
So he rose from his bath and declared that he felt rather like the defenders of Berlin; he would do anything to hold back the advancing Russians, otherwise they might never stop.
“Do you really think they intend to occupy the whole of Europe?” Cadogan sniffed.
“I’ve no bloody ide
a,” Churchill replied, dripping water across the floor. “But the French tried it with Bonaparte, and now the Germans have had their go with Hitler. It’s probably the Russians’ turn.”
“I don’t quite see it as a board game. . . ”
“It’s not. Lose this one and you don’t get to play another round next weekend, Alec,” Churchill said. “So I want us to lay down a few tank traps. Before this afternoon’s plenary, I want you to put it around that I’m having trouble with the War Cabinet back home. Sound a little disloyal. You can do that, can’t you?”
“But… why?”
“Spread a little rumor. Suggest—” he began toweling himself down “—that my colleagues have telegraphed in a state of some excitement. . . desperately anxious not to repeat the mistakes made after the last war. . . all but forbidden me to sign any agreement that would be too financially beastly on the German people. Leave it a little vague in detail, but you must make it as firm as you can in spirit. Suggest that the rats back home are gnawing away behind my back.”
It wasn’t a million miles from the truth. As the end of the war approached, so did an election, and the solidarity that had bound together Churchill’s coalition government was already crumbling under the onslaught of peace.
“But, prime minister, I’m not sure I quite understand,” Cadogan protested.
Alec, if we cannot dam the red tide in Poland, we must do so elsewhere. So we have to persuade our allies that there is a point beyond which they will be unable to push me, no matter what. And that point lies in Germany.”
Eden joined in, gazing at the ceiling rather than confronting the sight of his prime minister climbing into a large pair of silk drawers. “But, my dear Winston, we’re about to carve Germany into pieces.”
“Only one of those pieces will be Russian. Remember that, Anthony. And in the years to come, even a reduced Germany might give those in the Kremlin pause for thought.”
“You want to revive Germany—before we’ve finished crushing her?”
“If that is what it takes.”
“For what?”
“For the future.”
“Winston, are you telling us that they shouldn’t be punished? Not at all?”
“No, merely that in the process of retribution we should be careful not to punish ourselves. Let’s strip them of their Nazi leaders, shoot and hang a few of them as an example, and then pray that we shall be able to harness the strength of her people for good.”
“I admit to being a little bewildered, Prime Minister,” Cadogan said. “It seems such a volte-face. . . ”
“You think I’m making all this up on the spot?”
“Well…”
“Of course I ruddy well am! But things are moving too fast. The Americans offer as much resistance as an old lettuce leaf and we’re in dire need of some help. If we leave this conference with Poland occupied and Germany utterly destroyed, there’ll be nothing between us and the Red Army besides the French, and the only thing they’ll fight for is another man’s wife.”
“Well, if that’s what you want, Prime Minister,” Cadogan said primly, “for me to be disloyal. I’ll try.”
“Splendid. Just for the afternoon.” He splashed on a large amount of cologne as he inspected himself in the mirror. “And you, Anthony, my dear. You hate this deal they’ve done on the Far East.”
“It’s nothing less than rancid.”
“I agree. But I’ll sign it. I’ve got no choice. Don’t let that stop you making your own views perfectly clear.”
“I couldn’t possibly disagree with you in public.”
“Well, give it a go. They’ll only think you’re flexing your muscles and pushing for my job. Another sign that my Cabinet’s growing out of control.”
“Winston!”
“I know, ridiculous thought. I’ve never had a more loyal lieutenant. So,” Churchill turned from the mirror, “you’ll do it.”
“Well, if you insist. But I have to say, it goes against the grain…”
***
There was a mood of confusion at the Livadia, almost chaos. Men stood in small huddles, conferring in corners, their heads bowed, whispering, bickering, growing frustrated, doing deals. Time was running out. As the three leaders sat at their table, smoking and sipping tea, their advisers would rush back and forth, pushing pieces of paper at them that reflected the details of both the newfound agreements and the enduring disputes. And there were still plenty of disputes. The acrimony was spreading round the table like spilt milk. Eden was halfway through a denunciation of the Far Eastern deal, which he likened to the ancient practice of pillage—he didn’t call it that, he was too restrained, too diplomatic, but left them in no doubt that his view was shared by a large number of his cabinet colleagues back home. Britain shouldn’t put its name to such a discreditable document, he said, but Churchill, looking weary and a trifle embarrassed at such outright dissent, said he would, anyway.
“Got to get on with things. Got to,” was all he could offer by way of explanation to his lieutenant.
“’Fraid so, Anthony,” Roosevelt added, trying to console the exasperated Englishman. “Got to move on. Can’t hang around. I’m leaving tonight.”
His words exploded like a thunderclap in the middle of the table, leaving most of them stunned. The President clearly hadn’t realized the impact that such a declaration would have on the others.
“Tonight? But you can’t. You. . . you simply cannot,” Churchill responded with heat.
“I’ve got commitments to several kings, Winston.” Not to mention a throbbing headache, a faltering heart, and the desperate need to rest for a month.
“Franklin, I must beg you to think again. You can’t set three dusky princes of the desert above what we are trying to achieve at this conference.”
“I agree with him,” Stalin added, having kept his ear very close to his interpreter all through the exchanges, anxious not to miss any nuance.
And others joined in, reminding him that there was still much to agree, many details to check, a final communiqué to sign. “And, Mr. President,” Molotov added, “you have worked so hard for unity around this table. We are so close. One more day—just one more day—it might make all the difference. Bring everything together.”
So, with a sigh, Roosevelt capitulated, in spite of Bruenn’s most earnest pleas. He agreed to stay just one more day—and once again, had been bullied into changing his mind. Throughout the conference, he hadn’t stood out against the combined opinion of two other men on anything.
Then the storm began, quietly at first. An aide distributed a note that had been typed in both English and Russian. As it was shuffled round the table, it began to rustle like leaves in a cold wind. As they read it, heads came up, sensing trouble, and a gale arrived that threatened to blow everything apart.
Germany.
The three leaders had arrived at the conference with no clearly formed view as to what they wanted to do with the nation that had brought down so much suffering upon them all twice in a generation. Roosevelt, true to his romantic view, saw it reduced to a collection of tranquil, almost medieval rural principalities, while Stalin saw it primarily as a quarry from which to plunder whatever he could. And Churchill… Churchill had changed his mind. In their earlier discussions he had gone along with the proposals for wholesale destruction of the old enemy and the slaughter of its leading villains, but vengeance had never been part of his personal creed and now his mind was turning from punishment for past sins to what might lie ahead—and he cared little for what he saw. Germany ripped apart. The heart sliced out of Europe. Russia tearing at the carcass.
What the Russians intended was spelled out in the note. They were insisting that reparations be set at twenty billion dollars, and that they should get half of that enormous sum.
“That cannot be,” Churchill said.
Slo
wly, Stalin turned his yellow eyes upon the Englishman. “I will accept nothing less.”
“And I will never sign such a paper. I cannot. I have a telegram from my Cabinet in London practically instructing me not to sign.” He knew they had heard the whispers put round by Cadogan and Eden.
“You would hide behind others?” Stalin sneered.
“We cannot consent to the rifling of the German Reichsbank without limit,” Churchill insisted, with Eden nodding in support.
“There is a limit! Twenty billion dollars!”
“But we have no idea whether such a sum is possible—whether there will be that much left. It is a figure plucked out of the air.”
“We have calculated!”
“How can you calculate what will be left once you have finished—how many houses will stand, how many people will survive in the cellars and the forests, how many factories will have roofs and how many machines will remain unsmashed? It would be folly to squeeze the fruit until all the pips had squeaked and been utterly squandered.”
“You would deny Russia her rights?”
“Not at all. Whatever is sensible to take, Russia should have the lion’s share. But have we learned nothing from the last war? We tried to bleed Germany white, and we got nothing but Nazis.”
Roosevelt had been sitting silently up to this point, hoping for the storm to blow itself out, but instead it was growing. There was a danger of it causing widespread damage. “The facts aren’t simple—or often helpful,” he interjected. “Truth is, after the last war, most of the reparations paid out didn’t come from German pockets but were taken out of American loans, which were then defaulted. It wasn’t Germany who ended up paying. No, it was Uncle Sam.”
Stalin sprang from his chair and stood behind it, as though it were a barricade, pounding the back in fury. “Now I see it. You have sided with each other against me. You wait until the very last minute to deny Russia her rights. You quibble about twenty billion—our share won’t cover a fraction of our losses, yet you would deny us even that!”