Churchill's Triumph (21 page)

As Churchill and Roosevelt joined him, another Russian voice spoke up and a blast of gruff laughter erupted from the Soviets.

“What was that? What did he say?” Churchill asked Birse, his Scottish translator.

“I . . . didn’t quite catch it, sir,” the Scot replied awkwardly.

Suddenly Churchill’s senses were up. “Birse, you’re neither a young man nor a fool. Tell me.”

“It was . . . a joke, sir.”

“Then, pray, allow us both to enjoy it.”

“The Marshal raised a toast to the faithfulness of your daughters. . . ”

“Which you translated very effectively.”

“I’m rather afraid the other gentleman added, “If not the daughters-in-law.”

“Ah. I see. Thank you, Birse.”

Pamela, of course. For a moment, Churchill closed his eyes as his mind wandered far away and to an earlier, more innocent time when his children were young and no one talked of war. When he opened them again, he found Harriman staring at him, his cheeks flushed with guilt. The American looked quickly away.

❖ ❖ ❖

Back at the Vorontsov, at the far end of the darkened room, the two men, one middle-aged, round and pink, the other young yet painfully gaunt, sat in front of the fire toasting bread on pokers.

“Didn’t think you’d know how, zur, you bein’ an aristocrat, like.”

“I am no longer an aristocrat, Mr. Sawyers. And since I stopped being an aristocrat, I have learned many new things.”

“Here. Try a bit of this cold meat on it. Can’t stand that caviar muck.”

“You are very kind.”

“It’s me job.”

“No, Mr. Sawyers, you are very kind.”

“Well, then, what do you say we have one of Mr. C.’s whiskies to wash it down?” He fetched the bottle and two crystal tumblers.

“Will he not object?”

“Why, Mr. C. always objects. About everythin’.”

“He is unkind?”

“No, not really. It’s all show wi’ him. He’s just impatient and bloody stubborn. Thank the Lord.” Suddenly, Sawyers stuck out his lower lip and spoke in a voice remarkably like that of his boss. “Sawyers—you’re a bloody fool. A complete waste of house room. For the life of me, I can’t imagine why I ever employed you in the first place. Wasn’t for your looks, that’s for certain. Still, suppose my daughters are safe with you. Now, bugger off and get me a drink.” Sawyers burst into a fit of giggles. “Truth be told, zur, he’s the best damn boss I ever had.”

“You don’t object? To being a servant, rather than a colonel?”

“Me? No. Wouldn’t swap my job for a field marshal’s baton.” He poured two exceedingly large measures. “Second most important man in the country, I am. Why, if it weren’t for me, they’d all still be waitin’ for D-Day, with Mr. C. stuck in his bedroom shoutin’ that he couldn’t find his trousers.” He burst into laughter once more.

“Mr. Sawyers,
na zdrowie.
To your health.”

They sat for a while with their toasted pork sandwiches and their thoughts, staring into the red embers of the fire.

“Tell me about her, zur, your little girl.”

Nowak looked into his glass, swirled it as though to excite the memories. “Katarzyna. Her name is Katarzyna Maria Krystyna Irena Raczynski. After her grandmothers. And after that, there is so little to tell. One moment I was there and she was so very small and beautiful, next moment I was gone, ordered off to cavalry.” His hand wandered up to touch the pocket over his heart, as though checking for something.

“You have a photo of the little girl?”

“No, not any more. It was impossible to keep anything in camps, dangerous, too. But I imagine it always, here”—he touched the pocket over his heart once more—“and in my mind. On Sunday it would be—no,
will
be—her sixth birthday.”

“Then I drink to the young lady’s health, zur.”

“Thank you. But, please, do not call me sir. I think after war that all such things will be gone. In war, ordinary men die just as well as aristocrats. And more often. It is another thing I have learned.”

“Do me out of a job, you will. Another slice of toast?”

“Dziekuje.
Thank you.”

They busied themselves in silence for a while. Sawyers cut more cold pork, then wrapped the rest of the joint in paper and, without asking, placed it in the plumber’s bag.

The Pole bowed his head in gratitude. “Where do you come from, Mr. Sawyers?”

“Me? I’m a country boy. From Cumberland. That’s up north. Hills and dales, and a lot of lakes.”

“My homeland is very flat. With forests.”

“Home’s a long way away.”

“For both of us.”

“We’ll get you back there, to your little girl. I promise. And, more to the point, so does Mr. Churchill. . . ”

❖ ❖ ❖

The dinner at the Yusupov continued. It was indulgence without respite. They might just as well have poured the vodka out of buckets and dragged in the suckling pigs on a truck. Toasts raced round the table pursued by plates of dessert and vast bowls of ice cream. Glasses were spilled, trousers stained, tongues grew slurred. Then came more toasts. Churchill’s eye wandered farther down the table, taking in the panorama of flushed cheeks and straining collars until it snagged upon the figure of Roosevelt. God, the President looked awful. Ashen, slumped in his chair, smile fixed, movements almost mechanical. And it was at that moment that Churchill realized what this dinner was all about. The purpose was not so much enjoyment as exhaustion—the exhaustion of Roosevelt. He was sick, he was tired, and now he was going to find it harder than ever to resist the demands of the Russians. In a man so frail, keeping him up this late was as good as spiking his milk, and in a game so vital it was nothing short of fixing the result.

There was no time for reflection: it was instinct that drove Churchill to his feet, smacking the side of his glass with a spoon. “Mr. President. Marshal Stalin. Friends,” he began, as they turned towards him. “At the end of this extraordinary dinner”—well, someone had to send them home—“in addition to proposing a vote of thanks to our host, I would like to offer one final toast. I must say that never in this war have I felt the responsibility weigh so heavily on me, even in the darkest hours, as now, during this conference.” And he was off. Grand, overblown phrases, unrehearsed but unforgettable, tumbled forth like acrobats into a circus ring. “The crest of the hill. . . the prospect of open country… comrades in arms. . . toiling millions. . . falling into the pit.” His tone was somber, and the gaieties of the previous moments were gone. His voice grew ever more emotional. “We now have a chance of avoiding the errors of previous generations and of making a sure peace. People cry out for peace and joy. Will the families be reunited? Will the shattered dwellings be rebuilt? Will the toiler see his home? To defend one’s country is glorious, but there are greater conquests before us. Before us lies the realization of the poor—that they shall live in peace, protected by our invincible power from aggression and evil!”

The American Secretary of State later wrote: “I was immensely impressed while Churchill was speaking, with the way his attitude had changed on the future of the world. At Malta, he had been extremely discouraged and distressed, but in his toasts this evening at Yalta, he manifested real hope that there could be a world of happiness, peace, and security.” That was Stettinius’s view, but almost everyone knew the man was a naïve bloody fool.

Churchill finished by toasting them all, and what he called “the broad sunlight of victorious peace.” They cheered him. Then they left.

As Churchill himself was leaving, he found Harriman at his side, touching his sleeve, the guilt still lingering on his cheeks.

“Winston, I can only apologize,” the American said softly. “I’ve never wanted to cause you embarrassment.”

“No need for apology, Averell. You are, and you will continue to be, a most dear friend, not just of Pamela’s but also of mine.”

“I can’t tell you how much those words mean to me.”

“But I intend imposing upon our friendship.”

“Anything.”

“Averell. I need to ask you. Did the President meet privately with the Marshal this afternoon?”

Silence sometimes speaks with a most eloquent voice. Harriman’s silence screamed at Churchill as the American ambassador, trapped between friendship and duty, wriggled with indecision. “Forgive me, Winston,” was all he could manage.

“Nothing to forgive. You have done your duty. But, as the Marshal himself said, it’s not so easy to hide things from each other.”

“I seem to have nothing to say to you this evening except that I’m sorry.”

“As am I. And I fear the sorrows of the whole world will not be slow to follow.”

In his distraction, the Prime Minister didn’t notice that Sarah had failed to reappear.

❖ ❖ ❖

Churchill kicked open the door. It was past one o’clock. Still Sawyers stood beside the glimmers of the fire, waiting for him.

The old man threw his hat into the corner and, in spite of the evening’s excesses, grabbed the proffered glass.

“A long day, zur. Another one tomorrow.” It wasn’t so much a question or a statement as a gentle warning. Churchill’s eyes were raw, inflamed, not merely tired but exhausted. Every morning since they’d arrived, Sawyers had seen the bedclothes tossed and unsettled, the sign of a troubled night. Too many fears, too much strain, too much strange food and, evidently, too much alcohol. The old man needed to harbor his strength rather than try to drown his sorrows, but instead of heeding his servant’s warning, he drank. He sat in silence beside the fire, scowling, cradling his glass as though it were a chalice, while Sawyers stooped to release the laces of his shoes.

“The Pole was here again,” Sawyers said.

Still nothing.

“Says he wants to know how we’re goin’ to get him away.”

“But we can’t,” Churchill said softly.

“What?”

“Even to try to might be to ruin everything. To throw away our last chance.”

The servant stiffened. “But you gave him your word, zur.”

“Matters have changed.”

“Not for him they haven’t!” Sawyers was growing bewildered, even as the master turned impatient with his apparent defiance.

“You don’t understand, Sawyers.”

“Quite right, zur. I don’t. One minute you’re givin’ a man your word of honor and your hand upon it, the next…” He trailed off. He couldn’t finish—couldn’t seem to finish anything. One shoe lay by the hearth, but the other remained still firmly tied to Churchill’s foot. Sawyers had had as much practice at hiding his feelings as any servant, yet he felt a connection with this Pole; after all, it was he who had found him, who had been the first to hear his secrets. Sawyers also possessed a working man’s straightforward understanding of right and wrong, and what was going on here wasn’t just wrong it was rotten.

“So what’s goin’ to happen to him, then?”

“None of your business.”

“It most certainly is.”

“Then to hell with you, Sawyers. Haven’t I got enough without—”

Suddenly the door burst open. It was Sarah. She stood at the threshold, trembling, struggling to hold back tears.

“Mule!”

She flew across the room and buried herself in her father’s arms.

“What has happened, my kitten?”

“That bastard Beria. He. . . ” Whatever followed was lost in sobs.

Churchill stroked his daughter’s fine burnished hair. It was ruffled and damp. Then her face was up, the blue eyes she had inherited from him burning with defiance. “He took me outside to show me the view. But I should’ve known — there isn’t any bloody view, not at night. So he talks to me in his fractured French, all stuff and nonsense about the statues in the gardens and the walks down to the sea, and all the while he’s leading me farther away from the house.”

“My dear,” her father wailed.

“Then he tried to kiss me. That fat loathsome slug tried to kiss me. I did what I thought was best, Papa—didn’t want to create a fuss, embarrass you, so I simply said, ‘No, thank you.’ But he wouldn’t listen.”

Churchill groaned in despair.

“He started to touch me. Wouldn’t let me go. Kept putting his hands on me and. . . ” She rubbed her own over the intimate parts of her body to show him where. “He’s an evil man, Papa. Twisted. Not used to anyone saying no to him. Takes whatever he wants. I swear to you, these people are animals.”

“I know, I know. . . ”

“I started to move away. He grabbed me. Held me. Pinned me to a tree. For a moment I thought he was going to. . . His eyes were sick, Papa, his face all twisted. This wasn’t anything new to him, I could tell. That man is capable of anything, absolutely anything! But then I reminded him who I was.
‘Je suis lafille de Churchill!’
I said.
‘Churchill!’
That made him hesitate. Then he sort of smiled, and let go. So I ran.”

Tears were cascading down her father’s cheeks.

“I ran all the way back to the villa, as hard as I could go. But when I got there—you’d gone.”

It sounded like an accusation, and he felt ashamed, as though it were his fault, for he had forgotten all about her. “I am so sorry, Mule. So dreadfully sorry.”

“Oh, it’s all right, Papa,” she replied, trying to summon up a defiant smile. “You know I can take care of myself.
‘Je suis lafille de Churchill!’
and all that.” She dabbed away at her eyes. “Anyway, I’ve got a lot to look forward to. Like watching that miserable maggot squirm when we tell Marshal Stalin.”

The groan her father gave made it seem as if he had been physically wounded. “But we can’t, Mule, we simply can’t.”

She stepped back from his arms to look at him, her brow furrowed. “What do you mean we can’t, Papa? We must!”

Slowly, as if it took him every ounce of energy, he shook his head. She backed away another step, and another, until she was standing beside Sawyers at the fireplace.

“If we accuse Beria,” Churchill said, “there will be uproar. The entire conference will be ruined.”

“But you’re my father.”

“Please try to understand, Mule. I have other responsibilities, not just to you but to an entire empire of souls. And if we are to pluck anything from the disaster that is being created at Yalta, we must do absolutely nothing to upset the Russians or give them any excuse to break their word.”