Target Churchill (3 page)

But painting was only one of his exercises in extending his creative brainpower. At Chartwell, he laid long walls of bricks and would often find other chores to use his hands, especially when his brain needed relief from his intense long hours of concentrating on his creative work. But his most ardent secret personal weapon was his discovery of the benefits of midday napping.

After a short doze in the mid-afternoon, his eyes covered by a black-silk band, he would awake completely refreshed. He likened it to erasing the blackboard in the classroom at Harrow. It was one thing to use the eraser and wipe away what you had written and try to write again, but after sleep, it was as if the blackboard had been washed down clean. Thus, he had discovered, his mind scrubbed clean after a nap. Previous attempts were erased, and he could start afresh. He had kept to this schedule religiously every day of his adult life.

Hours later, he heard Sarah's voice, “Father, your guests have arrived.”

His daughter Sarah wore white slacks that clung neatly to her figure. Her chartreuse blouse was a striking contrast to her chestnut hair. Sarah was a part-time actress in her early thirties. She had inherited her father's flair for the dramatic—both in her acting and painting, where she relished the vibrant tones that her father liked also.

His children were all different: Randolph was a journalist like his father had been; Diana and Mary, like their mother, had married politicians; and Sarah had inherited her father's artistic side. He was grateful for her comforting presence.

Clementine had urged her husband to accept Alex's offer of a villa. She thought the sun and painting might break through and wash away his melancholy. When Churchill had agreed, she had declined to accompany him, sending Sarah in her place to act as hostess. Although she had begged off on the grounds that there were still moving chores at Number 10, Churchill suspected that, she, too, needed some time alone.

Dear Clemmie,
he thought, missing her terribly.

She had invested her entire life in his career. His pain was her pain, and the loss of the Prime Minister's office had hit her equally as hard, perhaps harder.

Sarah took her father's hand and gently guided him up the slight slope back to the villa. These days, the media characterized him as an old man past his prime, which galled him, but her father didn't look old to Sarah. Sure, his gait may have been a bit shambling and, at times, unsteady. But the pink face was still that of a cherub, with blue eyes that could still twinkle merrily. She adored him.

The villa commanded the top of the hill, yet its stark fascist architecture clashed with the soft curves of the Mediterranean hills and the Nile blue of Como's waters, as if a modern rail station had been erected in marble and then nailed to the top of the hill. Churchill likened it to an alien invader stamping its tyranny on an inhospitable landscape. The villa had once been the headquarters of the British Army in Italy. Before that, it was rumored to be a place where rich playboys took their girlfriends. To know that his large bed had been put to good use amused Churchill.

At the villa, Sarah took command of the military guests and supervised the introductions.

“I'm Derek Luddington, Mr. Churchill,” the officer intoned, shaking hands with Churchill.

Luddington was wearing the tan uniform of the British Army. He was coatless in the hot sun, but his shirt was topped with the red epaulets of a Brigadier General. He was slender and of medium height with a neatly trimmed brown moustache.

He introduced his aide, “And this is Major Cope.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Churchill.”

Churchill nodded. Cope was a small, dapper man with black hair slicked into two matching halves.

“General,” boomed Churchill, “I hope you will convey to Field Marshall Alexander my thanks for arranging this vacation idyll.”

“Father,” interrupted Sarah, “look what the General has brought you, compliments of Sir Alexander. Some smoked salmon and a bottle of champagne.”

Churchill observed that the champagne was not Pol Roger, his favorite, but Veuve Clicquot. He silently admonished Alex, thinking he would have to make do. The gift was hardly mouthwash and would serve well for lunch.

Sarah offered drinks, and the men both ordered gin and tonics. She gave her father his usual brandy and poured herself a healthy straight scotch.

He knew, of course, the purpose of the visit. Churchill's views had weight in the general's circles. He was an avowed Churchill believer and a good and loyal friend. He had been heartbroken at Churchill's defeat.

For Harold Alexander, only Churchill understood the big picture, and these men were part of the periodic assessment of his friend's insight into the fast-moving events of the postwar era.

They took their seats in the white metal chairs around a circular metal table on the veranda under a yellow umbrella that advertised Martini & Rossi, the Italian vermouth.

The conversation mostly dwelled on the ending of the war in Japan and the ceremonies of surrender to the Americans and British on the battleship
Missouri
. Churchill remarked how gallant and fitting for MacArthur to let the frail and haggard General Wainwright, who had been imprisoned by the Japanese on the Philippines, receive the sword from the Japanese.

“It wouldn't have happened so quickly without the atomic bomb, would it?” offered Luddington.

“Truman showed some spine on that,” Churchill muttered. “I thought he might be dissuaded by those lily-livered intellectuals around him.”

Churchill paused and shook his head.

“Beastly weapon! Lucky Hitler didn't get it first. Now the Russians are trying to get it. Can you imagine? Roosevelt was on the verge of giving Stalin those secrets. If the war had lasted, he might have. I hope Truman has the good sense to keep it out of his hands.”

“Do you think he has?” Luddington asked.

“Has what?”

“The good sense,” Luddington explained.

Churchill chuckled.

“He looks like a Manchester shopkeeper, but his looks are deceiving. He's a lot tougher than he appears—as he has demonstrated.”

The men waited through a long pause, then he nodded as if he had given himself permission to expound further.

“I talked to him at length in Potsdam. The only time we were alone was just after we met. He whispered in my ear, ‘Mr. Churchill, I must have a chance to speak to you privately.' That night he came to my bedroom, and I turned up the volume of the radio and told him to whisper because I was sure the Soviets had listening devices planted everywhere.

“It was the matter of the super bomb Truman told me. They would drop it only three weeks later in Hiroshima. Then he said, ‘Mr. Churchill, I'm going to tell Premier Stalin tomorrow that the bomb is operational. I'm sure he knows what we were up to, but I doubt that he knows it's ready for use.' ‘Then don't tell him,' I said. ‘Why even corroborate any information about the bomb?' ‘Because,' he said, running a chill down my spine, ‘those were President Roosevelt's instructions.' He went further. He said that he had uncovered a memorandum suggesting that he offered the Russians the formula for making the bomb. ‘And will you obey these instructions?' I asked. ‘We shall see,' he said. Imagine that! We shall see. I also told him that if he felt honor bound to tell Stalin that it was operational, then slip it in as nonessential information between other items like MacArthur's Pacific strategy, the Kuril Islands, the Nuremberg trials, the refugee problem.”

“Did he do it?” Luddington interjected.

“I can't be certain, although I understand that when the bomb was finally dropped on Hiroshima, Stalin screamed bloody murder at Harriman, the U.S. ambassador in Moscow, because he was not told about the date in advance.”

“Do you think Truman would really share those atomic secrets with the Russians?”

“I can't be certain, although I would suspect that Franklin might have done it if the war had dragged on.
Might
have, I stress, although I feel certain I would have talked him out of it. As for Truman, I can't be certain. Not that it would matter. I am no longer at 10 Downing.”

Churchill's face reddened with a brief flash of anger. It was the one subject that could threaten the return of his black dog. Sarah sensed this and tried to abort the conversation with cheerful laughter.

“Don't let Father get started on that or lunch will get cold. Come in now.”

They rose from their seats and followed her to the dining room. The table was of Venetian origin with ornate carvings on the side panels. Plates of chilled melon and prosciutto were set on mats. Sarah asked the Brigadier General to open the champagne and pour into the fluted glasses.

Churchill held up his glass in a mock toast.

“To the Phoenix,” he said, “that great mythical bird, master of resurrection.”

The visitors laughed nervously, apparently understanding the reference, which was hardly subtle.

Was it possible
, he wondered,
to rise from the ashes?

“To you, Mr. Churchill,” offered Luddington. “If it wasn't—”

Churchill knew exactly what was coming. Although the reminder of his leadership during the war could be comforting, he did not wish to dwell on the past, which triggered thoughts of ingratitude and insult.

“To the king,” he said quickly, lifting his glass, foreclosing on any future toasts.

“The king,” the others chimed in.

As always, Churchill dominated the table talk. Increasingly on his mind was what he saw as Stalin's growing threat. Unfortunately, few were listening. It had been exactly the same in the early days of Hitler. He had been vociferous in his opposition to appeasement, a lone voice. It was happening again. He reiterated his suspicion of Stalin's motives and the danger he posed to the Western democracies.

“Why must I be cast in the role of the canary in the coal mine?” he asked his guests rhetorically.

The two luncheon guests exchanged glances. Churchill was certain that they, too, were inclined to buy the line that he was exaggerating the threat. Such thoughts now permeated the thinking in Great Britain and in America.

“Out of power, finding a pulpit will be more difficult than ever. These are indeed dangerous times. Think of Stalin with the bomb. Imagine him having a weapon that has more destructive power than twenty thousand tons of TNT, two thousand times the power of our own Grand Slam, once the most powerful bomb in the world. Putting that in the hands of the Russians is a frightening prospect.”

“But, Father,” Sarah said, “Look at it from their point of view. They see themselves as powerless against the Allies. The Americans and us, we own the bomb, remember, that should be enough to hold the Russians in line.”

The guests looked at her and nodded.

“Hold Stalin in line? Don't be absurd, Sarah. These people have an agenda to spread their control over the world. Their agents are undoubtedly burrowed in everywhere. They want a Marxist world. Hegemony.” He chuckled, “You see? Even my own daughter has doubts. Such is the fate of any sailing ship that tries to buck the prevailing winds. Tack here, tack there, but keep your eye on the objective.”

“But, Mr. Churchill,” Luddington said. “You are a world-renowned and respected figure. Surely, you can find a pulpit to make your views known. And you are a writer as well.”

“Gentlemen, out of power is out of power. I can speak, yes. But my voice as former Prime Minister is considerably diminished.”

“My father would rather paint and write these days,” Sarah said, with an admonishing glance at her father.

Ignoring her remark, Churchill proceeded to return to his earlier theme, revealing his principal worry: the atomic bomb in Stalin's hands.

“I was told by Edward Stettinius, Roosevelt's last Secretary of State, as well as his aide, Hiss, that a memorandum had been prepared for Roosevelt by Hopkins and Hiss, urging him to give Stalin the secrets. He died before he could act.”

“Would Truman do that?” Luddington asked, a deep frown creasing his forehead.

“I think not. Let me amend that. I
hope
not. Can he be such a fool? Who knows? That's what Stalin is demanding, and I understand that the new tenant of Number 10 is sympathetic!”

Churchill paused.

“Quite believable, I'm afraid. Attlee, you know, was always a sheep in sheep's clothing. If either of them consents to such an appalling decision, it would be a disaster.”

“Can they be stopped?” Luddington asked.

“Who will stop them?”

“Perhaps you, sir,” Luddington said.

“Must I remind you that I am at this point merely an opposition voice in Parliament? Mr. Truman does not call to ask my advice.”

“But, Father,” Sarah interjected, obviously hoping again to put an optimistic turn on the conversation. “You could accept that invitation in March.”

Churchill sighed regretfully.

“Perhaps,” he began, and then fell silent.

“Father has been invited to speak at a college in America,” Sarah said, directing the news to the guests. “Truman will introduce him.”

“Not much of a college,” Churchill muttered. “Where in America was it?”

“Westminster College in Fulton, Missouri. Two hundred twenty students.”

“Hardly an international forum, Sarah,” Churchill replied gruffly.

“But, Father, it is Truman's state, and with him to introduce you, it will become automatically a center of international interest.”

“Really, Sarah, hardly Harvard,” he persisted. “You'll recall they gave me a degree a couple of years ago.”

She produced the invitation, which was typed on White House stationery with a handwritten postscript from President Truman. She read the president's scrawled words, as she had done a number of times since the invitation had been received.