Churchill's Triumph (19 page)

When they were done with her, they threw open the cupboards, smashed all the crockery then ripped apart her bed and threw stools through every window. Soon there was little left of her humble home. Then they urinated on the carcass of the freshly butchered cow. Nowak’s wife—Maria was her name, although she no longer felt she deserved anything so touchable and intimate as a name—did nothing: she had learned that to protest or to cry out would only increase her suffering. They lit a fire of straw in the middle of the room in an attempt to smoke out any other woman who might be hiding within her pitifully small cottage, but when none came, and the room was well ablaze, they departed, leaving her with nothing but fragments.

Her torment was neither isolated nor casual. She suffered far less than others.

There were only a few
Volksdeutsche
left in the Settlement outside Piorun, those who were either too old, or too frail, or too stupid to have left earlier. There were some who, even now, still believed. The Russians found one family in a farmhouse on the outskirts of town: a husband and wife, a son aged twelve, and daughters of sixteen and ten, along with an elderly Polish maid and her husband, the handyman. The Poles were allowed to leave when it became clear who they were, fleeing into the February drizzle that had begun to fall. The father and son were ordered to kneel on the floor while every stitch of clothing was ripped from the mother and girls. Soldiers pinned them down, spreading their arms and legs, while the officer inspected them. Then, while the father and son looked on in horror, he entered the mother and the eldest daughter in turn, toying with them at first, but growing more brutal, enjoying the terror that filled their eyes and the screams that burst forth from somewhere deep inside.

The youngest of the family, the daughter of ten, was still clutching a doll when the officer turned to her. He took it from her hand, and smashed its head on the floor. Then he laughed and reached for her.

It was at this point that the father found himself. He knew he was going to die, and preferred death rather than to watch his child being raped. He threw himself forward, catching his guards by surprise and hammering his head into the face of the officer, breaking his nose. It stopped the bastard laughing. A shot rang out, the father slumped, but he was not yet dead, for as the officer grabbed at his hair and wrenched back his head, the eyes still flickered. The officer stood, shouted, and the father was dragged out through the door by two of the soldiers. And still the captain stood, for he was waiting. He was listening for something.

Then they all heard it, a sound so appalling and piercing that it seemed no longer to be human. It was a noise like that of a stuck pig, driven insane by pain and the desperate longing to be dead. The mother groaned, and fainted. She would never know what had happened to her husband, could not see him leap up from the mire of melting slush and mud that had become freshly mixed with his blood, and tear frantically away, doubled over, clutching at the fresh and gaping wound where, moments before, had been the part that made him a man. Local people say that, if you stand on that spot in winter when the wind blows through the trees, even today you can hear his screams.

Once the officer had finished with the woman and her two girls, the rest of them had their way. The mother never regained consciousness.

Poland was being liberated.

❖ ❖ ❖

“It has been a good day, Josef Vissarionovich,” Molotov said, as the black Packard drove them the few miles back from the Livadia towards the palace at Yusupov.

“Yes, a damned good day, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich.”

“I think we have the bastards!”

“Perhaps,” Stalin replied. “A little more patience. Still a few details to nail to the floor.”

“We should’ve demanded more,” Molotov continued, his enthusiasm rising. “The Americans want us in their Japanese war so badly they’d skin their own daughters for it.”

“By God, you’re a pig of inexhaustible appetites, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich.”

“I’m grateful for your confidence, Josef Vissarionovich.”

“What more could we have asked for? They’ve already handed over railways, ships, ports, credits, Sakhalin, the Kuriles. . . ”

“And Poland. They’ve as good as given us Poland.”

“It has never been theirs to give or take.”

“Given
in
to us on Poland,” Molotov hastily corrected himself.

“They quibble only so they can save face back home.”

“Pathetic. Toss them a few words about elections and they go belly-up like spaniels.”

“Have a care, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich. Remember, I have given them my sacred word,” Stalin warned. “And you know I always keep my word.”

“Of course, Josef Vissarionovich.”

“It’s just that, sometimes, I change my mind.”

And their laughter brought tears to their eyes.

“We should have asked for their atom bomb,” Molotov said, when they had grown quiet once more.

“No, no, we can’t do that. Even to hint we know about it would betray the whole of our intelligence network in the West.”

“But we shouldn’t need to ask, Josef Vissarionovich. They talk of alliance and friendship, yet still they deceive!”

“What do you expect? You think their hearts will turn to sugar simply because they’ve got a bomb tucked in their pockets? Roosevelt whimpers on about this new world of his, and how all three of us will be its policemen. But he seems willing to rot in hell to make sure only two will have a truncheon.”

They fell silent for a moment, staring into the gathering darkness as the headlights picked out the sentries at their posts along the road.

“I fear they mean to use it against us, Josef Vissarionovich.”

“Not Roosevelt, I think. He’s too befuddled, deceived by his own dreams. But look at him, how long can he last? Every day he steps closer to his God. No, it’s not him we should worry about, but what will follow.”

“And that black bastard Churchill.”

Stalin snorted through his moustache. “Every day I ask myself how much longer we will be forced to suffer that man.” The Packard was turning into the driveway of the Yusupov, the engine whining as it shuddered its way down through the gears. “Yet there’s another way of looking at it,” he continued. “Perhaps he’s part of some divine plan. Think of it, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich, maybe we owe him a debt of gratitude.”

“I can’t see a single reason why.”

“For sending his armies to Archangel all those years ago in the hope of crushing the revolution. Why, without Churchill and his ham-fisted invasion, the Red Army might never have learned how to fight.”

“For some reason—which I feel with great intensity, Josef Vissarionovich—I doubt that you intend to make him a hero of the Soviet Union.”

“But you’re wrong!” Stalin contradicted him with a laugh. “I intend to show my gratitude this evening, to them all. At dinner—with hospitality that’ll be worthy of Peter the Great himself. I want to drown them in kindness. I’ll be the perfect host. Toast their heroism, the size of their manhood, the breadth of their wisdom. Then we’ll go on to toast their generals, their womenfolk, their pets, their catamites, even that weakling of an English tsar. Wash away all their worries.”

The car had drawn to a halt, the door was open, a blue-capped NKVD major was offering a starched salute.

“I want to stuff Churchill and Roosevelt with so much gratitude that they’ll stagger away into the night and scarcely know where they are. And then, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich, in the morning, when they are dull and dim-witted—that’s when we shall bury the bastards!”

❖ ❖ ❖

A wave of tension, even crisis, wafted along the parquet-floored corridors of the Vorontsov. The “trifle” had gone missing. This was the informal name given to the gifts that the British brought with them on their diplomatic wanderings to hand out as tokens of gratitude to their hosts. At Yalta the trifle consisted of two silver cigarette cases, four cigarette lighters, a silver powder compact, six silver propelling pencils, and various other items. It comprised almost the entire monthly quota of luxury goods from Dunhill in St. James’s, and every single bit of it had disappeared. That morning the pieces had been in a desk drawer in one of the offices; by the evening, they had been liberated. No one had any doubts that the outstretched hand had belonged to one of the many Russians who were in constant attendance and who barged in and out of the rooms without knocking—chambermaids, cleaners, sentries, electricians, even plumbers. Yet no complaint could be made to the Russian authorities. It would have been insulting to their hosts, and it would doubtless have ended in tragedy with some poor innocent bathroom attendant dragged off to face a firing squad. The prospect didn’t make for a sound night’s sleep, so the British decided they would have to resolve the problem on their own. It placed Sir Alexander Cadogan in a mood that was several steps beyond foul.

The diminutive diplomat was feeling the pressure. As the conference drew closer to its deadline for conclusion, the supporting staff members like Cadogan were condemned to spend their nights poring over the ambiguities and imprecisions arrived at during the day by the High Ones and turning them into something solid. This was a task of Herculean order, since it required Cadogan not only to find agreement with Russians and Americans but also to secure some sort of understanding among his own team, yet every man seemed to be a lawyer who could spot nothing but loopholes and loose ends. Cadogan sought harmony and found only confusion. All in all, it was beginning to turn into a bit of a flap.

His temper wasn’t helped by the fact that he had only just discovered he’d been pushed off the invitation list for Uncle Joe’s grand show that evening at the Yusupov. The invitation list was littered with assorted admirals and ambassadors, even Sarah was going, but for him, the man who was responsible for squeezing meaning out of all their diplomatic manure, there was to be no place at the table.

And now the wretched trifle had gone missing. The heels of Cadogan’s hand-stitched shoes made sharp clicking sounds of displeasure along the polished corridors as he went in search of someone upon whom he might offload his unhappiness. He found just the man, lurking in an alcove near the Prime Minister’s rooms. A workman.

“What are you doing here?” the Englishman demanded. The workman’s eyes were shifty and he shuffled uneasily from foot to foot: he was clearly hiding something, perhaps even the missing gifts.

“I come to see Mr. Churchill.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, man. Let me see your bag.”

But the workman refused to co-operate. A struggle quickly broke out for inspection rights to the bag; voices were raised, a woman’s head popped out from a nearby doorway to find the cause of the commotion. It was Sarah, dressed for dinner. And then the Prime Minister’s door opened.

“No need makin’ a fuss. I’ll deal wi’ this, Zur Alex,” Sawyers said softly.

“I think he’s stolen something, Sawyers.”

“Wi’ all respect, Zur Alex, I doubt that. I can vouch for him.”

“What the hell’s going on here? You know him?”

“I do. So does Mr. Churchill. An’ he wouldn’t be wantin’ a fuss.”

“Who is this man?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“You most certainly can.”

Sawyers stood his ground. “Then I regret I’m not goin’ to, zur.”

“I. . . I—” The diplomat reddened and rose on to his polished toes, trying to redeem his authority, but failed. “Well, I never. I really never did!”

He had known Sawyers too long to doubt him, yet he resented being left out of things once again. This place was beginning to exasperate him beyond measure. Cadogan’s world was one of decisions, of clarity and, yes, of dinners. And he wasn’t getting any of that here. But his world was also one of order, and a mountain of untidy problems still waited for him back at his desk. He hadn’t time to make the fuss he thought he deserved. “I don’t know what the bloody hell’s going on here, Sawyers, and I don’t care for it. The world’s gone mad, you know. Mad! Quite blindingly mad!” He threw the last thought over his shoulder as he stumped away.

Sawyers hustled Nowak inside the Prime Minister’s door. Sarah followed.

“Now, Mr. Nowak, wi’ all due respect, you can’t just come and—”

“I need to see Mr. Churchill. It is very urgent,” the Pole interrupted. He was agitated. Beads of sweat were clustered above his eyebrows.

“But you can’t,” Sarah said. “He’s not coming back until after the dinner tonight.”

“But I must see him.”

“Simply not possible,” she insisted.

“I must!”

“Calm yourself, Mr. Nowak,” Sawyers said. “No point in gettin’ all bent out of shape.”

“I risk my life to come here. I do not need lecture from a servant!”

Sarah laughed as the Pole’s working-class clutch began to slip.

“Your father did not laugh when he promised to save my life.”

The smile was immediately smothered.

“Your father is man of honor. Yet others are not. They seek to betray him. And if I do not see him tonight, there is nothing anyone can do to save him!”

“Sorry, zur, but you can’t be seein’ him, not tonight. He’s not here.”

“Then Mr. Churchill is lost,” the Pole cried, and slumped to his knees. “And if he is lost, I am, too. Everything is lost…”

❖ ❖ ❖

Churchill had gone directly from the afternoon’s plenary session to the Yusupov. There had been no time to return to his own quarters to wash or change or, as it happened, to see Nowak. When Sarah arrived at Stalin’s villa to join her father in the early evening, she found him in a corner with two Soviet generals, deep in discussion about the campaigns of Napoleon. For the moment, he had succeeded in slipping the leash that tied him to Birse, the interpreter, and was conducting the conversation in pidgin French.

“Papa,” she greeted, touching his elbow gently.

He neither turned nor faltered in his monologue, ignoring her.

“Papa,” she repeated, more firmly, squeezing his arm.

“Ah, ma petite burrito. Excusez-moi, messieurs les générals,”
he muttered in his execrable accent, nodding to the two men. Sarah led him to a corner beside a large pot plant.