Winston’s War (30 page)

“So I'm up in his office—huge place, like a palace, all sorts of chairs and bookcases right to the ceiling and marble busts and a table around which you could sit about twenty. There was a massive desk, too, beautifully carved, it was, with a grand leather top, the biggest I've ever seen. Very nice. Lots of papers, but all arranged in neat piles.”

Burgess forgot about his vow of patience and tried to talk with his mouth still full of whiskey. Mac waited for him to finish coughing.

“By the window there's a simple wooden chair, with newspaper spread all around to protect the carpet. Then in he comes, surrounded by lackeys, and it's all
Your Lordship
this and
Your Mightiness
that and
Can I Bring You Tea or Kiss Your Rear End, My Lord
. Don't they realize he whistles and farts the same as anyone? And he'd bleed the same as anyone, too, with a knife in his gut. Saw that in the camps. Blood isn't blue, it's red, even in the snow, same as everyone's. Anyway, he doesn't say anything above 'good-day' at first, sits down in the chair with a handful of papers, but soon he realizes he's getting them all covered in hair, so he throws them to one side and starts to relax.”

“Did you see what the papers were about?”

“Only the top one. It was titled 'Danzig.'”

Burgess swallowed. Mac could see his throat bobbing up and down like a courting pigeon. “I don't suppose you managed…? No, 'course not. Pity, though…Danzig, you're sure? God's bollocks…”

The curse brought a snort of abuse from behind his shoulder. “Shame! Shame on you, sir!” came a female voice. Burgess turned, startled, to find himself staring into the reproachful eyes of a woman in the uniform and claret-and-blue bonnet of the Salvation Army. She was carrying an armful of newspapers. The
War Cry
. “For he that profaneth in a public place shall surely feel the lash of the Lord,” she intoned ominously.

“Leviticus?” he asked tentatively. “No, Beryl.” She dropped a copy of the newspaper down on the table in front of him. “That'll be at least a shilling.”

Burgess smiled in defeat and gave her two. In return she offered a muttered “God bless” before turning on her way in search of other sinners.

“Didn't realize you were religious, Mr. Burgess.”

“I'm not. Just trying to keep my options open.”

“Expensive business, options,” Mac murmured as he noticed that the copy of the
War Cry
Beryl had left behind was priced only a penny. But Burgess never seemed to be short of any amount of change.

“You were telling me, Mac…”

“Yes, Lord H. So he starts relaxing and talking to me. Like they all do. Asks me if I think war is likely.
Me
, as if he cares an onion about my opinion. I say it depends, but I could see he wasn't listening, just letting off a little steam. So even before I've finished he starts talking about Czechoslovakia, and what a dreadful pity it all was. Then says it mustn't happen again and that it's time to get Hitler to sit up and take a little notice. So they're going to offer a guarantee to Poland.”

“I'm sorry to interrupt, Mac, truly I am, but please,
please
try to remember exactly what he said.”

“He said they were going to offer a guarantee to Poland. Even asked me if I knew where Poland was.” Mac began muttering into his beer, and Burgess took the opportunity to order two more large Irish whiskeys, which he lined up in front of him like coal barges on the Thames.

“So I said my mother had told me it was out Russia way, and he says—exactly. Stuck between Germany and Russia. And we're going to guarantee its independence. So I ask him what that means. Does it mean that if Germany wants part of Poland, we have to go to war?”

The first of the refreshed drinks had already disappeared. Burgess was chewing his thumbnail, had jammed it right into his mouth like a baby in a desperate attempt to persuade himself not to interrupt and get in the way of Mac's story.

“So he says”—Mac reached for his beer and took a long, slow draught. He was playing with Burgess, they both knew it, not unkindly, but teasing, reminding Burgess that their relationship had changed over the months and he was now in charge—“he says, not necessarily. That depends. So I tell him I don't understand. So he says it's a guarantee of Polish independence, but not necessarily Polish frontiers. They might be moved, by agreement, and that would be all right. He said it was the principle of the thing that mattered.”

“Principle! What bloody principle?” Burgess spat, unable to contain himself any longer. “It's not any sort of guarantee if it's not a guarantee of the borders. They'll wriggle out of it again, just like they did with the Czechs. This lot'll have to be dragged by their balls behind a whole division of
panzers
before they think it's time to go to war.”

“You want to go to war, Mr. Burgess?”

“No, Mac, I don't. But I think Hitler will insist.”

“I think so, too.” He noticed that Burgess had bitten his thumbnail down so deep into the quick that it was actually bleeding, and back in his mouth. “But Herr Halifax has got a different view. He said he didn't want to go to war—not that he could anyway, not with only one arm—and that he thought the guarantee of Poland might
do the trick
. Those were his exact words, that it might do the trick. Like a music-hall act. Then the door opened, another stuffed dummy came in, looked important, Halifax called him Rab—”

“Rab Butler, the Number Two in the Foreign Office. The biggest appeaser of them all.”

“So this chap says he wants to talk about the guarantee, says he's got his doubts about it, and that if it goes ahead, then it's got to be made more palatable—is that the right word?—to Herr Hitler.”

“By God, you've got a memory.”

“When you spend years in the camps with nothing to read apart from
samizdat
—and that only comes a page at a time, perhaps weeks apart—you try to remember every little bit.”

“I'm sure you do.”

“Anyway, I go on trimming, trying to make his haircut last as long as I can without leaving His Nibs completely bald, creeping around on the newspaper so as not to make a noise and remind them I was there—while he says to this Rab fellow that he's determined to make sure the guarantee does its job and delivers peace. He says he feels sure Hitler will understand. Then he said something else. You know me, Mr. Burgess, I'm a mild man, but what he said made me want to reach for my razor.”

Burgess put down his glass. It was still half full. Mac had never seen him put down a glass that wasn't empty.

“He says to this other chap, Butler, that his work wouldn't be complete until our differences with Germany were settled and he had seen the Führer driving down the Mall at the side of the King…”

“Mother Mary,” Burgess whispered.

“Went on to say that Hitler's birthday was coming up in a couple of weeks, and would Reichslieutenant Butler make sure that a suitable message of congratulation was prepared for the King to send.”

There was a long and strained silence. Burgess desperately wanted more.

“And that's it. I suggested I come back in three or four weeks and keep it tidy, then they kick me out into the typists' room while they get on with it.”

“Did you get a look at the papers on his desk, by any chance?”

Mac shook his head.

“Bugger.”

“Could be worse, Mr. Burgess. The typists were all on their lunch break, the room was empty, bit messy to tell the truth. So I thought I might do a bit of tidying-up.”

He lifted his barber's case onto his lap and opened it. It was like a leather briefcase lined with pockets which on one side held razors and scissors and combs, while the other side held miniature bottles of lotions that gave off a sweet, perfumed smell. Mac loosened the fastenings that held the lining in place, lowering it just a fraction, allowing Burgess to see. Behind the lining the case was stuffed with thin sheets of paper, carbon copies mostly, the contents of a wastepaper basket, the castoffs from another busy morning of toil inside Halifax's Foreign Office.

Everyone had an opinion of the Polish guarantee including, of course, Joe Kennedy. Problem was, he was insisting on letting everyone within earshot know about it, and by the time Brendan Bracken arrived at the Ambassador's residence to pick up Anna, Kennedy was well past the halfway mark on a bottle of Tennessee mash. He encouraged Bracken to share the other half in his book-lined den while they waited for Anna.

“So tell me, Bracken,” the Ambassador said, handing him a large crystal tumbler and settling himself back into an overstuffed armchair, “what the fuck do you Brits think you're doing? Guaranteeing Poland? Like trying to guarantee sun in one of your god-awful summers.”
“I have to admit that Winston and I aren't overwhelming supporters of the Polish guarantee, but since Czechoslovakia turned turtle we decided that Poland was better than nothing.” Kennedy noted the “we,” the reliance on Churchill's name. That had always been his question about Bracken, whether the man could ever stand up on his own to be counted—although, in truth, Kennedy had a hundred other questions about this odd, flame-haired fantasist.

“But Poland's even farther away than fucking Czechoslovakia. Czechoslovakia had its fortified borders and the best damned arms factories in Europe—till you gave them all away. But the Poles've got nothing except a few rusting cavalry sabers and their drinking songs.”

“It's a dam against further German expansion.”

“Yeah, yeah, and Chamberlain gave me the same bullshit about it being a line in the sand. But dams burst. And lines in the sand get blown clean away. Then what are you gonna do?”

“We may have to fight.”

“Fight? With what? And against who?”

“What do you mean?”

“You've guaranteed Poland, old son. Know where that is? Stuck between Germany and Russia. Halfway between Hell and a hard place. Like guaranteeing a chicken in the jaws of an alligator. You're gonna end up fighting the entire fucking world on your own for a bunch of Polacks who can't even
piss straight.”

“But America has warned—”

“Hey, let's all stand up and salute,” Kennedy mocked.

“Democracies standing together.”

“Like hookers on a street corner. Look, America has warned about nothing—it's Mr. Franklin Duckhead Roosevelt who's been throwing all the words about. And it's because America
is
a democracy that you can bet your last buck we Americans ain't gonna get tangled in another European war. We're done with bringing home coffins. Roosevelt can rattle away all he wants, but there's a presidential election next year. We don't want war, and we're not about to elect a President who wants war, mark my words.” Kennedy rolled his glass between the palms of his hands, gazing at it as though it were a window on all the secrets of tomorrow. “White House policy's nothing but one grand, over-hyped Jewish production nowadays. And if dear old Franklin insists, well, we might just have to dump him. Replace him with someone more in tune with the mood of the people.”

“Ah—someone like you?”

“Hey, it's an ill wind…” Kennedy rose, chuckling. “Anyway, take some sound advice. You think the Polish deal's a pile of well-rotted horse manure, then put your money where your mouth is. Sell Polish securities short. Like I did with Czechoslovakia.” He refilled his own glass but Bracken declined, covering his glass with his hand. Too late, the bourbon splashed onto the back of his hand. Their eyes clashed—Bracken flushed with impatience, Kennedy with doubt as to what sort of man would refuse a free drink. Not a man for his home, least of all for his private den. The Ambassador, without apology, slumped back heavily into his seat. “What you doing here, anyway? Don't remember inviting you.”

“I've come to pick up Anna. Taking her out to dinner.”

“She'll be down in a minute. Just finishing off sending some telegrams I gave her.”

“Thank you.”

“Where you taking her?”

“To a play, then dinner at the Savoy.”

“Good. Glad to see you're treating her right. Important that you treat a girl right.” Suddenly he lurched forward in his chair, peering hazily through his round glasses. “You've been seeing a hell of a lot of her recently, haven't you? Damned if I know what she sees in an Englishman; her father would turn in his grave. You giving her one?”

“I beg your pardon…”

“You giving her one? Got to take care of her interests. In loco parentis and all that bull. Promised her mother. So, you giving her one?”

“I don't think that's any business—”

“Course it's my fucking business. She's a goddamned American citizen and I'm the goddamned American Ambassador. And maybe more by next year.” The drink was upon him now, and both his logic and words were growing slurred. “You've been dating her for months. Must be boning her. Only natural.” He waved his glass towards a series of framed posters of well-known actresses that hung above the fireplace. In the center, occupying pride of place, was Swanson. “Boned Gloria, I did. Won'erful woman. Boned all the others, too, every single one of 'em. My little playmates. Gave the one at the end, there, little Ethel, to Duggy Fairbanks. Had it written into his contract. You know at your age, Bracken, I was boning everything in sight. But including the wife, you un'erstand. That's important. Don't neglect your wife. Fellas make that mistake and get a shit-load of trouble. You gotta treat them right, wives included. So, tell me—you treating little Anna right?”

Bracken, unsure whether “boning” Anna would be a matter for capital punishment or congratulation in the eyes of this Ambassador, reverted to the truth. “My relationship with Anna is entirely honorable.” Damn it. She was pure, had asked for his patience, had promised so much but nothing too quickly. His ideal woman. One who wasn't soiled, had no history, hadn't done the rounds, whom he could parade in front of other men
without their exchanging knowing leers. He had to have a woman—ambition required it of him—and Anna was just about as good as any man could get.

“So not boning her?” Kennedy muttered, befuddled, just as his niece's footsteps could be heard scurrying down the staircase.

“No,” Bracken responded, tartly.