Churchill's Triumph

by Michael Dobbs

  “You know what you want, Papa.”

  “But I have no means of obtaining it, not without Franklin. And that Russian peasant plays him like a trout. Tickles him, torments him, until finally. . . ”

  Sawyers began removing some of the debris of their dinner, but Churchill waved him away. Sawyers didn’t retreat far; he never did.

  Churchill started rearranging the table. He pushed around the plates, dragged the fruit bowl in front of him. “You see, Mule, my darling, here is Russia,” he indicated the plate to his right on which lay the torn remnants of a suckling pig, “and this is Britain”—the fruit bowl on the left. “In between us lie France, Germany, and Poland.” To represent these he laid out three large boiled potatoes in a line. Poland kept wobbling away from its spot, but Churchill insistently shoved it back.

  “Germany will be dismembered, torn to pieces. France lies prostrate and filled with left-wing putrefaction, while Poland . . .” He shook his head in despair. “At times in its long and glorious history, the state of Poland has been vast, yet at other times it has ceased to exist at all. It has expanded east, west, south—the one thing it has never been is settled. So now we are trying to resolve the matter, once and for all. Move it west. Hack a large slice out of Germany. But the bloody Poles don’t want to be moved while the Huns. . . ” His head was up and he stared at her with red eyes. “For the moment, they matter not a damn. But there will come a time—there always comes a time—when the Herrenvolk wake up from their enforced slumber with an unquenchable thirst for revenge.” His hand thumped down on the table. Poland wobbled once more.

  “You make it sound so hopeless.”

  “It’s Franklin who is being hopeless.” He stuck his tongue in his cheek, exploring his gums. “What the hell have you done with my bloody toothpicks, Sawyers?”

  “Behind your potatoes. Back of France. Just where you left ’em.”

  Churchill glared at his servant. “Are you sure you’ve not joined the Bolshevists, Sawyers?”

  “Roman church, me, always have been. Every Sunday.”

  Churchill took a thin sliver of wood and burrowed with ferocious energy inside his jaw.

  “But…” Sarah seemed perplexed.

  “What is it, Mule?”

  “This idea of moving Poland. When you first met the president at the beginning of the war, didn’t you agree on a charter about these things? About borders not being changed except by agreement, never by force?”

  “Ah, the Atlantic Charter. Another of Franklin’s dreams, one he conjured up at the start of the conflict when its purpose seemed so clear. We drew it up over breakfast.” He slurped at another glass of wine. “The Charter, Mule, is not a set of rules but a star, something at which we gaze. From afar.” The old man tossed the toothpick into the fire, and with it seemed to go much of his spirit. He sighed bitterly. “In the meantime we get on with things as best we can. Which isn’t very well at all.”

  “But if it was Franklin’s charter, why can’t he help?”

  “Franklin? Franklin? Why, the old fool can’t even help himself!” But Churchill immediately pulled a face of remorse. It was an outburst too far. “Forgive me, Mule. I love that man, with all my heart. Without him we could never have survived those dreadful months when all seemed lost. I shall always smother his name in glory. But… but—but—and bloody but.” As he repeated himself, the bitterness returned to his voice. “We all grow old, Mule, we decay. In different ways. Franklin has become ever more stuffed with emotion and idealism. Far-away things. He sees nothing but his Promised Land, not the desert he must cross before he gets there.”

  “Like Poland.”

  “How can I make him realize?” Churchill cried out in anguish. “Stalin’s army is already there, marching ever farther westward, yet Franklin declares that he intends to take his armies home. What am I supposed to do? Look at the map. Why can’t he see? Once the American troops are gone, what will stand in the way of Russia?”

  And his fist crashed down, first on Poland, then Germany, and finally upon France. The map of Europe was reduced to a morass.

  For several moments he sat in despair, tears flooding from his eyes as he gazed into the future. “I want to stop this thing before it starts. In Poland. Trouble is. . . ”—he forced a defiant smile—“… I’m not in much of a position to tell Stalin to bugger off, am I? Not on my own. But don’t worry, my darling. Something will turn up. Always does. You see, there are three of us around that table, the bear, the buffalo, and the donkey. Yet only the dear old donkey knows his way home.”

  She squeezed his hand. Tears stood in her eyes and he knew he had gone too far. Time to distract.

  “And what the bloody hell are you doing, standing there, Sawyers, with all this mess on the table?”

  The servant advanced with a napkin and a knife. “Always thought about goin’ to France for me holidays,” he moaned, scraping away at the mashed potato and inspecting the result. “Don’t seem much point any more.”

  “Can’t you do anything without your usual hang-dog commentaries, Sawyers? You’re always arguing—bad as the bloody Poles, you are. Worse than Randolph.”

  “You had a Pole offerin’ to help you. But you turned him out.”

  “You are a Bolshevist! All this damned workers-of-the-world nonsense. You and a plumber.”

  “A Polish plumber. Who asked for help and who offered to give us somethin’ in return.”

  “I explained why—”

  “You said it were against the rules of your conference. What rules would they be, then?”

  “Damn your—” Churchill began, but didn’t finish. The wine had loosened not only his tongue but also his mind, bending his thoughts, opening up new pathways. And the Pole intrigued him. In Churchill’s experience most Poles were congenitally bloodyminded, an ill-assortment of Fascists, Communists, nationalists and fanatical priest-followers who spent their time brawling with each other in preparation for setting upon their neighbors. Yet here was an exception, a Pole who knew what he wanted—and who had offered to help. Stalin and Roosevelt were talking about inviting their own tame Poles to the conference, so wouldn’t it be useful to have at least one Pole on his own side—if, of course, Ratsinski, or Nowak or whatever his name was, truly was a Pole? And as Sawyers had implied, damn the bloody man’s eyes, the way things were going, what the hell had he got to lose?

  “But what could he do for us?” Churchill wondered aloud.

  “My old dad said you never know nowt wi’out askin’.”

  “Maybe,” Churchill mused. “Just maybe you’re right.”

  “I’ll get puddin’ then, shall I?” Then Sawyers bent to pick up a log from the fireplace, brandishing it with a toothless smile as he moved towards the bathroom. “And I’ll call the plumber.”

  WEDNESDAY, 7th OF FEBRUARY, 1945

  THE FOURTH DAY

  FIVE

  It had been a night of moving shadows, of rustlings and whispers and sporadic sleet, but the Germans in Piorun took no notice. They were depleted in number and demoralized in spirit; some were children, members of the Hitler Youth and only weeks out of school. The guard for the entire town amounted to no more than a handful of sentries in the square and on the two bridges and, like every German in Piorun, their minds were on other things. As the hours passed, their fears grew. Every door that banged, every restless dog that barked, might herald the arrival of the Russians. No one doubted they would be here by the weekend, perhaps earlier. These Germans wanted nothing more than to leave, to return home across the border, and if they could accomplish that with a little Polish loot in their pockets, all the better. So let the Poles scuttle around like rats in the dark, gathering what they may. In the scale of things to come, they were not the problem.

  Many of the men who comprised the German garrison spent the evening at the inn. The bravado of earlier days had vanished, replaced by
raw anxiety and a determination to get drunk. They raised many toasts to themselves, each growing more mournful, but the beer was thin and they remained stubbornly in touch with their senses, and with their fears. They grew abusive and accused the innkeeper of serving piss, and they pissed into a glass, instructing him to drink, but he refused. And when they grew angry with his defiance, he simply asked them what they intended to do with him—hang him now, or in the morning? So they cursed him and demanded that he bring out the vodka they knew he was hiding in the back. He brought out a quart bottle of neat spirit flavored with fruit juice, and they drank till they retched and could scarcely see.

  If they had been able to see, they would perhaps have noticed men and even a few women in uniform, infiltrating the town from across the potato fields. Their clothing was unorthodox, usually an old Polish Army tunic or a Wehrmacht jacket with the insignia and emblems ripped off, or occasionally a bit of an old British battledress. They struggled through the clinging mud in peasant boots, laden with ammunition pouches and many different forms of weaponry, much of it German, and some wore grey fur hats like Cossacks, yet no matter what form of headgear they wore, each had a Polish eagle and crown embroidered on the front. This was the Home Army, the underground, the resistance, the remnants from the defense of 1939 and the Uprising of 1944, those who had taken to the freezing forests and lived for years off potatoes and the most meager pickings, waiting for a day such as this.

  But the Germans saw none of it. They watched distractedly over the square and the two bridges and over their drunken colleagues; no one watched over the fields.

  The dawn arrived like a trickle of sour milk that spread along the eastern horizon and brought the long hours of darkness to an end. It crept slowly upon Piorun, accompanied by the sound of complaining geese, and cows growing restless for milking. Stirrup pumps squeaked as thin, tired horses tried to stamp warmth back into their hoofs and dark cotton buds of smoke began to appear above the rough thatched roofs, but as the town stirred, German eyes kept flickering eastward, ears straining for the sound of tanks, or artillery, or aircraft. The tidal wave of death was drawing closer and many people in this benighted land would die before the next nightfall; if that were to include a few Poles in Piorun, it wasn’t going to burn a hole in anyone’s conscience.

  Shortly before ten, beneath a flat sky, two Wehrmacht trucks filled with troops whined their way into the square, which glistened in the meltwater. As the soldiers in their greatcoats clambered out and took up their positions, the church bell started to toll, its note sounding dull in the stiff February air, and at its signal the townsfolk of Piorun emerged from all sides. Many brought bags and bundles.

  By the time Kluge appeared, the square was crowded and his Kubelwagen had to force its way through the throng. Only when he had reached the front of the church did the bell cease its tolling. Another vehicle followed, in the back of which sat the mayor and his wife and the doctor. The doctor bore obvious signs of a beating; the Kommandant hadn’t taken kindly to the discovery that he was unmarried and had no wife to hang beside.

  The Germans had remembered to bring extra rope with them today. Three lengths. Nooses already tied. From the school across the square, three stools were brought and placed beneath the lamppost. Then the prisoners were dragged forward and made to stand on the stools, the nooses placed round their necks and stretched so that the mayor, his wife and the doctor were forced to stand almost on their toes. The legs of the stools rocked on the uneven ground, slowly pulling the nooses tighter. Several women in the crowd started to weep. The doctor was making gurgling sounds and his lips had turned blue.

  “So, where is it? How will you pay for these lives?” Kluge demanded of the crowd. Yesterday he had rather enjoyed taunting these people, but a day was a wretchedly long time when you were waiting for the Russians and his humor had worn thin. He was anxious to get on with it.

  It seemed many moments before the elderly priest, the mayor’s brother, stepped forward. His habit was as worn as any peasant’s smock, his hair crudely cut, his hands dark and gnarled from the hours that he spent laboring alongside others in the fields. Around his fleshless waist was tied an old leather belt that seemed altogether too large for him, and from his neck hung a simple carved wooden cross. “Please spare them, Herr Kommandant. We have gathered what we could.” He was older than his brother and his voice was frail, cut down by years of undernourishment and humiliation.

  “Then where is it?”

  “We have placed everything in the church.”

  Slowly and with an uncertain hand, the priest held his crucifix aloft, blessing the prisoners, and as the Poles in the crowd saw his gesture, they fell to their knees, those nearby at first, then others, in waves, like the ripples reaching out on a pond. Finally, the priest joined them on his knees, repeatedly making the sign of the cross on his chest, and the only people left standing were the troops.

  The Kommandant stared out across the square at so many Poles bent in submission. It was how he wanted them. The priest had done his job for him.

  “Well, we shall see!” Kluge shouted. He turned, his boots splashing through puddles as he walked to the door of the church. For a mere fragment of time before he stepped inside, he remarked to himself how it was almost as if the Poles, by kneeling, were trying to remove themselves from the line of fire. Was this, he wondered, how they intended to greet the Russians? On their knees? He smiled grimly. From what he’d heard, it wouldn’t do them much good. The Russians felt much the same about these people as the Germans did, and their prayers wouldn’t save them. Yet, for a moment, Kluge envied the Poles their superstitions and certainties. He’d spent weeks wondering how he and his men should greet the Russians, but no matter how many sleepless nights he had devoted to the problem, he still hadn’t come up with any convincing answer.

  Yet, he told himself, war was full of surprises. He might survive, might even live to be a rich man. Time to see.

  The church door creaked wearily on its hinges. Inside, Kluge blinked for a few moments as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. His nostrils flared. The heavy stench of old wood and incense hung in the air, but something else was mingling with it, something familiar, out of place. It was several seconds before he recognized the musky smell of stale bodies, and by that time he was also growing dimly aware that a number of gun muzzles were pointing at him.

  “Gott in Himmel…”

  “We very much hope he is, Herr Kommandant. But you are not. You are a prisoner of the Home Army. I regret that we will be much less forgiving,” a voice said, from the gloom. A man stepped forward. He was elderly, his back slightly stooped, but his head was held high and the weathered skin stretched tightly over his skull. He hadn’t shaved for several days. Kluge thought there was something familiar about him, but it was probably only the Slavic scowl. Beneath a sleeveless sheepskin tunic he wore a patchwork uniform that even in the gloom seemed comical, although Kluge saw no humor in it, for the Pole spoke with a quiet authority that was backed by an American semi-automatic carbine. The German raised a silent prayer of relief that he was a regular soldier and not SS; the Home Army occasionally gave their Wehrmacht prisoners a chance, but the SS never. Then a rough hand stretched out to relieve him of his Luger, while another took his silver cigarette case. He was unarmed, but even so he was far from being completely helpless.

  “Don’t be a fool. Every single citizen of Piorun is out there on their knees beneath the guns of my soldiers.”

  “And every one of your soldiers has now got a rifle aimed at his chest.”

  “We will kill you all!”

  “Perhaps. But I promise you will be the first to die, Herr Kommandant.” The Pole’s voice had an unnatural rasp to it. Kluge thought he could see the furrow of a scar running across his throat.

  “So. . . ” Kluge tried to force an air of confidence into his words. “I accept you have a . . . temporary advantage. That will not
last, of course, but I suspect we are both in something of a hurry. So let us deal. If you withdraw from Piorun, I’ll agree to let the mayor and the others go. They really don’t matter to me. It was never truly my intention—”

  “Yes, you’ll spare their lives, sure enough—and the lives of everyone else in Piorun. But it’s your troops who’ll withdraw. The only deal you’re getting is this. All your men go from Piorun. And they leave their weapons behind.”

  “I think not. Even if I did, we would only be ordered back.” A dry laugh. “Oh, Herr Kommandant, you couldn’t persuade your men to come back to Piorun, not to drink with the Russians.” A dull metallic click announced that the Pole had slipped the safety catch on his carbine.

  Kluge’s heart was rising in his chest. He felt anger, of course, and disbelief that he was being confronted by some unwashed Pole, but there was also an undeniable twist of fear. “Kill me and my troops will open fire. Many innocent lives will be lost.”

  “That may be so. But you’ll never know. Not with your toes turned up. Eh, boys?” he shouted to the others.

  The German looked around him. He could see only eight of them in the church, and most were less well armed than their commander. But there might be others around the square. They would have surprise on their side—yes, and that clear field of fire. They would be fighting for their homes and families, that made a huge difference in the balance of things. And suddenly, Gerhard Kluge realized how very much he wanted to see his own home and family again. It seemed so long since he’d been in his suburb of Dresden, rocking his daughter’s swing beneath the boughs of the chestnut tree while repelling the assault of a six-year-old boy dressed as a pirate. Before the war his life as an architect had been so simple. He’d never wanted to be a soldier; and deep down he knew he wasn’t a very good one. He had his orders, of course, to defend this place—to the last breath! To the last inch! Fight and die where you stand! Orders that came direct from the Führer, a Führer who was already back home in the Reichschancellery, in Berlin, no longer in his eastern redoubt. Kluge could face up to the prospect of dying for his country, if he had to, but he didn’t want to die here, not in a stinking foreign sewer. Least of all did he want to give some unwashed Pole the satisfaction of killing him.