The stirrings that had been rippling round the square now faded to an oppressive silence. Everyone watched, knowing that their own fate lay in the trembling hands of these two men.
Not even the low rumble of distant thunder distracted them, not at first. Yet it wasn’t thunder. It was as if the gods were playing skittles in the sky, a noise that swirled around and clung to them like fresh snow, a sound like a thousand hoofs on the stampede, and they were in the path. It came from the east. From the Russians. The front was almost here. Suddenly the young lieutenant’s senses were drowning in fear. It was all too much for him. His eyes flickered, his hand sagged, the elastic that had held his courage together stretched until it burst. His pistol clattered to the floor, and gradually the sound was repeated in all corners of the square as Mausers and Schmeissers and even a few obsolete French Lebel rifles were sometimes thrown, sometimes placed with tenderness, upon the cold dirt. Poles from within the crowd immediately snatched them up.
“Very good, Herr Kommandant,” Nowak whispered. “You see? They think you’re a great leader. Next thing you know, they’ll be making you the fucking Führer.”
More men were emerging from buildings on all sides — few in number, but all armed, the soldiers of the Home Army.
“You don’t have many men,” Kluge declared bitterly.
Nowak chewed his thumb. “No, not many. But, it seems, enough.”
Soon the men of the German garrison of Piorun, less than two hundred in number, were gathered in the centre of the square, morose, subdued, anxious, lined up as though for inspection. Some were so old they looked as though they should have walking-sticks, a few of the Hitler Youth were in tears. One or two of the women of Piorun threw things at them, pieces of bread, clumps of earth, but Nowak quickly brought that to a halt with a wave of his carbine. “No, my friends, the Germans haven’t time for your games. They’ve got to be going soon. Haven’t you heard?” He cupped an ear to the sound of the approaching battle. “Their Russian friends are only just down the road.” A pall fell across everyone, German and Pole.
“Anyway,” Nowak continued, “we still have a little bit of business to finish with them.”
“Business? What business?” Kluge demanded.
“Well, you could take your pick,” Nowak responded, and counted off on his fingers: “There’s the beating to death of a young boy. Another dragged from his mother’s arms and never seen again. We could deal with all the pilfering and the theft, or the rapes of the young women. So many things. None of them yet paid for—and you know me, Herr Kommandant. Goes against the grain of my trader’s instincts not to settle up on things.” He had now come to his thumb, a thick, dirt-encrusted digit with a crudely bitten fingernail. “But I think we’ll put all those to one side, and deal with the matter of the older woman your soldiers set about.”
“You said nothing of this!”
“Oh, forgive me. But didn’t I tell you?”
“What?” the German gasped in alarm.
“There’s one other reason I’ve got for hating you, Kluge.” The Pole smiled, all hard lips, bared gums, broken teeth, like a wolf. “That woman. She’s my wife.”
“You said I would live,” Kluge whispered hoarsely, clearly terrified.
And you will—if you hand over the three soldiers who did it.”
“Please . . . I don’t know who they are.”
Nowak eyed the German with suspicion, but the wild flickering in his eye suggested he was telling the truth. He turned to one of his men. “Bring Mama here.”
And soon Mama Nowak shuffled forward, wrapped in a simple peasant’s shawl. She had wooden clogs on her feet. Her husband helped her up the steps of the church to a point where she could look across the entire garrison. A murmur of anger spread through the crowd; several of the other women called out, trying to reassure her. Nowak pointed to the lines of the Wehrmacht soldiers. “Who were they, Mama?” he asked gently. “Which ones?”
But her eyes were full of tears and confusion, and shame. “I don’t know. It was dark and…” She shook her head. “Only one thing I remember.”
“What’s that, Mama?”
She beckoned him closer; he leaned down, his ear close to her withered lips. She whispered. Then he kissed her forehead. He turned once more to the soldiers. “Do any of you recognize this woman?”
Silence.
“Three of you vermin attacked her. Did the most terrible things to her. With your guns, your fists, your. . . ” For a moment he couldn’t go on. What he had learned of that night, of the sexual indignities they had forced upon his wife, had brought him to a point where he had thought he might lose his mind and, along with it, the sense of purpose that had got him through the long winters in the forest and the pain of watching so many friends die. He swallowed, very hard. “Anyone want to volunteer? To own up? German honor?”
Still silence.
“One of the men had a scar. Nasty thing. On his arse. That shake anyone’s memory?”
Nothing shook, apart from the celestial skittles away to the east.
“Then I guess we’re going to have to find out for ourselves.” His hands stiffened round his carbine. He walked slowly down the steps of the church to the first in the German lines, one of the oldest members of the battalion drafted in from the Volkssturm. Nowak stared at him. He said nothing, not a word was exchanged, but slowly the grizzled old German fumbled with the buckle of his belt. Fear is an infection. Soon, along the lines of German troops, trousers and underwear tumbled to the ground, accompanied by the mockery of the women, who jeered as the withered members of the Master Race were reduced to insignificance by the cold and their evident fright.
Nowak took his place once more at the top of the steps beside his wife and Kluge. “You, too, Herr Kommandant.”
Kluge’s eyes widened in disbelief. “But I am an officer.”
“Are you telling me you are responsible?”
Hesitation, confusion, nausea. Then, slowly, the trousers fell.
“Heil Hitler,” Nowak mocked, as he inspected the shivering, half-naked German.
Now there was only one German left, a soldier in the middle of the square, who stood to exaggerated attention as his comrades shuffled in humiliation around him. With a crooked and much broken finger, Nowak pointed, and the man was dragged forward to the bottom of the steps. It took only moments before he was exposed and the entire square could see the vivid red scar that had been burned into his right buttock.
“Now the other two,” Nowak called to the troops. “Give up the other two, or you’ll all get what you gave to my wife.”
The rolling bass sound of approaching thunder seemed to grow, but another sound filled the square: the screeching of the women of Piorun, demanding retribution, not just for Nowak’s wife but for themselves. They hadn’t all been raped, not physically, but they felt as if they had. War has many ways of stripping a woman of her femaleness, and now they wanted revenge. Few of the Germans had any doubt as to what that would mean. They were disarmed, disgraced, laid bare, humiliated, and increasingly terrified, with the sense of order and discipline on which their world depended left lying in the dirt alongside their trousers. It wasn’t long before two other soldiers were being pushed and hustled forward, this time by their own comrades. One was little more than a boy.
“What are you going to do?” Kluge demanded, struggling to find his courage.
“You brought along three nooses. That’ll be enough.” The three fusiliers were led to the stools at the foot of the lamppost, struggling and cursing, the boy weeping pitifully, until the one with the scar fell on his knees and began begging forgiveness of the priest.
“God will forgive you, German, and soon enough.” And they were hoisted on to the shaky stools and the nooses placed round their necks. Their clothing was still at their ankles, the steel studs of their boots scrabbling to find purchase on
the polished wood.
Once more, Nowak was whispering with his wife, but she shook her head. Slowly she began to descend the steps of the church, her clogs clicking on the stone like the pendulum of a clock, until she stood before the crowded scaffold. She clutched her tattered shawl around her and looked for a moment into the faces of the three men, saw the fear in their eyes, the snot dripping from their noses; the boy had already pissed himself. Then she remembered all the muck that had dripped down her own body that night, and what they had done with their fists, their pricks, the barrels of their rifles, and the rest of it, things she had never imagined could give pleasure to a man, and the nails that had been ripped from her fingers as she had scrabbled desperately to hold on to her own doorpost.
Beside her the priest, her brother-in-law, was praying for their souls. She allowed him to finish. Then, one by one, she kicked over the stools.
The bodies of the three men were still hanging there when the last of the German garrison stumbled out of Piorun.
***
God, but he’s a magnificent beast, Cadogan acknowledged to himself, nodding quietly in reverence. What would I give to get him round a table at the Travellers’? He shows the other two up. Incisive, insightful—and knows what he wants. A breath of fresh air. That’s the trouble with the others, they give no impression of having thought the thing through. That’s why they ramble on so. But not Uncle Joe. He simply bides his time, then drops in a few words to let everyone know what he expects. I’ve always thought the art of diplomacy was about extracting teeth through the back of the victim’s head while giving the impression you were doing him a favor. And Uncle Joe is a master tooth-tugger.
Only trouble is, he’s still a trifle crass about things. That nonsense with the lemon tree, for instance. I want a scraping of lemon and he sends the entire tree. Why? To show us that he can do it. All-powerful—and all-knowing. We expect him to spy and snoop on us, just as we do on him, but I’m blessed if we’d ever admit to it quite so brashly. Still, he’s made a definite improvement to the cocktails. One up to Uncle Joe.
But what are we to make of Franklin? A cushion, perhaps? Something for the others to sit on, for he seems to be of little greater use. And a very small cushion at that. When he was wheeled in today to start the plenary he began by expressing the hope that it would be only a short session. Winston turned puce. But FDR’s grown more frail, he’s become almost mystical in his approach, always looking blindly on the bright side, trying to steer away from any touch of controversy, moving matters on as soon as Winston raises his head above the parapet. It’s as though he’s afraid a good old argument will break him.
It’s astonishing how often both he and Uncle Joe manage to tangle God up in their remarks. They say Stalin was a seminarian in his younger days, a bank robber, too, come to that, but even so it always makes you sit up short to hear the leader of the most godless state on the planet beseeching the Almighty to bless everyone. As though he wants to persuade Roosevelt that he’s really as sweet as pudding inside. An exquisite routine.
Meanwhile, Winston blows like a great white whale, full of blubber, backbone and grease—and there’s been plenty of grease today, most of it spread in Uncle Joe’s direction, even when they’ve been locked in disagreement. Going on about how his heart goes out to mighty Russia, bleeding from her wounds but beating down the tyrants in her path. . . What’s he up to?
And Franklin . . . well, if we’re talking animals, then Franklin’s been flapping around like a turkey at Thanksgiving, and to quite as little effect. Uncle Joe’s been demanding sixteen votes in the United Nations, one for each Soviet republic, but today he arrives, turns one of those little smiles on us and says he’s thought about it and accepts the American position. Sixteen votes are impractical, so all he’ll want is two or three. Just Russia, Belorussia and the Ukraine. It’s a magnificent concession and the president rushed in to welcome it, saying it’s a great step forward, but then you see the realization of what he’s done slowly creeping across his face. His eyes go all oystery and panic sets in. He’s still left with only one vote himself. So it’s Russia 3, USA 1—scarcely the result he wants to take back with him to the Senate, who’ll have his balls in a mangle for that. Suppose Averell and I will have to sweep up the droppings, as always. Breakfast tomorrow, I think, so long as we can find a decent omelet rather than more caviar and those blessed mince pies.
Uncle Joe’s been brilliant about Poland. Full of praise for FDR’s suggestion about bringing Poles to Yalta—he makes it sound as if the whole thing’s an American initiative—and then he says he can’t find the words to express his sorrow at not being able to achieve it. Apparently, he’s been trying to telephone them in Lublin, but they’ve gone to Kraków or Lodz or Timbuktu, and they’re not answering the phone. And as for the Poles on the list that the President suggested, he hasn’t got their addresses. Hah! So he trots out his excuses, and FDR sits there nodding, either in agreement or in sleep, it’s difficult to tell which.
But to show he’s willing, Uncle Joe announces that he’s written a paper on Poland, which he thinks will take in all our wishes but—would you believe this?—it’s still being typed! He pulls a face as if he’s been up all night clattering away at the keys himself. He really is the most awful brigand; it’s one of the reasons I like him so much. And just at the moment Winston spies his chance and is gathering breath to intervene, Uncle Joe suddenly sidesteps and suggests that while we’re all waiting we should use the time to clear up any final points about the United Nations! In other words, he’s proposing a deal. An old-fashioned horse-trade. He’ll let Franklin have pretty much what he wants with his United Nations in return for not pushing Russia too hard on Poland. All fine and dandy, except what the hell does that leave Winston to take home?
Yet Winston’s up to something. Been talking all afternoon about the role of France in the post-war world, wanting it restored and strengthened, barreling on about how the British people would never accept a situation in which France was demeaned and diminished. What utter claptrap. We’ve devoted a thousand years of British history to getting one over on the French—why, it’s a national pastime. And now that Johnny Frog’s spent yet another war with his head stuck up his own rump and his hands raised high in surrender, it seems strange that Winston wants to prop him up all over again. Uncle Joe’s got the right line. De Gaulle is a wanton prima donna with only a handful of troops and not even a pinch of grace. The French deserve him, but damned if the rest of us do. What is old Winston up to? I can’t fathom him. He’s like a man taking a walk with his thoughts, and never quite making it home.
He’s about to wind himself up again, launch us all upon a new tidal wave of emotion, but he’s not to get his chance, not yet, at least. The President has turned an unpleasant shade of green and has asked for a ten-minute recess. Is he unwell, or has he merely discovered a brilliant new tactic for keeping Winston quiet?
***
Words. More words. Blasted words. They had been such a mighty part of his life, the means by which he had carved out his place in the world, his steps to fortune—and throughout his life he had made almost as many fortunes as he had spent. The first shillings had come from his labors as a war correspondent, and since then there had been histories, biographies, commentaries, lecture tours, newspaper articles, even a novel. Words had sustained his ambition, but they had also defined it. They had been the foundation of his politics, the bonds of his friendships, the weapons with which he had fought off the devils throughout those times when all had seemed lost. Words mattered to Churchill, very much, but his words had become superfluous, powerless, irrelevant—even the young Pole Nowak had said so. Nobody wanted to listen. Yet Winston Churchill was too old to change.
As Churchill saw the Russian leader heading for the door, he grabbed the arm of Birse, his interpreter. “Come with me!” he instructed, and set off in pursuit.
He tracked him down in a lavato
ry. The Russian leader was occupying himself in one of two wood-paneled stalls with the door wide open. Quickly, Churchill installed himself in the other, leaving Birse hanging around in some embarrassment immediately outside.
Churchill had never sat in such a place. Nothing had been changed. The paneling was of the most intense walnut, the handles huge and brass, the blue-and-white bowl crafted in Delft and several inches higher than normal, as though its user should never be asked to bend as low as ordinary men. A chandelier glittered down upon their labors; even the paper-holder had a tsarist crest embossed proudly upon it. Everything was fitted out with old-fashioned fussiness.
“Birse, are you ready?” Churchill shouted, heaving shut the door of his own stall.
“Yes, sir,” the Scotsman responded, clearly uncomfortable.
“Generalissimo, I have a favor to ask,” Churchill called through the partition.
“Ask away. Favors are permitted among friends.”
“The other night at the President’s dinner, you seemed most reluctant to toast the health of my king.”
“We’re not much in favor of the health of kings,” the Russian grunted.
“But he is more than a king to us. He’s almost a spiritual figure, the head of our Church.”
“Ah, I understand. You speak to your king, and the king speaks to God.”
“Something like that.”
“Well, we Russians have simplified the process. We’ve cut out the middle man.”
Churchill knew the bastard was smiling in condescension but refused to be diverted. “All I would ask is that you treat him on formal occasions in the same way as I do your own head of state.”
“What—Kalinin? He’s a useless old fart.”
Churchill had seen Stalin’s treatment of his head of state during a dinner in the Kremlin. President Kalinin was elderly, some way down the road to decrepitude and largely blind. He had been unable to find his food without help, and had added nothing to the conversation. Yet when he had picked up a cigarette, Stalin had barked at him, “Don’t smoke that. It’s a capitalist cigarette!” The old man’s face had fallen to his knees and he had trembled so much that the cigarette had tumbled from his fingers to the floor. He was being mocked, but no one had laughed, until Stalin did, and at that precise moment every Russian at the table had joined in, including Kalinin himself.
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