The tone—whatever it meant—was set by Churchill, who insisted on offering the first toast. Almost as soon as they had started, he rose, glanced over his spectacles at those seated along the table, and called them to order.
“Mr. President, Marshal Stalin, I hope you will be kind enough to indulge me a moment.” The voice came as though sieved through gravel. “It is no exaggeration or compliment of a florid kind when I say that we regard Marshal Stalin’s life as most precious to the hopes and hearts of all of us.”
Stalin’s face had at first been wrinkled in curiosity, but now a look of amusement and appreciation dawned. The mood quickly became infectious.
“There have been many conquerors in history, but few of them have been statesmen”—cries of approval began to ripple around the table—“and most of them threw away the fruits of victory in the troubles which followed their wars. I earnestly hope that the Marshal may be spared to the people of the Soviet Union and to help us all move forward to a less unhappy time than that through which we have recently come.” He held out his pink, fleshy hand towards the Russian, his other hand grasped at his lapel. “I walk through this world with greater courage and hope when I find myself in a relation of friendship and intimacy with this. . . ” he hesitated, seeming to search for the right word, but only in order to add to its emphasis “… great man, whose fame has gone out not only over all Russia, but the world.”
Fists were pounding on the table in agreement, making the cutlery ring like chimes.
“I raise my glass”—everyone jumped to their feet, apart from Roosevelt and Stalin himself—“to Marshal Stalin!”
“To Marshal Stalin!” they cried.
“Drink it down!” someone instructed jovially, and the long, long evening had begun.
When Churchill resumed his chair, they all applauded him. He smiled modestly, nodding in appreciation.
Then Stalin rose to his feet. “I propose a toast, too,” he began, in his soft voice, chopping up his sentences to assist the translators. “For the leader of the British Empire.” He nodded graciously towards Churchill. His eyes were catlike, washed of any emotion, but the words overflowed. “The most courageous of all prime ministers in the world. Who embodies political experience with military leadership. Who, when all Europe was ready to fall flat before Hitler, said that Britain would stand and fight alone against Germany—even without any allies. I know of few examples in history where the courage of one man has been so important to the future history of the world.” He raised his glass. Once more they stood. “To the health of the man who is born once in a hundred years, and who bravely held up the banner of Great Britain!” They applauded. Churchill sat with tears welling in his eyes, staring in gratitude at the Marshal.
“I have said what I feel,” Stalin explained, “what I have at heart, and what I know to be true.” Then he drank, and all followed.
And even before they had sat down, Molotov was demanding their attention with yet another toast, to the three British military commanders present, wishing them success. Then it was Stalin’s turn once more, walking round the table to clink glasses with Roosevelt, praising the selfless devotion of a country that had come to the aid of the entire world even though it had never seriously been threatened. And everyone was in on the act, raising toasts on all sides. The tables groaned with small mountains of caviar, trays of sturgeon and steaming slabs of suckling pig, while waiters rushed around ensuring that the crystal glasses were never wanting for vodka and whisky.
Roosevelt, sitting wearily at the end of the table, tried to dilute his drink with water, but the tidal wave of alcohol quickly overwhelmed his meager defenses. “Pour it in the pot plant, Sis,” he advised his daughter forlornly.
Stalin toasted the three women present—Sarah, Anna, and Kathleen Harriman, and Kathleen replied, using a little of her stilted Russian. Stalin hurried round the table to clink glasses with her; Molotov followed, as though attached to his leader by a piece of string. They drank to hospitality, to victory, to heads of state and to the common man, to the indefatigable interpreters, to the Soviet armies that had broken the back of the German war machine, to the generosity of the Americans and the persistence of the British, and still the toasts kept coming. Roosevelt raised one; he rambled a little as he fought to capture the mood, extolling his belief that all those around the table had come together to form one family and one hope for the future of mankind. Syrupy stuff, too sickly sweet for some. The following morning, one member of the British delegation wrote that “FDR spoke more tripe to the minute than I have ever heard before, sentimental twaddle.” Yet, as with all the rest, it was greeted with an outpouring of adulation.
They were still there at midnight. That was how they made the peace. There were those at the table who were visibly wilting, dozing, so drunk that they were unable to rouse themselves even for Stalin. The sense of order with which the dinner had begun descended into confusion and occasional incoherence as small groups talked among themselves, every man with one hand on a glass, the other diving beneath the table to defend himself against the fleas that seemed to have declared war on every ankle.
Then Stalin was once again on his feet, although to some eyes he seemed a little unsteady and his grin distinctly lopsided. “I know, I know—I talk too much,” he began. “Like an old man.” Howls of protest came from the Russians, but in avuncular fashion he waved them down. “Shut up, you fools. I want to drink to our alliance.” And they went quiet.
“In our alliance, the Allies should not deceive each other.”
“Hear, hear,” Churchill growled; Roosevelt, too, nodded his agreement.
“Perhaps this is naïve,” Stalin continued. “Experienced diplomats may say, ‘Why shouldn’t I deceive my ally?’ But I am a naïve man. I think it best not to deceive my ally, even if he is a fool. And one of the reasons our alliance is so firm is because it’s not so easy to deceive each other. So that is what I drink to. I drink to that!” He threw back his head and finished off his glass in a single flourish.
Sounds of agreement came from all sides, but those who cheered him failed to realize they had been listening not to words of celebration but of warning. As Stalin sat down once more, he bent to whisper in Molotov’s ear: “And still the bastards carry on deceiving us, even when we’ve got them as drunk as fishwives. May they burn beneath their own atom bomb.”
Then it was the turn of Sarah. It was unclear even to her whether what she said was intended to be a toast or merely part of the increasingly chaotic conversation, but she raised her glass and offered her few fragments of Russian to the man opposite her: “Dalte grelku, pozhalsta—May I have a hot-water bottle, please?” she declared in triumph.
“You do not need a hot-water bottle. You have enough fire in you to warm the coldest heart,” Lavrenti Pavlovich Beria declared. The notorious head of the NKVD was making his first and only appearance at the conference. He hadn’t been needed at the plenaries: he wasn’t the negotiating type.
“Spasiva—thank you,” Sarah replied, giggling.
And suddenly the balding, bespectacled security man had grabbed the flowers from a vase on a nearby side table and, with a bow, offered them to her as a bouquet. “Please. In the spirit of co-operation between our two countries, allow me to express my admiration, and show you the extraordinary view from the terrace.”
“I’m not sure that I should.” She laughed, looking dubiously as the flowers dripped water over his shoes. “But is it true that if I don’t you can have me locked up?”
“With a single flick of my fingers,” he declared.
“Then, in the interests of the alliance, perhaps I’d better.”
He bowed once more, offered his arm and began gently to guide her out of the room. Her father, deep in conversation, hadn’t noticed, but little escaped the all-seeing eye of Comrade Stalin. Just as Sarah and Beria disappeared, Stalin raised his glass yet again. “T
o the faithfulness of our daughters,” he declared, and drank.
As Churchill and Roosevelt joined him, another Russian voice spoke up and a blast of gruff laughter erupted from the Soviets.
“What was that? What did he say?” Churchill asked Birse, his Scottish translator.
“I . . . didn’t quite catch it, sir,” the Scot replied awkwardly.
Suddenly Churchill’s senses were up. “Birse, you’re neither a young man nor a fool. Tell me.”
“It was . . . a joke, sir.”
“Then, pray, allow us both to enjoy it.”
“The Marshal raised a toast to the faithfulness of your daughters. . . ”
“Which you translated very effectively.”
“I’m rather afraid the other gentleman added, “If not the daughters-in-law.”
“Ah. I see. Thank you, Birse.”
Pamela, of course. For a moment, Churchill closed his eyes as his mind wandered far away and to an earlier, more innocent time when his children were young and no one talked of war. When he opened them again, he found Harriman staring at him, his cheeks flushed with guilt. The American looked quickly away.
***
Back at the Vorontsov, at the far end of the darkened room, the two men, one middle-aged, round and pink, the other young yet painfully gaunt, sat in front of the fire toasting bread on pokers.
“Didn’t think you’d know how, zur, you bein’ an aristocrat, like.”
“I am no longer an aristocrat, Mr. Sawyers. And since I stopped being an aristocrat, I have learned many new things.”
“Here. Try a bit of this cold meat on it. Can’t stand that caviar muck.”
“You are very kind.”
“It’s me job.”
“No, Mr. Sawyers, you are very kind.”
“Well, then, what do you say we have one of Mr. C.’s whiskies to wash it down?” He fetched the bottle and two crystal tumblers.
“Will he not object?”
“Why, Mr. C. always objects. About everythin’.”
“He is unkind?”
“No, not really. It’s all show wi’ him. He’s just impatient and bloody stubborn. Thank the Lord.” Suddenly, Sawyers stuck out his lower lip and spoke in a voice remarkably like that of his boss. “Sawyers—you’re a bloody fool. A complete waste of house room. For the life of me, I can’t imagine why I ever employed you in the first place. Wasn’t for your looks, that’s for certain. Still, suppose my daughters are safe with you. Now, bugger off and get me a drink.” Sawyers burst into a fit of giggles. “Truth be told, zur, he’s the best damn boss I ever had.”
“You don’t object? To being a servant, rather than a colonel?”
“Me? No. Wouldn’t swap my job for a field marshal’s baton.” He poured two exceedingly large measures. “Second most important man in the country, I am. Why, if it weren’t for me, they’d all still be waitin’ for D-Day, with Mr. C. stuck in his bedroom shoutin’ that he couldn’t find his trousers.” He burst into laughter once more.
“Mr. Sawyers, na zdrowie. To your health.”
They sat for a while with their toasted pork sandwiches and their thoughts, staring into the red embers of the fire.
“Tell me about her, zur, your little girl.”
Nowak looked into his glass, swirled it as though to excite the memories. “Katarzyna. Her name is Katarzyna Maria Krystyna Irena Raczynski. After her grandmothers. And after that, there is so little to tell. One moment I was there and she was so very small and beautiful, next moment I was gone, ordered off to cavalry.” His hand wandered up to touch the pocket over his heart, as though checking for something.
“You have a photo of the little girl?”
“No, not any more. It was impossible to keep anything in camps, dangerous, too. But I imagine it always, here”—he touched the pocket over his heart once more—“and in my mind. On Sunday it would be—no, will be—her sixth birthday.”
“Then I drink to the young lady’s health, zur.”
“Thank you. But, please, do not call me sir. I think after war that all such things will be gone. In war, ordinary men die just as well as aristocrats. And more often. It is another thing I have learned.”
“Do me out of a job, you will. Another slice of toast?”
“Dziekuje. Thank you.”
They busied themselves in silence for a while. Sawyers cut more cold pork, then wrapped the rest of the joint in paper and, without asking, placed it in the plumber’s bag.
The Pole bowed his head in gratitude. “Where do you come from, Mr. Sawyers?”
“Me? I’m a country boy. From Cumberland. That’s up north. Hills and dales, and a lot of lakes.”
“My homeland is very flat. With forests.”
“Home’s a long way away.”
“For both of us.”
“We’ll get you back there, to your little girl. I promise. And, more to the point, so does Mr. Churchill. . . ”
***
The dinner at the Yusupov continued. It was indulgence without respite. They might just as well have poured the vodka out of buckets and dragged in the suckling pigs on a truck. Toasts raced round the table pursued by plates of dessert and vast bowls of ice cream. Glasses were spilled, trousers stained, tongues grew slurred. Then came more toasts. Churchill’s eye wandered farther down the table, taking in the panorama of flushed cheeks and straining collars until it snagged upon the figure of Roosevelt. God, the President looked awful. Ashen, slumped in his chair, smile fixed, movements almost mechanical. And it was at that moment that Churchill realized what this dinner was all about. The purpose was not so much enjoyment as exhaustion—the exhaustion of Roosevelt. He was sick, he was tired, and now he was going to find it harder than ever to resist the demands of the Russians. In a man so frail, keeping him up this late was as good as spiking his milk, and in a game so vital it was nothing short of fixing the result.
There was no time for reflection: it was instinct that drove Churchill to his feet, smacking the side of his glass with a spoon. “Mr. President. Marshal Stalin. Friends,” he began, as they turned towards him. “At the end of this extraordinary dinner”—well, someone had to send them home—“in addition to proposing a vote of thanks to our host, I would like to offer one final toast. I must say that never in this war have I felt the responsibility weigh so heavily on me, even in the darkest hours, as now, during this conference.” And he was off. Grand, overblown phrases, unrehearsed but unforgettable, tumbled forth like acrobats into a circus ring. “The crest of the hill. . . the prospect of open country… comrades in arms. . . toiling millions. . . falling into the pit.” His tone was somber, and the gaieties of the previous moments were gone. His voice grew ever more emotional. “We now have a chance of avoiding the errors of previous generations and of making a sure peace. People cry out for peace and joy. Will the families be reunited? Will the shattered dwellings be rebuilt? Will the toiler see his home? To defend one’s country is glorious, but there are greater conquests before us. Before us lies the realization of the poor—that they shall live in peace, protected by our invincible power from aggression and evil!”
The American Secretary of State later wrote: “I was immensely impressed while Churchill was speaking, with the way his attitude had changed on the future of the world. At Malta, he had been extremely discouraged and distressed, but in his toasts this evening at Yalta, he manifested real hope that there could be a world of happiness, peace, and security.” That was Stettinius’s view, but almost everyone knew the man was a naïve bloody fool.
Churchill finished by toasting them all, and what he called “the broad sunlight of victorious peace.” They cheered him. Then they left.
As Churchill himself was leaving, he found Harriman at his side, touching his sleeve, the guilt still lingering on his cheeks.
“Winston, I can only apologize,” the Americ
an said softly. “I’ve never wanted to cause you embarrassment.”
“No need for apology, Averell. You are, and you will continue to be, a most dear friend, not just of Pamela’s but also of mine.”
“I can’t tell you how much those words mean to me.”
“But I intend imposing upon our friendship.”
“Anything.”
“Averell. I need to ask you. Did the President meet privately with the Marshal this afternoon?”
Silence sometimes speaks with a most eloquent voice. Harriman’s silence screamed at Churchill as the American ambassador, trapped between friendship and duty, wriggled with indecision. “Forgive me, Winston,” was all he could manage.
“Nothing to forgive. You have done your duty. But, as the Marshal himself said, it’s not so easy to hide things from each other.”
“I seem to have nothing to say to you this evening except that I’m sorry.”
“As am I. And I fear the sorrows of the whole world will not be slow to follow.”
In his distraction, the Prime Minister didn’t notice that Sarah had failed to reappear.
***
Churchill kicked open the door. It was past one o’clock. Still Sawyers stood beside the glimmers of the fire, waiting for him.
The old man threw his hat into the corner and, in spite of the evening’s excesses, grabbed the proffered glass.
“A long day, zur. Another one tomorrow.” It wasn’t so much a question or a statement as a gentle warning. Churchill’s eyes were raw, inflamed, not merely tired but exhausted. Every morning since they’d arrived, Sawyers had seen the bedclothes tossed and unsettled, the sign of a troubled night. Too many fears, too much strain, too much strange food and, evidently, too much alcohol. The old man needed to harbor his strength rather than try to drown his sorrows, but instead of heeding his servant’s warning, he drank. He sat in silence beside the fire, scowling, cradling his glass as though it were a chalice, while Sawyers stooped to release the laces of his shoes.
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