Winter of the World

by Ken Follett

  That was promising, Lloyd thought with excitement. "Hush, Evie, please," he said, and for once she quietened.

  Then Lloyd heard the low, reasonable voice of George C. Marshall. "Europe's requirements, for the next three or four years, of foreign food and other essential products--principally from America--are so much greater than her present ability to pay that she must have substantial additional help . . . or face economic, social, and political deterioration of a very grave character."

  Lloyd was electrified. "Substantial additional help" was what Bevin had asked for.

  "The remedy lies in breaking the vicious circle and restoring the confidence of the European people in the economic future," Marshall said. "The United States should do whatever it is able to assist in the return of normal economic health in the world."

  "He's done it!" Lloyd said triumphantly to his uncomprehending baby daughter. "He's told America they have to give us aid! But how much? And how, and when?"

  The voice changed, and the reporter said: "The secretary of state did not outline a detailed plan for aid to Europe, but said it was up to the Europeans to draft the program."

  "Does that mean we have carte blanche?" Lloyd eagerly asked Evie.

  Marshall's voice returned to say: "The initiative, I think, must come from Europe."

  The report ended, and the phone rang again. "Did you hear that?" said Bevin.

  "What does it mean?"

  "Don't ask!" said Bevin. "If you ask questions, you'll get answers you don't want."

  "All right," Lloyd said, baffled.

  "Never mind what he meant. The question is what we do. The initiative must come from Europe, he said. That means me and you."

  "What can I do?"

  "Pack a bag," said Bevin. "We're going to Paris."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  1948

  Volodya was in Prague as part of a Red Army delegation holding talks with the Czech military. They were staying in art deco splendor at the Imperial Hotel.

  It was snowing.

  He missed Zoya and little Kotya. His son was two years old and learning new words at bewildering speed. The child was changing so fast that he seemed different every day. And Zoya was pregnant again. Volodya resented having to spend two weeks apart from his family. Most of the men in the group saw the trip as a chance to get away from their wives, drink too much vodka, and maybe fool around with loose women. Volodya just wanted to go home.

  The military talks were genuine, but Volodya's part in them was a cover for his real assignment, which was to report on the activities in Prague of the ham-fisted Soviet secret police, perennial rivals of Red Army Intelligence.

  Volodya had little enthusiasm for his work nowadays. Everything he had once believed in had been undermined. He no longer had faith in Stalin, Communism, or the essential goodness of the Russian people. Even his father was not his father. He would have defected to the West if he could have found a way of getting Zoya and Kotya out with him.

  However, he did have his heart in his mission here in Prague. It was a rare chance to do something he believed in.

  Two weeks before, the Czech Communist Party had taken full control of the government, ousting their coalition partners. Foreign Minister Jan Masaryk, a war hero and democratic anti-Communist, had become a prisoner on the top floor of his official residence, the Czernin Palace. The Soviet secret police had undoubtedly been behind the coup. In fact Volodya's brother-in-law, Colonel Ilya Dvorkin, was also in Prague, staying at the same hotel, and had almost certainly been involved.

  Volodya's boss, General Lemitov, saw the coup as a public relations catastrophe for the USSR. Masaryk had constituted proof, to the world, that east European countries could be free and independent in the shadow of the USSR. He had enabled Czechoslovakia to have a Communist government friendly to the Soviet Union and at the same time wear the costume of bourgeois democracy. This had been the perfect arrangement, for it gave the USSR everything it wanted while reassuring the Americans. But that equilibrium had been upset.

  However, Ilya was crowing. "The bourgeois parties have been smashed!" he said to Volodya in the hotel bar one night.

  "Did you see what happened in the American Senate?" Volodya said mildly. "Vandenberg, the old isolationist, made an eighty-minute speech in favor of the Marshall Plan, and he was cheered to the rafters."

  George Marshall's vague ideas had become a plan. This was mainly thanks to the ratlike cunning of British foreign secretary Ernie Bevin. In Volodya's opinion, Bevin was the most dangerous kind of anti-Communist: a working-class Social Democrat. Despite his bulk he moved fast. With lightning speed he had organized a conference in Paris that had given a resounding collective European welcome to George Marshall's Harvard speech.

  Volodya knew, from spies in the British Foreign Office, that Bevin was determined to bring Germany into the Marshall Plan and keep the USSR out. And Stalin had fallen straight into Bevin's trap, by commanding the east European countries to repudiate Marshall Aid.

  Now the Soviet secret police seemed to be doing all they could to assist the passage of the bill through Congress. "The Senate was all set to reject Marshall," Volodya said to Ilya. "American taxpayers don't want to foot the bill. But the coup here in Prague has persuaded them that they have to, because European capitalism is in danger of collapse."

  Ilya said indignantly: "The bourgeois Czech parties wanted to take the American bribe."

  "We should have let them," said Volodya. "It might have been the quickest way to sabotage the whole scheme. Congress would then have rejected the Marshall Plan--they don't want to give money to Communists."

  "The Marshall Plan is an imperialist trick!"

  "Yes, it is," said Volodya. "And I'm afraid it's working. Our wartime allies are forming an anti-Soviet bloc."

  "People who obstruct the forward march of Communism must be dealt with appropriately."

  "Indeed they must." It was amazing how consistently people such as Ilya made the wrong political judgments.

  "And I must go to bed."

  It was only ten, but Volodya went too. He lay awake thinking about Zoya and Kotya and wishing he could kiss them both good night.

  His thoughts drifted to his mission. He had met Jan Masaryk, the symbol of Czech independence, two days earlier, at a ceremony at the grave of his father, Thomas Masaryk, the founder and first president of Czechoslovakia. Dressed in a coat with a fur collar, head bared to the falling snow, the second Masaryk had seemed beaten and depressed.

  If he could be persuaded to stay on as foreign minister, some compromise might be possible, Volodya mused. Czechoslovakia could have a thoroughly Communist domestic government, but in its international relations it might be neutral, or at least minimally anti-American. Masaryk had both the diplomatic skills and the international credibility to walk that tightrope.

  Volodya decided he would suggest it to Lemitov tomorrow.

  He slept fitfully and woke before six o'clock with a mental alarm ringing in his imagination. It was something about last night's conversation with Ilya. Volodya ran over it again in his mind. When Ilya had said "people who obstruct the forward march of Communism" he had been talking about Masaryk, and when a secret policeman said someone had to be "dealt with appropriately" he always meant "killed."

  Then Ilya had gone to bed early, which suggested an early start this morning.

  I'm a fool, Volodya thought. The signs were there and it took me all night to read them.

  He leaped out of bed. Perhaps he was not too late.

  He dressed quickly and put on a heavy overcoat, scarf, and hat. There were no taxis outside the hotel--it was too early. He could have called a Red Army car, but by the time a driver was awakened and the car brought it would have taken the best part of an hour.

  He set out to walk. The Czernin Palace was only a mile or two away. He headed west out of Prague's gracious city center, crossed the Charles Bridge, and hurried uphill toward the castle.

  Masaryk was not expect
ing him, nor was the foreign minister obliged to give audience to a Red Army colonel. But Volodya felt sure Masaryk would be curious enough to see him.

  He walked fast through the snow and reached the Czernin Palace at six forty-five. It was a huge baroque building with a grandiose row of Corinthian half columns on the three upper stories. The place was lightly guarded, he found to his surprise. A sentry pointed to the front door. Volodya walked unchallenged through an ornate hall.

  He had expected to find the usual secret police moron behind a reception desk, but there was no one. This was a bad sign, and he was filled with foreboding.

  The hall led to an inner courtyard. Glancing through a window, he saw what looked like a man sleeping in the snow. Perhaps he had fallen there drunk: if so, he was in danger of freezing to death.

  Volodya tried the door and found it open.

  He ran across the quadrangle. A man in blue silk pajamas lay facedown on the ground. There was no snow covering him, so he could not have been there many minutes. Volodya knelt beside him. The man was quite still and did not appear to be breathing.

  Volodya looked up. Rows of identical windows like soldiers on parade looked into this courtyard. All were closed tightly against the freezing weather--except one, high above the man in pajamas, that stood wide open.

  As if someone had been thrown out of it.

  Volodya turned the lifeless head and looked at the man's face.

  It was Jan Masaryk.

  ii

  Three days later in Washington, the Joint Chiefs of Staff presented to President Truman an emergency war plan to meet a Soviet invasion of Western Europe.

  The danger of a third world war was a hot topic in the press. "We just won the war," Jacky Jakes said to Greg Peshkov. "How come we're about to have another?"

  "That's what I keep asking myself," said Greg.

  They were sitting on a park bench while Greg took a breather from throwing a football with Georgy.

  "I'm glad he's too young to fight," Jacky said.

  "Me, too."

  They both looked at their son, standing talking to a blond girl about his age. The laces of his Keds were undone and his shirt was untucked. He was twelve years old and growing up. He had a few soft black hairs on his upper lip, and he seemed three inches taller than last week.

  "We've been bringing our troops home as fast as we can," Greg said. "So have the British and the French. But the Red Army stayed put. Result: they now have three times as many soldiers in Germany as we do."

  "Americans don't want another war."

  "You can say that again. And Truman hopes to win the presidential election in November, so he's going to do everything he can to avoid war. But it may happen anyway."

  "You're getting out of the army soon. What are you going to do?"

  There was a quaver in her voice that made him suspect the question was not as casual as she pretended. He looked at her face, but her expression was unreadable. He answered: "Assuming America is not at war, I'm going to run for Congress in 1950. My father has agreed to finance my campaign. I'll start as soon as the presidential election is over."

  She looked away. "Which party?" She asked the question mechanically.

  He wondered if he had said something to upset her. "Republican, of course."

  "What about marriage?"

  Greg was taken aback. "Why do you ask that?"

  She was looking hard at him now. "Are you getting married?" she persisted.

  "As it happens, I am. Her name is Nelly Fordham."

  "I thought so. How old is she?"

  "Twenty-two. What do you mean, you thought so?"

  "A politician needs a wife."

  "I love her!"

  "Sure you do. Is her family in politics?"

  "Her father is a Washington lawyer."

  "Good choice."

  Greg felt annoyed. "You're being very cynical."

  "I know you, Greg. Good Lord, I fucked you when you weren't much older than Georgy is now. You can fool everyone except your mother and me."

  She was perceptive, as always. His mother had also been critical of his engagement. They were right: it was a career move. But Nelly was pretty and charming and she adored Greg, so what was so wrong? "I'm meeting her for lunch near here in a few minutes," he said.

  Jacky said: "Does Nelly know about Georgy?"

  "No. And we must keep it that way."

  "You're right. Having an illegitimate child is bad enough; a black one could ruin your career."

  "I know."

  "Almost as bad as a black wife."

  Greg was so surprised that he came right out with it. "Did you think I was going to marry you?"

  She looked sour. "Hell, no, Greg. If I was given a choice between you and the Acid Bath Murderer, I'd ask for time to think about it."

  She was lying, he knew. For a moment he contemplated the idea of marrying Jacky. Interracial marriages were unusual, and attracted a good deal of hostility from blacks as well as whites, but some people did it and put up with the consequences. He had never met a girl he liked as much as Jacky, not even Margaret Cowdry, whom he had dated for a couple of years, until she got fed up waiting for him to propose. Jacky was sharp-tongued, but he liked that, maybe because his mother was the same. There was something deeply attractive about the idea of the three of them being together all the time. Georgy would learn to call him Dad. They could buy a house in a neighborhood where people were broad-minded, someplace that had a lot of students and young professors, maybe Georgetown.

  Then he saw Georgy's blond friend being called away by her parents, a cross white mother wagging a finger in admonition, and he realized that marrying Jacky was the worst idea in the world.

  Georgy returned to where Greg and Jacky sat. "How's school?" Greg asked him.

  "I like it better than I used to," the boy said. "Math is getting more interesting."

  "I was good at math," Greg said.

  Jacky said: "Now there's a coincidence."

  Greg stood up. "I have to go." He squeezed Georgy's shoulder. "Keep working on the math, buddy."

  "Sure," said Georgy.

  Greg waved at Jacky and left.

  She had been thinking about marriage at the same time as he, no doubt. She knew that coming out of the army was a decisive moment for him. It forced him to think about his future. She could not really have thought he would marry her, but all the same she must have harbored a secret fantasy. Now he had shattered it. Well, that was too bad. Even if she had been white he would not have married her. He was fond of her, and he loved the kid, but he had his whole life ahead of him, and he wanted a wife who would bring him connections and support. Nelly's father was a powerful man in Republican politics.

  He walked to the Napoli, an Italian restaurant a few blocks from the park. Nelly was already there, her copper red curls escaping from under a little green hat. "You look great!" he said. "I hope I'm not late." He sat down.

  Nelly's face was stony. "I saw you in the park," she said.

  Greg thought: Oh, shit.

  "I was a little early, so I sat for a while," she said. "You didn't notice me. Then I started to feel like a snoop, so I left."

  "So you saw my godson?" he said with forced cheerfulness.

  "Is that who he is? You're a surprising choice for a godfather. You never even go to church."

  "I'm good to the kid!"

  "What's his name?"

  "Georgy Jakes."

  "You've never mentioned him before."

  "Haven't I?"

  "How old is he?"

  "Twelve."

  "So you were sixteen when he was born. That's young to be a godfather."

  "I guess it is."

  "What does his mother do for a living?"

  "She's a waitress. Years ago she was an actress. Her stage name was Jacky Jakes. I met her when she was under contract to my father's studio." That was more or less true, Greg thought uncomfortably.

  "And his father?"

  Greg shook
his head. "Jacky is single." A waiter approached. Greg said: "How about a cocktail?" Perhaps it might ease the tension. "Two martinis," he said to the waiter.

  "Right away, sir."

  As soon as the waiter had left, Nelly said: "You're the boy's father, aren't you?"

  "Godfather."

  Her voice became contemptuous. "Oh, stop it."

  "What makes you so sure?"

  "He may be black, but he looks like you. He can't keep his shoelaces tied or his shirt tucked in, and nor can you. And he was charming the pants off that little blond girl he was talking to. Of course he's yours."

  Greg gave in. He sighed and said: "I was going to tell you."

  "When?"

  "I was waiting for the right moment."

  "Before you proposed would have been a good time."

  "I'm sorry." He was embarrassed, but not really contrite: he thought she was making an unnecessary fuss.

  The waiter brought menus and they both looked at them. "The spaghetti Bolognese is great," said Greg.

  "I'm going to get a salad."

  Their martinis arrived. Greg raised his glass and said: "To forgiveness in marriage."

  Nelly did not pick up her drink. "I can't marry you," she said.

  "Honey, come on, don't overreact. I've apologized."

  She shook her head. "You don't get it, do you?"

  "What don't I get?"

  "That woman sitting on the park bench with you--she loves you."

  "Does she?" Greg would have denied it yesterday, but after today's conversation he was not sure.

  "Of course she does. Why hasn't she married again? She's pretty enough. By now she could have found a man willing to take on a stepson, if she'd really been trying. But she's in love with you, you rotter."

  "I'm not so sure."

  "And the boy adores you, too."

  "I'm his favorite uncle."

  "Except that you're not." She pushed her glass across the table. "You have my drink."

  "Honey, please relax."

  "I'm leaving." She stood up.

  Greg was not used to girls walking out on him. He found it unnerving. Was he losing his allure?

  "I want to marry you!" he said. He sounded desperate even to himself.