Goering appeared. Victor Henry had heard of the fat man's quick
costume changes; now he saw one. In a sky-blue heavily medalled uniform with flaring buff lapels, Goering crossed the stage and stood with feet spread apart, hands on belted hips, talking gravely with a deferential knot of generals and Party men. After a while he took his place in the Speaker's chair. Then Hitler simply walked in, holding the manuscript of his speech in a red leather folder. There was no heavy theatricalism, as in his Party rally entrances. All the deputies stood and applauded, and the guards came to attention. He sat in a front platform row among the generals and cabinet men, crossing and uncrossing his legs during Goering's brief solemn introduction.
Henry thought the Fuhrer spoke badly. He was gray with fatigue.
The speech rehashed the iniquity of the Versailles Treaty, the mistreatment of Germany by the other powers, his. unending efforts for peace, and the bloody belligerence of the Poles. It was -almost all in the first person and it was full of strange pessimism. He spoke of falling in battle and of the men who were to succeed him, Goering and Hess. He shouted that 1918 would not recur, that this time Germany would triumph or go down fighting. He was extremely hoarse. He took awhile to work up to the flamboyant gestures; but at last he was doing them all. Tudsbury whispered to Henry once, "Damn good handwork today," but Pug thought it was absurd vaudeville.
Nevertheless this time Hitler impressed him. Badly as he was performing, the man was a blast of willpower. all the Germans sat with the round eyes and tense faces of children watching a magician. The proud cynical face of Goering, as he sat perched above and behind Hitler, wore exactly the same rapt, awestruck look.
But the Fuhrer himself was a bit rattled, Pug thought, by the gravity of what he was saying. The speech sounded like the hasty product of a few sleepless hours, intensely personal, probably all the truer for being produced under such pressure. This whining, blustering "I-I-I" apologia must be one of the oddest state documents in the history of warfare.
The Fuhrer's face remained a comic one to Pug's American eyes: the long straight thrusting nose, a right triangle of flesh sticking out of a white jowly face, under a falling lock of black hair, over the clown mustache. He wore a field-gray coat today-his 'old soldier's coat," he said in his speech-and it was a decidedly poor fit. But the puffy glaring eyes, the taut downcurved mouth, the commanding arm sweeps, were formidable. This queer ups tart from the Vienna gutters had really done it, Henry thought. He had climbed to the combined thrones, in Tudsbury's phrase, of the Hohenzollems and the Holy Roman Emperors, to try to reverse the outcome of the last war; and now he was giving the word. The little tramp was going! Pug kept thinking of Byron, somewhere in Poland, a speck of unimportance in this big show. When they emerged on the street in balmy sunshine, Tudsbury said, "Well, what did you think
"I don't think he's quite big enough."
Tudsbury stopped in his tracks and peered at him. "Let me tell you, he's big. That's the mistake we've all made over here for much too long."
"He has to lick the world," Pug said. What'll he do it with?"
"Eighty million armed and ravening Germans."
"That's just talk. You and the French have him outmanned and outgunned."
"The French," Tudsbury said. He added in a pleasanter tone, "There comes Pam. Let us drive you back to the embassy."
'I'll walk." The car stopped under a waving red swastika banner.
Tudsbury shook hands, blinking at Henry through glasses like bottle bottoms.
"We'll put up a show, Henry, but we may need help. Stopping this fellow will be a job, And you know it must be done."
"Tell them that in Washington."Don't you think I will? You tell them, too.2) Henry said through the car window, "Good-bye, Pam. Happy landings."
She put out a cold white hand, with a melancholy smile. "I hope You'll see your son soon. I have a feeling you Will." The Mercedes drove off. Lighting a cigarette, Pug caught on his hand the faint carnation scent.
A big lean man in a pepper-and-salt suit, with a soft hat on his knees, was sitting in Henry's outer office. Henry did not realize how big he was until he stood up; he was six feet three or so, and he stooped and looked a little ashamed of his height, like many overgrown men. "COnlmander Henry? I'm Palmer Kirby, he said. "If you're busy just throw me out."
"Not at all- Welcome. How'd you get here?"
"Well, it took some doing. I had to dodge around through Belgium and Norway. Some planes are flying, some aren't." Kirby had an awkward manner, and somewhat rustic western speech. His pale face was Pitted, as though he had once been a bad acne sufferer. He had a long nose and a large loose mouth; altogether an ugly man, with clever mrinIded eyes and a sad look.
The yeoman said, 'Commander, sir, couple of priority messages on your desk."
'Very well. Come in, Dr. Kirby." Pug sized him up with relief as a serious fellow out to get a job done; not the troublesome sort who wanted women, a good time, and an introduction to high-placed Nazis. A dinner and some industrial contacts would take care of Palmer Kirby.
WARSAW
9 - z - 39BYRON HENRY NATALM JASTROW SCRMDULED LEAVE CRACOW TODAY FOR BUg ST AND ROME AM EMEAVORING.CONFMM DEPAR'rURE. Slote.
This dispatch, in teletyped strips on a gray department blank, gave Henry an evil qualm. In the afternoon bulletins, Berlin Radio was claiming a victorious thrust toward Cracow after a violent air bombardment.
The other message, a slip of the charge d'affaires' office stationery, was an unsigned scrawled sentence: Please see me at once.
Kirby said he would be glad to wait. Victor Henry walked down the hall to the richly furnished suite of the ambassador where the charge had held the staff meeting.
The charge looked at him over his half-moon glasses and waved at an armchair. 'So you were at the Reichstag, eh? I heard part of it.
How did it strike you?" 'The man's punch-drunk." The charge looked surprised and thoughtful. 'qbat's an odd reaction. It's true he's had quite a week. Incredible stamina, though. He undoubtedly wrote every word of that harangue. Rather effective, I thought.
What was the mood there?" "Not happy." 'No, they have their misgivings this time around, don't they? Strange atmosphere in this city." The charge took off his glasses and leaned back in his large, leather-covered chair, resting the back of his head on interlaced fingers. 'You're wanted in Washington." "Sec Nay?" Pug blurted.
'No. State Department, German desk. You're to proceed to Washington by fastest available transportation, civilian or military, highest priority, prepared to stay not more than one week in Washington, and then to return to your post here. No other instructions. Nothing in writing. That's it." For twenty-five years Victor Henry had not made a move like this without papers from the Navy Department, orders stencilled and mimeographed with a whole sheaf of copies to be left at stops on the way.
Even his vacations had been 'qeaves" ordered by the Navy. The State Department had no jurisdiction over him. Still, an attache had a queer shadowy status. His mind moved at once to executing the assignment.
"If I have nothing in writing, how do I get air priorities?"
"You'll get them. How soon can you go?"
Commander Henry stared at the charge, and then tried a smile. The charge smiled back. Henry said, "This is somewhat unusual."
"You sent in an intelligence report, I'm given to understand, on the combat readiness of Nazi Germany?"
"I did."
"That may have something to do with it. In any case, the idea seems to be that you pack a toothbrush and leave."
"You mean today? Tonight?"
"Yes."
Pug stood. "Plight. What's the late word on England and France?"
"Chamberlain's addressing Parliament tonight. My guess is the war Will be on before you get back."
"Maybe it'll be over."
"in Poland, possibly." The charge smiled, and seemed taken aback when Henry failed to be amused.
The commander found Dr. Kirby,
long legs sprawled, reading a German industrial journal and smoking a pipe, which, with blackrimmed glasses, much enhanced his professorial look. 'I'll have to turn you over to Colonel Forrest, our military attache, Dr. Kirby," he said. "Sorry the Navy can't do the courtesies. I'll be leaving tovrn
"Right.tt for a week."
"Can you give me an idea of what you're after?"
Dr. Kirby took from his breast pocket a typewritten sheet.
"Well, no problem here," Pug said, scanning it. 'I know most of these people. I imagine Colonel Forrest does, too. Now, Mrs. Henry has a dinner laid on for you, Thursday evening. As a matter of fact"-Henry tapped the sheet-"Dr. Witten will be one of the guests."
'Won't your wife prefer to call it off? I'm not really much on dinner parties." "Neither am I, but a German's a different person in his office than he is at a table after a few glasses of wine. Not a setup, you understand, but different. So dinners are useful."
Kirby smiled, uncovering large yellow teeth and quite changing his expression to a humorous, coarse, tough look. He flourished the trade journal- "They don't seem to be setups, any way you look at them."
"Yes and no. I've just come from the Reichstag- They've sure been a setup for this character Hitler. Well, let me take you across the hall to Colonel Forrest. It may be he and Sally will host the dinner.
We'll see." Driving home through the quiet Berlin streets Pug thought less about the summons to Washington than of the immediate problem-Rhoda and how to handle her, and whether to disclose that Byron was missing. The trip to the United States might well prove a waste of time; to speculate on the reason for it was silly. He had been on such expeditions before.
Somebody high up wanted certain answers in a hurry-answers that perhaps did not exist-and started burning up the wires. Once he had flown three thousand miles during a fleet exercise only to find, on his arrival aboard the 'Blue" flagship in Mindanao, that his services were no longer required, because the battle problem had moved past the gunnery sconng.
She was not at home. By the time she got back, he was strapping shut his suitcases. "Now what on earth?" she said breezily. Her hair was whirled and curled. They had been invited to an opera party that evening.
"Come out in the garden."
He told her, when they were well away from the house, about the strange Washington summons.
'Oh, lord. For how long?"
'Not more than a week. If the Clippers keep flying, I should be back by the fifteenth." "When do you go? First thing tomorrow?"
"Well, by luck, they've got me on a plane to Rotterdam at eight tonight." 'Tonight!" Vexation distorted Rhoda's face. "You mean we don't even get to go to the opera? Oh, damn. And what about that Kirby fellow? Is that on or off? How can I entertain a person I haven't even met? What an aggravating mess!' Pug said the Forrests would be co-hosting the Kirby dinner, and that the opera might not be on.
"On? Of course it's on. I saw Frau Witten at the hairdresser's.
They're planning a Marvelous supper, but naturally I won't be there.
I'm not going to the opera unescorted. Oh, hell. And suppose England and France declare war? How about that, hey? That's going to be just peachy, me stranded alone in Berlin in the middle of a world wart" I'll get back in any case via Lisbon or Copenhagen. Don't worry.
I'd like you to go ahead with the Kirby thing. BuOrd wants the red carpet out for him."
They were sitting on a marble bench beside the little fountain, where large goldfish disported in the late sunshine. Rhoda looked around at the close-cropped lawn, and said in a calmer tone, "All right.
I've been planning cocktails out here- Those musicians who played at Peggy's tea are coming. It'll be nice at that. Sorry you'll miss it." 'Bill Forrest said nobody in this world puts on dinners like you."
Rhoda laughed. "Oh, well. A week goes by fast. Berlin's interesting now." A pair of black-and-yellow birds darted past them, swooped to a nearby tree, and Perched carolling. "Honestly, though, would you believe there's a war on?"
"It's just starting."
"I know- Well, you'll see Madeline, anyway. And be sure to telephone Warren, that rascal never writes. I'm glad Byron's up in the Italian hills. He'll be all right unless he shows up married to that Jewish girl.
But he won't. Byron seems much crazier than he is." She put her hand in her husband's. 'Inherits it from his mother, no doubt. Sorry I threw my little fit, dear. You know me.aasping her hand tight, Victor Henry decided not to upset ]Rhoda further with the news of Byron's disappearance. She could do nothing about it, after all, but fret vainly; and he guessed that whatever pickle Byron was in, he would get himself out of it. That had been the boy's history.
Pug flew off on schedule that evening to Rotterdam- Tempelhof AirPort was transfonned- The shops were dark. All the ticket counters save Lufthansa were shut down. On the field, the usual traffic of European airliners had vanished, and squat Luftwaffe interceptors stood in grim shadowy rows. But from the air, Berlin still blazed wid, all its electric lights, as in peacetime. He was pleased that Rhoda had decided to dress up and go to Der Rosenkavalier, since Frau Witten had found a tall handsome Luftwaffe colonel to escort her.
Byron was changing a tire by the roadside when he was strafed.
He and Natalie were out of Cracow and heading for Warsaw in the rust-pitted Fiat raid, together with Berel Jastrow, the bridal couple, the bearded little driver, and his inconveniently fat wife.
Cracow on the morning of the invasion had smoked and flamed here and there, but the picturesque city had not been much damaged by the first German bombardment. Byron and Natalie had had a good if hurried look at its splendid churches and castles and its magnificent old square like Saint Marles in Venice, as they drove around in cheery sunshine trying to find a way out. The populace was not in panic. The Germans were more than fifty miles away. Still, crowds moved briskly in the streets, and the railroad station was mobbed. Berel Jastrow somehow obtained two tickets to Warsaw. Byron and Natalie would not use them, hard as Berel tried to persuade them to, so he shipped off his wife and twelve-year-old daughter. Then he adroitly took them to one office after another, through little streets and unused doors and gates, seeking to send them safely away. He seemed to know everybody, and he went at the job with assurance, but he couldn't get Byron and Natalie out. Air traffic was finished. The Rumanian border was reported closed. Trains were still departing at unpredictable times, eastward toward Russia and north to Warsaw, with people hanging from windows and clinging to the locomotives. Otherwise there were the roads.
The bearded taxi driver Yankel and his wife, poor relatives of Berel, were willing to go anywhere. Berel had managed to get him an official paper, exempting the cab from being commandeered; but Yankel had small faith that it would work for long. The wife insisted on driving to her flat first, picking up all the food she had, her bedding, and her kitchenware, and roping them onto the car top. Berel thought the Americans should head for their embassy in Warsaw, three hundred kilometers away, rather than chance a dash to the border in the path of the German army.
So this odd party set forth: seven of them jammed in an ancient rusty Fiat, with mattresses flapping on the roof, and copper pots rhythmically banging.
They stopped at night in a town where Jastrow knew some Jews.
They ate well, slept on the floor, and were off again at dawn.
They found the narrow tarred roads filling with people on foot and horse-drawn wagons laden with children, furniture, squawking geese, and the like. Some peasants drove along donkeys piled with household goods, or a few mooing cows. Marching soldiers now and then forced the car off the road.
A troop of cavalry trotted by on gigantic dappled horses. The dusty riders chatted as they rode, strapping fellows with helmets and sabres glittering in the morning sun. They laughed, flashing white teeth, twirling their moustaches, glancing down with good-humored disdain at the straggling refugees. One company of foot soldiers went by singing. The clear weather, the smell of the
ripening corn, made the travellers feel good, though the as it climbed got too ho ere were no comba in t on sun t- The tants sigh the long black straight road through yellow fields when a lone airplane dived from the sky, following the line of the road and making a hard stuttering noise. It flew so low that Byron could see the painted numbers, the black crosses, the swastika, the clumsy fixed wheels. The bullets fell on people, horses, and the household goods and children in the carts.
Byron felt a burning and stinging in one ear. He was not aware of toppling into the dirt.
He heard'a child crying, opened his eyes, and sat up. The blood on his clothes surprised him-big bright red stains; and he felt a warm trickle on his face. Natalie kneeled beside him, sponging his head with a sodden red handkerchief. He remembered the airplane. Across the road the crying girl clutched a man's leg, looking down at a woman lying in the road. Between sobs she screamed a few Polish words over and over. The man, a blond barefoot Pole in ragged clothes, was patting the child's head.
Herman Wouk - The Winds Of War Page 18