by War
Faymonville said that he understood Yevlenko was in Leningrad; and that, in any case, Americans never saw Yevlenko on business. One dealt with him through his liaison officer, a general with a jawbreaker of a name. But Standley's attaches had already warned Pug that General Jawbreaker was a waste of time, a dead end; his sole job was to absorb questions and demands like a feather pillow with no comeback, and he was matchless at it.
After about a week of this frustration, Pug awoke in his bedroom in Spaso House and found a note under his door.
HenrySome American correspondents are returning from a tour of the southern front; and I'm seeing them this morning at 0900 in the library.
Be there at 0845.
He found Standley alone at his desk, dark red in the face and glaring dangerously. The admiral slung a pack of Chesterfield cigarettes across the desk at him. Pug picked it up. Stamped in bright purple ink on the package were these words: FROM THE FELLOW WORKERS PARTY, NEW YORK.
"Those are Red Cross or Lend-Lease cigarettes!" The admiral could barely choke out the words. "Can't be anything else. We're giving them by the millions to the Red Army. Yet I got that from a Czech last night. The fellow said a Red Army officer gave it to him, and told him that the generous communist comrades in New York are keeping the whole army supplied."
Victor Henry could only shake his head in disgust.
"Those reporters will be here in ten minutes," grated Standley, "and they'll get an earful."
"Admiral, the new Lend-Lease act comes to a vote this week. Is this a time to blow the whistle?"
"It's the only time. Give these scoundrels a jolt. Show 'em what ingratitude can lead to, when you deal with the American people."
Pug pointed at the cigarette package. "Sir, this is a bit of knavery on a very low level. I wouldn't magnify it."
AL
"That? I quite agree. Not worth discussing."
The reporters came in, a bored lot obviously disappointed in their trip. As usual, they said, they had gotten nowhere near the front. In the chat over coffee Standley asked whether they had seen any American equipment out in the countryside. They had not. One reporter inquired whether the ambassador thought the new Lend-Lease act would pass in Congress.
"I wouldn't venture to say." Standley glanced at Victor Henry, and laid all ten bony fingers straight before him on the desk, like a main battery trained for a broadside. "You know, boys, ever since I've been here, I've been looking for evidence that the Russians are getting help from the British and us. Not only Lend-Lease, but also Red Cross and Russian Relief. I've yet to find any such evidence."
The reporters looked at each other and at the ambassador.
"That's right," he went on, drumming the fingers before him.
"I've also tried to obtain evidence that our military supplies are actually in use by the Russians on the battlefield.
I haven't succeeded. The Russian authorities seem to want to cover up the fact that they're receiving outside help. Apparently they want their people to believe that the Red Army is fighting this war alone."
"This is off the record, Of course, Mr. Ambassador," said a reporter, though they were all pulling out pads and pencils.
"No, use it." Standley spoke on very slowly, virtually dictating.
The drumming of - his fingers quickened. In his pauses, the scribbling was an angry hiss. "The Soviet authorities apparently are trying to create the impression At home and abroad that they are fighting the war alone, and with their own resources. I see no reason why you should not use my remarks if you care to.
The reporters asked a few more excited questions, then bolted from the room.
Next morning, as Pug walked through the snow-heaped streets from the National Hotel to Spaso House, he was wondering whether he would find that the ambassador had already been recalled. Breakfasting with the reporters at the hotel, he had been told that Standley's statement had hit the front pages all over the United States and England, that the State Department had refused comment, that the President had cancelled a scheduled press conference, and that Congress was in an uproar. The whole world was asking whether Standley had spoken for himself or for Roosevelt. One rumor had it that the Russian censors who had allowed the statement out had been arrested.
In these wide quiet Moscow streets drifted high with fresh snow, amid the hundreds of Russians slogging past and the usual truckloads of soldiers coming and going, the whole fuss seemed petty and far-off.
Still, Standley had done an incredible thing; on an explosively delicate issue between the United States and the Soviet Union, he had publicly vented his personal irritation. How could he survive?
In the small room assigned to him as a temporary office, he found a note on the desk from the telephone operator: Call 0743. He placed the call, heard the usual cracklings, poppings, and random noises of the Moscow telephone system, and then a harsh bass voice, "Slushayu!"
"Govorit Kapitan Victor Henry.
"Yasno. Yevlenko.
This time the sentry stiffly saluted and let the American naval officer pass without the exchange of a word. In the large marbled lobby an unsmiling army man at a desk looked up, pressing a button.
"Kapitan Henry?"
"Da." An unsmiling girl in uniform came down a broad curved staircase, and spoke prim stiff English. "How do you do?
Well, General Yevienko's office is on the second floor. If you please to come with me."
Ornate iron balustrades, marble stairs, marble pillars, high arched ceilings: another czarist mansion, brought up-to-date by red marble busts of Lenin and Stalin. Large thick patches of peeling old paint gave the edifice the general wartime look of neglect.
Typewriters clattered behind closed doors all down the bare long corridor to Yevlenko's office. Pug remembered him as a giant of a man, but as he stood up unsmiling, holding out his left hand across the desk, he did not look so big; possibly because the desk and the room were enormous, and the photograph of Lenin behind him was many times lifesize. Pictures on other walls were black and white reproductions of old czarist generals' portraits. Tall dusty red curtains shut out the gray midwinter Moscow daylight. In a high curlicued brass chandelier naked electric bulbs glared.
The awkward clasp of Yevlenko's left hand was strong. The big jowly face looked even wearier and sadder than it had on the Moscow front with the Germans breaking through. He wore many decorations, including the red and yellow wound stripe, and his trim greenish-brown uniform was festooned with a new gold braid. They exchanged greetings in Russian, and Yevlenko gestured at the girl. "Well, shall we have the translator?"
She woodenly returned Pug's glance: pretty face, heavy blonde hair, a charming red mouth, a fine bosom, blank cool eyes. Since leaving Washington, Pug had been drilling two hours a day on vocabulary and grammar, and his Russian was again about as good as it had been after the crash course in 1941. On instinct he replied, "Nyet."
Like a clockwork figure the girl turned and walked out. Pug assumed that microphones would still record everything he said, but he had no reason to be cautious, and Yevlenko no doubt would look after himself. "One less pair of eyes and ears," he said.
General Yevienko smiled. Pug at once thought of the evening of drinking and dancing in the cottage near the front, and Yevienko clodhopping around with Pamela, smiling in that big-toothed way.
Yevlenko waved toward a sofa and a low table with the artificial right hand, shocking to see, projecting from his sleeve in a stiff brown leather glove. On the table were platters of cakes, fish slices, and paperwrapped candy, bottles of soft drinks and mineral water, a bottle of vodka, and large and small glasses. Though pug didn't want anything, he took a cake and a soft drink.
Yevienko took exactly what he did, and said, puffing at a cigarette clipped in a metal ring on his fake hand, "I received your letter. I have been very busy, so forgive my delay in answering.
I thought it would be better to talk than to write."
"I agree."
"You asked
for information about the use of Lend-Lease materiel on battlefields. Of course we have made very good use of Lend-Lease materiel on battlefields." He was slowing his speech and using simple words, so that Pug had no trouble understanding him. The deep rough voice brought timbres of the combat zone into the office. "Sun, the Hitlerites would be very grateful to know the exact quantity, quality, and battlefield performance of Lend-Lease materiel used against them.
As is known, they have access to the New York Times, the Columbia Broadcasting System, and so forth. The enemy's long nose must be reckoned with."
"Then don't disclose anything the Germans can use. A general statement will suffice. Lend-Lease is very costly, you see, and our President needs popular support if it is to continue."
"But haven't victories like Stalingrad gained enough American public support for Lend-Lease?" Yevlenko passed his good hand over his nearly bald close-barbered head. "We have smashed several German army groups. We have turned the tide of the war. When you open your long-delayed second front in Europe, your soldiers will face greatly weakened opposition, and will take far smaller losses than we have. The American people are clever. They understand these plain facts.
Therefore they will support Lend-Lease. Not because of some 'general statement", Since this was exactly what Pug thought, he found it hard to respond. A rotten job, shooting at Standley's gnats! He poured his soft drink and sipped the sickly-sweet red concoction.
General Yevlenko went to his desk, brought back a thick file folder, and opened it on the table. With his good hand, he riffled gray clippings glued to sheets of paper.
"Besides, are your Moscow correspondents asleep? Here are just a few recent articles from Pravda, True, and Red Star.
Here are general statements. Read them yourself." He took a final puff at the clipped stub, and ground it out in practiced motions of the lifeless hand.
"General, in Mr. Stalin's recent Order of the Day, he said the Red Army is bearing the brunt of the war, with no help from its allies."
"He was speaking after Stalingrad." The retort came sharp and unabashed. "Wasn't he telling the truth? The Hitlerites stripped the Atlantic coast to throw everything they had against us. Still, Churchill would not move. Even your great President could not budge him. We had to win all by ourselves."
This was getting nowhere, and a riposte about North Africa would not help. Since Pug would have to report back to Standley, he decided he might as well fire at all gnats. "It's not just a question of Lend-Lease. The Red Cross and the Russian Relief Society have made generous contributions to the Soviet people, which have not been acknowledged."
Grimacing incredulously, Yevlenko said, "Are you talking about a few million dollars in gifts? We are a grateful people, and we show it by fighting. What else would you have us do?"
"My ambassador feels that there has been insufficient publicity for the gifts here."
"Your ambassador? Surely he is speaking for your government, not for himself."
Less and less comfortable, Pug replied, "The request for a statement on battltfield use of Lend-Lease comes from the State Department. Renewal of Lend-Lease is before Congress, you know."
YevlenkO inserted another cigarette into the clip. His lighter failed, and he muttered till he struck a flame. "But our Washington embassy has told us that Lend-Lease renewal Will pass Congress easily.
Therefore Admiral Standley's outburst is most disturbing. Does it signal a shift in Mr. Roosevelt's policy?"
"I can't speak for President Roosevelt."
"And what about Mr. Hopkins?" Yevlenko gave him a hard wise look through wreathing smoke.
"Harry Hopkins is a great friend of the Soviet Union."
"We know that. In fact," said Yevlenko, reaching for the vodka and turning very jolly all at once, "I would like to drink to Harry Hopkins's health with you. Will you join me?"
Here we go, Pug thought. He nodded. The vodka streaked down inside him, leaving a warm tingling trail. Yevienko smacked thick lips, and startled Pug by winking. "What is your rank, may I ask?"
Pointing to the shoulder bars on his bridge coat -the room was cold and he still wore it-Pug said, "Four stripes.
Captain, U.S. Navy."
Yevlenko knowingly smiled. "Yes. That I see. I'll tell you a true story. When your country first recognized the U.S.S.R in 1933, we sent as military attaches an admiral and a vice admiral. Your government complained that their high rank created protocol difficulties. Next day they were reduced in rank to captain and commander, and everything was fine."
"I'm nothing but a captain."
"Yet Harry Hopkins, next to your President, is the most powerful man in your country."
"Not at all. In any case, that has nothing to do with me."
"Your embassy is already fully staffed with military attaches, isn't it? Then what is your position, may I ask? Aren't you representing Harry Hopkins?"
"No." Pug figured there was no harm, and there might be some good, in adding, "As a matter of fact, I'm here by direct personal order of President Roosevelt. Nevertheless I'm just a Navy captain, I assure you."
General Yevlenko gravely stared at him. Pug endured the stare with a solemn face. Let the Russians try to figure us out for a change, he thought. "I see. Well, since you are an emissary of the President, please clarify his misgivings on Lend-Lease," said Yevienko, "which led to your ambassador's disturbing outburst."
"I have no authority to do that."
"Captain Henry, as a courtesy granted to Harry Hopkins, you toured the Moscow front at a bad moment in 1941. Also at your request, a British journalist and his daughter, who acted as his secretary, accompanied you."
"Yes, and I remember well your hospitality within sound of the guns."
"Well, by a pleasant coincidence, I can offer you another such trip. I am about to leave Moscow to inspect the Lend-Lease situation in the field. I will visit active fronts. I won't enter any zones of fire"-briefly the big-toothed grin-"not intentionally, but there may be hazards. if you wish to accompany me and render an eyewitness report to Mr. Hopkins and to your President on battlefield usage of Lend-Lease, that can be arranged. And perhaps we can then agree on a 'general statement' as well."
"I accept- When will we start?" Though surprised, Pug seized the chance. Let Standley veto it, if he had some objection.
"So? American style." Yevlenko stood up and offered his left hand. "I'll let you know. We'll probably go first to Leningrad, where-I may say-no correspondent, and I believe no foreigner, has been for over a year. It is still under siege, as you know, but the blockade has been broken. There are ways through that are not too dangerous. It is my birthplace, so I welcome a chance to go there. I have not been there since my mother died in the siege."
"I'm sorry," Pug said awkwardly. "Was she killed in the bombardment?"
"No. She starved."
STARVED.
It may have been the worst siege in the history of the world.
It was a siege of Biblical horror; a siege like the siege of Jerusalem, when, as the Book of Lamentations tells, women boiled and ate their children. When the war began, Leningrad was a city of close to three million. By the time Victor Henry visited it, there were about six hundred thousand people left.
Half of those who were gone had been evacuated; the other half had died. Gruesome tales persist that not a few were eaten. But at the time there was little outside awareness of the siege and the famine, and to this day much of the story remains untold, the records sealed in the Soviet archives or destroyed. Probably nobody knows, within a hundred thousand people, how many died of hunger, or the diseases of hunger, in Leningrad. The figure falls between a million and a million and a half.
Soviet historians are caught in an embarrassment over Leningrad.
On the one hand, in the city's successful three-year resistance lie the makings of a world epic. On the other hand, the Germans rolled over the Red Army and arrived at the city in a matter of weeks, thus setting the stage for the drama. How do
es the infallible Communist Party explain that? And how explain that this great water-locked city was not mobilized for siege by rapid evacuation of the useless mouths, and by stockpiling of necessities for the garrison facing huge powerful armies drawing near?
Western historians are free and quick to blame their leaders and their governments for defeats and disasters. The Soviet Union, however, is governed by a party which has the invariably correct approach to all situations. This creates a certain awkwardness for its historians. The Party alone decides the allotment of paper for the printing of histories.