by Warren Adler
“Did he do it?” Luddington interjected.
“I can’t be certain, although I understand that when the bomb was finally dropped on Hiroshima, Stalin screamed bloody murder at Harriman, the U.S. ambassador in Moscow, because he was not told about the date in advance.”
“Do you think Truman would really share those atomic secrets with the Russians?”
“I can’t be certain, although I would suspect that Franklin might have done it if the war had dragged on. Might have, I stress, although I feel certain I would have talked him out of it. As for Truman, I can’t be certain. Not that it would matter. I am no longer at 10 Downing.”
Churchill’s face reddened with a brief flash of anger. It was the one subject that could threaten the return of his black dog. Sarah sensed this and tried to abort the conversation with cheerful laughter.
“Don’t let Father get started on that or lunch will get cold. Come in now.”
They rose from their seats and followed her to the dining room. The table was of Venetian origin with ornate carvings on the side panels. Plates of chilled melon and prosciutto were set on mats. Sarah asked the Brigadier General to open the champagne and pour into the fluted glasses.
Churchill held up his glass in a mock toast.
“To the Phoenix,” he said, “that great mythical bird, master of resurrection.”
The visitors laughed nervously, apparently understanding the reference, which was hardly subtle.
Was it possible, he wondered, to rise from the ashes?
“To you, Mr. Churchill,” offered Luddington. “If it wasn’t—”
Churchill knew exactly what was coming. Although the reminder of his leadership during the war could be comforting, he did not wish to dwell on the past, which triggered thoughts of ingratitude and insult.
“To the king,” he said quickly, lifting his glass, foreclosing on any future toasts.
“The king,” the others chimed in.
As always, Churchill dominated the table talk. Increasingly on his mind was what he saw as Stalin’s growing threat. Unfortunately, few were listening. It had been exactly the same in the early days of Hitler. He had been vociferous in his opposition to appeasement, a lone voice. It was happening again. He reiterated his suspicion of Stalin’s motives and the danger he posed to the Western democracies.
“Why must I be cast in the role of the canary in the coal mine?” he asked his guests rhetorically.
The two luncheon guests exchanged glances. Churchill was certain that they, too, were inclined to buy the line that he was exaggerating the threat. Such thoughts now permeated the thinking in Great Britain and in America.
“Out of power, finding a pulpit will be more difficult than ever. These are indeed dangerous times. Think of Stalin with the bomb. Imagine him having a weapon that has more destructive power than twenty thousand tons of TNT, two thousand times the power of our own Grand Slam, once the most powerful bomb in the world. Putting that in the hands of the Russians is a frightening prospect.”
“But, Father,” Sarah said, “Look at it from their point of view. They see themselves as powerless against the Allies. The Americans and us, we own the bomb, remember, that should be enough to hold the Russians in line.”
The guests looked at her and nodded.
“Hold Stalin in line? Don’t be absurd, Sarah. These people have an agenda to spread their control over the world. Their agents are undoubtedly burrowed in everywhere. They want a Marxist world. Hegemony.” He chuckled, “You see? Even my own daughter has doubts. Such is the fate of any sailing ship that tries to buck the prevailing winds. Tack here, tack there, but keep your eye on the objective.”
“But, Mr. Churchill,” Luddington said. “You are a world-renowned and respected figure. Surely, you can find a pulpit to make your views known. And you are a writer as well.”
“Gentlemen, out of power is out of power. I can speak, yes. But my voice as former Prime Minister is considerably diminished.”
“My father would rather paint and write these days,” Sarah said, with an admonishing glance at her father.
Ignoring her remark, Churchill proceeded to return to his earlier theme, revealing his principal worry: the atomic bomb in Stalin’s hands.
“I was told by Edward Stettinius, Roosevelt’s last Secretary of State, as well as his aide, Hiss, that a memorandum had been prepared for Roosevelt by Hopkins and Hiss, urging him to give Stalin the secrets. He died before he could act.”
“Would Truman do that?” Luddington asked, a deep frown creasing his forehead.
“I think not. Let me amend that. I hope not. Can he be such a fool? Who knows? That’s what Stalin is demanding, and I understand that the new tenant of Number 10 is sympathetic!”
Churchill paused.
“Quite believable, I’m afraid. Attlee, you know, was always a sheep in sheep’s clothing. If either of them consents to such an appalling decision, it would be a disaster.”
“Can they be stopped?” Luddington asked.
“Who will stop them?”
“Perhaps you, sir,” Luddington said.
“Must I remind you that I am at this point merely an opposition voice in Parliament? Mr. Truman does not call to ask my advice.”
“But, Father,” Sarah interjected, obviously hoping again to put an optimistic turn on the conversation. “You could accept that invitation in March.”
Churchill sighed regretfully.
“Perhaps,” he began, and then fell silent.
“Father has been invited to speak at a college in America,” Sarah said, directing the news to the guests. “Truman will introduce him.”
“Not much of a college,” Churchill muttered. “Where in America was it?”
“Westminster College in Fulton, Missouri. Two hundred twenty students.”
“Hardly an international forum, Sarah,” Churchill replied gruffly.
“But, Father, it is Truman’s state, and with him to introduce you, it will become automatically a center of international interest.”
“Really, Sarah, hardly Harvard,” he persisted. “You’ll recall they gave me a degree a couple of years ago.”
She produced the invitation, which was typed on White House stationery with a handwritten postscript from President Truman. She read the president’s scrawled words, as she had done a number of times since the invitation had been received.
“‘This is a very fine old college in my state. I will be there to introduce you.’” She looked pointedly at her father. “Now how can you turn that down, Father?”
They had discussed the invitation at length, and Churchill had asked her to find an atlas. He had always been an inveterate reader of maps, ever since his days as a subaltern in India. He had always carried a map book with him.
Sarah had found one in the library, and both father and daughter studied it carefully. “Father, Fulton is west, actually southwest, of St. Louis, almost a hundred miles or so.”
She had pointed a finger towards Fulton and directed her father’s eyes to the spot.
“What do the Americans say: A hick town? A hick college in a hick town.”
“But with the President introducing you and after your speech, it will never be hick again. Besides, they still love you in America, Father.” She paused. “It is called the Green Lecture, and there is a $4,000 honorarium.”
“Unthinkable!” he said. “To be introduced by the President and accept money? Absolutely not.”
Although he dismissed the suggestion, he had promised to give it some thought, but Sarah had continued to lobby him and now in front of witnesses where he would be more vulnerable.
Churchill chuckled, amused at his daughter’s spirit. She had always been the rebellious child. The two guests were silent as they watched this domestic byplay between father and daughter. He turned to his guests.
> “You see? Do you think I can withstand this daughterly bombardment?”
The men shrugged, obviously not wanting to get involved in the dispute.
“Then you’ll accept?” Sarah persisted.
“Have I a choice, daughter?”
“Only one, Father.”
“Well, then….” He paused for effect. “Why not? The old Hussar goes west.” He laughed. “Guns blazing.”
By then the lunch was coming to an end. The men offered their compliments to the cook, and then Churchill asked Sarah to bring him the box of Romeo y Julieta cigars that Herman Upmann had sent him recently. He offered them to his guests who declined. He clipped one, lit the end carefully, and sucked in a deep drag, his face beaming with contentment.
“A cigar, you know, is one of the few vices yet remaining for the advanced in age.”
He looked at the men, smiled, and fell into another long, brooding silence. He found himself recalling Potsdam and Yalta, assessing his own behavior. Had Stalin bested them? Should he have been more forceful, less willing to go along with Franklin at Yalta and Truman at Potsdam. He was fast coming to the opinion that Stalin had won the day at both conferences. He took some deep puffs on his cigar.
“I remember once when I was invited to have a drink with Stalin in Potsdam, I felt it was rude not to match him drink for drink of Russian vodka. After we had drained most of the bottle, and Stalin was questioning me in general terms about our intentions in Greece and our position on Poland as he touted the new ‘liberation’ committee that was running that country, I saw this aide furiously writing down anything and everything that the Russian interpreter reporting my reactions said to Stalin.
“I said to him, ‘Premier Stalin, why the need of taking notes?’ Next afternoon, Uncle Joe walks over to me with his English translator, pushes his pipe into my chest, and amid chuckles, announces, ‘I’ve destroyed the notes and the notes taker.’”
“He sacked the aide, Mr. Churchill?” asked Luddington.
“Oh, yes, literally, General.” Churchill paused for effect. “He had been executed that morning.”
“Not executed?” said the astonished Luddington.
“Oh, yes, a bullet to his head I’m told. I had the sense that he thought I would laugh.” Churchill shook his head and sighed. “This man is a killer. The reports of the Russian offensive last year are appalling: indiscriminate killing, rape, looting. He thought Russians in the lands occupied by the Germans had been brainwashed into the Nazi philosophy. His NKVD troops went on a killing spree targeting Russians and Germans alike. The man is a killer who enjoys killing.”
“Chilling,” Luddington said.
“Way of life, gentlemen. There is an apocryphal story I have heard about some woman from Zagreb who, when informed about my demise as prime minister, proclaimed, ‘Oh, poor Mr. Churchill. I suppose he will now be shot.’”
Churchill chortled and the two men laughed appreciatively.
“This is the way Stalin handles dissent—off with their heads!” Churchill shrugged.
“What did Stalin think of Roosevelt?” Luddington asked.
“He charmed poor Franklin; they really bonded. It was appalling, and yet, he had told others that he thought Roosevelt was merely a rich playboy, soft as butter and easily manipulated.”
“And you, sir?” Luddington let the question hang in the air. “I mean, how did you feel about Roosevelt?”
“You may recall it took me quite a while to get him to act on our behalf.” Churchill shook his head. “Nevertheless,” he continued, “we became good friends in the process. He was a great man, a master politician.”
He grew distant and silent for a long moment.
“God, I miss Franklin; I loved him. England is forever in his debt.”
There was another long pause, and Churchill noted that his two guests eyed him expectantly. He was, he knew, holding court and he reveled in the opportunity, not wishing it to end. He signaled by a nod that he was no longer being reflective and would welcome fresh questions.
“And what of Byrnes, the new Secretary of State? Where does he stand in all this?”
He noted that Luddington was being deliberately vague, but he took “all this” to mean the attitude towards the Soviet Union.
Ah, Churchill thought, British intelligence, for some reason, is probing.
He wanted to ask Luddington if this visit’s pithy fruits would make their way not only to Alex but also to MI6 and perhaps, the Russians. Churchill secretly suspected that Communist moles had invaded MI6.
“Byrnes, yes, Byrnes,” Churchill remembered. “Met him at Potsdam… a southerner with a drawl like honey. Truman calls him ‘Jimmy.’ I’m told he was put out a bit when Roosevelt picked Truman over him for Vice President, an office he had coveted. But then, politics being what it is, Roosevelt chose Truman. Perhaps Roosevelt thought that Truman might be more compliant. Indeed, he kept him at arm’s length.”
He checked himself. Sarah admonished him with a glance. He was rambling a bit.
Back to Byrnes! he rebuked himself.
“Byrnes is no political innocent. He was once the majority leader in the Senate until Roosevelt put him on the Supreme Court. Then Roosevelt made him the ‘Czar’ of war mobilization somewhat like what I had Beaverbrook do for me. Like Max, Byrnes speaks to Truman like a peer with a capital P—without a pretense of subservience. I liked that in Beaverbrook—but in our cabinet the Prime Minister is ‘first among equals.’ Not so in America—the cabinet members are puppets of the President.”
“I hear he’s not pro-Soviet,” said Luddington. “At least, we’ve been reading that in the articles on Byrnes’ trip to Paris where he talked to de Gaulle.”
“Perhaps. But they say that ‘while Byrnes roams, Truman fiddles.’”
Churchill chuckled at his little joke.
“Remember, he is an instrument of the President, and Truman, for some reason, is wary of standing up to the Soviets. Frankly, his attitude is baffling.”
“Surely the Soviets don’t want war?” asked Luddington. “After what they’ve gone through?”
Churchill eyed the man with some curiosity, and then resigned himself to the present reality. Luddington was merely echoing the typical appeasement line that was in vogue on both sides of the Atlantic.
“Oh no,” he said with sarcasm. “I’m sure they want ‘peace’—a piece of Poland, a piece of Czechoslovakia, a piece of Hungary, tomorrow, the world. Remember that one. What the Soviets want is to ‘Bolshevize’ the Balkans.”
He turned to Sarah, the brief dispute forgotten.
“Do you like that Sarah?”
Sarah shrugged.
“Father, do you think we’ve kept our visitors too long?”
“Not at all, sir,” Luddington said.
Churchill nodded.
“Sarah is hinting that it’s time for me to contemplate the cosmic infinities horizontally.”
“Father means his daily nap.”
“Yes,” said Churchill. “One of the two splendid Spanish contributions to the betterment of the civilized state of man, which I embraced in my early years as a military observer in Spain. One is the siesta and the other the Havana.”
Churchill smothered the remains of his cigar in the ashtray and rose to bid farewell to his visitors. They exited with the amenities of thanks to Sarah, as Churchill ascended the marble staircase.
In his bedroom, Churchill changed into pajamas for his afternoon nap. It amused him that Sarah had cleverly persuaded him to accept the invitation to speak at the small college in the Midwest.
But then she did have a point. Truman and he had last met at Potsdam. His sense of history clicked in. Perhaps this could be the pulpit he had wished for.
He picked up the phone. He needed to talk to Clemmie. Luckily, he found her at Chartwell, where she had j
ust arrived from London. Hearing her voice always filled him with joy.
“Oink, oink,” Churchill imitated a porcine grunt.
“Meow, meow,” answered the voice of his wife.
In his intimate moments with his wife, Churchill would often assume the role of a pig to his wife’s cat.
“Hello, pussycat—do you miss my stroking?”
Then he recited a children’s rhyme:
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
He continued, “What do you think, Clemmie, of a cat and a pig going across the sea to America? Don’t worry, it will be all paid for. I’ve just been invited by President Truman to speak in some college in Missouri. And, of course, the usual honorary degree.”
“Missouri?”
“A backwater, I agree. But it does offer an opportunity.”
In his mind, he was already composing what he would say.
“We could go early and spend some time with that Canadian friend. You know, that Colonel Clarke of Montreal, who has a winter home in Miami. They’ve always wanted us to visit them in Florida.”
“Splendid! Do us both wonders. But I will have to forgo Missouri. Chartwell does need work, darling. After all, Chequers will be Mr. Attlee’s now.” She paused. “As for Number 10, we are now officially vacated.”
“Did you leave all the silver intact?” Churchill teased.
“Absolutely. But I did take the dozen cases of Pol Roger.”