Churchill's Triumph (33 page)

“Don’t wash your hands of that. You agreed to it all!”

Churchill shook his head. “It was a deal done by Franklin directly with Stalin and without even the courtesy of consulting me. He was in so very much of a hurry.” Churchill swilled the champagne around his glass before taking more. “Then in his haste he flew to Egypt to meet with Ibn Saud and the other desert princes. Wanted to interfere, to rearrange the palm trees, to put his stamp on the world before. . . before he died. He knew the flame was almost out. His face had a transparency, an air of purification, and often there was a faraway look in his eyes. Yet there are two sides to every man, and later I discovered that while he was there, talking to the Saudis, he tried to filch the oil concessions right from under our noses. Even as he sang to the angels and talked of peace among men, he was trying to pick British pockets.”

“He deceived you?”

“At Yalta we all deceived each other.”

“You admit you led the world in a lie.”

“No!” Churchill shouted, but the passion had tired him. When he resumed, his voice was quieter, his tone more contemplative, the words trickling in a stream instead of a flood. “We led the world in hope. And was it wrong to have ambition? Franklin wanted so many things—oh, the bloody oil, of course, and much else that was mercenary besides, but he was American to his roots, and if he planted one foot in the muddy world of war then the other was set on a higher journey. What he wanted most of all was a world of peace. It was his abiding passion. That was why he gave everything—and too much—for his United Nations. He thought it would solve everything. He was wretchedly wrong, of course, but should a man be condemned for embracing his dreams?”

“Did he dream of Poland?”

Churchill wiped his eyes; they were tired, seeping. “It is a fair point. In all candor I must admit that he didn’t care much for Poland, nor for much else in Europe. In his eyes, Europe had fostered the two most barbaric systems ever imposed upon humanity, Fascism and Communism, and he saw us as a source of the most deadly infections. In his own lifetime he had watched the flower of American youth being sent not once but twice to its slaughter on the bloodied fields of Europe, and he swore that was enough. So he was determined that he would win the war, then turn his back on it all. Yes, he was an idealist, but there was also an arrogance, a blindness within him, so typical of his people, who thought that war would be done with once the bullets had stopped flying. Oh, Mr. Nowak, if only that could be so. He was like—yes, I shall put it this way—a traveling quack who sells his elixirs and potions from the back of his wagon then departs before anyone discovers that sugar-water isn’t truly enough. Americans can be the noblest of creatures in times of war, Mr. Nowak, but in matters of peace they can also prove most ridiculously dull.”

“You can’t separate yourself from him. You fought the war together.”

And we fought each other, too. I left Yalta very bitter. He had become like a sheet anchor dragging back our ship. And when he died just a few weeks later I felt—what? Shock? No, for he was a dead man even when I saw him. But I was angry, deeply hurt. I refused to attend his funeral, concocted some excuse, a silly pretension that I quickly came to regret. I even felt a measure of relief, not simply that his suffering was at an end but that a rival had gone from the scene.”

“Roosevelt? A rival?”

Churchill sighed wearily. “I thought so then. For the laurels, you see. I was envious. He had gone at the height of his fame, acclaimed as the victor, while I was left behind to tread the lonely slope of old age.”

“You were jealous of Roosevelt?”

“He had died. I had merely been sentenced to death, waiting for the maggots and the scribblers.” His eyes closed and his head seemed to drop in sorrow. “And what will posterity have of me? My paintings? Bugger it, even my detective paints better than I do.”

Nowak began to mock this man, who appeared to see the world as his playground and matters of war and peace as little more than footnotes in his personal chronicle, but even as he raised his voice in rebuke, he saw that the old man had fallen fast asleep.

❖ ❖ ❖

Only the slant of the shadows on the deck told of the passing time. When Churchill opened his eyes he saw the silver scribble of the horizon and felt the brush of scented air on his cheek. For a moment he wondered whether the deed had been done as he passed through to Paradise. Then, once more, he saw the gun. The dream was not yet done.

“Poland, Mr. Churchill. You betrayed me and you betrayed Poland.”

Churchill wriggled in his chair, trying to revive both his circulation and his thoughts. “We went to war for Poland.”

“You sold my country to Stalin.”

Churchill shook his head. “You are beginning to be tedious, Mr. Nowak. Just shoot me and get it done with.”

“We fought for you! Our pilots gave their lives for you in the skies above England during the Battle of Britain, and our soldiers fought and died like heroes alongside you through the mountains of Italy.”

“They were very brave, the Poles.”

“And you lifted not a finger for them.”

“That is not true.”

“You sent many back to Stalin.”

“It wasn’t as simple—”

But Nowak rode right through him, his voice and temper beginning to rise, wanting to pound the old man into submission. “Every time you were put to the test, you failed. You gave us your word, your solemn word, that you would help. Yet you sat behind the Maginot Line while Hitler devoured Poland, then you applauded while Stalin did the same.”

“No, that’s not—”

“We were the first in this war, the very first, yet you denied us an invitation to join the United Nations.”

“Franklin thought—”

“Excuses! So what was your excuse for not inviting us to the victory celebrations in London, then? We were good enough to die with you in Monte Cassino but not fit to walk beside you through the streets of London. You chased us away like stray dogs!”

“But by then I had been hurled from office. It was not my doing. It was that damned man Hitlee or Attler or whatever he was called. Attlee!” Churchill shook fresh air into his head. “He was a bloody red, a socialist, too worried about upsetting Stalin.”

“You lied! You lied to the men who fought for your liberty. And you betrayed those who died for it!”

“It wasn’t meant—”

“And you betrayed me. Deserted me. Left me for dead. Whose fault was that, Mr. Churchill?”

At last, silence.

Eventually Churchill raised himself in his chair, struggling to control his bruised emotions. “That is a charge I should rightly answer, Mr. Nowak. It is something I have been waiting to explain ever since we last met, something I should perhaps have explained then. It may take a few moments.”

Nowak poured himself a glass of champagne, but didn’t offer Churchill more.

The old man waved a hand in front of his face as though chasing away moths. “It was so very long ago,” he sighed, “and all wrapped up with those things we signed at Yalta. Could the agreement have been different? I have often asked myself, searched my conscience, wondering whether I could have done more.”

“You could have objected, walked away, denounced it as a sham.”

Churchill held up his hand to stem the flow.
“If
I had walked away, it would have made not the slightest difference. I was no longer in control. Yalta was a stage set for a piece that allowed for only two great figures. I played but a bit part. That was why I signed their wretched agreement on the Far East. It was a shoddy deal, but if I had refused to sign, it would still have gone ahead, except that it would have become clear to every native from Calcutta to Hong Kong that the future of the Far East had been settled without British participation. It would have meant the instant collapse of our authority; our empire would have fallen into chaos. That I could not permit. Surely you can understand.”

“What the hell has that got to do with Poland?”

“Yes, yes, I shall get to Poland in a minute. Don’t be so bloody impatient. But first, you must see that power has its limits.” He thrust out his empty glass. “And you must refill my glass. My mouth is dry.”

“You drink too much,” Nowak said, complying with reluctance.

“I used to declare that I had always taken much more out of alcohol than alcohol had ever taken out of me, and it was true,” Churchill said, as he watched the froth in his glass subside. “But now I don’t give a damn.” He drank, a little of the liquid spilling down his chin. He seemed not to notice. “Now, where was I? Ah, Yalta. So I signed up to everything, not just the Far East but to Franklin’s United Nations—a quack’s cure if ever there was—and to Europe. Even had a little influence on the outcome on Europe. You see, it’s like potatoes all laid out in a row.”

Nowak looked on as if the old man had lost his mind.

“France, Germany, Poland—Russia, too. One after the other. And Stalin might have had the lot. So I persuaded them that France should be allowed to become a great power once more, perhaps greater than she deserved. I have always had a passion for
la belle France,
even when she played the harlot.”

Nowak was about to interrupt once more but Churchill held up a finger to stop him, like a schoolmaster with a wayward pupil.

“France was the first step, you see, the first bulwark against the red tide from the east. Then Germany. They wanted to devour her, Franklin and Marshal Stalin. They had plans to rip her apart into five or six pieces, to level her so that she would never rise again. But a flattened Germany would have been nothing but an opportunity for the Red Army, an invitation to see just how far their tanks could roll before they were stopped. So Germany, too, had to be rebuilt, in time, and be permitted to take her place in the community of nations once more. That was not a popular message, but it was a necessary one. And you see, Mr. Nowak, if France and Germany could be persuaded to co-operate, to come together even in some partnership or union, how much stronger would that bulwark against the tide be?”

“You make it sound so simple, as if you had a great plan.”

“Never simple. I groped my way through darkness, but even in the dark a donkey can find its way home.”

“What donkey?” Nowak demanded, but Churchill’s mind had drifted away, distracted by a vapor trail that was stretching out across the cloudless sky, reminding him of a time when the skies above his beloved Chartwell had been filled with such trails, a time when the entire world had been balanced on the wings of a handful of Spitfires and Hurricanes.

Suddenly the old man was back. “Poland! The next potato. What could we do about Poland?”

“You could have fought for her freedom. That was what you had promised.”

“Oh, and I would have fought, most gladly, Mr. Nowak. Everyone says I was a warmonger, couldn’t resist the chance to take a potshot at someone or other. I would have led the charge myself, be in no doubt. But not a soul would have joined me. Not in 1945. By that time there was nothing to be done in Poland except what Marshal Stalin would agree to. And what he agreed to, free elections, a democratic government, independence, an entire package of liberties, had much merit.”

But by this point Nowak’s battered face was contorting with frustration. He spat the words out, one by one, like a man picking his way through a minefield: “How could you trust that monster Stalin?”

“I didn’t! No, not once. Not possible. I knew he was a creature of darkness and utter despair, insatiable in his lusts. Oh, I had to be civil, I had to do business with him, to smile and say generous things about him, but they were no more than the deceits of diplomacy. But trust the bugger? Never!”

“You washed your hands of us.”

“I washed my hands most meticulously, after every meeting with Marshal Stalin. But I never forgot Poland, never gave up hope. And I had my own victory.” He was leaning forward in his chair, wagging his finger. “I got him to agree to all those

things.”

“Words! Useless words!”

“Words, indeed, Mr. Nowak. And all your fault.” Churchill began to chuckle, an old man’s laugh, hoarse and at first feeble but growing in strength.

“You blame me?” Nowak screamed, thrusting the revolver towards the other man.

Churchill laughed until tears streamed down his cheeks, but he wasn’t mocking, merely enjoying the moment.

The Pole was all but convinced he was senile.

“You remember, Mr. Nowak, that you went on at me about the importance of giving my word? For you it made a vital difference, for when a man gives his solemn word he opens up consequences which”—Churchill waved a paw in the direction of the revolver—“can be most serious. And you set me thinking. If we could get Stalin to give his word, to sign the agreements on Poland, then if there were to come a time when he blatantly disregarded them, it would have the most serious consequences.”

“Sure. He broke his word and was still enjoying the joke when they buried him.”

“And in so unashamedly breaking his word he admitted his guilt to the whole world. I was determined to give him no excuse for blaming others, no opportunity for muddying the waters. So I smiled, I courted, I praised, using words that I had to force through my craw. Had I once expressed doubt about his good intentions or questioned his honor, he would have used that as a pretext for withdrawing from his obligations and I was determined unto the point of death to give him no such chance.” Churchill’s blue eyes were staring weepily into the tortured face of the Pole. “Yes, even unto the point of your death, Mr. Nowak.”

The Pole’s face now turned from torment to confusion. “What the hell did I have to do with it?”

“Imagine if we had been discovered, you and I, if Stalin had been able to reveal to the world that even as I professed goodwill and enduring friendship towards him I was busily smuggling some notorious spy and perverted traitor from beyond the reach of Soviet justice—because that is how it would have been depicted. Imagine how the blame for failure would have fallen upon our shoulders. I had to balance the life of one Pole against the future of the whole of Poland. You lost.”