Winter of the World (122 page)

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 blonde 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 of
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 neighbourhood where people were broad-minded, some place that had a lot of students and young professors,
maybe Georgetown.

Then he saw Georgy’s blonde 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 decision 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 harboured 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 blonde 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? 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 favourite 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.

‘You can’t marry me, Greg,’ she said. She slipped the diamond ring off her finger and put it down on the red checked tablecloth. ‘You already have a family.’

She walked out of the restaurant.

(iii)

The world crisis came to a head in June, and Carla and her family were at the centre of it.

The Marshall Plan had been signed into law by President Truman, and the first shipments of aid were arriving in Europe, to the fury of the Kremlin.

On Friday 18 June the Western Allies alerted Germans that they would make an important announcement at eight o’clock that evening. Carla’s family gathered around the radio in the
kitchen, tuned to Radio Frankfurt, and waited anxiously. The war had been over for three years, yet still they did not know what the future held: capitalism or Communism, unity or fragmentation,
freedom or subjugation, prosperity or destitution.

Werner sat beside Carla with Walli, now two and a half, on his knee. They had married quietly a year ago. Carla was working as a nurse again. She was also a Berlin city councillor for the Social
Democrats. So was Frieda’s husband, Heinrich.

In East Germany the Russians had banned the Social Democratic Party, but Berlin was an oasis in the Soviet sector, ruled by a council of the four main Allies called the Kommandatura, which had
vetoed the ban. As a result, the Social Democrats had won, and the Communists had come a poor third after the conservative Christian Democrats. The Russians were incensed and did everything they
could to obstruct the elected council. Carla found it frustrating, but she could not give up the hope of independence from the Soviets.

Werner had managed to start a small business. He had searched through the ruins of his father’s factory and scavenged a small horde of electrical supplies and radio parts. Germans could
not afford to buy new radios, but everyone wanted their old ones repaired. Werner had found some engineers formerly employed at the factory and set them to work fixing broken wireless sets. He was
the manager and salesman, going to houses and apartment buildings, knocking on doors, drumming up business.

Maud, also at the kitchen table this evening, worked as an interpreter for the Americans. She was one of the best, and often translated at meetings of the Kommandatura.

Carla’s brother Erik was wearing the uniform of a policeman. Having joined the Communist Party – to the dismay of his family – he had got a job as a police officer in the new
East German force organized by the Russian occupiers. Erik said the Western Allies were trying to split Germany in two. ‘You Social Democrats are secessionists,’ he said, quoting the
Communist line in the same way he had parroted Nazi propaganda.

‘The Western Allies haven’t divided anything,’ Carla retorted. ‘They’ve opened the borders between their zones. Why don’t the Soviets do the same? Then we
would be one country again.’ He seemed not to hear her.

Rebecca was almost seventeen. Carla and Werner had legally adopted her. She was doing well at school, and good at languages.

Carla was pregnant again, though she had not told Werner. She was thrilled. He had an adopted daughter and a stepson, but now he would have a child of his own as well. She knew he would be
delighted when she told him. She was waiting a little longer to be sure.

But she yearned to know in what kind of country her three children were going to live.

An American officer called Robert Lochner came on the air. He had been raised in Germany and spoke the language effortlessly. Beginning at seven o’clock on Monday morning, he explained,
West Germany would have a new currency, the Deutsche Mark.

Carla was not surprised. The Reichsmark was worth less every day. Most people were paid in Reichsmarks, if they had a job at all, and the currency could be used for basics such as food rations
and bus fares, but everyone preferred to get groceries or cigarettes. Werner in his business charged people in Reichsmarks but offered overnight service for five cigarettes and delivery anywhere in
the city for three eggs.

Carla knew from Maud that the new currency had been discussed at the Kommandatura. The Russians had demanded plates so that they could print it. But they had debased the old currency by printing
too much, and there was no point in a new currency if the same thing was going to happen. Consequently the West refused and the Soviets sulked.

Now the West had decided to go ahead without the co-operation of the Soviets. Carla was pleased, for the new currency would be good for Germany, but she felt apprehensive about the Soviet
reaction.

People in West Germany could exchange sixty inflated old Reichsmarks for three Deutsche Marks and ninety new pennies, said Lochner.

Then he said that none of this would apply in Berlin, at least at first, whereupon there was a collective groan in the kitchen.

Carla went to bed wondering what the Soviets would do. She lay beside Werner, part of her brain listening in case Walli in the next room should cry. The Soviet occupiers had been getting angrier
for the last few months. A journalist called Dieter Friede had been kidnapped in the American zone by the Soviet secret police, then held captive: the Soviets at first denied all knowledge, then
said they had arrested him as a spy. Three students had been expelled from university for criticizing the Russians in a magazine. Worst of all, a Soviet fighter aircraft buzzed a British European
Airways passenger plane landing at Gatow airport and clipped its wing, causing both planes to crash, killing four BEA crew, ten passengers and the Soviet pilot. When the Russians got angry, someone
else always suffered.