Churchill's Triumph Page 4

  Although the Vorontsov was called a palace it was not large, and no amount of endeavor could alter the fact that there were simply not enough rooms to go round. As a result, most of the British delegation was shuffled off to an annex where air vice marshals shared a bucket for a latrine and lowly colonels were forced to sleep eight to a room. And the fleas declared war on everyone, regardless of rank.

  The most insurmountable problem, however, was with the bathrooms. There were only four, and once Winston Churchill and his foreign secretary, Anthony Eden, had laid claim to theirs, the rest would have to queue—or use the facility set up in the garden, which came complete with a Russian babushka armed with a sponge who would scrub your back like a naughty child. In spite of their public-school backgrounds, not many of the Englishmen found the courage to take up the challenge.

  It was inevitable that compromises would have to be made, and this, for Sawyers, came close to disaster, for Winston Churchill was not a man of compromise. The Russians had attempted to make his quarters as comfortable as possible—the plumbing still leaked a little, but he splashed about in his bath so much that he’d never notice—yet the bed would never do. It was a single bed, a narrow bed, and no part of Winston Churchill was narrow. Sawyers tried to indicate as much to the Russians who were moving furniture around the palace like worker ants, but they were harassed and said, “Da, da,” although they didn’t understand English, which only became clear when nothing happened.

  For a moment Sawyers wondered whether to volunteer for a posting to an Arctic convoy, then scolded himself for being so weak. He knew what to do. He had seen his master do it on many occasions. So he stood in the middle of the bedroom and screamed. Roared. Threw a monumental tantrum. Stamped his foot and swore—and would have thrown his cigar into the fireplace, if only he had one. The worker ants milled around in a storm of confusion, dashing in and out of the room and chattering in gibberish. It was some time before a voice of sanity broke through.

  “I speak little of your language, sir. Can I be of assistance?”

  A young man in his late twenties, tall, gangling, fine features but with a broad, Slavic forehead and a thick thatch of dark hair, was being ushered forward by the other men. His feet seemed heavy, every step taken with reluctance.

  “At last.” Sawyers sighed.

  The other man drew closer. “What are your orders?”

  “Me? Orders?”

  “You are officer, no?”

  Sawyers laughed.

  “But. . . ” The other man, already wary, became confused. “You are in charge of Mr. Churchill’s apartments, and you are not officer?”

  “Not on your life.”

  “In Russia, you would be at least full colonel.”

  “Me?” Sawyers shook his head. “I’m just a bloody butler.”

  “But you are making outrage. Everyone is worried that you will complain to NKVD and get us shot.”

  “No need for a firin’ squad, just a new bed. For Mr. Churchill. Man size, not this children’s cot.”

  The man interpreted to the others who were crowding round the doorway. They began to shake their heads.

  “They say there is no such thing left anywhere in Crimea.”

  “Way I see it, if my Mr. Churchill can spare the time, I’m sure your Marshal Stealin’ can spare a bed.”

  As the Marshal’s name echoed round the room, private concern was replaced by general alarm. Voices fell to a hoarse whisper. The young man wrung his hands—Sawyers noticed that the left had two fingers missing.

  “They say it will be done,” the man announced eventually. “Even if they have to make it themselves.”

  “Thank you. Y’ may just have saved my life.”

  The young man came no closer but craned his neck forward to examine the Englishman with the caution of a physician looking for signs of plague. Sawyers could see sweat broken on his brow.

  “Then I will ask you to do same for me,” he whispered.

  But at that moment, from somewhere out in the corridor, came the military bark of a guard, and with that the anxious stranger fled, along with all his friends.

  ***

  The bed arrived only hours before its intended occupant. It was brought by a dozen workmen who puffed and muttered, crying out to each other to ensure that no damage was inflicted upon either the huge mahogany frame or any part of the room. It required taking the sliding door that separated the bedroom from the main living room off its runners, and they were also forced to remove the bedside table. A smaller table was put in its place, the whole operation supervised by a man who spoke no English but who, to Sawyers’s educated eye, seemed to be nothing of a workman. His hands were soft, his air arrogant. He did no more than lift the lamp from the old bedside table and replace it carefully upon the new. But the young man had also returned. He spent much of his time glancing nervously in the direction of the supervisor.

  “They have brought bed all way from Moscow,” he declared, but Sawyers was determined not to be impressed.

  “Sounds fair enough—seein’ as Mr. Churchill has brought himself all the way from London.”

  The young man drew nearer. “Make another outrage. Pretend you have trouble with plumbing,” he whispered urgently.

  “What’s to pretend?”

  Yet even as he responded with his typical dose of servant’s sarcasm, he knew he should take this young man seriously. There was no mistaking the flecks of dread that grazed across his grey eyes. Whatever game was being played out here, it was in earnest. Sawyers wasn’t at all certain whether it was compassion or simple curiosity that drove his response, but in any event he cleared his throat and lifted his voice: “And about time, too, what wi’ Mr. Churchill arrivin’ in a few hours. We’ve only just got his bed and still there’s water floodin’ across bathroom floor. Call this a palace? What would Marshal Stealin’ say?”

  As always, the Marshal’s name cast a curious spell across the Russians. The bustle of reorganization melted into unease, as if a herd of antelope had smelled the musk of lion. Even the supervisor stiffened. Words were exchanged, angry, low words, and soon the young man was hustling Sawyers into the bathroom. Sawyers went to close the door but the other man shook his head, indicating the supervisor outside. He turned on every single tap and flushed the lavatory. “NKVD,” he whispered, beneath the roar of rushing water. Sawyers was forced to bend close to the bath to hear him. Steam stung his face.

  “My name is Marian Nowak,” the other man muttered, “and I am very pleased to meet you. I am Pole. From Hotel Metropol.”

  Sawyers knew the hotel well from previous trips to Moscow with Churchill. It was the place reserved for foreigners and was staffed by those who had some fluency in languages. Sawyers also recalled the British Ambassador’s warning that every member of staff in the Metropol was involved with the NKVD security service and was not to be trusted.

  “You must help me.”

  An unmistakable cloud of suspicion passed across Sawyers’s face.

  The other man grew more anxious. “We do not have much time.” He began banging at one of the bath pipes with a wrench.

  “What d’you want?”

  “Get me out of here. Please. Take me with you when you leave.”

  “Why should we do that?”

  “Because I can help you.”

  “How?”

  “I know about Katyn. I was there.”

  Sawyers was now certain he was falling into a trap. For almost two years the whispers of Katyn had rushed across the conscience of the world like storm clouds across the moon. It was a crime of extraordinary proportions, a crime against the Poles—all Poles, everyone was agreed on that—but the rest was covered in accusation and smothered in doubt.

  Poland. The first sacrificial lamb of the war. Once a proud and independent nation whose empire had stretched from the Baltic to the B
lack Sea, yet its position and wealth had always been the envy of others. Over preceding centuries the fortunes of Poland had waxed and had waned, but mostly they had waned until, in the autumn of 1939, they had been utterly wasted. That was when Germany had pounced upon her from the west, taking her in its jaws and swallowing much of her whole, while to the east the Soviets, like jackals, had lain in wait to snatch the chunks of the carcass that remained. Within a few weeks, Poland was entirely gone, but still she wasn’t to be spared. Two years further on the Wehrmacht had pushed across the blood-drenched fields that had once been Polish soil to fall upon the Soviet Union itself, and twenty million Poles were caught once again in the crossfire. The torture continued.

  It was yet another two years before the Germans announced the discovery of a mass grave in the forest of Katyn, northwest of the Russian town of Smolensk. As they dug through the dirt of the forest floor they found the bodies of thousands of Polish officers, each bound, blindfolded and shot with a bullet to the back of the head. A Soviet bullet, it was alleged.

  The Soviets denounced the claim as propaganda. And when the exiled Polish government in London called for an investigation of the massacre by the International Red Cross, the Soviets denounced them, too, claimed the exiled Poles were playing into Nazi hands by echoing their black propaganda and doing their dirty work for them. Moscow as good as accused the Poles in London of complicity in the crime of Katyn, and from that moment on the Soviet government refused to talk with them, denying their claims and their status as the legitimate government of Poland.

  Which caused all sorts of problems for the British and Americans. They had long recognized the legitimacy of the London Poles, but now they needed the Russians more—much more. Couldn’t win the war without them. Couldn’t afford to get tangled up with nonsense in some faraway forest. So they sat back in embarrassed silence and did nothing. Katyn would be upon the conscience of them all.

  And now it had come to the Crimea, had found its way right into Churchill’s bathroom. As the steam formed a thick mist round him, Sawyers started shaking his head. He had a mole’s nose for trouble, and this reeked of it. “No thanks, Mr. Nowak,” he said. “Just fix the leak, if you will.”

  “But you must listen!” the other man snapped, grabbing his sleeve.

  Very carefully, Sawyers removed the other man’s hand. And now the supervisor was calling, sensing that all was not in order.

  “I can help you,” Nowak persisted, pleading. “Look—at bedside lamp. Examine. It has extra flex. For listening device. You must not trust Russians. . . ”

  But already it was too late. The supervisor was at the door. Moments later, Sawyers was out of it.

  ***

  The short winter’s day had long since come to its close by the time Churchill’s car approached the neo-Gothic outlines of the Vorontsov Palace. The meandering drive down from the mountains had physically drained him, while the sense of desolation they encountered on all sides had lowered his spirits, so by the time he walked into the suite of rooms that had been set aside for him his temper was short. He did not take it kindly when he learned that Sarah’s room was nowhere near his own.

  “What the hell sort of palace is this, Sawyers, when my own daughter is treated as a second-class citizen and packed off to the maid’s quarters?” He flung his cap angrily at his servant; it missed. He slumped into a hideous overstuffed chair and lit a cigar. He sighed, and the sound seemed to drag the last reserves of energy from him. His shoulders sagged, his body wilted. “What the devil are we doing here?”

  “Saving the world. Leastways, that’s what you told me at Checkers,” Sawyers responded, scurrying to find an ashtray. When eventually he located one, a fine piece made of heavy crystal, he was intrigued to discover it had the Romanov imperial crest engraved upon it.

  “Save the world?” Churchill snapped. “But we can’t. Even if we could, we’ve no time. No time.” Ash tumbled down his jacket, but he took no notice. “The President has decreed he will stay here only five days, six at the most. Six days—when we have been fighting for our lives for almost six years.” The words came tinged with bitterness. “Six miserable days. Why, the Almighty himself required seven.”

  “You need a bath, zur,” Sawyers replied.

  “I need a bloody drink!”

  “No, zur, you need a bath.”

  “Damn your impertinence, Sawyers. Since when did you start issuing the orders?”

  “It’s true. I may be impertinent. But you still need a bath.”

  Something in the servant’s steady blue eye and stubborn lip made Churchill pause. Sawyers was already turning on the taps, sending a cascade of water into the cast-iron tub, and beckoning to his master. Churchill heaved himself from his chair.

  “Funny goin’s-on around here, mind,” Sawyers whispered, when at last Churchill came close. “Seems the room is bugged.”

  “What? What? Where?”

  Sawyers raised a finger to his lips to quieten the other man. “The bedside lamp, so I’m told. And that’s not all. Place has been crawlin’ wi’ all sorts of workmen ever since I arrived, yet this mornin’ they disappeared as quick as kids at a broken window and now we got strange-looking servants dressed up in white coats. One fellow’s dusted bannisters outside the door three times since lunch. Loiterin’ wi’ intent, I reckon. He’s YMCA, or whatever you call it.”

  “NKVD, you bloody fool,” Churchill muttered, drumming his fingers ostentatiously against the side of the bath to create still more extraneous noise. “So, Comrade Stalin’s up to his usual tricks. Never doubted him for a moment.” The color had come back to his cheeks, “Where d’you say this bug is?”

  “Bedside light.”

  Churchill stamped across to the bed. He examined the lamp carefully without touching it. At first he could see nothing, yet soon he had found the extra flex leading to a hole in the skirting-board and, after more diligent searching, he identified what he assumed to be a small microphone hidden in the intricate leaf design of the lamp’s base. He drew a deep breath, held the lamp aloft to examine its underside, then burst forth with a few bars of “Rule Britannia” in a voice so grating and tuneless that it made Sawyers wince. “Britons never, never, never shall be slaves!” he cried, to anyone who might be listening. Then he let the whole thing fall from his fingers. It fell to the floor and shattered into pieces.

  “Bugger. Clumsy of me.” He smiled grimly, turning to the servant. “Come, Sawyers, tell me. Where the hell did you discover all this?”

  “From a Polish plumber. Said he needed our help.”

  “Every Pole on the face of the planet needs our help. If only it were possible. What else did he say?”

  “Said if I were Russian, I’d be at least a full colonel.”

  “If you were Russian, Sawyers, you’d have been shot for endless insubordination. Now, if it’s not too much trouble, how about my bloody drink?”

  “Know what I was thinkin’, zur?” the servant replied, standing his ground.

  “What’s that?”

  “Maybe there’s somethin’ to be said for joinin’ a revolution after all.”

  SUNDAY, 4th OF FEBRUARY, 1945

  THE FIRST DAY

  TWO

  His arrival was like the coming of autumn. The first sign was a growing coldness among the blue-capped NKVD guards who were posted around the Vorontsov, followed by a gentle stirring of rough, whispered instruction. Then came anxiety, which began to blow like freshly fallen leaves into every corner. Expressions froze, shoulders straightened, fingers hovered nervously around triggers. Stalin was coming. Early. Trying to take them by surprise.

  Churchill, alerted by the cries of the guards, rushed into the hallway to greet him. They had met only three times before, and on each occasion the Englishman’s sense of foreboding had grown. They had got drunk with each other, poured scorn upon each other, and forced endless quant
ities of insult and adulation on each other, yet Churchill found there was something hollow in the man, a space where the spirit should have been. There could be outpourings of every sort of emotion, but they were switched on and off like a light, on command. Perhaps it was because he had no woman in his life, there was no longer any leavening, no Clemmie to dig in the occasional claw and remind him that he was merely mortal. There had once been a wife, much younger, whom Stalin had reputedly loved in his own way, but she had died, some said by her own hand on account of his uncontrollable cruelty. That was when the purges had started. Her anguished soul had been pursued into Hell by countless others. It was the price of a husband’s broken heart, or so it was whispered. Churchill didn’t care to listen to such rumors, he had no idea what was true, but that was the problem—you rarely knew what was true about Stalin, and when you did, you desperately wanted not to believe it. Churchill both admired and hated him, and he had also grown to fear him. Yes, Winston Churchill was afraid, of this untouchable man and of the world he wanted to create, and now he was on the doorstep.