Chapter 5

He presented the German nation with a world-historical goal. World-historical changes are, as Hegel taught, for beyond the petty limits of morality. They are revelations of God's will. Perhaps in the vast effort and the vast tragedy of Germany, Providence had a dark design that will become clear to later generations. The Green Folder was an integral part of that effort. By worldphilosophical considerations, it was the just act of a people seeking to strike out new paths in mankind's endless Faustian journey. In the light of these ideas, the argument that we should have treated the Ukrainians and other Slavs nicely, so that they would help us overthrow their Communist rulers, becomes clearly ridiculous. Germany, a nation as poor as it was powerful, could not continue the war without confiscating the food of southern Russia. Was it to be expected that the Slavs would accept impoverishment, forced labor, and the death of millions by starvation, without a really serious revolt, unless their spirit had been broken from the start, and unless they had seen nothing in prospect but an iron fist and the firing squad if they did not labor and obey? Adolf Hitler said that the only way to administer southern Russia was to shoot anybody who made a wry face. He had a harsh way of putting things sometimes, but what he said in such matters seldom lacked realism. Finally, it must be pointed out that the Green Folder administration scheme never became a reality, since we failed to conquer the Soviet union. it was a hypothetical plan that could not be put into practice. The stress placed on it at the Nuremberg trials therefore seems highly excessive and distorted. TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: Roon's philosophical defense of the Green Folder-possibly the cruelest set of administrative plans ever put on paper-will no doubt be indigestible to the average reader in the United States. However, it was when I read this passage that I decided to translate World Empire Lost.-V.H. -A The Turn South Basing themselves largely upon Guderian, many writers further maintain that Hitler lost the war in mid-July, after our amazing three-week advance to Smolensk-two-thirds of the way to Moscow-by ordering Guderion's panzer armies southward to help Rundstedt close the Kiev pocket, instead of allowing him to drive on. The contention is that precious weeks were thereby lost and the armored equipment become excessively worn, so that the punch was taken out of the final assault on the capital. There are several gaping holes in this "Turn South" critique. First of all, the closing of the Kiev pocket east of the Dnieper was the greatest military land victory in the history of mankind. At a blow, Germany killed or captured armed forces and equipment equal to almost half the entire Wehrmacht force with which she began the invasion of the Soviet unioni it is a little hard to dismiss such a mighty triumph as a "tactical diversion."With this victory, we won secure possession of the riches of southern Russia, which alone enabled us to fight on in the years ahead and to come close to winning. We secured the breadbasket, the industrial basin, and the fuel reserve, which Germany had sought for so long, and which was the whole pivot of Adolf Hitler's politics. True, Clausewitz says the destruction of the enemy's armed forces, not the winning of territorial or economic objectives, is the chief aim of warfare. But the much-criticized "Turn South" achieved a big destruction of enemy armed forces. Suppose that vast southern army had escaped and flanked us? Even if we had destroyed the armies in front of Moscow and occupied the capital, would we have been any better off than Napoleon? Napoleon essentially followed a Guderian strategy, striking for the "center of gravity" in Moscow. The trouble was, once he got there, that he could not feed his men or his horses, he was threatened on the left and right flanks, and after a while there was nothing to do but retreat to fathomless catastrophe. We who planned Barbarossa, and watched it unfold, seldom without a copy of Caulaincourt'sMemoirsinhandleIftheWehrmachtheldfast(were) during the frightful winter of 1941, one very good reason was that we did not repeat Napoleon's mistake. We at least seized the south, which supported us and gave us hope to fight another day. When Hitler told Guderian, who came to Wolf's Lair to protest against the "Turn South," that generals know nothing about the economics of war, he spoke the cold truth. They are like pampered athletes who let some other fellow worry about the playing fields, the crowds, and the money; their only interest is in displaying their prowess. Such was Guderion, an opinionated if brilliant prima donna. The contention that the drive through the center was weakened is itself rather weakened by the plain fact that after finishing his assigned duties in the south, Guderian returned north and jumped off for our spectacular September and October victories. There was nothing particularly enfeebled in that performance! I have not hesitated to point out Adolf Hitler's amateurish errors in other situations; some of these were disastrous, but the turn south was a sound, necessary, and successful move. To the Towers of the Kremlin The remnants of the Red Army in the north and center, beaten and broken once again, went staggering back into the enormous spaces of Russia. Hordes were captured, but more hordes abandoned tanks and guns to slip through our encirclements in the night. In the north all our objectives were achieved except the actual taking of Leningrad. The city was laid under siege which lasted nine hundred days, in which it withered into helplessness and almost perished. The Baltic coast was ours, so that we could supply our northern forces by sea. We were in operational touch with our Finnish allies. In the south we invested the Crimea and were racing for the Caucasus oil fields. And in the center, giant armored pincers closed on Moscow from north and south, actually penetrating the suburbs. Bock's indomitable infantry, marching up the road from Smolensk with amazing speed, was smashing forward in a frontal thrust toward the Bolshevik capital. Panic seized Moscow. October 16 is known to this day in Russian warliterature as the date of the "Great Skedoddle," when the foreign diplomats, many government departments, and a large number of Soviet big shots, together with a huge throng of civilians, abandoned the city and scuttled east for the safety of the Urals. Stalin stayed behind in Moscow, making desperate speeches, and ordering women and children out to dig trenches in the path of our oncoming armies. On the central Russian plain it was just beginning to snow. The Rasputitza had already begun in September-the autumn mud time. God knows it was hard to advance under such conditions, but we advanced. Never has an armed force shown greater energy and spirit under greater difficulties. A remarkable 61an glowed alike in the highest general and the humblest foot soldier. The end of the long road, the incredible nine-year march of the German nation under the Fuhrer, was in view across muddy, snowy wild plains, on the misty Russian horizon lit by a low cold red sun. Our advance patrols saw the towers of the Kremlin. World empire at last lay within the German grasp. TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: General von Roon is tolerant throughout of Hitler's Barborossa Performance, perhaps because he took part in the planning and was in Hitler's favor at the time. Other historians contend that the armies caught in the Kiev pocket were rabble. The hard nut of Russian resistance lay around Moscow, they saY, and destruction of these forces in October would have ended the war. The land campaigns in the Soviet union are not in my field of competence, though I spent time there. The full truth about that front may never be known.
V.H. sum dark-haired girl walked out on the stage of the open-air theAatre at the Pearl Harbor Naval Base, taking off sunglasses and blinking in the white glare of morning sun. The swish of her ice-cream pink dress, displaying silk-sheathed legs, brought glad whistles from the soldiers and sailors who filled every seat in the theatre and most of the folding chairs before the stage. Directly up front sat the governor of Hawaii, the admirals, the generals, and their ladies, and photographers were still blinking feeble blue flashes at them. It was just before eleven o'clock, somewhat early for staged fun, but this first Happy Hour broadcast was being aimed at the big night-time audiences along the Atlantic seaboard. Beyond the low stage, where the Navy band sat with brass instruments glinting in the sun, several moored battleships were visible towering in a gray double row. At the microphone, the girl stood smiling till the good-humored commotion subsided. Then she held up a varnished board lettered in black: APPLAUsis. The audience responded with a heavy round of handclapping. "Thank you, and hello. I'm Mr. Cleveland's assistant, Madeline Henry." A lone piercing wolf whistle sliced do" from the topmost row, and laughter swept the stands. She wagged a finger. "And you watch yourself up there! I have two brothers sitting out here, a naval aviator and a submariner, and they're both big and strong." This brought more laughter and applause. The audience was in a lively expectant mood. This debut of a major new radio program at the naval base had been stirring the somnolent territory for days. The island's good white families, a bored lotus-eating little clique, had been vying to entertain Hugh Cleveland, and people had flown in from other islands to Oahu just to attend the parties. The Navy had even postponed afleet drill simulating an enemy surprise attack, since it conflicted with the broadcast time. Front-page headlines in Honolulu papers about the show quite overshadowed the news of the German encirclement of several Russian armies around Kiev. In an awkward, halting manner that had a certain shy charm, Madeline described the rules of the new show. Only genuine fighting men could take part in the amateur contest. Every participant would receive a five-hundred-dollar defense bond. The performer winning the most applause would get an extra prize: the sponsor would fly in his girl or his parents to visit him for a week. "Mr. Cleveland just hopes there won't be too many winners with girls in Cape Town or Calcutta," she said, drawing a laugh. "Well, I guess that's about it. Now here's the man you're all waiting forthe star of the famous Amateur Hour and now of our new Happy Hourmy nice boss, Mr. Hugh Cleveland." Walking to a seat near the band she demurely sat down, tucking her skirt close to her legs. Cheers greeted Cleveland as he walked to the microphone. "Okeybe-bedokey," he drawled. This phrase, delivered in a cowboy twang, had become a sort of trademark for him, and it brought applause. 'Maybe I ought to just let Madeline Henry keep going. I've got the job, but she's sure got the lines." He wagged his eyebrows, and the audience laughed. "I'd better introduce her brothers, so you'll see just how big and strong they are. The naval aviator is Lieutenant Warren Henry of the Enterprise. Where are you, Warren?" "Oh, Christ," Warren said. "No. No." He cringed down in his chair in a midcue row. 'Stand up, you fool," Janice hissed. Warren got grimly to his feet, a long lean figure in white, and dropped at oncp, sinking far down. (Welcome, Warren. And now here's Byron Henry, of the Devilfish." Byron half rose, then sat down with an unpleasant mutter. "Hi, Byron! Their father's a battleship man, folks, so the family's pretty well got the sea covered-the surface, the air, and the deeps. That's the Henry family, and one reason our country remains strong and safe is that we have plenty of Henry families." The governor and the admirals joined heartily in the handclapping. Slumped low, Byron made a gagging sound in his throat. The first Happy Hour delighted the audience, and promised great popular success. Cleveland had been all over the United States; he could make folksy knowledgeable jokes about out-ofthe-way places.
Working without a script, holding prepared gags in his memory, he created the illusion of an easy, bright, small-town wit. What emerged above all was the reticent homesickness of the soldiers and sailors who performed. Their little acts resembled church social entertainment; the band played patriotic marches; it was an hour of sentimental Americana. Madeline's awkioshing, fitted the wartiness, as she introduced the acts and took some e homey atmosphere. Byron was not amused. He sat through the show in a slouch, his arms folded, looking vacantly at his shoe tips. Once Janice nudged her husband, narrowing her eyes and tilting her head at Byron. Warren pantomimed the bulge of a pregnant woman's stomach. After the show the stage was so crowded with the governor, his entourage, and the high brass, all ringing Cleveland, that the Henrys couldn't mount the steps. 'Wouldn't you know," Byron said, "Branch Hoban's right in there." The handsome sidpper of his submarine, standing between two admirals, was shaking Cleveland's hand, talking to him like an old friend. "You having trouble with Branch Hoban?" Warren said. "He's an okay guy, Briny." "He's having trouble with me." 'Hey, the big strong brothers! Come on up." Cleveland saw them and beckoned, laughing. "Gad, Madeline's one girl whose honor is safe, hey? Janice, the governor here has just invited me to lunch, and I've just turned him down. Told him you're expecting me." Janice gasped, "No, please,.you mustn't do that." The governor smiled at her. 'It's all right. Hugh's coming to Washington Place later. I didn't realize Senator Lacouture's daughter was lurking in our midst. We must have you to dinner soon." Janice took a bold chance. 'Won't you join us for lunch, Governor? We're just having steaks and beer on the lawn, nothing much, but we'd love to have you." "Say, steaks and beer on the lawn sounds pretty good. Let me find my lady." Warren and Branch Hoban were exchanging cheerful insults about their nonexistent paunches, and about how old and married they both looked. Byron stood by with blank face and dull eyes. He broke in, "Excuse me, Captain. My sister-in-law's invited me to lunch. May I go?" Warren said, "Hey! Don't tell me junior's in hack." "Oh, Briny and I have had a leede disagreement. Sure, Briny, you have your lunch with Janice and Warren. Report aboard at fifteen hundred." "Aye aye, sir. Thank you, sir." At Byron's uncivil tone, Warren slightly shook his head.
Janice rode home in the governor's limousine; Madeline and Bymn went in Warren's old station wagon. The double lei of pink and yellow flowers around the sister's neck perfumed the air in the car. She said, gaily, "Well, well, just the three of us. When did this last happen?" "Listen, Briny," Warren said, "Branch Hoban's an old pal of iiiinc. What's the beep Maybe I can help." "I drew a sketch of an air compressor for my officers' course book. He didn't like it. He wants me to do it over. I won't. I'm in hack until I do." "that's ridiculous." "I think so myself." "I mean you're being ridiculous." 'Warren, on our way from San Francisco, an air compressor conked out because the oil pump froze. The chief was sick. I stripped down that compressor and got it going." 'Three cheers, but did you draw a good sketch?" "It was a lousy sketch, but I fixed that compressor." "That's beside the point." "It's the whole point." "No, the whole point is that Branch Hoban decides whether or not to recommend you for your dolphins." "I don't care about getting dolphins." "The hell you don't," Warren said. "Look, Warren, I was shanghaied aboard the Devilfish. I had orders to new construction, the Tuna, but my exec and Hoban pulled a fast one at ComSubPac. Moreover, it wasn't my idea to go to submarine school in the first place. Dad shoved me in, mostly to keep me from marrying Natalie. That's why she went to Italy. That's why she's still stuck there. My life is snafued beyond all measure because I went to sub school. God knows when I'll see my wife again. And my baby, if I've got one. She's baying it on the other side of the world. That's what's on my mind, not dolphins." "You're in the Navy now. Do you want to get beached?" 'Why not? The hours are better and the mail is more reliable." "Oh, horseshit. Pardon me, M4d." 'Shucks, this is like old times. Anyhow, you should hear Hugh talk. Yikes!" she squealed, as Warren bounced off the highway onto grass, avoiding a rusty oldgreen Buick cutting in front of him. Warren said calmly, "These Kanaka drivers give you gray hairs." "There's another fellow who leaves me cold, that Cleveland," Byton said. "How did you get mixed up with him, Matty?"I'm not mixed up with him," Madeline rapped out. "I work for him." Byron gave her an affectionate smile. "I know, sis." "He does a good job," Warren said. "That show goes over." Byron said, "what? Why, the whole thing is so phony! He doesn't make up those jokes, he's got them memorized." "You're dead right about that," Madeline laughed. "It's obvious. He just puts on a big smooth empty act. He reminds me of Branch Hoban." 'Branch is no phony," said Warren. "He has a remarkable record, Briny. And you'd better make up your mind that he's boss man on that submarine." 'Sure he's boss man, and sure he's got a great record, and sure I'm in hack, but hell will freeze over before he gets another sketch of that air compressor. When I found out that Natalie had gone back to Italy to have her baby, I put in a request for transfer to the Atlantic. Our subs operate in and out of the Med, and I might have a chance to see her, and maybe even to get her out. I told him all this. He lectured me about subordinating my personal life to the Navy! Well, I said I was putting the request in anyhow. He forwarded it-he had to forward it-not recommending approval." Warren said, his eyes on the road, "You've been aboard that boat three months. The usual tour is two years." "The usual ensign doesn't have a pregnant wife stuck n Italy." "Don't get me wrong, but that's not the Navy's fault." "I'm not blaming the Navy. I'm telling you why I'm not on fire to please Branch Hoban." Madeline struck into this curt exchange with a laugh. "Say, do you guys know that Dad is studying Russian again, of all things?" "Russian!" Warren exclaimed. 'rmat for?" "He's going there. I don't know when or how." Madeline laughed. "Mom's fit to be tied. He's taking a crash course, ten hours a day. She never sees him. She sits around that big new house by herself, except when somebody shows up to play tennis with her or go to a movie." "Dad had better step on it," Warren said, 'if he wants to beat the Germans into Moscow."Byron took Madeline's lei and put it around his neck. "Boy, these are strong frangipani. God knows when we three will ever be together again like this. I'm in a rotten mood, but I love you both. How's the booze situation at your house, Warren?" "Ninety-seven percent. We just topped off." "Great. I intend to burn you down to fifty percent." "By all means." Byron came on the latest airmail Time at Warren's house, and read it in a deck chair among the multiple roots of a banyan tree, while Warren, Janice, and their guests grew gay on hors doeuvres and rum drinks. At sea for two weeks, he had heard only fragmentary news. when the party reached the, Stage of hijla dancing to the guitar riiusic of the grinning houseboy Warren began broiling steaks in billows of fra ant smoke. Meantime Hugh Cleveland and Madeline d:id a baregr foot hula while the Navy people and islanders clapped and laughed, and a photographer from the society page snapped pictures. Byron sourly watched his sister's white feet writhe in the grass, and her pink-sheathed bottom gyrate; and he wondered who was mad-he or this playful group. According to Time, the Germans were rolling through Russia exactly as they had through Poland two years before. it was the -same month, September. The cheery German claims, backed by combat photographs, were, most convincing. The pictures showed villages afire, skies aswarm with Luftwaffe, roads through cornfields jammed with refugees, and unshaven Russian prisoners behind barbed wire in sullen hordes. The scenes brought vividly back to Byron's mind the days when he and Natalie had drawn together: the flight in the old automobile from Cracow to Warsaw, his wound, the child on the road crying over her mother's smashed face, the orange flares, the whistling bombs, Natalie in the malodorous jammed hospital, the song of grasshoppers in no-man's-land. Carrying two plates of sliced steak and french fries, Warren came and sat down beside him on the grass. 'Eat hearty, my lad." Byron said, 'Thanks. Pretty grim issue of Time "Hell, Briny, you knew the Germans would take the Russkis, didn't You? The Russian's a hardy soldier, but that Bolshevik government's just a mess of crackpot politicians. Stalin shot half his officers in '38, including all the profmion s leal it from the Czarist days. You can't fight a war without career officers. That's where the Germans have us all licked. That General Staff of theirs has been going for a hundred years. The day they lost the last war, why, they just started collecting maps and dope for fighting this one. That's a savvy outfit. How about some wine? California Burgundy gets here in pretty fair shape."'Sure." Returning with a big purple bottle, Warren said, "Well, there's one good thing. If Hitler does take Moscow, the japs will jump north to grab their end of Siberia. That'll give us a breather. Otherwise they're a cinch to come Soon. Everybody thinks they're getting lower on oil. We're sur as hell not ready for them. We need a year just to harden the Philippines to where we can hold." Byron slapped the copy of Time. "Incidentally, did you read about r father-in-law's latest speech? He wants us to explore making a deal you with the Germans." 'I know. Well, he's way off base on that. Hitler's not making any deals, not while he's winning so big. But eventually, Briny, the Krauts may be easier to come to terms with than the japs. They're white people." "True, except for starters we'd have to shoot our Jews." Warren slowly turned his bronzed face at his brother. An embarrassed smile played on his thin lips. 'Even the Germans aren't shooting their Jews, guy. I think their policy is disgusting, but-""You don't know what they're doing. I run into a stone wall when I try to tell people here what the Germans are like. Branch Hoban thinks this war is Saxon civilization against the rising tide of Asia, and the Russians count as Asia, and we and the British should wise up and mall. common cause with the Nazis in a hurry, because they're fighting our battle, and its the white race's last chance. He gets all this out of books by a nut called Homer Lea. He reads those books to pieces. The Valor of Ignorance is the main one, and The Day of the Saxon." 'I've read Homer Lea," said Warren, looking at his watch. "He's a screwball, but pretty interesting-well, our friend Vic's due for a bottle, but it's a cinch Jan's not going to abandon the governor." "I'll feed the baby." "Do you like babies, or something?" "I like this one." NWIE Victor lay on His uncle's lap drinking milk, Byron drank California Burgundy. Each finished his bottle at about the same time. He tucked the baby away in his side-porch crib, and returned to the lawn. The breeze had ched, and it was very hot. The scent from the lemon trees filled Byron with melancholy. He lay face down under the banyan tree and fell asleep. When he woke, Lieutenant Aster, drink in hand, was shaking him. "Blazes," Byron said, sitting up, a stale taste of wine in his mouth, l was supposed to report inat three, wasn't I? Are you here to take me back in irons?" "Amnesty. You're out of back," Aster grinned, "and you've got twenty-four hours' leave. This just came in on the harbor circuit from Rome, forwarded via Lisbon, Washington, and San Francisco." He handed a dispatch to Byron, who read it sitting cross-legged on the grass. ENSIGN BYRON HENRY, USS DEVILVISH X CAN YOU TH OVA GOOD NAME FOR A SEVEN-POUND BOY X BOTH FINE BOTH LOVE YOU X NATALIE AND WHOSIS HENRY Byron bowed his head and put a hand over his face. Like his father, he had a simple religious streak; he muttered a prayer of thanks for the rmracle of a boy, born from the wild lovemaking in Lisbon that had briefly joined two bodies, now almost as far apart as they could be on the planet. After a moment he looked up with a slow smile, his eyes glistening. 'How about that, Lady?" 'Congratulations, Briny." Byron got to his feet, looking around dazedly at the party. The radio was pouring out "Lovely Hula Hands," Janice was Niggling barefoot with the captain of the Enterprise, the go ta' e vemor was dancing with Madeline, evincing pop-eyed pleasure at the play of her hips, and Hugh Cleveland was singing an obscene parody that brought barks of male laughter and delighted shrieks from the women. "I guess I'll tell my brother and sister." Aster strolled beside him, rattling the ice in his glass. "Quite a wingding here. Isn't that the governor? Your sister-in-law is sure nice. I hardly had my foot inside the door when she handed me a planter's punch." "Janice is okay." "Is that her name, Janice? Pretty name. She's about the best-looking white woman I've seen on this godforsaken island. "Easy, Lady." 'y, Briny, I admire her like a sunset, or the Washin ton Monument." "Say, Madeline-" Hurrying past him toward the house behind Cleveland and the Hawaiian houseboy, Madeline flipped a hand at him. "Long-distance call from New York, honey. Our sponsor. Imagine! Byron told the news to Warren and Janice. Before he could stop her, Janice made a delighted announcement. The guests ringed him with alcoholic jokesp congratulations, and questions, exclaiming over the odd fact that his wife was away off in Italy. The society columnist of the Honolulu Star, a bony hawk-faced blonde named Petsy Peters, stood at Bryon's elbow, scribbling notes.
He went into the house after Madeline. He wanted to be the first to tell her. The telephone lay in its rack on a table in the hall. He heard a chuckle, and glancing down the zigzagging halls to the side porch where the baby lay asleep, he saw Hugh Cleveland embracing Madeline, out of sight of the lawn. Cleveland was holding Byron's Sister with both hands by the rump. Her pink skirt was pulled up in back, exposing her thighs and underwear. She was clinging to him with obscene intimacy. Byron walked out of the house into the sunlight. "I guess I'll get back to the Devilfish," he said to Warren. "Why? I thought Branch gave you a twenty-four." "I want to write Natalie and the folks. Maybe shoot off a cable or two." "Briny, the governor's just invited the whole crowd over to Washington Place for cocktails with Cleveland." "Cleveland's in the house there kissing Madeline. I mean kissing her, and she's going right along with it." 'Is she?" the aviator said with a crooked grin. "I guess their sponsor liked the broadcast." Madeline came hurrying out of the house, her face alight, her hair disorderly, and ran to her brothers. Behind her Cleveland emerged, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. "Hey, guess what, fellows?" Madeline chirruped. 'He talked to me, too. He said I sounded fine! But that's 2 ts nothing. We had a spot check rating Of 3-5. That's only four poin less than Fred Allen-and on our very first show!" Byron took the dispatch from his breast pocket and showed it to his sister. 'Oh my! More good news! Say, Hugh, what do you know? Briny's wife had her baby." "Hey! Congrats, papa!" He put out a hand that Byron ignored, but he took no offense. "Come on, Madeline, let's tell the governor what Chet Fenton said." Byron, arms folded, glowered at their departing backs. 'Look, Briny his brother said, "you're not going to make trouble, are you? You'll embarrass Janice." 'The grinning son of a bitch," muttered Byron. 'Come off it. She's over twenty-one." 'He's a married man. I'll talk to Madeline, if you won't. Depending on what she says, I may tell the bastard to keep his distance from her, if he doesn't want the shit beaten out of him." Warren sized up his brother with amusement. "He's got the weight on you, and he looks in good shape." "That's just fine," Byron said. The radio began blaring the news signal. It was four O'clock, and the governor had turned up the volume of the little portable sitting on the outdoor bar. 'Berlin. German Supreme Headquarters announces the capture of Kiev and coms the greatest victory in the war, and perhaps in the history of the world. According to German sources, four entire Russian armies, numbering almost a million men, have been surrounded and cut topieces, and with the fall of Kiev all organized resistance in the vast pocket has come to an end. Radio Berlin proclainwd at midnight that, quote, 'The Soviet union no longer has a military capability, and the end of hostilities on the eastern front is in sight." More news in a moment. Now a word about Pepsi-Cola." The governor said, swishing his rum drink as merry girlish voices burst into a jingle, "Well, well. The Russkis would really seem to be on the run, hey?" "Where is Kiev, Governor?" said Petsy Peters. "Is that where caviar comes from? I hope this doesn't mean no more cawy. There's always the Persian, but that's so expensive." "Kiev is in the north, I think," the governor said. "Frankly my Russian geography is not so hot." The Pepsi-Cola commercial ended. The announcer came on with drama in his voice "We interrupt this newscast for an urgent announcement by the Ioint Army-Navy Command of the Hawaiian Islands. SURPRISE ENEMY ATTACK ON HAWAIII This is a DRILL. A hostile fleet of battleships and aircraft cas has been lorated approximately four hundred and fifty miles northwest of Oahu. This is a DRILL." 'Oh no!" Petsy Peters said. 'Not again. Four o'clock on a Sunday afternoon! What a misery! Are they going to keep us off the streets again for hours and hours?" The governor put his finger to his lips. "All leaves and liberties are cancelled, and all military personnel will return to their units at once. This is a DRILL. We repeat, this is a DRILL. Surprise enemy attack on Hawaiii All military personnel return to their units at once. Special permission is granted to the players of the baseball game between the Air Comnand and the Battleship Force to complete the ninth running, and for spectators to remain at the game until then. Restrictions on civilian travel are not, repeat, not in force." "Well, thank goodness for that, at least," said Petsy Peters. "All ships in the area will report to force commanders readiness to sortie, but u;,ill not, repeat not, leave anchorages or nworings unless ordered. At 1830 target planes towing sleeves will simu attack on Pearl Harbor. All ships and shore batteries will Conduct tracking and aiming exercises but will not, repeat not, fire ammunition. Vessels in dry dock or alongside for repairs will proceed with maintenance work and are excused from this exercise. We repeat. Surprise attack on Hawaii. This is a DRILL. This announcement will be repeated." The governor snapped off the radio. "I wasn't sure they'd still try to get it in today. It was originally scheduled for ten this morning, Hugh, but The Happy Hour conflicted." "Yes, sir, that was a real courtesy. My sponsor is writing letters of appreciation to the Army and the Navy.""That's a fine idea." The general invitation for cocktails at Washington Place, the goveror's mansion, was called off. The party rapidly broke up. Soon only Cleveland, Madeline, Janice, and the two submariners remained on the lawn amid the party debris, with the governor and his wife. Aster and Byron were in no hurry to leave because the Devilfish was in dry dock. "Why not join us at Washington Place for a drink, Janice?" said the governor. "Hugh and Madeline are coming along." -Oh, not without a man, thank you, Governor," Janice said. "There's an old Navy rule against sucking one's neck out, Janice," Lieutenant Aster spoke up, with a fetching grin. 'But I don't know when I'll get another chance to see the inside of that mansion. I volunteer." Janice laughed. "Why, you're on, lieutenant. Give me three minutes, Governor." Byron separated Madeline from the others, saying he wanted to talk to her and would take her to Washington Place in Warren's car. "It's wonderful news about your baby, Briny," Madeline remarked, as they drove off. Byron said, looking straight ahead at the road, "I went into the house before, looking for you. I saw you and Cleveland." After a pause filled with engine noise he glanced at her. Her brows were contracted over wide dark eyes in a scowl, and she looked lovely, but tough. She very much resembled their father. "Is this why you offered to drive me to the governor's place? To lecture me? Thanks, dear." "That's a married man, Madeline. Mom and Dad would be damned upset at what I saw." "Don't talk to me about upsetting Mom and Dad. I have yet to marry a Jew. Those were the last words spoken in the car until it drew up at Washington Place. Madeline opened the door. "I'm sorry, Briny. That was nasty. But didn't you deserve it, accusing me of God knows what? I have nothing against Natalie. I like her." Byron reached across her legs and slammed the door shut. The glare on his white face was frightening. "One minute. You tell Hugh Cleveland -you be sure to tell him, Madeline-that if I ever find out he's done anything to you, I'll come after him and I'll put him in a hospital." The girl's eyes filled with tears. 'Oh, how dare you? You're cruel, and you have a dirty mind. Do you actually think I'd play around with a married man? Why, The Happy Hour was my idea. I was so excited when Mr. Fenton told us about the rating, I'd have kissed anybody who was handy. You're being horrible, Byron." She took a handkerchief from her purse and wiped her eyes. "All right. I didn't want to make you cry.""Don't you believe me?" Madeline spoke in soft and wistful tones, tearfully sing. "My God, I thought we knew each other so well. We used to. I admit Hugh would sleep with me if he could. He'll sleep with anybody, and I find that disgusting. He's nothing but a whoremaster, and his wife's the most miserable woman alive. I appreciate your concern for my honor. You're very old-fashioned and sweet, like Dad. But don't you worry about Madeline. Forgive me for that mean crack, darling. I'm awfully happy about the baby." She kissed his cheek. He felt the tears on her skin. She got out of the car, twinkled her fingers at him, and ran into Washington Place. When Byron got back to the naval base, target planes were coming in high over the harbor, towing long fluttery red sleeves, and on all the ships the gun crews were shouting, and slanting their weapons skyward; but there were no sounds of firing, and the excitement seemed forced and silly. The Devilfish, sitting high and dry on blocks, was deserted except for yard workmen and the watch. Byron took out of his desk drawer a writing pad, and the record of the fado song that he and Natalie had heard together in Lisbon. He put the record on the wardroom phonograph, and started to write: My darling, The news about the baby just came andThe hissing of the bad needle gave way to the guitar chords that opened the song. He put his head down on his arms. He wanted to picture his wife and the new baby, a boy who perhaps looked like Victor. But when he closed his eyes, what he saw was his sister's uncovered thighs and garters. Byron stopped the record and spent the next hour drawing a sketch of an air compressor. Working from memory, using different colored crayons and inks, he produced a picture accurate and clear enough to be printed in a manual. To this he clipped a letter he typed in the abandoned mildewy-smelling yeoman's cubicle, formally requesting transfer to Atlantic duty. He added a scrawled pencil note on a chit: Captain-I deeply appreciate the amnesty and the leave. The only thing I want in the world now is to see my wife and baby, and try to get them out of Europe. I'm sure you will understand. Next morning Branch Hoban congratulated Byron on his sketch, explained with regret that he couldn't spare an officer from the watch list, declared his conviction that Natalie and her baby were quite safe in Rome, and said he would forward the request, not recommending approval. ODA was startled by the bulk of the wax-sealed envelope from the RHState Department. Inside she found another fat envelope with pale blue Russian printing on the flap. The eleven-page typewritten letter it contained was much struck-over with pen and ink. Clipped to it, on a small sheet headed memommum FROM ALISTAM TUDSBURY, was a redpencilled note in Pug's firm slanted hand: 3 Oct Moscow (and still can't believe it!" Don't get sed-guess I haven't written a letter this long si you"t'e known nw-haven't had man experiences like this. Krin banquet was another incredible business-that's for next letter, this one has to go off prontoRegards from Tudsburys. I've used his typewriter and stationery. Letter explains. He's fatter than ever, daughter's a wraithLove PugHotel National, Moscow OCt. 2, 1941 Dearest RhodaThree hours from now I'll be dining in the Kremlin. How about that? It's God's truth. And the rest of this trip has been every bit as fantastic. Now that we've got ourselves two grandsons (and how about that, Granny?) I'm beginning to feel I should record some of these things I'm going through, while they're fresh in my mind. I'm no writer, but just the bare record of the facts should interest those infants one day. So don't think I'm becoming a garrulous old fud if I start sending you occasional batches of these pages. After you've read them, tuck them away for the babies. I'm somewhat punchy; haven't had a real night's sleep since I left London. The trip to Archangel in a British destroyer could have been restful, but for night conferences, and GQ alarms all day long. That is a hot run; you're in Luftwaffe range almost all the way. The convoys on this route take quite a shellacking. Luckily we had fog covering us about half the time. I'm making all these typing mistakes because Tudsbury's typewriter is cranky, and there's nobody in the Soviet union who can fix a British typewriter-or who wants to, you're never sure which. I've been cadging embassy typewriters for my work, but they're swamped today getting out the final conference documents. The Tudsburys occupy the best quarters in the National. Naturally! Leave that to Talky. His suite faces out on Red Square, and I can see the Kremlin through a drizzle from where I sit. Lenin stayed in this suite, they say; now here I am. It's all maroon plush and gold chandeliers and alabaster statues, with a Persian rug about an acre big, and this room even has a rosewood grand piano, almost lost in a corner. (The piano's out of rune.) Me, I'm lodged in a back room on the top floor about five feet by ten, with bare yellow plaster walls." Tudsbury's here right now, dictating to Pamela his broadcast for tonight. Leave it to Talky to show up where the action is! He got the War Information Office to requisition Pamela for him; his stories and broadcasts are considered ace propaganda, and he pleaded failing eyesight. She's on extended leave from the R.A.F and seems miserable about it. Her flier has been a German prisoner for over a year, and she hasn't had a word of him in months. like all the correspondents here, Tudsbury's trying to make bricks without straw. He bent my ear for two hours last night about how tough it is. The Russians keep the reporters in Moscow, and every other day or so just call them in and give them some phony handout. Most of them think the war's going very badly, but they don't have much to go on besides Moscow rumors and Berlin shortwave broadcasts. It seems the Russians have been more or less admitting all the German claims, but two or three weeks late. The pessimists here-and there are plenty-think Moscow may fall in a week! I don't, nor does Tudsbury; but our embassy people are nervous as hell, some of them, about Harriman being captured by the Nazis. They'll be mighty relievedtomorrow when the mission Hies out. Well, as to the tripthe sea approach to Russia reminded me of Newfoundland. Up north the world is still mostly conifer forest and white water, Rhoda. It may be that man in his jackass fashion will devastate the temperate and tropical zones, and civilization will make a scrubby new start at the top of the globe. The first surprise and shock comes at Archangel. It's a harbor town in the wilds all built of wood. Piers, warehouses, sawmills, factories, churches, -A crane towers-wood. Stacks of lumber, billions of board feet, wherever you look. God knows how many trees were cut down to build that town and pile that lumber, yet the forests around Archangel look untouched. There's an Alaskan look about Archangel, like Pictures of the Klondike. The first honest-to-God Russian I saw was the harbor pilot. He came aboard well down channel, and that was another surprise, because he was a woman. Sheepskin coat, pants, boots, and a healthy, pretty face. I was on the bridge and watched her bring us in, and she was quite a seaman, or seawoman. She eased us alongside very handily. Then she shook hands with the skipper and left, and all that time she hadn't cracked a smile. Russians smile only when they're amused, never to be pleasant. It makes them seem distant and rly. I guess we strike them as grinning monkeys. SU This epitomizes the job of communicating with Russians. Language aside, we just have different natures and ways. Mr. Hopkins told me about the forests of Russia, but I still was amazed. You remember when we drove west in midsummer, I think in $ 35, and didn't get out of cornfields for three days? The north Russian woods are like that. We knew to fly Moscow at treetop height. Those green branches rushed by below our wings for hours and hours and hours, and then all at once we climbed, and ahead of us was a tremendous sprawl from horizon to horizon of houses and factories. Moscow is flat and gray. From a distance it could be Boston or Philadelphia. But as you get closer in and see the onion-top churches, and the dark red Krerlirl by the nv,r, with a cluster of churches inside, you realize you're coming to a peculiar place. The pilot flew a circle around Moscow before landing, maybe as a special courtesy, and we got a good look. Incidentally, the takeoffs and landings are expert, but by our standards hairy. The Russian pilot jumps OfF the ground and zooms, or he dives in and slams down. Well, since we got to Moscow we've been in the meat grinder. It's been round-the-clock. Our orders literally are to work through the night. when we aren't conferring we've been eating and drinking. The standard fare for visitors seems to be a dozen different kinds of cold fish and caviar, then two soups, then fowl, then roasts,with wine going all the dine. Each man also has his own carafe of vodka. It's a hell of a way to do business, but on the other hand the Russians may be wise. The alcohol loosens things up. The feeling of getting drunk is evidently the same for a Bolshevik or a capitalist so there at least you strike some common ground. I think this conference has been an historic breakthrough, When have Americans and Russians sat down before to talk about military problems, however cagily? It's all most peculiar and new. The Russians don't tell hard facts of their military production, or of the battlefield situation. Considering that the Germans three short months ago were sitting where we and the British sit now, I don't exactly blame them. The Russians have been a hard-luck people. You can't forget that when You talk to them. This is a point that our interpreter, Leslie Slote, keeps making. I'm not revg secrets when I tell you the British are yielding some Lend-Lease priorities and even undertaking to sent the Russians tanks. It'll all be in the papers. They were stripped bare at Dunidrk, so this is decent and courageous. Of course, they can't use the tanks on the Germans now, and the Russians can. Still, Churchill can't be sure Hitler and Stalin won't make a deal again, so the Germans may suddenly Turn and throw everything into a Channel crossing. I don't think it'll happen. The growing hate here for the Germans is something savage; you only have to see the gruesome newsreels of villages they've been driven out of to unden=d why. Children strung up, women raped to death, and all that. SfiU, Hitler and Stalin seem to have mercury for blood. Nothing they do is too predictable or human, and I give the British lots of points for agreeing to send the R tanks. Some of us Americans feel peculiar at this meeting, damn peculiar. The British, in danger themselves, are willing to help the Russians, while our Congress yells about sending the Russians anything. We sit between men of two countries that are fighting the Germans for their lives, while we represent a land that won't let its President lift a finger to help, not without outcries from coast to coast. Do you remember Slote? He's the second secretary here now. He looked me up in Berlin, you remember, with a lot of praise for Briny's conduct under fire in Poland. He's the man Natalie went to visit. He still seems to think she's the finest girl alive, and I don't know why he didn't marry her when he had the chance. Right now he's g to romance Talky's daughter. Since she's one of the few unattached Western girls-I, almost said white girls-in Moscow, Slote has competition. (Incidentally, my remark about white girls is ridiculous. After two days in Moscow, g to put my finger what so different here, I said to Slote there were two things: no advertisements(on) ,andnoco(was) lored people. It made him laugh. still, it's so. Moscow has a real American feel in the informality and equality of the people, but you don't find such a sea of white faces in any big city in America. All in an I like these Russians and the way they goabout their business with determination and calm, the way the Londoners did.) Now I have a story for you, and for our grandsons to read one dayespecially Byrort's boy. It's a grim one, and I'm still not sure what to make of it, but I want to write it down. Yesterday between the last afternoon conference and the official dinner at the Metropole Hotel, I went to Slote's apartment for a while with Tudshury and Pam. Talky engineered this little party. He wanted to pump me about the conference, but there wasn't much I could disclose. Anyway, I was having a drink with them-if you get this tired you have to keep up an alcohol level in your bloodstream, it's a sort of emergency gasoline-when a knock came on the door, and in walked a fellow in worn-out boots, a cap, a heavy shabby coat, and it was a Jewish merchant from Warsaw, jochanan Jastrow, Natalie's uncle! The one they call Berel. Briny and Natalie went to his son's wedding in south Poland, you recall, and that's how they got caught in the invasion. He's clean-shaven, and speaks Russian and German with ease, and he doesn't seem Jewish, though Slote remarked that in Warsaw he wore a beard and looked like a rabbi. This fellow's escape from Warsaw with the remnants of his family is a saga. They landed in Minsk and got caught there when the Germans blitzed White Russia. He gave us only bare details of how he got himself and his family out of Minsk through the woods, but obviously this is quite a guy for maneuvering and surviving. Here comes the incredible part. Jastrow says that late one night, about a month after the capture of Minsk, the Germans came into the Jewish ghetto they had set up, with a caravan of trucks. They cleaned out two of the most heavily populated streets, jamming everybody into these trucks: men, women, children, babies, old folks who couldn't walk. Several thousand people, at least. They drove them to a ravine in the forest a few miles out of town, and there they shot them, every single one, and buried them in a huge freshly dug ditch. Jastrow says the Germans had rounded up a gang of Russians earlier to dig the ditch, and then had trucked them out of the area. A few of them sneaked back through the woods to see what would happen, and that was how the story got out. One of them had a camera and took pictures. Jastrow produced three prints. This occurrence, whatever it was, took place at dawn. In one of them you see a line of gun flashes. In another you see this distant shadowy crowd of people. In the third, which is the brightest, you just see men in German helmets shovelling. Jastrow also gave Slote two documents in Russian, one handwritten and one typed, that purported to be eyewitness accounts. Jastrow says he decided to get to Moscow and give some American diplomat the story of the massacre in Minsk-I don't know how he got Slote's address. He's a resourceful man, but naive. He believed, and evidently still believes, that once President Roosevelt found out this story and told the American people, the United States would immediately declare war on Germany. Jastrow turned over these materials to Slote, and said he'd risked his life to get that stuff to Moscow, and that a lot of women and children had been murdered, so would he please guardthose pictures and documents with care. He and I talked a bit about the kids; his eyes filled up when I told him Byron and Natalie'd had a boy. After he left, Slote offered the stuff to Tudsbury. He said, "There's your broadcast for you. You'll hit all the front pages in the United States." To our surprise, Tudsbury said he wouldn't touch the story. He worked in British propaganda after he was wounded in the last war, and helped concoct and plant atrocity yarns. He claims the British invented the business of the Germans making soap out of the bodies of soldiers. Maybe this Minsk massacre happened, but to him Jastrow looked like an NKVD plant. It was too coincidental that a distant Polish relative of mine by marriage-a freakish connection to begin with-should suddenly pop up of his own free will in Moscow with this yarn and these documents. A heated argument ensued, and Tudsbury finally said that even if he knew the story were true, he wouldn't use it. This thing could backfire and keep America out of the war, he claimed, just as Hitler's Jewish policy worked for years to paralyze the British. 'Nobod wants to fight a war to y save the Jeun," he kept insisting while banging the table, and Hitler still has a lot of people convinced that anyone who fights Germany is really spilling blood just for the Jews. Talky says this is one of the great war propaganda ideas of all time, and that this story about the Minsk Jews would play into German hands. Well, I've just set down the bald facts of dais. I didn't mean to get so long-winded, but it's been haunting me. If there's even an element of truth in Jastrow's yarn, then the Germans really have run amuck, and among other things Natalie and her infant, unless they're out of Italy by now, are in grave hazard. Mussolini apes whatever Hitler does. But I assume they did get out; Slote tells me it was all set before her confinement. Rhoda, when I think about Jastrow's story my head spins and it seems to me the world I grew up in is dissolving. Even if it's an exaggeration, just hearing such a story makes me think we're entering some new dark age. it's all too much for me, and the worst of it is I found it hard not to believe Jastrow. The man has a keen and dignified manner; not a man I mind having for a relative, strange as it felt to look on him as such. It's five minutes to six. I have to wrap this up and get on to the banquet. This war has sure played hell with our family, hasn't it? The days in Manila, with all three kids in school, and that house with a tennis court where I taught them all to play, seem a far-off dream. Those were the best days. And now here I am in Moscow. I hope you're keeping up that weekly doubles game with Fred Kirby and the Vances. You always feel better when you get exercise. Give my best to Blinker and Ann, also to Fred, and tell him I hope Foggy Bottom isn't getting him down.
I miss you, busy as I am, but you sure wouldn't care for Soviet Russia, darling, in war or peace. Pamela Tudsbury says there isn't a hairdresser in MosoDw she'd go to. She cleans her own suits and dresses with gasoline. You know, I've now met Hitler, Churchill, Roosevelt, and tonight I may shake hands with Stalin. Considering that I'm nobody much, that's something! My career's taken a decidedly freakish Turn. For my grandsons' information (you already know this) I'd have preferred an entry in my record showing I'd been at sea these past two years. But there's no changing that, and in a way I guess it's been an education. Only at this point I've had my bellyful, -and so help me God, I would gladly trade dinner in the Kremlin for one honest-to-God whiff of Navy stack gas. Till the next time, with lots of love Pug Vctor Henry had arrived with the Harriman-Beaverbrook mission just as the Germans were starting their autumn smash toward Moscow. The panzer armies were breaking through less than a hundred miles away, but the Russians wined and dined their visitors, whirled them about the city in black limousines, took them to the ballet, and carried on long committee meetin s, with no hint that anything was going wrong; though they did appear a bit brisk in laying on a farewell banquet less than a week after the guests had got there. The Americans and the British understood that the Germans had been stopped east of Smolensk more than a month earlier in their central push, and had been pinned down there on the defensive ever since. his Moscow this halting of the Nazi hordes in the center was still talked of as a great feat of Soviet arms, a new 'Miracle of the Maine." just as the French had stopped the Huns thirty miles from Paris in 1914 and snatched away their chance of quickly winning the war, so the Red Army had halted Hitler's marauders, the assertion went, in their drive to seize Moscow before the winter set in. The Russians had even taken foreign correspondents to this central front, showing them recaptured villages, smashed Nazi tanks, and dead and captured Germans. Now the Germans claimed the march toward Moscow was rolling again, and the Russians were denying it. The fog of war effectively hid what was really happening. Contrary to a notion popular at the time-a notion which has never quite died-the Wehrmacht was not a giant solid phalanx of tanks and armored cars, spitting flame and death as it clanked through whole nations. Hitler had a horse-drawn army. It was larger than Napoleon's, but mainly it advanced into Russia as the Grande Ann6e had, by animal power and the march of men's feet. He also had some armored divisions, spaced on the Hanks of the three big groups invading the Soviet union. The blitzkrieg worked so: the armored forces, the panzers, chugged ahead on either side ofeach attack front, slicing into the enemy lines, counting on surprise, terror, and punch to soften or panic the foe. The infantry came along between these two swathes as fast as it could, killing or capluring the forces which the panzer divisions had broken into or thinly encircled. These armored divisions were a big success, and no doubt Hitler would have been glad to employ more of them. But he had started his war-as his generals had feebly grumbled-much too soon, only six years after he took power. He had not come near arming Germany to the full, though he had made frightening noises exactly as if he had, and Europe had believed him. He was therefore very low on panzer divisions, considering the vastness of the front. In August, when his three-pronged attack had jabbed far into the Soviet union, Hitler diverted the tMn armored layers of the central formation north and south, to help wrap up the war on the flanks by taking Kiev and investing Leningrad. This done, the panzers were to come back on station and start driving again with the Center Group for the knockout blow on the capital. It was a move that military writers still argue about; but in any case, with the central armor thus peeled away, the infantry and horse-drawn artillery in the center perforce had to halt and dig in, to await the return of the panzers, the steel cutting edges, from their side excursions. This was the "Miracle of the Maine." The Russians were at first surprised, then inunensely heartened(new) , at this sudden stop of the huge force advancing on their capital; and disorganized though they were, they went over to counterattacks and won minor gains. The "Miracle" ceased at the end of September, when the panzer armies, back in their positions, and properly overhauled and gassed up, went slashing toward Moscow again, in two wide curving paths. That was when Harriman and Beaverbrook arrived, with the obscure Captain Henry in their train. I'm knot of Leslie Slote's tie came lopsided twice in his shaky hurTrying hands. He Hung the tie in a corner, pulled another from his dresser, and managed a passable knot. He put on his jacket and sat in a heavy brown leather armchair to calm himself with a cigarette, flinging long legs on the ottoman. A German correspondent had abandoned this apartment on June 15, making a hasty deal with him. For Moscow, these were splendid digs: three rooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, solid German furniture. Pamela Tudsbury liked the place and had cooked many a dinner here for Slote and some of their friends. The English-speaking embassy people and correspondents-an isolated, gossipy little band-assumed that the British girl and the American Foreign Service officer were having an affair. So did Slote's thickset Russian maid, Valya, who beamed on them and tiptoed about when Pamela was visiting. Slote yearned for such an affair. He had not gotten over the marriage of Natalie Jastrow, and nothing closed such an ego wound like a new romance. But Pam Tudsbury, whom he remembered from Paris as the warm-blooded girlfriend of Philip Rule-wild in her ways, candidly sensual, freshest and gayest when the dawn came upbrushed off his passes. She was in a gloomy state; she was being true, she said, to her fiance, a missing R.A.F pilot. Pam's skin was fair as in the Paris days, her heart-shaped face with its thin bow of a mouth still a flower of English prettiness. She wore tailored wool suits, flat shoes, and glasses; but inside that secretarial uniform glowed the girl who had whipped off her stockings and splashed barefoot in the fountain on a midsummer night with Phil Rule, holding her red silkdress at mid-thigh. She still owned that dress, and sometimes wore it. Slote had patiently been taking Pamela's company on her terms, biding his chances to improve them. But the arrival of Captain Victor Henry deprived him of Pamela on any terms. When he glimpsed Pam with Henry, Slote knew at once he was looking at a woman in love. So much for fidelity to the missing airman! As for Captain Henry, this stumpy, sallow, tiredlooking fellow of fifty or so seemed to the Foreign Service officer almost a caricature of the anonymous military man: short on small talk, quick on professional matters, poker-faced, firm, and colorless. One couldn't even tell whether Henry liked Pamela Tudsbury. He made no visible return of her unguarded deep glances. Slote failed to fathom the attraction this middle-aged dullard held for the young Englishwoman, and he had never understood Natalie Jastrow's infatuation with the man's son, either. Fate had served him a strange, indigestible dish, Leslie Slote thought -to be beaten out first by the son and then by the father; neither of them, in his own judgment, a worthy rival. Byron Henry at least was a handsome young devil, and had much changed Slote's ideas of the susceptibility of clever women to surface charms. But there was nothing charming on the surface of Byron's father. The best one could say for the man was that he still had his hair, thick and dark, and that his waist showed an effort to stay trim. But his age was evident in the weary wrinkled eyes, the gnarled hands, the seamed mouth, the deliberate movements. Slote was about to meet Admiral Standley and Captain Henry at the Hotel National; he was going to interpret for them at the Kremlin banquet. This privilege did not, in prospect, make him happy. He was in a state of panicky foreboding. During the first weeks of the invasion, Slote's physical cowardice, which he lived with as other people live with hay fever or high blood pressure, had not acted up. Slote was an admirer of Soviet Russia. He beeyed the news on the loudspeakers and argued that the German victory claims were propaganda. Six hundred miles, more than a hundred million Russians, and above all the great Red Army lay between him and the Germans. It was too far even for the Luftwaffe to fly. The barometer of his timidity read the Moscow climate as sunny and fair. The Muscovites-a peaceable, good-natured, rather shabby swarm of workingmen in caps, workingwomen in shawls, boys and girls in scarlet Young Communist neckerchiefs, all with Hat calm Russian faces so much alike that they appeared to be one family of several million first cousins-placidly piled sandbags, taped windows, held anti-incendiary drills for air raids that didn't come, and otherwise went about their business as before under blue skies, in warm sparkling weather. Silver barrage balloons bobbed at their winches in open squares. Snouts of anti-aircraft guns appeared on the roofs of hotels and museums. Strapping red-cheeked young men wearing new uniforms and fine leather boots streamed to therailroad stations. Tanks, multi-wheeled trucks, and motor-driven big guns thumped and clanked along the boulevards day and night, all heading west. The theatres and cinemas stayed open. The ice cream of the street vendors was as rich as ever. The summer circus was playing to great crowds, for this year there was a dancing elephant as well as the bears. If one could trust one's eyes and ears in Moscow, the Soviet union had met the onslaught t its distant borders and dealt the Nazis their first big defeat, exactly as Radio Moscow claimed. Then Minsk fell, then Smolensk, then Kiev-each Russian acknowledgment lagging a week or more behind the German crows of victory. Air raids started; the Luftwaffe had come into range. Nobody else in the embassy became as alarmed as Slote, because nobody else had counted much on the Russians. Moreover, nobody else had undergone the ordeal of Warsaw. Since May, the ambassador had been storing food, fuel, and supplies in a large house thirty miles from the city, to sit out the coming siege. A few of the Americans, rubbed raw by the Russians' difficult ways, even looked forward to seeing the Wehrmacht march into Red Square. At least, after a few drinks, they said so. Slote had stopped arguing, having been proved so wrong about the Red Army. But he thought the complacency and indifference of the other Americans was almost insane. The air raids were getting worse as the Germans drew nearer. Moscow's amazingly thick anti-aircraft barrage provided a comforting canopy of green, red, and yellow fireworks, mounting past searchlight beams in the black night. Yet bombs did fall. The terror of the siege guns was still to come. Even if he survived the siege, thought Slote, how safe would he be? By then Roosevelt's blatant help to Nazism's enemies might have provoked a triumphant Hitler to declare war. If Moscow fell, the Americans might all be taken to a ravine and shot like the Jews in Minsk. Then Adolf Hitler could apologize for the mistake, or deny that it had happened, or say the Russians had done it. Berel Jastrow's story filled Slote with horror. He had read the books about Germany on the list he had given Byron Henry, and many more. The Germans, in their naive passion for obedience, their streaks of coarseness and brutality, their energy, their intelligence, their obsessive selfcenteredness, their eternal grievance that the world was against them and doing them injustice, their romantic yearnings for new extremes of experience-this last trait bubbling up ad nauseam in the romantic philosophers, and nailed down by Goethe once and for all in the Faust imagethese eighty million strangers in Europe seemed to Leslie Slote capable, once they abandoned their strict and docile conventions, of slaughtering any number of innocent people upon orders, cheerfully and with no sense of guilt, not in the least aware that they were "committing atrocities." There was no striking bottom in the German spirit. That was the strange and fearful thing about them. They were like remote cold children, as docile and as cruel. Hitler's dread secret was that he understood them. other nations at war could be counted on to observe such rules as ex-diplomats-In Slote'sfrightened view, such changing besieged or captured diplomats could perhaps count on Hitler's Germans not to eat them-little more outside his window. It The red light of the setting sun was fading out accompany Victor Henry to a night of sitting in the was time to go an bull's eye of the Moscow air target. c gly, he found Captain Henry in TudsbuWs suit. De Not surprisin in his shirtspite the chill in the room, the naval officer lolled on a couch sleeves, smoking a cigar. Pamela was sewing at a crumpled blue coat with gold stripes, in the light of a red-shaded lamp atop an alabaster Venus. "Hi there," Henry said. don't want them bouncing Pamela said, "Loose brass buttons. We water, Lesall over the Kremlin parquet floor. Have some Scotch and tap lie. Beaverbrook gave the governor a bottle." Glancing at his wristwatch, Slote sat himself on the edge of a chair. had much, Captain. When you start on a "No thanks. I hope you haven't Russian dinner, the last thing you want in your system is alcohol." Henry grunted. "You're telling me! I haven't touched it." Pamela sewed, Victor Henry smoked, and the Foreign Service man felt he was very superfluous in the room. He looked at his watch once, twice and coughed. "I said I'd meet the admiral in the lobby at six. It's ten of. Suppose I look for him now. You'll join us, Captain?" "Sure," Henry said. "You seem so calm, Les., " Pam said. "If I were actually going into the Kremlin, I'd be vibrating." "Captain Henry seems pretty calm," Slote said. 'Oh, him," Pamela said. "He's a robot. A mechanical man. Chugchug! Choomp-choomp! Clank!" "I need new batteries," Henry said. "And possibly a valve job." The intimate teasing made Slote feel even more superfluous. "Well, in ten minutes then," he said. Pamela said, "Just two more buttons. Damn! That's twice I've pricked my finger. I never could sew." Clumsy black limousines clustered before the hotel, a rare sight. Since the start of the war, the sparse auto traffic on Moscow's wide boulevards and squares hadbeen dwindling to nothing. Muscovites, taking evening strolls in their usual large numbers, glanced inquisitively at the machines, but did not stop to gawk. Chauffeurs and escorts in black caps and black leather jackets stood by the cars. The Americans called them the,Y.M.C.A boys'; they were secret police, and the people seemed loath to linger near them. But as the cars began to fill with well-dressed foreigners thronging out of the National's narrow entrance, the pedestrians did form lines of quiet onlookers, peering with round friendly eyes at the clothes, faces and shoes. "How did you make out on those harbor charts?" said Admiral Standley to Henry, settling into the back seat and adjusting his hearing aid. He had once been Chief of Naval Operations, and the President had called him out of retirement for this mission. Slote could never make this shrivelled, leathery, bespectacled man, whose uniform displayed four rows of campaign ribbons, stop talking near NKVD agents, who undoubtedly knew English, though they never spoke it. "I got nowhere," Henry said. "As for operating codes and signals, forget it. Their fellow told me with a straight face that they had no such things, that they just communicated by Morse or flashing light, in plain language." "What tripe! Did you give them our stuff?" "Well, I showed them our General Signal Book, and a few strip ciphers-I almost got into a wrestling match with this rear admiral, the small fat one. He started to put them away in his briefcase, but I retrieved them. I said no tickee no shirtee." "No! Did you really?" said the admiral. 'Why, you may hang for that, Pug. We're supposed to give, give, give, here. Why, you should just have handed over all our Navy's code channels, and shaken hands, and toasted eternal brotherhood in vodka. I'm ashamed of you, Captain Henry, and goddamn glad you're along." "We're getting a quid pro quo for all we're giving the Soviets," Slote said. "They're killing Germans for us." "They're killing Germans so as not to get killed by Germans," said the admiral. "They're not doing it for us." Pug said to Slote, "Look here, Leslie, if we're going to Plan for convoys to Murmansk and Archangel, and for possible joint operations, we've got to swap hydrographic dope and operational codes. Hell, we're not asking for secret combat channels. This is the stuff we need for seamanship and piloting." "Russians are obsessed with secrecy," Slote said. "Be persistent and patient." The cars, having made a wide circuit of streets around the Kremlin, were stopping at a tallgateway under a red stone tower topped by a star. "That won't help," said the admiral. "I think these birds just haven't gotten the green light from Mr. Big, and until they do, no dice." At this stream of slang, the NKVD escort turned and squinted narrow Tartar eyes at the admiral, before saying to Slote in Russian, with a polite smile, that they would stay in the car on passing through the gate. 0 The limousines, checked one at a time by big, fierce-looking, gun-bearing sentries in faultless uniform, drove into the citadel, stopped at an inner gate for another check, then passed among bizarre old churches to a long building with a majestic stone facade. The visitors, with Russian officers mingling among them, left the cars, mounted the steps, and stood talking outside the great closed doors, their breaths smoking in the chilly air. A light blue sky, puffy with pink sunset clouds, arched from wall to wall of the fortress. Suddenly the palace doors opened, and the foreigners were blinking at dazzling light from globed chandeliers in a very long high-ceilinged hall, ending in a cascade of vermilion carpet on a far-off white marble staircase. As they walked in, warm air enveloped them, a novelty in Moscow, where all building heat had been forbidden until mid-October. Inside, a musty smell of old stone walls and old furnishings was mixed with an almost flowery odor. White-gloved attendants in military livery helped the visitors off with their coats and hats. Along the mirrored walls, on dark tables, dozens of combs and brushes were neatly laid out. "noughtful touch, this," Victor Henry said to Slote, as they stood side by side, brushing their hair. 'Say, what did the ambassador think of that stuff from Minsk? Did you get it to him?" Slote nodded at Pug's mirror image. "I wanted it to go to Secretary Hull, high priority. The ambassador quashed that. The stuffs to be forwarded through channels to our east European desk." Pug wrinkled his nose. "That'll be the end of it. Your department always drags its feet on the Jews. Better show the papers to some American newspaperman here." "The boss directly ordered me not to, in case it's evaluated as fake atrocity propaganda." Young army officers, handsome clear-eyed giants in brown uniforms with scarlet collar tabs, appeared through side doors, and began she herding the visitors toward the staircase. Walking beside Slote, Pug said, "Suppose you have Fred Fearing up for a drink, and he accidentally on purpose reads the material? A reporter will steal a scoop from his old blind grandmother, you know." "Are you suggesting that I disobey orders?" 'I don't think that story should get buried." The admiral came and hooked elbows with them on the staircase, cackling, "Say, how's this for socialist austerity? Can't you just see ghosts of.Czarist nobles and their beautiful, ladies on this red carpet? This is right out of the movies." The company passed through a bleak modernist room fun of desks with microphones, and thearmy officers explained that here the Supreme Soviet met. They straggled through one vast room after another, apparently unaltered since Czarist days, richly furnished in French or Italian or English styles, crammed with paintings and statuary, with no visible purpose except to overawe. The effect mounted of wasteful magnificence displayed helter-skelter with a heavy hand. In one room grander and richer than the rest, pillared in marble, with a vaulted gilt ceiling and red damask-covered walls, the company of about eighty men baited. The chamber seemed not at all crowded by them. Mirrored doors opened and a parry of Russian civilians came in, wearing unpressed flopping trousers and ill-fitting &uble-breasted jackets. Slote at once recognized several faces that lined Lenin's tomb at the May Day parades: Molotov, Kaganovitch, Suslov, Mikoyan. "Look at those guys come on, will you?" Victor Henry said. "They make you feel like the revolution happened last week." Slote gave him a quick glance. The apparition of these inelegant Communist bosses in the gorgeous Grand Palace had jarred him too, and the Navy man had crystallized this feeling in one sentence. Henry was sizing up the approaching Communists through half-dosed eyes, as though he were peering at a horizon. "That's the Politburo, Captain," Slote said. "Very big cheeses." Henry nodded. "They don't look like big cheeses, do they?" "Well, it's those terrible clothes," Slote said. Introductions began. Liveried waiters passed with trays of vodka in little tulip-shaped glasses and plates of pastry sticks. Slote ate a stick, for research purposes; it was far too sugary. A little man walked alone into the room, smoking a cigarette. No ceremony was made of it, nobody stopped conversing, but the grand state chamber and all the people in it polarized toward this man, for he was Stalin. It was a matter of sideglances, of shoulders and faces turned, of small moves in the crowd, of a rounding of eyes. So Leslie Slote saw for the first time in the flesh the man whose busts, photographs, statues, and paintings filled the Soviet union like images of Christ in a Catholic land. The Communist dictator, a surprisingly short man with a small paunch, moved through the room shaking hands and chatting. The subtle focus travelled with him like a spotlight. He came to the two American naval officers, put out his hand to the admiral, and said, "Stalyin." He looked like his pictures, except that his pallid skin was very coarse and pitted, as though he had once had bad acne. His slanted eyes, thick backswept grizzled hair, and arching mustache and eyebrows, gave him a genial leonine look. Unlike the other Communists, he wore a uniform of simple beige cloth superbly tailored, with sharply creased trousers tucked into soft gleaming brown boots. Leslie Slote made introductions. Captain Henry said in slow Russian, with a bad American accent, "Sir, I will tell this story to my grandchildren." Raising a thick eyebrow, Stalin said ina low pleasant voice, "Yes? Do you have any?" "Two boys." "And your children? Do you have sons?" The dictator appeared diverted by Victor Henry's slow, carefully drilled, mechanical speech. "I have two, Mr. Chairman. My older son flies for the Navy. My younger one is in a submarine." Stalin looked at Victor Henry through cigarette smoke with vague interest. Pug said, "Forgive my poor Russian. I had Russian playmates once. But that was long ago." "Where did you have Russian playmates?" 'I was born near the Russian River, in California. Some of those early families still remain there." Stalin smiled a real smile, showing tobacco-stained teeth. "Ah, yes, yes. Fort Ross. Not many people know that we Russians settled California before you did. Maybe it's time we claimed California back." "They say your policy is to fight on one front at a time, Comrade Chairman." With a mfling grunt, Stalin said, 'Hat Ochen horoshol" ("Very good"), struck Henry lightly on his shoulder, and walked on. 'Now what the hell was all that about California, Pug?" The admiral had been listening with a baffled look. "By thunder, you've really picked up that lingo." Victor Henry recounted the chat, and the admiral laughed out loud. 'By God, write down every word of that, Pug. You hear? I intend to put it in my report. One fighting front at a time! Well done." 'I must compliment you," Slote said. "You spoke with presence of mind, and he enjoyed it." 'He puts you at your ease," Pug said. "I knew I was murdering the grammar, but he never let on. Did you see his hands? Beautifully manicured." 'Say, I didn't notice that," said the admiral. "How about that, Slote? Lots of us decadent capitalists don't bother with manicures, but the Head Red does. Makes you stop and think, hey?" Slote hadn't noticed the manicure, and was vexed at having missed the detail. Soon the large company was moving again, this time into a stupendous banquet hall of white marble, red tapestries, and shiny parquet, where silver, gold, and glass glittered on the white cloths of many tables set amid green stone columns. One table on a dais stretched the length of the room, perhaps a hundred feet; the others stood perpendicular to the dais. Light flooded from the myriad frosted globes of two gigantic baroque gilt chandeliers, hanging from a high ceiling of vermilion and gold. More light blazed on the walls, in ornate gold sconces.