Winter of the World

17

1943 (III)

‘Will you marry me?’ said Volodya Peshkov, and held his breath.

‘No,’ said Zoya Vorotsyntsev. ‘But thank you.’

She was remarkably matter-of-fact about everything, but this was unusually brisk even for her.

They were in bed at the lavish Hotel Moskva, and they had just made love. Zoya had come twice. Her preferred type of sex was cunnilingus. She liked to recline on a pile of pillows while he knelt worshipfully between her legs. He was a willing acolyte, and she returned the favour with enthusiasm.

They had been a couple for more than a year, and everything seemed to be going wonderfully well. Her refusal baffled him.

He said: ‘Do you love me?’

‘Yes. I adore you. Thank you for loving me enough to propose marriage.’

That was a bit better. ‘So why won’t you accept?’

‘I don’t want to bring children into a world at war,’ she said.

‘Okay, I can understand that.’

‘Ask me again when we’ve won.’

‘By then I may not want to marry you.’

‘If that’s how inconstant you are, it’s a good thing I refused you today.’

‘Sorry. For a moment, there, I forgot that you don’t understand teasing.’

‘I have to pee.’ She got off the bed and walked naked across the hotel room. Volodya could hardly believe he was allowed to see this. She had the body of a fashion model or a movie star. Her skin was milk-white and her hair pale blonde – all of it. She sat on the toilet without closing the bathroom door, and he listened to her peeing. Her lack of modesty was a perpetual delight.

He was supposed to be working.

The Moscow intelligence community was thrown into disarray every time Allied leaders visited, and Volodya’s normal routine had been disrupted again for the Foreign Ministers’ Conference that had opened on 18 October.

The visitors were the American Secretary of State, Cordell Hull, and the British Foreign Secretary, Anthony Eden. They had a hare-brained scheme for a Four-Power Pact including China. Stalin thought it was all nonsense and did not understand why they were wasting time on it. The American, Hull, was seventy-two years old and coughing blood – his doctor had come to Moscow with him – but he was no less forceful for that, and he was insistent on the pact.

There was so much to do during the conference that the NKVD – the secret police – were forced to co-operate with their hated rivals in Red Army Intelligence, Volodya’s outfit. Microphones had to be concealed in hotel rooms – there was one in here, only Volodya had disconnected it. The visiting ministers and all their aides had to be kept under minute-by-minute surveillance. Their luggage had to be clandestinely opened and searched. Their phone calls had to be tape-recorded and transcribed and translated into Russian and read and summarized. Most of the people they met, including waiters and chambermaids, were NKVD agents, but anyone else they happened to speak to, in the hotel lobby or on the street, had to be checked out, perhaps arrested and imprisoned and interrogated under torture. It was a lot of work.

Volodya was riding high. His spies in Berlin were producing remarkable intelligence. They had given him the battle plan for the Germans’ main summer offensive, Zitadelle, and the Red Army had inflicted a tremendous defeat.

Zoya was happy, too. The Soviet Union had resumed nuclear research, and Zoya was part of the team trying to design a nuclear bomb. They were a long way behind the West, because of the delay caused by Stalin’s scepticism, but in compensation they were getting invaluable help from Communist spies in England and America, including Volodya’s old school friend Willi Frunze.

Zoya came back to bed. Volodya said: ‘When we first met, you didn’t seem to like me much.’

‘I didn’t like men,’ she replied. ‘I still don’t. Most of them are drunks and bullies and fools. It took me a while to figure out that you were different.’

‘Thanks, I think,’ he said. ‘But are men really so bad?’

‘Look around you,’ she said. ‘Look at our country.’

He reached over her and turned on the bedside radio. Even though he had disconnected the listening device behind the headboard, you couldn’t be too careful. When the radio had warmed up, a military band played a march. Satisfied that he could not be overheard, Volodya said: ‘You’re thinking of Stalin and Beria. But they won’t always be around.’

‘Do you know how my father fell from favour?’ she said.

‘No. My parents never mentioned it.’

‘There’s a reason for that.’

‘Go on.’

‘According to my mother, there was an election at my father’s factory for a deputy to attend the Moscow Soviet. A Menshevik candidate stood against the Bolshevik, and my father went to a meeting to hear him speak. He did not support the Menshevik, nor vote for him; but everyone who went to that meeting was sacked, and a few weeks later my father was arrested and taken to the Lubyanka.’

She meant the NKVD headquarters and prison in Lubyanka Square.

She went on: ‘My mother went to your father and begged him to help. He immediately went with her to the Lubyanka. They saved my father, but they saw twelve other workers shot.’

‘That’s terrible,’ Volodya said. ‘But it was Stalin—’

‘No. This was 1920. Stalin was just a Red Army commander fighting in the Soviet–Polish War. Lenin was leader.’

‘This happened under Lenin?’

‘Yes. So, you see, it’s not just Stalin and Beria.’

Volodya’s view of Communist history was badly shaken. ‘What is it, then?’

The door opened.

Volodya reached for his gun in the bedside-table drawer.

But the person who came in was a girl wearing a fur coat and, as far as he could see, nothing else.

‘Sorry, Volodya,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know you had company.’

Zoya said: ‘Who the fuck is she?’

Volodya said: ‘Natasha, how did you open my door?’

‘You gave me a pass key. It opens every door in the hotel.’

‘Well, you might have knocked!’

‘Sorry. I just came to tell you the bad news.’

‘What?’

‘I went into Woody Dewar’s room, just as you told me. But I didn’t succeed.’

‘What did you do?’

‘This.’ Natasha opened her coat to show her naked body. She had a voluptuous figure and a luxuriant bush of dark pubic hair.

‘All right, I get the picture, close your coat,’ said Volodya. ‘What did he say?’

She switched to English. ‘He just said: “No.” I said: “What do you mean, no?” He said: “It’s the opposite of yes.” Then he just held the door wide open until I went out.’

‘Bugger,’ said Volodya. ‘I’ll have to think of something else.’

(ii)

Chuck Dewar knew there was going to be trouble when Captain Vandermeier came into the enemy land section in the middle of the afternoon, red-faced from a beery lunch.

The intelligence unit at Pearl Harbor had expanded. Formerly called Station HYPO, it now had the grand title of Joint Intelligence Center, Pacific Ocean Area, or JICPOA.

Vandermeier had a marine sergeant in tow. ‘Hey, you two powder puffs,’ Vandermeier said. ‘You got a customer complaint here.’

The operation had grown, everyone began to specialize, and Chuck and Eddie had become experts at mapping the territory where American forces were about to land as they fought their way island by island across the Pacific.

Vandermeier said: ‘This is Sergeant Donegan.’ The marine was very tall and looked as hard as a rifle. Chuck guessed that the sexually troubled Vandermeier was smitten.

Chuck stood up: ‘Good to meet you, Sergeant. I’m Chief Petty Officer Dewar.’

Chuck and Eddie had both been promoted. As thousands of conscripts poured into the US military, there was a shortage of officers, and pre-war enlisted men who knew the ropes rose fast. Chuck and Eddie were now permitted to live off base. They had rented a small apartment together.

Chuck put out his hand, but Donegan did not shake it.

Chuck sat down again. He slightly outranked a sergeant, and he was not going to be polite to one who was rude. ‘Something I can do for you, Captain Vandermeier?’

There were many ways a captain could torment petty officers in the navy, and Vandermeier knew them all. He adjusted rotas so that Chuck and Eddie never had the same day off. He marked their reports ‘adequate’, knowing full well that anything less than ‘excellent’ was, in fact, a black mark. He sent confusing messages to the pay office, so that Chuck and Eddie were paid late or got less than they should have, and had to spend hours straightening things out. He was a royal pain. And now he had thought up some new mischief.

Donegan pulled from his pocket a grubby sheet of paper and unfolded it. ‘Is this your work?’ he said aggressively.

Chuck took the paper. It was a map of New Georgia, a group in the Solomon Islands. ‘Let me check,’ he said. It was his work, and he knew it, but he was playing for time.

He went to a filing cabinet and pulled open a drawer. He took out the file for New Georgia and shut the drawer with his knee. He returned to his desk, sat down, and opened the file. It contained a duplicate of Donegan’s map. ‘Yes,’ Chuck said. ‘That’s my work.’

‘Well, I’m here to tell you it’s shit,’ said Donegan.

‘Is it?’

‘Look, right here. You show the jungle coming down to the sea. In fact, there’s a beach a quarter of a mile wide.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Sorry!’ Donegan had drunk about the same amount of beer as Vandermeier, and he was spoiling for a fight. ‘Fifty of my men died on that beach.’

Vandermeier belched and said: ‘How could you make a mistake like that, Dewar?’

Chuck was shaken. If he was responsible for an error that had killed fifty men, he deserved to be shouted at. ‘This is what we had to work on,’ he said. The file contained an inaccurate map of the islands that might have been Victorian, and a more recent naval chart that showed sea depths but almost no terrain features. There were no on-the-spot reports and no wireless decrypts. The only other item in the file was a blurred black-and-white aerial reconnaissance photograph. Putting his finger on the relevant spot in the photo, Chuck said: ‘It sure looks as if the trees come all the way to the waterline. Is there a tide? If not, the sand might have been covered with algae when the photograph was taken. Algae can bloom suddenly, and die off just as fast.’

Donegan said: ‘You wouldn’t be so goddamn casual about it if you had to fight over the terrain.’

Maybe that was true, Chuck thought. Donegan was aggressive and rude, and he was being egged on by the malicious Vandermeier, but that did not mean he was wrong.

Vandermeier said: ‘Yeah, Dewar. Maybe you and your nancy-boy friend should go with the marines on their next assault. See how your maps are used in action.’

Chuck was trying to think of a smart retort when it occurred to him to take the suggestion seriously. Maybe he ought to see some action. It was easy to be blasé behind a desk. Donegan’s complaint deserved to be taken seriously.

On the other hand, it would mean risking his life.

Chuck looked Vandermeier in the eye. ‘That sounds like a good idea, Captain,’ he said. ‘I’d like to volunteer for that duty.’

Donegan looked startled, as if he was beginning to think he might have misjudged the situation.

Eddie spoke for the first time. ‘So would I. I’ll go, too.’

‘Good,’ said Vandermeier. ‘You’ll come back wiser – or not at all.’

(iii)

Volodya could not get Woody Dewar drunk.

In the bar of the Hotel Moskva he thrust a glass of vodka in front of the young American and said in schoolboy English: ‘You’ll like this – it’s the very best.’

‘Thank you very much,’ said Woody. ‘I appreciate it.’ And he left the glass untouched.

Woody was tall and gangly and seemed straightforward to the point of naivety, which was why Volodya had targeted him.

Speaking through the interpreter, Woody said: ‘Is Peshkov a common Russian name?’

‘Not especially,’ Volodya replied in Russian.

‘I’m from Buffalo, where there is a well-known businessman called Lev Peshkov. I wonder if you’re related.’

Volodya was startled. His father’s brother was called Lev Peshkov and had gone to Buffalo before the First World War. But caution made him prevaricate. ‘I must ask my father,’ he said.

‘I was at Harvard with Lev Peshkov’s son, Greg. He could be your cousin.’

‘Possibly.’ Volodya glanced nervously at the police spies around the table. Woody did not understand that any connection with someone in America could bring down suspicion on a Soviet citizen. ‘You know, Woody, in this country it’s considered an insult to refuse to drink.’

Woody smiled pleasantly. ‘Not in America,’ he said.

Volodya picked up his own glass and looked around the table at the assorted secret policemen pretending to be civil servants and diplomats. ‘A toast!’ he said. ‘To friendship between the United States and the Soviet Union!’

The others raised their glasses high. Woody did the same. ‘Friendship!’ they all echoed.

Everyone drank except Woody, who put his glass down untasted.

Volodya began to suspect that he was not as naive as he seemed.

Woody leaned across the table. ‘Volodya, you need to understand that I don’t know any secrets. I’m too junior.’

‘So am I,’ said Volodya. It was far from the truth.

Woody said: ‘What I’m trying to explain is that you can just ask me questions. If I know the answers, I’ll tell you. I can do that, because anything I know can’t possibly be secret. So you don’t need to get me drunk or send prostitutes to my room. You can just ask me.’

It was some kind of trick, Volodya decided. No one could be so innocent. But he decided to humour Woody. Why not? ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I need to know what you’re after. Not you personally, of course. Your delegation, and Secretary Hull, and President Roosevelt. What do you want from this conference?’

‘We want you to back the Four-Power Pact.’

It was the standard answer, but Volodya decided to persist. ‘This is what we don’t understand.’ He was being candid now, perhaps more than he should have, but instinct was telling him to take the risk of opening up a little. ‘Who cares about a pact with China? We need to defeat the Nazis in Europe. We want you to help us do that.’

‘And we will.’

‘So you say. But you said you would invade Europe this summer.’

‘Well, we did invade Italy.’

‘It’s not enough.’

‘France next year. We’ve promised that.’

‘So why do you need the pact?’

‘Well.’ Woody paused, collecting his thoughts. ‘We have to show the American people how it’s in their interests to invade Europe.’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why do you need to explain this to the public? Roosevelt is President, isn’t he? He should just do it!’

‘Next year is election year. He wants to get re-elected.’

‘So?’

‘American people won’t vote for him if they think he’s involved them unnecessarily in the war in Europe. So he wants to put it to them as part of his overall plan for world peace. If we have the Four-Power Pact, showing that we’re serious about the United Nations organization, then American voters are more likely to accept that the invasion of France is a step on the road to a more peaceful world.’

‘This is amazing,’ Volodya said. ‘He’s the President, yet he has to make excuses all the time for what he does!’

‘Something like that,’ Woody said. ‘We call it democracy.’

Volodya had a sneaking suspicion that this incredible story might actually be the truth. ‘So the pact is necessary to persuade American voters to support the invasion of Europe.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Then why do we need China?’ Stalin was particularly scornful of the Allies’ insistence that China should be included in the pact.

‘China is a weak ally.’

‘So ignore China.’

‘If the Chinese are left out they will become discouraged, and may fight less enthusiastically against the Japanese.’

‘So?’

‘So we will have to bolster our forces in the Pacific theatre, and that will take away from our strength in Europe.’

That alarmed Volodya. The Soviet Union did not want Allied forces diverted from Europe to the Pacific. ‘So you are making a friendly gesture to China simply in order to conserve more forces for the invasion of Europe.’

‘Yes.’

‘You make it seem simple.’

‘It is,’ said Woody.

(iv)

In the early hours of the morning on 1 November, Chuck and Eddie ate a steak breakfast with the US Marine 3rd Division just off the South Sea island of Bougainville.

The island was about 125 miles long. It had two Japanese naval air bases, one in the north and one in the south. The marines were getting ready to land halfway along the lightly defended west coast. Their object was to establish a beachhead and win enough territory to build an airstrip from which to launch attacks on the Japanese bases.

Chuck was on deck at twenty-six minutes past seven when marines in helmets and backpacks began to swarm down the rope nets hanging over the sides of the ship and jump into high-sided landing craft. With them were a small number of war dogs, Dobermann Pinschers that made tireless sentries.

As the boats approached land, Chuck could already see a flaw in the map he had prepared. Tall waves crashed on to a steeply sloping beach. As he watched, a boat turned sideways to the waves and capsized. The marines swam for shore.

‘We have to show surf conditions,’ Chuck said to Eddie, who was standing beside him on the deck.

‘How do we find them out?’

‘Reconnaissance aircraft will have to fly low enough for whitecaps to register on their photographs.’

‘They can’t risk coming that low when there are enemy air bases so close.’

Eddie was right. But there had to be a solution. Chuck filed it away as the first question to be considered as a result of this mission.

For this landing they had benefited from more information than usual. As well as the normal unreliable maps and hard-to-decipher aerial photographs, they had a report from a reconnaissance team landed by submarine six weeks earlier. The team had identified twelve beaches suitable for landing along a four-mile stretch of coast. But they had not warned of the surf. Perhaps it was not so high that day.

In other respects, Chuck’s map was right, so far. There was a sandy beach about a hundred yards wide, then a tangle of palm trees and other vegetation. Just beyond the brush line, according to the map, there should be a swamp.

The coast was not completely undefended. Chuck heard the roar of artillery fire, and a shell landed in the shallows. It did no harm, but the gunner’s aim would improve. The marines were galvanized with a new urgency as they leaped from the landing craft to the beach and ran for the brush line.

Chuck was glad he had decided to come. He had never been careless or slack about his maps, but it was salutary to see first-hand how correct mapping could save men’s lives, and how the smallest errors could be deadly. Even before they embarked, he and Eddie had become a lot more demanding. They asked for blurred photographs to be taken again, they interrogated reconnaissance parties by phone, and they cabled all over the world for better charts.

He was glad for another reason. He was at sea, which he loved. He was on a ship with seven hundred young men, and he relished the camaraderie, the jokes, the songs, and the intimacy of crowded berths and shared showers. ‘It’s like being a straight guy in a girls’ boarding school,’ he said to Eddie one evening.

‘Except that that never happens, and this does,’ Eddie said. He felt the same as Chuck. They loved each other, but they did not mind looking at naked sailors.

Now all seven hundred marines were getting off the ship and on to land as fast as they could. The same was happening at eight other locations along this stretch of coast. As soon as a landing craft emptied out, it lost no time in turning around and coming back for more; but the process still seemed desperately slow.

The Japanese artillery gunner, hidden somewhere in the jungle, found his range at last, and to Chuck’s shock a well-aimed shell exploded in a knot of marines, sending men and rifles and body parts flying through the air to litter the beach and stain the sand red.

Chuck was staring in horror at the carnage when he heard the roar of a plane, and looked up to see a Japanese Zero flying low, following the coast. The red suns painted on the wings struck fear into his heart. Last time he saw that sight had been at the Battle of Midway.

The Zero strafed the beach. Marines who were in the process of disembarking from landing craft were caught defenceless. Some threw themselves flat in the shallows, some tried to get behind the hull of the boat, some ran for the jungle. For a few seconds blood spurted and men fell.

Then the plane was gone, leaving the beach scattered with American dead.

Chuck heard it open up a moment later, strafing the next beach.

It would be back.

There were supposed to be US planes in attendance, but he could not see any. Air support was never where you wanted it to be, which was directly above your head.

When all the marines were ashore, alive and dead, the boats transported medics and stretcher parties to the beach. Then they began landing supplies: ammunition, drinking water, food, drugs and dressings. On the return trip the landing craft brought the wounded back to the ship.

Chuck and Eddie, as non-essential personnel, went ashore with the supplies.

The boat skippers had got used to the swell now, and their craft held a stable position, with its ramp on the sand and the waves breaking on its stern, while the boxes were unloaded and Chuck and Eddie jumped into the surf to wade to shore.

They reached the waterline together.

As they did so, a machine gun opened up.

It seemed to be in the jungle about four hundred yards along the beach. Had it been there all along, the gunner biding his time, or had it just been moved into position from another location? Eddie and Chuck bent double and ran for the tree line.

A sailor with a crate of ammunition on his shoulder gave a shout of pain and fell, dropping the box.

Then Eddie cried out.

Chuck ran on two paces before he could stop. When he turned, Eddie was rolling on the sand clutching his knee, yelling: ‘Ah, fuck!’

Chuck came back and knelt beside him. ‘It’s okay, I’m here!’ he shouted. Eddie’s eyes were closed, but he was alive, and Chuck could see no wounds other than the knee.

He glanced up. The boat that had brought them was still close to shore, being unloaded. He could get Eddie back to the ship in minutes. But the machine gun was still firing.

He got into a crouching position. ‘This is going to hurt,’ he said. ‘Yell as much as you like.’

He got his right arm under Eddie’s shoulder, then slid his left under Eddie’s thighs. He took the weight and straightened up. Eddie screamed with pain as his smashed leg swung free. ‘Hang in there, buddy,’ Chuck said. He turned towards the water.

He felt sudden, unbearably sharp pains in his legs, his back and finally his head. In the next fraction of a second he thought he must not drop Eddie. A moment later he knew he was going to. There was a flash of light behind his eyes that rendered him blind.

And then the world came to an end.

(v)

On her day off, Carla worked at the Jewish Hospital.

Dr Rothmann had persuaded her. He had been released from the camp – no one knew why, except the Nazis, and they did not tell anyone. He had lost one eye and he walked with a limp, but he was alive, and capable of practising medicine.

The hospital was in the northern working-class district of Wedding, but there was nothing proletarian about the architecture. It had been built before the First World War, when Berlin’s Jews had been prosperous and proud. There were seven elegant buildings set in a large garden. The different departments were linked by tunnels, so that patients and staff could move from one to another without braving the weather.

It was a miracle there was still a Jewish hospital. Very few Jews were left in Berlin. They had been rounded up in their thousands and sent away in special trains. No one knew where they had gone or what happened to them. There were incredible rumours about extermination camps.

The few Jews still in Berlin could not be treated, if they were sick, by Aryan doctors and nurses. So, by the tangled logic of Nazi racism, the hospital was allowed to remain. It was mainly staffed by Jews and other unfortunate people who did not count as properly Aryan: Slavs from Eastern Europe, people of mixed ancestry, and those married to Jews. But there were not enough nurses, so Carla helped out.

The hospital was harassed constantly by the Gestapo, critically short of supplies, especially drugs, understaffed and almost completely without funds.

Carla was breaking the law as she took the temperature of an eleven-year-old boy whose foot had been crushed in an air raid. It was also a crime for her to smuggle medicines out of her everyday hospital and bring them here. But she wanted to prove, if only to herself, that not everyone had given in to the Nazis.

As she finished her ward round she saw Werner outside the door, in his air force uniform.

For several days he and Carla had lived in fear, wondering whether anyone had survived the bombing of the school and lived to condemn Werner; but it was now clear they had all died, and no one else knew of Macke’s suspicions. They had got away with it, again.

Werner had recovered quickly from his bullet wound.

And they were lovers. Werner had moved into the von Ulrichs’ large, half-empty house, and he slept with Carla every night. Their parents made no objection: everyone felt they could die any day, and people should take what joy they could from a life of hardship and suffering.

But Werner looked more solemn than usual as he waved to Carla through the glass panel in the door to the ward. She beckoned him inside and kissed him. ‘I love you,’ she said. She never tired of saying it.

He was always happy to say: ‘I love you, too.’

‘What are you doing here?’ she said. ‘Did you just want a kiss?’

‘I’ve got bad news. I’ve been posted to the Eastern Front.’

‘Oh, no!’ Tears came to her eyes.

‘It’s really a miracle I’ve avoided it this long. But General Dorn can’t keep me any longer. Half our army consists of old men and schoolboys, and I’m a fit twenty-four-year-old officer.’

She whispered: ‘Please don’t die.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

Still whispering, she said: ‘But what will happen to the network? You know everything. Who else could run it?’

He looked at her without speaking.

She realized what was in his mind. ‘Oh, no – not me!’

‘You’re the best person. Frieda’s a follower, not a leader. You’ve shown the ability to recruit new people and motivate them. You’ve never been in trouble with the police and you have no record of political activity. No one knows the role you played in opposing Aktion T4. As far as the authorities are concerned, you are a blameless nurse.’

‘But Werner, I’m scared!’

‘You don’t have to do it. But no one else can.’

Just then they heard a commotion.

The neighbouring ward was for mental patients, and it was not unusual to hear shouting and even screaming; but this seemed different. A cultured voice was raised in anger. Then they heard a second voice, this one with a Berlin accent and the insistent, bullying tone that outsiders said was typical of Berliners.

Carla stepped into the corridor, and Werner followed.

Dr Rothmann, wearing a yellow star on his jacket, was arguing with a man in SS uniform. Behind them, the double doors to the psychiatric ward, normally locked, were wide open. The patients were leaving. Two more policemen and a couple of nurses were herding a ragged line of men and women, most in pyjamas, some walking upright and apparently normal, others shambling and mumbling as they followed one another down the staircase.

Carla was immediately reminded of Ada’s son, Kurt, and Werner’s brother, Axel, and the so-called hospital in Akelberg. She did not know where these patients were going, but she was quite sure they would be killed there.

Dr Rothmann was saying indignantly: ‘These people are sick! They need treatment!’

The SS officer replied: ‘They’re not sick, they’re lunatics, and we’re taking them where lunatics belong.’

‘To a hospital?’

‘You will be informed in due course.’

‘That’s not good enough.’

Carla knew she should not intervene. If they found out she was not Jewish she would be in deep trouble. She did not look particularly Aryan or otherwise, with dark hair and green eyes. If she kept quiet, probably they would not bother her. But if she protested about what the SS were doing she would be arrested and questioned, and then it would come out that she was working illegally. So she clamped her teeth together.

The officer raised his voice. ‘Hurry up – get those cretins in the bus.’

Rothmann persisted. ‘I must be informed where they are going. They are my patients.’

They were not really his patients – he was not a psychiatrist.

The SS man said: ‘If you’re so concerned about them, you can go with them.’

Dr Rothmann paled. He would almost certainly be going to his death.

Carla thought of his wife, Hannelore; his son, Rudi; and his daughter in England, Eva; and she felt sick with fear.

The officer grinned. ‘Suddenly not so concerned?’ he jeered.

Rothmann straightened up. ‘On the contrary,’ he said. ‘I accept your offer. I swore an oath, many years ago, to do all I can to help sick people. I’m not going to break my oath now. I hope to die at peace with my conscience.’ He limped down the stairs.

An old woman went by wearing nothing but a robe open at the front, showing her nakedness.

Carla could not remain silent. ‘It’s November out there!’ she cried. ‘They have no outdoor clothing!’

The officer gave her a hard look. ‘They’ll be all right on the bus.’

‘I’ll get some warm clothing.’ Carla turned to Werner. ‘Come and help me. Grab blankets from anywhere.’

The two of them ran around the emptying psychiatric ward, pulling blankets off beds and out of the cupboards. Each carrying a pile, they hurried down the stairs.

The garden of the hospital was frozen earth. Outside the main door was a grey bus, its engine idling, its driver smoking at the wheel. Carla saw that he was wearing a heavy coat plus a hat and gloves, which told her that the bus was not heated.

A small group of Gestapo and SS men stood in a knot, watching the proceedings.

The last few patients were climbing aboard. Carla and Werner boarded the bus and began to distribute the blankets.

Dr Rothmann was standing at the back. ‘Carla,’ he said. ‘You . . . you’ll tell my Hannelore how it was. I have to go with the patients. I have no choice.’

‘Of course.’ Her voice was choked.

‘I may be able to protect these people.’

Carla nodded, though she did not really believe it.

‘In any event, I cannot abandon them.’

‘I’ll tell her.’

‘And say that I love her.’

Carla could no longer stop the tears.

Rothmann said: ‘Tell her that was the last thing I said. I love her.’

Carla nodded.

Werner took her arm. ‘Let’s go.’

They got off the bus.

An SS man said to Werner: ‘You, in the air force uniform, what the hell do you think you’re doing?’

Werner was so angry that Carla was frightened he would start a fight. But he spoke calmly. ‘Giving blankets to old people who are cold,’ he said. ‘Is that against the law now?’

‘You should be fighting on the Eastern Front.’

‘I’m going there tomorrow. How about you?’

‘Take care what you say.’

‘If you would be kind enough to arrest me before I go, you might save my life.’

The man turned away.

The gears of the bus crashed and its engine note rose. Carla and Werner turned to look. At every window was a face, and they were all different: babbling, drooling, laughing hysterically, distracted, or distorted with spiritual distress – all insane. Psychiatric patients being taken away by the SS. The mad leading the mad.

The bus pulled away.

(vi)

‘I might have liked Russia, if I’d been allowed to see it,’ Woody said to his father.

‘I feel the same.’

‘I didn’t even get any decent photographs.’

They were sitting in the grand lobby of the Hotel Moskva, near the entrance to the subway station. Their bags were packed and they were on their way home.

Woody said: ‘I have to tell Greg Peshkov that I met a Volodya Peshkov. Though Volodya was not so pleased about it. I guess anyone with connections in the West might fall under suspicion.’

‘You bet your socks.’

‘Anyway, we got what we came for – that’s the main thing. The allies are committed to the United Nations organization.’

‘Yes,’ said Gus with satisfaction. ‘Stalin took some persuading, but he saw sense in the end. You helped with that, I think, by your straight-talking to Peshkov.’

‘You’ve fought for this all your life, Papa.’

‘I don’t mind admitting that this is a pretty good moment.’

A worrying thought crossed Woody’s mind. ‘You’re not going to retire now, are you?’

Gus laughed. ‘No. We’ve won agreement in principle, but the job has only just begun.’

Cordell Hull had already left Moscow, but some of his aides were still here, and now one of them approached the Dewars. Woody knew him, a young man called Ray Baker. ‘I have a message for you, Senator,’ he said. He seemed nervous.

‘Well, you just caught me in time – I’m about to leave,’ said Gus. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s about your son Charles – Chuck.’

Gus went pale and said: ‘What is the message, Ray?’

The young man was having trouble speaking. ‘Sir, it’s bad news. He’s been in a battle in the Solomon Islands.’

‘Is he wounded?’

‘No, sir, it’s worse.’

‘Oh, Christ,’ said Gus, and he began to cry.

Woody had never seen his father cry.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Ray. ‘The message is that he’s dead.’