War and Remembrance (120 page)

Yet as they drove into the city past burned-out huts and buildings, tumbled masonry, and piles of wrecked machines, all in a vile stink of destruction, the crowds of workers clearing away the debris looked healthful and high-spirited. Merry children were playing around the ruins. There were many traces of the vanished Germans: street signs in their heavy black lettering, smashed tanks, guns, and trucks piled about or jammed in the rubble, a soldiers’ cemetery in a crater-pocked park, with painted wooden grave markers topped by simulated iron crosses. High on one broken wall, Pug noticed a half-scraped-off propaganda poster: a school-age German girl
in blonde braids, cowering before a slavering ape in a Red Army uniform, reaching hairy talons for her breasts.

The jeep pulled up before a bullet-riddled building, on a broad central square where all the other structures were entirely bombed out. Inside, Soviet bureaucracy was regenerating itself, complete with file cabinets, noisy typewriters, pasty men at rough desks, and women carrying tea. Yevlenko said, “I will be very busy today. I will turn you over to Gondin. During the battle Gondin was secretary to the Central Committee. He did not sleep for six months. Now he is quite sick.”

A big very tough-looking gray-headed man in uniform, his face graven with deep lines of fatigue, sat behind a plank desk under a photograph of Stalin. Resting a large hairy fist on the desk, he looked pugnaciously at the stranger in the blue bridge coat. Yevlenko introduced Victor Henry. Gondin sized the newcomer up with a lengthy stare, thrust out a heavy jaw, and sardonically inquired,
“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”

“Govaryu po-russki nemnogo”
(“I speak a little Russian”), Pug mildly returned.

The official raised thick eyebrows at Yevlenko, who put his good hand on Victor Henry’s shoulder. “Nash,” he said. (“Ours.”)

Pug never forgot that, and never understood what had prompted Yevlenko to say it. At any rate,
“Nash”
worked on Gondin like magic. For two hours he walked and rode with Pug around the wrecked city, out into the hills, down into the ravines that sloped to the river, and along the waterfront. Pug could scarcely follow his rapid Russian talk about the battle, spate of commanders’ names, unit numbers, dates, and maneuvers, all poured out with mounting excitement. Gondin was reliving the battle, glorying in it, and Victor Henry did get the general idea: the defenders backed up against the Volga, surviving on supplies and reinforcements ferried across the broad river or brought across the ice; the fighting slogan,
There is no land east of the Volga;
the long horror of Germans on the hills in plain view, on rooftops of captured sections, or rumbling in tanks down the streets; the bloody deafening house-by-house, cellar-by-cellar fighting, sometimes in rain and in blizzards, the unceasing artillery and air bombardment, week upon week, month upon month. In the outskirts of the city, the German defeat was written in the snow, in long trails winding westward of smashed tanks, self-propelled guns, howitzers, trucks, half-tracks, and most of all in gray-clad bodies by the thousands, still strewn like garbage over the quiet cratered fields, miles upon miles. “It’s a tremendous job,” said Gondin. “I suppose in the end we’ll have to pile up and burn these dead rats. We’re still taking care of our own. They won’t be back to bury theirs.”

That night, in a cellar, Pug found himself at the sort of feast the Russians seemingly could produce in any place, under any circumstances: many varieties of fish, some meat, black and white bread, red and white wine, and
endless vodka, served up on plank tables. The feasters were army officers, city officials, Party officials, about fifteen men; the introductions went fast, and obviously didn’t matter. It was Yevlenko’s party, and three themes ran through the boisterous talk, singing, and toasts: the Stalingrad victory, gratitude for American Lend-Lease, and the imperative need of a second front. Pug gathered that his presence was the excuse for some relaxation by these big shots. He too bore a heavy burden of emotion and tension. He let go, and ate and drank as though there were no tomorrow.

Next morning when an aide woke him in the frigid darkness, a blurry recollection made him shake his aching head, if it was not a dream, he and Yevlenko had staggered down a corridor together, and Yevlenko had said as they parted, “The Germans have retaken Kharkov.”

After Pug’s swift passage through war-torn Russia, Moscow appeared to him about as untouched, peaceful, well-kept, and cheery as San Francisco, despite the unfinished buildings abandoned and deteriorating, the sparseness of traffic, the difficulty of getting around, the dirty humps and ridges of ice, and the whole look of wartime neglect.

He found the ambassador ebullient.
Pravda
had printed every word of the Stettinius Report on Lend-Lease, leading off with it on the front page! A rash of stories on Lend-Lease was breaking out in the Soviet press! Moscow Radio was broadcasting Lend-Lease items almost every day!

Back home the Senate had passed the renewal of Lend-Lease unanimously, the House with only a few dissenting votes. Standley was snowed under with congratulations for speaking out. American and British newspapers had officially but gently disowned him. The President had passed it all off with an ambiguous joke to reporters about the tendency of admirals to talk too little or too much. “By God, Pug, maybe my head will roll yet for what I did, but by God, it worked! They’ll think twice before kicking us around anymore.”

Thus Standley, in the warm pleasant library at Spaso House, over excellent American coffee and white rolls and butter; his wrinkled eyes bright, his corded neck and face red with pleasure. He got all this out before Victor Henry said anything about his trip. Pug’s account was brief He would at once write up his observations, he said, and submit them to Standley.

“Fine, Pug. Well! Leningrad, Rzhev, Voronezh, Stalingrad, hey? By God, you covered ground. Won’t this ever put Faymonville’s nose out of joint! Here he sits on his ditty box, the grand high mucky-muck of Lend-Lease, never gets a look-see at what’s really happening and here you come along, and go right out and get the dope. Outstanding, Pug.”

“Admiral, I’m the beneficiary of a delusion around here that I’m somebody.”

“By God, you are somebody. Let me see that report soonest. Say, how
about the Germans retaking Kharkov? That confounded maniac Hitler has nine lives. Lot of down-in-the-mouth Russkis at the Swedish embassy last night.”

Among the letters piled on Pug’s desk, a State Department envelope caught his eye with
Leslie Slote
handwritten in red ink on a corner. He first read a letter from Rhoda. The change in tone from her former false-breezy notes was marked.

“I did my best to make you happy while you were here, Pug darling. I was very happy, God knows. But I honestly don’t know how I rate with you anymore.”
That was the key sentence in a couple of subdued pages. Byron had passed through, and had told her about Natalie’s removal to Baden-Baden.
“I’m sorry you missed Byron. He’s a man, every inch of him. You’d be proud. Like you, though, he’s capable of scary silent anger. Even if Natalie gets home safe with that child, as Mr. Slote assures me she will, I’m not sure she can ever make it up to him. He’s in an agony of worry over the baby, and he feels she let him down.”

Slote’s letter was written on long yellow sheets. The red ink, unexplained, made the contents seem more sensational than they perhaps were.

March 1,1943

Dear Captain Henry:

The pouch is a handy thing. I have some news for you and a request.

The request first. Pam Tudsbury is here, as you know, working for the
London Observer.
She wants to go to Moscow, where indeed all the major war stories are to be found these days. She applied for a visa some time ago. No soap. Pam sees her journalist’s career going glimmering, whereas she’s developed an interest in her work and wants to keep at it.

Quite simply, can you, and will you, do something about this? When I suggested to Pam that she write you, she turned colors and said not a chance, she wouldn’t dream of pestering you. But having observed you in action in Moscow, I had a notion that you might pull it off. I told Pamela that I would write you about her, and she turned more flamboyant colors and said, “Leslie, don’t you dare! I won’t hear of it.” I took that as British female doubletalk for “Oh, please, please do.”

One can never be sure why the Narkomindel turns deaf or sulky. if you want to have a go at this, the problem may be a matter of some forty Lend-Lease Airacobras. These planes were earmarked for the Soviet Union, but the British managed to divert them for the invasion of North Africa. Lord Burne-Wilke had a hand in this. Of course that may not turn out to be the hitch at all. I mention it because Pam did.

I come to my news. The attempt to get Natalie and her uncle out of Lourdes fell through, because the Germans moved the whole group to Baden-Baden, quite against international law. A month or so ago Dr. Jastrow fell dangerously ill with an intestinal ailment requiring surgery. Operating facilities in Baden-Baden evidently were limited. A Frankfurt surgeon came and looked
him over, and recommended that he be moved to Paris. The best man in Europe for such surgery is in the American Hospital there, we’re told.

The Swiss Foreign Office has handled this very smoothly. Natalie, Dr. Jastrow and the baby are in Paris now. The Germans were quite decent about allowing them to remain together. Apparently his life was in some danger, because there were complications. He was operated on twice, and he is slowly recuperating.

Paris must be far pleasanter for Natalie than Baden-Baden. She is under Swiss protection, and we are not at war with France. There are other Americans living in Paris under such special circumstances, awaiting the grand Baden-Baden swap, in which they will be lumped. They have to report to the police and so forth, but they are warmly treated by the French. The Germans keep hands off so long as the legalities are observed. If Aaron and Natalie can stay in Paris until the swap comes off, they’ll probably be the envy of the Baden-Baden crowd. There is the problem of their Jewish identity, and I can’t pretend it isn’t worrisome. But that existed in Baden-Baden too, perhaps more acutely. In short, I remain concerned, but with a little luck all should go well. The Lourdes thing was worth a try, and I regret it didn’t come off. I’m very impressed at the water you draw with Harry Hopkins.

I saw Byron as he whistled through Washington. For the first time I noticed a physical resemblance to you. He used to look like an adolescent movie actor. And I had a long phone talk with your wife about Natalie, which calmed her somewhat. Natalie’s mother calls me every week, poor lady.

About myself there is little to tell, none of it good, so I will pass that by. I hope you can do something for Pamela. She does yearn to go to Moscow.

Yours,

Leslie Slote

General Yevlenko did not rise or shake hands, but nodded a welcome, waving off his aide and motioning Pug to a chair with the dead hand. There were no refreshments in sight.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

A nod.

“I’m looking forward to the Lend-Lease statistical summary you said you’d let me have.”

“It is not ready. I told you that on the telephone.”

“That is not why I am here. You mentioned last week the correspondent who came to the Moscow front with me, Alistair Tudsbury.”

“Yes?”

“He was killed in North Africa by a land mine. His daughter is carrying on his work as a correspondent. She is having difficulties obtaining a journalist’s visa to the Soviet Union.”

With a cold incredulous little smile, Yevlenko said,
“Kapitan Genry,
that is something to take up at the visa section of the Narkomindel.”

Pug rode over this predictable brush-off. “I would like to help her.”

“She is a
particular
friend of yours?” A man-to-man insinuating note on the Russian word
osobaya.

“Yes.”

“Perhaps I am mistaken, then. I have heard from British correspondents here that she is engaged to be married to the Air Vice Marshal, Lord Duncan Burne-Wilke.”

“She is. Still, we are good friends.”

The general laid his living hand over the artificial one on his desk. He was wearing what Pug thought of as his “official” face: no smile, eyes half-closed, heavy mouth pulled down. It was his usual aspect, and a truculent one. “Well. As I say, visas are not my concern. I am sorry. Is there something else?”

“Have you heard from your son on the Kharkov front?”

“Not as yet. Thank you for inquiring,” Yevlenko replied in a final tone, standing up. “Tell me, does your ambassador still feel we are suppressing the facts of Lend-Lease?”

“He
is
gratified by recent Soviet press and radio coverage.”

“Good. Of course some facts are best suppressed, as, for example, when the United States breaks a pledge to send Lend-Lease Aircobras urgently needed by our squadrons, and allows the British to divert the planes instead to themselves. To publicize such facts would only delight our enemies. Nevertheless, wouldn’t you say such bad faith between allies is a very serious matter?”

“I have no information on such an occurrence.”