The End of War - A Novel of the Race for Berlin - [World War II 02] (16 page)

Anna returns to the deck chair beside him. “Daddy, now you listen. You are not to stay up until all hours with Winston this time. I’m watching you.”

He nods. She is a stunning woman, the strong cut of her jaw in profile. Eleanor has given him five beautiful children, the one girl and four boys. But very early (it seems a lifetime ago now), she stopped giving to him, or he stopped asking her for, the gifts of a wife.

Anna asks, as though reading his thoughts, “Daddy, just once. Couldn’t you let Mother come?”

Roosevelt imagines Eleanor here instead of Anna. She’d asked, as she always does, to come along. His wife is not sympathetic to his health. She believes in willpower as the path to cure yourself. With her constitution, that’s easy for her. She’s too strict, judgmental, she clashes with Winston’s alcohol, his late working hours, Winston who believes women should be silent partners. With Anna’s gaze on him the President shakes his head, no. He lays his cap back on his scalp and pulls down his cape, enfolding himself against the weather, his cool thoughts. Eleanor would cause too much of a ruckus with her presence. He doesn’t need it or want it.

Anna says only, “Daddy.” She purses her lips and wags her head.

Roosevelt looks into his daughter’s sad eyes, thinking a face, like the thickest tomes, can carry so much history.

On his birthday he received no wishes from Eleanor. He was instead handed a testy cable from her describing an imbroglio that had broken out in Congress over his nomination for secretary of commerce. Eleanor’s message was direct and critical of his decision.

Roosevelt takes in and releases a deep breath. He looks away from Anna to free the words into the air. “Your mother and I. We’re quite a pair.”

Anna pats his hand. In her own time, she says, “Yes, you are.”

He wants to soften this melancholy for his daughter. She better than anyone knows how little comfort he takes in his marriage, the other places he turns for that comfort. There’s no need to talk about it to her, she lives it.

“I couldn’t get along without her, you know. She’s irreplaceable. She’s my eyes and ears. Hell, she’s my legs.”

Anna lowers her chin and her eyelids in an elegiac, understanding expression. She drops her head to his shoulder, smoothing the front of his old heavy cape with a strong, veined hand. Her touch on his chest is all he senses; the naval bands, the ships’ engines, the rustle of men and sea all step back behind the closeness of his nestled daughter on this warship in a foreign port. So much history in a touch.

Roosevelt sits with Anna while the ceremony surges and concludes. Father and daughter do not move or disconnect. Nearing the quay, the
Quincy
slides beyond the
Orion,
Churchill and his sailors are out of sight. The British brass band fades. The Spitfires bank and return to their base. Roosevelt feels his daughter trying to give to him through her body, her strength and love, her life hooked to his, though he’s aware it does no good; he bites his lip. It’s too late for so many things. Too late.

But perhaps not for everything.

The legacy.

Is there still time and energy left? Or is there only the bitter question mark on the sweet cake?

“Well,” he says. This is a preamble to movement, to get on with events. But Anna does not release him. Roosevelt relents. He stays in her embrace, her head on his shoulder like an angel there. They sit a long while, until the big boat is in dock, until Winston Churchill comes chugging up the gangway. Before he has both feet on the deck, the Prime Minister calls forth.

“Mr. President. My excellent friend. Ha! Ha! You made it in grand fashion, sir. Grand! Anna! My God, Franklin, you do travel with the most beautiful women. Look who’s here, Anna. Sarah!”

Behind Churchill, his daughter Sarah hurries forward. Anna makes to stand to face this barrage of guests and British spunk. But it is Roosevelt who pulls on her hand, just for another moment to keep her in the nest the two of them made for a few perfect minutes. He’s not ready for her to flap out, or to fly off himself. If only there were more time, for everything. Father and daughter fix eyes, and in this shared glance—miraculously somehow—all the good and awful and hidden and feared in his heart is said to her. This is more than he expected, this sudden communication. Here, of all places, now, this goodbye. He can, he must, let her go. Winston barges forth. Roosevelt presses his child’s fingers for one more selfish second; let Winston wait.

As though releasing a dove, he opens his hands and off she flies, white and strong and gone.

In her place, round and blocking the sight of her, stand the gold buttons, cream braid, and blue naval jacket of Churchill. The man adores playing dress-up, especially uniforms. He wears an admiral’s cap.

Roosevelt opens his hands to the Prime Minister.

“Winston, you are, as always ...”

“Hungry, Mr. President.” Churchill plops into Anna’s deck chair.”Hungry. When is lunch, sir?”

Roosevelt can’t help but be buoyed by the spirit of the man’s arrival.

“Lunch always awaits you, Winston. Now that you’re here, let’s put on the feedbag.”

“The feedbag.” Churchill mulches this word, taps his cane. “I do love the American way with the tongue. The feedbag. Marvelous.”

The two leaders share quick laughter. Their eyes meet, and the mirth is doused. Their two looks are identical, appraising and secretive. Roosevelt wonders if his own appearance is as worn as Churchill’s. The Prime Minister seems frail, the weight in his face and shoulders has a soft and soggy sag. His cheeks, always ruddy, are pale today, his high forehead seems chalky. During the war Churchill has traveled hundreds of thousands of miles, to the front, to Moscow and Washington several times, to constant conferences with Eisenhower and Montgomery at their headquarters. He’s all over the place, he strolls London and the cities after every bombing, thumbs up, V for Victory, “KBO.” He’s the oldest of the three Allied leaders, seventy. He’s got to be tired. But right now Winston Churchill speaks of lunch as though it will be a coronation, of the President’s arrival in Malta as a great and propitious event. Roosevelt thinks, This is real courage, this man. My God.

Lunch is filled with chatter between the two families and key staffs. No mention is made of the Montgomery gaffe or Churchill’s humble and marvelous speech in the House of Commons. Roosevelt thinks it best to let those sleeping dogs lie. He relishes the ninety-minute meal, flush with charm and gossip, and draws from those at the table their own wits and best habits. Roosevelt wants to be held by this company as a brave man, no less than his admired friend Winston.

Churchill drinks champagne as though he is putting out a fire in his gut. Food goes in, words fly out, he’s a locomotive, shoveling in fuel, producing speed. Roosevelt marvels but holds court despite the Prime Minister’s blanketing charm.

“That’s enough,” says Anna, standing at her place. She claps her hands once. “Everyone go home. Father and Winston need their rest. Big days ahead, everyone, big days. Let’s conserve ourselves, shall we?”

Churchill rises, his party of a dozen follows his lead. He leans over to Roosevelt, and behind a raised hand says, “Six o’clock all right? I’ll come to your cabin. We can talk an hour before dinner.”

Roosevelt tips a lit cigarette in agreement. Churchill turns and raises his hands like a man being taken prisoner to Anna’s dictate, saying, “I shall go quietly, madam.”

When all are gone, Anna herself wheels Roosevelt to his cabin. “Nap,” she says on the way. “Whew, I think I’ll take one myself. Hurricane Winston.”

At six o’clock sharp, the Prime Minister raps on Roosevelt’s cabin door.

“Come in, Winston.”

Churchill enters with a different energy from how he came aboard that afternoon. This is the private Winston, not the roaring electric personality but a calm presence, almost graceful. Roosevelt sees the intellect palpable in the man’s eyes. His words at these times are not chosen for display but for reason and clarity.

“Since we only have an hour before your lovely daughter comes to drum in my head, let me jump right in, Franklin, about the meeting of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”

Roosevelt lights a cigarette, places it in his holder, and folds his hands in his lap.

“Proceed, Mr. Prime Minister “

In succinct terms, Churchill describes the results of the military conference held over the past several days here in Malta between the military staffs of General Marshall and his British counterpart General Brooke.

The American and British forces are to put their major efforts into two converging thrusts toward the Rhine, in the hopes of trapping a large number of German troops west of the river. The main drive across the river, deep into Germany, will be made by Montgomery’s Twenty-first Army, across the Lower Rhine, skirting north of the industrial Ruhr region. Churchill calls this route “the shortest road to Berlin.” In the south, American forces are to cross the Rhine and head toward Frankfurt, to draw off as many enemy troops as possible from Monty’s advance. This line of attack could become the focus if Montgomery falters in the north. Marshall and Brooke concurred that Montgomery’s army will be reinforced for this assault, with top priority in men, air support, supplies, and equipment. The Field Marshal will have under his command a million soldiers, including the U.S. Ninth Army.

In the telling, Churchill appears pepped, pleased. He’s at least temporarily salvaged his dream of sending British troops to the forefront of the war’s endgame. The quest for Berlin is alive and Monty is at the crest of the race. While Churchill explains, Roosevelt nods, “Yes, yes.” Listening, he’s surprised that the Prime Minister has won these concessions for Montgomery, after hearing all the brouhaha in the past few weeks over the Field Marshal’s stupid press conference. But if General Marshall figures it’s okay, then Ike must be okay with it. Churchill’s speech in Parliament must have saved the day. Looks like everyone’s kissed and made up.

Berlin and Montgomery. This is what happens when Winston attends a meeting without the President or Stalin around. He gets everything he wants.

Still, the military men know their stuff. Berlin would be a prize, no question.

Joe would shit, no question either.

We’ll have to see.

Churchill concludes, “Berlin is open, Franklin. Not just militarily, but politically. To my knowledge there’ve been no discussions between you, me, or Stalin about it. We can move on the city. We’re poised to. We have to. We can’t sit back and let the Russians occupy every bit of ground between Moscow and Brussels.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“No. Definitely not.”

“Whoever gets there first, then.”

“That’s correct. I’m convinced we have to shake hands with the Communists as far to the east as possible.”

“Yes, yes.”

“We must take Berlin. Stalin only respects strength. Not agreements or morality. I assure you, there’s no other way to pry him out of the rest of eastern Europe. Strength, sir.”

“Yes.”

The Prime Minister pauses, ready to say more, always it seems he is ready for that. But he eases back, he’s made his case for now. Like Anna and Hopkins and Roosevelt’s closest staff members, Churchill has developed the sense to know when the President has heard enough.

Churchill draws a cigar from his breast pocket, the thing is the size and color of a gun barrel. He asks, “Franklin, tell me honestly. How are you feeling?”

“Honestly?”

“Always.”

“Every new day is an adventure. Everyone around me worries. I don’t keep them around if they don’t worry. Mostly I haven’t got the time to do it for myself.”

Churchill nibbles off the end of the cigar. Beside his chair is a lighted candle, put there by Roosevelt for the Prime Minister’s purpose. Roosevelt watches his friend, his fellow world leader, work the flame around the orb of the cigar’s tip. When it is glowing and aromatic, Churchill breathes in the tobacco. He licks his lips and holds in the smoke. Roosevelt studies this man, a portrait in powerful contradictions. Of British humor, style, and backbone. Crass and brilliant.