Winter of the World (40 page)

‘How are you, Missy? You remember my son, Woodrow.’

‘I do. The President is ready for you both.’

Missy’s devotion to Roosevelt was famous. FDR was more fond of her than a married man was entitled to be, according to Washington gossip. Woody knew, from guarded but revealing remarks his
parents made to one another, that Roosevelt’s wife, Eleanor, had refused to sleep with him since she gave birth to their sixth child. The paralysis that had struck him five years later did
not extend to his sexual equipment. Perhaps a man who had not slept with his wife for twenty years was entitled to an affectionate secretary.

She showed them through another door and across a narrow corridor, then they were in the Oval Office.

The President sat at a desk with his back to three tall windows in a curving bay. The blinds were drawn to filter the August sun coming through the south-facing glass. Roosevelt used an ordinary
office chair, Woody saw, not his wheelchair. He wore a white suit and he was smoking a cigarette in a holder.

He was not really handsome. He had receding hair and a jutting chin, and he wore pince-nez glasses that made his eyes seem too close together. All the same, there was something immediately
attractive about his engaging smile, his hand extended to shake, and the amiable tone of voice in which he said: ‘Good to see you, Gus, come on in.’

‘Mr President, you remember my elder son, Woodrow.’

‘Of course. How’s Harvard, Woody?’

‘Just fine, sir, thank you. I’m on the debating team.’ He knew that politicians often had the knack of seeming to know everyone intimately. Either they had remarkable memories,
or their secretaries reminded them efficiently.

‘I was at Harvard myself. Sit down, sit down.’ Roosevelt removed the end of his cigarette from the holder and stubbed it in a full ashtray. ‘Gus, what the heck is happening in
Europe?’

The President knew what was happening in Europe, of course, thought Woody. He had an entire State Department to tell him. But he wanted Gus Dewar’s analysis.

Gus said: ‘Germany and Russia are still mortal enemies, in my opinion.’

‘That’s what we all thought. But then why have they signed this pact?’

‘Short-term convenience for both. Stalin needs time. He wants to build up the Red Army, so they can defeat the Germans if it comes to that.’

‘And the other guy?’

‘Hitler is clearly on the point of doing something to Poland. The German press is full of ridiculous stories about how the Poles are mistreating their German-speaking population. Hitler
doesn’t stir up hatred without a purpose. Whatever he’s planning, he doesn’t want the Soviets to stand in his way. Hence the pact.’

‘That’s pretty much what Hull says.’ Cordell Hull was Secretary of State. ‘But he doesn’t know what will happen next. Will Stalin let Hitler do anything he
wants?’

‘My guess is they’ll carve up Poland between them in the next couple of weeks.’

‘And then what?’

‘A few hours ago the British signed a new treaty with the Poles promising to come to their aid if Poland is attacked.’

‘But what can they do?’

‘Nothing, sir. The British army, navy and air force have no power to prevent the Germans overrunning Poland.’

‘What do you think we should do, Gus?’ said the President.

Woody knew that this was his father’s chance. He had the President’s attention for a few minutes. It was a rare opportunity to make something happen. Woody discreetly crossed his
fingers.

Gus leaned forward. ‘We don’t want our sons to go to war as we did.’ Roosevelt had four boys in their twenties and thirties. Woody suddenly understood why he was here: he had
been brought to the meeting to remind the President of his own sons. Gus said quietly: ‘We can’t send American boys to be slaughtered in Europe again. The world needs a police
force.’

‘What do you have in mind?’ Roosevelt said non-committally.

‘The League of Nations isn’t such a failure as people think. In the 1920s it resolved a border dispute between Finland and Sweden, and another between Turkey and Iraq.’ Gus was
ticking items off on his fingers. ‘It stopped Greece and Yugoslavia from invading Albania, and persuaded Greece to pull out of Bulgaria. And it sent a peacekeeping force to keep Colombia and
Peru from hostilities.’

‘All true. But in the thirties . . .’

‘The League was not strong enough to deal with Fascist aggression. It’s not surprising. The League was crippled from the start because Congress refused to ratify the Covenant, so the
United States was never a member. We need a new, American-led version, with teeth.’ Gus paused. ‘Mr President, it’s too soon to give up on a peaceful world.’

Woody held his breath. Roosevelt nodded, but then he always nodded, Woody knew. It was rare for him to disagree openly. He hated confrontation. You had to be careful, Woody had heard his father
say, not to take his silence for consent. Woody did not dare look at his father, sitting beside him, but he could sense the tension.

At last the President said: ‘I believe you’re right.’

Woody had to restrain himself from whooping aloud. The President had consented! He looked at his father. The normally imperturbable Gus was barely concealing his surprise. It had been such a
quick victory.

Gus moved rapidly to consolidate it. ‘In that case, may I suggest that Cordell Hull and I draft a proposal for your consideration?’

‘Hull has a lot on his plate. Talk to Welles.’

Sumner Welles was Undersecretary of State. He was both ambitious and flamboyant, and Woody knew he would not have been Gus’s first choice. But he was a long-time friend of the Roosevelt
family – he had been a pageboy at FDR’s wedding.

Anyway, Gus was not going to make difficulties at this point. ‘By all means,’ he said.

‘Anything else?’

That was clearly dismissal. Gus stood up, and Woody followed suit. Gus said: ‘What about Mrs Roosevelt, your mother, sir? Last I heard, she was in France.’

‘Her ship left yesterday, thank goodness.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘Thank you for coming in,’ Roosevelt said. ‘I really value your friendship, Gus.’

Gus said: ‘Nothing could give me more pleasure, sir.’ He shook hands with the President, and Woody did the same.

Then they left.

Woody half hoped that Joanne would still be hanging around, but she had gone.

As they made their way out of the building, Gus said: ‘Let’s go for a celebratory drink.’

Woody looked at his watch. It was five o’clock. ‘Sure,’ he said.

They went to Old Ebbitt’s, on F Street near 15th: stained glass, green velvet, brass lamps and hunting trophies. The place was full of congressmen, senators and the people who followed
them around: aides, lobbyists and journalists. Gus ordered a dry martini straight up with a twist for himself and a beer for Woody. Woody smiled: maybe he would have liked a martini. In fact, he
would not – to him it just tasted like cold gin – but it would have been nice to be asked. However, he raised his glass and said: ‘Congratulations. You got what you
wanted.’

‘What the world needs.’

‘You argued brilliantly.’

‘Roosevelt hardly needed convincing. He’s a liberal, but a pragmatist. He knows you can’t do everything, you have to pick the battles you can win. The New Deal is his number
one priority – getting unemployed men back to work. He won’t do anything that interferes with the main mission. If my plan becomes controversial enough to upset his supporters,
he’ll drop it.’

‘So we haven’t won anything yet.’

Gus smiled. ‘We’ve taken the important first step. But no, we haven’t won anything.’

‘A pity he forced Welles on you.’

‘Not entirely. Sumner strengthens the project. He’s closer to the President than I am. But he’s unpredictable. He might pick it up and run in a different direction.’

Woody looked across the room and saw a familiar face. ‘Guess who’s here. I might have known.’

His father looked in the same direction.

‘Standing at the bar,’ Woody said. ‘With a couple of older guys in hats, and a blonde girl. It’s Greg Peshkov.’ As usual, Greg looked a mess despite his expensive
clothes: his silk tie was awry, his shirt was coming out of his waistband, and there was a smear of cigarette ash on his icecream-coloured trousers. Nevertheless, the blonde was looking adoringly
at him.

‘So it is,’ said Gus. ‘Do you see much of him at Harvard?’

‘He’s a physics major, but he doesn’t hang around with the scientists – too dull for him, I guess. I run into him at the
Crimson
.’ The
Harvard Crimson
was the student newspaper. Woody took photographs for the paper and Greg wrote articles. ‘He’s doing an internship at the State Department this summer, that’s why he’s
here.’

‘In the press office, I imagine,’ said Gus. ‘The two men he’s with are reporters, the one in the brown suit for the
Chicago Tribune
and the pipe smoker for the
Cleveland
Plain Dealer
.’

Woody saw that Greg was talking to the journalists as if they were old friends, taking the arm of one as he leaned forward to say something in a low voice, patting the other on the back in mock
congratulation. They seemed to like him, Woody thought, as they laughed loudly at something he said. Woody envied that talent. It was useful to politicians – though perhaps not essential: his
father did not have that hail-fellow-well-met quality, and he was one of the most senior statesmen in America.

Woody said: ‘I wonder how his half-sister Daisy feels about the threat of war. She’s over there in London. She married some English lord.’

‘To be exact, she married the elder son of Earl Fitzherbert, whom I used to know quite well.’

‘She’s the envy of every girl in Buffalo. The King went to her wedding.’

‘I also knew Fitzherbert’s sister, Maud – a wonderful woman. She married Walter von Ulrich, a German. I would have married her myself if Walter hadn’t got to her
first.’

Woody raised his eyebrows. It was not like Papa to talk this way.

‘That was before I fell in love with your mother, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Woody smothered a grin.

‘Walter and Maud dropped out of sight after Hitler banned the Social Democrats. I hope they’re all right. If there’s a war . . .’

Woody saw that talk of war had put his father in a reminiscent mood. ‘At least America isn’t involved.’

‘That’s what we thought last time.’ Gus changed the subject. ‘What do you hear from your kid brother?’

Woody sighed. ‘He’s not going to change his mind, Papa. He won’t go to Harvard, or any other university.’

This was a family crisis. Chuck had announced that as soon as he was eighteen he was going to join the navy. Without a college degree he would be an enlisted man, with no prospect of ever
becoming an officer. This horrified his high-achieving parents.

‘He’s bright enough for college, damn it,’ said Gus.

‘He beats me at chess.’

‘He beats me, too. So what’s his problem?’

‘He hates to study. And he loves boats. Sailing is the only thing he cares about.’ Woody looked at his wristwatch.

‘You’ve got a party to go to,’ his father said.

‘There’s no hurry—’

‘Sure there is. She’s a very attractive girl. Get the hell out of here.’

Woody grinned. His father could be surprisingly smart. ‘Thanks, Papa.’ He got up.

Greg Peshkov was leaving at the same time, and they went out together. ‘Hello, Woody, how are things?’ Greg said amiably, turning in the same direction.

There had been a time when Woody wanted to punch Greg for his part in what had been done to Dave Rouzrokh. His feelings had cooled over the years, and in truth it was Lev Peshkov who had been
responsible, not his son, who had then been only fifteen. All the same, Woody was no more than polite. ‘I’m enjoying Washington,’ he said, walking along one of the city’s
wide Parisian boulevards. ‘How about you?’

‘I like it. They soon get over their surprise at my name.’ Seeing Woody’s enquiring look, Greg explained: ‘The State Department is all Smiths, Fabers, Jensens and
McAllisters. No one called Kozinsky or Cohen or Papadopoulos.’

Woody realized it was true. Government was carried on by a rather exclusive little ethnic group. Why had he not noticed that before? Perhaps because it had been the same in school, in church,
and at Harvard.

Greg went on: ‘But they’re not narrow-minded. They’ll make an exception for someone who speaks fluent Russian and comes from a wealthy family.’

Greg was being flippant, but there was an undertone of real resentment, and Woody saw that the guy had a serious chip on his shoulder.

‘They think my father is a gangster,’ Greg said. ‘But they don’t really mind. Most rich people have a gangster somewhere in their ancestry.’

‘You sound as if you hate Washington.’

‘On the contrary! I wouldn’t be anywhere else. The power is here.’

Woody felt he was more high-minded. ‘I’m here because there are things I want to do, changes I want to make.’

Greg grinned. ‘Same thing, I guess – power.’

‘Hmm.’ Woody had not thought of it that way.

Greg said: ‘Do you think there will be war in Europe?’

‘You should know, you’re in the State Department!’

‘Yeah, but I’m in the press office. All I know is the fairy tales we tell reporters. I have no idea what the truth is.’

‘Heck, I don’t know, either. I’ve just been with the President and I don’t think even he knows.’

‘My sister, Daisy, is over there.’

Greg’s tone had changed. His worry was evidently genuine, and Woody warmed to him. ‘I know.’

‘If there’s bombing, even women and children won’t be safe. Do you think the Germans will bomb London?’

There was only one honest answer. ‘I guess they will.’

‘I wish she’d come home.’

‘Maybe there won’t be a war. Chamberlain, the British premier, made a last-minute deal with Hitler over Czechoslovakia last year—’

‘A last-minute sell-out.’

‘Right. So perhaps he’ll do the same over Poland – although time is running out.’

Greg nodded glumly and changed the subject. ‘Where are you headed?’