'Wow!" Pug said. Leslie Slote stared around at the walls and ceiling. "It's the Catherine the Great Room. I've seen it in paintings. There's her crest, in those big medallions. She got some French or Italian architect in to gut this part of the palace, I believe, and do it over. It was her throne room." "Well, if this is their style of living, by God," said the admiral, 'they'll make a Communist of me yet." "I wouldn't be too surprised," Slote replied, "if this is the first time the room has been used since the revolution." The menu, printed in Russian and English on thick creamy paper with a hammer and sickle gold crest, listed fish, soups, game, fowls, and roast meats, do*n the entire long page. Attendants began to bring the courses, while more attendants stood around with bottles of wine and vodka, springing to pour. The splendid great room, the massive array of brilliantly set tables, the multicolored uniforms of generals and admirals of thee countries, the line of powerful men on the dais, with Stalin at a sharp focus even here, chatting left and right with Beaverbrook and Harriman, the lavish service, the river of wine, the gobs of caviar, the parade of rich fat foods on Czarist gold plate-all this overwhelmed Victor Henry with a reassuring sense of Russian'resources, Russian strength, Russian largesse, Russian hospitality, and Russian self-confidence. Slote had a different reaction. No doubt the Communist leaders were enjoying themselves and being hospitable, but in this vulgar outpouring, this choke of luxury, he sensed a note of crude Slav irony. Silent, unspoken, yet almost thunderous, was this message-'Very well, you of the West, these are the things that seem to make you happy, opulence and pleasure sweated out of otlws. See how well we do it too, if we choose! See how our old Russian regime did it, before we kicked them out! Can you match them? Tonwrrow we'll go back to the simple life we prefer, but since you come from the decadent West, fine, let's all get drunk together and gorge and sial. We Russians know how to live as well as you, and for the fun of it, we'll even go you one better tonight. Let's see who slides under the table first. vAsHE ZDORovW" Vashe zdorovyel Toasts kept flaring up. Anybody appoirently had the license to stand, hammer at a glass with 1-us knife for attention, and bawl a toast. Men would leave their seats and cross the room to clink glasses when a toast complimented or pleased them. Stalin kept trotting here and there, glass in hand. It was all Marvelously interesting to Slote but it was rushing by too fast, and he was missing too much, interpreting between the American admiral and the short fat Russian admiral who had tried to keep the Navy codes. Sweat shining on his bright red face, the old Russian keptgroaning, as he tossed down vodka and wine, that he was a very sick man, had not much time to live, and might as well enjoy himself. The American admiral said at one point, "What the hell, Slote, tell him he looks a lot better than I do, he looks fine." -Ah, but you see, tell him I am like the capitalistic system," groaned the little admiral. 'Healthy on the outside, rotten inside." Slote enjoyed translating this remark; but most of the admirals' talk was vague maundering about their families. He envied Victor Henry, quietly observing the scene and using all the tricks not to drink much. Slote's ears began to hurt from the shouting of the two admirals over the rising noise of the feast. He was trying to eat a succulent roast quail in sour cream, served with a fine cold Crimean white wine, but the sharpening exchange kept him too busy. Why, the Russian insisted, why wouldn't the mighty American Navy at least convoy Lend-Lease goods to England? Were they afraid of a few tin-plated U-boats? It was idiotic-his slamming fist made glasses jump-idiotic to manufacture war goods and ship them out just as target practice for Hitler's torpedoes. "Tell him we'll be convoying any day," snapped the American, "but unless he loosens up with some harbor data and operation signals, hell will freeze over before we convoy to Murmansk." The old Russian glared at the old American as Slote translated. Both officers gulped glasses of vodka and stopped talking. This respite allowed Slote to look around at the banquet, which was becoming very convivial indeed, with several heads down on tables, and one bald Russian general staggering out, held up at the elbows by two attendants. The cessation of the shouts in his ears enabled him to hear another noise: muffled harsh thumps in an irregular pattern. Ba brompl Bromp, brompf His stomach suddenly felt cold. His eyes met Victor Henry's. "Gunfire," he started to say, but the word stuck in his throat. He coughed. "Gunfire. Air raid." Henry nodded. "I'll bet they have the heaviest A.A. in the world right on these grounds. listen to that, through all those thick walls! Unreconstructed heh's breaking loose." "The Germans would do very well," Slote said with a little laugh, "if they scored a bomb bit here tonight." The thump of the guns came louder and thicker, and some banqueters were szlancing uneasily at the walls. The old Russian admiral, slumped in his seat, scarlet face resting on his chest, was shooting ill-natured glances at the Americans. Now he pushed himself to his feet, clinked furiously at a water glass until he got some attention, then held up a brimming glass of yellow vodka. "If you please! I am sitting with representatives of the United States Navy, the most powerful Navy in the world. These brave men must be very unhappy that while all humanity is in mortal danger their ships ride at anchor gathering barnacles"-he turned to the American admiral with a sarcastic grin-'so I drink to the day when this strong Navy will get in the scrap and help destroy the Hitlerite rats, the common enemy of mankind."The toast left a silence. Slote translated it in a low rapid mutter. Military and civilian Russians at nearby tables shook their heads and exchanged troubled looks. The old man dropped heavily in his seat, glaring around with self-satisfaction. The American admiral's voice shook as he said to Slote, "If I repIN, you'll have an international incident on your hands." Victor Henry said at once, "Admiral, shall I give it a try, with m)" lousy Russian?" "It's all yours, Pug." Leslie Slote reached to touch Henry's arm. "See here, the other Russians didn't like what he said, either-just a drop of vodka too much-" "Okay." Victor Henry rose, glass in hand. The subdued talk in the room faded down. The whumping of the anti-aircraft guns sounded louder, and glasses vibrated and tinkled with the concussions. The men at the head table, including Stalin, fastened intent eyes on the American. Henry brought out his response in slow, stumbling, painful phrases, in bad grammar: "My chief tells me to respond for the United States Navy. It is true we are not fighting. I drink first to the wise peace policy of Marshal Stalin, who did not lead your country into the great war before you were attacked, and so gained time to prepare." Slote was startled by the barbed aptness of the retort. "The wise peace policy of Comrade Stalin" was the Communist cliche for Stalin's deal with Hitler. Henry went on, with groping pauses for words that left tense silence in the vast hall: "That is the policy of our President. If we are attacked we will fight. I hope as well as your people are fighting. Now as for"-he stopped to ask Slote for the Russian word-"barnacles. Any barnacles that get on our ships nowadays are barnacles that can swim very fast. Our ships are on the move. We don't announce everything we do. Secrecy is another wise policy of both our countries. But let's not keep so many secrets from each other that we can't work together." "Now, our Navy needs some"-again Henry asked Slote for a wold -"some harbor data, weather codes, and so forth from you. We need them before we leave. Since this is a farewell banquet, I also drink to some fast action. Finally, I was a naval attache in Berlin. I have now travelled from Hitler's chancellery to the inside of the Kremlin. That is something Hitler will never do, and above all I drink to that." There was loud applause, a general raising of glasses, and shouts of "Your health! Fast action!" Slote reached up to stop Pug from drinking, and pointed. Josef Stalin, glass in hand, was leaving his seat. "Holy smoke, what's the etiquette on this?" Henry said. 'I don't know," Slote said. "Don't drink yet. By God, Captain Henry, that was rising to an occasion." Pug strode toward Stalin, with Slote hurrying behind him. The dictator said with an amiable grin, as they met near the dais and clinked glasses amid smiles and handclapping, "I thank you for that fine toast, and in response, you can keep California." "Thank you, Mr.
Chairman," Pug said, and they both drank. "That's a good start, and can you do anything else for us?" 'Certainly. Fast action," said Stalin, linking his ami in Pug's. They were so close that Pug caught an odor of fish on Stalin's breath. 'American style. We Russians can sometimes do it too." He walked toward the two admirals, and the old red-faced Russian stumbled to his feet and stood very erect. Stalin spoke to him in low rapid sentences. Slote, behind Victor Henry, caught only a few words, but the pop-eyed look of the admiral and Stalin's tones were self-translating. The dictator turned to Victor Henry, beaming again. "Well, it is arranged about the weather codes and so forth. Tell your chief that we Russians do not intentionally embarrass our guests. Tell him I feel the American Navy will do historic things in this struggle, and will rule the ocean when peace comes." As Slote quickly translated, Admiral Standley stood, Iris thin withered lips quivering, and grasped the dictator's hand. Stalin went back to the head table. The incident seemed to stay in his mind, because when he rose to make the last toast of the evening, to President Roosevelt, He returned to the theme. The interpreter was Oumansky, the ambassador to the United States, whose well-cut blue suit marked him off from the other Russians. His English was extremely smooth. "Comrade Stalin says President Roosevelt has the very difficult task of leading a country which is nonbelligerent, yet wants to do all it can to help the two great democracies of Europe in their fight against Fascism. Comrade Stalin says"-Oumansky paused and looked all around the wide room, in a silence no longer marred by gunfire-"may God help him in his just difficult task." This religious phrase brought a surprised stillness, then a surge of all the banqueters, glasses in hand, to their feet, cheering, drinking, and applauding. Harriman heartily shook Stalin's hand; the plethoric little Russian admiral grasped the hands of Slote, Henry, and Standley; and all over the room the banquet dissolved in great handshaking, backslapping, and embracing. But the evening was not over. The Russians marched their guests through more empty splendid rooms to a movie theatre with about fifty soft low armchairs, each with a small table where attendants served cakes, fruits, sweets, and champagne. Here they showed a war movie and then a long musical, and Slote did something he would never have believed possible: in the heart of the Kremlin, he fell asleep. A swelling of finale music woke him seconds before the lights came on. He saw others starting awake in the glare, furtively rubbing their eyes. Stalin walked out springily with Beaverbrook and Harriman, both of whom had red eyes and suffering expressions. In a grand hall, under a vast painting of a battle in snow, he shook hands with all the guests, one by one. Outside the Grand Palace the night was black, without stars, and the wind was cold and biting. The NKVD agents, leather collars turned up to their ears, blue HasWights in hand, looked sleepy, chilled, and bored, sorting the guests into their limousines.
'Say, how the devil can he drive so fast in this blackout?" the admiral protested, as their car passed through the outer gate and speeded into an inky void. 'Can Russians see like cats?" The car stopped in blackness, the escort guided the three Americans to a doorway, they passed inside, and found themselves in the small cold foyer of the Hotel National, where one dim lamp burned at the reception desk. The porter who had opened the door was muffled in a fur coat. The elevator stood open, dark and abandoned. The admiral bade them good-night and plodded to the staircase. "Come up for a minute," Henry said to Leslie Slote. 'No thanks. I'll grope my way to my apartment. It's not far." Pug insisted, and Slote followed Henry up the gloomy staircase to his squalid little room on an areaway. "I don't rate like Tudsbury," he said. "Tudsbury's about the best propagandist the Soviet union's got," Slote said, "and I guess they know it." Pug unlocked a suitcase, took a narrow dispatch case out, unlocked that, and glanced through papers. "I hope you understand," Slote said, "that those locks are meaningless. All the contents of that case have been photographed." "Yes," Victor Henry said absently. He slipped a letter into his pocket. 'Would you like a snooze? Please stick around for a while. Something may be doing." 'Oh?" Out of his new and growing respect for Henry, Slote asked no questions, but stretched out on the hard narrow bed to a twang and squeak of springs. His head still reeled from the champagne that shadowy attendants had kept pouring at the movie. Next thing he knew, knocking woke him. Victor Henry was talking at the door to a man in a black leather coat. 'Horosho, my gotovy," he said in his atrocious accent. "Odnu minutu." He closed the door. 'Want to wash up or anything, Leslie? I'd like you to come with me." "Where to?" "Back to the Kremlin. I have a letter from Harry Hopkins for the big cheese. I didn't think I was going to get to hand it over in person, but maybe I am." "Good lord, does the ambassador know about this?" "Yes. Admiral Standley brought him a note about it from the President. I gather he was annoyed, but he knows." Slote sat up.
"Annoyed! I should think so. Mr. Hopkins has a way of doing these things. This is very outlandish, Captain Henry. Nobody should ever, ever see a head of state without going directly through the ambassador. How have you arranged this?" I had nothing to do with it. I'm an errand boy. Hopkins wanted this letter to go to Stalin informally and privately or not at all. In my place you don't argue with Harry Hopkins. understand he talked to Oumansky. If it puts you in a false position, I guess I'll go alone. There'll be an interpreter." Calculating the angles in this astonishing business-mainly the angle of his own professional self-preservation-Slote began combing his hair at a yellowed wall mirror. "I'll have to file a written report with the ambassador." Sure." in a long, high-ceilinged, bleakly lit room lined with wall maps, Stalin sat at one end of a polished conference table, with many papers piled on a strip of green cloth before him. A stone ashtray at the dictator's elbow brimmed with cigarette butts, suggesting that he had been steadily at work since the departure al the banquet guests. He now wore a rough khaki uniform which sagged and bulged, and he looked very weary. Pavlov, his usual English interpreter, sat beside him, a thin, pale, dark-haired young man with a clever, anxiously servile expression. There was nobody else in the big room. As the uniformed protocol officer ushered in the two Americans, Stalin rose, shook hands, with a silent gracious gesture waved them to chairs, and then sat down with an inquiring look at Captain Henry. Henry handed him the letter and a round box wrapped in shiny blue paper. 'Mr. Chairman, I'd better not inflict my bad Russian on you any longer," he said in English, as Stalin carefully opened the White House envelope with a paper knife. Slote translated and Stalin replied in Russian, slightly inclining his head, "As you Wish." He passed to Pavlov the single handwritten pale green sheet, on which nm w iiousf was printed in an upper corner. Pug said, as Stalin unwrapped the box, "And that is the special Virginia pipe tobacco Mr. Hopkins told you about, that his son likes so much." Pavlov translattd this, and everything the American captain said thereafter, sometimes conveying Henry's tone as well as a quick exact version of his words. Slote sat silent, nodding from time to time. Stalin turned the round blue tin in his hands. 'Mr. Hopkins is very thoughtful to remember our casual chat about pipe tobacco. Of course, we have plenty of good pipe tobacco in the Soviet union." He twisted open the tin %with a quick wrench of strong hands and curiously inspected the heavy lead foil seal, before slashing it with a polished thumbnail and pulling a pipe from his pocket. "Now you can tell Mr.
Hopkins that I tried his son's tobacco." Pug understood Stalin's Russian in this small talk, but could not follow him after that. Stalin stuffed the pipe, put a thick wooden match to it, and puffed fragrant blue smoke while Pavlov translated Hopkins's letter aloud. After a meditative silence, the dictator turned veiled cold eyes on Victor Henry and proceeded to speak, pausing to let Pavlov catch up in English after three or four sentences. "That is a strange letter from Mr. Hopkins. We all know the United States manufactures millions of automobiles per year of many different models and types, including big, luxurious, complicated machines such as Cadillacs and so forth. "What is the problem with landing craft, then? Landing craft are armored lighters with small simple engines. Surely you can produce as many as you want to. Surely the British have plenty already. I cannot see this as a real obstacle to :i second front in Europe now, as Mr. Hopkins states." Pug Henry pulled from his disatch case sketches and production tables of landing craft. "Different types must he designed from scratch and manufactured, Mr. Chairman, to land against a solidly fortified coast. We expect mass production in mid-1942, at the latest. These papers may be of interest." Unexpectedly, in midrtranslation, Stalin uttered a short harsh laugh and began to talk fast in Russian, straight at Victor Henry. Slote and Pavlov made quick notes, and when the dictator paused, Pavlov took over and spoke with much of Stalin's hard sarcastic tone. "That is very fine. Mid-1942. Unfortunately, this is October 1941-If Mr. Hitler would only halt operations until mid-1942! But perhaps we cannot count on that. And what will happen meantime? I regard Mr. Harry Hopkins"-Stalin said Gospodin Garry Gopkins-"as a friend and a clever man. Doesn't he know that any operation that the British can mount now-just a reconnaissance in force of a few divisions, if they can do no better-might decide the course of this war? The Germans have only very weak reserves, mere token forces, on the French coast. They are throwing everything into the battle on our front. Any action in the west might make them pause, and draw off just the decisive margin of strength here." Stalin doodled in red ink on a gray unlined pad during the interpretation, drawing a wolf. Victor Henry said, "Mr. Chairman, I am instructed to answer any questions about the landing craft problem." Stalin used the back of his hand to shove aside the papers Pug Henry had laid before him. "Landing craft? But it is a question of will, not of landing craft. However, we will study the matter of landing craft. Of course, we have such machines too, for landing on defended coasts. Perhaps we can lend-lease some to the British. In 1915, when warequipment was more primitive than today, Mr. Churchill managed to put a big force ashore in Gallipoli, thousands of miles from England. Possibly he found the experience discouraging. But the Japanese have in recent years put ashore more than a million soldiers in China. Those men surely did not swim across, in such cold waters. So it is obviously a question of will, not of landing craft. I hope Mr. Harry Hopkins will use his great influence to establish a second front now in Europe, because the outcome of the war against the Hitlerites may turn on that. I can say no more." The dictator finished the wolf in rapid strokes during the translation, and started another with bared fangs and a hanging tongue. He looked up at Henry with the oddly genial expression common in his photographs, and changed his tone. "Have you enjoyed your stay? Is there anything we can do for you?" Victor Henry said, "Mr. Chairman, I have been a wartime military observer in Germany and in England. Mr. Hopkins asked me to go to the front here, if an opportunity arose, so as to bring him an eyewitness report." At the word 'front," Stalin shook his head. "No, no. We are obliged to guarantee the safety of our guests. That we cannot do, in the present stage of fighting. Mr. Hopkins would not forgive us if some misfortune befell you." "Mr. Hopkins has been unsparing of his own health, sir. It is wartime." An opaque wild look, almost the look in a gorilla's eyes, came into Stalin's gaze. "Well, you should understand that things are bad at the front. The Germans are breaking through again in force. We may soon see the worst hours for Russia since 1812. You will hear all the news tomorrow. That is why a second front now would earn for England the friendship of my people until the end of time." He went back to work on the wolf. Pug said soberly, "In view of this news, Mr. Chairman, I admire your cheerfulness of spirit at the banquet tonight. Stalin shrugged his broad sagging shoulders. "Wars are not won by gloom, nor by bad hospitality. Well, if Mr. Hopkins wants you at the front, he must have good reasons. We will see what we can do. Give him my thanks for the letter and the tobacco. It is not bad tobacco, though I am used to my Russian tobacco. Please tell him my feelings about the second front. Perhaps your trip to our front could bring home the urgency. Mr. Hopkins is a good adviser to your great President, and as you are an emissary from him, I wish you well." Leaving the Kremlin and driving through the blackout, the two Americans said not a word. When the car stopped, Pug Henry spoke: "Well, I'll talk to you tomorrow. I guess these fellows will take you home." "No, I'll get out." On the sidewalk, Slote touched Pug's arm as the limousine drove off. "Let'stalk here. I was utterly shocked by this business of going to the front. If Mr. Hopkins knew of the catastrophic situation Stalin just admitted to"-the diplomat's voice wavered and he cleared his throat-"he would surely withdraw those instructions." The night was ending, and though the icy -street was still black, Pug could just see Slote's pale face under his fur hat. "I don't agree with you on that. He's a pretty tough customer, Hopkins." Slote persisted, "You won't really get to the front, you know. They've just given some correspondents a tour. They kept them far behind the lines, feeding them caviar, quails, and. champagne. Still, the Luftwaffe pulled an air raid on a village and almost nailed them." "Right, but that could happen to us here in Moscow, too." "But why go, for God's sake?" Slote broke out in a ragged shrill tone. He lowered his voice. "At best you'll see one liny sector for a few hours. It's foolhardy sightseeing. It'll create endless trouble at the embassy, as well as for the Russians." Victor Henry chain-lit a cigarette. "Listen, if you can watch ten men under fire, you'll learn a lot about an army's moral in a few hours. Mr. Hopkins likes to call himself a glorified messenger boy. That's an exaggeration, but I'm an unglorified one. Doing this job might give me the illusion that I'm earning my salary. Come upstairs for a nightcap. I have some good Scotch." "No, thank you. I'm going to write my report, and then try to get an hour's sleep." "Well, cheer up, My own impression was that the big cheese was being affable, but that I won't get to go." "That's what I hope. No foreign military attache has yet gone to the front, or near it. Good morning." During the talk the sky had turned violet, and Slote could see his way on the dead quiet streets. This was a relief, for he had more than once banged into lamp posts and fallen off curbs in the Moscow blackout. He had also been challenged at pistol-point by patrolmen. One walked toward him now in the gray dawn and gave him a suspicious squint, then passed on without a word. In his flat Slote brewed coffee on the gas ring, and rapidly typed a long account of the banquet and the meeting with Stalin. When he had finished, he threw back the blackout curtains. The sun was shining. Staggeeing, bleary, he took a loose-leaf diary from a drawer and wrote briefly in it, ending withthese words: But the official report which I've just rattled off describes the meeting with Stalin in sufficient detail; and I'll keep a copy in my files. As for the Henrys, father and son, the puzzle is simply enough resolved after all. I saw the answer in die past few hours. They both have an instinct for action, and the presence of mind that goes with it. Byron displayed these traits in moments of physical danger. His father probably would too. But I've just seen him act in more sophisticated and subtle situations, requiring quick thinking, hardihood, and tact. It is not easy to keep one's head in confronting a personage like Stalin, who has an aura like a large lump of radium, powerful, invisible, and poisonous. Victor Henry managed. On reflection, I can understand why the ladies like such men. The man of action protects, feeds-and presumably fecundates, QED-more vigorously and reliably dian the man of thought. Possibly one can't change one's nature. Still one can perhaps learn and grow. Captain Henry suggested that I disregard orders and expose the Minsk documents to Fred Fearing or some newspaperman. Such an act goes entirely against my grain; and entirely for that reason, I intend to do it. Talky Tudsbury was having five o'clock tea alone in his hotel suite Tthat day, with some light refreshment of sprats, cheese, sturgeon, black bread, and honey cakes, when Victor Henry came in and told him that he was going to the front. The correspondent got so excited that he stopped eating. "Good God, man, you are? With the Germans swarming in all over the place? it's impossible. It's just talk. Dear Christ, these Russians are good at putting you off with talk. You'll never go." He brushed up his moustaches and reached for more food. "Well, maybe," Pug said, sinking into a chair, and laying on his lap the briefcase stuffed with codes and harbor charts, which he had just collected at the navy ministry. He had had five or six hours' broken sleep in four days. The room was jerking back and forth in his vision as he strove to stay awake. "But my clearance has just come in from pretty high up. Tudsbury was putting a chunk of bread heaped with mr&nes w His mouth. The morsel stopped in midair. He peered at Henry through his bottle-glass spectacles, and spoke in low quiet tones. 'I'll go with you." "The hell you will." "Victor, the correspondents went to the central front two weeks ago, when the Russians were counterattacking. The day they left, I had flu, with a rising temperature." Tudsbury threw down the food, seized his cane, limped rapidly across the room, and began to put on a fur-lined coat and a fur hat. "Who's handling this, Lozovsky? Can't I just tell him you said I could come? I know them all and they love me. It's up to you." i4 Victor Henry did not want Tudsbury along, but he was exhausted and he was sure the Russians would refuse. "Okay.""God bless you, dear fellow. Stay and finish my tea. Tell Pam I'll be back before six, and she's to retype my broadcast." "Where is she?" "A letter came for her in the Foreign Office pouch. S............