Authors: Walter J. Boyne
*
Moscow/September 14, 1941
Few observers would have agreed with Josten as the gorgeous weather gleamed bright against the pipe-organ columns of smoke and flame marking the collapsing front. The Germans were advancing from Narva in the north to Zaporozhye in the south. Even the arch-conservative Chief of the General Staff, Franz Haider, a prophet of gloom and doom, reluctantly noted in his diary that the war was won.
But in Moscow, people savored the sun-soft September as a swimmer does the air before a dive, knowing that in only a few brief weeks an endless sea of mud would divide the seasons between dust and frost. The first group of Siberian soldiers had arrived and were bivouacked in the streets, staring at a hawk riding the shimmering waves of heat that radiated from the Kremlin's bricks. Sweating in their heavy uniforms, they pointed at the bird, soaring effortlessly around the onion domes of Ivan the Terrible's wonderful St. Basil's Cathedral, never seeming to beat its wings. It was exactly like birds they had at home, the only familiar, comforting sight in the ancient city.
In a long narrow room of the Kremlin's green-domed Council of Ministers building, a different sort of hawk was trying vainly to stifle a yawn.
Henry Caldwell's struggles were watched with amusement by Commissioner Giorgi Scriabin. Scriabin, sixty-plus with a shock of silver-gray hair and bright blue eyes, ran his staff with an iron hand. Short and squat, dressed in the universal chalk-striped gray suit of an upper-level Soviet bureaucrat, his flushed face was an anomaly. Although for the most part it was pure Slavic, with a heavily ridged brow, deepset, slit eyes, and commanding jaw, instead of the usual Slavic nose, his was almost Cyranoesque, long and mottled with veins. He was unaware that he used it as a pointer, bobbing it to emphasize his remarks or to signal that someone could speak. It mesmerized the group, Russians and Americans alike, and gave control of the meeting to him. Scriabin didn't have the appearance of an educated man, but he was gifted with a talent for languages. He spoke German, Swedish, French, and English—the last with a pronounced Brooklyn accent.
Caldwell grunted and shook himself, remembering that he'd used Scriabin's negotiation ploy himself in the past. You stall all morning, feed the opposition a heavy lunch, and then close them up in a hot room. Within an hour, their eyes glaze over and their resistance goes down.
A heavy lunch was a rarity in war-panicked Moscow, but Scriabin had arranged for shashlik and potatoes, washed down with endless vodka toasts. He noted that Caldwell drank down his vodka, not dissembling like many of the Americans just pretending to drink. Then, to raise the drowsiness quotient, Scriabin had made sure that the draperies and windows were tightly closed.
The American was there as a part of an advance team flown in on Consolidated B-24 bombers, to assist the patrician Averell Harriman arrange the terms of the new Lend-Lease program. If the Germans could be held off for just a few more months, the combination of unlimited Russian manpower and unlimited American materiel could defeat Hitler.
Caldwell's task was to lay the groundwork for aviation supplies and aircraft deliveries, and the process was far more difficult than he had imagined it would be. They were, after all, offering the Soviet Union enormous quantities of everything from aluminum to zinc, from aircraft to X-ray machines, and yet the Russian negotiators acted like Teamsters just informed that hours were going up and wages going down. They were monumental note-takers, writing continuously on pads of coarse paper, a beige woody pulp that would have been rejected as newsprint in the States.
"Comrade Scriabin, could you arrange to have some windows opened? I find myself getting very sleepy after that excellent lunch."
Scriabin's nose described a horizontal arc as he shook his head no.
"I'm sorry, General Caldwell, I cannot, for security reasons."
They smiled at each other as Caldwell cursed him under his breath, wondering what security risk could be locked away in the Kremlin.
His point made, Scriabin continued. "So, my American friends, we are agreed upon the bombers. Douglas A-20s, 'Bostons' you call them, and North American B-25s, 'Mitchells.' Now back to the pursuits, P-47s and P-38s."
Caldwell leaned forward, trying to will circulation to his legs and buttocks, speaking with increased forcefulness. "I've explained to you that while our desire to be generous is unlimited, our resources are not. We will send Curtiss Warhawks and McNaughton Sidewinders as fast as we can produce them. We don't have enough P-47s or P-38s for our own training units yet."
"When
can we get P-47s and P-38s?" It was the fourth time that Scriabin had asked.
"As soon as possible—I don't know when. But we will have two hundred Sidewinders ready for acceptance by the end of this month."
Scriabin leaned back. He liked this man, and he hoped that he could trust him. The Germans were flying Messerschmitts, fine, deadly airplanes; he didn't know if the McNaughton was a worthy opponent. Some of his advisors said that it was not. Yet two hundred airplanes of any sort were better than none.
His voice was pleasant as he asked, "General Caldwell, are these the same airplanes you offered Finland last April?"
Caldwell steadied himself, emptying a little of the foul Russian
makhorka
into a pipe, to give himself time to prepare an answer.
"Why yes, Comrade Scriabin. You'll recall that in those days—they seem so distant now, don't they?—we were concerned about the millions of rubles of war supplies that Russia was sending Germany; in fact, the general consensus was that the Soviet Union was going to enter the war on the German side. It was only natural that we would wish to help a possible ally. Now all that has changed, of course."
Scriabin sputtered and Caldwell continued. "We have our intelligence sources, too. I can assure you that the McNaughton fighter will be at least as good as your LaGG-3. Please forgive my pronunciation, but I believe your pilots say it takes its initials from
'lakirovanny garantirovanny grob'
—the 'varnished wooden coffin'?"
It had been the right tack. Scriabin's fair skin gleamed red as he shouted to change the subject. "General Caldwell, what our pilots say or don't say is none of your damn business. Russia is in danger. Kiev has fallen. By tonight the Germans will have cut off the Crimea. I don't believe we can hold Leningrad. I ask you how you would like it if the Germans had taken New York, Chicago, and New Orleans, and were two hundred miles from Washington?"
"We wouldn't like it. But it wouldn't change the production situation. We'll give you McNaughtons because they are excellent aircraft and they are available. More no one can do."
When the meeting had ended, most of the others left swiftly. Scriabin grinned at Caldwell like an accomplice, tacit recognition that they had taken each other's measure. "Cut the
makhorka
a little finer for your pipe. It's an acquired taste, but if you smoke it for a while it makes other tobacco insipid."
*
Berlin/November 21, 1941
Helmut Josten was lying quietly by Lyra in bed, the first frantic desires sated; his arm was about her as she nestled into his side, her left leg slung over his right, her toes resting on his, tapping them lightly. But something was wrong—he was angry. Did he know something?
They were on the fourth floor of a block of flats, in the "apartment" that the von Hatzfeldt family had offered Lyra on her arrival. It was tiny, no more than a bedroom, bath, and little kitchen, but it was free. The proprietors were grateful to have someone there, keeping their eyes on things, while they sat out the war in their apartment in Rome.
"What's the matter?"
Without a word, he took her hand and pulled her out of bed and along the long hallway. At the end was a window set high in the wall; beneath it was a stout table.
"Climb up here and tell me what you see."
She did as he asked.
"I see the street in front of the apartment." She realized immediately what the trouble must be. "Do you spend your time spying on me when I'm gone?"
"I didn't think I was spying. I thought I was an eager lover, watching for your return so that I could open the champagne and have a glass waiting. And what do I see? A huge big touring sedan, a Maybach, no less, pulls up, and who pops out? You."
"And what of it?"
"Well, to begin, you hadn't mentioned it. I know that if I'd been given a ride in a Maybach, I'd tell the world about it. They only make a few hundred cars a year, and each one costs perhaps fifty thousand marks. And only the most elite people have them."
She led the way back down the hall. Even though he was hurt and angry, he could not keep from admiring the delicate ease with which she walked, the symmetry of her hips and buttocks.
"Further, my little anti-Nazi
provocateuse,
I don't think anyone owns a Maybach unless he is a top Party member."
"I notice you didn't let your anger interfere with your lust. I guess you needed a quick tumble before you lectured me."
He ignored the point, a valid one. "Let me see. It couldn't be Hitler; he is above sex, and anyway, he's a Mercedes man. It couldn't be Goering; Emma wouldn't let him. It couldn't be Himmler; it's common knowledge that his secretary keeps him fully occupied in bed. So who does that leave? Our own dwarf, Joseph Goebbels."
She poured the Henkell champagne, a gift from Goebbels, angrily splashing it about, then lay down on the bed, crossing her legs firmly.
He persisted. "So, please, fault my logic. Prove to me I'm wrong about this mysterious man who owns a Maybach."
"What makes you think it is a man?"
Embarrassment flooded him; he had made a fool out of himself. Josten remembered immediately that Magda Goebbels had befriended Lyra. He stuttered, "Well, not many women ..."
"What an evil little mind you have, Helmut. That's the real Nazi in you, believing the worst, never even giving me a chance to explain, virtually accusing me of sleeping with that disgusting dwarf. Magda is always good to me—she gave me this champagne we're drinking."
"I'm sorry, Lyra; I was stupidly jealous. Forgive me."
"Of course. It's flattering that a decorated fighter pilot can make such a fool of himself over me."
He moved up, kissing her as he went, till he sought her mouth in a deep kiss. She kissed him passionately.
"I'm sorry, Lyra, to be such a fool. It's just that we see each other so little. It's the strain of Udet's funeral, too."
Josten had been brought back to serve as a honor guard at the funeral of Ernst Udet. Officially, Udet had been killed "testing a new air weapon." The truth was that he'd committed suicide, unable to bear the pressures of being Inspector General of the Luftwaffe.
Opening another bottle of champagne, Josten said, "I've brought some Veuve Clicquot; it's in the refrigerator."
"Plenty of room; God knows there's little enough food there." "I've brought things to eat, too; pate, a really good salami, some
bread, and some sardines. We'll have a feast."
"Later, my love. Come sing a song of love to me."
"I can't sing to you, but just lie still and let the Gieseking of the
mattress play a
Klavierkonzerte,
a little sweet night music, upon you.
"Play as you've never played before, Maestro ..."
Afterward, they lay closely together, feeling each other's heartbeats begin to subside from the racing crescendo of passion.
"Lovemaking is so wonderfully sticky, isn't it?" she asked.
"That was tremendous. Do you know, at times I felt that I was somehow out of my body, just watching us?"
"A voyeur, too, eh? That's having your cake and eating it, isn't it?"
"No cake, but salami, champagne, and a full ten hours ahead of us before we part. What could be better than that?"
"Eleven hours."
"Eleven years. Why won't you marry me?"
"God, Helmut, don't ruin this. We can't get married because I'm Jewish and you're a Nazi. That's pretty clear. And pour me some champagne."
Having just plunged through one patch of thin ice, he skirted this one.
"Sorry. Poor timing. But I will prevail. We will get married. That's the last I'll say about it."
"Good. There's nothing I want more, and there's nothing more improbable. Let's just enjoy what we have."
"I'll drink to that; not many people have so much."
*
Wheeler Field, Hawaii/December 5, 1941
Frank and Patty Bandfield lay on the golden sands of Waimea Beach, locked in that self-congratulatory postcoital embrace long-married couples feel when a sudden flame of excitement has swept over them and they have more than measured up to the challenge. It was long past sunset on the deserted beach, and they'd taken an illicit delight in their passion. The trip to Hawaii was in part a reward, but Bandfield's mission was to solve some engine-cooling problems on the new Curtiss P-40s that had just arrived in the islands.
The couple lazed together, watching a yellow-green phosphorescence burbling at the water's edge, more relaxed than they'd been in years. They'd arrived in Oahu in early November, surprised to find the island beautiful even in the rainy season. The trip was proving to be wonderful for Charlotte, who had become somewhat shy as George began to take attention away from her. It was good for George, too. He'd been a late walker—almost fourteen months before he was really on his own—and now he was making up for lost time, padding up and down the beach, plopping in the water.