Philip Kerr - Hitler's peace

Hopkins was still trying to restore the president’s belief in himself and in his capacity to charm Stalin when, accompanied by Vlasik, Pavlov, and several Georgian NKVD bodyguards, the great man himself appeared in the doorway of the president’s drawing room.

“Jesus Christ, it’s Uncle Joe. He’s here,” muttered Hopkins.

Leaving the bodyguards in the corridor, Stalin edged his way clumsily into the room, his presence most clearly marked by the strong smell of Belomor cigarettes that clung to his marshal’s mustard-colored summer tunic like damp on a wet dog. Pavlov and Vlasik followed as if on an invisible leash. Chip Bohlen was quickly on his feet, bowing curtly to the Soviet leader and acknowledging something Stalin had said with an obsequious “Da vy, da vy.”

Roosevelt maneuvered his wheelchair to face Stalin and held out his hand. “Hello, Marshal Stalin,” he said. “I’m very sorry about what has happened. Very sorry. After all your brave and courageous efforts to secure a peace, that it should come to this is a great shame.” Stalin shook Roosevelt’s hand in silence while Bohlen translated. “And I am deeply ashamed that it should have been one of my own people who tried to kill Hitler.”

Stalin let go of the president’s hand and then shook his head. “But that is not what made him angry,” he said gruffly, taking the Beketovka File from Pavlov, his translator, and placing it gingerly on the president’s lap. “This is what made him abandon the talks.”

“What is it?” asked Roosevelt.

“It’s a dossier prepared by German intelligence for your eyes, Mr. President,” said Stalin. “It purports to provide details of atrocities committed by Red Army soldiers against German prisoners of war. It was given to the Fuhrer by one of your people this morning. The dossier is a forgery, of course, and we believe that it was prepared by die-hard Fascists in Germany with the intention of driving a wedge between the United States and the Soviet Union. Of course Hitler knew nothing about its provenance. Why should he? A commander in chief cannot see every piece of disinformation that emanates from his own counterintelligence department. When he saw the dossier, however, he assumed, incorrectly, that the lies and calumnies it contained regarding the atrocious treatment of German POWs were true, and he reacted as any commander in chief would, by calling off the talks with those he believed carried out these atrocities.”

“You’re saying that this dossier was prepared for my deception?” said Roosevelt. “And handed over to Hitler by one of my people?”

Stalin lit a cigarette, coolly. “That is correct.”

“But I don’t recall ever seeing such a file,” said Roosevelt. “Have I, Harry?”

“I saw it, Mr. President,” said Hopkins. “I decided that it was inappropriate for you to see it in the present circumstances. Certainly until we’d had a chance to evaluate it properly.”

“Then I still don’t understand,” said Roosevelt. “Who gave this dossier to Hitler?”

“Your Jewish doctor of philosophy.”

I felt a chill as Stalin stared balefully at me with his yellow, almost Oriental, eyes.

“Jesus Christ, Professor. Is this true? Did you give this dossier to Hitler?”

I hesitated to call Stalin a liar to his face, but it was clear what the Soviet leader was trying to do. Stalin could hardly explain why Hitler had left without bringing up the Beketovka File. And that risked the possibility that Roosevelt might lay responsibility for the Fuhrer’s departure on the Soviets themselves.

I had to hand it to him: insisting that the file was a forgery was the best way of avoiding any potential embarrassment. And throwing the blame on me put the ball squarely back in the American court.

Believing Roosevelt would never forgive me if I challenged Stalin’s assertion that the file was a forgery, I decided to appeal to the president’s sense of fair play.

“I did give it to him, Mr. President. When I was struggling with Agent Pawlikowski on the conference table, the files got mixed up. When Mr. Hopkins told me to hand our position papers to Hitler, I mistakenly handed over the Beketovka File instead.”

“That’s right, Mr. President,” Hopkins said. “It was an accident. And partly my fault. I was holding on to the position papers when I told Willard to hand them over. I didn’t realize I was holding them. I guess I was kind of shocked myself. Under the circumstances, it could have happened to anyone.”

“Perhaps,” said Stalin.

“I don’t think we should forget that but for Professor Mayer’s presence of mind,” added Hopkins, “the Fuhrer would probably be dead, and our hostages in Berlin, Mr. Hull, and Mr. Mikoyan, would certainly have been executed by now.”

Stalin shrugged. “Speaking for myself, I think I should prefer to have seen Hitler dead on the floor of that conference room than to have him walk out of these peace talks. I cannot speak for Mr. Hull, but I know that Mr. Mikoyan would gladly have gone to the wall if it had meant us being rid of a monster like Hitler.” Stalin sniffed unpleasantly and wiped his mustache with the back of a liver-spotted hand. Waving dismissively in my direction, he said, “It seems to me that, thanks to your translator, we now find ourselves with the worst of all possible outcomes.”

“With all due respect, Mr. President,” I said, “I think that Marshal Stalin is, perhaps, being a little unfair.”

I was still smarting from Stalin’s description of me as “the Jewish doctor.” I was already cursed with the knowledge that I had saved the life of perhaps the most evil man in history, and I was damned if I could see why I should have to shoulder the responsibility for the failure of the peace talks as well.

“All right, Professor, all right,” said Roosevelt, gesturing with the flat of his hand that I should try to keep calm.

“Are we to worry about what these parrots, our interpreters, think is fair and what is unfair?” snorted Stalin. “Perhaps your man is one of these American capitalists who wants to see his country’s armies in Europe if only because he imagines that the Soviet Union wishes to make an empire for itself. Such as the British have made in India. I’m told that his mother is one of the richest women in America. Perhaps he hates Communists more than he hates Nazis. Perhaps that is why he gave the forgery to Hitler.”

I wished that I could have mentioned my previous membership in the Austrian Communist Party. But Roosevelt was already trying to change the subject.

“I think that India is certainly ripe for a revolution, Marshal Stalin,” he said. “Don’t you? From the bottom up.”

Recognizing that perhaps he had gone too far in his denunciation of me, Stalin shrugged. “I’m not sure about that,” he said. “India’s caste system makes things more complicated. I doubt a revolution along the lines of the straightforward Bolshevik model is a realistic proposition.” Stalin smiled thinly. “But I can see that you’re tired, Mr. President. I only came to tell you that, if you are agreeable, we will reconvene at four o’clock in the main conference hall, with Mr. Churchill. So I’ll leave you now, to rest a while and to gather your strength for what we must discuss. A second front in Europe.”

And with that, Stalin was gone, leaving each of us in openmouthed amazement. It was Roosevelt who spoke first.

“Professor Mayer? I don’t think Uncle Joe likes you very much.”

“No, sir. I don’t think he does. And I’m counting myself lucky that I’m an American and not a Russian. Otherwise I guess I’d be facing a firing squad.”

Roosevelt nodded wearily. “Under the circumstances,” he said, “it might be best if you went back to Camp Amirabad. After all, it’s not as if we’ll be needing your interpreting services anymore. Not now that the Fuhrer has gone. And there’s no sense aggravating Stalin any further by your presence here in the Russian compound.”