word on it.”
“Mine, too, sir,” said Bohlen.
Roosevelt nodded and then spun his chair into action. “All right. Let’s do this.”
Pawlikowski leaped to open the door for his boss, but instead of turning toward the main door of the residence, Roosevelt propelled himself toward the end of the corridor, where Mike Reilly was already grappling with a heavy steel door. I followed the president’s small party through it and down a long slope. It felt as if we were going into a bomb shelter.
Pawlikowski caught up with me and we walked down the corridor. I thought to tell him that I was on to him, if only as a deterrent, but he suddenly accelerated forward to open another door that led into yet another corridor, this one level and almost fifty yards long. It was well lit and seemed recently constructed.
We reached a third door, this one guarded by two uniformed NKVD who, seeing the president, came to attention smartly, the heels of their jackboots clicking loudly. Then one of them turned and knocked three times. The door swung open slowly, and Pawlikowski and Reilly led our small party into the vast round room that lay beyond.
There were no windows inside that room, which was as big as a tennis court and lit by an enormous brass light that hung over a Camelot-sized round table with a green baize cover.
Around the table were two rings of chairs: the inner ring, fifteen ornate mahogany chairs upholstered in a Persian-patterned silk; the outer ring, twelve smaller chairs, on each of which lay a notepad and a pencil. The room itself was guarded by ten NKVD men positioned at regular intervals around the tapestry-covered walls, stoic and unmoving, like so many suits of armor. Roosevelt’s Secret Service agents took up positions between the NKVD guards along the same circular wall.
Sixty seconds later, I hardly noticed any of this. Sixty seconds later I hardly noticed Stalin, or Molotov, or Beria, or Voroshilov, his Red Army field marshal. Sixty seconds later, even Pawlikowski was forgotten. Sixty seconds later, as I stared openmouthed at the man coming through a door on the opposite side of the chamber, and then at the others who accompanied him, I wouldn’t have noticed if Betty Grable had climbed onto my lap and stripped down to her ankle-strap platforms.
In any other circumstances I might have assumed it was a joke. Except that the man was now advancing on Roosevelt with an outstretched hand, wearing a smile on his face as if he were actually pleased to see the president of a country on which he had personally declared war.
The man was Adolf Hitler.
0830 Hours
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered.
“Get a grip on yourself,” Roosevelt murmured and then shook the outstretched hand in front of him. Acting almost automatically, I started to translate Hitler’s first words to the president. It was all now quite clear: how it was that Harry Hopkins and Donovan could have been so adamant that the Germans were not planning to assassinate the Big Three at Teheran, for example; and why Churchill, and very likely Marshall and Arnold, too, were “sulking in their tents.”
Not the very least of what I now understood quite clearly was why Roosevelt had asked me along in the first place, for of course he needed a fluent speaker of German who had also demonstrated himself to be what the president had called “a Realpolitiker,” someone who was prepared to keep his mouth shut for the sake of some supposed greater good. That “greater good” was now all too apparent to me: Roosevelt and Stalin intended talking peace with the Fuhrer.
“The British prime minister is not here,” said Hitler, whose speaking voice was much softer than the one I knew from German radio broadcasts. “Am I to assume that he will not be joining us?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Roosevelt. “At least not for the present.”
“A great pity,” said Hitler. “I should like to have met him.”
“There may yet be an opportunity for that, Herr Hitler,” said Roosevelt. “Let us hope so, anyway.”
Hitler glanced around as his own translator appeared behind his shoulder to interpret the president’s words. It was my chance to take another quick look around the room, just in time to see Molotov shaking hands with von Ribbentrop, Stalin speaking to Harry Hopkins through Bohlen, and the various plainclothes SS men grouped around Himmler, who was smiling broadly as if delighted that things were off to a reasonably amicable start.
“Your Mr. Cordell Hull has asked me to assure you that he is quite well,” said Hitler. “And that he is being well looked after. Also the Russian commissar of foreign trade, Mr. Mikoyan.”
I made the translation, and seeing me frown while I spoke, Roosevelt thought to provide me with a short explanation of what the Fuhrer had just said: “Cordell Hull is in Berlin,” he told me. “As a hostage for the Fuhrer’s safe return home.”
Everything seemed to be falling into place now-even the reason the secretary of state had not been invited to the Big Three.
Hitler walked over to Stalin, who was a little shorter than Hitler and resembled a small, tubby bear. All the pictures I had seen of Stalin had created the illusion of a much taller man, and I guessed that these must have been taken from a lower level. When Stalin lit a cigarette, I also noticed his left arm was lame and slightly deformed, like the kaiser’s.
“Will you be all right, Willard?” Roosevelt said, and I guessed he was referring to my Jewishness more than anything else.
“Yes, Mr. President, I’m fine.”
Seeing his opportunity, Himmler moved smartly forward and, still smiling broadly, dipped his head, and then, relaxing somewhat, offered the president his hand. He was wearing a suit, with a silk shirt and tie and a pair of handsome gold cuff links that flashed like alarm signals under the room’s bright lights.
“I believe you are the principal architect of these negotiations,” said Roosevelt.
“I have only tried to make all parties see the sense of what is to be attempted here this morning.” The Reichsfuhrer-SS spoke pompously and with one eye always on Hitler. “And I sincerely believe that this war can be ended before Christmas.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Roosevelt. “Let’s hope so.”
The representatives of Russia, the United States, and Nazi Germany and their advisers seated themselves around the big green table. As host, it fell to Stalin to initiate the proceedings. With Bohlen translating, I was able to catch my breath and reflect on what was happening. That the Russians had managed to keep Hitler’s arrival in Teheran a secret was almost as amazing as the fact that Hitler should have ever come at all. And already I had decided that if the talks did, for some reason, fail, Roosevelt’s reputation was probably safe, for surely no one would believe that such a thing could ever have taken place.
Of the two dictators seated at the table, Stalin seemed the less attractive, and not because I could understand no Russian. He had a cold, crafty, almost corpselike face, and when the yellowish eyes flickered on me and he smiled to reveal his teeth, broken and stained with nicotine, it was all too easy to imagine him as a modern Ivan the Terrible, sending men, women, and children off to their deaths without mussing a hair. At the same time, his mind seemed sharper than Hitler’s, and he spoke well and without notes:
“We are sitting around this table for the first time with but one object in mind,” he said. “The ending of this war. It is my sincere belief that we shall do everything at this conference to make due use, within the framework of our cooperation, of the power and authority that our peoples have vested in us.”
Stalin nodded at Roosevelt, who removed his pince-nez and, using it to emphasize his opening remarks, began to speak: “I should like to welcome Herr Hitler into this circle,” said the president. “In past meetings between Britain and the United States, it has been our habit to publish nothing, but to speak our minds very freely. And I do urge each one of us all to speak as freely as he wishes on the basis of the good faith that has already been demonstrated by our presence in this room. Nevertheless, if any one of us does not want to talk about any particular subject, we do not have to do so.” Roosevelt leaned back in his wheelchair and waited for von Ribbentrop, who spoke excellent English, to finish the translation.
Hitler nodded and folded his arms across his chest. For a moment he was silent and only Stalin, filling his pipe from torn-up Russian Belomor cigarettes, seemed oblivious to the effect the Fuhrer’s pause was having on the room. When Hitler started to speak, I realized, with some amusement, that the Fuhrer had been trying to finish the PEZ mint he was sucking before saying anything.
