The Winds of War

“It was just on the eight o’clock news.”

“Bless me.” Jastrow took off his glasses and rubbed them with a handkerchief. “Why, when did it start?”

“At dawn today.”

“Well, I declare! The villain with the moustache is really throwing himself into his part, isn’t he? A two-front war again!”

Natalie walked to the serving table on wheels that bore the breakfast remnants. “Would this coffee still be hot?”

“Yes, help yourself.”

“The doctor told me not to eat or drink before he examined me, but I can’t help it. I’m ravenous.” Natalie began to wolf a sweet roll with coffee. “You’d better call the ambassador.”

“I suppose so. But Russia’s very far off, and what difference can it make to us? It’s pleasant, really, to think of Hitler dwindling off into Russia. Shades of Napoleon, let us hope.”

“If Finland gets dragged in, the Vaasa won’t sail.”

“Dear me, yes. You’re completely right. Any news about Finland?”

“Not that I heard.” Dropping heavily into a chair, Natalie glanced around at the broad room, furnished with maroon plush chairs and sofas, gilt mirrors, and marble statues. “God, this suite is so oppressive. Just to get out of it will be so marvellous!”

“My dear, it’s spacious, and we’ve got it for the price of two small rooms.”

“I know, I know, but why not? The hotel’s empty, except for Germans. It’s giving me the creeps.”

“I imagine they’re in every hotel.”

Natalie said with a gloomy look, “No doubt. Yesterday I recognized a Gestapo man on the elevator. Byron and I saw him in Lisbon. I know he’s the same one. He has an odd scar like this” — she made an L in the air with one finger — “on his forehead.”

“Surely that’s a coincidence. Did he recognize you?”

“He gave me quite a stare.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Those men stare for a living. What did the doctor say yesterday, by the way? Everything normal?”

“Oh, yes.” She sounded uncertain. “He just wanted to see me once more. I’m going to bed now for a while.”

“To bed again?”

“He wants me to rest a lot. My appointment’s not till noon.”

“Well, all right. I do have this chapter just about ready for a smooth copy.”

“Aaron” — Natalie paused, chewing her underlip — “he doesn’t want me to type for a while. It tires my back. Just until this fatigue clears up.”

“I see.” Jastrow sighed, and glanced around the room. “I agree, this place is not very cheerful. When I think of my lovely house standing empty… Natalie, do you suppose this Russian war changes things at all? I mean—”

“Jesus Christ, Aaron,” Natalie snapped most disagreeably, “are you going to suggest you might still remain on the same continent with the Germans?”

“My dear” — Jastrow made a very Jewish gesture, a hunching of the shoulders and an upward wave of both hands — “don’t be so impatient with me. You were a baby in the last war, but to me so little time has elapsed between them! It’s just a continuation after a truce. Well, the talk we had then of the Huns spearing Belgian babies on bayonets and cutting off the breasts of the nuns! And then I spent a year in Munich with some truly wonderful people. There are Germans, and Germans — oh, gracious, did I tell you that there’s a letter from Byron?”

“What? Where?”

“The waiter left it in the hall, I think.”

She ran heavily out of the room, snatched the white envelope, took it to her bedroom, and read it panting. It was a dully written letter, with no news except that he had been detached from the S-45, to go to a new fleet submarine, the Tuna, in the Pacific, and that Lieutenant Aster had been ordered to an older boat, the Devilfish. But the words of love and loneliness were plentiful, if banal. She undressed, got into bed, and greedily read and reread the pages until the sentences lost meaning.

The Italian doctor had told her that the blood stains, only two or three small ones, might mean nothing, but that she had to rest, to be sure of keeping the baby. Natalie intended to spend the next two weeks in bed.

The line between night and day glided across the Atlantic Ocean, for the most part passing over fluffy cloud and empty wrinkling blue water; very rarely, over specks in orderly rows, and other specks randomly scattered. The orderly specks were convoys; the random specks, submarines trying to hunt them down or American ships trying to spot the submarines and warn the convoys. Bringing light and warmth indifferently to the hunters and the hunted in this far-flung three-way game, which the participants called the Battle of the Atlantic, the sunrise slid onto the next landmass, the New World.

Soon the windows of the CBS building in New York flamed with morning sun, but in the tomblike broadcasting floors there was only the same timeless electric light. The corridors and cubicles of the CBS news section, despite the early hour, were swarming and bustling. Hugh Cleveland, badly in need of a shave, sat at his old desk, scrawling on a yellow pad and puffing at a long cigar. He had not quit the Who’s in Town program, despite the popularity of the amateur hour. The news feature show would still be his bread and butter, he liked to say, when the amateur fad was forgotten. Out of the portable radio on his desk came the sonorous accents of Winston Churchill:

“No one has been a more consistent opponent of Communism than I have… I will unsay no word that I have spoken about it. But all this fades away before the spectacle which is now unfolding…. I see the ten thousand villages of Russia, where maidens laugh and children play. I see advancing upon all this in hideous onslaught… the dull, drilled, docile, brutish masses of the Hun soldiery, plodding on like a swarm of crawling locusts…”

His telephone began to ring. He tried to ignore it, then snatched it and snarled, “Goddamn it, I’m listening to Churchill…. Oh! Sorry, Chet. Listen, if you’re near a radio, turn the guy on. He is sensational!” Leaning back in his swivel chair, he cocked one ear toward the radio, holding the phone to the other.

“Behind all this glare, behind all this storm, I see that small group of villainous men who plan, organize, and launch this cataract of horrors upon mankind…”

“Chet, of course I thought of it. The minute the news broke, I sent a wire to the Russian consulate here. Naturally, I couldn’t get through on the telephone. About an hour ago, they finally called me. Madeline Henry’s gone over there, and they’ve promised they’ll send somebody back with her. No, I don’t know who, not yet. Hell, this morning their scrubwoman would be news!”

“Can you doubt what our policy will be? We have but one aim and one single, irrevocable purpose. We are resolved to destroy Hitler and every vestige of the Nazi regime. From this nothing will turn us — nothing…. Any man or state who fights against Nazidom will have our aid. Any man or state who marches with Hitler is our foe…

“The Russian danger is our danger, and the danger of the United States…”

Madeline scampered into the office, red-faced and shiny-eyed and wildly pantomimed at her boss.

“Hang on, Chet, she’s here.” Hand over the receiver, Cleveland said, “What luck?”

“I got the ambassador. He’s here in New York and I got him.”

“Holy Jesus! Are you kidding? The ambassador? What’s his name, Oumansky?”

“Oumansky.” She nodded excitedly. “He’s coming here at ten to nine. The consul’s bringing him.”

“Hey, Chet, listen, will you? That girl has got Ambassador Oumansky. I swear to Christ! Oumansky! Listen, I’ve got to get ready for him. Sure, sure. Thanks.” He slammed down the receiver. “How’d you do that, Madeline? Why isn’t he in Washington?” Churchill’s voice was rising in peroration. Cleveland snapped off the radio.

“Hugh, I asked to see the consul and told this beefy girl at the desk that I was from the Who’s in Town program. That’s all. Next thing I knew I was in this big office with a huge picture of Lenin