After more than twenty-five years, he had slightly outgrown his career drive. He was interested in the war. At War Plans he had been waging a vigilant fight to keep priorities high for the landing craft program. “Pug’s girlfriend Elsie” was no joke; but now he could no longer carry on that fight. Mike Drayton would take over. Mike was an excellent officer, a commander with a solid background in BuShips and an extraordinary knowledge of the country’s industries. But he was not pugnacious and he lacked rank. “Elsie” was going to lose ground.
That could not last. One day the crunch would come — Henry was sure of this from his operational studies — and landing craft would shoot to the top of the priority list, and a frantic scramble would ensue to get them made. The war effort might suffer; conceivably a marginal landing operation would fail, with bad loss of life. But it was absurd, Pug thought, to feel the weight of the war on his shoulders, and to become as obsessed by “Elsie” as he had once been by his own career. That was swinging to the other extreme. The war was bigger than anybody; he was a small replaceable cog. One way or another, sooner or later, the United States would produce enough landing craft to beat Hitler. Meantime he had to go to his battleship.
Taking a lamp to a globe standing in the corner, he used thumb and forefinger to step off the distance from Moscow to Pearl Harbor. He found it made surprisingly little difference whether he travelled east or west; the two places were at opposite ends of the earth. But which direction would offer less delay and hazard? Westward lay all the good fast transportation, across the Atlantic and the United States, and then the Pan Am hop from San Francisco to Honolulu. Duck soup! Unfortunately, in that direction the fiery barrier of the war now made Europe impassable from Spitzbergen to Sicily, and from Moscow to the English Channel. Tenuous lanes through the fire remained: the North Sea convoy run, and a chancy air connection between Stockholm and London. In theory, if he could get to Stockholm, he could even pass via Berlin and Madrid to Lisbon; but Captain Victor Henry had no intention of setting foot in Germany or German-dominated soil on his way to take command of the
Well then, eastward? Slow uncertain Russian trains, jammed already with fugitives from the German attack; occasional, even more uncertain Russian planes. But the way was peaceful and a bit shorter, especially from Kuibyshev, five hundred miles nearer Pearl Harbor. Yes, he thought, he had better start arranging now with the distraught Russians to make his way around the world eastward.
“You look like a mad conqueror,” he heard Slote say.
“Huh?”
“Gloating over the globe by lamplight. You just need the little black moustache.” The Foreign Service officer leaned in the doorway, running a finger along his smoking pipe. “We have a visitor out here.”
By the desk under the chandelier, a Russian soldier stood slapping snow from his long khaki coat. He took off his peaked army cap to shake it by an earflap, and Pug was startled to recognize Jochanan Jastrow. The man’s hair was clipped short now; he had a scraggly growth of brown beard flecked with gray, and he looked very coarse and dirty. He explained in German, answering Slote’s questions, that in order to get warm clothes and some legal papers, he passed himself off as a soldier from a routed unit. The Moscow authorities were collecting such refugees and stragglers and forming them into emergency work battalions, with few questions asked. He had had a set of false papers; a police inspector in an air raid shelter had queried him and picked them up, but he had managed to escape from the man. More forged papers could be bought — there was a regular market for them — but he preferred army identification right now.
“In this country, sir,” he said, “a person who doesn’t have papers is worse off than a dog or a pig. A dog or a pig can eat sleep without papers. A man can’t. After a while maybe there will be a change for the better in the war, and I can find my family.”
“Where are they?” Slote said.
“With the partisans, near Smolensk. My son’s wife got sick and I left them there.”
Pug said, “You’re not planning to go back through the German lines?”
Natalie’s relative gave him a strange crooked smile. One side of the bearded mouth curled upward, uncovering white teeth, while the other side remained fixed and grim. “Russia is a very big country, Captain Henry, full of woods. For their own safety the Germans stick close to the main roads. I have already passed through the lines. Thousands of people have done it.” He turned to Leslie Slote. “So. But I heard all the foreigners are leaving Moscow. I wanted to find out what happened to the documents I gave you.”
The Foreign Service officer and Victor Henry looked at each other, with much the same expressions of hesitation and embarrassment. “Well, I showed the documents to an important American newspaperman,” Slote said. “He sent a long story to the United States but I’m afraid it ended up as a little item in the back pages. You see, there have been so many stories of German atrocities! “
“Stories like this?” exclaimed Jastrow, his bristly face showing anger and disappointment. “Children, mothers, old people? In their homes, not doing anything, taken out in the middle of the night to a hole dug in the woods and shot to death?”
“Most horrible. Perhaps the army commander in the Minsk area was an insanely fanatical Nazi.”
“But the shooters were not soldiers. I told you that. They had different uniforms. And here in Moscow, people from the Ukraine and from up north are telling the same stories. This thing is happening all over, sir, not just in Minsk. Please forgive me, but why did you not give those documents to your ambassador? I am sure he would have sent them to President Roosevelt.”
“I did bring your papers to his attention. I’m sorry to say that our intelligence people questioned their authenticity.”
“What? But sir, that is incredible! I can bring you ten people tomorrow who will tell such stories, and give affidavits. Some of them are eyewitnesses who escaped from the very trucks the Germans used, and—”
In a tone of driven exasperation, Slote broke in, “Look here my dear chap, I’m one man almost alone now” — he gestured at his piled-up disk — “responsible for all my country’s affairs in Moscow. I really think I have done my best for you. In showing your documents to a newspaperman after our intelligence people had questioned them, I violated instructions. I received a serious reprimand. In fact, I took this dirty job of staying on in Moscow mainly to put myself right. Your story is ghastly, and I myself am unhappily inclined to believe it, but it’s only a small part of this hideous war. Moscow may fall in the next seventy-two hours, and that’s my main business now. I’m sorry.”
Jastrow took the outburst without blinking and answered in a quiet, dogged tone, “I am very sorry about the reprimand. However, if President Roosevelt could only find out about this crazy slaughter of innocent people, he would put a stop to it. He is the only man in the whole world who can do it.” Jastrow turned to Victor Henry. “Do you know of any other way, Captain, that the story could possibly be told to President Roosevelt?”
Pug was already picturing himself writing a letter to the President. He had seen several stories like Jastrow’s in print, and even more gruesome official reports about German slaughter of Russian partisans and villagers. Such a letter would be futile; worse than futile — unprofessional. It would be nagging the President about things he suspected or knew. He, Victor Henry, was a naval officer, on temporary detached duty in the Soviet Union for Lend- Lease matters. Such a letter would be the sort of impertinence Byron had offered at the President’s table; but Byron at least had been a youngster concerned about his own wife.
Victor Henry answered Jastrow by turning his hands upward.
With a melancholy nod, Jastrow said, “Naturally, it is outside your province. Have you had news of Natalie? Have she and Aaron gone home yet?”
Pug pulled the snapshot from his breast pocket. “This picture was taken several weeks ago. Maybe by now they’re out. I expect so.”
Holding the picture to the light, Jastrow’s face broke into an incongruously warm and gentle beam. “Why, it is a small Byron. God bless him and keep him safe from harm.” Peering at Victor Henry, whose eyes misted at these few sentimental words in German, he handed back the photograph. “Well, you gentlemen have been gracious to me. I have done the best I could to tell you what happened in Minsk. Maybe my documents will reach the right person one day. They are true, and I pray God somebody soon finds a way to tell President Roosevelt what is happening. He must rescue the Jews out of the Germans’ claws. Only he can do it.”
With this Jochanan Jastrow gave them his mirthless crooked smile and faded into the darkness outside the small glow of the kerosene lamp.
When his alarm clock woke him after an hour or two of exhausted slumber, Pug scarcely remembered writing
