Winston’s War (9 page)

“I'd be thankful for a pint of mild, Mr. Burgess.”

Burgess noted the obsequious “sir” had gone. This was a meeting of equals. Burgess took out a large roll of notes from his pocket and paid for a glass of flat brown liquid. “You couldn't get that in the gulag, could you, McFadden?”

“We got many things. Brutality and starvation mostly. But there was always plenty of work to fill idle moments.” He drank deep, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. An old scar ran across the hand, dulled by time, and he had a crooked finger that had clearly been broken and badly set.

“How did you end up in Solovetsky?”

“Who can tell any more? Through a series of other camps, moved from one to another, forgotten about, rediscovered, moved on. I wasn't a criminal, just unfortunate. That was the problem. You see, they'd completely forgotten why I was there, so they couldn't release me, could they? Not without the proper paperwork. If they'd let me free and made a mistake, they would end up serving the
sentence for me. Such things have to be handled correctly. So they kept me, just in case. The only reason I can recall Solovetsky above the many others is because of this.” He indicated his leg.

“How'd it happen?”

“We were building a new dock. It was February, I think. Winter in the Arctic Circle. We hadn't seen the sun for weeks. I was ordered to unload a wagon full of heavy timbers. In the dark and the cold, they fell on me.”

“I thought you said it wasn't an accident.”

Their eyes met once more, almost as combatants. “When it's thirty degrees below, you've already worked nine hours without food, you can't feel your feet or your hands and the entire pile of logs has frozen solid, you've been beaten twice by the guards that day because the work detail hasn't completed its quota, and they threaten they'll go on beating you until the timbers are unloaded—I don't call that much of an accident. Do you, Mr. Burgess?”

“You must hate the Russians.”

“Why should I? Most of my fellow prisoners were Russians.”

“The Soviets, the guards, then.”

“Not especially. They simply took over the camps that had been built by the Tsars and didn't know any different. And it was a Soviet doctor who in the end saved my life. I was one of the lucky ones, Mr. Burgess. At the start of the war I was one of many friends, yet today I am the only survivor. They all died, every one of them. That wasn't the Bolsheviks' fault. Except for little Moniek, perhaps.”

Burgess offered another drink but Mac was still less than halfway through his pint and declined. Burgess ordered another large Jameson's. “So whose fault was it?”

“The System.”

“What system?”

“Any System. Happens everywhere. Politicians and rulers who decide, who decree, and who leave ordinary folk like me to pay for their mistakes. At least one thing about the Russian Revolution, Mr. Burgess, is that when they shot the Tsar at last they got someone to pay for their own mistakes. It's progress of sorts, I suppose.”

It seemed an excellent time to start playing the game. “In a way that's why I wanted to see you, McFadden. The System. To ask for your help. Do you know I work for the BBC?”

“No, Mr. Burgess, I didn't. I know quite a lot about you, but not that.”

“What the hell do you know about me?”

“That your job involves a deal of writing—judging by the ink smudges on your fingers and the stain on your jacket pocket. It also involves you in a lot of stress—look at your fingernails. And I know you're not married. Nor ever likely to be.”

“What?” Burgess muttered in some alarm.

“An observant barber knows a very great deal about his clients. That collar of yours, for instance. Hasn't ever been near a woman. And if the rest of your wardrobe is like that, you stand about as much chance of getting a woman as Stalin has of becoming Pope. You're an intelligent man, you must see that, yet it doesn't seem to worry you. So I conclude you're not a ladies' man at all.”

“You think I'm trying to pick you up?”

Mac smiled gently. “No. With the sort of money you just pulled out of your pocket there'd be no need for you to bother with the likes of me. Anyhow, in my experience you gentlemen are perceptive types—is that the right word? You would know from the start that you were wasting your time. You and me, we worship in different churches. But I don't rush to judgments, Mr. Burgess, not at all. In the camps, you see, you learned to survive by any means that were necessary. Any means, Mr. Burgess, whatever it took. You did, or you died. You understand me?”

“I think so.”

“Not places for moralizing, the camps. So I don't moralize, not even about my customers.” Mac was enjoying himself. He was in control, had the upper hand, so different from being on the end of a boot. That was why he'd agreed to a drink. He'd seen in Burgess someone who was suffering more than he was, and had come out of curiosity.

“So we have established that you're not after my body, Mr. Burgess. Then what do you want?”

“Proper bloody Sherlock Holmes, aren't we?” Burgess snapped, but smiling, offering a compliment and at last persuading his guest to accept another drink.

“Understand, Mr. Burgess, the best time to get to know a man is when you're polishing his boots—or cutting his hair. That way you get to see all of him, from top to toe. Trouble with most English gentlemen—if I may venture an opinion, Mr. Burgess?—is that they never take the time to get to know another man. It's a class thing. An Englishman only ever looks up—and usually up someone else's backside.”

“You don't like the English?”

“A certain type of Englishman. I've got customers whose hair I 've cut for years and still they have to ask my name every time they come in. You knew it—wanted to know it—right from the start. Doesn't matter why, it was enough you took an interest, didn't patronize me. So I thought I'd take an interest, too. How can I help?”

Burgess knocked back his refreshed drink in one draught. “Not sure you can, really, but…I work for the BBC. Political programs. I like the job, it's important—more important than ever right now—yet it's like driving in a fog. The Government tells us next to nothing and what it does say is twisted like a corkscrew. Or it lies, promises peace in our time, yet we're going to war whether we like it or not.”

The barber's deep-set eyes held his own, steady, not agreeing, not dissenting either.

“So I need to understand. If we're going to war I want to know the bloody reason why. And as I was sitting in your chair it struck me—the people you see every day are the ones who make these decisions. And they talk to you. If you could help me understand what they're thinking, what they're planning, I'd be able to do my job a hell of a lot better.”

“Mr. Burgess, I cut the hair of politicians, Cabinet Ministers, all sorts of great men. They entrust me with their confidences because they think I'm slow and stupid and working-class and a little foreign, so they assume I couldn't possibly understand. And you want me to pass those confidences on to you.”

Damn it, but this man knew what he was about. “I'm not asking you to divulge secrets or anything…”

“I have secrets, Mr. Burgess? If they tell me, a mere barber, how could they be secrets?”

“I'm sorry, if you find this offensive I'll go…”

Mac was sipping his beer, contemplating. Slowly, gulp by gulp, he drained his glass and gently replaced it on the polished counter. “Offensive? Mr. Burgess, I don't find you trying to do your job offensive. I find the gulags offensive, yet what's going on in Europe right now is going to lead to far, far worse than the gulags. I find that offensive. There's something else. Just this morning I was reading in the newspaper—it was left behind by a gentleman, he'd only been interested in Court Circular and the horse-racing news. It was buried inside, a little report. Not of much consequence, apparently. About how in Vienna they were celebrating Mr. Hitler's victory in Czechoslovakia by rounding up Jews. They dragged entire families from their houses and made the old ladies sit up in the branches of trees like birds, all night long. It snows sometimes in Vienna at this time of year, Mr. Burgess. And they lined up old men in front of their daughters in the street and shaved their private parts, saying it was a delousing program. Humiliated them, not because they'd done anything wrong, but because of what they were. Then
they were told they couldn't go back to their houses, that their homes had been confiscated. If anyone objected, they were told they'd be sent to Dachau. Or worse. An interesting choice of phrase—
Dachau or worse
. What do you suppose they meant by that, Mr. Burgess?”

“Truly, I hate to think.” “But somebody has to think, Mr. Burgess. And it's as plain as a maggot in a slice of meat loaf that Mr. Chamberlain's not going to think about all that.”

“You're Jewish?”

McFadden shook his head, as though trying to shake off an annoying fly. “Doesn't matter what I am. Or what you are.”

“Meaning?”

“We live in a complicated world. I don't suppose that cash you've got in your pocket was given to you by the BBC to pay for your haircut, was it?”

Burgess covered his alarm with laughter—God, but this one was sharp. “Would you believe it if I said I lived off my mother's immoral earnings?”

“We are all held hostage by our past.”

“You'd like payment?”

Mac slowly shook his head. “No. You can buy me a drink when it suits you, but I won't help you for money. I'll do it because if Mr. Chamberlain gets this wrong, a lot of people are going to die. People like me and Moniek. Not people like Mr. Chamberlain.”

“Who is Moniek?”

“It is no longer of importance.”

“Have another drink.”

McFadden shook his head once more. “No, thank you. It's been a difficult week and—like you—I am a single man. I feel I need a little distraction. While such things are still allowed, eh? If you don't mind, I think I'll take a walk around the Market. See what's happening.”

“I'll be in touch, McFadden. Thanks,” Burgess offered as the other man slipped off his bar stool and limped away. He turned at the door.

“You know something, Mr. Burgess, at this rate you're going to end up the best-groomed bugger in Britain.”

That evening on his way home, McFadden stopped by the entrance to the synagogue at the top of Kensington Park Road. He hadn't entered a synagogue since he was a teenager, but now he hesitated, troubled by memories of Moniek, things he had hidden away for so many years. He put his hand on the door. He seemed almost relieved when he found it locked.

Churchill spoke in the debate on Munich—or European Affairs, as it was called in
Hansard
. He talked of shame, of a total and unmitigated defeat, of gross neglect and deficiencies, of his country being weighed in the balance and found wanting. He spoke magnificently, a guiding star for the rebels. They were few in number, about thirty, but of considerable standing, men of stature—like the former Foreign Secretary Anthony Eden, Duffie Cooper, Leo Amery, Bobbety Cranborne, Admiral of the Fleet Sir Roger Keyes, Macmillan, Boothby, Duncan Sandys, Harold Nicolson. As Nicolson recorded in his diary, “
Our group decided that it is better for us all to abstain, than for some to abstain and some to vote against. We therefore sit in our seats, which must enrage the Government, since it is not our numbers that matter but our reputation.
”

He was right. The Government was deeply enraged. Even as Chamberlain rose from his seat to acknowledge the wild acclamation from all sides, his mind was made up. The thirty or so rebels had become marked men, every one of them. The reputations which Nicolson talked of with such pride were about to be systematically besmirched.

C
hamberlain. Chamberlain. Everywhere one went it was that name, Neville Chamberlain. No occasion seemed complete without his presence. His was the name on everyone's lips. Hospital beds were being endowed in his name, the French had opened up a fund to provide him with “a corner of French soil” in gratitude, while the photograph of him at the Palace adorned the mantelpieces of thousands of homes—The Times even offered copies to its readers as a souvenir Christmas card. So great had the public clamor grown that it was in danger of becoming compromising; Chamberlain felt compelled to issue a statement declining the Bishop of Coventry's suggestion that a National Tribute Fund be set up in his honor. This was, after all, a democracy.

“Has he arrived yet?” There was no hint of impatience in the question posed by the Dowager Queen Mary—how could even the King's mother be impatient with a man who was so busy saving the world? But they had missed him. They had gathered at Sandringham in the saloon, a fussy, crowded hall overburdened with family portraits, deer skulls, and the paraphernalia of Victorians trying too hard to please. A large stuffed bear stood guard by the staircase.
Queen Mary had settled into a chair by the fireplace, glass of sherry in hand, while two men stood by her side, waiting on her and in the process warming themselves by the roaring log fire. The first, Edward Halifax, the Foreign Secretary, was entirely at home in a royal household, for he occupied a position of personal privilege almost unique amongst politicians. He was an intimate friend of the King. They dined frequently and in private, and Halifax had been provided with a key to the gardens of Buckingham Palace so that he was able to walk through them every morning on his way to the Foreign Office. The King practiced with his rifle in the gardens and would often waylay Halifax in order to share his views on matters of state, but most of all for the simple pleasure of his company. It could be lonely being an Emperor-King. George VI was relatively inexperienced, a monarch by mistake. He also suffered from a speech impediment so pronounced that his audience often couldn't tell whether His Majesty had paused for thought or was simply stuck on a stutter. As a result, public appearances terrified him, and perhaps that was why he felt at ease in the company of Halifax, who also and so obviously carried with him the misfortunes of his narrow bloodline. The Viscount was exceptionally tall, dome-headed and gangling, slightly stooped, and born without a left hand. The sleeve on his Savile Row suit was filled with nothing more than a prosthesis, a rubber fist. “Armless Eddie,” as the wags called him. And, like the King, the Viscount also suffered from a tangling of the tongue—he was unable to pronounce his r's. So the two men walked, talked, stuttered, and found support in each other's company.