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"Such as?"
"God knows what kind of compromises we might have to make in San Francisco. We've already agreed to admit Belorussia and the Ukraine as separate states, which is just a way of giving Moscow three votes in the General Assembly. We have to keep the Soviets on board--but if we go too far, Arthur could turn against the whole United Nations project. Then the Senate may refuse to ratify it, exactly the way they rejected the League of Nations in 1919."
"So our job in San Francisco is to keep the Soviets happy without offending Senator Vandenberg."
"Exactly."
They heard running footsteps, an unusual sound in the dignified hallways of the Capitol. They both looked around. Woody was surprised to see the vice president, Harry Truman, running through the hallway. He was dressed normally, in a gray double-breasted suit and a polka-dot tie, though he had no hat. He seemed to have lost his normal escort of aides and Secret Service guards. He was running steadily, breathing hard, not looking at anyone, going somewhere in a terrific hurry.
Woody and Gus watched in astonishment. So did everyone else.
When Truman disappeared around a corner, Woody said: "What the heck . . . ?"
Gus said: "I think the president must have died."
ii
Volodya Peshkov entered Germany in a ten-wheeler Studebaker US6 army truck. Made in South Bend, Indiana, the truck had been carried by rail to Baltimore, shipped across the Atlantic and around the Cape of Good Hope to the Persian Gulf, then sent by train from Persia to central Russia. Volodya knew it was one of two hundred thousand Studebaker trucks given to the Red Army by the American government. The Russians liked them: they were tough and reliable. The men said the letters "USA" stenciled on the side stood for Ubit Sukina syna Adolf, which meant "Kill that son of a bitch Adolf."
They also liked the food the Americans were sending, especially the cans of compressed meat called Spam, strangely bright pink in color but gloriously fatty.
Volodya had been posted to Germany because the intelligence he was getting from spies in Berlin was now not as up-to-date as information that could be gained by interviewing German prisoners of war. His fluent German made him a first-class frontline interrogator.
When he crossed the border he had seen a Soviet government poster that said: RED ARMY SOLDIER: YOU ARE NOW ON GERMAN SOIL. THE HOUR OF REVENGE HAS STRUCK! It was among the milder pieces of propaganda. The Kremlin had been whipping up hatred of Germans for some time, believing it would make soldiers fight harder. Political commissars had calculated--or said they had--the number of men killed in battle, the number of houses torched, the number of civilians murdered for being Communists or Slavs or Jews, in every village and town overrun by the German army. Many frontline soldiers could quote the figures for their own neighborhoods, and were eager to do the same kind of damage in Germany.
The Red Army had reached the river Oder, which snaked north-south across Prussia, the last barrier before Berlin. A million Soviet soldiers were within fifty miles of the capital, poised to strike. Volodya was with the 5th Shock Army. Waiting for the fighting to begin, he was studying the army newspaper, Red Star.
What he read horrified him.
The hate propaganda went further than anything he had read before. "If you have not killed at least one German a day, you have wasted that day," he read. "If you are waiting for the fighting, kill a German before combat. If you kill one German, kill another--there is nothing more amusing for us than a heap of German corpses. Kill the German--this is your old mother's prayer. Kill the German--this is what your children beseech you to do. Kill the German--this is the cry of your Russian earth. Do not waver. Do not let up. Kill."
It was a bit sickening, Volodya thought. But worse was implied. The writer made light of looting: "German women are only losing fur coats and silver spoons that were stolen in the first place." And there was a sidelong joke about rape: "Soviet soldiers do not refuse the compliments of German women."
Soldiers were not the most civilized of men in the first place. The way the invading Germans had behaved in 1941 had enraged all Russians. The government was fueling their wrath with talk of revenge. And now the army newspaper was making it clear they could do anything they liked to the defeated Germans.
It was a recipe for Armageddon.
iii
Erik von Ulrich was consumed by a yearning that the war should be over.
With his friend Hermann Braun and their boss Dr. Weiss, Erik set up a field hospital in a small Protestant church; then they sat in the nave with nothing to do but wait for the horse-drawn ambulances to arrive loaded with horribly torn and burned men.
The German army had reinforced Seelow Heights, overlooking the Oder River where it passed closest to Berlin. Erik's aid station was in a village a mile back from the line.
Dr. Weiss, who had a friend in army intelligence, said there were 110,000 Germans defending Berlin against a million Soviets. With his usual sarcasm he said: "But our morale is high, and Adolf Hitler is the greatest genius in military history, so we are certain to win."
There was no hope, but German soldiers were still fighting fiercely. Erik believed this was because of the stories filtering back about how the Red Army behaved. Prisoners were killed, homes were looted and wrecked, women were raped and nailed to barn doors. The Germans believed they were defending their own families from Communist brutality. The Kremlin's hate propaganda was backfiring.
Erik was looking forward to defeat. He longed for the killing to stop. He just wanted to go home.
He would have his wish soon--or he would be dead.
Sleeping on a wooden pew, Erik was awakened at three o'clock in the morning on Monday, April 16, by the Russian guns. He had heard artillery bombardments before, but this was ten times as loud as anything in his experience. For the men on the front line it must have been literally deafening.
The wounded started to arrive at dawn, and the team went wearily to work, amputating limbs, setting broken bones, extracting bullets, and cleaning and bandaging wounds. They were short of everything from drugs to clean water, and they gave morphine only to those who were screaming in agony.
Men who could still walk and hold a gun were sent back to the line.
