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"American voters may be wrong."
Woody shrugged. "True--but it's their money."
There it was again, Volodya thought: the deference to public opinion. He had remarked it before in Woody's conversation. Americans talked about voters the way Russians talked about Stalin: they had to be obeyed, right or wrong.
Woody wound down the window. "You don't mind if I take a cityscape, do you? The light is wonderful." His camera clicked.
He knew he was supposed to take only approved shots. However, there was nothing sensitive on the street, just some women shoveling snow. All the same, Volodya said: "Please don't." He leaned past Woody and wound up the window. "Official photos only."
He was about to ask for the film out of Woody's camera when Woody said: "Do you remember me mentioning my friend Greg Peshkov, with the same surname as you?"
Volodya certainly did. Willi Frunze had said something similar. It was probably the same man. "No, I don't remember," Volodya lied. He wanted nothing to do with a possible relative in the West. Such connections brought suspicion and trouble to Russians.
"He's on the American delegation. You should talk to him. See if you're related."
"I will," said Volodya, resolving to avoid the man at all costs.
He decided not to insist on taking Woody's film. It was not worth the fuss for a harmless street scene.
At the next day's conference the American secretary of state, George Marshall, proposed that the four Allies should abolish the separate sectors of Germany and unify the country, so that it could once again become the beating economic heart of Europe, mining and manufacturing and buying and selling.
That was the last thing the Soviets wanted.
Molotov refused to discuss unification until the question of reparations had been settled.
The conference was stalemated.
And that, Volodya thought, was exactly where Stalin wanted it.
ii
The world of international diplomacy was a small one, Greg Peshkov reflected. One of the young aides in the British delegation at the Moscow conference was Lloyd Williams, the husband of Greg's half sister, Daisy. At first Greg did not like the look of Lloyd, who was dressed like a prissy English gentleman, but he turned out to be a regular guy. "Molotov is a prick," Lloyd said in the bar of the Hotel Moskva over a couple of vodka martinis.
"So what are we going to do about him?"
"I don't know, but Britain can't live with these delays. The occupation of Germany is costing money we can't afford, and the hard winter has turned the problem into a crisis."
"You know what?" said Greg, thinking aloud. "If the Soviets won't play ball, we should just go ahead without them."
"How could we do that?"
"What do we want?" Greg counted points on his fingers. "We want to unify Germany and hold elections."
"So do we."
"We want to scrap the worthless reichsmark and introduce a new currency, so that Germans can start to do business again."
"Yes."
"And we want to save the country from Communism."
"Also British policy."
"We can't do it in the east because the Soviets won't come to the party. So fuck them! We control three-quarters of Germany--let's do it in our zone, and let the eastern part of the country go to blazes."
Lloyd looked thoughtful. "Is this something you've discussed with your boss?"
"Hell, no. I'm just running off at the mouth. But listen, why not?"
