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"Yes," Volodya said. "I know that."
iv
Lloyd Williams got on well with Ernie Bevin. They had a lot in common, despite the age difference. During the four-day train journey across snowy Europe Lloyd had confided that he, like Bevin, was the illegitimate son of a housemaid. They were both passionate anti-Communists: Lloyd because of his experiences in Spain, Bevin because he had seen Communist tactics in the trade union movement. "They're slaves to the Kremlin and tyrants over everyone else," Bevin said, and Lloyd knew exactly what he meant.
Lloyd had not warmed to Greg Peshkov, who always looked as if he had dressed in a rush: shirtsleeves unbuttoned, coat collar twisted, shoelaces untied. Greg was shrewd, and Lloyd tried to like him, but he felt that underneath Greg's casual charm there was a core of ruthlessness. Daisy had said that Lev Peshkov was a gangster, and Lloyd could imagine that Greg had the same instincts.
However, Bevin jumped at Greg's idea for Germany. "Was he speaking for Marshall, do you suppose?" said the portly foreign secretary in his broad West Country accent.
"He said not," Lloyd replied. "Do you think it could work?"
"I think it's the best idea I've heard in three bloody weeks in bloody Moscow. If he's serious, arrange an informal lunch, just Marshall and this youngster with you and me."
"I'll do it right away."
"But tell nobody. We don't want the Soviets to get a whisper of this. They'll accuse us of conspiring against them, and they'll be right."
They met the following day at no. 10 Spasopeskovskaya Square, the American ambassador's residence, an extravagant neoclassical mansion built before the revolution. Marshall was tall and lean, every inch a soldier; Bevin rotund, nearsighted, a cigarette frequently dangling from his lips; but they clicked immediately. Both were plain-speaking men. Bevin had once been accused of ungentlemanly speech by Stalin himself, a distinction of which the foreign secretary was very proud. Beneath the painted ceilings and chandeliers they got down to the task of reviving Germany without the help of the USSR.
They agreed rapidly on the principles: the new currency; the unification of the British, American, and--if possible--French zones; the demilitarization of West Germany; elections; and a new transatlantic military alliance. Then Bevin said bluntly: "None of this will work, you know."
Marshall was taken aback. "Then I fail to understand why we're discussing it," he said sharply.
"Europe's in a slump. This scheme will fail if people are starving. The best protection against Communism is prosperity. Stalin knows that--which is why he wants to keep Germany impoverished."
"I agree."
"Which means we've got to rebuild. But we can't do it with our bare hands. We need tractors, lathes, e
xcavators, rolling stock--all of which we can't afford."
Marshall saw where he was going. "Americans aren't willing to give Europeans any more handouts."
"Fair enough. But there must be a way the USA can lend us the money we need to buy equipment from you."
There was a silence.
Marshall hated to waste words, but this was a long pause even by his standards.
Then at last he spoke. "It makes sense," he said. "I'll see what I can do."
The conference lasted six weeks, and when they all went home again, nothing had been decided.
v
Eva Williams was a year old when she got her back teeth. The others had come fairly easily, but these hurt. There was not much Lloyd and Daisy could do for her. She was miserable, she could not sleep, she would not let them sleep, and they were miserable too.
Daisy had a lot of money, but they lived unostentatiously. They had bought a pleasant row house in Hoxton, where their neighbors were a shopkeeper and a builder. They got a small family car, a new Morris Eight with a top speed of almost sixty miles per hour. Daisy still bought pretty clothes, but Lloyd had just three suits: evening dress, a chalk stripe for the House of Commons, and tweeds for constituency work at the weekends.
Lloyd was in his pajamas late one evening, trying to rock the grizzling Evie to sleep, and at the same time leafing through Life magazine. He noticed a striking photograph taken in Moscow. It showed a Russian woman, wearing a head scarf and a coat tied with string like a parcel, her old face deeply lined, shoveling snow on the street. Something about the way the light struck her gave her a look of timelessness, as if she had been there for a thousand years. He looked for the photographer's name and found it was Woody Dewar, whom he had met at the conference.
The phone rang. He picked it up and heard the voice of Ernie Bevin. "Turn your wireless on," Bevin said. "Marshall's made a speech." He hung up without waiting for a reply.
Lloyd went downstairs to the living room, still carrying Evie, and switched on the radio. The show was called American Commentary. The BBC's Washington correspondent, Leonard Miall, was reporting from Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts. "The secretary of state told alumni that the rebuilding of Europe is going to take a longer time, and require a greater effort, than was originally foreseen," said Miall.
That was promising, Lloyd thought with excitement. "Hush, Evie, please," he said, and for once she quietened.
Then Lloyd heard the low, reasonable voice of George C. Marshall. "Europe's requirements, for the next three or four years, of foreign food and other essential products--principally from America--are so much greater than her present ability to pay that she must have substantial additional help . . . or face economic, social, and political deterioration of a very grave character."
