Hitler's peace

“Under normal circumstances I might agree with you,” Molotov said. “But as I recall, it was Himmler, your opposite number, who put out these peace feelers in the first place. And you who dealt with them. Moreover, all matters pertaining to the Fuhrer’s presence here in Teheran have, as I understand it, been arranged by you, Comrade Commissar.”

“That’s true. However, the initial contacts were made by Himmler via Madame de Kollontay, in Stockholm. It’s my understanding that these conversations were cleared by Stalin himself, through you, Comrade Secretary.”

“And it was agreed that all matters relating to the handling of the German legation would be administered jointly by the NKVD and the SS. As I see it, Hitler is going home because of a security breakdown of one sort or another. Either because an American tried to kill him or because another American gave him an intelligence file right under our noses.”

For once, Beria had to concede that Molotov was right. “Do you happen to recall which American it was that gave him the file?” he asked Molotov.

“It was the man who saved Hitler’s life. The interpreter.”

“Why would he save Hitler’s life and then fuck up the peace negotiations?”

“I suspect it was just a mistake. The fellow was confused after what had just happened. I think if I had just saved Hitler’s life, I might feel a little perplexed myself. To put it mildly. Anyway, Hopkins told this fellow Mayer to hand over the American position papers and he handed him something else. As simple as that. It must have been this file you describe, because Hopkins was almost at the door when he realized he still had the position papers that were meant for Hitler. Probably he was a bit rattled himself. That’s what happened. The Americans fucked up, that’s all. They probably thought it hardly mattered that this fellow had just given Hitler the Beketovka File, since they could hardly have imagined that Hitler had never seen an important file prepared by his own SD.”

“Jesus Christ,” groaned Beria. “The boss is going to go nuts.”

“Blame it all on the Yank,” advised Molotov. “That’s my advice. Let him take the heat. There’s not much point in saving Hitler’s life if you then manage to fuck up the peace talks.”

“But how? It was a mistake. That’s all. You said so yourself, Molotov.”

“Look, you know what the boss is like, Beria. And he saw it just as I did. Maybe he’ll decide that it was an accident. But just remember it’s our treatment of German POWs that’s sending Hitler away. In other words, the Americans will find out that this is the reason Hitler’s run home. Now that puts the ball in our court, and the boss won’t like that at all. Better give him something he can throw at the Yanks, just in case he’s feeling bloody-minded.”

“Such as?”

“All right. But this is just a thought. And you owe me, Lavrenti Pavlovich. Got that? A favor.”

“Fine, fine, whatever. What’s this thing the boss can level at the Yanks?”

“Just this. The interpreter. He’s a Jew.”

“And?”

“And maybe he’s a pal of Cordell Hull, the American hostage in Berlin. He might want the talks to fail without Hitler getting assassinated, and his friend Hull’s life being forfeit as a result. Something like that.”

“But you heard Hitler. He’s threatening to massacre the rest of Europe’s Jews. Why would a Jew want these talks to fail?”

“Maybe for the same reason Churchill does. Because the total defeat of Germany will require an American army in Europe. Churchill wants that army in Europe as a bulwark against us, Beria. Churchill knows that if Hitler is left in control there will be another European war, which Stalin will win. Meaning the whole of Europe, including Great Britain, will come under Soviet control. It could be that this Jewish interpreter hates communism more than he hates the Nazis. Like a lot of other Americans.”

“That’s not bad, you know,” admitted Beria. “That’s not bad at all. You’ve got a devious fucking mind, Molotov. I respect that.”

“It’s why I’ve stayed alive so long. One more thing: Hopkins was telling me that this Jew is also quite a famous philosopher. Did his doctorate in Germany. Very likely he’s a kraut-lover. Maybe you can make something out of that as well.”

Beria laughed. “Vyacheslav Mikhailovich, you would have made a fucking good policeman, do you know that?”

“If you fuck this up, Lavrenti Pavlovich, there might just turn out to be a job vacancy.”

1430 HOURS

It was a beautiful, mild, sunny Sunday afternoon. Birds were singing in the many cherry trees that grew on the grounds of the Russian embassy compound, and somewhere something delicious was being prepared. But among the president’s immediate entourage, spirits were low and no one felt like eating the late lunch that was scheduled. Hitler’s abrupt departure from the peace talks-he was already aboard his Condor, flying back to the Crimea, and then home-had hit Roosevelt hard.