Winter of the World

‘He’s a physics major, but he doesn’t hang around with the scientists – too dull for him, I guess. I run into him at the Crimson.’ The Harvard Crimson was the student newspaper. Woody took photographs for the paper and Greg wrote articles. ‘He’s doing an internship at the State Department this summer, that’s why he’s here.’

‘In the press office, I imagine,’ said Gus. ‘The two men he’s with are reporters, the one in the brown suit for the Chicago Tribune and the pipe smoker for the Cleveland Plain Dealer.’

Woody saw that Greg was talking to the journalists as if they were old friends, taking the arm of one as he leaned forward to say something in a low voice, patting the other on the back in mock congratulation. They seemed to like him, Woody thought, as they laughed loudly at something he said. Woody envied that talent. It was useful to politicians – though perhaps not essential: his father did not have that hail-fellow-well-met quality, and he was one of the most senior statesmen in America.

Woody said: ‘I wonder how his half-sister Daisy feels about the threat of war. She’s over there in London. She married some English lord.’

‘To be exact, she married the elder son of Earl Fitzherbert, whom I used to know quite well.’

‘She’s the envy of every girl in Buffalo. The King went to her wedding.’

‘I also knew Fitzherbert’s sister, Maud – a wonderful woman. She married Walter von Ulrich, a German. I would have married her myself if Walter hadn’t got to her first.’

Woody raised his eyebrows. It was not like Papa to talk this way.

‘That was before I fell in love with your mother, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Woody smothered a grin.

‘Walter and Maud dropped out of sight after Hitler banned the Social Democrats. I hope they’re all right. If there’s a war . . .’

Woody saw that talk of war had put his father in a reminiscent mood. ‘At least America isn’t involved.’

‘That’s what we thought last time.’ Gus changed the subject. ‘What do you hear from your kid brother?’

Woody sighed. ‘He’s not going to change his mind, Papa. He won’t go to Harvard, or any other university.’

This was a family crisis. Chuck had announced that as soon as he was eighteen he was going to join the navy. Without a college degree he would be an enlisted man, with no prospect of ever becoming an officer. This horrified his high-achieving parents.

‘He’s bright enough for college, damn it,’ said Gus.

‘He beats me at chess.’

‘He beats me, too. So what’s his problem?’

‘He hates to study. And he loves boats. Sailing is the only thing he cares about.’ Woody looked at his wristwatch.

‘You’ve got a party to go to,’ his father said.

‘There’s no hurry—’

‘Sure there is. She’s a very attractive girl. Get the hell out of here.’

Woody grinned. His father could be surprisingly smart. ‘Thanks, Papa.’ He got up.

Greg Peshkov was leaving at the same time, and they went out together. ‘Hello, Woody, how are things?’ Greg said amiably, turning in the same direction.

There had been a time when Woody wanted to punch Greg for his part in what had been done to Dave Rouzrokh. His feelings had cooled over the years, and in truth it was Lev Peshkov who had been responsible, not his son, who had then been only fifteen. All the same, Woody was no more than polite. ‘I’m enjoying Washington,’ he said, walking along one of the city’s wide Parisian boulevards. ‘How about you?’

‘I like it. They soon get over their surprise at my name.’ Seeing Woody’s enquiring look, Greg explained: ‘The State Department is all Smiths, Fabers, Jensens and McAllisters. No one called Kozinsky or Cohen or Papadopoulos.’

Woody realized it was true. Government was carried on by a rather exclusive little ethnic group. Why had he not noticed that before? Perhaps because it had been the same in school, in church, and at Harvard.

Greg went on: ‘But they’re not narrow-minded. They’ll make an exception for someone who speaks fluent Russian and comes from a wealthy family.’

Greg was being flippant, but there was an undertone of real resentment, and Woody saw that the guy had a serious chip on his shoulder.

‘They think my father is a gangster,’ Greg said. ‘But they don’t really mind. Most rich people have a gangster somewhere in their ancestry.’

‘You sound as if you hate Washington.’

‘On the contrary! I wouldn’t be anywhere else. The power is here.’

Woody felt he was more high-minded. ‘I’m here because there are things I want to do, changes I want to make.’

Greg grinned. ‘Same thing, I guess – power.’

‘Hmm.’ Woody had not thought of it that way.

Greg said: ‘Do you think there will be war in Europe?’

‘You should know, you’re in the State Department!’

‘Yeah, but I’m in the press office. All I know is the fairy tales we tell reporters. I have no idea what the truth is.’

‘Heck, I don’t know, either. I’ve just been with the President and I don’t think even he knows.’

‘My sister, Daisy, is over there.’

Greg’s tone had changed. His worry was evidently genuine, and Woody warmed to him. ‘I know.’