Even Joe Steele said, “I commend the Russian Army’s endurance and bravery. This stroke has dealt the Nazis a heavy blow.”
Vince Scriabin’s comment to Charlie was more cynicaclass="underline" “I wonder how many generals Trotsky shot before the Red Army started doing things right. More than we have here-I guarantee you that.”
“You’ve got to be right,” Charlie said-if he told Scriabin he was wrong, he’d get shot himself, or at least end up in a labor encampment. He wasn’t saying anything he didn’t believe. Trotsky might have been even more ruthless than Joe Steele, and he’d held on to the reins longer. Charlie added, “I wonder how many Hitler’s gonna shoot now that the Germans aren’t doing so hot.”
He actually got a smile out of Scriabin. “I like that!” the Hammer said. “I really like that! So will the boss. And I’ll tell him you said it, too. I won’t steal it from you.”
“I wasn’t worried about it.” Again, Charlie told the truth. If Scriabin did steal his nice line, what could he do? Nothing. Luckily, he had sense enough to see as much.
“When the boss asked you to come to the White House, I wasn’t sure you’d work out here,” Scriabin said. A sentence like that carried any number of possibilities for disaster. Scriabin had the authority to act on his doubts. Who would miss a reporter-turned-speechwriter? Well, Esther would. Who with any power, though? The question answered itself. But the Hammer went on, “You’ve done all right since you got here. Maybe I was judging you by your brother.”
“Glad I could be useful.” Charlie left it right there. He didn’t tell Scriabin that Mike had gone from that labor encampment to the Army. Scriabin could find out in seconds if he decided to. If he didn’t feel like finding out. . Mike was bound to be better off.
“Useful. Yes.” Scriabin bobbed his head on his thin neck and hurried away. If Charlie was any judge, Joe Steele’s aide had embarrassed himself by acting somewhat like a human being.
A few days later, American troops under Omar Bradley-another man who’d sat on a tribunal or two-landed in North Africa with the British. They didn’t trap the Germans retreating out of Egypt through Libya so neatly as they planned. Grimly, the Nazis hung on in Tunisia.
So things weren’t perfect. In his forties now, Charlie didn’t expect or even much hope for perfection. Things could have been worse. For a middle-aged man, that would do.
XVIII
In Washington, the war seemed like voices from another room even after more than a year. The Germans surviving in Trotskygrad threw down their guns and surrendered early in 1943. They marched off into Red captivity with their hands clasped on top of their heads. Seeing Russian photos of those glum, dirty, starving men, Charlie wondered how many of them would ever get back to the Vaterland. Precious few, unless he missed his guess.
For a while, it looked as if the Nazis’ whole position in southern Russia would unravel. But the Führer’s generals still knew what they were doing. They let the Red Army outrun its supplies, then counterattacked. Pretty soon, the Russians, not the Germans, were the ones hoping the spring thaw that stopped operations for weeks would come early. They’d hurt Hitler, but they’d got hurt in turn.
In the Pacific, Eisenhower’s soldiers and Nimitz’s sailors and Marines won control of the Solomons. It was neither easy nor cheap, but they did it. The Japs fell back in New Guinea, too. Like the Germans, their reach had exceeded their grasp. Now they were finding out what hell was for.
And in Washington, people grumbled because gasoline for civilians was rationed, tires were hard to get, and you couldn’t buy all the sugar or coffee you wanted. Nobody starved. Nobody went hungry who hadn’t been hungry before the war. Fewer people were hungry these days. With factories open and humming, jobs were easy to get.
Sarah turned five. Patrick turned one. Charlie wondered how that had happened. He hadn’t aged a day since his first child was born. Eyeing Esther, he was sure no time had passed for her, either. But Sarah would be starting kindergarten in the fall, and Patrick was saying dada and mama and connecting the noises with the people they belonged to.
Joe Steele’s henchmen in the White House seemed contented if not happy. “A year ago, things looked terrible,” Stas Mikoian told Charlie. “The Germans were going crazy. They were smashing the Russians. They were sinking everything in sight on the Atlantic. Hell, in the Caribbean, too. It looked like they might take the Suez Canal. The Japs were running wild, too. We couldn’t slow ’em down, let alone stop ’em. Neither could England or Holland. The boss was really worried we might lose the war.”
“It won’t happen now,” Charlie said.
“Nope. It sure won’t,” Mikoian agreed. He and Scriabin had more gray in their hair than they did when Charlie came to work at the White House. So did Joe Steele. Lazar Kagan didn’t. Charlie suspected him of discreetly touching it up. If he did, though, only his barber knew for sure.
“How long do you think it’ll take?” Charlie asked, and then answered his own question: “Somewhere between one year and three, I bet. Peace again in 1945 or ’46-maybe ’44 if we get lucky.”
“That sounds about right,” Mikoian said. “I mean, unless something goes wrong somewhere. All things considered, the war may be hard on the rest of the world, but it’s good for us.”
“Funny-I was thinking the same thing not long ago,” Charlie said. “When everything’s done, the Japs and the Nazis’ll be knocked flat. The Russians are doing all the dying against Hitler, so they’ll be a while getting back on their feet, too. England can’t fight Germany without us, ’cause we make so much of what she needs. We make what everybody needs, and Hitler and Tojo can’t get at us.”
Mikoian nodded. He smiled. He had an inviting smile, one that urged you to come and be amused, too. “And the war lets Joe Steele finish getting the country properly disciplined without a bunch of people grousing all the time.”
“Properly disciplined. .” Charlie tasted the phrase. “Is that what he calls it these days?”
“Oh, no. You’ve got to blame me for it. It’s my line,” Stas Mikoian said. “But that’s about the size of it, you know. When the boss took over, everything was a mess. Everybody was screaming at everybody else like a bunch of monkeys in a cage. The government didn’t have the power to do anything.”
“Hey, c’mon. Only us chickens here, okay?” Charlie said. “When you say the government, you mean the President.”
“Well, sure.” Mikoian didn’t even try to deny it. “Who else? Congress? What were they but the loudest monkeys around? The Supreme Court? If Joe Steele hadn’t taken care of the Supreme Court, we’d still be screwed up. All they ever said was no. So who does that leave? If the President doesn’t do it, nobody would.”
“Yes, but if he goes overboard, how do you stop him?” Charlie asked-not the least dangerous question in the White House. He wouldn’t have asked it of Scriabin or Kagan. He sure as hell wouldn’t have asked it of Joe Steele. But he trusted the Armenian-a little bit, anyhow.
Mikoian smiled again. “I know what’s eating you-your brother went to a labor encampment.”
“That’s sure some of it,” Charlie admitted.
“But we need labor encampments. They’re good for discipline, too. They keep people from being stupid. They keep people from being careless. My brother works with Douglas, remember. There were wreckers among the aeronautical engineers, believe it or not.”
“You’ve said that before, but your brother didn’t get a term,” Charlie said harshly.
“He could have. If they’d put a case together against him, he would have. Do you think being my brother would have made any difference? You don’t know Joe Steele very well if you do.”
After Charlie did think about it, he decided Mikoian was right. Anybody could get a term, anybody at all. It was just something that happened, like getting a toothache. “How long do you suppose he’ll be President?” Charlie asked, not quite out of thin air.