Free Churchill's Triumph by Michael Dobbs Page A

bait.”
    Whether or not the offense was intended, it was most certainly taken, particularly by one of the younger Americans, who pushed away his plate in disgust. “Power isn’t an end in itself. It’s not an excuse for excess. I think the American people would expect us to exercise restraint in dealing with the rights of others.”
    “Then the American people should learn to do as their leaders tell them, or what’s the point in leadership?” came back the reply that, even through the sieve of interpretation, lost none of its sting.
    “I’d like to see you come to Chicago and tell them that.”
    “Book me a ticket.”
    Throughout it all, Roosevelt had said nothing, but his face spoke of his mounting distress. When at last his words came, they were intended to smooth the ruffled feathers. “You would get a warm welcome, sir,” he began in his educated New England drawl to Vyshinsky, “and so would you, Marshal Stalin. You know, all over America, we call you Uncle Joe.”
    “What?”
    “We think of you fondly.”
    “You call me what?”
    “Uncle Joe.”
    And without warning, Stalin had jumped to his feet, sending his chair toppling. It took only a moment for all the other Russians to follow suit. There was much banging of cutlery.
    “How much longer do I have to stay here?” Stalin stared pointedly at his watch.
    “The Marshal is very busy,” one of his aides exclaimed excitedly. “A war to run.”
    “He doesn’t like to be called names,” said another.
    Stalin was now staring at the ceiling and breathing heavily, as though struggling to control his temper. “How much longer do I have to stay here?” he repeated.
    “Oh, at least half an hour, I’d say,” Churchill replied, in a tone that some thought flippant as he chased a portion of cream cake round his plate. Everyone else seemed to have lost their appetite.
    Harriman took up the running. “It’s like we call our own country Uncle Sam,” he explained. “No offense intended, Marshal, I assure you. And, I hope, none taken. Please allow me to apologize if there has been any misunderstanding.”
    “We were not calling you names,” the President declared in anguish. “It’s . . . a compliment. A token of affection.” He glanced in desperation at Stalin’s interpreter.
    The interpreter was gabbling, trying frantically to get the words out before any further outburst made his job and, possibly, his life redundant. Stalin stiffened as he listened, tugging at the tails of his tunic. Only when the final words of apology were offered did he glance at Roosevelt and, with a curt nod, indicate his acceptance.
    A white-coated servant stepped forward. He had been standing behind the Russian leader all evening, yet despite being young and evidently fit he had done nothing to help the other servants beyond whispering occasional instructions in their ear. Now he bent to retrieve Stalin’s fallen chair. As he did so, his crisp white coat rode up to reveal the barrel of what Churchill identified as a Mauser. Harriman saw it, too, and shook his head in sorrow.
    Suddenly it was Churchill’s turn to stand. “While the Marshal is on his feet,” he began, “I propose that we join him in a toast.” He raised his glass.
    They all followed, glad of the opportunity to relieve the tension.
    Churchill held his glass high. “To the King!”
    The faces of the Russians, already glowing in concern, now turned to masks of panic. Stettinius scowled, too. Eyes bored into Churchill. Stalin lowered his glass, his lip curled back in a silent curse.
    “And to the proletarian masses,” the Englishman added softly.
    Slowly the stiffness left Stalin’s hand, and at last he drank.
    “And may the masses be patient with me,” Churchill concluded, as he sat down. “You see, gentlemen, I must remind you that I am the only leader here who can at any time be removed from office by the people.”
    “That’s nonsense,” Stalin contradicted him, as he took his own seat. In