May 12, 1945
London, England
My plane circles over the Northolt airfield over and over. A kind young officer offers me a drink in hopes of distracting me from the obvious, and I accept, but the drink does not make me oblivious. How could it? I distinctly heard the pilot receive a radio message that the Napier is delayed, and I know exactly who owns the Napier and what the message means. Winston is running late, and the pilot has been instructed to circle until the vehicle can race to meet my plane on the runway. Winston wants to make it seem as if he’s been awaiting my arrival for hours.
I could be justifiably irritated by these circumstances. After all, I have been gone for nearly six weeks, and my arrival has been fixed for at least three days, with hourly updates. But I am too elated by the developments and too overjoyed to see my husband to suffer a silly fit of pique. I smile to myself, but my traveling companions, the stalwart Grace and Miss Mabel Johnson, the secretary to the Aid to Russia Fund, see it and return the grin. They undoubtedly believe I’m smiling at the relief and delight in finally returning home on the heels of such wondrous news, which is true. But I am also gratified by much more.
The plane finally makes it descent, and I slide my mirror out of my purse to straighten my hair and apply fresh lipstick. From my window, I see a flash of red as the wheels touch down, and I know it is Winston’s car. No matter the lateness, he has arrived. Gathering my purse, I step off the plane from Russia.
* * *
When the gold-rimmed invitation arrived, I was quite astonished. I’d grown proud of the eight million pounds I raised for my Aid to Russia Fund, funded through voluntary salary deductions, door-to-door efforts, and events, even when Stalin and Roosevelt endeavored to take control over the war’s direction. After all, I was doing it for the suffering people of Russia, not their leader. But I never thought I’d be singled out for my efforts, especially now that war victory was virtually assured. I usually watch and assess from the wings, unsung and often unnoticed.
Yet the Russian Red Cross wanted me to visit and inspect firsthand the excellent use they’d made of the funds I’d collected and the materials I’d sent over. The trip and accompanying tour throughout Moscow, Leningrad, and the countryside would take six to eight weeks, and I worried about leaving Winston for the long expanse, particularly because his mood had turned foul in the days after D-Day. Even though the casualties were far fewer than Winston had thought and Operation Overlord had indeed initiated the fall of the Nazis, the operation had yielded the terrible loss of thousands of men, and the mounting pressure to fell our enemy once and for all had soured his temper, not to mention the worry over his troubled relations with Roosevelt and Stalin. Even our jubilant November trip to Paris to celebrate its liberation at de Gaulle’s invitation had provided only a brief respite from his mood. Did his temper stem from the awful loss of life and devastation to Europe due to the war, from concern over a lessening in his power as regards Stalin and Roosevelt, or from fears over the state of Europe in the postwar years and his place in a changing Britain? Winston was strangely silent on the subject of his humor.
“You must go, Clemmie. You could be the one positive force in Anglo-Russia relations and make some headway for us. Bridge the gap in our Russian relations and all that,” Winston said when I expressed my reservations, although, of course, I did not attribute my hesitation to his mood. Since the February conference in Yalta, convened for the express purpose of discussing the postwar reorganization of Germany and Europe, Winston had grown increasingly suspicious of Stalin’s intentions and the possible Soviet expansion into Eastern Europe. How could I decline the trip when Winston claimed it might do much good?
I accepted the invitation and ordered my uniforms for the journey, which designated my rank, vice president of County of London Branch, British Red Cross. When they arrived, the boxy fit was unflattering, so I had the uniforms tailored and paired them with the Red Cross berets. By the time I wore the uniform to my send-off tea with the queen, I almost felt like myself in the attire.
Although Winston expressed reservations about the trip when the departure date grew close, I proceeded, with Grace and Mabel joining me on the trip. When we stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac in Moscow on the first day of April after the multiday journey, I was overwhelmed with our welcome. Mr. and Mrs. Ivan Maisky, the former Russian ambassador and his wife; Paulina Molotov, the wife of the minister for foreign affairs; the British ambassador Sir Archibald Clark Kerr; and the American ambassador, our own Averell Harriman, were part of the large contingent greeting us. I was unexpectedly moved, as this was the first official reception held specifically for me and my contributions, and I had to hold back tears while I shook hands. Typically, everyone feted Winston.
I was immediately swept into a hectic itinerary of visits to hospitals, children’s homes, factories that manufacture artificial limbs, ambulance stations, and portable hospital units. Every place our funds went, we toured, and for the first time, I comprehended the breadth and importance of the Aid to Russia Fund. Luncheons and dinners in my honor were interspersed with the touring, including one where I received the Soviet Red Cross Distinguished Service Medal, and we even attended the ballet, an exquisite version of Swan Lake.
Winston kept me apprised of the wartime developments with constant cables and letters when they could be kept secure, as well as his horror over the concentration camps. We shared news and angst over the safety and location of Nellie’s son Giles, who was still being held by the Nazis at Colditz Castle possibly for hostage value, and Winston’s brother Jack, who was gravely ill. I prayed for their health and thanked God that at least, in this final hour of the war, we were not being troubled again by my awful Mitford cousins, some of whom had been pro-Nazi during the war and one of whom had actually married her husband at the home of Nazi leader Joseph Goebbels, with Hitler in attendance no less.
Winston’s highest priority for my time in Russia was my meeting with Stalin. Ever since Winston expressed his displeasure at Russia’s violation of the agreements made at the conference in Yalta, the terms about Poland and Romania specifically, Stalin had become ice cold toward my husband. Winston requested that I make a very particular statement to Stalin about his belief that an accord between Russia and English-speaking countries will be reached soon. I rehearsed the phrase over and over, even attempting it in Russian before jettisoning the effort and deciding that I would rely upon the interpreter. God knew I could not afford to misspeak in Russian and deliver the entirely wrong message.
The appointment with Stalin was set, but when the hour arrived, only I was permitted to enter his chamber, not Grace or Mabel. The long corridor from the guards’ station to enormous double doors seemed interminable without their company, and when another set of guards granted me access, I entered a room that was no less vast than the corridors. At the far end of the impressive study, decorated in a neoclassical style, sat the dark-eyed Stalin behind his desk. Quite rudely, he did not glance up as he scribbled away, although he could hear me approach as my heels clattered and echoed in the vast space. Only when I stood directly before him did he look at me and, through an interpreter, say, “We thank you for the great work undertaken by the Aid to Russia Fund.”
Nodding, I answered by offering my gratitude for his invitation and wonderful reception and handing him a gift. “From the Churchills.”
As the Russian leader unwrapped the case containing a gold fountain pen, I said the exact words Winston urged me to stay to Stalin.
When I was done speaking, he stared at me in complete silence for a long minute. My nerves started to overtake me, thinking about all the horrific rumors of torture at the Kremlin that we’d heard for years. I watched as he put the gold pen to one side of his desk and finally said, “I have my own writing utensil.”
What did this vaguely ominous sentence mean? I surmised that relations between Moscow and London had deteriorated even further since I received my last missive from Winston, who, in any event, was severely limited in his reports because my mail was monitored. Fear began to set in. The Russians might be our Allies in these last days of the war, but they most certainly were not our friends. I did not respond, as I had no idea what to say, and I wondered what the future would hold for Britain and Russia.
“Thank you for your visit, Mrs. Churchill,” Stalin finally said tersely, then he nodded to his guard, who promptly escorted me from the room.
His guards shepherded me out and delivered Grace, Mabel, and me directly into a waiting, well-equipped train that would take us across Russia to see firsthand the sites benefiting from our funds, beginning in Moscow and traveling to Leningrad. Although my interaction with Stalin had chilled me to the core, the cheers of the Russian people and their gratitude for the Aid to Russia Fund warmed me as we left the station. I could not make sense of the disparity between the two, other than Stalin’s feelings toward my husband.
As our train made one of its many stops in locales both urban and rural over the next few weeks, we visited the devastated city of Stalingrad. We drove through a vast public square with a towering obelisk at its center, and I asked Mrs. Kislova, the interpreter assigned to us from the All-Union Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries, about its significance, assuming that it was a historical treasure of some sort. “It is called the Brothers’ Graves, and it marks a huge common grave for the thousands of citizens who died defending our city against the Nazis,” she explained as we passed by houses that were no more than hovels that families had dug out of piles of rubble, and then she announced, “We are here.”
Our planned visit for the afternoon was a children’s home where, Mrs. Kislova had informed us, we would see mounds of equipment and supplies that our fund had financed. Grace, Mabel, and I stepped over debris to reach the imposing doors of the bullet-scarred hospital that, Mrs. Kislova told us, had been marked as a special target by the Luftwaffe bombers.
Her eyes wide, Grace, usually quiet, asked, “The Nazis intentionally targeted a children’s hospital?”
Our interpreter gave us a matter-of-fact nod and answered, “To break our spirits.”
When we entered the hall, children lined the halls of the foyer and wards. Wounded eight-year-old boys who’d fought with the partisans stood alongside scarred six-year-old girls who quaked at the sight of an unfamiliar face. Children without limbs, children with wracking coughs, children with oozing wounds, and children without eyes or ears. And that was the children who were capable of standing. Many more children lay in row after row of beds, most of them listless or unresponsive.
“Most of these children would not be alive without the aid you provided,” Mrs. Kislova interpreted for the hospital warden. “Especially because most of their parents are dead.”
Tears streaming down my cheeks, I stared directly at the worst casualties of war, for whom our supplies and medication could only stanch their unfathomable injuries.
Grace, Mabel, and I were still reeling from our visit to the children’s hospital when our train pulled into the next station, and I saw Mr. and Mrs. Molotov standing on the platform. What on earth were they doing here? Suddenly, my heart began beating wildly. Had something happened to Winston? Surely the British ambassador or Averell would have come if that was the case, I told myself.
Their aide, a Russian military officer, boarded our train first and had an animated conversation with our interpreter. They reached some kind of agreement, and then the Molotovs stepped onto the train. Mrs. Kislova nodded deferentially to them as they passed, and I stood up and greeted them warmly as they entered my car. But Mr. Molotov’s face was morose. “We come with bad news, Mrs. Churchill. President Roosevelt is dead,” he said.
Roosevelt? Dead? It seemed incomprehensible, even though Winston had told me that he looked quite ill at the Yalta Conference with a grayness about his face and eyes. While I’d harbored misgivings about the American leader for some time, I was grateful for the role he played alongside us in this awful war, and I could not fathom the new world order without him. How is Eleanor faring? I wondered. More importantly for me, how was Winston?
I consoled Winston over a telephone call at our hotel later that day, and together, we scripted a letter for him to send to Stalin, which he hoped would also appear in the Russian newspapers. But nothing could dull the shock and distress he felt, I knew. No matter Roosevelt’s recent machinations, Winston’s loyalty had remained intact. He urged me to continue the tour, as every effort must be made to mend the British-Russian relationship, so we continued.
Not until we made our final return into Moscow did I feel a tug to return home once more, this time for more jubilant reasons. The British embassy sent over a representative to my hotel with the news that Mussolini had been captured and executed by anti-fascists and that this was followed by the suicide of Hitler. When Germany finally surrendered on May 7, the tug to go home became a firm pull. Despite the fact that I couldn’t make it back to London in time for Victory in Europe Day, or VE Day, a fact that upset me greatly, I made fixed plans to return to London and Winston.
In a surreal way, I did spend VE Day with Winston after all. On May 8, Grace, Mabel, and I gathered at the British embassy with the ambassador, his wife, Averell, and the diplomatic staff, and we heard my husband’s voice broadcasting victory and freedom over the radio from London. Even though we were thousands of miles apart, even though I could not watch him make his victory statement to the House of Commons, even though I could not be there to see thousands cheer him on in Parliament Square, I felt my fingers link with his in celebration of our victory.
But as we walked out onto the Moscow streets afterward and I talked about the victory with the Russian diplomats and our interpreter, I began to understand how very divergent their views on the war and the armistice were from our own, and I marveled at how dissimilar the same event can appear to different people. How distinct are the lenses through which we each perceive the world, I thought. I prayed that the citizens we’d helped with the Aid to Russia Fund and the connections we’d made on this visit might serve as a bridge between Britain and Russia, if and when the differences in our perspectives divided us even further, as Winston was already predicting.
* * *
I take the final step off the plane and onto the tarmac, smiling back at Grace, who’s been such a trusted secretary and friend these long years of the war. Winston waits for me on the edge of the runway, his arms brimming with several bouquets’ worth of flowers and a wide, ebullient smile on his lips. Simultaneously, we walk forward until we meet in the middle, wrapping our arms around each other. The vibrant flowers are pressed within the folds of our embrace.
“Cat, how I’ve missed you,” he whispers into my ear. Then he suddenly pulls back and looks me up and down. “You are still wearing your Red Cross uniform,” he declares, as if I’ve forgotten.
I smile but do not comment. I’m delighted that he’s noticed without me having to draw attention to my attire. I want him to view me in uniform as I’ve come to view myself in uniform. As one who’s served her country well.
We separate reluctantly but link arms as we stroll toward Winston’s red Napier. “We have peace, Pug. You made this happen,” I say to him with a wide grin and a loud guffaw. My joy is unbridled at this news, no longer new, because I am in his presence; it almost hadn’t seemed real until I could say the word aloud to him.
“No, Clemmie, we did this. It is our peace,” he replies with a squeeze of my hand.
The sun sets in swaths of shimmering gold against the sharp line of the horizon where sky meets land, and as it descends, I feel an unfamiliar tranquility descend upon me as well. All the strain and struggle that have comprised my life—my lonely and strange childhood, the wild swings of my unusual marriage, my struggle with motherhood, my compunction to constantly prove myself worthy, the tumult of two wars, even my pervasive sense of otherness—seem to fall away. In the vacuum of calm, I see with unexpected clarity that, without my unique hardships and failings, particularly with my children, I could not have become the Clementine who forged this path through politics and history, and without me, my husband could not have become the Winston who helped deliver peace to this broken world.
As we walk, I experience the most unusual sensation, as if we are passing into history at this very moment. Not later, when future generations have had their chance to dissect our actions and reconsider our decisions, but right now, as we stare out at the glow of the sunset on the landscape. When the successors to our time appraise Winston and this awful war, as they surely must, I know that they will see Winston’s hand on the pen that scribes history. But, I wonder, will they see that my hand has also been on the pen all along?