35. Thomas
35
Thomas
T he plane’s engines roared as we descended into Washington. The faint vibration of my seat mirrored the tension that had been building since we’d taken off in Europe.
Will sat beside me, his gaze fixed on the small window. I didn’t think he was looking at the view so much as through it, his thoughts somewhere far beyond the patchwork of fields and roads below. I reached over and gave his hand a quick squeeze, a silent reassurance that we were in this together. Always.
“Almost there,” he said quietly. “Do you think they’ll listen?”
“They have to.” I wasn’t sure I believed it. “This isn’t something they can ignore.”
The wheels touched American soil with a jolt. Once at the gate, the flight crew ushered us off quickly to where two black cars awaited, their engines idling. One of the drivers pushed himself off his car and strode toward us, while the other watched from the driver’s side of his sedan. Manakin greeted the chauffeur with his usual brusque efficiency, then turned to us.
“You only have a few moments to gather yourselves and change before we head to the White House. I’ll see you in the hotel lobby.”
Without waiting for a reply, Manakin stepped around one car and climbed into the second. Our driver, the man he’d spoken with, glanced our way. “Ready?”
I shrugged. “As ever.”
On the drive to the Willard, the hotel nicknamed “the Residence of Presidents,” Will and I found ourselves again staring silently out windows. Manakin had put us in the nicest hotel in DC—and in the same room. I wouldn’t have thought much about the gesture had there been twin beds. Partners often split the expense of a hotel stay. It was the king-sized bed that held court that caught my eye.
“One room?” It was as much a statement as a question.
Will shrugged. “You think anything gets by Manakin?”
“Yeah, I guess . . . still. This is almost more than I can wrap my head around. We’d be arrested in most states if anyone knew, well, you know.”
Will chuckled and kissed my cheek. “I know.”
Will stepped to the window and stared out at the city as I rummaged through our suitcase. Everything we owned was either filthy or wrinkled. I’d have to put the hotel’s iron to good use before our next stop.
“Feels weird,” Will said, though I was unsure if he spoke to himself or to me.
“Huh? What does?”
“Washington. The States. Being home.” He reached up and scratched his scalp, then turned to face me. “We’ve spent so long in Europe, in the middle of so much destruction . . . it’s strange to be here where the bombs never fell.”
A thousand words flooded my mind, but Will’s thoughts had stilled my tongue.
He went on. “I mean, Berlin was . . . like being on another planet. It wasn’t just the buildings. The people were as hollowed out as their homes. It felt like walking through a world of black and white.”
“And now we’re back in the land of color?”
“Something like that.” He nodded as a small snort escaped. “Even in Paris, where most of the city was still intact and beautiful, the war’s fingerprints were everywhere. We couldn’t escape them. It was in the eyes of everyone we passed, pockmarked in the buildings, painted on the walls. Paris felt whole, but it wasn’t healed.”
A moment lingered before I replied, “That’s poetic.”
“It’s fucking sad.”
“Yeah, it is.”
I crossed the room, wrapped my arms around his waist, and turned us toward the window. We stared out at one of the capital’s historic plazas. The sun shone brightly. People on sidewalks chatted and smiled. Children played and squealed and laughed.
“It doesn’t feel real. None of this does,” Will whispered.
I kissed Will’s neck and breathed in his scent. He clung and refused to let go.
The telephone rang.
“Jesus, can they just give us a minute?” Will groused.
“Yes?” I said into the receiver.
A few seconds later, I hung up and turned to Will. “Manakin says to hurry and change. Our window with the POTUS is narrow. We leave in ten.”
“Keep your heads down and let the seniors do the talking. Do not speak unless spoken to.” Manakin’s crusty shell had hardened since the airport. Apparently, meeting with the President of the United States was one thing that could make the invincible man’s ass pucker.
“Understood,” I said, meeting Manakin’s gaze.
The streets of Washington were bustling. Our car’s interior was quiet except for the faint hum of the engine and the occasional scrape of Manakin’s pen as he jotted notes on a small pad.
Will leaned back and closed his eyes.
His fingers drummed a restless rhythm on the seat.
I wanted to say something reassuring, but words felt inadequate. Instead, I leaned closer, letting my shoulder brush against his. He opened his eyes, and for a moment, the tension in his expression softened.
If our driver noticed, he didn’t let on.
When we arrived at the White House, security ushered us through, their movements precise and rehearsed. The halls were a blur of polished floors, hushed voices, and the occasional clatter of typewriters. Manakin’s presence seemed to part the sea of staffers as we were led toward the Oval Office.
Standing beside a pair of desks where the President’s secretaries worked, Manakin turned to face us. “Remember,” he said, his voice unwavering. “This is the President of the United States. Show respect, keep your answers concise—but only when you’re asked for them—and let the senior leaders do the heavy lifting. Understood?”
“Understood,” I echoed. Will gave a curt nod.
A woman in a neat dress whose pattern landed somewhere between grandmotherly lampshade and elegant artwork stepped out from behind a thick door. She smiled brightly in our direction, then nodded to Manakin. “The President will see you now.”
Brilliant sunlight flowed through floor-to-ceiling windows from behind the President’s desk. The tang of polished wood and freshly brewed coffee filled the space. An iconic painting of George Washington hung above the fireplace, while a hodgepodge of nicknacks littered the mantle. Other statues and paintings, priceless Americana, were on display in every corner of the rounded room.
Those already assembled rose as we entered. Despite their calm veneer, tension thrummed beneath the surface.
Manakin walked two paces ahead of us, his shoulders squared to military precision. Will, as always, fell into an easy rhythm beside me.
President Truman stood near his desk, his gaze sweeping over us as though he could divine our secrets with a glance. To his right, Charles Steelman, Assistant to the President, 1 observed our entry with the detachment of a chess master considering his next move. Secretary of War 2 Henry Stimson leaned on his cane, his expression weary but sharp.
Manakin faced the President and waited.
“Gentlemen.” Truman stepped forward and extended a hand, his Midwestern accent grounding the moment in a strange sort of comfort. “I’ve been briefed, but I expect you’ll fill in the gaps.”
“Yes, sir,” Manakin replied, shaking the President’s hand, then stepping to the others and repeating the greeting. He then gestured for Will and me to step forward. “These are the OSS agents who helped to recover the film in question.”
“Welcome, gentlemen. Please, take a seat,” Truman said, his voice steady but expectant, as he sat in one of two chairs positioned in front of the fireplace. Stimson and Steelman sat on a couch to the President’s right, so Manakin, Will, and I took the one to his left.
I swallowed, my nerves catching briefly before Will nudged me with a slight bump of his elbow.
“Mr. President, Mr. Secretary, what we recovered in Berlin turned out to be far more than simple intelligence,” Manakin began, his voice measured. “It bears evidence of atrocities committed by Soviet forces against unarmed Polish civilians. The microfilm . . .” He paused, the word feeling almost fragile. “ . . . documents mass executions carried out in Eastern Europe.”
Steelman’s eyebrows shot up. Stimson barely flinched.
Truman, for his part, leaned back, his gaze unwavering. “And this evidence . . . it’s credible?”
“Yes, sir,” Manakin said. “The film was authenticated by our contacts in Paris. It was hidden in a statue by a Nazi intelligence officer who was attempting to use it as leverage against the Soviets.”
“In a statue?” the President asked.
“Yes, sir. A carving of a Jewish rabbi, if you can believe it.”
The President chuckled and shook his head.
Before he could ask another question, Stimson’s voice cut through like a blade. “Why was a Nazi blackmailing the Soviets?”
Will’s jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought he might violate Manakin’s instructions, but he held his tongue.
“Intel here is thin, but we believe the Nazi officer wanted an escape from Berlin, perhaps a new identity,” Manakin answered. “We suspect he knew our side would never agree to such demands, so he turned to Stalin.”
Truman groaned. “As if anyone believes his poppycock.”
I had to fight to keep my jaw from dropping. Did the President already see through Stalin’s claims? Had we underestimated what he knew, what he believed, about our rising adversary?
Truman’s fingers tapped lightly against the armrest of his chair, the only sound in the room besides the faint hum of the air conditioning. He finally broke the silence. “So, you’re telling me we have evidence of Soviet war crimes that make the Nazis look civilized?”
Manakin cleared his throat. “Sir, what the Nazis did was unimaginable. We’re not here to draw comparisons—”
“But comparisons will be drawn,” Truman interrupted, his tone sharp. “Not just by us, but by the entire world if this gets out.”
“Which is precisely why it can’t get out,” Steelman said, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of warning. “If this were to become public, it could upend the fragile postwar peace we’ve worked so hard to foster.”
“Do you actually think the Soviets don’t know we have it?” Stimson jabbed. “If our boys are right, and I am sure they are, the Ruskies have been scouring Berlin for this film with every agent they could throw at it. Mr. President, they’ll escalate. It’s what they do.”
Will and I exchanged a glance, the shared understanding passing between us unspoken.
“What do you think?” the President asked, looking directly into my soul. I’d never thought of myself as the squeamish sort, but when the President of the United States stared into your eyes and demanded answers, it was time to change your underwear. At least, that’s how I felt in that moment.
“Mr. President,” I said, clearing my throat. “We’ve already seen what lengths they’ll go to. This wasn’t just about intelligence—it was about control. The Soviets want to erase this record entirely.”
Truman’s expression darkened. “And what do you propose we do with it?”
“Sir, I’m not—”
The President held up a palm. “Speculate.”
I hesitated, weighing my words. “Use it strategically. The Soviets are already positioning themselves as our adversaries. They don’t care that the world hates them or disagrees with their governing model. They want to impose their dominance over their area of influence, expand it where possible. This film could provide leverage in future negotiations with them—or warnings to them.”
“Leverage is a dangerous game. Ask our dead Nazi.” Steelman folded his arms. “If Stalin gets wind of this, he might see it as an act of aggression, maybe even an excuse for war.”
“He sees everything as an act of war,” I shot back. “This film won’t change that.”
“Gentlemen,” Truman said firmly. “Let’s not lose sight of the larger picture. The postwar world is a chess match, not a barroom brawl.”
The President’s gaze then settled on Will. “You’ve been in the thick of this. What do you think?”
“Sir, I think,” he began slowly, “that the Soviets won’t stop killing to cover this up. As the Secretary said, we need to be prepared for escalation, but hiding the film entirely . . . that’s not a solution either. It’s evidence—evidence that could hold them accountable, at least in the court of public opinion.”
Truman’s lips pressed into a thin line. “And what happens in the meantime?”
“We use it,” Manakin interjected, seizing control from his agents, whom he clearly wanted to remain silent. “Surgically. The Soviets will think twice if they know we have it and that we’re willing to act.”
The debate continued for another half hour. It felt like hours.
Truman’s final call was neither satisfying nor unexpected. “We’ll keep the film secure,” he said with a tone of finality. “It will inform our actions against the Soviets for years to come. Publicly, this would be viewed as just another Soviet killing spree, another chapter in Stalin’s bloody ledger.”
“The death of one man is a tragedy; the death of millions is a statistic,” 3 I muttered, not realizing I’d spoken aloud until I looked up and saw everyone—including the President—staring at me.
I wanted to fight, to demand more from the leader of the free world, but I held my tongue. We’d done our jobs. We’d retrieved the evidence and brought it to the highest authorities. What they chose to do with it was beyond our control. As much as I hated to admit it, Manakin was right.
The weight of our conversation lingered as we left the Oval Office. Will leaned in, his voice so low only I could hear. “Another Soviet killing spree. Just one of many?”
I didn’t respond. There was nothing left to say.
The Cold War was just beginning, and our roles in it were far from over.
1. The Assistant to the President was retitled to Chief of Staff in 1961 by President Dwight D. Eisenhower.
2. The Secretary of War role was replaced by the Secretaries of the Army and Navy by an act of Congress in 1949. Both were subordinate to the newly created Secretary of Defense.
3. While commonly attributed to Stalin, many point to an essay by Kurt Tucholsky, a German journalist, in a column published in 1925, in which he wrote, “The war? I cannot find it. You, the war? Who knows it? You know. A million deaths is a catastrophe: only a hundred thousand is a statistic.”