After several months I began to fill with hopelessness. Gradually I started to suspect that there was no good end to this, that our long-distance affair was only a form of self-flagellation. The odds against us were high and I began to defend myself against ultimate heartbreak by thrusting Nikki away from the center of my emotions.
I began making the rounds of the Washington parties again; in time it became a series of casual beddings that lasted a night or a fortnight. It didn’t work. I found no distraction strong enough to threaten Nikki’s place in my soul.
I became talkative and argumentative and found myself slinging opinionated remarks into the smallest cocktail-party opening. I must have become a pill. I discovered that I had opinions on everything and anyone who didn’t share them was a fool.
I offered pat simplistic solutions to the problems of crime and drugs and race relations. I insulted bureaucrats and diplomats with equal obliviousness. Curiously, I became something of a lion that season-very much in demand-and I suppose it was partly because I had a successful spy book on the market and partly because my outspoken brashness was taken to be forthright and refreshing at those gatherings of pious discreet woolgatherers. The only parties at which I ceased to be welcome were George Fitzpatrick’s; wit was too highly prized at those bacchanals and it appeared I had traded in my rapier on a broadsword-suddenly, literary celebrity or not, I was too gauche for Fitzpatrick and the invitations stopped. It was at this same time-the late spring and early summer of 1972-that my publishers booked, me onto several network television talk-shows and my forceful assertions about the Russians brought a ton of mail into the Dick Cavett offices while several officials-one of Cabinet rank-hinted to me that it would be wise if I tempered my pronouncements in view of the current Nixon rapprochement with Moscow.
I hadn’t been making political remarks at all, but they were taken that way and with some justification: you can’t divorce nations from politics. But I wasn’t a political person. I’d grown up in the post-McCarthy era; it was no longer commonplace to be vocally anti-Communist and although I thought communism to be a system that was (if anything, and if possible) even worse than capitalism, I was not riding an ideological hobbyhorse. My outpourings were more like racist prejudices than political ones; at this time I was writing portions of the rough draft of my book on Kolchak and my feelings toward Russia were hardening. I was unable to find any consistent history of immorality in the West that matched the habitual behavior of the Siberian Cossacks, the Red Army and the Stalinists. I don’t cling to those views now. But my feelings at that time had an important bearing on the decisions I soon had to make. I think it’s important that in those days when I hadn’t yet begun to penetrate this nightmare I had got myself into the habit of making righteous distinctions between Us and Them. I was able to believe, somehow, that the longevity and numerical hugeness of Russian atrocities made them wholly different in kind from the American atrocities in Vietnam or the absolute and thorough corruption of the entire police department of New York.
In retrospect I find it pathetic that I even made any pretense at objectivity in the things I wrote at that time. My bias was as clear-cut as the bias you find in the output of Soviet historians. It wasn’t long before I was deliberately seeking out evidences of Russian perfidy. That sort of selectivity can’t lead to a balanced report but when you’re in the grip of bigotry you don’t make those distinctions.
The cause of it must have been my frustration with the way things were going between Nikki and me. I couldn’t bring myself to take out my anger on her; therefore I took it out on everything and everyone else. Yet perversely I chose as the main target of my hatred the very people whom Nikki herself regarded as The Enemy. Perhaps I was unconsciously trying to reassure her that I was on her side.
A writer’s professional decisions often are the result of happenstance. Probably my mother’s nationality prefigured my interest in Russian history; but I didn’t hate my mother-the bias came from somewhere else. The shape of both projects-the Kolchak book and the Sebastopol book-had been changed considerably by several coincidences, mainly my chancing to meet Nikki and then, through her, my meeting Haim Tippelskirch.
Because of these accidents my mind was attuned to things I wouldn’t have noticed otherwise: specifically the gold, in which I should have had a very limited interest had it not been for Haim’s obsession with it.
Whenever I came across the remotest reference to Kolchak’s gold in my researches, my attention would rivet itself onto the reference. I ended up with a surprisingly thick file of notes on the subject.
During the Second World War the German war machine made its deepest penetrations into southern Russia in the summer and fall of 1942. In the far south the Nazis had swallowed up the Black Sea and the Panzers were within striking distance of the shores of the Caspian. These penetrations took the Germans to a point nearly four hundred miles east of the longitudinal parallel of Moscow: the Wehrmacht pushed a great bulge into the lower belly of Russia.
That year of 1942-as all the historians point out-marked the high point of Axis expansionism. We have wiped much of it from our memories with the hindsighted rationalization that manpower and productivity made the Allied victory inevitable, but that was not necessarily the case in early 1942; the issue was still seriously in doubt before the strategic turning points at El Alamein, Stalingrad, Midway and the rest. Hitler and Mussolini and Tojo did have world conquest within their grasp for a brief while; it slipped quickly beyond reach but it was not inevitable that this happen.
Nevertheless, even in those months there were noticeable weaknesses, in the German system of conquest. In spite of their masses of imported slave laborers from the conquered nations, the Germans had a limited manpower of “pure Aryans” who were thereby qualified, according to the sick standards of Nazi bureaucracy, for service to the Fatherland. Limited manpower meant limited productivity, even in a nation as highly industrialized as the German Reich. Technological advances and the use of slave labor helped to offset these weaknesses but technology was hideously expensive and the German economy became daily more unstable because its real productivity never matched its monetary needs for financing the war.
The result was that Hitler was chronically broke. Theft-even the wholesale rape of national treasuries in the conquered lands-was not enough to feed the ravenous war machine. There were vital foreign products and raw materials which had to be imported from neutral trading countries. The neutrals always demanded hard currency and the Deutschmark was not considered a hard currency anywhere outside the Axis sphere. Hitler needed gold.
He thought he had it in 1938: five hundred and ten tons of gold that had belonged to the Spanish Republic. Most of it was earmarked by Franco for payment to Germany in return for Nazi aid in the Spanish Civil War. But the Republicans in Spain had followed the example set by the Russian monarchists: they had taken their gold into exile with them. It went from Barcelona to Odessa aboard several ships and was taken to Moscow “for safekeeping.”*