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Also to the Citadel went Britain's hand some, greying Foreign Minister Anthony Eden, champion of cooperation with Russia, and Secretary of State Cordell Hull. Reports were that Eden, and possibly Hull, would now go to Moscow to confer with Joseph Stalin. If so, perhaps some light was about to be let into the dark places of United Nations diplomacy.
Smoke & Light. At Quebec there was much colorful smoke, but no light. Winston Churchill, doughty and cherubic as ever, arrived by special train that pulled to a stop at the little Wolfe's Cove station, in the parish of Notre Dame de la Garde. The parish homes emptied, the townspeople rushed to the station, carefully avoiding a brush with two youngsters who arrived in dripping bathing suits.
Winston Churchill doffed his grey Homburg; flashlight bulbs popped; one newsman shouted: "What, no cigar?" Slyly, Churchill raised his hand—the cigar was hidden behind a glove.
Next day Franklin Roosevelt's train reached Wolfe's Cove. A motor caravan formed: Roosevelt, Churchill, Canada's stocky Prime Minister William Mackenzie King, Canada's venerable Governor General, the Earl of Athlone. Up narrow winding roads they drove to the Citadel, past the old battlements and moats to the poplar-shaded parade grounds. There, against the purple background of the Laurentian Mountains, the Stars & Stripes rose high and proud; the red-coated Canadian Royal Mounted Police Band played The Star-Spangled Banner.
The ceremony ended. The crowd departed. In the solitary fastnesses of the old fort, Franklin Roosevelt and Winston Churchill went to work.
Strangers & Gags. The old-world city of Quebec, only walled city in North America, was full of crowds and excitement. British journalists cabled rich accounts of the narrow streets teeming with gaily-dressed inhabitants—until they discovered that the women in bright colors and kerchiefs were really U.S. tourists. Everybody laughed over a gag credited to Churchill before he left England.
Interviewer: "Will you offer peace terms to Germany?"
Churchill: "Heavens, no! They would accept immediately."
At the Chateau Frontenac, the Canadian Government had taken over at the cost of $10,000 a day, had evicted all the 800 guests but one: 90-year-old Miss Alice Caron, who has lived there for a quarter-century and refuses to move for anybody. Mounties accompanied bellhops on their business in the halls. Every arriving package, even if just an Admiral's laundry, met a suspicious inspection.
In the Place d'Armes, the public square outside the Chateau, the meeting made a philosopher out of Old Pierre, who has driven tourists in his caleche for 40 years. His business booming but his spirit troubled, Pierre mumbled through his beer-stained mustache:
"Certainement, we are lucky to have this big meeting here. But all my life I can drive through the big gate at the Chateau. Now what happens? A big fellow with a revolvaire says whoa. He wants my red pass. You would think I carry a bomb—n'est-ce pas?"