The Phoenix Land

by Miklos Banffy

  This was a very exhausting time for me especially, as János Pelényi, later our ambassador in Washington and for many years a most helpful colleague who had come to London with me from Holland, was sent shortly afterwards to America. I then found that everything had fallen on my shoulders.

  Only those who have tried it will know what it is like to find oneself alone, the unofficial envoy of a small country that has just lost a war, in the still hostile capital of the victor. To get anyone even to speak to me entailed endless hard work, attention to detail and, above all, tact.

  Here I must pay a tribute to a most gracious lady who really deserves to have been mentioned before all others. From the day I arrived in England I never met a cleverer nor a more enthusiastic supporter of all things Hungarian than Rose Wertheimstein, the Hungarian-born wife of Charles Rothschild. Her help was invaluable as for many years she had held a unique position in London. This was doubly true at the time of my visit since, as a result of her husband’s illness, she was running the affairs of the Rothschild Bank herself. Then, and later, we could always depend on her help in any matter concerning Hungary.

  In her house I almost felt I was breathing the air of my own home; and the lion’s share in any success I may have achieved in my mission was thanks to her advice and help and to her mediation on my behalf. She died just as the clouds of war were once more gathering over Europe, and so these few words of mine must be my epitaph for her. The tears form in my eyes every time I think of her.

  As a result of my time in London, and of the firsthand knowledge of English foreign policy I was then able to obtain, I found nothing but cordiality in Anglo-Hungarian relations; and this feeling endured all the time I was foreign minister. Nothing, however, could change the harsh conditions that had been written into the peace treaty. Even so the propaganda we were able to make seems to have filled our enemies with some apprehension. Tilea, the last envoy sent by King Carol of Romania to London, wrote in his recent autobiography that it was my propaganda which had made necessary the visit to London at that time by the Romanian prime minister, Vajda-Vojvod. To read this many years later gave me great pleasure, for the most flattering appreciation can be gleaned from what our enemies write about us. While in London I was unable to get in touch with our delegates to the peace conference in Paris. They were kept in strict seclusion at Neuilly, and communication with them was only possible on the few occasions when I found some trustworthy traveller who would take my reports to Budapest, whence they were forwarded to Neuilly. In fact, I was only able to do this twice, for confidential reports could not be entrusted to amateurs because of the great risk of their going astray. Also I was able only to summarize my discussions with the politicians in England without mentioning their names, since if ever these were indiscreetly leaked I would find every door closed against me. Because of this, it was only my discussions with the church leaders that could be reported in full, and so it soon became vitally important that I should go to Paris myself.

  The French authorities treated me with far more rigour than their English counterparts. I was able only to get permission for a few hours’ stopover between the arrival of the Calais express in Paris and the departure of the Trans-European the same evening. That I was able to get in touch with Bethlen during this brief time I had to thank my good friend Andor Adorján, who was then living in Paris with his French wife and editing, I seem to recall, some works of lithography. Even though it is hardly pertinent to the tale I have to tell, I feel impelled to describe this meeting in some detail because its circumstances turned out to be so hilarious. It was the most absurd anecdote of my entire diplomatic life.

  I arrived in Paris about noon and found Adorján waiting to meet me on the platform. As we drove to the Hotel Continental he outlined his plan.

  All the delegates to the peace conference were forbidden to come into the centre of Paris and were not allowed to contact anyone apart from their own colleagues62. They were, however, allowed to walk in the Bois de Boulogne. And so it was arranged that Bethlen and I should meet there, at three in the afternoon, on a prearranged bench half-hidden in a thicket. It was easy to keep watch on the paths leading to this bench, so if any unknown person was seen approaching, someone would whistle a warning and we would have time to separate. Adorján and Pál Teleki agreed to be our watchdogs; and all seemed fine and dandy. It was now that a malicious Fate intervened. Adorján and his wife gave me a sumptuous lunch in the hotel. They knew from the time we had spent together at The Hague in 1919 that I was very fond of oysters and, to my great joy, had ordered a couple of dozen. Stupidly I forgot that oysters should really only be eaten in the cold weather of winter and not in a warm April. The pink-coloured Marennes looked a little suspicious, but I ate a few so as not to offend my host. Afterwards we went to the Adorján’s flat, and we had barely arrived when I began to feel so sick I nearly fainted. Even a small volcano was nothing compared to me at that moment and, as it seemed impossible for me to go on to the Bois de Boulogne, Adorján drove off by himself to warn Bethlen that I would not be coming. Hardly had he left than I began to feel better, so I decided to follow him. Luckily his wife knew where we were to meet, and so we boarded a taxi and set off. Perhaps it was the jolting of the taxicab that started me off again, but whatever it was we had to stop twice to obey the commands of my internal volcano. Somehow, thank God, we arrived in time.

  Teleki and Adorján took up their sentry-posts and, sitting on the bench, I began my report. It was like a theatrical farce. ‘Robert Cecil thinks…’ I would start and then, ‘Sorry!’ as I jumped up to embrace the nearest tree. Then I would start again, ‘Mr Bowie, chief secretary of the Unitarian Church, promised that … Sorry!’ and off to the tree again. This went on for an hour and a half until, in spite of it all I managed to relate everything I had to say and also receive Bethlen’s messages for Budapest.

  That evening I was well enough to board the train and by the time I arrived home I was quite fit again. It seemed that having to deliver this fatal report had saved me from the worst effects of oyster poisoning from which people have been known to die.

  When I accepted the portfolio of foreign minister I had no detailed programme ready, for, as I have already mentioned, the offer came as a complete surprise. As it happened, this was no great matter at a time when little Hungary was like an orphan standing forlornly in a corner of Europe, friendless and surrounded by enemies. It was then an open question as to which great power might be won over, and indeed, whether anyone could be won over at all. All we could do was to wait until matters settled down, for at that time the conquering nations formed a united front antagonistic to Hungary. That this was so was clear enough at the meetings of the Council of Ambassadors in Paris. Much time would have to pass before any of them could be induced to act without consulting the others.

  All the same, there were signs that some countries might be prepared to act independently where their own commercial interests were concerned. For example, it was certain that the signing of the contract with Anglo-Persian Oil was effected with the knowledge of the British Foreign Office; and this had been brought about by Hungarian initiative. Some months after I had returned to England an important commercial proposition was received from France. It was linked to some political proposals and was brought to us by Dr Halmos, a businessman prominent in French commercial circles who had delivered the Millerand letter and who was therefore already known to us. Dr ‘Almosz’, as the French pronounced his name63 was a friend of Loucheur. His proposition was that the Hungarian State Railways should be leased to a French commercial company that would undertake to repair and put them in good working order if the Hungarian government would grant a long enough lease. The political quid pro quo was that, in return for this concession, France would take Hungary’s side in all international disputes and would support her interests.

  The offer was put forward by Gyula Andrássy, and our discussions, if I remember correctly after all these years, were attended by Pál Tel
eki, Bethlen, Nagyatádi-Szabó and, I fancy, Apponyi. At that time France, under the premiership of Poincaré, was the Allied power most interested in Europe. Italy’s attention was concentrated on her newly acquired foreign possessions and her uneasy relations with Yugoslavia, and so any question unrelated to these two preoccupations held little interest for her. It was also significant that foreign business in France had always been dictated by her foreign policy, far more than was the case in England. It had always been so. French investment in the Suez Canal, the Panama Canal, and more recently in the Russian loans, had all been financed at the demand of the Quai d’Orsay, sometimes involving great losses. It was therefore clear that the proposed contract with the Hungarian State Railways (Magyar Allami Vasutak – MAV) was not only a business proposition but also had a political purpose.

  It was a difficult question. For the Hungarian government to allow the direction of the national transport system to be handed over to the representatives of a foreign power required very serious consideration. It had not to be forgotten that when a state as small and weak as Hungary made a deal with a powerful foreign power then the agreement would always be one-sided no matter what the terms of the contract might specify. In the event of disagreement the stronger party would always get its own way. Nevertheless I was personally in favour of the idea as I believed that the commercial enterprise would find itself obliged to work to the advantage of Hungary if only to safeguard its profits. Furthermore, knowing the French and their many great qualities – mainly courage and a sense of honour – as well as their faults – vanity and greed – I felt that if they were treated rightly they could be guided to follow a correct path. Later on the Hungarians did lease not only the state railways but also the entire State economy so as to obtain a loan from the League of Nations and, as far as I know, no harm came of it. So, provided the text of the agreement was unexceptional, I proposed that we accept the proposition. I am sure that it would have given us a great advantage in our handling of foreign affairs and, at the very least, would have meant an early end to the desolate state of the Hungarian economy.

  However the meeting decided the other way.

  There was a long discussion, dominated by the most legalistic of our politicians who argued that a sovereign power could not abrogate, even temporarily, control over the running of its trains. They based their opposition almost entirely upon this one point.

  It may be that they were right. It is certain that such a contract could only be successful if handled with great tact and if the lesser power understood and was able to take advantage of the psychology of the greater. If not, only trouble would ensue. With my upbringing largely influenced by French culture I was hopeful then; but today I cannot tell if I was right in that assumption. There is no way of telling and, in any case, no reason to waste words on what never happened. To speculate on what might have been is a futile exercise if the ultimate results of commission or omission are not later made clear. As it was, the Hungarian railways were soon enough running as before; and so all one can say today is that, if we had had the protection of France, our relations with our new neighbours would probably have been different from what they subsequently were without it.

  Notes

  58. The total defeat of the French by the Germans at Sedan in 1870 had brought about not only the fall of the Second Empire and the departure of Napoleon III but also the loss of Alsace-Lorraine and other humiliating terms exacted by Berlin.

  59. The White Terror was a disgraceful chapter in Hungarian history when the new nationalist government, soon under Admiral Horthy, led to a series of atrocious acts of revenge intended to wipe out forever any lingering traces of the Communist regime.

  60. Meaning ‘Tall House’, this sounds somewhat ludicrous to Hungarian ears.

  61. In 1925 it was discovered that a huge quantity of forged French francs had been printed inside the Military Cartographic Institute. Deeply implicated, and finally found guilty of planning the fraud was Prince Lajos Windischgrätz, a prominent member of the Legitimist Party, who admitted responsibility but later claimed he had done this solely to protect the prime minister and other highly placed personages. His disingenuous apologia for this and other somewhat dubious activities are to be found in his autobiographical Helden und Halunken, which was translated into English as My Adventures and Misadventures (London, 1965).

  62. This ban applied only to delegates from the defeated nations.

  63. To Hungarian ears his name sounded like the Magyar word meaning ‘sleepy’.

  Chapter Two

  On the afternoon I accepted the post of foreign minister only one decision was made: that we must at once make contact with the newly-created states and try to establish friendly relations. My guiding principle was that even though the Great Powers would decide the all-important terms of the peace treaty, our problems with our neighbours would only be resolved by agreement between ourselves. This would still be true even if we succeeded in getting into closer touch with one or more of those Great Powers. Such contact would only have its effect on major issues, and it would be unthinkable even to try and involve their interest in run-of-the-mill petty grievances. Our daily existence required that we made common cause with at least one of our new neighbours in a way agreeable to both parties. At that time it was clear that, with some obvious exceptions, this should not prove too difficult. No matter what border changes might be effected, our peoples would always have to live next to each other and, apart from being linked by the geology of the former Hungary and its existing water-power system, all these peoples were still economically independent.

  Our relations with Austria were straightforward enough, although it was true that the question of the Burgenland would soon have to be discussed. The Treaty of St Germain had shaved off a narrow strip of land on the borders of the Sopron-Zala and Vas counties and handed it over to Austria. This decision was quite meaningless, for it affected only 4,020 square kilometres of land, just a few miles wide and a hundred kilometres long. It was an absurdity, as there was no railway line and no main road crossing the area: one could only travel there on foot, stepping out of it every now and then, since every stream and every mountain ridge traversed it crosswise. It had no name, but like a foundling had to have one invented for it, so the good Austrians called it the ‘Burgenland’ after the string of border fortresses constructed along its length by successive Hungarian kings during the Middle Ages as a defence against marauding Germans. Its cession to Austria was perhaps one of the silliest decisions to be incorporated in the various Versailles treaties, but, like all the rest, it had to be signed without demur at Trianon.

  It was due to be handed over to Austria at the end of August 1921. At this time it seemed no more than a distant storm cloud on the western horizon, and we still hoped that it might be avoided, perhaps in return for some economic concessions. After all, it consisted of little more than forestland, of which Austria already had plenty. This was not a mere pipedream, for many highly-placed Austrians felt the same way, realizing that it would be senseless to antagonize their former comrades-in-arms for the sake of such a small piece of territory which, in any case, would still be dependent on Hungary for its food supplies.

  Relations with Yugoslavia were tense. The Serbs were still in occupation of the whole of the county of Baranya, although, as they were entitled only to that part south of Mohács between the Danube and the Drava, the rest would have to be returned to us. This they were reluctant to do, mainly because of the coalmines around Pécs. As a result, they tried to influence the local inhabitants to proclaim a ‘Republic of Baranya’ with the intention of then getting this new ‘republic’ to write to the Council of Ambassadors demanding to be incorporated in the new Yugoslavia. Unfortunately for them, the good people of Baranya refused to cooperate, and the plan failed.

  Our relations with Yugoslavia were also poisoned by the expulsion of many thousands of Hungarian families and the rough treatment meted out to them.

  With Roman
ia, matters were even worse. Painful memories of the occupation of Budapest were still fresh in the memory. When they withdrew, and even before this occurred, the Romanian troops removed almost the entire rolling stock of the railways, factories were dismantled and their machinery looted, as well as thousands of telephones and all of the farm animals from the Great Plain. And it was not only from the State lands and those of the great landowners that everything was stolen, but they also removed every last calf, indeed every animal they could find, from thousands of small farmers. Only south of Gyoma were the peasants able to save some part of their stock.

  This was not generally known at the time, and I have never since seen it written about. This is why I now tell the story of what I saw with my own eyes.

  At the beginning of November 1919, just after the Romanian armies had withdrawn, I had occasion to visit Nagykigyos64. There were no trains – since the wagons and locomotives had all been looted – but I managed to get there by a contraption known as a railcar, which was simply an old taxi fitted with iron wheels to fit the track. Until I reached Gyoma I did not see a single animal, not even poultry. In some places I saw farming folk – men and women – doing their best to hoe fields that had been left fallow: at others they were standing forlornly about, helpless beside the unploughed fields. Beyond Gyoma everything was different. They were ploughing away with horses, and even oxen; and here and there one could see a few hens clustered around the farmhouses. I asked in Nagykigyos why this was, and they told me that, south of the desolate area I had noticed, the Romanian general Mosoiu had been in command and that he had not only forbidden all looting but had also punished it severely.