Paris 1935: Destiny's Crossroads

by Paul A. Myers

Soldiers March

  Saturday morning, March 7, London. Ambassador von Hoesch was escorted into the foreign secretary’s office at ten o’clock in the morning. Anthony Eden rose and motioned the ambassador to a chair. Eden leaned back in his chair and looked noncommittally at the ambassador.

  Hoesch cleared his throat and said, “I have a communication from Berlin. I am afraid that the first part will not be to your liking.” He looked at Eden. Eden nodded his head to continue. “But the later portions contain an offer of greater importance than has been made at any time in recent history.” Eden looked mildly interested.

  Hoesch began reading, “France has replied to the repeated friendly offers and peaceful assurances made by Germany by infringing the Rhine Pact through a military alliance with the Soviet Union exclusively directed against Germany.”

  Eden listened thoughtfully. Yes, this was all quite predictable since the French Chamber of Deputies ratified the Franco-Russian pact.

  Eden kept listening as the ambassador read, “The German government has today restored its full and unrestricted sovereignty in the demilitarized zone of the Rhineland.” Eden presumed that German troops were marching into the Rhineland as the ambassador was reading. That was the normal way with dictatorships, he thought.

  Hoesch continued, “These measures are purely defensive in character.” Of course, thought Eden. The ambassador continued reading, “Now that Germany’s equality of rights has been finally attained, the chief reason for Germany’s withdrawal from the League of Nations has been removed. Therefore, Germany is ready to reenter the League of Nations.”

  Eden thought: yes, there’s the bait. It will play well with the European publics. Eden now addressed the ambassador, “This is a unilateral repudiation of the Locarno Treaty.”

  The ambassador responded, “The Franco-Russian pact was the violation of the Locarno.”

  “Italy, France, and Belgium are unlikely to see it that way.”

  “Yes, we have a difference.”

  Eden agreed and continued, “His Majesty’s Government will give careful consideration to the offers in the latter part of your memorandum since Germany’s attitude towards the League is most important.”

  Hoesch, on an upbeat note, said, “Chancellor Hitler wants to respond to the views frequently expressed by Prime Minister Baldwin and yourself in your speeches. Germany is willing to share in a policy of collective security through the League. And of course, we are ready to open talks on an air pact.”

  Eden sighed to himself and thought that the Germans’ gambit had been well thought out. Neurath was competent. Eden stood up, “Thank you Mister Ambassador. Could you hold yourself in readiness for further discussion over the next few days.”

  The ambassador replied in a subdued and polite manner, “Of course.” Inside his head, the voice of analysis told him the British would not move. Another voice shouted at him: you have a triumph! The recommendations you made to the Chancellor Hitler have been completely born out by events.

  As the ambassador turned to leave, he said casually, “Oh yes, a few small detachments of the German army are moving into the zone today.”

  Eden smiled weakly. Of course.

  Saturday morning, March 7, rue Monsieur. The telephone rang. Marcelle stood up and walked into the foyer and picked up both the earpiece and mouthpiece. “Madame Lambert here.” She listened, then replied, “Yes, I will be ready.” She put the phone down and walked into the dining room and said to Dexter, “I have to leave. Work.”

  “I will escort you.”

  “That won’t be necessary. They are sending a car.”

  He nodded and smiled inwardly. She had a positive gift for saying little.

  Several minutes later, the two of them stood on the sidewalk of rue Monsieur in the cold wintry morning. They watched silently as the government limousine came down the street and stopped. A gendarme got out and came around and opened the door. “Madame Lambert.” She got in.

  As the limousine pulled away, the gendarme turned around from the front seat and said, “There is an attaché case there. I was told to give it to you. You are to take it with you.” Marcelle did not ask where they were going.

  She looked out the window of the limousine and pondered her thoughts. Yes, most likely Madame Tabouis was right. She watched as they crossed Pont Alexandre III, the cold gray waters of the Seine flowing desultorily down the stone-lined channel.

  Arriving in front of the ministry of the interior, the limousine stopped, the gendarme got out and opened the door, and escorted Marcelle up to the sentry box outside the imposing edifice. A guard escorted her into the building. An aide came up and met her, “The fifth floor. You have the attaché case?” He nodded as he saw it.

  On the fifth floor the aide escorted her down to a guarded door. Premier Sarraut also held the portfolio of minister of the interior. It was this office in which he customarily worked. Madame Lambert was familiar with it as she frequently brought papers to and from the Matignon during the past several weeks.

  As Madame Lambert entered the office, Premier Sarraut stood, as did Foreign Minister Flandin. The premier said, “Good morning, Madame Lambert.”

  She replied, “Good morning, messieurs.” She noticed both men seemed unusually resolved, determined looks on their faces.”

  The premier said, “We would like you to sit over there,” and he pointed to a small desk in the corner, “and take notes of the meeting about to take place.”

  Madame Lambert replied, “Yes, Monsieur le Premier,” and she turned and faced Flandin, “Monsieur le Minister.”

  Sarraut explained to her, “The Germans are reported to have moved into the Rhineland this morning. Minister of Defense General Maurin and Chief of the General Staff General Gamelin will be here shortly with several other ministers to discuss how best to respond.”

  “Yes, Monsieur le Premier.” She understood what was wanted and walked over and sat down.

  Presently the door opened and several men came in, one in the uniform of a French general. She stood up. Several of the men nodded a greeting to her. Hands were shaken all around and then the men sat down at a small conference table in the middle of the room. Madame Lambert sat.

  Premier Sarraut moved to set a decisive tone. “What does the army propose to do?”

  General Gamelin, taking on an almost professorial air, said, “The army requests your permission to take the first measures of precaution.”

  Sarraut’s expression opened into astonishment.

  General Gamelin continued, “We will recall soldiers on leave and start moving up reinforcements by road to the border defenses. We will prepare to move more by rail,” and the general paused and added parenthetically, “if needed.”

  Sarraut was floored. He looked at the two generals. “That’s all!”

  The generals sat silent.

  Sarraut asked, “I asked you to study how to make a series of small but rapid advances into German territory for just such a case as we face this morning. You have not mentioned one thing about any offensive operation.”

  One of the other ministers interjected, “I would like to see you in Mainz as soon as possible,” mentioning the German city on the Rhine that was the French headquarters in the 1920s.

  General Gamelin now came into his own. “Ah, that is another affair. I would like nothing better. But you must give me the means.”

  Sarraut asked incredulously, “Means?”

  “Yes, a general mobilization. The couverture, a mobilization of a million men in eight days.”

  The civilian ministers all looked at one another—aghast. A general mobilization seven weeks before a general election?

  The premier took a different tack. “If we act alone against Germany, without allies, what will be the outlook?”

  General Gamelin began an explanation, concluding, “In a long war the superiority of the Germans in numbers and industrial capacity would play a strong part.”

  The civilian ministers looked at o
ne another: a long war that the Germans might well win. For some time, they had all known and feared this truth, a truth that had grown huge this Saturday morning.

  Premier Sarraut stood and adjourned the meeting without taking any decisions. Foreign Minister Flandin approached him and said, “I must return to the Quai d’Orsay and confer with the foreign ambassadors.” He turned on his heel and left. The two generals and the other minister followed.

  Premier Sarraut walked over to Madame Lambert, “Stay seated. Complete your work and prepare one copy, and one copy only, and deliver it to me personally.” He looked out through the windows into the gray winter sky and then turned to her and said, “Do not repeat what you saw here today.” The disappointment and scorn in his voice was unmistakable.

  She nodded in deep understanding. “Yes, Monsieur le Premier.”

  Late Saturday morning, March 7, London. The door to the foreign secretary’s office opened and Ambassador Charles Corbin of France entered. Anthony Eden was standing in front of his desk and he stepped forward and warmly shook the ambassador’s hand, “My dear Ambassador Corbin, we have much to talk about. The German action this morning is most deplorable.” He waved the ambassador over to a chair and walked around and took his seat behind the desk.

  The French ambassador began, “The Rhineland operation is possibly a flagrant violation of Locarno.”

  Eden composed himself. “We are proposing a meeting of the Locarno powers in Paris on Tuesday with that in mind.”

  The Germans would be dug in by Tuesday. The ambassador pressed forward, searching for some indication of Britain’s policy, “Surely you have some views on the German action?”

  Eden crisply replied, “I am consulting with the cabinet Monday morning. After which I shall be able to talk freely and frankly with France.” A clear message: no action was to be taken over the weekend.

  The ambassador sank back in his chair. “I see.”

  What the French government had feared: Britain had no policy in place. Except to consult.

  Eden replied, “I am sure you have seen the German memorandum.” The ambassador nodded yes. Eden earnestly continued, “Even a hasty reading indicates several important points for consultation between our governments. First, a new nonaggression pact among France, Belgium, Germany, all guaranteed by Britain and Italy.”

  Ambassador Corbin looked at Eden without comment. The British were going for the bait.

  Undaunted by the ambassador’s expression, Eden continued, “And there’s Germany’s proposed return to the League of Nations. We should not leave that unconsidered.”

  The Germans knew which bait to use, thought Ambassador Corbin. He could see that Eden was interested in the negotiation of new arrangements, not enforcement of existing treaties. Eden was simply not looking at the menace posed by the remilitarization of the Rhineland.

  Eden summed up, “I am confident that the French government will not do anything to render the situation more difficult. A calm and steady examination of the situation is required.”

  The ambassador nodded that he had heard. As the French had feared, consultation had become the mechanism for nonaction.

  Eden looked at the ambassador sympathetically and said, “We must not close our eyes to the significant offer the Germans have laid on the table. Public opinion in both our countries will demand careful consideration. The man in the street will find the proposal irresistibly attractive.”

  Ambassador Corbin sighed inwardly: yes, neither the British nor French publics want to risk a war with Germany. But there was a larger perspective. He sat back and reflected: last week in Geneva, Eden was “in high principle” to immediately apply the oil sanction against Italy, not to let the Italian dictator chose his sanction. At the weekend, the German dictator can launch his aggression without fear of consequence. So, principle only applies in the easy situations. Again, the ambassador sighed inwardly: as always. Oh well, now Eden will have to retreat on sanctions for Italy; a beautiful principle made irrelevant by events.

  Late Saturday morning, March 7, east of Cologne, Germany. The colonel stood tall and erect as he watched his gray-uniformed soldiers dismount from the trucks while others disembarked from railroad cars that had just pulled into the siding beside the large field. The regiment had crossed the border at daybreak, some traveling by truck, most by train. The colonel watched the operation unfold flawlessly; the German army was the most skilled railway army in the world.

  As the colonel looked on, the sergeants and sergeants major formed the men into platoons, companies, and battalions. Officers moved among the men, checking final dispositions. As each company was called to attention, a careful inspection by sergeants major and officers was undertaken. Ammunition pouches checked, rifle actions opened at present arms and inspected.

  Presently, the three battalions of the regiment were formed up. The battalion commanders came forward and reported. The regimental sergeant major came forward and reported to the colonel, “Herr colonel, ammunition pouches are empty, rifles clear. There is not one round of ammunition in the regiment.”

  The colonel replied, “Good.” The sergeant major saluted and turned on his heel.

  The three battalion commanders stood before the colonel. The colonel spoke, “We must have absolute route discipline on the march into Cologne. The eyes of Germany, the eyes of the world, will be upon us. The men must not give way to provocation.”

  The battalion commanders clicked heels and replied as one, “Yes, Herr colonel.”

  The regimental commander continued, “The first battalion will continue across the river bridge, meet transportation on the other side, and deploy along the western border. The other two battalions will remain in Cologne.” The colonel paused, then said to the expectant battalion commanders, “The City fathers undoubtedly want to welcome the soldiers. Give the men leave.” The colonel smiled inwardly: undoubtedly the girls of the city in their enthusiasm would also like to express their gratitude. He savored the thought; in fact there was an invitation in his map case from a baroness—a sweet lilac scent, he recalled.

  Returning to the present, the colonel turned to a fourth officer, the drum major for the regimental band. “The band will lead the way.” The officer clicked his heels and saluted.

  The colonel spoke to the battalion commanders, “In Cologne, General von Kluge will take the salute.”

  As the colonel took one last sweeping look at the assembled regiment, a groom brought over a beautiful chestnut horse. “I will ride at the head of the regiment. Dismissed.” The colonel mounted his horse in one graceful arc.

  The colonel looked forward, over the heads of the regimental band marching in front of him, over the tops of the flags of the color guard, towards the reviewing stand half a kilometer ahead on one side of Cathedral Square, the huge central square of the city of Cologne situated in front of the majestic twin spires of the cathedral. From the top of the spires came the magnificent peeling of huge bells, deeply pitched and sonorous. The colonel stood in his stirrups and turned around and looked back over his regiment. The battalion commanders were mounted on their horses on one side of the column, the company commanders mounted on the other side of the marching soldiers. The colonel stood taller in his stirrups, squinted. All was in order. He scowled at the battalion commanders. He turned around and sat easy on his horse.

  As he watched, the color guard entered the square and the municipal band of Cologne, drawn up on one side of the plaza, thundered out the German national anthem, Deutschland Uber Alles. At that moment, the regimental band caught the beat in unison and thundered out its response. The crowds went into a frenzy of cheering.

  The colonel rose in his stirrups and turned and looked back over the regiment. Young women were bursting through the police lines and festooning the soldiers with flowers, others pouring champagne over their heads. The soldiers were at least keeping in step, all that could be expected, the colonel thought. The colonel made a faint nod to the battalion commanders an
d turned around and sat on his horse.

  As the color guard passed the reviewing stand, the flags dipped, heads snapped right, General von Kluge saluted. The color guard continued, the regimental band, brass blaring, passed the reviewing stand.

  The colonel’s horse now came abreast the reviewing stand; the colonel sat ramrod straight in his saddle, half turned and faced the reviewing stand and saluted General von Kluge. The general returned the salute. The colonel dropped his salute, turned back and sat back on his saddle and looked resolutely forward. On all sides of the square thousands of onlookers clapped and cheered. The colonel continued looking directly ahead. He listened carefully; he could hear the crescendo of clapping and cheering as each battalion commander passed the reviewing stand and saluted.

  As the colonel rode out the far side of the square, watching the adoring crowds, he thought what a fitting tribute this day was, a celebration of the beginning of the great expansion of the German army under the inspired leadership of the Führer: company commanders would become battalion commanders, battalion commanders would advance to regiments, and regimental commanders would command divisions. Yes, a great day for Germany, he thought.

  The colonel looked to his left; the massive steel girders of the bridge over the Rhine glistened in the sunshine. The first battalion would soon be marching across. Trains were waiting to carry the battalion west to the border with France. Would the French come across the border?

  Sunday morning, March 8, rue Monsieur. Marie brought in a large pot of coffee made American style. She poured a full cup for Dexter, who looked up from the newspaper and said, “Thank you.” Marcelle stayed head down in her newspaper completely absorbed.

  Dexter spoke across the table, “Not to interrupt. Here, the French general elections are set for April 26 and May 3.”

  Marcelle looked up, tapping the headline about the German march into the Rhineland, “Somehow I think the two events are connected.”

  “Most certainly,” replied Dexter. “However, the Paris papers say that Chancellor Hitler’s denunciation of the Locarno Treaty yesterday in Berlin was received by the French public calmly, no sign of panic.”

  Dexter remembered yesterday afternoon. He was having lunch at Les Deux Magots when the newsboys started running up and down the sidewalk with the early editions shouting, “German troops are entering the Rhineland.” The papers were read with excitement, Dexter recalled. He had listened to the comments by the passersby, which could be summed up: “Let us hope, at least, that this does not mean war.”

  Marcelle looked up and sighed. “War is the one thought the French public does not want to hear.”

  Dexter nodded in understanding. “Nor the British.”

  Marcelle, summarizing from her paper, said, “The chairman of the Chamber’s Foreign Affairs Commission thinks that the practical consequence will be to strengthen Franco-British solidarity.”

  Dexter said absently, “Maybe.” He read from his paper, “Here, the paper Petit Parisien says world opinion ought to be made to understand what the demilitarized Rhineland zone means for France. It is a question on which France cannot waver. If the Reich is allowed to construct a concrete wall along her frontier which could halt a French attack, it would mean we are leaving Germany free to direct aggression to the East without any danger of interference from France.”

  Marcelle looked at Dexter, “That is precisely the point that Suzanne makes. The eastern alliances with Czechoslovakia and Poland lose all practical value.”

  “But you get a stronger relationship with Great Britain,” ventured Dexter in a statement that ended softly as a question.

  Marcelle looked at him, her expression changing to disdain. He flashed his eyebrows.

  Turning back to her paper, she said, “Here is Pertinax, Geneviève’s friend, saying we hope that Baldwin and the British cabinet will understand that the interests of France and Britain and the interests of Europe demand action. Moreover, we hope they will remember that Britain to a great extent carries the moral responsibility for the Locarno Treaty. And let us hope that the Locarno powers meet next Monday on the request of the French foreign minister and that there will be no divergence of views between the French and the British.”

  Dexter said, “There you have it: a Locarno meeting on Monday followed by France presenting a formal complaint to the League of Nations on Tuesday.”

  Marcelle gently said, “Yes, Pertinax speaks loftily of moral responsibilities. He has very noble aspirations. Makes Geneviève look pragmatic.”

  Dexter gave a skeptical shrug.

  Marcelle continued, “Hitler sized up public opinion in France and Great Britain pretty well. Allied diplomats talk; German soldiers march.”

  Dexter took a breath and nodded. Then he added, “Yes, Hitler is offering twenty-five year nonaggression pacts all around. Like candy.”

  Marcelle lobbed the conversation back across the table. “Oh yes, here the paper says that Hitler offers to return to the League of Nations. Suzanne said to expect that. It is for the British, she said. What do you think?”

  Dexter raised his eyebrows. “Let the German wolf in among the sheep?”

  Marcelle smiled.

  Dexter opened another paper. “Here’s the news from Britain. Anthony Eden told the French ambassador yesterday that the French government should study the German offer and avoid hasty action. Then he drove to Chequers, the prime minister’s country estate, and met with Stanley Baldwin. Baldwin declined to call a special cabinet meeting Sunday in favor of staying with Monday’s cabinet meeting. He wants to avoid any appearance of panic.”

  Marcelle asked, “Doesn’t sound like the Rhine is Great Britain’s border anymore, does it? What does it all mean?”

  Dexter summed it up for her, “No support for any military action by the French.”

  Marcelle looked at him very evenly; she did not nod her head. She remained still. She knows something, thought Dexter. Better not ask.

  Dexter took a long sip of coffee and moved the conversation in a new direction, his home turf, the diplomatic chessboard. “There is one more thing. Hitler’s timing relative to Mussolini is perfect. He has in a singular fashion paved the way forward for the Italians to finish their conquest of Ethiopia without further interference.”

  Marcelle nodded at the insight. She looked at Dexter: yes, the diplomat sees the future moves on the chessboard. He is good at that. She took pride in her observation about him. She smiled and took a sip of her coffee, her mind turning over the morning’s developments.

  Dexter silently watched Marcelle compose and organize her thoughts. Yes, a very well ordered mind was her big strength. And discretion.