Paris 1935: Destiny's Crossroads

by Paul A. Myers

Diplomats Gather

  Monday morning, March 9, London. The cabinet ministers sat around the long table, many of them pointing at the morning’s editorial in The Times entitled “A Chance to Rebuild.” Fingers traced out the main points, concerned voices whispered worried comments. The editorial agreed that there had been a breech of a treaty that “the more sensationally minded” could call an act of aggression.

  Tapping the page, one minister whispered to another, “I don’t think we have any sensationally minded people at the table this morning.”

  The other minister looked down the table skeptically at the empty chair which would soon be occupied by Foreign Secretary Anthony Eden. “It’s one thing to stand on principle with the Italians and go on about sanctions,” and he cleared his throat, “but it is altogether something different with the Germans.”

  “Quite so.”

  “Yes, the German troops are simply reoccupying their own territory. The Times points out that it is hardly an invasion that carries ‘fire and sword’ into a neighbor’s territory.”

  “Quite so.”

  “And then there are the reactions in the City,” referring to the large number of financial transactions with Germany undertaken by British financiers.

  “Quite so.”

  There was a rustle of movement and Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin and Anthony Eden entered the room. Eden walked over and took his seat. Baldwin remained standing and turned to his colleagues and said, “Before the foreign secretary addresses the present crisis, I want to say that I do not think there is any support among the British public for military action.”

  A loud murmur of agreement arose from the table.

  Baldwin concluded, “Britain is not in a state to go to war.”

  Sounds of agreement rose from the table, “Quite right, prime minister.”

  The prime minister concluded, “We need time for our rearmament program to proceed.”

  With heads nodding in agreement, Baldwin sat down. Eden stood and addressed his colleagues, “Foreign Minister Flandin has assured me that France will take no isolated action.”

  The ministers took in this statement with a collective sense of relief. Keep the crisis diplomatic.

  “The French government wants the Locarno powers to meet in Paris Tuesday and then bring the matter before the League of Nations on Thursday.”

  The ministers’ heads all nodded in understanding agreement. Time was being bought. Good.

  Eden continued, “Condemnation of Germany’s action by the League is inevitable.”

  The ministers all understood the obviousness of this step. An unfortunate necessity. But what would follow?

  Eden answered the unspoken question, “The following steps would be economic and financial sanctions.”

  Murmurings of disagreement at the word ‘sanctions’ arose from the table. Eden let the dissents percolate among the ministers.

  Eden soothingly said, “Follow-on actions will be a subject for further discussion.”

  The ministers understood. Good. Give the French a taste of their own tardiness on the sanctions issue. Delay.

  Eden shifted his stance and moved to the proactive. “The Germans have made an interesting set of proposals. It would be in our interest to conclude as far-reaching and enduring a settlement as we can while Herr Hitler is in the mood to do so. In particular, Germany’s return to the League is the most important; it should be explored.”

  The ministers listened attentively.

  Eden then spoke to the immediate difficulty, “Yesterday, both French Foreign Minister Flandin and Premier Sarraut declared that France would not negotiate with Germany until there were deeds, not words, of Germany’s respect for international law.”

  Yes, the ministers had all read the declarations. Principle again. Britain wants to talk about new arrangements; France wants to enforce old treaties.

  On an upbeat note, Eden continued, “In our coming discussions with the French, we will stress the importance of testing the German’s good faith.”

  The ministers understood. Of course, there would be a lot to talk about, a lot of meetings. Always a good thing in diplomacy.

  Eden then picked up a piece of paper, a draft of his speech to be delivered to the House of Commons later that day. “Let me read from today’s speech,” he said, “The transition from a bad past to a better future…”

  The ministers listened. Eden continued, “If peace is to be secured there is a manifest duty to rebuild. It is in that spirit that we must approach the new proposals of the German chancellor. His Majesty’s Government will examine them clear-sightedly and objectively…”

  One minister approvingly tapped the headline of the Times’ editorial “A Chance to Rebuild” and smiled at his colleague. The colleague returned the smile. Prolonged negotiations. The way forward.

  Eden concluded, “No opportunity must be missed which offers any hope of amelioration.” More talk. Good.

  Most of the ministers nodded in determined agreement. Show the damn French. Britain wants a lasting peace in Europe.

  At the far end, one minister, skepticism washing across his face, looked with his eyes across the table and into the eyes of a sympathetic colleague. Both ministers thought Berlin would see the speech for the triumph that it was.

  The prime minister adjourned the meeting.

  Saturday, March 14, Savoy Hotel, London. In Geneviève Tabouis’s hotel room diplomats and newspapermen stood shoulder-to-shoulder and face-to-face furiously discussing the week’s events in London—the League of Nations Council had been meeting in London all week and additional sessions had been rolled over to the following week. Standing amidst a gaggle of European diplomats Geneviève pounded out her points with Gallic intensity, “Even the British Laborites are anti-French. Pierre Laval has done his work well by wooing Il Duce. The British feel France betrayed Ethiopia. Why stand up for us now against the Germans in the Rhineland, they ask? France is alone.”

  Heads bobbed in agreement and in three different languages the men surrounding Geneviève shouted “yes.”

  A Russian diplomat pushed in. “But Geneviève, our foreign minister, Comrade Litvinov, has supported the French.”

  Geneviève retorted, “Yes, and so have all the small countries. But have you seen all the cars on the streets of London festooned with placards saying ‘Germany wants Peace. Let France come to terms. Let us have Peace!”

  Heads nodded in agreement. British public opinion was everywhere for peace. London bristled with anti-French feeling.

  Geneviève turned to the men and said, “Excuse me for just a moment. I have to call my story into Paris.” She stepped away and pushed her way into a small bedroom off the drawing room. She closed the door, went over and pulled her notebook out of her handbag, and sat down on the bed and picked up the telephone.

  Reaching the night editor, she spoke into the mouthpiece, “The moment we arrived in London we realized that the first mistake made by the French was to have come at all…Treaties, pacts, solemn oaths—all these things seem to matter little to the British…our experts can scarcely believe that the men who are confronting them now are the same Englishmen who, a few days ago, were demanding, in the name of international law, the application of sanctions against Italy!”

  She caught her breath and continued, indignation coursing through her dispatch, “If it might be necessary to overlook the violation of treaties committed by the Reich, Mr. Baldwin seems perfectly ready to do so…I have a strong feeling…it is his present purpose to present the Council of the League with a German peace offer which will counterbalance the violation of the Locarno treaty by the Rhineland remilitarization.” She finished up, a curt goodbye registering her disgust, and set the phone down.

  Geneviève opened the bedroom door and pushed her way back towards the small circle of diplomats with whom she had been talking, and without missing a beat, launched right back in. “Flandin,” speaking of the French foreign minister, “has played his cards very b
adly.”

  Heads nodded in eager anticipation, eyes went wide, they all knew that Geneviève was the niece of two of France’s greatest ambassadors. She was a hard grader.

  Geneviève continued, “Flandin has not represented the true interests of his country. He prefers to be the spokesman of the appeasers and the financiers. They don’t appreciate the German threat.”

  A voice with an accent from the south and east of Europe asked, “What do you think will happen, Madame Tabouis?”

  “Flandin will settle for a condemnation of Germany by the League. And some sort of assurance that the British will come to France’s aid if Germany attacks across the border. Like Eden said last week.”

  “Is there a catch?” asked a diplomat from one of the Low Countries.

  Geneviève said, “Eden will assure the cabinet that the assurance does not guarantee any new obligation.”

  “Yes, with the English, an assurance is never a guarantee,” sighed the diplomat in a Flemish accent.

  “So we have just seen,” observed Geneviève.

  All the heads nodded in agreement; Geneviève always said the truth with the sting of wasp.

  Sunday, March 15, Luxembourg Gardens, Paris. In the late afternoon, Dexter and Marcelle strolled down the shaded walkway, the last rays of sunlight filtering through the tree limbs, the gravel crunching under their shoes.

  Marcelle said, “Foreign Minister Flandin has been in London all week.”

  Dexter ruminated, “Yes, and British public opinion has mounted to a fever-pitch in favor of peace. No military action.”

  “So?”

  Dexter replied, “Tomorrow the League Council meets in London. A ritual condemnation.”

  “Ritual?”

  “Yes, ritual.”

  “Like the plebiscite Hitler has called for in Germany at the end of the month?”

  “No. The League condemnation will ring hollow. The Germany election will be the roar of the new Germany.”

  “Let’s go home and have a cup of tea.”

  “Calvados?”

  She laughed. “The roar of the old Dexter!”

  Standing at the sideboard in the dining room, Dexter poured some Calvados into a rounded glass snifter, the light from the small chandelier sparkling on the sides of the glass. Marcelle walked in holding a mug of hot tea. In a downcast voice she said softly, “May be it would be better to be sent back to the ministry of labor?”

  “Nonsense. The Popular Front is going to win a landslide. Chamson is right. The new government will want your expertise. They want to move fast.”

  Her face brightened. “You think so?”

  “Of course,” he said confidently. Then he took on a reflective tone, “I think for me, for us, it would be better if you went back to the ministry of labor. We could quietly get married.”

  She looked at him warmly. “Married?” she said distantly. “That would be nice.”

  “You are saying yes?”

  “Someday,” she said. “You know that.”

  “The way things are going with Germany, I would be in a position to protect you.”

  “Protect me?”

  “Yes, if the Germans come—and they will come the next time—I could be assured of getting you out.”

  “Out?”

  “To somewhere safe.”

  She set her tea down and turned and faced him directly, “Dexter, I think the French people have a right to expect senior officials of the civil service to stay. The politicians go this way and that with the political winds; that is their function. But the permanent staff serves the people of France; the sinew and the continuity of the state. Forty million French people can’t all go to America.”

  Dexter said, “Very brave sentiment. But you should leave the heroics to the French generals.”

  Marcelle’s face instantly clouded. She shifted and put one well-poised foot in front of the other, she turned slightly and stood in a position of grim determination, her face turned cold, and she said sharply, “I am not a French general,” the contempt and disdain rising in her voice.

  Surprised, Dexter looked at her with blank astonishment. He had simply meant to comfort her. He said softly, “No, of course you’re not.” It dawned on him. He now knew—she had been in the room. She had known all week.

  She watched him. She saw a flash of understanding cross his face. She softened her expression and said, “I still expect to be your wife in La Paz. After my service to France.”

  Dexter smiled, “I know.”

  She smiled at him gently and then with a certain firmness asked, “Did you really expect any other answer from me?”

  He shook his head slowly—no.

  He set his glass down and walked over to her and, to her complete surprise, in one quick movement swept one arm under her legs and the other behind her back and lifted her up in front of him. Her legs kicked in a flutter of delight and she shrieked in amazement, “Dexter, what are you doing?”

  He held her and looked down into her eyes, “I’m taking my bride to the bedroom.” He bent his head down and kissed her, her bright brown eyes glistening in expectation.

  “Bride?”

  “Bride, there’s no law against married civil servants.”

  “Soon?”

  “Soon,” and he started down the hall, her arms wrapped around his neck.

  “And tonight?”

  “Love—no words.”

  “Waves?”

  He bent over and kissed her.

  Saturday, March 21, Paris. Charles Maurras, the aging editor of the Action Française, stood in the well of the courtroom. The judge spoke, “Justice is far removed from politics. The court has previously found you guilty of incitation to murder under the Newspaper Law of 1881.”

  The judge looked down at the unperturbed defendant, who quietly waited for what he expected would be his political martyrdom. The judge read from the sheet of paper, “The court sentences you to four months’ imprisonment and fines you one hundred francs.”

  The bailiff came to escort the prisoner from the courtroom.

  Saturday, March 21, Dover, England. Geneviève Tabouis stood at the rail of the steamer pulling away from Dover harbor for Calais, France. She looked back at the white cliffs. She was wrapped in a long fox fur coat, a large black hat firmly pinned to her upswept coiffure, a big handbag on her arm. Around her stood a bunch of men in thick overcoats with big dark hats squashed down on their heads.

  Geneviève spoke to several gathered near her, “I was struck by the British foreign office’s obstinate refusal to understand that the basic interests of the democracies were at stake now that the dictators were gaining in power.”

  A man said, “Possibly they cannot understand what they are helpless to stop.”

  Geneviève nodded silently at the insight. “Helpless to stop” was not a state she ever willingly accepted.

  She sighed and said, “Yes, France has lost her high place in the world, ceding it step by step to Germany.”

  The men listened. None of them would ever say that out loud.

  With a deep sense of resignation, Geneviève continued, “At the last session of the League Council, I felt humiliated before the German correspondents. They were unable to conceal their satisfaction in the turn of events. As I passed their seats, they made disagreeable remarks about the politics for which I stand.” She paused for a moment, then added, “That morning was a disagreeable first, but probably not the last.”

  One of the men, a deputy close to Flandin, moved to an upbeat note, “The foreign minister is bringing back an agreement from Great Britain about a guarantee in case of attack, an agreement for the British and French general staffs to consult.”

  Geneviève nodded in understanding: the French press and much of the public would be pleased, overlooking the smallness of the gesture. Once again large hopes had ended with small accomplishments.

  The deputy gave his summation of London, “Granted, Tabouis! Let us assume that we are in an infe
rior position now and will henceforth have to take orders from Ten Downing Street,” mentioning the office of the British prime minister, “You yourself have said many times that there is a better understanding of foreign affairs at Ten Downing Street than at the Quai d’Orsay. It could be worse.”

  Geneviève listened silently. She looked at the deputy with sorrowful understanding.

  Next to Geneviève a man moved to speak, a senior minister of long standing on the Left. “The tragedy lies not in our taking second place,” Geneviève turned and looked closely at him, “but in the uncertainty as to how long England will be able to maintain herself, as well as us, in a firm position in face of the war-threat blackmail carried on by Hitler and Mussolini!”

  Geneviève silently nodded at the wisdom of what the minister had just said. She nodded at the other men. All agreed. All understood a troubled future was coming. Germany had run the table.

  Sunday, March 22, Breslau, Germany. A sea of faces looked towards the speaker’s stand. In front stood a phalanx of brown-shirted storm troopers and black-uniformed SS troops. Dignitaries were six deep across the stage. This was the largest campaign rally to be held before the following Sunday’s plebiscite on Chancellor Adolph Hitler’s leadership of resurgent Germany.

  A roar went up as the crowd saw the bareheaded, dark-haired chancellor advance across the stage towards the lectern. The applause mounted into a rolling thunder. The chancellor held out his arms for the crowd to quiet down. The noise slowly subsided.

  He began, “I have therefore done my best to reestablish the honor of the German people not only domestically but also in foreign affairs. In these three years the resurrection of the German people has succeeded so completely that one seeks in vain for a comparison in history. Let those who follow me judge whether I have succeeded in these years in bettering the position of the German people in the eyes of the world,” and he paused, “or whether I have failed to do so.”

  The crowd broke into applause; the chancellor quickly held out his arms to quiet them so he could finish his point. “In all these three years no word has been spoken in Germany that threatens another nation.”

  The crowd applauded and began to chorus, “Heil Hitler.” The chancellor stood back and listened for a moment; then he stepped forward and held his arms straight out while looking down with his head, a minor show of humility in the face of the massive approval of the German people.

  The chancellor looked up. “The Versailles treaty cannot serve as a foundation for a new era of peace…Germany bases its reorganization upon equal rights and therewith the assumption of equal duties.”

  The crowd applauded in polite agreement.

  Hitler, voice rising, arms spread out before the audience, moved to his closing, “The peoples of Europe must find a new relation to each other, some new form must be created…this new order must be set up under the words: reason and logic, understanding and mutual consideration. They,” and he paused to let the word sink in, “make a mistake who think that over the entrance to this new order there can stand the word “Versailles.”

  The audience looked on with rapt attention, completely silent. It was coming.

  Then with a swirl of his head, his forelock brushed back, his arms outstretched forward in a triumphant “V,” the Führer of all the German people thundered, “Versailles, that would not be the foundation stone of the new order, but its gravestone!”

  The crowd erupted in a frenzy of applause and cheering, the unspeakable ecstasy of a triumphant new destiny just over the horizon, an unshaped vision in the imagination of every foot-stomping, hand-clapping person standing in the broad square.