“And then I can say only one thing: now two men stand arrayed one against the other: there is Mr. Beneš, and here stand I. We are two men of a different make-up. In the great struggle of the people, while Mr. Beneš was sneaking about through the world, I as a decent German soldier did my duty. And now today I stand over against this man as the soldier of my people.”
The Voice went on to thank Mr. Chamberlain, and to repeat the final assurances which had been given him before, “that the German people desires nothing else than peace.… I have further assured him, and I repeat it here, that when this problem is solved there is for Germany no further territorial problem in Europe.… We want no Czechs!”
Then, at the end, this all-powerful Voice addressed his faithful flock throughout the Reich:
“And so I ask you, my German people, take your stand behind me, man by man, and woman by woman. In this hour we all wish to form a common will and that will must be stronger than every hardship and every danger. And if this will is stronger than hardship and danger, then one day it will break down hardship and danger. We are determined! Now let Mr. Beneš make his choice!”
As a piece of oratory it was vigorous beyond dispute, and as an example of diplomatic strategy—which precedes war or continues war—it was a masterpiece. How did it seem to the German people? To Lanny it was as if he were witnessing a plebiscite being taken on the Theresienwiese. A quarter of a million Germans were asked if they wished to “be stronger than every hardship and every danger,” and they cast their vote, not in words but in actions which speak louder than words. There was not one handclap, not one cheer, not even one smile. The quarter of a million Germans, assembled to enjoy the simple pleasures of the poor, had been invited to become heroic. The men, ordered to take their stand behind their Führer, man by man, behaved like dogs which had been kicked with a heavy boot; the women, ordered to take their stand, woman by woman, bore the aspect of hens which had been doused in a tub of soapy water.
Every particle of life went out of the October Fair. The merry-go-rounds started to whirl, but nobody wanted to ride; the barkers started shouting, but nobody listened; the sausages started sizzling, but nobody wanted to eat. The people strolled away and went home, or gathered in little groups, talking in low tones. There would be no chance for a pair of strangers to hear what they said, but their woebegone expressions were eloquent enough. Man by man and woman by woman, they took this speech to mean war; and full as it was of subtle falsehoods, it had contained one incontrovertible truth—that the German people desired nothing else than peace.
30
Hell’s Foundations Tremble
I
The next two days were a nightmare to the people of Munich. Everybody believed that war was certain; everybody who knew Lanny Budd wanted to ask what he thought, and he could only say that he didn’t know any more than they. In his secret heart he was sure there wouldn’t be war—not yet. Britain and France would give way, as they had done in case after case. But this was an opinion not to be voiced, even to Lanny’s friend and colleague in art experting. His conclusions had long since been placed in the hands of Rick and F.D.R., so now he had nothing to do but listen to the radio, read the newspapers, and await the event.
The papers published a cablegram which President Roosevelt had sent to Hitler and to Beneš, pleading with them not to break off negotiations. Officially, the President could hardly avoid taking that position, and Hitler’s reply was likewise according to formula—another long tirade, rehearsing his grievances against Czechoslovakia. Lanny pictured his Chief lying in bed in the White House, reading that sheaf of telegraph sheets—and what would he be making of them? Would he believe what he read, or would he have in mind the facts his “P.A.” had provided?
The night after the Hitler speech the British fleet mobilized; that cost a lot of money, and certainly looked serious. Then Poland broke off with Czechoslovakia—which meant that Poland’s dictator had swallowed the bait, sugared with flattery, which Adi had held out to him; Poland was going to take a chunk of the plundered country, and block off Russia from giving its promised aid to the victim. No doubt the British Tories were back of that action—since of all things in the world they wanted least to have the Soviet Union take part in a successful war on Germany and make it into a Communist state. Lanny recalled a conversation between Gerald and Ceddy during the crisis over Abyssinia; they had agreed that they couldn’t afford to let Mussolini be unhorsed, because of the certainty that some sort of leftist government would take his place in Italy.
Lanny would have liked to be in London now, to hear what these friends were saying; but he knew it could do no good, for the crisis would be over long before he could get any word to Roosevelt. No, an agent’s business was here, in the Führer’s playground; the Führer would come back from this crisis with his heart high, and would boast about what he meant to do next. If there was anything one could be certain about in this mess, it was that Adi’s statement concerning his “last territorial claim in Europe” was a piece of nonsense, a bait for suckers.
II
Two days after the Sportpalast speech, the British Prime Minister arose in the House of Commons to make his report. Solemnly, as if presiding at a funeral, he told the long story of his negotiations. His hands were full of papers, and trembled as he read them; the notes which had been exchanged, the proposals which had been made, the memoranda of his two visits and what had been said at them. He declared that he had cast aside all thoughts of self, and of the dignity of his office; he had sought to preserve the peace of Europe. He revealed that he had just sent one last letter to Hitler, offering to make a third visit to Germany, and pledging the power of the British and French governments to see that agreements arrived at would be “carried out fairly and fully and forthwith.” Also he had written to Mussolini, begging him to join the conference, and to use his influence with Hitler “to agree to my proposal which will keep all our peoples out of war.”
A dramatic incident. Just as Chamberlain had reached this part of his speech a messenger from the Foreign Office rushed upstairs to Lord Halifax in the balcony and delivered an envelope. Halifax read the contents and passed it on to Gerald Albany, who hurried downstairs and passed it to the Prime Minister. The latter read it, and a smile of relief dawned upon his haggard features. “That is not all,” he announced. “I have something to say to the House yet. I have now been informed by Herr Hitler that he invites me to meet him at Munich tomorrow morning.”
That was as far as the speaker got; the House forgot all its rules, and burst into a frenzy of cheering, clapping of hands and stamping of feet. The dry and frigid Prime Minister wept, and others of his sort made no attempt to restrain their feelings. There wasn’t going to be a war after all! The head of the British government was going to forget his dignity once more, and give Adi Schicklgruber a chance to wring still further concessions from him. “It’s all right this time!” cried Neville to the crowds who cheered him in the streets. The Queen Mother went out weeping; the whole nation wept—and nobody stopped to think how the Führer of the Herrenvolk might use this revelation of the great dread of war which possessed the “degenerate democracies.”
III
For Lanny this arrangement was most convenient; he had decided against going to London, and now London was coming to him! Just as he finished reading in the morning papers the news of the dramatic scene in the House of Commons, two planes from the Heston airport near London arrived at the Oberwiesenfeld airport, and from them stepped the Prime Minister and his staff—including Lord Wickthorpe and Gerald Albany. They were to be put up at the Regina Palast, where Lanny and Zoltan had a suite; many persons had to be suddenly thrown out, but needless to say a friend of the Führer would not share such a fate. The two visitors received special cards which enabled them to pass the SS guards who surrounded the hotel, and outside in the streets they could know when the distinguished guests arrived, because of the thunderous cheers from crowds surrounding the building.
Munich had come to life again, and the man with the black umbrella had taken a place even higher than the Führer in the hearts of all Bavarians.
Hitler had gone in his private train to the frontier to meet Mussolini, so that they could have a conference in advance. On their ride back the Duce labored to persuade his Axis partner to be reasonable, and at the railroad station there were more cheers for Il Duce than he was getting now at home. The Prinz Karl Palace had been hurriedly dusted off for the Italian staff, while the French were taken to the Vier Jahreszeiten, under the charge of the Gestapo. It happened to be a beautiful day, and flags flew everywhere, and the radio told the people where to go and whom they were to welcome. The heads of three great states had come at the Führer’s bidding, and everybody knew what a triumph that was; everybody trusted the magic of their divinely inspired leader, who had brought them safely thus far and would guide them to a happy ending.
Lanny sent in his card to Ceddy, and was called to his lordship’s room for an exchange of hurried greetings. The perfect blond Aryan was engaged in “washing up,” and the visitor came close and handed him a tiny slip of paper with a typewritten message: “Don’t forget that your room is pretty certainly wired.” Ceddy read it, and lifted his eyebrows. “Really?” he said, in the English fashion which makes it sound like “rarely” without the second “r.” Lanny answered: “Take my word for it,” and then handed a second slip, reading: “Tell the Old Man to stand firm. The other side will back down if they have to.” To that Wickthorpe replied by putting his ear close to his friend’s and whispering: “I won’t have a chance to. It’s all settled.” Lanny held out his hand for the two notes and tore them into small pieces; he dropped them into the toilet bowl and pulled the lever—a technique he had learned from his father long ago.
They had time for a few words about family matters. Lanny had read in a London paper the news that Irma had presented her husband with a son and heir to his great title and estates. Ceddy was extremely proud, and of course Lanny congratulated him cordially. Lanny said that he would be returning to England as soon as he had got through with some picture deals. While they were chatting, there came a summons for Ceddy; the visiting delegations were going to have luncheon at the Führerhaus, and after that the discussions would begin. “The people seem glad to see us,” remarked his lordship out loud—that being a statement to which the Gestapo would take no exception.
IV
The rest of the day, and until after midnight, all the world waited upon that conference. It had been known in advance that the Führer was insisting upon military occupation of the Sudetenland on Saturday, four days later, but beyond that all was uncertainty. Lanny stayed in his room, to keep out of the way of the newspapermen who swarmed in the hotel, and who, in the absence of real news, would have been glad to get hold of a man who had been a recent guest at the Berghof. The radio would give the results as soon as there were any; and meanwhile, take the most interesting book you could get hold of and do your best to lose yourself and forget the agony of the world! Lanny had an American book, dealing with ranch life in the wide open spaces of the great southwest; some tourist had left it behind, and it had caught Lanny’s eye on the open stall of a secondhand-book store. It was a part of the world which he had never visited, but it was his homeland nonetheless. In spite of mountain lions and rattlesnakes and tarantulas and bandits, he would have chosen it as a place of residence over any city of old Europe on the verge of war.
At one o’clock in the morning, such Germans as had stayed awake learned over the radio that their Führer had put his signature to a Four-Power Pact, providing the methods by which the Sudeten territory was to be turned over to Germany. The evacuation by the Czechs was to begin on the next day and to be completed within ten days. The German troops were to enter zone by zone to each of four zones marked on an accompanying map. Both sides were to release political prisoners, and the inhabitants of the ceded territory were to have six months in which to decide which citizenship they wished to enjoy. All these matters were to be in charge of an international commission, and the four heads of government agreed to guarantee the new boundaries of the Czechoslovak State against unprovoked aggression.
So there it was; peace in Europe had been saved. The three visiting delegations went home in rain, and when the British arrived there was a rainbow in the sky over Buckingham Palace, and crowds singing and shouting a tumultuous welcome. They told Chamberlain that he was a jolly good fellow, which must certainly have surprised his friends. In return he told the crowd that it was “peace with honor” and “peace in our time.” Premier Daladier said afterwards that he had expected to be mobbed when he reached home; but he too was cheered and sung to, all along a twelve-mile drive into Paris. Arriving, he was carried on the shoulders of a multitude to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Only a few grumblers and Czechs had any fault to find with the settlement, and Lanny Budd knew few of either. When, later in the day, he read that the Assistant Secretary of State of his own country had praised the achievement, he felt himself the forgotten man.
A tragic time indeed for clearsighted men and lovers of justice; the greedy ones were rubbing their hands and the butchers were sharpening their knives all over the world. Every gain that had been made in the World War had been thrown away, and every principle for which Woodrow Wilson had fought had been mocked. Each day became a series of fresh humiliations, and it took all the fortitude that a presidential agent possessed to keep him from throwing up his job and going back to lie on the beach at Juan and let the world go to hell in its own way.
The Führer went to Berlin, and of course had a triumphal progress. Promptly at the hour set, his troops crossed the border from Upper Austria, and soon afterwards he followed, the first day into Eger and the second into Karlsbad. At the same time Poland served an ultimatum, demanding Teschen—a district which, during the days of the Peace Treaty, Lloyd George had admitted never having heard of. The Poles had remembered it, and now they took it; also the Hungarians proceeded to take their bites out of the stricken carcass. The Nazis took everything they wanted, and the “international commission” in Berlin decided all disputes their way. The hated President Beneš resigned, since it was obvious that he could no longer do his country any good, and what was left of the carcass became a dependency of the Nazis. Pilsen was taken over in the very first days, and the great Skoda plant started making war materials for Hitler’s next campaign. Lanny Budd got one feeble smile, wondering how Baron Schneider was enjoying that.
V
Life came back to Munich as to a drought-stricken garden after a thunder shower. The bands played and the merry-go-rounds whirled and the shoot-the-chutes roared on the Theresienwiese, and all good Münchner laughed and sang as of yore. Those who had permitted doubts of their Führer to creep into their hearts were shamed and tried to forget it; he was the world’s greatest wonder-worker, and from now on they would follow him without question, certain that he could do whatever he wanted with the rest of Europe.
Zoltan had to return to Paris, but Lanny stayed on, because he wanted to catch the Führer in an unbuttoned mood, and the Berghof was the place. Sooner or later he always returned, generally on impulse and without notice. Meanwhile Lanny attended to his picture business, making money among the rich and friends among all classes.
Among those he had met at the Berghof was Adolf Wagner, Gauleiter of Bavaria, and one of Adi’s oldest pals, having marched with him in the Beerhall Putsch and helped him in the Blood Purge. He was a big man and had an even bigger voice than Adi; he had taken pains to imitate every tone of his master, so he was officially known as “the Führer Voice,” and read speeches for Adi on many occasions—among them always the opening of the Parteitag. He had a wooden leg from the war, but managed to get his great bulk around on it. “Big Adolf” was a political boss of the sort that cities in America are used to, but he had no law to interfere with him. When it rained in Munich, as it did frequently, and his stump ached, he would send some Cath
olic priest to Dachau; when, on the other hand, the sun shone and he had loaded up with Münchner at the great Artists’ House which Big and Little had designed and built, his friends could get anything they wanted from him.
The artistic tastes of the Bavarian Gauleiter were not the same as Lanny Budd’s, but Lanny had kept that fact to himself. The blusterous gang leader was proud of his love of culture and had appointed himself State Minister of Education, Culture, and the Interior; he patronized all the arts and all artists, especially those who were young and pretty. Anyone whom the Führer entertained must be all right, so Lanny had the keys to the city. He didn’t care for Bierabends, and pleaded lack of capacity; but right now, when all Germany was celebrating, he had to accept some invitation, so he went for a raft ride on the Isar River, a unique sort of excursion.
The waters come down, clear and cold and green from the glaciers of the high Alps, and on them float logs from the carefully supervised state forests. When the stream is big enough they are tied together with chains, and presently there is a raft. When a political boss wishes to entertain his friends he has planks nailed on top of such a raft, and has a special car hitched onto a train and takes the party overnight to Bad Tölz, where he has a brass band to welcome them at the station and Aryan peasant girls to dance with them. After a breakfast of sausages washed down with the native beer they march to the raft, which has comfortable steamer chairs on it, also baskets of leberwurst and schweitzerkäse sandwiches and of course a keg of beer.
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