Etienne suspected his father’s disdain for horoscopes dealt more with Etienne’s birth date than any horoscope predictions. According to his birth certificate Etienne entered the French nation on September 1, 1885, an ominous day for his father. The date was fifteen years to the day of Sedan: the battle ending the second French empire and the day his father entered German captivity. September 1 was not a day his son could be born. That started the family tradition of celebrating on August 31, a perfectly ordinary day for the French nation, one that would not conjure up painful memories.
Much like the mornings when Europe was not on the verge of a continent wide war, Etienne flipped through the newspapers, enjoying them with a light breakfast. In the last months his time had been monopolized by a new companion, who pushed his longtime companion to the fringes of his life. Fiorenza was skilled at manipulating the male of the species, especially Etienne, who was more than thirty years her senior and smitten like a school boy. On more than one occasion they had spent the night at her apartment with Etienne struggling to escape her hold. Fortunately, this morning Fiorenza faced an appointment as lead interpreter for the Italian embassy, a position earned not from years of experience but familial connections, allowing Etienne to escape without much effort.
At his desk, Etienne caught sight of the horoscope and he was thrust back into his childhood. His father had been a mayor then a member of the French legislature, part of the right wing movement born of the Dreyfus affair. The battle burned a hole in his father’s soul, a dislike for Jews spread among his family as Berlique suffered insults for refusing to accept Dreyfus’ innocence. His son carried the memories through his college years then into the army as he fought the Germans in the early frontier battles along the Lorraine border. Twice wounded, Etienne returned to his village in mid-1915, out of action. Convinced the French generals were wasting the nation’s youth in a useless war, Berlique used his influence to keep his only son from the front.
Sitting in his home, Etienne had watched village boys be sent off to the meat grinder, hundreds then thousands slaughtered over acres of mud all in search of a winning strategy. The fourth decade of his life began with death as Etienne watched his neighbors mourn. It left Etienne alone to tend the family garden or read the casualty lists that included too many familiar names. Funerals consumed much of his war years, hobbling around in his uniform, a stray medal hanging haphazardly on his jacket, protecting him from whispers of misused influence, Etienne too old or too hobbled to die with his friends in the trenches.
The Great War burned the lesson into his mind that killing was meaningless. War only harmed the nation with a lost generation, and left a dysfunctional political system and politicians bent on squabbling for advantage rather than working for the nation. It propelled Etienne into public life, taking his father’s seat and discovering he enjoyed politics even as Berlique prodded him toward higher office. Fortunately for Etienne the French Third Republic was a revolving door for politicians, governments sputtering to an end after a few months, the shuffling of positions offering him opportunities in agriculture, justice, colonial affairs and foreign policy.
Pierre Laval had served in those governments. He liked Berlique and transferred his affection to his son. With Laval ensconced in the Quai d’Orsai, Etienne had risen to heights unimagined by his father who died in 1938 at age seventy-seven, exhausted and groping to understand a France that had abandoned his ideals.
This particular day Etienne had two scheduled visitors with very different agendas. Ambassador Von Hotzendorf was a Prussian Junker who joined several wary German industrialists dragged onto the Nazi bandwagon in search of influence, money or prestige. His late loyalty had kept him from the Nazi inner circle but earned the old man a post in Paris. Hotzendorf’s predecessor, a close acquaintance of German foreign minister Joachim Ribbentrop, had offended the French nation with his penchant for French actresses and not paying his restaurant bills.
Von Hotzendorf had a standing appointment with Laval or Etienne, whoever was available. A note left on his desk that morning informed the deputy foreign minister the Prussian was scheduled for a ten o’clock visit. Etienne’s staff wisely anticipated a lengthy meeting, reserving the entire morning and providing him enough time to memorize the French position as given him by Laval. The deputy foreign minister knew what the German ambassador wanted to hear and he would ensure the Prussian left the foreign ministry satisfied.
A light rap on the door drew Etienne from his newspaper. Francois appeared, known more for his refreshment retrieval skills than international acumen. Etienne, though, enjoyed the earnest and nervous young man who treated every conversation with the deputy foreign minister as a class lecture, François taking notes as the older man spun out the Quai d' Orsai’s policies.
“Merry Birthday,” Francois burbled.
Etienne eyed the rumpled shirt, uneven tie and ill-fitting slacks that revealed white socks sagging around his ankles. He sighed. Presentation was as important as content in diplomacy. One did not hand out a declaration of war looking as if he had just rolled from bed, it would just not do.
“It is tomorrow,” Etienne murmured.
“Oh,” Francois looked more ill at ease. “I am sorry. They said it was today, August 31.”
“That is when my family celebrates it.”
“Oh.” Francois squinted, hair flickering over his eyes. “Oh?”
Etienne sighed and pushed back from his desk. “My father was a French patriot who would not allow his only son to be born on the anniversary of Sedan.”
“Oh.” Francois swept the hair from his eyes. “But you -.”
Etienne held up his hand. “It is easier with my father gone to celebrate the actual day of my birth.”
Francois nodded even as he did not understand.
“You are here for a reason?”
Francois hesitated, trying to recall the stimulus for his visit.
“Oh, yes, Ambassador Von Hotzendorf’s office called.”
“You refer to the embassy?”
“Pardon?”
Etienne sighed. The rush to fill the foreign ministry with politically reliable people had not always translated into the most competent. “Ambassador Von Hotzendorf’s office is the German embassy. He is the official representative of the German government not some functionary from the Education Ministry.”
Francois nodded. “Yes sir.”
“Take him to the parlor when he arrives and inform me of his presence.”
Francois turned to leave but Etienne cleared his throat.
“One suggestion, Francois.”
“Yes sir.”
“A mirror.”
Francois’ eyes widened, hands reaching for his hair and tie and he scurried from the office. Etienne eased into his chair, his nearly fifty-four years weighing heavily on him. The German ambassador in the morning, the British ambassador that afternoon, the Italian embassy in the evening and Fiorenza all night long, all before war broke out. Diplomacy was a young man’s occupation though the thought of Francois sitting at his desk left Etienne shivering.
Ambassador’s Von Hotzendorf’s appointment was set for ten and in typical Teutonic fashion his car pulled up at the Quai d’Orsai ten minutes early, allowing sufficient time for striding to his assigned room and be waiting for his French host when Etienne arrived. Francois, freshly groomed but still lacking the polish of French diplomats, ushered him into the parlor.
The ambassador, tall, angular, a hawk like nose dominating his face, dismissed Francois with a nod and remained in the middle of the room, taking in his surroundings without being seduced by them. The sound of voices outside the room caused him to straighten, face seemingly set in stone, leaving him to choose between friendliness or haughtiness, diplomacy or coercion; fellow ambassadors never certain the direction the conversation would begin.
Etienne was unconcerned; Von Hotzendorf not his problem. Foreign Minister Laval had established the relationship, his deputy was available
only for delivering messages.
“Ambassador,” Etienne said with a slight bow.
Von Hotzendorf considered possible replies, a bow, a clicking of his heels, an extended hand or a smile. He chose the combination handshake/grimace, a signal that distressing news was to be delivered. “I received a note from the Reich Chancellery.”
Etienne listened, nodding as Von Hotzendorf relayed what September would bring and why Etienne would not be celebrating his birth on the day he was born. The ambassador, proud Prussian aristocrat, his great grandfather an aide de camp to Frederick the Great, father a functionary under Bismarck, spit out the official Nazi line on Polish provocations and the international Jewish-Bolshevik conspiracy. Etienne listened, nodding politely but never quite believing Von Hotzendorf. His words were too quick, tone too fervent, an actor delivering lines he did not believe but recited to protect his position.
Nearly an hour passed in the parlor, the two governments seeking and confirming arrangements. Laval had been specific in his instructions to Etienne. When Von Hotzendorf took a long breath indicating the end of his verbal assault on the Poles, Etienne offered his own diagnosis of what lay ahead.
“Ambassador,” he motioned to one of the couches, an elaborate affair with silk cover and ornately carved wood armrests. Von Hotzendorf was unable to hide his surprise at being invited to sit in such a tense situation but accepted, loosening his stiff posture to ease onto the seat. Etienne chose the high backed chair across from the German, his back aching from the extending time standing straight while Hotzendorf rattled off the list of Polish provocations.
“We respect the German position with the Poles. We have struggled to reach a reasonable position on the Danzig question.” Etienne’s jaw clenched with the memory of a summer consumed by fruitless negotiations. The Polish dictator, General Beck, was convinced France and Britain would come to his aid if Germany attacked and was emboldened to reject any compromise.
In two frustrating trips to Warsaw, Etienne struggled to soften Beck’s expectations of French military support. He had reminded the general of Poland’s poor strategic position with the Germans surrounding his country north, south and west, with the Russians on the eastern frontier. Nothing shook Beck’s twin illusions of a British/French alliance or the invincibility of his untested army. Unfortunately, confidence in the British guarantee might prove to be Beck’s and Poland’s downfall.
Etienne continued, “The French government holds no position on the Danzig question except in its wish for a peaceful settlement.” Etienne watched Hotzendorf carefully, the German sitting stonily as the French deputy foreign minister took several detours before arriving at his conclusion.
“Of course,” Etienne said. “If the Poles will not negotiate in good faith and are seen as a growing threat to the Reich, the government believes Poland is within the German sphere of influence.”
Von Hotzendorf’s eyes flickered at the mention of spheres. Since the seventeenth century, diplomatic recognition of a “sphere of influence” was a grant of a blank check for military action by another state.
“France will maintain friendly relations with both states, a balanced neutrality with neither diplomatic, military nor economic aid to either side.” Etienne closed his eyes, murmuring a little prayer that he had said it correctly. Three days of memorization had not been for naught.
Von Hotzendorf’s reaction suggested Etienne had touched a soft spot in the ambassador’s hard exterior. “We respect the French position,” the ambassador said, Germany accent making the soft sounds hard even as Etienne pieced together the response. “Berlin also seeks the French government’s response to a British declaration of war.” The ambassador had grown stiff again, a reaction Etienne suspected originated more from his concern about an Anglo-French alliance than his Prussian upbringing.
Etienne recited another much practiced answer. “The British government has its own policy separate from the French government. As to military policy I can speak for the War Ministry in declaring the French army is committed wholly to the defensive. The Maginot Line can easily be held by French forces, therefore, there is no need for any British forces on French soil.”
Von Hotzendorf could not miss the meaning of Etienne’s words. The British Expeditionary Force in France could remain only if Paris allowed it and without French troops beside them could not penetrate far into Germany. There would be no western front while the Wehrmacht concentrated on Poland. The German ambassador had visited the Quai d’Orsai with a wish list and Etienne had checked off each, laying gifts at his feet.
“We respect the French dedication to a defensive peace,” the German said. “We hope Foreign Minister Laval might influence the British government to follow the same course.”
Etienne smiled, more out of relief than amusement, satisfied his message had been received by Von Hotzendorf. He cleared his throat. “The foreign minister is a remarkable man but convincing Chamberlain of the impulsiveness of his Polish guarantee is likely beyond even his abilities.”
The two men shared a light chuckle. Most of the foreign policy professionals and quite a few amateurs were dismayed by Chamberlain’s declaration and expected him to back away from the guarantee once war beckoned. Etienne was not one of them. A recipient of more than one moralistic lecture from the Anglos, he doubted they had the foresight to surrender their untenable position.
The rest of the meeting was consumed by pleasantries, including another early birthday congratulation. Von Hotzendorf was relaxed, he could signal Berlin its western border was secure. Etienne was also relaxed, his first duty of the day finished. There would be other ambassadorial visits but Von Hotzendorf was the most important. The French nation was guaranteed peace with Laval steering the Wehrmacht east, away from Paris and thus saving thousands of lives. With the allotted time gone Von Hotzendorf clicked his heels, gave a slight bow and in three quick strides left Etienne to prepare for the day’s next visitor.
He was stirred by Francois who announced the ambassador had departed. Etienne eyed him, impressed at the transformation. Though not perfect, Francois no longer presented an image that would provoke a breaking of relations with an ally. Etienne slipped past him, tapped Francois’ shoulder in a sign of approval and returned to his office.
Between ambassadorial visits, Etienne had agreed to answer press questions, taking up his normal two hours for lunch. Etienne girded for the questions from a carefully chosen group of reporters representing newspapers which approved of peace and were suspicious of any Anglo French alliance that might lead to war. With a midday meal in the distance, he watched Francois usher in half a dozen reporters. Their questions were rarely intelligent but always burdened with their biases. Etienne was confident his words would be honestly reported. It was not always so: a painful reality he learned after a few ill-chosen words to a London tabloid reporter. Large headlines had followed, shaking the foreign ministry; though Laval had used his London connections to place positive quotes in friendly papers and squelched the controversy. After the scandal, Etienne ordered the foreign ministry staff to simply disconnect any reporter who dared interrupt the ministry during this time of crisis.
Etienne’s late afternoon was cleared for the British ambassador, a worried little aristocrat who aged with every visit to the Quai d’Orsai. A weak man who gained his position because of superior blood lines, Lord Bainbridge wobbled in its parlor eying the crème colored walls with the disdain that accompanied generations of practiced snobbery. Etienne greeted him, noting the ambassador’s displeasure at meeting a deputy.
“Ambassador,” Etienne said, the lord straightening, pencil mustache wriggling in contempt of someone two classes below him.
“Monsieur.” He paused, struggling with his host’s name.
Etienne did not flinch. Lord Bainbridge had never learned his name, a mere deputy in the foreign ministry unworthy of the ambassador’s time. Etienne smiled, his calm helping him survive in the countryside during his youth, when emotion coul
d be turned against him.
“Lord Bainbridge.”
“I was hoping to speak with the minister.”
“He is unavailable.”
The mustache wriggled. “Highly unusual at a time like this.”
“The minister also has domestic political concerns.”
The Lord, nestled in a secure parliamentary seat in a broad coalition government looked unaware of such side issues. “Hitler will invade Poland,” he said without introduction.
“You know this?”
Bainbridge smoothed out his jacket. “It is known by most. War is coming and the British government seeks a joint statement with the French government denouncing this invasion and fulfilling its pledge to defend Poland.”
“Yes.”
“Then your government will abide by the pledge?”
Etienne hesitated. “No. It is a British pledge.”
Bainbridge’s pale face whitened. “You are saying the French government will not issue a statement with His Majesty’s government?”
“Yes.”
Bainbridge drew himself up. “This is highly unusual. We have a security pact with the French government, an attack on one is an attack on both.”
“The Germans have not attacked Britain. If they do we will fulfill our pledge.”
The ambassador’s eyes began to water. “Then the French government is unwilling to join the British government in declaring war against Germany?”
Etienne paused. The foreign minister’s instructions had been clear. Agree to nothing, deny nothing, be precise but only in vague terms, in other words be diplomatic. “The French government wishes for a peaceful solution to the Polish crisis. The foreign minister has suggested another meeting with Chancellor Hitler.”
Bainbridge sputtered. “Out of the question. His Majesty’s government has guaranteed Polish borders and will act accordingly if Germany violates internationally recognized boundaries.”
French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1) Page 4