Ursula read with increasing horror.
According to Goebbels, the leader of the storm troopers had been plotting to overthrow Hitler. The man was seized by the SS while he was allegedly engaged in homosexual activities in a Munich hotel. Although he had been one of Hitler’s closest comrades since the early days of the Nazi party, he was dragged from bed and shot. On the same night hundreds of his followers in Munich and Berlin were executed without trial. The incident was already being called the Night of the Long Knives.
Ursula shuddered. The State committing murder with impunity. Someone has to do something about this!
On the twenty-fifth of July, 1934, Nazis burst into the office of the Austrian chancellor in Vienna and shot him to death. No official sanction was imposed by the League of Nations.
Within the Blueshirts was an intellectual elite composed of men such as Ernest Blythe and Desmond FitzGerald who admired Mussolini’s ideal of the corporate state. But it was the military aspect that came to the fore. Under O’Duffy’s direction the organization was reconstituted as the National Guard, a title the government did not sanction.
Eamon de Valera promptly revoked all civilian firearm certificates, including those for legally held weapons that members of government had been carrying since the O’Higgins assassination. When his action was challenged in the Dáil, de Valera accused O’Duffy of trying to set himself up as a dictator. With no apparent sense of irony, de Valera said the Irish government would not tolerate any man having a private army.
O’Duffy claimed membership in the Blueshirts was 62,000 and rising. Fianna Fáil hotly disputed that figure. But there was no doubt the Blueshirts were expanding. They viewed themselves as patriots dedicated to maintaining free speech and resisting a one-party state. Their new constitution included a women’s section and stressed physical fitness. It also limited membership exclusively to Irish citizens who professed the Christian faith.2
“Although I approve of their enlightened attitude toward women,” Ursula wrote to Fliss, “and I am not really happy with Fianna Fáil, I could never support the Blueshirts. Not only are they anti-Republican, but anti-Semitic as well. I despise any form of bigotry! In Northern Ireland we have proof of its terrible consequences.
“I think bigots secretly feel inferior, Fliss, which is why they claim a superiority effortlessly conferred upon them by race or religion. That is as bad as an inherited monarchy in which the laziest villain can become king.”
“With tongue firmly fixed in cheek,” Fliss replied, “I take umbrage at your remarks. I certainly am not inferior. How could I be? I am English. Yet I do admit to being anti-Semitic, which is a perfectly acceptable prejudice. Fashionable, even. The Jews are intellectuals and bankers and one always hates them.
“Adolf Hitler’s animosity toward the Jews does seem excessive, though. He blames them entirely for Germany’s defeat in the Great War. The Gestapo—that’s the secret state police—are confiscating Jewish property. Often the owners simply disappear. German Jews are beginning to arrive in Britain, telling rather frightening stories that no one really believes, but one has to feel sorry for them. In some cases they have lost everything. I cannot imagine how awful it must be to arrive in a strange land with nothing but the clothes you stand up in.”
That’s because you’re not Irish, thought Ursula.
Fliss’s letter continued: “Sir Oswald says Hitler is doing wonderful things for the German economy, however, and continues to champion him. The younger members of our set use Munich as a sort of finishing school cum social springboard,3 and Sir Oswald’s wife and sister-in-law, Unity Mitford, often visit Germany. In fact Unity has become quite passionately devoted to dear Adolf, it’s something of an open scandal. She has taken to whizzing around London in an MG with a swastika painted on it.”
19 August 1934
HINDENBERG, GERMAN PRESIDENT, DEAD
ADOLF HITLER DECLARES HIMSELF HEAD OF STATE
Title of President Abolished. Hitler to Be Known as Fuehrer and Reich Chancellor
Chapter Twenty-six
In September the Blueshirts merged with Cumann na nGaedheal to form a new party called United Ireland/Fine Gael. Like its predecessor, Fine Gael* drew its primary support from large rural landowners and the prosperous middle class.
When Eoin O’Duffy was elected president of the party, Fine Gael acquired an overtly fascist element.
As soon as 2RN received the announcement of his election, Ursula placed an urgent telephone call to the Department of External Affairs.
De Valera’s removal of political opponents had not extended to the lower echelons of civil service. Finbar Cassidy was assured of retaining his job if he kept his head down and the department running smoothly.
When Ursula heard Finbar’s voice on the telephone she said briskly, “Can you have lunch with me?”
“What? Today?”
“If possible.”
“Why…certainly, I can meet you for lunch. Where?”
“Flynn’s? In an hour?”
Finbar was already there when Ursula arrived. When she approached his table he stood up and pulled out a chair for her. A smile set his freckled face aglow. “I’m glad you rang me,” he said as she sat down. “I hope this means—”
“I’m not picking up where we left off,” Ursula interrupted before the conversation could become embarrassing. “I came to urge you to think again about your political affiliations. When we Irish dig ourselves into a hole we tend to stay there, but…”
Finbar’s smile congealed on his face. “You wanted to meet me just to launch into a political harangue?”
“I’m not haranguing you, I’m concerned about you. As a friend,” she hastened to add. He looked so crestfallen she reached across the table to touch his hand. “You once warned me about the fascists, remember? Now you’re consorting with them.”
“Hardly consorting, Ursula. I don’t believe I’ve spoken ten words to any of the Blueshirts. But surely a political party should be flexible enough to embrace more than one point of view.”
“You think the fascist point of view is worth embracing? Hitler is a fascist. Do you realize what’s happening in Germany?”
“External Affairs follows international developments closely, it’s our business,” he said huffily.
She must make him understand. “Somewhere along the line the legal German chancellor has become the legal German dictator, Finbar—and no one’s made a move to stop him. Now he’s persecuting the Jews just as the English persecuted us. It’s monstrous! All fascists should be locked away where they can’t do any damage. Or better yet, shot.”
“That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?” said Finbar. “People are either saints or sinners, wonderful or rotten to the core; there’s no middle ground with you.”
Ursula recognized the truth in his words but did not consider it a character flaw. She was Ned Halloran’s daughter, passionate and committed when others were apathetic. She leaned earnestly toward Finbar. “Please disassociate yourself from the Fine Gael party. For my sake, if no other reason.”
“Why don’t you disassociate yourself from Fianna Fáil for my sake?” he countered. “De Valera insists that only he knows what’s right for Ireland, but what he really wants is to do all our thinking for us. And that’s dangerous.”
The remark was too close to the bone. “Not as dangerous as Eoin O’Duffy,” Ursula said defensively. She would never admit that she was beginning to question her own loyalty to Dev.
“Listen to me, Ursula. I work in government, and I can tell you there’s no perfect party and no perfect leader either.”
She gave a sniff. “You’re just jealous because you backed the wrong horse.”
He realized there was no point in continuing the discussion; they would only quarrel again. She was, he told himself, incapable of compromise.
“We both have to go back to work soon,” he reminded her. “May I buy you a sandwich first?”
Ursula cocked her head to one si
de, surveying the menu chalked on a slate on the wall. “A bowl of soup, I think.”
“Whatever you say.” His mind began to drift away. Back to his desk with its piles of folders; back to the afternoon’s appointments; back to what was mundane and certain.
When they left Flynn’s he went one way and she the other. After a few paces Finbar looked back, only to see Ursula striding away from him with her lovely free-swinging walk.
At the corner she stopped. Turned around. But Finbar was gone.
Ursula had too much energy and not enough outlets for it. She visited every livery stable in Dublin, hoping at least one of them would quote a price cheap enough to allow her to bring Saoirse up from the country. None did. She hired horses to ride by the hour or took long walks through the streets of the city. Nothing tired her sufficiently to turn off her mind and allow a peaceful sleep.
She worked all the hours she could, then went home to write endless letters late into the night. And read. Because she knew most of her own books by heart, she began borrowing others from the library. One evening she hurled a popular “woman’s novel” across the room after reading only a few pages. Do women really want to read this saccharine rubbish? Or is it foisted off on them to discourage them from using their minds?
Adolf Hitler refused to take any further part in the Geneva Disarmament Conference. He also withdrew Germany from the League of Nations, claiming the country could no longer tolerate the humiliating and dishonoring demands of the other Powers.
Meanwhile the Gestapo were encouraging Germans to denounce one another as traitors. Anyone considered a threat to the New Order was dealt with summarily. Thousands of Communists and socialists, denounced by neighbors and workmates, were sent to concentration camps.
In November the Irish Gardaí raided Blueshirt headquarters in Parnell Square. Some weapons were found, but nothing sufficient to allow the government to bring criminal charges against Cumann na nGaedheal. However de Valera did bring charges against individual members of the party. Eoin O’Duffy and two colleagues were arrested at Westport. The arrest was declared illegal by the High Court a few days later.
That same month, Séamus Clandillon left 2RN on indefinite sick leave.1 He was clearly exhausted, but promised to return as soon as he had a little rest.
When Ursula went to Clare for Christmas, as a present for the family she bought a gramophone record of John McCormack singing “Friend of Mine.”
Shortly after the New Year a man from Posts and Telegraphs was brought in to serve as acting director at 2RN.
Chapter Twenty-seven
In February of 1935 Fliss wrote to Ursula:
The family and I are no longer on good terms and I am looking for a flat of my own in London. What a pain! I do hope female emancipation is all it is cracked up to be.
I have Sir Oswald Mosley to thank. Last month I attended a huge rally for him in Birmingham. Needless to say, my father refused me permission to go. Needless to say, I went. Now I am no longer welcome in the familial nest.
Over ten thousand people were at the rally. Three thousand of them wore black shirts and leather belts like Mussolini’s followers, and gave Sir Oswald the stiff-armed fascist salute. There is a rumour that he is receiving funds from Mussolini. I would not be surprised.
In his speech Sir Oswald said he will ask the nation to return a fascist majority in the next election. He quite bluntly stated his aim as a modern dictatorship that would have sufficient power to overcome all the problems the people want overcome.1
The speech was rousing and full of fire but the longer I listened, the more uncomfortable I was, Ursula. When we were at Surval you used to talk a lot about freedom for Ireland. You started me thinking about freedom in the abstract, which I had never done before. One does not give much thought to something one takes for granted.
If Sir Oswald has his way we might lose quite a bit of our freedom. He wants to take it from us as a parent denies freedom to a child: for its own good. But we are not children and I am no longer convinced he is a kindly paterfamilias. Ambition drips off the man like perspiration.
At the Birmingham rally Sir Oswald’s Blackshirts were handing out membership applications to join the British Union of Fascists. I took one—frankly, I was too intimidated not to—but as soon as I was on the train I wadded it up and threw it under the seat.
Call me reactionary if you like, but I want no part of the “brave new world” Aldous Huxley described in his latest novel. Have you read it yet, Ursula? It sent chills up my spine.
Brave New World, with its nightmarish vision of a totalitarian society, was among the books banned by the Irish censorship board. Ursula asked Fliss to send her a copy at once.
That same month John A. Costello, a Fine Gael lawyer, declared in the Dáil that the Blueshirts would be as victorious in Ireland as Mussolini’s Blackshirts in Italy, and the ‘Hitlershirts’ in Germany.2
In March of 1935 Germany announced conscription. Tanks came out in the open, rumbling ominously down city streets. Luftwaffe planes slashed across the sky in formation.
Britain was the first democracy to make a pact with the Nazis, signing a naval agreement.
In Vienna, an uprising of the Social Democrats was ruthlessly crushed by the government. The 2RN newsreader gravely reported, “There are rumours circulating that Adolf Hitler plans to annex Austria. Jews are fleeing the country in their thousands.”
Meanwhile gangs of drumbeating sectarian thugs paraded nightly through Belfast, inciting anti-Catholic violence.
During Easter Week a bronze statue of Cúchulainn was unveiled at the GPO. At Ursula Halloran’s suggestion, a special 2RN broadcast featured the surviving men who had fought there.
One morning Séamus Clandillon reappeared at the station.
“Welcome back!” Ursula called happily.
“I’m not back. I’ve just called in to pick up some personal items and to say good-bye to everyone.”
“You’re leaving permanently? I don’t believe it.”
“Neither do I, but it’s true enough.” He gave a rueful shake of the head, and Ursula noticed how thin his hair had become. There were dark circles under his eyes and his chest had a strange, caved-in look. “I’ve been here nine years and hoped to die in the traces,” Clandillon told her. “My mistake was in falling ill. That gave them a chance to stick the knife in my back while I wasn’t looking.”
“But what will you do, Séamus?”
“Oh, they’re looking after me in their fashion. I have orders to go back to my old job as an insurance inspector.” He did not add, though Ursula understood full well, that the position would be a demotion and involve a cut in salary.
She was outraged. “What an appalling way to treat you! You made this station what it is today. Whom shall I protest to?”
“Don’t, Ursula. It will do no good to campaign for me, the decision’s already made. In a way, I’m relieved. No more responsibility for staff, no begging for funds, no sticking my head above the parapet to be shot off by every politician looking for an easy target.”
“How can they ever replace you?”
“Be assured they’ll find someone. They’re offering nine hundred pounds per annum, which is a damned sight more than they ever paid me. There’ll probably be an advert in the papers. Responsible position in broadcasting available, knowledge of Irish essential. Brass balls definitely required,” he added wryly.
“Could I apply?”
“Your Irish is excellent—and you have that other qualification too. But you’re a woman, my dear. Unfortunately, you are a woman.”
Clandillon had a kind word for everyone before he left. “You must soldier on and you will do admirably,” he assured them. “This is better for me, truly it is.”
On the first of May a government news release arrived on Ursula’s desk with instructions to have it read following the evening news. “The Dublin Broadcasting Station is pleased to announce that Dr. Thomas J. Kiernan, an expert on finance and econom
ics, has been seconded from the Department of External Affairs to join our staff. Dr. Kiernan’s new title will be director of broadcasting.”
No named source for the news release was given. The decision makers who occupied the middle stratum of civil service comprised an anonymous army. As in every government, they had power without accountability.
The selection came as a shock to the acting director of 2RN, who had confidently expected to be named to the post. He only learned of Kiernan’s appointment when he heard it on the wireless.
Kiernan was married to the popular ballad singer, Delia Murphy, whose recordings were frequently played on 2RN. “Rather more frequently now, I expect,” Mairead remarked to Ursula.
John MacDonagh, a brother of Thomas MacDonagh who had been executed in 1916, was appointed as productions officer. An actor and playwright, he had produced a number of programs for 2RN over the years. For the sake of his dead brother Ursula gave MacDonagh a warm welcome to staff. She even brewed a pot of tea for him.
The approaching summer brought warm, moisture-laden air, heavy with the scents of country fecundity even in the city. Ursula arrived at 2RN after yet another night of insomnia. The lack of sleep was spinning gray cobwebs through her brain.
Someone has to do something about this, she decided.
The black telephone on the wall was smeared with finger marks. Under Séamus Clandillon, employees had turned their hand to anything that needed doing. The station director himself had not been above rubbing candle wax on a sticking drawer, or mopping up spilled tea. But since his departure an attitude of “that isn’t my responsibility” was developing.
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