1949

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “Britain is now fighting on alone,” Churchill announced in a wireless program rebroadcast from the BBC. “Let us brace ourselves to our duty and so bear ourselves that if the British Commonwealth and Empire lasts a thousand years men will still say, ‘This was their finest hour.’”

  “ ’Chill,” said Barry. “ ’Chill, Mam?” He looked at her questioningly.

  She started to reply, “Our enemy.” Bit back the words. “A brave man,” she said instead.

  The war was moving closer to home.

  On the twenty-sixth of August three women were killed when a creamery in County Wexford was struck by a German bomb. The Germans claimed the plane had been lost in fog.

  At the end of the month Berlin was shaken by a British bombing raid. Royal Air Force planes struck back in retaliation for a massive air attack on London. In an exuberant report to Parliament, Churchill paid glowing tribute to the RAF pilots. “Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.”

  Again Ursula was moved by his oratory. Because she was Irish she had an inherent sympathy for the underdog.

  How odd to think of Britain as the underdog!

  “Will America enter the war?” Ursula wrote to Henry, though she thought she knew the answer already. America had no territorial interests in Europe. It would do what de Valera was doing, stand aside and let the nations with imperial ambitions fight amongst themselves.

  Some Irish people took the neutrality policy to the extreme by refusing to think about the war at all. They withdrew deeper into themselves; speaking softly, thinking circumspectly, narrowing their horizons to one small island, and within that, to county and parish and townland.

  Ursula Halloran continued to follow the international situation as best she could. Elsie Lester kept her better informed about the League of Nations than any other source. The League had almost disappeared from the Irish consciousness.

  After months of political intrigue, Joseph Avenol had resigned in August. Seán Lester was the new secretary-general. He dolefully predicted he might be the last. No one had faith in the League anymore. Even the Swiss government was withdrawing its support. The organization’s presence in Geneva was seen as endangering Swiss neutrality.

  At the end of September Elsie wrote, “I just had a rather upsetting telephone conversation with my husband. He was passing through London on his way back to Geneva. A committee including Seán and the president of the International Court of Justice had planned a meeting of the League’s supervisory commission, and wanted to hold it in Lisbon to keep some presence on the international stage.

  “Although both Spain and Portugal claim to be neutral, the Spanish government issued a barring order against the League. The committee members were turned away at the border—very unpleasantly, I gather. They considered themselves lucky to get away unharmed. Only the fact that Seán was Irish kept the matter from being worse than it was. Fortunately the Spanish still think of Ireland as a friend.

  “I wish my husband would come home, Ursula, but I never say that to him. His integrity is too deep to allow him to run away. That is one of the reasons I love him.”

  In October, harsh anti-Semitic laws were passed by the collaboratist Vichy regime in France, and the Germans prepared to use France’s Atlantic seaports to shorten their own supply lines.

  That same month, President Roosevelt denied that he had any plans to take America into the war.

  But the battle for the Atlantic had begun.

  Hitler had decided to defeat Britain by starving her out. The deadly German submarines known as U-boats and heavily armed German vessels masquerading as merchant ships had already sunk or captured thirty-six British vessels in the Atlantic. Britain’s supply lifeline from America was seriously damaged.

  To her relief, Ursula finally received a letter from Heidi Neckermann. Originally postmarked Kenya, the letter obviously had passed through a number of hands. “I have been interned here as an enemy of the Crown,” Heidi bewailed, “just because I am Austrian. My father and my husband are appealing the case but it looks very bleak. I fear I shall have to spend the duration of the war in a miserable internment camp with a lot of people who have fleas.”

  Seán Lester continued to maintain a doomed but courageous vigil in Geneva, holding up the flickering lamp of freedom against the approaching darkness.

  I wish I were there with him, Ursula thought wistfully. It would be like being with the Volunteers in the GPO when the British were closing in.

  Why must I always be torn between having the one and wanting the other?

  In November Franklin Delano Roosevelt was reelected by an overwhelming margin to become America’s first three-term president. “Presidents and prime ministers need a war,” Ursula remarked cynically when she and Barry heard the news on the wireless. “People are reluctant to change generals in mid-battle.”

  “Jinrals?” The little boy looked up at her quizzically.

  “Men who lead other men in war.”

  “How?”

  She paused to consider the question. Ursula always tried to give her son’s questions a straightforward answer. “In olden times they carried a big sword,” she told him, “and were better at fighting with it than anyone else.”

  It was simpler than trying to explain the machinations by which modern men rose to power.

  That same month, Winston Churchill was back on the list of people whom Ursula despised.

  Stunned by criticism over the shipping losses Britain was suffering, a furious Churchill blamed Ireland. The Irish Press quoted the prime minister as saying in the House of Commons, “The fact that we cannot use the south and west coasts of Ireland to refuel our flotillas and aircraft is a most grievous burden and one which should never have been placed upon our shoulders, broad though they be.”

  The British government further intimated that Éire was supplying fuel and provisions to German submarines. There were even suggestions that Britain should attack Ireland and reclaim the Treaty Ports.

  There was no doubt that the ports were ideally located to facilitate communication and shorten supply lines for the Allies. But Eamon de Valera had no intention of allowing Britain a foothold in southern Ireland again.

  His rebuke to Churchill in the Dáil was the confident retort of one nation’s leader admonishing an equal. Radio Éireann reported it in full. “I would have refrained from making any comment upon Mr. Churchill’s statement with reference to our ports, were it not for the fact that it has been followed by an extensive press campaign in Britain itself, and reechoed in the United States of America, that we should surrender or lease our ports to Britain for the conduct of the war.

  “We want friendly relations with the people of Britain, as we want friendly relations with all other peoples, but naturally we want them with Britain because Britain is the nearest country to us on the globe. It was partly for that reason, and partly because I knew perfectly that it was a condition of neutrality, that I announced it would be our policy to use our strength to the utmost to see that this island was not going to be used as a basis of attack upon Britain.

  “There has been no want of good faith as far as we are concerned. We have abided by our public as well as our private promises. It is a lie to say that German submarines or any other submarines are being supplied with fuel or provisions on our coasts. A most extensive system of coast observation has been established here since the war. I say it is a lie, and I say further that it is known to be a falsehood by the British government itself.

  “Having said all that, these ports are ours. They are within our sovereignty, and there can be no question, as long as we remain neutral, of handing them over to anyone on any condition whatsoever. Any attempt to bring pressure to bear on us by any side—by any of the belligerents—by Britain—could only lead to bloodshed.

  “As long as this Government remains in office we shall defend our rights in regard to these ports against whoever shall attack them, as we shall defend our rights in r
egard to every other part of our territory.

  “I want to say to our people that we may be—I hope not—facing a grave crisis. If we are to face it than we shall do it, knowing that our cause is right and just and that, if we have to die for it, we shall be dying in that good cause.”1

  The pendulum swung. Ursula Halloran was once again cheering for Eamon de Valera.

  In a public statement the IRA quoted James Connolly: “We serve neither King nor Kaiser!”

  While returning to Canada after accepting the Nobel Prize for peace, the Canadian prime minister Lester Pearson spent Christmas 1940 in London. He subsequently related to the BBC, “I was awoken around midnight by a German bomb exploding outside my building. An air raid was in progress, and to block out the noise of guns and bombs I turned on the radio. It was tuned to a German station that only three hours before had been broadcasting Lord Haw-Haw, and now broadcast the most lovely Christmas carols. I was struck by their beauty. If only we could discover how these two divergent sounds could come from the same source we would be well on the way to achieving world peace.”

  Chapter Forty-eight

  On Christmas Eve Ursula tucked the Halloran family Bible under her arm and took Barry out to the barn. Wide-eyed with wonder, the little boy sat on a bale of hay while she read aloud the story of the birth in the stable at Bethlehem.

  Ursula’s attempt to cook the Christmas dinner was not a total success. At least it made the house smell wonderful. With no idea whether he was alive or dead, Ursula set a place for Ned at the table. It remained unoccupied.

  Barry enthusiastically ate a portion of roast goose—burnt black on the outside and underdone on the inside—and asked for more.

  On the twenty-seventh of December, 1940, John Charles McQuaid was consecrated Roman Catholic Archbishop of Dublin.

  The public now referred to the conflict of 1914–18 as World War I. The horror of the trenches and the gas, the chivalry so often demonstrated by both sides—these were in the past, relics of ancient days.

  World War II promised to be much worse.

  As 1941 dawned, the skies were full of thunder.

  On the second of January German bombs fell on southern Ireland following a line down the eastern side of the country. No one was killed but several people were injured. There was little doubt that the German pilots knew exactly where they were dropping their bombs.

  De Valera’s government issued a brief statement but did not condemn the attack outright. The newspapers speculated that the raid was a deliberate attempt to warn Éire not to abandon neutrality and gave aid to Britain.

  Winston Churchill stated, “No attempt should be made to conceal from Mr. de Valera the depth and intensity of feeling against the policy of Irish neutrality. Juridically we have never recognized that Southern Ireland is an independent Sovereign State. Should the present situation last until the end of the war, a gulf will have opened between Northern and Southern Ireland which it will be impossible to bridge in this generation.”1

  January brought another threat to Ireland. There was an outbreak of foot-and-mouth disease in County Derry.

  Britain immediately stopped all imports of Irish cattle. Soon all foxhunting and greyhound coursing was banned in Éire. Fairs, race meetings, and the St. Patrick’s Day Dog Show were canceled. Cattle marts were closed. The government even banned walking in the mountains for fear of spreading the disease.

  A siege mentality set in.

  In Éire the second great conflict in Europe within three decades was not called World War II. It was simply known as the Emergency.

  Because Éire was a free nation, for the first time in modern history her citizens were free to enter or abstain from a British war. Tens of thousands joined the Allied Forces. Members of Fianna Fáil and Fine Gael found themselves united in their opposition to Hitler.

  The nation’s isolation from global affairs did not protect her from many of the war’s effects. Previously de Valera had agreed to a British request that Ireland buy all its tea through the United Kingdom. In 1941 Britain cut the Irish tea ration in half.

  The Irish also had been dependent on Britain for coal and oil, tea and candles, pots and pans and bricks and timber, nails and electric light bulbs and motorcars. None of these were available now. Britain continued to rely heavily on the importation of Irish foodstuffs, but the export of British goods to Éire had almost ceased entirely.

  Many believed that Britain was punishing Éire for her neutrality.

  The shortages proved to be something of a blessing in disguise. Thrown back on her own resources, Éire struggled in earnest to become the self-sufficient state de Valera had long desired. Bord na Mona, the Turf Board, set about developing the country’s only indigenous fuel. Looking ahead to the end of the war, Seán Lemass, the government minister for supplies, initiated a project to build an oil refinery at Dublin Port.

  People began to take pride in what they could do on their own.

  Those who had motorcars put them up on blocks. Goff’s, the bloodstock auctioneers, held a huge auction of horse-drawn vehicles. Hunters and children’s ponies and aging racehorses suddenly found themselves between the shafts of cabs and sidecars.

  “I think we should look into raising a few horses for sale,” Ursula told Gerry Ryan.

  “Breed the roan mare, you mean?”

  Ursula laughed. “And pass on her faults to another generation? Indeed not. But I think we could find a couple of decent Irish draft mares if we shop around.”

  “War’ll be over by the time you get the foals raised and ready to sell.”

  Ursula smiled. “Oh, there’ll always be a market for a good horse.”

  By now Gerry recognized the look in her eyes. “Them mares is as good as bought,” he told his brother. “Better build a shed for ’em in the high pasture.”

  With neutrality Éire had closed down. The only available entertainment was homegrown: theater and cinema and well-chaperoned dances. Dublin hotels offered “dress dances” every Saturday night for five shillings per person. Supper cost extra.

  When the All-Ireland Ballroom Dancing Championships were held at the Gresham, female contestants arrived on bicycles with the skirts of their ball gowns tucked up.

  As for books, Irish book publishers had virtually disappeared during the hard economic times of the thirties. What remained in the bookshops was mostly British-published and of limited variety. Censorship was in full flight. A book must win the approval of the Church if it hoped to find a readership in Éire—unless it was banned, which guaranteed it would be highly sought after and eagerly passed from hand to hand.

  Ursula thought longingly of her favorite books, left behind in Geneva and probably lost forever.

  At least she had the wireless.

  The air was flooded with radio signals. Borne on invisible waves of power, messages arrived daily from the outside world. The German high command had trained thousands of wireless operators. Ireland was bombarded by Nazi propaganda programs in both English and Irish. The broadcasts often included music, humorous skits, or personal messages.

  Irish-language broadcasts from Germany were not subtle. Attempting to destroy any sympathy Irish nationalists might feel for the British cause, they directly connected the colonial abuses of the English in the past with current events. The British were depicted as insatiable imperialists; the Germans as a valiant people fighting for their homeland.

  Ireland was not the only country receiving German propaganda. Radio Berlin broadcast in fifty-four languages, reaching a wide international audience.

  At first Ursula tuned in out of curiosity. When the hated voice of Lord Haw-Haw filled the farmhouse parlor she switched off the machine in disgust. Not everyone reacted that way. Many in Ireland enjoyed the German broadcasts. The music was catchy and modern and the jokes could be repeated in pubs and shops. One could ignore the blatant propaganda—or take pleasure in arguing with the wireless.

  As a mainly agricultural country, Ireland in general
did not suffer the food shortages other nations were enduring. Milk, eggs, bacon and pork were available—if one could pay for them. Prices went up as profiteers took advantage of consumer nervousness.

  As always, the poor had the hardest time of it. Shortages reduced them to a basic level of subsistence as low as the oldest could remember.2 Tough, stringy boiling beef was a shilling a pound; a stew made with a pound of beef and vegetables would feed a family for three days. The bread was called brown bread but was almost black, very coarse, with husks and sometimes even bits of hair sticking out of it. Boys claimed that if they kept a loaf until the next day they could play handball with it.

  Ursula refused to be a profiteer. When local merchants learned she would supply butter at prewar prices, they bought all she could provide and quietly sold it under the counter to their regular customers. No talk now about unwed mothers and moral turpitude.

  On April 15, 1941, the Germans dropped nearly three hundred bombs on Belfast. Seven hundred and forty-five people were killed and twice that number injured. Thousands of houses were left uninhabitable.

  Forgetting about partition for the moment, Eamon de Valera sent all available fire brigades, ambulances, and medical personnel racing north across the border to the aid of the stricken city. “They are our own people, after all,” he said.

  Gerry Ryan wondered aloud, “How could the Germans bomb people who never done them no harm?”

  In Ursula’s mind a newsreel unrolled: The Black and Tans, Knocknagoshel, Ballyseedy…“There is a barbarian in all of us, Gerry, just under the skin,” she said sadly. “We don’t want to believe it but it’s true. Fed enough carefully constructed propaganda, poisoned with enough emotive lies, any human being is capable of terrible things.”