Secret Protocols

by Peter Vansittart

  Though his manner was negligent, tolerant, unassertive, the eyes, so blue in the lofty, mobile face, were hard, as if summing up before sentence.

  ‘Latvia and, should it survive, Finland will submit to Russia in what is courteously called Mutual Assistance.’ His gesture was that of crumpling paper. Someone began, ‘And Germany …’

  ‘Ah.’ The pause was calculated, and, at several conflicting voices, Herr Max stooped to hear, almost to participate.

  ‘A hand on the tiller, General.Well and good, now that London and Paris relinquish the race and Washington declines to compete. Yet, if Hitler moves against the Soviets, who gets crushed in the middle?’

  ‘Amongst others, the League, endlessly disputing not only the righteousness of force but its validity. Civilization too readily assumes that people are rational.’

  The Herr General looked aside, to the stags and shields carved along the fireplace. ‘A hand on the tiller? To cleave to that is better than writing of feelings one has never possessed.’

  Further talk led to ‘the Italian bag of noise’, but I was confused, merging this with my private scraps of knowledge: Forest Uncle, Pahlen, der Alte Friedrich, Robespierre’s tinted spectacles – ‘He who trembles is Guilty’ – the disappearance of my favourite house-maid and a bloodied mass of feathers outside the possessed cowshed. Safely in bed, I thought of the girl who ran, now naked, speeding through moonlight, invitation to fondle myself, frantic for pursuit and deliverance.

  6

  That summer, 1939, not Stalin but Herr Hitler first signed non-aggression promises, safeguarding Estonia and Latvia. Did anyone sign promises of aggression? Russian threats to Finland got louder, and, in one rumour, the Red Army had crossed the frontier. Britain and France promised help but were only permitting a few anti-Russian demonstrations and counter-demonstrations. Hitler could still rescue the Finns from his lifelong enemy. The Reichsmarschall, papers announced, had assured all Germans that, should war ever come, he had rendered their skies totally immune to attack.

  That summer was exciting and frightening as fire. I see from afar the downfall of the Fighting Gods. Few people turned up for picnics; at school, many were absent. To my question about a dark-haired boy to whom I owed a kroon, the gym sergeant merely shrugged. ‘People of that sort, my good Erich, are advised to leg it.’

  Our servants, like the villagers, were very quiet – like, Herr Max grumbled, gamblers pondering their next move. A traditional tavern song was given a new twist, changing romance to danger.

  Why are these Lords so debonair?

  Why are these Ladies so fair?

  From our sweat they are debonair,

  It is our hands that made them so fair.

  Adults were edgier. The Herr General was always crossing frontiers, on return reporting international tensions. Then, blue August exploded, demolishing political experts, professors, wireless commentators. Faces burst open with the volte-face of the Hitler–Stalin Pact, two signatures achieving the impossible.

  Bear and Wolf had lain down together, almost in the next room. But surely not. Throughout my life they had almost deafened Europe with their hatred. Summer was not winter, mountains did not dance, despite the dazzling psalm.Yet the experts were rushing back, with instances of previous Nazi–Communist collaboration against the Weimar Republic. Words, words. The old nation-states must, a voice declared, be merged in a new international order.

  For myself, however, wine had changed to water in a fifth season under nameless stars and a square moon. I would never forget the stricken faces of Father and his friends, chapped by a sudden evil miracle, glints on those of servants usually impassive. Even the dogs seemed anxious, silence was everywhere, the silence actually heard when I intruded upon talk about myself. Mother, no longer flirtatious, glanced unhappily from side to side as if seeking help.

  That week could have been memorial to the Great Wrath, the beheading of King Louis, King Charles, the charge into the Bastille, the snow crushing Napoleon. In a few days newspapers were reporting German Reds who had fled to Russia for protection, now being surrendered to the Gestapo.

  Each day more worried, Father said nothing, but at last the Herr General returned with a smile like a pat on the shoulder and, unusually, a kiss for Mother.

  ‘The Pact? Both gentlemen think they know what they’re about. Each believes that the other does not. Only one is correct. But rest content. Presidents, dictators, demagogues have only short leaseholds. Then energy evaporates, they rest on their oars, the mandate of heaven is withdrawn. These ill-bred fellows – Hitler, Stalin – will follow them.’

  ‘Not altogether a promise of immediate happiness,’ Father told me, before bed. But next day was again crowded with visitors, who had heard of the Herr General’s presence. They sat in the sunlit garden, like students, dependent on him. He was soothing, damping fires, larger than usual, rock in the dissolving landscape.

  ‘We all remember 1918, Balts pleading for our Kaiser to defend them from the Bolsheviks. Today, things are more complex, more exacting. Herr von Ribbentrop – I understand that he borrowed the von from a better-born aunt to gratify his ambitious wife – his personality is that of a half-drowned slug. I do not advise you to place bets on his winning the prize. He is now welcomed in Moscow as guarantor of Soviet survival, a recognition of German supremacy. He was greeted by a Red band playing the Nazi ‘Horst Wessel’ jingle, honouring, I recall, a pimp. A poignant occasion!’

  ‘General, you know these things. In accepting the Asiatics, Mesolithic in appearance and taste, the Reich must have taken secret precautions. Still, when all’s said and done … our own position here …’

  ‘I remember Hindenburg, whose von was impeccable, once saying that he needed Baltic territory to secure his left wing in the next war. Today, Baltic security remains essential for German military stability. Stalin, of course, wants the Baltic States, not only for defence of Leningrad but as the recovery of stolen goods, valuable for his empire. The Pact itself is important only because it will convince Britain and France of the futility of resistance to the Reich. After that …’

  He paused, the grown-up tantalizing us with promise of a treat.

  ‘General, you mention Ribbentrop. He skated in competitions. Canadian! To those lacking, shall we say, the higher taste, he still sells champagne too easily mistaken for syrup.’

  Father and Mother were sitting in the best chairs, hospitable but very quiet, idols of the peaceful afternoon, while voices quickened.

  ‘Surely the Kremlin was careless in disregarding Britain’s need for Estonian independence. London sinks money here, like mine-shafts. A form of colonialism, for which, as they themselves say, we pay through the nose.Yet, their support for Poland …’

  ‘English exports certainly require the survival of weak, anachronistic nations. Russia and Germany do not.’

  The speaker, an elderly squire, Uncle Johann, gave Mother an apologetic smile, as if exports were her personal relations, while I thought of Dick Whittington or of some Lord Warwick sinking gold coins deep into Estonia.

  At mention of England, a tiny shadow had crossed Mother’s face under its pale gold fringe. She was very youthful amongst those figures, men and women alike – save for Father and the Herr General – seasoned, slightly rotting.

  Next day, Father was away, on ‘business’, that word, not an explanation but of craftiness, secrecy, uncertainty. I understood that Germany had taken Memel, that the British Foreign Minister had ignored any possibility of the Pact, that though the Baltic States had earlier refused Soviet protection Germany had now consented to Russia building aerodromes and harbours in Estonia.

  ‘England’, Uncle Bruno sighed like a walrus, ‘can still prevent war over Poland, but my feeling is that City profits, hereditary acres, good taste, will prevail. Whereas Russia, despite pussycat noises from Excellencies and this outrageous Pact, remains our enemy. Prospectus for disaster.’

  The Herr General’s departure had removed the hand fro
m the tiller. Stalin’s bandit face, cunning as a Tartar, hung in our thoughts. Hitler’s Chief of Staff, General Halder, was actually in Reval, presumably advising Russian technicians and staff-officers disguised as civilians. He was entertained by a torch-lit hunt, then by the Herr General himself in his town mansion. Mother, piqued by Father’s declining their invitation, wondered whether Herr President Päts would have been allowed only through the back door.

  The household was touched by a malignant spell, listless, though awaiting some miraculous midnight, when the dancers recover, the music revives, the Emperor enfolds the goose-girl. Jokes about the Gutter King ceased. Mother’s Times published a letter from Mr George Bernard Shaw rejoicing that Hitler was now under Stalin’s thumb, another guarantee of peace, though ‘guarantee’ gave us misgivings. Britain had guaranteed Poland but was not expected to do more than lend money to Warsaw. Russia, all papers agreed, was already honouring the Pact, delivering Germany manganese, phosphates, plutonium – baffling words – a million tons of grain, of oil.

  Deep into the night, voices floated up to the Turret.

  ‘Europe remains armed camps.’

  ‘No, Heinrich, Europe’s at last reconciled to itself, for the first time since Rome. The Reich has recovered position. The Führer’s a shrewd brute. He could set traps even for God. After the job’s done he’ll fall into one himself. You can’t deny he’s delivered us from evil.’

  ‘It may be so. The dwarf who slips the horseshoe into his glove and knocks down the champion, as if in a Jew Chaplin film.’

  ‘Ja. There’ll be a few red faces on the Left.’

  ‘Meanwhile, we must do our best to believe the Estonian lads are sound at heart. They enjoy goodsome toil, are terrified of the Russkis. If only pastors and agitators would cease urging them to forget their station. As I often say, however, Destiny will have the last word.’

  Whatever Destiny intended, the Soviet Union invaded Finland and, unexpectedly, suffered defeats. Britain and France were motionless. At the Manor, in the Great Drawing-Room, a meeting was held of the Ehrengericht, local landowners assembling to face possible emergency. It was revealed that more had ‘gone back home’, to the Reich, ostensibly on holiday or business, promising, perhaps falsely, to return soon.

  A poster appeared, of Hitler and Stalin side by side in a troika, smiling, smiling. The Estonian Foreign Minister was hauled to Moscow like a hooked trout, but headlines thickened as the Red Army strove yet again against the Finns.

  On a day of hot blue, white paunchy clouds Father summoned the entire staff, indoors and outdoors, to assemble in the Hall, a procedure reserved for special occasions. Only Herr Max was absent. He had already left for Germany.

  Tonelessly, standing rather forlornly before us, Mother a little behind him, he announced the counter-attack, at Poland’s attempted invasion of Germany, and the declaration of war on the Reich by Britain and France. He looked weary, and Mother at once went upstairs.

  Alder leaves darkened, unperturbed, others turned orange, the wild cherry was fiery, geese swooped over the Lake. The Russians lost in Karelia, then again near Lake Ladoga despite enormous superiority, then rallied, and eventually breached the Mannerheim Line and, completing a coastal blockade, enforced surrender, restoring balance to the Pact.

  This, however, dismayed everyone.With Warsaw falling, Berlin abruptly accused Estonia of sheltering Polish submarines, and, at gunpoint, Päts signed a mutual assistance agreement leasing island bases to Stalin. Almost at once Poland was partitioned between Russia and Germany, and the Reds occupied Paleliska Harbour, entrance to the Gulf.

  In the Turret, I attempted to block the outside by stories. One by one I opened old treasures. The Snow Queen, Conrad of the Red Town, Hans in Luck, the songs of Walther von der Vogelweide and the Minnesinger, but they had lost magic. Far below, the piano sounded, Mother touching the keys as if delicately tracing colours, but for both of us music could only echo something else, the start of another story.

  I stared into winter twilight, birds still flocking to shorn fields, Forest edging nearer. Rising Tide.

  7

  With Poland divided, the French cowering behind their Maginot Line, the war must already be finished. The British landed in Norway, the Germans threw them out, though victory without bloodshed, the Führer insisted, demoralizes.

  I was German, with passions for doomed princes, red towns, the Rhine, though remembering Father, in the voice usually reserved for Hegel, quoting another professor who had dismissed Germans as ‘Obedience with Long Legs’. I was obedient, with legs promising considerable length.

  Yet I was partly English, sharing something with that aloof island, so strangely weak despite its magnificent Empire larger than Rome or Spain, Mongolia or China.

  The Päts government declared Jewish rights forfeit, then nationalized schools and hospitals, preparing total submission. To Russia? To Germany? Father could not answer, the Herr General was in Sweden. We heard that German ‘guest engineers’ had supervised the digging of gun-emplacements and concrete anti-tank blocks against British landings. Then a postman whispered that the guns were facing not west but east.

  We heard more. All German Balts were to be classified traitors unless they acknowledged their duties to the Fatherland and emigrated ‘home’. They would be amply compensated from former Poland. Ten thousand immediately obeyed, and, after eight centuries, the great von Benckendorffs had followed. Our breakfast was silenced, though from the kitchen came what sounded like cheering.

  We remained, almost alone. The last ship was about to leave when the Herr General rejoined us. He advised, almost commanded, that Father and I should safeguard the Manor, his own influence assuring us immunity from Berlin decrees, while he himself escorted Mother to Father’s relatives in Potsdam. Separation would not be prolonged. France was covertly seeking compromise peace, Britain dramatically losing at sea.

  Mother’s swift assent surprised rather than distressed me: for her, departure was yet another social opportunity. Fancying myself a betrayed prince, I was nevertheless glad not to relinquish the Turret and leave Father. Mother could be imagined riding behind the Herr General, clinging tight, bright hair streaming like a pennant as, with dragoon sternness, he galloped over boundless plains.

  She left us, light with promises, embraces, expectations of the victory balls and parades. For the few months I would not miss her. Like the weather, like horses and dogs, like gardens, she was one to be accepted but often less essential than Forest. A fellow resident in a comfortable residence.

  Very soon, however, I realized necessity for wariness. Since the Pact, Estonians around us had been very silent, and with Finland and Poland mauled, beaten, they were unmistakably restless. A considerable Russian minority had always inhabited Estonia. Hitherto disregarded, sometimes penalized, they were now demanding political rights, their leaders accusing Päts of fascism and appealing to Moscow for the nation’s incorporation into the Pan-Slavonic Brotherhood, actually the USSR. In this new agitation, Father asked me not to leave the house after dark.

  We had several Russian outdoor workers. They had always been friendly, but slowly this degenerated to surliness. Then our French housekeeper departed to Brussels. The kitchen, formerly so cheerful, was now less welcoming, and I ceased to go there.

  Whatever Father noticed he did not disclose, though furniture was dusty, meals unpunctual and indifferently served. Behind the air, unseen eyes hovered. From Germany the Führer asserted that war is life.

  Mother’s letters were regular but hurried; elegantly crested paper scrawled with perfunctory news. Berlin was ‘very interesting’, sparkling with dances, tea parties, receptions, race meetings.

  The war had lapsed, with Britain and France idle, presumably bargaining for terms, Sweden a German fief. Expelled from the League of Nations, the Soviet Union was confiscating Baltic ports, aerodromes, factories, with German assent. Red Army troops paraded through Reval, the Päts government resigned and an Electoral Committee,
its franchise restricted to the Workers’ Union, ordered a general election, at which it was unopposed, and a Comrade Zhadanov arrived from Moscow to assume control.

  The war, however, was not quite finished. A Siegfried trumpet sounded in May: forbidden to ride east, the Knights turned west, the Wehrmacht swept across France, Paris surrendered, the British fled to their island.

  Mother’s people might starve, or perish in the Reichsmarschall’s fires, clutching last shreds of grandeur, their navy sunk, the Tower mortally scorched, the King hiding in Vancouver.

  The month was hallucinatory. I had seen no movies, so that Führer and Duce, Päts and Molotov, blurred by newspaper photos, were more legendary than real. The Germans must soon be reaching Dover, the Reichsmarschall, new Thor, dusting the sky with berserk ferocity and patting his lion, while Hitler jigged in Paris. All had Ragnarok allure: cities, cathedrals, opera houses in flames, salients of hell.

  New Order, New Europe, we heard that Wilhelm II, ‘the Prussian’, had died, scarcely noticed, in occupied Holland. Father shook his head but said nothing. Around the Manor, Russians were occupying abandoned homes, transforming estates to collective farms, restaffing banks and schools. Churches were ransacked, pastors arrested, there was talk of hostages.

  One morning, Soviet officials arrived, red-starred, red-banded, in long greatcoats despite the heat. Very polite, over-smiling, they interviewed Father. Finishing, they stretched their smiles further and delivered formal documents. Our lands were to be ‘Restored to the People’, shorn of all but the garden. Overnight, horses and cattle vanished, barbed wire surrounded us, a dark vicious birth. Our wireless was removed, ‘a worthier one’ promised. Newspapers were replaced by a single sheet, listing statistics of Soviet benefits and their 99.9 per cent majority support.