Crucible

by Charles Emmerson

  ISTANBUL: ‘There is a tight-drawn, electric tension in Constantinople’, young Hemingway writes on his latest trip. He compares the mood in Istanbul to the expectation of the first ball game of the world’s series, multiplied by the tension of a horse race–the ‘Woodbine thrill’, he calls it, after Toronto’s most famous racetrack–with the addition of knowing a loved one is under the scalpel in a hospital somewhere, and you can do nothing to help. These are things the readers of the Daily Star will understand.

  Ernest paints a picture of a city filled with ‘cut-throats, robbers, bandits, thugs and Levantine pirates’–all ready to begin looting just as soon as Mustafa Kemal’s armies march in. The Greeks and Armenians are busy arming themselves. The Greek owner of Hemingway’s hotel tells him, ‘I am not going to leave my life’s work here just because the French force the allies to give Constantinople to that bandit’. The European quarters of the city are engaged in ‘a sort of dance of death’–a last bacchanal in which the reputable nightclubs open at two in the morning and the disreputable ones at four. Russian refugees, worried that they will be left high and dry if the foreign powers leave, are preparing for yet another hasty exit. ‘I would hate to be Kemal,’ Hemingway writes, ‘with all the dangerous prestige of a great victory behind me and these problems ahead.’

  By day, Ernest attends press briefings by the senior American representative in Istanbul, a fan of Mustafa Kemal. He hears horrible stories of what happened in Smyrna, picking up his impressions from sailors and other journalists. By night he contends with bedbugs and comes down with malarial fever.

  One day, Ernest scores an interview with Kemal’s man in Istanbul, who tells him that Western fears of a massacre of Christians in the city are misplaced. He suggests reporters pay attention instead to stories of horrible violence being perpetrated against Turks by Greek troops still in Thrace, the Ottoman Empire’s European toehold. ‘That’s why we must occupy Thrace now,’ he says, ‘to protect our people.’ An armistice is agreed the next day between Kemal’s representatives and the Great Powers. In Britain, David Lloyd George, Prime Minister since 1916, is chucked out of office by his Conservative coalition partners, his war-like stance against the Turks finishing him off. Another peace conference will be held in Switzerland in a few weeks’ time. There is no doubt Kemal will get most of what he wants.

  Despite not having met him, Hemingway writes a profile of Kemal, describing how he has been transformed in just a few months from a contemporary Saladin, prepared to lead the Muslim world in arms against the West, into ‘Kemal the businessman’, a deal-maker for peace. Ernest compares him to the late Michael Collins. ‘As yet his de Valera has not appeared’, he notes.

  ACROSS IRELAND: The war takes a dark turn. A spirit of revenge inhabits it.

  Sidelined by others who were always more soldierly than him, the man some still call ‘the President’ grows a beard. He is just a simple volunteer with no special influence, he tells Michael Collins’s successor as commander-in-chief of the national army when they meet early that autumn, just a few weeks after his rival’s death. He has not the power to make peace over the heads of the men of faith now fighting for the republic, he says. It might just be the truth.

  The republican campaign returns to the old ways: assassinations and bombings. A pane of glass in the poet W. B. Yeats’s new home in Dublin is cracked by a blast targeting a nearby Free State interrogation house. But the republicans are picked off one by one. The national army grows by the thousand. The Catholic Church stands behind the provisional government, declaring it alone has God’s sanction. ‘Vanity, perhaps self-conceit, may have blinded some who think that they, and not the nation, must dictate the national policy’, reads the bishops’ statement.

  De Valera is furious. The Church has got it wrong. He will not attend Mass until such time as the clergy correct themselves.

  BERLIN: Albert Einstein responds to a series of written questions from Henry Brailsford, editor of the British Labour Party’s weekly magazine, about the current situation in Germany. With the decline in value of the German mark, he notes, salaries of academics are now worth one fifth of what they once were. Musicians are in dire straits. Artists are starving. Anyone with any money tries to get it out of the country. Even the spate of political murders can, in part, be blamed on personal destitution brought about by the country’s uncertain economic conditions.

  And then there is the psychological factor. ‘People’s energy is sapped by the consciousness that under present conditions it is impossible to provide for the future’, Einstein writes. Without confidence in the future, people are adrift. They seek guidance from even the most extraordinary sources.

  COBURG, GERMANY: A touch of squadristi flair in the Bavarian hinterland. Invited to attend a patriotic festival in Coburg, a pretty little town a couple of hundred miles to the north of Munich, Adolf decides to go all out to show that the Nazis mean business.

  The name Hitler does not feature in the festival’s official programme. The list of talks on offer includes such topics as ‘New Work Methods for the Nationalist Campaign’ and ‘The Homeland Schooling Movement’. A gala planned for the end of the festival promises a short play by a well-known nationalist playwright called The Consecration of the Sword. The mangy field-runner intends to hijack this cosy get-together assembled under the patronage of a local aristocrat and turn it into a display of Nazi power.

  A special train is commissioned to carry the Führer to Coburg from Munich–accompanied by his inner circle of advisers, and several hundred members of the SA with swastika armbands. Like a Soviet agitprop train, Hitler’s locomotive blazes through the Bavarian countryside covered in Nazi flags, in open defiance of the law against such provocation. There is a marching band aboard. A thirty-minute halt in Nuremberg station provides the opportunity for a nationalist sing-along.

  Word of the Nazis’ impending arrival has been signalled ahead. A welcoming party awaits at the station, issuing the warning that, while SA members are free to join the festival celebrations, they are not to march through town in formation. The SA disobey and start out of the railway station through an underpass. There is a short but violent clash with workers who have gathered to show their opposition to the Nazis. The main Coburg newspaper gives the confrontation a few lines, describing it as a pitiful attempt by local socialists to disrupt the festival. Adolf and his supporters celebrate the punch-up as a great battle victory against the forces of internationalism and glory in the black eyes and sore heads suffered by the enemy. ‘After the ruthless punishment they just received,’ reports the Beobachter, ‘they’ll remember this little moment for a month.’

  In his speech at the festival that evening, Hitler rails against the ‘democratic poison’ that is killing Germany. He talks about the importance of a political avant-garde, claiming that all real change throughout history comes from some kind of elite guiding the masses, rather than from the masses themselves. He calls for national rather than class consciousness to be the governing principle of society. He is dismissive of capitalists who fail to realise how crooked and corrupt capitalism has become. He pleads for the concept of the Volk–the ethno-national people of Germany–to be at the heart of building a new economy.

  The local reception is positive. Hitler’s speech is amongst the best received of the festival. He uses his moment in the limelight to make his pitch for ownership of the radical nationalist movement as a whole. ‘Our symbol’, he says, pointing to the swastika, ‘is not the symbol of an association; it is a victory banner’.

  The German mark crashes further. Last Christmas, one dollar bought two hundred marks. Now it buys several thousand.

  PARIS: The occupation of the Ruhr is no longer an abstract matter. Military plans are well developed. Politicians compete with each other to attach their names to the scheme. The more military action is talked about, the more impossible it becomes for Paris back down from their threats to make the Germans pay by force.

  ‘We are living throu
gh an armistice–an unstable armistice–not a peace’, says France’s leading nationalist newspaper. Making more worthy speeches is a waste of time. The League of Nations is a ‘deformed child’: equipped with a huge tongue for the purposes of speaking, but with no arms for getting things done. If the British are too spineless to force the Germans to pay what they owe then France will have to act alone.

  MOSCOW: A ripple of applause echoes through a grand state room in the Kremlin, still decorated with the gold double-headed eagle of the empire, ten gaudy chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, an empty throne at one end. The name Lenin is whispered amongst members of the All-Russian Central Executive Committee–what passes for a parliament in the brave new one-party state. A small, parched figure appears through a side door. He is called up on stage. Yes, it’s him. The assembly rises to its feet.

  Lenin apologises that the doctors have allowed him to speak for only twenty minutes (and no time for questions). He starts by congratulating the Red Army on entering the port of Vladivostok in Russia’s far east after the Japanese withdrawal, the last mopping-up operation of the civil war. Then he turns to domestic matters: the need to prevent abuse of the new economic policy he has instituted, the need for greater efforts in the sphere of industrialisation, his dissatisfaction with the inefficiency of the machinery of state and the ‘deluge of paper’ which he himself has done so much to create. It will take years before such things are fully worked out, Lenin admits. In the meantime, the central role of the Communist Party is essential. It is because the revolution’s promise has not yet been fully realised that its self-appointed vanguard must remain in control indefinitely.

  Back at his office, Vladimir frenetically fires notes in all directions. He throws his weight behind the construction of a paper factory in Karelia: ‘If there are no special obstacles, please speed up the matter.’ He enquires about the purchase of peat-digging machines to boost Russia’s peat production and about the distribution of money for tractors and work animals in Armenia: ‘The matter should be speeded up and checked.’ He issues an order banning private conversations during Sovnarkom meetings (he needs complete calm to function). He requests an update on a new Soviet world atlas designed to show how much of the earth is controlled by the imperialists: ‘we will translate it into all languages, make it into a textbook; add supplements every two years’.

  Nadya persuades him to go to the theatre to try and relax. They see a play by Charles Dickens, The Cricket on the Hearth. Vladimir leaves after the first act. Such sentimentality!

  NAPLES, ITALY: Late October. A Fascist rally in the metropolis of the Italian south. The ras are growing impatient again.

  Mussolini has been in negotiations with Italy’s main political leaders for months now. He has perfected the art of the bully-boy, warning the politicians of his violent henchmen, while assuring them that he personally would much rather reach a peaceful deal with them. He has tried out the same manoeuvre on the King, assuring him of his royalist (or at least not anti-royalist) inclinations while letting it be known he would be foolish to stand in the way of a Fascist role in government (and that other royals could easily replace him if he did). Appealing to people’s desire for respect and recognition, while at the same time threatening the security of their position, is a winning combination for political success. Benito knows his Machiavelli.

  But the Fascist rank and file want more than just the share of power that seems to be on offer. Increasingly they want it all. They want conquest. They want Rome. Real power is there for the taking. Why not take it? To a sea of blackshirts in Naples Mussolini now proclaims himself ready. They may not have long: D’Annunzio is due to make a speech in Rome on the fourth anniversary of the armistice with the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Perhaps he is about to throw his weight behind some kind of national reconciliation. That is the last thing the Fascists need.

  The idea of a theatrical march on Rome has been circulating for months. Now, finally, it is put into action. Thousands of black shirts are ironed in preparation. Back in Milan, Benito strenuously attempts to give the impression that nothing dramatic lies ahead (perhaps also because he is not entirely sure it will succeed). He unplugs the phone. He goes to the theatre. He takes long drives into the countryside. He acts relaxed. (At the same time, D’Annunzio is promised a deal with his Federation of the Workers of the Sea to keep him sweet and dissuade him from taking any peremptory action which might spoil the Fascists’ plans.)

  Over the next few days, post and telegraph offices are taken over in the north of Italy. Outside Rome, thousands of Fascist blackshirts assemble (though neither as many as had been hoped nor as many as are claimed). Slowly, they walk towards the city. Their leaders know the truth: they are badly armed, badly fed and cold and wet from the stormy autumn weather. A few army battalions could stop them if they wanted to. Mussolini is nowhere to be seen.

  At first, the country’s political leaders cannot decide what to do. Their internal rivalries hold them back. The loyalty of the army is uncertain. Don’t test us, the generals warn. The Vatican is silent. Then, around breakfast time on the morning of 28 October 1922, the Italian premier finally grows a spine. It is agreed that the King will announce a state of emergency. In Rome, the roads are blocked with barricades and barbed wire. Telegrams are sent to government officials across the country to prepare them for the crackdown. It looks as if the Fascist bluff will be called. There is even talk of killing Mussolini. But then the King decides not to sign the order. The political collapse is total.

  The following day, Benito receives the royal summons to Rome. He takes a while to reply. He wants to give the press time to organise themselves. ‘Wearing my black shirt, as a Fascist’, and claiming that there are three hundred thousand fascisti ready to follow his orders (at least ten times greater than the actual number camped outside Rome), Mussolini gets on the 8.30 p.m. sleeper from Milan, insisting that it stop wherever there is demand for a speech. As the train makes its leisurely progress through the Italian countryside, Benito gives interviews deep into the night. The blackshirts are selfless, patriotic people, he says. They seek only to give Italy a new government and then return to their families and get back to work. Mussolini promises he will restore Italy’s standing in the world. He will give the country some style.

  He arrives in Rome the next morning, in bowler hat and spats, just before eleven. By the end of the day–after yet another change of clothing–he is Italy’s new constitutionally appointed leader. Planes drop Fascist manifestos from the air. There is a crush of Mussolini’s supporters around the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. A flurry of Fascist-led violence breaks out in the streets. Old scores are settled. Communist Party offices are ransacked.

  For many without much interest in the minutiae of politics, the mood is one of relief. The city’s florists run out of flowers to strew upon the black-shirted victors. The King, it is reported, warmly embraces Benito after he has sworn him in as premier. How different from their first encounter back in the cold spring of 1917, when Mussolini lay in a hospital bed, and the King enquired after the wounded soldier’s health.

  Benito exchanges messages with Gabriele in the Vittoriale, keeping him up to date and, with an eye to history, inviting him to deliver a public statement of support of his subaltern-turned-superior. Instead, D’Annunzio makes obtuse replies and sends a copy of his wartime speeches to help Mussolini with his new duties. ‘Victory has the clear eyes of Pallas,’ Gabriele writes mysteriously; ‘do not blindfold her’. Benito responds in similar style: ‘the vigorous fascist youth which is restoring the nation’s soul will not put a blindfold on victory.’ As always, the two men dance around each other.

  NEW YORK–LONDON–PARIS–DOORN–VIENNA–MOSCOW–ROSENHEIM: Around the world, people take stock of the news from Rome. It is like Fiume all over again.

  The tone is mostly positive. ‘Every window was filled with cheering, some showering flowers upon the passing blackshirts,’ the New York Times reports from Italy, ‘while those
in the streets saluted straight-armed from the shoulder, with hands extended towards the west.’ (The reporter notes a Fascist from Ancona who marches with a baseball bat.) Mussolini tells foreign journalists that he is their friend. He believes in the value of hard work so Italy can renew itself. ‘The country had got tired’, he explains, ‘it had been running in a groove too long.’ He seems to bring a new energy to the office of the premier. ‘Mussolini’s chin may become famous throughout the world for its squareness and force’, Americans read over their breakfast.

  Benito is an instant celebrity. On the right, he is applauded. On the moderate left, he is seen by many as a force of renewal. He does not seem to quite fit in the normal spectrum of politics. In London, conservative newspapers compare him to Garibaldi, the nineteenth-century unifier of Italy. Meanwhile, the liberal Manchester Guardian calls him a ‘revolutionary’ and an ‘apostle of national regeneration’, immediately bracketing him with de Valera and Mustafa Kemal. A Swiss newspaper applauds his ‘extraordinary temperament, exceptional organisational strength and marvellous ability to dominate’.

  In Paris, despite public concern about just how far Mussolini’s revanchist attitudes will take him–does he really want to take back Nice?–Action française welcomes Benito’s power grab as a sign of Europe’s nationalist turn. Nationalism, writes the editor, is an ‘irresistible reality’, even if the Continent’s liberal elites don’t like it and the mainstream media don’t understand it: ‘The anti-democratic and anti-parliamentary success of Italian fascism won’t surprise any reader of Action française, but they will horrify the readers of the so-called “big” newspapers.’ The revolt against liberal orthodoxy has finally arrived. Only in Moscow is the tone more critical. The newspapers note Mussolini’s past as a socialist, suggesting that social democrats and Fascists are cut from the same cloth.

  In Vienna, Sigmund Freud is both fascinated and horrified by the super-energetic Italian. In Doorn, Wilhelm compares the nervous Germans with the ballsy Italians. ‘What on earth are all those field marshals, generals, staff officers doing?’ the Kaiser asks. ‘What is keeping them?’ Over the Alps in Bavaria, Hitler is cautious. The Italian model should be handled with care, the Völkischer Beobachter eventually declares. The ideology of Italian fascism is a muddle. Moreover, ‘it is not the shadow of the Italian Blackshirts coming down off the Brenner Pass’, but rather ‘the words of Hitler that are inspiring German hearts’. Nonetheless, the comparison is irresistible. ‘We have a Mussolini in Bavaria’, announces a party hack at an event a few days later: ‘his name is Adolf Hitler.’