Chamberlain sent Hitler a new offer. African colonies which had never belonged to Germany—and had therefore been unmentioned at Versailles—would be “redistributed.” They were now the property of France, Belgium (the Congo), and Portugal (Angola), but they would be a present from England to the Reich. Hitler understood this kind of language. It was his own. Intrigued, he asked what would happen if the Belgians and Portuguese objected. Chamberlain replied that not only Portugal and Belgium but also “presumably” France would “in the end cooperate in the settlement.” At present, however, it was essential that no word of his new plan reach Paris, “much less” Lisbon or Brussels. They would “merely be informed” that talks had been held to discuss issues “concerning Germany and England.” Unfortunately for this scheme, Britain had a free press. Henderson explained to the Führer that Chamberlain lacked his absolute control over newspapermen. However, the ambassador continued, he had spoken to “about eighty” men from Fleet Street and had “earnestly emphasized” the need for discretion. At the same time Halifax happily sent the Wilhelmstrasse word that “measures taken” by the BBC guaranteed that broadcasts “eliminated discussion regarding colonies.” In London Horace Wilson noted that Halifax had taken “special pains” to keep the country ignorant of the deal. Wilson expressed “hope that he has been successful.”19
Chamberlain was running fantastic risks. In exchange for a phantom promise to calm British nerves, he was laying territories belonging to three imperial powers—none of which had been consulted, or would be told of the decision until it had been made—on the diplomatic table. Luckily for him, the Reich chancellor rejected his proposal. Once again Hitler fooled everyone, including his own diplomats. As late as November 10, 1937, Baron Ernst von Weizsäcker, the Wilhelmstrasse’s equivalent of Vansittart, had written: “From England we want colonies…. The British need for tranquillity is great. It would be profitable to find out what England would be willing to pay for such tranquillity.” And so it was. Hitler had begun to acquire a sense of Chamberlain, a feel for his weaknesses. As for the colonies, he brusquely told the amazed Henderson on March 3, he had no use for them. They “would only be a burden for me.” The colonial question, he said, “can wait for four, six, eight, or even ten years.” The British ambassador asked for something more definite, and Hitler promised a written reply, but Henderson, as he wrote in his memoirs, “left Berlin a year and a half later without having received it.” Belatedly Henderson realized that the issue of Germany’s prewar colonies had been a red herring, that it was not “understanding with Great Britain” that Hitler wanted; it was “dominion in Central and Eastern Europe.”20
The P.M. had been courting Mussolini, hoping to sign him up before Hitler could, but the Führer was a more skillful seducer. Eden knew it, and so did Kurt von Schuschnigg, the Austrian minister who had hanged the Nazi murderers of Chancellor Dollfuss in 1934 and had now himself become chancellor. Schuschnigg had been the object of both Hitler’s and Mussolini’s manipulations. In the summer of 1936 the Duce had persuaded him that a rapprochement with the Third Reich was desirable, and the result—a joint communiqué published on July 11, 1936—declared that Austria would “maintain a policy based on the principle that Austria acknowledges herself to be a German State,” while the Reich recognized “the full sovereignty of the Federal State of Austria.” It was a bad bargain. Secret clauses stipulated the muzzling of the Viennese press and amnesty for Nazi “political prisoners” in Austrian jails—many of them storm troopers convicted of murdering Jews and critics of the Führer.21
A devout Catholic and a born leader, Schuschnigg nevertheless knew that his small army would be helpless against Hitler’s Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe. And Mussolini, when asked whether he could continue to guarantee the Austrian frontiers, was now evasive. Schuschnigg was pondering a restoration of the Hapsburg dynasty as his last available safeguard when, on February 12, 1938, Hitler summoned him to the Berghof, his villa in the Bavarian mountains. Berlin had announced that the meeting had been called to foster better relations between the two countries; nonetheless, Schuschnigg was wary. He was not a man to be intimidated, but the Führer had yet to meet the man he couldn’t break.
The Führer’s methods were rarely subtle. Wearing the brown tunic of a Nazi storm trooper and flanked by German generals—a shocking breach of protocol, particularly to an Austrian of impeccable old-world Viennese manners—he led his uneasy guest to his second-floor study, with its enormous picture window overlooking the snow-capped Alps. In his later account of the meeting, Ein Requiem in Rot-Weiss-Rot (Red-White-Red, the national colors of Austria), Schuschnigg described what followed as “somewhat one-sided [einseitig].”22
Actually it was outrageous. The Austrian addressed Hitler as “Herr Reichskanzler,” as diplomatic courtesy required; the Führer rudely referred to him as “Schuschnigg.” Hitler spoke in harsh and contemptuous tones. Gazing out beyond the Alps, toward Austria, he declared: “I have a historic mission, and this mission I shall fulfill because Providence has destined me to do so…. Who is not with me will be crushed [kommt unter die Räder].” Austria was too weak to defend herself against his Wehrmacht and would be without allies. Italy? He and Mussolini saw things “eye to eye [im reinen].” France could have stopped him at the Rhineland; now “it is too late for France.” And England? He had an understanding with the British; “England will not lift one finger for Austria [keinen Finger für Österreich rühren].” To Schuschnigg it seemed that Hitler might as well be speaking Hindustani; he was “a man from another world.”
But in the end his tremendous, hypnotic force won. After eleven hours of insults and threats—at one point Hitler screamed: “I have only to give an order, and your ridiculous defenses will be blown to bits [zerstoben]!”—Schuschnigg crumbled. He accepted the Führer’s ultimatum, signing a two-page “agreement” drafted by Ribbentrop. All jailed Austrian Nazis were to be freed, their party was recognized as legitimate, and three pro-Nazis were to become members of the cabinet, including the infamous Arthur Seyss-Inquart, who, as minister of the interior, would wield dictatorial powers over the police and security.23
Hitler reported all this to a cheering Reichstag, praising Schuschnigg’s “understanding” and his “warmhearted willingness” to bring Austria and the Reich closer. This provoked a snort from Churchill: “When a snake wants to eat his victims he first covers them with saliva.” The repercussions were felt in every world capital, though not by every world leader. On February 16, the day the Austrian cabinet was rebuilt to suit Hitler, Chamberlain’s cabinet met to consider an RAF appeal for larger appropriations. Foreign Secretary Eden and First Lord of the Admiralty Duff Cooper thought it overdue. Chancellor of the Exchequer Simon argued against it on the ground that higher taxes would imperil Britain’s “present standard of financial prosperity.” Chamberlain agreed. So did Inskip; though responsible for defense coordination, he took the line that the Foreign Office should set about “reducing the scale of our commitments and the number of our potential enemies.” This could only mean continued appeasement of Germany and Italy, and when Chamberlain said, “Hear, hear,” Eden flushed.24
Relations between the prime minister and his young foreign secretary were approaching the breaking point. In January President Roosevelt had cabled Chamberlain, proposing that European leaders convene in Washington to discuss their differences. The prime minister was annoyed—according to Sir Alexander Cadogan, Vansittart’s deputy at the Foreign Office, Chamberlain “had an almost instinctive contempt for the Americans”—and he rejected Roosevelt’s offer without consulting Eden, stiffly replying that he believed he could reach agreements with the dictators, with Mussolini first. His Majesty’s Government was prepared “to recognise de jure the Italian occupation of Abyssinia, if they found that the Italian Government on their side were ready to give evidence of their desire to contribute to the restoration of confidence and friendly relations.”25
In Churchill’s opinion Chamberlain’s rebuff
to the president’s overture effectively ended, as he wrote in his memoirs, “the last frail chance to save the world from tyranny other than by war.” If this seems extravagant, one must reflect on Churchill’s reasoning, which Eden had adopted. Roosevelt, as Churchill wrote, was “running great risks in his own domestic politics by deliberately involving the United States in the darkening European scene.” And he knew the democracies could not survive in Europe without American support. Roosevelt was not a man you could insult twice. His message had been graceful, even deferential; now he knew he and Neville Chamberlain could never mesh. FDR realized that at some time Hitler must be turned back. If Great Britain fell, FDR could buy peace for a generation, but by then the position of the United States would be hopeless. Already local admirers of the Nazis were swinging clubs in the streets of Latin American capitals. Therefore the president, like Churchill, was determined to establish a special relationship between England and America.26
Chamberlain preferred agreements with Germany and Italy to America’s goodwill. And he and those around him saw the foreign secretary as an obstacle to this policy. This is somewhat puzzling. To the British and American publics, Eden later came to be regarded as a shining figure overshadowed only by Churchill. Actually, he was more cautious than ambitious; until late in the decade there was little difference in principle between him and the prime minister whose friendship and confidence he had enjoyed. With Hitler threatening Austria, he told the cabinet, he did not want to put himself “in the position of suggesting a resistance which we could not in fact furnish.” Nevertheless, Chamberlain persuaded Hankey that Eden had been “swayed by a lot of sloppy people in the F.O.” In Rome, Lady Ivy Chamberlain, Austen’s widow, proudly wearing a new Fascist party badge, reported that Eden was regarded there “with strong dislike and distrust.” The prime minister was turning to people like her for private diplomacy, or sending messages abroad over his own name, thus bypassing and humiliating the foreign secretary. Why? The likeliest explanation is that Chamberlain, as Eden had told a friend, had a certain sympathy for dictators, “whose efficiency appealed to him.”27
The climax came in late February. Hitler had browbeaten Schuschnigg on a Saturday. Eden’s turn came the following week. He had invited the Italian ambassador to England, Dino Grandi, to confer with him at the Foreign Office. Acting on instructions from Rome, Grandi refused and asked for a meeting with Chamberlain to discuss the Führer’s insistence on further concessions from Schuschnigg. The prime minister agreed and sent Eden instructions to join them when they met on Friday, February 18. Thus the British foreign secretary was in the extraordinary position of facing a de facto alliance between the envoy of a potential enemy and his own prime minister, which, as Telford Taylor suggests, “must be well-nigh unique in diplomatic annals.”28
British intelligence had informed Eden that Hitler had decided to seize Austria by force and Mussolini had agreed not to intervene. Grandi, prompted by the P.M., denied that there was any such understanding and added that unless Britain were sympathetic toward Mussolini’s policies, Italian hostility toward His Majesty’s Government would harden. After Grandi left, Eden wrote in his diary: “N.C. became very vehement… and strode up and down the room saying with great emphasis ‘Anthony, you have missed chance after chance. You simply cannot go on like this.’ ” After following the star of appeasement for five years, Eden had found it to be tinsel. Only a week earlier he had promised an audience in Birmingham that he would agree to “no sacrifice of principles and no shirking of responsibilities merely to obtain quick results,” that peace could be preserved only “on a basis of frank reciprocity with mutual respect.” Now, unless he broke that vow, he had to quit. On Saturday the prime minister told his cabinet that he had decided to open direct negotiations with the Duce. Eden resigned in disgust the next day, and his under secretary quit with him.29
Halifax, appointed to succeed him, was delighted. Chamberlain was relieved, and no one in Parliament was surprised. Chamberlain filled the under secretary’s void by appointing R. A. (“Rab”) Butler. Butler called at the German embassy, described his close relationship with Sir Horace Wilson, told Hitler’s diplomats that his primary objective was “close and lasting cooperation” with the Reich, and said he would “do all I can” to promote it. The embassy, which had reported to the Wilhelmstrasse that Wilson was “decidedly pro-German,” now sent word that Butler also “has no prejudices against us.”30
Readers of The Times were under the impression that anyone who spoke out in Eden’s behalf would be a lone voice. Actually, the country was more divided than Dawson acknowledged. As England’s most eminent journalist, he came under fire in Oxford. A young Fellow asked him why the FO, with The Times’s approval, devoted so much space to Mussolini and other Fascists when “It isn’t they who are the danger. It is the Germans who are so powerful as to threaten all the rest of us together.” Dawson revealed the depth of the void left when honor had been abandoned: “To take your argument at its own valuation—mind you, I’m not saying I agree with it—but if the Germans are so powerful as you say, Oughtn’t we to go in with them?”31
Winston had reservations about Eden—he thought him weak at times and capable of unsound judgment—but he knew he had been a brave officer in France and would never compromise England’s honor in the name of a sham peace. Later he described the impact of the news on him:
Late in the night of February 20, a telephone message reached me as I sat in my old room at Chartwell… that Eden had resigned. I must confess that my heart sank, and for a while the dark waters of despair overwhelmed me. In a long life I have had many ups and downs. During all the war soon to come and in its darkest times…. I slept sound and awoke refreshed, and had no feelings except appetite to grapple with whatever the morning’s boxes might bring. But now, on this night of February 20, 1938, and on this occasion only, sleep deserted me. From midnight till dawn I lay in my bed consumed by emotions of sorrow and fear. There seemed one strong young figure standing up against long, dismal, drawling tides of drift and surrender, of wrong measurements and feeble impulses. My conduct of affairs would have been different from his in various ways; but he seemed to me at this moment to embody the life-hope of the British nation, the grand old British race that had done so much for men, and had yet some more to give. Now he was gone. I watched the daylight slowly creep in through the windows, and saw before me in mental gaze the vision of Death.
He sent Eden a note, advising him on what line to take in his resignation speech and urging him not to “allow your personal feelings of friendship to yr late colleagues to hamper you in doing full justice to yr case.”32
Hurt and angry, Eden spoke to the House on February 21: “I should not be frank if I were to pretend that it is an isolated issue. It is not.” Without actually mentioning the rebuff to Roosevelt or Hitler’s designs on Austria, he said slowly: “Within the last few weeks upon one most important decision of foreign policy which did not concern Italy at all the difference was fundamental.” His peroration was a paraphrase of the speeches Winston had been delivering for over five years: “I do not believe that we can make progress in European appeasement if we allow the impression to gain currency abroad that we yield to constant pressure…. I am certain in my own mind that progress depends above all on the temper of the nation, and that temper must find expression in a firm spirit. That spirit I am confident is there. Not to give voice to it is I believe fair neither to this country nor to the world.”33
Churchill spoke the next day. Citing recent “acts of bad faith” by Fascists and Nazis, he said he thought “this was an inopportune time for negotiations with Italy.” Furthermore, “the dictator Powers of Europe are striding from strength to strength and from stroke to stroke, and the Parliamentary democracies are retreating abashed and confused.” All in all, he said, “This has been a good week for the Dictators. It has been one of the best they have ever had. The German Dictator has laid his hand upon a small but historic country, an
d the Italian Dictator has carried his vendetta to a victorious conclusion against my right Hon friend the late Foreign Secretary…. All the might, majesty, dominion and power of the British Empire was no protection to my right Hon friend. Signor Mussolini has got his scalp.” The prime minister’s contempt for Americans was widely known. Churchill foresaw the time when the United States might be desperately needed as a British ally. But after this disgraceful episode, “millions of people there who are our enemies have been armed with a means to mock the sincerity of British idealism, and to make out that we are all Continental people tarred with the same brush.” That, he said, was a staggering blow. Britain’s old policy, he noted, had been to build up the League of Nations. Chamberlain openly scorned the league. Churchill asked: “Is the new policy to come to terms with the totalitarian Powers in the hope that by great and far-reaching acts of submission, not merely by sentiments and pride, but in material Factors, peace may be preserved?” He reminded them of Britain’s weak defenses, of the loss of the Rhineland, of the drama in Austria, now approaching a tragic climax, and added: “We do not know whether Czechoslovakia will not suffer a similar attack.” To turn away from the Americans was folly, he said, facing Chamberlain and concluding: “I predict that the day will come when at some point or other, on some issue or other, you will have to make a stand, and I pray God that when that day comes we may not find that through an unwise policy we are left to make that stand alone.”34
Alone, 1932-1940 Page 36
