The Order of the Day

by Éric Vuillard

  Then Seyss-Inquart tried to find the words, but where had they gone? Once you cleared away the salon chitchat, the orders, and the courtroom debates, only one sentence remained. A meaningless sentence. Words so flimsy that the light showed through them, ending in a strange shout: ‘I believe in Germany!’ And Woods finally placed the hood over his head and slipped the rope around his neck, before activating the trapdoor. And Seyss-Inquart, in the midst of a world in ruins, abruptly disappeared down the hole.

  A DESPERATE ATTEMPT

  But we’re still only on 16 February 1938. Several hours before the ultimatum expired, Miklas, cloistered in his presidential palace, also gave in. They pardoned Dollfuss’s killers, Seyss-Inquart was named Minister of the Interior, and the SA paraded down the streets of Linz waving huge banners. On paper, Austria was dead; it had come under German supervision. But as we’ve seen, none of this has the density of nightmares or the grandiosity of terror; only the viscous clamminess of schemes and deception. No violent highs; no horrible, inhuman words: nothing more than blunt threats, and crude, repetitious propaganda.

  And yet, a few days later, Schuschnigg suddenly got all worked up. This forced agreement had stuck in his throat. In a final outburst, he declared in Parliament that Austria would remain independent and would go thus far and no further. The situation escalated. Members of the Nazi Party took to the streets and wreaked havoc. The police didn’t lift a finger, since the Nazi Seyss-Inquart was already Minister of the Interior.

  There’s nothing worse than resentful masses, militias with their armbands and faux-military insignias, young people caught up in false dilemmas, squandering their passions on awful causes. At that moment, Schuschnigg, the little Austrian dictator, played his final card. Still, he must have known that, in any game, there comes a tipping point, after which it’s hopeless. All you can do is watch your opponent lay down hand after winning hand and take every trick: queens, kings, all the cards you couldn’t play in time and that you desperately held back, trying not to forfeit them. For Schuschnigg is nothing. He contributes nothing, is friend to nothing, is the hope of nothing. He’s got nothing but flaws: aristocratic arrogance and reactionary political views. A man who, eight years earlier, established a paramilitary group of young Catholics. No shaft of daylight will slice through his dark night; no smile will break out on the spectre’s face and encourage him to carry out his final duty. His mouth will utter no lapidary words, no morsel of grace, no splutter of enlightenment. His face will not be bathed in tears. Schuschnigg is just a gambler, a paltry schemer. He even seems to have believed in the sincerity of his German neighbour, the integrity of the accords, even though they’d been extorted from him. It’s a bit late in the day for alarm! He calls upon the goddesses he scorned, demands ridiculous commitments for an independence that is already dead – but he who dances on freedom’s grave shouldn’t expect it to come rushing to his aid. He has not wanted to look truth in the eye, and now here it is, up close, horrid, and inevitable. And it spits the doleful secret of his compromises right in his face.

  And so, in a drowning man’s last gasp, he tried to drum up support from the trade unions and Social Democrats, even though they’d been banned for the past four years. Realizing the danger, the socialists nonetheless agreed to back him. Schuschnigg immediately ordered a plebiscite on his country’s independence. Hitler was livid.

  On Friday, 11 March, at five in the morning, Schuschnigg’s valet woke him for the longest day of his existence. He lowered his feet from the bed. The parquet floor was cold. He put on his slippers. They told him of massive movements of German troops. The border at Salzburg was closed and railway traffic between Germany and Austria had been suspended. There was a snake in the grass. The burden of living was unbearable. He suddenly felt terribly, horribly old. But he’d have plenty of time to think about that, as he would spend seven years in prison under the Third Reich. He’d have seven years to ponder whether it had been the right thing to do back then, organizing his little paramilitary Catholic group; seven years to decide what is truly Catholic and what isn’t, to separate the light from the ash. Even with privileges, incarceration is an ordeal. And so, once liberated by the Allies, he would finally lead a pacific life. And – as if it were possible for each of us to have two lives, as if the game of death could wipe our thoughts clean, as if in the darkness of those seven years he had called out to God, ‘Who am I?’ and God had answered, ‘Somebody else’ – the former chancellor would settle in the United States and become a model American, a model Catholic, a model professor at the very Catholic Saint Louis University. We can almost imagine him sitting around in his dressing gown, chatting about the Gutenberg galaxy with Marshall McLuhan!

  A DAY ON THE PHONE

  At around ten that morning, while Albert Lebrun, President of the French Republic, signed a decree granting coveted appellation contrôlée status to Juliénas cru Beaujolais (Decree of 11 March 1938), and wondered, as his gaze tumbled down the shutters of his office window, whether the wines of Émeringes and Pruzilly also deserved that designation; while it rained outside and droplets struck the panes like a piano sonata played by an inexpert hand (thought Lebrun in a burst of lyricism); while he tossed the decree onto an enormous pile – what a mess! – and snatched up another, setting the budget for the National Lottery for the next accounting period (this had to be the fifth or sixth of those he’d signed since taking office, for certain decrees kept coming back, like swifts in the tall trees along the quays, to land on his desk year after year); while Albert Lebrun, then, daydreamed behind the bourgeois vanity of his enormous lampshade, elsewhere, in Vienna, Chancellor Schuschnigg received an ultimatum from Adolf Hitler: either he rescinded his plebiscite, or Germany would invade Austria. Non-negotiable. No more virtuous fantasies. Time to wipe off the makeup and remove the costume. Four interminable hours passed. At 2 p.m., having ignored his lunch, Schuschnigg finally cancelled the plebiscite. Whew. Everything could go on just as before: strolls along the Danube, classical music, empty prattling, pastries from Demel or Sacher . . .

  Not so fast. The monster proved greedier still. It now demanded Schuschnigg’s resignation and his replacement by Seyss-Inquart as Austrian chancellor. Nothing less. ‘What a nightmare! Will it never end!’ Back when he was prisoner of the Italians, as a young man in the First World War, Schuschnigg should have read Gramsci instead of love stories – in which case, he might have come across the line: ‘When debating with an opponent, try to put yourself in his shoes.’ But he had never put himself in anyone’s shoes; at most, he had tried on Dollfuss’s suit, after several years spent licking his boots. Put himself in someone else’s shoes? He had no idea what that meant. He’d never got into the shoes of the battered workers, or the jailed trade unionists, or the tortured democrats; so the last thing we needed now was for him to get into the shoes of monsters! He hesitated. It was the very last minute of his very last hour. And then, as always, he capitulated. He, the man of power and religion, of order and authority, said yes to whatever they demanded. You just have to not ask nicely. He said no, firmly, to the freedom of the Social Democrats. He said no, courageously, to freedom of the press. He said no to the maintenance of an elected parliament. He said no to the right to strike, no to assemblies, no to the existence of parties other than his own. And this was the same man who would be hired after the war by the noble university of Saint Louis, Missouri, as a professor of political science. It’s true he was well versed in political science, he who had managed to say no to every public freedom. And so, once his little moment of hesitation had passed, as a Nazi mob forced its way into the Chancellery, Schuschnigg the intransigent, Mr No, negation made dictator, turned towards Germany and, with a strangled voice, red snout, and moist eye, uttered a feeble ‘yes’.

  There was really nothing else he could have done, he tells us in his memoirs. One takes what consolation one can. He thus set out for the presidential palace, relieved to the depths of his soul – bruised, but relieved. He would ha
nd in his resignation to the President of the Republic, Wilhelm Miklas. But, surprise! Miklas, son of a minor postal worker, whom they’d kept on as president merely for show, who served as moral sanction and normally was content to stand quietly at ceremonies beside Dollfuss, then beside Schuschnigg – that nitwit Miklas refused to accept his resignation. Shit! They called Göring. Göring had had it up to here with those stupid Austrians. Why couldn’t they just leave him the hell alone! But Hitler saw things differently. Miklas had better accept that resignation, he screeched, a telephone receiver in each hand. That’s an order! It’s strange how the most dyed-in-the-wool tyrants still vaguely respect due process, as if they want to make it appear that they aren’t abusing procedure, even while riding roughshod over every convention. It’s as if power isn’t enough for them, and that they take special pleasure in forcing their enemies to perform, one last time and for their benefit, the same rituals that they are even then demolishing.

  A long day, that 11 March! Tick tock, tick tock, the hands of the clock above Miklas’s desk calmly made inching progress, like woodworms. Miklas was not what you’d call an outstanding leader. He’d let Dollfuss install his dictatorship in Austria, and by not making a peep had been allowed to retain his measly title as president. Word was that, in private, he voiced criticisms about such violations of the constitution. Big deal. And yet this Miklas was a curious fellow, because at the worst possible moment, at around two in the afternoon on 11 March, when everyone was gripped by holy terror and Schuschnigg was repeating yes, yes, yes at the drop of a hat, suddenly Miklas was saying no. And he wasn’t saying no to three unionists, two newspaper magnates, or a skinny bunch of Social Democrat deputies; he was saying no to Adolf Hitler. Extraordinary fellow. Dreary little Miklas, a simple figurehead, president of a republic that had been defunct for five years, was suddenly fighting back. With his big middle-manager’s mug, his cane, three-piece suits, bowler hat, and watch fob, he no longer knew how to say yes. Man is never a sure bet; a poor bastard can suddenly dig way down deep inside himself and find an absurd scrap of resistance, a tiny nail, a splinter. And so it was that a man apparently without convictions, a nincompoop with little self-esteem, dug in his heels. Not for long, mind you, but even so. Miklas’s day was far from over.

  In the first instance, after hours of pressure, he had caved. The Nazis were relieved: though their tanks rolled on red carpets, they were anxious for Miklas’s consent. ‘Yes, Schuschnigg can resign, fine, I’ve made up my mind about that.’ A strange concession – especially since, having agreed at seven-thirty to toss Schuschnigg into the dustbin of history, and while the reassured Nazis were chilling the champagne to toast Seyss-Inquart’s enthronement, at seven-thirty-one old Miklas tugged on their sleeve to say that, while he accepted the resignation of that pinhead Schuschnigg, he categorically refused to appoint Seyss-Inquart.

  By now it was past eight o’clock. And so, tired of threatening Miklas, the Germans – who, the history books tell us, cared hugely about keeping up appearances so as not to alarm the international community (which naturally suspected nothing) – decided to try a different tack. Never mind that Seyss-Inquart wasn’t chancellor yet; they would call upon his services as Minister of the Interior. In order to send the Wehrmacht across the Austrian border without seeming to trample the rule of law, they asked Seyss-Inquart if he would be so kind as to officially invite the Germans to his lovely country, and be quick about it. True, he was only a minister, but since President Miklas didn’t want to make him chancellor, they’d have to manhandle protocol a bit. One might be a stickler for the constitution, but an urgent situation is an urgent situation.

  And so they awaited Seyss-Inquart’s call, the little telegram by which he’d ask the Nazis to come and lend him a hand. Eight-thirty, and nothing had happened. The bubbly was going flat. What the hell was that Seyss-Inquart doing? They were hoping it would all go quickly, that he’d hurry up and send his stupid telegram so they could finally go to dinner. Hitler was beside himself. He’d been waiting for hours! For years, in fact! And so, at his wits’ end, at exactly eight-forty-five he gave the order to invade Austria. Too bad for Seyss-Inquart’s appeal. They’d do without it! Too bad for rights, charters, constitutions, and treaties. Too bad for laws, those normative little abstract vermin, general and impersonal, Hammurabi’s concubines, who supposedly treat everyone the same, the harlots! Isn’t a fait accompli the surest of laws? They were going to invade Austria without anyone’s permission, and they’d do it out of love.

  Nonetheless, once the invasion was launched, they agreed that, all things considered, a proper invitation would put them on more solid ground. So they composed a telegram, the one they would have liked to receive: in matters of love, some are satisfied with dictating to their mistress the billets doux they dream of getting from her. Three minutes later, Seyss-Inquart received the text of the telegram that he was supposed to send Adolf Hitler – thereby transmuting the invasion, by a subtle retroactive effect, into an invitation. Bread becomes flesh, wine becomes blood. But it so happened – another surprise! – that the very obliging Seyss-Inquart did not feel entirely ready to sell Austria out. The minutes ticked by, and still the telegram didn’t arrive.

  Finally, at around midnight, at the end of an endless debate, when the Nazis had already seized the main centres of power; while Seyss-Inquart obstinately refused to sign his telegram; while the city of Vienna witnessed scenes of murderous insanity: riots, arson, screaming, Jews dragged by the hair through streets littered with rubble; while the great democracies took no notice, with England snoring peacefully, France dreaming sweet dreams, and no one giving a tinker’s damn – while all this was happening, old Miklas, shrugging his heavy shoulders, exhausted and no doubt disgusted, grudgingly named the Nazi Seyss-Inquart Chancellor of Austria. Great catastrophes often creep up on us in tiny steps.

  FAREWELL LUNCHEON IN DOWNING STREET

  The following day, in London, Ribbentrop was invited by Chamberlain for a farewell luncheon. After several years in England, the Reich’s ambassador had just received a promotion: henceforth, he would be Foreign Minister. He was back in London for a few days to say his farewells and return the house keys – for before the war, Chamberlain, who owned several properties, apparently counted Ribbentrop among his tenants. From this anodyne fact, this strange conflict between the image and the man, this contract by which Neville Chamberlain, the ‘lessor’, agreed for a price, the ‘rent’, to allow Joachim von Ribbentrop quiet enjoyment of his house in Eaton Square, no one has drawn the slightest inference. Chamberlain must have received his rent cheque between two pieces of bad news, two low blows. But business is business. No one, then, has detected any anomaly here, or conferred on this little morsel of Roman law the slightest significance. Some poor devil on trial for robbery gets slammed with a long list of prior convictions, and suddenly the facts speak for themselves. But if those facts concern Chamberlain, well, it’s steady on, old boy. A certain decency is called for. His politics of appeasement are just an unfortunate mistake, and his activities as a landlord are, in the annals of history, no more than a minor footnote.

  The first part of the meal was perfectly pleasant and good-humoured. Ribbentrop told stories of his athletic prowess, then, after a few jokes at his own expense, he brought up the pleasures of tennis; Sir Alexander Cadogan listened politely. Ribbentrop rambled on for a while about serves, and about that little globe of felt-covered rubber, the ball, the life span of which was very short, he stressed, not even the duration of a full match! Then he evoked the great Bill Tilden, who could serve like a demigod, he enthused, and dominated the tennis of the 1920s as no one ever would in his wake. In five years, Tilden did not lose a single match, and he walked off with the Davis Cup seven times in a row. He had what they used to call a cannonball serve, with a physique ideally suited for that sublime performance: tall, slender, with wide shoulders and huge hands. Ribbentrop embellished his shaggy-dog story with endless titbits and anecdotes. For ins
tance, Tilden, at the start of his most prolific series of victories, had had the tip of his finger amputated, after accidentally slicing it open on a fence. After the operation, he played better than ever, as if this little fingertip had been an error of natural selection that modern surgery had corrected. But more than anything, Tilden was a strategist – Ribbentrop stressed, wiping his lips on his napkin – and his book The Art of Lawn Tennis is a gold mine of reflections on tennis discipline, like Ovid’s on the art of love. But especially – the quintessence of being, for the man his youthful friends had teasingly called ‘Ribbensnob’ – Bill Tilden was nonchalant, so wonderfully nonchalant. And elegant: his backhand was like a reverence. On the courts, he reigned supreme. No one could touch him. Even his opponents’ wins, when he was in his forties, did not oust him from first place, the place his regal style assured him in every match he played. Then Ribbentrop spoke about himself, his own game. Sir Alexander, truth be told, was finding all this tennis talk seriously boring, and he listened to the minister of the Reich with a fixed smile. Mrs Chamberlain, too, had been trapped at the beginning of the meal and politely endured this flood of verbiage. Ribbentrop was now talking about his youthful visits to Canada, when in white shirt and trousers, wearing out his moccasins on the courts, he served aces practically at will. He even went so far as to stand up and mime a lob, almost knocking over a glass – but no, he caught it in time and it was laughed off as a joke. For a moment, he went back to Tilden, the twelve thousand people who had come to see him play around 1920, which was an absolute record for the time, and still today remains an astounding number. But more than anything, he remained number one, Ribbentrop reiterated several times, he remained number one for many years. Thank the Lord, the main course arrived just then.