What was now to be done? God and the Kingdom of Heaven Within had been abolished to prepare for the coming of a Kingdom of Heaven Without, which had not materialised; but something still remained -hatred, greed, fear, all the terrible passions which flesh is heir to. These remained, and might be mobilised, first to achieve power, then, having achieved it, as an instrument of Terror. Preach hatred, not just for the purpose of waging a war, but as an everlasting gospel, a means of bringing to pass the Kingdom of Heaven on Earth!
Insist, that instead of it being possible for the strong and the weak, the wise and the foolish, the crippled and the wholeof-limb, the sick and the healthy, to live peaceably together because they are brothers, having one father, God, the only possibility is for the strong utterly to destroy the weak - one class, the proletariat, destroying all others; one race, the German, triumphing over all others. Call the result, whatever it may be, the Kingdom of Heaven on Earth; lie and lie and lie to persuade that it really is so and whoever refuses at any rate to pretend to be convinced, kill.
4
Nazi Terror
Terrorism has been an invariable accompaniment of Nazi rule, whether in Germany or in those territories which have been, by subterfuge or force of arms, brought under German domination .As its name implies, it is the promotion of a state of blind unreasoning fear.
The basis of all civilization is the codification of law; the community’s moral sense finds expression in laws, and though their observance is based in the last resort on fear of the consequences of contravening them, such fear, being dependent on a known contingency, is inoffensive, mild, with no nightmarish quality in it.
Terrorism, the negation of law, aims at creating an enduring state of fear, not of particular consequences of particular acts, but nameless, like a child’s fear in the dark. Only by means of terrorism was it possible for Nazi rule to be established. Law implies the application of reason to human affairs, to judicial settlement of disputes, the possibility of different point of view whose validity must be carefully weighed. Such conceptions are abhorrent to those whose leader has laid down the principle that truth must not be investigated objectively, but only its favourable aspects presented. Law had to be destroyed and replaced by terrorism.
Where law reigns, a knock at the front door at night will not unduly disturb those within; if they are law-abiding, they need not dread police visitations, and they have sufficient confidence in the establishment of public order to be unafraid of private molestation.
When terrorism reigns, any household, however blameless, will be thrown into a state of perturbation by an unknown visitor who comes at night. That their consciences are clear provides no guarantee that they may not have deserved punishment, others as innocent as themselves, they know, have been taken away, and it may now be their turn. In such circumstances, the authorities are more like tribal Gods, unaccountable in their rage, requiring to be propitiated, than an expression of the general will to be orderly and secure.
It is difficult for those who have grown up in an orderly society whose structure they take for granted, to imagine themselves subjected to terrorism. The edifice of a law seems so firmly constructed, their individual rights so securely established, that they cannot envisage a state of lawlessness in which there are no individual rights whatsoever, and the whole population is reduced to a condition of servitude.
So ordinary Germans felt before 1933. Even Hitler then protested his respect for constitutional procedure, and a Nazi dictatorship seemed inconceivable. When Hitler actually became Chancellor, still it was thought, within Germany and without, that Civil Law, institutions like the Supreme Court, the Roman Catholic and Protestant Churches, were beyond his reach.
This was to leave terrorism out of account .Almost Hitler’s first act as head of State was to institute the Gestapo, the secret police, on the pattern of the Soviet Ogpu. By means of the Gestapo, it was possible to frighten everyone, and to make them, being frightened, subservient. Unorthodoxy, that is, not being an ostentatiously zealous National Socialist, became a crime deserving of punishment; and the said Gestapo was responsible for arresting whoever was ,or might be, guilty of this crime, sentencing him and executing the sentence.
In effect, the whole population was delivered into the Gestapo’s hands. Against anyone a criminal charge might plausibly be preferred, since anyone was liable to have expressed or thought some opinion critical of the Government. Safety, if at all attainable, lay in expressing no opinions at all, in not even thinking just echoing officially provided slogans loudly and earnestly. It was as though the whole population had been arrested and provisionally released, instead of, as where there is a law, arrests being provisional until guilt has been proved. Everyone was in the position of prisoners on remand, and liable at any moment to be brought for trial on an unspecified charge.
Is it wonderful, then, that they were meek and servile? A conversation casually entered into might betray some trifling unorthodoxy, and mean being swallowed up in a concentration camp; professional advancement, livelihood, depended on not being suspected of anti-Nazi sentiments, and personalities, of family and of friendship, provided a means of oppression. The duty of spying on one another was assiduously preached, and the child who reported his father’s lack of zeal was held up to admiration. Laughter was highly dangerous, a neglected or carelessly muttered ‘Heil Hitler’ was a serious misdemeanour.
By such means it is possible for an unscrupulous and ruthless minority to impose its dictatorship on the majority; to make them obedient, apparently amenable to any policy, however violent and inconsistent, and to inculcate them with any doctrine, however unreasonable and absurd. Unity of purpose is achieved, but by imposition from without, not by conviction from within. It is the unity of the chain-gang. In the process of achieving this chain-gang unity, whatever differentiates a civilised community from its jungle origins is lost.
There can be no trust between man and man when all are in duty bound to act as informers; there can be no intellectual or moral integrity when opinions are dictated and any deviation from them punished; there can be no learning or art, no pursuit of truth at all, when the free exercise of curiosity and speculation is made a crime. Human life, so confined, is something very paltry, lacking in dignity, insignificant. Whatever is fine and permanent in human achievement has been realised through individuals courageously facing the circumstances of their being; and a society is civilised to the extent to which it makes this possible. Terrorism, which aims at putting out the spiritual light, is the antithesis of civilisation.
The atmosphere it creates is one of omnipresent fear; the personnel it relies on must inevitably be the most cruel and odious members of the community, since only those will undertake the task of deliberately, systematically, terrifying their fellows. Himmler, head of the Gestapo, has become this type of terrorist, moving secretly and acting suddenly, always dreaded. When new territory is occupied, he is the first to arrive on the scene and with his arrival, the reign of terrorism begins, another devastated area is created.
All who have ever given evidence of a capacity for independent thought must flee or hide themselves; what was formerly considered virtue becomes vice, and things which were abhorrent, are exalted. As punishment for no evident reason is more productive of fear than punishment for a stated cause, the terrorist gives no explanation of his seizures. Laws, even when they are unjust, are at least formulated, and immunity may be achieved by observing them; without formulated laws, there can be no immunity for anyone. The machinery for enforcing the observance of laws exists, but the laws which are to be enforced, are not defined. Coercion is unaccountable, and therefore universally and constantly dreaded.
This is Tyranny in its most extreme form. Even absolute monarchs were held accountable to God, but terrorism requires no earthly or heavenly sanction. It is power, naked and unbridled; relentless as a forest fire, which as it sweeps along, destroys everything and ever
yone.
5
The Phoney War
On a bright September Sunday, when the church congregations at morning service had barely emerged, in accents of quavering ferocity Mr. Neville Chamberlain announced that another war had begun. Almost immediately afterwards the sirens sounded, and into the blue sky, with one accord, rose the captive balloons. It seemed that the moment of ecstatic destruction had come. The prophecy was to be fulfilled, a great bonfire to be made. Civilization was to be destroyed; a dreaded, but still longed-for, calamity was about to come to pass. All the despair, all the bewilderment, all the unreal hopes and unmeant resolution of years were to find now an ultimate fulfilment in death and destruction raining from the skies. There was a pause, like the period of stillness before a tropical storm breaks; the little silence, which precedes, alike, the ecstasy of life and of death. Everyone waited - and nothing happened.
Every circumstance of war existed, except war. Forces had been mobilised, air-raid precautions organised, black-out imposed, hospital beds cleared, even cardboard coffins prepared for the dead. Well-meaning ladies presented themselves to organise canteens, including some, now ancient, associated with similar enterprises in the past;in the War Office there was a frenzy of activity, and at recruiting offices queues formed. About the dark streets traffic moved cautiously; theatres, cinemas, and other places of amusement closed their doors, and from Broadcasting House came an incessant stream of news, exhortations and solemnity. In the lately completed London University building in Bloomsbury, a vast, miscellaneous company assembled with the general object of informing and enlightening.
With great secrecy, and ancient and largely obsolete equipment, a British Expeditionary Force was assembled to proceed to France. It duly proceeded there, without, as was proudly claimed, the loss of a single life. Like a revived performance after a long interval of a once successful play, properties, costumes, make-up, were brought out of the boxes in which they had been stored away, and lines learnt long ago remembered and spoken again. If the production proceeded somewhat haltingly and laboriously, it still proceeded - leading lady no longer youthful, haggard in the limelight, and the chorus as they kicked their legs in the air less nimble than when the show was first put on a quarter of a century before. Though, however, the actors still could be made up to give a plausible representation of their former roles, still could speak their lines with some conviction, the attention of the audience showed signs of wandering. Somehow, something was wrong. There was a lack of relation between what was being said and done and what was happening - or rather not happening. Breeches and polished boots which made their way at lunchtime from the War Office to clubs in Pall Mall, belonged to another setting; their wearers accoutred for some other war - lean and somewhat woeful faces, occasionally with monocles, surveying a scene which they found puzzling [yet] scarcely knew why. Mahogany naval visages likewise seemingly bewildered; and characters emerging from the Treasury, umbrella on arm, somehow lost looking, as they gazed down Whitehall at Big Ben, and up at Nelson’s column; seemingly relieved to find these two familiar landmarks still extant. Everything was proceeding according to plan, and yet a doubt obstinately remained.
The absence of action evoked in some breasts the hope that the war, which never was to happen, and ostensibly had happened, might, after all, never happen. It seemed so extraordinary, when such sudden devastation had been prophesied, that, in fact, there should be neither death nor destruction; a state of war but no warfare. Perhaps even now, despite all that had been said and done, it was only a crisis, like other past crises, and would pass. Perhaps, as before, there would be negotiations, moments of tension, and then order-papers waved in Parliament; late editions spreading the good news - another and a greater Munich. A few desultory bursts of artillery fire on the Western Front, an exchange of decorations by Allied commanders, other such harmless undertakings -all this amounted to very little more than, in an attempt at seduction, an arm thrown round the back of a chair which might have rested there naturally; no more than a shifting of position, which could be due to mere restlessness. Surely with so tame a beginning, many secretly felt, the immense catastrophe about which so many warnings had been delivered might yet be averted.
Buildings were still securely standing, traffic still circulated, restaurants still served meals, and money still bought what shops still offered for sale. There might, as far as could be seen, have been no declaration of war, no abortive air-raid warning, no ecstatic expectation that the hour of doom had come. In Downing Street, still Prime Minister, sat Mr. Chamberlain, who had brought back peace with honour so short a time before; in Westminster still deliberated the same Parliament which had risen almost as one man to signalise their joy in the Munich Agreement. Where an end had been expected, there was not even a beginning. There was nothing. Everything was as it had always been - or so it seemed.
This reluctance of the war to come to pass, although officially it was being waged, caused some irritation, particularly in the United States. Senator Borah spoke contemptuously of a ‘phoney war’, and the phrase took on. American newspaper correspondents who had come to Europe in the full expectation of being able to cover themselves with glory by their descriptions of the bloody struggle which had been engaged, were disappointed and indignant when they found there was nothing to describe. They and their European colleagues, if no one else, found the phoney war dispiriting. They had the greatest difficulty in procuring any material at all for their despatches, and fell back on describing the boredom of their own lives at GHQ. With great difficulty they managed to make something out of conducted tours of an inactive front, and of visits to a Maginot Line, splendidly equipped with lifts, running water, cinemas, and even bordellos. The French Army, they reported, was in magnificent heart, and being provided with no less than a litre of red wine per day; British troops were displaying all their usual humorous gallantry and endurance, and the standard examples were given of cockney and other humour - ‘‘Arf a mo’ ‘Itler,’ Bruce Bairnsfather’s Old Bill called back to active service along with other of his contemporaries, high and low, including Ian Hay, who presided over the Public Relations branch of the War Office, the First Hundred Thousand in this war being in words, not men.
It was not only in Senator Borah’s heart, however, that a doubt existed. Others, who could not, or would not, put their doubts into words, felt a similar uneasiness. The appearance of things bore no relation to what was really happening - like an old love affair after an interval of twenty years or so; the same endearments used, the same restaurant visited, the same wine drunk, and then, in a sudden ghastly glare of light, the realisation that faces had become gaunt and haggard, flesh withered, hair grizzled, and desire all spent.
Those set in authority over us achieve such a position by virtue of a certain aptness, or suitability, in them, however little they may seem to deserve their eminence, or however large a part chicanery or violence may have seemed to play in its attainment. The most absolute dictator and the most democratically elected prime minister or president alike exercise power over their fellows in the last resort only because they represent them - collective emotions and fears stirring in their individual breasts, collective words spoken by their individual mouths. A Laval or a Hitler or a Roosevelt, a Mr. Attlee even, all, to a greater or smaller extent, satisfy this condition. Chance may wash them into eminence, but their fitness to be eminent at a particular time and in particular circumstances keeps them there.
Out of the collectivity crystallizes, by whatever procedure, its master or masters. This crystallization may be achieved by means of violence, or trickery, or even mere bribery, but it can only survive for any length of time in so far as there is a valid relation between the leaders and the led. Authority rises from below, however circumlocutory the route. There is no such thing as ‘irresponsible authority’, except briefly. Chinless, impotent Maharajah may stay put on his throne for a year or so; much married, distracted heiress may co
ntinue for a little while to command obedience, but in the long run both are alike doomed because the current which must flow between those who exert power and those upon whom it is exerted has been short circuited.
Thus, from the led the leaders may be deduced, and vice versa. In England there was Neville Chamberlain, former sisal grower and mayor of Birmingham, whose moment of glory had come when he returned from Munich bearing Hitler’s promissory note of peace with honour to the great and noisy delight of his assembled countrymen. Since that triumphant occasion his fortunes had steadily and badly declined. From peace with honour he had been irresistibly projected into war with dishonour. His naive trust in the word of dictators had turned into senile fury at their perfidy. Like Lear, he declaimed in quavering accents his determination to make them rue their bad faith - he would do such things, what they were yet he knew not. Into the future he could not see, but out of the past, to stiffen his dwindling authority, he garnered the solid shape of Mr. Churchill to be his First Lord of the Admiralty.
Mr. Churchill belonged to an earlier mould. The nineteenth century had been skipped altogether in his makeup. He derived from an earlier form of society altogether. Perhaps because of his American ancestry, he was able to dress up, behave, speak, and, it may be, even to feel as though no Gladstone or Disraeli, not to mention Lloyd George, Bonar Law, Baldwin or Ramsay MacDonald, had interposed themselves between himself and Chatham. Like one of those stage coaches brought out to celebrate a Dickens anniversary, with horns blowing and horses careering along the motorized Strand, this remarkable man, in the mood of his ancestor Marlborough and the diction of Macaulay, made ready to save his country from disaster. The massive strength of the nineteenth century was reduced to only a poor whimper of fatuous gullibility and benevolence, but, by a curious chance, an earlier England, seemingly long passed away, suddenly and surprisingly manifested itself with quite remarkable effect, if in a somewhat vulgarised or Hollywood version.
Time and Eternity Page 5
