Grand Days

by Frank Moorhouse

  ‘They might need financial experts.’

  ‘Book-keepers?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why would a socialist country want book-keepers?’

  ‘Every system has people who cheat on claimed expenses, I’m sure, and who need to be caught.’

  Edith listened to this exchange wondering whether anyone wanted her skills. She wasn’t truly a scientist. She was half-trained as an international civil servant. Who needed half-trained international civil servants? Victoria was a bit older than both of them and trained in Registry work which was useful anywhere.

  Victoria said she couldn’t imagine going back to Wellington.

  ‘At least Wellington is a city. Canberra isn’t even built yet,’ Edith said.

  ‘You haven’t seen Wellington,’ Victoria said.

  They laughed more loudly than the quip deserved and then became sober again.

  ‘I might travel to exotic places,’ Edith said.

  ‘But what happens when the money runs out?’ Victoria said, as always, looking ahead to the pain of things.

  She imagined Ambrose and her sinking into ‘decadence’ but she didn’t quite know what the decadence would be, of what particular kind. She tried to imagine them in Munich or in New York but couldn’t. She became frightened then at how much her conception of life existed only in Geneva and at the League.

  ‘Come to Russia,’ Florence said. ‘Work for the revolution. They will want help from people like us who know about the international world.’

  ‘I don’t fancy working for the revolution,’ Victoria said. ‘I fear that their files are in a mess, despite their claims to be scientific.’

  More laughter of a desperate kind.

  ‘I might go back to university,’ Edith said. ‘Go to Oxford.’

  ‘We could all get married, I suppose,’ Victoria said.

  ‘If the worst came to the worst,’ Florence said, and again they all laughed desperately. It was a sensitive subject with them all, each fearing that the other might marry first and go off to bliss, leaving them working. Edith had tried to understand her own feelings about marriage but had only a provisional position, that she wanted to work for the League until she had done all she could. The conversation trailed off eventually. Victoria went home, and Florence slept on the Wilson chair.

  Edith tried her best to be positive, and in the Bavaria she argued that the crisis showed that the League was not, in fact, dominated by the Big Powers which everyone always said. That a little nation such as Brazil could force them to think again. Could stop them in their tracks. Not so little. Someone estimated it was the third richest country in the world.

  There was talk now of three Leagues evolving. A European League, a Pan-American League, and an Asiatic League. Some said that the US wanted this and had brought about the crisis.

  She and the others at the Secretariat went on with their work but it was a time of low confidence. The Secretariat was really to blame. They shouldn’t have let anything go ahead until everything was certain. How badly they’d applied the maxim that no request was to be made unless it was granted. And how badly German diplomats had applied it too. Edith kept the unsent telegram in her drawer, thinking that it would be a sad, historic document.

  It was not the end of the League.

  The most surprising result was a new determination by Germany to gain admission. Germany’s interest in the League was spurred on by the rebuff which it saw as evidence of the importance that countries placed on membership of the Council.

  As the September Assembly approached, she reminded Sir Eric about the telegram. She took it to him. He glanced through it again. She changed the date. He made a comment or two about the last time they had been together in the office.

  He told her that this time, Germany would not come to Geneva until assured that all formalities were secure and that there was no possibility of loss of face. ‘This time when the telegram goes to Berlin, it won’t be just to inform the President of the Reich — it will be to summon the German delegation. Do you understand? They’ll not move until they get this telegram.’ He held it up.

  ‘Understood, Sir Eric.’

  ‘The telegram has to confirm to the Germans that all is right here in Geneva. Signed, sealed, and delivered.’

  M. Avenol, the Deputy Secretary-General, was sitting in the room, and said that, given that the Germans would not leave for Geneva until the formal admission had happened, they’d have to accept the consequences, ‘Viz, that Germany’s official admission to the League will be voted on here on the Wednesday. The Germans will get the telegram in Berlin that day, but given the length of the train trip from Berlin to Geneva, the German delegation cannot possibly be present until the Friday — days after the formalities of their admission have been dealt with.’

  He said he thought it would be an anticlimax. ‘The first appearance of their delegates will be less glorious than it might otherwise have been.’

  ‘I have sympathy with Germany this time,’ Sir Eric said. ‘I myself wouldn’t budge from Berlin until I knew that admission was concluded.’

  She took a breath and said, ‘Will I draft an alternate telegram saying that the admission is deferred?’

  He looked at her. ‘Good God, no. No telegram about deferment. I don’t want to hear the word.’

  She said that she realised there’d been more important concerns in recent months, but if the huissiers were not to wear uniforms, could they perhaps wear armbands with the initials ‘SdN’ and ‘LofN’?

  Sir Eric said he couldn’t see any objection. He looked at Avenol who said that he thought it was a useful idea.

  Edith said, ‘I know a woman who can make them.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  They went back to looking at some documents on the desk. She hovered about as long as she could. She leaned with them to look at the plans and documents. Eventually it became impossible for her to delay her going any longer. Sir Eric had glanced up once or twice at her, not seeming to mind, but Avenol seemed puzzled by her presence.

  Everyone who could get away from the Secretariat was again at the Salle de la Réformation to see Germany finally admitted. Holding the telegram drafts, Edith sat at the front with Cooper and the other Secretariat members who were on duty. She’d heard him mention to others, with some pride, that his office was ‘handling that part of things’.

  She’d not followed Sir Eric’s advice. She followed Bartou’s advice ‘that nothing ever happened the same way twice’, in so far as it was of any use. She’d made a deferment draft, and she had it with her. If deferment did happen for any unforeseen reason, she felt that it was important for her to have a telegram prepared that could be sent without people having to confer over wording while in a confused state. But she’d realised that it was a nonsensical paradox, to talk of planning for the unforeseeable. Life was a series of agile responses. How to modify the response precisely enough was the trick. Life was not technique. It was knack and artistry.

  Self-importantly, she waved to Victoria, Florence and the others clustered at the side entrance to the Presidential dais. They were simply there as spectators. Even Caroline Bailey was there looking interested, probably hoping for another disaster to put in her novel. Despite Germany’s refusal to attend until the Friday, the Salle was packed to hear the formal admission. Many people had returned, even after the March fiasco. Cooper pointed out to Edith that Mrs Woodrow Wilson and her hat were again seated in the gallery.

  She could see the whole Assembly hall, the forty-eight tables for delegates and alternates and Germany’s vacant table. Seventeen prime ministers, eighteen foreign ministers, seven former foreign ministers. She waved to John Latham, Freda Rage, and the others of the Australian delegation.

  Brazil’s table was vacant.

  She was proud that the huissiers wore the blue armbands she’d designed and had silk-screened. She hadn’t told anyone that she’d also sewn them herself. And chosen the colour.

  It fe
ll to the Swiss delegate, Giuseppe Motta, to report to the Assembly the compromise worked out by the Council. There was to be a new category of Council members — semi-permanent — to permit the smaller powers greater representation. Only Germany was to become a new permanent member.

  A chill crept into Edith as she heard Loudon, the Dutch delegate, attack the procedure of presenting this new structure of Council without any chance for the Assembly to consider it in advance. ‘We are forced to vote today without proper consideration. It forces the Assembly’s hand and seriously alters the balance of power between Assembly and Council.’

  With growing dismay, Edith heard one delegate after another attack the compromise. It was pointed out that an enlarged Council would have difficulty taking emergency action. All those nations on Council would have to be consulted. Time would be lost.

  Even the much-loved Nansen, of Norway, opposed the compromise complaining that most of the Assembly delegates had only heard of the compromise proposal that morning. He would carry weight.

  Every time a delegate objected to the compromise, other delegates applauded the objections.

  Edith began to feel shaky with trepidation. She realised that the deferment telegram was going to be used. Or worse, a rejection of Germany’s application might occur. She had not composed a rejection telegram. She took out her pad from her briefcase and tried to compose a telegram of rejection. Cooper kept trying to see what she was doing.

  She read the ‘deferred’ telegram again to see that it was correct. No words missing. Oh, my God. She could see that Sir Eric was tense.

  Lofgren of Sweden took up the objections and supported them.

  The President, Mr Nintchitch of Serbia, then called for the vote. The first vote was on the admission of Germany to the Assembly.

  Even if Germany were admitted to the Assembly, Germany would still not come unless given a permanent seat on the Council alongside only Italy, Japan, France, and Britain. Germany had made that clear.

  He called for the vote count. The tellers stood in the aisles. Edith watched almost too intensely, almost unable to see, but all hands went up. Or was that against the motion? It was for the motion. All states voted yes to Germany’s admission.

  ‘I declare Germany a member of the League of Nations Assembly.’

  There was applause and some cheering. Edith was confused and realised that the countries who had spoken out in objection had not intended to vote against Germany. That had been more criticism of the Council’s presentation of a fait accompli, not opposition to Germany. It was all going through.

  The President called for a vote on the amendment to the Covenant to permit a restructuring of the Council to admit Germany and to make room for semi-permanent members.

  The vote for change in the structure of Council was also unanimous. Germany would sit at the horseshoe table.

  It was through. There was sustained applause, with many delegates rising to their feet.

  She still could not trust what she had witnessed and turned to Cooper. ‘Germany’s in?’

  ‘Yes, Berry, Germany’s in. Now rush!’ He touched her arm. ‘Send it off.’

  As she rushed, Edith read the two green telegrams — one to Premier Stresemann and one to President Hindenberg — yet again rechecking. She glanced up at Sir Eric who nodded to her.

  She moved quickly through the curtains. As she did, she glanced back to see the still applauding Assembly and was bemused to see that the eyes of the men in the hall were on her, giving her the illusion that they were applauding her. Of course their eyes always turned to any woman who came and went through the curtains. She gave them all a quick smile and closed the curtains. As she walked down to the telegraph room she glanced at herself in one of the wall mirrors, seeing what the men had admired in her body, pleased with her appearance.

  The clerk stood waiting for the telegram. ‘They’re in then?’ the clerk said. She had positioned a huissier to keep the telegraph available for her and to keep the press away.

  ‘Yes, they’re in.’

  She again read through the telegrams and decided on one small last-minute change. At the end of the two forms, after the names of Sir Eric and President Nintchitch, she put, ‘per ECB’. She wrote herself into history and then handed the forms to him, he signed a receipt, and she in turn signed an authorisation that they were to go priority to Berlin.

  The clerk asked her whether the League would pay the supplement for a priority message.

  ‘Of course the League will pay the supplement,’ she told him abruptly.

  He grinned at her, having had his joke. She managed a tight grin in return.

  She watched the clerk sit at the Morse key and tap it out. He then sat for a second or two until a signal came back from Berlin, ‘Message received.’

  The clerk said, ‘They’ve received it in Berlin.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  The clerk looked at her, again grinning. ‘Perfectly sure. The German operator sent back “Message received”.’

  She didn’t see how he could be sure but there was nothing she could do about it. She understood Morse and the telegraph but still felt that the message had gone off into a void.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said, still grinning at her nervousness, full of his technical conceit. ‘They’ve got it at the Ministry and at the Palace.’ She asked for the return of the telegram forms for the archives.

  Outside the telegraph office, she leaned against the wall, feeling weak and shaking a little. Newspaper reporters began queueing at the telegraph office.

  Robert Dole came over to her. He was a journalist she vaguely knew from the Bavaria and the Club de la Presse. He gestured at the telegrams. ‘Are they the telegrams to Germany?’

  She nodded.

  ‘May I?’ He held out his hand.

  She wondered if she could show them. They were diplomatic messages. But they were also happy history. Why not?

  She handed them to him and he copied down the messages. She studied him as he wrote. Jeanne was always talking about people’s eye colouring: ‘Cold and blue like the sea’ was a favourite. She said Joshi had ‘dreamer’s eyes’. Edith couldn’t see anything in people’s eyes and didn’t believe in that sort of thing. She couldn’t even tell whether a person was honest or not, nor whether they were a hypocrite. Everyone else claimed to be able to tell by the eyes.

  He gave her back the telegrams and smiled. ‘The initials ECB — they’re yours?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I ask your middle name?’

  ‘Campbell — Edith Campbell Berry.’

  ‘Thank you, Edith Campbell Berry,’ he said, and joined the queue at the telegraph office.

  On the Friday, the German delegation arrived in Geneva to another grand welcome by crowds of people at the Gare Cornavin.

  Edith was there at the Salle, as a spectator this time, to see the Germans take their place in the Assembly.

  As she heard the President of the Assembly call on the Cuban President of the credentials committee to give his report, she went through her proposed ceremonial plan, imagining how it might work. One day maybe they would adopt it.

  The President said that the credentials of the German delegates had been examined and found in order.

  The President said in a strong voice, ‘I invite the German delegates to take their places.’

  Superstitiously, she didn’t feel sure that her telegram had reached Berlin until she saw Herr Stresemann come through the door of the Salle de la Réformation with his entourage. He had a bull-neck and wore a tight black morning coat, not his special wide-lapelled suit which had become so fashionable. She was aware of a small shock and a special curiosity of seeing Germans. She had, of course, seen them before, had even seen Stresemann back in March drinking beer in the Bavaria, but every time she looked at them, it was as if they were from another world. The word ‘Hun’ still whispered through her mind.

  Clapping accompanied Herr Stresemann and his colleagues down the
aisle to their seats. It was dignified but lacked majesty. At Dame Rachel’s dinner party for delegates and Secretariat women the night before, Mrs Swanwick, an English woman from the Union for Democratic Control had said loudly and unnecessarily, referring to the admission, that she thought, ‘the bloom had gone off it all’.

  She decided that in her ceremonials she would have a procession of visiting people who were important to the League such as Mrs Edith Bolling Wilson. And, she supposed, people like Mrs Swanwick.

  Maybe next year would see America admitted and that would be the chance to put her ceremonials into action.

  She was very unsure about what she’d learned from the episode. She thought that maybe she’d learned that as an officer she was not likely to be immobilised by surprise, panic, or defeat. She thought that somehow she’d always known that — maybe she’d learned that already from some childhood situation. Or if immobilised, she should, like Sir Eric, reach out to someone who could break the panic. Curiously, it didn’t have to be a close friend. She’d certainly learned about the frailty of Secretaries-General. Furthermore, she’d learned about the frailty of institutions and saw in herself a change of attitude. She had taken the survival of the League for granted and had worked within its security. She now had to watch over the institution and protect it, not only from its enemies, but from the illusion of invulnerable strength.

  She had learned something about planning. When planning failed, one worked through the emerging events, making order with agility and intuition. She had, for example, planned to send a telegram but had instead shaved a man.

  The Economics of Self

  They were all at the Café Landolt after a meeting of the Fourth Committee and they were all down. Brazil and Spain were pulling out and this had seriously reduced the budget, although the effect probably wouldn’t show up until 1929, and for the first time, League endeavours were being cut back. Coming after the crisis of Germany’s admission, Edith had felt shaken by Sir Eric’s confidential circular on finances which she’d seen on Cooper’s desk.