Though his manner was negligent, tolerant, unassertive, the eyes, so blue in the lofty, mobile face, were hard, as if summing up before sentence.
‘Latvia and, should it survive, Finland will submit to Russia in what is courteously called Mutual Assistance.’ His gesture was that of crumpling paper. Someone began, ‘And Germany…’
‘Ah.’ The pause was calculated, and, at several conflicting voices, Herr Max stooped to hear, almost to participate.
‘A hand on the tiller, General.Well and good, now that London and Paris relinquish the race and Washington declines to compete. Yet, if Hitler moves against the Soviets, who gets crushed in the middle?’
‘Amongst others, the League, endlessly disputing not only the righteousness of force but its validity. Civilization too readily assumes that people are rational.’
The Herr General looked aside, to the stags and shields carved along the fireplace. ‘A hand on the tiller? To cleave to that is better than writing of feelings one has never possessed.’
Further talk led to ‘the Italian bag of noise’, but I was confused, merging this with my private scraps of knowledge: Forest Uncle, Pahlen, der Alte Friedrich, Robespierre’s tinted spectacles – ‘He who trembles is Guilty’ – the disappearance of my favourite house-maid and a bloodied mass of feathers outside the possessed cowshed. Safely in bed, I thought of the girl who ran, now naked, speeding through moonlight, invitation to fondle myself, frantic for pursuit and deliverance.
That summer, 1939, not Stalin but Herr Hitler first signed non-aggression promises, safeguarding Estonia and Latvia. Did anyone sign promises of aggression? Russian threats to Finland got louder, and, in one rumour, the Red Army had crossed the frontier. Britain and France promised help but were only permitting a few anti-Russian demonstrations and counter-demonstrations. Hitler could still rescue the Finns from his lifelong enemy. The Reichsmarschall, papers announced, had assured all Germans that, should war ever come, he had rendered their skies totally immune to attack.
That summer was exciting and frightening as fire. I see from afar the downfall of the Fighting Gods. Few people turned up for picnics; at school, many were absent. To my question about a dark-haired boy to whom I owed a kroon, the gym sergeant merely shrugged. ‘People of that sort, my good Erich, are advised to leg it.’
Our servants, like the villagers, were very quiet – like, Herr Max grumbled, gamblers pondering their next move. A traditional tavern song was given a new twist, changing romance to danger.
Adults were edgier. The Herr General was always crossing frontiers, on return reporting international tensions. Then, blue August exploded, demolishing political experts, professors, wireless commentators. Faces burst open with the volte-face of the Hitler–Stalin Pact, two signatures achieving the impossible.
Bear and Wolf had lain down together, almost in the next room. But surely not. Throughout my life they had almost deafened Europe with their hatred. Summer was not winter, mountains did not dance, despite the dazzling psalm.Yet the experts were rushing back, with instances of previous Nazi–Communist collaboration against the Weimar Republic. Words, words. The old nation-states must, a voice declared, be merged in a new international order.
For myself, however, wine had changed to water in a fifth season under nameless stars and a square moon. I would never forget the stricken faces of Father and his friends, chapped by a sudden evil miracle, glints on those of servants usually impassive. Even the dogs seemed anxious, silence was everywhere, the silence actually heard when I intruded upon talk about myself. Mother, no longer flirtatious, glanced unhappily from side to side as if seeking help.
That week could have been memorial to the Great Wrath, the beheading of King Louis, King Charles, the charge into the Bastille, the snow crushing Napoleon. In a few days newspapers were reporting German Reds who had fled to Russia for protection, now being surrendered to the Gestapo.
Each day more worried, Father said nothing, but at last the Herr General returned with a smile like a pat on the shoulder and, unusually, a kiss for Mother.
‘The Pact? Both gentlemen think they know what they’re about. Each believes that the other does not. Only one is correct. But rest content. Presidents, dictators, demagogues have only short leaseholds. Then energy evaporates, they rest on their oars, the mandate of heaven is withdrawn. These ill-bred fellows – Hitler, Stalin – will follow them.’
‘Not altogether a promise of immediate happiness,’ Father told me, before bed. But next day was again crowded with visitors, who had heard of the Herr General’s presence. They sat in the sunlit garden, like students, dependent on him. He was soothing, damping fires, larger than usual, rock in the dissolving landscape.
‘We all remember 1918, Balts pleading for our Kaiser to defend them from the Bolsheviks. Today, things are more complex, more exacting. Herr von Ribbentrop – I understand that he borrowed the von from a better-born aunt to gratify his ambitious wife – his personality is that of a half-drowned slug. I do not advise you to place bets on his winning the prize. He is now welcomed in Moscow as guarantor of Soviet survival, a recognition of German supremacy. He was greeted by a Red band playing the Nazi ‘Horst Wessel’ jingle, honouring, I recall, a pimp. A poignant occasion!’
‘General, you know these things. In accepting the Asiatics, Mesolithic in appearance and taste, the Reich must have taken secret precautions. Still, when all’s said and done… our own position here…’
‘I remember Hindenburg, whose von was impeccable, once saying that he needed Baltic territory to secure his left wing in the next war. Today, Baltic security remains essential for German military stability. Stalin, of course, wants the Baltic States, not only for defence of Leningrad but as the recovery of stolen goods, valuable for his empire. The Pact itself is important only because it will convince Britain and France of the futility of resistance to the Reich. After that…’
He paused, the grown-up tantalizing us with promise of a treat.
‘General, you mention Ribbentrop. He skated in competitions. Canadian! To those lacking, shall we say, the higher taste, he still sells champagne too easily mistaken for syrup.’
Father and Mother were sitting in the best chairs, hospitable but very quiet, idols of the peaceful afternoon, while voices quickened.
‘Surely the Kremlin was careless in disregarding Britain’s need for Estonian independence. London sinks money here, like mine-shafts. A form of colonialism, for which, as they themselves say, we pay through the nose.Yet, their support for Poland…’
‘English exports certainly require the survival of weak, anachronistic nations. Russia and Germany do not.’
The speaker, an elderly squire, Uncle Johann, gave Mother an apologetic smile, as if exports were her personal relations, while I thought of Dick Whittington or of some Lord Warwick sinking gold coins deep into Estonia.
At mention of England, a tiny shadow had crossed Mother’s face under its pale gold fringe. She was very youthful amongst those figures, men and women alike – save for Father and the Herr General – seasoned, slightly rotting.
Next day, Father was away, on ‘business’, that word, not an explanation but of craftiness, secrecy, uncertainty. I understood that Germany had taken Memel, that the British Foreign Minister had ignored any possibility of the Pact, that though the Baltic States had earlier refused Soviet protection Germany had now consented to Russia building aerodromes and harbours in Estonia.