This was not a majority. The Social Democrat Fierlinger stayed on, and so, fatally, did the foreign minister, Jan Masaryk. In his way, he represented the tragedy of the Czechs: vastly talented, an excellent linguist, a good pianist, a bibulous charmer with a long string of affairs and funny stories, and contacts all over the world; but in the end a weak and selfish man, the shadow of his far tougher father, the founder of the republic. Beneš was very ill, not likely to live much longer; the last thing that he now wanted was any kind of crisis. He would bow to force, whether that now shown by the Communists with their militias in the street, or by the Red Army; he dressed this up with reference to the West, which he alleged was forcing him to choose between Germany, which he hated, and Russia. Jan Masaryk thought that he would be Beneš’s successor, and stayed on. Gottwald could hardly believe his luck and said, ‘At first I couldn’t believe it would be so easy. But it turned out that they had resigned. I prayed that this stupidity would go on and that they wouldn’t change their minds.’ They did not. Gottwald now had an opening, to nominate men to the National Front who would replace the resigning ministers, and were ostensibly from the same parties. Thus the Catholic (People’s) Party leader, an aged priest, Dr Jan Šrámek, was replaced by a colleague, Mgr Josef Plojhar, who had been in Mauthausen and no doubt learned, there, to co-operate with Communists; and there were stooge Radicals or Social Democrats as well. The way was clear for Gottwald to proclaim the Communist takeover, which he did, overlooking the statue of Jan Huss from the balcony of the Kinsky Palace on Old Town Square, on 25 February.
Poor Drtina had tried to make amends, saying the day before that ‘the most important guarantee of security rests in close collaboration with the USSR’. But it was too late, and two days later he tried to commit suicide, in a manner befitting the native tradition, by jumping out of the window. Badly broken, he was kept in hospital for a while and then imprisoned, spending long years in this or that castle dungeon, often together with German war criminals or Slovak Fascists whom he himself, in his great days as minister for ‘retribution’, had sentenced. In 1960 there was at last an amnesty and he was released, staying on in Prague until his death, aged eighty, in 1980. The new Communist regime showed its character in other cases. The aged Šrámek, a tough old peasant-priest who had spent the war years as part of the exile government in London, tried to escape on a French aircraft and was held at the airport. He too faced years of dungeon and prison, dying, aged eighty-four, in 1956. Jan Masaryk had a fate all his own. He stayed on as foreign minister, living alone in the official flat at the top of the Czernin Palace, the foreign ministry building (which had also housed the Nazi Protectorate staff). On 12 March he was found splayed on the road, below the bathroom window of that flat. Suicide? Murder? No-one knew, and neither the investigation of the time, nor a subsequent investigation by an American journalist twenty years later, when witnesses were still alive and evidence still warm, cleared up the matter. There were signs of a struggle in the bedroom, and there was blood all over the bathroom, which had only a small window, through which it would have been very difficult to manoeuvre Masaryk, a big man. Perhaps the affair can be explained by drugs. LSD, which had been discovered in Switzerland at the end of the 1930s, can cause a sort of birth trauma: a foetus, struggling inside the womb, then making, head-first, for a small opening through which it has to fight its way. Jan Masaryk, a fashionable thirties figure, probably used the then fashionable drugs of high society in the West, and, no doubt demoralized by what he had done and what had happened to his friends and colleagues, this time overdid the dose. He could have saved his country if he had been less vain. As things were, he deserved the epithet uttered by a celebrated British journalist, Malcolm Muggeridge, who had known him in London, and who knew (from a year in Moscow) his Communists: the window dressing fell out of the window. Beneš himself lingered on for a month or two at his country retreat, then died. In Czechoslovakia, the barbed wire went up along the frontiers, complete with barking dogs, watch-towers, minefields and searchlights — ‘the Iron Curtain’ that Churchill had spoken of. A peculiarly harsh and durable version of Communism descended and Prague acquired an enormous statue of Stalin, on a bluff above the river. It was the start of a military confrontation of East and West.
The Czech coup went together with a further Stalinization of the Soviet bloc. In Hungary, the preceding September, there had been a sort of parade ground version of a fraudulent election, complete with dummy parties, useful idiots and double voting; the unlovely Rákosi had taken over, and the Socialists were forced into union with the Communists. This, and the Berlin blockade, caused blood at last to flow through the bureaucratic arteries of western Europe, and ideas of unity began to take shape.
The British had even supported a Western Union, complete with a Council of Europe and a Court of Human Rights at Strasbourg. The motive was essentially anti-Communist, to lay down guidelines that would prevent governments from putting citizens into camps. There was a grand meeting of a ‘Congress of Europe’ in May 1948, with over 700 delegates from thirteen countries, graced with the presence of anti-Fascist warhorses and of course the lionized Churchill. Parliaments sent delegates to the Council of Europe which then emerged. However, there was no economic content to this. At the time, the British were trying to revitalize their empire, and concentrated above all on dollar-earning exports; the French had their Plan, of which fuel was a vital component — whether through exploitation of the German Saarland or development of nuclear energy. Currencies were subject to exchange control, and all but a tiny fraction of trade was carried out by barter, with mountains of paper in ministries. For this Europe to develop an economic character, French fears over Germany would have to be overcome, and this took time: for the moment, the French aimed mainly to take the coal of the Saarland for themselves, and, if possible, to loot the Ruhr. It was the great heavy-industrial powerhouse, and for the moment it was still operating far below par, partly because of trade controls, partly because the French feared German resurgence, and partly because of British maladministration — the Germans said that it caused greater damage than the bombing had done. But its relative inactivity was harming everybody else. Next-door Holland, half of the economy of which depended upon Germany, was still in poor shape. Two things were needed. Germany would have to be reintegrated into the European economy, and the various countries would have to trade with each other. This needed practical steps, far beyond a Western Union.
It was here above all that the Marshall Plan mattered. In the first two years, with roughly $5bn each for essential goods, and food in particular, it had amounted to a vast charitable enterprise, built upon the already considerable American transfers of the immediate post-war period, when UN Relief and Rehabilitation Administration (UNRRA) and Cooperative for American Remittances to Europe (CARE) parcels had kept body and soul together. That had been vitally necessary, because of the terrible winter of 1947 and the dollar shortages and the inflation which, in most countries, but especially in Germany, had wrenched trade into the black markets and below the counter. But for various reasons the Plan changed character after the first two years. To begin with, each country had taken its handout and kept the money in the bank. But trade was the real engine of growth, the dollars being used as a basis for that, not with the USA but over European borders. That meant the Rhine; the immediate point was German integration, through an increase in European trade. As the international crisis developed, there was a further element of great importance: American defence expenditure shot up, from the $13.5bn of 1949 to the $50bn of 1950, and a good part of this went to Germany, where forty American divisions were now stationed, and which produced the essential steel. The Ruhr wheels turned, slowly, again, and the great smokestacks emitted. Marshall money also saved the French Plan, which, again, required German coal and steel. The British, still attempting to refloat their empire as a bloc, were much less intimately involved. They used the dollars just to pay off debts.