American Embassy
Monday, January 6, 1936. American embassy. Dexter walked up to the open entrance to the ambassador’s office and gently rapped on the large oak door with his knuckles and stepped inside.
“Dexter, why come in,” said the ambassador as he stood and held out his hand.
“Good afternoon, Mister Ambassador,” replied Dexter as he shook the outstretched hand.
“Sit down. Now tell me what you think about the Hoare-Laval affair. Things went to Hell-in-a-handbasket, in what, three weeks?”
“Yes sir.” Dexter gathered his thoughts and continued, “The Hoare-Laval proposals were very sound. In fact they still are. Mussolini needs a way out of the Ethiopian fighting.”
“You don’t think he can win?”
“Oh, he can probably win—eventually, and at great cost. He would much prefer a deal.”
“Why won’t he get it?”
“In a word, Eden.”
“Yes, a young man,” the ambassador mused about the thirty-eight-year-old foreign secretary, “wants to show his stuff. Validate the ideal of collective security, use Italy to show that the League of Nations works.”
“Something like that.”
“And the French?”
“Laval would like to go back to Mussolini and conciliate. Do whatever it takes.”
“What’s stopping him?”
“The Radical Socialists are melting away. Once the budget is passed and the law outlawing armed political leagues signed, the government will probably fall.”
“When?”
“Later in the month.”
“Do the Radical Socialists think that Hitler is going to send a bouquet of flowers to a new interim French government?”
“They can’t see the reality of Germany. The glare from high principles and the glow of great ideals blinds them.”
“Bayonets in the Rhineland, I would think.”
“Quite probable, sir.”
“What was the big error here, the lesson to be learned?”
“Neither the British nor the French prepared public opinion for the importance of negotiations, that talk could lead to a path away from war.”
The ambassador leaned forward towards his desk, clasped his hands in front of him, and looked at Dexter, preparing to give his instructions. “Dexter, I would like you to prepare a report,” and he looked mischievously at Dexter, “for your friends back in Washington.” Dexter smiled; Dexter’s backchannel to Washington was their little unspoken understanding.
“Use Hoare-Laval to discuss how critical issues need to be managed in international forums in the future, how our diplomats should proceed, the frameworks that the policymakers need to work out.”
“Yes sir.”
“Oh, Dexter, I believe you were at the Paris Peace Conference?”
“Yes, sir. I was almost the youngest lieutenant in the army. I arrived after the Armistice.” Dexter paused and looked into the distance, wistfully, and muttered, “Thank God.”
The ambassador said softly, “Of course.” Pershing had driven the American divisions into the German lines like a sledgehammer that summer and fall of 1918.
Dexter resumed, “I was sent to the Hotel Crillon, the American headquarters. They quickly packed me and some other lieutenants off to another hotel where we worked on maps. Austro-Hungary, Palestine and Syria, Afghanistan, and then the creation of what became Iraq. We joked it meant British Oil in Mesopotamia in Arabic.”
The ambassador laughed. “How true.”
“The Peace Treaty is the infernal machine that has been grinding up international cooperation ever since—so much discontent, so much injustice, so much grievance. So yes, I and some of the younger men in Washington are interested in developing new approaches to international organizations and better peace treaties.”
“Dexter, you and your friends must do better—next time.”
“Yes sir.”
The two men rose and the ambassador walked him to the door, his arm around the younger man’s shoulders.
Tuesday evening, January 21, Quai d’Orsay. In the private living quarters of the premier, Pierre Laval packed his bags for yet another trip to Geneva, what he knew might be his last chance to work for conciliation of the Italo-Ethiopian war at the League of Nations. The telephone rang. Madame Laval picked it up; she turned to her husband, “It’s Herriot. He is sure to tell you that he is resigning.”
Laval took the phone and arranged a meeting in one of the drawing rooms with the elder statesman of the Radical Socialist party. There, Herriot retracted his promise to accept the extension of the Chamber that had been the basis of forming the coalition cabinet the previous June. The government would fall.
Three days later, having returned from his last meetings at Geneva, Laval wrote a letter of resignation for the cabinet. He went over to the offices of the administration centrale to have typed copies made. The secrétaire général was not there; he went to Madame Lambert’s office, gently knocked on the door and entered. Madame Lambert promptly stood.
“Madame, here is the letter of resignation of the cabinet for President Lebrun. Could you have typed copies prepared?”
Madame Lambert replied, “Right away.” She took the handwritten sheet, went outside, and handed it to one of her assistants with whispered instructions. She returned to her office. Premier Laval motioned with his hand for her to take her seat. Then he sat in one of the wing chairs.
“I will wait for the letter.”
“We are sorry to see this come to pass.”
“Yes, it would have been better to wait for the general election and let the people change the government.”
Madame Lambert nodded in silent agreement.
The premier continued, “At Geneva, I am afraid, it will be all sanctions. There is a way forward with conciliation, a path towards peace, but it is a bendy road and takes perseverance to stay on it. But the rewards would be many.” He sighed and looked slightly forlorn.
Madame Lambert ventured, “The British have abandoned the dual policy?”
“Yes. For now.”
Madame Lambert added sympathetically, “A dual policy is always hard to pursue.”
“Yes,” the premier sighed, “but at this level, the level where Sir Samuel Hoare and Stanley Baldwin and I work, it is always a dual policy, in almost every sphere. There is never a single clear course for a head of government. Only in the newspapers,” and he gave a low laugh.
Madame Lambert smiled and said, “I see.”
“Yes, and I wanted you to know and understand that. It will help you in your future work, your service to France.”
“Thank you, Monsieur le Premier.”
The assistant came in with typed copies. Madame Lambert read them over, checked them against the handwritten draft, looked up and smiled and said to the premier, “Here they are.”
“Thank you, Madame,” and he took them and walked out of the office.
Before going across the river to the Élysée Palace to hand in the resignation of the cabinet to President Lebrun—the ninety-ninth cabinet resignation of the Third Republic—the premier held a press conference.
Standing before the reporters, he said, “The franc, which I was appointed to defend, is intact. The budget, reduced by one-fifth, has passed.”
He concluded, “During the last few months, in the foreign field grave difficulties appeared. Peace was maintained; our obligations to the League were carried out; our friendships and alliances were kept intact; the independence of our foreign policy was assured and reinforced. That is our record.” He turned and left heading for the limousine waiting to take him across the river.
Geneviève Tabouis sat and finished her notes. Relieved that Laval, the conservative nemesis, had finally fallen, she wondered whether Laval’s many maneuverings on what seemed Mussolini’s behalf would sow seeds of distrust among the British. Would Britain be quick to come to France’s aid in the event of a future aggression? Surely Britain would come to France’s aid if
the Rhineland were challenged.
BOOK TWO
The Rhineland Crisis