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Title: You can't print that!
The truth behind the news 1918-1928
Author: George Seldes
Release date: October 23, 2026 [eBook #79845]
Language: English
Original publication: Garden City: Garden City Publishing Company, 1929
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79845
Credits: Sean (@parchmentglow), KD Weeks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
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Transcriber’s Note:
This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.
Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_.
Footnotes have been moved to follow the paragraphs in which they are
referenced.
Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please
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_You Can’t Print That!_
[Illustration]
[Illustration:
Teaching Communist propaganda in the Red Army School for illiterate
soldiers in Moscow.
Archbishop Zepliak, tried for treason in Moscow, at his homecoming in
Warsaw.
]
[Illustration]
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You Can’t Print That!
-------
THE TRUTH BEHIND THE NEWS
1918-1928
By
George Seldes
-------
GARDEN CITY PUBLISHING COMPANY, INC.
GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK
[Illustration]
Copyright, 1929, by
Payson & Clarke Ltd
_To my father_
GEORGE S. SELDES
_Libertarian_
_Contents_
Introduction 9
PART I—_The War_
1 “You can’t print that....” 19
2 “U. S. Infantry Won the War,”—Hindenburg 24
3 The Truth about the War at Sea 41
PART II—_Italy_
1 The Truth about Fascist Terrorism and Censorship 69
2 “The Sword,” Cries Mussolini 104
3 The Pope and Fascism 126
4 Mussolini’s Siberia 135
5 Fascism in 1928 140
PART III—_Russia_
1 Censorship in Red Russia 153
2 The Red World Plot 163
3 The Terror In Russia Continues 171
4 The New Red Army 181
5 How Methodism Tried to Capture the Church of Russia 194
6 Carmagnole Christmas 202
7 Catholic Trials in Moscow 210
8 Lenin Speaks 215
9 Checking up on Chicherin 226
10 “Food Iz a Veppon!” 230
11 A Damn Bad Accent 236
12 The Moral Regeneration of Russia 243
PART IV—_Arabia_
1 The Truth about France and the Eastern War 249
2 Revolt in the Foreign Legion 277
3 Then Up Spoke the King of Iraq 295
4 “British Imperialism,” and a Note On Massacre 301
PART V—_The Truth about Mexico_
Introduction 315
1 Our Diplomacy in Mexico: A Heritage of Hate 317
2 The State Department, the Embassy, and the Assassination of 327
a Mexican President
3 Mexican Documents to Order 336
4 American Reporters and Mexico 343
5 The Case for Intervention 354
6 Calles 362
7 The Bolshevik Plot 382
8 I Report on Mexico to Secretary Kellogg and Mr. Green 387
PART VI—_The Rest of Europe_
1 American Ambassadors as Censors 395
2 Marie’s Roumania 409
3 German Censorship 420
4 “C’est la Guerre” 435
5 Censorship by Circumstance or the Revolution in Vienna 446
6 D’Annunzio, or the Bow-Legged Napoleon 458
_Introduction_
“All men were created free, and now they
are everywhere in chains.”
_J. J. Rousseau_
INTRODUCTION—BILLIONS AND BUNKUM
“... _True opinions can prevail only if the facts to which they refer
are known; if they are not known, false ideas are just as effective as
true ones, if not a little more effective_” ...
Walter Lippmann,—“_Liberty and the News_.”
In his search for facts the newspaperman on foreign service contends
with more censorship, propaganda, intimidation and frequently terrorism
in Continental Europe nowadays than in that supposedly dark journalistic
age which preceded the world war. Progress has been made in the past ten
years but of all the liberties which were outlawed and debased during
the great conflict that of the press seems to have recovered least.
For many and mighty reasons all governmental agencies of suppression in
many countries continue to function with unrelenting thoroughness. They
are directed against public opinion in the United States and England
because these are the dominant nations. So long as Lombard Street ruled
the money market the Continent sought to influence British public
opinion; now that the United States has increased its foreign
investments to $15,000,000,000, European chancelleries are dividing
their effort, but they are also increasing it because they realize how
much depends on the loans they raise and the moral support they obtain
from their creditors.
The British investment has always been conservative; the fifteen billion
dollars which America has spent has been plunged with a sometimes
reckless, frequently ignorant hand into the rehabilitation of Europe.
Some of this money has been used to raise wheat, some to build
submarines and perfect poison gases; billions may be safe and at work
for material progress and peace, but billions are unsafe because they
prepare for new wars.
The presidents, kings and dictators of Continental Europe have been
taught the full power of the press but recently, yet they are making
extreme use of their knowledge. They have their friendly or their
purchased press in Great Britain; toward America, which knows so
pathetically little about the numerous lands over which it has cast its
billions, the foreign offices have exercised a refined, more subtle,
sometimes Machiavelian system of propaganda and censorship.
In one country the bankers’ and manufacturers’ associations have assumed
arbitrary power, in another a perverted philosophy is in control of
human fate; in a third an egomaniac rules and in a fourth medieval
corruption has temporarily crushed all liberal resistance; therefore the
word is spread throughout the dominant nations, America and Britain,
that democracy is unsuitable for most of Continental Europe, that it has
proven a fraud and a failure, that parliaments are a drag on the
efficient expression of the will of a people, freedom is a modern
delusion, truth is a false god and liberty nothing but a chimaera. The
new propaganda reigns.
It boasts material progress. It points to trains running on time, to
roads built, to budgets balanced, to efficiency in mines and factories.
It says nothing of the fear of death and the fear of violence which are
crushing the last remnants of those fighting for individual and mass
liberty in many lands. Anyone can see the trains running on time, but
who is willing to open his eyes to see the hidden terror which is
holding many millions of civilized people captive? The international
bankers and all their agencies of publicity, the foreign offices with
their intimidation of journalists and their censorships and all the
silly tourists who travel by the hundred thousand nowadays, all report
to the holders of billions of bonds that the sun is shining brightly in
all the 7 and 8 per cent. lands, that God’s in his heaven and all’s well
with the postbellum world.
* * * * * *
I believe with Mr. Lippmann that false ideas are frequently more
effective than true ones and I know that there is a world of difference
between the mistakes which journalists make frequently but honestly and
the official propaganda, the half truths, the _ballons d’essai_, the
_canards_, and, to drop euphemism, the official lies of many dictators
and premiers of Continental Europe. I also cling to that very old-
fashioned belief that the press is the most powerful estate and that the
journalist is (or should be) the great moulder of public opinion. Yet
for twenty years I have heard again and again the layman’s question: Why
don’t the papers print the truth; why don’t the reporters write the
truth?
Many answers have been written concerning national journalism; this
book, by incident and adventure and the presentation of documents and
facts, is an attempt to illustrate the foreign situation. There are many
reasons behind the failure of the press to present the whole truth about
Europe.
For one, there is censorship. In time of crisis almost every nation
establishes a censor bureau; in all dictatorships such bureaus function
continually, some openly, some secretly.
There are the bond issues of many billions. News must be suppressed when
unfavorable, otherwise the market will crash; news must be perverted at
all times, otherwise new loans will be more difficult, and rates will be
too high. The foreign offices and the bankers combine in this attack on
a free press and both are powerful and effective.
There is the political terrorism which still prevails in many lands and
which touches the pen of the foreign correspondent as well as the lives
of the suppressed citizens and subjects. You can’t do much free writing
when you know there is a detective outside your door (as in Russia) or a
secret agent in your office (as frequently in Italy) or squads of police
officials detailed to watch you (as in Roumania and many other
countries).
And, finally, there are so few great newspapers in America and England
brave enough to disregard the wishes of certain foreign offices and the
“business at any price” international bond houses and the tourist and
steamship organizations which spend large sums advertising, that when
the truth is published it reaches so small a public that it is
ineffective beside the half-truth which the majority of newspapers
publish.
Almost always the foreign correspondent works honestly, but he is no
modern Prometheus to defy the gods of European _Real Politik_ by waving
an iconoclastic torch over their conferences and their plans, their
secret plots and their open betrayals. Against governmental systems the
journalist can do little. He can, as witness a letter from one who had
to submit to Mussolini’s terrorism, “break his heart” and remain silent.
Or, being all too human and able to distinguish the buttered side, and
finding encouragement in American editorial offices for a policy of
suppression, and being also susceptible to worldly flattery and the
delights of social advancement, the American journalist, once having
found it doesn’t get him anywhere to be an iconoclast, may adapt himself
to the desired compromises. What Professor Salvemini says of the
situation in Italy may be read with a few necessary changes, for Russia,
Poland, Hungary, Roumania, Spain, Bulgaria, Greece, Portugal and several
other nations and still hold its truth. Salvemini says:
The difficulty of understanding the present situation of the Italian
people is increased by the fact that French, English or American
journalists, as soon as they arrive in Italy, are immediately
surrounded by agents of Fascist propaganda and are introduced into
aristocratic and high Fascist bourgeois circles; here they are
flattered by every possible kindness and loaded down with statistics,
information, interpretations, explanations _ad usum delphini_. Often
they are salaried for translating and sending to their papers articles
and news concocted in the offices of Fascist propaganda. A few
intelligent and honest foreign journalists succeed little by little in
seeing the light but their letters must omit much that they know and
if they wire their papers accurate information, their telegrams are
intercepted: they themselves are expelled from Italy. The most
enthusiastic are forced to send unsigned articles to their papers and
magazines, resorting to a thousand expediencies in order not to be
discovered. Telegraphed news, which is most likely to impress the
reading public, is ruthlessly controlled by the government censorship
if it does not coincide with the taste of the Mussolini government.
Or with the taste of the Soviet government, or the Primo de Rivera
government, or that of Horthy, Pangalos, Waldemiras, Bratianu I and
Bratianu II, Pilsudski, Kemal Pasha, or that of the French in Syria and
Morocco, the British in Mesopotamia and other protectorates, the
Italians in Libya, or the dictators of many other lands.
* * * * * *
The American foreign correspondent who succumbs to flattery and the
ribbons of various legions of honor, to occasional meetings with princes
and marquesas, to handshakes with various Mussolinis and Stalins, to
bows and smiles from the Great of Our Age, usually finds many of the
complexities of everyday life removed and receives praise from New York
and Chicago for his diplomatic progress.
He who would be a man and a nonconformist may find himself in jail.
Of the hundred or more American journalists abroad whom I know well, so
many have been imprisoned, so many have been expelled from countries and
so many have just evaded either imprisonment or deportation by hook or
by crook, usually by both, that it is only fair to emphasize their
integrity and to do considerable pointing with pride. Newspapers as a
rule do not fuss over the troubles of their representatives because
editors believe the public is not interested in newspaper men. Yet
correspondents’ troubles illustrate better than anything else I know the
vicious situation in many places.
Almost half of Europe today is governed by violence and terrorism.
Proclaim liberty tomorrow and you would have revolutions in twenty
countries. Almost half of Europe’s population does not enjoy the
fundamental rights of the days before the so-called war of liberation.
It is not true that the people of Soviet Russia are happy or that the
people of Italy are happy with their dictatorships, or that the
parliamentary system has failed. Suppression by force does not mean
failure. For corroboration of these statements I can refer to ninety or
more of the hundred American and British journalists I know, who are
working in Europe, who have investigated and who have the real
knowledge. The bond dealers and the tourists and the noted magazine
writers who make two-week visits (with half their articles written in
advance in accordance with the views and instructions of their editors)
may tell you differently, but the resident reporters know it is not so.
But it is too difficult to say the opposite when political police
systems hang around the office doors, and American ambassadors, most of
whom cringe before dictators, offer no protection, and when, after all,
the editor frequently is on the side of the tourists and bankers and the
noted magazine journalists. And what, let me ask, dare an American write
about the success or failure of the League of Nations when 48 per cent.
of the American papers for political party reasons are blindly opposed
to it and another 48 per cent. for the same reasons, are blindly in
favor of it, and not one of the 96 per cent. wants an impartial and
objective cablegram?
I defied anyone to challenge the statement that Roumania was the most
politically corrupt state in Europe in 1928 and that a loan would be a
considerable risk for American pocket-books. Dictatorial terrorism,
unrest and the danger of revolution prevailed under Vintila as under Jon
Bratianu. Yet when M. Quesnay and M. Rist of the Bank of France came to
New York to speak about an $80,000,000 loan (which is really a
$200,000,000 French political manœuvre to outwit Italian intrigue in
Bucharest), certain American journals began a campaign in favor of
Roumania, aiming to hide the truth about terrorism at a time when
important minorities and the whole peasantry threatened a revolt which
would endanger the American dollar investments.
In what position does such a loan campaign place the American
correspondent in a capital such as Bucharest?
1. If his paper is supporting the loan, he is silenced. (If Queen Marie
has already visited his editor and let him kiss her hand, he is already,
journalistically impotent.)
2. If the bankers favor the loan and are using the reporter’s newspaper,
he is again silenced.
3. If neither 1 nor 2 is true, and he tries to write or cable an honest
warning, thereby doing a great service to thousands of Americans who
might be foolishly attracted by the 7 or 8 per cent. which such a
speculative loan must pay, he will be arrested or expelled, the
frontiers permanently closed to him, and his future usefulness
curtailed.
The same holds for Russia, Italy, Poland, Spain, and other despotic
lands.
* * * * * *
Billions and bunkum. Billions of dollars, at home and abroad, are able
to control or hide the international truth, while bunkum, thanks to
censorship of facts, frequently replaces them entirely. If America or
England had known the whole truth about the Continental European system,
and there had been no propaganda, would the necessary emotions have been
aroused to bring either into war?
If America were allowed by its editors to know the whole truth about
Mexico, would we ever engage in warfare there?
If America and England—the public not the politicians—had known the
facts of March 1917, could they not have insured a Russian democratic
revolution without Bolshevism?
If America knew the whole truth about Italy today, would it float the
Italian bonds? Likewise the Polish bonds? Or the bonds of other
terroristic countries?
If America had known the truth about Queen Marie, would not the royal
farce of 1927 have been different?
These are typical questions the American journalist abroad, who cannot
for the life of him tell the whole truth, is asking pertinently.
He sees Continental Europe drifting towards new wars; dates are being
mentioned. He sees American relations with free England frequently grow
cold and distant, while our relationships with despotic régimes suddenly
grow warm and friendly, thanks to no sound reasons, but to efficient
propaganda. Misunderstandings undermine solid foundations. Solid
foundations are frequently replaced by dangerous golden ones. Billions
and bunkum more and more order our relationship to foreign nations. The
journalist sees passions pass for realism. He sees propaganda
overwhelming truth. He sees the race for armament continuing. American
dollars frequently encourage it. False frontiers and injustices more
cruel than any before 1914 give cause for bigger and better world wars.
Many say the future of western white civilization is endangered. Some
believe only America, now the moral and financial super-nation, can save
it. And yet our portion is so much bunkum and propaganda that in ten
years we have done almost nothing to further international relations
with the free nations.
If ever there was a voice crying in a political wilderness, it is that
of the American journalist on foreign service. Cassandra had a larger
audience despite the thunder and waves on the rocks of the
Mediterranean. She at least was close to the national ear. But the
American correspondent does not seem able to penetrate the curtain
covered with $15,000,000,000 of gold on one side and on the other the
thickest veils of censorship that have ever existed.
Peacetime censorship exists for one reason only: to hide rotten affairs
of state. Wartime censorship alone is justifiable—but we who were in the
press section of the American Army in France may doubt if even then it
has any value, inasmuch as General Pershing always gave us the fullest
information about the enemy and, as we later learned, the enemy knew
everything there was to know about our side. (Three days before our
attack the Germans moved out of the St. Mihiel salient because they knew
almost as much as Pershing did about the plans for that battle.)
In the chapters which follow I have begun with wartime and armistice
censorship incidents; followed by experiences in those parallel
despotisms, Italy and Russia; the League of Nations mandated territories
which should be free from the domination of any European country but
which are not; a visit to Mexico where censorship exists from time to
time, but which is not a tenth as stupid or vicious as that practised in
American newspaper offices where owners and editors have policies of war
and interventions which force their editorial writers and reporters to
prostitute themselves; and I have concluded with side trips to several
European countries, including the most corrupt of all, Roumania, where
censorship exists to cover not only political terrorism as in other
countries, but also moral corruption which begins in the royal palaces.
I have given only my own experiences. Every one of a hundred colleagues,
many of whom I thank for aiding me in gathering the facts and bringing
them up to 1929, could supplement this book, and a score could, if they
were free, easily surpass both in number and significance the episodes
of censorship, foreign office intimidation and the frequent national
terrorisms here recorded.
What I have tried to do is realize the hope of every one of my
colleagues who says: “Some day I am going to take a holiday and write
THE TRUTH BEHIND THE NEWS.”
PARIS—NEW YORK, 1928-1929.
_Part I—War_
_Chapter I_
MARCHING BACK TO THE TRENCHES AGAIN
The Rainbow Division. Wallowing in the mud of the Luneville training
sector. Learning to hate like men, the night the enemy threw a shell
into our line which made a dugout the tomb for twelve. Raids and little
encounters to take the godawful fear out of our bellies.
Standing up before a moving wall of flame and hot iron and blinding gas
and whirling infernos of the sand of Champagne. The first two lines
given up to the enemy. The artillery smashing hell out of them, foe and
comrade alike, there in the first two lines, where irresistibly wave
after wave, five inhuman times, the ugly grey surf had broken, subsided,
and left only blood and broken bodies on the dazzling chalk of
Champagne.
St. Mihiel!
Days of anxious preparations, days of building up courage, all numbed in
one universal roar of barrage fire. Finally the zero silence. Finally
release of all emotions. Finally the command, let’s go, come on you, and
over the top comes the unleashed bound of ten thousand men, and—nothing!
Nothing. No enemy. No sound.
Victory!
And then the Argonne.
And now, marching back to the trenches again.
Where were the old men of the Rainbow, eager youths of six months ago?
Scattered. In hospital. Dead. Over all the fields of France, from down
there near the neutral border, to up here on the road to Sedan.
“Replacements” for ever arriving. The Rainbow Division for ever marching
back to the trenches. A little rest—rest?—and marching back to the
trenches. Then fire and flame and blood, and a little rest, and again
marching back to the trenches. This war was never going to end. This war
was never going to end.
* * * * * *
They sang their moods.
Sometimes they sang:
K-k-k-k-katy, beautiful k-k-k-katy,
You’re the only girl that I adore....
Sometimes they sang lugubriously, but with humor, a macabre folk-song,
jerking the words to their step:
The worms—crawl in
The worms—crawl out
They crawl—in your eyes
And they crawl—in your mouth....
And I some—times think
When I’m—dead and gone....
Dead? Death? Why think of it? Why think of anything? Close your eyes and
erase your mind and think nothing. Until the first shell falls into your
hiding place and a white fear and a red hate bring fit thoughts for
soldiers.
The mood changes.
A song is finished. Without losing a beat, as is custom, another is
begun. As the solemn ballad is ended, a mocking voice sings:
I didn’t raise my boy to be a soldier
The singer smiles out of the corners of his eyes and out of the corners
of his mouth. Hardly has he finished the first stanza when a roar of
ironic laughter doubles up his squad, the men hardly able to compose
themselves in time to join in with
I raised him up to be my pride and joy
Laughter spreads with the singing, a strange commotion of laughs, the
hearty voluminous outbursts of new men up ahead and near behind them,
their first amazement at this mad choice of a marching song; and the
soft dry laughter of the men who had already bellowed their surprise and
are now realizing that for them, that day, that marching moment, this
cheap meretricious jingle, this drivel of a song, held a strange and
terrible mockery, a prophetic irony.
Who dares to lay a musket on his shoulder
To shoot some other mother’s darling boy?
Let nations arbitrate their future troubles,
It’s time to put the sword and gun away....
In a few minutes the song has roared towards the infantry on ahead,
through the Ohios and the New Yorks and the Alabams and the Iowas, and
down the artillery, Reilly’s Chicagos, and all the rest. It leaps from
regiment to regiment, losing a few seconds in each skip, so that while
the original Ohios are singing
It’s time to put the sword and gun away
the Kansans have just gotten wind of it and are beginning
I didn’t raise my boy to be a soldier
I raised him up to be my pride and joy
and so the whole division is shaking with laughter and song as it is
marching, back to the trenches, back to the blood and mud, singing
There’d be no war today, if mothers all would say
I didn’t raise my boy to be a soldier
* * * * * *
When the Ohios finished it they were silent. There seemed to be no mood
to be tricked out with a new song, and when the New Yorks and the
Alabams and the Illinois and the Kansans finished their verses, they
were silent too for a few seconds, listening to the sound of nails and
leather on hard stone road and from the north the uninterrupted
sputtering—like a man choking in the sea—no louder at this distance, but
somehow filling all the universe. Now subterranean coughing—all the
Titans of the earth and sky, invisible, smiting their breasts and making
incoherent sounds: that was the war front to which they were marching
back again. Occasionally a “jeeze” or a “christamighty” from one of the
singers. Twenty-five thousand men, volunteers and conscripts, men out of
colleges and men out of sewers, all going north again, marching to meet
death half way, up there where that choking, sputtering noise was the
whole world at war—and singing a ridiculous song that only two years ago
had been the sentimental rage of a whole nation.
There’d be no war today, if mothers all would say
I didn’t raise my boy to be a soldier
What a prophetic irony this foolish song had become. They all felt it in
that fleeting moment of silence. And being good soldiers they met it
with laughter. Yes, that was the only way to meet irony and tragedy at
the front. After their little silence they laughed again and looked at
one another, each to see if the next man detected any weak emotions
behind the laughter, as they kept pounding northward, towards the
trenches.
* * * * * *
I thought this episode was humour for the Homeric gods. I thought it the
grandest thing I ever could write about the spirit of our men. Nothing
during the war had so stirred me—not my first night in the trenches east
of Luneville with these same Ohios—nor the day of the St. Mihiel push
when we went to taunt death and found silence and sunshine—nor any lying
out in the open in the rain, with gas shells exploding like duds a few
feet away—nor any other encounter with victory or danger.
So the next day I did my best to draw this picture of heroic soldiers
going back to the trenches singing ironically “I didn’t raise my boy to
be a soldier,” and laughing as they marched. I thought it grand wartime
stuff.
“Say, what the hell is all this?” said the army censor. “What are you
trying to put over, Seldes? This is damned pacifist propaganda.... Yes,
I know it is true, but that doesn’t matter. You can’t print that....”
_Chapter II_
“U.S. INFANTRY WON THE WAR,”—HINDENBURG
The charge against us was simply: first violation of the Armistice;
crossing into Germany; passing through the Great German Retreat; and
interviewing Hindenburg the week the war ended. We made no defense.
General Dennis Nolan, under special orders of General Pershing,
conducted our trial at Chaumont. The verdict put us into an awkward
position—either resign from the Press Section, lose our army standing,
and depart for home, or remain in the A. E. F. under technical arrest
and refrain from writing the greatest story of our lives. Thus spoke
army discipline and military press censorship.
Today we are proud of our crime, if crime it was. We can afford to
forget the humiliation of arrest, the discomfiture of the trial, but we
remember the thrill of that day we left Luxembourg, the sudden terror of
being caught (in the midst of his marching men) by a furious Prussian
colonel, and the great climax, the meeting with Hindenburg.
For it was then that the commander of the enemy, the one man in the
world who could best make a historical judgment, made an admission in
the honesty of tears, an admission which for political reasons he can
never repeat:
“The American infantry,” said Hindenburg, “won the World War in battle
in the Argonne.”
* * * * * *
First, a word on the nature of our “crime.” We were all members of the
Advance Section, G-2-D, G. H. Q., A. E. F. In other words, in that part
of the Intelligence Corps of the American army known as the Press
Section. We were given the uniforms of officers without insignia of rank
and entitled to the privileges of generals. We ranked with the doughboys
when we were in the trenches and just below Pershing on our visit to
Chaumont. We found the question of saluting and getting saluted
difficult because we had refused to take the two bars of a captaincy
which our British colleagues wore. But more important, we considered
ourselves more free than a ranked and placed person in uniform the day
the eager doughboys, still hoping for laurels, fired cannon five minutes
after eleven and the Armistice hushed the thundering front.
That minute we felt ourselves civilians again. Again we felt free to use
our wits in getting scoops—to think up some big stunt which would rattle
the morale of our competitors and amaze the world.
“Let’s cross into Germany.”
Spoken as a joke—hiding a mighty desire—needing only a seconding motion
to light an enthusiasm which would carry us over that yesterday’s horror
which was No Man’s Land and that yesterday’s hatred which was Enemy
Land—and to a tomorrow which was grand and thrilling and perhaps laden
with death.
But someone must have suspected such a plan even before it was born. We
had already heard our sergeant and corporal chauffeurs whispering
instructions received either from Pershing’s headquarters or through the
major commanding us that there must be no violation of the Armistice,
that while we might drive into No Man’s Land, we must never drive across
the Armistice line.
“Youse guys can boss us anywhere you want to go,” Sergeant Jack Corper,
one of the best drivers in the army, told me, “but dere’s one thing you
can’t make us do and dat’s cross over. We got superior orders, see?”
I still believe the two chauffeurs innocent, but I do not credit it
altogether to our superior guile, for the spirit of adventure must have
blinded their eyes too, to the many false roads and wrong turns we
methodically took. They did protest at first.
“The map shows to the right—”
“The map is wrong. Take the turn to the left.”
Every half hour a similar conversation.
And so we rode out of gay Luxembourg, that lovely city on a cliff where
our doughboys had had the time of their lives what with being treated as
a quarter million heroes and dragged by squads and companies from the
open peaceful highways into the homes of happy and rich Luxembourgeoises
where champagne and song lasted a full seven days.
It was still Armistice week when we started, dull and early, towards
Germany. Well, it didn’t take long to cross that tiny “Grand-Duchy,” and
as there was no longer an organized German frontier, we must have ridden
into Enemy Land with no more excitement than the noise automobiles make
on hard military roads.
But excitement, which was to hold us breathless for a week and more,
began almost immediately. As we flew into the first German village we
passed a triumphal arch, if you please, all decked out with flowers and
laurel and bearing on its keystone the legend “Welcome Our Undefeated
Heroes.” And then we saw the flag we had never dreamed we would ever
see, the red, white and black of the Kaiser’s monarchy, waving in
ignorant pride from many windows.
They say the civilians have the most hate and fear. At the front, Heaven
knows, we had had our share of both. But certainly the civilians across
the sea felt the war was over when the Armistice was signed while on the
other hand so many at the front who had been in or watched the slaughter
and the mud day by day, unchanging, unceasing, had felt there must be a
catch in it somewhere, that it wasn’t really true, that it didn’t mean
what it seemed. So when the chauffeurs of both cars put on the brakes
bringing us to a crunching, huddled halt, we too had forgotten the
Armistice and felt civilians’ hate and fear pointing at us in the snake-
ends of the wind-snapping enemy banners.
The chauffeurs argued perhaps half-heartedly. Army discipline had never
really existed in our outfit. Adventure lay ahead and nothing but
explanations behind. “You might as well go on, we are ten miles inside
Germany already,” was someone’s conclusive statement, and ahead we went.
In this town of Borg we found the German army in full retreat. We came
up behind it, noting immediately the splendid discipline of the
defeated. Their lines were right and their step firm: even in facial
expression there was no sign of a collapsed morale. Their uniforms and
equipment seemed shoddy.
“Amerikaner—Amerikaner.”
Without hatred or passion the surprised soldiers passed the word along
the undulating ranks.
We rode slowly alongside, our hearts beating high.
Soon we were in the town square, a triangle between streets, where the
German colonel on a horse was directing operations. He saw us at a
distance and rode forward.
“Halt!” he commanded with a mean voice and uplifted hand.
We halted.
“What in thunder and lightning are you doing here?”
Our spokesman stammered an answer.
“You are interfering with our military movements—you must go back to the
American line,” the colonel said decisively.
“But—”
“I forbid an answer!”
At our left, meanwhile, hundreds of German soldiers with rifles on their
shoulders, an occasional 77, and a frequent “goulash cannon” were
thudding and clanking onward.
We all began to talk at once. The colonel became furious.
“I tell you to get out, and immediately, or I take the lot of you
prisoner. You are in great danger. Your lives are at stake here. You are
the enemy—the men might shoot you all—or the civilians attack you—any
moment. I tell you to return—”
At this black moment there was a civilian flurry in the square from
which a sailor emerged, running towards us. He had that universality of
blue serge and seaworn face which make the sailors of all lands alike.
”What’s the trouble here?” he asked.
We were immediately amazed by the daring of an enlisted man in the
presence of high officers. But we noticed also there was something
different about this sailor’s uniform—a red band on his left arm. Later
we read the black print on it: “Arbeiter—und Soldaten—Rat,” or Workers
and Soldiers Council, or Soviet.
Seeing sympathetic ears, we poured a broken German explanation into
them. We noted, too, a change in the behaviour of our swell colonel. His
starch and bluster were gone. He sat on his horse, looking disgusted and
arguing less vehemently than ourselves.
”They’re in danger here,” he repeated.
”Not while I’m in command in this area,” replied the sailor cockily.
“They must leave at once I tell you,” said the colonel.
But the colonel’s antagonism reflexed the sailor’s sympathy for us.
“You go and mind your own business,” he ordered.
The colonel went.
“My name is Fritz Harris,” the sailor beamed. “Does any one of you know
my uncle in Cleveland?”
“But what does all this mean?” we asked, shaking negative heads.
”Well, I’m in control,” replied the sailor, jumping on the running board
and shooing away the old men and women who now dared crowd our
automobiles. ”We started the revolution in Kiel. On the ships. Just
before the Armistice. Everything is going in good order. Don’t worry. We
did everything with shipshape discipline. Each sailor was assigned a
city, his own city usually, and went with orders to proclaim the German
revolution there. This is my home. Not a drop of blood was shed here. It
was different in Trier and Frankfurt. Now, honoured gentlemen, what is
it you want?”
This piece of diplomacy we left to our spokesman. He had considerable
hold of the language but I still believe it was a slight error that made
the rest of our adventure possible. He had tried to say we were a part
of the press section which had come to see how Germany had lived during
the war, what the food situation was, and all that, and sailor Fritz
Harris interrupted him with:
“Ah, the American Food Commission—yah, yah, we had heard you would send
us food. _Willkommen, willkommen._”
(This promise of white bread had been probably our most effective
propaganda. For months our aviators had dropped cards over the German
lines saying every prisoner, and everyone who surrendered voluntarily,
was getting two pounds of white bread a day—and many a German came to
claim his portion.)
We let Fritz’s mistake go unchallenged and were conducted with rejoicing
to the Rathaus, where we were welcomed by the soldier and civilian
Soviet of the town. At our request they telephoned to Trier asking that
everything be done to insure safety for our lives and means for getting
the information we wanted.
On the road out of Borg we had a great panorama of the German forces
endlessly flowing eastward. Despite the seeming discipline peasants told
us how they had bought artillery horses for 50 marks and exchanged a
goose for a brace of rifles and an egg for a parabellum pistol. No
bloodshed was reported in the countryside.
In Trier a reception committee met us and wanted to entertain us but we
pressed on to Frankfurt which we reached the next day.
Up to now we had no thought of Hindenburg. Our secret ambition had been
to be the first Americans in Berlin. We confided it to our host at
Frankfurt, the usual _Arbeiter-und-Soldatendrat_, who agreed to help us,
but first we had to be given a banquet.
We sat in the spacious hall of the Frankfurterhof, now revolutionary
headquarters, and ate as bad a meal as one can imagine, thin soup whose
only distinguishing taste was salt, some goose, the only meat we found
anywhere, potatoes and very soggy black bread. The wine was excellent.
Our hosts held long discourses and our spokesman replied. My own
contribution was a one line speech: “Es lebe die Republik”—long live the
Republic—which was an excuse for draining another green decanter of
Rhine.
During prolonged arrangements for continuing our journey, one of the
council said timidly:
“We would like you to see Hindenburg first.”
Hindenburg!
It was almost as amazing as the Armistice itself. The latter was a bit
unreal, but this was a dream-desire—to call on and interview the leader
of the enemy, the second best-hated man in the world then, the general
whose men were killing our men, the apotheosis of German frightfulness,
the incarnation of that which six days before was all the evil in the
world—such a thought was beyond our still khaki-clad minds.
“It can be arranged,” said the Rat.
Two German cars were given us, so we could release the doughboys who
were becoming indignantly mutinous—perhaps through ignorance of what was
to come—and with tires exploding every hour and engines going wrong
every three, we managed to arrive in Cassel, where Hindenburg had
removed his grand headquarters from Aix-la-Chapelle.
We came to the Rathaus confident all was well. But it wasn’t. Hindenburg
politely refused to see us. He said he would meet no one in the uniform
of the enemy.
That day and the next we spent in conferences with members of the Rat at
City Hall and sulking at our hotel, where, by the way, our presence was
objectionable. The owner was surly and the help mean. Our finances were
low. I still have a grudge against that hotel man who gave me 60 paper
marks for my reserve 20 dollar gold piece.
We decided to go to Berlin at once. We went to the Rathaus to say good-
bye. Then a sergeant-major member of the council took up the telephone
and insisted on speaking to Hindenburg himself.
It was a long conversation in which our sergeant-major, an ugly,
emaciated person with protruding yellow teeth, very much the “Hun” of
British war cartoons, became more and more exasperated. Finally he
shouted:
“This is an order to you, Excellency, not a request.”
A moment of silence for Hindenburg’s reaction.
“Then at three o’clock, you will send one of your cars.”
He hung up the telephone and a proud smile came over his distorted face.
“At three this afternoon he will send his car.”
The car came on the stroke. Our hotel keeper with almost oriental
obeisances directed seven employees who grovelled us into Hindenburg’s
grey monogrammed limousine.
In the marble castle of Wilhelmshohe an aide-de-camp took us upstairs. A
squat, stoutish man in a regulation general’s uniform with an additional
white cloth around his head, received us.
“General Groener,” he said to each, snapping his feet.
We shook hands.
“The general hasn’t been wounded?” queried our spokesman.
“No,” he smiled, “but I have a terrible headache.”
Our spokesman interpreted. “He has a terrible headache.”
“He should have,” whispered the roughneck among us. “He has just lost a
world war.”
General Groener bowed us into the next room, marvellous, rococo, pale
blue and gold and palatially uncomfortable.
Hindenburg arose.
He was dressed in field grey-blue. Tall, red-faced, broad-shouldered.
The usual officer’s decorations on the wide chest were absent. Around
his neck, unbuttoned for comfort, was the small blue cross of the _Pour
le merite_. His head was covered with stiff toothbrush-like white hairs,
cropped to about a half-inch, and revealing, by their scarcity, a very
pink scalp. But what I thought was funny, was the famous Hindenburg
moustache. It looked theatrical. It looked false, and stuck on, and it
certainly curved itself along the cheeks as no non-Thespian moustache
has ever done.
“_Die Herrschaften sprechen Deutsch, nicht wahr?_” said Hindenburg in a
kindly smiling voice, shaking hands for the first time since the war
with men in the uniform of his enemies.
Three disclaimed speaking German so Hindenburg fixed on our spokesman,
motioned us to a circle of chairs, and began:
“I will answer any military questions. I am a soldier. But I refuse to
answer any political questions.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I am a
soldier.”
We had previously discussed no questions for this interview—it was one
of those cases where any word given us, on any subject, was precious.
“Is the demobilization proceeding satisfactorily—we have heard of some
fighting and bloodshed.” Our first question.
“Yes,” he replied, “although there is some trouble when the men come to
the cities, the return from the front is fully disciplined. Men and
officers remain in their usual relationship. The troubles are not
serious among the troops, officers and civilians, except when there is
an attempt to disregard the present change in government.”
“What is your position at present?”
“I have given my pledge to Mr. Ebert, who is in control of the
government in Berlin, that I will stay in command until all the troops
are safely returned from the front and to their home barracks. My
functions then cease. I have finished my duties. I mean to retire into
private life.”
“Do you think the present socialist government will remain or will fall
soon?”
“I cannot answer that. I am not a politician. I am a soldier.”
Several questions followed. Either of minor importance or of a political
nature.
“I cannot answer. I am a soldier,” was the inevitable reply to the
latter category.
All these minutes undoubtedly each of us was steeling himself for
another question—a question we were burning to ask, and which was merely
“Who won the war?” heavily muffled in diplomatic garments. We fell to
debating “the next question” among ourselves, and finally someone said:
“Go ahead—ask him—you know what.”
So the spokesman with considerable throat clearing and much redundancy,
asked it.
When we asked “Who won the war?” we were ignorant of what home papers
had said. Our American papers in France, like the Entente press, from
October to November 10th reported nothing but French, British, Italian,
Belgian victories. “British troops advance 20 miles,” “Brussels
captured,” “Lille entered,” “Italians cross three rivers.” The three
armies northwest of us had advanced many miles each day. City after city
was captured by them. But what was the American army doing all this
time? Merely fighting. Yes, fighting. In the Argonne. Through dense,
almost impassable forests, over cliffs and hills, wading in ravines,
struggling through mud thick as boiling rubber, bombing, hand-grenading,
machine-gunning, bayonetting their way northward towards the jugular of
the German armies, the Metz-Longuyon railroad, the one means of retreat
of the enemy.
Hindenburg was shortening his lines. He was quitting northern France and
Belgium. But he was holding the Argonne. Day by day the representative
of our G. H. Q. had shown us the map with every enemy division and
reserve force marked. Hindenburg had thirty-two reserve divisions at the
beginning of our Argonne drive. When November began two or three
remained. What had become of an army of German reserves?
Very few had appeared on the French or British front—almost all were
thrown against us. We were doing almost all the fighting while the
Allies were marching unhindered into famous cities and famous battle
fields of 1914, and capturing the headlines of the world. We were losing
men and taking prisoners and trenches—fighting most of the war then and
getting no credit from the press because our work was not spectacular.
Hindenburg and Pershing knew what we were doing. What would Hindenburg
say?
“I will reply with the same frankness,” said Hindenburg, faintly amused
at our diplomacy. “The American infantry in the Argonne won the war.”
He paused and we sat thrilled.
“I say this,” continued Hindenburg, “as a soldier, and soldiers will
understand me best.
“To begin with I must confess that Germany could not have won the
war—that is, after 1917. We might have won on land. We might have taken
Paris. But after the failure of the world food crops of 1916 the British
food blockade reached its greatest effectiveness in 1917. So I must
really say that the British food blockade of 1917 and the American blow
in the Argonne of 1918 decided the war for the Allies.
“But without American troops against us and despite a food blockade
which was undermining the civilian population of Germany and curtailing
the rations in the field, we could still have had a peace without
victory. The war could have ended in a sort of stalemate.
“And even if we had not had the better of the fighting in the end, as we
had until July 18, 1918, we could have had an acceptable peace. We were
still a great force and we had divisions in reserve always which the
enemy attacks could never use up completely.
“Even the attack of July 18, which Allied generals may consider the
turning point in the war, did not use up a very important part of the
German army or smash all our positions. To win a war it is necessary, as
you know, to place the enemy forces _hors de combat_. In such a manner
of warfare which began when Japan and Russia met in the wheat fields of
the Far East, you must engage and defeat hundreds of thousands, millions
of men.
“In the summer of 1918 the German army was able to launch offensive
after offensive—almost one a month. We had the men, the munitions and
the morale, and we were not overbalanced. But the balance was broken by
the American troops.
“The Argonne battle was slow and difficult. But it was strategic. It was
bitter and it used up division after division. We had to hold the Metz-
Longuyon roads and railroad and we had hoped to stop all American
attacks until the entire army was out of northern France. We were
passing through the neck of a vast bottle. But the neck was narrow.
German and American divisions fought each other to a standstill in the
Argonne. They met and shattered each other’s strength. The Americans are
splendid soldiers. But when I replaced a division it was weak in numbers
and unrested, while each American division came in fresh and fit and on
the offensive.
“The day came when the American command sent new divisions into the
battle and when I had not even a broken division to plug up the gaps.
There was nothing left to do but ask terms.
“Until the American attack our positions had been comparatively
satisfactory. We had counted on holding the Argonne longer. The
advantage of terrain was with us. The American troops were unseasoned.
We had also counted on their impetuosity. There was great wastage in
your army due to carelessness, impetuosity and the disregard of the
conditions of modern warfare.
“Yet from a military point of view the Argonne battle as conceived and
carried out by the American Command was the climax of the war and its
deciding factor. The American attack was furious—it continued from day
to day with increasing power, but when two opposing divisions had broken
each other, yours was replaced with 27,000 eager for battle, ours with
decimated, ill-equipped, ill-fed men suffering from contact with a
gloomy and despairing civilian population.
“I do not mean to discredit your fighting forces—I repeat, without the
American blow in the Argonne, we could have made a satisfactory peace at
the end of a stalemate or at least held our last positions on our own
frontier indefinitely—undefeated. The American attack decided the war.”
A moment of silence.
“_Ach, mein armes Vaterland—mein armes Vaterland—_”
Hindenburg bowed his head and tears flooded his pale, watery eyes. His
huge bulk was shaken. He wept for his “poor fatherland.”
We sat and wondered over so much emotion in a military leader supposedly
devoid of sentiment and sentimentality.
Thus the interview terminated with a strange human spectacle and in an
uncomfortable silence. A fallen Colossus. A broken Superman. Blood and
iron suddenly tears and clay.
* * * * * *
There was no more to ask. Here we were with the biggest story in the
world, and even before Hindenburg was through speaking, our thoughts
were searching cable ends or messengers or some new means of
communication with our papers.
There came the usual anticlimax. “Where do you go from here?” asked
Hindenburg. “Ach, Berlin, so? Well, _glückliche Reise_.”
“_Auf Wiedersehen._” A loose handclasp. We were ushered out by the
snappy aide-de-camp.
My colleagues started for Berlin; I got up at four the next morning to
make the 5 A.M. train for Luxembourg. As I reached the station I saw
part of the real German revolution.
Mingled with the monarchist flags and drapery over the Cassel railroad
station and triumphal arches were red streamers and bunting placed by
the revolutionary sailors and town Soviet. The troops coming by train
knew nothing of the Kaiser’s cowardice or the change to a republic.
A regiment was detraining. As the colonel led his men from the station
into the public square he seemed lightning-struck when he beheld the
revolutionary color mingling with his Kaiser’s.
“Tear the red rags down!” he ordered his captains.
A captain in turn spoke to his men, who refused to move.
“I’ll do it myself,” said the captain, and grabbing a red streamer from
the triumphal arch, he pulled.
Two soldiers with red arm-bands approached threateningly, and I stopped
too.
“Pardon, captain,” said one, “but we have had a revolution.”
“Revolution, to the devil—” replied the captain, pulling.
The two soldiers raised their rifles.
The captain drew his pistol.
Click!—Crack!
At this precise moment the little experience I had had in the Luneville-
Baccaret section with the Rainbow Division, pulled my habit muscles. I
dropped flat.
A dozen rifles and a pair of revolvers snapped. A man fell partly on me.
I turned cautiously on my left side. His face was in pain, and his hands
were at his middle, and blood was flowing from his stomach. He was the
captain who had pulled the red flag. The soldiers had shot him.
Men ran over us, around us. Lying flat, I had a panorama of flying feet
in the semi-darkness. Shooting was spasmodic, now near, now at a
distance. I wondered what I could do for the man lying over my feet. I
pulled myself up. I think he died without a groan.
Bodies were writhing in the open square. One wounded man was shrieking.
But the troops were gone and scared civilians were appearing from hiding
places and the station.
“Too bad,” they murmured, “but these officers won’t believe the guards
who tell them there has been a revolution—and a republic.”
In three days and three nights the train meandered a hundred miles. It
was crowded with German officers who mistook me for a returning prisoner
of war and who were kindlier than any German civilians and who gave me
their precious bad bread.
At Wasserbillig, the Luxembourg frontier, was the most welcome sight in
the universe: a doughboy. He got me a car to Luxembourg. I was promptly
arrested. Pershing insisted the German government return my colleagues
from Berlin, and our trial at Chaumont followed.
I have seen Hindenburg since. No longer the broken old man weeping. Nor
quite Hindenburg of the iron-nailed statue. But times had changed in
Germany. Seven or eleven political parties were bitterly fighting for
power, and the old monarchists and the old militarists were spreading
the myth that the war was lost, not by Wilhelm’s armies, but by the
republican _Dolschstoss_—the civilian “stab in the back.”
I recalled the Cassel meeting. Hindenburg shook his head in
acknowledgment.
But for political reasons he can never again repeat his confession of
Armistice week.
_Chapter III_
THE TRUTH ABOUT THE WAR AT SEA
The man who won the one big naval battle of the world war was living
quietly in a plain blue serge suit in a little house in Weimar. If his
nation had been the winner he would be standing head and shoulders above
Nelson now, guides would point him out and his words would be considered
law by laymen who know all about land fighting and, because of their
nautical ignorance, admire sea fighting the more.
There was once a time, however, when the whole world waited breathlessly
for the publication of Admiral Scheer’s report to the Kaiser giving away
the secret of Jutland. The world then was juggled by two camps, the big
ship and the little ship camps, just as it may be juggled again now that
naval disarmament conferences have a habit of failing and marine
armament lobbies are at work in Geneva as well as in Washington, London
and Paris.
Scheer’s report and Scheer’s views, it was conceded, would do much to
alter the course of warship construction for our generation. In London
especially the cry was raised by _The Times_ and _Daily Mail_ for
publication of the Kaiser’s letter.
But the censors of the British Admiralty, who had captured one of the
rare copies (probably from the admiral’s room of a superdreadnaught sunk
at Scapa Flow) suppressed the document. A bitter and insinuating battle
was waged in the press of all the great nations. In Berlin I learned
that no more than half a dozen copies of the Scheer report, of which 75
had been printed, were in existence, of which one was in Holland with
the Kaiser, another in the war archives, a third in the library of the
admiral himself and the others in the possession of former high officers
who were duty bound never to permit publication. An appeal to patriotism
added to a certain sum of money, however, gave me three hours possession
of one copy of which I cabled enough to cause an international
sensation, the revival of the question of who won the war at sea, and
the most important answer to the question, superdreadnaughts or
submarines. I realized why the British Admiralty, despite thunders in
Parliament and press, had for years succeeded in suppressing the report,
and would have censored it probably to this day. It proves easily the
victory of Germany at sea.
Admiral Scheer discloses the remarkable opportunity the British had to
surround and destroy the German fleet. In the numerous drawings, one for
every five or ten minutes of the battle, he explains to the Kaiser how
Jellicoe’s fleet had formed a semi-circle, while the German was a
horizontal line tending to bisect it. Realizing his serious situation,
and hoping to save his fleet at all costs, Admiral Scheer sent out his
torpedo fleets which hurled themselves on the enemy. _Then Jellicoe
turned away._ Admiral Scheer said later Jellicoe probably made this
capital error of the war at sea through conviction that it was the main
German fleet, not a torpedo-boat fleet, which attacked. Had Jellicoe
attacked the horizontal German line, picking off his enemy one by one,
by concentrated fire on the spearhead, Germany’s navy probably would
have been destroyed and the war ended without America’s participation.
The famous document describes other most dangerous situations of both
fleets and concludes by informing the emperor that sea battle could not
enforce peace. _He advises the strongest submarine warfare in the
future_, advice which was not taken by the Kaiser for more than a year,
and then too late to change the outcome of the war. Admiral Scheer also
foresaw trouble with America for he added “despite submarine commanders’
conscientiousness, it is impossible to avoid incidents in English waters
where American interests are very strong, incidents which afterwards
force us to make humiliating concessions when we are unable to go
through with severity.”
Scheer tells how he forced the battle throughout. He admits his own
mistakes. He mistook Beatty’s three “Invincibles” for the British main
fleet and headed towards them, thus giving Jellicoe with the main fleet
an opportunity of a flank attack. He shows that Jellicoe and Beatty
instead of attacking during the night of the battle, drew in their
torpedo-boats defensively, thereby losing their great opportunity, while
the Germans passed through the entire British fleet and reached their
base. Five Zeppelins co-operating with the ships failed to supply
information although they hovered over the battle. Of the 15,000 word
document, here follow the most important parts.
* * * * *
_Scheer’s Report to the Kaiser_
“Our April 23rd enterprise against Lowestoft had the effect anticipated
in our plans of operation. The enemy felt the challenge and, unwilling
to accept a similar stroke without counter-attack, began to move. By the
middle of May 1916 I had sent all my submarines into the North Sea to
take up attacking positions before the enemy’s main points of support:
the _Humber_, _Firth of Forth_, _Moray Firth_, _Scapa Flow_, when the
enemy, coming out, would be forced to engage in battle under conditions
favorable to us.
“Early in the afternoon of May 31 Zeppelins went reconnoitering. They
did not participate in battle; they saw nothing of our own or the
enemy’s fleets, nor heard the sounds of battle, although Z 14 hung over
the battle sea. At 6:13 in the afternoon the warship _Von der Tann_ sank
the British _Indefatigable_. (The _Von der Tann_ was commanded by
Captain Otto Groos, the German marine historian who aided me in
obtaining this document, and whose notes appear from time to time.) Fire
superiority was on our side until four or five ships of the _Queen
Elizabeth_ class arrived, when our situation became critical, therefore
our Ninth torpedo flotilla was ordered by me to attack the enemy forcing
them to withdraw in ten minutes. The enemy did not attempt to save the
crews of its sunken destroyers.
“Our attack resulted in the enemy fire being forced to stop for some
time. Now came the news of greater forces seen, whereupon I gave the
order to clear ships for action. The situation of our First scout group
might become critical; it was necessary for the fleet to come into close
formation.”
Here Scheer at length describes the fighting, showing that the British
scouts turned northwest before the German main attack.
“At 7:30 the leader’s impression was that the enemy had succeeded in
escaping so I gave the order to take up the pursuit. The weather became
less clear. Smoke sticking to the water blocked the view. I could not
see our own reconnoitering forces. The fact is that when the leader of
the scouts (Admiral Hipper) got the order to pursue, he had already
passed by the enemy cruisers and light forces and was forced by their
pressure to head northwards. Of this he was unable to inform me because
both his wireless stations had been shot away.
“At 7:40, the enemy, judging the situation rightly, attacked with
torpedo-boats forcing the German advance to give way towards the
southwest and in the meantime the main fleet was forced to give way
toward the east. The leaders recognizing the seriousness of the
situation then attacked, being taken under fire by numerous
battleships.”
(Note: at this point a footnote by Captain Groos says that Scheer is
in error in the foregoing. He states that there were only three
“Invincibles” there. This error Groos goes on to say, badly influenced
the next movements because the German fleet believed the “Invincibles”
to be Jellicoe’s main fleet. In later interviews Admiral Scheer admits
this error and discusses the errors on both sides.)
“About this time Jellicoe and Beatty united their fleets. In consequence
of the enduring battle the armoured cruisers were forced to give way so
much that I was necessarily forced to turn the line westward. And it was
too early to begin the night march to get away.
“The enemy, before darkness, might have forced us to stay and have taken
from us the liberty of decision, finally blocking the way to German
shores. There was only one possible way to prevent this; a reckless
attack giving the enemy a second blow, using torpedo-boats violently.
“The manœuvre must surprise the enemy and destroy his plans and if
possible facilitate the separation at night.”
(Captain Groos explains Admiral Scheer’s sketch number nine which
pictures the nautical term ‘crossing the letter “T.”’ Jellicoe and
Beatty were drawn up in an enormous semi-circle at 9:17 in the evening
which was the most critical moment of battle for the German fleet. Groos
declares that a British attack at this moment with a converging movement
would have undoubtedly met with success, but the enemy continued with
caution to preserve a defensive throughout. There was no Nelson to
direct. Beatty, too, was under orders now. This fact, Groos believes,
explains the reason why the British Admiralty refuses the document for
publication but he has declared that the British on account of the
weather may not have realized their opportunity.)
“Our torpedo-boats took upon themselves the heavy fire which hitherto
had been directed against the cruisers carrying the attack to within
seven thousand yards against the middle of the British semi-circle
composed of more than twenty dreadnaughts. Only one torpedo-boat was
lost. Using the torpedo-boats as an objective my attack was realized. My
line was therefore taken back to the west, manœuvring finally toward the
southeast in order to avoid a semi-circling movement of the enemy who
was already heading southeastward. The enemy fire ceased when we turned.
The enemy must have turned away after our torpedo-boat attack. We surely
expected the enemy to attack us by night with strong forces to push us
to the west in order to fight again toward the dawn. The enemy
furthermore had the power to do so. If it were possible to stop the
enemy’s encircling manœuvre and to reach the base at Hornesiff before
the enemy, we would be free in our movements the next morning. The
torpedo-boats sent out to attack failed to find the main fleet, and in
the meanwhile our fleet engaged in short but heavy fighting and gave way
and turned in scout groups. We were attacked all night from the east by
light and part heavy forces.”
(_Note_: Groos here explains that Jellicoe meanwhile had gone
northward while Beatty in attacking had passed in front of the German
fleet thereby enabling the German fleet to proceed toward its base.)
“On the morning of the first of June, Zeppelin 24 observed at
Jammerbucht twelve superdreadnaughts and many cruisers bound southward.”
Summing up his narrative on the results of the battle Scheer continues:
“The success we gained was due to leadership in the attack, the spirit
of our officers and the splendid morale of the crews. The battle proved
that we were guided by true views in the building of our fleet. The
successful decision was due to the far-reaching heavy artillery of our
ships, which artillery caused the greater part of the enemy’s losses.
The merits of our torpedo flotillas which permitted us to shake loose
from the enemy are undiminished by the foregoing statements. Heavy
superdreadnaughts remain the foundation of naval power. By August your
majesty’s high seas fleet will be ready for battle again, except for the
_Derfflinger_ and the _Seydlitz_.
“Without doubt, this most successful sea battle will not force England
in this war to make peace. Our military and geographical situation, and
the enemy’s material superiority, are drawbacks which the fleet cannot
overbalance so far as to be able to break the blockade or overpower
England even if submarines are used wholly for military purposes. A
victorious end of the war is conceivable at this time only by crushing
England’s economic life, that is, by using submarines against British
commerce. I urgently advise again against using submarines moderately.
Even when commanders are conscientious it is impossible to avoid
accidents in British waters wherein American interests are very strong,
incidents which afterwards force us to make humiliating concessions when
we are unable to go through with our actions with severity.”
A second letter from Scheer to the Kaiser, dated July 16, discussing
Jellicoe’s report to the British Admiralty, is attached. It says:
“At 8 in the evening Jellicoe could not discover our position. He had
chart differences with Beatty (eleven miles, according to Groos). We
cannot understand why part of the British fleet was at Jammerbucht.
Neither can we understand why the enemy light forces which were in touch
at night could not inform Jellicoe and Beatty of our whereabouts.
“Evidently the enemy was split in three groups on the morning of June 1,
the group at Jammerbucht, Beatty’s group northwest of Hornsriff and
Jellicoe’s southwest of the Hornsriff base. This is apparently
explainable by Jellicoe’s losing the general leadership after the
daytime battle.”
* * * * *
_Captain Groos’ Comment on the Report_
“Although outnumbered and outgunned our fleet succeeded in reaching its
base and inflicting double to triple tonnage losses on the English. The
battle shows Britain no longer has a Drake or Nelson.” Groos emphasizes
the point that at 9:17 the evening of the battle the German fleet was
partly surrounded, that the British command cannot be forgiven for
failure to attack then, and that Admiral Scheer cannot be praised enough
for his torpedo-boat attack, “a masterful bluff which saved the German
navy.”
“Nelson said the most daring measures are the safest measures,”
continues Groos, “a principle based on the unconditional feeling of
victory, a feeling which was lacking in the British Admiralty from the
beginning of this war. They did not feel certain of victory, therefore
they avoided a decisive battle and did not finish the Skagerrak fight.
“Before and after Jutland the British Admiralty better estimated the
capacity of the action of the German fleet and its own chances of
victory than public opinion or the Nelsonites estimated it. The British
public became suspicious because of the Admiralty’s silence, and was
tired of lies; it demanded the whole truth as to why the German fleet
was not crushed, even if this truth endangered the British Navy’s
prestige. Across the Atlantic there is developing mightily the American
war and commercial fleet, which is endangering British supremacy and
spoiling the joy over Germany’s loss of her fleet. The British motto for
Jutland was: ‘I came, I saw, I avoided battle.’”
Doctor Struve, member of the naval committee of the Reichstag,
commented:
“When I demanded the publication of the Scheer letter in 1916 I was
accused of treason. I had obtained a copy. Admiral von Capelle accused
me of obtaining it by bribery. It was Admiral von Capelle who despite
Scheer’s recommendation for unlimited submarine warfare, which we are
certain would have won us the war, gave the orders curtailing submarine
building. It was a crime not to concentrate on submarine construction
and this failure led to our defeat.”
* * * * *
_Scheer’s Final Word_
Admiral Scheer’s report to the Kaiser was written shortly after the
battle and for years he had not added to it. After the war he maintained
his silence, a silence which contrasted magnificently with the loud
caterwaulings of Ludendorff, the man who Germans say lost the war and
who is devoting his life to shifting that blame to everyone on earth or
in heaven except Baldur and Loki and Freya, the pagan gods he now
worships.
After I had obtained his secret and confidential report, however,
Admiral Scheer could no longer maintain his silence, especially as the
entire British press and the British naval leaders were attempting to
explain away Jutland. He therefore consented to receive me and add the
final word to the controversy.
The great climax, it seems to me, was Scheer’s telling for the first
time of how the German fleet put to sea in August following the battle,
how a decisive engagement with Jellicoe was sought, and how the British
fleet returned to its bases when ten German submarines, acting as a
screen for the main fleet, attacked it.
From that day on there was no decisive naval engagement. From that day
on, thinks Admiral Scheer, all naval warfare changed, because of the
submarine.
“The world’s first impression of Skagerrak,” said the admiral, “was that
it was a German victory, but shortly afterwards Great Britain, which
controlled all the avenues of propaganda, began using every means among
neutrals, especially America, to change that impression, so that at the
end of the war it was generally believed that Britain did not fare so
badly after all. But nowadays Britain claims it was a victory, because
admission of defeat must hurt a navy claiming it is the largest and best
in the world.”
The admiral spread before him copies of many British newspapers,
including the old thunderer, _The Times_. He found some old maps and
brought out a box of matches which he called warships. With them he
refought the whole battle while I watched.
“There is no doubt in fair minds about who won the battle,” he
continued, “why, look at the dissatisfaction in England itself both in
1916 and now. British naval conduct disappointed the country. The
insular feeling of security, based on the all-powerful British fleet, is
fast disappearing. The whole discussion as to whether the battleship or
the submarine is the best weapon for the future shows disappointment
with the fleet in wartime.
“At Skagerrak the Germans had 27 capital ships, the British 45. We
inflicted double losses and took the offensive throughout, showing a
superiority in gun fire and many other ways. On the other hand, the
British failed in their attacks or in holding on when times were most
favorable to them. _The Times_ says: ‘The first impression of the battle
was that the Grand Fleet suffered a severe reverse. The effect of this
impression was never wholly dissipated. The publication of all the
papers will not bring this very desirable consummation.’ Good! Later
_The Times_ speaks of the British driving the Germans ‘once for all from
the high seas.’ This is not true. Again such statements as that made by
King George in Parliament that ‘the retirement of the enemy immediately
after the opening engagement robbed us of an opportunity of gaining a
decisive victory’ shows that the king’s words were based on false
information, and this fiction is kept up in a part of the British press
in order to support belief in a British victory which never existed.
“Jellicoe is honest enough to _hint_ at our two 16-point turns, which
were really our attacks, but such hints can easily be overlooked by
those unacquainted with every move of the battle. Jellicoe does not
declare he did not follow the German invitation to fight, and he does
not mention that he himself did not carry out any manœuvre to follow up
the movements of the Germans, or to hold the Germans down to an
engagement even if he felt himself justified in so doing.
“At Skagerrak we did not bring our submarines into battle as the British
explain: the great forward rush of our torpedo-boats was enough to make
Jellicoe turn tail.
“Later when the British propaganda machine began to make up for what the
ships failed to do at sea, it exaggerated our losses, claiming we lost
two of the _Koenig_ class and alleging that the German fleet’s return to
its base was a flight, whereas we marched in complete order. And finally
the British propaganda machine thought it had the conclusive argument
when it stated that the Germans were driven from the _face_ of the sea.
The truth is we came out seeking a decision in August.
“Now this is the crux of the Skagerrak battle: from the beginning Beatty
led us towards Jellicoe, which was excellent strategy. Jellicoe’s maps
show the fleets in concentric semi-circles. Jellicoe’s footnote which
_The Times_ omits says ‘Enemy apparently made two 16-point turns.’ This
footnote is all Jellicoe says of two great attacks lasting two hours, at
which we went at the British lines continually. It is true we covered
less distance, because we were the inner circle, but the whole point of
my argument with Admiral Jellicoe, is that he speaks of two turns while
I speak of two hours of continual attack by the German fleet.
“Likewise my turn from the spearhead position, which is another
important part of the battle, will be understood by any naval man as a
manœuvre, not a withdrawal. It was then that Jellicoe had his great
opportunity. We were in a most serious position, this spearhead
position, and manœuvred out of it. Of course at this point I was not
attacking. I do not butt my head into a stone wall because I know I’ll
crack my skull. But Jellicoe by concentrating fire on my spearhead
formation, by attacking with the same ferocity with which we had
previously attacked, would have been successful in destroying part or
whole of my fleet, and no amount of explanation can cover this paramount
failure.
“It was at this turn of the battle that I used my torpedo-boats with
great success. Jellicoe turned away under their attack. I manœuvred
westward with excellent results. Jellicoe’s encircling movement was
broken. I saved the German fleet from being surrounded and drew the
fleet in parallel long straight lines, obtaining equality of position
with my enemy. The German turn was a manœuvre; the British failure to
attack was an error.
“Again, Jellicoe failed to hold on to our flank. We were able to shake
off the enemy and return to our bases during the night.
“Now comes the big question: why, being successful, I did not attack the
next morning. The reason is that the fog and mist were impenetrable.
There was a visibility of four miles and my battle fleet covered five
miles. It was utter foolhardiness to invite the British torpedo-boats to
appear suddenly from curtains of smoke and fog, pick off my line ships
one by one, and disappear behind the curtains.
”_But we came out in August._ It is unjust of the _London Times_ to say
‘The British fleet at Jutland once for all drove the Germans from the
high seas.’ This statement is unjust and untrue. I put to sea on August
19 with the purpose of attacking Sunderland, infuriating the English,
and forcing a naval engagement. I made one change. Instead of sending
submarines to cover the British harbours, as before Skagerrak, I used
them for flank protection. I also left my pre-dreadnaughts at home. My
fleet consisted of twenty capital ships.
“_I steamed into the North Sea. Yes, Germany was the first to appear
there after Skagerrak._ And this is what _The Times_, which declared we
were driven from there, says of our exploit in a letter signed ‘Flag
Officer’: ‘Again on the nineteenth of August the commander of the Grand
Fleet with superior forces for a second time was in contact with the
enemy and made the remembered signal “I expect to be in action in a few
moments and have every confidence of the result.” Immediately afterwards
he was attacked by many torpedoes. Two cruisers were sunk but no
battleships came into action, and within half an hour the battle fleet
was steering to its base.’
“Yes, our fleet remained in possession of the North Sea that day. The
snarl of torpedoes which ‘Flag Officer’ describes in the midst of
Jellicoe’s fleet, came from our submarines. Our submarines taught the
world a lesson on that day that is never to be forgotten, and it is
this, that a few submarines could make England uncertain of the value of
the Grand Fleet. Thus the August battle showed that the British fear of
losses through submarine attacks kept them from engaging in an important
battle. Skagerrak had lifted the German hopes. We had thought that a
second battle would again cut down the British tonnage without our side
losing any, so that eventually we would equalize the fleets, and then we
were optimistic for full victory. But the August engagement showed that
the British were unwilling to risk a decision at sea.
“The course of naval history was changed. Britain blockaded Germany.
Germany engaged in submarine war against British commerce. Both fleets
remained in their harbours. We built 360 and lost 180 submarines, a
heavy sacrifice. Without history, experience or tradition we built a
navy that came out victorious in the one great battle, and wrote a
gallant record of heroic exploits. The Allies robbed us of our navy, but
British propaganda must not rob us of our glory.”
* * * * *
_The Future of Naval Warfare_
Having broken his years of silence, I asked Admiral Scheer, who was
perhaps the best qualified naval officer then alive to pass judgment and
make predictions, to discuss the future of naval warfare, naval
holidays, disarmament conferences, a possible war involving America,
Japan, Britain, and the question of big warships or submarines.
“I would like,” replied the taut, sharp, gentle little man whom at least
half the world regards as the hero of the war at sea, “I would like to
see this world pass from hatred—national hatred, class hatred, religious
hatred, which, it seems to me, have increased since the Armistice; from
Bolshevism’s dangers and from chaotic economic conditions, all of which
result from the war—to an era of peace, justice and friendship.
Universal disarmament would be a step towards that goal. But when
nations having the biggest fleets propose that their rivals join in a
suspension of ship-building, when nations agree to cease building huge
superdreadnaughts but are unlimited in their submarine tonnage, when
these and other naval tricks are played upon the conscience of the
world, it looks to me like a swindle.
“Let us have honesty, not hypocrisy. Disarmament congresses interest me
greatly. Idealism, it seems, still remains rooted in America despite the
fourteen points which were sold, traded, lost or blunted at Versailles.
America, I know, has a fleet whose purpose is not to attack or destroy
rivals in world commerce; America has never been aggressive militarily.
“Naturally a naval holiday benefits England more than any other nation.
At the end of the war England had not the money to enter a naval
building race with America and she did not know what kinds of ships to
build. The last is the reason that so much value was put on my report to
the Kaiser because the British press said it would contain the answer to
the riddle: big or little ships. England was therefore willing to make
any kind of a deal to end expenditure and gain time. In five years or so
she might have money again and the question of dreadnaughts or
submarines might be answered. She would build again and again rule the
waves.
“More important than money, it seems to me, is the question of size and
kind of war-craft for the future. Skagerrak was followed by disillusion
in England. Big ships, it seemed, had had their day. Capital ships
decided nothing, they stayed in port. One political party gathers in a
lot of naval men who say the line ship is dead; they clamour for
submarines, torpedo-boats, destroyers, air-craft. The old-timers waver.
I therefore read between the lines of the universal clamour for a naval
holiday and disarmament which went up in England a frank confession that
England lost the battle of the North Sea which ended the usefulness of
its Grand Fleet.
“Japan has money to build but is also uncertain. She is an island
empire, like England, and to some extent has to meet the same problems.
America is a continent and does not face the most important of all naval
warfare problems, the possibility of economic and food blockade. America
therefore can more easily afford to disregard all naval holiday and
disarmament talk and carry out whatever program it chooses.
“If I were an American I would not listen to either Britain or Japan but
write a program for universal disarmament and the maintenance of peace,
and neither compromise nor make temporary agreements.
“But I see no reason for America fearing a war with either Japan or
England now or in the future. In such wars the action would be entirely
naval, as the American land frontiers, Canadian and Mexican, are
comparatively safe. Mexico is impotent; Canada would hardly fight the
United States; and a Japanese landing on either American or Mexican soil
is impractical, almost impossible.
“I say almost impossible, for a landing would necessitate the complete
destruction of the American fleet. I have shown in the battle of
Skagerrak that a fleet double in strength cannot enforce its will upon
the weaker, and two months later I showed the possibility of a few
submarines driving off a fleet of capital ships. Again throughout the
war Germany showed that submarines and minefields made our coast safe
against enemy landings.
“Now consider a Japanese war against America. Consider even the complete
defeat of the American fleet by the Japanese. They come across the
thousands of miles with their warships and transports. They arrive off
Mexico with their bunkers empty. Mexico cannot supply coal or oil
because to coal a fleet requires enormous stations which Mexico has not
got. Then the Japanese approach the coast and a few American submarines
engage them, probably sink some of their transports, and prevent a
landing.”
“But these conditions do not hold for the Philippines,” I said.
“Yes and no,” replied the admiral. “It is my opinion that a fleet of
submarines supported to some extent by forts and warships, enough at
least to keep the submarine bases from being destroyed and permitting
them full liberty of action, would prevent enemy landing. Otherwise they
would fall an easy prey. Should the American navy decide to fight a
decisive battle on the Japanese side of the Pacific it would have
advantages over Japan in a series of bases, Hawaii, Guam and the
Philippines, while Japan in coming to the American side would have
almost no support.
“However, Japan has as a result of the war extended her naval bases into
the ocean. I do not as a rule interest myself in American-Japanese
politics but I do not see why America does not let Japan go westward if
America wants to bar the way east. If you do not want them in
California, let them go into Manchuria and ship their superfluous
population there. You can do that and still arrange for keeping the
China door open.
“I fear the Japanese want the Philippines badly and I should think that
America ought not to prize them too highly. Japan wants to expand.
Japan, like the other victor states, Britain and France, has the
militant feeling reborn. Japan looks towards the Philippines. America
makes them out to be of more value than they are. This exaggeration of
value may lead America to compromise her honour in the defence of the
Philippines so that she would have to go to war.
“I think Britain now realizes she made a mistake in permitting the
Japanese to occupy the former German Pacific islands. Had these islands
remained German, a conflict of interests would have been avoided for
Germany would not be feared in these waters. Now these islands have
become a bridge for expansion which England offered the Japanese,
inviting that country to walk out, from naval station to naval station,
far into the Pacific. The bridge tends to encircle Australia. The map
shows the two semi-circles about Australia. Japan is astride one and
this danger is realized. In other words England has driven her own
daughter Australia into the hands of America whose interests in the
Pacific are identical.
“From a purely strategic point of view, leaving aside sentiment and
ideals as they were left aside at Versailles, I would say that America
should have taken over the German Marianna islands as her share of the
spoils. America would not have been accused of militarism had she done
so and Japan would have been kept in a smaller radius of operations. As
it has turned out to be, however, Australia comes closer to America,
which is good for both.
“Another point to be considered is the use of the air arm in a war
between America and either England or Japan. In our war against England
our stations formed a right angle and our air-craft had to concentrate
on a rather narrow strip of land so that an unfavourable wind quickly
drove them from their course.
“The long straight American coast lines are good for aerial wireless co-
ordinance. You can concentrate Zeppelins or heavier-than-air machines on
a given point in the Pacific and direct them from a series of stations
from Washington to Lower California, from Maine to Key West.
“But do not place too much hope in air-craft as a naval weapon. The ship
has laid chains on the waves. We sink sometimes but we sail every day.
But aviation remains at the caprice of the four winds and I see no way
to chain them.
“America should defend itself by adequate railroad construction. There
should be more horizontal lines, more trans-Rocky Mountain lines to
protect the Pacific Coast in case of war. The east seems to have
adequate railroad protection.”
* * * * *
_Big Ships or Submarines?_
I then propounded the following question to the admiral: Should America
in the future build superdreadnaughts or cheap submarines; battle-
cruisers or air-craft; should it place its reliance on the old style
navy or on new and improved naval invention?
“I said in my report to the Kaiser—and I must thank you again and again
for publishing it to the world—that the heavy lineship remains the
backbone of any navy,” replied the admiral. “That was just after the
battle where we had bested a British fleet more than twice our strength.
Since then, in my letter replying to your request for an interview, I
said that submarine development makes it possible for a nation
possessing but a few of these weapons to withstand any of the world’s
four big navies.
“These statements are not as contradictory as they seem. From 1916 on
Germany waged a great submarine campaign in which we gained great
knowledge of this weapon. My final conclusion is that a fleet composed
of capital ships only, or of submarines only, is not complete. Every
fleet must be completed according to the geographical position of the
country and according to political objectives. An island empire and a
continental republic require navies composed of both types of weapons
but in different proportions.
“I would not abandon the building of capital ships entirely in favour of
the submersible. There should certainly be a greater concentration on
submarines in the future. This new arm must be developed to its utmost
for the possible destruction of enemy trade; it affords, however, a
defence hitherto undreamed of.
“I do not hear much nowadays of a big program of submarine expansion in
America. It seems to me that America is not paying enough attention to
the extraordinary effectiveness of this new weapon. To speak
hypothetically, in a war between England and America, or Japan and
America, the American submarine flotillas could raise havoc with
Japanese or British commerce, endangering the lives of these island
nations which live on imports. But it would take a great fleet of
dreadnaughts and cruisers to safeguard New York or San Francisco harbors
from the British or Japanese fleets and protect the American submarine
bases from being blown up.
“You see, each weapon has its uses and each nation its own coastal
problems and must adopt an individual program, but if I were in the
American naval service, or if my advice were asked, I should answer: ‘Do
not listen to persons technically ignorant; do not throw aside the big
ships in favour of the submarine or aircraft, but build all three in the
proportion you need for a defensive or offensive policy. And by all
means build more submarines.’
“Land warfare has changed but little. We used Napoleon’s tactics against
Russia and Roumania, crushing them both. But the lessons of Trafalgar do
not hold for Skagerrak. Submarines have changed naval warfare even if
they have not killed the capital ship. The greatest lesson is this: for
the nations fearing naval militarism, protection is guaranteed with a
small inexpensive fleet of submarines. The submarine-owning nations are
practically secure against invasion. Britain won the war but has lost
the mastery of the seas. This seeming paradox is the lesson of
Skagerrak. The mastery of the seas is now disputable, and any second- or
third-class power having many submarines can withstand the whole navies
of the first-class nations.
“Some day the world may realize the debt it owes us. In August my few
submarines used as a screen caused the British navy to retire instead of
fighting a decisive battle. The submarines have made big navies
powerless as an offensive weapon and given the nations not having them a
chance to remain safe from them, provided they build submarines.”
I asked the admiral if he believed the popular theory that terrible
electric man-killing inventions, or tanks, gas, airplanes, would end
warfare in the future.
“No,” he replied, “I cannot foresee mere terror preventing men fighting
but I do foresee the submarine weapon helping to maintain peace. It will
prevent wars, especially when nations possessing great fleets have to
consider their impotence faced by smaller nations possessing a few
submarines which would prevent decisive naval operations or coastal
landings. Once Britannia ruled the waves. Now Britain passes from
offensive to defensive, from arrogance to doubt of her own security. My
conclusion is that the submarine gives weak nations peace, checks wars
and equalizes the world powers considerably.”
* * * * *
_Admiral Scheer on the 5-5-3 Plan_
(After reading the translation of the Kaiser’s report and my interview
Admiral Scheer corrected the word “desperate” with which I had described
his position in the “spearhead formation” by replacing it with
“serious,” and kindly consented to write the following criticism of the
5-5-3 program entered into between the United States, Britain and
Japan.)
“The formula 5-5-3 tends to equalize the British and American fleets,
while the Japanese is left about half as strong as either. The main
question is whether there is a healthy idea behind this plan. England’s
naval supremacy, hitherto always admitted, ceases to exist and is
replaced by a balance of naval powers, so balanced that alliances
between two of them make them extremely dangerous to the third, forcing
the third to yield.
“There is no chance of a single nation becoming dangerous to another by
attacking it: the attacked nation is always in the more favourable
position. For instance, should England’s fleet want to attack America,
it must first cross a distance six times greater than that separating
Germany from England, only to find a fleet as strong as itself, and with
all the help which resources of a background can give.
“Likewise in the Pacific. Japan has no chance against the American coast
but Japan does have a great chance for attacking America’s vanguard, the
Philippines. The loss of the Philippines would be more a loss of
prestige to America than a damage which would decide the war. To develop
the Philippines into very strongly fortified positions would represent a
direct threat against Japan on account of proximity. The main factor is
therefore the development of submarines. With a hundred of them of 1000
tons each or fifty with 2000 each, each power would have a great chance
in a commercial war against the other. The owner of the biggest
commercial fleet needs commerce most and must be the main loser in a war
on commerce. England therefore is in the weakest position.
“The 5-5-3 disarmament plan is the result of experience during the war
which showed that the value of dreadnaughts had diminished. War on
commerce is always the chief aim of naval warfare. It is based on the
right to take booty, which is imposed also on neutral navigation by the
right of contraband and blockade which could be increased arbitrarily
according to a nation’s naval strength—arbitrary measures and power
always go hand in hand. England never wanted to resign the right to take
booty, but her punishment for the starvation by blockade against Germany
showed her vulnerable point to the world.
“It will be impossible to suppress arms such as the submarine, just as
it is impossible to suppress aviation. It would be unnatural to build
45,000 ton ships which must be kept always in groups because of fear of
meeting a superior number which would destroy them, when you can build
twenty submarines for the same money, each capable of cruising
independently, fearlessly, for weeks.
“In the future the fight for the suppression of the right to naval booty
will probably grow more acute. It has gone on for years. I recall the
fact that America demanded its suppression at the Paris conference in
1856. She did not succeed. At The Hague, England prevented its
suppression. Should America insist on the suppression of the right to
seize and capture commercial ships especially neutrals, she would end
one of the greatest threats against world peace and give unimpeachable
proof of America’s unselfishness.”
(In conclusion Admiral Scheer also sent me the following page of naval
convictions and aphorisms.)
“In former wars naval predominance was the aim because the commercial
war was the principal thing and will remain the most important.
“The owner of the strongest fleet had the opportunity for victory if he
forced his adversary to stay in port or beat the fleet so that it could
not show itself again. Thus his own trade was protected. Nowadays naval
predominance cannot guarantee complete safety for the mercantile fleet
by over-water fleets. The bases of U-boats must be destroyed. This is a
far more difficult task than defeating a fleet on the high seas.
“Nowadays a weak fleet is able to do so much harm to the enemy, thanks
to the submarine weapon, that he will not dare to take up the fight to
the finish.
“If the British fleet did not take up the fight in the North Sea how
much more difficult will it be for America’s enemies to take up a fight
across an ocean.
“The capital ship has lost power because the nation owning the best and
the most is no longer able to claim naval superiority with any
certainty.
“The small number of capital ships can be made up for through
submersibles which cost much less, yet which can kill the war spirit of
the enemy in proportion to the damage they inflict and the danger the
enemy must expect.
“The submarine has changed naval warfare inasmuch as it places the
attacker in the disadvantage. This should be a drawback to engaging in
wars in the future. Thus the U-boat becomes a military agent urging
universal peace.”
_Part II—Italy_
_Chapter I_
THE TRUTH ABOUT FASCIST TERRORISM AND CENSORSHIP
_We are bound by the worst censorship ever imposed. We must not write
anything that might reflect on the Fascisti. We are confined to an
apology for political assassination. It broke my heart not to be able to
report the Matteotti case as it should be done, but it would have meant
arrest and expulsion from Italy._”
To me this extract from a letter written by one of America’s best-known
newspapermen, one who is still resident in Rome and who is proud to call
himself a friend and admirer of Mussolini, is a most illuminating
protest against the situation in Italy today. It states in one paragraph
the facts of censorship, expresses the American desire to tell the truth
and states the helpless tragedy of a land where an unseen terrorism
rules. It is the sincere confession of one of the many American
journalists who are trying to do an honest day’s work despite
Mussolini’s orders and the fear that hangs over them. Compare this
statement to the boat interviews of returning tourists, the “all’s well
with the world” of the men who have just floated Italian loans, and all
the Fascist apologist propaganda, much of it paid for, which tells of
the political and social Paradise suddenly wrought out of decaying
Italy. Which is the truth?
I came to Italy with the same open mind I took to Russia; in fact,
having been expelled by the Bolsheviki and being under the power of that
now proven myth that the Fascisti had smashed Bolshevism, I was probably
more friendly to the idea of Fascismo.
I went to Italy as the representative of an American newspaper after
nearly fifteen years of experience as a reporter, nine of which I had
spent in Europe, writing cables almost every day and studying the
collapse of old systems and countries, the birth of new. I had been
forced to leave Russia because I would not submit to the Bolshevik
censorship; but I felt I had a right to expect that in Rome I should
find comparative journalistic freedom. This was to be a permanent
assignment; it followed four professional trips to Italy from the years
1919 to 1925, during the first of which I had reported the communist
uprising in Milan and Turin and had visited Fiume, where the romantic
d’Annunzio had organized the black-shirted, black-fezzed Arditi who were
later to form the swashbuckling leaders of the Fascist militia.
I was soon disillusioned. “You must watch yourself here; you cannot
write about the Fascisti as you do about politics in defeated Germany,”
everyone at the Sala della Stampa Estera, the press club, warned me.
“You’ll be expelled if you tell everything.”
“Is there a censorship?” I asked.
“There is, for the local press; you won’t get much information from the
papers; sometimes there is some news in the first editions, but the
censor cuts it to bits. There is no official censorship over cables. We
wish there were. But the foreign office watches you, delays your cables,
sometimes suppresses them, sometimes alters them. It’s all done
secretly. And if you write anything unfavourable to Fascism you will be
expelled.”
Within a few weeks I received a letter from the American ambassador
asking me to call. Mr. Fletcher was apologetic. He began by assuring me
that he had informed Dino Grandi, the under-secretary of state, that my
news dispatches were no business of the embassy. Yet he had consented to
transmit to me a warning from Mussolini. Mussolini didn’t like my work.
Strange how these grand dictators sitting in their Kremlins and their
Palazzos always have time to look into some reporter’s dispatches! But
almost everyone who has ever interviewed Mussolini and Trotsky or
Chicherin will remember the coloured pencil scanning the columns of the
local or foreign papers. These great men seem to care so much for public
opinion!
The ambassador and I discussed the news to which the Fascist chieftains
had objected. Certainly not to any item of the grandiose plans for a
world-conquering army and navy, for magnificent colonies, for
Italianization of the Mediterranean, for the “battle of the wheat” to
make Italy self-supporting in food; not to my reports of the fight to
stabilize the lira, or of the efforts to obtain a loan from American
bankers. Certainly not to any of these items which came up almost daily
in the carbon files. But there was an item about the persistent troubles
due to the unpunished Matteotti murder, and there was another telegram
about the revolt of five political parties under the leadership of
Amendola, the only strong force left to the Aventine, the Opposition.
After a long talk with the ambassador, who seemed to sympathize with the
difficulties of the American reporters in giving the two sides of the
Fascist case, I wrote a long letter to the foreign office. It said in
part:
It would not be honest for the Paris correspondent to give only the
radical-socialist viewpoint, the Berlin correspondent to give only the
coalition viewpoint or the Moscow correspondent to state the successes
of Bolshevism and leave out the Soviet terrorism. For the same reason
it is necessary for the Rome correspondent to give more than the
official Fascist press viewpoint.
We are required to give the facts, to relate happenings; not
viewpoints of foreign governments, but facts of interest to the
American viewpoint. The American people are not satisfied with
official governmental statements alone. The bankers, tourists, holders
of foreign bonds, business men, the foreign-born, want the journalists
to tell them the truths which the consuls and ambassadors send to the
state department in confidence. Sometimes this is most difficult,
especially where censorship prevails, as in Bolshevist Russia. If you
permit me to speak frankly, I will say that the greatest alarm
prevailed in America when the Italian censorship was announced, and
even today the greatest suspicion attaches to Italian news. Even your
great friend, Cortesi, the correspondent of the Associated Press,
representative of a co-operative society known for its
disinterestedness, objectivity and honesty, has been forced to mail
his telegrams to Paris this week, and from there these news items
affecting Italy’s foreign relations have been disseminated throughout
the world.
My duty is to my American employers, who ask a fair, unprejudiced
report of facts, and I must give both sides to every question. If you
would read all my telegrams for the past three months I am sure you
will withdraw your charge that they are misleading and alarming. They
are a recital of events as they happen. I hope I have made my position
clear.
There was no immediate reply. In the next two months much happened to
bolster Fascist credit abroad, but the Matteotti affair stalked like a
hundred ghosts of Banquo through every Fascist ministry, every session
of the chamber of deputies, and every editorial room. Fascist signs
appeared: “We have 6,700 martyrs, the Opposition one.” Every department
of the government was furiously working to eliminate the Matteotti case
from the public mind, and about once a week some important incident
warranted a cable in which the assassinated deputy was mentioned.
My Italian assistant was approached by a minor official of the press
bureau with the request that we refrain from naming Matteotti. “No
correspondent of any nationality is mentioning this affair,” the agent
said, “and it will lead to unpleasantness if your paper persists.”
“But the Matteotti case is the biggest news item in Italy; it involves
the future of Fascism; it is the outstanding subject in politics today,”
I protested.
The agent shrugged his shoulders.
Then everything came to a climax.
General de Bono, chief of police at the time of the assassination, was
freed from complicity in the murder of Matteotti for “lack of evidence.”
The courts which are under orders as absolute as the Soviet courts, were
commanded not to accept as evidence the confessions of two co-accused
because they had written confessions, and the confessions involved
persons in highest Fascist authority.
Matteotti had detected certain Fascist leaders attempting to collect a
lot of money for themselves from an American oil company which sought a
concession. He accused Filippo Filipelli, editor of the _Corriere
Italiano_, Mussolini’s own newspaper; Cesare Rossi, head of Mussolini’s
foreign office press bureau and then the Duce’s right hand man; and
Giovanni Marinelli, treasurer of the Fascist party.
The radical elements, with Matteotti leader, led the attack on Fascismo
using this oil corruption as an example. Mussolini, shaking his fist at
the radical members, replied, the press reporting as follows:
Mussolini: “_In Russia are great masters!_ We have only to imitate
what is being done in Russia! (Noises, applause, exchange of remarks
between the extreme right and left.) They are magnificent masters and
_we are wrong not to imitate them in full_, for you would not now be
here—you would be in jail. (Noise, applause.) _You would have had a
bullet through your spine._ (Interruptions.) _But we have the courage
and we will prove it._ (Applause, noises.) _We are always in time! And
it will be done sooner than you think._”
Four days later Matteotti was assassinated; a chaotic week followed in
which the Opposition could have destroyed Fascismo had they been willing
to shed blood; calm followed the arrest of Rossi, Filipelli, Marinelli,
Dumini (called an American-born gunman at the trial), the head of the
Italian Chekah, and two other Milanese terrorists. From out of jail
Rossi smuggled a copy of a previous letter to Mussolini and a
confession. The letter says in part:
If during the coming days you fail to furnish me proof of solidarity,
not so much for the past and for my position as your collaborator and
executor of our sometime illegal orders, but of your solidarity for
essentially governmental reasons, I shall put into effect what I told
you this morning. I deem it superfluous to warn you that if the
revolting cynicism which you have displayed up to now, complicated by
fear that has seized you just at the time you should dominate a
situation created exclusively by you, should advise you to order free
violence, while I am in jail or in the unfortunate case of my arrest,
you will equally be a doomed man, and with you will be destroyed the
régime....
The confession says in part:
All this has happened according to the direct will or complicity of
the Duce. I allude to the clubbing of Amendola (Deputy), the order
given De Bono (commander general of the militia and director of
police), by Mussolini, unknown to me and executed by Candelori
(_Console_ of militia); the beating of Misuri (Deputy) carried out by
Balbo (_generalissimo of the militia_) at the suggestion of Mussolini;
the aggression upon Forni (candidate in the political elections of
April, 1924), the order given me personally by Mussolini and carried
out in agreement with Giunta (Secretary General of the Fascist Party
and a Deputy); the demonstration against the villa of Nitti (ex-
Premier); the recent demonstrations against the opposition parties
ordered by Mussolini to be undertaken by Foschi (Secretary of the
Party for the Province of Rome); the proposal advanced by Mussolini to
the _Quadri-univierto_ (central assembly of the Fascist Party), in
order that the Honourable Ravazolo (Fascist Deputy) should be given a
well-earned lesson in consequence of his insubordination; the
destruction of the Catholic circles in Brianza, ordered by Mussolini
to be undertaken by Maggi (Fascist Deputy) and then complacently
repeated to me. I add that daily the Comm. Fasciolo (attached to
Mussolini’s Cabinet) had to order, at the suggestion of Mussolini, to
forward to the Fascist locals the names of the subscribers of the
_Voce Republicana_, _Avanti_, _Giustizia_, _Unita_, _Italia Libera_,
_et cetera_, so that they might be dosed with castor oil and clubbed.
Filipelli confessed. His memorial says in part:
On Wednesday Rossi told me that Dumini used my machine in good faith;
that the situation was grave; that Mussolini knew everything; that he
and Marinelli were given orders to do what they did, after a
conference with Mussolini; that it was necessary to hush up everything
otherwise even Mussolini would be overthrown. I went to the police and
reported (about my car). I learned that Dumini’s victim was Matteotti,
that the order to kill Matteotti came from the Fascist Chekah whose
chief executioners were Dumini and (other names); whose deeds were
known to Mussolini; that they had conferred with Mussolini on
Wednesday; that Mussolini received Matteotti’s passport and other
papers in proof of Matteotti’s death. They asked me to suppress the
facts about my machine as the régime and Mussolini’s head were at
stake.
* * * * *
The five Opposition parties prepared a protest to the king and a
document embodying both confessions. The Fascisti issued a new order
that, instead of suppressing editions of the liberal newspapers daily,
they would suppress them altogether after three warnings. The
confessions and the Aventine document were duly sent from my office and
so keyed that within three days I knew they had been suppressed by the
censor. We then telegraphed our Paris office, which had received by mail
carbon copies for filing, to cable them to America; and three days later
Mussolini ordered my expulsion from Italy.
Again the foreign office attempted to force my deportation through the
American embassy. The letter spoke of “_tendenziose ed allarmistiche_”
telegrams, pleaded for “_serena, spegiudicate ed obiettive_” news, and
was supplemented by Dino Grandi’s remark to Ambassador Fletcher that “he
(Seldes) has represented the Mussolini Government in the worst possible
light and _given the views of the political opponents of the Duce_.”
This time the Palazzo Chigi appended the suppressed telegrams. No. 1
related the attempt to assassinate Amendola. The second most important
figure in Italy had gone to a hotel at Montecatini for a rest cure. He
left Rome secretly at night. But somehow the Rome head-quarters of the
Fascist party heard of it, and the telephones rang in Fascist head-
quarters throughout the Montecatini district, so that shortly after
Amendola arrived at his hotel a thousand black shirts appeared, some of
whom had travelled twenty miles. They demanded the surrender of the
Aventine chief and, being refused, stormed the hotel, smashing down
every resisting door, searching the rooms of American and European
guests who had retired for the night, and threatening with death anyone
who might be harbouring the fleeing man.
Amendola was pursued in automobiles, overtaken, and clubbed by twenty
Fascists. Many of his bones were broken and his seemingly lifeless body
was left for dead in his wrecked car. (He expired three months later,
and since then no man has arisen in Italy to lead the Opposition parties
which have now been outlawed and crushed.)
Exhibit No. 2 began: “One hundred and seventeen members of Parliament
out of the 140 comprising the five political parties of the Opposition
have signed a document addressed to the people of Italy and warning the
King not to ratify Mussolini’s appointment of General de Bono as
governor of Tripoli following his release from prison for complicity in
the Matteotti murder, nor to issue an amnesty for the five arrested
leaders of the Fascist party charged with murdering Deputy Matteotti.”
There followed a summary of the 15,000 word document which included the
Rossi and Filipelli confessions which the courts had refused to read
when they freed De Bono.
Exhibit No. 3 concerned Salvemini. Gaetano Salvemini is now well known
in the United States, but at the time of his arrest and trial the chief
interest in his case arose through the fact that it brought to official
light the afore-mentioned confessions. Salvemini was accused of printing
them. He was found not guilty by a Fascist court. Several hundred
Fascisti, knowing there was no evidence against the venerable professor,
gathered in tens and twenties at each exit of the palace of justice in
Florence, and when the professor, his attorney, and the war hero Rosetti
emerged, they attacked the three, beating them with clubs and stones.
Of the three items of news which Mussolini’s office sent to the American
ambassador, the first never appeared in the Italian press, the second
appeared three days after my cables had been published in America and
Europe, and the third appeared in one edition of a liberal paper, _Il
Mondo_, which was immediately suppressed.
Now, it had been either my fortune or misfortune to obtain the first two
items exclusively. Regarding the third, I know that the Italian head of
one of the largest American press bureaus ordered his American assistant
not to write anything about the attack on Salvemini because “such little
things are of no interest in America,” and that this young American
secretly and at night cabled a report which was published everywhere. It
was quite true that despite the threat of deportation my dispatches
never toned down the news, never aimed to apologize for violence or
veneer with propaganda favourable to the Fascisti certain acts of which
they were proud at home but which made a bad impression abroad and
sometimes caused their loans to drop three points. Perhaps it was true
that these items “depicted Mussolini’s Government in the worst possible
light.” But such was the light that beat upon the throne in those days.
There was no question of either the importance or the authenticity of
the news. Moreover on the days when these reports of bloodshed and
suppression were being sent abroad my office had also sent dispatches
pleasing to those who cry out against “destructive” journalism. On the
“constructive” side my file showed such items as these: “Complete
recovery of Mussolini,” “Economic improvement of Italy shown by minister
of finance,” “Italy scores success with artificial silk industry,” and
dozens of minor stories of Fascist triumphs in business and politics.
All of this I duly explained to the ambassador. It was not the first
time this envoy had fought for the liberty of the press; the time he
banged his fist on Carranza’s table and demanded the release and freedom
of movement of American newspapermen in Mexico City is still well
remembered.
Mr. Fletcher went to the foreign office to protest against my expulsion,
and the same day the American and British correspondents also went to
the palace; to the ambassador it was the rights of an individual
citizen, to the press representatives it was the climax of a long battle
against censorship and suppression. Concerning this protest meeting the
Fascist _Epoca_ could not bring itself to tell the truth. It said:
“_L’on Grandi ha ricevuto a Palazzo Chigi S. E. Fletcher, Ambasciatore
degli Stati Uniti, ed un gruppo di corrispondenti Americani che ha
intrattenuto in cordiale conversazione._”
This “cordial conversation” was a bitter dispute lasting a long time and
ending with Grandi’s statement that “the foreign office would reconsider
the case.” The correspondents thought it was a victory. Jubilation and a
banquet followed. But it was interrupted by an agent of the police who
came to my apartment to tell me how much longer I might stay in Italy.
The embassy was puzzled too. At the ambassador’s suggestion I requested
that a formal order of deportation be given me, and my office requested
Secretary Kellogg to cable the Italian foreign office to safeguard life
and limb. These things, however, are not important; it is important that
in the four days allotted me to settle my Roman affairs I was visited by
all the American newspapermen, many of the British, French and German
journalists, and some Italian ones; they came with one demand, that on
reaching some free country, Switzerland or France, I publish a full
report about the intolerable conditions under which the press of the
world works in Italy.
* * * * * *
The hundred or more representatives of the foreign press in Rome have to
ask themselves every day, “Is this piece of Fascist terrorism worth
mentioning? Am I to risk being thrown into the ‘Queen of Heaven’ Jail or
being thrown over the frontier for this small item?” And the reply is
always, “This is too small. Wait for something big; another Matteotti
assassination; a national uprising, something big enough to warrant the
risk.”
Thus we voluntarily suppressed the truth about blackshirt terrorism,
waiting for a big day. Occasionally we risked a small item, and
immediately there would be a call from Baron Valentino’s office, and the
chief of the press bureau would complain that anyone who mentioned
violence was an enemy of the greatest movement for the salvation of
humanity the world has ever known.
Valentino spoke as an idealist. The real intimidation department was
operated by Grandi, a subordinate in the department of state of which
Mussolini holds the portfolio. Grandi likes to work through foreign
embassies, and by this method has had considerable success in keeping
the French and German journalists in line. He tried it once with the
representative of _The London Times_. This correspondent, instead of
going to the embassy to listen to protests from Grandi, notified his
paper, which is said to have replied: “Tell British ambassador to mind
his own business; we mind ours.” But _The Manchester Guardian_
correspondents, who are frequently asked to report the true state of
elections, crime, and the budget, the movements of the liberal elements
and leaders, and news generally more interesting to a liberal newspaper,
are continually warned and threatened with deportation.
Hardly a day passes in which every correspondent does not learn of
several happenings worth cabling if there were liberty of the press.
When I was in Italy it was still possible to find in the first evening
editions of the Rome papers a budget of items which were suppressed in
later editions and therefore doubly interesting.
Here is a sample day:
Item: Boara.—As a result of a fight between Fascisti and Opposition, one
Fascist militiaman killed; Fascist reinforcement arrived, killed two
Opposition.
Item: Padua.—Fascisti staged demonstration smashing office and printing
plant of the _Popolo Veneto_, Catholic newspaper opposed to the
dictatorship.
Item: Rovigo.—A Fascist quarrelled with a shopkeeper. Both drew knives.
The Fascist was killed. The Fascist local came in an auto truck, killed
the shopkeeper and his brother, and wrecked the house. General de Balbo
made a speech lauding the heroism of the first Fascist killed in the
knife battle.
Item: Rome.—The public prosecutor asks that the parliamentary immunity
of Amendola, leader of the Opposition, be lifted so that he may be tried
for criminal assault of a Fascist. Five Fascisti attacked Amendola with
clubs but the Opposition leader, armed with an old umbrella, succeeded
in driving the gangsters off, hitting one rather severely on the head.
Item: Milan.—Rioting in favour of the king of Italy and against Fascism
was a new phase of the political situation when the sovereign came to
inaugurate the cancer hospital. A large part of the industrial
population engaged in a demonstration and strike. Battles between
Fascisti and workingmen, many arrested. The labourers shouted “Long live
the king, long live liberty” and “Down with Fascism.” Leaflets were
distributed calling for a return of free labour unions, free speech,
free press, all the old constitutional guarantees promised by the king
and suppressed by Mussolini. A banner was carried: “King Victor, restore
us our former freedom.”
None of these items was worth the risk of deportation. If I had had a
three-year lease on a house in Rome, or a wife and children and other
obligations there, I too should have waited for bigger news; having
obligations only to my paper, I accordingly cabled the Milan story and
it was recorded in the Roman foreign office against me and reported in
the Fascist journal _Impero_ as a libel on fair Fascism written by a
“_grosso porco_,” a fat swine.
Much more interesting for America were the attacks on two American
consuls by Fascist mobs, incidents which the government was afraid might
hurt the tourist business if given wide circulation. Unusual efforts
were made to suppress the news of these attacks, but the facts were
revealed despite the censorship of the state department and the American
embassy at Rome. This story of Fascist brutality and American docility
is related in the chapter on American diplomats as censors.
And so it goes. Every newspaper representative in Italy, including
perhaps the Fascist Italians still employed by American agencies and
newspapers, could supplement these cases with scores just as important,
many of them unknown to most of the Italian people. There was a time
when non-Fascist newspapers published a small proportion of this sort of
news; even the _Becco Giallo_, the satirical weekly, could hit
unmolested at some acts of violence in the Fascist Utopia. But by a
campaign begun in 1923 and concluded in 1927 the government has
completely suppressed the liberties of the national press, so that today
the average Italian knows nothing except what his masters want him to
know.
* * * * * *
The suppression began with an edict prepared by Mussolini, signed by the
king in 1923 against his will it is said in diplomatic circles, and kept
on Mussolini’s desk until the danger of a national mutiny followed the
Matteotti murder in 1924. On July 12 the edict was promulgated. It
provided for warnings (i. e., suppression) “if any newspaper or
periodical by false or misleading news causes any interference in the
diplomatic action of the government in its foreign relations or hurts
the credit of the nation at home or abroad, causing undue alarm among
the people, or in any way disturbs the public peace ... if the newspaper
or periodical by editorial articles, notes, titles, illustrations or
inserts incites to crime or to class hatred or to disobedience of the
laws of the established order or upsets the discipline of those engaged
in public service or favours the interests of foreign states, groups, or
persons as opposed to Italian interests, or insults the nation, the
king, the royal family, the Summo Pontifex, the religion, the
institutions, or the authority of the state or of other friendly powers.
“Newspapers or other periodicals published in violation of the preceding
provisions shall be suppressed....”
On January 8, 1925, a manifesto to the Aventine group was suppressed but
read at a meeting of one hundred members of the chamber of deputies—a
private meeting because their immunity had simultaneously been
abolished. (The date, therefore, is a landmark.) The document said in
part:
The mask of constitutionality and normality has been thrown off. The
government is trampling on the fundamental laws of the state and
suffocating the free voice of the press with a despotism hitherto
unheard of, suppressing every right of assemblage, but mobilizing the
armed forces of its party, persecuting citizens and associations while
it tolerates and leaves unpunished acts of devastation and destruction
against its opponents which degrade Italy in the eyes of the civilized
world.
In November, 1925, the _Corriere della Sera_ was suppressed. _The London
Times_ editorially declared that Mussolini was making Italy a suspected
and incomprehensible state, like Russia, and concluded, “It will be hard
in the future to understand Italy and Fascismo. The disappearance of the
independent _Corriere della Sera_ is a serious loss to European
civilization.”
On December 31, 1925, a new censorship law was passed which almost
completely suppressed independent journals and herded journalists into
registered police dockets. The law contained ten points, No. 10 being:
Prefects of police are empowered to seize editions of newspapers which
attack the government in the foreign policy, or which injure the
national credit at home or abroad, or which alarm the people without
justification.
In 1927 all non-Fascist newspapers and periodicals were abolished.
But even that was not enough.
In 1927 the directorate of the Fascist party divided all publications
into two categories, those officially recognized by the party and those
which did not enjoy that honor. The first category includes those
newspapers “which by their origin, their activity on behalf of the
Fascist cause, the political loyalty of their directors, editors and
administrative staff, give secure guarantees of being worthy to be
considered the true and real organs of the régime.”
The second category is made up of journals _sympathetic to the régime_,
and control over them will be exercised by means of the ordinary press
laws in force. No non-Fascist writer may join the staff of a Fascist
publication.
The perfect Fascist journalistic state has thus been achieved. The
Fascisti have finally reached the same point as the Bolsheviki.
* * * * * *
Occasionally some intrepid soul still publishes a pamphlet or a secret
sheet listing Fascist crimes. Immediately local terror is instituted.
Suspected persons are clubbed, shot; their homes are wrecked, and any
printing presses found are smashed. Sometimes an editor reaches Paris,
sometimes he is exiled. The Italian government admitted in January 1927,
that in addition to the thousands of persons convicted by regular
courts, 942 persons tried by self-appointed Fascist courts had been
exiled to the islands of Ustica, Lampedusa, Favignana, Pantellaria,
horrible waterless, criminal-infested islands which constitute Italy’s
Siberia. Mussolini once stated that only anarchists and communists are
sent there, but it is a fact discovered by an American newspaperman that
Liberal and Catholic deputies, editors, moderate Socialists, professors
and professional men, most of whom have written something unfavourable
to Fascismo or critical of Mussolini, constitute the majority in exile.
The year 1927 heard the last death-rattle of the free press in Italy; it
also marked a new campaign to spread Fascist propaganda and stop
criticism abroad. Numerous Italian and Italo-American publications are
being subsidized. Their editors are given trips to Rome and permitted to
shake hands with the Duce. A few big orders are placed with outstanding
American concerns. Sometimes the equivalent to the French legion of
honour ribbon is pinned on a leading citizen. Money and flattery and
honours are lavishly given to the friends of Fascismo.
Whenever the Italian loan seems to float less easily in New York and
when new loans are contemplated, important American visitors find that
it is not so difficult after all to visit Mussolini. His hand-shake is
cordial, his undeniable charm, his great histrionic talent, make
delightful impressions. Senators, representatives, mayors, editors, big
bankers and novelists, many of whom think the Duce the greatest man of
this era, have all their doubts about dictatorships, all their beliefs
in American democracy, delightfully transformed when they emerge radiant
from the palace ready to carry the standard of Fascismo to the uttermost
Main Streets of the United States. It is no mean honour to interview the
Caesar and Napoleon of our own day. A few words from Mussolini, and all
American traditions, the inheritances from Pilgrim forefathers, the
ideals which roused an embattled nation in 1861 and 1917, and everyday
opinions on political rights and personal liberties, are discarded as a
cloak suddenly grown threadbare and shabby and unfit for royal company.
Some of these representative Americans come determined not to be
personally conducted through the Fascist Utopia. They must see for
themselves. They refuse foreign office guides and literature. They stay
more than the week-end; they stay a full month, perhaps. They ask
waiters and shopkeepers indiscreet questions. But they fail to see the
tongue-in-cheek which accompanies the replies confirming the official
Fascist statements that democracy is a failure, parliamentary government
ridiculous, a free press a danger to progress, and that the Italian
people owing to its economic, mental, and emotional make-up, has been
made happy and prosperous through the only form of government fit for
it.
This prosperity, which nobody can deny, is shown to every visitor. But
it is prefaced always with the statement that Mussolini saved Italy from
Bolshevism, a statement which, despite repetition in every newspaper and
every book by pro-Fascist apologists, is a historical untruth. I saw
Bolshevism raise its red banners in Milan and Turin in 1919, and hide
them early in 1920; during the rest of that year and in 1921 and 1922,
until the Naples convention determined the Fascist “march on Rome,” I
saw parliamentary government survive, Bolshevism collapse, and Italy
slowly rise to her feet without violence or terrorism.
The American visitor is shown _faits accomplis_: a balanced budget,
cleaner railway trains and trains that run on time; a people becoming
more and more disciplined and imperialistic; much material progress. The
same American visitor, could he enter Russia with the same preconceived
friendly attitude, would find exactly the same material progress. Walter
Duranty, the leading American authority on Russia, told me recently that
it is now possible for a stranger to tour Russia in comfort and safety,
enjoying decent food and comparatively decent housing accommodations.
But the Chekah terror, although invisible, still rules and still crushes
the soul of the Russian people.
It is impossible for the visitor to go behind the scenes. It takes
months of residence and investigation and a trained as well as an open
mind, to determine the feelings of a people living in fear and to obtain
the news of how dictatorship works in the country-side, far from the
prying eyes of tourists. No one is better able to tell the truth about
Fascism and its censorship than the American correspondents resident in
Rome. I have already mentioned suppression of news by Italian Fascists
or pro-Fascists representing the American press; the general attitude of
the American corps, however, is not to compromise with truth, but to
compromise with the powers. The men and women take circumstances into
consideration. Sometimes it hurts to do so, but they must trim their
sails to fit the Fascist winds if they are to remain at work in that
stormy country.
The independents, those who do not conform, men and women alike, mostly
American and British, some sunny day find a detective on their front
door-step or at an adjoining table in the restaurant, who will take
notes on every person seen, talked to; or they may receive a call from
Baron Valentino, who lays before them clippings from their papers, news
which never went direct from Rome by wire or wireless. Once they
wondered where Valentino got the clippings; now they know that Mussolini
has ordered every consul abroad to watch the press, to send clippings,
and to report the attitude of every foreign newspaper, especially those
in New York, Washington, and Chicago. Mussolini reads many of the
clippings himself.
Nor are Italian journalists abroad safe if their views do not conform.
Their property is confiscated by the state, their citizenship is
revoked; they are in constant fear of being beaten up by members of the
Fascist locals which are planted by Rome in whatever country they may
reside, and their lives are made generally miserable so long as they
continue their non-Fascist attitude. The censorship, by fair means or
foul, reaches throughout Europe and extends to the United States. An
example is furnished by the following case reported to Sir Eric
Drummond, secretary-general of the League of Nations.
Angelo Monti and Carlo a’Prato are two Italians of high reputation,
members of the International Association of Journalists Accredited to
the League of Nations. Monti represented _Il Secolo_ for twenty years,
a’Prato was once secretary to Nitti, later to Count Sforza. He became
associated with Don Sturzo, leader of the Catholic Opposition to
Mussolini, and was forced to flee for his life. He is representing a
Paris paper in Geneva. The two journalists complained to the association
that the Swiss police, at the request of the Fascisti, have done
everything to make their residence in Switzerland unbearable, their work
impossible. They have been arrested, their credentials frequently
questioned, their expulsion threatened. The chief of police, M.
Turritini, they alleged, is a pro-Fascist who enjoys terrorizing
Mussolini’s enemies when they escape to Switzerland. The association has
determined to defend its members before the Council of the League of
Nations, the International Press Conference, and, if necessary, the
League Assembly.
A part of the European press is easily controlled by Mussolini. The pre-
war system of selling “zones of influence” to governments, although
curtailed by rearrangement of boundaries, still prevails. A Paris
newspaper, for instance, may offer its services to two governments about
whose politics France is not vitally concerned, say Peru and Chile;
whichever pays the price will be supported in whatever it does in its
zone, even in war, perhaps.
Support can be bought outright or by indirect means. Many big
organizations, the _Ente Nazionale per le Industrie Turistiche_, now
known as the C.I.T., the Grandi Alberghi Association of Hotel Keepers,
and various associations of hotel men and tourist agencies, are heavy
advertisers in almost every part of the world. These organizations
demand subservience to Fascism as part of their advertising contract.
They dangle their millions of lire before business managers and withdraw
their advertisements if the editors mention Fascist violence in Italy.
Following my expulsion from Rome, the big hotel and tourist groups and
the government railroads cancelled their advertising in my papers and
wrote many letters which I have read in my office to say they would
resume if unfavourable news were suppressed in the future.
Finally there is the splendid bribe of five thousand words a month free
over the Transatlantic cable for all correspondents and newspapers who
agree to send and print propaganda favourable to the Fascisti. When I
took over the Rome bureau of my paper I found that my predecessor, an
Italian-American blackshirt enthusiast, had been given this award for
faithfulness to the cause, and that other American newspapers had
accepted it also. At my first encounter with the censorship I was
threatened with its withdrawal, and at the second it was withdrawn.
Today nearly all the pro-Fascist organs in America are partly subsidized
by this means.
* * * * * *
But somehow Mussolini cannot prevent the American reporter from telling
at least a part of the truth. With the possible exception of two
Italians who place Fascismo above their duties to their American
employers, the corps representing America today makes every effort to
break the censorship. Its methods are many and various. The easiest is a
letter to a private address in Paris or London which eventually becomes
a cable with a Swiss date-line. The second method is aptly termed the
“grape-vine.” It passes from one side of the wall to the other. Somebody
in Rome communicates (by telephone or letter) with an agent in Lugano or
Chiasso or another frontier town. The agent crosses the border—a mere
city street sometimes—and telephones to Paris. In all cases the Rome
correspondent remains protected and anonymous.
The cleverest, most effective means of obtaining the news is “relay
reporting.” Floyd Gibbons first introduced the system of sending a
stream of men from country to country, each of whom was met by foreign
office rebuffs and sneers, really meant for a predecessor, and each of
whom gave lengthy explanations, perhaps an apology, and departed to
write freely at a distance of conditions that existed. The system was
tried during the Irish troubles, the Silesian plebiscite scandal, the
Fiume madness, during a score of European events concerning which it was
really dangerous for a man to tell something of the truth and remain on
the scene. Today one New York newspaper (_The World_) has adopted the
relay method with great success in Italy. Apparently three
representatives of this paper were at the Matteotti trial in relays, and
could, by going to Nice or Lugano, report the brutal Fascization of
justice at Chieti. Readers of almost all the papers of the whole world
got only a distorted, censored, almost totally untrue report of this
trial which, if reported faithfully, might have undermined the Mussolini
régime and certainly would have changed the sentiment of many people
towards Fascism. Only one paper (_The New York World_) was able to
report the truth. The other newspapermen simply broke their hearts and
kept quiet.
But it will not be for always. An important effort is now being made
through the League of Nations which, while it may not prove successful,
will at least officially call the attention of both hemispheres to the
terroristic censorships of several countries. Under the leadership of
Sir Eric Drummond meetings of two hundred accredited representatives of
the press have been held in Geneva and a program adopted. It demands,
first of all, the abolition of censorship in time of peace. The report
says in its preamble:
Censorship in peace-time is a fundamental obstacle to the normal
exchange of international information and makes understanding between
peoples more difficult.
Where censorship exists at present, the League committee asks:
1. That telegrams be censored promptly.
2. That journalists be informed of the censorship orders.
3. That journalists be informed of deletions and given an opportunity
to withdraw their dispatches completely.
4. That money paid for suppressed telegrams be returned.
5. That all journalists receive equal treatment.
6. That a committee of journalists examine the case of any journalist
whom a government would expel.
Russia is outside the League. Of the twenty or more League members which
maintain censorships, either by blue pencil or intimidation, Italy is
the only big nation which must reply to the above indictment. With the
exception of Russia, Italy offers today the most flagrant example of
journalistic terrorism in the civilized world.
_American Bankers and Tourists on Fascism_
About Bolshevism one general opinion exists, but about its blood brother
Fascism, there are two such violently different opinions in America that
it is hard to recognize them as relating to the same country or policy.
Public opinion regarding Fascism is formed 1.—by the press: 2.—by the
reports of eyewitnesses (tourists): 3.—by the propaganda of politicians
and bankers.
It is an undisputable fact that the entire press in Italy is completely
corrupted and that American reporters dare not tell the whole truth for
fear of deportation. A vast system of propaganda in favor of Fascism
counteracts the few unpleasant truths that do get printed. So, with the
main fountain of intelligence polluted, it is already evident that only
a perverted public opinion regarding Fascismo can exist.
The international bankers of course are out for money, which is no
crime. (Eventually they will be “shaking hands with murder” in Bolshevik
Russia and liking it.) If I could violate a confidence I could dispose
of the favourable opinion for Mussolini’s régime created by American
bankers by appending the name of the man who made the following
statement. However, if the reader will name three of the biggest
international bankers in America he will probably include the one in
question.
This banker does not permit himself to be interviewed. When members of
the American press suspected he was in Italy to arrange a loan of
hundreds of millions, he consented to an informal talk. His name, as
usual, was “not for publication.” He said:
“No dictatorship is reliable, especially a one-man dictatorship. When
Mussolini goes, chaos will follow. It will be worse than Bolshevik
Russia in its worst days. This is the most dangerous country in Europe
(outside Russia) for an international loan. Why, I could as easily float
a ton of lead in New York harbour as an Italian loan in Wall Street. I
do not dare betray the American people by asking them to risk their
money here.”
What happened in Wall Street in the next three months I cannot know, but
we in Italy read with great surprise a statement from this same great
international banker, which said in part: “Italy now has the soundest
and safest government in Europe.”
Several weeks passed silently. We were not surprised when this man
floated the Italian loan easily on Wall Street’s troubled waters.
So much for bankers. There remain therefore the hundreds of thousands of
tourists who mould public opinion. They go on rubbernecking parties from
ruin to ruin and proclaim: “Italy under Mussolini has found her soul:
the trains run on time,” “Mussolini has saved the country.” “Mussolini
is the greatest man in the world.” And they are believed. Occasionally
there are a few American consuls or plain citizens who have bloody
experiences, and sometimes a radical comes back with the report:
“Terrorism reigns in Italy.” “Bloodshed and murder are daily.” “Worse
than Russia.” “Revolution is near.” These two extremist views, of
course, are exaggerated. Italy’s Chekah and Italy’s reign of terror are
neither as drastic or universal as Russia’s; in quality and quantity
Fascist terrorism has never approached Communist terrorism, but the
amazing truth about Italy is that it is the only country where a
beautiful serene surface is offered the visitor who may stay months and
never see the hidden terror. Tourism and Terrorism in Italy are
skilfully combined.
A thousand tourists and the writer spent the same night in Bologna. If
the hundred Americans who slept tranquilly the eight dark hours in their
good hotels want the exact date to compare it to their recorded diaries,
it was April 8 of the year 1925. For tourism it was a perfect day. It
was also a good day for terrorism.
There had been an encounter the day before between Fascists and anti-
Fascists. The one fatality was a Fascist militiaman. Throughout the day
of April 8 Fascist head-quarters were humming with plans for vendetta,
and at night the poorer section of Bologna was the scene of rioting in
which hand-grenades were thrown into houses, stabbing and shooting
occurred in twenty places and several names were recorded by whoever
plays the county coroner.
Groups of blackshirts roamed the streets looking for blood. One band met
a drunken man whom they jostled on the street. The drunkard stammered.
An argument followed. The Fascists killed him with their clubs and left
him in the street.
They picked quarrels with every man they met in the workers’ section of
Bologna. They didn’t ask whether their victim was a Fascist or not. They
clubbed everyone who didn’t give them the street free, and they beat two
more men to death.
Another group entered a _trattoria_, a cheap saloon, threw the chairs
and tables about, and finding one wine-drinker ready to oppose them,
shot him through the head. Throughout the night frequent explosions of
war-made hand-grenades inside houses and alongside walls kept the
quarter in terror. Citizens bolted doors and shuttered windows and
prayed. It was something like a Zeppelin night in London, a Gotha night
in Paris, with the fun left out.
And the next morning, in the sunshine, a thousand careless tourists went
looking at the cathedrals and the University of Bologna, and declared
the city beautiful and peaceful, Fascism the God-sent restorer of public
safety, Mussolini the saviour. (Five dead, 22 wounded, the Fascist
victim revenged.)
The tourist has seen nothing, heard nothing, suspected nothing, but on
arriving in Paris he has had his vanity fed when a reporter from Paris
editions of American newspapers has given him a chance for free
publicity when he will talk well of Fascism. For days, weeks, years this
constant tourist drivel is published by sycophantic newspapers, every
line of it impressing other tourists, and the whole lot making a body of
propaganda which cannot help moulding public opinion. Here are samples
of tourist bunkum, mostly from _The Paris Herald_:
Senator David A. Reed (Republican), Pennsylvania:
Washington: An eloquent and impassioned defence of Prime Minister
Mussolini was made today by Senator Reed in which he depicted the
Fascist chieftain not only as a saviour of Italy but as a benefactor
of Europe, who saved the old world from the menace of Communism.
“Signor Mussolini has given Italy a particularly strong and stable
government; he has restored order where once chaos ruled; he has
increased the productive capacity of Italy and conferred happiness
upon all classes, the high and the low, the rich and the poor,” said
the Pennsylvania solon.
Bishop Ernest M. Stires, of the Episcopal Diocese of Long Island:
“Only the personal unselfishness and the modesty of Signor Mussolini
added to his great self-discipline and strength could give him the
ascendancy over the Italian people enabling him to fan into purifying
flame the vital spark inherent to the Italian race since the time of
the Romans, thereby bringing about a new renaissance. Three years ago
when I was in Italy and met Mussolini, Fascism seemed to be a noble
experiment; from what I see now it appears to have become a fixed
principle.”
Colonel James H. Logan of Dillon, Read & Co., international bankers:
Rome—Colonel James H. Logan of Dillon, Read & Co., who has been
visiting Rome, declares that he is impressed with the continued
economic and financial development in Italy. According to Colonel
Logan, this should be reckoned among the achievements of “Italy’s
great son and leader,” Signor Mussolini.
“Everyone who has been so fortunate as to visit frequently the great,
charming, happy and hospitable country of Italy, as I have done, must
surely receive the same impression,” continued Colonel Logan.
Harold MacGrath, the “great” novelist:
“Having snatched his countrymen from out a chaotic state and injected
verve, spirit and pep into their very souls, so much so that Italy is
one of the most thriving nations in Europe today, Premier Benito
Mussolini has proven himself to be the greatest leader of men in
Europe since the days of Napoleon.
“Everywhere you go in the land of the boot, you are impressed by the
sincerity of purpose, the diligent way they attack their work and the
apparent happiness of all the Italians.
“When one stops to consider that Italy was on the brink of red-
radicalism, revolution and tyrant Socialism and that Mussolini stepped
in and with one mighty grasp of the reins brought the entire nation to
its senses, one must give credit to whom it is due.
“The greatest cankers that have existed there, the Mafia, Camorra and
the Black Hand are now things of the past. The great secret
organizations that formerly held Italy in dreaded fear have been
stripped of their mask by the premier, so that they can no longer
operate.
“The strongest attribute that strikes all of those that have had the
good fortune to talk with Mussolini is absolute sincerity.”
S. S. McClure (In his youth a publisher for muckrakers):
“Italy is undergoing a bloodless revolution, and it is only partly
completed. It is accomplishing what could not be done by parliamentary
debate. In my study of governments for twenty-five years I found in
Italy the first contribution to the science and theory of good
government since the founding of the American Republic. The Italians
have real self-government. The difference between the government of
America and that of Italy is theoretical rather than actual. If three
or more men quit work in Italy, they could be arrested and the
attempted strike ended.”
“Just how do the people of Italy feel about the new government?” Mr.
McClure was asked.
“They feel,” he replied, “they are the only free people in the world.
They are free from caprice and oppression.”
Vera Bloom, semi-journalistic daughter of no less a person than the
grandiose American congressman Sol Bloom, Esq.:
“Premier Mussolini has sold to the Italians the idea that Italy is a
worthwhile enterprise, and he is making them invest in it willingly.
They do nine hours’ worth of work for eight hours’ pay, they curtail
their use of white flour, but what does Mussolini himself do? He gets
a salary of less than $1,000 a year and lives in a small bachelor
apartment of a friend at Rome. He has taken his tremendous personality
and impressed it upon the people in the last three years so that one
sees a change that is almost miraculous and he continues to impress
himself upon them.
“But even though the latter may be true, it is a great fallacy to
believe that Mussolini is a two-faced actor. When he appeals to his
people at a public assemblage in a dramatic manner, he is intensely
sincere, just as he is intensely sincere when he is sombre a few hours
later in his office. He has a characteristic that many Italians
possess—that of living fully and ardently every situation in which
they find themselves placed.”
Cultured men and women, humanitarians, leaders of organized labour,
liberal college professors, broad-minded lawyers, liberal preachers and
untrammelled writers also visit Italy and come to Paris, but I have
never seen their views on Fascismo played up in the Paris editions.
Balance the foregoing expressions with the following, which certainly
cannot be called the expression of trashy writers, corporation
attorneys, lickspittle politicians, publicity seekers, venal editors,
narrow-minded reactionaries, or loan-raising bankers, and wonder why
these American papers never find a non-conformist opinion regarding
their pet theory and dictator:
William F. Green, president of the American Federation of Labor:
“The American Federation of Labor will work with you (the anti-Fascist
Alliance of North America) until we have succeeded in driving Fascism
from the face of the earth. I am deeply in sympathy with the anti-
Fascist movement. I should like to call it the movement of human
freedom and human liberty.
“Fascism stands for repression and denial of freedom and democracy,
and any movement which is seeking to deny natural expression to the
human race, is an enemy to society.”
Professor F. W. Taussig of Harvard:
“The Mussolini régime seems to me hateful, and full of danger for
Italy and almost so for other countries. I cannot but believe that
eventually it will come to a complete crash, and I hope the end will
come soon.”
Professor E. A. Rose, University of Wisconsin:
“Fascism is the most sinister thing that moves on the political stage
today. It behooves us to look closely at the case of this beast in
Italy, for in every society there are elements which yearn to stamp
democracy into the dust and bring the people under the yoke of
condottieri paid and supported by the rich.”
Charles Nagel, former secretary of commerce and labour:
“If Italy’s affairs could be confined to her own borders, well and
good. But this can never be. The policy of Mussolini means repression
at home and expansion abroad. Its unprovoked threats of war, without
cause or excuse, are a menace to the peace of the world, in which we
are directly interested. But apart from the immediate effect upon
Italian conditions, the influence upon civilization generally must be
deplored.”
Rev. John A. Ryan, professor, Catholic University, Washington, D.C.:
“In principle, Fascism is naked political absolutism rejecting
representative government and upholding government by force operated
by persons who regard themselves as alone qualified to govern. Formal
refutation of this theory is superfluous. As applied in Italy, Fascism
has destroyed liberty of speech, of the press, of assemblage and
association, and has likewise abolished local self-government and
democratic representation. ‘By their fruits you shall know them.’”
Louis Marshall, lawyer:
“To those who regard the liberty of the individual as a sacred right,
Fascism is an abhorrent reversion to the brutality of primitive man.
In essence it is despotism and tyranny. It means the overthrow of the
noblest ideals of mankind achieved after centuries of struggle—free
thought, free speech, a free press, the free choice by an untrammelled
ballot of representatives protected in the exercise of their political
functions and free from the ever-threatening menace of dictatorship,
whether it be that of monarch or mob. Fascism is a new form of
slavery. It may flourish for a time, but like all its prototype it is
doomed to destruction.”
Robert Morse Lovett, professor, University of Chicago:
“The Fascist régime is a complete repudiation of all that has been
gained in the last two centuries in political democracy, and control
by the people of their common interests ... a return to the age of the
despots without the enlightenment and toleration which individuals
among these manifested. The danger to all Europe from such a
dictatorship is evident. The crusade which President Wilson preached
against governments not responsible to the will of their own people,
has direct application to the dictatorship of Mussolini.
“The peace of the world rests on the mutual goodwill of free peoples.
Italy is today a menace to that peace, a heavy liability to the cause
for which Wilson called on his countrymen to fight. It is
disheartening to find Americans who were most active in insisting that
such a call should be made, now supporting with their influence and
their loans a régime so hostile to all that this country assumes to
represent.”
Professor Holcombe of Harvard:
“Mussolini’s first years do not augur well for Italy or for Europe.
The most ominous symptom is his apparent disposition to increase
rather than diminish his reliance upon force and violence. Long ago
Machiavelli pointed out the error of that policy.”
Rev. John Haynes Holmes, minister, Community Church, New York:
“Fascism is without exception the most dangerous and despicable power
now existing in Europe. It is the incarnation of force which has not
in this case the excuse of liberation and enlargement of life for the
multitudes, as in Russia, but represents a frank reversion to old ways
of tyranny and death.
“The megalomania of its leader, Mussolini, is the perfect symbol of
its essential character of madness. At one stroke Fascism has robbed
Italy of the glory bestowed upon her by Mazzini and his compeers, and
may at any moment plunge Europe into the vast disaster of another war.
While Fascism endures there can be no freedom for Italy, no security
for the world. To protest against the Fascist despotism, to expose its
injustice and horror, to labour for its overthrow, is a first duty to
the cause of human liberty.”
Felix Adler, leader, American Ethical Culture Society:
“Democracy is challenged today on two sides: by the Soviet minority
which rules Russia, and by the Italian dictator, who would substitute
discipline for liberty, the control of the economic forces of a nation
for self-government, and dangerous imperialistic ambition as the
motive for consolidating and subordinating the nation.
“The poignant challenge comes from these two directions, and with the
exception of a few commendable utterances there seems to be no
pronounced reaction in the United States. Have we no publicists potent
enough to take up the challenge?”
It is a balance of Brains versus Babbittry, but the Babbitt tourists,
who are in the same proportion in Europe as in America, have succeeded
in maintaining the myth of peace, contentment, freedom, liberty in
Italy—thanks to a rotten press.
I have already quoted an experience during a riot in Bologna. Take,
again, the case of ten thousand tourists during an election. Of course
elections in Italy always did entail some disorders, and it is certain
that the Opposition to Mussolini did not hesitate to exaggerate tales of
this violence, but it is also true that even if the American tourists
had numbered a million that day, the election could have been held
without ten of them feeling the state of terror which existed.
Rome, Milan, Florence, Naples, Venice hardly felt this terror; only the
workers’ sections where tourists never go, saw the disorders. But
throughout the country it spread like a nightmare. The newspapermen in
Rome who remained in the capital saw and felt nothing. But throughout
the country-side the terror reigned and Fascism won.
Many an anti-Fascist head was split that day. In every town and village
the local blackshirt organization armed with black-jacks, revolvers,
knives, drove the faithful to the ballot-boxes; attacked the Opposition;
they broke ballot-boxes; stuffed them; reported majorities where none
existed. Castor oil was administered to protestants. It was like a state
of martial law in which illegal elements enforced illegal methods to
obtain an illegal end.
An English woman journalist, representative of an American newspaper,
and an ardent friend of Fascism, went from Rome to Molinella because she
wanted to disprove statements that terrorism existed in the country-
side. She was surrounded by Fascist militia and, despite her
protestations of love for the Duce and all his works, was driven from
town. In a village near Mantua a young American sent by a Rome
correspondent was arrested, not by the government police, but by
Fascists, taken to party headquarters, cross-examined, and because he
was an American he escaped a beating and a dose of castor oil. But he
was driven from town. He did, however, see something of the terrorism.
Blackshirts controlled the polls. Opposition voters were not permitted
to cast votes. At Fascist headquarters a list of proscriptions was being
checked up, absent voters were being accounted for and Opposition voters
were being marked with a cross for future reprisals.
As he was escorted to the outskirts of the village and told to go to
Rome, the Fascist leader gave him the following warning:
“The tourists must stay in the cities. The country is no place for them
during an election.”
The American tourist hears nothing, sees nothing, understands nothing.
He finds the surface serene and bursts into print in _Heralds_ and
_Tribunes_ with his discovery. If he went to Russia with an open mind,
to that terroristic Russia which still shoots the Opposition down every
night in the Chekah prisons, he would have to report even a sweeter
Utopia of freedom and liberty under the Soviets.
Because the Soviet terror is even more secret than the Fascist; they
order things better over there.
_Chapter II_
“THE SWORD,” CRIES MUSSOLINI
After Wilson and Lenin, Lloyd George and Trotsky, my hope was set on
meeting the hero of our time, the only hundred per cent. dictator,
Mussolini. But I did not want to ask him political questions. I was sick
of politics and I hoped he was the same. He had given so many useless
political interviews and I had written so many useless thousands of
words. I wanted to know what manner of man he was and what he did out of
dictatorial hours. But when I did interview Mussolini I could not print
the whole story. There was censorship in Rome, there was censorship in
my editorial office, and there was my fear of expulsion if I dared write
one uncomplimentary word. Only in a book can the truth be told.
I first met Mussolini at the Palazzo Venezia. This noble building had
been outlined in flares one midsummer night in the year when some of the
formalities of freedom were still observed in Italy, for the meeting was
to mark the opening of the nationalist Fascist election campaign against
the Opposition.
All the minor heroes of Fascismo were there, the politicians and the
warriors, talking their heads and hands off. They were in the tapestried
marble hall, a thousand of them, men who had discarded the black shirt
that night for the more conventional black evening clothes, and they
were impatient for their chieftain, their Duce. The hall was shimmering
in waves of light. There was but one dark mass, the heavy velvet curtain
nearest the rostrum.
Suddenly through this black velvet curtain a white hand appears,
disembodied, thrilling, like a spiritual seance. The white hand, fist
flat, rises quickly, appears over the heads of the thousand heroes, so
that falling silent and looking up, they immediately recognize the Roman
salute, the sign of greeting of their order, and recovering from their
silent surprise with a rumbling of a thousand men in movement, they
acknowledge the Fascist signal.
Then, into the now whisperless super-lighted room, emerges from the
black mass of curtain behind the white hand growing into an arm and then
a man, the dark figure of Benito Mussolini, successor to the Caesars in
Rome, founder of the third New Italy, self-styled Napoleon, and—actor
extraordinary.
* * * * * *
“_Giovinezza! Giovinezza!
Primavera di bellezza!_”
The thousand leaders of Fascismo sing as soldiers sang, full throated
and gaily: Mussolini raises his hand again and there is silence. Then he
speaks.
He began coldly, in a voice northern and unimpassioned. I had never
heard an Italian orator so restrained. Then he changed, became soft and
warm, added gestures, and flames in his eyes. The audience moved with
him. He held them. Suddenly he lowered his voice to a heavy whisper and
the silence among the listeners became more intense. The whisper sank
lower and the listeners strained breathlessly to hear. Then Mussolini
exploded with thunder and fire, and the mob—for it was no more than a
mob now—rose to its feet and shouted. Immediately Mussolini became cold
and nordic and restrained again and swept his mob into its seats,
exhausted.
An actor. Actor extraordinary, with a country for a stage, a great
powerful histrionic ego, swaying an audience of millions, confounding
the world by his theatrical cleverness.
When I began plotting my interview I asked friends of the Duce to tell
salient stories of his youth and career. Was he always acting a part?
Did he give signs in his boyhood of a consuming ego? Was he a leader? A
superman?
When a boy, said one who knew him, Benito led a gang which robbed
orchards. He did not share in the spoils; he was content with the glory;
he played the hero. At Forli, his birth-place, he distinguished himself
one day when some learned professor failed to arrive for a lecture on
some literary topic. Benito sprang to the platform and held discourse.
One day his mother, to whom he like Napoleon says he owes everything he
is or hopes to be, heard him pacing his room, shouting, gesticulating
wildly.
“What is the matter—are you ill?” she cried.
“Do not worry, mother,” he replied, “I will become a great man. Italy
will tremble before me.”
And later, as a rebel, an international Socialist, hammering at society
just as his rebel father, the Forli village blacksmith, hammered
horseshoes, he faced trial for anti-militarist activities. He was then
the editor of _La Lotta di Classe_—The Class Struggle—which urged
Italians not to enlist for the war in Tripoli. Found guilty, Mussolini
addressed the court:
“If I were in your place I would sentence such a fellow as I. If you
should free me you would do me a favour. If you convict me, you do me an
honour.”
And that was the first time that Mussolini went to jail for his
radicalism. Of a year’s term he spent six months in a cell feeding his
rage against bourgeois society, studying Karl Marx and other Socialist
philosophers, and tightening his determination to be a leader of the
people. He came back to them a martyr to the cause of Socialism. He
enjoyed his martyrdom thoroughly, and, like most other modern martyrs to
that cause, he exploited it fully. The mob of radicals paid homage to
him. He accepted it with dignity and led the mob.
And among the stories of his more recent shows of superiority and
histrionic egotism, there is one which concerns his duelling lessons. In
aggression he was superb. The instructor said:
“I will now teach you retrocession.”
“Why?” demanded Mussolini.
“You must learn to defend yourself when your enemy presses too hard.”
“That will never be _my_ strategy,” replied Mussolini nobly.
* * * * * *
So I studied his character in those doubtful days while I was waiting
for the interview. Finally all the doors of the Palazzo Chigi opened. A
blue and gold flunkey pushed apart the last barrier revealing an
enormous museum-like room, gloomy, hung with dark paintings, empty but
for a few chairs, a great globe on its stand, and at the farthest
corner, the dictator of Italy, the most interesting man of our era.
On the right of his desk was a battery of telephones, four or five, and
he was speaking through one, as all Latins speak, passionately and with
illustrative motions of the free hand, which, alas, his auditor was
missing. I had an interpreter with me in case my fallow French of A. E.
F. days should fail, and we halted on the threshold. Mussolini rang off.
Without looking up he made notes on a pad, and while his eyes were still
on his pencil he cried:
“Avanti.”
It was like the command of an officer.
We advanced our positions at least ten yards. (The room was enormous,
fit for a museum.) He let us stand at the side of his desk, as he lets
all his interviewers stand, until they become somewhat nervous, then he
arose, extended a hand quickly, motioned to a chair.
“Dunque!” he exclaimed, “you have asked to see me. Eccomi! Here I
am....”
“And to ask a few questions.”
“No questions,” with a definitive gesture.
“But—”
“I never answer questions.”
He frowned. He pouted. His eyebrows came down over his wonderfully
large, expressive, fine Italian eyes. Yet he seemed to be acting again.
“No questions about politics,” I hastened to explain, “but about you,
your life....”
“There are books—read the books.”
“But I want to know the things that are not in books. I want to know
neither the history nor the politics of Mussolini, but the human
Mussolini, the man who plays the violin and has lion cubs for pets, the
man who does not touch spirits or wine, the man who....”
“Because drinking is useless,” he interposed at the word “wine,” and
suddenly he smiled and added “I have never been interviewed that way.
Tiens. It would amuse me. Proceed.”
“You have given up alcohol?”
“Yes. There is but one explanation. Alcohol bores me. Alcohol is
useless. But I am no bigot. I read with amusement and sympathy all the
efforts to make or keep America dry, all the efforts to restore wine and
beer. I say, let those who want it, drink. I would not infringe upon the
personal liberty of any man. If the Italian people want their chianti,
they shall keep it. If they feel it makes life brighter, so much the
better. But as for me—water.”
“And your hobby is the violin?”
“From childhood. I must thank my sainted mother. I was a quiet lad, and
I found joy in music. Now it is my refuge. People have said sometimes
ironically that music sometimes brings tears to my eyes. As if it were a
sign of weakness! But I am not ashamed to admit it. I play—always—now—in
the midst of all the cares of state, yes, in fact, when the cares of
state are heaviest. And I suppose,” he added, “that my enemies, for want
of something better, will say, ‘Mussolini, like Nero, plays the violin
when Rome burns,’ but I do not care. In music I find rest!”
Now as he spoke about his hobby he became a changed man. All of his
first pose, the actor’s pose, was gone. Gone the frown and the scowl and
the pouting lips, and his forehead cleared of the furrows, even
revealing that one of them was a large scar. He not only smiled gently
but a pleasant fire was kindled in his eyes. He became real and human.
“Music for me,” he said, “means Italian music. I like the German’s too,
but Italian music, seventeen hundred to eighteen hundred, appeals to me
most. My favorite composer is Vivaldi.” And he added dreamily, “Music
must be an experience of the heart and soul. It is the one experience
that brings us into relationship with all that is divine....”
At that word “Divine,” I wanted to ask abruptly: “In what do you
believe?” but thought such a question undiplomatic. Years before
Mussolini in his Socialist speeches and writings had acknowledged
himself agnostic, if not wholly atheist, but since coming into power he
had engaged upon a constructive program of rapprochement with the
Catholic church.
He had first of all restored the crucifix to the schools, later
permitted priests to give religious instruction in them and finally
raised the cross in the Colosseum, thereby atoning for an affront from
Garibaldi many years ago.
Of course, the Catholic Fascisti used these facts to point the
redemption of Mussolini’s soul. His enemies, however, called it
hypocrisy—political expediency—religious opportunism, of a match with
his political opportunism. To seek the aid of the church, to make a
friend of the Pope in a land where all the voters and all his own
followers are Catholics, was simple strategy. Mussolini, argued the
realists, had not been “converted” or “saved.” In the old days when he
was a radical agitator preaching the dictatorship of the proletariat and
materialism _über alles_, he had cared little for God or the Devil. He
was an agnostic and a fatalist.
“Are you still a fatalist?” I asked.
“I am,” he replied. “All I believe in is a star of destiny. I am a
fatalist in that I believe that what must happen must happen and nothing
can change the destiny of any man. That is my religion in its entirety.
“I have lived according to it. I have no fear. I am not afraid of
anything in this world. I am not afraid of life. I am not afraid of
death.
“I believe in my star of destiny. I go up in an airplane. It falls. I am
wounded. I am not afraid. I go up again. It falls. I have no fear. I
drive my car—I am a speeder you know,” (with a vast smile) “and I run
into the gates of a railroad crossing, lowered to let a train go by. I
crash. I am seriously hurt. But my nerves are not shaken. Why? Because I
have no fear, because I believe it is all so written in the star of my
destiny which alone is my guide, my present and my future.”
(Could he have read Napoleon’s: “I have become great through the
influence of my star,” I wondered. Much that he had said and was to say
savoured of that other Italian dictator who shook the world. Napoleon
himself liked to imagine himself a reincarnation of Charlemagne or
Caesar; Mussolini, it is no secret, not only believes himself the
successor of Caesar and Napoleon but kin to the latter. He is in fact
Napoleon—Napoleon Bonaparte stripped of his Concordat, his
Constitutions, his great Napoleonic Code and the Napoleonic victories.)
Like Napoleon, Mussolini says he owes much of his religious and
political views to books. Character and career, he says, were greatly
influenced by what he read. He prepared himself for mastery in quiet
libraries and in hall bedrooms, when he came home weary from a day’s
manual labor. Then it was he pondered the philosophers. Essentially
Mussolini is a book-made Hero-Conqueror.
“My whole life,” he told me, “has been shaped by what I read. Sorel,
Machiavelli, Nietzsche, have been my friends, counsellors, instructors.
To each I owe a great debt. Machiavelli I have studied from page to
page. (_Cf._ Napoleon’s Machiavelli and Plato.) For the conduct of
public affairs, such as I perceive them, there is no better guide than
Machiavelli even today. I not only study every word of his advice but I
put his ideas into life.
“Nietzsche, I must admit, has influenced me more than any man alive or
dead. Those who know Nietzsche will understand. His ‘Will to Power’ I
took as a personal message....”
Even at the mention of these words Mussolini clenched both fists and
seemed to radiate power from his massive face.
“Sklavenmoral,” he exclaimed, “the morality of slaves, that is what the
world is made up of today. We are ‘Human, all too Human.’ Our ideas of
good and evil are old and stupid—we must look ‘Beyond Good and Evil’
toward ‘The New Day’ when the present religions of all peoples, which
are the religions of enslaved minds, will be replaced by ‘The Will to
Power,’ the motive force of the Superman.”
He showed he knew Nietzsche thoroughly, even to that ridiculous
discussion which once followed the publication of one of Nietzsche’s
phrases, torn from its setting, and given to the world by sensational
newspapers as a mad German philosopher’s guide for the treatment of
women: “Thou goest to women, do not forget thy whip.”
Mussolini smiled at this and coined his own epigram:
“La fortuna è donna—bisogna prenderla e batterla.” “Fortune is a
woman—you must seize her and beat her.” And laughing quietly, he added:
“Frequently the best proof of a man’s love for a woman is shown in
beating her.”
But this is part of his misogynistic pose. He has read that there is no
place for women in the lives of philosophers and emperors, and
pretending that he is both, he has let himself be influenced by such
Nietzschean precepts as please him. In Rome Mussolini has a large
reputation as a Don Juan. His physicians, his intimates and his
political cronies love to delight even foreign correspondents with tales
of Mussolini’s amorous adventures and easy conquests in an idol-
worshipping land. But for public interviews Mussolini prefers to paint
himself kin to that Kipling hero who rises to heights and who travels
the fastest because he travels alone.
This self-announced misogyny of course has only served to intrigue all
the women who come near him, the nobility, the theatre, even the
visiting “lady” journalists. Women who would guard their secret of any
illicit love-affair with a lesser mortal, are proud to entertain social
gatherings with details of the hero’s love-making. When Mussolini
himself is discreet they can at least describe his _garçonniere_ in a
little side street not far from the palace. Paul Morand writes somewhere
a little interview with Miss Constance B—— whom he asked what she
thought of Il Duce.
“Mussolini,” replied Constance, “is the greatest man of our time. I
interviewed him about two weeks ago—look! My arms are still black and
blue.”
Signora Rachela Mussolini is in “exile.” Her husband has done handsomely
by her, he has provided her and his “first series of children” and the
“first of his second series” as he so delicately called his new son,
with a better apartment than they ever had in days of his poverty, and
does he not call to see them all once a year? On this grand occasion all
the photographers are invited to be present and to make as many
exposures as they wish of scenes of connubial perfection and bliss. But
Signora must not visit the capital or otherwise interfere with the
career of the hero.
She is a daughter of the proletariat and was a fitting companion and
housewife for a struggling man. But Mussolini outgrew her when he quit
waving the red shirt and put on the black, so making a virtue of his
marital failure, he boasts the philosophy of Schopenhauer and Nietzsche.
Let the great man have his little jest! Brilliant or beautiful women
take up a large part of Mussolini’s life. Spiritual consolation at least
he has found in the friendship of a marquesa, a leader of the women
Fascisti, and although he professes to hate high society and the
dramatic stage, he is credited with many a conquest among noble ladies
and footlight stars.
But we did not linger long on the dangerous ground of sex relationship.
In an impasse I asked: “What would you say was the turning point in your
life....”
“... from Socialist to patriot,” supplemented my interpreter.
To this addition Mussolini objected.
“No. That is wrong. I have always been a patriot. Even when I was a
radical Socialist. Socialist and patriot are not incompatible.”
“Well, from internationalist to nationalist patriot,” I suggested.
“The turning point was the war,” the dictator then resumed. “The war
showed the world plainly, I think, the utter bankruptcy of
internationalism. We had been fighting for a hollow fraud. I had fought
for internationalism all my life, preached it, gone to prison for that
same cause, and suddenly the war came, and I realized first that
internationalism was dead, because it had never really lived, and that I
had a real duty in life, and that was to my country.”
I made a long pretence of writing all this down while my brain itched to
ask him a question I dared not ask. I had made one such _faux pas_ years
ago, in 1909, when I was a cub in Pittsburgh and my city editor, being a
staunch Republican hireling, had sent me to interview William Jennings
Bryan and to ask him if he would run for president again. How I trembled
in the presence of the Great Man, that day, in the big room in the Fort
Pitt hotel. I trembled, yet I had to ask, and I did.
“Get out of here,” roared the silver tongued mountain, “get out quick,
you are the most impertinent cub I’ve ever met.“
It made a good Republican story, but I have learned self-censorship
since. So I did not ask whether the 400,000 francs (more or less) with
which the French government subsidized the Milan newspaper of which
Mussolini was the editor, had any bearing on his discovery of his
patriotic duty on the side of the Allies, suddenly, in 1915. We talked
about the war. Of this there is agreement among friends and enemies
alike: Mussolini was a good soldier. He joined the Bersaglieri,
distinguished himself in the mountain trenches, was wounded with some
thirty splinters of a hand-grenade, was promoted, and at the terrible
defeat of Caporetto, a name which you dare hardly whisper in Italy even
today, Mussolini was seen to weep freely. This fact is much talked
about. Because Mussolini, legend has it, has cried but twice in his
life, the first time, also during the war, when his mother died at home,
in Forli.
Mussolini recorded his experiences in his book “_Il Mio Diario de
Guerra_,” a fairly honest document despite the inevitable posing which
goes into all diaries.
“I am not a militarist,” he said, resuming the interview.
Then I remembered a question, trite in itself, but interesting in
relation to the man. Both Trotsky and Mussolini were journalists, and
both had become heads of armies. Both were expert with pen and sword.
One day I had asked Trotsky in the Kremlin, in Moscow, “Which do _you_
think is mightier, the sword or the pen?” and Trotsky, chief then of a
movement which had sprung full grown from the head of the great god
Propaganda, had replied: “The Pen.”
“The Sword,” replied Mussolini.
“But why?”
“Because it cuts.”
“Cuts?”
“Yes. Cuts. Ends things. _Finish._” This last word in English, with both
the i’s pronounced like double e’s, thus, “feeneesh.”
“The time comes,” added Mussolini, “when there must be an end to idle
talk, idle writing. _Dio mio_, we have too much of it in this world.
Words. Words. Words. And then, one blow—the sword—it is all over. It is
decided. It is finished. What was Fascismo? Talk. For years. And then
one day, the march on Rome. The sword is drawn. The old order is
finished.
“Yes, I believe in action, I believe in the sword. But please explain to
your readers who might think I talk militarism, that I am not a
militarist. I do believe that when the limit has been reached, when it
is a last necessity, as an extreme it must be the sword. That alone, not
the pen, can end intolerable things. The sword is decisive. It cuts.”
Home from the war, with the scars of battle, Mussolini was to learn that
the rapier also cuts. He was to add new scars through duels. He had
become editor of the _Popolo d’Italia_, and had made enemies of all his
old Socialist friends who were refusing to recognize that a new era was
opening for Italy and who were attacking him as a renegade and deserter
from their cause. He fought three duels. Fencing remains a great sport
with him, but it has not replaced riding or automobiling or flying. When
I began questioning him about sports he was happy again. When I had
mentioned music he had become human; on the subject of sports he
actually became friendly.
“I love all sports,” he said in a voice which embraced them. “I want
more sports for Italy. For myself, I prefer those which have danger in
them. Live dangerously! I hate saturated men. Man’s best qualities are
brought out by the dangerous life—energy, power, pride. I fence. I fly
an airplane. Look!” and he pointed to a scar across his forehead which
had made an artificial furrow—“this is a reminder of the time I fell in
flames. I have crashed twice. But I am an enthusiast for airplaning and
I must live to see the time when the air will be black with them, when
they will darken the sun and cast shadows over the peasants’ fields like
swift travelling rain clouds.”
* * * * * *
Mussolini’s co-workers in the Foreign Office, the Palazzo Chigi, had
told me that much as the Duce loved the open-air life, he hated the
indoor social whirl. Mussolini could rule Roman society had he such
ambitions. But when he put aside his wife he put aside such
temptations—and saved himself from the errors of other statesmen. He was
asked to join the Club de la Caccia, composed of noblemen exclusively,
and did so. He came to one reception, was initiated, but rarely
afterwards went there again. Idle noblemen bore him. Society bores him.
The man of action prefers the simple life.
“Do you have time for the theatre?” I asked, wondering what he did with
all his evenings.
“I do not care for the theatre,” Mussolini replied. “It seems to me
there is enough sadness in life, enough tragedy, without a repetition on
the stage. As for comedy and farce, musical shows and all that, no man
who has ambition and a rôle to play in this world, need waste his time
on them. Tragedy is what the theatre is for—for those who need that
catharsis. I do not. Nor do I go to the café—in a land where national
politics have always been made in cafés.”
“So of course you do not care for the movies,” I ventured.
“Ah, but I do,” he hastened to reply, “that is, comedies—American
comedies. I care for no other films, European or American. The attempt
to create serious movies in America leaves me unmoved. They are nearly
all sickly in their sentimentality, puritanical and filled with such
unbelievable bunkum as to make any European burst with amazement to find
such trashy naïveté still existing. But your comedies! Need I mention
Carlino—Charles Chaplin? That is where the American film approaches a
great art and has a value. The American comedies are among the best
things we get from America and I never miss them.”
We discussed American art and letters for a while, American customs and
manners.
“Is it true you once planned emigrating to America?”
“Yes. When I was nineteen—a political exile working in Switzerland. I
thought I would like to try my fortune in America as so many Italians
did at that time. I intended to engage in my calling of that time. I was
a mason. Well, I tossed a coin.” He went silent, meditating, he seemed
to see that coin spinning in the air, falling, sending him to America,
to be swallowed, obliterated in the ranks of labor-union masons in New
York.
“Youth—youth,” he sighed, “a dream—a dream. I wonder—what would have
become of me in America? Had I gone over as an emigrant what would I be
now?”
Could I reply that I thought his talents as an actor at least could
never have been lost?
* * * * * *
I was to see Mussolini almost a score of times before my expulsion. If
this was Nietzsche’s Superman I must study him closely. So I attended
every session of Parliament and watched him from my office window in the
Galleria Colonna whenever he came out to address his followers
clamouring outside the Palazzo Chigi just opposite.
In Parliament he sat, a bored and thirsty lion, tugging with the last
chains which bound him to democratic government. He paid no attention to
the speakers; sometimes when the Communists and the Fascists quarrelled
(the other five parties had gone on strike after the murder of the
Deputy Matteotti) he showed a wan interest. Frequently black coffee was
brought him on a tray and he drank to overcome his sleepiness.
So the debates would run endlessly.
Suddenly:—
“Basta!”
“Enough!”
With a smash of his fist Mussolini would rise to his feet and break the
flow of words. “Basta! We have had too much talk. Now we will vote. You
will now pass the resolution as I have prepared it.”
The vote would be taken—as he had prepared it.
Thus one day, with a noble gesture of a modern emancipator he gave women
the vote and received the applause of the Marquesa Piccolomini and other
gaily-dressed noble ladies of Rome who had brightened the galleries.
Shortly afterwards, in accordance with the long laid program of
Fascismo, he abolished the right to vote of both men and women.
At the Augusteo another day I heard the Duce make the famous speech
which severed him finally from all pretences of democracy and free human
institutions as the rest of the world, with the exception of Russia,
understands them and struggles for them. Not only did he declare
democracy a failure and the Parliamentary system of government dead, but
he spoke for the Terror.
“La violenza è profondamenta morale,” he said, “più morale del
compromesso e dello transazione.” (Violence is profoundly moral, more
moral than compromise and dealings.)
One of Ibsen’s _Enemies of the People_ might have said that. Surely it
would have been applauded too in Nietzsche’s Superman, and it was
heartily applauded by the mob in the Augusteo which applauded every time
Mussolini stopped for applause. But a few days later some Fascisti
attacked a Catholic procession, and the Pope in an address to a
pilgrimage from Perugino blamed this declaration for the act of
violence, thus showing the gulf between theory and practice in a rather
sudden way.
Superman as he undoubtedly appears to the vast majority of this world’s
population, Mussolini was not able then, nor is he able to this day, to
explain away to the satisfaction of non-Fascists the assassination of
Matteotti.
Matteotti stood in Mussolini’s way, just as other men have stood in the
path of Caesars and Neros, Napoleons and Robespierres. And there is the
sworn testimony of former aides who have fled the country that Mussolini
said “Remove that man.”
Matteotti was removed. Mussolini’s closest friends murdered
Matteotti—and two years later confessed the whole miserable affair. It
is the cruellest crime in the long criminal record of Fascismo. No one
can deny that unleashed violence has marked the reign and that bloodshed
was an almost daily occurrence for several years. Nor can anyone deny
that the Anti-Fascists killed many enemies. Workingmen, policemen,
journalists, priests, landlords, shopkeepers were slain in riots and
brawls and plots. But party-planned political assassination startled
Europe almost as much as Sarajevo. Giaccomo Matteotti is to Mussolini’s
conscience what the Duke of Enghien was to Napoleon. At St. Helena
Napoleon until almost his dying day exposed his tortured soul by
continual defence of the duke’s assassination. Mussolini has shown no
remorse. Nor has his press yet been able to disprove the Rossi and
Filipelli confessions, the Aventine documents and all the evidence
necessarily given abroad by refugees, of which I give extracts
elsewhere.
* * * * * *
Because there was nothing outwardly important about Lenin, whom I saw
several times during my year in Russia and talked to twice, Mussolini
remains the most impressive public personality of my eighteen newspaper
years. Europe regards Mussolini as its strongest man, now that Lenin’s
mantle no longer covers one person but a group. Recently I had occasion
to ask Dr. Alfred Adler of Vienna, founder of the school of individual
psychology, to discuss Mussolini as Superman.
Dr. Adler said he considered Mussolini the product of an intense
inferiority feeling acquired in childhood from a Socialist blacksmith
father and a doting mother. With Mussolini it is not strong enough to be
called an inferiority complex, for complexes might drive one into an
insane asylum, where many of his enemies think Mussolini now belongs,
but a just strong enough feeling of inferiority to compensate itself in
extraordinary shows of superiority in recent years.
“Inferiority,” continued Dr. Adler, “is a natural feeling. We must not
be ashamed of it but must admit it and fight it. We all have it, you and
I and Coolidge and Mr. Tunney, and the milkman, and of course Mussolini.
In fact Mussolini, from all one learns by reading about his early life
and studying his history, had a particularly hard case of inferiority
feeling, consequently today his expression of superiority is so violent.
“Nations and individuals, you can study their psychology in the same
manner. The present reactionary movement in many countries of Europe,
the arrival and successes of dictators, and the intense nationalistic
movements accompanied by so many proclamations of superiority, are
particularly striking in countries either crushed during the war or
generally suffering from an intense feeling of inferiority.
“Italy the nation and Mussolini the man synchronize in movement.
Mussolini’s father was a rebel; he wanted to reform society; he was a
Socialist, a syndicalist of some sort. His mother was superior mentally
to the father and the neighbouring peasantry, but too much the kind,
doting mother who is responsible for so many difficult cases of
inferiority feeling. The father wove rebellion into the child’s
inevitable sense of inferiority.
“Benito Mussolini as a child suffered the slings and arrows of various
misfortunes, and as a youth found Socialist activity the one outlet for
his strife with his inferiority feeling.
“I quite agree with H. G. Wells that Socialism is an expression of the
inferiority feeling of the perpetually disinherited. Certainly the
depressed and oppressed and suppressed of the world, the unhappy and the
have-nothings, do suffer from a more intense feeling of inferiority, and
certainly the strife is more severe and very often the reaction, the
compensation, the arrival of the feeling of superiority, is more
violent.
“The whipped, starved, unloved slum child becomes a bank robber or a
gunman; his subconscious battle with his feeling of inferiority sends
him shooting and robbing. The gunman sees himself a romantic hero, bold
and brave, and he may even go to the scaffold with a noble song on his
lips—it is all part of the same behaviour pattern, woven by suppression
and cruelty and endless sufferings in the first years of life, the years
of the birth and intensification of inferiority which require almost a
lifetime to overcome.
“Mussolini became dictator through violence, the violence of the gunman
on a national scale, and he rules through violence, stimulating a meek
people to shake off the unseen, terrible chains of inferiority and
become brave and successful, full of pride, respected in the society of
nations, conquering and ruling and altogether superior.
“The more intense the inferiority, as I have said, the more violent the
superiority. Such is the equation. Mussolini’s life shouts it: so does
the history of modern Italy. It accounts for all that you find in that
man and that people today. It accounts for their threat to the peace of
the world. It accounts for that bombardment of Corfu which astonished
the world, for the defiance of other smaller, weaker nations, all the
sword rattling which keeps France mobilizing troops on her side of the
frontier, for the threat to England in Malta and Cyprus and Gibraltar,
for the re-use of Bismarck’s historic expression, usually credited to
Kaiser Wilhelm, “Our future lies on the sea,” which you see posted up in
Rome today; for the attempt to spread Italian culture in the Austrian
Tyrol as a holy crusade; and it accounts for the forcible suppression of
all individualistic movements which oppose Fascism or advocate
liberalism and democracy and personal liberty or in any way differ from
the dictator’s formula.
“Men and nations cannot bear to feel inferior. Strife for power
develops. Robespierre the aristocrat, Marat the sansculotte, Mussolini
the downtrodden Socialist, each sought the equation for his individual
inferiority. By a turn of fate the Socialist party crushed Mussolini,
where he had already found considerable compensation and power, so he
sought a larger outlet for his driving force.
“After the war Europe was full of discounted gentlemen. France had been
that way before her revolution. The men who grasp power in time of
hesitation need not necessarily be great—their contemporaries are too
small. The clever man, the orator, the organizer, wins easily when the
other leaders of parties are discounted and weak. Italy needed
satisfaction. It wanted the world to value her. Mussolini promised
satisfaction and valuation. Napoleon came and was successful in a
similar period of history.
“The behaviour pattern of persons can be studied from their relations to
three things: to society, to work, to sex. The feeling of inferiority
affects the man’s relations to society, work, sex. But there is no
‘complex,’ no need to consult an expert unless a man says, ‘I cannot
work. I cannot love. I have no friends.’ Mussolini’s behaviour pattern
is quite clear in two things—society and work. Of what is generally
whispered regarding his ‘superiority complex’ in sex I cannot judge.
History will have to study that too as it has studied the sex
expressions of Napoleon and other conquerors.
“Mussolini as Superman? I do not think so. Mussolini as super-Italian?
That is evident. Mussolini as the personification of man’s battle with
inferiority—that is one way history must regard him.”
_Chapter III_
THE POPE AND FASCISM
The Vatican holds itself aloof from the usual methods of governmental
propaganda: there are no press conferences, no confidential sources, no
“well-informed circles,” no “semi-official authority.” Therefore every
correspondent knows that the subject “what the Vatican thinks” about
world affairs is a dangerous one, and in place of government censorship
or police censorship, you have self-censorship. Great care is exercised
and very little sent about Vatican politics although it plays so great a
rôle in European affairs.
Every week for months Monsignor X——, whom I will identify only as a
priest who was the advisor of the Pope when the latter was Cardinal in
Poland and who today occupies the same confidential position, came to my
office to discuss politics with Signor Cianfarra, my Italian assistant,
a cultured, broad-minded liberal, a friend of Amendola and yet no narrow
enemy of Fascismo. From these conversations I learned much of the
relationship of Catholicism to Fascism.
I had come to Rome under the impression that the Pope was the friend of
the atheist Mussolini, and that Catholics the world over shared this
view. I had heard at least a hundred Americans say, “Whatever may be
said against Mussolini as a dictator, we American Catholics are for him
because he is the first Italian premier to be fair to our religion. He
has restored the cross to the public schools and permitted the
reintroduction of religious instruction in them.”
These two facts are incontrovertible. Mussolini did just what they say.
Italy is some 90 per cent. Catholic and it did not take a particularly
Machiavellian brain to see the value of friendship with the Vatican.
Mussolini always did place opportunism above his agnosticism.
Throughout the first years of his reign Mussolini exerted himself to win
the church. An attempt was made to heal all the wounds Garibaldi once
inflicted. Church and state were to become friends—Quirinal and Vatican
were to co-operate, and the Pope was to be released from his noble
prison.
In November, 1922, the Pope sent an order to all the bishops of Italy to
help the new government, which then consisted of a cabinet including
Liberals, Catholics and Democrats as well as Fascists. Gradually all
non-Fascists were eliminated and simultaneously a policy of violence was
inaugurated to crush them. When the violence increased, and the dead and
wounded began to number thousands, the priests of the victims’
congregations were alarmed; when the Catholic churches and institutions
were attacked, the Cardinals complained to the Pope. The church, which
was preaching Christ, had to denounce the crucifixion of the non-Fascist
parties.
In Pisa anti-Catholic outrages had been particularly violent and
persistent. The Catholic clubs and their newspaper had been attacked,
the rooms and machinery wrecked, men assaulted. Cardinal Maffi, one of
the intellectual leaders of the church, following the murder of
Matteotti, issued a pastoral letter which deeply impressed the Pope. It
was entitled “Thou shalt not kill” and in it the Fascisti are called
“The Race of Cain.” The Fascist government twice suppressed this
pastoral letter. It begins:
“It is with feelings of surprise and sorrow and unspeakable bitterness
of soul that I bring myself to the performance of a duty which I never
thought would have fallen to my lot. But recently there has been
crowding in upon my mind, ever closer and closer, the feeling that I
ought to bring to your notice and comment upon the fifth commandment
of the Decalogue: Thou shalt not kill. Considering our wide-spread and
manifold education, the progress of civilization, and our vaunted
brotherhood of nations and mankind, I allowed myself to be deluded
into believing in a general cessation and total disappearance of
crimes of blood. I thought that they could have remained only as words
in the dictionaries and fading records and in the memories of veteran
survivors of an age that had passed.
“Delusion. The dismal heritage of the war, the familiarity with arms
and with blood, and, even before the war, the bitter and violent
hatreds between classes and parties, the decadence and disappearance
of the religious sentiment, to these we must attribute the fact that
if there be one thing which no longer counts and is of no price or
value on the market, it is life itself, our own and that of others.”
and concludes:
“It is said of murderers that they boast of the number of their
victims. But the word is merely on the lips, presented rather than
pronounced, in a moment of confusion and excitement. Other words come
in the night and ring with a different sound, causing fears to arise
that are uncontrollable and sometimes even insane. O, Cain! O, Judas!
O, all ye who shed the blood of your brothers, you lie when you speak
of security; for we know you have it not. Nor could you have it. Do we
not see you turn pale and look furtively around, as if seeking some
way of escape, at a chance sound that may strike the ear, at a chance
light that may strike the eye, even at the murmur of the wind, at the
chirping of the birds?...
“War had and has its poison-gas, its liquids of destruction; but bear
this well in mind: No acid, sulphuric or nitric or prussic and no
sublimate is so corrosive as one drop of blood criminally shed. There
is no chemical basis that will resist or neutralize it. There are no
forces to control it. Armies will not hold it in check. It flows on.
It corrodes. It destroys. Woe to the hand that sheds blood. Woe to the
feet that trample on the corpse. O, Dynasty of Cain, carry on. But
listen to this, where men fail God is to the rescue—God who gives no
quarter to the culprits but incessantly pursues them, crying out
judgment over them: Accursed. Accursed. Accursed in time; accursed in
eternity.”
After Cardinal Maffi had braved Fascist wrath by speaking out, the
_Osservatore Romano_, the official organ of the Vatican, printed
numerous reports of Fascist violence directed against Catholics. Where
party politicians were afraid to open their mouths and where the terror-
stricken press failed, the Catholics dared. One day the _Osservatore
Romano_ recounted:
“Unfortunately the bellicose discourses of Farinacci (Secretary of the
Fascist party) coincides with a vigorous recrudescence of violence.
Besides an attack on Deputy Amendola, we are informed of other similar
attacks in which Catholic groups were the victims.
“In Alife, in Piedmont, a Fascist parade, unprovoked, invaded the
Catholic club, ‘God and Fatherland,’ smashing the furniture, pictures
and windows. The under-prefect, upon receiving protests, expressed
surprise that these facts were not known to him. This is not
surprising, inasmuch as the commissary of public safety, who reported
to the under-prefect, was the leader of this Fascist expedition.
“On the 21st, the club rooms of the Saint Marius club were invaded and
everything smashed. The same thing happened at the Saint Domingo club,
where the door was broken in and the furniture and pictures were
smashed. This invasion was preceded by a number of revolver shots to
intimidate the population.
“The following night, Fascist squadrons at Spezia devastated the
Catholic club, Silvio Pellico, burning the furniture and also burning
a crucifix, a picture of the Sacred Heart and a portrait of the Holy
Father.
“When will this sad chronicle end?”
The climax of the controversy between the church and the Fascisti came,
according to Monsignor X——, when Monsignor Pizzardo, under-secretary of
state for the Vatican, following the receipt of numerous telegrams by
Cardinal Gaspari from Spezia and other towns relating to Fascist
attacks, went to the Pope with the facts. The Pope expressed surprise at
the sudden anti-Christian move on the Fascisti’s part. Pizzardo said
there had been numerous cases before in the past year, but he had not
believed them important and he had not wanted to trouble the Pontiff,
whose time was already overcrowded with the exactions imposed by the
millions of Holy Year pilgrims.
“Don’t keep the truth from me—I want to know all about such matters,”
the Pope said. Monsignor Pizzardo then explained how for a year there
had been more and more cases until in the last fortnight there had been
a series which were not coincidences.
The Pope already knew of the Pisa outrage and how Cardinal Maffi had
branded the rioters. Moreover, the Pope had read Mussolini’s speech at a
recent convention of the Fascisti when violence as a moral measure was
upheld in words which Mussolini had once learned from a French
communist. In his discussion with Monsignor Pizzardo the Pope further
learned of Signor Farinacci’s fire-eating speeches in Sicily urging
physical violence against the Opposition and his speech which resulted
in the attack on Amendola, the leader of the Opposition.
Accordingly the Supreme Pontiff ordered the _Osservatore Romano_ to
write an editorial which would not be signed, meaning that the Vatican
and not any individual was responsible for it. The editorial which the
Pope inspired did not hesitate to blame Mussolini and his violent
speeches. It mentioned the violence at Spezia, Montecatini, Alife,
Florence, Signa, Parma, Sarzana, etc. The _Osservatore Romano_ warned
the Fascisti that the stories of their violence were creating a bad
impression, especially in Catholic countries, and that they would create
a worse impression unless the government did its duty and punished the
guilty. Finally the inspired editorial concluded with a significant
Latin phrase which may be translated, “Nothing built on violence
endures.”
Then on June 14, 1925, the Corpus Christi procession was attacked and
broken up by blackshirts, and on the 21st, addressing the Holy Year
pilgrimage from Perugia, the Pope, who rarely even remotely refers to
political events, protested against Fascist attacks on Catholics and
especially the Corpus Christi outrage. The Catholic newspapers used the
mild heading, “_Il Papa deplora le violenze contro i Catholici_,” and
stated that the Pope had declared that religious demonstrations had been
from time to time disturbed, even in Italy, by acts which, he said,
might be called “neither human, nor Christian and certainly not
Italian.” Such acts, the Pope said, had occurred in this sacred city on
the occasion of a solemn festival of the church. He added that such acts
should be prevented by the authorities, or, if they happened, punished
in an exemplary manner.
The _Osservatore Romano_, official organ of the Vatican, gave some
details of the incident to which the Pope referred. Among the victims,
according to the _Osservatore_, was a certain student, Allessandro
Dofano, who was assaulted by eight or nine men in the Fascist blackshirt
uniform, including one in the uniform of the “musketeers,” Mussolini’s
personal bodyguard. The police arrived in time to rescue him from the
worst of the beating which the eight or nine were administering—but made
no arrests. Instead, the Fascisti quietly repaired to the “Senato Café”
and ordered drinks.
I have already mentioned the Catholic Party which in 1922 co-operated
with Mussolini. After the Matteotti murder it joined the Opposition.
Although this party is by no means a Vatican party, it is a Catholic
party and numerous priests and leading Catholic politicians belonged to
it until its suppression in 1927. The Fascisti carried on a bitter
political war against the Populari, as the Catholic party was called,
and against the “_preti politicanti_,” of politician-priests. The
Vatican had discouraged the activities of the Populari and the parish
priests in the early days of Fascismo. But the blackshirts had little
respect for tonsured heads. One of the most serious Fascist crimes was
the murder of the priest Don Minzoni of Argenta, near Ferrara, who was
killed for revenge because he denounced violence. That the Mussolini
government was directly blamable was indicated by letters written by
Italo Balbo, a hero of the Fascist march on Rome and a pillar of
Mussolini’s strength. One of Balbo’s letters urged making life unlivable
for the Argenta element and others prepared for the escape of assassins.
These letters brought about the fall of Balbo from his official
position, whereupon Mussolini sent him a letter saying he had acted as
“a Fascist and a gentleman.”
Mussolini, in 1925, in addition to delivering the orations in favor of
violence which caused the Papal organ to lay much blame on him, almost
single-handed passed the anti-Masonry bill. This caused considerable
disillusion in American Babbittry and probably cost the dictator more
votes of sentiment than any other action, including the Matteotti
murder.
The general impression prevails that Mussolini forced the bill in order
to please the Catholic church. Nothing is farther from the truth. The
Catholic church was considerably displeased by Mussolini’s measure,
which, while aimed at Freemasonry, was worded so that any lodge could be
broken up and the Jesuit or Trappist orders were in the same danger as
the Oriental lodge of Freemasons. Mussolini merely killed another
potential source of political opposition; religious views had nothing to
do with the case.
* * * * * *
These are some of the cross-currents in the history of the Vatican and
the Palazzo Chigi. The undertow is philosophical.
From my friends in the Vatican I learned that there have grown up two
parties in the Roman Catholic Church of Italy, one favoring co-operation
with Mussolini, the other bitterly demanding that the church
anathematize him as Anti-Christ. It is said that the Cardinals are
divided, with Cardinal Maffi the leader of the anti-Fascist group. The
Pope and his cabinet, despite the famous attack on violence, while not
being completely satisfied with the gains the church has made under the
friendly régime, favour support for many reasons. One, and a most
important one, is that Fascism is the enemy of radicalism. Although
Fascism despite such a claim did not kill Bolshevism, which had
committed suicide in 1920, it had stamped out its remnants, with
Socialism and all sorts of radical movements, when it made a clean sweep
of all its opponents. Fascism had restored national discipline and
individual acquiescence to the state of things as they are. The Vatican
approved.
In the church opposition there are many Jesuit leaders who are alarmed
by Mussolini, his philosophy of violence, and his tremendous grip on the
soul of the people. The Jesuits believe that the soul belongs to the
church. They see “Mussolinism” growing up as a religion, a fanatical
religion. Devotion to it surpasses Pope and king.
The Jesuits see Mussolini’s new philosophy making the State warden for
the human being. The State is supreme; individualism must cease; not
only democracy but personal liberty must come to an end because they
interfere with the powers of the Fascist Corporate State, and slavery of
the worker, if necessary, must be accepted because the State and not the
man must succeed.
The Jesuits see the church left out.
The era of violence against the Catholic church is passing but the
conflict with the church and between church and state is entering a new
phase; the battle-ground is a philosophy. The struggle has been sensed
by a newspaper, _Il Piccolo_, which said one noon:
“We cannot live on good terms both with God and Duce Mussolini.
Christianity and Fascism are absolute antipodes. The choice,
therefore, of good Catholics of Italy is love or violence—Christ or
Mussolini.”
The edition was suppressed.
* * * * * *
At the end of March, 1928, the French press, which is largely Catholic,
surprised its readers with a repetition of the 1925 headlines: “_Le Pape
contre le Facisme italien_.” All the propaganda written to prove that
the Pope and Mussolini, the Vatican and the Chigi, were working hand in
glove, was suddenly destroyed. When Fascism, continuing its policy of
capturing the spirit as well as the body, ordered the disbanding of the
Catholic Boy Scouts, because, “only the Fascist state has the right to
bring up the youth of Italy,” the Pope protested. The _Osservatore
Romano_ again elaborated the Papal views, and Mussolini again remained
defiant. However, there is sure to be a big “Vatican-Mussolini
Rapprochement” story in the papers some day soon.
_Chapter IV_
MUSSOLINI’S SIBERIA
Whenever there is a conference of editors and reporters in Europe it is
inevitable that the question: What is the big story to get right now? is
asked. For years the answer has been: Russia. The Bolsheviki turned the
key of censorship in the lock of terrorism, and excluded impartial
journalism for a long time. Therefore they provided a goal for truth-
seekers.
Today the answer is: Mussolini’s Siberia. Ever since the Duce took his
lesson from the Czars and established exile for all Italians who were
vocal and active and non-Fascist, foreign correspondents have known that
a big and good story can be had at any time for a little exertion, not
too many dollars, and considerable ingenuity.
For a long time I doubted my own news sense; I have been expelled from
Italy and try as I can to be objective to the Fascist experiment I may
have prejudices. It may have been a prejudice that made me believe a
secret visit to Mussolini’s Siberia would result in a sensational series
of articles, almost as good as a visit to the similar Bolshevik horror
in the Arctic Sea.
But one day I heard the correspondent of a New York evening paper assert
that the Liparian Islands today hold the biggest chance for a newspaper
sensation. And another day I saw a number of telegrams addressed to the
big American news-agencies and newspapers suggesting an assignment
there. In Paris and London I heard the leading American correspondents
say what a great chance was being missed, and whenever Rome
correspondents came north they recommended that some one else—for them
it was too dangerous—should do the Fascist Siberia.
But nothing seems to have come of it all. James Vincent Shean, after
receiving many smuggled letters describing conditions in one of the
islands (which corroborate many statements in this chapter), attempted
to land at a town where a friend is imprisoned. He found that blackshirt
guards had replaced government guards and the Fascist régime forbids
even the natives to speak to the politicals. With the change in police
has come more savage treatment. One case has caused quite a scandal
recently: a Fascist guard during an argument with an unarmed political
stuck a bayonet into the latter’s eye and blinded him. Violence marks
the island as well as the mainland régime. Mr. Shean tells me the
Fascisti are efficient policemen and the cordon is now more difficult to
break. He believes, however, that an American reporter, if backed with
sufficient money and enthusiasm in the home office, could penetrate the
prisons. But it is still obvious that American editors (1) do not think
the story good enough to warrant the adventure or (2) are afraid to
offend Mussolini. So far as I have been able to find out, the only
statements regarding the entire system of island deportation have
appeared only in _The New York World_ and _The Manchester Guardian_.
The institution of “confino” is not new in Italy. Before our immigration
quota law was passed an Italian criminal sometimes had the choice of
confinement on one of the barren, waterless, flea-infested islands which
surround Sicily, or of going to the United States. Many preferred the
latter. In fact my last assignment in Italy was an investigation into
the relationship between crime in America, chiefly Chicago, and the land
of birth of a large number of the criminals, Italy. My Italian
assistant, Camillo Cianfarra, a former member of the Italian embassy in
Washington, an expert on emigration, a cultured man and a liberal
thinker—(he died two weeks after my expulsion from Rome, from heart
failure, as a result of being beaten up by Fascisti, apparently for the
reason that he helped me obtain the documents which charged Mussolini’s
complicity in the Matteotti assassination)—was able to obtain very
interesting information. Cianfarra showed that Sicilian judges,
especially, made it a practice to suggest to members of the Mafia and
other habitual murderers, cut-throats and bandits, to emigrate to the
United States. There was no death penalty in Italy then. When criminals
were sent to the islands there was the danger of their escape and
return, and always they proved a drain on the treasury because their
living expenses had to be borne by the government. The judges therefore
suggested the name of a boat a week or so before the criminal was to be
sentenced, and in nine cases out of ten Italy thereby rid herself of a
bad citizen and the United States gained one.
Mussolini’s magistrates do not offer an alternative to the political
prisoner. Although America is closed, there are other lands for
emigrants, but these are too dangerous for the Fascist régime, because
in other lands there is freedom, of voice and press, and the exiled
editor or politician could remain an active force opposed to Fascism.
The anti-Facisti say there are five or more thousands of prisoners in
the islands, the Fascisti admit only one thousand, which, they add, was
reduced to 700 by Mussolini’s amnesty last Christmas. In addition there
are probably as many in “exile” on the mainland. Almost without
exception the prisoners, no matter what their number, are men of
considerable worth, whose only crime has been activity in behalf of an
ideal which did not fit into the Fascist paradise. They are doctors,
lawyers, schoolmasters, journalists, priests, writers, college
professors, members of the chamber of deputies and politicians.
In almost all cases the victims were tried by self-constituted Fascist
militia courts. In the island of Lampedusa the political prisoners were
domiciled with murderers and thieves, criminals so dangerous that the
state could not take the risk of keeping them in mainland prisons.
In Pantelleria the politicals are allowed to buy housing and food if
they have private incomes, which many have not, having either lost their
means of livelihood when unable to continue their professions, or having
had their property confiscated by the Fascisti.
In Ustica 350 politicals are housed by the government, from eight to
twelve sharing each filthy and unsanitary room.
The curse of the islands is monotony. There is nothing to do. The
criminals cannot feel the torture so much; they are not sensitive, but
the intelligent politicals are, in some instances, driven actually
insane, not by torture, but by the horrible monotony of unchanging
existence. Some find relief by reviving the stale political quarrels of
the mainland! Others exchange lessons in languages. Tyrolese patriots,
who are maintaining a feeble struggle against a Versailles iniquity
which deeded them without plebiscite or protest to their enemies, have
brought in the German language with its soft, pleasant Austrian
intonation and a new element of political discussion.
“Bolsheviks,” “anarchists,” “communist rascals,” are the words used by
Mussolini in his usual immoderate speeches whenever he refers to the
island prisoners. Occasionally one or two of the political prisoners
having a choice between misery, suicide, or recantation, embrace the
Fascist faith, are released and received with loud “evvivas” in the camp
of the new Czar.
But it seems no American newspaper, despite the frequent and urgent
requests of its Paris and Berlin and Rome representatives, despite the
fact that every report confirms the existence of a big and sensational
story, can bring itself to spend the necessary dollars to smash the
black halo of the Latter Day Saint of Italy.
_Chapter V_
FASCISM IN 1928
Despite my expulsion from Italy and blacklisting at consulates, I have
been able to make an investigation of Italy in 1928, thanks largely to
several American newspaper correspondents who, being unable to write the
whole story of Fascismo, probably derive a vicarious pleasure from
assisting those who are free.
The gains in Italy are material and evident and one would have to be not
only deaf, dumb and blind, but worse, prejudiced and unfair, to
disregard them. The moral values are harder to estimate. The conflict of
State versus individual continues—in fact it has become so important
that it is arousing more and more discussion in the church, which also
is alarmed over the shackles government is attempting to fasten on the
free will and spiritual autonomy of a people.
In 1928 (as in Russia) the terror by which government is maintained is
less in evidence; as in Russia there is less need of force,
violence—even murder—when the will of the opposition, like the will of a
young child, is completely broken and a sullen, sour, impotent
submissiveness takes its place. Italy like Russia has achieved peace and
calm through crushing the free spirit of the intellectual, intelligent
and articulate class: the mob, peasant and common worker, have never had
any power nor have they today in either country.
What is left of an opposition, Russian or Italian, resides abroad and
bides its time. Many doubt if there is the smallest hope for them. All
they can do is write and talk. If we contrast, however, the following
two statements of the leaders of Fascism and anti-Fascism, we can see
that the fight has not been abandoned in Italy—as it has been largely in
Russia. Mussolini said recently:
“In the creation of a new State which is authoritarian but not
absolutist, hierarchical and organic—namely, open to the people in all
its classes, categories and interests—lies the great revolutionary
originality of Fascism, and a teaching perhaps for the whole modern
world oscillating between the authority of the State and that of the
individual, between the State and the anti-State. Like all other
revolutions, the Fascist revolution has had a dramatic development but
this in itself would not suffice to distinguish it. The reign of
terror is not a revolution: it is only a necessary instrument in a
determined phase of the revolution.”
To which ex-Premier Nitti, one of many leaders of Italians who seek the
re-establishment of human liberty, replied:
“The ignoble phenomenon of a dictatorship is a shameful blot on
European civilization. Reactionary minds, which are indignant at red
dictatorships, have only sympathy with ‘white’ dictatorships, which
are equally, if not more bloodthirsty, no less brutal and unjustified
by any ideal, even a false one.
“The Fascist government abolished in Italy every safeguard of the
individual and every liberty. No free man can live in Italy, and an
immoral law prevents Italians from going to a foreign country on pain
of punishment. Italy is a prison where life has become intolerable.
Everything is artificial—artificial finance—artificial
exchange—artificial public economy—artificial order—artificial calm.
“Without a free parliament, a free press, a free opinion and a true
democracy, there will never be peace.”
* * * * *
_The New Leaders in Italy_
The anxious world which opposed bolshevism waited for the passing of
Lenin and Trotsky to mark the collapse of that movement; likewise anti-
Fascists predict that the passing of Mussolini will mark the end of his
régime. The death of Lenin and the political passing of Trotsky had no
more significance than accompanies the birth of an heir to a throne
nowadays. The system did not change.
In Italy small changes have taken place. Mussolini has now taken to
himself even the few powers he had loaned to his two strong assistants,
Farinacci, secretary of the Fascist party, and Federzoni, minister of
interior.
These two men once sat at his left and right hand. Farinacci, the so-
called “left hand” of Mussolini, preached more and more violence;
Federzoni, the “right hand” represented the old conservative royalist
support, and had the backing of the army and the clergy. Both were too
strong for an egotist’s entourage and both have gone. There is a rumour
that Farinacci was preparing to seize the dictatorship, but, while this
is in the character of the man, the accusation has never been proven.
Italo Balbo is having his troubles in the air ministry. He is the same
Italo Balbo who was forced to quit the command of the Fascist militia
following the murder of the priest Don Minzoni of Argenta, one of the
many Jesuit victims of blackshirt violence. Gentile, who for years
represented the few intelligent Italians who remained Fascists, and who
saw himself derided by all the writers and poets and dramatists and
liberal and ethically alert minds, has quit the ministry of education.
Three new men have arrived. Dino Grandi, under-secretary for foreign
affairs, is becoming a power, but a power in the shadow of Mussolini. He
has had an interesting career, typical of the new generation of
diplomats in the Fascist service. During one of the early revolts, when
the Duce was within an inch of being crushed, Grandi smashed the
uprising, and since then has been honoured by doing many of Mussolini’s
dirty little jobs, such as intimidation, personal terrorism of
opponents, diplomatic espionage and press censorship.
He started his Fascist career in Bologna as head of the secret service
commonly called after its Russian model, the Chekah. A Bologna banker,
Baroncini, was his opponent. The latter edited a newspaper (_Assalta_)
which discovered and exposed a 300,000,000 lire Fascist graft in the
construction of the 700,000,000 Florence-Bologna tunnel. Baroncini
blamed Grandi’s Chekah gang for the graft. The Fascist secret service
conspired to assassinate Baroncini, obtaining, at a price, the services
of a doctor to administer poison and disease germs. At the last minute,
it seems, the physician remembered his calling, and confessed. _Assalta_
published all this evidence.
Grandi then challenged Baroncini to a duel. The latter replied:
“Physical strength is cheap, but moral courage is rare in Italy today.”
He refused to meet Grandi.
Another big figure in the Fascist State was Count Volpi. He is one of
the “new” Fascists, having joined the party in order to hold office. It
was Volpi who stabilized the Italian lira, a process, however, which
brought considerable conflict between him and Mussolini, the bankers and
the government. Volpi was the accredited agent of the Banca Commerciale
Italiana in the Fascist government. The bankers and the Milan-Turin
metal industries bought and paid for Fascism from the day they took over
the romantic d’Annunzio’s flowery and shouting blackshirts, but this was
the first time the owners of Fascismo ever placed one of their own men
in a position to administer its finances. But now Volpi, too, has
resigned because he could not agree in everything with Mussolini.
Rossoni is the third important new man. He represents labour. In the
Fascist attempt to make capital and labour one class by imposing a new
set of laws regarding strikes and lock-outs, wages and profits,
Mussolini has chosen a man who still keeps alive the old aspiration and
idealism of labour seeking a better day and a better world for itself.
With Farinacci, Federzoni, Gentile and Balbo made impotent, Mussolini,
unlike the Bolshevik dictators, has amassed rather than divided power.
His Grandi, Volpi and Rossoni affiliations have not affected his
personal strength. Italy has become more and more a one-man show.
* * * * *
_Censorship and the Press_
All outgoing telegraphic dispatches are still censored but the
government denies that letters are being opened. Censorship is done in
the foreign office, by a secretary who calls Grandi’s attention to
anything suspect. The correspondent is then sent for and lectured or
threatened. But not as severely as formerly. Recently a Hearst
representative named Horan was on the carpet for a dispatch regarding
the tribal uprising in Libya, but he was not expelled. All
correspondents are lectured when their Paris or London colleagues send
news unfavorable to Fascism: Grandi and Mussolini not only control the
reports from Italy but try to affect the news regarding Italy sent from
other countries.
The Rome bureau of the Associated Press, the largest news distributing
agency in the world, is still in the hands of Commendatore Salvatore
Cortesi, and the Rome bureau of _The New York Times_ is still in the
hands of Arnaldo Cortesi. Both these journalists claim they are not
members of the Fascist party. Both are Italians, however, and their
sympathies are well known. As their dispatches are public property, it
is not difficult for the reader to form his own opinion of their
fairness. Two Americans, Hudson Hawley and Hal Walker, have now been
assigned as Commendatore Cortesi’s assistants in Rome.
In the past year numerous dispatches have been suppressed. There has,
however, been no scandal equalling the Matteotti case. The foreign
journalists were particularly vexed by the complete suppression of
cables which pictured the fraud as well as the glory of the Fifth
Anniversary Celebration of Fascism. This event was featured by the
secret, furtive arrival of Mussolini at Villa Gloria, and his departure
in a seemingly runaway automobile, as if in flight from an assassin, and
the police measures which rivalled anything in Russia in Czarist days.
Only dispatches which lauded the event were passed.
Much more important is the fact that many telegrams were never written
because of fear of Fascist consequences. For example:
Genoa: Anti-Fascist demonstrations, thousands of workmen paraded the
streets with their pockets turned inside-out to show they had nothing.
Palermo: The new 2-lire coin systematically defaced by the populace
despite threats of imprisonment, because the new national money bears
the Fascist party emblem.
Savona: Anti-Fascist demonstrations and riots during trial of men
accused of helping Filippo Turati leave Italy. Turati reached Corsica,
then London, where he exposed the newest terrorism in Italy. The riots
in favour of Turati’s helpers in Savona became so important that the
Fascist court had to content itself with the minimum sentence.
(Not as violent as 1922-1927—but the same old story.)
And the Italian press? Despite its Fascist control, the Milan _Corriere
della Sera_ remains, as heretofore, a distinguished newspaper. Sometimes
it is allowed to discuss Fascist problems academically. Recently it has
brought up the subject of a left and a right Fascist party, which might
give Italy the appearance of having some show of political liberty. The
_Tevere_ in Rome can be bright at times. The rest of the Italian press
is sunk in party corruption. All the important journalists are either in
prison, in exile, out of a job, or poverty stricken. The press is
dominated by the example of the Duce’s brother, Arnaldo Mussolini, who,
lacking the brilliance of the former, fulminates daily in his own paper,
threatens friendly nations, and throws dirt at his enemies.
* * * * *
_Fascism and Catholicism_
The latest phase of the Fascist-Catholic conflict is summed up by _The
Manchester Guardian_ as follows:
“Fascismo has lent itself generously to the church as an ally in the
battle against ‘immoral fashions,’ ‘pornographic publications,’
‘deleterious amusements,’ and so on. Indeed the pleasure life of the
great cities has been reduced to a minimum. One may find this zeal
praiseworthy, but the dark spirit of the Counter-Reformation is abroad;
and the lip-service paid to the moralizing campaign by the younger
Fascist leaders is hypocritical. Indeed the whole association of Fascism
with the Catholic Church sometimes seems to have had bad effects on
both. It is the reactionary elements in both which profit by the
alliance, at the expense of the liberal elements.”
* * * * *
_The Philosophical Defence of Fascism_
Actually and practically, Italy is far better off than anti-Fascists
charge. Money has been stabilized; the internal public debt has been
reduced from 95 billions to 85 in four years; trains leave and arrive on
time (_cf._ Russia); there is a more wholesale acceptance of Fascismo
than two years ago; the theory of government is, after the manner of
William James, a pragmatic affair because “it works.”
It has been discovered, suddenly, that Fascism is _Real Politik_ as
contrasted to the rest of Europe’s and America’s fantastic and
impossible belief in life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,
democracy, parliamentary government and other such romantic, impractical
illusions. Even the Bolsheviks, who have hitherto announced themselves
the only realists of our age, have been put in the second row because
they have not compromised so much as Fascism, nor changed horses so
often in all the muddy streams of politics, but have abided strictly by
the tenets of Marx and Lenin.
Fascist realism has given this not new nor brilliant thesis to the
world: the state is everything, the individual nothing; efficiency and
economic welfare stand above the rights of man; man exists for society,
not society for man. It is therefore no longer necessary for freedom to
exist as man is to become the slave of the state, and the state is to be
responsible for him to God—and Mussolini. Out of pragmatism, Fascismo
hopes to create Robotism.
The Bolsheviks were the first to appeal to realist philosophy as a
defence for their restriction of social liberty; the apologists for
Fascismo in these more peaceful days when there seems to be absolutely
no reason for non-resumption of normal parliamentarianism in Italy, are
also looking for philosophic excuses. But how in 1928 is Fascist
“philosophy” actually working out?
Certainly the country is feeling its nationalistic oats. Patriotism and
sword-rattling have made the Italians a prouder people, a people
emerging from the shadows of inferiority which were never wholly
dispelled by Garibaldi. Italy is more efficient, produces more, seeks a
larger place in the sun and enjoys those same blessings which a strong
healthy nordic people enjoyed before the world war. The German spirit is
gaining in Italy.
The Gentile school system, which aims to create a Fascist aristocracy,
is working successfully so far as its athletic program is concerned. The
philosopher Giovanni Gentile aimed to have the schools “brought into
close contact with life in all its manifestations of force, beauty,
work.” As there are no intellectual leaders left in the government or
party, the idealistic part of the program makes no headway and the
Fascisti say: “give us time.” On the other hand Mussolini, the realist,
encourages the Avanguardia and the Balilla, two boys’ organizations
which have military training and are the hope for the continuation of
military dictatorship. The Balilla boys have frequently beaten up
unarmed Catholic boy scouts during processions, much to the alarm of the
Pope, and in several public schools the masters have put up signs,
“Balilla members must not bring their fathers’ revolvers to the
classrooms and must not terrorize non-Balillas.”
Culture is at a low ebb. Fascism seems to have produced nothing in the
seven arts. The writers have fled the country—with the exception of
Pirandello who has had a theatre subsidized with Fascist money, Ferrero,
the great historian, who has tried to get out of Italy time and again
but is held a prisoner, and d’Annunzio, the spiritual leader of
Fascismo, who has never quite reconciled himself to the régime.
Political repression has resulted in national stultification. But
intelligence has not been crushed completely. It exists even among the
Fascisti. They, who have preached the rebirth of nationalism, and
salvation through action, efficiency, and uncomplaining labor, are at
last beginning to be a bit doubtful whether or not, after all, that is
all there is to human existence. Even Mussolini, who all his life has
been a rebel against a society of Things as They Are, is said to be
wavering in his absolutist program. He who has preached against the
corruption which tyrannical power gives a man or government, may yet
become a leader of liberalism.
Certainly throughout Italy a wave of unrest is passing today. That Italy
which never knew liberty but which followed a Garibaldi and a d’Annunzio
and a Mussolini when they preached liberty, is now experiencing a real
desire for freedom. The working masses, of course, have never seen
anything in Fascism except the victory of the bankers and employers; the
peasantry, like all peasantry, is apathetic except when something
affects the price of food; the very men who tell the tourists all is
healthy and beautiful in Italy, change their tune when they find a
sympathetic ear. On the Riviera and in Southern France there are about a
million Italians at work. Only a few are refugees. Talk to any group or
individual, unafraid of the police, and you learn of the vast unrest,
the longing for freedom in the native land. The majority are not anti-
Fascist; they are rather proud of the place in the world Mussolini has
made for Italy; but, they argue, is it absolutely impossible for
Fascismo and human liberty to go together in the making of the New
Italy?
_Part III—Russia_
_Chapter I_
CENSORSHIP IN RED RUSSIA
You climb five flights of dirty steps in the Narcomindel building and
come to the press bureau of the foreign office; you arrive with a
thumping heart, a little perspiration in your hatband and your breathing
a bit out of control; altogether at a physical disadvantage in bearding
the Bolshevik press lions in their pens.
Customary introductions. A pause.
“You must be surprised to find _me_ here,” I say.
(I myself was surprised: the Soviets had vowed that my paper would not
be allowed a representative but the “Hoover Treaty” had made my entry
possible.)
“Why should we be surprised?” This from Gregory Weinstein.
Question for question. The subtle, suspicious, oriental manner of an
interview.
We indulged in discussing arrests and expulsions of newspapermen. A fine
introduction to work in Russia. They brought up Edwin Hullinger.
“I knew Hullinger for years—we both worked for the _United Press_ in
London,” I said. “He was wild about Russia—studied the language—I know
he came here as a friend. Why did you banish him?”
“Hullinger,” replied Weinstein, “consorted with our enemies. He held
conferences with reactionaries and counter-revolutionaries. This man
interfered with our political affairs.”
“You mean he sent a telegram to a colleague in Genoa asking him to try
and get the censorship lifted through the agency of the League of
Nations?”
“Yes, he sent a telegram which we had turned down. We do not know how he
got it out. It was submitted and refused. He threatened to get it out.
We warned him of the consequences. But he went ahead. There was nothing
left for us to do—”
“Didn’t you realize that the expulsion of a reputable newspaperman makes
a deep and bad impression throughout the world?”
“Russia,” interposed Samuel Kagan, the censor, “is used to that. We have
been slandered a good deal, and can afford more.”
That exhausted the subject of deportation. I asked what the press
department of the Soviet Government could do in arranging interviews,
obtaining statistics, transportation, safe conducts, etc.
“Russia is a free country,” replied Weinstein with a grand gesture. “Go
where you like. Get what you can. You are free here. We have nothing to
do with your work.”
“And where are telegrams submitted for censorship?”
Uneasiness. Tension.
“You just file your stuff at the post office and it will get through,”
replied Kagan, who was the secret censor. “If you want to use the
airposts, bring your letters here and I will forward them for you.”
It looked all right.
But the press corps had another story to tell. From the group
representing all the agencies and important newspapers I soon learned
that nothing could be sent out of Russia which was disagreeable to
Soviet political policies or to communist philosophy.
“It is the only honest censorship that exists,” I was told, “they will
tell you frankly, when they get to know you better, that they are not
censoring the facts or the truth, but the tone and attitudes of your
dispatches. They ask you to be objective, but they really want you to do
propaganda for them. Every dispatch must be important for their party or
on a subject they care nothing about; otherwise it doesn’t get by.”
I soon found there were three government and Communist-party controlled
newspapers, _Pravda_, _Izvestia_ and _Economic Life_, and the official
government news bureau, _Rosta_, which supply news. But even a plain
translation of communist news was frequently censored because the effect
abroad might not be favorable.
The _Rosta_ news was at that time bought by the _United Press_; now it
is the property of the _Associated Press_. By a little bribery and
corruption one good Communist editor “lent” me his _Rosta_ sheets for a
while every night. When I presented copies of _Rosta_ news to the censor
later he frequently denied the truth of certain items or suppressed them
for political reasons.
Every day we heard marvellous and sensational news. Some of it required
investigation, some we knew to be true. But what was the use of
investigation, when we could not dare to send the telegrams even if
confirmed? We compromised. But, as I was to find similarly in Fascist
Italy, every member of the press corps, with one or two exceptions, was
preparing to end his state of compromise when the big story came for
which it would be worth risking expulsion. We were a lot of camels
praying for the last straw to break the back of an anomalous position.
(That straw was the Catholic persecution story.)
Meanwhile, without endeavouring to find conflicts, we had our daily
difficulties with the censors. Little matters, because we had not tried
to write the big sensations. Here are a few samples of censorship:
During the Turko-Greek conflict, when Russia insisted on sitting beside
Turkey in any question affecting outlets from the Black Sea, the
following was suppressed:
“In the past weeks there have been small but dangerous rifts in the
Russo-Turkish lute which may change its tune. The first is a series of
persecutions of Communists in Angora for which Kemal is blamed....
Secondly, Russia believes that a series of agreements are being made by
the Entente nations with Turkey which may persuade Kemal to drop his
Russian alliance.”
The words “from watching Black Sea manœuvres” were stricken out from a
dispatch beginning “Trotsky returned to Moscow.”
A telegram addressed to me saying that American Negroes were
participating in the Comintern Congress, and asking me to get
interviews, was suppressed. But while I was permitted to receive a
telegram saying Marguerite Harrison had been arrested in the Far East,
my reply saying that nothing was known about it in Moscow was
suppressed.
When the long series of attacks on the American Relief reached their
climax we were permitted to send translations of all Soviet scurrility,
but the following was suppressed:
“The A. R. A. has taken no steps to obtain an apology from official
Russian newspapers for alleged libellous attack but has cabled its New
York and Washington offices to await advices from Hoover and Haskell.
Indignation is general throughout American relief centres in Russia. A
foreign office official said today: ‘It is a regrettable incident—merely
newspaper, not the government view—’”
The words “regret my previous telegrams unanswered” were cut out, as
were all references to possible word shortage due to censorship.
During the religious troubles the censor encouraged us to write stories
of violence and sacrilege. The story of the burning of crucifixes in the
public square was approved, but when a similar attack was made by the
atheistic League of Communist Youth on a synagogue the following line
was cut out: “Jewish patriarchs protested against non-believers who on
Yom Kippur and other Hebrew holidays cut the electric wires and spoiled
celebrations in synagogues.”
The words “no speaker credited the American Relief organization with
pulling Russia through the worst period of famine” were eliminated from
a description of the Fifth Anniversary Soviet celebration.
Every mention of American Communist delegates attending the congress was
suppressed because the visitors had entered Russia secretly. Of course
our detectives at Riga and Terioki had a full list of them. But the
censor tried to suppress the fact that such things as American delegates
existed. He cut from my first dispatch: “The Americans are living in
gorgeous hotels, given free theatre, ballet and opera tickets, free
meals, free transportation, having a regal time. Greatest secrecy their
identification.”
I tried it again, a day later, when the words “Six American delegates
arrived” were passed; the following was suppressed: “Each approached
denies he’s delegate, says merely tourist, refuses name, American names
suppressed meetings. Startling contrast with boastful pride German
French British who announce themselves Communist delegates.”
My third attempt was a dismal failure. Instead of talking of delegates I
mentioned all Americans apart from accredited newspapermen, who were in
the reviewing stand: “Max Eastman editor Liberator, Claude Mackay, Mrs.
Eleanor Pointz, William Lindsay, Chicagoan, Prof. Trachtenberg, New
York. Mackay Negro poet had place honour besides Zinovieff although
declares not delegate.” Out all this went. And naturally the following
was also deleted:
“American delegates complaining their position in Communist
International altered; say haven’t same rights privileges others, cannot
participate secret meetings conferences except those unimportant or
public. Explain Russian colleagues chagrined over bungling session
Michigan woods which department justice raided.”
In their dealings with us the censors and press politicians pleaded for
a fair deal. Here is a sample of one of theirs:
A woman journalist, the wife of an American delegate to the Communist
International (Miss Louise Bryant) had obtained an important interview
with Trotsky relative to the disposition of the red army, and Soviet
relations to other States. The Moscow press bureau, however, had no
interest in publication in America; it needed publicity in London for an
immediate political effect. The interview was offered to the
representative of a British paper (Mr. Henry Alsberg, _London Herald_).
This journalist’s sudden jubilation, however, turned sour when he
recognized the interview as belonging to a rival, and bourgeois (?)
ethics made him refuse it. Imagine his surprise when three days later he
received cabled congratulations from London for his splendid Trotsky
interview. The realist Bolsheviks, combining censorship and propaganda,
had taken the liberty of transmitting the American correspondent’s hard-
gained story to the British correspondent’s paper, even signing the
latter’s name.
But what was going on in Russia which we might have cabled had there
been no censorship? There was, for example, a plot to upset the
Bolshevik government.
While the non-communist world was confusing the wish for the fact, and
reporting the impending collapse of the Soviets—“in six months at most,”
ran the predictions of 1918, 1919, 1920, 1921, 1922 and 1923—the
newspapermen in Moscow, seeing the growth of internal power, realized
that the only successful third revolution could come from the army. It
began with a plot and ended with a fiasco. Trotsky, then commander-in-
chief, had all the ringleaders invited to his home, confronted them with
their treachery, clapped his hands, and gave the score over to the
Chekah agents.
There were revolts. There were serious troubles between the government
and the American Relief. There were splits in the Communist party. There
were, in short, news items which were tremendous in those days.
Some we smuggled out through the American Relief diplomatically immune
mail pouches. Colonel Haskell had told us we could use the pouch for
letters only. By putting “Dear Mr. Steele” at the head of a sheet and
“very truly yours” at the tail, our news items conformed. Nevertheless
stories sent out that way took two weeks or more to reach London and
print; too long a time for political matters. In one of my smuggled
letters I sent the following memorandum to the 35 newspapers which took
my service:
_Note to Editors_
With the opening of the Lausanne conference the Russian censorship has
been sharpened a hundredfold. Although claiming it is merely a
military censorship and exists owing to the state of affairs in
Russia, it exercises the meanest sort of political censorship. Truth
is not a factor taken into consideration: the standard for censorship
in Russia is whether the influence of the dispatches will help or harm
Russian policies. The technical methods of the Russian censor are also
different from those correspondents have had to struggle with in other
countries. The Russian censor does a neat copy-reading job. He
eliminates adjectives he doesn’t like, changes verbs, cuts phrases,
and writes words in to join paragraphs. This sometimes leads to
complete destruction of the facts you intended sending. It would be
much better if the entire item were suppressed.
In the _Saturday Evening Post_ of a few weeks ago appears an article
slandering the entire foreign news service of all American papers. It
alleges the foreign correspondent and especially the one in Moscow,
curries favour with the officials, bends the knee to the government.
The fact is that in Moscow it is a continual battle against the
government officials and the censorship they exercise over us.
I suggest that all Moscow dispatches be marked “censored” and when
delayed more than 10-15 hours to London also “censored and delayed in
Moscow.” The American correspondents in Moscow have been hurt so badly
by the censorship in the past three weeks that a joint protest will be
made to Chicherin when he returns. To make a protest now would be to
place ourselves in the class with Hullinger and invite expulsion.
We were put under surveillance day and night. Go to the window of the
crawling, rat-infested, Soviet official hotel, officially, but it seemed
to me ironically, called the “Savoy,” and across the street in a
shadowed hallway was a Chekah agent. Leave the hotel and he followed you
everywhere. Our consciences may have been clear, but our nerves were
soon unravelled.
Representatives of American papers who did not carry American passports
fared badly. Georges Popoff (of the Hearst Service) was imprisoned and
terrorized by Chekah third degree methods and P. Michaeloff (an
assistant for the _Associated Press_) was exiled to Solevetsky, that
vast white wilderness of an island in the Arctic where nature and
starvation and disease play the rôle of Bolshevik executioner.
Curiously enough, after our united protest and intervention by Colonel
Haskell had obtained the release of Popoff, officials of the foreign
office, forced to admit that they had no evidence to connect him with a
White Russian plot, spread reports attacking the morals of this
correspondent, and the Chekah so shattered his nerves by continual
surveillance that he quit Russia, and took his revenge in a book
published in Berlin exposing the Chekah inquisition.
The Chekah terrorized and deported Francis McCullagh (of _The New York
Herald_) because it found he had become too deeply interested in the
work to free the Roman Catholic priests. It was the trial of Budkiewicz
and Zepliak which aroused the world for the first time in years over
events in Russia, and when the Chekah realized it they not only
suppressed our work entirely, but they even deceived the minister of
justice and Chicherin himself. Lies were told them and told us. The
situation became unbearable. We felt like inarticulate prisoners. This
was the ultimate straw.
At the request of my paper I presented an ultimatum to Chicherin.
“You must abandon the censorship and guarantee freedom of expression
otherwise our correspondent will be withdrawn and so will the
correspondents of other American newspapers, so that Russia will find
herself without means of communication with the outer world.”
When I went to the foreign office to present my cable the officials were
prepared for me. They had of course intercepted and copied the
ultimatum. Chicherin was furious. “The newspaper speaks to me as if it
was a government of equal power,” he had said. But I was admitted with
friendly smiles. My expulsion had already been agreed on. (It was a
Tuesday.)
“Yes, yes, we know all about it,” they said in chorus, “and by a most
peculiar coincidence we find that your visa expires just today. But we
are not cruel, we Bolsheviks. If you happen to miss tomorrow’s train to
Riga you can certainly make Saturday’s.”
I made Wednesday’s.
_Chapter II_
THE RED WORLD PLOT
In Moscow, annually, the Third International conspires to grasp the
bourgeois scheme of things entire, shatter it to bits, and remould it
nearer to the Red desire.
It is an open and shut conspiracy; the open part is the congress, the
shut part the secret meetings and the distribution of orders and money.
But even in the open congress, ways and means of fomenting revolutions
in Poland, Germany, China, America, are discussed and the part the
Russian army is to play as an international communist army is outlined.
The same leaders who meet one day as premier and cabinet of Russia meet
the following day as heads of the Communist party and on another day as
chiefs of the Third International. No plot against the safety and forms
of government of other nations has ever been carried on on such a vast
scale and with such trumpeting and drumming. And yet we were censored
for writing these apparent facts.
Lenin gave the secret away when after listening to reports of progress
of the communist plot in all countries, he declared revolution was
necessary somewhere adjoining Russia. He preferred Poland or Germany.
“Unless the communist movement captures other countries its whole
meaning is lost, and Russia is a failure,” said Lenin.
Since Lenin’s death, however, the one significant change in Russia has
been the nationalization of Communism. The internationalist leaders like
Trotsky, Kameneff, and Zinovieff, have fallen because their plans have
miscarried, and the nationalist Communists are in control. The Russian
Communist party has moved away a bit from the Third International. But
the latter is still meeting in Moscow and still plotting. As reporters
we heard rumors only of the secret sessions, but at the open congresses
there was enough evidence of Moscow’s control of conspiratorial work in
every land. First of all we discovered something we dared not publish,
namely, that there is a legal and illegal Communist party in every land
in Europe and the Americas. Both were represented at the congress.
The sessions were usually gala affairs full of red banners, mottoes, and
sixteen or seventeen renditions of the “Internationale.” The Bolshoi
Theatre, which houses more than 5,000 people, is usually employed. The
heroes sit on the stage and in the boxes; the press in the orchestra pit
and the furred proletarian delegates who overwhelm your nostrils with
the news that washing water is scarce in all Holy Russia, fill the
orchestra and galleries.
Count Brockdorf-Rantzau was uncomfortably doing his duty as doyen of
diplomacy in the Czar’s loge. Chicherin, shy and self-consciously
smiling in a red army uniform, was part of the stage setting. The left
of the proscenium arch had a picture of Marx, the right one of Trotsky
and the keystone one of Lenin. Red bunting made a triangle of the three
black drawings. A huge wall motto read: “We _Vill_ stand by the
Soviets.”
Clara Zetkin, a member of the German Reichstag, was the heroine of the
congress I attended. Sweet, grey, wrinkled, plump and motherly she was
still capable of verbal vitriol. Every year she had brought a promise of
an impending communist overthrow in Germany and they had always believed
the sweet old lady.
Katayama of Japan was lionized as a Messiah of the oriental peoples.
(Afterwards the Soviets made some plain bourgeois deals with Japan which
made a joke of their adoration.) He was a simple soul who let one of the
big secrets of the communist plot escape when he said:
“Now that the Russian revolution is safe, the red army must be made an
international army to fight everywhere to create more communist
revolutions.”
Zinovieff, the dictator of Petrograd, in a fairy-like voice spoke as
follows:
“The chief aim of our epoch is to suppress the Socialist parties which
are now the most active weapons of the bourgeoisie.”
Kamineff reported on the “temporary victory of capitalism in the west.”
He mentioned Poincaré and Mussolini, and concluded, “The workers must
hold fast to their rifles.”
Schmerl of Czecho-Slovakia puffed himself up. He said practically
nothing. Beer and biliousness, not oratory, was the impression of this
revolutionist’s speech.
Heckert, representing Germany, in a hoarse, painful voice, with German
lack of tact, diplomacy, or manners, made a soap-box Lustgarten
harangue, shouting and screaming: “The Social Democracy is the Judas
party. She must pay for her treason with her life. She must die.
_Nieder! Nieder!! Nieder!!!_”
Radek, with a little clay pipe in his mouth, bowl down, and a lot of
side whiskers and some under his clean shaven chin, looking very much a
Jewish Ancient Mariner, made the only brilliant oration of the congress:
“In America there is no real Communist party because Communist parties
are not created by proclamation, but are tempered by civil strife.
“Some say a labor party government is a necessity, the step between
Capitalism and Communism. Well, in the world’s evolution between a
monkey and a Soviet commissar, you must go through a labor government.”
But the glory of the congress was Bordega, Bordega of Italy, who spoke
his own language which no one understood, yet with an eloquence, a
gesture and a passion which captured even the most ignorant peasant. He
concluded an oration on the sufferings and battles of his party with
these words:
“Ferro contro ferro,
Sangue contro sangue,
Forza contro forza
E terrore contro terrore!”
The vast Bolshevik audience understood the poetry and the passion, also
the word terror, and it rose and cheered. Bordega stole the play!
But after the Bordegas and Heckerts and Schmerls get through poetizing
and screaming and panting world revolution, the secret meetings are held
and the plans made. Big questions of policy are settled. Shall the
Communist party fight alone or shall it join in with bourgeois elements
in labour disputes, strikes, coalition governments? For years the policy
of individualism was pursued, suddenly it was reversed at a secret
session and from that day on Communists have joined every pale movement
of unrest, which they have tried then to turn red. The Vienna revolution
was a splendid example of this plot.
John Reed, Boris Reinstein and Big Bill Haywood sold Lenin a communist
revolution in America annually. With colossal naïveté the Russians
accepted American promises.
“We can wait a year or two,” Trotsky told the American delegation once.
On the other hand the leaders were much better informed and much more
successful in the Chinese zone. After various disappointments in Europe
the policy of plotting was shifted to the east. The Soviet radio to
Tashkent was the busiest. The Trans-Siberian express carried money and
men between China and Russia. The revolution was seen by Lenin whose
last written statement contains the significant lines:
“The proletarian masses in India and China are becoming enlightened
enough to wage the struggle side by side with Russia. When that happens
world revolution will be successful.”
The question of the uses of the red Russian army in neighbouring states
is of vital concern to the peace of Europe. All evidence points to
Russia’s readiness to employ her forces in Poland, Germany, Roumania and
other lands the moment an uprising is scheduled. Bucharin discussed the
subject twice, once in an open, once in a secret session of the Third
International. He went into details of co-operation. Proletarian
Communists in the countries to be invaded were to be supplied with
Russian arms, and a joint leadership of the troops was to be
established. The German delegates said the mere knowledge that Russian
troops would be sent at the very outbreak of a civil war, made its
beginning much easier.
When the Revolutionary Church gave its intimidated blessings to
Trotsky’s soldiers it revealed the fact that the army was to fight in
other countries. Archbishop Vedyensky, addressing the All-Russian
Ecclesiastical Council, said: “We bless our red army whose final aim is
to put an end to all armies,” and the Metropolitan Antonin of the Living
Church was coerced into having his council pass a resolution endorsing
the Communist party and supporting the red army “as the best means of
establishing world revolution.”
Real evidence of the preparation to make an international instrument out
of the Russian army was amply furnished by the teachers in the barracks,
where I saw the signs painted everywhere: “Down with the international
bourgeoisie” and “The red army is the instrument of international
communism.” I asked the teachers if they really intended preparing the
army for furthering revolution in the neighbouring states.
“We certainly will not help the present bourgeois government of
Germany,” was the reply, “but once our comrades (the German Communist
party) take over control in Germany, we will use the Russian army to
form a union with the German communist army. We will likely go through
Poland, incidentally restoring Silesia to Germany, and form a red bloc
to the Rhine. Then French capitalism had better look out. After that,
who knows? We will use the international army to make all Europe red,
and eventually,” he added laughing, “we will try to have your country
join.”
Generally it is expected that the new red international army will be
used when any communist revolution breaks out in any nation whose
frontiers adjoin Russia. The plan is to place the Russian troops on the
border at such times and rely upon an international attack upon the
existing government in the contiguous country, causing complete chaos
and demoralization, and giving the Communists within and without an
opportunity to seize power.
There is also corroborative evidence in a statement I heard Trotsky make
that with the beginning of good harvests, a part of the yield would be
set aside each year for feeding revolutionary elements in foreign
countries at such times as they begin active revolutions. Trotsky
officially stated that the United States would certainly stop its grain
ships when revolutions began, whereupon Russia would immediately save
the revolutions by sending “a meal to every revolutionary proletarian.”
The foregoing declaration by Trotsky is also an excellent example of the
kind of talk that fills the Third International. While the tone of this
yearly congress is an open international plot, and while closer
neighbours are more definitely discussed as coming victims, the United
States comes in for its share of open and secret conspiracy. And as
America grows richer and more contented, and Communism disappears, the
language becomes more violent.
“The American bourgeoisie are glutted with the blood and gold of
Europe.” “The American bourgeoisie warmed their hands at the bonfire of
European war. When the flame of revolution is lighted the American
bourgeoisie will be consumed.”
So Trotsky thundered. A few minutes later he had the American delegation
in secret session where he denounced them for their stupidities and
failures and admitted “nothing can be done to further Communism in
America under the existing favorable economic circumstances.”
In the secret sessions the delegates are given their orders on the
treasury and the funds for propaganda abroad. Money for newspapers is
apportioned and the expenses of the trip to Moscow refunded.
Arrangements are made for money and propaganda via the Soviet embassies,
legations, consulates, trade missions and other agencies in many lands.
But the chief object of the secret sessions is to hear the report on the
progress of the illegal Communist party and to give it its instructions
for the next year, how to work in time of emergencies created by other
parties, and how to create emergencies leading to the overthrow of
established governments.
Everything that happens in America, the West Indies, Mexico, Japan,
Germany, Bulgaria, Turkey—every communistic event is either under the
direction of Moscow, attaches itself to Moscow eventually, or is taken
in hand by Moscow’s agents. Nothing communistic throughout the world is
small enough to escape the interference of the Third International.
Although the tendency has been a little towards separation, the
“interlocking directorate” of the Russian government, the Russian
Communist party, and the Third International is almost identical. The
Soviet government is continually denying it is active in propaganda in
the United States, Mexico, China, wherever there is communistic
enterprise. The Soviets lay the blame on the Third International which
they claim is an international organization outside their control. To
anyone who has seen the three communist bodies function in Moscow and
who knows the philosophy believed there, such a statement is quibble and
hypocrisy. The three are one. When Secretary Hughes asked the Soviet
government to drop its program of world revolution and world propaganda,
a Communist replied: “Why doesn’t the American department of justice ask
the bootleggers to carry only a line of sarsaparilla?”
_Chapter III_
THE TERROR IN RUSSIA CONTINUES
(Being a report written for Senator McCormick for use in a
Congressional Committee)
Addressing an anniversary celebration of the troops of the G. P. U., the
Government Political Militia, which is the old Chekah except for name,
Dzerdzinsky said:
“Our enemies are now suppressed and are in the kingdom of the shadows.”
In the speech following his, I heard Kameneff say:
“Not a single measure of the Soviet government could have been put
through without the help of the Chekah. It is the best example of
communist discipline.”
The Chekah (Chesvychaika), or G. P. U., is the instrument of the red
terror, organized in 1918, through which the Soviet government, the
Communist party and the Third International, Russia’s indivisible
trinity, maintains itself in dictatorial power to this very day. The
years have brought a change in name, less activity, more secrecy.
The era of wanton murder has passed, it is true; public trials within
fourteen days after arrest are now ordered by law and in most cases
given. But the terror has entered into the souls of the Russian people.
Because of the Chekah, freedom has ceased to exist in Russia. _There is
no democracy._ It is not wanted. Only American apologists for the
Soviets have ever pretended there was democracy in Russia. “Democracy”
says a communist axiom “is a delusion of the bourgeois mind.” Justice in
Russia is communist justice: the end justifies the means, and the end is
Communism at all costs, including the lives of its opponents.
Freedom, liberty, justice as we know it, democracy, all the fundamental
human rights for which the world has been fighting for civilized
centuries, have been abolished in Russia in order that the communist
experiment might be made. They have been kept suppressed by the
Chekah—G. P. U.
The Chekah is the instrument of militant Communism. It is a great
success. The terror is in the mind and marrow of the present generation
and nothing but generations of freedom and liberty will ever root it
out.
The Chekah began its existence as a revolutionary tribunal (in the
manner of Robespierre’s) shortly after the Bolsheviks routed the
Mensheviks and obtained control in Petrograd. It then did police and spy
duty much after the manner of the Czar’s “Okhrana,” but was considered a
more liberal organization. In 1918, however, a girl revolutionary named
Fanny Kaplan attempted to kill Lenin. She wounded him twice. A week
later the red terror was announced officially and all the horror and
bloodshed attached to the Soviet régime occurred between the end of 1918
and 1920, when Lenin announced the New Economic Policy.
According to a dispatch from Riga published in _The London Times_ during
the unfortunate ownership of Lord Northcliffe, the Chekah executed
1,700,000 persons. The dispatch listed the victims by profession. For
example, it listed some 6,000 college professors as having been killed.
As there had never been a total of 6,000 college professors in Russia,
the report was evidently an exaggeration. I tried on the basis of this
report to obtain an official statement from the Chekah headquarters in
Moscow. After months of refusal, Peters, head of the red terror in
Petrograd when it was the seat of the government, received me and gave
me the following statement which I have recorded literally in my diary
under date of December 9, 1922:
“We have executed some twenty or thirty thousand persons, perhaps fifty
thousand. They were all spies, traitors, enemies within our ranks, a
very small number in proportion to the persons of this kind then in
Russia. We instituted the red terror at a time of war, when the enemy
was marching upon us from without and the enemy within was preparing to
help him. Scotland Yard executed spies and traitors also in war time.”
The victims of the Chekah are estimated anywhere from 50,000 to 500,000,
with the truth probably mid-ways. But it is not a matter of numbers. The
outstanding fact today is that by their tortures, wholesale arrests and
wholesale murders of liberals suspected of not favouring the Bolshevik
interpretation of Communism, the Chekah has terrorized a whole
generation, the people of our time.
Even today there are wholesale arrests periodically. It is notorious
that before the four big holidays, the November 7th and the May 1st
national days, and the opening of the Profintern and Comintern
congresses, five thousand usually are jailed in Petrograd and Moscow.
The victims are usually non-Bolshevik radicals, especially Socialists,
social-revolutionaries and Mensheviks, who, incidentally, are more hated
by the Bolsheviks than the capitalists, the nobility or the bourgeoisie.
In addition, there are hundreds of arrests in the cities daily. The
workingman, knowing it is treason to strike, finds out that it is worth
a month in jail just to complain. Then there are lists of thousands of
radicals taken from the Czarist records. All who live in Russia and who
have not shown themselves Communists are therefore suspected of counter-
revolution, and arrested periodically just for precaution’s sake. Then
there are the speculators, small bourgeois business men, vendors in the
markets; in fact everyone except a true Communist party member is always
in danger of arrest, and party members who are inactive are suspected.
This form of present day terrorism is legalized by the criminal code of
the Soviet system. The code justifies everything. For example, here are
paragraphs 57 and 62. Fifty-seven says:
“As counter-revolution is to be accounted every action directed to
overthrow the régime of the Soviets which was won by the proletarian
revolution, and its workers’ and peasants’ government based on the
constitution of the Russian Socialist Federated Soviet Republic, and
also actions directed to help that part of the international
bourgeoisie which does not recognize the equality of the communist
system coming to replace capitalism, and which is attempting to
overthrow it by means of intervention, blockade, espionage, financing
of the press, etc.”
Paragraph 62:
“As counter-revolution is to be accounted participation in an
organization acting for the purpose noted in article 57 by means of
exciting the population to mass commotion, the non-payment of taxes,
the unfulfilment of duties or by any other means clearly detrimental
to the dictatorship of the working class....”
In ninety-nine cases of a hundred today the charge is “counter-
revolution” under the above two paragraphs of the criminal code, which,
as can be seen, can be interpreted to any limit. For example, petty
shopkeepers, calling upon American newspapermen in the Soviet hotel, the
Savoy, in Moscow, have in two instances been arrested and given the
third degree after three days in solitary confinement. They were accused
of counter-revolution inasmuch as they might have given anti-Bolshevik
information to foreigners who would publish it in the foreign press, to
the harm of the Bolshevik régime.
It is claimed by the present Chekah that the terror can now be
maintained without inquisitional tortures. Yet it is true that the
torture chambers have not been destroyed. In the Petrograd Chekah
prisons rooms made of cork are used for prisoners, kept without light or
air until they go half mad and make any sort of a confession, preferring
death by a bullet to living in the cells.
Forcible feeding is resorted to in case of hunger strikes. “Solitary”
prisoners are awakened at two o’clock in the morning for ten minutes
exercise in the dark. Prisoners attempting to look through windows are
fired upon and in one week recently three were shot through the head and
killed in Petrograd.
Physical tortures are not necessary to drive persons insane in Chekah
prisons. All survivors tell of cases of insanity. Sanitary conditions
even now cannot be described either in press or public speech.
The Soviet system and the Third International are justly proud of the
success of the Chekah, admitting that without this organization the
régime could not have survived. The writer attended the fifth
anniversary celebration of the Chekah in mid-December, 1922, in Moscow.
It was the first time that any great part of the personnel of the dread
organization came out into the open. Some ten thousand Chekah troops
paraded. Government leaders, Third International notables and Felix
Dzerdzinsky, head of the Chekah, reviewed the troops and praised them.
Dzerdzinsky was then head of the Chekah commissariat and his two right-
hand men were Peters and Unschlicht, the latter the personal watcher
over Lenin. Other notables of the commissariat are Manzhinsky, Yagoda,
Lazis, Artabakow. Dzerdzinsky was a Pole and Peters is likewise a
foreigner, a Lett. This mixture of nationalities is another illustration
of the fact the Soviets accept any one in any post, no matter how
important, without regard to race, colour or creed so long as he is a
tested Communist. (_Note_: Atheism is Communist party religious
requirement in Russia, members being expelled frequently for attending
church.)
The Chekah organization consists of between 100,000 and 500,000 men—it
is impossible to obtain reliable figures inasmuch as one of its four
departments is secret. There is first of all the armed uniformed militia
which is the police system of the big cities. The organization system of
the Czarist Okhrana is closely followed in the division into three
departments much as the American army command has its G-1’s, G-2’s, etc.
The Chekah organization consists of Militia, the Sekretnaya Operative
Odyel for prison work, the Administrative (Third) section and the Soviet
Espionage and Counter-Espionage department.
The commissariat controls all the work. Dzerdzinsky during his lifetime
centralized the entire Chekah system so that its ramifications
throughout Russia are directed from the headquarters in the Lubyanka on
the Lubyanka Square, Moscow; the Petrograd and other branches have been
shorn of most of their powers. The large Chekah organization is not
necessarily composed of Communists. Like the army, it contains thousands
of professional men who know only their job and do not care for whom
they work. Many old Czarist spies are working now for the Bolsheviks.
Much more important is the fact that every member of the Communist party
in Russia is a potential Chekist. Years ago Myasnikoff wrote in the
_Isvestia_ an appeal for every Communist to extend his duties to spying
for the cause voluntarily, and inasmuch as the Communist party is a
great secret society continually fighting enemies, it is the natural
thing to find every Communist reporting suspicions to the Chekah. In
fact one of the reasons for the continued terror in Russia is the fact
that in hundreds of thousands of cases denunciations are made for
personal reasons by voluntary Chekists.
The Chekah rule is absolute. No one was ever beyond suspicion with the
possible exception of Lenin himself, and it was frequently boasted in
Moscow that if Lenin asked the arrest of Trotsky it would follow without
hesitation. Chekists told me in 1923 that they would exile Lenin or
Trotsky if they believed either dangerous to party amity.
The main work of the Chekah is to catch the faintest whisper of
Socialist or monarchist expression. The Chekah hounds the liberal
Socialists, in fact all radicals who are not out-and-out Communists,
more than the monarchist or bourgeois oppositions. The Chekah begins its
work in the peasant villages and continues up through the very All-
Russian Executive Committee itself. It suspects everyone, spares no one.
In fact, it is considered a point of pride by a Communist to be
arrested, tried, acquitted and restored with honour to his position in
the party. There can be no severer test of membership.
In the villages the Chekah keeps the few communist officials in the
saddle because in every instance they are outnumbered by non-communist
peasants a hundred or more to one. The most intensive campaign of
communist propaganda is waged in the villages to win farmer support, but
the moment a peasant voices opposition or fails to pay taxes he comes
under Chekah persecution. He may not be executed as in the old days or
even tried, but his life is not worth living and his beloved land may be
taken away from him.
One of the chief duties of the Chekah is to control the elections. The
law in Russia says only a proletarian may vote, which almost restricts
voting to Communists, yet in the peasant villages where there are less
than two or three per cent. of Communists, the peasants, being called
proletarians, may vote. The Chekah sees that they vote “right.” When the
writer visited the office of Peters he saw on this Chekah leader’s desk
a budget of a hundred closely typewritten sheets on the subject of
banditry in the country-side and another lot of 200 sheets of political
reports from Chekah agents in every hamlet in Russia. The political
situation is absolutely in the grip of the Chekah system.
In the factories, mines and workshops the Chekah conducts espionage and
employs _provocateurs_. Peters said proudly that American “comrades”
showed them how it was done in the steel plants in Pittsburgh and in
Gary and that they have improved on American methods. Chekah agents are
continually forming anti-communist groups of workingmen especially in
the Putiloff works in Petrograd where some 40,000 are employed and in
the railroad works in Kharkoff. When the time comes the Chekah betrays
the whole group, some of which are exiled or executed.
Not lacking in humour was the trick the Chekah played on the remnants of
the last legal opposition in Russia, the S-R’s or Social Revolutionary
party. After the big trial in the summer of 1922 when most of the
leaders were imprisoned, the Chekists began joining the “underground”
organizations of the S-R’s until they outnumbered the original
membership, whereupon they called a national convention to decide to
give up the party and to join the Communists. Sixty per cent. of the
members attending the congress were Chekists.
The S-R party continues to exist—abroad. Its headquarters are in Berlin,
and it is interesting to note that in the memorandum of its congress in
April, 1922, when it set forth a list of demands, the first one dealt
with the Chekah:
“We demand the union of Socialists in Europe and Russia for the purpose
of clearing out first of all the horrors of the terror régime, the
Chekah, with its despotism, bloodshed and filth.”
On the other hand contrast the statement of Gregory Zinovieff, once head
of the Third International, member of the Executive Committee, and
“mayor” of Petrograd:
“The red army and the Chekah build the fame and the honour of the
Communist party.”
No foreign business man, diplomat or journalist is free from being
shadowed by the Chekah. American and British business men frequently
found their offices sealed while the Chekah went through their books and
papers. In one instance to which the writer was a witness, two British
steamship and iron works’ representatives were arrested on leaving a
_cabaret_, kept four hours in a Chekah prison, after which they received
profoundest apologies for the Chekah “mistake.” Arriving at their rooms
in the Savoy hotel everything seemed in order but closer examination
revealed that all their papers had been examined, copied, and some
taken.
This is not an exceptional case. It happens in practically 100 per cent.
of American and other foreign businesses in Russia.
Wanton executions, mass murders, wholesale searches are perhaps a thing
of the past in Chekah history, being replaced by imprisonment in vile
pens and exile to Siberia in much the Czarist fashion. But the most
important fact about the Chekah today is that by its never ceasing
persecution it has smothered all liberty of expression, it has cowed the
souls of the people, it has continued a reign of terror which makes
Bolshevism supreme, and will not let any change or liberalizing movement
come into Soviet Russia.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Soldiers taking the “Red Oath” in Kremlin Square, Moscow.
When Trotsky reviewed his new army at the fifth anniversary celebration
of the November Revolution. Kamineff is in the foreground with Trotsky
(saluting) behind him.
[Illustration: [Transcription]]
[Illustration: [Transcription]]
The “Avis” is a warning from the French army against sending false or
tendancious news, but actually intimidation of the correspondents
suggesting that only French victories were to be reported.
_Chapter IV_
THE NEW RED ARMY
Once there were mercenary troops; then a nationalist spirit came over
the people of Europe which you can find dramatized by Gobineau in his
“Renaissance” and Shaw in “Saint Joan”; and now, after thousands of
years of fighting, including that grandest tragic farce of all, the War
to End War, comes the first international army, the new red army of
Soviet Russia, the only force in the world organized to fight, not for
feudal lord, or a nation, but for a class of society and in every
country where it can be sent expeditiously.
So far as I know no one but Sam Spewack, former _World_ correspondent,
and myself ever penetrated the mystery of the red army, and as we were
both expelled from Russia simultaneously a few days later it is obvious
that this enterprise bore its punishment quickly.
Like so many of the great scoops and experiences of newspaper life, this
visit to the red army was arranged by fortunate accidents. Spewack had
succeeded in entering the Kremlin to see the Czar’s jewels at a time
when the Bolsheviks were looking for buyers. Many months afterwards we
met the officer who had been detailed to guard the fabulous, impractical
treasure. He told us that he had rejoined his regiment and invited us to
visit him. Thus all of Trotsky’s refusals and silences were overcome and
one bright, brittle, May-time morning a little automobile composed of
Ford, Buick and other parts took us to visit regiments comprising at
least a fifth of the armed forces of the R. S. F. S. R.
We were introduced first to the “Comrade-General” who shook hands
cheerfully, then to the “Comrade-Commissar,” the political agent, who
nodded and scowled in a superior fashion. Political officials are
attached to every officer, from colonel to generalissimo; they report to
the Chekah and the war department, act as spies and advisors, keep the
officer in alignment with Bolshevism, and superintend the teaching and
training of the international communist soldier.
First we went to see the “initiation” of new conscripts. They were fine,
healthy, ignorant, peasant animals dressed in new clothes and
frightened. At a command they bent their knees, bowed to kiss the blood-
red banners, stood and swore the “red oath”:
“I, son of the working class, citizen of the Soviet Republic, accept the
title of a warrior of the Workers and Peasants Army.
“In the presence of the working class of Russia and of the whole world I
vow to honour this title, to learn the profession of arms
conscientiously, and to protect the apple of my eye, the good of the
people, from ruin and corruption.
“I swear to obey the stern revolutionary discipline and to carry out
without dissent all the commands of those commanders appointed by the
Workers and Peasants Republic.
“I swear to hold myself back from any step, and to hold back my comrades
from any step, which could lower the worth of a citizen of the Soviet
Republic and to direct all my thoughts to that great goal, the
liberation of all workers.
“I swear to be ready at the first call of the Workers and Peasants
Government for the defence of the Soviet Republic against all dangers
and attacks from any of its enemies and in battle for the Russian Soviet
Republic, for the cause of Socialism, and the brotherhood of all
peoples, to spare neither my efforts nor my life.
“Should I maliciously violate this, my solemn vow, so may I be rewarded
by universal contempt and the stern punishment of revolutionary law.”
Many of them no doubt had no idea what the words meant. The vast
majority were illiterate. But reading and writing are an important part
of Russian army life.
After the ceremony we entered a regimental “study room” where I heard
this “Red Catechism” propounded by the communist instructor of the
Fourteenth Division to two hundred men:
Q. “Why do we maintain the Red Army?”
A. “To save Russia from its enemies.”
Q. “Who are Russia’s enemies?”
A. “The bourgeois class throughout the world.”
Q. “Where are your bourgeois enemies concentrated?”
A. “In England, France, and America.”
Q. “Why must we prepare to fight our bourgeois enemies?”
A. “Because the bourgeois nations are fighting against Russia”
Q. “Why are the bourgeois nations fighting Russia?”
A. “Because they know that the proletariat class and the Red Army will
establish a workers’ and soldiers’ government in their countries
instead of the present capitalistic governments that rule them now.”
At this point the regimental teacher of Communism digressed into the
usual propaganda talk lasting half an hour, after which he asked the
questions of the catechism again, this time picking out soldiers at
random to answer them.
A few minutes later with the officers of the same division I was walking
in the yard between barracks. It was slush underfoot and in the shadows
there were still piles of snow covered with black grime. But spring had
at last come to Russia and with spring....
“Devil take it,” said the staff colonel, “I’d like to take a crack at
somebody with this new army—Poland or Roumania—they’re damned fresh and
the men are just aching for action.”
Half an hour later, ten miles away, two squadrons of cavalry were
trotted out for a cavalry charge and mimic battle—all to please and
impress two American newspapermen. And then again....
“If people back there,” said the Comrade-General, pointing to the
invisible Kremlin, “would only let us try out the men in real action.
The soldiers are willing and anxious.”
I visited the artillery too, and I spoke to some of the young aviators
who fly the Vickers Vimy bombers and the metal Junkers over Moscow.
Everywhere the same thing. They wanted to fight somebody. They were
young, they were full of Bolshevik propaganda; they were neither German
nor French soldiers full of memories of the horrors of modern war. They
wanted war.
And that is the biggest impression the red army made on me.
In the Kremlin there had been a different opinion. Trotsky, the chief of
staff schools then, Petrofsky, General Danielef, and the politicians who
are not officers, were united in the idea that the time was not
opportune for any war-making. One party even announced as Russia’s
policy: “to remain neutral, sell to both sides, and with the money build
up the Russian army.” At all events, it was peace talk, not war talk,
that you heard in diplomatic circles and the opposite in military
circles.
The thing that impressed me next to the process of communizing the army
and the war talk, was the statement that the artillery commander made. I
was looking at the artillery park outside the barracks and remarked on
the number of guns—there were about fifty three-inch rifles and a half
dozen larger pieces.
“Enough,” said the general, “to blow them off the map in five minutes if
they start any counter-revolution.”
By “them” he meant any anti-Bolshevik elements which have not been
executed, exiled or terrorized into a state of helplessness in Moscow.
In Moscow some time previously I had seen some of the 80,000 armed
workingmen. These men, mostly Communists, were being trained to suppress
any counter-revolution even if it came from the army. And so the game
went, Trotsky building up, arming, safe-guarding his army through
communistic teaching; and likewise building the Chekah army, one to
defeat the other, should it get out of control.
The best impression was made by the cavalry.
“What would you like to see?” asked the cavalry Comrade-General, “some
hurdle jumping or a cavalry charge?”
We made the expected reply. The general smiled, rather pleased. “Let’s
warm up the forces first with a little jumping,” and away galloped the
general with his staff to join the cavalrymen.
They went through a manœuvre, dividing into two squads, riding easily
down the length of the parade grounds, meeting, parting, putting on
speed. Then across the field they raced toward the hurdle and over the
top they went a few feet and a few seconds apart. Two red soldiers
immediately raised the pole a notch and the performance was repeated.
Finally the pole was placed on top of the supports and the general alone
dashed for it. He was mounted on a wonderful mare, as wild an animal as
ever carried a Cossack. But when he came to the pole she balked. Stopped
dead. The general was chagrined but not angry. He called her by her pet
name but did not give her the spur. And quite unexpectedly the mare,
standing on her hind legs, drew herself together like a crouching lion,
and just leaped over the pole.
“Now the charge,” ordered the general and a hundred horsemen went
splashing through the mud squaring the field until they came to the far
corner. Then every horseman stuck his pennoned lance forward, crouched
on his horse’s neck, dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks and charged.
It sounded like barrage fire heard miles away, a muddy roar of four
hundred hoofs in the soft earth, the clanking of horses’ gear and the
wild shouts of the charging cavalrymen. They came at terrific speed, the
little hairy Siberian ponies seeming to rush over the ground, feet
hardly touching, in one mad flight that amazed the eye.
We stood midway of the six-hundred-yard charge, yet they came, passed us
and were at their goal in seemingly a minute. All we saw was a streak of
mixed coloured bodies, black and white and bay with an occasional
lightning-like flash of flaming crimson of the pennons. What would have
happened to men who stood in the way—even if they had had a machine gun
in action?
The officers meanwhile ordered ranks formed again—frothing horses white
at the mouths, sweat turning white on their hides, mud-caked, red
nostrils distended, and their riders breathing hard and laughing
jerkily.
At the infantry division barracks we went through the building from
basement to bedrooms. We started with the kitchens. Here as elsewhere
everyone snapped to attention, a bit ludicrously to be sure, in their
white aprons and hats, especially the chief cook, a little pot-bellied
fellow who probably never did or never will go through drill.
“Comrade-commander-there-is-nothing-new-to-report-since-you-were-here-
last.” The cook delivered himself of the standard recipe all in a
mouthful, the general smiled and shook him by the hand and democracy was
restored here also.
“Would you like to taste the food?” the general asked me.
What could I answer? I was a guest. I looked at the huge pots, at the
not-too-clean dishes, and the pot-bellied cook in the dirty white apron
and said I would be delighted. This made everybody happy. A huge
spoonful of soup was dipped up from the twenty-gallon vat and given me
in a small bowl. There was a lot of cabbage, some pieces of onion, a
considerable amount of fat and some, to me, unknown ingredients in the
bowl. I tasted. The soup was excellent—much better in fact than the soup
served us daily in the Savoy.
“Now the kasha,” said the general. The kasha is a mush made out of dark
grain which is used for feeding parrots and other birds. It too was
excellent. Fortunately the meat was not ready. It was the one suspicious
part of the meal. I had previously seen chunks of frozen beef looking
very black and somewhat green in spots. I looked on the blackboard. Here
is the red soldier’s daily meal.
Bread 1½ pounds.
Meat ½ pound.
Soup 2 bowls.
Kasha.
Tea.
“Do you give them anything to drink besides tea?”
“Alcohol, you mean?” replied the officer. “No. Not even a drink of rum
when in action. But beer and wine are not prohibited. The national law
is observed. No spirits containing more than 20 per cent. alcohol for
anyone. But we go further. We bar all alcoholic drinks in barracks or
while on duty. The soldiers may drink their beer and wine elsewhere,
provided they do not get drunk. No, not a drop must be carried into the
barracks. Our army, in fact, drinks almost nothing and no one
complains.”
Here the chief cook came up with a book much like a cheap autograph
album much-thumbed, dog-eared and grease-spotted.
“If you like the food, please write to that effect,” he said.
I wrote “Excellent,” my name, New York, and the date in English in the
columns provided, and the general, looking through the back pages,
showed that a few days ago the word “Excellent” had been written
followed by the name Trotsky.
Well, there can be no doubt that the red army is well fed and well
clothed, better, one might say, than the average Russian if in the
average you include the masses of the underfed and the masses of the
badly clad of the country-side. Certainly the army is much better off
than the average Moscow or Petrograd workingman.
Next to the spectacle of having a regiment drilled and cavalry put on a
charge for two American newspapermen, what interested me most was the
communizing process of which the catechism is only a part. Every day in
every way Communism was being instilled into the new red army. Take for
instance such a thing as a “communist roulette wheel.”
The communist catechism, you see, was school work—school work for young
peasant sons of not too high a mental calibre. Undoubtedly they liked it
no more than the boys in the little red schoolhouse who hear roaring
above the teacher’s words, the springtime flooding river, and the loud
invitations to play hookey.
The communist roulette wheel is a sort of red army Montessori idea. It
is played in the club-room of the barracks. There are some twenty
numbers and the wheel is spun until every soldier gets one. The number
entitles the recipient to a typewritten piece of paper on which is
printed a question:
“What is the purpose of the dictatorship of the proletariat?”
“Why must religion be abolished?”
“What is the difference between the proletarian red army of Russia and
the capitalistic armies of Europe?”
“Why must capitalism be destroyed and Communism be established
throughout the world?”
To these questions the soldier may write an answer. It is not
obligatory. It is a game. He writes an answer. For “correct” answers—the
divisional communist instructor is judge of the correctness—or for the
best answer, the soldier gets a prize. The prizes as I saw them
displayed in a case consisted of pieces of soap, cheap razors, brushes,
packages of biscuits and other useful things.
Again, a few minutes later, in a barracks across the square, we came
upon a girl teaching a group of peasant boy soldiers the rudiments of
reading, writing and arithmetic. But instead of the stuff that goes into
little children’s heads throughout the world, “I am a man,” “I see a
cat,” “This is a dog,” the communist girl teacher was calmly writing:
“The red army is the instrument of the masses for conquering the world.”
“Death to the Middle Class Governments,” “Down with the enemies of the
Third International.”
Everywhere, everywhere, the communist idea pumped into the heads of the
communist army.
No wonder that asking an interpreter to read some of the soldier
contributions to the bulletin board which also served them as a
regimental newspaper, I found the soldiers expressing themselves in an
echo of their communist instructors:
“Death to the bourgeoisie.”
“Down with capitalism.”
“Down with priests and the church.”
“Religion is narcotic for the masses.”
“Long live the Third International.”
These things I actually saw scrawled, painted, printed, in every
barracks. Every barracks was decorated with pictures of Marx, Lenin,
Trotsky, and scores of examples of the soldiers’ art. These examples in
oil, water-colours and pencil are sometimes neutral subjects, rather
exaggerated swallows singing over green fields, sometimes horrible
cartoons of manlike monsters eating human beings, their fangs dripping
blood. And these monsters are labelled either “Capitalism” or “The Greek
Church.”
Evidence of the anti-religious teaching campaign was to be seen on all
the walls of the clubs and sleeping-quarters. I asked whether the army
officially conducted an atheistic movement. The officers said that was a
private matter but the League of Communist Youth had the right to preach
anti-religion in the club-rooms.
In the club-rooms, general and private are of equal rank. Democracy in
the relations of commanders and followers provides that the soldier must
salute his officer only when on service or addressed. In the club-room
there are no salutes known nor is any official deference shown a
general. My visit to the different branches gave me the feeling that
there was a considerable amount of friendliness as well as democracy in
the army. This is encouraged. As the number of Czarist officers
diminishes every day and the number of workingmen officers risen from
the ranks increases, this democracy naturally increases. How it will
affect discipline is hard to say. From the look of things there is
discipline in the barracks. Certainly orders are obeyed with
considerable snap. In the manœuvres and on parade not only is there
discipline but an increase in precision noticeable even to eyes which
remain civilian (despite seeing the American army through all its
campaigns in France).
There is nothing mysterious about the red army. In accordance with the
habits of European nations, however, the strictest secrecy is now being
maintained about modern equipment, chemical warfare, and the aviation
section.
* * * * * *
Officially Russia announces today an army of less than 600,000. But in
addition there is the G. P. U. army, the picked troops of the secret
service, numbering between 100,000 and 500,000. In Moscow there are now
about 100,000 armed communist workmen; in Russia the total of communist
irregulars, half-trained yet most reliable of all, is another 250,000.
With the veterans of the world war Russia has a force of two to three
million men.
Russia needs heavy cannon, airplanes, tanks, gas, all the machinery of
modern warfare. I have seen at least a hundred military airplanes and
twenty British tanks being repaired in the vast railroad shops in
Kharkoff. The officer there claimed there were a hundred in service. But
there can be no question of the Soviet’s lack of materials, and on this
lack are based the Allied reports that Russia could not fight a modern
war successfully.
Food, clothing and propaganda have made the army loyal. Trotsky’s
personality and his knowledge of military strategy were an important
factor for years. Although he has spent most of his life as a red
agitator and writer, he has always been a student of military strategy,
has written a book on Napoleon’s manœuvres and has been given credit for
building the keenest morale and using the keenest military strategy in
the numerous campaigns in which Russia defeated her enemies in the civil
wars.
The Russian leaders, who know the historic course of the French
revolution very well, and who see history repeating itself in many ways,
have planned to avoid that chapter which Carlyle heads “a whiff of
grape-shot.” It was a whiff of grape-shot which put an end to the years
of indecision and opened the way for the strong man, Napoleon, to seize
the country and change the tenor of the revolution. Russia has been
determined never to let Trotsky do likewise.
In 1925 the communist element in the red army was about ten per cent. or
100,000 men in the then official army. It was Trotsky’s plan to make the
army and navy 100 per cent. communist. Much headway has already been
made with the officers. So late as the Russo-Polish war the system was
to retain an efficient Czarist officer in joint command of every unit
with a communist zealot who watched but who probably knew nothing of
war-making. There is still a large group of old-time officers in the red
army but most of them are either professional soldiers who are not
unwilling to fight for Bolshevism or the communist converts. A notable
case was General Budyenny, the famous Cossack cavalry leader, who was
popular, a Communist, and later a member of the All-Russian Congress
præsidium. The total communist force in the red army in 1928 was
estimated at 27 per cent.
All the new officers are proletarians, men risen from the ranks. “An
officer,” Trotsky once announced officially, “is a comrade who knows
more than an enlisted man.” According to Trotsky the friendliest
relations must prevail between officers and men not on duty but the
strictest discipline while on duty. Recently the staff of a regiment was
court-martialed for getting drunk in the presence of the enlisted men.
Trotsky published the minutes of the court-martial throughout the army
and press.
Although Trotsky claimed that the men and officers were all of one
“class,” the recruits are almost all peasant sons, the officers almost
all industrial workers.
Almost every unit in the army and navy is “adopted” by some social
organization. Thus the League of Communist Youth is the “owner” of the
navy, a sort of godfather which looks after the comfort and well-being
of the sailors, hears their complaints, supplies extra food, clothing,
reading-matter and propaganda. Each big factory adopts a regiment, the
All-Russian Congress Executive Committee adopts a division, etc. Another
interesting fact is that Trotsky formed an all-communist division of
some 10,000 men distinguishable by their blue helmets with red stars.
Trotsky undoubtedly is a military genius. He was in due time exiled to
Siberia.
_Chapter V_
HOW METHODISM TRIED TO CAPTURE THE CHURCH OF RUSSIA—AND HOW A BISHOP GOT
HIS POCKETS PICKED
Bishop Blake came to Moscow with his eyes open. So, at least, read his
declaration the day he set out from Paris, and he repeated it
flamboyantly to the newspapermen in Riga, then to us in Russia.
It was during the vast religious upheaval that this ardent and
apparently sincere leader of American Methodism had the practical vision
of capturing the whole old Orthodox Church and its one hundred and
thirty-odd million blind followers, somewhat muddled by Bolshevism and
groping for a new Moses. The Blake vision was as grandiose as a crusade
and much more likely of fulfilment.
Russia had never had a real reformation. Church and state had worked as
one, and just as corruption and terrorism spread under Czarist
dictatorship, so had corruption and decay penetrated the monasteries and
churches of Holy Russia. If ever a people were rotten-ripe for a
reformation it was Russia in the first year of Bolshevism.
The Soviets had succeeded in replacing the Czarist terror with their own
terror by 1923. They had exterminated the ruling nobility and crushed
bourgeois opposition completely. But they had one enemy left, the
greatest of all, the ignorant, fanatical, priest-ridden peasant church
congregation.
While the American Methodist Church was surveying the land in hope of
one of the greatest Protestant victories of all history, the Bolshevik
politicians were not idle. They were working with all their means,
unhampered by what they termed bourgeois morals and bourgeois ethics.
With recklessness and unshakable determination they set about to destroy
the power of organized religion.
The Consomols, or League of Communist Youth, and other anti-religion
groups were encouraged for an atheistic campaign the like of which the
world has not seen since the French Revolution, and the principle of
“boring from within,” which the Third International had advocated for
political parties and labor unions in foreign countries, was practiced
in the Orthodox Church itself.
Quick to see the first signs of dissaffection among the honest and
sincere priests who were disgusted with the old church and who wanted to
cleanse Christianity in Russia, the Soviets came to the support of the
group led by Archbishop Vedyensky. Through him the Soviets organized the
Living Church and at one stroke split off a large part of the Orthodox
Church, thus diminishing greatly the hitherto united power of its last
enemies.
With this knowledge the American press corps in Moscow called upon
Bishop Blake the day he arrived. There followed a very strange
interview. We had come for a story: we devoted two hours to telling
things and to answering questions posed by the churchman and his aides.
It was apparent to us that either the bishop did not know of the grand
Soviet plot which was the real spiritual father of the Living Church, or
he did not care about it. His zeal for conquest seemed to blind him to
these details.
“Our Mission is one of Christian courtesy and goodwill to a great Church
and a great people,” he said. “If by any word or action we can give
courage and support to Russian Christianity, we shall count it a great
opportunity and an honour to be permitted——” and more in the line of Mr.
Babbitt.
The kindly old soul, it seemed to all of us, knew nothing of the
oriental depth of Soviet intrigue. We proceeded to enlighten the
Methodist Mission and to warn them. We left them naïvely incredulous.
Oh, they had their eyes open all right, but they had seen nothing.
Then came the great first congress of the Living Church.
Archbishop Vedyensky had been a handsome priest in the days of the Czar
in Petrograd. He had education, charm and an unmistakable sincerity.
Women had adored him. He had preached to royalty, nobility and wealth.
Despite such close association, or perhaps because of it, Vedyensky had
begun to express radical opinions—that is, radical for those Czarist
days, because he preached Essene Christianity, humility and self-
sacrifice, “do unto others,” the curse of riches, the necessity of pure
and holy living.
Under the Bolsheviks, Vedyensky saw the old corrupt church become more
and more impotent and atheism grow. He proposed church reform and may
have been amazed by the speed of communist acceptance. At any rate, the
opportunity of his life had come to him.
At the very first meeting of the “All-Russian Ecclesiastical Council”
Vedyensky presided. He was clad in a long black robe, flowing from head
to floor, giving him an unearthly tallness, and his face would have been
worth a fortune to any artist looking for models for the Christ. He
alone had no beard; his forehead was high, his lips moist and his eyes
flaming. He spoke softly but with a terrible intensity and when he
raised his fine face and long delicate fingers in supplication, as he
prayed to heaven, he seemed magically enhaloed. It was no great strain
of the imagination, watching Vedyensky, to see nineteen hundred years
back, the amazement on the faces of the Galileean fishermen clustered
round the delicate, long-robed, beardless young Jesus.
“Bolshevism fulfils the mission of Christ,” Vedyensky was preaching.
“Verily the Communists proclaim themselves plain materialists who have
no time for spiritual affairs, even unbelievers in anything but
proletarian dictatorship. But their leaders, but Lenin, walks in the
ways of Christ. In many countries of this world there is a pretence of
Christianity, but capitalism not Christ is worshipped, Rockefeller not
Christ rules.”
He then presented the congressional resolution which begins: “Capitalism
is one of the seven deadly sins. The Soviet government is the only
government fighting capitalism,” and concludes with:
“The Ecclesiastical Council condemns the counter-revolutionary acts of
the Patriarch Tikhon and his followers. The Ecclesiastical Council lifts
the anathema put on the Soviets by Tikhon and denounces Tikhon as a
traitor to the Church and to Christianity. The Ecclesiastical Council
abolishes the Patriarchate.”
“Oh, I am ashamed of the old church,” cried Vedyensky when he had
finished reading. “The old church was a pigsty. And Tikhon was a member
of the Black Hundreds. Tikhon opposed the order to help the women and
little children, victims of starvation; Tikhon caused bloodshed by
resisting the Soviet government. Tikhon was an anti-Christ.”
Then the Council voted to unfrock Tikhon and to leave him plain citizen
Andray Belavin; the man second only to the Czar in power was cast out as
a traitor to Christ and an eleventh day which shook the world was
recorded. We were all duly impressed. Bishop Blake was duly impressed.
But the newspapermen were not taken in. Although we could not trust our
interpreters, because they censored as they talked, and despite the fact
we could not send the truth by wire or mail, we made an effort to get
it. There were some men we could trust. Bishops who voted “anti” told us
that the resolution casting out Tikhon, lifting the anathema on all
things red, and sending the church’s greetings to Lenin and the Soviet
army, had not been passed unanimously. There had been violent protest,
and the opposition had been denied the right to speak. Of the 308
delegates a score had refused to vote until threatened with having their
names given to the Chekah. Delegates, priests and bishops told us that
the hall had been crowded with Chekah agents who noted all dissenters
for future persecution. But that was not all. Later we were informed by
participants that whereas many of the 308 delegates, representing 308
church districts, were honest followers of the new church, the majority
had been chosen by Chekah intimidation and terror in their home towns.
The whole congress had been a fraud. Seventy or more per cent. of the
delegates had been chosen by fraud. The Chekah had controlled the church
congress from the first meetings of the congregations in peasant
villages to the final passage of the resolution unfrocking Tikhon.
Bishop Blake did not believe us.
He had been the only foreign churchman present, thanks also to Soviet
intrigue, and he had delivered himself of a little speech, bringing the
greetings of American Methodism to the Russian Reformation. His
reception had been so cordial that he could see progress for his vast
vision. So he preferred to believe the reports of the Rev. L. O.
Hartmann of Boston, one-time editor of _Zion’s Herald_, and now
associate councillor and interpreter.
Some days later we had more news for Bishop Blake. Even before the “red
clergy” had whitewashed the Soviets, a trade had been made by which
Tikhon’s life had been saved. The price had been the surrender of the
Living Church to Bolshevism. This was the contract:
“_For the Bolshevists_: 1.—The church lifts the anathema which Tikhon
pronounced against the Soviets.
“2.—The church unfrocks Tikhon, lifts his immunity from trial and
virtually surrenders him friendless to Bolshevist justice.
“3.—The church blesses the Soviet régime and accepts the Communist
program and its Marxian philosophy, excepting the clause against
religion.
“4.—The Church blesses the red army.
”_For the church_: 1.—Metropolitan Antonin, the arch-enemy of Tikhon,
becomes head of the Russian church.
“2.—The priest Vedyensky of Petrograd becomes archbishop.
“3.—The anti-Tikhon group of reformists obtains the best church
properties.
“4.—The ‘red’ clergy will receive the proper support and favour of the
Soviet government, the army, the Chekah in every town in Russia.
“5.—Tikhon turned plain citizen will be tried but his life will be
spared.”
Naturally the Soviet censorship would permit no word of this business to
reach the outer world. How the board of bishops of the Methodist
Episcopal Church, meeting in Darkest Kansas, heard of affairs in Moscow
I do not know: perhaps they had not heard the facts but were merely
acting from a native distrust of everything Bolshevik. But they took
action immediately. So one day I brought the Methodist representative a
telegram which read:
“_Board bishops Methodist Episcopal church resolutioned recall
delegation Russia—refuses accept responsibility remarks purported Blake
conclave at which Tikhon unfrocked._
”_Resolution declares church neither supports nor defends Soviets as
Blake alleged and assured council._
“_Reported here Blake in address said church couldn’t stand aside but
must follow revolutionary upheavals and accept every movement towards
greater brotherhood. First time history, bishop is reported to have said
that a great nation is dedicating itself to go forward on behalf masses
humanity and church couldn’t anathematize such movement—_”
The last time I saw Bishop Blake in Russia we had a long argument about
the actions of the Soviets. I concluded with:
“If everything is right there would be no censorship. They maintain a
censorship to hide their terrorism.”
“But,” contended the bishop, “I saw a dispatch of yours in the paper in
which you described the anti-religious campaign—even the crowds burning
crucifixes and shouting ‘down with the church.’ Now if the censor lets
you pass such a terrible item, you certainly cannot complain of Soviet
censorship.”
Bishop Babbitt!
A few days later I was expelled from Russia. The Methodist Mission was
moving also. I went to the American Relief Administration building to
say good-bye. I also settled my financial matters in the auditing
office.
Suddenly a nervous, troubled little lady burst into the room and
demanded aid from Colonel Haskell.
“We are in a lot of trouble—we’ve lost everything—money, watches,
letters of credit and our return tickets—You must help us.”
“Whom?” asked one of the Relief men.
“Bishop Blake and his party—I am Mrs. Hartmann, the wife of the Rev. Dr.
Hartmann.”
“But how did this all happen?”
“They were at the last session of the church congress and they had their
pockets picked—and the Bishop’s watch gone too—”
* * * * * *
And so ended a vision. The Living Church of Russia faltered along; the
atheistic campaign crashed through its own weight of stupidity, Tikhon’s
life was saved as per arrangement and the American Methodist Church
continued to gain converts—in China or Africa.
And the Chekah no doubt eventually won the gold watch.
_Chapter VI_
CARMAGNOLE CHRISTMAS
Had Mr. Carlyle been alive and devised means for breaking censorship, he
could have spared his amazing imagination for a chapter by merely
photographing Carmagnole in Moscow. For history waited just a hundred
and thirty years to repeat in Russia scenes from the French Revolution.
Once again girls dressed in the vestments of priests danced the
Carmagnole and images and ideas which men had worshipped, held sacred,
and had been willing to defend with their lives, were burned or spat
upon or flung into the snows.
In the Red Square a group of students from Sverdloff University
inaugurated the Bolshevik Anti-Religious Campaign. Laughing boys and
girls, red-cheeked and good-natured, bobbed hair alike for both sexes,
poorly clad, they began with a travesty of a Greek Catholic ritual
service, mocking the phrases and rhyming them with Marxian epigrams.
A crowd gathered and grew.
When the players interpolated the newest street slang into the prayers
there was laughter. Girls became shrill and hilarious. On the outskirts
of the mob a pious peasant crossed himself and muttered a curse.
There appeared a travesty of an ancient Hebrew rabbi, jestingly chanting
the psalms with exaggerated Jewish gestures and many a wink. He wore a
praying cloth around his fat stomach and dozens of phylacteries in
strange places.
Merriment reigned.
There appeared a long, lean, wily Oriental who turned somersaults with
marvellous abandon. He was labelled Mohammed. With him were several
students dressed as Greek Catholic priests. Some were praying, juggling
prayer-books and vodka bottles, others would catch a bottle in mid-air
and pretend to drink the alcohol. The juggling was excellent.
Applause.
There appeared a procession of boys and girls, men and women, the
children of pious folk carrying paper and wood effigies of all the
leaders of this world’s religions, Jesus and Moses, Buddha and
Confucius, Mohammed, Osiris, Archangel Gabriel, Saint George, Abraham
and the Virgin Mary. In groups of hundreds and two hundreds they came to
the Red Square from every direction. One group passed the Shrine of the
Iberian Virgin, the most sacred in all Russia. The local priests had
doubly padlocked the little blue building and disappeared to pray
discreetly for divine aid. But braver souls, lay souls, had come to
guard the doors. A woman in jewels and sables, a peasant in a greasy
sheepskin, a beggar wearing ten or more cast-off coats so badly torn
that his body was visible in spots where the holes in all ten coincided.
Twenty in all, the rest nondescript in appearance but fanatic of eye.
Jeers. Exchange of curses and filth. But no violence.
The faithful crossed themselves. Those who jeered crossed themselves
mockingly and shouted their laughter. The faithful thereupon fell upon
their knees, first one then everyone in a mass movement, and there in
the dirty snow, in the intense mid-winter frost, under a morbid sun,
they prayed for their shrine while company after company of marchers
filed by them, mocking, laughing, jeering, spitting and heaping
sarcastic and ironic benedictions upon the prostrated.
Five thousand students and at least ten thousand onlookers had now
filled a large part of the Red Square. The audience itself was
inarticulate. Only an occasional individual had the courage to protest,
applaud or show his disgust by word or gesture. The student leaders were
gay and as alert as cheer leaders of a Harvard-Yale game. They kept
their groups in line, found them their locations and prepared the final
ceremony.
In the centre of the Red Square the snow had been cleared, and a hill of
debris collected. Soon it was alight. When the flames were high and
reflecting on the red Kremlin walls and the madly coloured onion and
pineapple domes of the Vasilly Church, the students began to sing. They
marched round and round the fire, singing first the “Internationale,”
then an anti-religious song to the tune of a famous hymn. Then the
“Internationale” again, and as they crowded, fought their way to the
fire, shouting and laughing, they threw, one group after another, the
various images they had brought from the schools and universities, into
the common flames.
A shout of glee, a roaring wave upon wave of joyful wordless sound
greeted the appearance of a figure labelled Jehovah. It was that of the
burlesque stage Jew, wearing praying cloths, a huge six-pointed star on
his chest, and phylacteries on forehead and arm. Into the fire it went.
Another figure labelled “God Almighty” was pushed through. It was an
enormous straw dummy, bulbously red-eyed, heavily bewhiskered, much like
the drunken type of Russian peasant, but carrying two gold-bags in one
hand and the Greek cross in the other. Into the fire it went while the
round waves of wild enthusiasm sped to the outer edges of the throng.
Twenty times ribald posters called “God Creating Man,” mostly scenes of
drunkenness and Rabelaisian horse-play, came to the fire. Finally came a
procession of coffins on each of which a communist student was perched
dispensing mock benedictions. Everywhere showers of labels like confetti
at a carnival. The labels were printed “Religion is Opium for the
People.”
Just as the climax of marching and burning passed, the oratory began.
“Our demonstration is not anti-church but anti-religious,” declared one
student.
“We are here to break the chains which have enslaved the Russian
peasants to the church,” said another.
And a third stood on a coffin and shouted:
“Your priests have told you that we would be stricken dead by a
thunderbolt from Heaven if we did this. But no thunderbolt has come.
See. I defy God to send down a thunderbolt! But none comes.”
No thunderbolt came. The laughter and shouting continued until the last
embers ceased to glow and the weird shadows of the fire had mingled in
the universal semi-darkness. The onlookers and the actors began to
depart. Last to go were the twenty men and women guarding the shrine of
the Iberian Virgin, the most sacred in all Russia.
* * * * *
_Carmagnole Easter_
From “forty times forty” churches, the pale-blue domed churches and the
gold domed churches, the fantastic church of Vasilly and the beautiful
marble Cathedral of the Holy Saviour on the River Moskva, the thousands
upon thousands of bells tolled brazenly, announcing the Resurrection.
Over the whole capital the air vibrated with the clangour. The clangour
was a challenge. This day the Soviets had permitted celebration in all
the churches, despite the anti-religious campaign, and those who pulled
the cords were firing their reply.
It was midnight. Inside Tikhon’s church there was no room to kneel, so
thickly were the devout pressed. Outside the church the League of
Communist Youth had gathered for a religious demonstration.
“Boom! boom! clang! boom! clang! boom!” went the bells.
“Down with the Church,” shouted the boys and girls, shaking their fists
at the bell towers.
“Boom! boom!” clashed the bells.
“Down with the Church.”
“Down with the Priests.”
“Down with Religion.”
“Down with God,” sang the communist youth in chorus.
Bearded Antonin, bishop of the new “Living Church,” was preaching. Just
outside the door was the newest movement in Soviet Russia, aiming at the
destruction of all religion. Bishop Antonin was silent about it. Further
away there was the split in the great Greek Church. Bishop Antonin
ignored it. Not a word did he say of all the religious and anti-
religious agitation which was filling the hearts and minds of the people
in once Holy Russia. He spoke of man and his sins and how they would be
washed clean in the Blood of the Lamb. He pleaded for clean lives in
heart and body. At the conclusion he raised his hands to the golden
ikon, the colourful painting of a haloed Christ, and in a voice full of
pain exclaimed:
“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
For a moment there was intense silence, then a groan, faint, gathering
volume like a thunder, burst against the walls of the marble church and
spent itself in the high vaulted ceiling. There was silence again.
The thousands were wedged shoulder to shoulder in a heavy crushing
sweaty mass. Sables saved from the revolution by hook or by crook,
chiefly the latter, and rags filled with lice—aristocrats and beggars
and cripples. Some held candles, flickering dismally in such a huge
space, spattering their neighbours’ clothes with grease. The once clean,
cold, sweet-smelling church had in a few hours become hot, fetid,
stinking with human odors so that many reeled as if drunk and fainting.
But there was no room to faint nor even to kneel.
The singing began. The slow unlyrical booming of the bells was followed
by an old Gregorian chant. The beautiful belcanto voices smote the
hearts of the worshippers. Tears flowed. An hour went by. Still the
Gregorian chant continued, and as the singing reached a higher pitch a
strong religious emotion overcame all within.
Without, there was revelry.
Mounted on a small portable platform on the top step of the church
itself, a communist youth was haranguing the thousands of university
students.
“We have destroyed the Czars of earth: now we destroy the Czars of
heaven,” he shouted.
“Down with Religion. Down with God,” they replied.
An “American comrade” was introduced, evidently a Russian who had spent
some time in a Pittsburgh steel mill.
“Comrades,” he cried, “I am glad to be back in a land where we have
succeeded in destroying the superstitious church which has enslaved
mankind from tribal days. The church is the instrument of the
capitalistic exploiters, nothing else, and religion is the opium of the
people. How wonderful it is that we in Russia have obtained our freedom
from religious tyranny. Over in America millions upon millions believe
all this damned nonsense of priests and rabbis—”
“Down with Priests and Rabbis,” assented the mob.
From the domes of the Cathedral of the Holy Saviour fire-crackers were
exploding, apparently an old Russian custom. Mocking approval from the
mob. Green and gold and silver lights circled over the marble domes. The
communist boys and girls built a bonfire. They marched round it and
sang. They held hands and danced, kicking their feet at the fire as they
circled in faster and faster time, speeding it up with their singing:
“Down with the Church
Down with the Priests
Down with Religion
Down with God.”
The doors of the cathedral were flung open. The worshippers, filled with
religious ecstacy, came from the mysterious candle-lit and song-filled
vault out into the cool, blue, starry, Moscow night. Behind them the
voices were still chanting:
“Glory to God in the Highest.”
The dancing children of Moscow replied with the “Internationale.”
“Arise ye victims of starvation
Arise ye wretched of the earth.”
“Peace on Earth, good-will to men,” came from the interior of the
cathedral.
“Down with God,” cried a crazy-eyed girl, and acting on her suggestion a
thousand joined hands, encircling their bonfire and the cathedral and
all the departing worshippers in one vast circle which moved slowly
round the vast edifice, keeping time with dancing feet and nodding heads
to their own mad anti-religious songs, while the devout looked on amazed
and silent.
_Chapter VII_
THE CATHOLIC TRIALS IN MOSCOW
The cry of horror and indignation throughout the world which followed
our first reports of the anti-religious campaign and the trial of the
Roman Catholic Clergy in Moscow, led to such bitterness against the
Soviets, so many “official representations,” so many threats against
their régime and such a universal attack on their sovereignty that they,
with the naïveté and vindictiveness and brutality of schoolboys,
murdered one churchman and imprisoned others. The severest censorship
since the terror of 1918 was then enforced.
When the trials began the Soviet leaders knew exactly what course they
would take, their purpose, and the result. It was all arranged
beforehand to pass a death penalty, to use the verdict for a further
suppression of church power in Russia, and to pardon the victims in due
time.
“The representatives of the Roman Catholic Church in Russia,” said the
prosecutor, Krylenko, “have been proven agents of foreign governments.
They have expressed friendship for Poland during our war with Poland. We
do not want to stir up hatred but we must uproot all organized religions
which oppose us.
“We ask the death penalty for four men.
“We should ask death for all but we are not _over_-thirsty for blood.
When necessary we can be merciless.”
Krylenko had been head of the Extraordinary Commission, the dread
tribunal of the red terror which the Chekah instituted after the attempt
on the life of Lenin by a radical young woman who had confused
Bolshevism with Liberty and Freedom and in her disillusion had taken a
revolver and wounded the chief enemy of her dreams. Krylenko had sent
tens of thousands to their death. A relentless man. But at the Catholic
trials, as public prosecutor, he seemed merely a soft, inspired fanatic,
somewhat aware of his nice voice.
It was an enormous hall and it stunk almost as heavily as the cloak-
rooms of the Opera House. Old Harvard men who remember the reek of
perspiration in the aristocratic timbers of Hemenway Gymnasium and can
imagine it intensified a hundredfold, will understand the horror a
bathed person would have in going to either the grand ballet or a Soviet
convention or this famous trial. The mob sat there in sheepskin coats,
Persian lamb fezzes and ragged clothes, which had not been washed or
cleaned for a long time. It ate garlicky food. Breath and body reeked of
primitive humanity.
Electric lights none too brightly lit the oblong hall. A bare path
divided the audience in two equal smells. Up and down the divide
soldiers in brown or red-brown uniforms with scarlet frogs in place of
hessians, giving them a pyjama effect, paraded with rifles in hand.
Chekah agents, in uniform and in secret mufti, stared and noted. At the
upper end of the room sat the accused and the Soviet officials, the
priests unmoved, the Soviet judges in everyday garb without the least
distinction from the laity.
Our attention was focussed on Archbishop Zepliak, a Pole, almost bald
with a fringe of grey hair protruding from his small cap, in the
conventional cassock and with a sympathetic pink face. Next to him sat
Monsignor Budkiewicz whose fate stirred the world. They were a group of
ten or eleven on trial.
There were no fireworks at the beginning. It was quiet and conventional.
The accused pleaded they had acted within the canonical law of Russia;
the prosecution denied the law and charged them as it would charge
laymen, with treason. It was testified that Cardinal Roop before leaving
Russia in 1919 had signed agreements with the Bolshevik régime whereby
communist control of church property was recognized and placed in the
collective hands of the congregations, instead of the control of
priests.
When Archbishop Zepliak came to be head of the church it was forbidden
for the clergy to sign more agreements and in Petrograd the signed
agreements were repudiated by the priests, so that the government had
retaliated by closing the churches.
Zepliak pleaded that the treaties were invalid because they infringed
canonical rules, that the property belonged to the church, not to the
congregations, and that it could be released only by the consent of the
Pope; therefore the Soviet order to seize church treasures was resisted.
As for giving aid and comfort to the enemy, Poland, during the Russo-
Polish war, the priests denied all treasonable activities.
Krylenko replied with the production of a mass of evidence the
authenticity of which it was beyond our power to judge. I think we all
felt that the prosecution was unjust, that the evidence was
insufficient, and that it was all a piece of theatricality in the
existing anti-religious campaign. No one who was sane or sober believed
the death sentence, which we knew in advance would be asked for and
probably granted, would ever be carried out.
On Saturday, March 31, 1923, the Polish Minister, M. Knoll, the head of
the British delegation, Mr. Hodgson, and Father Edmund Walsh, the
American priest in charge of the Papal famine relief work, visited
Chicherin who assured them that he would do all he could to prevent the
penalty. Mr. Hodgson and Father Walsh told me that afternoon that they
were certain that Zepliak and Budkiewicz would be pardoned.
“Are you sure they are alive?” we asked.
“The Narcomindel (Mr. Chicherin’s foreign office) assured me that they
were,” replied the British diplomatic representative.
On Sunday, April 1, 1923, my interpreter who knew the minister of
justice well, telephoned him from my room and after being told that the
priests were alive and well, received some ambiguous reply about a
pardon.
On April 5, 1923, the official Soviet organ, _Pravda_, carried the
following miscellaneous paragraph:
“On March 31 the death sentence imposed on the counter-revolutionary,
Budkiewicz, was carried out.”
It was confirmed that the execution took place in the dark morning
hours, on the day Chicherin had promised to help save the priest’s life,
and the day _before_ the Minister of Justice had continued to assure us
he was still among the living.
I am convinced the Minister of Foreign Affairs and the Minister of
Justice had not lied to us. They did not know what was happening. Once
again the dread Chekah had snapped its fingers at the entire government.
Efforts of the representatives of the American press to report the
Catholic trials had resulted in almost daily battles with the censor in
the foreign office. It was partly due to this affair that of the eight
American reporters four were deported or departed in protest. Before I
was deported I was able to obtain from a minor official of the Chekah,
whose name I cannot mention because he gave me many tips and would be
shot if this were known, the real explanation of the execution of
Budkiewicz.
“Russia’s most touchy point is her sovereignty,” said this terrorist.
“She is isolated, unrecognized, treated like a fallen daughter by the
smug capitalist nations. Russia’s Achilles’ heel is her pride.
“Who is responsible for the death of Budkiewicz? The blood of Budkiewicz
is on the hands of the Archbishop of Canterbury, General Sikorski in
Poland, and the Polish Premier. They led the world attack on us. The
All-Russian Executive Committee had had the reprieves all ready. Then
the clamour began. The world, led by the Archbishop of Canterbury and
the Polish politician did not plead for mercy; it threatened. The Poles
rattled the sword as usual. The rest of the world treated us like a
nation in uncivilized Africa. Our right to judge according to our own
laws was denied by other nations. This was mixing in our internal
affairs.
“Russia was treated as an inferior nation, and the execution of the
Catholic leader was the psychological reaction.”
Somehow, shortly afterwards, the Soviet religious prosecutions fell off,
and eventually they were abandoned. The arrival of Archbishop Zepliak in
Warsaw, which I also witnessed, surpassed a national holiday.
_Chapter VIII_
LENIN
Lenin himself was not stronger than the censorship and the Chekah.
Many people trembled when the name of the dictator was mentioned. But in
dirty little offices sat little grey bureaucrats who changed Lenin’s
speeches when they feared he had spoken too dangerously, and in other
dirty little offices sat military political police officials who bragged
that they would arrest the man if he acted too dangerously.
When we said to the censors, “Lenin himself said this,” they laughed.
When it served their purposes they added or deleted, and sometimes they
suppressed Lenin entirely. When it pleased them they arranged
interviews, but for years they did their best to keep the “capitalist”
journalists out of Lenin’s sight. We heard him, however, at all the big
congresses.
He spoke with a thick, throaty, wet voice. He was in very good humour,
always smiling, his face never was hard. All his pictures are hard but
he was always twinkling with laughter. Eyes bright, crowsfeet, a real,
unserious face. He had a clever motion of the hand by which he could
emphasize a point and yet steal a look at the time on his wrist watch.
Frequently he pointed with both index fingers, upwards, shoulder high,
like the conventional picture of a Chinese dancer.
When he announced the occupation of Vladivostok and added
imperialistically, “We will never give up a single conquest we have
won,” he seemed surprised by the sudden burst of nationalistic applause
which followed. Frequently he dropped his voice, stuck both hands into
his coat pocket, threw back his head, and said something ironic.
Sometimes he spoke from the left side of his mouth.
In the loge on the left stood Unschlicht, a dark agent of the Chekah,
surveying the house. Always in the shadow. A man of shadows. In the
Kremlin, in the Red Square, in the Bolshoi Theatre, wherever Lenin went,
the dull, grey, one-day-unshaven face of Unschlicht of the Chekah, was
there, somewhat hidden. Little cruel eyes, furtive, quick, dangerous,
nervous, forever watching, forever suspicious.
But the mob was always stricken with hero-worship. It cried, “Long live
the Saviour of Russia, long live the protector of the poor,” when Lenin
arrived. Then he spoke.
“We have come to the doors of Utopia,” said Lenin without emphasis,
without the theatrical effect of Mussolini who knows a good line when he
utters it. Lenin continued simply. “Utopia no longer remains in the
dreams of mankind, for we have brought it to earth. Not today nor
tomorrow nor in a year shall we enter it, but Utopia is now within sight
of the people of our time.”
It was his first speech to the common people in many months. They sat
transfixed. If he were as bombastic as Napoleon or Mussolini you could
doubt his sincerity, but he spoke so plainly and with a full heart.
Three days earlier he had addressed the delegates to the Third
International, a selected gathering of leaders of Communism, orators,
debaters, parliamentarians in various lands, a supercilious lot. In
neither speech was there any sentimentality, but to these last he could
argue world politics.
“We have made stupid mistakes,” he said, and a little shudder ran
through the delegates. Communists never make mistakes. They are Marx’s
chosen people and can do no wrong. No revolutionary ever admits
mistakes. Lenin was the great exception. But even he offered excuses.
“We have made stupid mistakes. No one knows better than I. Because
Russia is backward, because we have had no outside help, because we are
bureaucracy-ridden.
“Enemies will say Lenin himself admits stupidities and mistakes. I say
our mistakes consist of saying two times two are five, while the
undoubted stupidity of the Entente and the Second International consists
of saying twice two equals a wax candle—or the Versailles Treaty.”
The first time I heard and saw Lenin was the day of his first public
appearance after his long illness during which his death had been
reported to a satisfied world several times. It was in the throne room
of the Czars, in the Kremlin, full of tables, chairs and benches. The
magnificent windows, the gilt and brocaded walls, and the painted
ceiling alone reminded one of ancient splendours. A huge red sounding
board had been placed on the stage; behind it, carelessly out of joint,
stood the Romanoff throne, no longer an object of curiosity.
Krylenko was speaking. This man who had led the illegal red terror which
had claimed thousands of lives, now advocated a change in the code of
laws—more laws. The three hundred listeners composed the All-Russian
Central Executive Committee. They came from all parts of Russia and they
were all cold. They sat in their fur coats and fur hats on which a
greasy sweat had gathered, and they illustrated how terribly human
beings can smell. They buzzed and yawned.
All at once there was a stir at the door. Two soldier guards stiffened.
They have been told to await some one important and to be careful of
passes today. They do not know why but they know their duty.
A little man in a plain black coat, hat in hand, approached them. They
did not recognize him and demanded the red card. He fumbled in his
pocket and presented it. He looked more the small sleek business man
than a communist leader. The soldiers with peasant difficulty made out
the name, one read and nudged the other, who read also, and their dumb
faces opened in astonishment. The little man passed.
Krylenko was speaking drearily about more laws. The little man came into
the room, passed our press table, and I noticed he was walking on his
toes. Lenin tip-toeing so as not to interrupt the speaker. Not until he
got to the first two steps of the platform, softly, did the congress
recognize him, and there was an uproar. Everyone rose. There were a few
shouts. By actual count it was an ovation of 35 seconds. While Lenin,
who hadn’t paused to acknowledge the applause, is still shaking hands
with the men on the platform, Krylenko resumed his speech. He had the
good sense to cut it short.
Another twenty seconds of applause greeted Lenin as he advanced to the
speaker’s pulpit. He had discarded his coat. He was dressed in a cheap
grey semi-military uniform, a civilian transplanted into ill-fitting
army-issue clothes. They were grey-black but the crease in the trousers
was already giving because there is too much shoddy in the wool. The
tunic, which is high like the American doughboy’s, was open at the neck
revealing a flannel shirt and a bright blue necktie, loosely tied. His
eyes were not half as oriental as the photographs have made him, because
he has full eyebrows, not merely stubs at the nose, which the pictures
emphasize.
He glanced at the audience in the high arched room, cathedral-like but
for the plain windows through which the sun comes in garishly. He looked
behind him, at the wall where there is a masonic sign, the Eye of God,
which has beheld a dynasty of Czars. Outside the palace are the Kremlin
walls, snow-lined, battlements and buttresses, towers with royal
pennants in iron, the permanency of the Romanoffs in iron mockery.
Beneath, the River Moskva, slow and muddy, drab and lazy, partly frozen,
reflecting the gold and azure and red Kremlin in a mighty, tarnished
way. Khaki-clad soldiers move in line like centipedes, their coats long
to the ground, sweeping the snow along with no sign of individual feet,
the effect of mass and machinery, with white human faces in ugly brown
helmets, with bright red stars.
“Tavarashi—Comrades,” Lenin began.
It was a historic moment for Russia, but no histrionics. He had to tell
them of a victory on land and a victory by diplomacy. He reported on
foreign and domestic affairs. He never hesitated to acknowledge defeats
and failures. But he was always optimistic. My disillusion was profound.
I wondered how this man, who has so little magnetism, had come to the
fore in a radical environment where spell-binding oratory, silver-
tongued climaxes, soap-box repartee, have been the road to success. Only
once did he aim to produce a laugh, and even that had his touch of
irony. “We have pruned and pruned our bureaucracy,” he said, “and after
four years we have taken a census of our government staff and we have an
increase of 12,000.”
He concluded and the congress took a recess. Everyone went into another
room, one of the most regal—I shall never forget a delegate trying to
pick diamonds out of the cross and crown emblem set in each of the
doors. Lenin, Kalinin, Zinovieff, Kamineff and Chekah agents jostled the
delegates, the newspaper correspondents, the peasants in their sweaty
sheepskin coats and hats, all in good humour, crowding, elbowing,
shouting, while the inevitable Soviet photographer tried to organize a
historic picture.
Finally it was taken, and we American correspondents crowded around him.
“Do you speak Russian?” he asked in Russian. “No, English,” we said. “I
speak her, ze English language—not zo verry good,” replied Lenin and his
pronunciation was confirmation. He could reply in German.
“I occupy a large portion of my time with American affairs,” he said. “I
am reading Pettigrew’s ‘Plutocratic Democracy’ which an American friend
sent me. It is a great book. I am interested in everything Senator Borah
does and says. I watch all events regarding Japanese-American relations.
I am interested in the American elections.” Then he smiled again and
added:
“Your American newspapers frequently report me dead. Let them fool
themselves. Don’t take away the last hope of a dying bourgeoisie.”
We tried to ask all the political questions we could think of, but he
was nervous and parried.
“How do you like Moscow? Not quite like New York?” He laughs quietly as
if ashamed of his Babbittry.
The artist of a New York newspaper made quick sketches because Lenin was
fidgeting to be free. Lenin gave the artist another moment.
“The world says Lenin is a great man,” said the artist in his
thankfulness.
“I am not a great man, just look at me?” Lenin replied with a gesture
deprecating his size and emphasizing his simplicity.
On another occasion he showed the same stubborn prejudices which
characterize all the revolutionary leaders.
“When is the war between Japan and America coming?” he asked. He was
assured there would be no war because there are no causes for war. “But
there must be war,” he insisted, “because capitalist countries cannot
exist without wars.”
But he could return to his broad ironic views. To the Briton of the
press corps he said:
“As you know, we in Russia have only one party, and we have to wear
ourselves out without a relieving shift.”
Is this hypocrisy? There were other parties once, notably the
Mensheviks, also radical and communistic, but the Bolsheviks have driven
them to Berlin and Paris and Siberia, slaughtered members by the
thousand and finally annihilated the movement. But Lenin took the curse
off this hypocrisy when he added:
“I think we shall begin a two party system like the British or
American—a left and a right party—two Bolshevik parties of course.” He
laughed.
While Trotsky and all the small orators in Russia were snapping at
America, Lenin, who was wise and who had a sense of humour, saw the
futility of a radical movement in the prosperous United States.
“You might as well shoot peas at the rock of Gibraltar as to arm the
counter-revolutionaries against us,” he said, “and in America it is the
same: do you think the weak handful of Communists we have there can
upset the American form of government by talking much and by making
futile little plots?”
Lenin was big enough to see the humour of many little radical episodes.
He was fond of telling the story of some labour troubles at the time
when he was a refugee in London. He was already known as a Socialist
leader then and many times shop committees brought him their troubles.
Once, he said, there was a plan for a strike in some works and a
delegation came with many complaints, about which they were not definite
and could not agree. Finally, in desperation, he asked them for a clear,
final statement.
“‘All we want,’” he said the chairman told him, “‘is world revolution
and better toilets!’”
He realized keenly his weakness as an orator, and feeling his lack of
power over certain classes of listeners who were bored by fine thinking
and quick clear reasoning, he would say twice or three times in his
discourse: “I assure you I am not telling you lies.”
Frequently he would speak in foreign languages. His many years’ exile in
Switzerland had made him conversant with French and German, but he was
not sure of himself. He would approach the speaker’s table nervously,
draw papers from his pocket, put his hands to his head as if parting
hairs which were not there, and after waiting patiently for noise to
subside, would begin in German. Words would fail him. He would then
whisper the Russian word to a nearby friend who returned the correct
teutonic, quietly, which Lenin would quickly grasp and turn it with
force upon his audience. It was an actor being prompted intelligently.
Although militant Communism or the reign of terror was the direct result
of an attempt on Lenin’s life, he tried to stop it. He was never told
the truth about the extent or viciousness of the Chekah system. Lenin
hated bloodshed.
When Bela Kun was defeated in Hungary and came to Moscow he was received
as a hero. Lenin, who knew masses better than individuals made the
mistake of sending Kun to pacify the Crimea after an uprising. In
accordance with Lenin’s suggestion an amnesty was published among the
“White Army” officers and leaders. They were asked three times to
register and Lenin’s name was pledged for their personal safety. Thirty
thousand are said to have registered. Then Bela Kun, in accordance with
instructions which the Chekah sent out without Lenin’s knowledge,
erected forests of scaffolds and hanged all of the thirty thousand he
could find. Lenin heard of this atrocity. When Kun returned to Moscow
Lenin refused to take his hand or listen to explanations of military
necessity. He did not want Bela Kun around. The Hungarian ex-dictator,
however, was in favour with the Chekah, and could not be cast aside. But
he remained in disfavour with Lenin so long as Lenin lived, and most of
that time in far away places. (Of course the censor never let us mention
the Kun incidents.)
When they addressed him as “Comrade” Ilyitch the word had real meaning:
for other leaders it was ridiculous, a word too often profaned. Lenin
had the greatness and the human, all-too-human sympathy to be a comrade
to all, the group of fellow dictators and the peasants who loved him. In
battle with his enemies he was uncompromising and without pity.
He hated power, knowing its corruption.
His political wisdom was great; he understood mob psychology thoroughly
but was a little weak in his grasp of individual psychology; he never
made a mistake in dealing with the masses but he frequently did in
choosing men to share power.
As an orator he was my greatest disappointment. Not understanding a word
he said, I waited for his dramatic effects. There were none. Socrates
sitting in the house of Cephalus and arguing on the floor was not less
theatrical than Lenin addressing the peasant delegates to the Third
International. He had no warmth. He was coldly intellectual. He was more
effective with his fellow theorists.
His private life was the exact antithesis of Mussolini’s. While his
enemies blamed his sickness on youthful excesses, not a proof of them
was ever produced; on the other hand his family life was exemplary. His
moral purity, in another age and condition, could have been a claim to
sainthood. He had no mistresses, no secret sex life.
Long before the Soviets changed the name of Petrograd to Leningrad, the
peasants of his old home town showed their love for him by substituting
his name for the village of Kukushkino. Lenin was so pleased when the
boys he played with sent him this remarkable letter, that he put it into
his diary:
“Dear Comrade Wladmir,” they wrote, “do you remember the horses in the
woods we watched together at night? It was 45 years ago. We have now
rid our village of the landlords who for fifteen years camped on our
necks. Then came catastrophe—famine. The cattle died. Our property was
gone; our houses were falling to pieces. The famine wiped out
everything.
“We cannot send you a present. We have paid the grain levy and two
civil taxes. Two sorrows have befallen us. We have no horses and we
have no school in our village. We know the Soviet government is giving
horses on credit and we ask you as late co-villager to approach the
government for credit horses. Without this we are workers without
hands; we have land and nothing to work it with. We think it also
necessary to inform you that we have asked the Tartar republic to
organize a school for professions and literacy and to be named after
your mother Mary Alexandrovno. In conclusion we ask you to save your
health because you are the only one for us in all Russia. When the
school is built we ask you to come over to us as a guest in order that
we may reminisce over old days.
“Henceforth village Kukushkino is named after you, Comrade Lenin, and
now, until we meet again, with brotherly greetings,
The community of the Village Lenin.
(late Kukushkino.)”
Now Lenin is dead and worshipped by the peasants. Some never knew him
but as another Czar who supplemented the goodness of that Alexander who
freed the serfs, by apportioning the soil. A myth is growing throughout
Russia and a legend. He was divine, of immaculate birth, and he did not
die but ascended into heaven, where he sits by the side of the Trinity
as special intercessor for poor Russian peasants. This making of a red
god pleases all good atheistic Bolsheviks.
When I think of the red god’s appearance I see always that cheap shoddy
suit he wore. I see the neat crease in the cotton trousers holding on
like wool. In a year I saw Lenin many times and always in the same
clothes. First up from his sick bed the clothes were new. That was in
the Fall. But September’s creased trousers became April’s baggy rags.
They had held out bravely, as the man within had done. But finally they
flapped hobolike as if acknowledging the surrender of all pretence to
bourgeois respectability. Shortly afterwards Lenin died.
_Chapter IX_
CHECKING UP ON CHICHERIN
Before going into Russia I helped cover the Genoa conference, “_il pui
grande conferenza del historia dell’ mondo_.” It being the first time
the Bolsheviks had come out of the land of communist mystery to
participate in bourgeois affairs, their every movement was important and
eagerly reported. A touch of human interest caused a laugh around the
world: the six big Soviet leaders had left Russia wearing proletarian
clothes; as they entered Germany they cast off overalls and put on
conventional suits, and the day of the king’s reception they rushed out
and bought boiled shirts, high silk hats and swallow-tails. It was a
journalistic climax equalled only by the secret Russo-German treaty.
The Bolsheviks were in the open at last and no hunting restrictions.
Continental European journalists, most of whom are party politicians,
applauded or yelled derision at the daily Rakowsky-Chicherin press
conferences: “You blood-stained murderers, when are you going to honour
the Russian bonds I bought,” a French journalist once shouted and broke
up a meeting. The Americans and Britons contented themselves with taking
notes in silence.
One day I received a series of questions to submit to Chicherin. They
were a bit hecklish. He refused to answer them.
Day after day the questions appeared in print with a request for Russia
to explain. Finally Chicherin called me to his rooms in Santa Margherita
and gave me written answers. I took them with me when I went to Russia
later, and checked them up. Here is the interview:
* * * * * *
Question—When will the Soviet government establish free elections,
freedom of speech and of the press, and freedom of travel?
Chicherin—Elections to the Soviets are quite free. All working sections
of the community take part in elections. The intellectuals, being, as a
rule, employed in the offices of the government or of the local Soviets
or by industrial concerns, take part in elections of officials and
representatives for the local Soviets.
No restrictions are placed on freedom of speech but, naturally, those
are liable to punishment who preach revolt against the government. No
government could act otherwise.
Freedom of travel is not subject to any other limitations than those
created by limited transport facilities. However, regular passenger
traffic was resumed some time ago.
As there does not exist in Russia a preventive censorship of the press,
newspapers hostile to the government can, without check, attack it and
preach revolt.
The Russian government, in consequence, will be able to admit full
freedom of the press only after the conspiracies of counter-
revolutionaries, which are still organized from abroad, have ceased.
Question—In what manner is the present government more democratic than
the old régime?
Chicherin—The local Soviets, being direct representatives of the working
masses, are following closely the policy of the government and
constantly express their assent or dissent in revolutions. At the
periodical All-Russian congress of the Soviets they can directly give
effect to their opinions.
The trade unions participate directly in state affairs. Local
administration is in the hands of local Soviets, not in the hands of
officials of the central government. A considerable number of workers
and peasants occupy high positions in the administration and in the
army.
Question—In what particulars more communistic?
Chicherin—Property in land is completely abolished. But property in
industries does not exist either and they are either worked by the
nation or else property in them is replaced by long-lease concessions.
Question—Does the Soviet government consider that it is holding property
seized from Americans for the American proletariat or for the Russian
proletariat?
Chicherin—The Russian government does not hold any property seized from
Americans. Foreigners have been subjected to laws of nationalization,
seeing that legislation applies to everybody. When one economic system
takes the place of another economic system there can be no oasis for
foreigners.
Question—How many people have been put to death by order of the secret
tribunals?
Chicherin—No secret tribunals exist in Russia. The number of those
executed by the extraordinary tribunals has been officially published.
Question—If the Soviet government should obtain control of any other
country or countries, would it establish in them secret tribunals of
this kind?
Chicherin—Nor does the Soviet government intend to establish secret
tribunals in other countries. The Russian government has not the least
intention of obtaining control of other countries.
* * * * * *
Tavarish Chicherin is not a liar. When he says “The Russian government
has not the least intention of obtaining control of other countries” it
can pass as a legal statement which no one need question. But what do
you find in studying Soviet Russia? This: the seven or nine men who are
the Soviet government and who have “not the least intention of obtaining
control of other countries,” meet again as the seven or nine men in
control of the Russian Communist party or the seven or nine men in
control of the Third International, and at these meetings all the
intentions and all the work are aimed at only one thing, the Russian
communist control of other countries.
M. Chicherin is not a liar. He says “Elections to the Soviets are quite
free.” Investigation reveals that no one but proletarians are allowed to
vote, and their votes are either Bolshevik or so-called non-partisan.
The rest of Russia has been deprived of the vote; this makes the
election to the Soviets free.
M. Chicherin is not a liar. When he says freedom of speech and press are
free he gives the impression that there is little or no restraint. But
an investigation shows that only Soviet newspapers are allowed, and
speech is confined to discussion of communist policy. Any word, written
or printed, which is anti-Bolshevik means imprisonment or death.
M. Chicherin is not a liar. He is a diplomat, the foreign minister of a
very large country, a successful revolutionary, a man of culture, and a
master of euphemism, evasion, ambiguity, and equivocation. But you have
to go to Moscow to check him up.
_Chapter X_
“FOOD IZ A VEPPON!”
Before the American Relief Administration was allowed to enter Russia
and save five millions from death, a “treaty” had to be signed with the
Soviet politicians. During the two years of activities in which
$66,300,000 were spent, as many as 11,000,000 persons fed a day, 35,000
relief stations maintained and 15,000 hospitals to down the plague, the
American relief heads and workers had to fight the Bolsheviks. If at any
time the newspapermen had broken the communist censorship, disregarded
the wishes of Colonel Haskell, and forgotten their humanitarian
feelings, they could have told such truths about the Soviet sabotage
that the American government, yielding to press opinion, undoubtedly
would have stopped the work and many million more graves along the Volga
would have been dug.
It seems almost incredible, now, that we had to beg the Bolsheviks for
permission to rescue their dying people. Our representatives could not
understand the resistance at first. Litvinoff, head of the Russian
delegation, was proposing limitations. The A. R. A. had talked as only
Americans can talk: speed, efficiency, power, quantity, brains, success.
We would send men by the thousand, food by the millions of pounds—.
“No you von’t,” said Litvinoff.
“But—why?” stammered the American negotiator, “we do not come to fight
Russia, we come to feed—”
“Yes,” smiled Litvinoff, “but food iz a veppon.”
* * * * * *
How important a weapon food could be we found out very soon. Colonel
Haskell had stipulated that the press must come in with him, so the
Bolsheviks, who previously had permitted only journalists favourable to
their system, with bad grace allowed us, “bourgeois” reporters, “agents
of capitalistic sheets,” to come to Moscow. But they set Chekah agents
on us immediately.
The A. R. A. had committed itself to feed 1,000,000 children until the
end of 1922. But by August of that year it was giving meals to
10,429,599 men, women, and children, a number five times as great as the
Commissary department fed in France, and almost twice as great as the
Hoover missions had ever fed at one time in France, Belgium, Central and
Eastern Europe. In numbers, mileage, tonnage and area the job was the
greatest in the history of the world, civil or military.
In return all we got from the Bolsheviks were sneers, insults and
sabotage. These began with the arrival of the first relief workers and
helped drive the Americans out of Russia the moment the famine was
broken. No sooner had the men reported to their stations when they began
complaining that the communist officials everywhere were trying to
interfere with their work. In several cases Haskell’s agents were forced
to put the food trains through to their destination at the point of
revolvers. Fist fights were numerous. There was bad blood between the
opposing forces throughout the years.
Investigation after investigation was made. One fact, paramount, was
discovered. The Bolsheviks were trying to feed Communist party members
and let the rest die. They were also anxious to take the credit and the
glory; they lied to their starving mobs and deprecated the part America
was playing. But always and everywhere they strove to divert the food
from the masses, which were being fed, irrespective of politics or
religion, to their own political followers.
Time after time Colonel Haskell threatened to withdraw from Russia. One
day I mentioned this possibility to a foreign office official.
“Let him withdraw,” was the reply.
“Then millions will die,” I said.
“What of it,” replied the Bolshevik. “The world war cost 16,000,000
lives; what if another five or ten millions die. Communism will
survive.”
“But you will have a revolution.”
“Never,” he replied, “haven’t you learned yet that starving people never
revolt. It is the half-starved, the discontented man who grumbles and
eventually fights. But the famine-stricken man has given up. He hasn’t
the guts to revolt. Let the A. R. A. withdraw. We don’t care.”
(What would have happened if we could have printed that?)
In Odessa a relief worker was robbed of his official papers; every week
others complained that they had been searched on trains; hundreds
reported lack of co-operation from Soviet officials. During the fifth
anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution celebration in Petrograd, the
Soviet insisted that the man in charge of the A. R. A. building hoist a
red flag. When this was refused the Bolsheviks decorated the building so
that it appeared that the Americans were joining in the festivities. Mr.
Warren tore the red decorations down and a dispute followed lasting for
weeks.
Then the Soviets attacked the Americans in their party press. They had
tried to form Haskell’s Russian employees into a communist union but had
failed. Now they tried to organize a general strike among them. That the
relief work would be interrupted and thousands more die, did not worry
the Bolsheviks: it was the principle of the thing!
Of course I used the diplomatic pouch of the A. R. A. to smuggle letters
containing censored and suppressed news out to Riga and London. But one
day I began to suspect that the route was barred. I went to see C. J.
Quinn, Haskell’s assistant. Quinn admitted that the mail bags, which
according to the Litvinoff-Brown “treaty” were considered immune, and
which were shipped sealed with lead and string, had been opened by
Chekah agents _en route_.
“Moreover,” he said, opening a drawer of his desk and exhibiting
photographs, envelopes and statements, “we have absolute knowledge that
Chekah agents have taken letters out of our offices here and in Riga,
copied them and replaced them.” He said every waste basket in the Moscow
office had its contents taken to Chekah headquarters every night.
“Yes, and they have done a thousand other dirty tricks on us.”
The communist organ _Pravda_ said one day:
“Why is America charitable? Why is she sending us food? Because the
American farmers have so much grain they are burning it up—and besides,
they get trade information out of Russia.”
Everywhere the charge was made that the entire Hoover organization was
in Russia for the sole purpose of getting trade and military secrets.
A booklet was circulated widely which discussed famine relief. It listed
the agencies as follows:
FRIENDLY: Quakers; 265,000 children.
NEUTRAL: Nansen Mission; 138,000 children.
OPEN POLITICAL ENEMIES: A. R. A.; 5,000,000 persons.
The booklet said: “Under cover of charity the bourgeois relief agencies
are systematically preparing for the coming of concession seekers; they
are boring a canal for the exploitation of Russia by world capitalism.
Hoover ... has spread a complete net over Russia.”
The climax of the Bolshevik attack followed an unfortunate incident.
Although Colonel Haskell employed men of honour, one of them indulged in
a little smuggling. It may have involved a thousand dollars or two.
Immediately the corrupt communist press opened a slanderous barrage on
the entire relief mission. “How they help” was the sarcastic headline in
_Isvestia_ which declared Americans “were plundering as they go. This is
how they help the famished; this is how the representatives of civilized
America in barbarous Russia behave; this is how rich America uses poor
Russia.”
For eighteen months the representatives of the American newspapers had
refrained from printing anything about the opposition of the Soviets;
now we came in a body to call on Colonel Haskell to discuss the possible
effect which the publication of the truth would have on America’s
continuing generosity.
“If the government and the Hoover fund moneys are withdrawn, will it
mean another 5,000,000 dead?” we asked Haskell.
We were told that the worst of the famine was over. It was this which no
doubt accounted for the boldness of the Bolshevik press attack.
“Have you informed Lenin how difficult relief work is becoming?” I asked
Haskell.
“Yes,” Haskell replied, “Lenin blames the antagonism on minor officials,
on the bureaucracy which he hates but cannot change.”
Haskell had found Lenin plain, frank, sincere and thankful. He was
amazed by the lack of egotism in the dictator and impressed by the
honesty of Lenin’s gratitude. Later he was to take specific complaints
to Kamineff and Radek, from whom he also got assurances of change and
co-operation.
But the battle continued to the end.
One day a report came in from Riga that showed how times had changed. At
the Riga docks a big American ship was disgorging wheat into Russian
freight cars of the A. R. A., while nearby a dirty little Soviet tramp
grain steamer, out of Russia, was being unloaded by hand. While millions
were still hungering, while American charity wheat was still coming in,
the Bolsheviks were beginning to sell theirs abroad.
The famine was broken. Bolshevism was saved. The two things went
together because there was no possibility of separating them. The Soviet
government survived, thanks to the American people feeding its millions
during the worst period of the régime. Only professional Communists
believe it could have come through the crisis and still maintain its
power. Gradually the American Relief Administration withdrew from
Russia. As it left the frontiers it could hear the insults which
continued to be directed at it from Moscow.
In all history there is probably no parallel case of such wholesale
national biting of the hand which fed them.
All the non-communist employees of the A. R. A. were eventually arrested
by the Chekah.
Most of the American press representatives were then expelled. Friendly
relations with Russia were never established.
Veritably, “food iz a veppon.”
_Chapter XI_
A DAMN BAD ACCENT
The Bolshevik censors, who were also foreign office officials, advised
us bourgeois journalists to mingle with the new communist proletariat
and bureaucracy and report the valor and enthusiasm for the new régime.
But the story which follows, and which illustrates better than
statistics a phase of the life of Moscow, could not be sent through the
censored government posts.
It begins in 1910, when a stranger came into my newspaper office with an
offer of $5 each for articles dealing with labour. He said he was a
labour leader of Swedo-Russo-German parentage, and that he intended
publishing a weekly, and needed editorial assistance. As I have no
interest in having him executed in Moscow today I will not name the
periodical and will call him “Stan Stangaard.”
In 1910 I was a reporter on Alexander Pollock Moore’s _Pittsburgh
Leader_ then, at $16. a week—or it might have been at $14.; at any rate
it was the lowest wage paid in Pittsburgh—and $5 extra was that “little
more, and how much it is” of a sentimental Browning. So I went to work
for Stan secretly.
We hired a small office in a big building and painted the weekly’s name
in much gold leaf on the frosted door. Our furniture was good and
impressive. We had a good printer too. But Stan made no effort to employ
advertising men and I wondered how he meant to survive.
For several weeks I wrote two or three articles for the weekly paper,
praising the heroism of miners underground and riveters up in the air. I
pointed out all that was noble in common day jobs and said that all that
America was or hoped to be, it owed to the workingman. But Stan never
allowed me to write specifically or to discuss wages. “We might do that
later,” he said in that Swedo-Russo-Germano-American of his.
His ways were mysterious. He seemed to have a lot of money and to enjoy
playing the rôle of editor, although he could not write or speak ten
words grammatically in any known language. I soon realized he was
playing a game, and when he knew I knew, he took me into his confidence.
At the end of two months Stan had spent a lot of money and had nothing
to show for it except a few copies of his magazine. We used to run off
only two hundred copies and 195 of these we mailed to the presidents,
treasurers and directors of coal and iron companies. We had no
subscription roll. It was the free list that had given me my first
suspicion.
One Saturday the printer sent a man to say he wouldn’t get the issue out
unless money was forthcoming immediately and that same day Stan had a
lot of expensive apologies for not paying me my $10. He assured me
cheerily that all would be well next week, but it was evident he was at
the end of his shoe-strings.
On the following Thursday, however, the crisis in our affairs turned our
way. Stan came into the office and produced a check signed by the
president of one of the largest Pittsburgh coal companies, a name known
throughout America. “Disz brakes dee eice,” said Stan, and the ice broke
all round us as on a hot day off Newfoundland. Stan got lots of checks,
cashed them, sent the money somewhere, paid his debts and suddenly
suspended publication. It seems there was now no longer a reason for
pointing out the heroism of miners underground or riveters up in the
air. Stan took me to a restaurant and bought a good dinner with lots of
cheap wine. When he had had at least a quart himself, he beamed and
bragged.
It was then I learned that the last town he had worked was Youngstown,
Ohio, and the next would be Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. He made me an offer
of $25. a week for which he expected me to become an accomplice.
“No,” I said, “I can’t do it.” I was an idealist then. I believed all
the world’s ills could be cured by an honest press. I told him I didn’t
mind writing articles for him because what I wrote I believed in, but I
could not become a partner in his business.
“Voddemadder die bizniss?” asked Stan. “Tamn goot bizness. Die
kohlmeiners dey get exploit, no? Yes. Den I go make exploit die mens who
exploit. In Rossia we have a national hero, Stenka Resen, you know vod
he done?”
“Yes—a sort of riparian Robin Hood.”
“Hoot? Vodt?” said Stan, “he voz one tamn fine feller vodt die hold
coundry sink aboudt heem—big hero. Sum tay anodder kind Stenka
Resen—beeger—come and mek revolution. Shure. Lizzen Chorch, I’m a goot
man, I am.”
“So am I, Stan, and I would not prostitute Fair Journalism for your
filthy $25. or ten times that amount.” (One could speak like that in
1910.) I’d rather starve than debauch my principles. You may think you
are doing a noble work—I don’t mean to criticize your methods—but
Journalism to me is the noblest work of man. (At that time I was
rewriting 3-line items about housemaids who fell down stairs and broke a
leg, and minor bicycle accidents. Murders and divorces were to be my
next noble calling two years later.)
So I lectured Stan and turned down his seductions, but I couldn’t help
having a sneaking admiration for the adventurer and the easy way which
he had cleaned up some $50,000.
“How do you do it, Stan?” I asked him.
“Vall, I just go ride into de headman of die company und tell heem I’m a
beeg labour leader, and I show heem my paaper wod I print by die week
und I tells I need die sooport, vaal, five tousand or even one tousand I
take it und I give von advertizemen’ page und nize editoriall. Und dey
bay.”
“But why do they believe you are a labour man? Why do they fall so
easy?” I asked. “What in the world have _you_ got?”
“One tamn bat aczent,” replied Stan Stangaard.
* * * * * *
In 1916 in the list of dead on the channel steamer _Sussex_, torpedoed
by the Germans, I read the name of Stan Stangaard, a Swedo-Russo-
Germano-American citizen said to be going to Russia to enlist in the
Czar’s armies.
* * * * * *
In May, 1923, under the presidency of Karachan, the Soviets opened a Far
East Chamber of Commerce, the meeting in the foreign office being
attended by many notable commissars and sub-commissars.
Out of curiosity several of us went to see the gathering of the yellow
and brown men who are under Russia’s domination. As a study in faces it
was a reward.
Walking along the gaily lit corridor I noticed a strangely familiar
face. The moment the picture of Pittsburgh came back, I knew whom this
man resembled. “There, but for the fact he is dead seven years, goes
Stan Stangaard of Pittsburgh,” I said to a friend.
Whereupon the stranger turned around and said in his unmistakable voice:
“Hullo Chorch!”
“Hullo Stan,” I replied.
“Don’t call me Stan,” he whispered, looking around furtively and
dragging me away from my colleague. “Come here. Mine name iz now Piotr
Piotrovitch.” (Again I use a false name.) “Don’d forged. Mine addrezz
Boulevard Dmitrovka 23/4/3—vich means houz nummer 23, floor fordt, door
tree. Come. I giff you goot dinner. Best in Moscow. Remember die dinner
I giff you in Pittsabourg? Bedder!”
I went to Stan’s house the next night. He had a young and beautiful
Russian wife, all black hair and red lips and blossoming like a tulip.
More remarkable still was his having four or five rooms, and still more
remarkable were the furnishings.
To begin with the Bolsheviki had communized dwelling space more
efficiently than they had done anything else in Moscow. Every cubic inch
within walls and under roof, had been listed and distributed. A big room
would be given to a family. A ball-room for instance would be marked off
like claims in California during the gold rush, and families would camp
in their allotted space. Privacy was abolished by Bolshevism when
housing became the problem of the day.
Now Stangaard was a big commissar and stood high in Bolshevik circles.
But that did not mean he was entitled to any special favors; in fact the
party demanded that officials and leaders be strict Puritans, get no
more than their allotted few cubic feet of room per person, eat rationed
food and live in penury. Those caught grafting or squandering were
arrested, kicked out of the party, frequently sent to Siberia, sometimes
executed.
Stangaard’s home was hung with tapestries and fine oriental rugs. Silver
and black enamel stood on mantlepieces. Inlaid furniture, expensive but
bad oil-paintings, much too many dust-collecting bric-a-brac, over-
impressive tables and chairs, garish objects of many genres filled all
Stangaard’s rooms. Bad but costly.
Caviar is not a rich man’s nor a general’s dish in Moscow, costing only
85 cents a pound in those days. With it Mrs. Stangaard served smoked
salmon, sturgeon, sardines, anchovies, ham, cold eggs, three or four
salads and another dozen things as _hors d’oeuvres_ plus vodka which was
then much more a crime than our post-Volstead cocktails. And the other
eight or nine courses were as gorgeous. Red and white wine. Before the
coffee a glass of champagne in real Bourbon style.
It was one of the three best meals of my lifetime and Russia then was
just emerging from a famine.
Stangaard offered me imported cigars and took me to see the treasures in
the other rooms. In a cupboard he pointed to some clothes—nice European
suits which he kept but never wore because they would arouse suspicion
and betray him.
I expressed my astonishment over everything. He knew I knew all the
Soviet laws about governmental corruption, even to that law which once
abolished capital punishment for murder but proclaimed it for grafting.
“Oh, there are ways of getting along even here in Communist Russia,”
said Stan in German.
“But what have you got that works with the Bolos here?” I asked in
English.
A broad smile came over his broad face.
“One tamn bat aczent,” replied the Swedo-Russo-Germano-American.
_Chapter XII_
THE MORAL REGENERATION OF RUSSIA
She was known to all as “_The Morossova_”; some called her Santa Maria:
the daughter of the Morossov who had made millions in textiles and had
subsidized the great Art Theatre of Moscow. She was rich, beautiful,
cultured, democratic.
The night she spoke to me of “the moral regeneration of Russia under the
Bolsheviks,” she was my hostess at her father’s theatre. They were
playing Eugene Onegin, an opera based on a novel by Pushkin.
“The duel scene is quite famous,” she said, “Pushkin himself was a good
duellist and lost his life in such a combat. Onegin is the
personification of the blasé youth of old Petrograd, incapable of a true
emotion, careless of his relations with women, full of a desire to
conquer those whom other men desire. Tatiani is moody, gloomy, living
the life of the gloomy, moody characters she finds in pre-revolutionary
Russian novels which she reads and believes ... were we ever like
that...?
“You see, that was the old Russia....
“In the old Russia there was too much wealth for too few persons, too
much debauchery, too much disgust with life, too much listlessness, too
much seeking after new sensations, too much trying to find something to
make life less boring, more worth living....
“In the new Russia there is the struggle to get a piece of bread, true,
but it keeps all Russia active, active, awake, alive. It is a battle for
life ... and in time of battle one does not get moody or degenerate, one
does not commit suicide out of boredom, out of disgust with life—the
result of reading a morbid novel ... no, one girds himself to the
attack. The mind clears ... the body exerts all its strength ... moral
inspiration comes for victory....
“That is the new Russia.
“Once there was too much time to kill ... leisure perverted life. Now
there is a tremendous energy, seeking not artistic or noble expression
as yet, but the daily bitter black bread. For love and for friendship
and for social intercourse, for the amenities of civilized existence,
for poetry and art there is today less time and less passion. But that
too will come in time. Thank God we have broken with the old Russia.
This is the day of moral regeneration.”
* * * * * *
I put all this down in my note-book, thinking to use it some day when I
wrote the pros and cons of Bolshevism. With such expressions I would
refute the charge that I met only the opposition and heard only anti-
Bolshevik propaganda during my year in Russia.
Could there be a better case than that of Marie Morossova? The daughter
of the beloved libertarian Prince Kropotkin was in London, in Paris, in
Berlin, working with the anti-Soviet forces and the Tolstoy family had
disowned the revolution. Gorki had written gloriously of the flaming
heart of Lenin but he hated the bloodshed and terror of the new régime.
But here was a daughter of the old régime acclimated and spiritually
enthusiastic under the new order. She would be my proof of impartiality.
But one day Santa Maria was missing. And when a person is “missing” in
Moscow, there is but one place to search, and that is the Lubyanka, the
main prison and headquarters of the Chekah, and its slaughter-house.
She was charged with visiting the British mission headquarters and with
being too friendly with foreigners. All that is counter-revolutionary.
For days and nights she was tortured in the Chekah prison. When we saw
her again, it was in a sanitarium. She had gone mad.
So if you want to hear about the regeneration of Russia under the
Bolsheviks, you will have to read elsewhere.
(Naturally the censor suppressed all telegrams dealing with this case.
It was a matter of purely local concern, they said.)
_Part IV—Arabia_
_Chapter I_
THE TRUTH ABOUT FRANCE AND THE EASTERN WAR
To break the censorship and print some truths about the French in Syria,
the new revolt in the desert, the attack on the Christian Lebanon, the
Foreign Legion, and daily additions to an unfortunate situation, was an
expensive but rather easy adventure. But to tell the deeper truth about
French “Imperialism,” the causes of the war and the part General Sarrail
played, requires a statement on religious intrigue. This subject is
taboo in American newspapers. I believe this to be the first and only
account of all that happened from the time Sarrail first attacked the
powers of the church and the feudal system to the ultimate military
victory and diplomatic compromise of his successors in Syria.
It is necessary, first of all, to know that Syria with its population of
2,800,000 is a land of 29 religions and that murder for religious
reasons was and is practised there enthusiastically, joyously, and in a
wholesale way frequently. It is also necessary to know that Sarrail who
came as General and Governor of Syria, was a fanatical anti-clerical. He
is also accused of being an atheist, a freemason and a Socialist,
sometimes all three.
Tragedy was therefore inevitable. You have the man, the antagonistic
mass, and the conflict of wills.
All his life General Sarrail had been at war with the clerical forces in
France and in the French army. When the anti-clericals were on top,
Sarrail won promotion and recognition; when a clerical premier came to
power Sarrail was neatly shoved under.
Other Catholic and Protestant generals in France did not suffer or
rejoice in the same way; most of them made their faith a subject between
their God and themselves; Sarrail was a fighting sectarian.
Sarrail saved Verdun. Frenchmen admit him to be one of the great heroes
of the war. A man of amazing military intelligence and unbounded
initiative, he kept the eastern gate from the great onslaught of Germany
and by magnificent disobedience, which may prove amazing to future
historians, he won the great battle.
But for political reasons Sarrail was relegated to Salonika. No worse
post could be found for a French commander. He was chief of British
troops there and faced the undecided and well intimidated Greeks.
Despite insufficient men and materials, despite an almost evident
antagonistic spirit in French G. H. Q., despite sabotage and resistance
by the British, he won success after success and prepared the great coup
against the weak spot of the enemy. But he never got the laurels. He was
recalled just before the attack.
Herriot, of the Radical Socialists, sent Sarrail to Syria. It was the
reward given one anti-clerical by another. And immediately the French
clerical press, which had printed not a word when rebellion broke out
under the governorship of General Weygand, began exaggerating the
troubles under Sarrail and screaming for his recall.
Why?
Because from the moment he arrived in Beirut General Sarrail saw two
things clearly; he saw the domination of the churches and the domination
of the feudal lords. He saw the population of the country bow to the
Orthodox, Maronite, Roman, Mohammedan, Sunnite, Shiyite and other
churches instead of to the Power of the State, and he saw misery,
serfdom, virtual slavery upon which emirs and pashas waxed bulbous in
well-stocked harems.
And so his socialistic, anti-clerical soul revolted and he said, “I’ll
change all that, and at once, too.”
He tried in three months to upset the customs, traditions, beliefs,
forms, taboos, usages, sacred prerogatives and impositions of two
thousand years.
He reaped a rebellion.
When Sarrail came to Syria advisors said to him, “You can’t rule these
people with kindness. They understand only force. Terror and bribery are
the means of taming the desert. Give the city Syrians posts of honour in
the government: let there be graft! But the wild tribes cannot be
treated like Europeans. They are famous for biting the hand which feeds
them.”
Sarrail was obstinate. He heard from his intelligence officers how
Colonel Lawrence bought loyalty—at least temporary loyalty, with gold
pieces, but the French were opposed to handing out money and Sarrail had
the peculiar humanitarian view that the savages would be satisfied with
schools and hospitals and good roads instead of Turkish pounds.
Again, they said to him, “Use force at the least show of resistance.”
But he wouldn’t. They showed him how the British were ruling
Mesopotamia, across the way, with lots of airplanes and few men, because
they had taught vagrant tribes and town Arabs the terror of bombs
dropped from the air. (This was before the premiership of Ramsay
Macdonald when Socialism and sentimentality won out for a brief spell
and notes instead of bombs were dropped on recalcitrant villages.)
Sarrail was sure he would win Arabs and Bedouins by acts of friendship
and generosity. Above all else, he determined to be absolutely fair in
settling the differences between Christian and non-Christian, village
and village, tribe and tribe.
(So for every air bomb he failed to use when it was time, and as the
British do, he had to import a hundred shells, and for every gold piece
he failed to give in bribery and corruption, as the British did, he had
to spend a hundred or a thousand gold pieces on military supplies and
men.)
Of course he made some terrible mistakes, being both aged and fanatical.
He refused, for instance, to visit the head of the Roman Church, or the
Chief Rabbi, or the Orthodox Archbishop of the Cadi or the Chief Mufti.
He was willing to receive them, but he did not step out of his way in
their direction. And there was no question of his attending mass with
the Jesuits as Generals Weygand and Gouraud had done. He found the
Jesuit order strongly entrenched in magnificent buildings largely
subventioned by the French government and all he said was, “They think
they are the centre of government.” In his personal newspaper he ordered
printed:
“The purpose of the mandate for Syria which was confided to France, is
not to favor principally the Roman Church but to place above all
religions the well-being of the Syrian people, and to take care to give
to the Mohammedans who are in the majority, continual proofs of the
friendship of France.
“But it seems that in Syria it is impossible for the Governor to act
independently of the Jesuits. The latter ask only one thing, and that is
to be the masters. The first duty of a French patriot given the honour
of governing Syria is not to place himself in the hands of any religious
sect.”
Sarrail sent a man to ask questions. He stopped people in the streets
and such was the dialogue:
“Are you a Syrian?”
“No, I am a Maronite.”
“And you?”
“I am a Greek Orthodox.”
“And is the third man a Syrian?”
“No. I am a Sunnite.”
“What is a Sunnite?”
“A branch of the Mohammedan faith; we hate the Shiyites.”
“And the fourth?”
“Melakite.”
“And the last man there?”
“Greek Catholic.”
“Like your friend number two?”
“No—no. He is Greek Orthodox; I am Greek Catholic.”
“Are there no Syrians among you?”
“I am Arab.”
“I am Libanase.”
“I am Alouite.”
And so it went on, there were nothing but religious sects and tribal
groups in Syria.
Then Sarrail began to study the economic condition. He was shocked. He
found such poverty as the western world rarely sees nowadays. He found
men so poor and miserable they would commit murder for five piastres. He
found the emirs and pashas living in idle luxury while serfdom
flourished. The Arabs in the desert and the thousands of homeless in the
cities knew only three things; sleep, eat when possible, pillage when
possible. A large mass semi-starved. And with hunger he found cruelty.
He heard tales of horror. Life was held too cheap. In war, he was told,
the Druses tore out the hearts of their enemies and ate them.
Sarrail was a kindly old man despite his religious fanaticism: he was
sentimental enough to stop public hangings and amazed to find the
natives had hanged a French soldier; he determined to free the serfs and
was surprised to find them not only ungrateful, but taking up arms
against him at the order of their old masters; so far as his insult to
the 29 religious cults was concerned, he suffered no disillusion because
he knew what to expect.
He found that by merely enforcing existing laws he could end slavery and
eventually crush the feudal lordship of emirs and pashas. He changed
officers at Soueida, the capital of the Druse tribe, until he had one,
very unpopular with the natives, but one who understood Sarrail’s ideals
of civilization.
The law was enforced. A close relative of the pasha of the Druses,
himself a prince, arrested and found guilty of a common crime, was
treated as a common criminal, and given the conventional sentence, to
break stones on the highroad outside his feudal village.
Therefore the serfs he wanted to free arose and rebelled for their
insulted ruler.
* * * * * *
When Henri de Jouvenal succeeded Sarrail as high commissioner,
“Christian” Lebanon chose a government, and this is how it was
announced:
Maronite Christian: Auguste Adeb Pasha: premier.
Sunnite (Mohammedan): Negeb Bey Kabbané: justice.
Maronite: Bechara Effendi Khoury: interior.
Melachite: Mr. Joseph Aftemos: public works.
Orthodox Catholic: Mr. Negib Amrouni: education.
Shiyite (Mohammedan): Aluj Nostral Bey: agriculture.
Druse (Semi-Pagan): Dr. Selim Talbouk: public health.
and in the Senate, composed of sixteen men, there were also six
religions announced, the Greek Orthodox being included, the Melachite
being omitted, Mr. Ayoub Tabet named as representing “the minorities.”
They also tried to make peace in certain sectors where neither
Mohammedans, Christians, nor Druses had committed more than desultory
murder. I know of no better light on the character of the people of the
Orient than this peace treaty of the Wadi Ajam zone, signed, sealed and
delivered this 25th day of September, 1925.
There were 111 delegates to the Versailles of the desert. They met at
Beitima, which flew the banner of neutrality, being Mohammedan. There
was no house big enough for the congress, so it met in the open in a
garden which was part of an oasis.
The treaty was for sixty-one days, as is the custom of the tribes. The
terms were:
(1) A certain sum shall be fixed by the contracting parties, this sum to
be known as the price of blood.
(2) A commission of neutral Mohammedans chosen from the villages of
Beitima shall count the number murdered during the time of this treaty,
on both sides.
(3) If the number of murdered is greater among one of the contracting
parties, the other party must pay the price of blood multiplied by the
difference in the number killed.
(4) The Druses restore the flocks taken from the Christians and pay for
those which have disappeared.
(5) The Druses and Christians are to be disarmed by a commission of
mukhtars (sheiks) of Caza.
For the town of Kallat Yandal: Christians: Youssef Saad, Elias Semaan,
Nicolas bou Akl, Michael Elias Kousseiri. Druses: Assaad Mejli.
For the town of Hiné: Christians: Moussa Dabe, Sabeh Abou Diebe, Gerios
Mossalem.
For the town of Arna: Druses: Mhamad Kassem Kaboul; Fares Kaboul, Saleh
Ahmeddine.
For the town of Kherbey: Druse: Fares Taleh.
* * * * * *
When I tried to write the story of the war of religions in the Christian
Lebanon I found not only French censorship but actual perversion of my
cables.
The French had been trying to prevent the tribal Druse rebellion and the
Nationalist Syrian uprising from becoming involved in religion because
once the holy war had been announced they would be helpless despite
their human and material military superiority.
They had two most important truths to conceal: the formation of the
Christian Volunteer Army of the Lebanon and the Mohammedan support of
the Druses in the massacre of Kaukaba. When I reported the latter fact
French officials deliberately changed my cables and calling me to
headquarters explained that this was a military necessity. Moreover when
they found that I had sent a courier to Cairo with duplicates of my
censored dispatches, they issued a statement to the Arab press which
said that I had admitted that no Mohammedans participated in the
massacre, and asked me not to deny their lie. Realizing the importance
of averting more religious massacres, I conformed.
The religious war commenced with a surprise attack, the Druses, who deny
they are pagans although they acknowledge neither Jehovah, Christ nor
Allah, and their Mohammedan recruits from Damascus burst out of Syria
and marched secretly upon the Lebanon villages where American dollars
and American missionaries had spread a veneer of American civilization.
The Druses and Mohammedans entered the town peacefully; their leader,
the Druse Hamsy Dervish, came in a Ford car to the home of the Christian
Sheik, Khaleel Khoury Rizk, and said:
“Do not be frightened. Our errand is one of peace.”
Sheik Khaleel ordered coffee, cigarettes and fruit served, and Hamsy
Dervish ate, drank and smoked. Now it is the first unwritten law of the
Orient that a man must respect the safety of his guest, and the guest
must respect the safety of his host, and to eat and drink in another
man’s house is the pledge of safety.
So Sheik Khaleel believed. “But after he had eaten and drunk,” said the
Sheik to me a week later, “Hamsy Dervish, being neither Christian,
Mohammedan nor Jew, but a vile pagan, went to my roof-tree and made a
signal to his followers. Immediately afterwards Druses arrived demanding
rifles, money and food as our ransom. We protested. Then shooting began
in the village.
“I saw one Christian killed, then three Christians killed, and, with my
few followers, I fled to the hills and we fired until our ammunition was
gone. My niece and I were stopped on our flight to Sidon by other Druses
who cried: ‘Hands up, Christian dogs,’ and took our rings, watches and
money.”
The sheik’s brother, the Reverend Joseph Rizk, rifle in hand defended
his church.
“We fought to the end,” he said. “A handful, we covered the flight of
200 unarmed civilians, after forty Christians had been killed, and many
more wounded, and the town pillaged and set on fire.
“I saw the Druses enter my church, shoot down the holy cross, defile the
holy vessels, pillage the ecclesiastical garments. My one regret is that
I did not remain fighting in the church and die there, rifle in hand.”
Following the massacre of Kaukaba two thousand men, under the leadership
of Patras bey Karam and Joseph Karam, descendants of Joseph Karam, the
national hero of Lebanon, organized the Christian Volunteer Army, which
fought valiantly to save the Christian villages but became a complex
problem to the French because their very existence began to stir up a
religious war on a large scale.
The blame for arming the Christians was placed on the Lebanon
government, not the French command; the volunteers engaged in battle and
took Kaukaba. The Druses and Mohammedans attacked, took Kaukaba, then
entered Djedeide Merjayoun, known as the “American Capital” of the
Christian Lebanon.
“If the National Gendarmerie had remained with us we would have saved
the capital,” Patras bey Karam told me the next day. “But they fled when
they heard the enemy’s strength was 3000. We killed 300 of them. But of
our thousand many had never had a rifle in their hands before; there was
no discipline, no self-reliance. Soon our forces dwindled away, it was
every man for himself. I’m old but hard. At least a thousand enemy
bullets went by me; when I fired I killed my man each time. We saved
most of the civilians, including the twenty ‘American’ families.”
The town of Nabataya became the Volunteer Army’s headquarters. Here
Joseph Karam, a picturesque youth with a strong face, a fez, khaki
shirt, two bandoliers crossing his chest, two automatic revolvers at his
hips, and a rifle with a Christ on the Cross carved on the stock, was
holding the road to Djedeide which was full of refugees, walking, riding
jackasses, crowding in Fords from which vast masses of bed-clothes
protruded and bed-sheets flapped in the wind like the sails of a wrecked
schooner. The refugees were paying as much as $50. for a seat in a Ford,
$25. for a foothold, and there were many other good Christians who were
glad to profiteer on those fleeing for their lives. Children bound
tightly to jackasses were screaming and their mothers walked and wept.
The French sent troops by land and sea. Ancient Sidon saw dirty, smelly,
smoky, little destroyers where once French Knights had landed glistening
in armour from square-sailed, many-oared, red Venetian galleys. Crusade
and Christian massacre were no new thing in this terrible part of the
world. In the memory of man, in 1860, in the very same towns which were
later to see severe fighting, there had been massacres of Christians—and
as late as 1920 religious war had led to wholesale murders there. Now
the French were sending black Senegalese troops in greenish-brown
uniforms, fezzed, their bellies bound in red flannel to ward off
dysentery, to the ruins of the stronghold called Beaufort, which Saint
Louis himself had built and which overtops Djedeide. Six centuries of
religious bloodshed looked down upon them.
The activities of the Christian army and the victories of the Druse-
Mohammedan invasion, which echoed eloquently in the desert when fifty
camels laden with loot appeared, made the danger of religious war acute,
and Beirut was not beyond danger. Consul-General Paul Knabenshue, as
fine a man as ever filled a diplomatic post intelligently and
efficiently, had previously told all American missionaries to stick to
the seaports. He now asked American war craft for Beirut. I wrote the
following dispatch:
“_Bulletin in view of the situation, the destroyers Lamson and Coghlan,
commanded by Captain Fairfield, came to Beirut at 9 this morning stop
marvellous effect population both American and native stop everybody is
certain of the calming effect American war craft in harbour will produce
stop practically all Americans are at Beirut with exception Consul
Keeley and family still in Damascus._”
Knabenshue had asked to see all reports on the arrival of the
destroyers. He had realized the danger and had requested the state
department to announce the visit as a mere formality, because he did not
wish to excite the already panicky Beirut population nor to insult the
French by showing them he did not think their protection adequate.
I showed Knabenshue my telegram and he asked leave to censor it. He cut
out most of it, sending only:
“_Bulletin in view of the situation the American destroyers Lamson and
Coghlan, commanded by Captain Fairfield, came Beirut at nine this
morning stopping a few days on tour Mediterranean ports._”
This was censorship to which I could not object. Knabenshue was in a
particularly nervous diplomatic position and I was glad to help him.
Imagine his position when two days later the state department gave out
the information to Washington correspondents that the American
destroyers had been sent “by the request of Consul-General Knabenshue at
Beirut who considered the situation there as very serious and who wanted
the ships to stand by in case it was necessary to embark all American
nationals.”
The French poured troops into Nabataya, moved them to Kleat, occupied
Djedeide without a battle and prepared to fight for Hasbaya. They
assembled the Mohammedan sheiks, who are the wise elders of the village,
not young bloods full of passion and romance as the fiction writers
would have you believe, and who can be distinguished by the length of
their beards upon which you can usually see the memories of yesterday’s
breakfasts and last week’s dinners, egg yellow and mutton suet and filth
of undeterminable origin. They told these sheiks just how far the shells
from the destroyers in the harbours of ancient Tyr and Phoenician Sidon
could carry and they received the humble submission of all towns within
gun range.
But the wily Druses and their Mohammedan recruits, quitting Hasbaya,
attacked Rashaya, necessitating another split in the French forces,
another march on foot, another dash of a Ford convoy bulging with
soldiery.
Here on the Bekaa plain, known as the field of Armageddon to the
natives, I saw the magnificent spectacle of an army deploying for
attack.
In fact my big car passed through the French lines and proceeded to a
hilltop overlooking Rashaya where a French garrison was fighting for its
life. Occasionally shrapnel exploded in mid-air; there was the stutter
of machine-gun fire and the explosion of hand-grenades; in the silences
the cuckoo sang blithely in its alien nest.
Standing by the roadside, between the advancing French army 5,000
strong, and the Druses surrounding the town, 3,000 strong, I saw the
refugees streaming into the Bekaa plain. They came in Fords shouting:
“They’re killing; they’re looting; they murdered my mother; fly with us
or you will be killed,” they cried as their Fords slowed down then sped
away.
I rode towards the battle. Soon I was able to see the Druse horsemen
attacking. The citadel of Rashaya is historic. In 1860 the Druses had
massacred 265 Christians in the town, and when peace had been won by the
French, the thankful Christians bought and restored the Crusaders’
citadel and prepared it for just what I was witnessing that day.
Suddenly I saw myself surrounded by Druses. Five of them came up with
rifles in hand and spoke in Arabic to George my Syrian interpreter. They
asked information about the French who were marching and wanted to know
why we had come. George had but to use the magic word “English” to make
them friendly. They let us go. But as we sped back we found the road had
been blocked with telegraph poles and wires. It took us a long time to
get through but although we saw armed Druses in the distance, sighting
us through rifles, none fired.
The next day I was on the plain again, this time behind the French army,
and saw Captain Landriot of the Foreign Legion charge the Druses in the
citadel and defeat them while the column under Colonel Lobez routed the
enemy without. Rashaya was relieved. The French set fire to the
neighbouring towns from which Druses were firing rifles.
I entered Rashaya to find the results of concentrated slaughter. In the
courtyard of the citadel lay hundreds of Druses and hundreds of Druse
horses, heads and limbs and entrails mixed, a scene of red and purple
horror unparalleled.
The next day eight burning Druse villages sent up signals like American
Indian flares, signals of victory and the progress of modern arms. Mount
Hermon with its snow-white head was wreathed in smoke. When I tried to
enter Rashaya again the officers told me my pass was not valid despite
General Sarrail’s signature. But it didn’t matter much. The war between
Christians and Druses was over.
* * * * * *
And so France saved the Christian Lebanon but got no thanks.
She built schools and roads. She found epidemics and conquered them.
Trachoma and syphilis infested the country; new hospitals were built.
Religious orders and schools were aided. Law and order were enforced.
Billions of francs were spent. “Imperialism” was at work.
What did France take out of Syria? Nothing. It is an almost barren land,
spotted with beautiful oases, containing the most imposing ruin in the
world, Baalbek, the lovely Bekaa plain, historic monuments, some goats,
but no cotton plantations, no vast mineral wealth, no agriculture, no
oil, no hope of oil. At most Syria has a trade value as a port of entry
to Iraq and India.
Militarism, exploitation, imperialism? All I found was intense disgust
with the mandate on the part of the French while the natives who cried
for freedom and independence feared that the enemy religious cult would
fight them unless a foreign power spent its money there maintaining
order.
“What we want,” the whole nation seemed to shout at me, “is the Syrian
mandate in American hands.”
“Because,” one strangely honest native confided to me, “if we have Italy
or France they’ll try to milk us and we have no milk; if Britain gets
the mandate we will try to milk each other; but if America comes we
could milk her with both hands.”
Impoverished Syria, birth-place of almost all the religions of the world
which teach brotherly love, home of a score of peoples practising
brotherly murder, is still a political pawn, General Sarrail, whom even
the liberal press of America, _The New Republic_ and _The Nation_,
assailed bitterly, has disappeared from public life; and whenever the
political winds require it the phrase “Imperialist France” will be blown
through the length and breadth of England, Germany or Italy, or perhaps
America.
Sarrail was a tragic failure. His successors had no intention of
fighting the dominating religions and took the hint from British
diplomacy in the East; they created political posts, gave away honours,
spent a little money where it brought the most loyalty. Church and
Feudalism continue to rule, conscious of victory over another would-be
destroyer of things as they are and always have been. The people of
Syria are still willing to have rich America take over the troubled
mandate. Milk and honey have disappeared from the Holy Land. But milk
and honey could be imported.
* * * * *
_Pan-Arabian Plot and Abd-el-Kadr_
One of the reasons the Nationalists in Damascus sent me a threat of
disembowelment was my discovery of documents revealing a Pan-Arabian
plot. These documents, I can now say, were shown me by an American
consular official who was rather sympathetic to the Syrian cause, and
who sent the originals to the state department where they are probably
on file today. I had cause for much secret amusement for many months
when I heard Syrian notables complaining about me to this consular
official, who merely looked sympathetic but dared not admit the
documents were really his.
They were a series of proclamations and letters exchanged between Moslem
organizations throughout the Mohammedan world plotting—and why shouldn’t
they plot—freedom from the British, French and Italian yoke in Asia and
Africa.
The bombardment of Damascus was used by Arab propagandists for spreading
the grandest lies in post-war history. Islam was aroused. Headquarters
in Cairo were particularly active. Victories by Abd-el-Krim were still
being reported. Then was the time for all good Moslems to come to the
aid of their brethren.
The Party of the People which had been led by the exiled patriot, Dr.
Shabander, was dispersed and impotent, but some of its members had gone
to Egypt and obtained money and moral support. The first document is
signed “Committee for the Liberation of Syria” and opens with the
statement that the successive French governing generals, Gouraud,
Weygand and Sarrail were “a group of assassins.” It continues:
“The hour for the liberation of North Africa and Arabia from the foreign
yoke, from French, English and Italian oppression is near at hand. From
Tangiers and the Near East to Shanghai and the Far East the Mohammedan
people will soon attack the oppressors. Syrian brethren, follow the
example of the Riffians and Turks and Chinese! Drive out the foreign
nations which enslave us! Aid the Druse revolt! Fraternize with the
French soldiers of the Army of the Orient, most of whom are Moslems, and
win them over to our cause!”
The second document, signed “Central Committee for the Liberation of
North Africa,” and listing branches in all Mediterranean countries,
begins by congratulating the Damascenes for their revolutionary attempt
and continues:
“The patience of Araby is exhausted. The fires of revolution are
blazing. You have acted like brave men. Help the Riffian brethren. Make
the Mohammedan soldiers desert the French. Death is preferable to the
foreign yoke. Arabians! never sheathe the sword until you have won
independence!”
The patriots accused me of being a French agent and for months would not
listen to my protestations of neutrality. For months I challenged them
to state their side of the dispute, promising I would print any
statement they made. Finally this challenge was accepted. Arrangements
were made for me to meet the leaders. I was to be taken to the house of
a prince; I was not to ask questions about where the house was or to try
to identify any person present. To this I agreed.
Now it was notorious that Al Bakry, and other Syrian leaders who were
fighting the French, made a habit of coming into Damascus at night
through the orange groves. They slept, ate and drank well while 5,000
French looked for them in the desert and oases. It was that kind of a
war.
We traversed the oldest streets of the oldest city in the world, rode
through narrow alleys where our open carriage frequently would bump
innocent bystanders against the walls on both sides, and where flat
oriental unleavened bread was offered for sale lying in heaps on the
uncovered cobblestones, swarming with flies which could not be scared
away by curses or motions, and spattered with camel dung, which Arabs
would wipe off after spitting a little on the bread. We rode around and
around until my sense of direction was completely gone, and finally came
to a veritable palace, not quite up to the Thousand and One Nights in
splendour, but lovely by contrast to the filth and mud and dung of all
the Orient.
There was a rustling of silks as the women of the harem were quickly
driven behind their screens, and several pashas, emirs and assorted beys
rose to meet me, saluting me by touching their breasts and fezzes, as if
to say in that oriental exaggeration which means nothing at all, “My
heart and my head are at your disposal.”
They remained wary and suspicious. One of them wore a splendid oriental
costume which I recognized as Algerian and I took him to be the Emir
Abd-el-Kadr although I asked no questions. He was spokesman. There were
two interpreters who apparently interpreted nothing but gave their own
views so that most of the afternoon was lost in a dispute among my dozen
hosts.
They began by listing their grievances: the atrocities committed by the
Armenians; the failure to treat a mandate as a mandate instead of as a
colony; the loss of Syrian independence which Wilson had promised them
indirectly. Finally one and all came to the same conclusion: “We cannot
trust the French. Every French governor has betrayed us; why shall we
believe in de Jouvenal’s peace terms?”
They proposed plebescites and League of Nation investigating committees.
They proposed a system of government like that of Britain in
Mesopotamia.
“Then you do not want complete independence, and the European powers
driven out?” I asked.
“No. Not now,” one replied, “because there would be chaos. The fatal
trouble in Syria is not nationalism but religion. Murder and massacre,
between Christians and non-Christians, which has been our history for
600 years, would be repeated if the mandate were given up.”
This caused a hubbub. Some attacked the mandate system; some were for
full independence; one for America to hold the mandate; one for Britain;
three wanted Syria divided into four parts, each governed separately;
one had another plan....
I did my best to write a dispatch giving the rebel point of view. The
French censor promptly suppressed it.
* * * * *
_Revolt in the Desert_
Strangely, quickly out of the rolling Arabian desert wastes, appears the
ruin of Palmyra, “a rose red city half as old as time.” Here Queen
Zenobia had found water, and so built an empire. Here, today, there is a
French outpost and the headquarters of the Camel Corps, as brave and
picturesque a fighting unit as ever graced ancient or modern armies.
I had come out of Bagdad trembling with cold and burning wet with the
fires of malaria. For two days I had ridden in a French convoy through
the northern part of the Arabian desert, hoping to make Damascus on the
third morning. The sun was setting as we rode through the avenue of
kingly tombs into the midst of the Græco-Roman ruins of the purple and
gold capital. It grew cold quickly as if the desert sand, in anger at
the sun’s daily attack, was driving out the heat with amazing celerity.
The one small building, a compound called a hotel, was crowded.
Travellers, consuls, oil and tobacco men and young American Methodist
missionaries, each without exception accompanied by a wife and at least
one howling child, had filled every available bed and covered space. Our
promised rest was gone. “Why didn’t your caravan pull out this morning?”
we asked.
“Because Damascus is being bombarded—fighting everywhere—revolt in the
desert,” they replied.
All my journalistic blood boiled. I ran out among the broken Greek
pillars and the futile barbed wire, found the leader of our convoy and
asked him when were we to start for Damascus.
“Probably in a week—if all goes well.”
“But I must go there at once.”
The Frenchman merely shrugged.
A hundred yards away was the French military headquarters. The commander
was a very agreeable man. “We will do our best to make you comfortable,”
he said, “though food is scarce and you may have to stay a week.”
I insisted on going at once. “But no car must leave Palmyra,” he
answered. “I’ll buy a car,” I said. “Even then,” he replied, “I couldn’t
return you your passport or let you go. I have orders by radio to keep
all civilians here.”
Military orders. Stalemate.
Three Englishmen gave me blankets and we went to sleep amidst the ruins
of the temple of Jupiter, watching the Arabian moon, vast as a
conflagration, burn up the few Palmyran palms and blaze a path through
the grandest galaxy of stars man has ever seen. The rest was silence.
It was broken at five in the morning by the clarion of reveille and the
roaring of a motor, as out of the east a Cadillac car, leaving a dust
serpent miles behind, swept into our ruins. A sand covered person
emerged and asked for water. He explained himself as Murdoch, driver for
the rival British trans-desert line, answering an emergency call for
another car. He had driven all night and was prepared to go on after two
hours sleep.
I told him of the embargo. He went to the French headquarters and
returned with the information that he was considered neither military
nor civilian, that the French assumed no responsibility for him, and
that he would start as per his schedule. I asked him to take me along.
He agreed, provided the French gave permission. But he would break no
French laws.
At seven o’clock he tuned up.
“I’ll give you anything you ask—a hundred—two hundred—five—if you’ll
take me,” I said.
“Not without a passport in order,” he replied.
So I went to the French headquarters. The black sentry saluted as he
salutes every white man, and said nothing. I knocked and got no answer.
I entered a room. No one was present. I knocked on another door and got
no answer. I entered. There, spread on a table were two dozen assorted
passports and all the trimmings of civilian bureaucracy. I found my
passport. No sound anywhere. Without stopping for breath I seized two
rubber stamps and plastered them on the blue sheets. I slipped the
passport into my pocket and walked in dignified manner by the sentry,
answered his salute, and ran to Murdoch’s car. In a few minutes only the
tops of broken temples were sinking into the vale of Palmyra.
The desert was hard and the going good. We rode twenty miles in as many
minutes, laughing and joking at the French fears of an uprising. The
trail was bordered with camel thorn giving a dusty green to the desert
which rose and sank in vast sweeps towards the horizon sometimes jagged
by aged, grey, bare hilltops.
Emerging from one thin valley we ran into a tribe of Arab warriors
mounted on camels and splendid with banners.
Out of the dust and the clamour of yells—Arabic yells blood-curdling
enough to frighten an Apache Indian—came rifle shots. Bullets kicked up
desert dust in funny little spatters, no more than heavy raindrops
sometimes make on tired city pavements. The Arab tribe rode to the
attack.
Of the great Arabian desert which stretches from the Yemen and Has el
Had north to the Taurus mountains and the Turkish frontier very little
is shifting sand. There are hills and valleys all devoid of vegetation
and in the north are wadies which fill with water during the month of
rain. Almost all that 600-mile stretch between Damascus and Persia is
bleak and barren but hard, and a large part is covered by that mean
clumpy growth known as camel thorn.
Into this Murdoch flew at a speed of 60 miles. We bumped along, losing
velocity, tearing up thorn and getting it caught in the wheels and
radiator. We flew, without aim or goal, off the trail and into the
desert.
The Bedouins wheeled around. Mounted on war camels which are faster than
race horses for short distances, and unhampered by thorn, they came
after us at a great pace. But Murdoch would not turn back. As he
accelerated the car he directed it at right angles to the road, keeping
his eye always on a spot just beyond the attackers. Bullets continued to
fall short of us. But if our engine failed our lives were worthless;
Bedouins never stop to ask for passports.
Riding the bumps into the desert, Murdoch succeeded in getting the Arabs
to follow him far from the road; suddenly he wheeled, as if to ride at
them, then headed at a wide angle back to the road. The Arabs wheeled
also. The three hundred of them and our car dashed on converging lines,
back to the main trail. They had the inside track and less to cover; we
had a Cadillac. As we came closer they began firing more heavily, but
they were either bad shots or the ships of the desert had made their aim
seasick; they hit the car in no vital spot and we made the road. As our
wheels bit clear hard ground again the car leaped with joy and we left
the Bedouins to be swallowed up by their own dust and the horizon.
An hour later we came to the end of what had once been a railroad line.
Allenby or the Turks had torn up rails and cross-ties but the stones
remained. Over this we rode at the rate of ten miles an hour, while
Damascus was being bombarded, the biggest story in the world with no one
to report it.
Every five or ten miles there would be a break in the metal road.
Nothing but boulders and ditches through which men had difficulty in
climbing. Murdoch got over them too, but one by one the leaves in his
left front spring dropped off. This he remedied by placing all sorts of
levers and monkey-wrenches in the open space and tying them with rope,
piano wire and a chain.
And so we made Homs and Tripoli at night.
From Tripoli the road leads perilously over hill and precipice, along
the waves of the Mediterranean to Beirut. Despite a missing spring we
made good time until we came to the outskirts of Beirut when an Arab
asleep on a jackass came across the middle of the road. To save killing
the valuable jackass Murdoch was forced to run his car into the
Mediterranean. It sank into a mixture of stone and quicksand and we
worked for three hours raising it on pieces of log and cobbles. And
still the bombardment of Damascus continued.
At dawn Fords, each carrying from seven to ten Arabs, began collecting
around our sunken car. For another hour we tried every means, and
finally, when we had seventy Arabs around, we were able to pull the car
out on to the road. By an irony our Cadillac crashed through the Ford of
the first seven Arabs who had stopped to help us. So we paid.
We rode into Beirut, changed cars, got on the Damascus road, came into
town before noon, and when I got to the American consulate I found James
Keeley, his wife and their baby standing on the roof, watching the
cannon of Fort Gouraud hurling three-inch shells into the bazaar
section.
The bombardment of Damascus lasted just long enough to have one
journalistic eyewitness.
* * * * * *
Day and night the shells had passed over the consul’s house, falling
into the seething city. At night the bursting shells set fountains of
flame spurting brightly in the starry darkness; in the strong sunlight
they had turned to whirlpools of dust and debris. The guns exploded with
terrifying regularity and the crash of the shells in the adobe city came
as a louder echo.
In the European section there was no panic. In the native section Arab
women were risking their lives to save another pillow. From Keeley’s
roof could be seen the long line of wallowing donkeys and laden men, a
black stream flowing fitfully out of the burning zone, emptying in the
Merje Square or breaking up again into all the inlets of the Christian
and rich Mohammedan quarter.
Regularly the shells clattered and crashed, followed by deep rumblings
of mud and timbered houses, which had leaped in the air, and collapsed
into the shell holes. Once a shell fell short, into the bath-house which
looked like a mosque; another time a stately minaret lost its head.
Unceasingly the stream of refugees flowed on.
Between the Hamadya, which contains the best bazaars, and the Street
Called Straight which Saint Paul had once sought, all was fire and
death. The French shells tore open the corrugated roofs and again
flooded the damp thoroughfares with strange sun-shine. The Palais Azam,
noblest of buildings, smouldered.
The battle in Damascus had started on a Sunday when 600 Druses, their
typical turbans exchanged for those of conventional Arabs, had filtered
into the native section to sound the call for revolt.
Two Cherkassian soldiers, irregulars employed by the French, were
quarrelling in a bazaar. One drew a revolver and fired at the other. He
killed an innocent bystander. The bystander was a Mohammedan. From the
howling mob which gathered around the body and the soldiers, the cry of
“Massacre” arose. Immediately the Druses appeared to lead the aroused
fanatical Mohammedans. The riff-raff of the bazaars took up the cry,
“Massacre.” Within a few minutes the reeking overcrowded native quarter
was in revolt.
The cry went up, “Death to the Armenians.” The mob attacked and killed
all they found, at least fifty. They pillaged and burned. The cry went
up, “Death to General Sarrail.” The mob rushed towards the Palais Azam,
believing that Sarrail was staying that night in the wing which was his
headquarters.
At the Palais Azam, now a museum, the sight of splendid carpets and of
money, gold and silver coins of many ages, proved too strong a
temptation. The mob broke the museum cases and grabbed the gold drachmas
of Philip of Macedon and Alexander the Great. From the walls they tore
priceless carpets. The Roman vases and old Syrian glass, buried a
thousand years and resplendent as the rainbow, were crushed on the
stones of the museum. Hittite antiquities fared no better.
At the doors of Sarrail’s headquarters the rebels killed the guards,
then stormed the building, pillaged it, and failing to find their victim
set the house on fire. They roamed through the streets shouting death
and destruction.
General Sarrail was faced with a great problem. He had inadequate troops
to quell the uprising, and to use those he had in hand-to-hand fighting
in crowded streets meant risking the safety of the Christian quarter. As
a soldier his strategy was clear, and no one who ever saw the American
army smash up a French village housing Germans can deny he acted for the
best: he withdrew his men, ordered all peaceful citizens out of the
rebellious district, and gave the order to bombard.
The night I arrived in Damascus it was a city of terrible silence. No
prayers rose from the many minarets, only a few lights burned in the
European section and not a soul was permitted to walk out of his home or
place of shelter. Tanks and armoured cars stood at street corners and
barbed wire had been wound on clothes-horses and placed at the openings
to the Christian section. Sandbag barricades had been thrown up, behind
which French soldiers whispered in the dark, making coffee and drinking
red wine by the flickerings of pocket torches. The American consulate
was crowded with foreign refugees, a few born Americans and seventeen
naturalized citizens whom Mrs. Keeley had fed.
Sarrail had saved the city and the lives of all the Christians; for
thanks he got curses from all the inhabitants, regardless of religion,
and his eventual recall. I believe this was the result of the protest
which arose in the press of the entire world a week after the
bombardment.
This is exactly what happened. As I was the only newspaperman in the
East, my dispatches, narrating the facts as here given, should have been
sent to America and Europe. But French censorship, with the congenital
stupidity of all censorship, believed it could suppress the news
entirely. I had sent a dozen telegrams in one of which I estimated the
dead at 1000. To this the French objected. They said there were no more
than 500 dead, and a count many days later revealed 300 bodies.
Undoubtedly there were more in the ruins. My thousand included 50
Armenians and the French military losses, and to this very day I am sure
I was right.
But the French delayed and changed my telegrams. Meanwhile runners were
sent by the Arabs to the Pan-Arabic Executive in Jerusalem. By the time
the news reached Jerusalem the four blocks of destroyed houses, no more
than 500, all of adobe—filthy hovels worth the price of mud—had risen to
10,000, and the dead were counted at 25,000.
The _United Press_ had cabled to the Pan-Arabic Executive for news, and
received this report; correspondents of the _Associated Press_, _The
London Express_ and _London Daily Mail_ had also obtained similar
reports from the same source. By the end of the week, thanks to the
French censor, the newspapers of the whole world were flaming with lies.
These lies are generally believed to this day.
_Chapter II_
REVOLT IN THE FOREIGN LEGION
Where the Foreign Legion is today the big battle will be fought
tomorrow. “Where is the Foreign Legion today?” Everywhere I went I asked
and sometimes I came very close to it, but it was not until the end of
my year as sole war correspondent with the French expedition in Syria
that I became involved with the Foreign Legion.
“Involved” barely expressed it. It was my destiny not only to find the
glorious regiment but to see it go into battle, to visit it in the
captured capital of the enemy, to find my American hero, to be accused
of causing a mutiny in the desert, and to be the instrument for saving a
human life.
I knew the French had divided the Legion into its component two
regiments, one to fight Abd-el-Krim in Morocco, the other to subjugate
Sultan Pasha Atrashe whose stone capital lay in the hills of Syria,
overlooking the Palestine frontier and the rolling desert to the south
and east.
I sought the Legion because I was determined to find an American soldier
in its uniform, and on this nail I could hang the whole dust-bitten
tableau of the revolt in the desert. I needed just one American. Through
him the Syrian war, the dreadful sunshine, the suffering and horror,
victory and defeat, sacrifice and bravery, hunger and thirst, could be
brought home to the millions of American readers.
* * * * * *
First there was the battle of Rashaya. In the besieged citadel was a
small part of the Legion which fought in the tradition of its
organization. In a savage and bloodthirsty battle in which the French
were forced into primitive barbarism by attackers who knew nothing of
the codes and ethics which modern warfare had imposed, the opponents
murdered the wounded and used teeth and nails in hand-to-hand
encounters.
When relief came the Legion got drunk. They emerged from the charnel
house and sang and looted. Into the eight neighbouring villages they ran
sparing neither friend nor foe, they made no distinction between
Christian Syrians and Pagan Druses. They killed and took.
Rifle shots could be heard all around as I walked down the road into the
valley towards the cliff on which the Citadel of Rashaya was perched.
The sun was low, the desert suffused in gold, the white cliffs gilded.
Towards me came a bed walking.
It was covered with numerous feather quilts, sheets, two pillows; bed-
clothes dragged behind it and from it protruded night lamps and candles.
Under it a Legionnaire could be seen as the motive force.
The soldier had a double load: he was drunk.
“Well, how goes it?” I said in French.
“Wass?” he replied.
“Who are you?” I asked in German.
“Wilhelm Bloemler,” replied the Legionnaire, “aus Bonn, Rheinland.”
“What have you been doing?”
“Helping myself to what the Druses left behind,” he replied.
Then without any questioning he volunteered this bit of Legion
information:
“The French officers are all right. We like them. They know how to treat
soldiers. But our _sous-officiers_—non-coms—they are swine and devil
dogs. They are all German non-coms. _Gott verdamt!_ They have spoiled
the Legion. Didn’t I have enough of them during the world war? Would I
have enlisted if I had known the _feldwebel_ was going to be a German?
Pfui!”
And he staggered merrily away under his bedding.
My next encounter with the Legion was at Moussifrey. It was here that
all French forces were gathered for the great attack on Atrashe’s
capital, Soueida.
Commandant Muller, who had built the great Roman camp at Ezraa, had
invited me to assist at an armoured car reconnaissance, to feel out the
Druses. Some ten thousand of them were in the field. They had surrounded
three French infantry companies, some artillery and some small units in
the citadel of Soueida and were starving them to death. In turn the
French were moving in from Ezraa, Deraa, Moussifrey and other towns. The
Land of Job was again flowing with blood and tears.
The sortie was made with the usual grey-blue armoured cars.
“How far are we going?” I asked Commandant Muller.
“I don’t know,” replied the officer. “This isn’t European warfare and
all our means of information are not sure. In France we knew every
outpost of the trenches, the position of every gun, the disposition of
all the men of the enemy. Here it is like your wars against the American
Indians. Guerrilla warfare. We shall proceed with our reconnaissance
until we draw fire. When you see rifle bullets knocking up the desert
sands or hear them clicking on your armoured car, you will know that the
enemy has been located.”
So we went first to Bors-el-Harriri, through the bad-lands flanking the
Arabian desert, through nothing but sand and volcanic black stones
scattered like seeds by a drunken sower, sometimes strangely stacked up
like ugly idols in the fields.
There was a jackal feasting on a dead camel killed in the recent battle.
Hot gusts of desert winds ravaged the car, blinding white dust
penetrated everywhere, cutting our eyes and stuffing our throats.
Occasionally the terrible stink of a dead horse came in with the sand.
Obscene fat white birds waddled out of the carcasses of camels, rose
heavily and settled nearby to await the passing of our motors.
Suddenly I saw a great lake stretch itself across our path, inundating
our auto road. But we never reduced speed. I tapped the driver’s hand.
“Mirage,” he said. We sped towards the lake and the lake sped towards
the hills.
“Yes, we have to fight mirages in this damned country,” commented the
driver, “mirages and tribesmen, heat and sand and lack of water. Only
yesterday one of our airplanes directing artillery fire had to quit in
the midst of a _régelage_ because the observer saw nothing but water
which wasn’t there. Lakes, river, oases suddenly appear before columns
of marching men and aviators. Imagine setting guns for direct fire
against the enemy and finding them pointing into an ocean covering the
enemy in the midst of an infantry attack. _C’est la guerre._”
Soueida with its black stone houses, its red citadel and its white
barracks was just ten minutes to the east when the Druses spotted us and
began firing from behind stone piles. Their bullets puffed the sand
before us and our cars halted. Two old Breguet planes which had started
behind us now flew overhead, each carrying fourteen small bombs. Hardly
had the Druses revealed themselves with futile rifle fire when the
aviators were upon them, using their machine-guns and releasing a bomb
or two, which fell in the silent plain scattering the stones, raising
fountains of sand and scaring the tribesmen into the open.
The planes then radioed directions to the artillery and as our decoy
reconnaissance returned to Bors-el-Harriri the guns were peppering the
fields with steel.
At Bors-el-Harriri the sheik invited Commandant Muller and me to dine
with the elders of the village in the communal hall. It was a strange
one-room building, the outer walls covered with mud and dirt, the inner
ones bearing signs of Roman origin. The arches were unmistakably Roman.
Some red was smeared on the walls. A few odd things were fastened on
them. Although the Mohammedan must not make a graven image or look upon
one, there were some old chromos held up by nails, a large coloured
picture of Lillian Russell in tights, and what was undoubtedly the
“premium” of a popular brand of American cigarettes of 1890, a little
picture of “The Yellow Kid.”
In the centre of the floor a huge hole. It puzzled me at first.
The sheik clapped his hands and reed mats into which a green and red
design had been woven, in Aztec-Mexican fashion, were brought us, and
pillows. Commandant Muller stretched himself uneasily on his mat which
bordered the hole in the floor. If this is oriental comfort, I did not
realize it. Ill at ease, I did likewise on my side of the hole. The main
sheik and the main priest occupied the two other sides of the
quadrangle, and the food was brought in.
First we were given a circumference of damp flabby bread, thin as a
dollar and big as a barrel. Then came the pilaff. It was an enormous
plate, heaped with greasy rice, so much of it that it hid a whole lamb.
The lamb, head included, had been cut into suitable pieces of a pound or
two, and each man rolled up his sleeves, dug his fist into the mess,
worked his fingers around until he struck something solid and pulled.
Whatever he found he had to eat to a finish, or he would insult his
hosts. Bones were spat into the centre. The hole in the floor was the
Arab garbage system.
Servants stood around helping us and waving fans at the thousands of
stubborn flies.
The enormous bread, which resembled a Roman shield, we used as plates,
napkins, knife and spoon, and table-cloths.
A vile, bitter, sour, aromatic coffee was poured into a cup and passed
from mouth to mouth. “Take it at least three times,” the Commandant
whispered to me, “or they will be offended.” Grapes came on another
woven mat and date water, slightly fermented, turning sour and sickish,
was served. Well, starvation in the desert sands seemed preferable.
* * * * * *
The night at Moussifrey saw the bloodiest battle of the year. In
slaughter it surpassed almost anything of the world war.
Knowing that the French had gathered the Foreign Legion there for the
attack on Soueida, the crafty Druses came out of their capital and all
the surrounding towns and attacked. Twenty-five loyal villages had
answered the Pasha’s proclamation, each with its war flag blessed in an
imposing religious ceremony, each with its sheik.
At four in the morning when it was still dark, the vanguard of three
thousand Druses galloped towards Moussifrey. Without a halt they charged
the barbed wire and yelled. The horses caught. With flesh torn open they
fell into the wire, struggling. Riders tried to disentangle themselves.
Horsemen pressed those in front. They fired into the air. The gunners of
the Foreign Legion poured devastating bullets into the mass of men and
horses caught in the wire. Horses screamed, men shouted and a clatter of
machine-gunnery arose from all of Moussifrey.
Unable to break through the wire the Druses withdrew, consulted, yelled
and charged again. Again they rode into the barbed entanglements and
upon the dead and dying horses and men lost in the first fury. Again
they caught and again the machine-guns perforated their struggling mass.
The sun arose revealing the horror.
From four to ten that morning, in intervals of about an hour, the Druses
made six attacks, until they filled almost all the entanglements with
their dead. In the last attack those who had lost their horses, but not
their fanatical courage, stripped themselves, placed their bullets in a
rag held in their teeth, and charged over the dead, naked, clearing the
three rows of wire, to fall dead and wounded at the very edge of the
machine-gun nests of the Foreign Legion.
An elderly bearded sergeant who had fought alongside the American Marine
Brigade when the Moroccan Division, placed between the American First
and Second Divisions, formed a spearhead for the memorable attack of
July 18, the attack launched from the Villiers Cotterets which marked
the turn of the war in France, said of this battle of Moussifrey:
“No one ever saw such bloodshed as we did last night. Realize that the
entire attack was at one point; the Druses hoped to fill in the wire
with their own bodies, and charge over them! My machine-gun crew bore
the brunt of it. Look, here lie two hundred and fifty-seven bodies of
men. Certainly the enemy took another two hundred and fifty dead with
them because by their religion they must do so. That makes five hundred
killed by one machine-gun nest. Then there are probably one thousand
wounded. So it can be said one crew defeated an attack of three thousand
and inflicted one thousand five hundred casualties. There was nothing
like that in France. Think of the spirit of this enemy. It is beyond
human belief. Now we must make ready to attack them. Au revoir.”
Pagans, Romans, Mohammedans, Christian Crusaders and Turks have fought
for Soueida. Caesar’s legions had called the spot where they found
water, Dionysus. Napoleon’s emissaries had visited it when he was trying
to stir up their traditional hatred of the Turk the time he made the
campaign against Acre, near by. Now the Foreign Legion was to lead the
victorious attack.
“The Druses fought like a nation released from a lunatic asylum,”
General Andrea said, as, during dinner in Soueida, he described the
final battle. “For example, twenty charged one of my tanks, trying to
stop the wheels with their bare hands. Five were crushed under the
caterpillar tractor; ten were shot down by the machine-guns, but the
remaining five still fought. Once another twenty charged a machine-gun.
The crew killed or wounded nineteen but the twentieth never paused until
he had entered the nest and cut the machine-gunner’s hand with the only
weapon he had, a knife.
“It is a nation committing suicide.
“Three hundred of these fanatics sacrificed their lives trying to kill
me. They hid in a ravine, letting our advancing army of 12,000 men cross
over. Then they appeared right in our centre. It was clever but futile.
We had to turn our cannon, which had advanced, backward, and fire point
blank until we had annihilated the three hundred.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The White Man’s Burden, or How the Orient is Ruled. Arabs, accused of
various crimes, hanged in the Merje Square, Damascus, by the French
military. The signs detail the crimes and warn the populace.
“Gilbert Clare” (Bennett S. Doty) photographed by the author, on the eve
of his taking “French Leave” from the Foreign Legion at Soueida.
This caused the Syrian Revolution. French military exhibiting bodies of
twenty-four men they killed. The Syrian nationalists claimed the dead
were martyrs, not bandits and the uprising followed.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
A camel may look at a tank, or the old and the new meet in the Arabian
desert.
Bombardment of Damascus: “The Street Called Straight” after the French
shells had torn off the roof and ruined the famous bazaar.
The general described the tank attack on the city. It was remarkable.
The little Renaults, one protecting the other, had crawled up the slope
until one actually knocked at the gate of the citadel where the heroic
garrison, commanded by a French major named Tommy Martin, had held out
for two months on food and shells and radio lamps dropped by airplanes.
Other tanks had attacked the rows upon rows of stone houses which,
joined by common walls, had made one vast fortress of the city. Some
walls they crushed; arches built by Romans which had resisted centuries
and wars, crumbled under wheels made in Ohio factories.
If only the Druses had remained in their fortress city!
Six thousand of them, fighting in that stone wall labyrinth could have
held up the French indefinitely and could have saved themselves. But
they chose to leave their defences and race wildly and in circles,
almost barehanded, against guns and shrapnel and all the inventions of
wholesale slaughter save gas.
And they had almost won. Despite machine-gun fire, mine throwers,
grenades, artillery shells, and bombs dropped from airplanes, 3,000
Druses, by an impetuosity born of religious fatalism, had succeeded in
joining the battle. It was actually hand-to-hand fighting in the open,
until the column under Colonel Duclos arrived, a bayonet charge was
ordered, and confusion was turned into decisive victory.
The guns were being mounted near the citadel when I was taken to see it
and the graveyard from which the corpses of French dead had been
disinterred by the Druses, the rotten flesh given to dogs, and the bones
placed along the roads as a warning to the foreigner. As the newly
placed guns were trained on more villages, and intimidation by 3-inch
shells began, white flags appeared over tall buildings and the elders
came to Soueida to make deep submission to General Andrea. I met one
pasha, one emir and a dozen sheiks, each the father of a town.
“These are my guests,” said the general. “They come here to discuss
peace. I am inviting them to remain until other villages learn wisdom.”
This was his way of saying the princes and sheiks were hostages, whose
lives were in pawn for the lives of French aviators who were being fired
on continually by “civilians” in “neutral” villages.
“Have you got an American in your Foreign Legion?”
“Yes,” replied General Andrea, “and I hear from his commander he is a
real soldier.”
This one American was worth journalistically many times the victory of
Soueida to me. So away I stumbled over the volcanic stones to find him
and the Legion.
I presented myself first to Major Kratzert, who recalled with enthusiasm
the bravery of the American First and Second Divisions in the battle of
July 18, 1918.
“Is your Legion today as good as it was then?” I asked.
“The Legion is always as good,” he replied proudly. “You may fill it up
with the men from any country, old or young, strong and weak, and in the
end it finds the spirit and the tradition and the glory of the Legion.
The Legion is always victorious—in France, in Morocco, here.”
I asked for “The American.”
“Find the American—don’t mistake him for the Englishman,” the major
commanded an orderly, and in a few minutes we emerged from the tent to
talk to him. He saluted his commandant smartly, looked at my civilian
clothes and got a nod of permission.
“God, I’m glad to see someone from home,” he exclaimed, “when did you
come over? I’ve been in nine months—haven’t spoken to anyone from home—”
“Where are you from?”
“Memphis, Tennessee,” he replied in an unmistakable accent.
“And your name?”
“Gilbert Clare is my name. Yes, that’s my real name. Most everybody here
gives you a false name. Some of these fellows may be wanted for murder,
some of them had a fight with their girls—oh, any reasons—they don’t
give their real names, but mine is my own—Gilbert Clare,” he repeated as
I noted it on an envelope.
His insistence on his “real” name puzzled me at once. It was only after
I had started the work to save his life that I learned from the State
Department that he too was giving a false name, the real one being
Bennett J. Doty.
He wore the regulation khaki of the Army of the Orient and a pith
helmet. He was bronzed and handsome: a blond moustache and a cheerful
smile.
“Say,” he continued apropos of nothing, “we just stole a sheep. What the
hell do we Legionnaires care about orders. We stole, killed, roasted,
ate that sheep before our officers could start an investigation. We
steal, we fight like hell, we die, but we are always victorious. That’s
the Foreign Legion for you.”
“How’d you come to join it?”
“I was in the Thirtieth Division. We didn’t get to France till late. I
never saw much of war. Well, I was moping around in New Orleans, and one
day, about a year ago, I decided to go to France and see some fighting.
I’m glad I came. I came for adventure. Lots of fellows come for that.
Harvey, that’s the Englishman, says that’s what he came for. Maybe. Some
come because they have no jobs, some because they love France. The place
is full of Germans and Russians who came because they had nowhere else
to go. Nobody asks questions in this man’s outfit.”
“Did you get into the Moussifrey battle?”
“Yep. That was real fighting. So was Soueida. Not like France. No damned
trenches here. You get behind a stone and blaze away at the enemy. Or
you charge with the bayonet. Christ—!”
He shook his head as if to drive a horrible scene from his eyes.
Companions were forming in a little semi-circle behind him, envying his
talk with a man from home. There were bearded men, unmistakable
Russians, blue-eyed fair Germans, blond and nordic, dark Balkanites and
not a few Frenchmen, who, to atone for a crime or a desertion, had
joined as Belgians or Swiss.
“We pity the poor devils,” continued Clare-Doty, indicating the Druses
in the villages and the fortified extinct volcano craters beyond. “They
are fools. They fight machine-guns, tanks, airplanes as they fought the
Turks. Say, you know they believe in the transmigration of souls.
They’ll never die but reappear in flesh and blood after a fifteen year
rest in a Chinese heaven filled with beautiful chorus girls or such.
“They fight to die. They want to die on the battle field so they can get
to heaven quickly and honorably and enjoy themselves there for spell.
I’d hate to be a tanker crushing them. We Legion infantry fight them
fair.
“I thought they’d got me at Moussifrey. You ought to see them dancing as
they dashed into the barbed wire which was full of their horses and men
wriggling and kicking. Hundreds of dead. It only made them more furious.
They are savages. They are good and crazy.
“When we were fighting around Damascus it was different. Those Arabs we
fought didn’t have one hundredth the courage. The Arabs did ambushes,
dirty tricks, they never came into the open. Well, we were glad when our
battalion got marching orders.
“This was a great show. We were getting all ready to storm the
place—every house a blockhouse—when they burst out of it and met us in
the open. The guy next to me got shot in the neck. Killed. We fought for
six hours. I didn’t get a scratch. We went at it with bayonets three
times. Our losses were light. Funny thing, we didn’t find any dead
Druses. I shot one, I saw him fall, then we charged and I looked for
him, but couldn’t find him. Ask the men—” pointing to the eager group
always expanding behind us—“not one of them could find a dead Druse.
They take them away and keep their bodies in the open so their souls can
take their time in making ready for the trip to China and heaven and
chorus girls.
“The Legion takes no prisoners. Neither does the enemy. We enlist to
fight; why ask, why grumble. Sometimes the food is bad. The water is
bad. The heat is hell—and the fleas worse than hell. They could eat you
alive unless you are tough—and we are tough.
“The Germans are the best soldiers of the Legion. Their sergeant-majors
are sons of she-dogs to their own people. The Russians are the
friendliest. Mostly Wrangel men, officers and wrecked noblemen among
them. They are real pals. The Germans are so damned stingy. Imagine
companions facing death every minute who won’t lend you a needle.
“There’s one Englishman, John Harvey. Glad I have someone to talk to. I
guess Harvey is a fake name. But I don’t ask him why or what. I guess
I’m the only one who gives his right name. Our lieutenant, Vernon,
speaks a little English, and now I parley-voo some too. I treat my
officers decent. They can’t make me out. They shake their heads and say
‘crazy American’ and laugh. I’m an American and they’ve got to swallow
me whole.”
Bugles interrupted.
“Say I’ll be glad to get back to the South,” he said, shaking hands.
“I’m homesick I guess. Send me some newspapers, magazines, something to
read in English. You may think I’m tough, when you look at me here, you
wouldn’t believe I was a gentle student in the University of Virginia
not so long ago. When you write that piece, tell them in Memphis I came
for adventure and I’m getting my bellyful.”
He departed with a smile after saying he had something very important to
tell me at reveille, at 4:30, but whether he wanted to hear about the
new skyscrapers in New York or the latest Broadway wisecracks, or to
tell me of his plan to flee the Legion I never found out because early
next morning I begged General Andrea to let me take the first plane out
as I had no desire to add myself to the casualties at Soueida.
Three or four days later, in my hotel at Beirut a French settler in
Tunis, a friend of General Andrea and a semi-journalist who had visited
the Legion with me, came back full of fever and dysentery. While I was
giving him some of my large stock of malaria and dysentery medicine, he
remarked weakly and casually:
“Too bad your friend in the Legion will be executed tomorrow.”
My first thought was, it is Sunday and there is no one at the consulate.
“Desertion,” M. Brochier replied to my question. “Yes, desertion and
mutiny. He led the others. And you—I, personally, believe you
guiltless—but General Andrea holds you responsible for mutiny in the
Foreign Legion.”
It was Sunday and he was ill in bed, but when I sent in word that the
life of an American was in danger Consul-General Paul Knabenshue came
into action. He telegraphed to Damascus where Clare-Doty was imprisoned
in the citadel, informed the state department, and went immediately to
call on the High Commissioner of France, Henri de Jouvenal. I went to
see the commanding officer at Beirut and prepared a statement to General
Andrea, which follows:
“It was with great regret that I learned of the incident of the
American Legionnaire, Clare, but I was greatly mortified to hear from
M. Brochier that you held me responsible for the action.
“The facts of my interview with the American are just as I recounted
them at dinner with your staff that night. I found Clare a real
enthusiast for the Legion. He said he never regretted joining, loved
the life, liked his companions, was proud to be the only American in
the Legion in Syria and glad to be fighting for France. Not a single
word he said indicated any dissatisfaction to me. He asked for some
newspapers and I promised to send him some. Moreover, M. Brochier
tells me he deserted the next morning, whereas it is a fact that I had
intended staying another day in Soueida (were it not for the fleas)
and that I had intended asking you permission to talk to Clare the
next day, as he had asked to see me again.
“I have now discussed the matter with the officers at the serail here,
and they are of the opinion that it may have been homesickness
(“cafard”) due to his for the first time talking to an American, which
caused the American to take the terrible decision to desert. While
this may be true I must recount that in our talk Clare evidenced no
great homesickness but his complete contentment in the Legion.
“Our interview was held in a group which included Major Kratzert and
M. Brochier. They stood a little apart, but it was possible for M.
Brochier, who speaks English perfectly, to listen to everything we
said. I want to assure you on my word of honour that not a single word
was used on either side which could in any way be termed subversive.
On the contrary, it was a patriotic discussion on both sides and I was
deeply impressed by the loyalty and good spirits of the American
soldier. A clipping of the interview I have already mailed to Captain
Georges Picot.
“You have been exceedingly kind and generous to me, and I have already
written you to say how much I appreciate it. Of my attitude to you and
to France there can be no doubt. I want to add that I came to Damascus
despite two threats received in Beirut from the rebels that they would
disembowel me if I ever entered Damascus. M. Lapierre knows of this
and even offered me a body-guard, which I refused. I have within the
past three days received another threat from Damascus, this time I am
threatened with either hanging or kidnapping until the war is over.
“I hope I have made my position clear and I earnestly beg of you to
alter any unfavourable impression you have of me.”
Through the secretary of the American Consulate at Damascus, Donal
McGonigal, I obtained the only statement the American Legionnaire made
before his second court-martial.
“‘A few hours after you left our camp near Soueida citadel,’ Clare
said, ‘I was speaking to Harvey, the only Britisher in the Legion.
Harvey was sore that he hadn’t a chance to speak English to some one.
We got gassing about home and suddenly decided to get away. Some
Germans and others asked us where we were headed. We said to
Palestine, and they said they would go, too. So we headed.
“‘It is not true that we all carried rifles. We took one for self-
protection. Well, we needed it. After taking French leave we went
south through the Druse mountains. At day-break we spied a bunch of
men headed our way. They began shooting. They were Bedouins or Arabs
and probably wanted to rob us. We fought for our lives. I had the gun
at the time and killed two Bedouins and the rest quit.
“‘We headed at another angle. Again the Bedouins attacked. This time
it was a big group. We headed around the oncoming first band. That
night we tried to break through the encircling groups of Bedouins, all
of whom were armed but couldn’t shoot straight.
“‘The next morning the Bedouins were attacked by French and Syrian
militia, which defeated them and captured us. When they came up we saw
the uselessness of trying to beat them and the Bedouins, who were
still cutting off our flight to the Palestine frontier, and we thought
we might as well face death by court-martial as be cut to pieces by
the Arabs.
“‘I am not afraid of death. I am told they do not kill deserters now
as it is not wartime. I suppose I will get Devil’s Island. Well, I
have had my fling. I told you at Soueida I was getting a bellyful of
adventure. Now I am fed up. Send me a tooth-brush and bed-bug powder.
I am lousy. And tell the folks back home not to worry. I will get
through somehow.’”
I had a consultation with Knabenshue twice a day. The officers at Beirut
had said to me, “It was a case of mental suggestion, after talking with
an American the Legionnaire got homesick. It is not unusual in the
Legion where the enlistment is seven years and life is hard. But anyone
who appreciates military necessity realizes that the court-martial
decision of death for desertion and mutiny was justifiable. An army
without discipline cannot exist.”
I told this to Knabenshue, who had already engaged a lawyer for the
rehearing in Damascus.
“Will you care if the lawyer harps on your visit to Clare—makes it
responsible for his homesickness and his desertion?” Knabenshue asked
me. The case was considered so grave only an order from the president of
France could save Clare. The French had informed the consulate that
Clare and his followers had fired on the French who rescued them from
the Bedouins.
I went to Cairo to escape the French censorship and filed the complete
story of the desertion with the request that it be played up in the
newspapers at home and in Paris so that a public opinion in favour of
saving the man’s life would be created and pressure brought on the
president of France. All this was done. Clare, who had become Doty, was
sentenced to eight years at hard labor, and after thirteen months
imprisonment was reprieved and permitted to return to America. I never
received a reply from General Andrea.
_Chapter III_
THEN UP SPOKE THE KING OF IRAQ
This is the story of a story I myself censored.
The French troops had marched out of Beirut and defeated the King of
Syria, better known as the Emir Feisul, in battle outside Damascus. The
British had been deep in political intrigue since the days of Allenby
and Lawrence; now the French had given the Arabs a taste of superior
grapeshot and a new régime came into power.
Feisul, crushed by French guns and left stranded temporarily by Lloyd
George’s diplomacy, moved out of the East to Italy where in 1920 all the
oriental monarchs and would-be monarchs were intriguing with the secret
aid of the politicians in Rome whose eyes were greedy for the Levant.
By that time the whole world knew of many secret treaties for the spoils
of which Russia and France and Britain were fighting. There was a rumour
that such pacts had existed for the Near East also, and that the Emir
Feisul, in his chagrin, might do for Araby what the Bolsheviks did for
civilized Europe; tell the truth for once.
Feisul had come to Lake Como not only officially incognito, but
secretly. I was on a train which might and might not get to Milan,
because revolution was reported from industrial Italy; the red flag was
flying over the Fiat works; the “Red Flag” was being sung in the
streets, and where “Evviva Wilson” had once appeared in black paint on
house fronts now appeared the words “Evviva Lenin.” (This was the
Bolshevik uprising, please note, which ruined itself by early 1921 and
which was dead and gone when Mussolini so bravely saved Italy from it at
the end of 1922.)
On that train I got a tip from a British journalist who knew Feisul’s
whereabouts. The revolution proved bloodless and ineffective. An
earthquake in Fivizzano was a diversion for three days, and returning
via Pisa, Genoa, and Turin to Milan, and finding no bloodshed for the
American newspaper readers’ appetite, I took a day off and came to the
marvellous Villa d’Este on Lake Como where the deposed Royal Majesty
received me with an Arabic salute and guttural mumbles in French.
Tall, handsome, a dark Adonis of the withering Arab sun, faultlessly
dressed in a blue serge pinched-back suit, Feisul sat in state
surrounded by other dark men, several in more or less native dress,
abbayahs and kaffeyas and agals in black and gold and colours in
stripes. The aged Patriarch of Damascus, the head of the Eastern Greek
Catholic Church, a man holding in many lands a position similar to the
Pope in Rome, had the seat of honour at the emir’s right.
“By the secret treaty of 1914,” Feisul began, “Great Britain agreed to
French Sovereignty throughout Arabia. Then came the British conquest,
and a new secret treaty was drawn up by which France and Great Britain
recognized the complete independence of Arabia, and agreed that my
family were to be the future rulers.
“I now accuse Great Britain of failure to maintain this secret treaty so
far as concerns my retention of the throne of Syria. I accuse France of
instituting a reign of terror in Arabia and condemning 434 leaders of
the Syrian people to death. I accuse the rest of the Allies, chiefly the
United States, of failure to live up to their promises regarding the
sovereignty of Arabia. President Wilson promised us complete
independence, and today more than half the Arab lands are under Allied
rule.”
The deposed king continued his accusations gutturally. The Oriental
chieftains nodded approval. Occasionally the emir looked hard at the
Patriarch, who gave a hasty though tardy nod.
“The Allies today are treating the Arabs in a worse way than our
proverbial enemies, the Turks,” continued Feisul. “I am sure the French
people do not know of the atrocities which French imperialism commits,
nor do the American people know that the promises of President Wilson
and the American Mission are forgotten.”
I asked him his policy for the future.
“I shall insist on a throne,” he replied. “I am the logical ruler—also
the one ruler the people want. My program is peace and prosperity. I
would restore liberty in Arabia, break the yoke of oppressors, let all
the people live in peace and harmony, Christian and Moslem alike. See,”
he added in a more intense voice, “I, a Moslem, have with me the head of
the Christian Church who has come voluntarily to testify that I am the
right man to be king, that the people of all creeds want me, that the
Christians especially trust me to keep them safe and happy in the
future—isn’t that so?”
He looked sharply at the Patriarch. The Patriarch came out of a reverie
and approved in a manner which for one of his age was violent.
“Yes, yes, yes,” the Patriarch spoke up. “I come to support His
Highness. The Christians of the East, who have suffered much and suffer
now, approve the candidacy of the emir for the throne of Syria.”
When lunch was served in a private princely hall, Feisul came in wearing
the uniform of a British officer of Allenby’s staff, embellished with
crescents in green and gold. As each course was served different wine
appeared in small and large glasses which the oriental monarch raised to
his lips but did not taste. The table became littered with wine glasses,
all full but mine. Red and pink, yellow to red-gold, they stood in front
of princes and sheiks like so many raised pools. Finally came the
dessert, and just before he gave the signal to retire for coffee, the
emir ordered a number of bottles of champagne brought in. These were
opened and poured. Feisul raised his to his lips, set it down, and as
abruptly rose again. We all rose and followed him out. Even my glass
remained sparkling with the others.
After coffee I found I had an hour before train time. So I walked
through the gardens of the Villa d’Este. Once or twice I saw the
Patriarch, who had separated from his Mohammedan fellow travellers,
skirting the trees furtively.
As I left the grounds there was a sound of heavy running and of a
cassock flapping. Also a feeble shout. Behind me, waving a weak arm, and
safe-guarding his enormous, black, churchly, stove-pipe hat with the
other, panted the Patriarch.
“You know who I am?” he wheezed.
“Yes,” I said, “the Patriarch of Damascus.”
“Believe in me,” he said, breathing fast, “believe in me. Look. Here is
my ikon.” From somewhere in the cassock he produced a small bronze bas-
relief of the Trinity.
“I need no proof,” I said.
“Good,” he replied, and his old, red, watery eyes lit up. “This man,” he
whispered, “this Emir Feisul—he says I come to say all the Christians
want him king. Do you know why I came? Because if I did not come it
might have meant death and suffering to my people. He—the emir—is a
terrible man. But I had to come. Look at him, in his nice European
clothes—civilized—eh? But see him in his oriental costume at home. Oh,
dear God, what a difference. What a difference. Here he speaks as a
benefactor of Moslems and Christians. Over there he is a terror of both
his own and my people. When he wears those European clothes he is
civilized—when he puts on his turban and draws his sword he is a
barbarian, a slaughterer, an enemy of Christianity; Oh, I am afraid, I
am afraid of him. Christians tremble before him. We fear him. What shall
we do? I do not know. But you, young man, do not believe what I said in
his presence. If he makes a deal with Lloyd George he will have to
protect Christian lives, and that is why I am here to help him. If he
makes no deal he may massacre us all. That is the truth. I cannot let
you go away without telling you the truth.”
With tears in his eyes he wrung my hands and walked slowly back to join
the oriental monarch while, somewhat dazed by this sudden almost
incoherent confession, I kicked the dust down to the railroad station.
I filed a dispatch giving Feisul’s plea. I did not mention his claim of
Christian support. As for the Patriarch, to protect his life I censored
all he said. He died in Damascus when I was there about the time of the
bombardment, and I saw many Mohammedans at the funeral, all of whom
seemed to share the grief of the Christian population.
* * * * * *
When I came to Bagdad I found that Lloyd George had compromised on his
secret treaty. The family of Feisul was having difficulties in
Transjordania and Nejd and in exile, but not in Mesopotamia. Here a
throne had been created for the ex-king of Syria, and he was reigning
over the people known as Iraqi. He sat on the throne and his ministers
of state wore regal uniforms, but the R. A. F. did the bombing of the
villages when revenue was not paid and Messrs. Smith and Jones and Brown
from London were running the various departments of government.
There’s oil in them deserts, stranger.
I went to the palace to interview the king of Iraq. Many years had
passed and there was now nothing for him to talk about, no secret
treaties, no throne to fill, no protection of religious minorities.
Everything was running so well, thanks to British diplomacy and
“imperialism.”
I tried my best to make a story. I asked about the bombing of Sheik
Machmud, about the oil dispute, about the army, about relations with
neighbouring states.
“It is everyone’s duty,” said the King of Iraq, “to help his neighbour
and his fellow people. If we all co-operate, in one common endeavour, we
shall succeed. What the world needs is a policy of service—”
Emir Babbitt!
_Chapter IV_
“BRITISH IMPERIALISM,” AND A NOTE ON MASSACRE
A rumour of massacre reached America. The editor thereupon took his nice
new atlas down and measured the miles: somewhat over 600. Good. We have
a man at Damascus; he should reach Zakho in twenty-four hours, with due
allowances for the slowness of foreign trains, and in thirty-six hours
we should have a swell scoop.
It took just about two weeks to investigate that Turkish massacre of
British subjects—Christians needless to say—and that fortnight also gave
me a small but compact picture of that terrible nightmare of the
chancelleries and bugaboo of Europe and America: British Imperialism.
Incidentally it showed me that the glamourous orient is All Bunk.
When you get your delayed and censored telegram from the lazy Syrian
post office you find there are two routes to Bagdad: the Nairn route and
the Opposition. The opposition bankrupts frequently and is replaced by a
new lot of optimists who dream fortunes out of the $125 fare per person
for the 600-mile desert ride. But the Nairn boys who first traversed the
northern Arabian desert, navigating automobiles like ships at sea with
the aid of stars and compass, have made the trip an adventurous success.
Where the desert is hard and flat you run along at forty miles or more
per hour. The car behind with a burst of speed draws up alongside, then
the next car and the next, until the whole convoy of ten or twenty is
drawn up over a stretch a mile wide, and a race begins. You do fifty,
sixty, and more, flying into the horizon over a land which is a barren
virgin, while behind you earth and sky are mingled in one vast cloud of
universal dust. It is a thrill which comes rarely in a lifetime.
Sometimes you meet a gazelle. What is it doing out in the waste? How
does it live? You catch up and run alongside the frightened animal. If
your driver is good—and all desert drivers have to be good—you can climb
out on the running board and stroke the gazelle. Sometimes you see a
jackal.
Twice on the route you descend craters of old volcanoes, circle around,
and ascend the other side, a fine sight at night with all the cars
bumping up and down, shooting their head-lights into the air like so
many search-lights on a Zeppelin raid night in Paris or London.
The trip lasts from eighteen hours to seven days depending upon the
weather and the revolts in the desert. Eventually the Euphrates comes
into view, a stale river, narrow and serpentine, going backwards almost
as often as forward, like a drunken man unsure of any goal. Then in the
distant haze the golden domes of Kademein on the left, and the Tigris,
wide and dirty, and at last Bagdad.
* * * * * *
Bagdad! Bagdad the City of the Caliphs, the successors to Mohammed, the
City of Haroun al-Raschid, the Thousand and One Nights, the city of
poets, the vision of wondrous beauty, the glory of all the Orient!
Bagdad. A large Mohammedan village, built of mud and camels’ dung,
infested with flies and malarial mosquitoes, filled with oriental
peoples in rags and patches, numerous cripples, children with the purple
eyelids of trachoma on which their ignorant superstitious mothers have
placed ordures and blue beads to exorcise the evil one; men with their
faces eaten by syphilis; beggars—and beggars who try to touch you in
humble piety and arouse fear and disgust instead of pity; sewage in the
streets, the streets filled with nauseating stinks; shops where vile
offal is displayed for sale, rotting and stinking and covered with
thousands of flies and worms; streets crowded with men, women and
children, dogs and camels, all equally filthy and many diseased; the
town reeking with all that is low and horrible in humankind, while above
it a devastating sun gives it life and death, selects for survival and
destroys much of this flowing, palpitating mass which seems so shortly
removed from the primeval ooze.
Bagdad in the valley of the Tigris-Euphrates, the scene of the Garden of
Eden, the home of primitive man, the birth-place of civilization! The
Orient is bunk. Beautiful Bagdad never was. The myth is kept alive by
the “fortunate” who have spent much money to get to far away places. Of
all travellers at least one, Aldous Huxley, has had the courage to tell
the truth.
“Travelling gives one something to talk about when one gets home,”
writes Huxley, “the subjects for conversation are not so numerous that
one can neglect an opportunity for adding to one’s store. To justify
this snobbery a series of myths has gradually been elaborated. The
places which it is socially smart to have visited are aureoled with
glamour, till they are made to appear, for those who have not been
there, like so many fabled Babylons or Bagdads.”
If the British had not occupied Bagdad during the war and kept it until
this day I would have been at a loss for refuge in this repulsive
capital. But British “imperialism” has been at work more than ten years.
It cut right through the hovels, parallel with the Tigris, and built New
Street. Two hotels with electric light and bath-rooms have been
established, there is an officers’ club, a newspaper, taxi-cabs,
hospitals, schools, sanitary work on a vast scale, policemen,
civilization, and—the British.
Cool men. Clean men. White men. The officers walk down New Street and
the oriental mob parts and lets them pass. They do not have to rub
elbows with trachoma and syphilis. They clap their hands and brown
servants, clad in white and bathed because they have white masters, leap
humbly to the bidding. They go to the post office where the brown Indian
babu, the imported little officials who have brains and are efficient,
scatter the mob of filthy Iraqi who are clamouring before the postage
window, and ask for the white man’s wants. They do it for me too,
because I am a white man. When I go to the palace to call on the British
general a guard of six men answers a bugle and stands at attention, and
as I have left my book of etiquette behind me I am flustered by this
homage. An officer comes along and puts them at ease. Everywhere I go I
share with the military and British civilians the prerogatives of a
superior race.
In the courts the British have brought justice in place of the tribal
bloody sword. The government of King Feisul is largely a stage curtain
behind which Britain works, but altogether it is not as alien or
inimical a government as that of the previous régime, which was Turkish.
The British are in Mesopotamia by consent of the League of Nations. Of
moral reasons there were none. But if all British imperialism is as
terrible as this sample I have experienced, I am a convert to it, and
so, I believe, would be any neutral who ever set a foot, hesitatingly,
in this vile part of the world. And I have seen the horrors of
commercial exploitation also. When the British came there was no
industry. A little robbery, a little murder, and dates constituted the
fare of many individuals and tribes. When the imperialist British
government frowned upon robbery and murder—when they put up gallows and
filled them frequently—many natives lost their occupation. Then along
came the exploiters of oil and cotton fields with their offer of a rupee
a day for labour, and so this Utopia was commercialized.
But violence is by no means at an end. Internally and externally there
is danger because there is an intense dissatisfaction especially among
the sheiks of powerful families and towns who do not like to see a fine
country where pillage and rapine made living so pleasant, go the way of
occidental law and order and gold based on labour. The old order prefers
the Biblical times—of Chronicles and Kings.
* * * * * *
My Iraq assignment was to learn the truth of these tribal conflicts.
Assyrians, Nestorians and Chaldeans, all Christian tribes descended
right out of the Bible, had been reported massacred by Turks.
I made a full investigation and told the first real story of the
atrocity. I really hated to do it, but I had a duty, and it was to tell
the truth. If Kemal Pasha has put me on the passport black list, as
fellow newspapermen have informed me, I can only answer that I respect
the Turk and believe that he has never gotten a square deal; that I know
that German generals not Turkish diplomats were really responsible for
the Armenian massacres in war time; that Armenians massacred Turks when
they had the upper hand; and that the Greek massacres of Turks in the
Smyrna war were greater in number and cruelty than the Turkish revenge.
But it so happened that I was the only man to get the evidence of a
Turkish massacre of Christians and I told the facts without prejudice.
To get the facts was a difficult undertaking. From the Bagdad railroad
station the “Berlin” railroad runs slowly into Sherqat and stops
forever. I was lucky in sharing a sleeper with a Major Long, a medical
officer who was returning to Mosul cured of rabies, and he fed me
quinine after diagnosing my fever as malaria. At Sherqat, I paid $25 for
a seat in a car for which Henry Ford should send $10 at once and put it
into his museum. In Mosul I spent the night in the “International
Hotel,” which I recommend highly to naturalists who have never seen
bedroom scorpions and eight-inch cockroaches, let alone the conventional
mattress fauna of Europe and America. Early the next day another Ford
took me to Zakho.
Outside of Mosul, at the suggestion of my Assyrian chauffeur, I stopped
at Nineveh to visit the mosque. The Mohammedans, as is known,
incorporated the Hebrew and Christian religions when their saviour
announced that he was establishing a superior one which would include
more sword-play and polygamy among its attractions. Jonah and Jesus are
ranked as minor prophets to Mohammed, and the whale story goes as big in
Mesopotamia as in Tennessee. Nineveh claims to be Jonah’s old home town,
and in the mosque they have a piece of evidence which the
Fundamentalists overlooked at Dayton: they have the jaw-bone of the
original Jonah whale. No less a person than Jonah himself brought the
jaw-bone there. The souvenir is guarded closely.
We passed Gayara where the Germans put in three pumps which supply five
barrels of oil daily. This is the only oil flowing in all Mesopotamia.
Of course there must be more, because the little streams feeding the
Tigris are smudged and iridescent with oil seepage. The car wound
through two mountain passes and was hailed by a thousand persons whose
Biblical primitiveness had been disturbed by an advance telephone call.
* * * * * *
They took me first to Archbishop Timothy, venerable and bearded, a
priest of the Roman Catholic Church who looks every inch a Hebrew
patriarch except for the flat round headdress about six inches in height
which seems to be more in the style of the Greek Orthodox Church. The
Mohammedan Arab mayor, six priests, and various local dignitaries then
conducted me into the courtyard of the local church which was packed
thick with the refugees of the massacre. There were very few women and
almost no young girls among them. Many of the men had bandages and
reeked with iodoform.
Under the cool arches they had set some tables and asked me to take the
centre seat. Before me they placed a large Bible. Then Archbishop
Timothy arose and spoke while some two thousand victims listened in
misery.
“I now call the mukhtar, the chief of Murga to testify,” said the
archbishop.
The mukhtar of Murga came forward, a man dressed in tiny rags. If he had
been dressed in clothes made from a New England crazy quilt, and this
uniform had been clawed to bits, it would have equalled the torn
collection he wore. Yet there was a majesty about this Christian sheik.
He came to me, knelt, and kissed my hand as he would his priest’s. He
placed one hand on the Bible and raised the other to the sun-filled
heavens.
“As God is my witness, and by the Blood of Christ I swear,” he began in
sing-song Arabic, which a priest interpreted into French, “I will tell
you what happened on those sorrow-laden days. On the march north the
first day the Turks killed five men of Murga, patriarchs of my village,
who in their feebleness could not keep up with the younger. One by one
they shot the elders and left them lying by the roadside.
“Three of our women who were ill and who sat down to rest from time to
time they killed by stoning.
“On the first night we camped near a fountain, drank and were refreshed.
The heavens were clouded and it was dark. In the Turkish camp lights
were burning and the soldiery were merry. Their voices were loud with
laughter. Before midnight Turkish soldiers came among us seizing all the
young and pretty girls whom they carried off into the officers’ camp.
They violated our girls. All night we heard the screams. They clouded
the skies with their mournful cries and it was like the Last Day of
Judgment.
“On the second day two of our elders were shot when they lay down to
rest.
“On the third day one of our women was prematurely in child-birth. The
Turks stood around unmoved by cries and tears, until the child was born,
and, seeing that it was alive, they gave it to other women, but the
mother remaining on the ground, and too feeble to arise and march with
us, they shot her.
“That night at the Ozozan mountains two women who tried to escape from
the officers who were taking them to their quarters and two men who
tried to run away were shot to death. Their young orphaned children were
then killed.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Turkish massacre of Christians. Archbishop Timothy listening to
testimony from two sheiks who escaped Turkish exile.
Bombardment of Damascus. Photograph taken by the author while shells
were falling.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Stresemann (then Chancellor of Germany) saying to the author: “Sometimes
you think you hear the voice of Almighty God, and it is only that of a
Privy Councillor.”
The Vienna Revolution. Barricades created by the peaceful citizens after
Moscow agitators had gained power over the mob.
“On the fourth day I escaped—”
Archbishop Timothy signalled him to go, and called the mukhtar of a
neighbouring village. One after another five picturesque figures
appeared, knelt, kissed the Bible, and gave their testimony. It was
always the same. “The old men could not keep up with the march. A
soldier came and bayonetted them.” In one instance it was testified that
three children were thrown over a precipice because they could no longer
walk and there was no place for them on donkeys or carts or the
shoulders of men.
When the mukhtars had finished I asked if there were relatives of those
who had been massacred present, and many rose to give corroboration. I
asked that children be heard and cross-examined them as to what they
saw. Always the same: the old men lagged behind and were shot.
* * * * * *
“Military necessity,” said the British representative in Mosul the next
day, “the Turks will plead military necessity. We know that the Angora
government issued the order to clear the disputed Mosul frontier zone of
all civilians, especially of those who might fight on our side. This has
been done by the deportation of 8,000 Chaldeans, Assyrians and
Nestorians. I am convinced that Kemal Pasha knows nothing of the
massacre and will show his good sportsmanship by disowning it and court-
martialling the major and other officers responsible. We, the British,
have always called the Turk a fair fighter, but there is no telling what
people will do when they can blame ‘military necessity’ for their
actions.”
“You are absolutely convinced that the massacre took place?”
“The bodies are on the road. You can see them from airplanes. And
besides, five thousand persons may exaggerate but five thousand cannot
all lie. Don’t forget that the people you saw have been released by
their captors. Where are the missing two hundred?”
At Mosul there was no special preparation for the war with Turkey which
then threatened. I returned to Bagdad, cabled the result of my
investigation, found out that the British maintain a censorship in Iraq,
all suspicious telegrams being sent to the high commissioner for
inspection, and then I went to Hinaidi, the largest military air base in
the world.
Here the British, with 350 planes and as many pilots, believe they can
hold up the entire Turkish infantry and artillery. The men think so too,
and were ready to try it. I found no one who hated the Turks. They did
not especially care for a war just then. But they were keen on getting
some action.
They showed me pictures of some of their recent work. Sheik Machmud was
their only real enemy—he had killed British officers and they needed
revenge. Several times they had flown over his town and set his palace
on fire. On one raid they had succeeded in dropping four high explosive
shells through the four corners of his solidly roofed citadel, then
planting some liquid fire through the shell holes so that the building
was burned out. Not a single mud hut nearby was destroyed.
On another occasion a tribe had revolted. Before one of the two
regiments stationed in Iraq could be marched up it was likely the revolt
would spread throughout the country-side. So the commander of Hinaidi
sent ten Vincent planes with ten men and two machine-guns in each,
landed all outside the rebellious town, and quelled the mutiny in a few
hours.
Flight Commander Corballis of 55 Squadron took me up in his de Haviland
9 for a trip over the desert. I was impressed with the casualness of the
thing. My previous flight had been in a French warplane in Syria, and
previous to that I had had several flights with American aviators behind
or over the front; on all occasions the tinkering and tuning had lasted
for hours.
“Like a hop over town?” said Corballis.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Climb in—any bus will do.”
I climbed in. A motored steel arm seized the propeller in the middle and
whirled it around. In less than sixty seconds after the invitation I was
having a look at Bagdad from the air. From there, at least, it is not so
bad.
From the north a sand-storm, like a great dragon rolling over and over,
was coming towards the city. We flew over it and along the Tigris which
cut numerous dark pretzel patterns in the golden-white waste. The golden
domes of Kademein likewise were somewhat picturesque from above, where
the surrounding filth could not be seen or smelt.
* * * * * *
I went back to the hotel and heard Britons discussing the future of
Iraq.
“Irrigation,” said one, “will make this the Garden of Eden again. Only
we will raise cotton instead of apples and snakes.”
“What we need now,” said another, “is a pipe line to Haifa, direct, all
British territory, where the Syrian rebels can’t break it, and then get
at the oil—”
“This country,” said a third, “has more mineral wealth and more
agricultural possibilities than any on earth. Look what we British made
out of Egypt. We’ll beat that here some day—and probably get the same
sort of thanks.”
I went to see Gertrude Bell who told me fascinating stories about the
history of Mesopotamia. I went to see Reouf Bey Chadirchi, minister of
finance, whom I had known in Berlin years before and who said that if
Britain pulled out Iraq would sink a hundred years into her torpid past.
I went to see the king and his younger brother who goes to Oxford
sometimes and I tried my best to get a straight occidental yes or no
about the British mandate, but got only a turgid oriental however and
perhaps. But, after all, who wear the regal robes in Iraq? Imported
kings. I did not ask the “man in the street.” Keep away from him if you
value your life and your health. If the “man in the street” in
Mesopotamia objects to British “imperialism” I hope I’ll never find that
out.
_Part V—The Truth about Mexico_
INTRODUCTION
After ten years of investigating European affairs I went to Mexico, a
land about which I knew nothing except what the newspapers reported and
about which I am sure I had no emotions whatever.
I had read about a war between the Calles government and the Catholic
Church; about Bolshevik plots; about American plans for intervention;
about American oil troubles and always about acts of violence against
Americans. I believe I came to Mexico as open-minded a journalist as
ever visited a strange land. My one idea was to treat Mexico as a
foreign country, a European nation towards which neither the reporter
nor the United States had ulterior motives or propaganda-made
prejudices.
But from the moment I arrived at the Texas frontier, every town of which
I visited, I was deluged with propaganda, most of it, as I later found,
as vicious as it was untrue. Catholic propaganda would have Calles the
new anti-Christ and Ku Klux propaganda would install him in some hall of
Methodist saints. The interventionists were roaring all along the
border. Anti-Calles Mexicans were collecting dollars and talking about
organizing armies. Mexico, many said, had gone completely Bolshevik and
the time had come for intervention, war, annexation—disappearance of
Mexico as a sovereign power.
In Mexico I heard much the same kind of talk from Americans. But I also
found a new experiment in government as dangerous and as interesting as
Bolshevism or Fascism. I found the Catholic war with banners flying. I
talked to diplomats, newspapermen, government officials and American
business men who had lost their concessions or actually their shirts. I
found friends of Mexico, “good-willers.” But I also found censorship.
In the chapters which follow I have tried to tell some truths about
Mexico as they appear to an objective ear and eye, accustomed to being
disinterested and objective in all the political hurly-burly of the
European scene. Owing to the press censorship I made no attempt while
south of the Rio Grande to send any messages; whether all or part of the
following would have been suppressed I cannot say, I can only suspect.
But censorship or not, I know that certain chapters could never appear
in the American daily press. The reader will quickly discern why.
_Chapter I_
OUR DIPLOMACY IN MEXICO: A HERITAGE OF HATE
In the belief that our diplomatic and newspaper representation is
largely responsible for misunderstandings between the United States and
Mexico, misunderstandings which have led to violence in the past and may
still lead to war, I intend to disregard the so-called “code of
journalistic ethics,” a code which is just about as immoral and
hypocritical a collection of unwritten taboos as has ever been imposed
upon an art or a profession by a mobilized bourgeois Babbittry.
I have met American diplomats in thirty-seven countries. I make the
statement that, with an occasional commendable exception, they did not
impress me as wholly representative of America. It may be a personal
reaction, a prejudice, but this fact stands out: in Europe, Asia and
Africa I have never met a diplomat who whole-heartedly hated the country
to which he was accredited. I found many who were not satisfied, who
longed for a change even if it were not a promotion; true, but they had
a kind word to say for at least the climate, or the beer or the sea-
coast or the sun-shine. When I went to Mexico I had my first experience
with an American diplomatic corps which was so imbued with enmity for
the country to which it was assigned that it could not or would not see
nor admit the beauty of Popocatepetl or Indian blankets, or the
picturesque peon, let alone the significance of a new experiment in
social progress.
The advent of Ambassador Dwight W. Morrow (closely followed by
Lindbergh) has been acclaimed a Mission of GoodWill; there have been
other times of great mutually profitable friendship, notably that during
the Maximilian incident following the American Civil War, but generally
speaking, for a hundred years our embassy in Mexico City has housed a
heritage of hatred for Mexicans and Mexico itself.
Ambassador has followed ambassador, the rare, open-minded, objective,
friendly man making a failure of his job; the prejudiced, small-calibred
state department agent seizing his inheritance greedily, saturating
himself with the ever-present spirit of malice, and propagating it at
home and in Mexico.
Oil, mining, banking and plantation interests, which to this very day
scorn and curse the land which gives them wealth, and the diplomatic
corps, have worked together without friction, each renewing and feeding
the other’s hatred. Since the Diaz overthrow in 1910 a new element has
entered further to intensify this attitude: the old native aristocracy
and the ousted Cientifico, or big business interest, which grew fat with
Diaz. Naturally the newly arrived ambassador and his assistants look up
the “best people” in Mexico as they do in Europe. They find no broken
nobility, no tarnished golden royalty to invite and to consult in
Mexico, but there are always the remnants of “good” families which
surrounded Diaz, which have little taint of Indian blood and which are
eager and implacable co-operators in the hatred against the upstart
democratic régime.
Diaz, the captain for Juarez the Liberator, had surrounded himself in
the beginning with a group of idealists and liberals. Gradually the
material trend of Diaz’s political scheme of life led to the elimination
of these idealists and their replacement by a group of hard-headed,
practical, rapacious individuals who proceeded for a generation to rule
“scientifically.” Diaz the Liberator became Diaz the Dictator, and the
Cientificos in their later days grew rich and powerful, while Mexico
sold concessions to Americans for almost all the natural wealth of the
nation. Not a single business was carried on without graft and
corruption. The contracts and concessions, according to an American
lawyer in the University Club of Mexico City, would, almost all of them,
be invalid if made in the United States.
The Madero-Carranza-Obregon-Calles régime announced agrarian reforms, an
attempt to restore the lands and their wealth to the people and the
nation, and the confiscation or semi-confiscation of property, if
necessary, to carry out this policy. The Mexican Cientificos suffered as
much as the American interests.
And the policy of the American embassy has always agreed with American
business interests and the Cientificos. The new type of Mexican
official, who perhaps carries a revolver on his hip and much more
explosive experimental sociological matter in his head, has never had a
welcome in our embassy. He has been hated without being seen or heard.
The American business men who have surrounded and influenced the
official acts and attitude of the embassy are almost one hundred per
cent. Mexico-haters and interventionists. If it is the duty of an
ambassador to work for the interests of his own country, and if he sees
his fellow expatriates as representatives of American public opinion, it
is obvious that the diplomat believes himself to be in the right when he
lends his position and his power to the views of all those Americans he
finds surrounding him.
In my three month Mexican assignment I was able to discover only one
centre of American opinion which was not anti-Mexican and which
expressed itself much more unqualifiedly than I do regarding our
diplomacy. This centre was the University Club. In this pure one hundred
per cent. American institution I found no politicians, no grafters, no
big oil concessionaires, but successful young American business men,
engineers, professional men, who spoke the first words I had heard in
the country for fair play and sportsmanship in dealing with Mexico. In
many cases they were Americans who were employing Mexican labour or co-
operating with Mexican employers, in other words men who really had
contact with Mexico, and their attitude was friendly. They saw the
mistakes and failures of Calles but they did not hate.
The Americans who have influenced the embassy, however, are not of the
University Club type. They are largely the interventionists and the
possessionists. The old cry, “The United States, from Alaska to the
Isthmus of Panama,” born during the honest, expansionist, pre-Civil War
era, can be heard here. Among the interventionists is one type which
cloaks the issue in moral sackcloth, which says that we should occupy
Mexico for its own good and for noble reasons of civilization. Another
type displays no sackcloth hypocrisy: it says, “Take Mexico for our own
good.”
The atmosphere of the American embassy before and during my visit, was
openly interventionist.
Then there is a little resident group in the capital which opposes
intervention or occupation and its attendant bloodshed, also an
occasional body of American pacificists or clergymen which pays a visit
and reports favourably for Mexico. All these elements are derisively
labelled “good-willers” by the embassy and newspaper corps. (They will
have to invent a new word now that the Morrow-Lindbergh Missions have
been termed “good-will visits” by the world.)
Of the resident or semi-resident group I met Dr. Ernest Greuning who was
at work on a history of Mexico; Roberto Haberman, an organizer for the
American Federation of Labour; Carlton Beals, a brilliant young writer,
the author of “Mexico; an Interpretation,” and “Brimstone and Chili”;
Frances Toor, the editor of _Mexican Folkways_; Howard Phillips, the
editor of _Mexican Life_, each with a friendly, fair word about the
Calles régime. I met them after weeks of listening to the same song of
hate which starts on the Texas frontier and never ends in the south. So
many hundreds of persons had assured me that Calles was a Syrian, a
Bolshevik, a cheap grafter; that his régime was pure Bolshevism and
corruption, that Mexicans hated the United States and were preparing for
war, that they delighted in the murder of Americans, so many, indeed,
that it was difficult for me to get over the shock of an entirely
opposed view.
The “good-willers” were not blind to Mexico’s shortcomings nor her acts
of censorship and terrorism, nor her electoral corruption, nor her
extremism in dealing with business and the Catholic Church; they saw
mistakes and suggested calmness, tolerance, patience, a square deal and
friendly watchful waiting.
One day when diplomatic officials were repeating the charges of
terrorism and Bolshevism, I mentioned the views of the “good-willers.”
“Skunks—liars—traitors,” thundered the embassy speaker. “They are all
paid agents of the Mexican Bolshevik régime—pay no attention to
them—anyone who says a friendly word for the Mexicans is a traitor to
the United States.”
There was such passionate fury in the American diplomatic official’s
eyes and voice that I found myself saying:
“How can you call them traitors,—even if they work for Mexico?—I find
hundreds of Americans working for foreign governments in Europe—”
“But it’s different here.”
“We are not in a state of war yet.”
“But we may be any day. And anyhow for an American to work for Mexico,
with relations as they are at present, is treason. The Americans you
named ought to be hanged.”
I mentioned the American senators who favoured friendship instead of
intervention.
“They are traitors, too—they are subsidized by the Mexicans,” was the
reply.
Later, documents were offered me by Miguel Avila, former military secret
service operative, whose bona fides were approved by both embassy and
consulate. These documents, which were proved false at the senatorial
inquest, had pretended that Calles was giving money to senators who were
friendly to Mexico. This incident I mention elsewhere; what I want to
underline here is an embassy attitude so violently prejudiced that it
gave its approval to vendors of false documents, forged for the purpose
of discrediting not only Mexico but all “good-willers” who stood in the
way of an officialdom’s unanimity for war, intervention, occupation.
One reason for such passionate hatred of the “good-willers” is that they
were all more or less making favourable publicity for Mexico. The
embassy has failed to control them as it has the representatives of the
regular press. The latter are offered anti-Mexican poison from the day
of their arrival and very few fail to drink from the bottle bearing the
official label, the guarantee of their own government.
The American ambassador at the time of my investigations and President
Calles made a fine contrast, although both were fanatics. Calles was the
warm, sometimes violent radical fanatic; our ambassador the cold,
phlegmatic, unemotional fanatic whose god is property and whose saviour
is the law of vested interests.
Our ambassador manifestly understood absolutely nothing about the new
era in Mexico; he seemed congenitally incapable of understanding Change.
Everything that wasn’t done according to previous formulae was
Bolshevism.
Men of this type who were alive when George Washington led a revolution
remained Tories, not because they liked a tax on tea but because it was
bolshevistically wrong to throw property off a wharf.
When Calles spoke of ideals in government our ambassador could see only
violations of property laws; when Calles explained his reforms, our
ambassador saw Bolshevism and when Calles asked for co-operation he
received nothing but threats. The entire attitude of the American
embassy can be summed up in the words of one of its minor officials who
said: “We can’t do business with the dirty crooks.”
In all fairness it must be said that the Calles authorities, while not
adding electric light to the fountains of mutual hatred, did not show
any too friendly an attitude to the American diplomatic group nor try
too hard for a peace of mutual concession and understanding. The few
Calles politicians I met—they were not many because my paper was openly
opposed to the régime and I was not particularly _persona grata_ in
Mexico—expressed the historical hopelessness of dealing with U. S.
officials. Frequently I heard them revive stories of our diplomacy at
the time President Madero was assassinated and two conspirators allowed
to take over the country and plunge it back into political chaos.
“Complete confidence between Mexico and the United States can never be
re-established,” they say, “until this whole Madero affair is explained
and atoned for to the satisfaction of our people.”
Once it is admitted that the assassination of President Madero was made
possible by the negligence of the diplomatic service of the United
States, it follows that Mexicans have a right to ask what indirect part
American diplomacy played in the tragedy, and it makes it easier to see
why so much distrust of our diplomacy still persists in Mexico.
I produce elsewhere Madame Madero’s statement, sworn and attested at the
American consulate, giving her version of meetings with the ambassador,
and their conversations. Madame Madero declared she had the assurances
of Mr. Wilson that her husband’s life would be spared.
It was not. Madero and his vice-president were taken from prison and
murdered by the men or agents of the men who plotted a revolution,
accomplished it, then met in the American embassy and, with the
assistance and countenance of the ambassador, organized a government to
replace that which Madero had headed. The revolution and the
assassination could have been prevented by the United States, say
Mexicans today. They want the telegrams between the president and the
ambassador published, they want to know if Ambassador Wilson’s telegram
reporting Madero’s downfall was sent before or after the fact, and they
want to know, first of all, what advance knowledge Wilson had of the
conspiracy. These desires do not seem unreasonable.
Whenever there is seated in Washington an American administration which
desires peace and has no _arrière pensée_ for intervention, it can
exchange explanations with Mexico; the United States would not humble
itself even if it apologized for the use of its diplomatically immune
building for planning the setting up of a government founded upon
treason and assassination. And a word might also be said about the
American oil companies which subsidized Mexican counter-revolutionaries
so that they were able to raise whole armies to fight a government which
the United States had recognized. And similar breaches of neutrality or
international morals. Mexico, of course, might have a few apologies to
offer also.
Do we really want to understand Mexico? To understand is to forgive; to
forgive is to forswear. Could we march in and take Mexico if we
understood the new experiment? Can any nation fight another without
ignorance and hatred?
For the moment it looks as if the era of good-will has really arrived.
But one can never be sure about events in Mexico. Ambassador Morrow and
President Calles were succeeding admirably in replacing hatred with
friendship, suspicions with mutual trust; the oil troubles were settled
much to the applause of our state department and our oil interests, and
even the religious conflict was approaching a peaceful end.
Suddenly an assassin’s pistol removed Alvaro Obregon who was to spell
Calles in the presidency and continue with him the one modern
dictatorship which really works for national progress through
emancipation, physical, spiritual and material, of the masses. Obregon’s
death revealed serious conflicts among the important political units of
Callesism: the Obregonistas, the labour movement which made Calles, the
agrarian party and the radical labour associations. When Morrow arrived
Obregon and Calles had disputed the amount of concession and compromise
which was the price of friendship with the United States. Obregon had
won. The labour unions, led by Luis N. Morones, continued to attack and
were in turn attacked by Obregon, so severely in fact that Morones was
later accused of encouraging the assassin.
However, the progress of Ambassador Morrow continues and in Mexico many
hope that he will be retained by whatever administration is in power. To
return to the old ambassadorial policy of ignorance and hatred would be
to prepare an eventual and final war. The good imperialists are still
hoping for it. If Morrow fails, and if Mexico is ever annexed, a
monument should be set up, not for a president, a general or an admiral,
but a massive statue in solid concrete, of a man with a silk hat, a
morning coat, a silver-headed cane, spats perhaps, but with no
individual face. The legend would then be: “Ambassador Babbitt—whose
ignorance, stupidity and mediocrity added a new State to the Union.”
_Chapter II_
THE STATE DEPARTMENT, THE EMBASSY AND THE ASSASSINATION OF A MEXICAN
PRESIDENT
In the night of February 22, 1913, Francisco Madero, president of
Mexico, and Pino Suarez, vice-president, were assassinated. A counter-
revolutionary plot fathered by Victoriano Huerta and Felix Diaz was
temporarily successful. Huerta and Diaz had met and come to terms in the
American embassy. Mr. Henry Lane Wilson, the ambassador, was in touch
with the state department before, during and after the _coup d’etat_.
To the present administration, for almost all citizens of the United
States and for the tabloid press this episode is dead history. But for
Mexico, and for Central America which is beginning to look to Mexico for
leadership, and for South America, which also lives in the shadow of the
Monroe Doctrine, the assassination of President Madero and the part
American diplomacy played, is a subject still alive and demanding
explanation. The Mexican charges may be summed up as follows:
1. That Ambassador Wilson is proved by his own dispatches to the state
department to have possessed prior knowledge that Huerta was to seize
the government and arrest Madero.
2. That despite the fact that this knowledge was in the possession of
the state department, despite the fact that it knew its representative
knew all about the plot, it did not warn him to keep his hands off
conspiracy and to discourage Huerta and other traitors.
3. That the facts clearly indicate that Huerta’s coup could not have
succeeded without the assistance and approval of the ambassador and
indirectly the state department, because Huerta could not have taken
any action unless he knew he had American support.
4. That it was not what the ambassador and the state department did,
perhaps, but what they did not do, viz: take good care that no harm
came to Madero by warning Huerta resolutely and in unmistakable
terms—that earned for them, according to opinion in Latin America, a
moral responsibility for the fate of Madero and Suarez.
5. That through the actions of its ambassador, the United States
incurred moral responsibility for the entire episode, the downfall of
the Mexican government and the assassinations, from which it has not
yet freed itself, which damned it in the eyes of all Latin America,
and which still operates to the disadvantage of the protagonist of the
Monroe Doctrine.
In the following remarkable _j’accuse_, which was written by Mme.
Madero, August 15, 1916, and sworn to by her before the American vice-
consul in Mexico City, April 29, 1927, American diplomacy in Mexico is
arraigned before the world—at least the Latin world. This document has
been refused publication by several big American newspapers whose
editors admitted its importance but believed it to be somewhat “old,”
because American interest had somewhat subsided and it wouldn’t do to
reopen old wounds. The document, with its original errors in spelling,
follows:
Q. Before going into detail on the subject of your personal
experiences with former Ambassador Henry Lane Wilson, between the day
of President Madero’s arrest, on Tuesday, February 18, 1913, and his
assassination on the night of Saturday, February 22, when you with
other members of the President’s family were vainly entreating the
American Ambassador to utilize the power of the United States
government and his undeniably potent influence with Victoriano Huerta
to save the lives of President Madero and Vice President Pino Suarez,
is it not true that the attitude of the American Ambassador toward
President Madero and his government was regarded as unfriendly?
A. By President Madero and virtually all the members of the government
it was firmly believed, and apparently with reason, that the attitude
of the American Ambassador, not only toward my husband’s government,
but toward the Mexican Republic and the Mexican people was
unfriendly—actively unfriendly. I am not in a position to say
positively to what extent this feeling toward the American Ambassador
was justified by the facts, but it is true that this feeling did exist
and that foundation for it seemingly was warranted by the evidence
which almost daily came to the attention of my husband.
(The following question and answer are written on the margin of the
first sheet of the statement in the handwriting of Mrs. Madero.)
Q. Was the desirability of requesting the United States gobernment
(sic) to recall the Ambassador ever suggested to the President?
A. President Madero was repeatedly urged to ask the government at
Washington to recall the Ambassador.
Q. Why did he refuse?
A. He said: “He will be here only for a short time, and it is best to
do nothing that will antagonice (sic) him, or his government.
Q. Were the actions of the Ambassador during the events which took
place between Sunday, February 9, when the rebellion against President
Madero’s government began, and Tuesday, February 18, when Huerta
seized the government and made prisoners of the President and his
cabinet, regarded as frieldly (sic) and helpful to the federal
government?
A. In answer, let me suggest this question: What evidence is there to
indicate that during this interval the Ambassador exerted himself to
do one proper, friendly act, or say one friendly word in behalf of the
legal government of Mexico which was beset by rebels and traitors?
Does any honest, unprejudiced person believe that had the American
Ambassador set his face against Huerta and his plot that Madero
government would have fallen? Does any honest, unprejudiced person
believe that had the Ambassador made proper and sufficiently firm
representations to Huerta the lives of the President and the Vice
President would have been sacrificed?
Q. Were you with the President during the revolt?
A. I did not see my husband after he left Chapultepec Castle to go to
the National Palace on the morning of February 9. He remained at the
Palace and I was at Chapultepec.
Q. When did you first become aware of the seizure of the government by
Huerta and the imprisonment of the President and his cabinet?
A. Early in the afternoon. I tried to get in communication with the
President over the private telephone. No one replied. I grew
apprehensive, and called the Department of Communications. I asked
them if anything had gone wrong. They assured me that everything was
progressing favourably, thta (sic) the fighting that day had been in
favour of the government and that the army and the people, as a whole,
remained loyal to President Madero. While I was talking, three of the
President’s aides, Captains Garmendia, Montes and Cæarin, who had
escaped from the Palace, came to me. They told me what had happened at
the Palace—that Huerta had seized the government, that there had been
an attack upon the President in his office; several men had been
killed; that the President had escaped the bullets and fled to the
lower part of the Palace to hanange (sic) the soldiers, where Blanquet
arrested him.
Q. The Ambassador in his dispatches speaks of murders having been
committed by the President, of men whom he had shot during the mêlée
in his office. Is this true?
A. It is not true. He never carried a weapon.
Q. Where did you go from the Castle?
A. Immediately after the President’s aides had told me what had
happened I took refuge in the Japanese Legation.
Q. What were the conditions under which the President and the Vice
President were induced to resign?
A. By agreement with Huerta and upon his pledge that they were to be
allowed to leave the country and proceed to Europe, it was arranged
that they should resign.
Q. Did you attempt to see the President?
A. Yes, several times without succeeding.
Q. When did you have your interview with the Ambassador?
A. That afternoon. Mercedes, my sister-in-law, was with me. The
Ambassador was not in when we entered the Embassy. Mrs. Wilson
received us, and caused a telephone message to be sent to the Palace,
notifying the Ambassador that we were there.
Q. What was the manner and appearance of the Ambassador?
A. ... His manner was brusque. At times Mrs. Wilson tugged at his
coat, apparently to try to induce him to speak diffwrently (sic) to
us. It was a painful interview. I told the Ambassador that we had come
to seek protection for the lives of the President and the Vice
President. “Very well, Madam,” said he. “What is it that you want me
to do?”
“I want you to use your influence to protect the lives of my husband
and other prisoners.”
“That is a responsibility that I do not care to undertake, either for
myself, or my government,” replied the Ambassador.
“Will yoy (sic) be good enough, then,” I asked, “to send this telegram
to President Taft?”
I handed him a message addressed to President Taft, which had been
written by the President’s mother and signed by her. It was through
the Ambassador that our only hope lay in obtaining communication with
President Taft. We supposed that the cable was in the hands of the
government, and that it was useless to expect that a message of this
sort would be allowed to pass. This is a copy of the message:
“Mexico, D. F., 20th February, 1913.—To the President of the United
States, Mr. William H. Taft: I pray you to intercede in order that the
agreement mede (sic) with my son and his friends with General Huerta
to permit them to go to Europe may be carried out. Their lives are in
danger, and above all, they have a right to their liberty because they
were honourable men, and this is the expressed condition on which he
resigned, as is known to some of the foreign diplomats who intervened.
I address you as a mother in trouble, who appeals to the only person
whose influence can save the life of her son and assure him his
liberty. MERCEDES G. de MADERO.”
Q. What was the reply of the Ambassador to your request, after he had
read the message?
A. “It is not necessary to send this,” he said. But I persisted. “All
right,” promised the Ambassador, “I shall send it.” He put the message
in his pocket.
Q. Did he send the message?
A. You can see the answer I received from the State Department:
“April 30th, 1913. Mrs. Sara Perez de Madero, New York city; Madam:
Your letter of March 2nd, addressed to the Honourable William H. Taft,
then President of the United States, in which you request to be
informed whether or not the message, of which you enclose a copy, with
your letter, came into the possession of President Taft, reached the
Executive offices after Mr. Taft’s term of office had expired, and was
referred to this Department. The records of this Department show that
this message was brought to the President’s attention. Instructions in
the matter had already been given the Embassy and the action it took
on behalf of ex-President Madero and ex-Vice President Pino Suarez was
taken with the knowledge and under the direction of the President. The
Ambassador states, in reporting to the Department in connection with
the death of the ex-President and the ex-Vice President of Mexico,
that the action on their behalf could not have been more energetic
than it was. I am, Madam, your obedient servant, JOHN B. MOORE, Acting
Secretary of State.”
Q. Did you put forth efforts to ascertain if the message ever was
received by President Taft?
A. When I was in Havana, on my way to New York, I sent this letter to
President Taft:
“Havana, March 2nd, 1913: To His Excellency, The President of The
United States, Honourable William H. Taft, Washington, D. C.; Sir: I
address these lines to Your Excellency in order to enclose a copy of a
telegram which my mother-in-law Señora Mercedes G. de Madero, directed
to Your Excellency on February 20th last, through the United States
Ambassador, Honourable Henry Lane Wilson, and which telegram I
personally delivered to him with the request that he be kind enough to
forward same in code. As Your Excellency will see by the contents, we
implored your influence to save the life of my husband, Señor Don
Francisco I. Madero, so dear to us. As events transpired, and we
received no reply from Your Excellency, we desire to know whether or
not this telegram came into your possession. Anticipating my thanks
for the attention my request will receive from the hands of Your
Excellency, and awaiting your kind reply, I am, Respectfully, Sara
Perez de Madero.”
(The following question and answer were written and then crossed out
by Mrs. Madero.)
[Q. What reply, if any, did Mr. Taft make?]
[A. His reply, which came a long time afterwards, contained nothing to
indicate if my mother-in-law’s message had, or had not, been received
by him on time.]
Q. What followed after you had delivered to the Ambassador the message
directed to President Taft?
A. The Ambassador said: “I will be frank with you, Madam. Your
husband’s downfall is due to the fact that he never wanted to consult
with me.” I could reply nothing to this, for I had gone there to ask a
favour, to plead for my husband’s life, not to discuss questions of
politics, or policies with the Ambassador.
Q. What else did the Ambassador say?
A. The Ambassador continued: “You know, Madam, your husband had
peculiar ideas.” I said: “Mr. Ambassador, my husband had not peculiar
ideas, but high ideals.” To this the Ambassador did not reply, and I
proceeded to say that I asked the same protection and assurance for
the life of Vice President Pino Suarez as I asked for President
Madero. The Ambassador’s manner grew very impatient. “Pino Suarez is a
very bad man,” he said, “I cannot give you any assurance for his
safety. He is to blame for most of your husband’s troubles ... he is
one of the leaders of the ‘Prra’ (sic),” (meaning the popular name
given to one of the political factions which favoured the Madero
government, “The Porra,” which means stick, or club).
The Ambassador used the common designation of the Progressive Party
which President Madero had founded during his political campaing
(sic).
Q. ....
A. ... I then represented to him that Mr. Pino Suarez had a wife and
six children who would be left in poverty in the event of his death.
Q. What did he say to that?
A. He merely shrugged his shoulders. He told me that General Huerta
had asked him what should be done with the prisoners. “What did you
tell General Huerta?” I asked. “I told him that he must do what was
best for the interests of the country,” said the Ambassador. Here my
sister-in-law interrupted and said: “Why did you say that? You know
very well what kind of men Huerta and his people are and that they are
going to kill him.”
Q. What did the Ambassador say?
A. He made no response, but turned to me and said: “You know that your
husband is unpopular; that the people were not satisfied with him as
President.” I asked: “Why, then, if this is true, is he not permitted
to go free and proceed to Europe, where he could do no harm?” The
Ambassador replied: “You need not worry; the person of your husband
will not be harmed. I knew all along, that this was going to happen.
That is why I suggested that your husband should resign.”
“But why if you knew of this in advance, Mr. Ambassador,” I Asked
(sic) him, “why did you not warn my husband?” “Oh, no,” he replied,
“that would not have been good policy, for then he would have
prevented it.”
Q. The Ambassador is quoted in an interview in _The New York Herald_
on March 21st, 1916, as saying that you had requested him to ask
Huerta to “put your husband in the Penitentiary for safekeeping.” Did
you make such a request of the Ambassador?
A. No. We discussed only his personal safety and the urgency of Huerta
being compelled to keep his promise to allow the President and the
other prisoners to leave the country. I speke (sic) of the
uncomfortable accommodations they had. “He seems to be getting along
all right,” said the Ambassador. “He has slept for five hours without
waking.”
Q. What was the outcome of the conversation?
A. When the interview terminated and we went away, we had gained
nothing excepting the Ambassador’s assurance that the President would
not suffer bodily harm, and his promise to send the message soliciting
the intervention of President Taft to save the lives of the prisoners.
Q. Was the Ambassador’s assurance carried out?
A. Two days later the prisoners were assassinated.
Q. Did you converse with the Ambassador in Spanish, or in English?
A. In English.
Q. Is it your opinion that the lives of the President and the Vice
President could have been saved by the Ambassador?
A. It is my belief that had the properly energetic representations
been made by the Ambassador which it was reasonable to expect him to
make, in the interest of humanity, not only would the lives of the
President and the Vice President been spared, but a responsibility
would have been averted from the United States which was thrust upon
him (sic) by the acts of its then diplomatic representative in Mexico.
Mexico, D. F., Agosto 15 de 1916,
(signed) Sara Perez de Madero.
_Chapter III_
MEXICAN DOCUMENTS TO ORDER
The Hearst Mexican documents and many others were offered to me,
some the second evening of my stay in Mexico City, others almost
every day for weeks. The document vendor was Miguel Avila. He was
introduced to me by fellow newspapermen who hated the Calles régime.
At the American embassy and consulate where I went expressly to get
advice about buying documents from Avila, his reputation and
integrity were affirmed.
Despite the approval of American diplomacy I advised against buying
the documents which eventually became the property of the Hearst
press, caused a senatorial investigation and a complete exposure of
the crookedness of the deal. On one other occasion I had been
offered documents and when the agent was approved by the American
consulate, I bought them. One was a letter about $25,000 sent by the
Third International for Bolshevik work in Buenos Aires. The man who
sold me this document confessed forgery (according to the Moscow
press), but American newspapermen in Russia say Drushilowsky always
was and is now a secret agent of the Chekah. I suppose the documents
were his forgeries but I cannot understand the excitement in the
radical press about them because in open sessions of the Third
International Congress of 1922 I heard announcements about the
sending of money for Bolshevik enterprises in South America. The
document may have been a forgery; the forged words, however, relate
historic facts.
There were several reasons for my dropping negotiations with Miguel
Avila.
I have dealt with secret agents, detectives, terrorists and spies,
some of whom were quite big men in their way, but I got a very bad
impression of Avila from the following incident.
The day Avila offered me the first documents I was invited to dinner
by an American I had met once in New York. When I came to his
apartment I met three or four Americans known as “good-willers,” or
friends of Mexico. Early the next morning Avila came to my room in
the hotel, furious:
“You had dinner with our enemies,” he cried, “I know what you had.
Both beer and wine. Chicken. Six courses. They are trying to buy you
over: they told the cook you were important and to spend money
freely—twenty pesos!”
By the end of the week in addition to my dealings with Avila, the
following reports were made to me:
From the good-willers: “Avila offers to spy on you and sell us a
report on your daily activities.”
From a Calles official: “Avila claims you are a state department spy
and is willing to report on you.”
From an American official: “Avila says you are in the company of
traitors and Bolsheviks”—(meaning, of course, good-willers).
From an American newspaperman: “Avila is willing to sell me the
documents he offers you.”
The Hotel Regis became a beehive of espionage. The buzzing was
enormous. It was complicated one day by the arrival of a secret
agent from the Ku Klux Klan who wanted to work hand in hood with
Calles and refused to be disappointed when Calles turned him down.
Then came a secret agent for the Knights of Columbus.
He had a strong German accent and credentials for a Catholic weekly
in Iowa. He seemed hard of hearing and he shouted his whispers.
“I’m a newspaperman myself,” he yelled to me in the crowded lobby,
“I’m a big secret agent for the Knights of Columbus—”
“Are you sure it is a secret?” someone asked.
“Sure!” he replied.
“Then you might remove your Knights of Columbus pin from your
lapel.”
“Oh my God,” he exclaimed, terrified, and tore the pin out of his
coat. He took out a pill box and placed the pin among. He came in
once a week to exercise his calling. The Ku Kluxer disappeared
suddenly. But Avila, who claimed to represent various elements, kept
negotiating with me.
It was a bad season for documents because some three hundred had
mysteriously passed between the American embassy and the office of
President Calles, and both governments, after the original shock of
publicity, were reticent about them. Avila claimed the whole three
hundred genuine. But it was not from him that I obtained a copy of
one of them. Next to alleged documents of military invasion, this
one is believed to be largely responsible for a diplomatic crisis
which almost brought on a rupture of diplomatic relations. It is in
the form of a circular letter allegedly sent by Calles to the
governors of the twenty-eight Mexican states. It was sold as an
original, bearing on it the name of the governor, rubber stamps
showing date of receipt at the state capitol, and initials of the
governor. Not only did the American embassy obtain the alleged
original but copies were offered by the dealers to other persons.
According to the Calles followers the first part of the document,
the letter sent to all the governors discussing Mexican internal and
external politics is genuine. They, however, claim that the
sensational part of the document is apocryphal. The date is January
1, 1927. The first part deals with the progress of agrarian
reconstruction, road-building, school system, irrigation, land bank
developments, etc., and the apocryphal part follows:
“This progress has had as a consequence, the natural resistance and
lack of confidence which meet all social innovations and has met
internal and external resistance which I am accustomed to in
carrying out my policies and in enforcing the application of the
fundamental laws of my country. Unfortunately the application of the
laws has provoked such a situation on the exterior and such an
agitation and resistance in the interior as to endanger the
fundamental peace and public tranquillity. It has led to the
formation of groups of discontented, especially to activities by the
fanatical Catholics, enemies of my government, who have begun a
rebel movement, supported by American money and attempting to
destroy our institutions.
“Unfortunately many of the means taken by my government for the
protection and betterment of the social interests of the Mexican
people have been wrongly interpreted in foreign countries by selfish
elements who have given them the appearance of dissolvent social
actions. They have found a badly interpreted echo in the capitalist
American press which has wished to present Mexico as desirous of
sustaining imported doctrines and as propagandists of these
doctrines in Latin America, and as desirous of bringing into our
national life a political system absolutely foreign to it.
“To this is added the fact that some foreign diplomats, among them
the ambassador of the United States, abusing the diplomatic immunity
with which they are invested, have made common cause with the
enemies of my government. He has manufactured all kinds of intrigue
in order to create international difficulties between Mexico and the
United States and to bring about a state of lack of confidence and
bad understanding which would necessarily lead to the rupture of
diplomatic relations between these two countries, and this in turn
would give an opportunity to the enemies of my administration to
organize and to make possible the realization of their iniquitous
and dastardly plans.”
In the original Spanish document, according to the spokesman for
President Calles, there are errors of spelling and grammatical
construction. These facts and the whole style of the allegedly
inserted paragraphs, according to the spokesman, point to a forger
whose knowledge of the English language is better than of the
Spanish.
Regarding the whole series of documents treating of the military
invasion of Mexico, little was said because officials realize that
every nation in the world prepares such plans. But there was
considerable excitement over several other alleged documents of
President Calles in which orders are given the Mexican war
department to send arms and munitions to the Sacasa faction in
Nicaragua. Naturally the Calles spokesman claims that these were
also forged. Whether forged or not, it is the understanding of the
Mexican government that supposedly originals were forwarded by the
American embassy to Washington and were accepted by the state
department as genuine.
While there is no doubt that an American embassy employee had
trafficked with the Calles government, there is also considerable
belief that numerous Mexican employees have sold genuine documents,
directly or indirectly, to the American embassy. No one doubts this
because it is a usual method for Mexican government employees who
are disgruntled with the régime for which they work, and who are
always glad to take silver on the side.
When the Hearst documents, thanks to the senate’s actions, became a
public scandal, I received a cabled request for a statement of my
relations with Avila. Following is the reply intact:
“_Immediately on my arrival in Mexico, Miguel Avila offered me
various documents allegedly stolen from El Sol Petroleum Company,
the only oil concern co-operating with the Mexican government._
”_According to Avila the Mexican government was unwilling to issue
checks directly to politicians, writers, journalists and others, for
propaganda and other efforts in the United States but authorized El
Sol to pay vouchers which the Calles Government would reimburse._
“_Avila produced a document stating the above idea._
”_On this document the words ‘department treasury’ were typewritten
over ‘department education’ which aroused my suspicion. When I
showed the document to Americans knowing Spanish, the latter pointed
out that the document was badly spelled, was bad in its grammar,
which showed it to be the work of a non-Spaniard, presumably an
American, because the expressions were direct translations from
English._
“_At the same time, Avila offered a document claiming to be an
original letter which Calles dispatched to each governor, wherein
Mexican-American relations were discussed and the American
ambassador called a trouble maker._
”_This document was declared an absolute fraud by officials who gave
copies out as a sample of the alleged three hundred forged documents
which figured in the news last spring._
“_Simultaneously two Americans told me Avila had offered to spy on
me for them, and another claimed he paid Avila twenty pesos to
report on whom I was meeting in Mexico._
”_Finally when Robert Murray informed me that Avila was willing to
sell him a statement that the documents all were forged and give the
name of the forger, I decided to end all dealings because I was
convinced that everything was crooked. Avila then said he would sell
the documents to other interests._”
About all that need be noted about the whole tawdry affair is the
approval which our diplomacy has given so easily when its policy is
furthered, and which is accepted as pontifical by newspapermen even
when it concerns forgeries which may lead to the most serious
international events.
_Chapter IV_
AMERICAN REPORTERS AND MEXICO
The day we got the news of the attack by the Catholic rebels on a
train with its civilian and military passengers, a slaughter
paralleled in modern times only by some sanguinary exploits of the
Druses and Arabs in Syria, almost the entire American press corps
was gathered at the Western Union office in Mexico City.
There was a new sign up: “Censorship today.”
I was fresh from the French Army of the Orient and I had seen
similar guerrilla warfare. I said:
“Why the devil doesn’t the government do what the French are doing
in Syria: mount two machine-guns on airplane swivels, one fore, one
aft, and stop attacks on trains? The attackers have only rifles and
revolvers and would be beaten off easily.”
“For God’s sake,” replied one of the men representing Mr. Hearst’s
papers and news-agencies, “don’t repeat that. The government might
hear it, and do it.”
I had no more interest in the Mexican war than in the Syrian war; my
viewpoint was that of a potential civilian train passenger. I was
shocked.
“You don’t seem neutral in this war,” I said to my colleague.
“No, I’m not,” he replied. “If you had lived in Mexico as long as I,
you would not be neutral either.”
Five minutes later I was walking up the street with another
representative of the American press in Mexico.
“The Hearst man,” I said, “told me that the rebels will be
victorious in three weeks.”
“He is too much of an optimist,” replied my other colleague, “I am
hoping for victory in three months.”
At this moment his “hoping” has lasted more than a year.
To a third colleague, the representative of a great New York daily,
whose attitude is friendly and anti-interventionist, but whose
reporter’s name was joined with Miguel Avila’s in testimony before
the senate committee which was investigating forged documents, I
said:
“I want to hear both sides of the Mexican question.”
He replied:
“There is only one side: we are all anti-Calles.”
The rest of his declaration was a series of oaths.
A fourth colleague had a pocketful of forged documents and was
begging his paper to recall him to Texas.
“I’ll blow this government to pieces when I get out,” he said.
We were only nine or ten Americans in the Mexico City press corps
and I have quoted four directly to illustrate the general anti-
Mexican, anti-Calles, pro-Catholic revolutionary attitude of the
majority. With one or two exceptions the press corps with, to my
knowledge, only one member a professed Catholic, sympathized with
the rebels whenever it was safe to do so and on many occasions
tinged the news dispatches to favor them. Yet I find in the New York
Catholic organ _Commonweal_ the following editorial comment:
“Necessarily, therefore, American public opinion has not merely
the right but even the duty to expect that those upon whom it
relies for information will supply it with the facts. And it has
been distressing to note with what inert indifference the American
press has accepted the exile or the gagging of its correspondents,
and has hastened to publish without comment whatever the Calles
government offered it for consumption.”
This comment followed a report of the views of Pope Pius XI who,
also under the impression that the reporters in Mexico were
favouring the Government, not the Catholics, “abandoned the official
manner of speaking through encyclicals and allocutions” and
addressed the American press as follows:
“Again and again the voice of the Pope has been raised both in
solemn allocutions and encyclical letters to tell the truth about
Mexico to the world; but the carefully laid plans of the
persecutors of the church have prevented it being heard by all in
its entirety; indeed, sometimes it has not been understood at all.
“Nothing like this persecution has ever been known in history, not
even in the first centuries of the church. For then, even under
Nero, Caligula and Domitian, there was no general persecution of
private religion in homes, the catacombs or the cemeteries. But
now in Mexico nothing that is Catholic is tolerated, not even the
private celebration of the Mass and the administration of the
sacraments, punishment for which has, in many cases, been the
death penalty, and always fines, imprisonment and murderous
outrages....
“Notwithstanding their noble resistance—the admiration of
ourselves, and of the whole world that knows the facts—this people
of confessors and martyrs finds hardly a soul to respond to their
cry for aid to save them from utter ruin, and to save all
civilized nations, and indeed the whole human race, from the
infamy of a savage persecution now being tolerated in the
twentieth century, the boasted era of civilization and progress.
If the whole press, the whole nation, of the United States can
find an opportune remedy for this disastrous social catastrophe,
it will merit glory in the history of civilization and religion.”
Again _America_, a journal of Catholic opinion, declares the
American press “does not try to find out and publish the facts
connected with the present (Mexican) régime, and not only displays
no curiosity as to what is happening in Mexico but absolutely
refuses to consider publication of the facts as attested by an
experienced and impartial newspaperman.” The writer in _America_
believes this is the dark work of “unseen powers” which exercise a
censorship.
It would be useless here to discuss the rights and wrongs of the
Catholics in Mexico or the possible justification for the violence
with which the government has attacked the church, or the violence
with which the Catholics have replied. My point is that the American
reporters in Mexico as a body are pro-Catholic, not because they
care for the church or the rebels, but because they hate the Calles
régime so much that they will support anyone who fights it, be he Ku
Kluxer or Knight of Columbus, oil man or priest or ambitious,
treasonable, Mexican general.
As best proof of this statement I can recount another detail of that
afternoon in the Western Union office. Everyone, including myself,
was protesting the censorship. But most of the press telegrams were
put through. An official who sat at a desk with the Western Union
clerks said:
“The main object of today’s censorship is to stop internal
telegrams: we have evidence that the bishops here are communicating
with the rebels regarding guns, ammunition, trains, and future
attacks—and also with enemies of the government in the United
States.”
He said also that President Calles had prepared a press statement on
the train massacre and, knowing that the Mexican editors would write
headlines or editorials giving an opposite impression to the one he
wanted spread, had forbidden changing a word or comma, and for
headlines permitted only the use of his first paragraph in larger
type. The American reporters, the first day of the news, had to
content themselves with Calles’ meagre report.
This was a very astute move on the part of the president. He had
laid the blame for the deaths of one hundred men, women and children
on the train, on the three priests whom he named, who had led the
attack! In Mexico this caused no astonishment. Ever since Archbishop
Orozco, for whom the government offered a reward of 10,000 gold
pesos, dead or alive, raised the standard of revolt and placed the
Guadalupe Virgin on the red, white and green flag in place of the
Eagle and Snake, the priests have led the smaller rebel groups in
the field.
Leading Catholics considered the train attack a big victory in the
new revolution; but the American newspapermen, mostly Protestant but
mostly anti-Calles, realized the bad impression that would go
through the world when the details of that fight became known. Right
as they considered the Catholic effort to free itself from the
Calles persecution, they were afraid that the cause they were so
eager to defend would get a set-back if they printed the fact that
three priests had led the mob which, while fighting (Catholic)
soldiers, had murdered one hundred (Catholic) passengers.
“I do not believe priests were present,” said one American
correspondent.
“Nor do I,” said another.
A third, who had a relative on the train who told him of seeing the
priests leading the attacks, said:
“Well, I am sorry to say I know it is true priests were present, but
we need not play that up in America.”
With one exception, I believe, the press corps in Mexico favoured
the Catholic rebellion and I cannot for the life of me see any
reason for the Pope or the church press to complain of _news
dispatches_; as regards the editorial attitude of the American
papers themselves, that is another matter.
I repeat that almost all the news sent out of Mexico by American
correspondents during my stay was pro-Catholic because the press
corps is anti-Calles, anti-government.
One reason for the general anti-Calles attitude was the American
embassy. Here in Mexico City, where I found so many contrasts in the
relations between diplomacy and journalism to those in Europe, I
also found the embassy leagued with the press corps. Here, for the
purpose of spreading ill-will, I found that perfect co-operation
which I had sought in Europe, never found, and proposed to Secretary
Hughes and Secretary Kellogg on my visits to Washington.
The second great contrast was the relations of the Mexico City
correspondent to his editor as compared with the relations of a
European correspondent to his editor.
In Europe, thanks no doubt to the fact that America is still
uninvolved in Transatlantic politics, the newspaperman is almost
entirely free from editorial political instructions. In my nine
years with _The Chicago Tribune_, for example, I never received an
order from Colonel McCormick to support or attack any party, system
or cause. When I was expelled from Italy, Colonel McCormick stood by
me as gallantly as when I was deported from Russia by the
Bolsheviks; I could and did describe the failures of Republican
Germany, the stupidity of Monarchist Germany, the ribald and
ridiculous actions of the Hohenzollerns, Ludendorff, d’Annunzio,
Mussolini; the failures of France in Syria; victories and defeats in
the temperance movement, Socialist movement, dictatorship movement.
No office policy bound me nor does it bind the big majority of
foreign correspondents, nor are we chosen and promoted because of
the tacit understanding that we will support any petty local
policies in our dispatches from abroad.
In Mexico quite the reverse.
To begin with there are powerful newspapers in America which want
war with an annexation or occupation of Mexico, and these papers
pick men who believe in this policy or who sell themselves
to it. Another small section senses the newspaper owner’s
views,—ingratiates itself by playing up to him, and thereby corrupts
itself. The rest are influenced by other forces. Where the editor
and paper are liberal or open-minded, the embassy and the Cientifico
influences come in to pervert the news. Or there may be unfortunate
dealings with Mexicans, such as gun smuggling or document forging,
which influence the reporter. Most of the correspondents rank in
intelligence, cultural background and appreciation of the
fundamentals of the Mexican situation with a $35. a week police
reporter in Chicago. Most of them are too young for the job and are
certainly paid so little that there is no incentive to take it
seriously. It appears that newspaper owners in the United States
refuse to pay the price necessary to staff themselves in Mexico with
first-class men. Despite the seriousness of Mexican-American
relations and potentialities—more important to our own political
future than those of any European country, for, to a highly
intensified extent, our present and future status and understanding
with all Latin-American states depend vitally upon the outcome of
dealings with Mexico—the people and editors of our country are
content to have events in Mexico interpreted by ill-paid or
incompetent or prejudiced reporters. All are ill-paid and there are
few who are not compelled to engage in outside enterprises and to
enmesh themselves with interests alien to their profession in order
to produce those extra dollars which cover the expense of living.
Two of the foremost and most prosperous newspapers in New York
refuse to pay fixed salaries in any amount to their correspondents
in Mexico City. They are served by “string men,” that is, reporters
who are compensated only for the dispatches which are ordered,
accepted or used by the papers. Cheapness seems to be the principle
which governs the employment by the press of the United States of
men who cover the developments in the most fundamentally and
permanently important international news source in which the United
States as a nation and as a people is concerned.
In connection with this exposition of the news situation in Mexico
City it was revealed at the senate inquiry into the authenticity of
the Hearst Mexican documents that one New York newspaper, the name
of which is awefully regarded as a synonym for journalistic
respectability and righteousness, had provided money to its
correspondent in Mexico City to bribe men to steal for it documents
from the files of the Mexican government. The correspondent who did
the bribing admitted it under oath. This same gentleman while
employed by the newspaper which boasts daily of the integrity,
independence and accuracy of its news dispatches, also was proved,
while employed by the newspaper in question, to have importuned the
Mexican government to hand out to him a valuable petroleum
concession. He did not receive the concession, and the anti-
government tenor of most of his news dispatches clearly showed his
chagrin.
Also—and this is important for it concretely indicates the extent to
which only one-sided, biased Mexican news is fed to the American
public—fully 90 per cent. of the news dispatches from Mexico depict
only the darker side of the picture: fighting, executions,
government raids upon Catholic schools and lay institutions which
violate the law of the land, train wrecks and hold-ups, financial
and economic depression, all destructive not constructive news.
There is a vast amount of constructive work under way in Mexico.
Much has been accomplished and much is being done to clear away the
revolutionary wreckage. Hundreds of miles of highway are being
built, huge irrigation projects are being completed, the popular
educational system is being extended and modernized, the army has
been reorganized and greatly reduced in size and cost, agrarian
seizures and outrages are being halted, and so on. But it is seldom
that a line about this work of development and rehabilitation sees
light in the American press. The editors excuse themselves by saying
that this is not sensational, not “spot” news, not material for
circulation building headlines. But the reporters tell the truth
when they say they send no constructive news because the editors
refuse to print it. American editors demand that Mexican news meat
must be excitingly gory. If it doesn’t drip blood and sensation they
don’t want it and they won’t have it. Editors are not interested and
they insist that their readers are not interested in a Mexico that
is thriving, peaceful, productive, in a Mexico that is working and
earning money with which to swell the volume of American trade and
provide employment for American workmen and profits to American
manufacturers and exporters. Many of these editors would prefer to
see these same thousands of American workingmen carrying guns on
their shoulders, marching to Mexico, rather than manufacturing
stoves and automobiles and chewing gum and radio sets for the
Mexican people. Show some of these editors a fighting Mexico, with
blood on the landscape presaging a war of intervention, a sick
Mexico with all the dramatic news possibilities symptomatic of
national sickness, and they will whoop and cheer, leap in the air,
crack their heels together and if necessary make room on the first
page between the local murder and the big “national” murder stories,
for evidence that their nearest neighbour on the south, the
neighbour in the fortunes of which the United States is more vitally
concerned than in those of any other country on earth, is weltering
in a supposititious and hopeless morass of civil strife, economic
ills and implacable national doom.
Between the American editors and the American reporters, Mexico
has not had a square deal. I did, however, meet two press
representatives in Mexico City who were simon-pure honest
reporters, who did not involve themselves in Mexican politics or
concessions or religious disputes, who had a sense of humour, who
reported events as they actually happened, who, in other words,
worked in the same free spirit as the European corps works in
every capital. No Calles propaganda, no embassy intimidation, no
subservience to newspaper office policy can be read in the
dispatches of these two men. Incidentally they have had a pretty
hard time of it.
If the United States wants peace and understanding with Mexico our
editors and the State Department will both have to make a big
change. If Ambassador Morrow is the herald of good-will, as he seems
to be, then it is necessary to have a newspaper attitude changed to
conform to the new times. Police reporters are out of place in
Mexico; so are adventurers who engage in journalism as a side line
to gun running or trafficking in oil concessions or document forging
or document dealing. There have been changes in the past year. No
doubt those newspapermen who can adapt themselves to veering
editorial policy will catch any suggestion from their home offices
for a return to honesty and objectivity.
Not until our diplomacy and our journalism are purged of all
corrupting influences can the Mexican problem be rightly understood
and solved.
_Chapter V_
THE CASE FOR INTERVENTION
A Mexican lady of purest Spanish blood, descendant of a prime
minister, made the most illuminating remark on the Mexican state of
mind:
“For generations,” she said, “we Mexicans have been brought up from
childhood in fear of the judgment day, the eruption of Popocatepetl
and intervention by the United States.”
A member of President Calles’ staff supplemented with: “In five
years or fifty years or five hundred years, we do not know just when
but at present five seems far away, the United States will intervene
in Mexico. We will be conquered, or annexed, or just policed. Calles
and Obregon are of this opinion; so are most government officials,
but they hope to postpone that day.”
It is generally admitted that almost one hundred per cent. of the
resident Americans and almost fifty per cent. of the articulate
Mexican people believe in the inevitability of intervention. All
they ask is, what sort of intervention?
There are different opinions. Some want a U.S. protectorate; some
want to be incorporated as several states of the Union; some want
merely an entrance of American troops at once and a stay just long
enough to put the Mexican house in order, and still another group
favors the Cuban plan.
A leading American citizen, of long residence and a big figure in
the Chamber of Commerce and in American business life, is the chief
exponent of the last system. He has been asked by previous
administrations to come to Washington and outline his plan and has
done so and found approval there. Secretary Kellogg knows his views.
His plan is not for permanent occupation of Mexico nor for
incorporating that nation into the United States as an inevitable
result of the Monroe Doctrine and the necessity for peace and trade
on the North American continent. He believes eventually Mexico will
be able to govern herself.
At the same time this leading American citizen, who has lived long
in Mexico and knows the situation so thoroughly that his advice is
frequently followed by our secretaries of state, is against a
military occupation which would straighten matters out only
temporarily.
He suggests something like the Platt agreement with Cuba. He wants
the United States to come into Mexico peaceably, to end the present
militarism which he says is ruining the country, to settle the
church strife, then to restore the old constitutional guarantees of
personal property, and to aid Mexico in building up a political
control. He suggests that a body of twenty-five, more or less,
leading citizens not one of whom is a general or military
opportunist, or a high church dignitary (who would restore the
church as ruler), or a red radical (who would replace church or army
dictatorship with labour dictatorship), be formed under the ægis of
the American occupation. Up to now such citizens have had almost no
say in Mexican public life. Such a directorate, provided it had the
support of the U.S., would soon restore Mexico to peace and
prosperity.
Naturally the routed elements, labour, the military and the church
which has had more than 400 years of undisputed rule, would seek to
overthrow such a régime, therefore it would be necessary for the
United States to have an agreement for the peaceful re-entry, at any
time, of its special agents or military forces for the maintenance
of the directorate.
A great percentage of the Mexican upper classes favour intervention
because they see that the Calles labour dictatorship is growing
stronger every day, and that with the education of the Indians and
ex-peons there is almost no hope for the restoration of the rule by
the white race. At the time Diaz was overthrown it was estimated
that 80 per cent. or 12,000,000 of Mexico’s 15,000,000 people could
not read or write. The present regime claims that the number of
illiterates has been reduced to 60 per cent. It must not be
forgotten that the Mexican system of education, like the Bolshevik,
includes the teaching of propaganda with the teaching of the
alphabet. As the peons become articulate they also seize the land of
the big landowners.
There would be even greater co-operation among Mexicans in favour of
American intervention were it not for the fact that Mexico can never
forget the part the United States played in the Huerta-Diaz coup
which resulted in the assassination of Madero, the Lincoln of
Mexico.
Mexicans believe that the pact for the overthrow of Madero was made
in the embassy and had the approval of American diplomacy—even to
our representatives recognizing the new rulers in suspicious haste
and urging our consuls to work in their behalf. This one incident
rankles in the breasts of Mexican patriots and Mexican friends of
America. The war of 1845 and the Pershing expedition do not stir up
one-tenth of one per cent. as much feeling as the Madero
assassination affair. The greater part of the distrust which has
characterized American-Mexican relations since 1913 is due to
unsatisfactory explanations of this incident.
A great number of American business men believe intervention is the
sole means of saving Mexico from Bolshevism. They claim the American
investment is approaching two billion dollars. In other words
Americans own more than half the value of Mexico and have little
protection for such an enormous investment. They face retroactive
laws and confiscation. They do not believe in the Calles promises to
give them 50-year leases for the oil lands in exchange for their
present outright ownership. Why should they believe Calles, they
say, when Calles might be overthrown in three days, and another
régime take its place, even more radical, which would not recognize
the Calles leases?
Other Americans declare themselves frankly as honest imperialists.
“Why not?” they say. The American prospectors came upon a great
wealth which Mexico did not know it had and could not use. In the
exploitation of this mineral wealth Americans say they have brought
employment, higher wages, sanitary conditions, schools, education
and civilization. They have been a godsend to Mexico and at the same
time made their fortunes. They see all this work ruined now, and
believe intervention would be good not only for themselves, but for
Mexico itself.
I made notes of individual opinion from the moment I got into the
Pullman until I left Texas for Chicago and Washington. In the manner
of an inquiring reporter, I asked men to express an opinion on
intervention, the religious troubles, Calles and Bolshevism. Here
follow some genuine interviews as samples of American opinion.
Business man No. 1 of the Smoking Car: “Mexico has fallen into such
a bolshevistic state that it is impossible to do business with
either the government or with individuals. If you own a ranch the
government will probably take the richest part for distribution and
offer you bonds for it which may or may not be paid. Or the peons
may seize it and the government cannot put them out. The oil
business is going to hell.”
Business man No. 2 of the Smoking Car: “The trouble with Mexico is
we Americans want to do business our way not their way. We sort of
think we are the bosses and they should obey our laws, not we their
laws. Another important fact, according to my view, is that the
internal trouble is fundamentally economic, and the religious
trouble which is making all the noise is merely covering up a big
economic problem.”
An American scientist who is writing a book on the Aztecs: “When
Cortes came to Mexico there were 30,000,000 persons living in this
country. They had a great civilization even if their religion did
include human sacrifice. The Spanish Conquerors brought disease and
slavery. The population is now 15,000,000. Epidemics and slavery
killed more than 15,000,000. Civilization fell into decay. Some
blame the church. The fact is that the first Catholic leaders, after
destroying the Aztec civilization, began teaching the Christian
civilization. The Aztecs made such great progress that the Spanish
rulers were alarmed. They saw their régime would not last if the
people became educated, so they ordered the priests to stop teaching
the natives. For hundreds of years the Spanish aristocracy held the
people in subjugation. Then came the modern successors, the big
haciendados, the ranch and mine and oil landowners, who imposed
chattel slavery. In the silver mines the mercury system of working
killed every workman within three months. Hundreds of thousands were
killed. The system of taking mountain men to the tropics and vice
versa killed hundreds of thousands. A noble civilization perished
and a fine people were degraded. It will take many years of freedom
and free schools to uplift the people a bit.”
An American geologist working for a big oil company: “The Mexican
people are not Christian. The majority are pagans disguised. I will
give you an instance. In Yucatan recently there was a drought. The
peasants wanted rain. They went into their Catholic church and took
out an image they called Saint Isidro. They placed the image in a
cow yard and threw dung at it. They danced and screamed and prayed.
Although they called the image by a Christian name it was actually
the ceremony of Tlaloc, the Aztec god of rain.
“About the fourth day of this awful ceremony it began to rain. There
was more dancing and more rejoicing, and the filthy statue of Saint
Isidro was taken out of the cow yard and washed and painted red,
just as the old Tlaloc statues used to be, and placed in the
Catholic church again.
“What Mexico needs is a little Christianity.”
One of the big American bankers: “Calles is an atheist. They say he
is a Mason. Now I am a 33-degree Mason myself and know that an
atheist cannot be a Mason.
“Calles is trying to do what Henry VIII did, establish his own
church to supersede the Catholic church. Calles is an honest man but
he is wrong-headed.
“The trouble with this country is it is absolutely bolshevistic.
Capital is afraid to do business, to invest money, because it may be
confiscated. Bolshevism in Mexico is a great danger to the United
States.
“I once said to Obregon, let U. S. capital come in, let industry and
agriculture flourish under our system, and in five years Mexico will
be the richest country in the world. You can then double your income
from taxation, the government will grow rich and you will be able to
put through Calles’ fine sounding program of reforms which no one
doubts are needed. But you know that until they are educated up to
it, the peons don’t want the land you give them for nothing. They
are not yet capable of taking the risks of being farmers, they
prefer to work for others. And you have no capital to work with. Let
the U. S. supply that and postpone your reforms a few years.
“Politics is back of most of the troubles. Politics are causing the
economic depression, the worst in history, and the religious war
too.”
An American oil man, one of the newer arrivals: “I’ll tell you the
whole truth about Mexico, if no other American will: it is the best
place to make money with the least effort. That’s the only reason we
have for being here. Otherwise we could remain at home. I’m here to
make a million. I don’t care a damn for Mexico, and neither does any
other American resident here. I want to make my million quick and
easy. That’s why I’m here. When I make it I’m getting out and never
want to see this country again.”
One of the big lights of the American Chamber of Commerce: “The
American investment in Mexico, which approaches two billion dollars,
gives us some rights of protection. If some of the oil leases were
obtained through fraud and graft and corruption during the Diaz
régime, each case should be tried in court individually, but the
rights of property under international law should be protected, and
confiscation should not be permitted.
“At the present moment I see no protection unless through
intervention of American forces.”
An American newspaperman long resident in Mexico: “Calles is venting
a personal spite against the church. He is not a Mexican nor a
Catholic. The Catholic church is the salvation of these poor people.
It is the bulwark against Calles’ system of Bolshevism and Calles is
seeking to crush this spiritual force among the masses before
putting through the whole bolshevistic program.”
An American good-willer, or friend of the régime: “The old order,
the Diaz crowd of grafters and slave-owners, cannot realize that a
new day has come, and that idealism is replacing the exploitation of
the people by the army, the church and big business.”
So there you are. You pay your money and you take your choice.
_Chapter VI_
CALLES
Before going into Mexico and during my stay there I heard the
following statements about Calles from otherwise reputable persons:
“Calles is an Arab, a Syrian, and not a Mexican.”
“Calles is a fanatic against the Roman Catholic Church. He is a high
degree Mason. He is a leading member of the Ku Klux Klan and is
working with the American organization.”
“Calles is a Bolshevik. He gets his orders from Moscow. He is the
American head of the Third International. He studied Communism with
Lenin and Trotsky in New York.”
“Calles is the only honest man in Mexico. He is the Messiah of the
Mexican workingman.”
“Calles is a crook. All he is doing is making millions which he is
investing in mines and in land in Sonora. He doesn’t give a damn for
the Mexican people.”
Every man, Mexican and American, whom I met on the Texas border and
in Mexico, had a definite conviction about Calles.
These facts, however, are obvious: (1) Calles is the only big
dictator on the North American continent. (2) He is a fanatic
against the Roman Catholic Church of Mexico and seeks to destroy it
utterly. (3) He is a fanatic for the dictatorship of labour.
Is Calles a Bolshevik? Here is the testimony of Peter W. Collins of
Boston, a lecturer who recently made a tour of Texas and caused
great interest in his talks on Mexico. Collins, lecturing under the
auspices of the Knights of Columbus, said: “Calles is a red dictator
who desires to subjugate Mexico to Soviet rule. The present
constitution of Mexico is taken from the Bible of communism written
by Karl Marx.”
Colonel McLemore, who publishes a paper in Texas, told me that
Calles went to Moscow just before he became president, and received
Bolshevik instructions and was made head of the American branch of
the Third International.
Mr. X., one of the leading American bankers of Mexico City, said:
“Calles is a Bolshevik. This country is absolutely bolshevistic. It
is like Russia.”
If Bolshevism means dictatorship by one man or one minority group
then Calles is a Bolshevik, and so are Mussolini and Admiral Horthy
and half a dozen others. If Bolshevism means dictatorship by one man
or one minority group with a certain definite program based on
Marxian doctrines, then neither Mussolini nor Calles are Bolsheviks.
Mussolini is a dictatorial product of peculiar Italian circumstances
and Calles is a dictatorial product of peculiar Mexican
circumstances. Calles has denied ever being in Russia; the time of
his alleged trip was spent in Berlin, where I interviewed him and
where he got the greater part of his plan for the co-operative farm
system he is fostering. Calles never met Lenin or Trotsky in New
York, as his enemies claim.
But that Calles is profoundly impressed by red radical ideas there
is also no doubt. He is using them just as Mussolini is using them.
Russia produced Bolshevism but the present system is being called
Leninism. Italy produced Fascism, but the present system is becoming
so different that its leaders call it Mussolinism. And Mexico is
producing something which has no name but which might be called
Callesism.
The Soviets have tried hard to destroy all religion; Calles has
passed laws prohibiting any priest or minister to function and has
deported all foreign-born ministers who are Roman Catholics, but has
smiled encouragement upon Bishop Creighton of the American Episcopal
Church and encouraged other Protestant ministers.
The Soviets have destroyed the liberty of the press, public
assembly, political action and free speech. Mussolini has destroyed
the liberty of the press, public assembly, individual rights and
free speech. Now comes Calles and destroys the liberty of the press,
public assembly, political action and free speech. Only Calles is
not half as strong as his guiding stars, and does things only half
way.
The Soviets make it treason, punishable by death, for a workingman
to strike; Mussolini follows with a so-called labour charter which
makes the Italian workingman less than a free citizen, and Calles
works for the complete dictatorship of the workingman. All three
systems are dictatorial, but there are vast differences in each, and
one name cannot cover the three.
Calles’ radicalism is directed chiefly against the Roman Catholic
Church because he blames the church for everything that has been
wrong in Mexico. In a pamphlet published in the United States the
present Mexican régime has stated first of all that the church of
Mexico is no more like the Catholic Church in the United States than
Mohammedanism is like Christianity. It blames the church for
participating in every rebellion and war since the time of Cortes.
It accuses the church of everything evil, including slavery,
peonage, ignorance, the illiteracy of the masses, the lack of
civilization, etc., etc.
Calles believes all this and it has made him a fanatic. He is out to
end the domination of the church in state affairs and his followers
point out that Juarez, the George Washington of Mexico, deported the
priests, confiscated the wealth of the church, and was even more
bolshevistic than Calles when he (Juarez) refused to pay the foreign
debts.
Calles has had offers of help from the Ku Klux Klan of the United
States and has refused. The Ku Kluxers, however, once opened up
headquarters in Mexico City. One day the leading newspaper,
_Excelsior_, published a satirical attack on them, saying that
Mexicans could not join because of the high cost of white sheets.
The Kluxers sent a death threat to the editor. He attacked them
again. The Kluxers marched on the _Excelsior_ offices.
Now in Mexico everyone who can afford a revolver carries one. The
Kluxers marched on the office and every editor and reporter went to
the window and began a fusillade. The leader and two followers of
the Klux idea fell dead. The K. K. K. organization, which thought
Mexico, owing to its anti-Catholic campaign, was ripe for it, went
out of business. Some headquarters in Alabama is still sending out
wild propaganda in which a death-mask always appears in the Pope’s
tiara, but even fellow fanatics of Calles refuse to have anything to
do with the K. K. K. They have nothing against the Catholic Church
of the United States or Europe, they say, and they even draw a line
between the church which has the white Spanish educated following in
Mexico and what they term the Pagan-Aztec-Catholic church which the
Aztec and Toltec and Maya Indian masses of Mexico worship today.
Calles has three great fanaticisms. He is determined to give the
Mexican Hierarchy a death-blow and to establish a dictatorship of
labour. His third complex is agriculture. He does not care as much
for the vast oil and silver and gold deposits and the other easy
means of refinancing the Mexican state as he does for making the
peon into a farmer. Roads, irrigation, agricultural schools, land
banks, farm co-operatives, land distribution, all these are part of
the program for restoring the ancient peasantry, and Calles’
followers are even trying to replace the religion of the people with
a moral code based on agriculture.
In this, however, Calles has been less successful than in his
destructive program. He has taken the land away from the absentee
landlord, divided the estates which ran into the million of acres,
handed out farm implements, given away rich acres, sent out teachers
and done everything humanly possible to bring the old peon back to
the land, with but slow results.
The Indian has become accustomed to being either a slave or a hired
man. He has never faced responsibility. He has never earned more
than enough for corn, meal and pulque, the alcohol of the highlands.
Everywhere you go you hear tales of disaster to the Calles
agricultural program. The Indians have failed to cultivate the soil,
or they have tilled some of the land and taken small profits and
spent it on drink, or they have sold the hoes and spades and farm
tractors and lived on the money.
Altogether Callesism has worked out more like Bolshevism than
Fascism: it has been more successful with destroying old systems
than in creating new ones. The church, the military system, the
Cientifico or Spanish nobleman rule, are being hard hit in Mexico,
but the constructive program has gone along very slowly.
* * * * *
_Calles and the Catholic Attack_
Immediately following the battle in the Spring of 1927 between the
Catholic rebels and the Federal troops at Ocatlan in the State of
Jalisco, President General Calles threw aside the pretences of
democratic, republican government in Mexico and announced his
dictatorship. This is one of the most vital facts of the situation
in Mexico which the censorship has suppressed. The circumstances as
related to me by one who was present were:
President Calles, furious when he learned that priests had
participated in the battle, called in the editors of _Universal_ and
_Excelsior_, the two big Mexican papers. He handed them an official
statement concerning the battle.
“You will print this statement, without change, without editorial
comment, and without any headlines whatever,” Calles ordered them.
“In case you want any headlines, you may set the first paragraph in
large type. Otherwise no change, no comment.”
The editors protested.
“Gentlemen,” replied Calles, “I accept no protests. From this day
the presidency of Mexico ends: the dictatorship of Mexico begins.”
Immediately following this open declaration of dictatorship,
President Calles ordered a mobilization and clamped on a censorship;
This censorship, which enraged the American and other foreign press
representatives, was, according to the Calles’ spokesmen, put into
effect because the Roman Catholic Hierarchy in Mexico City had been
sending military instructions to the rebels in Jalisco and other
states where the fighting was going on.
The archbishops and bishops then resident in Mexico City, and who
had been forced to register with the police every day, were
deported. Hundreds of priests were placed under surveillance. Many
have since been deported. It is estimated that almost 1,000 of the
4,000 resident Mexican priests were deported or have fled the
country.
In carrying out his dictatorship, Calles ordered a meeting of his
chief supporters, the labour council, which then voted the following
program for their chief:
1. That priests be put on all trains crossing the war zone.
2. That the Knights of Columbus members holding government
positions be fired.
3. That all Knights of Columbus be expropriated.
4. That the two big papers, _Excelsior_ and _Universal_, on
account of some or all of their stock being owned by the
Catholic Church or by Catholic sympathizers, be taken by the
government.
5. That so-called “Red and Black” or labour battalions be
recruited for a final battle between church and state.
So far as the censorship of news to foreign countries is concerned
the action taken by Calles has been accompanied with the same
stupidities which has marked Bolshevik and Fascist censorships. To
begin with it has been impossible to keep the real news from leaving
the country, and on the other hand, with everyone doubting the news
in the newspapers, the wildest and most sensational rumours have
found credence.
As dictator, Calles also set about strengthening his internal
position. One of his strangest and most unconventional actions was
to call in members of the cabinet and other big leaders and lay down
the law to them. They must either support him to the end or get out.
Among the leaders called in were the Minister of Agriculture, Leon,
and General Alvarez, Chief of Staff. According to information which
had reached the dictator many leaders and cabinet members had been
spending all their time with their mistresses in cabarets and
private drinking parties, one of which took place regularly in (of
all places) an American-Mexican dairy. Calles said: “You will either
give up your mistresses and stand by me in this war with the church,
or you can leave the government and devote yourselves to your
women.”
Calles began weeding out the pro-Catholic officers from the national
army immediately following his declaration of dictatorship. Many
minor officers were shifted or let out. Generals in command of
troops were changed. Governors of states whose loyalty was doubted
were being supplanted just when the Gomez-Serrano revolt broke out.
In short, the whole régime was furiously at work strengthening all
positions, material and moral, for war to the end.
“If the Calles-Obregon régime goes down,” said one of the unofficial
cabinet, “it will be with flying colours. It is a fight to the
finish. The church has ruled for 400 years. It has been said that no
one can break its power. It is true that even the president’s
closest friends have told him that he made his biggest mistake when
he attempted to enforce the anti-church laws which have been dormant
for so many years. But Calles is a fanatic in his war on the church
and is risking his and his party’s fate on it.”
* * * * *
_The Catholic Peace Plan_
While blood was being shed daily in the war between the Catholic
rebels and the government troops, who incidentally are also
Catholics, a plan for peace between church and state had been drawn
up, approved by the Pope, and placed in the hands of General
Obregon, then military master of Mexico.
This plan was given to me by Archbishop Leopoldo Ruiz y Flores of
Michoacan, acting secretary of the Episcopate from the time
Archbishop Diaz was expelled until he himself was expelled last
summer.
I found Archbishop Ruiz in hiding. It was before the Ocatlan train
massacre. Yet despite the fact that he knew that the consequences of
giving information to an American newspaperman would be punishment
for himself, Archbishop Ruiz consented to permitting his name being
used with this statement.
Archbishop Ruiz’ opinion of the situation was this: “Calles has
taken certain steps and the Roman Catholic Church has taken certain
steps. Neither can retreat, for moral and spiritual reasons. But we
believe that the Calles party has realized it has made a mistake.
Its pride, however, makes it maintain its attitude. Within a short
time, however, there will be a change in government. The leaders of
the church feel that General Obregon will see the way to an amicable
peace settlement, and therefore we have drawn up the plan which
General Obregon requested us to, have obtained the approval of the
Holy See to our action, and have placed the plan in the hands of
Obregon.” The document follows:
“The program of the bishops, clergy and conscientious Catholic
people is clearly set forth in the petition presented to the
Congress of the Union. If this be examined dispassionately it will
be seen that it limits itself in indispensable liberties.
“Until the reform of the constitution is brought about in the
sense of that petition the bishops believe that the Holy See will
approve the resumption of services in the churches only if things
return to the state of _de facto_ tolerance which existed in
January 1925.
“If the government does not accede to this tolerance it behooves
it to indicate the points of regulation which it does not believe
prudent to cede so that the episcopate may bring them to the
attention of the Holy See.
“We believe the Holy See would permit the registration of priests
in charge of churches, especially if the prelate in charge of each
makes it, it always being understood that this registration does
not mean a licence from the civil authorities to exercise the
functions of minister, that its object is purely a matter of
record.
“We believe that the Holy See will tolerate the exclusion of
foreign priests within certain limits, reserving for itself the
right to have an apostolic delegate in Mexico.
“We believe the Holy See will tolerate the limitation of the
number of priests, always with the understanding that there will
be sufficient, in the judgment of the prelates, for the
necessities and rites of the faithful.
“We believe that the Holy See would ask immediately liberty of
instruction, worship, of association, of press, etc., etc., as
well as respect for the property of the church and of its
necessary edifices.
“This memorandum unsigned and with the approval of the archbishop
of Mexico, Michoacan, Aguascalientes, Zamora and Saltillo, will be
transmitted by the priest who, charged by Signor Obregon,
requested it from the bishops.
March 20, 1927.”
“When Obregon becomes president,” was Archbishop Ruiz’ comment on
the plan, “we believe that the way out will soon be found. Peace
between the church and the government may be expected shortly after
either Obregon’s election as president or a revolution which will
place him in power above Calles.
“You will see from the peace plan that we cannot cede the principles
of the church. The Holy See has instructed us to make no agreement
without the approval of the Holy Father.”
Another important reason which Archbishop Ruiz had for believing in
an early peace was the admission made by Obregon that the United
States was exerting its power to bring it about.
“In the meeting between the bishops and Obregon,” continued
Archbishop Ruiz, “the general said that great pressure was being
brought on Calles through diplomatic channels and upon himself
officially and unofficially by the American government and by
influential Americans. The American government and the American
people will therefore be largely to thank when peace is made.”
Archbishop Ruiz, when I saw him in hiding, was dressed in simple
civilian clothes. Other church dignitaries called upon him during
the interview. They too, according to law, wore plain clothes, but
when they entered the house they produced their birettas and put
them on. Archbishop Ruiz spoke in English and in his own hand
corrected the translation of the peace plan.
The Archbishop later went to Rome. The peace movement was
interrupted by the assassination of Obregon, but what is now known
as the Calles-Ruiz plan has been submitted to the Vatican and will
probably be accepted by it and the Mexican government.
* * * * *
_Mexico a Dictatorship of Labour_
The United States must be prepared to face on its southern frontier
a nation which is a complete labour dictatorship.
If the American Federation of Labour were suddenly to organize a
political party whose one aim would be complete domination of
American politics, and an army whose aim would be to supersede the
United States Army, our home situation would parallel Mexico’s.
In the Calles plan for the dictatorship of the labour unions the
political arm is already functioning, although it is not complete,
and the military arm is just being organized.
This is the most important movement in Mexico today, and to
understand the Mexican situation it is necessary to recognize the
fact that the Calles régime is building an economic, political and
military dictatorship of labour.
Calles still is dictator. Morones was czar of labour. Obregon
controlled the old army and had another army of 20,000 in the
State of Sonora. But the more important fact is that while Obregon
was the big military chief both he and Morones and Calles were
simultaneously building up a new military organization in which
the old Cientifico or Spanish officers will be absent and in which
the soldiers will be not the soldiers belonging to some _jefe_ or
chief, some captain or colonel or general, but the labour soldiers
of the labour dictatorship, who will be class conscious and
nationalistic.
The present military situation in Mexico is amazing. There are 28
states each controlled by a _jefe_ and each state has its troops and
each military commander can start a civil war and try to capture the
government. The history of Mexico from 1910 to the present day has
been the conflicts between the troops belonging to generals, not to
the Mexican nation.
Only among the savage tribes of Arabia is this situation paralleled.
In Europe the system of troops belonging to dukes and princes, and
the system of hiring troops to states or cities, passed away with
the Renaissance. Nationalism came into being. In Mexico the feudal
army system still exists but Calles is killing it.
To begin with, Calles has built up a federal army with better
discipline and _esprit de corps_ and equipment than has ever existed
in Mexico since the days of Cortes. General Winans, the commander of
the 32nd Division at Juvigny and now commanding Fort Bliss, told me
that on his recent visit to Torreon he was amazed at what Calles had
done with the national army.
But even this national army cannot be relied on too much to fight
for the Calles régime. What happened when General Gomez marched west
from Vera Cruz? What would happen if the Catholic Rebellion obtained
the support of two or three generals of the west coast and marched
east with their men? Would the national army maintain its national
discipline? Nobody knows.
But the Calles régime does know that a new army, built from the
labour unions, and imbued with the spirit of a labour dictatorship,
would stick to the régime through all vicissitudes, political and
religious. There have been “labour battalions” in action before.
Only recently when the religious troubles reached a climax, the
labour organizations volunteered to form labour battalions should
Calles need them.
The nucleus of the labour dictatorship is the Confederacion Regional
Obrera Mexicans, the C. R. O. M. or Mexican federation of labour.
Morones told me that it has 1,800,000 members most of whom pay a few
cents dues each week. Actually the body is sustained by the
government. The Partido Laborista, or labour party, is the political
arm. The military arm is still not organized well enough to have a
name.
A great number of the men in the C. R. O. M. have been in the army
at one time or another. During the uprising of de la Huerta the
armed workingmen came into action. De la Huerta had among his troops
small bodies of Communists. When de la Huerta was on top his army
killed numerous labour leaders, and this led to the C. R. O. M.
organizing its own men, equipping them with arms, and placing them
at the disposal of Obregon.
Since that time armed labour groups have remained in Mexico. At one
time, so Morones’ office informs me, Samuel Gompers helped the C. R.
O. M. obtain arms from the United States. Moreover, the C. R. O. M.
today completely controls the munitions plants, and its heads are
prepared to call a general strike in case any general attacks the
labour government, and to turn over all munitions on hand to the
labour party troops.
The C. R. O. M. today is openly opposed to the 28 generals who rule
the 28 states of Mexico. This opposition has had its effect not only
on the various divisions controlled by these _jefes_, but also on
the national army, where, according to officers who have confided in
me, there is a seething undercurrent of rebellion against the C. R.
O. M. In fact, when I asked Morones to discuss various questions of
the relation of the labour organization to the military
organization, he was loath to answer these points.
“Peace depends on the workers organized politically and militarily,”
was all he would say.
In the new labour college, which began functioning last year, there
is a course of military training for selected members of the C. R.
O. M. These men will be trained to become officers for the new
labour army, just as at present there is a military academy creating
officers for the nationalist army.
The present handicap of the C. R. O. M. is that, of its membership
of about 1,800,000, 80 per cent. of the peasants are illiterate and
at least 40 per cent. of the industrial workers are illiterate.
However, a great educational effort is being made.
Part of the C. R. O. M. is organized on the syndicalist basis. For
example, one union, the graphic arts, includes everyone having to do
with printing and publishing, from the men who cut the trees for
wood-pulp to the artists and editors, and newsboys who sell the
papers on the street. This, it will be noted, is an I. W. W. idea,
although the I. W. W., founded by the Magon brothers, has
practically disappeared in Mexico.
The program of the C. R. O. M. is “the socialization of all means of
production and distribution,” which is a program borrowed from Karl
Marx, but just as Lenin had his “retreat from Communism,” when he
established the N. E. P. or New Economic Policy, and permitted
private enterprise internally, so Morones has announced his
“armistice in the class struggle.” In other words, no matter what
the program of labour dictatorship is, the leaders realize it cannot
be enforced under present conditions, and are willing to postpone
its radical tenets to some unspecified future day.
“The program today,” said one of Morones’ spokesmen, “is
evolutionary, not revolutionary. The revolution in Mexico smashed
the feudal system of 400 years and it would be foolhardy to try to
undo a 400-year-old system in two or three years.”
As evidence of the “armistice in the class struggle,” the C. R. O.
M. offers the treaty signed between the 160 textile mill owners and
the textile workers’ union. Strikes are outlawed for a period of
three years. A system of amicable settlement has been found
satisfactory to employers and employees. No suspicion of labour
dictatorship remains here. The employers are told they may now buy
new machinery, modernize the industry, engage in large scale
production, reduce prices below the present cost of imported
fabrics, and otherwise engage in business for three years without
fear of government confiscation or other acts of dictatorship.
The leaders of the C. R. O. M. from Morones down, emphasize the
point that although their eventual aim is the dictatorship of
labour, the C. R. O. M. is not bolshevistic. It has made its choice
between Moscow and Washington, and has accepted Gompers and Green
instead of Lenin and Trotsky. Any suggestion from the American
Federation of Labour is law to the C. R. O. M.
So they say. Yet at the same time, militarily and politically, the
C. R. O. M. is leading Mexican labour towards the goal of complete
dictatorship.
* * * * *
_Mexico, the Land of Corruption_
Political, business, military, and some say, the old religious life
of Mexico were or are infested by corruption and graft on a scale
unheard of in any other country in the world, with the possible
exception of Marie’s Roumania.
One of the secretaries of President Calles got about $20 a week and
is building a half million dollar house. It is said that Calles knew
nothing about it, but that certain interests which want things
presented “right” to the president have made the house possible.
Members of the chamber of deputies get $500 per month. Most of them
have no other income, or very little. Yet almost every man after
becoming a deputy buys himself one of the best American automobiles,
which in Mexico costs about $10,000.
It has been customary for the director of the military factories to
leave his post after six months several times a millionaire. Five
thousand dollars a month graft is supposed to be the right thing for
assistant directors to accept.
The four gambling houses in Mexico City, I am informed by friends of
the present régime, pay 1,000 pesos or about $500 a day to each of
the following officials: the chief of police, the general in command
of the state, the governor of the state and a minor official in the
president’s office.
In San Antonio, in New York and in Paris there are thousands of
Mexicans living on millions made quickly and easily through graft in
their home towns.
To be appointed general or governor of one of the 28 Mexican states
means to have the right to make a certain number of millions by
graft and corruption.
Some of the graft goes to the upkeep of the troops under command.
The troops get paid just so much, and must keep themselves. That is
why the wives and children of Mexican soldiers live with them and
accompany them on the march. Battles and victories mean loot for the
soldiers, graft for the general.
All this is so because there is still no national spirit in Mexico.
The soldiers belong to their feudal lord. They fight for money.
In industry, Calles is trying to supplant the graft system by decent
pay and patriotic sentiment. But according to hundreds of persons,
Americans as well as Mexicans, one man cannot change a system of
centuries, a system which reached its greatest corruption only
recently, when Diaz, the companion of the liberator Juarez and the
idol of Mexico, grew old and fell into the hands of the most
notorious group of grafters that ever sold out a nation.
Astonished by almost incredible histories of graft and corruption
from Diaz’ day to this, I deliberately asked one hundred persons the
same question: “Is there one honest man in Mexican political life?”
I asked this of every American beginning with the American
ambassador and winding up with a busted adventurer in a second-class
hotel. I asked this of every business man, every American official I
met, all the newspapermen and their wives, all the Mexican officials
and business men I met, the hotel help and the few American so-
called “good-willers.”
Eighty said Calles was the only honest man in Mexican political life
today, ten said Morones, then minister of labour, nine said Obregon,
then the power in the army, and one said Soto y Gama, one of the old
revolutionary leaders, now not much in evidence.
“If you can get to Calles you can get justice,” was the slogan of
the Americans. But they pointed out how hard it was for thousands of
American business men to bring all their problems to Calles. Most of
the time they had to pay graft or abide adverse conditions.
The head of an American international industry pointed out a case.
His workmen belong to a union of their own, not affiliated with the
Mexican labour federation. One day a new employee was found to be a
radical agitator. According to the agreement he could not be
discharged. He was let alone. Soon he began agitating a strike. At
the same time he approached the American director of this enterprise
with a blackmail proposition. He was turned down. He then resumed
his agitation, and within a few days a committee waited on the
American with notice they would strike the next day.
The American, being an American, went directly to Calles’ office. He
said:
“Mr. President, I have received notice that my men are going on
strike tomorrow. I am not here to argue their rights or mine, or
wages, or working hours. I have here the contract which says that
the union must give ten days’ notice of a strike. I want justice.”
Calles replied:
“I am always on the side of labour when there is any compromise to
be made. I favour labour against capital when there is a question of
justice. But I will not stand for labour breaking its contract. Go
back to the works and tell this union that if they strike I will
outlaw them. I will permit you to employ non-union labour. I will
help you to break the strike, and if the union attempts violence, I
will call out national troops to fight them.”
The American, a one-time high officer in the American army, went
back to the plant. He told the men exactly what had happened. They
confirmed the facts. There was no strike and the American company
found that it met no opposition when it got the agitator beaten up
and driven out of the state.
In another case a workingman suing a company applied to the national
board of conciliation, which promptly handed down a decision in the
workingman’s favour. The company had a suspicion that the man had
paid graft to a member of the board. It appealed directly to Calles.
Calles held an investigation and heard from a secret agent that the
usual graft and corruption were at work, this time in Calles’ own
pet board of conciliation. He ordered the order revoked. The company
was saved several thousand dollars, the board of conciliation got a
shake-up, and again it was shown that when it was possible to get
even a minor dispute before Calles there would be justice instead of
corruption.
_Chapter VII_
THE BOLSHEVIK PLOT
In Mexico there is a Bolshevik movement against the United States.
It may be called a plot, because it is a part of the Third
International’s plot against bourgeois governments the world around.
In Mexico Bolshevism is taking a small revenge against America for
our non-recognition policy.
But before I write another word about the red activities below the
Rio Grande I must express the opinion that the action of the state
department in calling in the representatives of the American press
in Washington and delivering to them a harrowing tale of wild
plotting to make the United States communist and arm Central America
and the Antilles against us, is probably the most fantastic
stupidity perpetrated by a foreign office in modern times.
On November 18, 1926, America was alarmed by headlines in thousands
of papers which told of Russia’s plot. The news itself, though not
as sensational as the headlines, was exaggerated, unfounded in fact,
unsupported by evidence. The column began:
“Washington, November 17 (A. P.).—The spectre of a Mexican-
fostered Bolshevist hegemony intervening between the United States
and the Panama Canal has thrust itself into American-Mexican
relations, already strained.”
As regards Bolshevik activities in Mexico I can give here the
results of my three months’ investigation:
There can be no doubt that the Third International (which is of
course a part of the Russian communist movement) is concentrating
upon Central and South American nations, trying to league their
public opinions against the country which promulgated the Monroe
Doctrine. With their congenitally profligate use of words, the
Soviets promise financial and moral aid. They carry on their
intrigue according to instructions from Moscow, as outlined in open
and secret sessions of the International each November, and in the
same way as the work is done in Berlin and other European capitals
and as it may be done some day in Washington. The orders are to use
the embassy, consulates and trade missions, all diplomatically
immune centres, for propaganda and for furthering the international
communist movement (or plot if you so prefer to call it).
Mme. Kollantay was Russia’s ambassador during my visit to Mexico. In
her high-minded, cultured and charming way she was directing the
communist plot in a dozen countries. There were sixteen departments
in her office, each devoted to a Central or South American country
or group of islands, or to a special function such as press
propaganda or to supporting leagues or clubs or movements anti-
United States in aim or spirit.
The Russian embassy is second only to that of the United States in
size and number of employees. The United States does the largest
business in Mexico; the Russian does almost no business. Its only
real function is anti-United States activity.
During the ambassadorship of Petkowski the Third International
openly subsidized the communist organ, _El Machete_, which started
with 3,000 circulation. Under Kollantay’s supervision this
propaganda sheet which continually attacks the Mexican federation of
labour (C. R. O. M.) and the United States, reached a circulation of
70,000, a remarkable figure in a country where some eighty per cent.
of the population is illiterate, and where the big Mexican papers
have about half that number of buyers. Of course almost no one buys
_El Machete_. It is paid for by Moscow and given free to anyone who
sympathizes with its cause.
The Russian embassy, consulate and other official agencies are
sending agitators throughout the country. They are concentrating at
present on the oil camps, the textile factories and the railroad
unions. I have talked to American oil men who have found Bolshevik
agitators coming into the camps as workingmen, or attaching
themselves to the camps as hangers-on. In every case these men
dominate the meetings. They make the speeches and they read the
inflammatory matter from _El Machete_ to the hundreds of workers who
cannot read or write but who, in these unsettled times in Mexico,
are good listeners.
Russian agents, disguised as peddlers, go through the country-side
ostensibly selling cheap goods but really preaching red doctrines.
Sometimes when a peasant says “I cannot buy, I am too poor,” these
Moscow agents reply, “Arise and take. Take the land. Take the
factories. Prepare for the dictatorship of the proletariat.”
Frequently such agitation has led to excesses; at all times it has
led the ex-peon to sympathize with the views of the agent.
Occasionally, when there is a big strike, there is a little money
from Moscow. The railroad workers, who are called the “aristocrats
of labour,” and who refuse to join the C. R. O. M., received 30,000
roubles from Russia. The embassy denied transmitting it, saying it
came direct by mail. Nevertheless there is no doubt the embassy was
the instrument for obtaining it.
The day I arrived in Mexico I thought a revolution had broken out.
There were crowds swarming the streets and marching on the palace.
Agitators were making speeches and shaking their fists at Calles’
office. A friend translated. It turned out to be a meeting to
protest the Schick diphtheria vaccination.
The importance of the demonstration lay in the fact that two
elements immediately got possession of the mob, the anti-government
element and the Bolshevik element. Agents of the latter were soon
gathering signatures to a circular _contra el imperialismo Yanqui_,
“against Yankee imperialism,” and even blaming vaccination deaths on
the United States.
Communist literature, proletarian dictatorship literature, anti-
church literature, is flooding the industrial camps, especially the
oil districts. In movie shows, labour meetings, and at parties where
the great feature is a magic lantern, the Soviet agents are
preaching. They also teach their listeners how to read and write.
There is a great wave of emancipation sweeping through Mexico and
the Bolsheviks are among the first to capitalize it for their own
interest. They are even trying to substitute Communism for the
religion of the waning church.
A large hatred but small success against the United States, that is
Moscow’s portion in Mexico. Why no success? I think this is the
vital answer: Labour has refused to become Russianized. The C. R. O.
M. leaders declare the American Federation of Labour has promised
and is giving full support, and would even aid the Calles régime
with shipments of arms and ammunition, on the one condition that the
Mexican Government discourage the spread of Bolshevism south of the
frontier.
The Soviet embassy grits its teeth and seeks other ways to attack
the United States. If it cannot control the C. R. O. M. it can
control other labour organizations in Mexico and it believes
certainly that it can organize other Latin-American States.
While most of the bolshevising is done secretly, there are times
when the movement comes out in the open. For a year now the Soviet
embassy has been trying to hold a congress of all Latin-American
communist parties. The delegates from almost every state had
actually arrived in Mexico City, and had actually held their first
meeting when they were exposed by American newspapermen. This
publicity forced the government to act. The government found it
couldn’t afford to offend the A. F. of L., and outlawed the meeting.
Another attempt followed. This also was exposed. If the congress has
actually been held within the past few months, it was done secretly.
The Liga Anti-Imperialista de las Americas, fostered by Russia in
Mexico, is not much to worry about. Even the Bolsheviks there
confess the United States is a wall they cannot scale. They would
like to use Calles as a step-ladder but so long as the A. F. of L.
stands by, and Calles and his successors stick to the A. F. of L.,
there is no danger of Bolshevism gaining labour control. The slogan
“Down with American Imperialism” may sound dangerous, but it is only
a festive firecracker.
For reasons best known to herself Mexico prefers the United States
to Russia.
_Chapter VIII_
I REPORT ON MEXICO TO SECRETARY KELLOGG AND MR. GREEN
On my return to Chicago from Mexico City I was requested to make a
report to the secretary of state. Accordingly I went to Washington
and had a long talk with Mr. Kellogg whom I found extremely well
informed on all developments, but as extremely prejudiced, I felt,
as any of his embassy reporters. Mr. Kellogg believed just what Mr.
Sheffield and his assistants wanted him to believe. I suppose the
state department cannot do otherwise. What are diplomatic
representatives for if they cannot be entrusted absolutely to mould
international opinions?
I did not hesitate, however, to express mine. It was simply that I
believed both the press and political agencies of America unfair in
their general attitude to Calles and Mexico. I repeated what I
considered the one outstanding difference between the other
countries in which I had travelled and worked and Mexico: in these
thirty-seven some American reporters and some American diplomats
find at least some few things to praise: in Mexico it is all hatred.
Mr. Kellogg registered surprise.
The next day he called me at my hotel and questioned me for more
details, then asked me to visit Assistant Secretary Robert E. Olds.
Mr. Olds was particularly anxious to know about Bolshevik activities
in Mexico and gratified to hear that they existed and were dangerous
to the policies of the United States in the Caribbean. He wanted to
know particularly about the relationship between the C. R. O. M. and
the Bolsheviks, and I told him that to the best of my knowledge and
belief the C. R. O. M. was loyal to its agreement to fight
Bolshevism in co-operation with the American Federation of Labour
and with the understanding that the A. F. of L. would support
Mexican labour and advise the Coolidge régime to support the Calles
régime.
(One of my indirect rewards for all this was the accusation by the
attorney for the Soviet government, later, that I had been sent to
Mexico as a state department spy against Calles.)
On arriving in New York a week later I was asked by a representative
of the president of the A. F. of L. to give him a report of my trip
to Mexico. He asked if I would care to repeat what I told Mr.
Kellogg and Mr. Olds. I offered to do so and later was asked to make
a written report for use at the coming convention of the unions,
when their Mexican policy would be discussed. The report, which is
dated June 1, 1927, follows:
In making this report to you I would like to preface it with the
opinion that the state department, Washington, seems to be
completely misinformed on the situation in Mexico. This, I
believe, is due to the reports from the American ambassador, Mr.
Sheffield, and his staff. The attitude of the American embassy in
Mexico City can best be illustrated by this statement made to me
by one of its secretaries, who said:
“Anyone who is a friend of Mexico is a traitor to the United
States.”
This same secretary continued by calling Messrs. Roberto Haberman,
Robert Hammond Murray, Dr. Ernest Greuning and other Americans who
are friends of Mexico “skunks.” He further stated that it was
treason to work for any Mexican organization, etc., etc. In fact,
the tenor of my interviews with embassy officials was a song of
hate. I got the impression that we were actually in a state of war
with Mexico, or about to declare war. This attitude of the
American embassy is retailed to most all American residents of
Mexico, and especially to the newspaper corps, so that all you
hear in Mexico from American sources is anti-Mexican. This is an
unusual situation. In every country in the world there are some
Americans, from the Ambassador down to the adventurers, who find
something to like or admire in the country to which they are sent
officially or where they are earning their living. Mexico is the
exception.
There seems to be no doubt that the Mexican government, the
Partida Laborista and the C. R. O. M. are one and the same thing,
just as the Third International, the Communist Party and the
Politburo and other organizations ruling Russia, are one and the
same. Technically, of course, they are separate. But with what
might be called “interlocking directorates,” the direction of all
organizations, official and lay, by the same people or the same
clique makes them one company.
I did see Morones and although he promised Haberman a written
reply to the set of questions I left with him, I never got a
reply, thanks to Haberman’s procrastination. However, I did have a
talk with Morones, who cheerfully explained how the labour
movement, the C. R. O. M., the Calles government and the official
labour party were working together to establish a labour
dictatorship. I questioned him on military plans for the labor
party. He seemed shy on answering this orally but said that any
time the Calles régime would be threatened by anti-labour forces,
the labour movement, the C. R. O. M., etc., would supply labour
battalions, just as they did during the Huerta affair. He said
there were thousands of men in the labour unions who had retained
their rifles and would fight when necessary. He also said that
when the new labour university would open next year there would be
a course of military training to make labour men officers, so that
they could rely on class conscious officers whereas they cannot
rely on the present officers from the regular military academy.
The religious revolt for the moment is dying down. The Calles
government has occupied all the important strategic points and so
far no general commanding a state has joined the rebels with his
troops. That, of course, is the pivotal question. The rebels are
at present led by a few soldiers, a few officers and a few
priests. They have no real leadership. However, there is pride
instead of secrecy regarding the part that Bishop Orozco and
scores of priests are playing. In Mexico they boast of the fact
the priests are leading all the rebel bands. Why shouldn’t they?
It is a civil war and they will be heroes if they win. It is only
in the United States that Catholics deny the military activities
of the church.
I will not attempt to express an opinion as to who is right. But
you must realize that the Catholic Church of Mexico is no more
like the Catholic Church of the United States than the latter is
like the Mohammedan church. The Mexican masses are not half
Christianized. They are more than half pagan. They worship
Catholic saints with the same excitement and the same ritual they
worshipped Quetzacoatl and other Aztec gods. Another big point:
the church in Mexico has since the year 1520 or so been engaged in
temporal affairs. The church has been on one side or another in
every war and rebellion. Hidalgo and Morales I believe were
priests who fought for the masses; in other wars as in the wars
against Diaz, the church supported the Spanish rulers. But the
fact I must emphasize is that _the church has participated in
every war_. The Calles régime also blames the church for the
terrible ignorance and poverty of the country at present and for
its indulgence of chattel slavery, peonage, and all the horrors of
the past 400 years. The present troubles arose when the Calles
government instituted public schools to emancipate the masses from
terrible ignorance and poverty, and the church refused to let its
communicants attend the public schools. One act led to another.
The church declared a boycott and Calles ordered the expulsion of
the Spanish-born foreign priests. The church called a strike and
Calles called for the expulsion of the bishops. The priests led
the attack on the train, a horrible massacre almost unparalleled
in modern history, and Calles declared himself dictator and vowed
fanatically to destroy the Catholic church completely.
There are two sides to this question; it would be foolish to say
one is right, one wrong. The church and Calles both have acted
without moderation. Fanaticism features both sides. However, the
few moderate liberal people I saw believe that after the 1928
election, when Obregon or some other liberal will be elected, it
will be easier to patch up a peace, because Calles on the one hand
and the leaders of the church on the other have gone too far to
retreat and compromise. Regarding Gomez: Arnulfo Gomez, governor
of Vera Cruz, is the anti-Calles candidate for president. He is
backed by the Catholics and the American oil interests. The big
American oil companies are supplying the money. The K. of C.,
according to one of their Mexico City men, will supply an
unlimited amount.
However, I do not believe much in the Gomez or other factions. I
think that the Calles-Obregon-Morones régime will survive. Calles
has his grip on everything. Obregon has 18,000 of an army of
20,000 he is raising in Sonora in case the regulars (Federales) do
not stand by Calles. Calles has rejuvenated the regulars. General
Winans, who saw the manœuvres in Torreon recently, says Calles has
the best army ever seen in Mexico.
My personal opinion is this: I believe that the United States
government should support the present régime in Mexico. Calles is
a fanatic, but there are other men, liberals, not radicals, just a
few, but honest, who want to save Mexico from continuation in the
400 years of ignorance, slavery and terrorism. If we change our
attitude to friendship, instead of ambassadorial hatred, we can do
more than by intervention. Even Calles would listen to some
friendly gesture. They would repeal the confiscation oil laws,
compromise with the church, and live at peace with us if we showed
the least indication of wanting friendship instead of military
intervention.
_Part VI—The Rest of Europe_
_Chapter I_
AMERICAN AMBASSADORS AS CENSORS
While Henry Morganthau was occupying the building in Constantinople,
an American newspaperman chalked under the sign “American Embassy”
the words “All interests served here except American.”
This sentiment is a genuine reaction felt by thousands of Americans
who visit many of our embassies, legations and consulates, and then
go to the newspaper offices, sink despondently into arm-chairs and
voice patriotic indignation.
What are ambassadors for, they demand. Are they sent abroad to
represent America and to be of service to Americans abroad, or are
they social parasites who bow charmingly over the perfumed finger-
nails of pseudo-countesses and slightly decayed old-world nobility?
Are ambassadorial duties chiefly entertainment and one annual Fourth
of July oration at the American Club?
They certainly shine on that day. If anyone is under the impression
that travel is a liberal education and residents abroad are
different from all the Rotarians, Kiwanians and Babbitts at home,
let him attend a banquet and listen to the average American
ambassador pull the eagle around by his tail feathers, refer to the
United States as “God’s own green foot-stool,” use such new and
grand expressions as “greatest country on the face of the earth,”
preach “service” and “a little co-operation” in the same gorgeous
platitudinarian manner which characterizes similar meetings in all
the go-getter metropolises of the home country-side.
What the American abroad really needs, strange to say, is actually a
little Rotarian service. He is a stranger and is always being taken
in. The Rotarian idea of service, which he has begun to be a little
ashamed of, and of which there may be a surfeit at home, is
completely missing abroad, so away goes the victim to the embassy,
legation or consulate to seek advice and help.
But most of our diplomats abroad are unaccustomed to being of
service to anyone, let alone just plain citizens. Many of them are
very wealthy men who have never come in contact with the people and
do not intend to lower themselves now that they live in a civilized
nation where class lines are sharp and “it just isn’t done.” And
they certainly did not come to Europe to be bothered by Americans,
they would tell you if they could tell the truth.
Their chief activity, as is well known, is to represent America in
things America doesn’t give a good tinker’s damn for, namely, social
functions. Here they believe they fulfil a noble mission. They call
themselves “the better Americans” and tell British (especially
British) and Italian and Lettish and other society to judge America
not by the loud business man, the non-spat-wearing reporters, the
cane-less tourists, the rather rough salesman who knows only his
calling, or by all the nasty reports about bootlegging and Chicago
and lynchings, but by them, the diplomatic representatives, “the
better Americans,” who are better, they believe, because they have
given up being Americans and adopted all the soft hand-kissing ways
of civilized Europe.
“What disgusts me most here,” said Mayor Walker of New York in one
of his amazing speeches at a foreign banquet, “is to find that the
ambassador to a foreign country in a couple of years gets more
British than a Britisher, more Spanish than a Spaniard, more French
than a Frenchman. They seem to be ashamed of their Americanism when
they come into the courts of Europe.”
They are. And they wear out their figurative knees cringing and
crawling before such men as Mussolini, de Rivera, Lloyd George,
Poincaré and other dictators and strong statesmen. They have fallen
so low in the diplomatic gutter that they have not only ceased to
defend their own citizens, but have let their own colleagues in the
service suffer insults and broken skulls without much protest. There
was a time when the state department was young and strong and could
startle a world with its cry, “Pericardes Alive or Raisuli Dead.”
Today it seems to cringe and whine, “Long Live Mussolini, no matter
how many American consuls are bloodied by Fascisti.”
In fact American diplomacy is so cowardly, so hypocritical, such a
bootlicker of Fascismo, that it not only has accepted insult and
assault, but it has suppressed the news in both Washington and Rome.
Let me be more specific: The assault on acting Consul-General
Franklin C. Gowen at Leghorn was reported several weeks after it
happened and the diplomatic agencies had thought it history, when
someone accidentally or intentionally carried the report all the way
to London. The attack on Earl Brennan, vice-consul in Rome, came to
light just a week after it happened because another American vice-
consul, angry that his own service had failed to publish the facts,
told them to a reporter in Paris, so that _The Chicago Tribune_ in
Chicago was able to print this Fascist victory. (Incidentally the
Paris edition of _The Chicago Tribune_, which obtained the story,
refused to print more than a line or two because it had already lost
considerable Italian tourist advertising through my deportation from
Italy.)
Acting Consul-General Gowen stood on the curb watching a blackshirt
parade. He had saluted the Italian flag when it passed, but
apparently failed to salute a private black flag of the Fascist
organization. He was clubbed, beaten to the ground, later taken to a
hospital.
Mussolini apologized to Ambassador Fletcher. Weeks later Mr.
Fletcher had to explain to the press corps. Mussolini had said it
was a regrettable accident; Mr. Gowen had been mistaken for an
Italian; Mr. Gowen’s hospital bill of 200 lire, $8 then, would be
paid by the Italian government.
I tried to get more facts from Gowen. His letter to me is marked
“private and unofficial,” so I regret not being able to publish it.
I telegraphed our Washington bureau to find out what the American
government meant to do. The reply sent by the man who went to the
state department with my telegram read: “Kellogg announced Gowen
incident settled satisfactorily.” (The hospital bill of $8 had been
paid.) The Fascist foreign office asked all Italians representing
American newspapers to pass over this “unfortunate affair” lightly
and easily, and to forget it. It was forgotten. Mr. Gowen was
transferred from Italy.
The case of Consul Brennan is much more serious because, take it
from a fellow consul, it was premeditated and in revenge for
Brennan’s activities in enforcing the emigration law, so that
numerous Fascisti, guilty of political terrorism and civil crimes,
such as murder and robbery, found it impossible to get visas for
America.
Brennan was attacked by uniformed Fascist militia, members of that
vast organization which Mussolini has made superior to the regular
army and by which he has intimidated the king, the nobility and
their army. Among the attackers was a member of Mussolini’s body-
guard. Mr. Brennan had gone into a shop to buy a film. On emerging
he was identified as the vice-consul sought, was clubbed and stoned
until he was unconscious. The next day _Chargé d’affaires_ Warren D.
Robbins, in the absence of Ambassador Fletcher, sent a protest to
Mussolini’s office. But the facts were withheld from the press.
Later when newspapermen tried to cable a few mild words, the
telegrams were suppressed by the foreign office.
Mussolini eventually apologized to the embassy. The state department
eventually reported the incident satisfactorily settled. Mr. Brennan
in due time recovered from his wounds, and it is assumed that his
hospital bill of perhaps another $8 was paid by the Fascist régime.
And, I have to state, the fact that meagre reports of both these
incidents were published long after they happened made them lose
their value, so that terrorist Fascism was not much hurt nor did its
terrorists learn any lesson of respect for American citizens. Thus
terrorism and censorship have made aides and abettors of American
diplomacy.
In scores of other cases where Americans have been assaulted by
Fascisti our official agencies abroad have acted in the most half-
hearted fashion. When a British subject gets into trouble abroad it
is wonderful to see the way the British government flies to his
rescue and many Americans, including many of my newspaper
colleagues, have frequently obtained aid from the British. The
British diplomatic view-point seems to be: “He is a Briton,
therefore he is probably right”; the American view-point: “He is an
American, therefore most probably he is in the wrong.”
The “better Americans” who represent us abroad have better things to
do than to serve plain Americans.
My first disillusioning experience with American diplomats in the
rôle of protectors of American liberty was in April, 1920, when Paul
E. De Mott, a youth of twenty-one, whose home was in Paterson, N.
J., and whose record as a Quaker relief worker in the Argonne was
highly satisfactory, met his death in a German prison. De Mott had
been riding around in the Ruhr district in that murderous month
which followed the capture of Berlin by the monarchists under Dr.
Kapp, and the subsequent republican victory.
In the Ruhr district, which was also my assignment, the civil war
lasted until May. With the defeat of the monarchists there sprang up
a sort of socialistic proletarian army which was promptly denounced
as Bolshevik. No doubt there were Bolshevik agents among them, but
we who had joined the republican forces at Essen saw no change in
their colour as they continued fighting, and the poor devils of
soldiers were under the impression that they were fighting
monarchists, and not Ebert’s republican troops.
These last captured De Mott and shot him. De Mott had made three
mistakes: he had come in a grey Quaker uniform which was not unlike
that of the workingmen rebels; he had ridden in an automobile in
which some of the rebels had concealed rifles, and he had carried
letters written to Lenin and Trotsky, because he had intended going
to Russia to obtain an interview for a small American newspaper and
a still smaller magazine.
When De Mott was murdered by the German reichswehr we had no
ambassador in Berlin but a diplomatic mission headed by Ellis Loring
Dresel. To the American correspondents who made inquiries the
mission replied, “Nothing to bother about, the man was a Bolshevik.”
Whereupon most of the Berlin correspondents dropped the matter.
I went to Wesel and came into the courtroom in time for the sitting
of the military court of inquiry. De Mott’s effects were spread on
the major’s desk. Evidence was given. From the letters, papers and
evidence it was quite plain that De Mott was no Bolshevik and that
he had been murdered in cold blood. The best the reichswehr officers
could say was that he took the wrong turn in the hall while looking
for the prison lavatory. The German authorities had never notified
the American mission of the capture, let alone the murder. The
mission greedily swallowed all German explanations, because the
moment the letters to Lenin and Trotsky were mentioned the red flag
of Bolshevism had stampeded them, and to this day, so far as I know,
there have been no reparations to either the American government or
the Quaker family of the deceased. And all this took place at a time
when the French were getting a million gold francs and a salute for
the death of one of their men in Berlin.
My last experience with diplomatic censorship was in December, 1927,
when refugees in Budapest told of the assault of an American,
Captain Winfield Keller, at Oradea Mare (formerly Grosswardein) in
the Hungarian land occupied and annexed by Roumania after Hungary
had been made militarily impotent.
Captain Keller saw service with the American army in France and
later did some organizing work for the Young Men’s Christian
Association; he married and engaged in business in this frontier
town which became the scene of serious anti-Hungarian and anti-
semitic outrages. Roumanian young manhood, the flower of the
Roumanian universities, five thousand strong, girls as well as men,
rioted and looted for three days, stabbing or clubbing several
hundred persons, but always when they outnumbered their victims
twenty or eighty to one. Thus they showed Roumania’s moral right of
occupation.
Captain Keller was one of the most dangerously injured victims. He
was part-owner of a printing-press which was hired by Hungarians to
publish their paper. He was atrociously beaten and knifed by
Roumanians who knew him and who had pretended friendship until the
university men and women joined them in the attack. Mrs. Keller
telegraphed to the American minister in Bucharest, Mr. Culbertson,
and when the Roumanian authorities refused to forward her telegrams,
for which they had accepted money, she came to the capital to ask
help.
The legation concealed the fact of the attack on the American so
cleverly that the American newspapermen knew nothing about it until
their Vienna and Budapest co-workers, who had had the news from
refugees, informed them by coded telegrams or by letter. When they
protested, the legation declared its business was to take matters up
diplomatically for settlement. Interrogated by the American press
representatives, it admitted that one of its duties was to protect
American interests and enterprises, and that the American newspapers
came under the second heading, which showed rather rare perception,
because many of our foreign officials hold the old-fashioned view
that the newspaper is a parasite rather than a legitimate business.
Nevertheless the legation thought that it was best to keep the news
out of the public prints.
One more incident of a different character involving a financial not
a physical violence: During one of the recent Polish upheavals the
Warsaw censorship tried to prevent two American reporters from
telling the world how Pilsudski had mobilized troops for the purpose
of intimidating or ousting Parliament if they refused his budget.
This time, fortunately, there was no list of dead and wounded, so
the Polish embassies in Washington and Paris protested “exaggerated
reports in the American press.” Then followed an amazing incident.
One of our several minor officials called the American reporters to
his office and said:
“The Polish government has floated several loans through American
bankers. The representatives of one of these big companies has
cabled to say your dispatches have bent the market. The bonds are
down several points. In the future you must send out only news
favorable to Poland.”
The reporters answered in three short, well-chosen syllables and
later tried to complain to the minister, but they obtained no
general satisfaction.
* * * * * *
With the exception of one member (the _Associated Press_
correspondent who is an employee of the legation) the American press
corps in Poland is (in 1927 and 1928) in conflict with the American
minister. The newspapermen feel with Mayor Walker that here is a
case of an American citizen becoming more Polish than a Pole. During
the early days of the Pilsudski dictatorship in 1927 the press was
anxious to obtain certain facts which it believed the legation could
give; especially during the Zagorski kidnapping (and probable
murder). One day a Warsaw newspaper was confiscated by Pilsudski
because it declared that the general’s nephew had talked “with the
minister of the greatest foreign power,” who had confided to him
that Zagorski had been assassinated and his body destroyed by the
unofficial Chekah which flourishes under Pilsudski. Attempts to
obtain a statement from Mr. John B. Stetson, the American minister,
were futile. A secretary informed the representatives of one New
York and one Chicago newspaper that “Mr. Stetson is not satisfied
with the anti-Pilsudski news you have sent out.”
In every capital in Europe there are colleagues who could swell the
list of incidents. Behind them all is the obvious fact that there is
no co-operation between American diplomacy abroad and the men who
help make public opinion. How important the foreign correspondent
is, is a matter of opinion; that he is important is undeniable, and
while a visitor like Lindbergh performs an act of amity very rarely,
the American reporter functions day in and day out as an agent for
friendship and good-will between peoples and nations.
On two occasions I have had the opportunity of pleading with the
secretary of state for greater co-operation between diplomacy
and the press. I found Secretary Hughes intelligently and
enthusiastically interested. He assured me he was in favour of
complete confidence between the official and private agencies of
public understanding. Mr. Kellogg also seemed under the
impression that the sublimated international reporters who serve
him as ambassadors and ministers were working hand in hand with
the newspaper representatives.
But there seems to be no fixed state department policy to encourage
such relationships.
Journalists of all European governments especially the British and
French and Italian, co-operating completely with their diplomatic
representatives abroad, are entrusted with the political policies of
their nations; their advice is sought and they are completely in
each others’ confidence.
The United States, not having a permanent foreign office which
functions for the benefit of the country, whatever the political
party in power, has no permanent policy and no especial need to keep
the press in alignment. Wherever American diplomats and American
newspapermen happen to co-operate, the reason is personal; in the
majority of countries the press representatives frequently oppose
the ambassador or minister. No American reporter feels the European
journalist’s patriotic debt to his foreign office—on the other hand
he does feel and resents his being left out of things by the
diplomatic agent, usually a petty-minded, frequently a rich, almost
always a prestige-seeking, second-rate politician and social climber
whose job is the reward of heavy contributions to the national
campaign strong-box. The career-men have not yet made their ideas
predominant.
The new ambassador soon finds that he cannot control the press; it
is the first fly in his sweet diplomatic ointment. He can neither
bribe with money nor with social prestige by inviting the reporters
to his select affairs. He finds that even political pull doesn’t
work because while the newspaper-owner back home may be a friend, a
member of the same party and involved in fifty political
enterprises, he gives his man abroad _carte blanche_, even to
criticizing the ambassador. The latter becomes chagrined. The
reporter continually assumes the attitude against the embassy of the
Irishman wrecked on a desert isle who on recovering consciousness
and being told by a dark native that there was a government there
declared himself against it.
The European system has its drawbacks also. Too frequently the
journalist becomes the tool of the foreign office; he loses his
objectivity and writes to suit his ambassador, suppressing some
truths, giving false value to others, becoming in short a press
agent instead of a free and untrammelled publicist. This is
diplomatic censorship _par excellence_.
Most deplorable is the European system of semi-official news
bureaus. They are subsidized by the state and controlled by the
party in power. In cases like the Tass in Russia and Stefani in
Italy they are corrupt to the extent of making propaganda for
political factions and suppressing all news which is not favourable
to the violent political régime. Reuter in England and the post-war
Wolff Bureau in Berlin are the only ones free from suspicion, but
the same cannot be said of Havas in Paris. Those controlled by
Poland, Roumania, Bulgaria and other small states are only too
patently propaganda spreaders.
Unfortunately a great part of the news served to the American people
is this tainted news of semi-official agencies because the
_Associated Press_ has an exclusive exchange agreement with them
all, and while the _Associated Press_ is innocent of evil intent, it
transmits a lot of this “agency” material. To give a concrete
example, the _Associated Press_ in Rome used the Stefani reports
about many acts of Fascist violence, these reports being written in
a tone to defend and apologize, instead of giving actual facts. Thus
the news is pre-censored.
Recently there has been a movement both in Washington and in Europe
to treat the _Associated Press_ as a semi-official American agency
which it is not, although it may be giving that impression abroad as
many officials in several foreign offices and certain American
officials have expressed themselves as being of that belief.
Frequently the _Associated Press_ man is called in by an American
diplomat who discusses “policies” with him. “Policies” can mean only
one thing—what to write and what to suppress—in other words, to
censor. Fortunately the _United Press_ and the smaller agencies are
hot on the trail of the A. P. in these later times, and being more
liberal minded, they are glad to go the limit on any A. P. “policy”
story. Should the A. P. attempt to “tone” a story of revolution in
Warsaw and the “opposition” discover it, you may be certain the
“opposition” will make it so hot for the A. P. that the latter will
get orders from New York to send in full and to explain. This is
what happened, for example, when some small non-agency men and I
sent 500-word cables on the Pope’s address to a pilgrimage during
the Holy Year in which he denounced Fascism for its anti-Catholic
attacks. Stefani agency and the _Associated Press_ did their best to
suppress or minimize the sensational seriousness of such a move by
the Pope, but the “opposition” cables exposed them quickly.
Somewhere between this European system of creating semi-official
bureaus or of taking journalists too much into the functioning of
embassies, and the American idea of indifference and antagonism,
there must be a golden mean. I know there is no more patriotic body
than the press corps abroad. Its attitude is to serve its country by
sticking to the truth. I wonder if the same can be said so
unreservedly for the diplomatic corps! The latter’s patriotism is
too much the spread-eagle style; too much Fourth of July and not
enough a five-hour-day service. Diplomacy may think itself possessed
of the one and only truth, but there is too much consorting with
monarchists and nobility and officials who represent factions and
not nations to tinge the diplomatic reports. In most cases the
resident newspaper representative knows much more about the country
than the new ambassador. The reporter at least sees the situation
whole; a labour upheaval interests him more than the precedence in
seating arrangements at a foreign office dinner; he has contacts in
all strata of society and can be sympathetic to all classes and keep
his ear to all social tremors. American diplomacy can only gain by
observing a policy of honesty and fairness in dealing with American
newspapermen. But the policy should be originated in the state
department. It should, in short, be the same policy which
Washington, from the president of the United States to the clerks in
all departments, holds towards the Washington correspondent. The
present system of American diplomats acting as censors or trying to
control the American press is as vicious as it is ridiculous,
egotistic and futile.
_Chapter II_
MARIE’S ROUMANIA
Bounded by Russia, Poland, Bulgaria and the Black Sea, lies the Land
of Corruption. Bucharest is its capital and until quite recently its
queen was Marie. The queen has been summed up in two words: “Poor
Ferdinand.” He is dead and she has lost her power. But the national
corruption of Roumania remains, secretly, behind a massive bulwark
of terroristic censorship. All of us who have tried to pierce it
have been hounded by the police or arrested or expelled.
From the royal house, from the office of the dictator, Jon Bratianu,
down to the smallest functionary in the newly occupied territories,
graft has ruled the country for the greater part of the present
century, until a peaceful revaluation in November, 1928, placed the
Peasant Party in power and promised reforms. No doubt it will take
years to change an inherited system.
There is, for example, the case of the station-master of a little
Transylvanian village, to whom a man in the guise of a cattle
merchant came one day and asked for two freight cars.
“No cars now,” said the station-master.
“Reserve me two for next week,” pleaded the dealer.
“All gone.”
“Next month?”
“All gone.”
“Next year?”
“All gone.”
The dealer looked very hard at the station-master and said in a new
voice:
“How much?”
“One thousand lei per car.”
“Taken,” said the dealer, and 2000 lei changed hands. Then the
dealer stammered and hemmed and said:
“Look here, I’m only the agent for a big cattle and sheep man and I
must account to him somehow for this graft—”
“Easy,” replied the government station-master and taking an official
blank he wrote out a full receipt. The cattleman seized it
triumphantly and shouted:
“Now I’ve got you, you grafter. I’m not a cattle dealer at all, I’m
an agent for the police. I’ll put you in jail for this or you’ll
come across handsomely.”
“You won’t put me in jail—and I won’t come across,” said the
railroad grafter stubbornly.
“But I’ve got the goods on you—a receipt—and on official paper,
too.”
“Say,” replied the government crook, “don’t you think that when I
bought this job from the ministry of railroads that I got with it
the right to make good my big expense by taking in smaller graft?”
The cattleman-detective lost his crest.
“You win,” he said. “Well, I’ll be going. I’ve no cattle. Give me
back my 2000.”
“Two thousand? I’ll say not. You bought these two cars and you’ll
take them.”
* * * * * *
Now for the heads of the police system:
The Sunday morning of King Ferdinand’s funeral there arrived at the
main station Mr. Ross White, a photographer for a Chicago company.
He was late. So late in fact that he could step right out of the
depot, unlimber his camera, and shoot the whole procession more
successfully than those who had waited for it three days.
Flushed with victory he boasted a bit that night.
“I’m on tomorrow’s plane for Vienna—I’ll probably beat the world on
this,” he said.
“How about your exit visa?” someone asked.
“Exit? I’ve got a $10 visa all right.”
“How about registering with the police? How about special permission
to go on the plane? How about special permission to take out
pictures?”
Well, we put Ross White in the hands of a native son who said,
“Count your money,” “Good,” and “Come along.”
They called first of all on the inspector of police in charge of
foreigners and told him their troubles.
“It’s as much as my life or my job is worth,” said that high
dignitary reaching down in his low pocket where he carried a
duplicate of the official rubber stamp which was locked over Sunday
in his office. As he got it ready by breathing on it hotly, as all
economical Europe does, he eyed the money counting, and as he saw
the pile of 100 lei notes mount, he stamped and signed.
Then to the home of the police chief in charge of exit visas, and
the same performance. And another 2000 lei.
By midnight White had amassed dozens of rubber stamps in assorted
shades of purple mixed with spittle; passes, papers, notes, and
revenue stamps. And so to bed.
He was early at the aviation field. There his troubles began all
over. It seemed nothing he had was worth anything. He was lost in a
forest of itching palms.
The first official got 1000 lei and stamped something; the second
got 500 and stamped something; the next two got 100 each and stamped
nothing; it was becoming monotonous. Others came and were sent
rejoicing with 60 and 40 and 20. Ross White got in the airplane and
the motor started. A full hour had been lost and now the airplane
company was demanding extra money.
Just before the final signal to depart a gold-braided official came
up and confiscated all of White’s work.
“Undeveloped films and plates must pass the censorship—ready in
three days,” said Goldbraid.
“Darn,” or worse, said White, “how much graft do you want?”
“I need eleven 20 lei notes,” said Goldbraid.
“Why eleven—why not an even ten?” asked White.
“Because,” said the government official with a smile, “because a ten
per cent. tip is usually added on service bills in Roumania.”
He got it.
* * * * * *
We now pass on from petty provincial officials, from chiefs of
police, to the Bratianu dictatorship itself.
I was present at a short session of Parliament when, in the presence
of one or two score of soldiers armed with rifles and bayonets, a
bill was introduced to place the national natural resources in the
hands of a commission of four.
The minority opposition, after listening to Jon Bratianu’s request
for unanimous action, left the chamber in indignation. By actual
count 86 members remained. When the vote was counted, the official
tellers announced:
For the Bratianu measure 124
Opposed 2
Total votes cast 126
Outside the cruel humour of this Balkan corruption, there was
important news for America and England in this bill. The “natural
resources” meant oil. The four men were presumed to be the premier,
Jon Bratianu, the premier’s brother Vintila, (later premier), the
premier’s son-in-law and favourite of Queen Marie, Prince Barbu
Stirbey, and another related accomplice. In other words the
politicians were voting themselves absolute mastery of Roumanian
oil. When I expressed the opinion that such raw crookedness was
unparalleled in modern history, I obtained another light on
Roumania, because my American oil agent said:
“It is better this way; we will have only four persons to bribe. If
oil had remained in the hands of Parliament we might have to bribe
two hundred.”
My duty, however, was to report the graft. Accordingly I wrote a
telegram giving exactly what had transpired in Parliament under my
own eyes. Three days went by. I knew nothing of the secret Roumanian
censorship until the postman arrived at my hotel with a formulary by
which I could get 1618 lei for a “returned telegram.” The post
office later refused to return the original, but a little graft
obtained a view of it with the orders of the censor, a colonel of
the army, to suppress _in toto_.
As news is always fresh until it is printed, I sent the three-day-
old telegram by mail to Budapest, whence it was telegraphed and
appeared in the American and European press. The political police
immediately moved after me. They came to my hotel to arrest me, but
the porter, who got a bigger bribe from me than he got from them,
misled them and gave me the tip to leave the country.
* * * * * *
Other newspapermen have had similar experiences and tasted Bucharest
jails. Among them is Lorimer Hammond who reported one of the
numerous Carol crises. The Royal Household had ordered the censors
to suppress telegrams in which the name of Mme. Lupescu appeared.
Lupescu, daughter of a little shopkeeper of Jassy who trembles his
life away in terror, had been the wife of a “shavetail” aviator,
then the mistress of another. Captain outranked lieutenant and
colonel outranked major, so that she stepped forward to the heights
of courtisanship until the fatal night of the Army Aviators’ ball
when Crown Prince Carol, as commander-in-chief of all aviation,
outranked the then possessor of Mme. Lupescu and made her his No. 1
mistress. This is a typically sordid story which the newspapers call
“romance.”
The censor who was ordered to suppress her name spoke “the English.”
Ah, those wonderful men, those small European officials who “have”
English (including the press attaché of Admiral Horthy who took us
to a Budapest theatre party and introduced his wife as “my
husband”!).
Pride was the ruling complex of the Roumanian censor: pride plus a
secret dictionary. When stumped he would retire and read the
unabridged. Mr. Hammond learned of both the queenly order and the
censor’s vice. Accordingly he sent ten thousand words about the
political crisis caused by Carol’s “flame,” Carol’s “broad,” Carol’s
“skirt.” Never a name. And our proud censor looked up flame and read
fire, looked up broad and read wide, mistook skirt for shirt,
wondered a little, but saw no harm in anything.
Mr. Clarence Streit of _The New York Times_, who was in Bucharest at
the same time, was expelled after twenty-four hours notice by order
of General Nicoleanu, the prefect of police, who wrote and said that
Streit’s article had contained “gross exaggerations and insults
addressed to the Roumanian crown and country.”
_The Times_ offered its columns to the Roumanian government to
disprove a single statement of Streit’s but the government preferred
silence, although Queen Marie and lesser members of the court
requested three foreign correspondents to write some counteracting
propaganda for them. This they refused to do. It was before Marie’s
trip to America, when a touch of the royal hand made many democratic
editors her slaves, so the American press and its foreign
correspondents (who are braver than their editors in the fight for
journalistic freedom) supported Mr. Streit. _The Chicago Tribune_,
stating the whole case, said:
“He (Streit) had printed the truth as he saw it, about a country
controlled by a minority as domineering as it is reactionary.... A
conniving oligarchy such as rules Roumania lives by secrecy, not by
the truth as American newspapermen have a habit of writing it. _The
Tribune_ has had the same experience in Russia and Italy. Neither
Mussolini nor the Soviet Government wanted the truth about their
activities sent to America. Now Roumania joins these two countries,
and makes it a threesome of suppression.”
In reply to my request Mr. Streit has sent me a full report of the
incident, saying in part:
“I did not emphasize the scandals (both about Carol and about Queen
Marie) but I showed how grave a matter the abdication was and how
lightly it was accepted and its effect on the crown and the general
political situation. I emphasized most of all the responsibility of
the king. I also paid special attention to the Bratianus and showed
how the king’s policy coincided with their selfish interests. From
all I have heard since, the series really frightened the king and
queen and the governing clique. However, if I had written the series
at another time it is doubtful if I would have been expelled. It was
on the eve of the elections....”
The last sentence is the key to the action. Time makes an irony out
of an ideal. The Liberal party was founded to fight the
reactionaries, with a program similar to the British party of like
name; in the hands of the Bratianus it became the party of
censorship, suppression, selfish exploitation and terrorism. Since
the war there has not been a single honest election in Roumania.
Although it is no longer necessary to indulge in much violence,
because the masses are so generally terrorized that they would
always vote a Liberal majority, no election takes place without
cracked heads, and frequently there is murder. Kidnapping of
Opposition candidates is frequent; assault of Opposition candidates
and their voters is common; patrols keep thousands from approaching
the ballot-boxes, and in cases where an Opposition majority is
feared the boxes are stuffed or broken open and false ballots put
in. And the name “Liberal” remains to fool newspaper readers.
The election terrorism is one of many scandals which the drastic
press law of Roumania neutralizes by silence. A fine of $100. and
four years’ imprisonment is provided for persons who “by mail,
telegraph or telephone sends out news offending the king, the queen,
or the crown prince, or who attack the constitutional government or
the established order of succession to the throne.”
This law was enacted after Gregory Phillipescu had had the courage
for the first time to attack the scandal of the Royal Household. In
his newspaper _Epoca_ he told Queen Marie to behave herself and
plastered the walls of Bucharest with a likeness of Prince Stirbey
with the captions: “Our Hero,” “The Man Behind the Portieres,” and
“The Rasputin of Roumania.” Now Phillipescu is a refugee in Paris.
* * * * * *
The Carol scandal is revived about twice a year. In the Manoilescu
affair, the arrest of Carol’s agent was kept out of the Bucharest
papers until the government had prepared all its propaganda for the
military trial. The oil scandal and the agrarian reform scandal, by
which the Bratianu clique evaded losing agricultural lands by
planting occasional miscellaneous trees on them and calling them
“forests,” were never reported in the press. The scandals following
anti-semitic pogroms, which occur frequently, are suppressed or
diminished or mentioned in terms of excuses.
One of the worst outbreaks in recent history occurred in Oradea
Mare. The rioters were sent with governmental aid to hold an anti-
Hungarian demonstration in a Hungarian town ceded to Roumania
without plebiscite. For three days the university men and women, the
future intelligentsia of Roumania, assaulted Jews and Hungarians,
looted shops for silk stockings, stole candles from a church,
desecrated the synagogues, tore up scrolls of the Bible, and in the
name of Nationalism and Patriotism acted generally like a lot of
swine.
I have elsewhere told why the American reporters in Bucharest, there
for political events, knew nothing of all this until some foreign
newspapers arrived. Eventually the Roumanian press was forced to say
something of the affair. The government inspired news items saying
that the students had been “provoked” by “thousands of Hungarian
Communists,” an obvious lie as since Admiral Horthy suppressed the
red régime in Hungary in 1919 there are no longer “thousands of
Communists” alive or resident.
Incidentally the Roumanian student body is not the only one which
engages in violence and supplies the backbone to reaction. In
Germany, Austria, Hungary and Bulgaria I have seen the young
intellectuals at work. Unlike the American and British student who
uses up his high spirits in sport, the Continental student lives and
breathes hatred. He is ruling-class conscious. He is brought up to
replace his reactionary father as an army officer, privy councillor,
exploiter of labour, controller of the economic and political life
of the country. Whenever monarchism and anti-liberal movements are
under way the Continental student gives them a fillip of violence.
How mean-minded, cruel, corrupt and gluttonous the university man is
has been shown clearly by Harry Domela, a middle-class youth, who,
once mistaken for a younger son of the Kaiser, attended Heidelberg
University as a prince, lived with the students, attended duels,
orgies, secret meetings where hatred of the middle and lower classes
was the chairman, and then wrote an amazing book, which in any
country possessing a greater sense of humour than Germany would have
made a laughing stock of the university fraternities.
The further down the Balkans you go, the less does university life
mean culture. And Roumania, which likes to think of itself as a part
of civilized Europe, and not a part of the Balkans, is at present
the most balkanized country in Europe—balkanization in the European
vocabulary meaning violence and corruption.
As it is the custom of American news services to employ native
journalists for “protection” during dull times, I once made
inquiries for a suitable man. One was recommended to me by an
American official.
“He is one of only two native journalists,” said the official, “who
does not pay the weekly visit to (Jon) Bratianu. On these occasions
the premier invites them to have two cigars from the drawer of his
desk. There is a 1000 lei note as a cigar band on each.”
_Chapter III_
GERMAN CENSORSHIP: EINST UND JETZT
The liberty of the press in Germany was abused by Bismarck with such
great success that even today the newspapers are in large measure
corrupt or subservient.
During the war Maximilian Harden was the only editor who was not a
slave of the military machine. The military machine enforced almost
absolute discipline. In addition to the press conferences where
general instructions were issued, as today “general suggestions” are
given to the assembled editors, the foreign office handed out slips
of papers with warnings or orders. These were later printed in books
for confidential circulation. Here are typical excerpts from a copy
I was able to obtain:
_August 7, 1917_: The press is requested not to represent the
South American Republics as nigger and monkey states as it has
been doing lately.
_Sept. 18, 1917_: A representative of the press has asked how many
American troops have landed in France. The answer is, about 40,000
of which half are labour battalions.
_Nov. 20, 1917_: There are 40,000 Americans in France of which
20,000 are technical formations.
_May 17, 1918_: American troops in France are officially estimated
at ten divisions of which only four are near the front.
_Oct. 26, 1918_: Regarding President Wilson’s note: The press are
requested not to direct questions at Wilson’s note and not to
demand the Kaiser’s resignation. Nor must it be said that the
President demands the Kaiser’s resignation. None but chauvinists
in England and France are doing that. The German press under all
circumstances must avoid doing it.
The disillusion which followed the military collapse in Germany
embraced the press. All intelligent, liberal-minded, honest Germans
whom I have spoken to in the course of the past eight years blame
the corrupted newspapers for much of Germany’s sorrow. “They lied to
us,” is the almost universal judgment on the behaviour of foreign
office men and the newspapers during the war.
Bismarck had not hesitated to lie. Says Emil Ludwig:
“No one ever rivalled Bismarck in his use of the press. By day and
by night (literally) his underlings have to work for the press,
preparing, suggesting, summarizing, contradicting. He shows the
utmost mastery in the dosage of his poison....”
The dosage of poison today is homeopathic. The editors are called to
a conference in the foreign office where the big political campaigns
are planned for them. One day it is: “Go strong on the war-guilt
lie,” and there follows a campaign to prove that Germany was the
sweet, innocent, white lamb among the blood-stained Poincarés and
Sazanoffs. Another day it may be: “Everybody, to the attack on the
Dawes plan,” or suddenly: “Lay off Dawes—say a kind word for it or
keep quiet.” During the Genoa conference the press was instructed to
paint carmine pictures of German commerce with Russia—all to
embarrass France and coerce the latter into better terms for a
future German-French commercial pact. One day it may be: “This
report is true, but it would be better to deny it or suppress it, as
it would embarrass important negotiations under way.”
Press instructions cover the whole world, now that Germany has again
become an international power and plies her trade overseas. Thus,
during the 1927-8 American invasion of Nicaragua when the liberal
press spoke of the United States as “imperialistic” and referred to
our “protectorates” in Central America and the West Indies, the
foreign office, jealous of its good relations with Washington at a
time when revision of the Dawes plan was becoming a booming subject
and when full restoration of German property seized in America was
impending, warned the liberal editors to print no comment on
Nicaragua which would make a bad impression.
There was a time, during the inflation period (when German
journalists and editors were living on starvation wages), when I
obtained from several members of this foreign office conference a
good summary of what happened every day. On one occasion I published
something about the foreign office having ordered the editors to
suppress some item. Immediately afterwards _Zeit_, the official
organ of Stresemann, then chancellor, published a denial which
attacked my veracity.
The same afternoon Stresemann invited the press to tea. Of course I
could not tell him that I had obtained my information from one of
his own foreign officials. So I said:
“But I got the news from a geheimrat—a privy councillor.”
“Sometimes,” replied the chancellor, his blue eyes sparkling and his
double chins moving with laughter, “sometimes you think you hear the
voice of Almighty God, and it is only a privy councillor.”
The success of the German foreign office control of the press is due
to the general belief that patriotic impulses not party politics
actuate its suggestions. The German newspaper therefore is unlike
the American newspaper which editorially sees party in every move of
government, and attacks accordingly. About the only thing an
American newspaper respects in a politician is his moral history. In
New York in 1919 I was present at a conference of newspapermen with
politicians including one who said he was the agent for a Republican
National Committeeman, at which a proposal was made to buy some
love-letters of Woodrow Wilson then alleged to be kept in a bank
vault in Newark. Later the representatives of the R. N. C. lost all
interest because it was agreed not to use “personalities” in the
campaign. In like manner the story of President Harding’s “romance”
and illegitimate child was known to Democratic newspapers throughout
the country but no use was ever made of it. Cleveland’s personal
affairs were also left untouched. On the other hand nothing in the
past political or business life of a politician is held sacred.
In Germany newspapers do not stoop to attack the politician’s
affiliation with a trust, or his religious convictions, or his class
loyalties, but they confine themselves to his actual political
achievements. Their sense of patriotism is invoked by both public
and officialdom, because a man in office is a part of government,
and government is held sacred. Thus the foreign office says suppress
this or encourage that not because it will help the chancellor in
his present policy, but because it will help Germany, of which the
chancellor is only a temporary agent.
The result is unctuous servility. Blinded by the belief that they
are acting for the nation’s good German editors are the saddest
examples of self-deluded prostitutes of patriotism. This is
especially true of the nationalist press, which has the added
corruption of big business ownership. Stinnes has been replaced by
Hugenberg. The part-owners of the steel and iron trusts and the
scores of lesser trusts, more aggressive and domineering than any
that ever faced Roosevelt, these men control news agencies, hundreds
of Berlin and provincial newspapers, the Nationalist Party, a large
part of the People’s (Stresemann’s) Party and have a big influence
in the Centrist (Catholic) Party and even some in the Democratic
Party. Big business, when it is reactionary, as it is to a large
extent in Germany, also controls the Stahlhelm and affiliated or
similar nationalist, armed, illegal organizations and their
newspaper organs. In many instances officers of the Reichswehr, the
national army, are in their pay. Public opinion, force, commerce,
steel and coal are in the hands of a few men in Germany, a
combination of power unheard of in any other country, and because
the illusion persists that it would harm Germany, that it would be
unpatriotic to stop this concentration, the press remains silent. It
is called a patriotic duty to free Germany from the “yoke of the
Dawes plan”; the press feeds the public on a diet of self-pity and
righteous indignation. Germany stands appalled before the press
picture of the devouring monster, while in all truth the coal and
iron trust men and their lesser brothers exploit labour as it is
done in native Africa, grow rich and strong on the excess profit
between dollar-a-day labour and manufactured goods sold on the world
market at standard prices. The German workingman who knows his
Shakespeare and Goethe and his Karl Marx, and who has been called
the most civilized labourer in the world, has been so broken in
spirit by Prussian discipline that apparently he cannot see the
conspiracy of big business, political parties and the servile press
to pass the whole economic burden of the Dawes plan upon him.
Instead of becoming cannon fodder for the Kaiser the German worker
today enjoys the delights of industrial serfdom.
In a weak way the socialist press voices a feeble protest now and
then, but it too is immersed in political deals because coalitions
are always being formed in which the Social Democratic Party
participates. There is left only the radical press, the _Rote Fahne_
and its offspring, which are paid by Moscow and which print such a
mixture of lies and propaganda as to further discredit the already
discredited communist movement in Germany.
The news bureau as we know it in America does not exist. The Wolff
Agency supplies the _Associated Press_ and the German newspapers
with a report of what it considers important, chiefly official news
and views. It is true though unfortunate that the routine news about
Germany comes from the German press. When a big event occurs, real
news in the American sense, the American correspondents quite
frequently beat the German press by days, so that the German papers
have to get their information cabled back from the United States.
The Scheer report to the Kaiser on the Battle of Jutland is an ample
illustration.
A double example of subserviency to monarchism and German valuation
of news was furnished by the marriage of Princess Victoria, the
Kaiser’s sister, to a Russian adventurer recently. The evening
edition of the Ullstein leading newspaper, the _Vossische Zeitung_,
sent a few words from Bonn saying the ceremony had taken place. When
I asked for the full report which I expected the Ullstein service
had prepared for its morning edition, the wire chief informed me he
had nothing because Germans were not interested in such trivial
events. (The paper contained 30,000 words of political bunkum the
next morning.) The Wolff Bureau stooped to soil its diplomatic
finger-tips with only a few words, and the entire rightwing or
monarchist-nationalist press suppressed all mention of the high
event. British and American correspondents, however, had cabled
thousands of words about the amazing marriage.
Official censorship in Germany was maintained during the Kapp
monarchist revolution with Trebitsch-Lincoln in charge. During the
entire period of the republic, however, only one attempt was made to
censor us. Some minor general or colonel in the war department gave
orders to the telegraph office to return all cables except the
official one, which contained the word “Kuestrin.”
This fort, dominating Berlin, had been occupied by the so-called
“Black Reichswehr” or illegal monarchist soldiers who had smuggled
themselves, frequently with the tacit approval of the regular
Reichswehr, into the national army. When they seized Kuestrin
Germany was in danger. Moreover, if the truth got out there would be
a big exposure of monarchist intrigue. So the order to suppress was
given, illegally.
The office boys brought the telegrams back with the report that the
word “Kuestrin” could not go. A test soon proved that ambiguous
dispatches without the word were accepted. Carl Groat of the _United
Press_ wrote a 500-word description of a ball game between the Black
team and the Regulars. His “Home run” was cleverly deciphered as a
dash for home by the besieged monarchists, and his four men struck
out as four killed. In terms of baseball games, poker games, and
just plain American slang it was possible to put over the story the
same day, a necessity, because our protest to the foreign office had
to go “through channels” and the censorship was not removed until
the following day.
Officially the press has remained free in Germany. No Bismarck
issues ukases, no Kaiser suppresses editions, and the foreign
journalist may print all the facts he can find. But a power stronger
than Bismarck and the Kaiser has completely dominated the German
press and grows more absolute every day. It is the Dawes-created
gold mark.
* * * * *
_The New German Tea-Party Censorship_
The armistice marked the end of the old German propaganda machine
and censorship. From that day to the present, barring stray
incidents like the monarchist revolution in 1920, the battle of Fort
Kuestrin and an occasional “disappearance” of telegrams from the
post office, Germany has been a land of almost absolute freedom. It
is only lately that the big propaganda funds have been revived and
that an attempt to control foreign correspondents has been made.
The term “propaganda” has not the sinister significance in Europe
which it has acquired in America (due, no doubt, to its conjunction
with the adjective “German”). The missionary activities of the Roman
Catholic Church come under the heading of “Propaganda Fide,” or
propagation of the faith, and in European business offices the word
means advertising or boosting generally. But the Germans have the
acuteness to realize that their propaganda was almost as odious as
the Bolshevik, so they leaned over backwards, just after the war,
and leaned so far back they must have fallen and hurt themselves.
For years they did nothing.
But today there is a secret propaganda fund in every ministry, a
total of at least $5,000,000 a year spent at home and abroad. Some
of it goes to spreading travel literature, some to subsidizing
films, some to entertaining distinguished foreigners, senators,
Mayor Walker, Chicago Subway Commission junketeers, visiting
journalists and book writers, German-American editors, bankers,
Steuben Society leaders, student travel groups, in fact anyone who
will say a good word for the country.
About $750,000 a year is spent by Germany to maintain news services
and to broadcast news favourably tinged “an Alle,” to all who care
to listen in. The foreign office alone spends $2,000,000 a year. One
hundred thousand dollars a year is spent merely for the transmission
of government views on international diplomatic events to the
interior newspapers, and the chancellor gets $500,000 annually for
domestic propaganda.
These yearly millions are never accounted for in the reports to the
Reichstag. Recently there was a considerable scandal when it was
discovered that not only were $3,000,000 wasted by the war ministry
in subventioning German film companies, but that one company making
military propaganda films (The Phoebus) had been influenced by the
war ministry to give a decided monarchist-militarist tone to the
productions.
From 1920 to 1925 the German foreign office did nothing to influence
the American and other foreign correspondents assigned to them.
Officials were so chary of being accused of making propaganda that
it was really difficult for the journalists to get necessary aid for
their work. The foreign office maintained its staff of “referents,”
one for America, another for Britain, etc., who sometimes listened
to a request for an interview with a national minister and who
frequently helped in visa and income tax troubles, but while the
nation was wailing “_Armes Deutschland_,” “poor Germany,” and the
public prints were full of propaganda about defencelessness, Polish
and French aggression, the dangers of Bolshevik invasion, the
futility of the Dawes plan, the necessity of more troops and ships,
the plebescite scandals—all these years the gentlemen of the foreign
office maintained a cold neutrality in dealing with the foreign
press.
But as Germany grew stronger, and jealousy for her sovereignty
increased, and she became a member of the League of Nations, and her
money hardened and she felt more like her old self again, she began
being friendlier and at the same time stricter with her journalistic
guests.
In 1924 the Association of Foreign Journalists asked for a weekly
meeting with officials of the Wilhelmstrasse, similar to those which
President Roosevelt instituted and which his successors have
retained, and this was granted. Later on the F. O. announced a few
“beer evenings” which were successful. At the Friday noon meetings
the foreign minister was present frequently and many questions were
answered. Usually some expert from some department would then make a
speech giving facts and figures and, naturally, a few points of
propaganda.
Nowadays there are teas every Friday afternoon. Between tea and beer
and cigarettes it is possible to meet Mr. Stresemann for a little
talk, and it is also possible to get a reprimand from an official in
the same manner as American newspapermen are diplomatically
reprimanded by officials of the Quai d’Orsay and Downing Street.
Returning to Germany recently after a year in the Near East and
three months in Mexico, I was surprised by what is considered the
miracle of Europe, the economic renaissance of Germany.
Simultaneously two obviously foreign office inspired campaigns were
started, one against the “_Kriegsschuld Lüge_,” of the alleged lie
that Germany was _solely_ responsible for the war, the other against
the possibility of fulfilment of the Dawes plan. The first was
important because the entire Versailles Treaty is based on the
supposition that Germany alone, and not Russia or Serbia, is guilty;
the second was another effort of Germany’s industrial kings to
relieve themselves of a terrific financial burden which they have
shifted almost entirely on to the industrial labouring classes but
which nevertheless cuts into their excess profits.
It was evident that the labour movement in Germany which had been
stopped by a flood of blood, then bad paper money, was again
beginning to progress. Dissatisfaction was rumored from the coal
fields and the foundries. Unemployment, lockouts and threats of big
strikes were reported daily. For all these manifestations of unrest
the big employers’ press blamed the Dawes plan. Duisberg and
Hugenberg, heads of manufacturers’ associations, trusts and their
allied newspaper and news-agency chains, were speaking and writing
against the Dawes plan, pleading for revision and prophesying ruin
and disaster unless relief came soon.
I made an investigation. From American trade and consular agencies I
obtained statistics showing that Germany was prosperous, business
was splendid, unemployment was diminishing not increasing, many
manufacturers were growing rich and the old international trick of
selling high at home and cheap abroad to gain foreign markets was
being played with success against Great Britain and the United
States.
Manufactured goods were too expensive in Germany; so was food.
Oppressive taxes had been put upon the peasants and the old Junkers
were treating their tenant farmers with their accustomed pre-war
cruelty. Coal miners were being forced to work the ten, eleven and
twelve hour day for about $1.60 a day. Labour was angry because
wages were lower in proportion to the cost of living than before the
war. The docile, disciplined, extremely intelligent German
workingman nevertheless had succumbed to the Duisberg-Hardenberg
propaganda and the false patriotism which has been fed him since the
war.
“You must work ten hours a day,” Hugo Stinnes had told labour,
“eight hours for yourself, two hours for the Vaterland,” and they
were working two hours supposedly for the Vaterland while the
employers were pocketing the extra two hours’ profits.
Councillor Duisberg addressing the National Manufacturers’
Association in Frankfurt had said: “Seventy per cent. of Germany’s
companies are showing no profit this year.” Investigation showed
that this was a half-truth. The thirty per cent. which did pay
dividends were the big corporations, the trusts, which control
almost 90 per cent. of Germany’s invested capital, and the profits
were 11 per cent. gross of which 5-1/2 per cent. was distributed in
dividends.
Moreover, investigation, confirmed by American officials, showed
that a practise begun during the inflation period has been
continued, namely, amortizing plant, offices and machinery, in an
unusual way. During the inflation, it may be remembered, big
factories and even banks wrote their buildings off at one paper mark
when the mark was quintillions to the dollar. Today millions which
should go to stockholders go back to the corporation funds and
plants worth millions appear valued at one mark. The lack of
dividends is blamed on Messrs. Young and Dawes.
By paying $1.60 for a ten hour day German coal and steel interests
are able to sell their products cheaper in Pittsburgh than the mills
of the Monongahela and Allegheny can produce them. Because England
had refused to join the Steel Kartel of Germany, France, Luxembourg
and Belgium, the German interests had no hesitancy in undercutting
Britain in South America, the East, and sometimes in the British
Colonies. But at home high prices are maintained and protected by a
tariff wall.
No big estates are being divided in Germany. The Junkers hold them
and grow richer, while the British lords who won the war have to
sell and divide into small holdings.
The day of the squandering American is gone. In Berlin only the
German can afford Berlin prices. The man who puts a spoonful of
caviar (at $2. a spoonful) upon each of a dozen oysters (at $4. a
dozen) is a German industrial baron, not an American tourist. The
theatres, the cabarets, the whole of the new Kurfürstendamm is
crowded not by foreigners, as in the old days, but wealthy Germans
who spend their money freely because they make it easily, abundantly
and frequently dishonestly.
Price American goods in Berlin; allow for 100 per cent. government
tax and 100 per cent. profits in handling, and they cost you still
more. But many German things made by men getting one fifth the wages
of American workingmen, and the materials costing one third as much,
raw, as in America, cost twice as much as in New York.
“The Dawes plan is to blame,” reply the industrial kings of Germany.
The trade and consular agents think differently. So do newspapermen.
And I have found one German industrialist who has confessed.
“We are making excessive profits,” admitted Herr Arnold Rechberg to
me one day. “We do not pay anywhere near American wages and we ask
more than American prices. We made profits by the hundred per cents.
during the war and we make them now. Everyone who can is a
profiteer. And the profiteers control the government, so all goes
without a hitch.”
The Dawes plan may have to be revised some day, or it may work out
without changing a comma’s dot. I do not know. But I do know that up
to this present writing the Dawes plan has worked out so well that
Germany has become one of the few economically successful nations of
the world.
And I also know that big business in Germany is using the Dawes plan
as a spectre with which to frighten the little bourgeoisie and big
labour.
Industrial exploitation of its workingmen, savage and sinister, and
on a scale unheard of under the Kaisers, is the new system in
Germany. While the old spirit of revolt which flared up during the
week when Ludendorff and Wilhelm fled, and later nobly to save the
Republic from Kapp and Ludendorff in 1920, has been tamed by talk of
patriotism and Dawes payments. The vast Hugenberg press machinery,
all the agencies of propaganda, and all the government powers
concentrated largely in the hands of the parties openly admitting
themselves political parties owned by the owners of commerce and
industry, have succeeded in crushing the new spirit in Germany—all
in the name of patriotism and the Dawes plan.
* * * * * *
The last, you may notice, is somewhat editorial. Editorials are not
entrusted to reporters: he must cable only facts. I cabled some
facts, consular statements, figures of profits and wages, figures
showing that the Dawes plan was not to blame for starvation wages
and the high cost of living. Then a Friday came and I was invited to
the foreign office to tea. I do not like tea. Next Friday I was
invited with some insistency, and I went.
As I said before, there is no censorship in Germany even though its
stepbrother, propaganda, has been revived. But my “errors” were
pointed out to me. Diplomatically. Just the way the Quai d’Orsay and
Downing Street do it.
I was told my facts and figures were wrong, and that Germany was
really suffering because of the drain of money and materials caused
by carrying out the Dawes plan. I was told the crisis was coming and
that low wages and the high cost of living were due to it. I was
told the squandering new German millionaires were exceptions. It was
a tea party and all this propaganda was offered in a gentle way.
But sometimes the iron fist can be seen reappearing. For example, a
colleague obtained a letter which Hindenburg sent his friend and ex-
master, the recluse of Doorn. In it the president discussed the
relation of the Kaiser to the new German constitution, the Kaiser’s
former holdings in Germany, and counselled him to give up certain of
his claims so that political peace might be restored internally.
The Wilhelmstrasse was badly upset by the publication of this
letter, and when the Friday tea came around the correspondent who
cabled it was told, by an official who tried his best to take the
edge off the threat by a smile, that “Germany is again a sovereign
nation, and newspapermen can be expelled whenever the government is
dissatisfied with their work.”
No doubt German sovereignty has been fully restored. Soon it may
reach the brilliance of Wilhelm’s time. It may even become bold
enough to re-establish open censorship.
_Chapter IV_
“C’EST LA GUERRE”
They were going to hang the Kaiser. Lloyd George proclaimed it, the
British electorate approved it, France seconded the motion, and
America applauded, because hatred of Germany, worked up by years of
propaganda, had not yet relapsed. Today there has been such a
reversal of opinion in many countries that if one mentions war guilt
and war atrocities he is received with incredulous laughter. Were
prisoners ever killed? Were wounded ever murdered on the
battlefield? Were survivors in open boats ever massacred? By
Germans? “Wartime propaganda; newspaper-made hatred,” is the reply.
What follows here is legal evidence before the Supreme Court of
Germany, without explanation or comment. Almost three years had
elapsed since the armistice had been signed, and a fairer attitude
was possible. Like many other Americans disillusioned by the peace
conference I came to Leipzig prepared to hear Germany vindicated of
all charges of cruelty and barbarism in her conduct of the war. The
trials were a shock to me. I did my best to report them fully. So
did twenty other British and American journalists. But although the
Germans did not censor us, our reports had no effect. In many
European countries they were not printed. Foreign offices wanted to
forget the war for purely political opportunist reasons.
The Allies had prepared a list of 886 names of Entente diplomatic
and military leaders whom they had branded as “war criminals.”
Kaiser Wilhelm’s name led all the rest. Ludendorff and Tirpitz
followed and various Schultzes and Schmidts concluded it. Once
before in history an emperor and generalissimo had been named outlaw
and banished. Kaiser Wilhelm was now to pay with his life on the
scaffold. (Napoleon had been murdered by climate.)
The German minister of justice made a declaration: “The list has
dwindled,” he said, “to forty-five cases of which eight have been
prepared for trial. But we can call only four cases because of the
deaths and disappearances of the accused. The years have gone by,
bringing difficulties in obtaining evidence and hatreds have
cooled.”
The United States, Italy and Serbia had either failed or refused to
make accusations. There was to be no Lusitania case nor were Belgian
horrors, such as had stirred the hearts of the world in 1914, to be
discussed. No Cavell case, no Fryatt case, no Louvain case. We
thought at first there would be nothing to write about.
* * * * * *
In the magnificent sedate court room of the palace of justice at
Leipzig seven judges clad in purple velvet robes entered. They wore
purple velvet hats such as artists wear in old portraits of
themselves, starched, white, lacy neckwear and stiff white collars
and cuffs, like a “portrait of a gentleman” by Van Dyck or Hals.
Young men and old. Prussian and Bavarian in type. All dignified and
austere.
In German courts justice evidently proceeds with eyes unbandaged and
ears alert. The only similarity to an American court proceeding is
the administration of the oath. “Do you swear by Almighty God that
the evidence you will give in this case will be the whole truth?”
the court quotes, and everyone stands. The witness raises his right
hand. No Bible is used. The Supreme Court justice then begins a
conversation with the witness—it cannot be called cross-examination.
He does not ask, he tells the witness his name, age, occupation, to
which the witness assents by a shake of the head. Hearsay evidence
is taken for what it is worth; anyone’s opinion is accepted, and
third-hand statements are listened to without protest.
Nobody objects, nobody quibbles, nobody engages in heated arguments
about a technicality of law; no law books are consulted for
precedent. No attorney rises every minute to denounce evidence as
immaterial, irrelevant. No oratory is spilled to impress court or
jury. No one thunders for order. No witness is badgered or rocked by
cross-examination. There is no excitement, no sentimentality, no
emotion.
The president of the court conducts the trial as if it were a
private settlement in his own offices. When a witness mentions
someone who may be sitting in the audience or among those to be
called later, the court asks that person to rise and affirm or deny.
Once the accused shouted “liar” to a witness whereupon the judge
without objecting to the interruption mentioned the fact that the
court room was no place for personalities which might result in a
libel suit.
The British and French legal missions completely agreed with this
“family affair” manner of interpreting the law and administering
justice. But the American lawyer who sat as an observer said it
would never do.
Karl Heinen was called.
“This soldier,” said a member of the British legal mission,
sardonically, “will go down in history as the man who took the
Kaiser’s place.” They had come to try the Kaiser and had to content
themselves with a little sergeant, a wine-barrel maker by trade, who
had passed the war at a prison camp for British. Heinen was accused
of beating prisoners and throwing stones at them. He admitted the
charges, saying he had acted under orders. I managed to have a
private interview one day with this Kaiser’s scapegoat. He said:
“It certainly looks dark for me but I have nothing on my conscience.
I acted as a soldier whose highest duty is to carry out orders from
his superior. If the court can understand military discipline I will
be freed.”
Prussian militarism in the person of General Fransecky, commander-
in-chief of all war prison camps, rose to defend the brutal system.
“The accused was too kind. He should have fired on the prisoners,”
he testified. He called Heinen a capable, efficient, obedient
soldier who carried out his orders faithfully. “The prisoners were
at fault—they were collectively disobedient.”
Major General Karl Stenger, commander of the 18th Baden Infantry
Brigade was the second “war criminal” on trial. He was accused of
murdering wounded prisoners. Before a crowded court room which was
breathlessly impressed by the fact that a real general was on trial
for an atrocity, the scene of the crime was reconstructed. Major
Benno Crusius was co-defendant.
The first witness testified that General Stenger had held a council
before battle and had given the following order:
“In the coming battle, remember, there is to be no mercy shown, no
prisoners will be taken, no wounded are to be left alive on the
field.”
On August 26, 1914, Crusius (then captain) with Major Mueller and a
sergeant making an inspection of the battle field (so ran the
evidence) passed a seemingly dead soldier. Major Mueller kicked him.
The Frenchman opened his eyes and groaned. “Shoot him” ordered
Mueller and passed on. The sergeant shot the wounded Frenchman.
A little further away the party came upon a sight now made familiar
by our post-war movies. Two enemies were sharing their scanty
rations. The German soldier was pouring coffee into the tin cup of a
wounded French soldier who had previously supplied some cigarettes.
The two were smiling at their difficulties in conversation. Major
Mueller flamed red. “Doesn’t he know General Stenger’s order to kill
all prisoners,” he shouted to Crusius, who repeated to the
fraternizing German. The Frenchman understood the tenor of the order
and began pleading for his life. “Have this man killed immediately,”
ordered the major. “Mercy, mercy,” cried the French soldier. The
Germans waved him away. The Frenchman was on his knees. He clutched
the feet of Crusius praying, weeping, hysterical. The Germans shoved
him away and ordered the murder. They remained to see it done.
“It was in accordance with orders from General Stenger,” said Major
Crusius.
Chief Justice Ebermeyer interrupted:
“While the authorship of the murder-order is in question,” he said,
“there is now no doubt that such order was given and carried out, as
reported by the French G. H. Q.”
A medical officer testified that Major Crusius in his sleep
frequently called out, “God have mercy upon me for what I have done
on the battle field.” Here was testimony as sensational as a cheap
novel and a cheaper movie.
Witnesses testified that General Stenger had used the expression,
“Shoot them down like sparrows,” referring to French wounded. “Like
sparrows,” the judges repeated, shaking their heads sadly.
Crusius arose, a feeble, emaciated man dressed in a Prince Albert,
speaking in a thin shaky voice. If you closed your eyes you pictured
a human wreck. Open your eyes and see what a massive man he must
have been. Huge head, partly bald, partly shaved, hawkeyed,
hawknosed, thin lipped, two double chins, very flabby, two rows of
fat around his neck, like rubber tires, a big square head like a
bust of a Roman emperor. Massive. And out of this ancient strength
issued a broken voice falteringly. He had nothing to plead except
obeying military orders. Duty!
Alsatians, once soldiers of Germany, were the next witnesses. One of
them had heard Stenger give the order, “no prisoners, no wounded
alive.” Once before a German, the All-Highest, had given such a
command. When he wished his troops godspeed as they left for China
to quell the Boxer Rebellion, Kaiser Wilhelm, history records, had
said, “Quarter will not be given, prisoners will not be made.” Karl
Kleinhaus, now a clerk in Mulhausen, testified the company sergeant
major had read the brigade order before the assembled troops: “From
today on no more prisoners will be taken. Wounded will be
dispatched.”
“After the battle,” the Alsatian continued, “I saw a sergeant with
three prisoners pass by General Stenger. The latter ordered the
sergeant to execute the prisoners. The sergeant refused. ‘What shall
I do,’ said the general, ‘I can’t shoot them in front of the whole
staff.’ The prisoners were taken behind a barn. Shots were heard.”
It was at this point that the general shouted, “The witness is an
Alsatian liar,” but the taking of the Alsatian soldier’s testimony
proceeded.
Eugen Oberdorf, bricklayer, of Nettingen, recipient of the iron
cross from the Kaiser, “a good German soldier” as the court called
him, described the scene behind the barn.
“They were on their knees crying mercy. One said he was married. The
sergeant didn’t want to shoot them. But Stenger had given the orders
direct.”
Francis Xavier Schwerer, now a petty official in Strassbourg,
testified: “I myself saw Major Crusius himself kill a wounded
Frenchman lying on the field near the road.” Joseph Dietsch of
Tagsdorf, Alsace, swore that Colonel Neubauer addressed to his
officers the order: “No prisoners will be taken. Shoot the Frenchmen
down as swine.”
General Stenger was found not guilty and Major Crusius was sentenced
to two years’ imprisonment. The French legal mission quit Leipzig.
The court then took up the subject of submarine frightfulness, the
result of a policy openly announced by Tirpitz.
Lieutenant Boldt and Lieutenant Dithmar of the U-86, off the coast
of Ireland in June, 1918, sank the hospital ship _Llandovery
Castle_. They refused to testify, saying that the officers and men
of the submarine had taken an oath never to speak about the
atrocity.
Second Officer Thapman of the British ship was the principal
witness. He testified there were eight American doctors on board who
were probably mistaken for military by the Germans. After the ship
sank the personnel took to the life-boats. Lieutenants Boldt and
Dithmar then gave the order to murder all the survivors. Fourteen
three-inch shells were fired against Thapman’s life-boat. When
German sailors attempted to help the wounded, Thapman testified, the
German commander, with two revolvers, fired on his own men to
prevent rescue. The U-86 was ordered to ram the life-boats which
were filled with women nurses, the American doctors, and many
wounded. Five boats were sunk and all on board drowned. Several
life-boats which escaped shell-firing and ramming were attacked by
the submarine in a series of narrowing circles, at one time coming
within twenty-four inches of Thapman’s boat. Still he escaped.
German witnesses declared the U-86 was commanded by Captain Patzig.
“Where is Patzig—why isn’t he on trial?” the court asked.
“Because he is hiding probably in Danzig,” the witness replied.
Lieutenant Johann Boldt then spoke up. “Captain Patzig,” he said,
“sank the American transport _Cincinnati_, thereby preventing the
landing of an additional 32,000 American troops monthly, and earning
the gratitude of our fatherland. I am proud I served under Captain
Patzig. If every U-boat commander had been as good as Patzig, the
war would have ended differently.”
German sailors then testified they received the order: “_versenket
spurlos_,”—sink without trace, after their officers realized they
had torpedoed a hospital ship. They were guided by the proverb “Dead
men tell no tales.” “Unmindful of the cries of the wounded and the
appeal for mercy from the women, the officers ordered us to fire
shells into the life-boats until all human beings were dead. We did
not want to do this dirty work for our officers. Dithmar and Patzig
had a dramatic interview which amounted to mutiny but Patzig
dominated.”
“After the slaughter was over—we did not realize we had missed a
boat—Captain Patzig called a meeting of the crew.”
“‘You know what has happened,’ he said, ‘I order silence. I take
responsibility. I alone shall answer before my God.’”
Thus did German sailors weave a fine hangman’s noose for their
former officers. But in the afternoon a remarkable incident
occurred, made possible only by German court procedure—or rather
lack of procedure rules. Twenty German officers and seamen appeared
to testify to British naval atrocities. They concentrated on the
famous _Baralong_ case. The _Baralong_, they said, was a British
war-ship, disguised as a freighter, and flying the American flag. It
sent out fishing vessels as decoys and trapped the U-31. Officers
and men testified the _Baralong_ refused to rescue the Germans in
the water.
The British legal mission made no protest to the introduction of
this case.
Admiral von Trotha, chief of the naval staff, was called as an
“impartial expert.” He defended Boldt and Dithmar. “I honor the
German submarine officers,” he said, “and place them higher than
myself.”
Chief Justice Ebermeyer: “Why did the two officers refuse to give
testimony?”
Admiral von Trotha: “They are pledged to obey and remain silent. I
honour their keeping their word to their superior officer.”
Furthermore, testified the chief of the naval staff, the two
officers had acted in “fatherlandish fashion” when they torpedoed
the _Llandovery Castle_. He described the “terrible life” aboard
submarines. “Our U-boat officers were under great mental strain,” he
concluded.
Another witness said: “Lieutenant Boldt was an excellent officer, a
student of philosophy and the Christian religion.”
The Chief Justice in summing up the case said:
“Where is this Captain Patzig who boasts he did the fatherland a
great service by torpedoing the American transport _Cincinnati_? Why
doesn’t this brave man appear? Why does he leave subordinates to
face the charge of sinking a hospital ship? Why doesn’t he come out
of hiding?”
The next day the court decided the two lieutenants were to serve
four years in jail. Dithmar was cashiered. Boldt was forbidden to
wear the naval uniform again.
The two officers arose like two pieces of military clock-work, heard
the verdict, and sat down.
The court called the sentences severe. The British mission said they
were trifling for proven murder. As the court adjourned a deputation
of naval officers rushed into the room, surrounded the convicted
officers, cheered and congratulated them on their keeping silent
about the atrocity.
* * * * * *
So ended the world-heralded war criminals cases.
The Kaiser remained in Doorn getting his three square meals a day
and writing childish defences of himself; Hindenburg became
president of Germany; Tirpitz went to the Reichstag amidst the
hooting of naval whistles; Ludendorff blamed his defeat in
successive years on the Socialists, the Jesuits, the Jews, the
Freemasons, the Protestants and tried to re-establish the religion
of Wotan and Loki; General Hoffman who forced the peace of Brest-
Litovsk tried for years to organize an army of German soldiers,
French guns and American money to conquer Russia, and, failing,
died. Patzig was never found.
Napoleon, you see, was not a royal person—not even a nobleman. He
was exiled. But the Hohenzollerns are a ruling family closely
connected with every court in Europe. The diplomats who started the
war, of course, enjoy traditional diplomatic immunity. “Hang the
Kaiser,” was Lloyd George’s slogan for campaign purposes only. It
would never do to hang a king. So after all, none of the kings of
Europe nor the old diplomacy were greatly excited when Lieutenants
Boldt and Dithmar escaped from prison a few months later.
_Chapter V_
CENSORSHIP BY CIRCUMSTANCE OR THE REVOLUTION IN VIENNA
The amazing revolution of July 15 and 16, 1927, in Vienna, produced
for the American newspaperman a new problem: how to fight the
censorship of circumstance.
Ever since the division of the old Empire into the Succession
States, Austria had been free from press control, in fact a haven
for those coming from the white terror in Budapest or the Bratianu
terror in Bucharest or the green terror in Sofia. But at seven
o’clock on the evening of the July uprising, a general strike was
called, the radio, telegraphs, mails, trains, automobiles—every
means of international communications ceased to function, and while
blood flowed and men died we were held _incommunicado_.
The morning of July 15 saw thousands of men and women marching
cheerfully into the Ring. The night before, a verdict had been given
by the court in the case of three men accused of firing into a
parade at Schattendorf, in the Burgenland, that small piece of
Hungary which was awarded Austria when the former nation was turned
into an international allotment. In Schattendorf, the preceding
January, labour had held a demonstration. As it passed an inn
someone fired a rifle, killing a child and wounding an already
wounded war veteran.
Three men were arrested and admitted the shooting. But the case had
its national and international complications. The Socialists
demanded revenge because they had organized the parade and the
murderers were acknowledged reactionaries. The Burgenland, however,
has been a weak spot in the Austrian national entity, and as the
trial had become the big political event of the day the government
was faced with a possible uprising if the verdict went against the
three citizens of Schattendorf.
Accordingly pressure was brought on the courts to free the accused,
one of whom undoubtedly was the murderer. The government, it seems,
preferred trouble in Vienna to trouble in the new province. So the
court gave the decision “Not guilty.”
Not much tinder and flint for revolution, so it seemed to the
foreign representatives of the press who contented themselves with a
dozen-word cable giving the verdict merely as a matter of record
because they had previously sent sensational descriptions of the
shooting. Yet the next morning, spontaneously, without even the
usual orders from organizations or the distribution of broadsides or
banners, the revolution was on. The mob had fermented. The mob,
which Victor Hugo says is “the human race in misery,” had come out
of its hovels and its workshops, and flung its misery in the face of
law and order.
* * * * * *
From a window of the Grand Hotel I saw them endlessly marching. They
had no leaders and carried no flags. But they shouted:
“_Nieder mit die Hure Justizia, Nieder, nieder nieder._”
“_Nieder mit die Hure Justizia, Nieder Huren Justiz._”
At the Opera there was a turning. From my balcony I could see crowds
converging on the Parliament Palace. I walked on the outskirts of
the loosely formed line. How good-natured this mob was. So different
from German mobs which I had seen time after time engage in
demonstrations and rioting ever since the day of the revolution
outside the railroad station in Cassel during the week of the
armistice. There were pleasant Austrian faces, sweet Viennese faces.
None of that Prussian brutality, it seemed, but more of the
universal kindliness of Southern people. Some ate sandwiches and
many a joke was passed along the line.
At Parliament a thin green row of police kept the mob off the
incline leading to the main portal. As the mob had no leaders the
police argued with the men and women nearest them, and sent groups
circulating. So hours passed. July heat, excitement and empty
stomachs began their work. Soon three ambulances were brazenly
pushing through the loose twenty thousand and gathering those who
had fainted. This added a small intensity to the morning, hundreds
milling around the ambulances. Street vendors appeared with cold
drinks and cheap ice-cream—10 groschen, 1.4 cents, for a teaspoonful
of ice-cream handed out on a piece of paper or a pastry container.
The vendors did a grand business.
At 10:30 o’clock it was a picnic, not a revolution.
But there was tension in the air. You felt it instinctively. I
actually heard men say, “Something will happen—something must
happen,” ominously. Just to look at thirty thousand men and women
pushing around and yelling, “Down with the prostitute, Justice,” was
to realize that danger impended.
Then two or three men began to run. Who they were, why they ran, is
a mystery; they themselves probably could not explain; but
immediately there was a rush of at least 5,000. It was like an ocean
wave which threatens for a while to beat down ships or rocks but
dissipates itself and hardly troubles the peaceful beach far away.
At exactly eleven o’clock about two hundred mounted police could be
seen riding up a side street towards Parliament. Immediately the
crowd was all in movement. No one wanted trouble. The nearer the
horses came, the more agitated grew the mob, the quicker the
movement was away from Parliament.
And then a handful of Moscow’s trained men took hold of the crowd
and tightened it. Revolvers and knives appeared in their hands—they
were no more than 200 but they had the words of leadership. A shout
went up.
“Death to the police.”
Men in green uniform, unprotected by numbers, became the victims of
the communist-led mob. As I walked up the Ring and turned into
Bellariastrasse, where the museum is, I saw five or six men beat
down and trample a white moustached, elderly policeman, tear off his
green coat, hang it on an electric light post, and kick their heels
into the middle of his sword until it bent. Far up Bellaria street
the mounted police were riding faster.
They came down hill towards the Ring in a clattering fury, each man
drawing his sword and waving it over his head like a Bedouin on the
war-path. The spurred horses, crowded by sidewalks and fences,
huddled and flew like a dark stream through a broken dike. A cry of
fury and despair, inarticulate, mingled with the surge and crash of
descending cavalry; the mob turned and fled, dividing into equal
streams, one up, one down the Ring. A dozen communists launched
stones and knives at the police then tried to join the fleeing.
The two hundred cavalry poured into the Ring. They rode so fast they
could not rein their horses as they faced the iron fence of the
royal park which is at the foot of Bellaria street. Horses barged
into each other. Horsemen had their feet crushed and yelled in pain.
The sword fell from one police official’s hand. There was confusion.
I had fled with the mob down Bellaria street, taking refuge in a
door-way of a house on the Ring to the left. The mounted police saw
the mob running both to the right and to the left. They turned right
and rode towards the Opera. One horseman remained behind, his animal
injured, limping. He was attacked by at least a hundred, his clothes
torn from his body and his horse led in triumph through the mob,
like an emblem of a conquest through the streets of Rome.
I went up Bellariastrasse to view the havoc of the charge. But there
was none. Not a shot had been fired nor had a single head been cut
by a sabre during the charge. A few stones lay on the sidewalk and
in the museum’s hedge was the bent sword of the first victim of the
revolution. I was dressed in a new suit of clothes, newest cut, grey
with a blue stripe, and wore the straw hat I had just brought from
New York. To these clothes I owe my life.
Four or five Communists seized me, cursing and yelling at me. Before
I could utter an astonished “What” one of them had placed a sickle
around my throat. They yelled at me as if I was an audience the size
of a Yale-Harvard game. Then as suddenly the sickle was pulled out
of the hand of the man who held it by another who outshouted him
with, “Can’t you see by his clothes that he is a foreigner. Leave
him alone.”
Led by a girl with wild eyes, wild hair, a wild voice and wild
gestures, another crowd, unmindful of the police which were engaged
in dispersing the mob near the Opera, moved towards the Palace of
Justice repeating the “Nieder mit die Hure Justizia.” A few
policemen stood outside the door trying to argue. But the crowd
began pushing furiously, the yelling increased, stones were thrown,
and as the police were driven into the building, the girl leader and
some companions, all under twenty, followed them through the door.
Hundreds overran the police. Windows were raised or smashed by the
hasty. A score of little officials, grey and bald and docile,
disturbed at their work among two millions of legal papers, pushed
their fearful way through the delirious crowd and escaped. Soon the
girl leader appeared at a window. She held in each hand a bundle of
documents, probably mortgages or deeds, fixed with seals and tied
with red tape. These she threw to the mob.
Again she appeared, this time her face contorted as with anger or
laughter, and, undoing the red tape, she threw the loosened
documents to the wind. Some fell heavily; light papers fluttered and
cut airplane figures while men and women fought on their toes for
them.
Someone struck a match and lighted a bundle of documents on the
marble steps of the Palace of Justice. A thin smoke pillar arose and
a cheer went up. From five or six windows other girls and boys began
throwing bundles of legal papers, which were added to the small
blaze, so that flames could now be seen all the way to the museum. A
wind arose and scattered thousands of flaming papers, thousands of
half-charred ones, throughout the neighbourhood. They rose and fell
and filled the air. Smoke and an acrid smell spread to all the
streets.
The fire on the steps now climbed the pillars. As the flames mounted
so did the passion of the mob. The girls who came to the windows
with more and more packets became more and more frenzied as they
beheld the flames grow until at last they just stood at the windows
with bundles in their arms, hair dishevelled, clothes torn, waving
their hands at the mob, leading it as a drunken conductor a crazy
orchestra.
Then one by one the figures disappeared from all the windows and for
a few minutes the roaring mob saw nothing but it heard the sound of
splintering wood and falling objects. The mob yelled for more legal
papers. It was rewarded by a burst of flame from several windows,
while the communist girl and boy leaders emerged from the main door-
way. They had set the archives on fire.
Suddenly horns tooted and bells clanged. Firemen came with ladders
and engines, pulling furiously at their bells while the thin mob on
the outskirts reluctantly made way. They tried to push through the
thick mob but the leaders at the fire on the main stairway gave them
orders to disband because they intended to destroy the Palace and
contents that day.
The firemen parked their machinery. The flames gained window after
window. The mob near by shouted. Further away from the fire it was
just a spectacle. Not only was ice-cream sold by street vendors but
also hot Frankfurter sandwiches with mustard and horse-radish.
At 1:30 a few hundred men clad in light green and carrying a sign,
“Workingmen’s Police Guard,” marched up with canes, saw the size of
the mob, scented its temper, and marched away again.
A little later, however, a motor-cycle came up a side street, was
stalled by pedestrians, started again, and backfired.
It banged once, twice, and again. A panic followed. At least five
thousand of the fifteen thousand engaged in destroying or watching
the destruction of the law courts, rushed headlong away from the
backfiring motor-cycle, shrieking and elbowing for dear life.
It was apparent to anyone who could stand there and escape mob
hysteria, that the mass was enjoying the beginning of the
revolution, but was unwilling to share in any violence, which was
entirely the work of the few communist leaders. The mass did not
care to risk bullets. The mass was ready to fly even when it mistook
backfiring for a machine-gun.
At exactly two o’clock the sound of a salvo was heard from the
direction of the Parliament building. It was followed by salvo after
salvo. With the exception of the leaders and a hundred or two whom
excitement had won over to them, the entire 15,000 at the Palace of
Justice joined with the 25,000 or 30,000 in the Ring and around
Parliament, in flight in any direction which promised safety from
bullets. The police rode after this fleeing mob and shot men and
women down. Where there was resistance there was a battle; where it
was merely overtaking them it was a massacre.
A wheel chair with a legless veteran was upset. Women ran so fast
that they dragged their children almost off the ground. The ice-
cream man was caught and forced to abandon his cart, which was
overturned. Oranges and apples were sent rolling away and crushed
underfoot.
Still the shooting continued. It was easy for the men on horseback
to catch up with the mob which was filling every street, and to
shoot into it. In one instance a squad was driving a crowd into a
street from one end while another squad came up from the other. The
two crowds collided and halted. The police suspected resistance.
They opened fire. Eighteen of the hundred and one dead and more than
a hundred of the seven hundred wounded were taken from this street.
I ran with the rest. Up near the Opera I made a detour of two miles
and came to the Parliament buildings and the Palace of Justice.
Outside Parliament I saw men lying in the middle of the street in
little huddles. The wounded were stumbling along. As one man passed
me I noticed blood was dripping from his clotted hair. He held his
hand to his head and drew it back to look at the blood streaming on
his fingers, sickeningly. Up and down the street mingled blood and
dung and dirt and the overturned fruit and food, ice-cream and
crushed oranges.
That night the revolution became earnest. The day had been spent on
entirely unnecessary bloodshed. The holiday mob, temporarily in the
hands of keen, quick Communists was ready to disperse at the sight
of mounted policemen, but the latter had taken their revenge for
injuries or the death of two or three of their number by
indiscriminate slaughter of fleeing people. But the resistance grew.
In the industrial workers’ wards the police stations were stormed
and police killed. Barricades and battles were reported from many
parts of Vienna.
* * * * * *
It was at this period of the day, when the force of the revolution
could not be judged, when the possibility of the establishment of a
red régime was actual, that we discovered ourselves cut off from the
world. We had witnessed an amazing spontaneous uprising but there
was no way of sending a word about it out of Vienna. It was worse
than any kind of official censorship, which can always be met by
compromise or evasion. For our enterprise it was a dead city.
Five years earlier, during a railroad strike, I had succeeded in
leaving the country by taking a street-car to Pressburg or
Bratislava as the Czecho-Slovaks now call their frontier city. Now
there were no street-cars nor automobiles for hire; but a colleague,
Navarre Atkinson of _The New York Times_, had just bought an
automobile. It was so new it should have been driven at thirty that
night. But we put on the limit.
It is less than a hundred good miles from Vienna to Bratislava. We
started without dinner thinking to dine well before midnight. But
troubles began before we left the city limits. Stones were thrown at
the car. Mobs blocked us with their bodies and cursed us. We tied
the American flag to the moto-meter and it helped in the city. But
scarcely had we entered the suburbs before armed guards stopped us
and insisted that we return.
“Nothing must move—absolute order of the Labour Unions,” the leader
of the first outpost of revolution said, and many times that night
it was repeated.
“This is the American ambassador and his aide,” I replied to each in
turn and exhibited the red passport with its gold seal impressively.
As Austria no longer has an American ambassador it was not really
false pretence—just plain swindle.
“I’ll let you through—but you’ll not pass beyond the next town,”
each revolutionary group leader said in turn.
Count the villages between the capital and the frontier, multiply by
two, and you have the number of our encounters with armed forces.
Not all of them were reds. Frequently we found the regular militia
in control of one town and another in the hands of the Heimwehr, the
peasant reactionary, illegal, secret, armed body which was
eventually to quell the revolution.
At one place an officer in green asked for a lift. We took him a few
miles, when he asked to get off and sank into a ditch mysteriously.
At the next cross-roads some reds at the point of bayonets
questioned us about our passenger and then started up the road to
shoot or capture him.
So it went until midnight. To those who claim it was a local Vienna
revolt, not a national revolution, I offer the foregoing testimony
to which can be added similar experiences of newspapermen who drove
in _via_ Lenz and other main roads. All Austria was up in arms.
At the frontier the Czechs refused to let our automobile in but were
kind enough to telephone for a taxi. We rode to the telegraph office
and filed dispatches. Press privileges were refused us so the cost
was enormous. We then tried to telephone to Berlin and found that
one hotel porter had a monopoly on long distance calls and he was
out of town. We returned to the post office to see how our telegrams
were faring.
“I’ve got 40,000 words ahead of you now, all from local editors
writing in German,” said the official, “and when Prag sends me
relief tomorrow I will be able to move your telegrams in three or
four days.”
Bribery did not avail.
Another impasse worse than censorship.
Then another little accident from which world scoops are born. On
the street we asked directions from a little Hungarian-Jewish
clothing shopkeeper. He seemed sympathetic and we were glad to pour
our tale of woe into any willing ear. This man had missed his
calling. If ever there was a born reporter it was this shopkeeper
whose name we never learned and whose kindness we never repaid. He
leaped into the fray. For hours he fought for us, precious hours
narrowing quickly to the zero American press time. He overcame the
recalcitrant Czeckish central with threats and promises—and he got
us three minutes on the Berlin wire.
Then a new struggle began. In three minutes it was not possible to
dictate more than ten words. To get another three minutes we had to
put in another call which was granted us when the Prag-Berlin line
was not busy.
Between one and four in the morning Atkinson and I were able to get
twenty-two calls, sixty-six minutes, in which time by spelling every
word at the top of our lungs while sweat and tears ran down our
faces and our voices grew hoarse or cracked or turned to a whisper,
we were able to telephone less than 1,000 words.
This is how we beat the censorship of circumstance.
We did this four nights. Each night it meant fighting the red and
green guards and the Heimwehr, the telegraph and the post office
officials of Czecho-Slovakia. We went without sleep and food most of
the time. On the fourth night, returning to Vienna when the frontier
reopened at five in the morning we both fell asleep in the
car—Atkinson was driving—and rolled off the road into a ditch.
A week later, when the revolution and the general strike had been
broken, due to the Heimwehr from all the anti-socialist country-side
marching on Vienna, when the telegraph functioned again, each of us
got a radio from our American offices. Mine read:
“Good work. Thanks.”
_Chapter VI_
D’ANNUNZIO, OR THE BOW-LEGGED NAPOLEON
Fanfare. Alarums and excursions. Drums. Silence. Stretching of
necks. A crowd surges forward. Up the street comes the conventional
tramp, tramp, tramp of feet, an old sound forever filled with tight
joy. Only the Fiume children, Italian and Yugoslav alike, elbowed
out of the way by their elders, unable to see or enter into
excitement, make sacrilegious sounds while they play in the public
square behind the solid human line.
Heading the procession, an imperial twelve feet in front of generals
and admirals, marches a little man in the grey-green uniform of a
field marshal. He wears a monocle and white kid gloves. There is a
squinty smile on his face. He marches like a soldier but his feet
stick out to the right and left; he is terribly bow-legged and
ridiculous but his haughty head disregards his amazing toes.
Sometimes he salutes superciliously.
Master of _mise-en-scene_, Gabrielle d’Annunzio, commandant and
dictator of Fiume, coming to review the Dalmatian Legion, men who
had taken his romantic oath to fight and die for Fiume.
“Ayah, ayah, ayah! Alala!”
A group of black-fezzed boy soldiers near the reviewing stand shout
a greeting like an Indian war whoop. Youth applauds.
’Viva d’Annunzio! ’Viva ’Italia! ’Viva d’Annunzio!
Patriots, mostly freshly imported Italians in the Piazzo Dante
Alighieri, raise a shout.
The spiritual father of a later Fascismo and the reviver of yells
and salutes and other dead Roman claptrap, salutes again, bows,
deepens his mechanical smile, and walks bow-leggedly on inspection.
It is all very perfunctory. It is a holiday in Fiume, where nearly
every day is a holiday because trade and sea commerce are dead, and
all that can be celebrated is their funeral. But the crowd wants to
hear brass music, to see uniformed men walk in rows, to hear the
rhythm of discipline.
D’Annunzio, his inspection over, mounts the grand stand to show his
full glorious self to the mob and bask in its plaudits. The crowd
pushes forward more fiercely, the guards push back more fiercely,
the band in the square strikes up one of Sousa’s old marches, and
the parade is on.
First comes a colonel, with a company from a famous regiment. The
crowd recognizes both, recognizes them three times a week in fact,
and shouts:
“’Viva! ’Viva! ’Viva!”
Back in the square, glum Yugoslavs do not applaud or shout. They
dully flatter themselves that they for once have not succumbed to
mob psychology. They whisper treason.
“Does he want to frighten us with his tri-weekly soldiery?” says
one. “Now that even the pro-Italian city council has voted against
his staying any longer, and the last plebiscite has gone against him
three to one, he brings out more and more of his black-shirted
Arditi.”
“A wise man,” says another behind his hand, “to keep his soldiers
always on the alert, for they are his sole supporters nowadays.
Every civilian is against him.”
The troops march. The children, groping their way through forests of
feet, gain the street before their elders.
“Sinistra,” snap the commanders of companies.
As every company goes by all eyes turn to the left and fix on the
chief. When d’Annunzio is not saluting he is adjusting his monocle.
Ayah! Ayah! Ayah! Alala!
This time the marching companies, full throated, take up the yell
and it is repeated up and down the corso.
The little Arditi regiment comes along, shock troops in black fezzes
and black shirts, boys who are later to engage in riots and
disorders, the administration of castor oil to Socialists and the
establishment of Mussolini. They carry a regimental banner and an
Italian flag. Military salutes. I take off my hat, and looking
about, find I am the only civilian who has done so. It is a mystery.
There is a long break in the line. Then comes the Bersaglieri band.
The men are not marching, they are running at a good speed, but they
keep time as they run and they play music as they run. Even the
Yugoslavs cannot remain outside psychology, they too applaud and
their tongues stick in their mouths as they try to join the Italians
in a shout.
Full three companies of Bersaglieri follow on a rhythmic run. Their
officers, beautiful cock feathers waving in their helmets, pirouette
like so many Mordkins and Nijinskis. They actually seem to dance.
They run, whirl about in step, shout the “eyes left!” and whirl back
in step, saluting as they whirl by.
Alpini, cyclists, machine-gun companies with equipment, infantry,
Red Cross, artillery, follow, then the armoured cars, a lieutenant
with four bravery medals and a wooden leg, a cyclist with only one
arm, another who frees both hands and makes a flowing salute, an old
Garibaldi soldier wearing a blood-red shirt and a beard a foot long,
a long panorama of grey-green men and occasional touches of wild
colour.
They shout to him, they play to him, they salute him. The whited
sepulchre which once housed the soul of a poet and genius is filled
with egotistic satisfactions. He stands to the salute, a pale,
ruined Napoleon with bow-legs.
* * * * * *
The room was crowded with things. Pictures, statues, hangings,
purple drapings, pillows, a couch, too many chairs, a small carved
table, miscellaneous small furniture. He wore no monocle nor the
field marshal’s cap. He was almost obscenely bald.
I asked him many questions in bad French and he replied, apparently,
in dactylic hexameters. He discussed the poetry of Dante. I asked
him about the commerce of the port. Would he blow it up if the
Allies came to take it. He would, and so give his bones a
magnificent and romantic finale in flame and explosion. He spoke of
Ireland and India, Russia and Egypt, all the revolution and strife
in this world, but he never raised his voice or made a wild Italian
gesture. His voice was poetry, but there was no fire left in the old
purple poet.
“Fiume to be divided? Fiume to be a free city?” (he replied to a
suggestion) “Fiume would soon become a nest of traffickers, brokers,
usurers and political grafters. Her beautiful face carved by passion
and worn by tears would be abased like one of those faces that ape
out upon her civilly from the left shore of the Eneo. Her masculine
hand, held towards her country in the act of perpetual giving, would
be drawn back to the bag of thirty pieces of silver. She would
betray herself.”
He beheld himself not merely as the dictator of Fiume but the
Messianic leader of all the downtrodden peoples of the earth; he was
sure the banner he had raised in this small corner was rallying all
helpless and hopeless humanity from pole to pole.
“What if we perish in the ruins of Fiume,” he said softly. “The
spirit of our resistance will leap forth watchful and active. From
the dauntless Sinn Fein of Ireland to the red banner which in Egypt
unites the Crescent with the Cross, all the insurrections of the
spirit against the devourers of raw flesh, and against the
exploiters of weaponless peoples, will catch flame anew from our
sparks which fly afar.
“Our cause is the greatest and the most beautiful that today is
opposed to the dementia and to the vileness of the world. It extends
from Ireland to Egypt, from Russia to America, from Roumania to
India. It gathers together the white races and the coloured races,
reconciles the Gospel with the Koran, Christianity and Islam; rivets
in one sole will as many peoples as possess, in their bones and in
their arteries, salt and iron sufficient to feed action.
“We shall always be victorious. All the rebels of all races of
mankind will gather under our banners. And the weaponless shall be
armed. And violence will oppose violence. There shall be a new
crusade of all the poor and impoverished nations, of all poor men
and all free men, against the nations which usurp power and
accumulate riches, against predatory nations, against the caste of
usurers which yesterday made the profits of the war and today
profits by the peace, and we shall re-establish the true justice
which a cold and foolish man with a hammer borrowed from a former
German chancellor, crucified with fourteen nails.”
And so on.
This is how he spoke for an hour, and I could not hope to catch word
or rhythm, so I had his secretary prepare me a copy from
d’Annunzio’s dictation, and the poet must have known how good his
stuff was, for he used the same paragraphs in a public oration
later, and included some of them in a volume published in Fiume.
In parting d’Annunzio suggested that I interview Dr. Anton Grossich,
president of Fiume, who would state the case of a native son in
favour of Italy. I replied that I would do so, providing that I
coupled the interview with that of the leading native Yugoslav son.
This offended and puzzled the commandant because he shared, with
most Continental Europeans, the thought that pure objectivity by a
neutral foreign journalist meant giving only his own side of the
case. However he promised me immunity from his censorship bureau—a
promise which was not kept.
My visit to President Grossich led to a lot of trouble.
* * * * * *
He was a nice, sweet, kind, aged man who didn’t know what in the
world he was saying. He made enough damning admissions to ruin the
cause of d’Annunzio. Out of pure humanity I was easy with him. But
there was one actual fact I could not suppress. Grossich had
described to me the plebiscite in favour of d’Annunzio and the
Italian rule upon which all the military and the politicians were
trumpeting Italy’s claim to the disputed port.
“We won,” said Grossich. “It was a fair election. All the good
citizens were allowed to vote. Just before plebiscite day we cleared
out all the unfit elements, all the Socialists, workingmen, trouble
makers. We deported about five thousand of them.”
By a strange coincidence it seems that all the trouble makers,
Socialists and workingmen were the bulk of the possible Yugoslav
voters. With 5,000 deportations of the opposition the Italian forces
had put through an election under military terror which they claim
they had won by a small margin and which the Yugoslavs claim they
lost by a large margin.
Despite the censor, I was able to smuggle this fact through.
To obtain a Yugoslav spokesman was a difficult matter. I found many
but all feared bodily harm and imprisonment. One day, however, my
interpreter found a man who began by saying:
“My name is Timotheus Marinkovich. I am seventy-four years old and
have not long to live. Good. I will take the risk of dying in
d’Annunzio’s prison and let my name be used for a statement of the
Yugoslav case in Fiume.”
What he then said mattered much once, but nothing now.
I smuggled this interview through. Grossich’s plea for Italy and
Marinkovich’s plea for the S. H. S. Kingdom were printed side by
side.
My interpreter came and said: “Get out of the town at once.
D’Annunzio will shoot you if you don’t. He knows all about your
visit to Marinkovich, Marinkovich is in jail.”
I took the night train for Trieste. At a little half-way stop three
of d’Annunzio’s soldiers came searching for me. They insisted on my
returning to Fiume. I refused to go. Three of them punched me, then
seized my arms and legs and carried me and my baggage off the train.
The Italian travellers complained that the fuss had caused a delay
in schedule. (Trains in Italy could run on schedule even before the
_deus ex machina_ Mussolini.)
At the police station near the depot I stayed all night while they
sent a courier to Abazzia with the news of my arrest. Meanwhile I
had insisted on telegraphing to friends and the American consul in
Trieste. I also spoke menacingly of the American fleet blowing up
Fiume although every American in that part of the world knew that
America had been insulted and the consuls chased from Fiume by
d’Annunzio’s forces without much protest from the State Department.
At dawn a courier arrived and whispered. My belongings and passport
were returned to me. A train came along and I took it to Trieste.
There, a day later, I read the testimony in the trial of my Yugoslav
spokesman, my friend Marinkovich:
“I am seventy-four years old and have not long to live,” he told the
court. “Why should I take the risk of dying in d’Annunzio’s prisons
by letting my name be used for a statement of the Yugoslav case in
Fiume? I never saw the journalist in question....”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Note
Compound words hyphenated at a line or page break remain hyphenated
only if the preponderance of other instances are hyphenated midline.
Other words which appear both with and without hyphenation were
retained, except when a preponderance of other instances show the
intent.
Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected,
and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the
original.
18.9 mandated terr[orit/itor]ies Replaced.
69.13 the facts of censor[s]hip Inserted.
90.6 if the editors ment[i]on Inserted.
96.14 is published by syc[h]ophantic newspapers Removed.
105.17 The thou[s]and leaders Inserted.
110.9 in the Colos[s]eum Inserted.
129.17 a Fa[s]cist parade Inserted.
181.13 from Russia simultan[e]ously Inserted.
182.7 in alignment w[ti/it]h Bolshevism Transposed.
183.20 are fighting against Russia.[”] Added.
208.23 replied wi[t]h Inserted.
258.22 the National Gendarm[a/e]rie Replaced.
278.19 Under it a Legion[n]aire Inserted.
284i.5 the Foreign Legion at So[n/u]eida Replaced.
427.22 or boosting generally[.] Added.
434.22 peace m[i]ght be restored Inserted.
Document Transcriptions
p. 188 Top
AVIS
La présente carte de presse est délivrée sous réserve que
les farsses nouvelles ou les reportages tendantieux pourront donner
lieu non seulement à l’arrêt des télégrammes maís encore au retrait
de la carte de presse ellemême./.
p. 188 bottom
INSPECTION GÉNÉRALE DES POSTES ET TÉLÉGRAPHES DE LA SYRIE, DU GRAND
LIBAN ET DES ALAOUITES
CARTE DE PRESSE N 65
_Donnant droit á une réduction de 50% sur la taxe des télégrammes
adressés aux journaux et agences de publicité_
Délivrée á M Georges Seldes á Beyrouth & Damas
Correspondant du journal (ou de l’agence)
Chicatrib (Chicago Tribune á London et Paris)
Beyrouth, le 12 November 1925
Signature du titulaire
L’Inspector Général des Postes et Télégraphes de la Syrie, du Grand
Liban et des Alaouites
Le titulaire de la prèsente carte devra, en case de perte, en aviser
immédiatement l’Inspection Générale des Postes et Télégraphes à
Beyrouth
voir au verso
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