Her father’s men had taken half the country – they had moved from the hills towards the town, so it was easy to make contact with them. I was stopped and threatened by their frontier police. I waited until the son came to me in uniform to thank me for what I had done for him during his illness. He was especially grateful that I had not betrayed him to his father; he distrusted me, but recognized my good qualities nonetheless. He was still a sick man. He told me his father had refused his request to serve with a fighting unit – instead he had been required to broadcast propaganda speeches to the other side. I remarked that this was responsible work – a compliment to his abilities – it would give him scope to speak and write. He said he was incapable of writing, he had never written a single word – he “spouted” what others composed.
The father received me in his spacious and magnificent apartment: there I found him, sitting in one corner, near a window. I had remembered a more impressive figure – he was not good-looking as in his photographs. He wore the blue coat and darker blue trousers, his well-worn clothes contrasted with those of his handsome son, an imposing figure in rich uniform, whose hair grew low on his forehead, who wore armbands and epaulettes, each with a knot of gold. I paid attention to what the older man said while he listened to me closely; his penetrating mind at once absorbed the essence of each question; his answers were as sharp as a command. The son impatiently shuffled his typewritten script as he prepared to rehearse before his father the speech he was to make later in the day. In accordance with custom, he began with compliments: “Within three months our leader will revolutionize the country, restoring it to its former high position among the nations. But if conditions are allowed to worsen, three years may be necessary for this task… Wounded in the trenches, oblivious to personal advantage, our leader has succeeded in creating a powerful party, but has remained a man of simple tastes. He is generous and warm-hearted. If he chooses to live austerely, it is to devote all his energies to his great work; he lives in a modest palace – the only diversion he permits himself is playing the violin; he does not drink wine, nor does he smoke; he never laughs; he entirely prohibits any projection of his own personality; he is not only a clever, but also a good-hearted man; here is a man who resolutely puts the futilities out of his life, to leave place for nothing but work. A perfect gentleman – his charming wife, a clever son and pretty daughter complete the family group. His photograph, sent to all who apply, will be valued the more in the knowledge of how rarely he allows himself so personal a gesture. He is unfailingly kind to visitors – he receives them in the spacious and magnificent state apartment; there they find him, sitting in one corner, near a window, paying close attention to what is said; his penetrating mind at once absorbs, his answers sharp as a command…”
I saw the son each day – it was a privilege to be his friend. He never failed to run after me in the street, calling a greeting until he attracted my attention. The father resented my close friendship with his son. He explained that there were those at that time who were in the highest positions, who had access to state secrets, and yet were known for their sympathies with certain persons. The son’s high station made him difficult to deal with. An order was made that all letters were to be left open except those addressed to the leader himself. The repeated leakage of news to the commander made them suspicious and wary.
They accused me of failing to comply with certain regulations, though I performed my duties with straightforwardness and strictest impartiality, whatever my sympathies. When they tried to prevent my reporting interviews, if these were unfavourable, I pointed out that this prohibition constituted a breach of international law. They replied that they were not a party to these laws. Such lack of understanding I found disturbing.
Certain messages related to the manufacture of munitions. Finding that the son was anxious to earn large sums of money, I arranged transmission of these messages through him. When he insisted that no message sent with his assistance should be against the interests of the country, I said that such requests confused the issue. He replied that, though he was and wished to remain a good friend of mine, he could not be a party to treason, and consequently it would be necessary to replace him. My conscience would not permit me to agree to this; my mission demanded his cooperation. I tried to persuade him that his work for me need not affect his other duties. I pointed out that he needed the money, which was his by right. I said to him: “I admire your character.” I told him what he already knew – that this work was being done in other capitals by other envoys. I increased the sums allotted to him, and he was finally convinced by this argument. But there were further complications.
It was my custom to bring the morning papers to the father’s office. I knocked on the door at the appointed time. The son was there. The storm was raging. “What do you want?” the old man demanded. “To give you these papers,” I said, closing the door, never to open it again. I saw that nothing would change. For myself, I asked and received attention, I was promoted, but I realized that it was unwise to remain too long in foreign lands. The father was growing senile; one obtained favours only through his son, with whom one had to deal. Friends warned me that these were difficult and dangerous superiors to serve under, but for the time being I remained with them.
When a serious dispute arose between the father and the party, he let it be known that if his son was raised in rank, the matter would be settled in an acceptable manner. So it was done, although raising a young man to high rank was contrary to all custom. The father was old and unattractive, and his lack of success in war worsened his chronic bad temper.
It was impossible to rely on the son’s loyalty. There were many who sold information. They knew no side but their own. I discovered that, while he was taking money from me for disclosing secrets, the son was at the same time gathering information on my movements. I was cautious; my first duty was to preserve strict neutrality during those difficult days. When he asked me to work with him on a film he was to produce, I did not accept at once. I began to make enquiries. I found that both brother and sister were in the pay of both sides – that they exchanged secrets impartially. They had associates on the border, and messages were smuggled through several times before they were discovered.
The son should have paid with his life. He was jailed for fifty days, on suspicion. Then it was proved that he had been falsely accused by a real spy – a deserter taking his revenge when the son said he would not take part in his treasonable schemes, and had flatly refused to provide certain information. The son was released to continue his criminal, dangerous work.
The son came to me with a woman he called his nurse. He had been ordered to pay certain restaurant bills, but had left without paying. He had given my name and had been told that the man was unknown. I was annoyed by this feeble swindle. He then said he needed money to send to his sister. I promised to help. He returned within minutes to say that his sister had not received the money. I said it was impossible in so short a time. He said the money had been mislaid and produced a record of the correct sum sent. I said I would straighten the matter out by finding the money and repaying him. He would not accept this. I reasoned with him. He began to shout. I was obliged to call the police. He was furious. I could not understand him. He was one of the few I had trouble in dealing with.
He was accused of supplying troops with cocaine, and he was detained on this charge. He requested help through friends. But justice could not be interfered with. At that time no one cared or dared to tamper with the law. However, the accusations were proved false, by other events which later transpired. After he was caught and jailed, he dared to telephone me begging me to pay his bills, which of course I could not do.
The police planned his execution with unusual strategy. A senior detective was entrusted with the case. A friendship sprang up between them. They decided to escape to the frontier; police followed; they arrived; he grasped him by the throat: “You are detained as a spy. I am an agent of the political police.” He was brought home and judged, expelled from the party and shot, protesting that he was a friend of mine.
His father announced that “the heroic defender had been taken prisoner after the demolition of the fort, after he himself had twice been wounded”. I was there when the father learnt of the son’s execution. He began to shout. “And they call it war!” It was a bad sign. I tried to interest him in the plans he had formed, the tactics he had originated. “What do we want maps for?” He snatched the maps from me. “We’ll want maps. You’ll see!” He unfolded the maps, replaced them on the table so that the battlegrounds lay face down; uppermost were the gentle hills and the sea, a fresh, unused blue. “I need a rest from this war. It’s peaceful there.” His finger pointed to a seaside town famous for its boredom and its waste. I said he should go there – the war would continue without him. His mood changed – to loud laughter and wild behaviour – I could see his son in him. A young soldier came in, from the son’s detachment. He stood waiting. “Have you news?” “There’s nothing left. No one.” “What do you mean?” “The situation has not improved.” He turned in military fashion, saluted and left. The father mumbled to himself. “These are details, details. He saw nothing, but that is not to say there was nothing. The man showed his blindness, that is all.” I pointed out that the “skirmish” took place close to the frontier; his son could have escaped, though nothing would be heard for months; he could be posted missing – this was the normal procedure; he could be alive in another country. I was relieved when he interrupted me rudely: “That’s nothing. I know that. You tell me nothing I do not already know.” He continued talking to himself. “I used to shave every morning; now see what I will do. I used to eat meat, and fish. I cannot be the lover of another man – even my son.” He staggered round the room; I insisted on helping him into his chair. I pushed towards him the model of the new piece of artillery with which his men were to be equipped, but he was not interested. He showed me again the photograph of his son in uniform. “Take a look at this. So you see. Better for him to have been shot than to be kept for ever in prison without trial. What could I have done to prevent it?” He stood beside the table; memorials of battles, tattered flags hung over the table. I spoke about his son’s desire to go to the front. He answered: “He’s disappeared. Finished.” He went on to discuss tactics. “The strength of their artillery – and for defence we use sheets of tin! Tin is useless in modern warfare! We must improve our supplies of steel, or we’ll all be blown to pieces! The leader must be cheered when he meets his troops; they attack with bayonets and are killed; the artillery goes on firing; they fight and are killed, hand to hand. The battle comes to an end. They cannot understand why it has taken so long, but if I have learnt the name of a village, it has been a necessary battle. I dream of the battle of annihilation. Kill them all, so there shall be none. Annihilation does not mean physical annihilation – annihilation means surrender, demoralization. A battle which goes on is not annihilation; annihilation means surrender. But these fellows fight. We must have artillery, the concentration of forces on one front, the direct blow against the enemy’s decisive forces, tactics face to face with tactics – tactics orientated towards the offensive, tactics adapted to defence, to terrain and climate, based on the simultaneous use of weapons for defence and attack, in the pursuit of the enemy. Activity which knows no seasons gives an absolute tactical advantage over the enemy; the enemy is to be misled about our positions and dispositions, our defence in depth, our tank defence zones. Night will cease to be a time for rest – we shall break through at night over frozen lakes and rivers, we shall overcome by force as the result of superior tactics systematically applied.”
My courage was upheld. I organized an office “to help the victims of war”. A few friends assembled in my room. Hundreds of persons worked together; the organization was perfect – daily it dealt with missing soldiers, money matters, food – every detail of everyday life. We were in touch with both sides. We forced the belligerents to respect our neutrality. We gave of our resources, with punctilious impartiality, most lavish generosity. Wounded soldiers were met by ladies with drinks and cigarettes when their train stopped. So long as they travelled behind the lines, they were attended by ladies who served as nurses.
At a luncheon for sixty or seventy people to support the hospital for severe surgical cases, for the sick who could not be cured, I was the guest of honour. I could not speak. I attempted, without the aid of grammar. “What is he saying?” “You should be able to understand. I am endeavouring to speak your language.”
A fine-looking man – the son, transformed, doomed to meet his death – stopped to talk to me on his way back. He had been dying on the battlefields. I invited him to lunch. I was filled with admiration for what he had seen. He ruined my velvet-covered furniture by scraping his greased boots over it. The incident gave rise to satirical verses. He was a troublemaker who tried to kidnap and kill, but the plan was found out; troops were summoned, with instructions to shoot on sight. So order was restored. A strike was called; no papers were printed; the town was still. I could not find out; men and women were falling; soldiers caught the disease; the schools were turned into hospitals; thousands died. Bread was sold by card. A relative sent me all I needed from home, but I could not cook the food – the people’s police were free to enter. The drenching rain followed us everywhere. I found a room unoccupied, and there I sat on a chair. It was raining on the bright uniforms. Shivering, weary, unable to walk, ill and tired, I discussed plans for my return, and for the return of those who planned the commander’s fall. They were willing to help me return, to simplify their own problem; they took care to protect their own. I was ordered to keep watch on the daughter – they suspected her. I waited for the long train carrying soldiers from one part of the country to another – men without boots, with no food; crowds waited for the train – they had to make sure of their places. I slept on the platform with a block of wood for a pillow. I could not sleep. The others slept and could not wake, and when they woke they shouted or wept. Because they could hate, apathy in death was easy. Indifferent, they celebrated hysterically, which intensified their indifference. They had worked but not owned, they had had no chance and no choice, no ration of life, no notion of danger, the threat to life, to their own. A mobile kitchen arrived, with soup and potatoes. After the crowd had had their food, they sang. I travelled with blinds drawn against all contact en route.