Peter Vansittart - Secret Protocols

The household was touched by a malignant spell, listless, though awaiting some miraculous midnight, when the dancers recover, the music revives, the Emperor enfolds the goose-girl. Jokes about the Gutter King ceased. Mother’s Times published a letter from Mr George Bernard Shaw rejoicing that Hitler was now under Stalin’s thumb, another guarantee of peace, though ‘guarantee’ gave us misgivings. Britain had guaranteed Poland but was not expected to do more than lend money to Warsaw. Russia, all papers agreed, was already honouring the Pact, delivering Germany manganese, phosphates, plutonium – baffling words – a million tons of grain, of oil.

Deep into the night, voices floated up to the Turret.

‘Europe remains armed camps.’

‘No, Heinrich, Europe’s at last reconciled to itself, for the first time since Rome. The Reich has recovered position. The Führer’s a shrewd brute. He could set traps even for God. After the job’s done he’ll fall into one himself. You can’t deny he’s delivered us from evil.’

‘It may be so. The dwarf who slips the horseshoe into his glove and knocks down the champion, as if in a Jew Chaplin film.’

‘ Ja . There’ll be a few red faces on the Left.’

‘Meanwhile, we must do our best to believe the Estonian lads are sound at heart. They enjoy goodsome toil, are terrified of the Russkis. If only pastors and agitators would cease urging them to forget their station. As I often say, however, Destiny will have the last word.’

Whatever Destiny intended, the Soviet Union invaded Finland and, unexpectedly, suffered defeats. Britain and France were motionless. At the Manor, in the Great Drawing-Room, a meeting was held of the Ehrengericht , local landowners assembling to face possible emergency. It was revealed that more had ‘gone back home’, to the Reich, ostensibly on holiday or business, promising, perhaps falsely, to return soon.

A poster appeared, of Hitler and Stalin side by side in a troika, smiling, smiling. The Estonian Foreign Minister was hauled to Moscow like a hooked trout, but headlines thickened as the Red Army strove yet again against the Finns.

On a day of hot blue, white paunchy clouds Father summoned the entire staff, indoors and outdoors, to assemble in the Hall, a procedure reserved for special occasions. Only Herr Max was absent. He had already left for Germany.

Tonelessly, standing rather forlornly before us, Mother a little behind him, he announced the counter-attack, at Poland’s attempted invasion of Germany, and the declaration of war on the Reich by Britain and France. He looked weary, and Mother at once went upstairs.

Alder leaves darkened, unperturbed, others turned orange, the wild cherry was fiery, geese swooped over the Lake. The Russians lost in Karelia, then again near Lake Ladoga despite enormous superiority, then rallied, and eventually breached the Mannerheim Line and, completing a coastal blockade, enforced surrender, restoring balance to the Pact.

This, however, dismayed everyone.With Warsaw falling, Berlin abruptly accused Estonia of sheltering Polish submarines, and, at gunpoint, Päts signed a mutual assistance agreement leasing island bases to Stalin. Almost at once Poland was partitioned between Russia and Germany, and the Reds occupied Paleliska Harbour, entrance to the Gulf.

In the Turret, I attempted to block the outside by stories. One by one I opened old treasures. The Snow Queen , Conrad of the Red Town , Hans in Luck , the songs of Walther von der Vogelweide and the Minnesinger, but they had lost magic. Far below, the piano sounded, Mother touching the keys as if delicately tracing colours, but for both of us music could only echo something else, the start of another story.

I stared into winter twilight, birds still flocking to shorn fields, Forest edging nearer. Rising Tide.

With Poland divided, the French cowering behind their Maginot Line, the war must already be finished. The British landed in Norway, the Germans threw them out, though victory without bloodshed, the Führer insisted, demoralizes.

I was German, with passions for doomed princes, red towns, the Rhine, though remembering Father, in the voice usually reserved for Hegel, quoting another professor who had dismissed Germans as ‘Obedience with Long Legs’. I was obedient, with legs promising considerable length.

Yet I was partly English, sharing something with that aloof island, so strangely weak despite its magnificent Empire larger than Rome or Spain, Mongolia or China.

The Päts government declared Jewish rights forfeit, then nationalized schools and hospitals, preparing total submission. To Russia? To Germany? Father could not answer, the Herr General was in Sweden. We heard that German ‘guest engineers’ had supervised the digging of gun-emplacements and concrete anti-tank blocks against British landings. Then a postman whispered that the guns were facing not west but east.

We heard more. All German Balts were to be classified traitors unless they acknowledged their duties to the Fatherland and emigrated ‘home’. They would be amply compensated from former Poland. Ten thousand immediately obeyed, and, after eight centuries, the great von Benckendorffs had followed. Our breakfast was silenced, though from the kitchen came what sounded like cheering.

We remained, almost alone. The last ship was about to leave when the Herr General rejoined us. He advised, almost commanded, that Father and I should safeguard the Manor, his own influence assuring us immunity from Berlin decrees, while he himself escorted Mother to Father’s relatives in Potsdam. Separation would not be prolonged. France was covertly seeking compromise peace, Britain dramatically losing at sea.

Mother’s swift assent surprised rather than distressed me: for her, departure was yet another social opportunity. Fancying myself a betrayed prince, I was nevertheless glad not to relinquish the Turret and leave Father. Mother could be imagined riding behind the Herr General, clinging tight, bright hair streaming like a pennant as, with dragoon sternness, he galloped over boundless plains.

She left us, light with promises, embraces, expectations of the victory balls and parades. For the few months I would not miss her. Like the weather, like horses and dogs, like gardens, she was one to be accepted but often less essential than Forest. A fellow resident in a comfortable residence.

Very soon, however, I realized necessity for wariness. Since the Pact, Estonians around us had been very silent, and with Finland and Poland mauled, beaten, they were unmistakably restless. A considerable Russian minority had always inhabited Estonia. Hitherto disregarded, sometimes penalized, they were now demanding political rights, their leaders accusing Päts of fascism and appealing to Moscow for the nation’s incorporation into the Pan-Slavonic Brotherhood, actually the USSR. In this new agitation, Father asked me not to leave the house after dark.

We had several Russian outdoor workers. They had always been friendly, but slowly this degenerated to surliness. Then our French housekeeper departed to Brussels. The kitchen, formerly so cheerful, was now less welcoming, and I ceased to go there.

Whatever Father noticed he did not disclose, though furniture was dusty, meals unpunctual and indifferently served. Behind the air, unseen eyes hovered. From Germany the Führer asserted that war is life.

Mother’s letters were regular but hurried; elegantly crested paper scrawled with perfunctory news. Berlin was ‘very interesting’, sparkling with dances, tea parties, receptions, race meetings.

The war had lapsed, with Britain and France idle, presumably bargaining for terms, Sweden a German fief. Expelled from the League of Nations, the Soviet Union was confiscating Baltic ports, aerodromes, factories, with German assent. Red Army troops paraded through Reval, the Päts government resigned and an Electoral Committee, its franchise restricted to the Workers’ Union, ordered a general election, at which it was unopposed, and a Comrade Zhadanov arrived from Moscow to assume control.