Berlin Diary (28 page)

O
N TRAIN
, R
EGENSBURG-
B
ERLIN
,
October
2

At Regensburg before dawn yesterday, then by bus to Passau on the Danube, and from there by car with a German General Staff major following the troops picnic-marching into Zone I of the Sudetenland. Back after dark last night in a pouring rain to Passau, where the military censors refused to let me broadcast; a train to Regensburg arriving there at midnight and filing my story by telephone to Press Wireless in Paris to be read in New York, since the RRG in Berlin says the military have put a
Verbot
on all broadcasts, including their own, of the occupation. No plane to Berlin, so this train and will broadcast from there tonight.

B
ERLIN
. L
ATER.—
Military had not yet lifted their
Verbot
, so had to read another piece I had written on train on the political significance of Hitler’s great victory at Munich, quoting an editorial by Rudolf Kircher, the only intelligent and courageous editor left in Nazi Germany, in this morning’s
Frankfurter Zeitung
wherein he frankly states the advantages of threatening
force and war and how Hitler knew all the time that the democracies were
afraid
of war. When I returned to the hotel, some general in charge of the military censorship at the German radio was on the phone saying he had just read my piece on the occupation, that he liked it, that he had had to suppress all the accounts of the German radio reporters so far, but that I could now broadcast mine. Called Paul White in New York, but he said the crisis was over and that people at home wanted to forget it and to take a rest. Which is all right with me. Can stand some sleep and a change from these Germans, so truculent and impossible now.

B
ERLIN
,
October
3

Phoned Ed Murrow in London. He as depressed as am I. We shall drown our sorrows in Paris day after tomorrow. From my window in the Adlon I see them dismantling the anti-aircraft gun on the roof of the I. G. Farben company across the Linden. Thus ends the crisis. Little things to remember: the characters in the drama: the dignity of Beneš throughout; Hitler the five times I saw him; the bird, Chamberlain; the broken little man, Daladier, who seems destined to fall down (as on February 6, 1934) each time he is in a hole. To remember too: the mine at a bridge over a little creek near Krumau which might have blown us to bits had our German army car gone two feet farther; the bravery of the Czechs in Prague the night war and bombs at dawn seemed certain; the look of fear in the faces of the German burghers in the Wilhelmstrasse the night the motorized division swept by and war seemed certain to them, and then the delirious joy of the citizens in Munich—and Berlin—when they learned on Friday that it was not only peace but victory; the
beaten look of the Sudeten Germans after the Czechs put down their uprising, and the change in their faces a fortnight later when the Reichswehr marched in; and the burgomaster of the Sudeten town of Unterwaldau, Herr Schwarzbauer (Mr. Black Peasant), taking me aside from the German officers and my saying: “What is the worst thing the Czechs did to you, Herr Burgomaster?” and his saying it was frightful, unbelievable, that the Czechs had taken away his radio so he couldn’t hear the Führer’s words and could any crime be more terrible!

P
ARIS
,
October
8

Paris a frightful place, completely surrendered to defeatism with no inkling of what has happened to
France
. At Fouquet’s, at Maxim’s, fat bankers and businessmen toasting Peace with rivers of champagne. But even the waiters, taxi-drivers, who used to be sound, gushing about how wonderful it is that war has been avoided, that it would have been a crime, that they fought in one war and that was enough. That would be okay if the Germans, who also fought in one war, felt the same way, but they don’t. The guts of France—France of the Marne and Verdun—where are they? Outside of Pierre Comer, no one at the Quai d’Orsay with any idea at all of the real Germany. The French Socialists, shot through with pacifism; the French Right, with the exception of a few like Henri de Kerillis, either fascists or defeatists. France makes no sense to me any more.

Ed Murrow as gloomy as I am. We try to get it out of our systems by talking all night and popping champagne bottles and tramping the streets, but it will take more time, I guess. We agree on these things: that war
is now more probable than ever, that it is likely to come after the next harvest, that Poland is obviously next on Hitler’s list (the blind stupidity of the Poles in this crisis, helping to carve up Czechoslovakia!), that we must get Warsaw to rig up a more powerful short-wave transmitter if they want the world to hear their side, and that we ought to build up a staff of American radio reporters. But honestly we have little head for business. Ed says American radio has done a superb job in reporting this crisis, but we don’t much care—about anything—and soon even the champagne becomes sickening. We depart.

Run into Gallico. He is off on a tour of the capitals for material for his stories. I give him letters to the correspondents in each place, we dine at Maxim’s, but I cannot stand it any longer. Off in the morning for Geneva. Almost the first chance in a year to get reacquainted with Tess and Eileen. But they are off in America.

G
ENEVA
,
November
6

Lovely Indian summer here for a month, but, now the snow is creeping down on the Alps and this morning the Juras across the lake were also coated white. Soon we can ski. A month of the worst mental and spiritual depression of my life. I’m still in such a state that I’ve done two crazy things: started a play; and taken up—at my age, thirty-four!—golf. Perhaps they’ll restore sanity. There is a beautiful course at Divonne in the foot-hills of the Juras from which you can look over the lake and see Mont Blanc in all its snowy pink splendour about the time the sun is setting. Arthur Burrows, English, fifty-two, secretary of the International Broadcasting Union, and I fool around
over the links, tearing up the turf, soon losing count of the scores, if any, knocking off after the first nine holes to go down to Divonne village, which is on the French side of the frontier, for a magnificent nine-course lunch washed down by two bottles of Burgundy, and return, feeling mellow and good, for the last nine holes. The play is called: “Foreign Correspondent.” It is affording me much relief.

W
ARSAW
,
November
11

Broadcast a half-hour program for the twentieth anniversary of the Polish Republic. The show got hopelessly tangled up for some reason. Sitting in the Palace I began by saying: “Ladies and gentlemen, the Polish anthem…” which was to be played by a band in a studio in the other part of town. Instead of the band, President Mosieski started to speak. He had promised to speak in English, but through the earphones I could make out only Polish. I dashed down the Palace corridors to his room to inquire. A tall adjutant stopped me at the door. “The President promised to speak English,” I said. He looked at me curiously, opening the door slightly. “He
is
speaking English, sir,” he protested. Dashed back to my room to introduce Ambassador Tony Biddle, who was to say a few well-chosen words. He started blabbing and, thinking he had suddenly become a victim of “mike fright,” I moved to cut him off. Then he motioned to his script. It was a mass of hieroglyphics. “Polish!” he whispered. “Phonetic….” He was giving a little message in Polish. When he had finished we laughed so hard the Poles in the Palace became a little uneasy.

Afterwards met Duranty, and it was one of his “Russian nights,” he insisting on talking Russian to the
droshky-driver and insisting we be taken to a Russian café. The wind from Duranty’s Russian steppes was whipping the snow in our faces, and after what seemed an age the driver finally pulled his dying nag up before a decrepit old building.

“Café Rusky?” Walter shouted. We could not see the driver through the curtain of snow. No, it was not a Russian café. It was a Polish institution, a disorderly house. Then in the blizzard a long argument in Russian between the Moscow correspondent of the New York
Times
and the Polish driver of a dilapidated horse and buggy. The snow piled up on us. Long after midnight we found a Russian café. It was full of rather plump girls who spoke Russian and who Walter said were
echt Russisch
and there was much vodka and balalaika-playing and singing and the girls would warm their backs against a great porcelain stove, getting a little more tired and sleepy each time, a little sadder, I thought.

The Poles a delightful, utterly romantic people, and I have had much good food and drink and music with them. But they are horribly unrealistic. In their trust of Hitler, for instance.
Polskie Radio
promises to get along with their new short-wave transmitter. I explained to them our experience with the Czechs.

B
RUSSELS
,
November
20

Here as observer for an international radio conference to draw up new wave-lengths. As there is nothing for me to do, have shut myself in my room for a week and finished the play.