THE LAST GOOD WAR: A Novel (10 page)

As the Mercedes turned into the circular drive, Anna heard the familiar crunch of gravel. Her mother was standing in front of the mansion to greet her; her younger sister came bouncing down the marble steps to throw her arms around Anna as she stepped out of the car.

Dinner was later than normal; they waited an extra hour and a half in the hope that Kaz would arrive. Around the table, the mood was somber and subdued, in keeping with the dark oak paneling of the room. Sisi entertained herself by making faces at the portrait of great grandpapa; she carefully leaned back between Josef and Stefan so her parents couldn't see her. Across the table, Uncle Michal and Aunt Maria looked on with amusement; they had raised children of their own.

According to an unstated family rule, proper topics at the evening meal included music, the theater, books, or family matters. Politics were not to be mentioned, although exceptions were permitted if anyone wanted to introduce the subject with a discussion of Plato's
Republic
, Machiavelli's
Prince
, or Gibbon's
Fall of the Roman Empire
. Religion was likewise out of bounds, although, in this case, there was just one exception: C.S. Lewis's forthcoming
Screwtape Letters
. Anna's mother had recently received a manuscript copy from the author, and was interested in her family's reactions.

Just nicely into the main course, younger brother Josef broke the rule.

“All the officers seem to think we're in for it, that the Germans will attack.” He was addressing his comment to Uncle Michal. Michal looked for guidance to his hostess. Anna's mother, the daughter of an English Duke, was the social arbiter of the family. She had married Anna's father when he was with the informal Polish liaison office in London, back during the Great War, when the Poles were hoping to have an independent nation once again.

Josef tried to redeem himself. “I mean, a book's coming out, that says our officers are afraid the Germans will attack.”

The hostess smiled indulgently at her son's verbal contortion, and nodded to Michal. He had her permission to reply.

But the irrepressible Sisi cut in, with her usual optimism. “Won't the Russians restrain the Germans? They keep saying that they're the ones who can save the world from Fascism.”

“I thought it was the other way round—Hitler says he's going to save Western Civilization from Stalin and Bolshevism.” Anna still liked to tease her little sister.

“No, no. We need somebody to save us from both of those tyrants. That brings me back to my question. What do you think, Uncle Michal? Will the Germans attack us?”

“We can always hope. But the pact between Russia and Germany....” He shook his head. “Hitler despises the Bolsheviks, and vice versa. On that, Sisi and Anna were both right. But Ribbentrop and Molotov have signed this nonaggression pact. What's its purpose, other than to clear the way for German aggression against us?”

“But surely,” said Sisi, half-cheerfully, “Hitler won't attack us. Britain and France guaranteed Poland's independence when the Nazis marched into Prague last March.”

“Also, Britain reacted to the Ribbentrop-Molotov Pact by signing a formal alliance with Poland last weekend,” added Aunt Maria, trying to sound equally upbeat but not quite succeeding.

Stefan entered the discussion rather pompously, making it clear that he considered himself an expert on the Western powers. “From my experience with the French and British, I doubt that we can count on either. After all, the British said last year they'd fight if the Germans invaded Czechoslovakia, but a lot of good that did the Czechs. The Brits turned right around and sold them out at Munich. To be frank, the Czechs—with their solid fortifications facing Germany—would have been in a stronger position to fight than we are. I may be wrong—why would the French and British sign the formal alliance if they were going to do nothing? But then, they don't have much to lose by bluffing, given the huge stakes. So I still come down on the pessimistic side. When the crunch comes, they probably won't help.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table—a social no-no that seemed out of place with his exquisitely tailored suit. But he wanted to emphasize his point.

Anna noticed the elbows. So did her mother. At an earlier time, she would have asked him if he were staking out a land claim. But now she seemed caught up in the conversation, and, at any rate, it was already out of her control. She simply winked at Anna.

Josef was about to come to the defense of the Polish armed forces, but decided to let the insult pass.

Anna joined the optimists. “I'd rely on both the French and British to help us. When I talk to them, they both seem to be much more committed this time.”

“Weather forecasters of the world, unite,” retorted Stefan sarcastically.

Sisi quickly took Anna's side: “And jackasses of the world, unite.”

This time, their mother did exert her authority, giving Sisi a searing glance. Sisi lapsed into silence. In fact, everyone around the table was silent for some minutes.

Josef decided to press the topic again. As a young boy, he had been in awe of his uncle, who had been an officer during the last great European cavalry battle in 1920. The Poles cut off Tukhachevsky's Soviet army that was threatening to encircle Warsaw, taking 100,000 Russian prisoners and saving the eastern third of Poland from Soviet occupation. Josef naturally directed his question to his boyhood hero. “What do you think, Uncle Michal?”

“I think we can count on the British and French to stand by us, and declare war on Hitler. But it's not clear that they can or will do much to give us real help. I'm not optimistic that Hitler will be restrained.”

He paused. This time, Aunt Maria encouraged him to continue. “Why not, Michal?”

“Hitler's hell-bent on war. He's not just interested in the Danzig corridor. It's like Czechoslovakia—he was interested in the whole country, not just the Sudetenland. He's interested in
Lebensraum—
living room for the expanding German population. That means seizing lands in Poland, and even more in Russia.”

“But what about his nonaggression pact with Stalin?” Sisi was again trying to be optimistic.

“Hitler will tear it up the moment it's convenient, just as he tore up his nonaggression pact with us. He's determined to attack us, the British and French be damned. I doubt they will do much to help us. I doubt they can. I think they'll follow us right over the cliff into war, but they'll be ineffectual. Nevertheless, we'll fight, no matter what the odds.” Michal's stern words were reinforced with a firmly set jaw. He was graying at the temples, but had kept himself trim; Anna could easily envision him on his horse, charging into battle, even at his age.

A subdued silence settled over the table once more. It was broken when the dog barked. Zambrowski, who doubled as the butler, entered and announced that Mr. Ryk—or more precisely, Flying Officer Ryk—was calling. Should he ask Mr. Ryk to wait in the drawing room until after dinner?

“Not at all, not at all,” replied Anna's father. “Show him in, and set another place. I'm sure that the young man will be happy to have something to eat. With the last-minute cancellations, we have more than enough.” Anna's mother was about to say something, but stopped short.

Stanislaw Ryk—a neighbor, longtime family friend, and sometime beau of Anna—entered the room.

“Oh, Ryk, Ryk, you look so dashing in your uniform,” Sisi said excitedly, standing on her tiptoes to give him a big hug. “And you already have your wings. Now that I'm twelve, will you take me up in your flying machine?”

“I do apologize. Thought dinner would be over by now. I'm home on leave, but have to report back on Friday. I'll be away from some time; my squadron's moving to a new base, further south. Didn't want to leave without saying goodbye.”

He went down the table, greeting the various members of the family. When he got to Anna, she rose and rather antiseptically offered her cheek, which he softly kissed.

“Anna's just been married,” Sisi announced. “To a cavalry officer.” Anna wondered: was that a flicker of disappointment on Ryk's face?

“But when are you going to take me up?” Sisi pressed her question.

“Not sure I'll have a chance,” mumbled Ryk.

“Bet you still have the old plane.” Ryk had originally learned to fly when he was fifteen, taught by his barnstorming uncle who had an ancient German triplane that dated from the Great War. His uncle had jerry-rigged a back seat, so he could take paying customers up for flights. “Come on, Ryk. After all, you took Anna up three years ago.”

She realized she had said the wrong thing. Anna looked daggers at her. That was supposed to be a secret; their father had explicitly forbidden Anna to go up in the plane with her teen-aged, daredevil friend. Fortunately, Anna's father didn't pick up Sisi's enthusiastic query; he was losing his hearing. Anna's mother heard perfectly, but pretended not to. She had known about the flights for years. That was scarcely surprising, as Ryk had showed off by buzzing the local convent school for teenaged girls. Anna decided she had better change the subject. Quickly.

“We were just talking about the war scare. We had a difference of opinion within the Foreign Office. Uncle Michal thinks the western powers are willing to go to war if Hitler attacks us. Stefan doesn't. Why don't we hear the two sides in more detail? Stefan?” She hoped to put her half-brother on the spot.

“I agree with Uncle Michal on the critical point, that Britain and France can't or won't do much to help us, at least not unless we can hold out for six months or more—until the spring weather makes operations in the West possible. So let's put ourselves in their shoes. Why blunder into a war with Hitler, if they can't actually help us? Not clear.”

Zambrowski arrived with an extra table setting, but paused; Anna's mother seemed uncomfortable. Ryk took the hint. “Thanks, but I've already eaten. Must be off. Sorry to interrupt.” He closed the thick, paneled door behind him.

Anna picked up the conversation, again looking on the bright side. “Won't the prospect of war with Britain and France discourage other countries from joining Hitler's war—Italy, Hungary, or Lithuania?”

“Point well taken,” replied Stefan, managing to sound patronizing towards Anna even when he was agreeing. “They could also have other reasons—their honor, and to make sure that Hitler doesn't pick them off one by one. It's particularly important for France to get the British committed. If the British don't come through this time—after all their huffing and puffing—the French may feel that they won't be able to count on Britain if Hitler moves West.

“But this point isn't very strong. If Hitler defeats us and then does have a go at France, Britain will have to fight or give up any hope of stopping Hitler. They will be in a much better position to help France than to help us.

“Now let's look at the British-French case for bluffing, without actually coming to our aid. What's the very best they can hope for? That Hitler will be restrained by their threats. Not very likely, I'm sorry to say. Here again, I agree with Uncle Michal.” Stefan was showing that, surprisingly, he did have some diplomatic skills, something Anna had always doubted.

“What's the next best, from their point of view, if Hitler does attack us?” he continued. “The British, in particular, don't much like either the Nazis or Communists. If they can't really help us, what's the point of declaring war?”

Stefan paused, allowing the question to sink in. No one ventured an answer, so he continued.

“Why not just take a pass, and hope that Hitler keeps right on going east, trying to seize
Lebensraum
in Russia? The Germans and Russians might bleed one another white, fighting it out. The two great tyrannies might collapse without Britain and France having to fight at all. Even if Hitler does turn west once he's finished with us”—Anna was appalled by Stefan's coldbloodedness—“Britain and France will have gained another six months or so to rearm.”

Again the dog barked. There were muffled voices in the hall. Anna jumped up and rushed from the room. After a few minutes, she reappeared, hand in hand with Kaz, and introduced him to Uncle Michal, Aunt Maria, and Stefan, who had not been able to make the wedding. The family made light conversation for several minutes, talking of the weather, crops, and the new floral arrangement encircled by the driveway. Then Josef dragged the conversation back to the threat of war.

“Mother's allowed us to break the house rules—to talk politics,” he explained to Kaz. “If Hitler attacks, nobody thinks the French or British will be willing or able to help us much. You're a military man; what's your opinion?”

“Willing to help? That's a political question. As you said, I'm a military man. Able to help? I'm uncertain. The French have more tanks than the Germans, and they're just as good. But tanks are made for offense; they're made to be used in concentrated spearheads, to cut through enemy lines. Victory goes to the bold and the aggressive. Will the French be bold and aggressive? I simply don't know.”

“And the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. What do you make of it?”

“For goodness sake, Josef, do let Kaz have a bite to eat,” Anna pleaded.

“Thanks, darling, but I really don't mind. The Russians mystify me. I can see Hitler's objective—keep the Russians out of the game while he attacks Poland. But the Russians? Why did they sign the Pact, giving Hitler a free hand? I can see only one answer. Stalin may hope that the Germans and French will bleed each other white. If that happens, the stage may be set for Communist revolutions throughout Europe.”

“Bleed each other white. Strange. That's exactly what Stefan said,” Josef observed. “But he was referring to the other side of Europe. The French and British may renege on
their commitment to us, hoping that Hitler and Stalin will exhaust each other, fighting it out.”

“And what would happen to us while the two elephants were fighting?” Kaz asked. “Let's hope that there's some shred of honor left, that the French and British help us.”

“Uncle Michal?” Josef was now acting as chairman.

“Stefan has a point,” he replied. “France and Britain do have a reason to abandon us. Hitler's occupied Austria and Czechoslovakia and cut a deal with Stalin; it may already be too late for the Western Allies to influence events in this part of Europe. Nevertheless, I think the British Parliament will force Chamberlain's hand—make him declare war to avoid utter humiliation. The ones who really worry me are the French. Last spring, they promised to invade Germany from the West within two weeks if Hitler attacked us. At the time, I had no confidence that they would honor that commitment. As we'll soon be approaching winter, I have even less confidence now.”